Hidden Places (16 page)

Lydia’d had more than her share of romances but I’d never heard her talk this passionately before. She made me feel like I was missing out on something. ‘‘Tell me more about him,’’ I begged.

‘‘He’s a really sharp dresser, and he wears all the latest in men’s fashions. I’m sure he must be very rich. He’s from Chicago. That’s where we’ll live after we’re married.’’

‘‘He asked you to marry him?’’

‘‘Well, not yet, but I know that he will soon. He loves me, Betsy. He tells me he does all the time. Maybe Frank will ask you to marry him, too, and we can have a double wedding. Won’t it be wonderful?’’

‘‘Ouch!’’ I swatted uselessly at the mosquito again after he took a spiteful bite out of my leg. ‘‘A double wedding would be nice,’’ I lied. ‘‘I won’t be nearly as nervous if we go into this venture together. But to tell you the truth, I can’t imagine being married to Frank.’’

‘‘You mean sharing his bed?’’

‘‘Lydia!’’

She laughed at my embarrassment. ‘‘Sharing a bed is wonderful when it’s with someone you really love.’’

‘‘How do you know?’’ I teased.

She gave me a playful shove. ‘‘Be quiet and go to sleep. I’ll dream about Ted and you can dream about Frank.’’

But as I lay awake scratching mosquito bites, I didn’t have the heart to tell my sister that any dream about Frank would have been a nightmare.

CHAPTER SEVEN

L
ydia had bragged for weeks about Ted Bartlett’s wealth, so when a fancy carriage with a liveried driver and a matched team of horses pulled up to our farmhouse one hot July afternoon, I thought for sure they were delivering her beau. Father was working out in his orchard, and I was using my few moments of peace and freedom to sit out on the front porch and write. I planned on writing a romantic novel someday, so I was scribbling down all the romantic things Lydia had told me about Ted before I forgot them. And now here he was in person! I was about to tell the mustached gentleman who stepped down from the carriage that Lydia hadn’t returned from work yet, but he spoke first.

‘‘Good afternoon,’’ he said, removing his straw boater hat and bowing slightly. I saw right away that Lydia had exaggerated his dark, wavy hair. If this was Ted, he’d be bald in another five years. ‘‘I’m inquiring about the sign I saw posted in the dry goods store in Deer Springs,’’ the gentleman said. ‘‘You have a cottage for rent?’’

‘‘Oh! Yes! Yes, we do.’’

‘‘My name is Walter Gibson,’’ he said, handing me a beautifully engraved calling card. ‘‘I’m visiting from Chicago.’’

‘‘Betty...Betty Fowler. Nice to meet you.’’

I was so awed by him and by his aura of fine breeding and wealth that I could barely speak. He had a slight build, well under Frank’s height of six feet three inches, but was impeccably dressed in an ash-colored linen suit and waistcoat. A heavy gold pocket watch and chain dangled across the front. Even on this humid July afternoon he seemed comfortably cool—not cold and stiff like Frank, but pleasurably relaxed. His hand rested on a walking cane with a silver handle that was carved like a dog’s head, and I noticed he had beautifully manicured nails.

He looked like a photograph from a magazine, and I suddenly realized that I looked like a fright! I wasn’t wearing my bust-perfecto corset to help squeeze me into a recognizably feminine shape, and I had wiggled out of my petticoats and dropped them into a sweaty heap on the porch. I had also unbuttoned the top two buttons of my calico shirtwaist in the heat and, worst of all, I was barefoot. With the humidity causing my hair to frizz out around my head, I must have resembled a savage peasant wench.

‘‘So...may I see it?’’ He lifted one eyebrow and one side of his mustache in a half-smile. He struck me as a very kind man. I saw it in his eyes and heard it in his voice.

‘‘Oh! The cottage! Oh, of course.’’

I had heard all about the summer ‘‘cottages’’ of the very rich overlooking the big lake—they were more like palaces! So I was embarrassed to show him our tiny bungalow.

‘‘It’s very plain...very rustic,’’ I sputtered. ‘‘And I’m afraid that the roof of your carriage will be too high to pass beneath the trees. I’d hate to see it get all scratched up or covered with dust. You would have to walk there.’’ I looked down at his perfectly polished, fine-leather shoes and winced. ‘‘Oh dear. They would get very dusty, too.’’

He glanced down at his own feet, then at my bare ones, and smiled—a full-blown smile that revealed an endearing dimple in his right cheek. ‘‘Then perhaps I should join you and remove my shoes, as well?’’ It surprised me to realize that he wasn’t laughing at me but at himself.

