The End of Innocence (5 page)

Last item: class meets in Harvard Yard. I would not expect any trouble for her in such a small class. I know these boys and they seem to be of the good sort.

Sessions start at three o'clock this Monday,
punct.

Yours as ever,

C. T. Copeland

A class with Copeland! The note took her breath away. What a gift! She stood up hastily to hug her father, her papers falling at her feet. “Thank you!”

“You must promise to learn all you can in order to revise my manuscript over the Christmas break.” He smiled.

“Of course,” she said elatedly as she reached down to gather the pages. She was delighted. Her heart felt light again.
Tut-tut, Mr. Brandl—my father has given me Copeland! We'll see who leaves Harvard as the better writer.

At that moment Patrick, a servant with thick, curly white hair, came to the door, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Mrs. Brooks's lawyer is going to be meeting you in twenty minutes and she's sent me down to say you are needing to be getting ready now. I'm to drive the missus to Radcliffe in a half hour.”

“Patrick, do you like this lawyer better than the last one?” Brooks asked.

“I'll give him the toss if he canna help Mrs. Brooks. She's a good woman.”

Her father rolled his eyes. “Excuse me, Helen. Must get dressed to attend to your mother's business. City Hall is not budging on this one and thus we must talk to the lawyers today and every day, it seems. Patrick, after you return we'll need to visit the Adamses in Quincy. We won't make the funeral, but we should at least make an appearance at their house.”

“Helen,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “One more thing.” His eyes avoided hers as he took out a small black velvet box, put it on her reading table, and turned to go. She opened it to find a ring with a pearl, small and barely pink, set in a delicate lattice of gold.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, surprised. She took it out and slipped it on her finger. It was beautiful.

“It is not to be confused with the pearl of great price,” he said, walking to the door. “That is you. I've paid dearly for you, and you have turned out marvelously, even if you indulge in romantic poetry. I will miss you around here, my dear.” He left abruptly, before she could say anything else.

She flushed at the high praise.

Cambridge, Massachusetts

Sunday, August 30, 1914

The distance from Lexington to Boston and Cambridge was not far—the British had jogged it quickly in 1776. What was different was the frantic pace of the latter places. Fumes from cars, smokestacks, and animals in the street markets poured into the Brooks family car when Patrick, her driver, stopped suddenly for a bewildering assortment of carts and children in the teeming, narrow streets.

When Helen had inquired about how anyone, especially students, could think in such an environment, her father answered that they didn't, they just parroted what they read on the opinion page of the New York newspaper. Helen hoped it meant that they were too busy to comment on her mother's activities and would focus on important things, such as stopping the kaiser in Europe. Or, failing that, the weather.

And there was reason to hope on this front. Professor Copeland had mentioned nothing of her mother's behavior in his letter to her father.

But what had begun as divine elation at the new challenge of being in Copeland's class slowly transformed into fear as they neared the Harvard–Radcliffe campus. She'd not prepared nearly enough. It had only been a random occurrence that she'd learned that death brought out the bad poet in us all. Yet that was one of the most basic tenets of writing, according to that young man at the party.

How could her tutor not have told her?

She took a deep breath. She needed to apply herself, just as Professor Copeland urged her to do. She could do that. One step at a time.

A truck filled with produce suddenly pulled in front of them and began to turn in the street. Patrick pulled the brake lever hard, sending the car bucking.

“The curse of Mary Malone chase you to Halifax!” yelled Patrick, his fist menacing the other driver. He turned back to Helen, his face pink. “Don't you be telling your father that I taught you new, er, proverbs.” The car lurched forward in the traffic again.

“Will your friend Miss Ann live with you?” Patrick asked, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. “I hear your brother is sweet on her.”

“Yes,” she said. “They will probably be engaged by Christmas, unless Mother's actions drive Ann away.”

“Now, Miss Helen, you canna be hard on your mother. She's helped women who have it very hard—with their men out working or drinking or in jail. They've more children than sense and she's helping them. No one else is looking out for them, God help them.” He stuck his head out of his open window at a stopped peddler's cart. “Canna you move your cart, sir?” he called over the engine's noise. “The Devil with him,” he muttered. “Stopping in the middle of the road when decent people have places to be.”

“Some would say my mother is out to help herself, not them.”

“I'd put my boot to their throat should they talk like that around me. True, I always get suspicious myself when I see the rich running to help the likes of us out. Makes me want to run the other way most times. But this is different. You're too hard on her, Miss Helen.”

“She should stay out of trouble with the police.”

