CHAPTER ONE: To Grandmother’s
House We Go
My name is Bob
Bellamy, and in the year 1807 when I was sixteen years old, I started my
apprenticeship in the Department of Extranatural Affairs. I fell almost right
away into one of the worst cases the Bureau of Shadows ever knew; but I luckily
wasn’t quite as green as some folks are when they start.
Part of that was
because I had already had some experience with the extranatural before, which
is not quite the same as the simply supernatural, you understand. When I was
twelve, I had an incident involving a Revenant, a Lake Monster, and a Wood Ape
(these are all broad technical terms the Bureau uses; I don’t think the big
hairy thing I saw was anything as simple as an ape). This was all in one night,
mind you. I came out of that adventure fairly unscathed.
The other part of it was because my
pa, Chase Bellamy, had been instructing us kids (me and my sister Daisy) before
we ever knew that he was an agent in the Department, or that there even was a
Department. It was mostly to keep us safe when he wasn’t around, and the
training had to be camouflaged, as Ma wasn’t particularly happy about dragging
us into “that world”, as she called it. But after the night on Deacon’s Peak
the cat was out of the bag, as it were, and I soon became Pa’s unofficial
assistant on a lot of cases.
Even so, I barely survived to
complete my apprenticeship. There was one who wasn’t so fortunate.
We stood on the shadowy front porch
of the Morrison mansion, Ma and Daisy and me, and waited for someone to answer
the bell. Ma had rung it firmly, almost too firmly, as if announcing her
presence in defiance, and overcoming some inner reluctance. The echoes of the
bell had faded through the hollow halls within, and still we waited. I scratched
and tugged at the unfamiliar starched collar around my neck. This was not how I
wanted to spend my sixteenth birthday.
Three days before it had all been
fine. Although Pa was still out on another one of his missions for the Bureau,
he was expected back within the month. Meanwhile we were staying in Boston with
my mother’s cousin Aunt Hannah (as we called her) in her crowded but always
hospitable house and looking forward to an informal celebration with our
numerous rough-and-tumble cousins. Then had come the invitation (more of a
summons) from Grandma Morrison.
So here we were in our Sunday best,
Ma bracing herself, me shuffling from foot to foot, and Daisy slowly fuming in
a freshly starched but somewhat-faded, blue-checked dress, eyes darting from
side to side in curious anticipation. After a moment of nervous waiting that
felt like an eternity, she looked up at Ma and asked, “So, is Grandma Morrison really
a witch?”
“Daisy!” Ma’s eyebrows shot up; her
horrified mouth hung open. She looked down at my sister, her fragile composure
fractured like a fort taken from a surprise direction. “Why would you say such
a thing?”
“Well, from what Bob says …”
“Don’t you go pinning that on me!” I
cut in hurriedly.
Ma turned a stern face on me. “Bob,
what have you been telling your sister?”
“Nothing but what didn’t happen,” I
said guiltily, twisting a little under her glare. I stuck my hands in my
pockets and scuffled my hard shoes.
“What do you mean?” she asked
frostily. “What did you tell your sister?”
“Well, she asked me about Grandma
Morrison. She asked me what she’s like.” I bowed my head and looked away. “And
… well … I couldn’t think of a single good thing to say.”
“Bob!”
“I mean, she always makes me call her
Mrs. Morrison! The one time I called her grandma, she thumped my head. She’s
never liked Pa, and that can only make me think that she doesn’t like us kids
much either.”
Ma straightened up and composed her
expression. “Oh, come now! I’m sure she’s fond of you both, in her own way.”
“It’s a mighty peculiar way,” said
Daisy. “How can she be fond of me if she hasn’t even seen me in ten years? Not
an invite, not a present, not even a P.S. in the letters she sends you now and
then.”
“Well, we’ve all been invited now,”
said Ma. She tucked back a strand of hair that had come loose in her sudden
annoyance. “I ask you, dear, to withhold your judgment until you have met your
grandmother. It is true that she has been quite rigorous in her dealings in the
past – I did rather defy my parents when I married your father, and that can
only have hurt her feelings – but it is wholly possible that age and solitude
has softened her position.”
She put her hands down on our
shoulders protectively and drew us closer. She looked at us, and for a moment
her vulnerability was all too clear in her liquid brown eyes.
“I beg of you two not to raise any
barriers to a possible reconciliation at last.”
“No, Momma,” we murmured in unison,
struck solemn by the unexpected emotion in her voice. Daisy and I glanced gloomily
at the door. For years we had been used to Ma and Pa referring to Grandma
Morrison in the most icy and ironic terms, covered over with a kind of grim
humor. That Ma might have been concealing real pain had never occurred to us. I
had been thinking of this visit as a reconnaissance into an enemy camp; that Ma
had an investment in this maneuver had raised the stakes. I adjusted my collar
again and smoothed my shirt.
