Rebecca Wentworth's Distraction (19 page)

Chapter 29

M
ISS
N
ORRIS'S PLAN
seemed to start out brilliantly; the Brownes, perhaps out of their own desperation, agreed to try it. So, that spring Sanborn returned to Boston as he had once come to Portsmouth, by coastal sloop, but Rebecca was his companion on the return journey. They stood on deck in mild weather as they left Portsmouth Harbor, where still another battery of artillery was being added to Fort William and Mary and to the point at Little Harbor. The air and adventure seemed to agree with the young woman after her confinement. Her cheeks reddened and her whole face colored. Gone was the unsanguine and sickly countenance of the lady of exquisite sensibility or the splenetic hypochondriac. Her conversation for the first time in months was occasionally punctuated with laughter. To look at her one would never have guessed their destination.

Upon approaching the harbor at Boston they passed the high stone lighthouse, or pillar rather, upon the top of which night fires would be lighted to guide ships. Their sloop moved among many islands as they approached the town, its fourteen church spires reaching high and airily above duller buildings, as if God's holy spears had been struck firmly in the earth. They passed the Castle, or fortification, bristling with thirty-two-pound guns below and more than a hundred twelve-and eighteen-pounders above. And the harbor itself was filled with scores of ships and small craft. Rebecca said she had never seen anything quite like it.

For nearly a quarter of a mile along Long Wharf sat a range of wooden warehouses, and, close by, a multitude of ships. On the wharf, they hired a chaise that took them up King Street to the Town House and out along Cornhill toward Newberry where new and elegant buildings were steadily replacing the old ones destroyed, Sanborn explained, by the fire of 1711.

“Those were bad years for many in Boston,” he added. “The French War was on, and a throng of young women were made widows. Then the fire. But by that year there were also scarcities of bread. Lots of food shortages, in fact, created by the prosperous few who sold most provisions to the troops, not only to ours, but to the French as well.”

“I suppose it has always been true that some will do anything for wealth,” she said. “Did they get away with it?”

“Yes, or so I understood from the old men in Boston's taverns who spoke of those times when I first arrived here. They especially feared the return of hostilities. They told me that the common folk made their displeasure known finally when the next generation, still suffering from lasting shortages of all kinds, rioted and tore down the North End market house.”

“Yet the city seems to have recovered,” she said, looking about as they rode on.

“Most people appear to be doing well enough, now,” he said. Just then they arrived at the address Colonel Browne had given them. They soon found themselves standing at Dr. Oldmixon's parsonage door, letter of introduction in hand.

He appeared to be a mild gentleman in his late sixties, and Mrs. Oldmixon appeared to be of similar age and humor. Sanborn and Rebecca were conducted to a private house beside the modest parsonage, a substantial property that, it was revealed in conversation later, the Oldmixons rented for their business.

“We accept no visitors who would come merely for their amusement,” the old physic said, as he showed them into the foyer, “after the cruel pattern of the home country. Here the inmates are simply confined to their rooms, so long as they are manageable and pose no danger to themselves or others.” He looked in his friendly manner at Sanborn and Rebecca. “Only the violent are restrained,” he added, as if musing. “We allow daily promenades on the grounds, with the attendant, as well.”

Rebecca had said nothing beyond a polite greeting since their arrival at the Oldmixons'. The color began retreating from her face once again.

“Have you any well restrained at present?” Sanborn asked, once they stood inside.

The old man turned to lock the front door behind them. “But one,” he said, turning back toward them in his bent fashion. “Mr. Holt, who believes himself king of fairies, separated unjustly from his fairy queen, and sometimes steeped in a rage of sorrow and betrayal.
Ira brevis furor.”

Rebecca glanced at Sanborn, who said, “I see. Is his madness so brief then?”

Oldmixon led them up the stairs. “Fits and starts,” he said. Very little daylight penetrated the interior, but upon opening a door to a private room, daylight poured in through two undraped windows. A bed, a tiny desk, and a chair were the only furniture.