‘‘No, no. You’d better keep your shoes on. Listen, I’d hate to have you waste your time walking all the way out there for nothing. The cottage is very rustic and quite isolated.’’

‘‘It sounds perfect. I’m looking for someplace secluded.’’

‘‘Thoreau’s
Walden Pond
?’’ I asked without thinking. He looked surprised, then delighted.

‘‘Yes, exactly. How did you know?’’

‘‘I guess it was on my mind. I just finished rereading the book a few days ago.’’

‘‘I’ve read it several times myself,’’ he said. ‘‘My favorite line is: ‘Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth. I sat at a table where were rich food and wine in abundance...but sincerity and truth were not; and I went away hungry from the inhospitable board.’ ’’

Our eyes met and I saw that with one poignant line from Thoreau, this stranger had given me a glimpse of himself. His eyes were as soft and gray as a foggy morning. When he suddenly asked, ‘‘What’s your favorite line?’’ I returned the gift without hesitation.

‘‘ ‘If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.’ ’’

He nodded thoughtfully, then smiled again. ‘‘So...will I get to see this cottage or did Thoreau already rent it before I arrived?’’

‘‘I’m sorry, of course,’’ I said, laughing. ‘‘It’s this way.’’

I set off down the driveway and was nearly to the barn before I realized that he wasn’t keeping up with me. He was a young man, in his early thirties, but he walked with the slow, frail hesitancy of someone much older, leaning heavily on his cane. I thought it might embarrass him if I apologized, so I simply slowed down to keep pace with him.

‘‘The easiest route is to take this shortcut through the orchard,’’ I explained. ‘‘There’s a dirt road but it’s overgrown with weeds. Father always planned on putting in a better road—a gravel one—but he never did.’’

‘‘I’m glad.’’

‘‘You are?’’

‘‘I’m looking for something secluded, remember?’’

‘‘So you said.’’ I smiled. ‘‘All right, then, you asked for it! It’s just on the other side of these trees, down near the pond.’’

‘‘A pond? Really? It’s not called Walden Pond by any chance, is it?’’

I found myself laughing again, and it amazed me. The only other person I’d ever felt this relaxed and content to be with was Lydia. The stranger’s gentle humor reminded me of my beloved school teacher, Mr. Herman.

‘‘You may name the pond whatever you like,’’ I said, grinning up at him. ‘‘I don’t think anyone has ever given it a name. Now, I should warn you, the cabin is very rustic....’’

‘‘I think you already have.’’

‘‘Oh. Well, now you are doubly warned.’’ But as we came through the orchard and Mr. Gibson got his first glimpse of the little stone cottage, surrounded by trees and nestled beneath the hill, I saw it afresh through his eyes.

‘‘But it’s lovely!’’ he said in surprise. A row of nodding pink hollyhocks by the front porch, with blossoms the size of saucers, waved at us in greeting.

‘‘It was originally a log cabin,’’ I explained. ‘‘The stones were added to it later. No one really knows how old it is. It was here when my father bought the land, before the War Between the States. He built our farmhouse after his family outgrew it.’’

I opened the front door and led Mr. Gibson inside. Father had made Lydia and me scrub the place thoroughly before she posted the sign in the store, so it was spotlessly clean. It smelled of pine logs and freshly ironed linen.

‘‘What a charming place!’’

‘‘When my sister and I were children we used it for a playhouse,’’ I told him. ‘‘I’ve always loved it, too. I wish I could live here.’’

It didn’t take long to show him through the tiny rooms, and I was sorry the tour ended so quickly. Something about the stranger made him nice to be around. He smelled good, too—like lemons.

‘‘Yes, I think this will do quite nicely,’’ he said, gazing out at the pond from one of the front windows.

‘‘You seriously want to rent it?’’ I asked in surprise. ‘‘But...but it’s so small, and...and...’’

‘‘And rustic?’’ He turned to me and his smile was contagious.

‘‘Yes, it’s rustic...rude...backwoods...bucolic! Call it whatever you like, but there’s no proper kitchen or running water—only a pump outside. And it’s small...diminutive...lilliputian!’’ I have no idea what made me suddenly indulge in my love of words, but I could see that he found it amusing.

‘‘I don’t mind. I’m seeking simplicity, remember?’’

‘‘But surely your wife—?’’

‘‘I’ll be living here alone. I’ve been ill for the past few months and the doctor recommended I try some country air.’’ His face was thin and a bit too pale, but if I hadn’t observed him walking I wouldn’t have thought him ill.

‘‘I’m sorry to hear that you haven’t been well,’’ I said. ‘‘I hope the country air does the trick.’’

‘‘Yes, so do I. How much do you want per month?’’

I told him Father’s price.

