VOYAGERS Page 5

  Greta's father cleared his throat and nodded to his wife. Then, returning to Fielding, he cleared his throat once more and offered as if asking permission, "As my wife has pointed out, it's the Lord's Day. I'll be glad to reply by Wednesday. Not that your offer isn't tempting. Even stunning. All the more reason I need this time to consider."

  Fielding didn't like that. He had never been good at hiding his feelings, Greta could see. He had never had a talent for diplomacy. Born into power, there had been no need. His way had been to bully people, and he had done it long before Greta and her family had the misfortune of attracting his attention. He glowered at Greta's mother. Then he smirked, returning his attention to her father.

  "Wednesday," Fielding replied curtly, and walked away.

  Greta's father called after him, "Seven o'clock. It'll be an honor hosting you, and please tell Mrs. Fielding we look forward to meeting her."

  "Lawrence, don't," Greta's mother whispered harshly. "I despise that man."

  Lawrence Roscoe seemed all at once again like the father Greta loved. He relaxed, smoothed the abundance of his hair until it submitted to the derby, and sat down on the checkered cloth. His wife followed him.

  "Everyone despises him," he said, as he rummaged through one of the picnic baskets.

  "Except you," came her mother's tart reply.

  Lawrence stopped his quest, and looked frankly at his wife. "Georgia..."

  Greta's mother seemed a little contrite. "Well, how do you expect me to feel? He behaves as if he owns us."

  "It's not his behavior that matters. It's his money."

  "You'd think the old coot and his cronies still ran St. Louis. Well, the War didn't just liberate the Negro. Somebody should remind him that it liberated this city, as well."

  Yes, Greta had forgotten where Fielding's real power had originated: the slave trade. Burgess Fielding had not only been a brute, he had been a bold and ruthless investor. Somewhere in his past he had invested over half his vast inheritance into two auction houses. Living in Missouri--half slave state, half free--he manipulated both systems. While that era flourished, so did Fielding and an intimate group of cohorts. Just under the surface St. Louis had been hopelessly corrupt. There was no prominent politician, no high rank in the police force, and virtually no merchant in the city that didn't answer to the association of businessmen, which everyone called 'the Five': Burgess Fielding and his cronies.

  The War Between the States had ended all that. It virtually emptied Missouri of her sons and her affluence. St. Louis's merchant body was stricken like a man with Consumption, and in short order, the head of that body--the monopoly that was the Five--perished. Only one of them was able to financially survive by virtue of his superior wealth. Though his coffers were diminished Burgess Fielding still managed to emerge as one of the wealthiest men in St. Louis.

  But the full, decadent bloom of his glory days was withered away. New civic leaders emerged from the War's aftermath sore with the memory of the Five's monopoly. New wealth came to the city through neighboring Union states, where investments had grown fat during the War. Fielding could no more control so diverse a number of strings than he could have controlled the outcome of the War. He would never again own the entire city, and the bitter knowledge of that made him more ruthless than ever.

  Greta's father found the remnant of cold roast he'd been looking for, but the tension between he and his wife seemed to dampen his craving. He held it listlessly in one hand and spoke as if addressing the roast instead of Greta's mother.

  "We simply don't have the money to fund the engine ourselves."

  "Oh, why do you insist on being so pessimistic?"

  Greta's father looked up. "Why do you insist on not listening? It would take everything we've got. Everything. I don't want to lose the chandlery, I don't want to lose the house, I don't want to lose Greta's future."

  "And I do. Are you saying that I do?"

  "No." Greta's father tossed his hands upward as if appealing to Heaven and lost his grip on the piece of cold roast. It arced backward and landed in a spring puddle. "Damn it."

  "Lawrence, you know better than to talk to me like that."

  Greta's father looked at his wife. "Too often I can't talk to you at all."

  Greta could almost feel the frost around her mother. "Is that so?"

  Greta's father reacted with a firmness she hadn't remembered seeing in him before, at least when it came to her mother. "Yes, it's so," he replied a bit too loudly, before he remembered they were in a public place. "You behave sometimes as if I'm an incompetent. If I were so incompetent I couldn't have built that pitiful chandlery up as I have. I couldn't have designed the engine Fielding's so fretful to buy into."

