The Philanthropist's Danse (4 page)

T
he sun rose at 6.18 a.m., but the dawn sun could only lighten the sky to a pale gray to distinguish the transition from night to day. The mansion’s windows looked out on heavy snow that had not abated all night. All the guests were awake. A few had slept well and some only a little. One had not slept at all.

Bethany hugged herself as she stood by her open window with a light shawl draped over her slender shoulders. She shivered as she stared out into the woods and relentless thoughts of her father spun through her mind. She had been at the window a long time, and her bare toes were bone white and bloodless, but Bethany felt nothing. She had been numb inside and out since William Bird announced her father’s death. Philip had brought her up to her room around midnight. He offered to stay with her, but she wanted to be alone, so he had left in search of someone to share a drink with.

Bethany felt no eagerness to see the strangers gathered like vultures over her father’s body, she had no stomach for it. She wanted to curl up in a ball and cry the pain away, to allow painful catharsis to envelop her. She recalled William’s instructions about today and knew instead that she had to move and get ready for the day.

She had opened the window to let the chill morning air snap her out of her grief, but it had not moved her. Instead, she recalled a happy moment when her father took a twelve-year old Bethany skating on the frozen lake. Both of them had laughed like children as they enjoyed sharp cold on their cheeks and the sound of the ice under their skates.

That morning her father took a break to watch her skate and moved to the tree line on the shore. She had not noticed his absence at first, caught up in the pleasure of the moment. When she looked up and found him gone, she had panicked, fearing the ice had cracked, and he had gone under. He saw her panic and stepped forward, calling her name. She had berated him all the way back to the mansion for leaving her alone on the ice and giving her a scare.

Now, years later, her tears flowed as she recalled making him promise never to leave her again. He had broken his promise and this time he had left her forever. In his place was an open wound in her soul because he hadn’t wanted her with him at the end.

A flicker of anger sparked in Bethany, she felt the heat of it in her frozen breast. He had rejected her and left her to discover his passing in a hurtful, humiliating and public manner. She loved her father deeply, but he could be a monstrous prick at times. Her anger grew at his rejection, and her hurt welled up. She snapped into focus, suddenly aware of the freezing cold in her room. She reached to close the window but felt hot gorge rise in her throat, and she leaned out quickly. Hot bile burned her throat as she voided herself into the fresh white morning.

$

Camille Jolivet woke from a deep sleep when the telephone rang at six a.m. She had requested a wake-up call from Jeremy, and it was his voice she heard on the telephone now. She smiled as she replaced the receiver. It had been a long time since the man she’d spoken to last thing at night was the same man to greet her the next morning. She remembered that she liked it.

Camille reached for her cigarettes and lighter from the nightstand, propped herself up on her plush pillows and lit the first cigarette of the day, drawing deeply with her eyes closed, savoring the rush as the nicotine worked its magic. She exhaled joyously and lay in her bed, truly happy.

She reviewed the events of the night before. Her first face-to-face meeting with her secret half-sister, the shock that her father was dead, and the realization she would be rich. Wealthy. Loaded.
Riche
. She rolled the words around in her mind, savoring them as she savored her cigarette.

Camille felt no grief at her father’s death. She had barely known him and had never felt the lack of a father figure in her life. She had crossed the Atlantic Ocean because she wanted the man’s money, not his love. She had suffered in life, but no one needed to know about her past. It was better they didn’t. All they needed to see was the elegant French girl grieving for her father even as she staked her claim to his money.

She would soon have everything she had ever wanted. She could endure a few more days of faking a daughter’s love, and after it was done she would be free forever. Camille listed the places she’d travel and the clothes she would buy and the jewels she desired. She stubbed her cigarette out in a heavy crystal ashtray on the nightstand, swung her legs out of bed and enjoyed the feel of the thick carpet between her toes as she padded to the shower, humming a happy tune.

$

Winnie Tremethick had not slept well. She had woken at 2am and been unable to return to sleep. Her routine at home was to wake for chores at seven, and her old body refused to accept the notion she was anywhere other than in Cornwall. She lay in bed for long hours until the dark sky turned lighter, signaling dawn’s arrival.