We waited so long that I was
beginning to think that the whole set-up was some sort of cruel trick. Ma was
just reaching out to ring again when suddenly the sound of the door being
unbolted was heard and her hand twitched back nervously. After a series of
scrapes and ratcheting that sounded like the entire faceplate might be being
dismantled, the massive door swung ponderously open, and a ghostly figure
materialized from out of the gloom inside.
“Grandma?” asked Daisy.
“Simmons!” Ma cried out. Although she
was clearly happy to see the gaunt person standing in the doorway, I think she
was also trying to drown out Daisy’s little social mistake. The figure that was
looking impassively down on us children clearly wasn’t any relation of ours and
was not in fact even female.
I could kind of see her mistake. He
had a rather old-fashioned powdered wig on his head, and his long buttoned-up
topcoat and white knee socks at first would certainly give a child not familiar
with the fashions of twenty years ago the impression of a rather severe dress.
But his dark skin, like walnut blanching with age, should have given her the
clue that this wasn’t a relative of ours, and if he was, it probably wouldn’t
be mentioned out loud in a social setting.
The corners of his firmly pressed
lips turned up in a tight little smile; there was annoyance, but also amusement
in the deepening wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, bowing
gracefully. He turned to me, voice deepening. “Young Mister Bob.” He looked at
Daisy, eyebrows raised, a knowing look in his eyes.
“My daughter Daisy, of course,” Ma
said. “Daisy, Mr. Simmons, my mother’s major domo.” Daisy curtsied, and the old
man bowed gravely, the precise bow that any elderly gentleman gives a young
lady. There was nothing subservient about Mr. Simmons, never had been, as I had
cause to remember from my younger wilder days and a pot of blackberry jam that
had gone missing on one of our infrequent visits.
“Simmons, it’s wonderful to see you
again,” Ma said as she led us in, directed by the sweep of his courteous hand.
“It’s been too long.” She took off her bonnet, and he closed the door with one
hand and accepted the hat with the other in one fluid movement. “And how is
Mother?”
There was the slightest pause in the
machinery as the old man placed the hat on a table in the hall inside, then it
flowed smoothly again.
“Mrs. Morrison is the same as she
ever was,” he replied, as if he was trying to convince himself as well as Ma.
He tugged his coat straight, which had slightly wrinkled with his efforts. “Of
course, it has been ten years.”
“Of course.” Ma sounded a little
conscience stricken, as if confronted with evidence of her neglect. She twirled
off her cloak and handed it to Mr. Simmons.
I took off my own hat and hung it on
one of the pegs in a row on the wall. It looked lonely hanging there by itself
on a place that had been obviously designed for dozens.
“So, what’s a major domo, anyway?”
Daisy suddenly broke in. “Is that like a butler or somethin’? Or were you in
the army?”
The old man looked down at her in
astonishment. Then he smiled rather bleakly.
“It has been, at times, rather like
commanding an army. But it is something like a butler,” he said,
emphasizing the final g in mild but firm correction. “If a butler
directed all the other butlers, housemaids, and stable boys, ran the entire
household economy, and arranged the social affairs of the house.” He sniffed.
“One could wish, sometimes, for the life of a simple butler.” He extended his
hand. “This way, please.”
The house was huge and shadowy and
even quieter than I remembered from the old days. Our footsteps as we walked
through the main hallway (a passage bigger than some of the houses I had lived
in as we moved around following Pa’s cases) clattered and echoed so loudly in
contrast that it was like disturbing a hushed hospital ward. Some rooms we
passed on either side were full of sheeted furniture which only added to the
impression. Occasionally I heard the distant murmur of hushed voices.
As we drew near a particular door my
mother started to slow in anticipation, and then stopped, perplexed, as the
elderly major domo strode past it. Daisy and I shuffled to a stop next to her.
“Simmons,” she asked. “Are we not to use
the dining room? My mother’s invitation specifically mentioned a gathering for
a birthday lunch.” She put her hand on my back proudly. “Today is Bob’s
sixteenth, you know.”
I glanced into the room indicated.
Inside was a table that could have seated at least two dozen guests, a cold fireplace
at the far end surmounted by the staring stuffed head of a massively antlered
stag, with sideboards at least twenty feet long lining the walls on either
side. The sideboards were full of empty bowls and servers, the chandelier
overhead devoid of candles, the chairs and table shrouded in more swaths of
coarse canvas. It smelled to me that it had not known food or life for quite
some time.
“Mrs. Morrison felt that under the
circumstances it would not be quite appropriate,” he answered, almost
apologetically. “The … party is to be held in the parlor, just off her private
chamber.”