“This is our empty,” he said. “I've kept it available, at Colonel Browne's request, this past fortnight. It's a very pleasant room, taking the morning sunlight till about eleven o'clock.” He looked at Rebecca. “Some of our residents bring a piece or two of their own furniture.”

The entire house was eerily quiet, nothing like what Sanborn had anticipated for a madhouse, just as the madhouse keeper was unexpectedly gentle. Might Rebecca be tempted to see this establishment as an acceptable retreat? Yet, he thought, looking at her, she seemed not to be tempted, and that reassured him—there was still hope for his plan.

Dr. Oldmixon encouraged them to enter the room and look about; he insisted they take the views of the open fields and shimmering Roxbury flats from the two windows. He kept a curious eye on Rebecca. Yet he said nothing particular to persuade or dissuade her.

“You and Colonel Browne have come to agreement as to a rate,” Sanborn stated.

“Yes. Thus have I held the room in his interest.”

“Thirteen pounds maintenance,” Sanborn said.

“And ten for physic. There's another two for warding.”

Sanborn looked at the old man. “That was my understanding as well,” he said, satisfied to compare figures according to the colonel's request for confirmation. He was, in fact, authorized to make a further deposit immediately.

Suddenly a heavy sound, as of something large being dropped, came from a room down the hall. Then the strange bellowing of a man's voice, as if speaking in tongues. It all amounted to gibberish, even when Sanborn could catch a word or phrase of English.

What little color remained in Rebecca's face drained away entirely.

“That would be Mr. Holt now,” Oldmixon said, his face calm and expressionless.

“Silence, for the love of God, you raving lunatic!” someone else called out from behind another door.

“Mr. Snow,” the old parson said. He stood silent, looking at Rebecca and Sanborn, as if no further explanation could possibly be required.

“Are any women boarding here, Dr. Oldmixon?” Sanborn asked.

“Two,” he answered, nodding his white head. “Mrs. Reed, a widow of formidable spleen, and Mrs. Brixton, who suffers much from the hypp and the visions of an Enthusiast, of a devout Presbyterian sect.”

Sanborn looked at Rebecca again. She looked away and turned once more to the southeast window.

“Rebecca,” Sanborn said, “would you like some air?”

“Not just now,” she said, without turning back toward them.

Sanborn felt encouraged that their visit was having the effect on Rebecca that he, if not the colonel, desired. “These others, do you administer treatments?”

“In some instances,” Oldmixon said. “Venesection, purges, and emetics, blistering—our own special remedies. With the more antic dispositions, opium is often helpful in settling the mania.”

“Depending on the particular case.”

“Certainly. But most boarders require, or indeed prefer, physic of one kind or another eventually.”

“I imagine they do,” Sanborn said. “I wonder if we might see some of these others.”

Oldmixon rubbed his jaw. “Well, I believe Mrs. Brixton wouldn't mind a visit. Let me just step 'round to see how she is this afternoon.”

They waited only some few minutes before the old parson returned and ushered them into Mrs. Brixton's room. It was furnished similarly to the room they had just left, with the addition of a well-stuffed settee upon which the inmate might sit or lie as her humors took her. There was a considerable pile of books—Sanborn did not doubt of their vigorous piety—stacked on the floor beside the settee. Next to one window stood the inmate wearing a sort of night shift, ivory in color, partially overwrapped by a black brocaded dressing gown. Her hair was covered by a rust-colored turban, the only concession to fashion or public scrutiny. She was a not unattractive woman in her late thirties, Sanborn estimated, but the ravages of her soul's enthusiasm marked her dignified face, as if she spent her nights in watchfulness rather than sleep—quite alone, Sanborn imagined, with her beautiful and terrible visions.

Oldmixon introduced them to Mrs. Brixton, who bowed politely and eyed them curiously. Finally, a smile emerged from her lips and her whole demeanor brightened.

“My pleasure, sir, ma'am,” she finally said. “Dr. Oldmixon informs me you have one who may join our little community.”

Sanborn found himself speechless. Mrs. Brixton looked deeply into Rebecca's eyes. Rebecca returned her gaze, but also did not, or could not, speak.?

