The Benedict Bastard (A Benedict Hall Novel) (2 page)

Bronwyn felt a sudden and staggering sense of loss. It made no sense, since she hadn’t even met Preston Benedict, but she yearned toward him nevertheless. He flashed a smile at stupid Margaret before he put out his hand to Mr. Bartlett. Bronwyn wanted to push her way through the crowd and seize his arm.

She knew what her mother would say about him. He was not only too old to be introduced to a young lady who was not yet out, but he was a newspaperman. Iris Morgan maintained that a real lady appeared in the papers only three times in her life: at her birth, at her marriage, and at her death. She might make an exception for a debutante event, perhaps a ball or a fashionable tea. She would never, ever approve of her daughter being mentioned in “Seattle Razz.”

A small band, trumpet, saxophone, and piano, began to play from an inner corner of the ballroom. Young men glanced around in search of partners. George Bartlett, Margaret’s younger brother, started toward Bronwyn, but Iris Morgan, appearing as if from nowhere, stepped between them. Though she blushed at having to assert herself, she said, “No dancing, Bronwyn. Not until you’re out.”

“But,
Mother!
” Bronwyn cried. “Bessie’s dancing, look! And Clara!”

“I don’t think your father would like it,” her mother said, glancing around as if Chesley might show up at any moment.

“You let me dance at Clara’s birthday party!”

“That wasn’t public.”

“Mother, please! Just let me dance with George. It’s his house, after all.”

Iris hesitated, gazing at her daughter, lifting a hand to smooth a wrinkle in her collar. “I just don’t know . . . I’m afraid . . .”

“Mo-
ther!
You’re always afraid.”

George reached them at that moment, saying brightly, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Morgan. You look so lovely—you could be Bronwyn’s sister!”

“George, shame on you.” Iris colored, and gave an embarrassed titter. “Such flattery.”

It could have been true, though. Bronwyn and her mother looked much alike. Their honey-brown hair was dressed in identical finger waves, firmly fixed with flaxseed gel. Their eyes were the same hazel, sparkling with flecks of gold. Iris’s skin had grown soft around her chin and throat, but it was still fine-grained and clear.

Bronwyn took advantage of the awkward moment by putting out her white-gloved hand for George to take. “Just one dance, Mother,” she said. “Listen, it’s the new foxtrot! Please.”

Iris didn’t exactly give her permission, but she sighed, and as she pressed an uncertain hand to her embroidered bodice, the young people made their escape onto the dance floor.

George wasn’t much of a dancer, but he was better than nothing. Bronwyn danced the foxtrot with him, then a one-step and the Castle Walk. She felt her mother’s worried gaze on her, but she didn’t look back for fear Iris would make her stop. When she saw Preston Benedict watching, she pretended not to notice, but she made her steps smoother, her turns swifter, the movements of her head and hands as graceful as she could. Her skirt fluttered gratifyingly around her ankles, and the narrow scarf around her throat rippled like a ribbon of cloud.

When Preston cut in, George was forced to give way. A slow waltz began, and Bronwyn, her heart fluttering into her throat, took special care not to catch her mother’s anxious eye. She floated away in Preston’s assured clasp, and knew in her bones that her life would never be the same again. Her fairy tale had begun.

In the bliss of gliding across the dance floor in his arms, of feeling his cheek brush her hair, in the enchantment of being chosen over every other girl in the room, Bronwyn Morgan forgot that every fairy tale has its dark side.

C
HAPTER
2

The new automobile had a distinctive smell to it, a scent Margot couldn’t name. She sniffed it curiously as Blake closed her door and climbed into the driving seat. As he pressed the starter, Margot settled herself against the mohair velour, and removed one glove to caress its silken texture. “Do you like it, Blake?”

“Do you mean the motorcar?”

“Yes.”

He glanced at her in the rearview mirror, and reached up to adjust the angle. “Well, Dr. Margot,” he said, his deep voice noncommittal. “It’s certainly a change.”

“Green!” she marveled. “I can hardly believe Father could make such a racy choice.”

