Lawless (65 page)

For a moment he saw the woman he’d once loved so fiercely. All the old memories helped him speak with a degree of control.

“I wanted to ask about Molly. Where is she?”

“Why, I have no idea. Down at Long Branch, I suppose.”

“She was planning to join us this evening.”

Margaret looked puzzled. “Are you sure?”

His stomach began to ache. “You were the one who suggested it, Margaret.”

Her confusion deepened. “I? Gideon, I’m very sorry, but I have no recollection of that.”

She blinked once, then again. Through the mask of her perfume he whiffed whiskey all at once.

He continued to study her by the light of the hissing gas fixtures. Continued to search for signs of the lie that was always so easy to detect in Eleanor. God help him, Margaret seemed
sincere.

“You don’t recall saying you’d send Molly a note of invitation?”

“No, because I never said it,” she answered in an ingenuous voice. One plump white hand plucked at the décolletage of the gown. She seldom dressed so finely any more; she was ill at ease.

“I’m sure I didn’t,” she said, smiling at him in an almost infantile way. A stir of air moved the bedroom door. The latch clicked and the door opened an inch or so. She reached behind her to close it, but not before he smelled the staleness. Didn’t she ever ventilate the place?

He forced himself to speak softly. “I see. I must have misunderstood.”

“I hope you’re not accusing me of another lapse—”

“No, no.” He touched her arm to reassure her. She jerked away. His jaw whitened a moment. Then: “It’s my fault. Entirely mine. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must change. I’ll join you downstairs.”

He turned and hurried away, no longer angry but alarmed. He kept seeing her forlorn, vacant eyes. She’d forgotten again!

He shut the door of his room and leaned against it. For a moment he felt a remarkable kinship with Thomas Courtleigh. Kinship, and sympathy for him as well. He understood the agony Courtleigh must have gone through because of his wife—the agony of wanting to help and being unable.

What was wrong inside that poor head of Margaret’s? Was it the frustration of not being able to control him? The damaging effects of the drinking? Some unknown flaw inherited from her father? Was it one cause, or several? Who could explain? Who could help?

He shook his head in despair. There were no answers.

Silver candelabra all along the table lent the dining room a festive air. Yet somehow Gideon knew the evening was foredoomed.

Margaret was the last to arrive. She swept through the entrance and flung a pettish look in his direction. His inquiry about Molly, and the implied accusation of faulty memory, had obviously put her in a bad mood.

He had an impulse to flee and seek sanctuary in the parlor, where the servants were kindling a fire now that the spring air had turned sharply cooler with the coming of rain. He would have done that, except for Eleanor.

She, too, was wearing her best dress, a gown of velvet. She looked radiant, and far older than the fourteen years they were celebrating.

Both children sensed the tension between their parents. Eleanor tried to keep the conversation lively and inconsequential, chattering about events at Miss Holsham’s while the soup course was served. Will wiggled in his chair, repeatedly pulling at the tight, high-standing collar and scarf cravat he’d been forced to wear. When he picked up his spoon to dip into the turtle soup, he was so nervous the spoon fell and clanged against the silver tureen. Margaret gave him a withering look. Despite encouragement from Gideon, he didn’t try to taste the soup again. He sat rigid, darting apprehensive glances at his mother.

She didn’t taste the soup either. When the serving girls came to clear away the tureens, Margaret pushed hers away so sharply, soup splattered all over the spotless tablecloth. Eleanor kept her gaze confined to her own place.

As the next course arrived, Will screwed up courage to ask his father if the paper had received any new dispatches from the Dakota Territory, where the army was mounting a punitive expedition against the Sioux. Thoughts of soldiers and Indians could always overcome Will’s fear and put a sparkle back in his eyes—but Margaret quickly took care of that by slapping the table.

“Kindly do not bring up such distasteful subjects at this table!”

Gently, Gideon said, “He didn’t mean any harm, Margaret.” She just glared.

Will had already shrunk back against his chair. Reluctantly Gideon turned to him. “Let’s try to honor your mother’s wishes.” The boy was almost pathetic in his haste to nod.
God,
Gideon thought,
how many more times can he be defeated without being ruined for life? Not many, I fear.