“She needs not to be cursing the officers, that's for certain,” he said with a laugh. “But they had it coming. Riffling through her things, looking for those…” Helen saw his curls become stark white against the embarrassed pink of his thick neck.

Contraception. She knew. An embarrassing business if there ever was one, not that her mother cared what she thought. Helen looked out the window, and Patrick went on muttering about Mrs. Brooks's great charity toward those in need. But this charity had been exacted at a great price.

At the edge of the Radcliffe campus their black touring car waded into a sea of other such cars, engines sputtering and backfiring, each overflowing with trunks, quilts, hatboxes, and furniture. By the time they neared Longworth Hall, Patrick seemed to be cursing exclusively in Gaelic.

Helen's eyes lit up as they turned the corner and the building came in sight. Here was her home for the next few years, and she was to be a student not only at Radcliffe but at Harvard studying under the famous Professor Copeland. Finally she had a bona fide mentor to help her reach her potential. With such a guide what could she not do? She would explore writers from Aristophanes to Mallarmé; learn the craft of writing from the man who trained New York's finest editors; wrestle with the great minds of her age. She could become anything she set her hat to becoming: an author, a poetess! She'd give readings at the public library and talk with schoolchildren. A car would drive her to New York City to read her works before crowds. She'd take a train to speak in lecture halls in St. Louis and San Francisco. In her mind's eye, and modesty often prevented her from admitting this even to herself, she hoped that if she were truly diligent and careful and terribly lucky, she'd end up with a bust in the Boston Athenaeum, Boston's most prestigious library. Today, here and now, Helen would take her first step toward that marble quarry from which authors' statues were hewn.

Longworth Hall was a tall redbrick building with bright marble trim and a granite foundation. Its entryway and sidewalks were filled with young women in summer hats talking in groups of threes and fours. Matrons stood by their cars directing the unloading, and haggard men walked in and out of the building carrying hefty trunks and boxes of books.

They spotted Peter sitting by the steps, in his straw boater, navy jacket, and starched brown trousers, surrounded by women.

“Peter,” Patrick called from the car, “hurry it up! Your father says I'm to return and drive him to the Adams funeral.”

Peter nodded and waved to the three thin, sallow-faced youths who started unloading Helen's bags. “Helen, get your key from Miss Sullivan in the foyer. They'll take your things to your room.”

“Is Riley Spencer here?” she asked, looking for the young man from the night before.

“No. Just get your key and we'll meet you inside.”

She frowned, disappointed, as she walked into the foyer. Riley had said he'd be there.

The entryway was stifling hot and so packed with people—women calling to each other, girls fumbling with keys, fathers with maps—that it was nearly impossible to locate the front desk at the other end. Helen waded through the crowd to the desk and met a large woman with a wide face, bright cheeks, and a mop of curls. This must be the stout housemistress, Miss Maureen Sullivan, a formidable woman with some reputation of prosecuting offenders.

“Good afternoon, Miss Brooks,” Miss Sullivan said, turning to retrieve a key from the boxes behind her. “Please sign for your key,” she said, presenting her with three forms. Sweat beaded Miss Sullivan's upper lip, but she stood there without fanning herself. “Do you know the rules?”

“Your letter said to keep telephone calls to a minimum, curfew is at eleven, and—” Helen was jostled by a parent.

“Mrs. Jameson, I'll be right there,” called Miss Sullivan in a loud voice before turning back to Helen. “No fussing with the portraits and no men in your room after tomorrow. We don't want any problems.” Miss Sullivan furrowed her brow as she looked past Helen again. “I see your brother by the steps. He'll be knowing the rules,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Captain of the crew team or no. Now, call if you have trouble, but don't expect me to come running. It's moving day and we're busy. Next!” And with a wave of her hand, Miss Sullivan dismissed her.

“Your room is this way,” Peter called from the steps. “I scoped it out.” He picked up a box and started up the steps.

“Miss Sullivan seems to know you,” she called.

“I can't hear you,” he said in a loud voice as they walked up the steps. As they turned the corner, a young boy with a heavy stack of newspapers nearly crashed into them.

“Sorry,” the boy said, juggling his papers. His face was smudged with ink.

“What's the rush?” Peter asked.

“Special edition of the
Crimson
for the upstairs parlor,” he said. Peter's eyes widened as he looked at the headline. The young man gave him a copy and was off.

“Maximilian von Steiger murdered and Arnold Archer arrested!” he read aloud. The color drained from his face

“What is it?” asked Helen. “Who is von Steiger?”

He shook his head and waved to the young men who were holding Helen's boxes.