“Oh.” She seemed taken aback for a
moment, but then she rallied. “Yes, I suppose that will be simpler and more
intimate, won’t it? More familial.” She looked wistfully into the empty room.
“Do you remember my sixteenth, Simmons? We must have had three hundred guests.”
“Three hundred and forty-two, if I
remember rightly, Miss Elizabeth.” His voice was carefully neutral. “It was
quite a gala occasion. There’s been nothing quite like it since you left.”
“Really?”
“Once you were married and gone, your
father saw little point. There were fewer and fewer parties, and after he
passed away …” There was a pause. “Shall we go?” he said gently. “Mrs. Morrison
is waiting.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
We reached the staircase at the end
of the hall, fancy, but a bit narrow, and darker than you would expect for the
afternoon. Here Mr. Simmons paused to light a candle, and we followed him,
single file, up the steep stairs, first Ma, then Daisy, then me. I could hear
his old knees cracking at each step.
“So, what was Grampa like?” asked
Daisy a little breathlessly. “He must have been pretty hard-working to have
built all this. Was he anything like Pa?”
“Oh, he was a busy man, managing the
brewery, you know, making money for Mother to spend. Sometimes, when I was
younger, he would have time for me and we would play a bit, but he was always tired,
and his time was limited. He loved me, of course, and I loved him, but when I
got a little older, I think it baffled him as how best to proceed with a young
lady. He left that more and more to Mother.”
I couldn’t see her face from where I
was bringing up the rear, but I could hear the rue in her voice.
“So yes, I suppose you could say he
was like your Pa. The times spent with me are deep, but rather intermittent.”
By now we had reached the landing at
the top of the staircase. Daisy quietly slipped her hand into Ma’s, and I saw
them both tighten their grip briefly.
It was a good deal lighter up there.
The upright old man blew the candle out and set the candlestick on a table at
the head of the hall.
“This way, please,” he said. “Follow
me.”
“Simmons! As if I wouldn’t know!”
“Your pardon, Miss Elizabeth,” he
said dryly. “It has been quite a few years. I thought you might have forgotten
the way.”
“Mr. Simmons,” Ma said warningly,
after a pause. She smiled. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that that is
what they call a crack.”
He raised an eyebrow quizzically.
“Indeed, Miss? I’ve never heard that
expression. Well, well. How one lives and learns.” He turned and started
leading us down the hall.
“Indeed one does, Mr. Simmons,” Ma
said. We all came to a halt in front of an ornate, white-lacquered door. He
reached out stiff fingers like twigs and started to turn the door handle. “And
I am not a Miss any longer. I am Mrs. Chase.”
He stood quietly for a moment, hand
still on the handle, and I could see his hooded old eyes readjusting their
focus from ancient inner memories to clearer visions. At last he spoke.
“I do beg your pardon, ma’am,” he
said courteously. “A force of habit, I fear; a sign one is growing old.” He
opened the door and gestured us in. “This way, please.”
Ma ushered us in first, but as she
passed by Mr. Simmons, I heard him murmur to her, with a suppressed chuckle of
approval in his voice, “Upon my word, Lizzie, I do believe you’ll still stand a
match with Her Ladyship in stubbornness after all.” I turned quickly to look at
him, but his face was as grave as a funeral mask.
The room he had led us into was big,
but so crowded it gave an impression of a much smaller place. Its main feature
was a tiny fireplace with a huge ornately carved mantle surrounding it. The
shelf of the mantle was covered with porcelain shepherds and milkmaids dressed
in most unlikely fancy clothes, decorative candelabra that appeared never to
have been lit, and other such expensive gewgaws, including peacock feathers
arranged like fans in painted French vases. Over it hung an enormous painting
of Grandfather Morrison, looking (by his expression) none too pleased to be
there.
Stiff, uncomfortable couches lined
most of the walls, draped in embroidery and adorned with hard, tiny pillows.
Fussy little tables that appeared to exist only to display fussy little
treasures took up the spaces in between. The walls were covered in paintings of
European scenes: Rome and Venice and the English countryside. On one side of
the fireplace was a spindly writing desk with a few scant books on top of it.
In the other corner was what was obviously Grandmother Morrison’s habitual seat
and throne, an enormous armchair swathed in blankets and drowned in cushions, with
an elaborate sewing table crouched like a guardant beast by its side. Next to
this chair was a door to the inner chamber.
Simmons advanced to this door and
knocked discreetly. There was a high, querulous, but indistinct question from
within.
“Mrs. Chase and her children are here
as you directed, Mrs. Morrison,” he said deferentially. “It is now one o’clock.”
