Cutler 3 - Twilight's Child (17 page)

"What about Philip and Clara Sue, Mother? Clara Sue certainly would want to be included," I said.

"Well, yes, theirs, too."

"But I thought you didn't want anything to do with Grandmother Cutler's things," I reminded her.

"Not these things!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide. Then she settled into a smile. "Oh, let's not talk about anything that is unpleasant in the remotest way tonight, okay? Just look," she said, stepping closer to Jimmy. "We have such a handsome escort. Can I borrow an arm, James?" she asked. He blushed and glanced at me before nodding.

Mother threaded her arm through his quickly.

"Now won't we three look like something going through that lobby!" she exclaimed.

The stairway wasn't wide enough for the three of us to descend abreast, but Mother didn't seem to want to relinquish her hold on Jimmy, so I backed up and let them go first. At the bottom Jimmy turned and smiled, offering his arm again.

"Mrs. Longchamp," he said.

"Thank you, Mr. Longchamp," I replied, and we made our entrance into the lobby.

It was just as Mother had envisioned. Guests and staff all turned our way, their faces lighting up with awe as we paraded through to the front entrance where Julius waited. As soon as he saw us he opened the doors, and we left the hotel. Julius ran to the limousine and opened the rear doors. Mother got in first. She insisted Jimmy sit between us.

"To Beulla Woods," Mother commanded.

"Yes, ma'am," Julius said, and we were off.

It was still light enough for us to get a clear view of things as we drove up the long, winding road that led to Bronson Alcott's home. Beulla Woods stood on a high hill looking down on Cutler's Cove like a castle. Just as Jimmy had described, it was a spectacular house built with gray stone wall cladding and decorative half-timbering. It had a prominent round tower with a high conical roof. The tower housed the main entrance, which was a dark pine door set in a single arched opening. The tall two-story building had a steeply pitched roof. There were two sets of three double-hung windows on each level facing the front. Under each set of windows on the second floor was a small wrought-iron decorative balcony. The chimney was on the side, and there were round hedges all about the house.

The driveway took us around the rich, elaborately landscaped front with its gardens and fountains. Julius jumped out of the limousine and opened the rear doors, helping Mother out. Jimmy and I got out and joined her.

"Isn't it wonderful?" she said, turning and sweeping the air with her arm. We looked down at the ocean below, the boats, the docks, the cars and people on the street—everything looking toylike and precious. The sun was sinking below the horizon, the last rays of sunlight shining toward the center of the sky, making the world below celestial and angelic.

"I could stand here forever and look," Mother said. "Well, you'd better not, or our dinner will get cold," Bronson Alcott said.

All three of us spun around to see him standing in the doorway, his arms folded, a white meerschaum pipe in his right hand. He wore a dark blue velvet jacket with a gold lining on the collar and above the breast pocket. Instead of a tie, however, he had on a ruby cravat. In the twilight his chestnut hair and mustache looked a shade darker, like dark honey. The laughter around his sapphire eyes rippled down to widen his smile.

"Bronson," Mother cried. "Spying on us?"

"Hardly that," he said, stepping forward quickly to take her hand. "I did see your car drive up and wondered what was taking you all so long to ring my chimes. Poor Livingston is standing in the entryway fidgeting like an expectant father," he said, and Mother laughed.

"Livingston," Bronson explained to Jimmy and me, "is my butler. He's been with me . . . well, he's been around longer than I have. He actually worked for my father," Bronson said. He shook Jimmy's hand quickly. "Welcome. And you," he said, dropping his gaze to my feet and climbing up my legs and over my bosom to my face, "look absolutely beautiful. Like 'is other, like daughter," he declared, still staring at me.

"Now who's keeping us from dinner?" Mother asked, not hiding her annoyance at being ignored.

"Oh. Sorry. Right this way," Bronson directed, and he led us into the beautiful house.