The old parson broke the silence. “Indeed, there is one who may benefit from our retreat and regimen.” He smiled at Mrs. Brixton. “If the lady and gentleman find our situation worthy of such a one.”

“I'm sure they shall,” she said, looking first at Sanborn and then at Rebecca again. “A child, I expect.”

Sanborn found his voice. “A young lady, madam. A young lady who might benefit from a period of peaceful confinement and Dr. Oldmixon's care.”

“You find our establishment suitable?” she asked.

“I find the good work Parson Oldmixon is doing here impressive.”

“And the lady?” She turned her deep gaze on Rebecca.

Rebecca could not speak, still, and the pause grew quickly painful.

“She, Miss Wentworth, finds herself rather hyppish after our journey, I fear, and from the thought of this young lady's confinement here, or anywhere,” Sanborn said. It just came out of his mouth before he thought about it, to fill the vacancy.

Mrs. Brixton smiled serenely at Rebecca. “You needn't fear for her,” she said. “We live under the most scrupulous care. Dr. Oldmixon is a gentleman.” She turned to smile at the parson.

“Thank you, Mrs. Brixton,” he said, and made a little bow.

“You're from England, are you not, sir?” She was speaking to Sanborn now.

“Yes, some years ago,” Sanborn said. “I had the pleasure of studying in London for a time.”

“Then you've no doubt been to Bedlam, sir, with the droves of tourists seeking amusement.”

He stumbled a bit, then said, “Indeed, madam.”

“Nothing of the sort here, sir, I assure you. Nothing of the sort in all Boston.”

“I'm most pleased to hear it, madam.”

She returned to Rebecca. “Nothing of that sort here,” she repeated. She walked over to Rebecca and offered her hand. Rebecca took it. Mrs. Brixton held up Rebecca's hand, like a fortune-teller.

“A woman of sensibility,” Mrs. Brixton said. “Tell me. This young lady whom you might send here, for her repose, is she something of a seer?” She looked directly into Rebecca's eyes and smiled.

Rebecca found her voice, and Sanborn felt relief. “She is given to see things, yes,” Rebecca said, “as they truly are. She thereby sometimes causes discomfort in others.”

The deep fatigue seemed to leave Mrs. Brixton's face a moment. “The truth unsettles those unused to it,” she said. “Yet those accustomed to it the truth makes free.”

“Even in confinement,” Rebecca suggested.

“Even in confinement,” Mrs. Brixton said. “Even in our suffering.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Brixton,” Rebecca said. “Thank you for your kindness.”

Still holding Rebecca's hand, Mrs. Brixton turned toward Sanborn and Parson Oldmixon, looking from one to the other.

“Does the young lady who may come here find pleasure in reading?”

“Yes,” Sanborn said.

“Then she may find some of these of interest,” she said, indicating by her free hand the black books piled on the floor.

Rebecca looked at the books, her face expressionless once more.

Sermons, religious treatises, books of prayer and meditation had never been her favored reading, Sanborn thought, as he looked at Rebecca's face. She seemed unable to speak again.

Mrs. Brixton looked into her eyes for some time, then gently dropped Rebecca's hand. She pulled a book off the top of one of the piles and withdrew a slip of paper, which she folded twice. This folded paper she placed in the palm of Rebecca's hand and then folded Rebecca's fingers over it. She returned to the window to stand just as she had stood when they entered her room. She looked at each of the three others in turn, smiled, and appeared determined to say no more.

“Thank you, Mrs. Brixton,” the parson said, holding out an arm to indicate the doorway for Rebecca and Sanborn. Sanborn repeated a thank you, and they all turned to go.

“The truth will set us free,” Mrs. Brixton called out, as if to Rebecca, one last time, as Oldmixon was closing the door.

“Would you care to look around the grounds, sir?” he said as they all descended the stairs.

Sanborn looked at Rebecca. She had opened the slip of paper and her face appeared troubled. “I think not, Parson,” Sanborn said. “Perhaps a dish of tea is in order, however, if you and Mrs. Oldmixon would be so kind.” He tried to indicate Rebecca without her seeing the gesture.