Mercifully, the meal was quickly eaten. They reached the sherbet and the plates of fruit and cheese in thirty minutes. Gideon sensed that Eleanor had hurried deliberately, perhaps wanting to get them to what might be happier surroundings. But for all its warmth, and for all the cheerful light generated by the gas and the flickering wood fire, the parlor too seemed to be under a pall—the pall of Margaret’s dour and volatile presence.

Gideon strode to the mantel where the important family keepsakes were displayed: the small, stoppered green bottle containing an eighth of an inch of dried tea and, hanging on pegs above, the French infantry sword and the Kentucky long rifle. The portrait of the man who had collected the mementoes hung on the opposite wall.

Philip Kent’s picture had been commissioned after the Revolution. By then he’d been in his late thirties, affluent and conservative. Yet the painted image had a youthful vitality, as if a pugnacious street urchin was hiding just behind the face of the splendidly dressed adult.

Gideon stared at the portrait a moment. He was Philip Kent’s heir—and that meant being spiritual heir to some of the strength which seemed to radiate from the canvas. He drew a breath, resolving again to make the evening a good one.

Eleanor settled herself, arranging her skirts. Will ran in, then skidded to a stop when he saw Margaret’s reproving eyes. Very cautiously, he advanced to stand beside his sister. He pulled his hand from behind his back, thrust something at Eleanor and blurted, “I-hope-you-like-it-I-know-you-won’t-but-you-know-I-don’t-have-a-big-allowance.”

Gideon laughed at the breathless words. Sheepish, Will looked at his father. Gideon summoned him to his side with a smile and the boy gratefully went. Gideon slid his hand around Will’s shoulder as Eleanor examined her brother’s gift—a clear jar containing a dead frog afloat in brine.

From the protection of his father’s side, Will added, “I caught him over in the Park. Gigged him to death myself.”

“How repulsive,” Margaret said. “Don’t ever bring such a thing into this house again.”

“Please, Mama,” Eleanor whispered, sounding almost desperate. “It’s a—very interesting present. I’ll treasure it, Will.”

Her cheeks were the color Gideon had mentally dubbed Fibbing Pink. Eleanor’s kindness shamed Margaret. The older woman said in a lame way, “Yes, I must remember that the intent always counts more than the gift itself—”

No one commented. Will looked relieved. He didn’t realize his sister had been employing her acting talent. Thank goodness for that, Gideon thought.

An instantaneous change took place when Margaret became the center of attention. She was cheerful, almost jolly. She made an elaborate show of stealing out to a foyer closet and returning with several beautifully wrapped boxes. The boxes contained an assortment of scarves and two dressy hats, one of which was decorated with artificial flowers and a long plume dyed brilliant blue. She proudly announced that the gifts were imported from Paris. They pleased Eleanor.

Then it was Gideon’s turn. He reached under a divan and pulled out the package. Eleanor unwrapped it, glanced at the gilt lettering and caught her breath in surprise and delight.

Margaret leaned forward in her chair. “What is it, dear? It looks frightfully expensive.”

“Yes, Mama, indeed it does.”

“Don’t worry. We got a special discount,” Gideon said with a nervous smile. “I had it printed and bound at the firm in Boston.”

Eleanor added, “It’s a deluxe edition of
Uncle Tom’s Cabin,
Mama.”

Gideon hoped that would end it. If Margaret had taken a stiff dose of her tonic after dinner, it might have. But she was sober—and curious. She picked up her train and walked to where her daughter was seated. Gideon held his breath.

Margaret bent forward. “The Stowe woman’s novel?

Why would you give her that, Gideon? Why on earth would you spend money to bind up that piece of Yankee trash?”

Even as her mother was speaking, Eleanor was closing the book to conceal the text. But she wasn’t fast enough. The arrangement of the page finally registered on Margaret. “Let me see that.” She snatched the book and tore it open. “It’s a play. It’s the play version.”

Silence. A small log broke in the grate. Rain pelted the windows.

“I saw no harm—” Gideon began.

“You did this to defy me.”

“Please control yourself. I did it because Eleanor is interested in—”

“To
defy
me!” Margaret repeated, shaking the book at him. Eleanor reached for her mother, perhaps hoping to calm things with a touch. Margaret saw the outstretched hand and slashed downward with her right arm, nearly striking her daughter. Eleanor drew her hand back and covered her mouth.