She wanted a hot drink, but the idea of calling someone else to bring her a pot of tea seemed scandalous, so she went without. She drew a bath and picked out her best dress while it filled. The lawyer, Mr. Bird, had made it clear that today was important, and she wanted to dress appropriately. She picked out her favorite brooch, a gold oak leaf, and laid it on the bed next to her clothes before returning to the sparkling marble and gold bathtub.

Winnie was confused about why she was in America. The lawyer had asked her how she had known the famous philanthropist, but she had not been able to answer. She hadn’t known Thurwell. She had never met an American in her life. Not many would have reason to visit her village and Winnie had never traveled. Her answer had clearly troubled Mr. Bird and she was sorry for causing him concern, he seemed like a nice fellow. She had promised to think on it overnight, and though she had been doing little else for the past five hours, no answers came.

She lay in the hot water, and the warmth eased her joints and gave some little relief to her arthritic fingers. She closed her eyes and wondered where and when she might have met a rich American that wanted her to share his fortune. As she pondered the stubborn question, she drifted back to sleep.

$

Caroline Smith was showered and dressed in a smart business suit at 6.10am. She stood in front of the mirror as she applied her make-up, practicing a sad expression she could use when she met Junior and his siblings. She added some darker shades under her eyes to make it look like she had not slept well, though the truth was she had slept soundly despite her growing excitement at how large her share of Thurwell’s money might be.

She teased her hair one last time and stood straight, turning a quarter turn to the left to admire her tailored suit. She looked just right, businesslike and professional but with an air of mourning about her, attractive but not glamorous. Smith stepped out of the room, closed her door quietly and stood still for a moment.

A few soft coughs, water running and a flushing toilet were the noises of morning she heard. The mansion, for all its luxury, was like any hotel. She walked toward the grand staircase, looking forward to a healthy breakfast. Only at the last moment did she remember to suppress the spring in her step.

$

Dennis Elliot looked outside and watched the snow. Janice was still sleeping, but he had been awake for over an hour. He knew he should wake her, but figured a few more moments of peace wouldn’t hurt, so he sat on the window ledge with his head against the cool glass and stared into the storm. He drew meaningless shapes with his fingertip in the fog his breath made on the glass. He was sad that Mr. Thurwell was dead. He had known the Old Man for a long time. He had been a good boss. He was more than relieved to know he and Janice would share some money.

Mr. Thurwell had always promised he’d take care of Dennis, and he had kept that promise, though the manservant was surprised to be included with the family. His wife stirred in the bed, and he sighed. She’d soon be telling him what to do, what to say and what to think. Jeremy had offered them separate rooms, but Janice had insisted they occupy only one, much to Dennis’s annoyance.
She won’t let me out of her sight for one Goddamn minute
, he thought.

There had been no love in their marriage for a long time. After the wedding, Janice had quickly taken control of Dennis and never eased her grip. She had killed what small independence he had possessed with the sole exception of his Tuesdays off. He had begged Mr. Thurwell not to give his servants a common day off, which had been granted with some disapproval from the Old Man and great rancor by Janice. However, it gave Dennis one whole day to himself and Tuesdays became the only respite he could look forward to.

He had taken to spending his day off at the track in the summer, or the OTB in the winter, betting on any tracks that offered a card. The habit had cost him most of his savings, but his problem in recent weeks had been increased pressure to pay off his bookie. Dennis owed an unforgiving man too much money and was uncertain what to do because his diminished savings didn’t cover what he owed. It was convenient timing to come into money. Not that he meant Mr. Thurwell any ill will, but his death was well timed to solve Dennis’ troubles.

He looked up and saw his wife’s accusing eye appraising him from across the room. Her mouth opened for the day’s first volley of invective.
Perhaps I can even afford a divorce
, he thought, as he stood and offered his wife a thin, beaten smile.