“I believe you are quite right, Mr. Sanborn,” Dr. Oldmixon said. “I think a dish of tea would do us all some good.”

Chapter 30

T
HEY REMAINED
with the Oldmixons overnight, in the parsonage, as they had arranged before their departure from Portsmouth. The next morning Sanborn knocked gently on Rebecca's door.

She was already up and dressed.

“The return boat leaves in two hours,” he reminded her.

“Am I to return then?”

“Just as we said, Rebecca.”

“And such then, truly, was Colonel Browne's purpose as well?”

“Yes,” Sanborn hedged. “He believed this visit would allow us to confirm whether Dr. Oldmixon's establishment might meet every requirement, as he had understood from others.”

“I see. I had begun to doubt that premise, during the night.”

“You did not sleep well?”

“Off and on.” She handed him a neatly folded slip of paper, which he recognized as the slip Mrs. Brixton had handed Rebecca yesterday. He opened it and read.

Oh Seeker of Truth

Dare ye look in the eye

Of the Sun at Noon?

“Gibberish,” he said, folded the paper, and handed it back to her. “Of course, you are free to stay on without further delay or negotiation, or consideration.” He was unable to find words to put it delicately. That, too, had been a part of the colonel's purpose.

She looked directly at him. “Mr. Sanborn, you know I am not mad.”

He returned her stare. Perhaps he hesitated a moment too long. “I know, Rebecca. But, to be honest, I'm no longer certain that confinement at the Brownes' is preferable to confinement, or rather removal and rest, here.”

“That is a conundrum I revolved in my own mind during the night. But, I find I prefer no confinement at all.” Her eyes were defiant.

“Ah, yes. There is of course an alternative. However—”

“Blessed matrimony,” she interrupted him.

“It may be blessed by comparison to this,” he said, feeling equally defiant now. “Or a closed room on the second floor of the Browne manse.”

“You know they do not intend to allow me to remain with them.”

“They find it too vexatious. I doubt they would allow it for long now.”

She turned away. There was a window in her room, west facing, and she went over to it and looked out.

“Rebecca—” Sanborn began.

“Did you hear him last night? Mr. Holt?”

“I confess I slept heavily and utterly. At what hour?”

“Near three o'clock. It didn't last long. Those strange tongues again.”

“It
is
unsettling.”

“Very. Even at this distance.” She looked out on the parsonage garden below. “It's small,” she said, apparently referring to the garden. “But quite beautiful. Mrs. Oldmixon, I take it, has a hand and eye for the flowers.”

He said nothing. He could think of nothing to say.

“No,” she finally said. “I'll return with you, Mr. Sanborn. I want to go home.”

He had misunderstood her at first, for he did not realize she had no intention of returning by their arranged passage. She wanted to see something of Boston first, she said. They had earned it. She wanted him to pay his initial visit to Mr. Fleet with her illustrated manuscript, as they had agreed he would. There was no hurry about returning that particular day. He decided to indulge her; he was, after all, on a mission to persuade her to accommodate herself to the Brownes' proposals, and it would be necessary to humor her somewhat in order to maneuver her toward that goal. What matter a day or two more? He had been given license to do whatever necessary to bring her around. He left her at Oldmixon's and returned to the wharf to arrange passage on the next sloop for Portsmouth where passage was to be had. As it turned out, that gave them three more days.

Before he returned to Oldmixon's he stopped by the Orange Tree Tavern and put a deposit on lodging for them—half a bed in a common room for himself and a private garretlike room for Rebecca. The price of the garret was much greater than he should have expended, and the landlady had little inclination to give over the space to a single occupant. But Sanborn pleaded his “sister's” indisposition, and the woman relented once she saw the money. The lodging was near Mr. Smibert's elegant house on Queen Street, and Sanborn hoped to visit the old gentleman again with the thought that it might do Rebecca good to peruse the Colour Shop and studio in the mansion. In addition, the Orange Tree was situated near both the government (or Town House) and mercantile districts. While making these arrangements at the tavern, he hired a boy to take his card around to the old master, with a note scribbled on the back, to the effect that he would call on him the following morning well after the breakfast hour.