Gideon was desperately struggling for patience. “There is no harm in books, Margaret. Not in any book, whether it be a play or—”

“But you know I won’t permit this kind of thing in my home, this”—her voice was growing steadily shriller—“this kind of filth. Anything connected with the theater is filthy. Obscene and filthy!” She flung the book into the fireplace.

Eleanor uttered a cry and leaped to retrieve the book. Gideon shot out his hand to bar her. “Please don’t.”

“But, Papa!” She slipped under his arm and knelt on the hearth.

“Don’t, Eleanor.” With effort he lowered his voice. “Let it burn. I’ll buy you something more acceptable.”

She looked at him, then at the book. The paper was charring, the leather wrinkling. Bright flames surrounding it made the tears in her eyes sparkle.

“Papa, I don’t see anything wrong with owning a dramatization of a famous—”

“Let it burn!”

Quite without wanting to, he had shouted at her. She showed greater self-restraint. She rose, smoothed her skirt and stepped back from a sudden eruption of fire. The paper in the open book ignited and quickly disappeared into curls of black ash. The leather darkened. Gideon wiped his perspiring upper lip and said, “I really thought there was no harm in a book, no matter what its origins. I was in error. I’m sorry.” It took immense effort to add, “I also apologize to you, Margaret.”

She sneered. “Why do you bother? You did exactly what you wanted and you’ll do the same thing again. You always do whatever you want.”

With a thin smile distorting her mouth, she marched back to her chair. Will had ducked behind a divan when the book was thrown. Now he reappeared, returned to Gideon’s side and clasped his hand.

“Don’t feel bad, Papa. Maybe you can buy Eleanor a present in Philadelphia if we ever go there. We’re all really sorry we can’t go next month because you have to work so hard writing up those political meetings.”

“Can’t go?” Gideon blinked. He turned and looked at Margaret, who was gazing at her son as if she wanted to wipe him off the earth. “But it’s your mother’s illness that—”

He bit off the sentence. He was beginning to understand. At first it frightened him. Then it made him pale with fury.

“Children—Eleanor—” His voice was barely controlled. “I’m sorry to spoil the party, but I must speak to your mother alone. Please leave us.”

Eleanor and her brother exchanged hesitant looks.

“I said please leave!”

For a second Eleanor seemed ready to protest. But she herded Will out ahead of her and, with her head bowed, closed the parlor doors. Instantly, Gideon stormed toward his wife.

“What have you been saying to those children behind my back? You—and Dr. Melton’s advice—forced the cancellation of the trip.” He grabbed her wrist. “Have you been saying otherwise, Margaret?” He shook the flabby white arm.
“Have you?”

She struggled. “Don’t do that. Let me go—”

His voice overlapped hers. “What else have you been telling them? I should have guessed long ago that you were up to something like this. Will’s always looking hurt—Eleanor’s always angry with me—”

Able to contain his rage at last, he released her and stepped away. Something turned in his mind like a key turning in a lock. The drinking hadn’t affected her as much as he’d thought. Her lapses of memory were cold-blooded shams designed to annoy and harass him. She might go to the liquor cabinet too often, but she was more scheming than sick—and far more bloated with the pus of hate than he’d ever suspected.

“I’d like to know,” he said, “just how many lies you’ve put into their heads.”

The pudgy white fingers of her left hand trembled as they rose to her other arm, and massaged it. “You hurt me.”

“And what have you been trying to do to me with your falsehoods, your deceptions? You’ve used my own children—and yours—as the instruments of your animosity. My God, what a wretched creature you’ve become.”

His voice dropped, hoarse with pain. “You’ll find it understandable if I’m no longer able to stay in this house with you.”

He trembled, because he understood the enormous significance of what he’d just said. He had severed all but the last tie binding them together.

Well, so be it. Painful as it was, he’d endure it. Anything was preferable to trying to live in a house ruled by a mind as sick and twisted as hers.

He started for the doors. He heard a faint creak. Someone was outside, leaning against one of the panels and listening. “You hurt me,” Margaret repeated as he rattled the handles to warn the eavesdropper. A moment later he opened the doors.

Although the gas was lit in the foyer, it was trimmed low, and shadows clotted the corners, Eleanor stood two paces from the doorway. Her face showed confusion.