The Shadows of Foxworth Page 13

  “Amazing,” he said, but breathed in obvious relief.

  “Not so amazing to us. Learning, whether it was languages or anything else, was never something we feared or avoided.”

  He laughed nervously, frequently glancing at the doorway. “Quite so, quite so.”

  This close, I could smell what I recognized as some sort of whiskey. His nervousness and excitement created dots of spittle at the corners of his mouth.

  “Well, I do believe you, but let’s let you fill out the questions as best you can anyway. Okay?”

  I took the paper and the pen and sat back. None of the questions looked difficult.

  “Is this all of it?” I asked.

  He widened his eyes at the way I had asked, making it seem like nothing challenging. My confidence both surprised and pleased him.

  “For now,” he said. “Yes. Please.” He lowered his eyes to the paper and then looked at me.

  I sat forward and began answering the questions. I could feel his eyes fixed intently on me, but I concentrated on the test. It took only a few minutes. When I handed the papers back to him, he smiled but looked skeptical. He leaned back and began to review my answers and then smiled again.

  “One hundred percent correct. Well, you do have the basic skills,” he said. “We’ll move right on to more elevated information. And then we’ll spend time on your necessary social skills. I can see you are a sophisticated young French girl, but many more eyes will be on you and on you critically because you are a Dawson. That will be something you’ll have to get used to.”

  “I’m quite used to people looking at me, sir. We come from a small village where everyone was like my aunt and uncle or my grandparents.”

  “I’m sure,” he said, and cleared his throat. “But my job is to give you the grace to look your part here.”

  “My part here? What is that?”

  “You’re a Dawson of Richmond,” he said, as if I was in line for the crown. A Dawson of Richmond? Would I ever get used to being that?

  He reached for one of the books and flipped through some pages before leaning in to show me what he wanted me to read. There were topics like “How to Write a Proper Business Letter,” “How to Write a Proper Thank-You Note,” “How to Write a Proper Meeting Invitation,” and the like. Everything was preceded by the word “proper.”

  “However,” he said, sitting as closely as he could to me, “at your aunt’s request, my main task after we have mastered all this will be to help you learn something called stenography. Have you ever heard of that?”

  I shook my head. “What is it?”

  “A method of shorthand when you’re taking notes. By the time we’re finished, you will be able to write as quickly as someone speaks. Later, you will translate it back to the person’s actual words. Doesn’t that sound exciting and wonderful? Any young woman today who can master that is of great value in business and legal matters.”

  He sat back. I didn’t think he appreciated my indifference, but reciting back what someone had just said certainly did not sound more exciting than merely strolling through Villefranche or walking on the beach.

  “As you can see, your aunt has very high hopes and goals for you. You should be appreciative. You’ll be head and shoulders above most young women and,” he said, leaning toward me so that his lips were only inches from my face, “many young men.”

  His breath made my stomach churn.

  He put his hand on my leg, just above my knee, and patted me. “How’s that all sound?”

  “Je ne sais pas,” I said.

  “Pardon?”

  “I don’t know. It’s all too new to me.”

  He stared a moment and then brightened. “Oh, you said something in French.” He smiled so widely now that I could see some teeth were gone in the back of his mouth on the right side. “Perhaps you’ll teach me as I teach you. I’ve always wanted to speak French.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? It’s a beautiful language, and someday I intend to travel there. I’m hoping you’ll tell me all about it. I’m hoping we’ll be more than simply a teacher and a student.”

  “In what way?”

  “What way?” He laughed. “Why, we’ll be friends. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” His eyes twinkled with whatever he was imagining behind them.

  Before I could respond, the twins appeared in the doorway.

  “Miss Effie asked us to tell you when lunch was ready,” Minnie said.

  “The table is set,” Emma added.

  “Well, then. Let’s begin the enjoyable dining lessons,” Mr. Donald said, standing instantly. “I am somewhat hungry.” He turned and offered me his hand. “Mademoiselle Dawson, s’il vous plaît?”

  I took it and stood.

  “See? I know a few words here and there. Good pronunciation?”

  I nodded, even though it wasn’t.

  “Shall we walk in together properly? Every little thing we do together is a lesson of one sort or another. Men will want to escort you all the time, and you’ll want it to look…”

  “Proper?”

  “Exactly.” He offered his arm and then took my hand. “Now, you don’t want to hang on their arms like some lady of the street. You want it to look natural, like you’re quite accustomed to it. Keep your posture,” he said, putting his hand on the small of my back, “and just be firm.”

  He tugged gently at my hand so my arm threaded through his.

  “There, that’s good,” he said, patting my hand.

  The twins stood there looking at us, neither smiling, and then turned and left for the dining room. We started out.

  “Have you ever attended a formal dinner or lunch?” he asked as we left the sitting room.

  “Not formal lunches or dinners. Only delicious ones,” I replied, and he laughed so loudly Aunt Effie, who was coming down the stairs, stopped and looked at us in astonishment.

  “I see you’re getting along. That’s good,” she said, continuing down.

  “Have you changed your mind? Are you joining us?” he asked.

  “No, I’m off to work and to see how young Mr. Dawson is doing. How are her English skills?”

