Louisa Rawlings (4 page)

“Oh, Drewry!” Isobel giggled like a schoolgirl and hid her face with her hands.

“Oh, Mum, you’re not really blushing,” he teased.

Watching them laughing together, Willough felt a pang. Why do they all love you, Drew? she thought Parlor maids and debutantes, governesses and shopgirls. There had never been a time when women had not smiled at him, held out their hands to him. And men too. In a different way, of course.

And Isobel. Today, as always, she looked past her daughter and saw only her son.

Willough sighed and poured herself another cup of tea. Maybe it was his looks. It was really quite odd, when you stopped to think of it. She and Drewry looked so much alike, even though he was four years older than she was. But the sharply defined features that made her look purposeful and a trifle severe for a woman were somehow subtly transformed on his face into a handsomeness, a beauty that was almost soft for a man.

And there was more than that. There was a sweetness in Drewry’s nature, a sunniness that touched everyone. Oh, Drew, she thought miserably, how did you learn to laugh when I never have?

She stirred uncomfortably in her chair. She was an intruder. “Did you paint today, Drew?” she asked at last.

“No. I was going to sit in on a class. They had a good model. But I changed my mind.” His face had suddenly gone serious. “They had some new paintings in the gallery. From Paris. Those Frenchmen are doing the most remarkable things with light and color. Not at all what I’ve been doing.” He looked at Willough for a moment, then turned away. She was surprised to see the pain in his eyes.

“But you paint beautifully, Drewry dear,” said Isobel.

He glared at her impatiently. “I paint like a damned amateur!” When his mother looked dismayed, he smiled quickly and shrugged away his anger. “But those French paintings look as though they’d been done by madmen.”

“They accepted two of your paintings for exhibit at the Academy last winter, didn’t they?” asked Willough. “You can’t really think you’re an amateur. Didn’t they pay you?”

“The still life sold for fifty dollars.” Drewry grinned crookedly. “I treated a bit of fluff to a steak dinner at Delmonico’s with the money, and then had to borrow against my next month’s allowance to make it through the week.”

“Since when do steak dinners cost fifty dollars?” said Willough.

The grin deepened. “If you were a bit less straitlaced, little sister, I’d tell you what else I paid for that night!” He laughed aloud as Willough colored.

Isobel was already launched on a different tack. “Well, I think it’s outrageous that you should have to depend on your father to dole out money as he sees fit!”

Drewry shrugged. “Not at all. I know the conditions, and so do you. I have only to give up this foolishness with the painting and take up the family enterprises. And if I work diligently, and please my father—and learn that money is king—I will be rewarded with a partnership. ‘Bradford and Son.’” He rose and moved easily to the mantel mirror, picking up his hat along the way. “No, thanks. I’ll let Willough do it.”

Willough frowned, hearing disapproval in his voice. “Someone has to!” she said defensively.

“Ah, yes. Mum told me. Did you enjoy springtime at the MacCurdy sawmill, learning the ropes?”

“I’m
proud
to be a part of it! If I can be of service to Daddy…”

“Has he promised you a partnership?”

Willough hesitated. “Yes. In time.”

Drewry shook his head. “Don’t get sucked in, Willough.”

“I consider it a privilege…an honor…”

“You’re a fool, little sister. He’ll break your heart, and you can’t even see it.”

Stung, Willough glared from Drewry to Isobel and back again. “Well, we both have our blind spots,” she said sourly.

Drewry smiled broadly. “So we have. Did you see my new hat?” He turned to the mirror and set the hat at a tilt on his head. Round, low-crowned, and wide-brimmed, of dark brown felt, it was the type of hat a country farmer might wear on Sunday to go to church. It looked incongruous with his well-cut black frock coat and gray trousers, the formal cravat and fawn-colored waistcoat. An outfit that cried out for a silk top hat.

Willough made a face. “A ‘wide-awake’ hat! I didn’t notice it when you came in. I trust you didn’t wear it out-of-doors with your frock coat. It looks ridiculous.”

“Indeed, I did wear it. And I intend to wear it all summer long, until it’s well broken in.”