And then he went looking for Thomas Fleet's shop in Cornhill at the sign of the Heart and Crown. He discovered a substantial house that served as both residence and printing house with a convenient shop selling all manner of goods and notions and a front chamber for evening auctions. He entered with Rebecca's portfolio manuscript in hand.

A clerk, in a green cloth apron, who seemed as competent as he was officious, greeted him. Mr. Fleet was “not available.” Sanborn explained his mission and showed his letter from Mr. Fleet. The clerk nodded ever more courteously as he read the letter.

“If you'd care to leave it with us, sir,” the clerk said, “we may provide an estimate of expenses, and options available.”

“May I return tomorrow then?”

The clerk hesitated, cocking his head with its small wig. “Of course,” he finally said.

Sanborn hesitated to part with Rebecca's portfolio, but when the clerk carefully took the manuscript tied neatly between boards and listed it in a heavy leather-bound account book, and then turned to place the manuscript on a shelf alongside several other boxes and portfolios, he felt better about it.

“Good day, sir,” he said to Sanborn and then turned to other work he'd had in hand when Sanborn had entered.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Smibert's nephew and assistant John Moffatt, a vigorous and efficient looking man of about forty, showed them into the Colour Shop.

“Mr. Smibert should be here shortly,” Moffatt said, after introductions. “Please have a look around.” Then he left them to alert his uncle to Sanborn's arrival.

Rebecca immediately began to consider the rich collections of supplies for artists and prints for patrons of the arts. She moved about as if she were in someone else's church, respectfully examining its sacred contents. On display were boxes of gold and silver leaf, every sort of painter's brush and palette knife, black lead pencils and street pencils, colors ground and mixed, cakes of pigment, all manner of papers, fans and fan mounts and brushes, gold picture frames, and a host of mezzotint prints of European and American artists—including Peter Pelham's prints of Smibert's own works, including Smibert's portraits of William Pepperrell, Samuel Waldo, and other heroes of Louisbourg. And a fine large print of Smibert's famous eight-foot-by-five-foot portrait of Peter Faneuil. There was a stack of books of ship prints, so that portrait painters might accurately depict their mercantile patrons' vessels in the background. And there were collections of the latest prints of London portraits so that New England's painters might avail themselves of the latest fashion in costume and pose.

Rebecca wrinkled her nose at the portrait prints, but Sanborn thought them all wonderful and informative. Yet they dared not speak their opinions for fear of being overheard at an embarrassing pass in conversation or disagreement. In fact, a black serving girl, whom they later heard referred to as Phyllis, suddenly appeared to assure them Mr. Smibert was on his way.

Shortly afterward the old master entered, from a door leading to other rooms of the house, wearing a dressing gown and turban cap. He was a man of some sixty years, or nearly so. His eyes were a little bleary and his handshake not as firm as Sanborn remembered it from his visits to the master some years ago. He had a weak chin running to neck folds, but an amiable face.

“Sanborn!” he said, managing a hearty smile. “Good to see you again, sir. You must tell me of your successes in Portsmouth—I've heard something of it, of course. And whom have we here?” He turned toward Rebecca, who was coming toward them now.

“Miss Rebecca Wentworth,” Sanborn said. “Herself an artist of most conspicuous talent—”

“Indeed! Indeed!” the old master said, interrupting Sanborn. He took Rebecca's hand and bowed to it gracefully. “My pleasure, miss. My great pleasure. You have been perusing these wares, I see.” His arm swept over the shop. “And have you found something to your taste?”

“Many things, sir,” she answered. “The richest collection of colors and brushes I've ever beheld. A very heaven of colors.”

He laughed. “Well, then, by all means don't allow us to detain you. Choose your heart's desire among all these.” He indicated particularly the color boxes on display.

“Go ahead, Rebecca,” Sanborn said. “Allow me to offer you a modest gift.”

“I believe I shall, sir.” She turned from them again and began to examine carefully the variety and quality of colors.

Smibert laughed in his friendly, self-effacing manner and turned back to Sanborn. “And how are things in Portsmouth, Mr. Sanborn? You have found much work to do, I hear. Portraits, lessons, what have you.”

