The Family Greene (12 page)

"My tutor, Mr. Miller, says I have to read it."

He snapped the book closed and set it aside. "He may be a graduate of Yale, but I always thought he was a pompous idiot. Of course, I can't tell your father that. So..." He drew up a nearby chair and sat down. "To get back to the subject at hand. Why are you hiding out in the house on these beautiful June days?"

"I'm not hiding. I've been brought low by some malady."

"And what malady is that?"

"I don't know. I'm just not feeling myself these days."

I did not meet those hazel eyes. I did not, as a matter of fact, look at him at all. I could not bring myself to direct my attention to that tanned face with the strong nose and the set, square jaw. I was fearful of what I would find there.

"Why won't you look at me, Cornelia?" The voice was gentle. It went right into me, probing. "I cannot help noticing that you never glance my way at the table. And regardless of the conversation between you and Martha, even little Louisa could tell you two are at each other's throats."

"Sir, please, I have a headache."

He reached out and felt my forehead. "No fever. What's wrong, Cornelia? Your father asked me, before he left, to cast a special eye to you. He seems to think something is eating at you. Is something eating at you?"

Now I did look at him. There was no anger in his hazel eyes. There was sympathy, understanding, and, yes, love.

"I'm no stranger to heartbreak, Cornelia."

Tears came to my own eyes.

Mama had once told me that it took her years, but she had learned from her friend Mrs. Knox how to keep tears from overflowing and coming down her face. I have tried and tried, but have never been able to master that trick.

Now tears spilled down my cheeks.

General Wayne said nothing. He simply reached for his handkerchief and stood up, bent over me, and wiped away the tears. His touch was tender.

"I don't know what it is," he said, "but if you can't confide in your mother or father, please know that you can come to me. I'll keep your confidences, and I'll help you if I can. I have a daughter, as you know. And a son. And let me tell you, parenting is the most difficult job in the world. Promise me, child, that you won't go on like this. That you will come to me with whatever is eating at your soul. Will you promise?"

"Yes, sir. I promise."

"I'm responsible for your well-being right now. If you honestly are sick, I will summon the doctor. So either get up and rejoin the rest of the world, or I will summon the doctor this very afternoon. The choice is yours. What shall it be?"

I got up off the window seat.

"Good girl." He kissed the top of my head then, and turned and left the room.

I rejoined the world for a day, but the world was not there for me.

I made candy with Nat and little Louisa in the kitchen, because they missed Mama so. I read to Louisa before her afternoon nap. I rode my horse when the sun cooled in the late afternoon.

But the idea of General Wayne possibly being my father was choking me like the Spanish moss on the trees, clouding my vision, getting in the way of my every thought. I minded that I could never go forward with my life, I could never unmuddle my mind and think in a straight line again unless I determined the rightness of the business. And accepted it, whatever it was.

But to accept it, I must know the truth.

And I must know the truth before Mama and Pa returned. So I would not have to look, with a lying face, upon Pa. And with an angry face, for the rest of my life, upon Mama.

And the only one who could untangle things for me was right here, right at my fingertips.

He had said I should come to him, hadn't he? Hadn't he said I should seek him out and confide in him rather than be eaten up? And that he would keep my confidences? And that he was no stranger to heartbreak?

***

H
E WAS ON
the back veranda. Supper was long since over. Nat and little Louisa were in bed. George was reading in his room. Martha was upstairs trying on a new dress.

General Wayne was lounging in a chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. It was dusk, and in the west, the sun had left a few streaks of blood-red stains in the sky.

"General Wayne? Sir? Are you busy?"

"Yes, Cornelia. I'm busy watching the fireflies. I've been fascinated with them since I was a child. Come, watch them with me."

I went over to him and he gestured that I should sit in a chair next to him. I did so. He was sipping a drink. For a moment there was silence between us. Then he said, "Their abdomens glow for a second with a fierce light. They are really beetles, you know. Fancy beetles. Did you know that?"

