Hearts That Survive (26 page)

B
ess told Willard he could leave. She encountered the putrid smell before entering the kitchen. She hurried to Caroline, slumped in a chair and her head on the table. A burnt chicken was in the sink, and its stink filled the air, mingled with the smell of wine. A broken glass lay shattered on the floor in a syrupy puddle of dark red liquid.

Caroline was making noises like some kind of machinery that was all choked up, trying to start, and just couldn't make it. Her chest was heaving, and she was banging the side of her fist on the table.

Bess took Caroline by the shoulders. "Let's go to the bedroom." Caroline let herself be led through the house, up the stairs, and into the bedroom. Bess didn't need to ask what was wrong. Her own eyes were tearing up. She mustn't let that happen. Caroline needed her for far more than she'd ever needed her for packing and unpacking her luggage, laying out clothes, dressing her hair, or even cooking her meals.

"Lie on the bed. Here, take this pillow and hammer into it, or hug it, or whatever you want to do. Just let it go."

"I try not—"

"Don't try not. Do it. Let it go."

Bess tried. Not to. But she did it. She let go. And began to choke and blubber and heave with sobs, and lay across the bed and banged both fists into it.

Caroline joined her. They cried and sobbed and wailed and made all the noise they could. And when they finished, they looked at each other and cried again. And when they finished, they forced more, made themselves cry it out. Unashamed. Deliberate. And the crying didn't hurt. It washed and cleansed.

They cried an ocean full.

But they didn't sink. They were in a little boat on top of the water.

Spent, they lay on their backs, breathing deeply, slowly, as if trying to get enough air after having run a race. Indeed, they had. She had the idea they had crossed the finish line. It didn't matter if you got there late, or were the last one to arrive. Just getting over was the important thing. Even if you had to crawl over.

When their breathing became more regulated, Caroline said, "That felt good."

"Shall we do it again?"

Caroline looked over at her. "I don't have a drop more."

Bess said, "Good. Because you look ugly."

Caroline gasped, but still smiled. Bess would never have said something like that before. Crying openly, brokenly, together, could work wonders. "You're no raving beauty, you know."

They laughed for a while, just because that felt good. "And we don't care how we look," Bess said.

"Exactly. And it's good just to breathe deeply."

"Yes, even if the air is filled with the smell of burnt, rotting chicken."

"Oh." Caroline sat up. "Let's go clean it up."

They did, and Caroline asked, "Where's Armand?"

"Oh," Bess said, "I think there was something he needed to do."

While they threw away the mess and cleaned up the kitchen, Caroline asked if Bess would tell her about her life.

Bess did so as they washed the dishes and dried them and put them away and cleaned the table and wiped the wine from the floor. Bess threw away the coffee, which was thicker than the wine, and made fresh.

She thought it time to be personal. Her life had been uneventful until she became a governess to a very wealthy family.

"I was foolish enough to fall in love—no, not love." She glanced at Caroline, who nodded. "I fell into obsession with the gentleman of the family. He represented all the world had to offer. I was stupid enough to believe I could step into his world. But I found out he could step into mine long enough to use me. And when the time came, when the young, pretty tutor came, he discarded me like a piece of trash."

Before long, with the kitchen decent again, they sat at the table, sipping coffee.

Bess thought she might as well tell it all. There was nothing you couldn't say once you've bared your tear-stained heart to another person. She took a good swallow of her sweetened coffee and set the cup in the saucer.

"I decided," she said, "I would learn all I could about that world. At another household with some older children, I sat in on the lessons. I read books and talked with the tutor. I determined to become like the mistress of the house."

She watched Caroline's eyes grow big. No way could she have known all that. But she encouraged Bess to go on. So she did.

"I was very frugal and saved my wages. Even asked for a raise in pay."

Caroline laughed. "Did you get it?"

"Oh, yes. I was invaluable." She chuckled. "I thought someday I would buy clothes like you bought me in New York, and wear a hat and walk like a lady and meet a gentleman and lie about my upbringing and he'd never know the difference. I would get into that other world."

She paused. But she'd come this far, which was a point of no return.

"We maids and governesses and housekeepers talk, you know. And when I heard Sir Chadwick was looking for an employee, I applied because that was a step further up the ladder. If I could learn how to look and act like you, I could go beyond third class in society. I might even skip one."

"Oh, Bess," Caroline said. "I never suspected such a thing. You were . . . invaluable."

Bess saw the light of understanding spark Caroline's eyes. Bess had gone beyond being a servant. She had become invaluable. "You see, I didn't want to be a servant. I wanted to be a lady."

Now sympathy lay in Caroline's eyes. What a tragic figure Bess must seem. "You wanted to be like me?"

"I know, pathetic isn't it?"