“It’s elegant, don’t you think? It’s called a Phaeton. The steering wheel is solid walnut.”

“Very chic.”

“Yes. I believe it’s quite up-to-date.” Blake smiled at her in the mirror as he put the automobile in gear. He pulled out into Fourteenth Avenue, and didn’t speak again until he had safely negotiated the turn. “I recommended the black, but Mr. Dickson wanted something different from the Essex. I believe he hopes Mrs. Edith will bring herself to ride in it.”

“But she rode in the Essex, didn’t she? After the accident, I mean?”

“Only to go to the cemetery. And later, Steilacoom.”

Blake was being tactful. For more than a year, Margot’s grieving mother had hardly set foot outside of Benedict Hall except to visit an empty grave. Everything had changed when she learned her younger son was alive. Nothing would do for her then but to go straight to the state hospital where Preston was being held. Margot and her father feared Edith would break down when she saw how badly Preston was burned, and when she grasped the truth of the terrible things he had done.

They had misjudged her.

Edith made regular visits to see her son until he was moved to a private sanatorium in Walla Walla. That was too far for a day trip, whether by motorcar or by train. Edith was planning to visit, and frequently spoke of it. Margot doubted this was a good idea, but it was the only thing her mother took any interest in. She sent Preston packages from home, she bought him clothes and toiletries, and she kept his place set at the dining table in Benedict Hall, ready for the day of his return.

Margot suspected Edith would have responded the same way if Preston had gone to jail, which was his only remaining alternative. Edith had an infinite capacity for denial where her youngest son was concerned.

Blake interrupted her thoughts. “Do you like the new motorcar, Dr. Margot?”

“I do,” Margot said. “It’s quieter than the Essex. The upholstery is beautiful.”

“Indeed. Very handsome.”

“But green! It seems like a symbol for something. A sea change, perhaps.”

“It has been a year for change,” he said mildly.

“Blake, you’re a master of understatement.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said gravely, and Margot chuckled.

Curious eyes followed them as the sparkling automobile rolled at a majestic pace into the East Madison neighborhood. Small boys stared, and some pulled off their caps in awe. Women with shopping bags turned their heads. Blake behaved as if he didn’t notice, but Margot smiled and waved, winning tentative nods. There was no room to pull over in front of the Women and Infants Clinic, so Blake was forced to stop the Cadillac in the middle of the road. An elderly Negro woman came out of the house across the street to gape at it. Blake tipped his driving cap to her, and she dipped a rather elegant half-curtsy, as if he were royalty. Even Blake had to chuckle at that.

Sarah Church came dashing out to meet them, her nurse’s cape rippling around her. Blake opened the door of the Cadillac, and as she climbed in, he relieved her of the case of medicines she carried. She dimpled at him, and pressed her hand to his arm before she climbed into the back beside Margot.

She perched gingerly on the mohair upholstery, as if afraid her slight weight might mar its smooth surface. “Dr. Benedict,” she breathed. “Your new motorcar is—I mean, it’s just—”

“Isn’t it, though? I think so, too, and so does your neighbor across the street.” She smiled at Sarah, and patted the seat. “Come now, lean back. I’ve been assured we can’t hurt the material by sitting on it. Let’s enjoy this splendiferous ride while we gird our loins for battle.”

“Are we going into battle?”

“I’m afraid so. I’m told Mrs. Ryther is something of a terror.”

“It’s hard to imagine that, considering the work she does.”

“Perhaps you have to be a terror to take on such burdens. How many children does she have now?”

“Over a hundred, I believe.”

Margot shook her head in wonder. “I’d be cranky if I had so many children to watch over. I suppose if she’s difficult we should make allowances.”

Margot leaned back, and gazed out the window at the sparkling day. It was good to be outside the hospital for a few hours, to be driving through the green-boughed streets of Seattle. Spring blossomed all around her, sprawling rhododendrons blazing pink and red, azaleas flashing their starry flowers against the layered greens of fir and pine, cedar and vine maple. Every year, May surprised her with its heady scents and glowing colors, as if the rains of winter had erased its memory.

