The Benedict Bastard (A Benedict Hall Novel) (13 page)

C
HAPTER
13

Bronwyn obediently stayed in her closet of a bedroom, waiting for the three days of her quarantine to pass. One of the other girls brought trays to her at mealtimes, and a basin for washing. She could use the bathroom, but only when no one else was there, which was almost never. She felt feverish and headachy and as restive as a cat in a cage.

Mother Ryther came to see her on the afternoon of the third day, frowning at her over her spectacles.

“It’s the vaccination, Betty,” she pronounced, after pressing her cool, wrinkled fingers to Bronwyn’s forehead. “We saw it with the children. Everyone was itchy and weepy for days.”

“I’m sorry to be a bother,” Bronwyn said.

“You’re not,” Mother Ryther said. “We’re grateful for your care of the baby.” She didn’t sound grateful. She didn’t sound like anything, really. Her voice was always matter-of-fact, even in the case of a baby who died.

“His mother will never know,” Bronwyn said. Her own voice trembled with misery. She was sitting on the cot. Mother Ryther perched next to her, a pile of mended clothes on her lap.

“No. She’ll never know. She probably doesn’t want to know. The poor tyke was just dumped here, wasn’t he? Thrown away.” Mother Ryther pushed herself up with some difficulty. She was always in motion, it seemed, carrying, bending, tidying, as if her gray hair and wrinkled skin meant nothing. Bronwyn wondered how she bore the weight of so many people depending on her.

Maybe, she thought, it was by not feeling things. Bronwyn wished she could do the same.

“You mustn’t worry, now,” Mother Ryther said. “Tomorrow you can rejoin the family.”

It was a kind thing to say, but Bronwyn couldn’t think of anyone in the Child Home as family. She missed Port Townsend. She longed for her own airy, sunlit bedroom. She wondered how Clara had managed her guests after they snubbed her. She supposed Johnnie would be telling tales about her, and everyone would believe him. She worried about her mother, who must be terribly unhappy, and who had no one to step between her and the people who frightened her—her husband, her cook, the people in town.

When Mother Ryther left, Bronwyn lay back on the cot, but her muscles jumped and quivered. She felt as if the walls of the tiny room were closing in, compressing the air until it was too heavy to breathe. She got up, and went to the door to peek out into the empty corridor. Everything looked hazy and somehow unreal, as if the same fever that burned in her chest and face was affecting her eyes.

Or perhaps it was her brain. She couldn’t think what she was doing here, in this cramped, windowless room. Her mind was as restless as her body, flitting vainly from one thought to another, none of them making much sense.

I need air, she thought. Just a breath of fresh air to clear my mind.

Voices swirled from every corner of the house, as they always seemed to do, but the corridor remained empty. She slipped out, closing the door of the little room behind her. She wandered down the hallway, and found herself in her original room, the one she shared with two other girls. Her coat and hat and handbag were in the closet. She snatched them up, and made her furtive way to the back stairs.

She couldn’t think why she felt she had to sneak away. No one appeared in the least concerned about where she was going or why. Two of the older children dashed past her on the cramped staircase, racing to the bottom. Others were in the garden with hoes and baskets, weeding and watering rows of vegetables. The sun had begun its slow descent past the mountains to the west, but the day remained hot and sticky, with no breeze to ease the July heat.

Bronwyn walked through the backyard and out through the swinging metal gate. She went around the outer edge of the garden to the street, and turned down Stone Way, feeling some relief in movement. She had no particular intention other than being out-of-doors, in the clear air. She hadn’t really meant to leave the Ryther Home, but now that she was walking, she didn’t want to stop. Her muscles still ached in a vague way, but were no worse for the exertion. Her coat hung over her arm, and her hat and handbag swung, half-forgotten, from her other hand.

She was startled to find herself, after perhaps ten minutes of walking, at the streetcar stop. She blinked and looked around. Two or three passersby nodded to her, and one man touched his cap. She realized she hadn’t put her own hat on, and the afternoon sun burned on her feverish cheeks. As she pulled it on, the streetcar clicked up the road toward her.