We had been hanging near to the
entrance of the room; now Ma pushed us forward to the middle as Simmons
withdrew to the side. There was a pause, a clatter of the door handle, then the
portal swung back on silent hinges and Grandmother Morrison emerged.
I had last seen her when I was six,
and I remembered her as being a tall, daunting figure. I fully expected her to
seem less so now that I was grown up; I was grievously disappointed. She was still
taller than me and carried herself with such a commanding presence that I felt
just as cowed as I had as a child. As she came into the room, the swoosh of her
old-fashioned shirts sounded like a river in flood bearing down upon us.
She didn’t look any older to me, but
I had only ever seen her as old. At the time it was unnerving, as if in her
cussedness she would last forever. She stopped a couple of feet short, folding
her hands, and looked us over as if scrutinizing as prize pig at a fair.
“Mother,” Ma curtsied, and Daisy
followed her. I bowed. The old lady accepted our obeisance without unbending an
inch herself. Ma rose. “You’re looking well.”
“Thank you, Elizabeth,” she said, a
sardonic tinge in her crusty voice. “You do to, considering your
circumstances.”
Ma colored a bit at that, as if she
wanted to inquire what circumstances those might be, but let it go. The haughty
old woman turned her attention to me, and her aspect softened a bit. Not much.
“Robert,” she said grandly. “It is
good to see you again. How do you do?”
“Very well, Mrs. Morrison,” I
cautiously replied. “I hope you are the same.”
Her austere face tried an unfamiliar
smile.
“Come now, Robert! This is your
sixteenth birthday! I think that after all this time you may call me …” She
hesitated, as if unwilling to concede any affectionate epithet, especially one
that made her sound old. “Mother Morrison,” she concluded.
I looked at her, and I think my eyes
must have bugged a bit. Between the unfamiliar yielding to family sentiment and
the proud abrogation of a younger title already filled, I did not know how to
react. So I just bowed again and smiled, rather foolishly. That seemed to
satisfy her. She turned to Daisy.
“And who is this little poppet?” She
asked imperiously, with lowered eyelids and a smug look of condescension on her
face.
Before Ma could start an
introduction, Daisy piped up unexpectedly.
“I’m Daisy, as I think you very well
know,” she snapped. She looked flushed; she crossed her arms against her chest
and there was the look in her eyes that we called ‘the danger lamps’. “And I’m
not callin’ you Mother Morrison for nothin’. I already have a mother, and
that’s Ma. I’m gonna call you Granny, though that’s not a name I’m sure you
deserve. But I believe in giving folks I just met the benefit of a doubt.”
Mr. Simmons looked appalled at such
unparalleled pertness. Ma and I froze, wondering what Grandmother Morrison
would do. I, for one, knowing what I did about her from the past, felt sure she
would strike her rolling to the floor and out of the room.
The old lady stood stock still,
eyeing her. I don’t know if she was astounded that anyone, especially someone
so young, would have the gall to act that way to her, and simply didn’t know
for a moment how to react, or if she was struggling within herself of a supreme
act of restraint. After a moment, she seemed to merely dismiss it from her mind
as unworthy of consideration.
“Simmons,” she said. “You may bring
the refreshments. My guests – especially little Miss Daisy – seem a trifle out
of spirits. Come!” She clapped her hands commandingly. “This is an important
day! Let the festivities begin!”
“Yes, ma’am.” Simmons bowed himself
out, and for a few tense moments we were left alone in the room with
Grandmother Morrison. She grandly waved Ma into a lesser chair on the opposite
side of the fireplace but indicated that I should take my place on the sofa
quite close to her on the other side of the bedroom door. After a moment’s
hesitation but no direction, Daisy sat next to me.
There followed a stretch of stilted
conversation that it would be tiresome and excruciating to recount here. For a
while, Ma and Grandma seemed to be playing a kind of abstract, emotional kind
of tennis ball. The elder lady would send out some outwardly harmless question,
and Ma would give a perfectly bland, even ingratiating, reply. Then Grandma
Morrison would send it back in a cold, viciously precise volley. The worst part
was she would then turn to me with some pleasant remark that forced me to agree
with her. I felt uncomfortably complicit in the attack because of this maneuver. Ma usually managed to turn these strokes with
a precise parry, but by the time Simmons came back with dinner she was down a
few points. Daisy was ignored altogether.
Simmons was not alone. Two maids and
a pageboy had helped him carry up a variety of dishes, a folding table, and a
couple of rickety party chairs. Simmons himself carried an elaborate tray laid
for tea, the silver pot gleaming and steaming in the middle. All was carefully
arranged, centering around Grandma Morrison of course, who watched it being set
up with an eagle eye. The lesser servants were dismissed, Simmons moved Ma’s
chair in, and Daisy and I took our places, shuffling the little chairs in.