  “Quite good, actually. She’ll move right on to the more elaborate lessons. I venture to say you’ll have a stenographer available sooner than you think.”

  “Both she and her brother have good reason to succeed,” Aunt Effie said.

  Mr. Donald nodded, even though he had no idea what she meant.

  “Enjoy your lunch,” she told me. “And listen to and do whatever Mr. Donald instructs you to do.”

  “Where’s Aunt Pauline?” I asked quickly.

  “Worry about yourself for now,” she replied, and started for the front entrance.

  We continued to the dining room. He moved ahead to pull out my chair when I had let go of his arm and stepped forward.

  “Oh, don’t sit like that,” he said quickly. “You’re not getting on a horse. You must be graceful in all things, even sitting. And you must let me bring your chair closer to the table. It’s not very ladylike to tug your own seat like that. You wait because you expect to be treated like a lady. Now, shift a bit,” he said, putting the palm of his hand on my hip a little lower than I expected. I moved quickly. “There, now slowly sit and keep your hands in your lap until I sit and the service begins. Patience… patience is a sign of elegance, expectation, and self-respect.”

  He nodded at the twins.

  “I will start by explaining the silverware,” he continued when he sat.

  Even though I was hungry, his comments about my every move, every bite, slowly drove my appetite away. My mouth was open too much when I chewed, and I chewed too quickly. I kept forgetting my posture, and when I drank, I gulped. I was happy when lunch ended, even though it meant we’d return to the sitting room. To get away from him for a while and catch my breath, I went to the bathroom. I remained in there as long as I could. I wasn’t afraid of the work, but the tenseness throughout my body was exhausting me.

  On my way back to the sitting room, I stopped in the dining room again and asked the Brown twins about Aunt Pauline.

  “When does she have her lunch?”

  “Oh, we brought it up to her earlier,” Minnie said.

  “Miss Effie wants her to stay in her room and not get in your and Mr. Donald’s way.”

  “In her room? Are you saying she’s been there all day?”

  They both nodded.

  I thought about it a moment. “I think she’s better off right now,” I muttered.

  They looked at each other as if one was waiting to see if the other would laugh.

  Mr. Donald rose as soon as I entered the sitting room.

  “I have samples of the proper business letter to show you and explain,” he said. He patted the space beside him. “Are you okay?” he asked when I didn’t move.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Did you enjoy your lunch?”

  “Is honesty part of being socially acceptable?” I replied.

  He looked stunned for a moment and then laughed. He laughed like someone who was trying not to laugh, tightening his lips and snorting. It brought a crimson tint to his bubbled cheeks.

  “A lady,” he said, “is very stingy with the truth. You use it only when it offers an advantage. I’ll teach you how to disguise your true feelings.”

  “That will be your biggest challenge, Mr. Donald,” I said, and he tried to stuff back his laugh again, this time coughing and holding his stomach.

  “You’re quite the clever young lady. I must say you live up to my image of a pretty French girl. Please,” he said, indicating the settee and stepping aside so I could get to where I had been on the settee. “We’ll put clever repertoire on the back burner. One thing at a time. For n
ow, business letters.”

  I sat, and he began to explain the letter format. He went on in a dull monotone, sounding less interested in it than I was. My mind began to drift, the memories of the sea returning, Mama’s beautiful laugh, Papa’s smile, and the four of us heading to the village on a Sunday morning. Every vision squeezed my heart. Suddenly, he surprised me with his hand on my thigh, his fingers closing gently.

  “You must give me your full attention,” he said. He kept his hand on my thigh and moved his tongue over his lower lip as he fixed his gaze intently on me. “I asked you a question twice.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  His fingers moved a little toward my knee, and then he shifted uncomfortably in the settee. I really hadn’t paid attention to his words and looks. He had moved closer, and I had no more room to shift on the settee.

  “Excuse me,” he said, standing a little and leaning over me to reach for some papers on the table to my right. As he did so, I felt his crotch move against my shoulder. When I glanced down, my heart thumped. The sight of the bulge sent thornlike shivers through my breasts. He moved as if he was struggling to reach the papers, rubbing against me side to side. I had no doubt what I was feeling. I hadn’t realized that he had brought the table even closer to the settee. There was barely room for me to stand. Panic was like a tern opening its wings inside my stomach.

  I pushed him back and turned to stand, shoving the table a few inches so I could slip around it.

  “Marlena!” he cried.

  “I feel a little sick,” I said, without looking back.

  I rushed out of the room. His cry of surprise, shouting my name again, fell quickly behind me. In moments, I was up the stairway. When I entered my room, I shut the door and threw myself onto my bed, clutching the blanket and pulling it around me. My shivering didn’t stop. I brushed at my shoulder where he had pressed himself against me, feeling I should take soap and water to it. My stomach was still churning, all the food I had eaten at lunch threatening to rush back up my throat. I lay back and closed my eyes.

  A little while later, there was a knock on my door.

  “What is it?” I cried. Did he dare come up to my room? If he entered, I would scream and scream. There was no lock on my door.

  “Are you all right?” Minnie or Emma asked. Their voices were too similar to distinguish which one had spoken from behind a door.