  So it had been this way, once. Lawrence Roscoe had not always been so very intimidated by his wife.

  "You aren't incompetent," was his wife's retort, "but you could be much more than you are. The chandlery could be, too. You're too willing to placate the likes of Burgess Fielding. That broken down monarch doesn't have any secret business knowledge, just guts and enough wealth to pad his failures. I tell you, we don't need him."

  Greta's father rolled his eyes, just as Greta had seen him do many times. But never had she recalled seeing him do it to her mother's face. He stood, scooping little Greta into his arms, and said, "I'll take her for a walk by the pond."

  "Well, you can't take her like that."

  Georgia Roscoe tugged Greta out of Lawrence's arms, and kneeling on the checkered cloth, set her daughter down to put on the tiny stockings and shoes. Little Greta tried to kick away the confining garb.

  "Be still," her mother fussed, and forced one chubby leg into a stocking. Once Greta was properly dressed, her mother looked at Lawrence as he bent over to pick up the girl. "All right, you won't listen to me. Go ahead and be proud. But don't be stupid. The patent attorney is a man, are his opinions silly? He thinks your design will be the envy of every shipbuilder on the Mississippi. In time there may not be a boat on the river, paddle or screw prop, without your engine in it. Will you listen to him? It's worth the risk. You don't need a partner. You especially don't need Burgess Fielding."

  Greta's father hoisted her little form into his arms, his tone one of irritable dismissal. "I didn't seek out Mr. Fielding, he sought out me. And I know what the attorney thinks."

  "Then will you, at least, listen to him?" her mother persisted.

  "Georgia, nothing's been cast yet. Now, I know what I'm doing."

  How vividly Greta recalled watching her mother's rigid features; even as she witnessed her own little face peering over her father's shoulder, tiny fingers gripping his left suspender. The pond was beyond the same rise over which Burgess Fielding had appeared and disappeared half an hour ago. Indeed he, too, was at the pond with his wife...more or less. He had abandoned her to a gentleman cousin's care while he sat at a picnic table and shuffled papers stamped with his corporate logo. Had people not been so accustomed to his behavior, he may have caused gossip, working as he was on Sunday.

  But it was his wife that was the subject of gossip. Greta recalled that without these memories so strange, so familiar. There was some blame put on Burgess; some nod to how difficult it must be, married to a man so caustic that people joked about grass dying in his footsteps. There was some tittering about the fallen monarch of the city combing his hair just so, in order to hide the horns his wife had so artfully set to his head. But, by and large, the tongues wagged in Madeline Fielding's direction rather than her husband's. Not once had Burgess been rumored to be a sporting man. But his wife had been seen with an elite selection of bachelor cousins or business associates, attending social functions without her husband's company. There was nothing in this that was found to be blatantly scandalous. No one knew for sure, or even claimed to know of any indiscretion. All was hint and innuendo. Such sightings were frequent enough and odd enough to inspire gossip in the smoking parlors and at the ladies' teas.

  Yes, Greta remembered. And the
one time Greta knew these rumors to have validity had its origins in that fateful Wednesday dinner party. Had she really noticed what was happening when she had been that three-year-old girl? No, of course not. But she understood it now, as this tapestry of her past unrolled before her; as she tried to explain all that she knew to the Reverend Mr. Shane.

  Madeline Fielding was an attractive fair-haired woman, her debutante status behind her some 15 years. There was something a little frantic about her, a little hungry. Greta recalled how Madeline's eyes darted toward Burgess that evening. A cynic might say that her furtive glances could be taken as her hopes of not being caught flirting with Greta's father. To one more charitable those same glances could have been her hope that she was behaving according to Burgess' approval. Whatever those hasty glances meant, there was no doubt that she had found Greta's father charming. Indeed, he had always been so in an awkward boyish way. Greta's heart had never ceased to dance between resenting Madeline and understanding. And how could Greta not admit that Madeline Fielding behaved differently toward her father than Mama? Madeline complimented him. She seemed amazed by his talents, fascinated. That evening, babe that she was, Greta took her meal early with the young nurse and was returned to her parents after the dinner party was nearing an end.