Livingston, in coat and tails, stood just inside. He was a tall, lean old man who bent forward, making him seem to be climbing hills while standing on a flat surface. His hair was candle white and his eyes a pale, watery blue.

"Good evening, Livingston," Mother said.

"Good evening, ma'am," he replied in a somewhat raspy voice.

"This is Mr. and Mrs. Longchamp, Livingston," Bronson introduced. Livingston nodded.

"Hello," I greeted.

"Hi," Jimmy added.

Livingston went to close the door, and I turned my attention to the inside of the house. As we followed Bronson into the house I saw that there were paintings on all the walls, from Renaissance to modern. Colors and elegance were everywhere in evidence throughout the house, particularly in the hall, with its maroon velvet curtains, its marble floors and marble bench. We stopped first at the library, which was filled with rich leather furniture and dark oak tables and bookcases. Bronson showed us his office, where he had an enormous portrait of his parents above his desk. There was something vaguely familiar in his mother's face. She reminded me of someone, but I didn't have time to dwell upon it, for my attention was quickly drawn to the portrait of a young woman on the wall to our left.

She looked as though she was in her late teens. She had light brown hair brushed down over her shoulders and had a soft oval face with kind, light green eyes and a gentle smile. In the portrait she was seated on a wide cushioned chair. She had her graceful-looking hands crossed over each other on her lap, but there was something about her posture, the way her shoulders turned, that seemed odd. I thought she looked uncomfortable.

I looked at Bronson and saw the way he gazed admiringly at the portrait. There was a soft smile around his lips that resembled the smile on the young woman's face. In fact, as studied him and the girl in the portrait, I realized there were enough resemblances to make me suspect they were brother and sister.

"That's my sister Alexandria," he said, confirming my suspicion.

"Oh, she's very pretty," I said.

"Was," Bronson said, and he sighed. "She died a little more than two years ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"What happened to her?" Jimmy asked quickly.

"Despite what you see there, she was constantly in pain. She suffered from a degenerative bone disease. Posing for that portrait was a difficult thing for her to do, but she insisted on it. She wanted me to have it," he added, smiling at the memory.

"It's so depressing to dote on these tragic things," Mother said.

"What? Yes, yes, of course," Bronson said. "How rude of me, especially in light of Randolph's recent passing."

"Let's not talk about death and sickness tonight," Mother pleaded.

"Of course not," Bronson agreed. "Let me show you the rest of the house," he said to Jimmy and me. The tour continued. We passed under and to the right of the semicircular stairway with its white marble balustrade. He showed us his sitting room with its elegant French furnishings and even took us in to see his kitchen, where at the moment two chefs worked on our meal. The aromas were sumptuous.

"It's a gourmet feast," Bronson promised.

We went directly to the enormous dining room that had windows that soared up to the ceiling, framed by deep rose velvet swags lined with gold. There was a great teardrop crystal chandelier hanging over a table that could easily seat twenty people. The chairs were all high backed with arms and cushioned seats. The moment we sat down, servants appeared as if from out of the woodwork. There was a waitress and a waiter. The waiter brought out the iced champagne, and the waitress followed with our glasses on a solid silver tray. The bottle was uncorked and the champagne poured.

"I should like to begin by offering another toast," Bronson said, looking at me. "From everything I have heard . . ." He leaned toward-Mother to speak sotto voce. "And as you know, I have spies everywhere . . . I understand," he continued, sitting back and raising his glass, "that the new young owner of Cutler's Cove is proving to be a success. So," he said, "to the Cutler's Cove Hotel, whose future now looks bright again."

"Oh, Bronson, how can we toast a hotel? Toast people, not buildings," Mother complained.

"Very well," he said, undaunted. "To the two most beautiful women in Cutler's Cove."

"Now that's a toast," Mother said, and we drank.

The moment our glasses touched the table, the feast began.

We started with escargots and then had a radicchio salad with an absolutely delicious dressing and loaves of homemade French bread. Bronson warned me that every recipe was his chef's secret, and I would not be able to steal anything to bring back to the hotel.

