The Women (38 page)
Inevitably, the question of Taliesin came up again. It emerged one morning out of a perfectly ordinary breakfast conversation. The new cook, a fox-faced girl with a wandering eye and a West Virginia coal miner’s accent, an adept at plain things, flapjacks and sidemeat, eggs over easy, grits and hot black coffee, had just served breakfast and taken herself off to hide in the kitchen, and he was commenting on a piece in the paper about the building costs associated with one of the new skyscrapers going up along Michigan Avenue, when Miriam, looking up from her own newspaper, said, “Isn’t it time you took me up to Wisconsin?”
She was dressed all in white, in a clinging gown of silk, and her hair was loose on her shoulders. The lorgnette dangled from one hand, swaying gently back and forth like a hypnotist’s watch. In her other hand, balanced delicately, a teacup held in abeyance. She was smiling, congenial, insouciant, the question no more charged than a query about the weather or what color hat he might like to see her in.
He never hesitated. From the moment he’d written her to come back to him he saw how selfish he’d been, demanding her full commitment and loyalty and yet all the while keeping her off-balance so that she was never certain of her status. Small wonder she had her moods. It was his fault. Entirely his. He set down the newspaper and gazed steadily into her eyes. “We’ll drive up tomorrow,” he said.
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The day was clear, the road untrammeled. He was whistling, fiddling with the gearshift, the choke, feeling as light as the puffs of cloud running high overhead across the pale blue roof of the world. Every bend in the road, every tree and cow, whether it be Holstein, Jersey or Swiss Brown, was the subject of a spontaneous discourse, and he couldn’t help himself, his tongue running ahead of him, the joy of possession working on him like the heady poteen the Irish laborers drank behind his back when he could smell it on their breath and see it in the delirious dance of their too-green eyes. Miriam sat beside him, uncharacteristically silent, a soft smile on her lips. How could she be so calm? he wondered. How could she not feel what he was feeling, this bubbling joy that made him want to burst into song? He stepped on the accelerator, rocketing past a tractor towing a cart piled high with corn, the wheels churning up twin tornadoes of dust and the back end wagging with the thrust of the engine, and suddenly he
was
singing, singing for her, singing for the joy of it. He sang “Clementine” twice through and then “Old Kent Road,” and so what if the farmers stared and his voice floated on down the road behind him like the windblown squawk of the summer geese charging from one pond to another? He was happy. Purely happy.
was
singing, singing for her, singing for the joy of it. He sang “Clementine” twice through and then “Old Kent Road,” and so what if the farmers stared and his voice floated on down the road behind him like the windblown squawk of the summer geese charging from one pond to another? He was happy. Purely happy.
They stopped for luncheon in Cross Plains, after which she grew calmer still, so much so she might have been comatose—or lost in a deep waking sleep. He kept shooting glances at her, her hair fluttering in the breeze, her eyes fixed straight ahead, her frame in perfect equipoise as if she were balancing on an invisible wire, and eventually he fell silent himself. A thought had occurred to him. A nagging unsettling thought, one he’d tried to suppress through the course of these running days. It had to do with what he knew of Miriam’s temperament, how easily it could shift from light to dark, from this calm to sudden fury, and how that might accord with his mother’s moods, not to mention Mrs. Breen’s. Mrs. Breen ran the household the way the Kaiser ran his army. And his mother, no wilting flower herself, had taken exception to the housekeeper on any number of grounds (“Don’t you dare call that woman Mother, not while I’m in this house”).
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Since the construction was progressing rapidly he’d moved her into the new wing—at her insistence—if only for an extended visit till the renovation was completed and the design fully realized, and that was fine. At least for the first day or so, until she and Mrs. Breen began feuding about everything from how to boil an egg to the proper way to make up a bed, set the table and polish silverware. How would they react to Miriam? More to the point: how would Miriam react to them? Distracted, he laid his hand atop hers and she turned to give him a vague smile as the wind took her hair and the sun tugged them forward and the road melted like butter under the glow of it. Like any gambling man, he could only hope for the best.
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Since the construction was progressing rapidly he’d moved her into the new wing—at her insistence—if only for an extended visit till the renovation was completed and the design fully realized, and that was fine. At least for the first day or so, until she and Mrs. Breen began feuding about everything from how to boil an egg to the proper way to make up a bed, set the table and polish silverware. How would they react to Miriam? More to the point: how would Miriam react to them? Distracted, he laid his hand atop hers and she turned to give him a vague smile as the wind took her hair and the sun tugged them forward and the road melted like butter under the glow of it. Like any gambling man, he could only hope for the best.