Grandma said a quick, by-the-book grace, and the ‘party’ began.
I was directly opposite the old
lady’s seat.
To this day I’m not sure how I made
it through that meal. Its main feature was a large fish (not my favorite kind
of dish), served without any mitigation like butter or lemon, but salted to an
unpleasant degree. I didn’t think it was possible to ruin string beans, but the
rank barely cooked pile of little logs was apparently how Grandma preferred
them. The potatoes were black with pepper, and the soup red with paprika. I tried to choke it all down with tea, but
that was brewed poisonously strong. It would have required more milk and sugar
than I felt comfortable taking under Grandma’s scrutiny to be drinkable.
We choked it all down, however, in as
tiny portions as we could politely manage. Grandma Morrison ground it up
unphased, eating with such apparent pleasure and in such portions as if to make
up for our scant participation. Daisy and I later theorized, and Ma confirmed
from what she heard from Simmons, that her palate had failed with age, and only
the strongest flavors could make any impression on her anymore. The meal was
concluded with a dense over-gingery cake, without frosting and hard as a brick.
Ma ate her meal as expressionless as
a judge. I managed to get my food down without too much gasping, though I was
quick with gulps of the harsh tea, just to help it slide down. Daisy was lucky
that the old lady kept her focus on Ma and me, because I’m sure she wouldn’t
appreciate her granddaughter’s grimaces and the way she kept bringing her
napkin up as if to push her bulging cheeks closed to prevent her from spewing a
mouthful out. At last, under my grandma’s scrutiny, I manage to wrestle down
the final crumb of my dried-up slice of cake.
“Would you like some more?” she
asked.
My eyes bugged a little at the idea,
but I caught myself and covered my choking cough with a little ducking bow of
my head.
“I thank you, but no, ma’am,” I
answered. I sought my mind for a proper response and managed to dredge it up at
the last moment. “I have had an elegant sufficiency.”
Grandma nodded with satisfaction.
“A lad with self-control,” she said
approvingly. “That’s a sign of character.”
“We all thank you,” Ma said, setting
her cup down with finality. “Don’t we, Daisy dear?” Daisy dropped her fork and
pushed her still half-full plate away.
“And now that it’s over with,” she
said decidedly. “We thank the Lord.”
Grandma gave her a quick eyeball, but
Daisy had on her sweet and sincere look. She dismissed her granddaughter from
her consideration like she was flicking crumbs from her dress.
“You may remove the dishes, Simmons,
then leave us. We must have a private little family congress for a while. There
is so much to discuss!” She turned to Ma. “So much we must talk about and
consider. Much about the regrettable past, and much about the future.” She
turned her faded blue eyes on me. “Especially your future, Robert. It’s your
sixteenth birthday, and I think we can truly say you’ve come to the age of
decision.”
“Mother, whatever do you mean …” Ma
began, but the old lady pressed her lips and rolled her eyes at the major domo.
He had moved the table into a corner and was gathering up the plates. She said
not another word until he had exited and shut the door firmly behind him.
Grandmother Morrison sat back grandly
in her chair and rather obviously pretended to relax. She smiled with her
mouth; it didn’t quite reach up to her eyes.
“Well!” she said after a pause.
“Isn’t this nice. Here we are, gathered together, all snug and comfy! I can’t
tell you, Elizabeth, how many times I’ve spent in this very chair on a cold
dark night, wondering what wilderness Mr. Chase had dragged you and the
children off into, or even if you were still alive. But here you are, and here
is young Master Robert, safe and sound after all, all grown up and ready to
start in the real world!”
“I can assure, you, Mother, that the
world we have been living in has been quite as real and engaging as Boston.
Sometimes even grippingly so,” Ma said tartly.
“Yes, but I mean the world of
business. Of society. That is where the wheels of the world are turned. That is
where a lad must seek his way, if he is to make his mark in this life.”
Ma sighed.
“Mother, you will pardon me, I hope,
when I tell you I sense a covert purpose here. I seem to remember you singing
this kind of aria whenever you wanted Father to undertake another speculative
enterprise.”
“Then perhaps you will remember how
often those enterprises turned out to benefit our family.” I won’t say Grandma
snapped, but she was very quick on the reply. She pressed her lips, then smiled.
“But I suppose one could say I do have a surprise purpose behind all this
celebration. A gift for our young Robert, here. A wonderful gift.”
She turned to me and put her hand on
my arm.
“Can’t I have a birthday present for
my big strong grandson? One that would make up for all the presents I missed
giving him because he was off in the wild?”
“Of course, Mama,” Ma said. She
looked rather pale. “Of course you can.” She sat back.
“Well, that’s settled, then.” Grandma
Morrison sat back in her chair a little smugly, and then sighed. Her expression
suddenly changed to one of almost saintly weariness, and she launched into what
I am sure must have been a long-rehearsed speech.