She had nickels in her handbag, and a few dollars left from the twenty she had started with. When the streetcar stopped in front of her, and the operator opened the doors, she stepped inside. She dropped a nickel into the fare box and automatically took a seat, without having really decided to do it.

 

Blake climbed the stairs, taking satisfaction in leaving his cane behind him, propped beneath the hook in the kitchen where he hung his driving coat. His leg felt a bit sluggish, but it did as he asked it to do, and that was a minor triumph.

Hattie had noticed, of course. “What do you think Miss Margot would say, she sees you walkin’ without your cane, Blake?”

He had smiled at her, and said with conviction, “I think this is what Dr. Margot has been hoping for, bless her.”

Hattie shook her head, making her frizz of hair quiver. She had been baking all morning, despite the heat of the day, and rivulets of perspiration streaked her wide cheeks. “I don’t know ’bout that, Blake.” She waved the dough-studded wooden spoon in her hand. “I just don’t know.”

“Don’t fuss, Hattie. I’ll be careful.”

“You do that. You take good care, Blake.” She went back to her baking, and he left the kitchen, careful to minimize the limp still left to him. By the time he reached the stairs, he heard Hattie start humming, and smiled to himself.

Dr. Margot and the major had left this morning for Spokane. Blake had driven them to Camp Lewis early, when the last stars of the night were still flickering through the gloom. Mr. Dickson and Mr. Dick had promised they could take the streetcar this one time so Blake could stay to watch the airplane take off. It was a prototype of the Model 21, Major Parrish said, an aircraft meant to be a military trainer. Mr. Dickson had pressed the major on its safety, but the major assured him that the military thought it was so easy to fly that their pilots couldn’t learn enough from it. Part of his current assignment was to suggest ways to make the aircraft more demanding.

Blake stood beside the grassy strip, watching with a mix of anxiety and affection as Dr. Margot donned a leather helmet and worked her arms into the sleeves of a borrowed jacket that was far too big for her.

She wore trousers, too. He couldn’t think where she had gotten them. Of course, there was a quite famous aviatrix, a Miss Earhart, who was setting records and appearing in newsreels. Miss Earhart wore trousers all the time, so he supposed there was precedent.

He watched as the major and Dr. Margot climbed up into the dual cockpits and stowed their tiny valises. Dr. Margot would have to wear the same clothes over and over, due to weight concerns, but she wouldn’t mind that. She never cared about her clothes. They both waved to him before they settled into their seats.

The motor started, sounding alarmingly small compared to the deep grumble of the Cadillac. The propeller began to turn, slowly at first, then faster and faster until Blake could no longer see the blades. He kept his face impassive as the little airplane bumped out onto the grass. It paused there, as if gathering itself, then began its run down the strip. When it lifted into the air it appeared to leap from the ground like a horse in a steeplechase. Blake’s heart lifted, too, but it thudded unsteadily, and he took a slow breath to quiet it.

He had watched the major take off once before, from the Sand Point Airfield. That had been exciting. But that time, Dr. Margot had not been in the second seat. As Blake watched the airplane’s painted fuselage dwindle into the pale blue of the morning sky, he set his jaw, resisting his fear for Dr. Margot’s safety. He stood where he was until the white speck of the Model 21 disappeared from his view. Only then did he turn back to the Cadillac, to make the long drive alone back to Seattle.

He tried not to think too often of the two of them winging their way across the Cascades in that tiny contraption of wood and metal and wire. He kept himself occupied through the day with tasks that had been awaiting a good moment. He had aired the rooms Dr. Margot and the major were using, and directed the twins as they turned the mattress and took down the curtains to be washed. He collected shoes that needed cleaning and eyed the major’s wardrobe for clothes that could use a press. By the time these chores were finished, the day was far gone, and he found his anxiety considerably lessened.

He was just closing the door on the Parrishes’ sitting room when he heard a hoarse cry from the other side of the house, where Mrs. Ramona and Mr. Dick had their rooms, with Louisa and her nurse just next door. It was Nurse’s voice, he was sure, followed immediately by a cry in the high, fragile tones of Mrs. Ramona. Blake started, and spun to his left, forgetting his weak leg. It sagged under his weight, and he stumbled, nearly falling. As he caught himself, he saw Mrs. Ramona dashing toward him, her hands out, her hair tumbled over her forehead.