Nineteen twenty-three was off to a fine start in every way, as far as Margot was concerned. Benedict Hall hummed with life, and it was hard sometimes to know who was where.

Cousin Allison was always in motion, rushing off to her University classes, racing back to snatch up her tennis racket or a stack of books. The family’s telephone rang even more often than Margot’s, almost always for Allison. She had taken to flopping on the floor, so the maids had to step over her legs, until Blake ordered a chair brought from the small parlor so the girl could sit properly for her endless conversations. He had issued strict instructions to the staff that they were not to eavesdrop on these telephone calls, but no one believed those orders had any effect at all.

Little Louisa had begun to walk in earnest, toddling at top speed wherever she went. Nurse followed with her hands outstretched, ready to pick her up when she fell, and trying to prevent her tumbling down the long staircase. Everyone in Benedict Hall doted so on the baby that Nurse had put her foot down about naps and bedtime and what she called “too much excitement.” The excitement, Margot thought, came mostly from Louisa herself, who found entertainment in everything she saw, from the Irish maids’ freckles to Hattie’s long apron strings, which she liked to use for balance as she negotiated the kitchen on her fat, unsteady legs.

Frank had settled nicely into living in the Benedict household, and Hattie, delighted at his young man’s appetite, exerted herself to make his favorite meals. Since he preferred simple dishes, mashed potatoes and roasted meats, Hattie’s skills were shown to better advantage than when she strove for the
haute cuisine
Edith had ordered in the past. Ramona was too busy with the baby to fuss much over menus, and Edith had lost interest, with the result that the food in Benedict Hall was both plainer and tastier than it had ever been.

And Margot, somewhat to her surprise, loved being Frank’s wife.

She thought about this as they turned north on Stone Way toward the Ryther Child Home. She had feared she wasn’t suited for marriage. She feared giving up her independence, and she worried about diluting the single-mindedness that carried her through the daily challenges of her medical practice. She had found, however, that coming home to Frank in the evenings, sitting close to him as the family gathered to listen to the cabinet radio in the small parlor, climbing the stairs with him at night, sometimes even having time for breakfast with him in the morning, strengthened her. She felt as if she had a foundation from which she could accomplish nearly anything. She was Dr. Benedict all day, and at night if she was called out to a patient. But in the evenings and in the early mornings, at rare social events or when she and Frank slipped out alone, she was Mrs. Frank Parrish, and she liked it very much indeed.

She came out of her reverie as Blake pulled the Cadillac up in front of a large brick building. It had three floors stretching to either side of a formal entrance. Flowers and shrubs filled the front garden, surrounded by a picket fence. Ranks of clotheslines stretched the length of one side of the building. Four surprisingly small children were taking down dry clothes and piling them into a basket. They turned to goggle at the automobile, and at the people emerging from it and turning up the walk.

They did make a sight, Margot supposed. She was taller than most women, and she was carrying her medical bag. Sarah Church, with the box of medicines in her arms, was petite, and very pretty, with bright brown eyes and thick curling hair pinned up beneath her nurse’s cap. Blake, leaning on his cane, insisted on accompanying them, saying he wasn’t sure just what they would find inside.

And of course, Blake and Sarah were Negroes, while Margot wasn’t. That alone would cause a stir.

They paused at the entrance to the house. Sarah said, “I did make a telephone call to Mrs. Ryther to tell her we were coming, but we might be a little early.”

Margot nodded, and knocked briskly on the door.

It opened immediately. A young girl, aged fourteen or fifteen, wearing a voluminous printed apron over a cotton housedress, said in rehearsed fashion, “Hello, and welcome to the Ryther Home.”

“Hello,” Margot said. “Thank you.” She smiled at the girl. “I’m Dr. Benedict, and this is Nurse Church, from the Women and Infants Clinic. And Mr. Blake, our driver.”

“Yes?” The girl didn’t move, and Margot wondered if her job was to keep undesirables from crossing the threshold.

“I believe Mrs. Ryther is expecting us.”