“As you can imagine,” she began. “The
occasion of young Robert’s sixteenth birthday, joyous as it is, has made me
realize how swiftly time is passing. It has pressed upon my mind the melancholy
fact that, well, I won’t last forever, and that I am, in fact, growing old.”
She paused for a moment, as if she
expected denials or protestations. We just looked at her; she was simply
stating the obvious. She went on a little peevishly.
“Of course, that realization
impresses upon me that the Morrison family legacy is in my care, that if it is
to go on, I must decide to whom to pass it. And I have decided, dear Robert,”
she smiled triumphantly, “To give it all to you, to make you my heir. When I
pass away, all the Morrison estate shall be yours!”
“Mother!” Ma exclaimed. I sat
dumbfounded. I didn’t know what to think. Throughout my childhood, the idea of
the Morrison riches had assumed an Arabian Nights-like quality, partly from
Ma’s tales of her pampered girlhood and partly from the contrast of our
shoestring, nomadic life. That I should suddenly be put in possession of such
wealth, whenever Death should have pried it from Grandma’s dragonish grip, was
an idea that left me bereft of response. If she had just announced I was the
lost Dauphin of France, I couldn’t have been more astounded. Daisy says I just
sat there, goggling like a fish.
“Mother!” Ma said again. She was as
shocked as I was. After all the years of neglect, even rejection of her family,
this had come like a bolt from the blue. Suddenly reconciliation seemed at
hand. Her voice trembled with hope. “Mother, are you sure you want to do this?”
Grandma Morrison smiled at her again.
I was starting to notice a little something unpleasant in her smile.
“Now, dear, I know as my only
daughter you might have been expecting a share or maybe even the whole estate,
but you’ve chosen another life, haven’t you? And the Morrison legacy, if it is
to go on, must be left whole after I’m gone. I’m sure Robert will take care of
you and Daisy, when the sad but inevitable day arises, and you’re left on your
own.”
“You may be sure that if that day
comes, Chase will have had us provided for,” Ma countered.
Grandma touched her arm with a brief,
sympathetic hand.
“Of course you will be,” she said, as
if comforting a child. “Of course you will be. And in the meantime, Robert will
be learning the family business.” She turned to me again. “Because, you know,
you’ll be coming to live with me.”
“What?” I said stupidly. I must admit
that things were moving a little too fast for me. I could barely keep up.
During the conversation I felt like I was a tennis ball being knocked back and
forth, or a chess piece moved willy-nilly around some incomprehensible board.
“Oh, yes.” Grandma Morrison sat back
a little, hands clenching the arms of her chair as she eased in. “There are a
few necessary conditions on your birthday present, you see.” She settled her
shoulders cozily into the back of the seat. “And one of them is that you’ll
have to come and live with me.”
“Why?” Daisy put in bluntly. “Why
should he have to leave us? Why not just come back when you’ve kicked … uh,
shuffled off this mortal coil, as it were?”
“Why, my dear little tot,” Grandma
purred in condescension. “That’s nothing to puzzle your pretty little head
about. Can’t you see the grown-ups are talking? Now mind your manners and go
play in the corner a while.”
“Oh no, this is far more
interestin’,” said Daisy. She settled back in her hard little chair, almost an
echo of Grandma Morrison’s movement and tone. “I want to hear more about these
conditions hangin’ off of this ‘present’.”
The old lady ignored her and turned
to Ma.
“Well, of course I can’t just give it
to him without some preparation. That would be a recipe for disaster. I don’t
have to tell you, Elizabeth, the effects of sudden affluence might have on
someone not brought up to it. You remember Cousin Beamish.”
“I do, Mama.”
“Ran through his legacy in a year,
and then what? The poorhouse, illness, and death. A prodigal son without even a
father to whom to return. Sometimes the way to ruin someone who hasn’t taken
care of any money is to give him some. Well, I plan to see that that doesn’t
happen to Robert.”
“Yes, that does make sense.” Ma
turned to me. “Robert, your father and I have talked with you about getting you
an apprenticeship somewhere so you can start making your own way in the world.
What do you think about your grandmother’s offer?”
“Well,” I started out slowly. I was searched
her face, to see if I could find out any clue as to what she wanted me to do,
but her expression was studiously blank. I don’t think she wanted to influence
me, one way or the other. This would have to be my decision.
“It certainly sounds like a very
generous way to start out life,” I began. Ma had always told us tales of her
childhood, of Grandfather’s hard work building up the brewery business that had
brought him so much joy and allowed her a quite luxurious upbringing. She had
never regretted going off with Pa, but there was often a tinge of wistfulness
as she recounted her stories, as of some paradise, no matter how well-lost. If
I accepted, it could be a way to restore it at last. Still, Grandma Morrison …
“What exactly, would be the way it
would work?” I asked cautiously.
