• • •
One afternoon he came into the now-familiar parlor and found her sitting at the table with a stack of bills and accounts. Her face showed traces of tears, and wiping them away and throwing down her pen she rushed into the kitchen to make the tea. He glanced over the accounts; ye gods, what was she living on? The Brandons had no money at all. And was it right that such an intelligent and handsome woman had to scratch up the tea herself in some back kitchen? Although he had never been in any of the other rooms of the house, he set out for the kitchen. He would help her. Damme, he would help her!
She was stuffing kindling into the stove. The kitchen smelled of bad drains and the disagreeable odor of the wet soapstone sink, old ashes and a sour dishclout. She turned, frowning horribly when she heard his footstep, but the frown transformed into a tear-wet dimpled smile when she saw it was James.
“Ah! I thought—”
He knew what she thought; she thought it was the fit-prone Mr. Brandon blundering in on her, perhaps twitching and spewing, pissing in his filthy pants.
“My dear,” he said and took her hand. “You shall not endure this another day. I shall hire a woman to come in and do for you at once. Let us now forget the tea, go into the parlor and have a little talk about what must be done,” for he intended to pay up those nagging past-due accounts, intended to have Mr. Brandon put in an asylum, intended much more. He had money and he would put it to use. He could get what he wanted and he wanted Posey Brandon.
She confessed that she had pawned the silver dish he had brought her to pay some of the bills and to buy food. He was deeply shocked and deeply pleased that he could set matters right. When he left the house two hours later he had set changes in motion.
• • •
“Come in, sir,” said Mrs. Deere, the new cook, who also served as housemaid, opening the door. The parlor table gleamed with waxy luster and there was a jar of pussy willows on the windowsill. He could smell something pleasant in the distant kitchen, something Mrs. Deere said was “a rhubarb roly-poly, first rhubarb of the year.” And, as was now his right, he went to that delicious room where Mrs. Deere had performed miracles. The new stove glowed, the soapstone sink no longer reeked.
“Very good, Mrs. Deere. Have you had any trouble with — with Mr. Brandon?”
“No sir. I make him bread and butter and hot milk, which Dr. Hudson says is good for deranged people. Missus Brandon takes it to him and brings back the dishes.” She came closer and whispered: “But I have to lock away the leftover joint as he strives for meat.”
“I hope we will have a solution to the problem before long. I met with Dr. Hudson myself this morning. Would you be so good as to bring tea into the parlor while I discuss the doctor’s findings with Mistress Brandon?”
“And dried apple pie?” she said, pointing with her chin. “Or roly-poly?”
“And pie,” he agreed, for rhubarb could be sour.
• • •
“My dear,” he said to Posey Brandon, waving his hand over his saucer of steaming pie. “I spoke with Dr. Hudson this morning for some time. He is of two opinions. He thinks it possible that Mr. Brandon may someday come to his senses. He thinks fresh air would be very good for him, and a place to walk and exercise. To that end he suggests that you send Mr. Brandon to the care of a farm family. They would be glad of the extra money and would keep him clean and expose him to much fresh air. He has a farmer in mind, a Jeremiah Taunton, who lives about five miles out of town, a man of calm ways. His wife is a generous woman, very pleasant and quiet. They have two or three children. They would welcome Mr. Brandon and house him comfortably. Does that not sound a good solution?”
“Oh yes, yes. But you said Dr. Hudson had two opinions.”
“I did. And he does. He said, should by any chance Mr. Brandon not thrive in the farmer’s care or should he become wild and phrenetic, it might be possible to arrange for him to be housed in Williamsburg, in Virginia, at the Public Hospital for Persons of Insane and Disordered Minds, a unique institution that Boston absolutely must emulate. Here we see the mad and incompetent wandering the countryside, but in Williamsburg they are kept in a special place and treated. The caretakers effect many cures with plunge baths, various drugs, bleeding and certain salves. There are exercise yards.”
“It sounds very well. But first let us send him to the farmer. Should we not send his books of sermons as well? He might resume reading and writing. It meant much to him in earlier times before that lightning strike.”
“I will ask Dr. Hudson. He did mention ‘complete rest and quiet,’ but perhaps books would be allowed. This pie is delicious, is it not? Are you pleased with Mrs. Deere?”
“I am most pleased. And with Mrs. Blitter, who is a fair enough housekeeper. You are very good to me and I am grateful.” She looked at him with her great dark eyes.
But the next day he called again to say that books would not be allowed; books could cause brain fever even in people who had not been struck by lightning. The doctor himself would take Mr. Brandon to the farm on the coming Monday. In his breast pocket James heard the doctor’s bill crackle a little. A small price to get rid of the wretched Brandon.
44. keepsake
Spring came at last in early June, a rushing spate of warm days, the gutters streaming with meltwater, people smiling and walking about as though their legs were new-made. Birds raced through the branches, the smell of earth dizzied the senses. Posey Brandon opened the windows of her renovated and refurnished house before James Duke arrived for his afternoon tea. But he was late. She went to the window a hundred times and peered down the street, hoping to see the gig bowling along. On the tea table lay a tiny packet wrapped in blue paper, the minuscule label bearing the words “James Duke a Keepesake.” Would he not find it presumptuous? He would surely take his leave immediately, leaving it exposed on the table. He would withdraw Mrs. Deere and Mrs. Blitter. The bills would pile up.
Why did he not come? Was her benefactor ill or had he met with an accident? Surely he would have sent a messenger for any ordinary delay. Had he somehow found out about — it — the keepsake? She paced. The sunlight color began to deepen and late-afternoon chill flowed into the room. She closed the window and called for Mrs. Blitter.
“I am worrit that Mr. Duke is delayed for some reason. And it grows chill. I think we need a small fire in this room. If he does not come soon I must send a messenger to inquire.”
“We can send Mrs. Deere’s boy — that slow coach is still in the kitchen — he has been at it all day—taking out the old flour and molasses barrels.” Her voice was scornful.
“Yes, let us send him. Here, I will write a brief note.”
But before the fire was burning well Mrs. Deere’s boy was back.
“He was at the corner. I give him your note but he’s right at the gate. Hear his horse?”
• • •
“I am extremely sorry to be late,” said James Duke. “I was delayed by Dr. Hudson, who called on me only moments before I left. To be brief about it, he says that Mr. Brandon has become ill from some other source than his derangement. He coughs continuously and cannot keep any food down. He is very thin and weak. To spare the farmer’s wife extra work I have hired a day nurse to assist, for he is in bed in his room and cannot rise from it. Dr. Hudson has ordered two fresh eggs a day beaten into warm milk with a spoonful of rum and says he may recover with the warm days but he may not. We can only wait.”