Helen unlocked the door to her room. Peter walked right past her into the dark room, and he seemed to know exactly where everything was. He opened the heavy curtains, pushed open the window, and ignoring the rest of the crew, began to read his paper. “Insanity,” she heard him whisper.

He didn't even look up as the young porters walked in with her bags. Helen directed the young men to put the boxes in the middle of the floor. As they dropped her boxes on the braided rug, a puff of dust billowed out. Helen wrinkled her nose.

Peter looked up from the paper. “Thanks, men. I'll see you in an hour at the boathouse.” They left.

Peter didn't move to help her, so Helen walked over to him and craned her neck to read the details of the story.

She had never heard of the young man who'd died, and the details were difficult to puzzle through. Archer, the son of a powerful city boss in Boston, claimed that von Steiger, a German, was a spy who had hung himself on his ship when confronted with his infamy. Yet Archer had been found with a gold watch belonging to the victim's friend. There was also no suicide note. And Archer had been in a public fight right before von Steiger's death, where he'd threatened to kill the young man for not renouncing Germany.

A frustration and irritability crept under Helen's skin. This young man had died tragically. She felt sorry for the dead young man. And yet, if he was a spy, it was better to lose him than a thousand men at sea. And if he was going to be a willing soldier as the article implied, then that was one more soldier the Belgians wouldn't have to fight at the front. But if he were innocent, the death was awful—a life cut short for terrible reasons. There were so many horrific, unintended consequences of war.

Sadness colors life
, Helen thought. After reading the article, the walls' cheerful white molding lost some of its gloss. The two desks, bookshelves, and redbrick fireplace, she decided, were a bit shabby for such a new building but acceptable. The large braided rug would have to go, however. She gave it a stamp and more dust puffed out. Miss Sullivan would definitely have to call for a maid.

She sighed and tried to summon back the happiness she had just been feeling moments before but couldn't. She was flummoxed.
Perhaps
there
were
only
so
many
extreme
emotions
a
daughter
of
New
England
could
be
expected
to
experience
in
one
morning
, she thought.

Peter shook his head, put down the paper. After a few moments he said, “An outrage.”

“Did you know the victim?” she asked, setting a stack of books on her desk shelf.

He shook his head. “Not well, but I do know Archer. He's a smooth sort, the kind I stay well clear of. He's always licking President Lowell's boots and cozying up to professors and the like. It's said he gets whatever he wants because his father is quite powerful. You know Arnold's father, Charles Archer, is the Boston city councilman giving Mother a hard time.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Charles Archer would like to run for a higher post. He wants to show he's fit for public office. I'm surprised that his son could even be arrested. They must have powerful evidence.”

“So the police must think Archer killed the German?”

“I'm not sure at all,” Peter said as he walked to a box, opened it up, and pulled out a few books for Helen. “It only says that yesterday they found a watch on Archer that belonged to Wils Brandl, oddly.”

She frowned. “Wils? The young man at the dance?”

“Oh, yes, I forgot you'd met him.”

“I have,” she said. “Churlish and German and—”

He held up his hands. “Stop right there. I'll not hear it about Wils. He is ten times the man his cousin Riley is—who you were quite keen on dancing with. Wils is a gentleman of the finest sort. But as for Max, except for the watch, it could have been a suicide. He was quite upset about a girl who left him. Max and another crewmate of ours, Jackson Vaughn, have been in some sick contest about who was more suicidal over losing their girl. Max seems to have won.”

“Max loved a girl enough to kill himself?”

“Possibly,” said Peter testily. “He is, after all, dead. Something killed him.”

She waved him off. “Really, Peter. Do you see Mother or Father killing themselves if one of them walked away? I would rather think that they'd enjoy the time apart.”

“Goodness, Helen! What is the matter with you? You've never been in love like he was. His girl left him and he was inconsolable. Wils told me he could barely get out of bed after it happened.”

“What happened?” came a voice from the door. Ann Lowell stood at the door carrying a round toile-covered hatbox tied with a white organza bow. Helen and Peter turned swiftly.

“Miss Lowell!” said Peter, his countenance completely changed. He walked past Helen quickly and took the box from Ann's arms. “I thought you were at the Adams funeral,” he said gently.

She smiled prettily back at him. Her golden hair was tied up with a black bow and fell in ringlets over her shoulders. Her skin was perfectly white, and contrasted with the black lace on her formal Sunday dress. As she smiled, she lifted her almond-shaped eyes and gazed adoringly at Peter. The look helped remind Helen that it was now her Christian duty to be happy about being a distant second in her best friend's affections.