“Well, of course, first of all you
would move in with me here at the Morrison House. No more gypsy life for you!
You would have your own rooms and fine sets of clothes to reflect your new
station in life. And then I would start teaching you the business.
“You would not, of course, have to
actually learn how to brew,” she smiled. “We have people to take care of that.
No, I mean the business of the business, and believe me that is hard enough. I
know, because after dear Mr. Morrison passed away, I had to take it up all by
myself.” She dabbed at her eye. “It has been so hard, a lady on her own having
to embark on so unladylike an occupation. But I have persevered. And now you
can start taking that burden onto younger shoulders.
“And I see that you can take it. It
is the Morrison blood in you. There are joys and pride to be had, as well as
good hard work to make you strong in mind and body. You will be building up the
respect of your neighbors and associates, and in time, your stability and
service will lead you to a good fine wife.
“Because I would introduce you into
society, of course. It won’t all be work. There will be visits and gatherings
and parties, with all the prettiest young ladies there to dance. Such balls as
this house hasn’t seen since …” She glanced at Ma. “Well, anyway. You’ll find a
suitable wife to wed and, in time, have children. And the Morrison name will be
secure for generations to come.”
“’Cept it won’t be the Morrison
name,” Daisy broke in. “It would be the Bellamy name then, wouldn’t it?”
The old lady frowned, her fancy
bumping to the earth for a second, but then it bounced back up again.
“I have planned for that; it’s very
easily fixed,” she breezed on. “If Robert is to accept this legacy, he must and
will adopt the last name of Morrison. It is, after all, his birthright. It is
his mother’s maiden name. It is the name of the company.”
Ma drew back. Before she had looked
like she was coming into port with the idea. Now she seemed a thousand miles
from shore again. Still, her voice, when it came, was even and polite, though I
could hear the edge in it.
“Mother, are you determined that this
must be a condition?”
“Of course. And why not? Why, even
the Bard asks, what’s in a name? A rose, by any other name, would smell as
sweet.”
“In that case, why not just leave him
as Bob Bellamy?” Daisy said smugly.
“Hush, child. You don’t understand.”
There was a thunder warning in the old lady’s voice. “In this city, the name of
Morrison has a strong and familiar savor. It carries weight and history that
shouldn’t be cast aside. It will be a decided advantage, a leg up, for Robert
as he starts a new life.”
“Yes, if he chooses it,” Ma said. She
looked at me. “And the choice is yours, Robert. It is your life. What do
you say?” Her voice was carefully neutral. “There are some fine advantages in
your grandmother’s kindly offer.”
Grandma Morrison turned and looked at
me intently. Before she had only given me proprietary glances, as if I were
piece on a chessboard that she was trying to lure over to her side of the game.
I had the distinct feeling that the real match was between her and Ma. I had
been watching the contest with some fair interest, but with little engagement;
it was so enormous in consequence that didn’t seem like it could really have
any real connection to me. But suddenly I was to be both pawn and judge as to
who would win.
I looked at the ladies gathered
around me. There was an eager light in Grandma’s eyes, Daisy looked disgusted,
and Ma’s face was carefully blank. Perhaps she herself wasn’t sure what I
should do. The lure of her old life and loyalty to her family were in the
balance, and the future waited on my words.
I cleared my throat.
“Well, this is certainly a most
generous present, Mother Morrison, and I thank you for it,” I said judiciously.
She looked triumphant. “I would have to be a fool to turn down such a
magnificent proposition and such a substantial leg-up in life.” I reached out
and put a tentative hand on her shoulder, bowing. “Thank you very, very much.”
Daisy crossed her arms and sat back,
thunder her in her face. Ma looked paler than ever. I straightened up and
looked the old lady square in the eye.
“But” I went on. “I suppose I am that
fool. I’m going to have to decline your offer. With due appreciation, of
course. I could never abandon my family’s name, no matter the price. It would
be betraying myself, you see. I’ve been Bob Bellamy all my life, and Bob
Bellamy I shall remain, and take the consequences.”
“Yippee!” Daisy sprang up and danced
over to me and gave me a hug. Ma gave out a huge sigh and looked up with a
watery smile of acceptance. But Grandma’s face snapped shut like an iron trap.
