Galveston (28 page)

“What'll you have if you marry Nick Weaver?” she asked one day.

“I'll admit we won't be wealthy, but you seem to forget, I've never been wealthy so it wouldn't be anything to have to get used to. Besides, he's steady, and has good morals, and Dad says he'll always have a position at St. Christopher's.”

“That isn't what I mean,” she said, frowning. “Serena, tell me something, dear. Please don't be offended by my asking—you know, I always speak my mind and you've been good enough to put up with me all these years. Have you ever been to bed with a man?”

I stared at her in disbelief.

“All right, I can see you haven't. Take my word for it, it wouldn't be any fun doing it with Nick, and you'd have to face many nights of it if you married him.”

“But it isn't for a woman to enjoy—”

“Fiddlesticks! Gad, you poor little innocent thing. And don't look so shocked. Things are not always so proper as they appear. Just because I went to private school, and dance at Madame D'Arcy's, doesn't mean I haven't had any experience beyond that.”

“Have you ever—?”

“Twice. Different men, of course, in Europe. I just wanted a taste. Of course they're far more open over there, not like here, where everyone is so starchy and aboveboard.

“You understand, I only tell you this as a friend, so you won't go getting yourself hitched to Mister Propriety. Don't look like you disapprove. You'd do well to appreciate the benefit of my experience.”

“That may be all right for you, Marybeth, but what chance would I have? I've never even been to Europe, have no hopes of getting much further away from here than Houston.”

“You give up too easily. The world's a big place with lots of interesting things in it. Take it from me. If we could only talk your father into letting you go to Europe with us one year, I could show you some real excitement.”

“Yes, but you know he won't let your father pay my way, and we could hardly afford it ourselves. Besides, who'd take care of Mother?”

“All right,” she said with a shrug. “Just do me a favor and don't sell yourself short by marrying Nick Weaver.”

“I'll have to do what's best. There's a lot to consider.”

“Nonsense. The only thing to consider when it comes to marriage is how
you
feel.”

I have often wished Marybeth could have met Roman. They'd have never gotten along, of course, would have probably scrapped like two animals, but I've a feeling they would have had a certain respect for each other.

Yet even that harmless thought comes wrapped in a new sinister one. What if I have been for Roman simply an adventure, taken no more seriously than Marybeth takes hers? What if he never intended taking me with him today, and will sneak away on an earlier train along with his band cronies, smiling with satisfaction as he watches Galveston disappear from his train window?

And one of his buddies will slap his shoulder playfully, and say, “Escaped again, eh? You better watch out, pal, one day some gal's going to get you yet.”

Somewhere in the distance a lonely train whistle blows, and a nervous thrill runs all through me. How absurd to think that of Roman.…

I'm just nervous.

He wouldn't do that to me.

He loves me.

Please, God …

Chapter 2

I shall miss James Byron more than anyone; I know it's terrible, for my loyalties seem always to lie in the wrong places. But there it is, and at least I can be honest about one thing.

James has been here since June, when his father and mother, Ruth and Edward Byron, were killed in a carriage accident on a hill outside Grady, where they lived, and Claire Becker, being his closest relative of means, was given the responsibility of mothering him. I have felt an attachment to him from the start, perhaps because his mother once spent a summer here, and Dad tells me Mother was very fond of her; in fact, that everyone was. A portrait of her face, captured in shimmering oils, hung in our dining room until a short time ago. The painting is initialed by Mother, dated summer 1879. She is portrayed as a small girl, delicate as a lacewing, with laughing eyes and soft, flowing hair.

James has her eyes. Seeing him the first time, I remembered the picture. I caught him staring at me from behind a bush in Claire's yard as I walked down on my way to Madame's the morning after he arrived in Galveston.

“You there, come out.”

A rustle. A moment passing, then he issued forth like someone who's just been nabbed for making a hand print on the butter. He is small for his age, dark-headed with a fringe of hair in front almost meeting his eyebrows. A small pair of spectacles rest on his nose.