Miriam seemed to come to life as they made their approach along the Wisconsin River and Taliesin suddenly materialized on the brow of the hill before them. “Is that it?” she asked, straining forward in the seat as he rolled to a stop at the main gate so she could have a chance to admire the house in its proper perspective. “And this is the lake you’ve talked of? And the dam? And what’s that over there to the left?”
“Tan-y-deri,” he said. “My sister Jennie’s place. And see beyond it? That’s Romeo and Juliet.”
Her face was flushed. She took hold of his arm at the biceps and pulled him to her for a kiss. “One of your earliest designs,” she murmured. “How sweet.”
“Sweet?” he said. “I don’t know if I’d call it sweet.”
“What I mean is the sentiment, of course, the sense of tradition. Your first windmill preserved here on your property and now this grand house, this palace of light and air. It’s beautiful. More beautiful than I could have dreamed.”
“You like it?”
“Like it? I adore it.”
He left the car running as he got out to swing open the gate, seeing the small things, the way the ditch along the drive had eroded in the previous week’s storms, the weeds crowding out the wildflowers, the iridescent blue of the damselflies threading the air, and then he was back in the car, shifting into gear and winding on up the hill, thinking he’d send Billy Weston or one of the others down to shut the gate behind him because he didn’t want to spoil the moment, intent instead on watching Miriam’s face as the house revealed itself by stages. Llewellyn, his youngest—twelve years old that summer and adapting to the life of the farm as if he’d been born to it—appeared out of nowhere to chase the car up the drive in a propulsion of flashing limbs, head down, elbows pumping and gaining on them even as Frank slowed to let him catch up. And that was a joy to him too, a pleasure Kitty had denied him as long as Mamah was mistress of the place, Mamah her sworn enemy, her nemesis, dead now and gone so that he could have his children back with him for the long stretch of summer, Lloyd and John married and settled but here to pitch in with the rebuilding, Frances home from college, Catherine and David running back and forth between Taliesin and Oak Park.
It was perfect. Ideal. The crowning moment of his life. Everyone together and Miriam here too and how could Kitty possibly object to a woman she’d never met and would never meet because she had to understand that things were dead between them and he had to live his own life in his own way? This was the start of something new, he could feel it, something better, and he pulled into the courtyard riding a wave of hope and optimism.
Everyone crowded round—the children, Billy Weston, even Mrs. Breen—and while the help unloaded their things he took Miriam out on the hilltop to give her a moment to breathe and take in the prospect. He didn’t want to overwhelm her. She must have been exhausted from the journey—she wasn’t well, he was aware of that—but she was superlatively calm and graceful and full of praise for the place and she had a hundred questions that took them through tea and a leisurely tour of the rooms and artwork before she felt she might want to rest prior to dinner.
Were there ominous signs? His mother claimed to be indisposed and wouldn’t emerge from her room. The children—Catherine, especially, who was the neediest and most sensitive and so the one most poisoned by Kitty’s invective—drew long faces all around. They were well-bred enough to conceal their feelings, of course, but he could see it would be a struggle to win them over—Miriam was an unknown quantity, perhaps not the ogre and housebreaker Kitty had made Mamah out to be, but she wasn’t their mother either, and he would feel the sting of that in a thousand ways. But worst of all, right from the start, was Mrs. Breen. The minute Miriam had gone in to lie down, she was at his elbow, bellowing out a whole catalogue of questions to which she apparently required no answers, as her ear trumpet was nowhere in sight. She was stalwart, furious, her face compressed and her eyes jumping at him. Where was the lady to sleep? she wanted to know. Would she require anything special in the way of comestibles because she, Mother Breen, was as run-down and worn-out as a woman could be what with feeding all these workmen and the family too, and she was at the end of her tether. And why hadn’t the lady removed her shoes at the door because who did she think would wipe up her muddy tracks after her? Did she speak French? Would she eat pork? Was she married? Did she expect maid’s service?
He talked all through dinner, talked so steadily and with such a tailing edge of desperation he barely touched his food, and that wasn’t like him—not to eat—and they all took notice. His mother sat across from him, icily silent, and while Paul Mueller tried heroically to make general conversation, Llewellyn chirped out an anecdote about the frogs in the upper pond and Miriam was on her best behavior, there was something distinctly off about the whole evening. After dinner he sat at the piano
105
and led them through a medley of songs, but Miriam wouldn’t join in—was the scene too homely for her, a Parisian sophisticate, was that it?—and his mother lacked enthusiasm. Distinctly. In fact, she seemed to do nothing all night long but stare at Miriam so intently she might have been making a charcoal study of her. They went early to bed, Miriam settled in one of the guest rooms to maintain a sense of propriety, though he didn’t give a damn for propriety, not under his own roof, and he had to find his way to her bed in the dark.