$

Philip Thurwell jumped out of bed and began restlessly pacing his room. He hated being cooped up inside the mansion. At 6.30, he climbed into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and jogged to the gymnasium, one floor below. He was surprised to find the gym occupied. Larry MacLean pounded the rolling road, the sheen of sweat on his body suggested he had been running for a while. Philip nodded a greeting to his ‘uncle’ but said nothing. He liked his father’s friend well enough, but they had exchanged some angry words at their last meeting and Philip was still sore about it.

Larry nodded his own greeting and maintained the easy pace of an experienced runner. It was his habit to run every morning, although he preferred actual roads to indoor machines. The weather made running outside impossible, so he closed his mind to the suffocating walls and drifted into his routine, concerned only with the rhythm of his strides and the evenness of his breathing.

Philip watched MacLean run. He had excellent form for an old guy. Larry kept in shape because it helped him keep up with the younger women he loved to love. Thurwell’s youngest son grabbed a towel from the corner rack and began stretching. His back was to MacLean, but he was able to watch him reflected in the mirror that covered an entire wall of the gym. Philip ran through his warm-up, hopped on the bike and accelerated to a comfortable speed. He and MacLean faced each other as they exercised.

“Why’d he do it, Larry? Why die alone and not call us?” It was the question that bothered Philip most. He couldn’t imagine his father not wanting his family around him when he was dying. It was out of character. Philip might have understood if his father had only called Bethany and left his sons out, but he hadn’t even called for her.

“Son, the same question bothers me. I knew your father all his life, and for him to die without a word just seems wrong.”

Philip nodded, wrong was the right word. It was all wrong. “This meeting, getting us all here at the mansion, does that seem normal to you? I don’t know half the people we saw last night.” Philip’s legs pumped as the bike’s program simulated a hill and he started to sweat.

MacLean looked at Philip with sympathy. The boy reminded him of himself in younger, wilder days. “Philip, I wish I had answers for you. But face it, we’re in the dark here, only Bill Bird has the answers, and I’m not sure even he has all of them.”

He saw a shadow cross Philip’s face at the mention of Bird. Philip was silent as he rode the bike hard, and sweat rolled freely down his face. Larry looked more closely and saw there was more than just sweat on Philip’s face. He was crying with his eyes clamped tight shut.

MacLean slowed his run to a walk and wiped his face with a towel. He stepped off the machine and drew an icy drink from the water cooler. He walked to the bike and put his hand on Philip’s back. “It’s alright, I understand.”

“Fuck you Larry, it’s not alright. It’s not even close to being alright, and you know it.” Larry stood next to Philip as the young man slowed his pace and racking sobs escaped him. He crumpled, and his forehead rested on the handlebars as his shoulders shook. “Be a sport and fuck off Larry. I’d like to think you weren’t seeing this.”

MacLean patted Philip on the back and left, he understood the anger in the boy was not meant for him, but his dead father. Larry looked back, Philip was still slumped on the bike but the thick glass suppressed the heart-rending sound of his sobs. MacLean headed upstairs and almost bumped into a large black figure coming down. They stopped, each surprised by the other.

“Good Morning, Mr.?”

“MacLean, Larry MacLean. You’re the Judge, if I recall correctly?” The two men shook hands. “You were headed for the gym, Judge?”

“Yes, I like to keep my routine if I can. I thought it was this way?” Larry didn’t like the idea of Philip being discovered in his grief. “Yeah, it is, but it’d be better if you skipped this morning.” Larry put his hand on the large man’s shoulder conspiratorially. “One of Mr. Thurwell’s sons is in there, and he needs some… time.” He looked into the Judge’s eyes and tried to convey his meaning but needn’t have worried, the man caught his intent.

“I guess I can skip this morning, maybe eat one fewer pieces of toast at breakfast.” He smiled and turned to head up the stairs with Larry, who was grateful for the Judge’s gentlemanly acceptance of his request. “So, Larry, how did you know Mr. Thurwell?”

MacLean stopped in his tracks. Philip was right, there were some strangers at the mansion, and the Judge was one of them. He sighed and felt the loss of his friend as he answered. “Johnston and I were college buddies and he was the best friend a man could have wished for.” He looked at his shoes as he spoke, then up at the face of his companion, who reached down and placed a massive hand on MacLean’s shoulder.