When Caroline gasped, Bess said quickly, "Oh, I don't mean being like you is pathetic. I mean trying to be anyone but yourself is pathetic."

"Well, I'm glad you changed that. This coffee is still hot, and if I threw it on you, you'd burn like a chicken."

So far, they could still laugh. "Mine's cold." She knew Caroline's would be too. She poured more and stirred in a little more honey.

Caroline sipped, then said, "I guess you see now you don't want to be like me."

"Oh, I saw right away I was changing the way I thought. I didn't want to walk or talk like you. Or wear silk and jewels and hats like you."

She saw Caroline swallow, although her cup was in her saucer. She maybe thought that was an insult.

"You changed me," Bess said. "You were, are, the sweetest, kindest, most generous person I've ever known. You kept your place and I kept mine, but you never said a harsh word to me. I was a servant but you never let me feel I was beneath you. You built me up. I no longer wanted to be like a lady. I wanted to be good like you."

Seeing the trembling of Caroline's lips and feeling it in her own, she wondered if they would blubber again. She had to say it all. "You saved me by being a good person. And then, Caroline, you saved me again. By making me take off that cap. You thought I, a servant, was worth saving."

"I didn't do it because you were my servant."

"I know. And I didn't go because I was your servant. Soon after I came to you, I vowed in my heart I would become invaluable for my own good. You taught me how to be the best kind of servant, and in my heart I would be a friend to you, even if you never knew it."

"I felt that," Caroline said. "I didn't know how to define it. Thank you. But you don't have to agree with me on this," she laughed lightly, "I don't think I'm so good."

Bess smiled at her cup. That was part of why Bess admired and respected her so much.

She heard Caroline sigh. "I don't see how Armand and I can ever relate well again. I'm completely embarrassed. And I'm sure he thinks I don't have a decent brain in my head."

"I'll bet he liked the way you look in that dress."

"He didn't say so."

"That proves it. If he thought you just looked nice, he'd say 'You look nice, Caroline.' "

When they stopped laughing, Bess said, "I have an idea how you can get past this." Caroline's doubtful gaze rested on her. "You've already tried having a friendly dinner, and that didn't work. Next time," and Bess said it seriously, "Don't send him away. Cry with him. And let him cry with you."

C
aroline knew what Bess meant when she said cry with Armand. That didn't necessarily mean shedding any tears. They could care and share and listen. Armand had helped her and Bess. She could at least let him know she was as near or as distant as he wanted.

She phoned him while the fog still obscured his cottage, hovering over the lake and wafting through the trees. He answered after the first ring.

"Morning," she said, not knowing yet if it were
good,
"I called to say I won't be going into town with you this morning."

He said he had been getting ready to call her, that he was on his way out. He had meant to tell her last night. A case in another part of the city would keep him tied up most of the day.

She hesitated, but glanced at Bess, who shot eye arrows of warning. "Um," she paced the few steps allowed by the cord. "I'd thought you might come for breakfast. For leftovers."

She heard his chuckle, and Bess put her fingers over her grin.

"Yes," she said after he spoke again. "Your rain check is for tomorrow morning."

They rang off, and she felt that it might be a good morning, rain or not. Another day might be better, anyway, to get the chicken mess behind them.

She took the cup of coffee Bess handed her. "How could he bear to even look at me after that fiasco?"

Bess shrugged. "Maybe he liked your dress."

After they enjoyed the moment, Caroline pointed her finger. "What I'd like is a report on this Willard thing you have going on." Bess joined her at the table and told her.

The next morning Caroline opened the front door to Armand. As soon as he stepped into the foyer, she said, "Do you know what I was crying about?"

His dark eyes probed hers. "Everything?"

She knew he understood, and when they sat at the table she told him about the volcano she had mistaken for thunderclouds, while Bess set coffee before them and cooked their breakfast. "I want to be available to listen to others who might have such feelings, because I can understand the need to let it erupt."

"You're inviting me to share if I'm so inclined," he said. "That exact subject has been on my mind."

From the direction of the island came the sound of cracking eggs.

She sipped her coffee. He stared at his. Then he lifted his gaze. "I don't have a volcano inside me."

She lowered her cup, and then spread her hand to accompany the thought,
well, that was that. She had offered but he was fine without her listening ear and that was fine because there were plenty of needy people out there and she would—

"Mine erupted a few years ago. But I have the thunderclouds."

She heard the sausage sizzle in the pan. Her eyes met his quickly, and just as quickly she lowered her eyelids over them. She should not seem pleased about such a statement.

"I've learned that I can question and be afraid when thunder rolls and lightning strikes. My vision can be obscured in the midst of the fog and rain. But the storms can't defeat me. I have someone with me."