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and led them through a medley of songs, but Miriam wouldn’t join in—was the scene too homely for her, a Parisian sophisticate, was that it?—and his mother lacked enthusiasm. Distinctly. In fact, she seemed to do nothing all night long but stare at Miriam so intently she might have been making a charcoal study of her. They went early to bed, Miriam settled in one of the guest rooms to maintain a sense of propriety, though he didn’t give a damn for propriety, not under his own roof, and he had to find his way to her bed in the dark.
The following day began auspiciously enough, Miriam up early and looking alert at breakfast while Mrs. Breen confined herself to the kitchen and let one of the maids serve at table. Conversation mainly revolved around the weather—the dew lay heavy on the grass that morning and there was the breath of a breeze out of the north, which he took to mean that the heat wave of the past weeks was finally dispelling, though both Paul and Lloyd disagreed with him, citing some nonsense out of the
Farmer’s Almanac
about woolly bear caterpillars and the paucity of their coats. Still, to his mind it was undeniably cooler and that was a beneficence—Miriam would be more comfortable and if she was more comfortable she would find it easier to embrace the natural life in the countryside. That was what he was thinking, as she seemed abnormally sensitive to extremes of temperature—abnormally sensitive to practically everything, for that matter—but then that was only to be expected of a highly refined artistic temperament like hers.
Farmer’s Almanac
about woolly bear caterpillars and the paucity of their coats. Still, to his mind it was undeniably cooler and that was a beneficence—Miriam would be more comfortable and if she was more comfortable she would find it easier to embrace the natural life in the countryside. That was what he was thinking, as she seemed abnormally sensitive to extremes of temperature—abnormally sensitive to practically everything, for that matter—but then that was only to be expected of a highly refined artistic temperament like hers.
He ate with a good appetite—he’d been up since four-thirty, busy in the studio, walking the grounds, tending to the garden and seeing to the horses, afire with energy and the flare of ideas that came to him almost unbidden, at the oddest times, as if inspiration were a vagary of the unconscious and not something to be earned through effort and focus and the application of pencil and T-square. The main house was largely finished now, but there was a whole lot of work yet to be done on the new wings and of course there were always projects on the boards, moneymaking projects, because the costs of rebuilding had exceeded even his wildest estimate and, as usual, he was woefully short
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. . .
106
. . .
As the day wore on—and it did get hot, above ninety by noon, though he worked alongside the laborers, loudly insisting that it was cooler by far than yesterday—he lost track of Miriam. He’d taken her on his rounds in the morning, explaining as much as he could about the workings of the place, but she’d developed a headache or heat exhaustion or some such thing and had begged off. “You want me to walk you back?” he’d asked, and she’d given him a smile that shaded into a grimace. “I’m not an invalid,” she said firmly, though her voice betrayed her. “I do think I can manage, what is it, three hundred yards on my own?” By the time he gave her another thought it was past five in the afternoon.
The minute he walked into the house he was confronted by his mother. “This woman,” she said, all the lines round her mouth drawn tight. “I’m sorry to say it, but she’s not a lady, Frank—she’s not even civil. She’s vulgar and foulmouthed, is what she is. It may be that that sort of language passes among the French—for all I know it’s the fashion over there—but I won’t have it here in my own household, not in the hearing of my grandchildren or the servants either. I won’t. I tell you, Frank, I won’t.”
He wanted a bath—or no, a swim in the lake. His shirt was stuck to his back, his hands and forearms were filthy. He was exhausted. And in no mood. “I’m sorry, Mother, but we’ll all have to . . . make adjustments. Miriam is under a great deal of strain, coming up here into the country, and—”
“She diminishes you. She’s beneath you. She puts on airs.”
And now Mrs. Breen appeared, her eyes savage, the ear trumpet clutched in one hand—and were they allies, had they declared a truce and joined forces to repel the invader in their midst? Had war been declared between lunch and dinner? He was stupefied and he stood there speechless, turning from one furious face to the other. “It’s a sorry thing,” Mrs. Breen roared, “to see such disrespect. Do you know what sort of vile names she’s been calling your own mother? And in my hearing, no less?”
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