  “Mr. Donald is very concerned.”

  “Tell him I have an upset stomach, and I’m sorry but I can’t come down,” I said.

  “Can we help?”

  “Yes. Leave me alone,” I said. “That’s how you can help.”

  I heard them walk off. And then I lay back again, closed my eyes, and, surely from the emotional terror, fell asleep. I woke hours later to the sound of knocking again. The twins were back, but they had returned to bring in the packages that had been delivered from the department store. I let them in to hang garments and put things away in drawers. They worked quickly, neither looking at me.

  “Has Mr. Donald left?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am,” Minnie said. “Quite a while ago.”

  “He said he would return tomorrow,” Emma added.

  “He left your work in the sitting room and said he hoped you’d be better quickly,” Minnie said.

  I nodded and left them in my room. As I passed Aunt Pauline’s door, I saw that it was still locked. I listened, but I didn’t hear her, and I was afraid to call to her. I couldn’t let her out, and she would surely beg me to do so. I went on to the stairway.

  It was quiet downstairs. Yvon and Aunt Effie had not returned. To keep myself occupied, I decided to walk through that part of the house we had yet to see. Just past the entrance to the kitchen, there was a door on the left. I opened it and looked in at what was obviously an office. The large dark-cherrywood desk and chair were against the far wall. To the right were file cabinets and a table with papers neatly stacked. There was a rocking chair on the left, with a small table beside it, and in front of the desk was a soft-cushioned chair. The floor was a dark wood with a light-gray area rug.

  The portrait above the desk and chair had to be my grandfather’s portrait, I thought. I could see resemblances to Papa in the shape of his eyes and chin. His father had a broader forehead. Truthfully, he looked more like Aunt Effie, or she like him, especially around their mouths, their jaws and cheeks. I knew that people who did have their portraits painted or their pictures taken did not believe in smiling in those days.

  Papa told me people used to believe only the poor, the lewd, drunks, or foolish innocents would smile in pictures. Smiling, they believed, took away from the authority and strength of their faces.

  “My job, especially when I’m capturing your mother, is to get her softness and beautiful spirit suggested in her face. Just a slight turn in the lips, the glint in the eyes, the way you have your subject hold her head, can make a difference.”

  In his portrait above the desk, Grandfather Dawson looked like he was peering down with scrutiny, searching for something to disapprove. Sitting under that painting would cause anyone to question every little decision she had made. There were other pictures on the walls but none that had captured my grandmother or my father and his sisters. Where were those pictures? Why wouldn’t a father be proud to hang them on his office wall?

  I went farther into the office and looked at the titles of some of the papers stacked on the table. They were all about various properties in Richmond, with drawings, pictures, and comments. How would I ever get excited about any of this? Would Yvon?

  The desk was so organized and immaculate that I was afraid to touch it, but the bottom right drawer was slightly open, so I pulled it out farther and looked inside it at a folder under a paperweight with the image of a heart. My curiosity was overwhelming. I looked at the door, listened, and then slowly lifted off the paperweight and opened the folder. There was finally a picture. It was obviously my grandfather, somewhat younger. Standing on his right side was a little girl who was obviously Aunt Pauline, and on the other side was Aunt Effie, older, thinner, but just as serious and hard-looking, with her hair tightly woven in a bun.

  Aunt Pauline had pretty hair brushed down to her shoulders with a bow at the top. There were no colors, of course, but her eyes still looked quite striking. No one was smiling. When I looked closer at Aunt Effie’s hands at her sides, I saw that they looked somewhat clenched, almost like claws. She wasn’t enjoying being photographed, that was for sure. I stared at the picture for a while and then slipped it back in the folder and looked to see what else was in the drawer.

  There was nothing. How odd not to see a picture of my father or my grandmother, too. I closed the drawer and was about to step away from the desk when an envelope caught my attention because I recognized the handwriting. It was Anne’s.

  My fingers were trembling when I picked it up. I was so afraid it was something terrible about Jean-Paul. Very carefully, I pulled out the folded paper and sat in the leather desk chair. The letter within was quite short.

  Dear Miss Dawson,

  I can reassure you that the children have a very limited knowledge of their family roots in America and will, as you request, leave the familiarizing them with it all entirely in your hands.

  Neither Jean-Paul nor myself would assume such responsibility. There is no reason for your threats. We want only what is best for Yvon and Marlena.

  Yours sincerely,

  Anne Bise

  I refolded the letter and put it back into the envelope. Why would Aunt Effie threaten them? Threaten them with what? What was she afraid Anne or Jean-Paul would tell us about our own family? Did this have to do with her anger at Papa? Why was it important for her to know that we had very limited knowledge of our family roots? Was she afraid we wouldn’t want to come back here with her to America?

  I turned and looked up at my grandfather, who now seemed to be glaring angrily down at me.

  “Was this about you? Did you kill someone or something?”

  I was tempted to start exploring what was in the file cabinets and had risen to do so when I heard the sounds of someone entering the house. I hurried back down the hallway.

  It was Yvon. He was heading directly to the stairway. I called to him, and he paused on the steps.