The End of Innocence (14 page)

Harvard College

Helen and Ann were sitting at their morning breakfast in dressing gowns and braids when a knock came on their door.

“Miss Brooks,” called Miss Sullivan from the other side. “Morris Rabin is on the telephone for you downstairs.”

Helen met Ann's glance with surprise. “Be there in a moment,” called Helen.

She stood up and unraveled her braids as she walked to her bedroom, pulling on a navy dress and calling for Ann's help with the tiny buttons up the back. While Ann assisted, Helen tamed the dark waves of her hair into a deft twist and tied it with a white ribbon.

She went downstairs to Miss Sullivan's desk, where she was handed the telephone receiver and speaker.

The short cable did not stretch far beyond the scarred counter at which Miss Sullivan sat, in a purple dress with her hair in a pompadour. The hall mistress at least made the pretense of reviewing the day's schedules for the college maids.

Helen leaned close to the speaker. “This is Helen Brooks.”

“Helen, it's Morris. No study group today. Wils has been hurt.”

“What? Is he—”

“He's not good. Riley found him unconscious on the sidewalk. Someone hit him after the reading,” said Morris.

“Archer?”

“No idea. He is in his bed for a couple days, and I'm taking care of—”

“I'm coming over,” she interrupted.

“Women aren't allowed in Beck Hall,” said Morris.

“But if he's been hurt, surely they would allow a visit.”

There was another pause. “Helen, I don't know how to say this. But if you're looking for a way to get closer to Riley, this isn't the time.”

Helen felt her cheeks turn bright red. “I understand,” she said, swallowing hard and hanging up the phone. She returned it to Miss Sullivan.

Helen walked slowly up the steps, chastened. Ann looked up.

“Horrid news, Ann. Wils Brandl was attacked after the reading.”

“No,” said Ann.

“It's terrible,” Helen said, standing on the carpet, her arms crossed in frustration at Morris's stinging comment. If only he knew that she really did want to see Wils.

“There's a basket of cookies my mother brought to me, over on my desk. You should take them to him and see how he's doing,” said Ann.

“Riley Spencer lives with him and I can't bear to face him, Ann. I told you I am not interested in him.”

“Good citizens are good despite obstacles.”

“I'd not thought of that,” Helen said, walking to the coatrack. She pulled out a thin wool shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders, then picked up the cookies and walked out the door.

* * *

At Beck Hall, Burton made no attempt to stop her visit. He ushered her into Wils's room along with the other visitors, informing her that Riley was gone for the day (to her relief) and Wils was asleep.

Helen was greeted by Professor Copeland, and another man introduced as Professor Kuno Francke. They stood in the middle of the room, nodding at the hushed tones of the police officer's report. The officer was a large man in girth and stature, his florid face animated by the conversation. Professor Francke, on the other hand, was reserved, tall and Germanic. On his nose sat a pair of round spectacles that seemed too small for his face. Perhaps it was the short bristly mustache that didn't look like it belonged, but to Helen, he seemed like a young boy wearing a disguise.

Copeland welcomed her. “Miss Brooks, I'm glad you came. Wils was calling for you.”

“Really?” she asked too eagerly.

Copeland looked at her askance.

“How is he?” she said, attempting to frown disinterestedly.

“Not terrible,” said Copeland in a low voice. “A knock to the head, some bruises. A scrape on the face. Riley Spencer was escorting two ladies home when—”

The police officer gave a pointed look at Copeland.

“What, Officer? They are ladies until proved otherwise. He was escorting some ladies home when he found Wils on the sidewalk. He talked to the police, then left about an hour ago to take care of some of Wils's business.”

Helen bit her tongue.
Riley
is
seeing
other
women
when
he
is
supposed
to
be
courting
me? Thank goodness I didn't fall for him.

“May I see Wils?”

“Of course. Please come with me.” As he put his hand on the glass doorknob, he turned to Helen. “You're not going to faint on me, are you?”

“No,” she said as they went into the room.

Wils's room was dark and cool, its curtains pulled, and it smelled like camphor. She saw him resting on his bed, across from a large writing table. A small roll of bandage and powders cluttered a nightstand by him. A young nurse in a starched white uniform sat in the corner in a stuffed chair, reading by the light of a small night lamp. She looked up but didn't move.