A sudden, childish screech from somewhere in the house made the girl flinch, but she didn’t budge, though more shrieks followed, punctuated by the crash of something like a stack of aluminum saucepans. “Mother Ryther is busy at the moment,” the girl said carefully.

“It sounds like it,” Margot said.

The girl’s composure cracked just a little. She gave a small shrug, and pleated her apron with her fingers. “It’s bath day. The little ones never like it.”

Sarah moved forward, and Margot stepped to the side, out of her way. Sarah had spent the past year working with mothers and babies, and Margot was happy to let her take control of this interview. “May we come in?” Sarah asked directly.

The girl in the apron gazed at her, her mouth a little open. Probably she had never spoken to a Negress before. In this neighborhood, colored people were rare, unless they were servants. The Ryther Home couldn’t afford servants. Mrs. Olive Ryther—everyone called her Mother Ryther, even the newspapers—cared for her charges with just three matrons to assist her. She was famed for wringing contributions out of every business and charity in the city, and even this sprawling house had been built by soliciting donations. “Buy a brick for the Ryther Home,” had been the slogan. Margot was certain her father had paid for several.

Sarah was accustomed to a variety of reactions to her dark skin, and she was more accepting of them than Margot. She said now, in a matter-of-fact tone, “Mrs. Ryther will want to speak to Dr. Benedict. It’s about vaccinations. And money.”

The girl’s gaze drifted from Sarah’s youthful face to Blake’s lined and grizzled one. She said in a distracted way, “I guess. I just don’t—”

“Why don’t you go and ask?” Sarah said. “We’ll wait here. But do tell Mrs. Ryther it’s Dr. Benedict, from the Women and Infants Clinic.”

Margot added, with a touch of asperity, “And Nurse Church.”

At the girl’s puzzled expression, Sarah said gently, “That’s me. I’m Nurse Church.”

“Oh! I didn’t know—that is, I thought because—” The girl’s cheeks flamed an uncomfortable red, and she took a step back. “Wait, please.” She shut the door with a bit more emphasis than needed, and Sarah cast Margot a rueful glance.

Blake gave his deep chuckle. “Like the Magi,” he said. “Three strangers at the door.”

“And bearing unfamiliar gifts,” Margot said.

They stood on the sunny porch for several minutes, listening to the racket from inside the house. Occasionally, they heard the slam of the back door, and quarreling voices coming and going, presumably with more laundry to hang. “How do you suppose,” Margot said, “these people manage a hundred children?”

“Strictly,” Sarah said, and Margot saw she was serious. It made sense, she supposed, but she wondered what this Mother Ryther would be like.

Another girl, slightly older, opened the door again, and stood back to let them come in. “Mother Ryther will see you now,” she said. She wore an apron, too, a short white one. Beneath it she was neatly dressed in a shirtwaist and a skirt that was a bit too long for fashion. Her hair was pinned up behind her head, and she wore wire-rimmed spectacles. “I’m Maisy Chisholm,” she said. “Mother Ryther’s assistant.”

“How do you do, Miss Chisholm?” Margot said. “I’m Dr. Benedict, and this is Nurse Church. Mr. Blake is our driver.”

The three of them trooped into the cool shade of the hallway, and the girl said, “This way, please, Dr. Benedict.” She led the way down a corridor.

Margot glanced around curiously as they walked. The floor was bare wood, well polished. There were several doors, all closed. The noise went on unabated, and from somewhere came the aroma of soup on the boil. A carpeted staircase led straight up the middle of the house.

Their guide, seeing Margot’s interest, pointed to it. “The dormitories are upstairs,” she said. “These are playrooms and sickrooms down here.”

“Sickrooms?”

“Yes. We separate children who get sick.”

“That’s wise, Miss Chisholm.”

The girl executed a most superior sniff. “Of course, Doctor. Mother Ryther has been taking care of children for a long time.”

Margot suppressed a smile. Maisy Chisholm couldn’t be more than seventeen, but she was as sure of herself as any adult, or at least she behaved as if she was. Margot wondered if she had been one of Mother Ryther’s orphans.