Everlasting (13 page)

Catherine and Ann shared a lovely old high-ceilinged room with a fireplace and casement windows. Except for a few discreet notes about check-out time, tea time, and fire escapes printed on fine-quality bond paper and left on the desk under a vase of lusty red French roses, this could have been a room in any elegant private home. The twin beds were high and hard.

“We might as well be back home,” Ann wailed, throwing herself on her bed. “I mean at least Grandmother is talking to us, but everyone here is a thousand years old and nothing fun’s happening.”

“Don’t be a pill, Ann. You haven’t met everyone here. Mrs. Boxworthy has three children, and I think one of the girls is your age.”

“Yeah, and the boy is your age, lucky you. But it’s so dark here—it’s creepy!”

“Wait till the rain stops. And you’re tired. Let’s take a nap. I’m exhausted.”

“Oh, there’s something wrong with you. All you ever want to do is sleep,” Ann said petulantly.

Catherine looked over at her sister. Ann was fourteen. Of course she had boyfriends and crushes on boys, but she was still innocent and impressionable. If Catherine told Ann about Kit, it would make her sad, and that wasn’t what they had come here for. Catherine slipped out of her clothes, which were wrinkled from traveling, let them fall on the floor, then climbed between the sheets. Burrowing her head in her pillow, she was surrounded by a faint sweet scent: lavender. She fell asleep.

* * *

S
he awakened thinking of Kit. Something about the state between deep sleep and consciousness, the slumberous fluidity of her body and mind, recalled vividly to her just how Kit had made her feel. Now always when awakening, and often when falling asleep, her body would bring up, like a blush on a plum, rosy memories of their time together. What she had shared with Kit had been as deep and possessive as sleep. Her body could not forget him. Her mind could not believe that he was gone.

The pain of losing him was still a sharpness, but the memories of their time together were strangely soothing. Because of Kit she knew sorrow, but he had taught her many other things, too. He had opened her up to an awareness of the world. So now she lay among the lavender-scented sheets, listening to the streaming rain, feeling very much alive and oddly desirous.

A tapping came at their door. Their grandmother looked in.

“Girls? Tea time. Get dressed and meet me in the library, will you?”

Ann grumbled at being awakened, then immediately said, “I’m starving. I hope at least the food’s decent here.”

They slipped into dresses and sweaters, for it was cool even though it was August, and hurried downstairs.

Wide doors had been opened between the library and the front drawing room. Both rooms were full of people and dogs. Catherine counted five gawky spotted hounds curled up on overstuffed chairs or patroling the room for dropped crumbs.

“Catherine. Ann.” Their grandmother beckoned them to join her in a corner of the library. Madeline was seated on a long sofa next to Kathryn. As the Eliot girls approached, a young man unfolded his long legs and stood up politely.

“Hello. I’m Ned Boxworthy.”

Ned Boxworthy was so gorgeous, Catherine had to keep herself from gawking, but fortunately his sisters jumped up to introduce themselves. All three Boxworthy children were good-looking, but Ned was thrillingly handsome in a sort of British World War I pilot way. Tall, slender, he had sleek black hair, violet-blue eyes, and a ravishing smile. He was exactly her age, Catherine remembered, sinking onto a chair next to him.

Mrs. Boxworthy handed her a cup of smoky Hu-Kwa tea in a tiny cup as fragile as an eggshell. On side tables were silver platters of tiny sandwiches filled with watercress or cucumber slivers, fish or foie gras paste, thin slices of ham or beef with mustard, crisp crackers and white breads with an assortment of cheeses, shortbreads, cheese biscuits, Dundee cake, and hot scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream. Catherine was famished and wanted to try everything; at the same time she wanted to appear slightly civilized in front of the marvelous Ned. She glanced sideways to see how Ann was faring. Her sister’s plate was full, and her eyes were huge as she looked from the Boxworthy sisters to Ned and back down at all the wonderful food.

“This was Kathryn’s home,” Madeline was telling her children. “She grew up here. She hasn’t visited Everly since we took it over. It will be interesting to see what she thinks of all the changes. And Catherine and Ann have never been here before.”

“Well, I might as well warn you, it’s the most boring place on God’s earth,” Hortense announced.