“Are you mad, boy?” she rasped. I was
suddenly very glad I hadn’t taken the bait that had hidden that trap. “Are you
going to give up wealth, and social position, and a settled life, just to hang
onto the name of a penurious wanderer with no status, no standing, no rank in
this world? Then you are a fool, Robert,” she snapped, “If you don’t
accept all I’m offering you, just to cling to the worthless name of …”
“Mr. Chase Bellamy!” Mr. Simmons
suddenly announced, an edge of surprise etching even his impassable attitude,
flinging open the door and stepping aside to reveal, to the wonderment of all,
Pa, the dust of the road still on his coat, shaggy and unshaven, but with a
spring in his step and an impudent brashness that showed he was well aware that
he was intruding on forbidden territory. He went straight up to Ma, who rose to
kiss him.
“Hello, my dear,” he said. “Hello,
Daisy. Bob, Happy Birthday, lad!” He took my hand, shaking it enthusiastically,
then pulled me into a hearty hug. “Happiest of birthdays, my boy!” He held me
at arm’s length and admired me. “My, you are getting tall.”
And measuring myself against Pa, I
could see that I had. He had never been the tallest of men, but I must have had
a growth spurt while he was away on his latest mission, because now I could
look him right in the eyes. If I kept on at this rate, I would soon tower over
him. And I could see by the proud look in his eyes that the thought filled him
with satisfaction. He turned to Grandma, eyes twinkling.
“Mrs. Morrison,” he bowed. “You’re
looking well.”
“Mr. Bellamy,” she said frostily.
“You’ll excuse me, I hope, but I had
finished my job and just arrived at Cousin Hannah’s house, hoping to surprise
Bob for the occasion, when I found out that you were all gathered here. So I
galloped on over, just as I am, wanting to take part in the celebration and see
Bob showered with some of that Morrison merriment that we’ve missed for many a
year.” He looked around at the circle of pale, dramatic faces. “But I seem to
have missed it. Or perhaps it hasn’t quite started yet?”
“I believe it is quite over,” the old
lady sniffed, brows knitted disdainfully. “Unless, Robert, you have changed
your mind?”
I made some lightning calculations.
If there had been some stiff obligations to expect before, the difficulties I
would have digging myself out of the dungeon of her displeasure and up into
even the prison yard of her allowance seemed insurmountable, and probably not worth
the effort. I swallowed.
“No, Grandmother. I thank you again,
but no.”
She sighed grimly, sinking back into
her chair, hooding her eyes with one hand.
“Then I suppose you all may as well
leave. I am suddenly feeling very weary.”
Pa glanced at Ma, a question in his
eyes. She smiled sadly, primly, and rose to her feet, and I followed. Daisy
bounced up, quite ready to go.
“I am sorry that you’re unwell, Ma’am,”
he said. “But before we go, perhaps I can tell you some news that will help
cheer you up.”
She waved him away languidly, eyes
still dramatically shut.
“It is this, Bob.” He turned to me
and put his hand on my shoulder. “When I dropped into the Department to report,
I also took the opportunity to talk to Mr. Frobisher about you. I convinced him
– although you’re still a little younger than they like – that you should be
allowed to start an apprenticeship in the Bureau!”
All three ladies yelled “What!”, Ma a
little staggered I think, Grandma snapping wide awake in anger, and Daisy in
sheer vexatious jealousy. As for me, I was proud as punch. Ever since my
adventure on Deacon’s Peak I had been assisting Pa whenever I could, and it had
been my dream to go on adventures like his. To have it offered to me out of the
blue, and at least a couple of years before I had really expected it, sealed my
mouth for a moment in sheer happiness.
Pa looked a little taken aback at the
others reaction, eyes darting, taking in my silence uncertainly.
“That is, of course, if it’s what you
want to do, son.”
“Well, Pa,” I grinned. “I don’t
suppose there’s anything in the whole world I’d rather do.”
He smiled back and patted my
shoulder.
“I thought so,” he said. “But just
remember that when Mr. Frobisher is putting you through your paces.” He looked
around. “And now I do think we’d better be getting along. Mother Morrison is
looking a little green around the gills. Till next we meet again, Ma’am.” He
put his hat back on and touched the brim. “Now I do believe Cousin Hannah has
quite a banquet preparing, with at least several kinds of cake, and the family
was just starting to gather when I left. I don’t suppose you’d mind another
party, would you?”
“No, indeed we wouldn’t,” Daisy muttered.
Grandma Morrison shot her a poisonous eye but sat stiff and silent as we bade
her goodbye. My last sight of her was her pulling out her fan, and hiding away
behind it in haughty judgement, dismissing us from her sight. Simmons led us
down to the front door, looking rather grim. When we passed the gate, Daisy
pulled the fragments of the indigestible meal that she had secreted in her
pockets and scattered them to a pack of dogs that had gathered in the road. We
hopped up into the buggy Pa had hired and rolled off to the party, leaving the
hounds sniffing doubtfully at the crumbs of Grandmother’s feast, unwilling, it
seemed, to even taste them.