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” he said, blinking at the sun. “I only wanted to see who was coming when I heard the door close. I didn't mean to be discourteous.”

“Discourteous? Oh, it's all right. I think I know who you are—James Byron. My name is Serena.”

He stared at me as though I'd pulled a rabbit from a hat.

“Your cousin Claire told us you were coming yesterday.”

“Oh, I see. Then you know … everything?”

“About your coming? I'm afraid so, and I am dreadfully sorry.… But I'm glad we're going to be neighbors, and I hope you'll like Galveston. Have you ever been swimming at the beach?”

“No, ma'am. Only in the pond back home.”

We stood either side of the fence for a few moments, each of us reluctant to say anything else. “Look, I've got to go or I'll be late for dancing class. Tell you what, though, if it's all right with Claire you can go to the beach with me tomorrow morning—not today, because if I've time to go today, I'll go straight from the studio. But tomorrow I'll leave at nine o'clock, unless, of course, it rains.”

“Oh, yes, ma'am. I'll be waiting here.”

“Good. See you then.”

“Is that your dog there, the German shepherd in the backyard?”

“Yes. Don't be afraid of him, though. He's gentle. He just looks a little vicious because he's big. His name's Porky.”

“May I play with him sometime?”

“Certainly. Tomorrow we'll take him to the beach. He always goes with me.”

“All right, but I don't have a proper bathing suit. Can I wear my knickers? We always did, at home in the pond.”

“Of course. Now I've got to go. Madame frowns on tardiness,” I said, and started off. He traced down the fence to the end.

“You won't forget tomorrow, will you?”

“Of course not.”

As I turned my back and kept walking, I realized he could be a real pest. However, there was something so lost about him. Even then I felt guilty walking away from him. He was such a long way from home and no doubt in need of a good friend.

I tried to slough off this feeling of responsibility toward him, which caught at me so unsuspectingly. He was only a kid who'd moved in next door, after all. He would be there today, tomorrow, and the day after. Why should I worry about him? He wasn't even related to me.

Yet I kept thinking of his face. All through ballet class I compared it with that of his mother in the picture. More than any other of Mother's paintings—her seascapes, flowers, birds—the painting of Ruth Miller Byron had always held a certain magnetism for me, and when she died I felt almost a sense of personal loss.

After they received the wire about the dual death in Grady, Claire and Helga had taken the next train out. Helga Reinschmidt has been with Claire since shortly after Charles passed away three years ago. I can't imagine why anyone would want such a woman as Helga around, but then I've never pretended to understand Claire anyway.

While she packed for the trip, Helga was dispatched to our house to explain their leaving and say they might be two or three weeks before coming back. Yet they returned within eight or nine days, and Claire came to tell us of the funeral and the boy, James. She talked in short, staccato sentences, as she always does when upset or nervous.

“Lord knows, I hate funerals,” she said. “But after all, I am the closest living relative except for the boy and the old man, Edward's father. Thank goodness some friend had already made the arrangements by the time we got there. So I was spared that.

“The boy will be here soon. I couldn't persuade him to come with us after the funeral. He begged to stay with his grandfather. Poor lad, I couldn't blame him. Like as not if his grandfather were younger—he's ninety and in bad health—James would live with him. He's never even seen me before. Probably thinks Galveston is the jumping-off point. I did, when Charles brought me here, you know.”

She huffed and puffed, leaned back in her chair.

“I'm going to give him Ruth's room, but I've been storing some of Charles's things in there that were sent from his office after he died, for lack of another place to put them. Lands, you never saw the like of books and boxes in your life. And his office is already piled high with the same kind of things—you know, he never got rid of all that stuff he collected when he ran for mayor back in '86. And of course the attic's been full for years.” She sighed. “I'll just have to get in there and get busy. I've never really gone through the boxes properly—seem to be full of duplicate papers and so forth. How I dread the task now.”