Catherine looked at Hortense, amused by her boldness. She was the youngest of the children, only fifteen, and Catherine could see Ann’s expression light up as Hortense talked.

Hortense was still speaking. “Well, really, Mummy, it’s true, you know. That’s even part of its advertisable charm. People come here for the quiet. For the feeling of old England. It’s old all right.
If
you’re very good, Ann, we might persuade Ned to drive us into the nearest town for a movie, but other than that, nothing goes on around here.”

“No movie tonight,” Kathryn said. “We’re all much too tired.”

“Hortense is just whining because it’s raining,” Elizabeth said. She was nineteen, a pale, watercolor version of her older brother, with soft curling brown hair and gray-blue eyes. She was plump in a pleasant, feminine way and gracious, in sharp contrast with skinny Hortense, whose brown hair was clipped back carelessly with barrettes while her eyes were hidden behind thick glasses. “Hortense is our gardener. She knows people come here to see the gardens, and she’s piqued because no one can go out today.”

“All my children help here,” Madeline Boxworthy said. As she spoke she looked at each of them with an odd sort of pride glinting from her eyes, as if they were hounds or horses she had bred and trained especially well. “Hortense helps in the gardens, as Elizabeth says, and she is very capable. Elizabeth helps me with the baking. In fact, she’s in charge of the kitchen and the daily girls who come in to help. And Ned keeps the books. I couldn’t manage without them.” Her gaze softened when it fell on her son.

“Mum, we’ve had tea, let me take Ann and show her the house.”

“Darling, they’ll be here all week. And perhaps Kathryn would prefer to give them the tour.”

“Do you know where the old dogs are buried?” Hortense asked Kathryn. Before the older woman could answer, she rushed on, “Because I have a theory about where the spot is. Out by where the forest begins, right?”

Kathryn smiled. “The dogs loved the forest. Because of all the game they could chase, rabbits and so on. Yes. How clever of you. But really, Madeline,” she said, turning to the other woman, “it’s fine with me if Hortense takes Ann around. I won’t want to move from this spot for hours. It’s so comfortable by the fire.”

Madeline nodded then, and Hortense jumped from her chair, grabbing Ann by the hand.

What luck, Catherine thought. She noticed with surprise, however, that as Ann left the room she cast a long, rather covetous look at Ned. Catherine had to admit she was perfectly content to stay by the fire with the staid, boring adults. The Eliots and the Boxworthys talked late into the evening, about the American Everly, and Vanderveld Flowers, and the British Everly as Kathryn had known it.

When Catherine went to bed that night, she decided to make herself dream of Ned, but it was Kit’s face, voice, body, that floated up to her. Her love for him had become part of her, and it would be a long time before she could release the thought of him from her heart’s hold.

* * *

T
he first few days at Everly, Catherine watched her grandmother carefully. She thought it must be hard to see her childhood home so changed. But far from being distressed, Kathryn seemed quite happy. The gardens had been kept up; that was the most important thing, and as soon as she saw that, she settled in to enjoy her stay.

It rained most of the first week they were there. Every morning Catherine and Ann rose, dressed, and went down for breakfast in the dining room, one of the major events of the day. Guests were invited to help themselves from the silver platters and chafing dishes arranged on the mahogany sideboard. Catherine hovered greedily, plate in hand, over hot fat sausages, crisp bacon, salty ham, stewed prunes, creamed mushrooms, fresh tomatoes, a kedgeree of flaked smoked fish and rice, broiled kippers, and eggs scrambled and fried and hard-boiled. The toast, muffins, butter squares, jams, and marmalade were set on the table, along with the large silver urns of coffee and tea and the silver cream and sugar bowls. She filled her plate high.

So much food, and the weight of the Boxworthys’ sterling silver, made breakfast a serious occasion. There were also all the guests, and the four Boxworthys who came and went, everyone smoothly sliding in and out of the conversation. It was easy to linger at the table, chatting over one more cup of coffee, and then another. For once in her life, Catherine was in no hurry. It was luxurious.