  Witnessing these freshened memories, Greta nearly lost herself in marveling at them. The images scrolled out before her, needing only the faintest notion of a command. She watched her toddler self, scrubbed and swathed in flannel, being released from the nursery to say her good nights. The hallway was tangy with the scent of cigars that trailed the men from the smoking room to the reading parlor. The three-year-old burst upon the party, and Greta vividly recalled her anticipation of the delight her parents exhibited upon her arrival. But even at her tender age her exuberance was snuffed by a smoldering mood more pungent than those traces of cigar smoke. She hadn't known it then, but her father had only moments before, in the manly sanctum of the smoking room, turned down Burgess Fielding's partnership offer. The parlor was silent. Lawrence stood, clearing his throat nervously, a double brandy in his hand. Burgess was glowering at the fire--even spat into it--as he leaned against the mantle.

  Greta's mother was saying to Burgess, on behalf of her husband, "Very generous, you've flattered us with the offer. As Lawrence has said, we hope you understand our position..."

  It was Madeline who noticed Greta. The woman jumped up in her near-frantic way, from where she was seated next to Georgia. "Why this must be your daughter."

  Only Burgess didn't turn to look. Greta's mother held her arms open, but it was a gesture devoid of its normal affection, a fact destined to become more the norm than the exception. Tentatively, little Greta responded, tip-toeing toward her mother. The kiss planted on Greta's cheek was equally mechanical. Greta looked to her father, who smiled awkwardly before taking an enormous swallow of brandy.

  "Good night, dear one."

  The child's gaze returned to her mother. "Mama? M'song?"

  Heavens, that song. That silly, darling nursery rhyme that she sang ad nauseam for her parents every night at bedtime. At least until she was five, if she remembered correctly. And she was certain she did remember correctly. The veil between memory and the present was too thin in death to have doubt of it.

  But her mother was saying, "Not this evening. Say your goodnights to Mr. and Mrs. Fielding."

  Again came that high, hopeful pitch from Madeline. "She knows a song? Why, at her age, she knows a song all by herself?"

  Greta's mother turned her finely chilled courtesy toward Madeline. "Her 'ABC's'. It's nothing really."

  "Oh, but to a childless couple like Burgess and I..." Madeline looked toward her husband. "Burgess, wouldn't you like to hear the child sing?"

  Old Fielding tore his glower from the fire, fixing it upon his wife as though she had asked him to join with Greta in a duet. Then something flickered there inside those eyes so deeply set under his brow. And just like that, he pulled his lips into something like a smile.

  "Why not? We go after that, but why not?" The Roscoes were stunned. Even young Greta. He looked down at her. "Yes, all right, let's hear it."

  That was the first time, Greta realized, she had felt dread, looking into that old tyrant's eyes. The child backed deep into the folds of her mother's skirts.

  Madeline replied, "Oh, that's not a proper beginning for a concert, is it...Greta? It's Greta, isn't it? Now, let's all sit and give her a proper audience. Burgess?"

  "Good. Yes, a proper show," Burgess agreed, and moved even as Greta's father began toward the divan where Greta's mother was sitting. Burgess sat heavily next to Georgia, and gestured toward Lawrence. "Do you mind, Roscoe, I'm much too sturdy a fellow to fit on one of those," meaning the two smaller gondola chairs adjacent.

  Greta's father, standing with Madeline. Lawrence, replied, "Well, no, not at all."

  He touched Madeline's elbow, directing her to the chairs. Madeline's eyes began that hasty darting toward her husband as she allowed Lawrence's guidance. Once perched, she smiled at her host, leaning her knees in his direction as he sat. By now, little Greta had to be coaxed. First her mother tried, beginning the sing-song rhythm of 'A B C D E F G'. The love was back in her eyes. But Greta's father had to join in for a moment before Greta forgot her shyness and was singing like a bon vivant.

  "Now I learnt my ABC's, nex' time won' you sing with me?"