She had been sleeping, he thought. Her cheek was creased and flushed from her pillow, and she was wearing a dressing gown. Her feet were bare, and her eyes wide and frightened. Nurse was running behind her, her apron flapping around her black-stockinged legs.

Mrs. Ramona clutched Blake’s arm so hard he nearly stumbled again. “Blake! Have you seen her? Louisa?”

Nurse said, her voice tight with anxiety, “She was napping with Mrs. Benedict! She was right there beside her, sound asleep. I saw her myself! I was just folding—I was—the sheets—” She broke off, gesturing pointlessly back at the nursery, then smoothing her apron, over and over.

“We have to find her,” Mrs. Ramona moaned. “Blake?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Yes, ma’am, we’ll find her.” He hobbled toward the back staircase, supporting himself with one hand on the wall. He called, in a voice that echoed down the stairwell, “Leona! Loena! Leave what you’re doing. I need you.”

 

In half an hour the entire staff had turned out. They searched all four floors of the house, and the basement, which held nothing but the Eden washing machine and the mangle. They fanned out to look behind the chairs on the porch, to peek under the porch itself, where Thelma reported that the spiders were the size of baseballs. Ramona, weeping now, stood in the front door, calling her daughter’s name. Leona, with hurried permission from Blake, dashed across to the garage, where she searched the Cadillac thoroughly and then ran up the stairs to check in Blake’s apartment. When there was still no sign of the little girl, they started on the neighbors’ gardens, and Blake, leaning on his cane, went to their front doors to explain what was happening.

By the time Louisa had been missing an hour, Blake felt the icy beginnings of real fear stir in his belly. He telephoned to Mr. Dickson’s office and explained that the men would have to come home by taxicab, or on the streetcar. He ended the call with an abruptness he would have to apologize for later, but Ramona was beginning to panic, and he thought it best to send Hattie up to her.

“See if you can get Mrs. Ramona to dress,” he said in an undertone, as Hattie began her lumbering ascent up the back staircase. “We may have to call in the police.”

“Oh, my Lord,” Hattie was murmuring as she climbed the stairs. “Oh, my sweet Lord, in Your mercy, help the poor little thing.” It wasn’t clear whether she meant Louisa or her mother, but Blake thought it didn’t really matter. Hattie hadn’t said a word about dinner, and Blake supposed it would be ruined. They hadn’t had a glimpse of Edith, either, but he spared no energy for that. He wouldn’t be surprised if Mrs. Edith slept throughout the whole thing.

He made his way to the front door again, and down the sidewalk to the gate. He stood there, uncertain which way to turn, longing to see a fair, curly head pop out from behind one of the rhododendrons or perhaps a tree trunk where she had been hiding.

So small, he kept thinking. She’s so small. A motorcar might not see her. A horse cart, with its iron wheels, could . . .

He forced himself to stop. There was nothing to be gained by allowing such thoughts. Hattie had the right idea, combining prayer and action.

He tried to think what would appeal to him, if he were fifteen months old. Louisa had been giddy at her mastery of the fine art of walking, and had advanced to running soon after. She loved the wide space of the back lawn, where she could run and fall without hurting herself. She loved riding in the motorcar, but Leona swore she wasn’t in the garage. She loved being outside, and crowed with glee over birds and flowers and even strangers who went by.

Strangers. Oh, dear God. Blake thought of the strangers Louisa had smiled at, men who couldn’t resist smiling back, some who removed their hats and bowed to the little lady in her ribbons and lacy pinafores. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be.

The Benedicts had suffered such torments over the past two years, tragedies that would have broken another family—a lesser family—into pieces. They wouldn’t survive another.

He let himself out the gate, and started across the street. In a stentorian voice, one he almost never used, Blake shouted, “Miss Louisa! Miss Louisa! Come back to your mama this minute!” He strode toward the park, which was crowded with summer visitors, children and adults playing on the grass, walking along the reservoir, preparing to climb up the water tower. He peered into the crowd, wondering if it were even possible to find a toddler among all those people.

The evening air was warm, even stifling, but Blake’s heart felt as if it were encased in ice.