Neither did Wils. Helen saw his face was scraped—perhaps where he'd fallen. He seemed to be breathing easily at least.

“He'll wake soon,” said Copeland in a whisper. “Have a seat.” He sat on a stool by Wils's bed, offering her a large leather chair.

“Spencer said Wils called your name as they were carrying him to his room. I've been asked to investigate for the college on a related matter.” Copeland put his hands on his balding pate. “Could you tell me what you know?”

“I know a lot,” she said quietly, but with confidence. “I'm confident Arnold Archer did this. But I don't know if that is what the college wishes to hear.”

“We've no interest in sullying a three-hundred-year-old reputation for someone who can't behave properly,” returned Copeland. He leaned toward her. “We don't want the likes of Wils to be hurt for political matters. He's a talented young man, Miss Brooks, although you mustn't ever tell him I said so. It may corrupt him.” He sat back and rubbed his hands over his face. He no longer seemed the confident professor of last night. Instead he kept looking nervously over at Wils, as if he didn't know what to do. He leaned toward her again. “But I am concerned. Wils doesn't choose his friends well.”

Professor Francke entered and Copeland rose to speak to him.

“Charles,” said Francke, “I'm going to resign if Archer isn't expelled. He must be made an example. Count Brandl is from a high-ranking German family. First von Steiger, now Brandl.”

“You've threatened to resign just about every week since the war broke out.”

“These aren't manufactured grievances—”

Wils suddenly gave a moan. “Helen?”

Copeland and Francke abruptly halted their conversation. Copeland leaned over to Wils.

“Wils, do you want to speak with Miss Brooks?”

“Yes,” Wils whispered.

Copeland looked at Helen and nodded.

“Kuno, nurse, let's speak in the living room. Mr. Brandl needs to speak with Miss Brooks.”

They walked out. The professor left the door slightly open.

Helen raced to him.

“I should have listened to you, Helen. It's not safe here,” he said in a hoarse voice.

“Is Europe at war safer?” she whispered back.

He shook his head and winced. “Perhaps safer than sitting in the presence of a sharp-tongued Boston bluestocking.”

She smiled. “Would another knock on your head civilize your speech?”

“No chance,” he said with a slight smile. She caught the sparkle of his eyes before he closed them. “Thank you…for coming.” He lapsed into silence again.

She looked at him sleeping: his blond hair mussed, his cheeks pale against the dark pillow. His shoulders—wide and muscled from rowing—twitched now and then, and his arm was carelessly draped over the side of the bed.

She was struck by his handsome profile, as if she were looking at him for the first time.

She reached for his hand to arrange it by his side. His hand was large, easily able to encompass hers. She held it for a moment.

“What are you doing, Helen?” came a clipped British accent.

Beck Hall

Helen turned and saw Riley standing in the doorway, his hand cradling a badly bruised eye. His forearm was bandaged with gauze, and dark spatters stained his white shirt. His tie was loose at the collar, his dark hair was uncombed. He looked like he'd not slept.

“What happened, Riley?”

He shook his head. “Not in front of Wils.”

She stepped quickly outside and Riley closed the door behind them.

“I took care of some things.”

“Archer?”

“They'll have a deuce of a time cleaning him up.”

She swallowed.

“It seems we both were taking care of Wils,” he said irritably. “Only
I
at least have a reason to do so, seeing as Wils belongs to my family.”

She said nothing in reply.

Riley sniffed. “Do you know that Wils and I are leaving for war?”

Helen paled. “When?”

“Soon.” He shrugged. His jaw tensed as he looked over to one side. She thought she caught a lipstick mark on his collar as well.

“Miss Brooks, I understand some news has reached you,” he said in a quiet voice when he caught her looking there. “Some news that may have made you think less of me these past couple of days. May I speak plainly?”

She nodded.

“There is a woman who has told many of my friends that she is to be married to me. Your brother Peter believes I'm engaged.”

“Are you?” she asked, but she felt like a fraud as soon as she spoke. Even if he had no fiancée, she wouldn't care for him, especially with such damning evidence on his shirt.

He shook his head. “The truth is that I am not. I've made it clear to this woman that I never asked her to marry me and don't intend to marry her. I think a young man named Lawrence is really the person she will end up marrying. I needed you to hear and to know this.”

Riley stepped over to her, sat down, and took her hands. His felt rough and cold compared to Wils.