  Burgess still had that smile wrenched into his face. Greta's parents applauded while Madeline pressed a gloved hand to Lawrence's arm as though the Fieldings and Roscoes were cousins, used to each others' company for years. Her cheek grazed his shoulder. Lawrence flushed. Georgia watched them, as though she were trying to see through a mist.

  "Darling child, darling child." Madeline removed her hand before the awkwardness deepened.

  She seemed unaware of the near-impropriety. Greta's mother sat back uncertainly. Burgess didn't allow for a moment of uncomfortable silence. He stood within seconds of Greta's finale.

  "We'll leave now. Roscoe..."

  Lawrence rose, as his wife hurried to the bell sash to ring for the Fieldings' wraps. He and Burgess shook hands.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Fielding...to turn down your kind offer. I hope you understand."

  "Mm." Burgess was already striding out the parlor door.

  "And I hope..." Lawrence turned to look at Madeline and began to blush. "I hope to see you again, Mrs. Fielding. My wife and I, of course. I'm sure we'll all see each other again."

  The nurse, whose name was Elizabeth, but whom everyone called 'Little Bit', delivered the wraps and was whisking Greta off to her room before the Fieldings had shrugged them on. Safely in the nursery, Little Bit tucked Greta into the crib and admonished. "Now you musn't, you know. If I come back in to find your window open, I'll tell Daddy to spank. The night air is bad for Greta, remember?"

  The child nodded, Little Bit smiled, and smoothed Greta's hair lovingly before slipping away for the single tea and brandy she thought no one knew she took at that hour. Greta tossed off her coverlet and scaled the crib. She knew how to open the window, for she and the nurse did it together every morning. It wasn't a very big chore to climb onto the broad chest that her father had built as an extension of the window's sill, hardly more than two feet above the floor. When Greta was an infant it had held baby things, handy as it was to the crib. And its cushioned lid, soft and tufted, was a pleasant place for her mother to sit and cuddle her to sleep on pleasant days. Now it was useful in a way her parents hadn't anticipated. Little Bit hadn't begun locking the sash yet to keep Greta from ruining herself with the night air, so the window slid easily upward on its counterweights.

  Ah, those warm evening breezes of late spring. Greta had forgotten how she had loved them as a child. Loved them a bit too much, really. The threat of 'Daddy spank' couldn't stay in her toddler mind long enough to deter her. Looking upon this long lost memory, Greta almost chuckled. And she may have done just that, if she didn't now remembe
r the peculiar conversation her young ears had heard as she sat upon that sill, letting the gentle breeze meander past her. Two stories up, Greta's room faced the street and she could look down at the Fieldings as Madeline finished up some lengthy farewell before joining her impatient husband at the carriage. Greta heard the front door thud shut and watched Madeline hurry toward Burgess.

  "Is that what you had in mind?" she asked him, her voice hovering between fear and sarcasm. "Did I perform to your satisfaction?"

  Burgess opened the carriage door for his wife, and ordered, "Just get in."

  Madeline put one foot upon the folding step before turning to her husband to snap, "Maybe this time, it won't be such an act for me."

  Burgess' only reply was to grab Madeline's arm roughly and shove her into the carriage. Greta would have watched the carriage leave, maybe watch until it would have disappeared beyond the street lamps, had a strangled gasp not pulled her attention back into the nursery. Little Bit came at her full of fear, and whisked Greta off the sill as though the child were threatening to jump. Yes, Greta now recalled, she had gotten two smart slaps against her palms the next morning and a firm lecture about how dangerous it was to sit in windows so high up. That was when Little Bit started locking that window.

  Chapter Six

  The Withering Of The Soul

  Greta couldn't stop the memories now if she tried. She was aware of where she was, what she really was in Aridite's flat. Dead. She was aware that Mr. Shane rested his hand on hers, as though in comfort, his palm warm as living flesh. But the memories were as vivid against her mind's eye as actors were upon a stage, and she was compelled to witness the play while she related all to Mr. Shane.

  Now the stage was Greta's home, as it had been when she was five years old. She saw herself breakfasting with her parents in their modest dining room, Little Bit pouring Greta's father a cup of coffee before he was to head off to the chandlery for the day. The morning was a humid warning of how the summer day was going to be.