Isobel looked uneasy. “A country hat in the city?”

“I don’t plan to be in the city this summer.”

“You’re not going to Saratoga.” Isobel’s voice was heavy with accusation.

“Well, in a way I am. When are you going up, Willough?”

“The tenth of June. Though it’s not definite.”

“Make it the seventh, and we’ll go together.” Willough nodded in agreement.

Isobel had begun to flutter nervously. “You’re
not
going to see your father?”

Drewry’s blue eyes twinkled mischievously. “Don’t worry, Mum. You haven’t lost me. I’ll stop off for a day or two, that’s all. And when Father and Willough are set to leave for MacCurdyville, I’ll head for the North Woods.”

“What in heaven’s name will you do
there
all summer?”

“Paint. I ran into an old friend from Harvard the other day. Ed Collins. He’s been living in Philadelphia. It seems there’s a botanist professor and his wife from the university who are getting up a group to spend the summer in the Adirondack Wilderness. Very high-toned. Sort of like Emerson and Lowell did in ’58. There’s a geologist, I think. And an amateur surveyor. There’ll be hunting and fishing, of course, and plenty of roughing it, but it won’t be all frivolity. So you needn’t look so scandalized, Willough!”

“I…I never…” she stammered.

His blue eyes softened. “Poor, dutiful Willough. It would probably do us both more good if
I
spent the summer at the mines and the ironworks, and you took off your corsets and had a real holiday. At any rate, Ed asked if I’d like to come along, and I agreed. I haven’t been camping in years. And I’ve been meaning to try more outdoor paintings. They say the scenery is spectacular in the High Peaks. I’ll come home with a lot of field sketches, and maybe a painting or two if I can set up my easel at the base camp.” He smiled in pleasure. “I intend to pack my traps with nothing but comfortable, old clothes. All the rest can go into camphor for the whole summer.”

Isobel had been listening intently, leaning more and more heavily into the cushions of her chaise. Now she sighed and looked at Drewry with woeful eyes.

It was a look all too familiar to Willough, one she had learned to ignore, but it was devastatingly effective on her brother. How can he be so blind? she thought.

Isobel sighed again. “You’re leaving for the entire summer…and you didn’t even tell me.”

“Now, Mum…”

“The entire summer! And stopping off to see your father too.”

“He’s still my father. Besides…once I’ve bought my hunting and fishing gear, I won’t have enough money left to buy a penny’s worth of coffee unless I make the pilgrimage to Saratoga.”

Isobel dabbed at her brow with a lace handkerchief. “I hope you prick his conscience for his tight-fistedness. Tell him he should be ashamed to treat us all so meanly. Oh, I feel so poorly today. Will you stay for supper, Drew dear?”

Here comes the kill, thought Willough.

Drewry looked uncomfortable. “I…I have an engagement. Isn’t Uncle Arthur coming?”

“I don’t know. He’s been in Albany. Please stay. How important could your engagement be? Postpone it. For my sake.”

He grinned wickedly. “My stomach might not mind a postponement. Other parts of me might not be so agreeable.”

“Drewry! Merciful heaven, what a thing to say!” cried Isobel.

Willough felt her face turn red with embarrassment. “Why do you always have to talk about your
amours
?” she asked primly. Somehow they seemed less vulgar to her if she used a foreign word.

Drew clucked his tongue, looking from one shocked face to the other. “What a pair of prim Nellies. This is the first time I’ve seen you agree on anything!”

Isobel sighed again. “I suppose I must seem old-fashioned to you. I’m sure your…female companions are far better company at supper than an old woman who can’t forget she’s a lady.”

“Now, Mum…”

Isobel’s face had fallen as though she had suffered a mortal blow. “I can hardly blame you for wanting to rush away. She must be charming. And it’s not as though I won’t see you once or twice for supper before you go off to spend the
entire
summer away from me.”

Willough could see that Drew was weakening.

“Well…” he said.

“No. No. Pay no attention to me, silly boy. Go and have a lovely evening. If my sick headache has not prostrated me before you return, perhaps you’ll knock at my door and read me a chapter or two of Mr. Lever’s novel before you retire.”