“Helen, I'd like to talk with you about our future. I'm going—”

“I'm grateful for your kindness and I don't wish to hurt your feelings,” she interrupted pulling her hands back. “But we have no future.”

His face darkened. “Oh come now. What do you mean? You kissed me!”

“You kissed me, as I recall. And in a rather ungentlemanly move, you didn't ask how or whether I'd like it. If you had I would have said no. I made a mistake, Riley. I am sorry, but I'm not in love with you.”

“Nonsense. I know it may take some time, Helen. I'm not an easy man to live with, although I assure you that that will change. I had—I just—I mean, in between now and the time I leave, I'd hoped we could continue to grow our acquaintance, our relationship. I had counted on it, in fact.”

“Mr. Spencer—”

“Please!” He grinned. “You felt something at the dance. Tell me you didn't and I'd call it a lie. You were happy then, Helen. What's different now? A piece of mistaken information?”

“No,” she said. “I'm just—just—” She searched for the right word.

His smile evaporated. “Don't lie to me,” he said.

“I shouldn't have kissed you.”

“Well, you did, and here I am.” He stood up and paced before her, with a belligerent air of victimhood.

“Riley, I'm sorry to hurt you, but I cannot return your feelings. I-I'm so sorry,” she stammered, standing up. “I wish I had been candid. I didn't mean to—”

He held his hands up to stop her from talking.

How had she of all people been able to wound him? Wasn't he the one who littered the dance halls with broken hearts? “Riley, I don't think that—”

“I am at the very least honest about who I am. I'm not engaged, contrary to what some may say. I also don't go kissing people by accident. And I thought I would at least make that plain.”

Helen blushed. As she struggled for words, she saw that his emotions, so evident a few moments ago, suddenly became hidden by a careless look. He turned away. There was nothing further to say.

“It's best if you just leave,” he said, almost bored.

She turned on her heel and walked out, through the hall, past the professors and Mr. Burton, fighting back tears.

“Miss Brooks!” she heard Burton call. “You forgot your shawl!” She swallowed, thanked the hall master quietly, turned, and left. She didn't know which was worse: causing the pain, as Riley had accused her of, or living with it, as he supposedly was (though she had her doubts about how long that would last). She assumed the former, but, in truth, preferred neither.

Wils would hear of this, she was certain. Riley would tell him and that would be the end of their friendship as well.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Soon—perhaps very soon—they would all be gone: Riley and Wils. They would leave for war, and she'd have to live without them. Especially Wils.

As she began to walk home she burst into tears. She couldn't bring herself to return to Longworth Hall. Wiping her eyes with the back of her glove, she turned and walked toward the Charles River. It was quiet along that path. A vigorous walk might clear her head.

* * *

The Charles was a notoriously slow river, its water brown from steeping in the wetlands surrounding it. While carriages and cars busied themselves on either side of the banks, the river itself seemed to absorb and swallow the sound from the roads. Its dirt paths were wide enough for the myriad of daily visitors: wandering students, nannies pushing strollers, young boys bicycling, and the beggars who slept on carpet bits under the graceful Georgian bridges that arched from the banks of Cambridge into the wilds of Allston. Squirrels ran up the large elm and oak trees, which at the river's narrowest parts stretched their limbs out to gossip with their counterparts across the river. Under their spreading branches sprang rushes and daylilies, and an occasional spot of beach to dock a boat or to watch the fours and eights as they skimmed past to the rhythm of the coxswain's call.

But Helen barely looked at the trees or the water as she marched around the Charles River that day or the next. Instead of watching the autumn sun glisten on the water or the fours and eights gliding by, or listening to the wind whisper through the leaves, she thought of Riley and still felt hurt and irritated. On the third day it came to her. The problem wasn't Riley. It was really Wils.

Wils—the caustic, blunt young man—he knew her in a way she felt no one else did there. She liked him: the poetry, the reading, the advice regarding her mother, the little half smile he gave her.

But he wouldn't seek her out anymore, she was sure. Whatever Riley told his cousin about the incident when he woke up could hardly be flattering.

That night she confided her troubles to Ann, but her friend had no words of comfort. Ann advised her to keep the revelation of her feelings between just them, and away from her overly protective brother. In this Helen needed no instruction. She wished to leave all public professions to her mother.