"Don't worry, Nussbaum wouldn't appreciate my suggesting someone else's recipe," I said, just imagining. "He has too much pride."

"Oh, that egotistical Hungarian," Mother moaned. "He can be such a bore."

After we were served a few tablespoons of sherbet to cleanse our palates, the main course was served. We had duck a l'orange and wild rice with a side dish of asparagus in a hollandaise sauce that was sumptuous. The waiter served us wine, and the waitress hovered about, just waiting for the opportunity to refill our water glasses.

I noticed that as usual, Mother ate like a bird, despite the delicious food. But Jimmy and I stuffed ourselves and nearly burst when the waiters brought out our dessert: baked Alaska. How we found the room for it all, I'll never know. But by the time we finished having our coffee, I thought I would need a crane to lift me out of the chair.

"Why don't we all take a walk about the grounds," Bronson suggested, "before we have our after-dinner drinks? I think we could all use the exercise."

"Sure," Jimmy said, eager to continue his study of the house and grounds.

"I need it," I confessed.

"Well, I don't," Mother said. "And I've seen the grounds. I'll wait for you all in the French room, Bronson."

"Everyone could use the exercise, Laura Sue," Bronson coaxed. His eyes twinkled with persuasion. Mother sighed deeply.

"Oh, well, if everyone insists, I'll go," she said, making it look as if she was doing us all a great favor. Somehow, Bronson didn't mind Mother's performances. If anything, I saw a look of amusement in his face.

He took us back out the front, where Livingston rushed as best he could to open the door, and we followed a slate walkway around the house, past gardens, a gazebo and a small pond, to the rear of the house, where we found the tennis courts and a rather large swimming pool. Everything, including the walkway, was lit up.

Jimmy walked ahead with him and talked about the house and the grounds, while Mother complained to me that the shoes she was wearing were not designed for hikes.

"1 would hardly call this a hike, Mother," I said, but that didn't dissuade her from whining until we made our way back and she could drop her body into the soft cushions of the settee in the drawing room. Moments later Livingston arrived with a tray bearing a bottle of sherry and four glasses. He poured us each a glass and brought the tray around. Jimmy and I were seated in the two wing-back chairs to the right of the white marble fireplace. Bronson remained standing. As soon as Livingston left, Bronson raised his glass again, this time smiling in a conspiratorial way at Mother.

"It's time for the main toast of the evening," Bronson said, "and an announcement"

Mother followed that with one of her nervous little laughs.

My heart began to thump like a lead drum against my chest. Some little voice within me had been whispering suspicions all night, but I had chosen to ignore it, chosen to ignore the way Mother and Bronson Alcott gazed into each other's eyes, chosen to ignore the way he placed his hand over hers and held it there at the dinner table.

I looked at Jimmy, who gazed back at me with eyes betraying a similar suspicion. There had been ulterior motives for this dinner after all.

"We wanted you two to be the first to know," Bronson said. "Right, Laura Sue?"

"Yes," she said, smiling.

"We're announcing our engagement tomorrow," he declared. "It won't be much of an engagement, however," he added quickly. "We intend to be married within a week."

"A week!" I couldn't help my exclamation. "But it's been less than two months since Randolph's death," I cried.

Like a tender flower without the admiration of rain to nourish her faith in herself, Mother wilted before me.

"I knew it," she moaned. "I knew she would say something like that. I just knew it! My happiness means nothing to you, does it, Dawn?"

"Well, how can you expect me to say anything else?"

I looked up at Bronson and then turned back to Mother. "How can you do this so soon after Randolph's death?"

"You of all people should know, Dawn," she replied coldly, "that my marriage to Randolph was not much of a marriage anyway. He was married to his mother, her every shadow, her every word. You don't know how much I suffered," she added, her throat choking and her eyes filling with tears and quickly overflowing in streams down her dainty cheeks.