Drewry threw up his hands helplessly. “Oh, Mum. How can I go out when you’re feeling so poorly? The young lady can wait. But I ought to send flowers round with my excuses, unless I want to get crowned with a parasol the next time I see her!”

Isobel looked suddenly panic-stricken. “She’s not…
special
to you, this young lady…? That is…more than usual…”

“No. She’s just a charming lady. Like all the rest.”

“Well, then.” Isobel exhaled. “I think flowers would be appropriate. If you wish, you may order them from Sylvestre’s and have them put on my bill.”

“Indeed I shall. I’ll see you at supper.” He hugged his mother, blew a kiss to Willough, and made for the door. Muttering about the need to write a few letters, Willough followed him.

“Now who’s the fool?” she said once they were in the vestibule. “You think she hasn’t got her hooks in you?”

“It’s not quite the same, little sister. You’re giving up your whole life for Father. All it’s cost me is a night’s frolic.”

“So far, big brother. So far.”

Drew shrugged, set his hat more firmly on his head, tapped the crown, and went out.

“Willough!” Isobel whined from the parlor. “Come back and pour me another cup of tea.”

Willough sighed and returned to the room, ignoring the gleam of triumph in her mother’s eyes: for the daughter’s obedience, for the capture of the son. She measured out the sugar, added the milk, poured the tea with deliberate slowness—a trifling rebellion. Resentment twisted at her insides.

She thought, Why don’t you love me, Mother?

“Forgive me for not knocking. Brigid said you were still at tea.” Willough looked up. Arthur Bartlett Gray stood in the doorway, every inch the gentleman from his tall silk hat to the short, gray suede gaiters over his patent-leather shoes. His frock coat was impeccably tailored, with padded “American” shoulders that seemed to add to his stature; his trousers were crisply pressed, his collar starched, his cravat fastened with a discreet diamond. He smoothed his well-manicured brown mustache and crossed to Isobel, taking her hand in his and bringing it to his lips. “As always, my dearest, you look enchanting.” He glanced at Willough and smiled, then looked again. “My word! Is that our little Willough, all grown up?” He put down his hat and walking stick, and turned to her in pleasure. “It must be years! Five or six at the very least! Stand up and show Uncle Arthur how you’ve grown.”

Reluctantly, Willough rose from her chair, then covered her embarrassment at his searching gaze by holding out her hand in a businesslike way. “How are you, Mr. Gray?” she said coolly.

He shook her hand solemnly, his brown eyes appraising her, but when she would have pulled away, he held fast to her fingers. “No,” he said. “After all this time, I’m entitled to more than a handshake.” He moved closer and bent his head to kiss her.

She watched in horrified fascination as his lips came close to hers. In the years of growing up, she had always thought of him as an older man; he was seventeen years her senior. Now the realization struck her that she was a woman, not a child anymore—and he was younger than her mother.

Dare I let him kiss me? she thought. Then scolded herself, remembering what Grandma Carruth had always said, according to Isobel.
Proper ladies of a marriageable age never allow a bachelor to kiss them on the mouth.
She turned her head aside so that his kiss grazed her cheek. He searched her face for a moment as though he were reading her thoughts, smiled gently in understanding, and released her fingers. He had a nice smile. Willough had never realized it until now.

“I can’t expect you to call me Uncle Arthur anymore,” he said. “Not when you’ve become such a grown-up—and beautiful—young woman. But ‘Mr. Gray’ sounds so cold and unfeeling. After all these years, don’t you trust me enough to call me Arthur?”

Absurdly, Willough found herself remembering the novel she’d glanced at this afternoon.
Pray give me your trust, Lady,
Ali ben Tibor had said. Now, with Arthur’s warm gaze enveloping her, she felt her heart fluttering. She turned quickly to the tea tray and fussed with the cups. “Do sit down…Arthur. I’ll pour for you.”

He laughed and pulled up a chair next to Isobel’s chaise. “I do believe you’re blushing, Willough. I should think you’d be used to compliments by now. From dozens of beaux. Unless they’re blind fools.”