‘‘I’ll tell you what,’’ he said. ‘‘If I could arrange for meals to be brought to me, too, I’ll pay twice that.’’

‘‘Twice!’’

‘‘Yes. Would I be able to move in today?’’

‘‘Today? All the way from Chicago?’’

‘‘No, I’m living in my family’s summer home over on the lake, but to tell you the truth, I’ve grown weary of having servants and nurses constantly hovering around me. They mean well but they’re beginning to make me feel like an invalid. I’ve been craving peace and quiet lately, and your ‘rustic, lilliputian cottage’ should do quite nicely.’’

‘‘Then we have a deal, Mr. Gibson,’’ I said, smiling. ‘‘You may move in whenever you like—and I promise not to ‘hover.’ ’’

His dimple reappeared as he grinned in return. ‘‘
Mr. Gibson
is my father. Please call me Walter.’’

‘‘I’m Betsy.’’ I had no idea why I asked him to use the name my sister always used instead of calling me Betty like my father and Frank Wyatt did. At the time, it just seemed natural. We walked back to his carriage, and after I explained to his driver how to find the dirt road that led to the cottage, they drove away.

Late in the afternoon, I heard the clatter of horses and wagon wheels rattling down the old dirt road to the cottage and I felt absurdly excited. After supper, I arranged generous portions of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and apple pie on a tray to take down to Walter Gibson.

‘‘Why didn’t you invite the man up here to eat?’’ Father asked when I explained that we now had a boarder. I hesitated, unable to picture Mr. Gibson eating dinner in our stark kitchen with my humorless father. Nor could I imagine him occupying the dining room chair Frank Wyatt always sat in for Sunday dinner. Walter seemed to belong in the cozy, pine-scented cottage by the pond, not up here.

‘‘I’ll invite him, but I’m sure he’ll refuse,’’ I said. ‘‘He came here looking for solitude. Besides, it’s very difficult for him to walk.’’

‘‘What’s wrong with him?’’

‘‘I didn’t ask. But here’s his calling card,’’ I said, fishing it from the pocket of my skirt.

‘‘Gibson...’’ Father muttered, reading it aloud. ‘‘Chicago...You say he’s rich? I wonder if he’s kin to Howard Gibson, the industrialist.’’

‘‘I don’t know. But he’s very nice.’’

I headed out the back door to bring Walter his supper. This time I made certain I was properly combed, buttoned, and wearing shoes and a petticoat.

‘‘Come on in,’’ Walter called after I’d knocked on the cottage door. I found him reading a book by the window, seated in a beautiful leather armchair the color of red wine. Trunks and boxes were piled everywhere.

‘‘You seem to have an awful lot of belongings for someone seeking the simple life,’’ I teased.

‘‘On the contrary,’’ he said with his wry, lopsided smile. ‘‘I brought only the bare necessities.’’ He removed his gold-rimmed spectacles and motioned toward one of the boxes. ‘‘Go ahead, open a couple of crates and have a look.’’

Curious, I set the tray on the table beside his chair and peeked into one of the boxes—then another, and another. They were filled with books! I felt as breathless as I had the day I’d worn my new bust-perfecto corset.

‘‘Oh...’’ I breathed. ‘‘Oh my!’’ Overcome with wonder, I picked up one book after another, scanning the gold-embossed titles, marveling at the rich leather bindings. Without thinking, I opened
A Tale of Two Cities
and lifted it to my nose to inhale. ‘‘I’m so sorry!’’ I cried when I caught myself.

Walter laughed with delight. ‘‘Don’t apologize. I feel the same way about books. As I said, for me, these are the bare necessities of life.’’

‘‘Along with food,’’ I said, pointing to the tray. ‘‘You should probably eat it before it gets cold.’’

‘‘Will you stay and keep me company while I do?’’ he asked.

‘‘All right...If you’re sure you don’t mind me ‘hovering.’ ’’

‘‘Not at all,’’ he said, spreading a napkin on his lap, ‘‘ ‘Hovering’ is what people do when they ask how you’re feeling every two minutes. If you start doing that I’m afraid I will have to boot you out. But in the meantime, I’d love to hear what other books you’ve read lately besides Thoreau’s...and if you have any favorites.’’

‘‘Favorites! I’d be here until breakfast time naming all my favorites!’’

‘‘I understand,’’ he said, gesturing to all the boxes with his fork. ‘‘These are all my favorites. A better question might be, what qualities do you most enjoy in a book?’’

I thought for a moment. ‘‘I like a story that takes me to places I’ve never visited before—one with characters that seem like old friends. But most of all, one that gives me something to think about long after I’ve finished reading it.’’