After breakfast she and her sister walked with Kathryn through the house or, if it wasn’t pouring, out in the gardens. In the silvery mornings of that rainy week, Catherine and Ann followed their grandmother through the shadowy corridors and up and down the various stairs at Everly. Mrs. Boxworthy had given them carte blanche to roam. This British Everly was much larger, darker, and even colder than Kathryn’s Everly at East Hampton, which at least had central heating. The attic rooms, which in the new Everly had been given over to a nursery and bedrooms for Catherine, Shelly, Ann, and their governesses, were here cheerfully wallpapered, decorated and turned into guest rooms. Kathryn could find no trace of any wallpaper from her childhood on the walls. But signs of her mother’s reign were everywhere outside, in the wonderful gardens, which Kathryn’s own mother had overseen.

By afternoon Hortense was free of her duties in the gardens. She’d take Ann off to some secret part of the house to play darts or cards or simply to talk. Kathryn and Catherine took naps in the afternoon. Catherine’s body craved sleep. She fell eagerly into oblivion each afternoon and always struggled to awaken.

In the afternoons Catherine joined her grandmother and the others for high tea, which was served with the ceremonial cadence of ritual. In the evenings she read or played bridge with the guests. Fires were lit in all the downstairs rooms that first week to fight off the chill the rain brought. Catherine was content and glad Ann had Hortense to entertain her.

* * *

O
ne night a couple arrived who had just been touring the Lake District. Somehow a discussion among the Boxworthy family about British poets erupted.

“Coleridge is the best,” Hortense said. “ ‘Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes! His floating hair!’ ”

“Coleridge was a drug addict, my dear,” said Ned.

“Coleridge was a genius,” Elizabeth said.

“He was a drug addict and a sot and a lunatic. All that Lake District lot you’re always mooning over were loony. Coleridge was so drunk at a dinner party that he thought his shirttail had come out of his trousers. He kept tucking it in and tucking it in. Really it was the gown of the woman seated next to him.” Ned’s laughter rolled through the room.

“That was Coleridge’s father, I believe,” Elizabeth said.

“What’s the difference? It runs in the family. All these literary families you worship were nuts.”

“The Wordsworths were wonderful gardeners,” Mrs. Boxworthy said.

“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed. “Dorothy used to bring wild mosses home from the fells to plant around her house. She even transplanted wildflowers. I’ve always thought that such a lovely idea.”

“Have you visited the Lake District?” Madeline asked Catherine. She shook her head.

“Oh, but you should!” Hortense said passionately.

“You’ll become
drunk
with joy,” Ned cried in a mincing falsetto.

Catherine watched and listened, entranced. She and Ann and Shelly could no more sit arguing about American poets’ lives than fly to the moon. Had her family ever sat around conversing like this? The most similar occasions in her memory were holidays, Christmas or Easter, when circumstances forced them to be together. Even then her parents would have fortified themselves with a glass of liquor clutched in their hands. Why couldn’t her family be as charming as the Boxworthys, full of clever conversation and literary gossip? She tried to envision her family taking over her grandmother’s East Hampton Everly, working together to run it as a bed-and-breakfast. Impossible. Her parents would drink and sleep late, her brother would disappear with his rowdy friends, and Ann would complain bitterly that the work was too hard.

* * *

“
C
hildren,” Madeline Boxworthy announced the fourth night the Eliots were at Everly, “I’ve heard the rain is going to continue for several more days. We’ve had some cancellations here because of it.”

“Oh, bad luck, Mummy,” Hortense said.

“No, good luck, I think, dear. I’ve decided it might be a good time for us all to go to London. With Kathryn and her granddaughters.”

“Oh, smashing!” Hortense cried, and ran to hug her mother.

“I suppose Mrs. Frame can manage without us.” Elizabeth looked worried.

“Of course she can! Come on, Elizabeth, a little jaunt will do you good!” Ned said.

Catherine watched with amazement and envy as charming Ned urged his serious, dutiful sister to join them. What a family this was! She wished it were hers.

* * *

I
n London Madeline and Kathryn went their way, leaving “the children” to go off on their own. During the day, Ned acted as their tour guide, rushing them through Trafalgar Square, St. Paul’s, Westminster Abbey, Hyde Park. He and his sisters encouraged Catherine and Ann to buy bright-colored boots and Mary Quant clothes on Carnaby Street. The Boxworthys loved London, and as they rushed Catherine and Ann here and there, they seemed as proud and possessive as if they’d created it all themselves.