"No, sir."

"They remind me of certain officers I knew in the army. Plain beetles who put on fancy uniforms and went lighting up the dark and strutting about. Their lights only lasted a second."

We were silent for a moment, then he spoke again. "Did you come to confide in me, Cornelia?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, confide away, then. I'm listening, child."

I took in a deep breath and let it out again. "General Wayne, I just can't abide it anymore, and I'm going to perish soon if I don't find out the truth."

"It sounds dreadful serious, Cornelia."

"It is, sir. And I hope you won't be angry with me when I speak."

"Have you read my personal papers?"

"No, sir."

"Written to my wife and told her I kissed your mother?"

"No, sir."

"Then, go on, speak. I won't be angry. I promise."

"General, first you must know that I respect you most heartily. But I must ask. Are you my father?"

The night went silent. The beetles whose abdomens lighted up all seemed to wink at us at once. The dusk got one shade darker, but I could still clearly make out his dear face and the expression in it, which was so important to me.

He did not change that expression.

He did not even blink those hazel eyes.

He just gave a small smile, a slight turning up of his lips at the corners.

"Do you want me to be?" he asked.

"I'm not making sport, sir. Please, please tell me."

His face went grave then. "Someone has obviously told you that I am. May I ask who?"

I lowered my eyes and did not answer. But you do not do that with General Wayne. He does not stand for such.

"Look here, now," he said severely, "if you're to trust me enough to confide in me, and you want my confidence in return, let's make it wholehearted, shall we?"

"Yes, sir," I agreed. "It was Martha who told me."

He nodded his head knowingly. "Now," he said, "things start to sort themselves out. So Martha has told you I'm your father. And from whence has she gotten this intelligence?"

"From Eulinda, who was at Valley Forge."

Now he frowned and went silent and turned his attention again to the fireflies. "Eulinda, is it?" he asked. He used an oath then. He took the Lord's name in vain, connecting it with Eulinda's, damning her. Looking back at me, he excused himself for cussing in front of me.

"Eulinda is trouble," he said. "I have long since observed that. Why does your father continue to keep her around?"

"Mama needs her."

"Your mother doesn't really
need
any particular servant, Cornelia. I happen to know she feels sorry for Eulinda."

"Well," I told him, "Eulinda wants to go home. Back north. That's what she told Martha, anyway. The other servants have taken to stealing from her because they found out that Pa pays her. And she's saving up for her trip home."

He ruminated a bit on that, saying nothing. "To get back to the business at hand," he said, "if you believe what Eulinda told Martha, what are you saying about your mother?"

And before I could answer, he threw another question at me. "Do
you
believe it?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Do you
want
to believe it?"

I looked down at my hands in my lap. "If you will excuse me, sir, that's not fair."

"No, it isn't," he said. "And I'm being overly severe with you. But the charges are so"—he hesitated—"so
sacred,
Cornelia. Rumors always floated around about me and your mother. They still do. You must have heard them. Have you?"

Now I was on the defense, and I had to answer. "Yes, sir."

"Well." He sighed heavily. "Tell you what. I'm going to let you believe what you wish to believe. I'm going to let you develop your love and your trust in all of us as you grow older. But I will be honest with you, and tell you this.

"I will always suffer the misfortune of loving your mother. At the age she is now, thirty-two, she has finally become the finished lady your father expected her to be at twenty-five. He was a dozen years older than her, and sometimes made demands on her that she could not meet.

"Oftimes she did not feel she had the necessary abilities for the role she had to play. We both suffered the disapproval of our mates, Cornelia, and wanted some relief from the oppressive decorum. The war gave us some relief, so we look back fondly at those times. The war permitted us liberties we thought we had rightfully earned.