The two men talked of the Port and mutual acquaintances, eyeing Rebecca from time to time as she went about her careful, scrutinizing business. When she had finally chosen several particular colors—Sanborn could discern lake and Prussian blue among them—Smibert accepted Sanborn's payment and invited them into his studio on the floor above.

Here they witnessed an even larger collection of prints, plaster casts and busts, architectural drawings, and painterly equipment. There were also a number of his own copies of masters:
Cardinal Bentivoglio,
after Van Dyck;
The Continence of Scipio,
after Poussin;
Danae,
after Titian. And there were portraits of his own as well:
Dean George Berkeley and His Entourage
(a conversation piece, he informed them, that was painted at Berkeley's home, Whitehall, when they had all first come to America),
Grand Duke Cosimo III,
and a recent portrait of a gentleman, perhaps unfinished or drying, beside another unfinished landscape, on easels at the center of the room. Sanborn knew that Smibert was known for holding on to a finished portrait before delivering it to his most noble patrons.

“Governor Shirley?” Sanborn asked, indicating the unfinished portrait.

“A fine sitter, sir,” Smibert said. “A man of patience and generosity. I had the deuce of a time with General Waldo, however. The man could not keep still, but would always be leaping up and pacing about, like the agitated and active military man he is.” He shook his head.

“Very well done, sir,” Sanborn said, nodding toward the Shirley.

“My powers are diminishing,” Smibert said. “My eyesight weakens steadily. My hands grow less firm and sure. I've taken to landskips to refresh me. They seem now to provide repose.” He pointed to the other painting upon an easel.

“Very fine as well, sir.” It was a formulaic landscape but lovingly executed. Sanborn pictured him fiddling away weeks, even months, on it.

“You humor an old man.”

“Not at all, sir. You are a long way from finished, or even weakened, by the look of these.”

Smibert smiled and ambled over to Rebecca, who had taken the liberty to examine some prints of Italian painters mounted on both sides and above a window.

“And what do you make of these, Miss Wentworth?” he asked.

“Masterful, sir.” She bordered on the impolite by continuing to examine the prints. “Masterful.”

“They repay study. Much study.”

“There are few enough opportunities in Portsmouth, sir, for study,” Sanborn said.

Smibert turned toward him. “I expect so.” He mused a moment and then changed the topic. “Robert Feke. Remember Robert Feke, Sanborn?”

“You introduced us, yes. Just before I left on the Portsmouth commission in forty-one.”

“Yes. Well, Sanborn, he surpasses me now.”

“I've heard no one say so, sir. And from what I had seen of his work, I can't believe it myself.”

“Oh, people are too kind about such things, Sanborn. The apprentice succeeds the master, and all that, though I only offered him hints, models, and prints to observe. But he does, he succeeds me, in any case. A man whose study has repaid him well. A natural hand for the brush improved by self-teaching and study. He's due to return soon, by his correspondence to me. Perhaps this year or next, to pay me a visit and see to a commission or two.”

“I should like to see him again,” Sanborn said.

“Of course I don't keep up my end of the correspondence enough. I'm a terrible one for scribbling, and never was much of a reader, to tell the truth. Ol' Berkeley used to enjoy upbraiding me on that score. But he's been a loyal one, Mr. Feke.” Smibert smiled, as if musing again. “And he promises a visit.”

When Sanborn didn't respond immediately, Smibert added, “And now there's John Greenwood about, capturing the best commissions.”

“Rebecca has a natural genius as well, sir,” Sanborn said.

“Is that so?” He turned to her again. She continued to study various prints.

“Rebecca,” Sanborn said. “Would you be so kind as to depict a little something for Mr. Smibert. So he not think me fanciful, or a mere flatterer.”

“A little something, Mr. Sanborn?”

“Whatever you like,” Sanborn said. He had thought to alleviate her melancholy by getting her to paint again, after the dreariness of the madhouse visit. And he wanted the old master to assess her capacity, as if to confirm his own astonishment.

Rebecca pulled herself away from the print and faced them.