“Perhaps I could help,” said Dad.

“Oh, no, no bother. I'll probably throw away most of the stuff.”

“It's quite a responsibility, having a youngster thrust on you suddenly,” said Dad. “But I know you'll welcome him because he was Ruth's boy.”

“Yes. But there's an awful twist to it. I'm finally going to have a son to take little Charlie's place, but not until I'm too old to be a proper mother to him and, worse still, I'm getting him at the expense of the person I loved most in the world. Ah well, it's nothing new I guess.…”

“Will you be going back to Grady for him?” said Dad.

“No. He told us quite emphatically that if he decided to come, which of course he really has no choice about, though I didn't point it out, he is capable of coming alone on the train. He's a sharp youngster, keen on books, and says his dad taught him reading was one of the best things a person could do.”

“That's unusual,” I said.

“You're going to find James quite an unusual boy.”

He was fifteen minutes early for our first appointment to go to the beach, standing the other side of the fence, gripping the wooden pales with both hands. “We are going, aren't we?” he said. “I mean, you haven't changed your mind or anything?”

“Of course not. I've even made chocolate cookies in honor of the occasion.”

“Here, let me take Porky's leash.”

“I don't know … he may not be easy to handle.…”

“It's all right. We became friends through the fence while you were at dancing class yesterday. Come on, fella.”

Porky was in a running mood that day, and kept darting around the shrubs and trees along the way, jerking James behind as though he were nothing more than a rag wrapped around his tail. I was afraid he'd take a sudden leap and pull James off his feet, but the boy obviously took pride in being able to keep up with him, so I didn't mention it.

“I hope my clothes will be suitable,” he said.

“Of course they will. Anyway, it doesn't matter. There won't be anyone around where we're going.”

“But I thought there were always lots of people on the beach.”

“Porky, calm down! What? Oh, we aren't going to the public beach, unless you just want to. I've a friend who lets me use her place when she's away, and she left for Europe two weeks ago.”

“You go by yourself?”

“Porky's along for protection, if anything should go wrong. He wouldn't hurt anyone unfriendly, but he has an uncanny instinct for recognizing troublemakers.”

“That's good. I'll have to tell Cousin Claire. I think she and Mrs. Reinschmidt are afraid of him.”

“Well, I don't know about Mrs. Reinschmidt, but Claire has always had a fear of dogs. She was against Charles giving Porky to me for my fourteenth birthday, made a big stink about it.”

“She is a bit strange.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't know, exactly. When she met me at the train the other day, she was all hugs and kisses. I told her I didn't like her making over me as though I were a kid or something. But now I'm here, living with her, she doesn't act the same.”

“She probably decided to respect your wishes, that's all. Before you came, she told me what a bright boy you were, how grown-up you seemed.”

“Maybe that's it, but she came into my room night before last, or maybe it was Mrs. Reinschmidt. Of course I didn't open my eyes because I was supposed to be asleep. But I could sense the light over me. Someone had brought a lamp, or a candle, and stood over me for a long time.

“Of course it could have been a dream, but I don't think so …”

“Maybe you screamed in the night from a nightmare, and they came to see about you.”

“Yes, theoretically it could have happened. It doesn't matter, though. I'm only going to be here till the end of summer, then I'll go back home to live with Grandfather.”

“James, who taught you so many big words? Someday you'll say one I don't know, and I'll feel like an idiot.”

“My dad. He taught me almost everything I know—more than they teach you in school. He was the smartest man in Grady. We read Greek mythology together, and I've a whole set of Dickens. We also played parlor games. My dad believed they took great skill to play properly, and one should never let an opponent win just out of kindness. When I beat him, it was fair and square. Do you know backgammon or chess?”

“I've only played backgammon a few times.”

“That's too bad. I'll have a time finding a chess partner around here, I guess.”