"But when it was over, we found that nothing had changed. Sometimes we try to relive those times. Like recently, when you saw me and your mother kissing. Many an innocent kiss was exchanged at Valley Forge in the threat of the loss of the war, which would mean the hanging of all of us officers at the hands of the British. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's all our kiss was recently, Cornelia. I venerate your father too much to let it have been anything else. I would never violate his trust. As to your question,
am I your father,
by the gods, you honor me. Come here." He reached out his arms.

I went to him and he took me onto his lap. Pa would never do such. Pa had too much decorum.

"I shall love your mother for all of my life," he said.

I wept in his arms.

"You should be punished for even asking such a question," he told me. "If it is true or not. For hurting all concerned. You deserve to be punished, and so I shall punish you by never answering. You are a spoiled little girl, Cornelia, spoiled as the last apple on the tree."

He held me tight. He did all the things a father should do. He stroked my hair, he kissed my ear, and when he stood me on my feet in front of him again, he put his hands on my shoulders and gave me a little shake and frowned and said, "Don't tell your parents we even had this conversation. And don't let me catch you treating them shabbily because of what Martha told you, or you'll feel my hand, sharp, where you sit down!"

I decided he could likely be my father.

It confused me further. I did not want him to be. I wanted my own pa.

I determined, standing there in front of him, that what I had achieved this night was getting to know him better. I had learned that I respected him, that he was a man of good parts, that if I found out that yes, he was my father, I would be able to accept it.

But not without dying considerably much inside first. Because I wanted to keep my own pa. I loved him precious more. I was not willing to surrender him unless I had proof, and even then it would destroy my soul to give him up.

And certainly I was not going to let Martha allow me to do that without a fight.

No, I needed the truth.

And I would get it. From the one person who had started all this disharmony.

Eulinda.

I
DETERMINED THE
next morning, with a sense of purpose that I had not felt in a long time, to approach Eulinda immediately after breakfast.

Of course, I gave no hint of my plan to anyone. I told them I was going directly to see Jenny, our dressmaker, for a fitting of a new dress she was making for me.

Conveniently, Jenny's room was in a private wing downstairs, where Eulinda's quarters were situated. If Martha suspected anything, she gave no sign of it. But she did accost me at the door that led to the steps downstairs.

Smiling. Martha never smiled at me like that unless she was involved in some trickery. "You never asked about Pa's and my ride the morning they left," she said to me.

I would not so much as give her the satisfaction of curiosity in my eyes. I shrugged, trying to show indifference.

"We talked," she told me blissfully. "It was so nice to get Pa away from the noise and chatter of all you younger children. We had a long conversation. We talked about
everything.
"

My throat tightened. What did she mean by
everything
?

Did she mean what I thought she meant? Or did she just want me to think so?

"You'd be surprised how understanding Pa can be sometimes," she said. "I hope I have inherited all his good qualities." Then she smiled and walked away.

***

I
NEVER LIKED EULINDA
. I suspect it was because she always tried to keep a protective circle around Mama when she was in her presence. She kept a distance between us children and our mother, like a guard, always asking us what we wanted when we came into the room where Mama was.

"She's resting," she would say when she opened the door of Mama's bedroom. Or, "She's reading, and she does not wish to be disturbed. Is it really important that you bother her now?" Half the time, I think Mama was not even aware of this.

Eulinda's English was perfect. I think it was one of the reasons Pa kept her around. Pa was very taken with proper speech, and he would stand for no less from us. If we complained to him about how Eulinda tried to keep us out of Mama's way, he did nothing about it.

"Your mother does need her rest," he would say.

Eulinda would report to him if we sassed her, and Pa would make us apologize to her. Imagine such! Apologizing to a Negro! But we had to do it. Because Pa said that Eulinda had a history that went all the way back to Cambridge with him and Mama. Furthermore, she had been at Mama's side for those two days when I was born.

So none of us had ever had the mettle to stand up to Eulinda, and she knew it. And when Mama was not about, she bullied us. She scolded, and bossed us around, something I knew neither Mama nor Pa would abide. But none of us wished to make trouble.