Daniel’s Garden Excerpt
Daniel’s Garden Excerpt – First Three Chapters free!
by Meg North
CHAPTER ONE
I didn’t understand the poem and I never would, so I closed the book. Matthew tried to teach me, and I could not wait to tell him I passed the final exam. The cover was plain, a flat green. June breezes drifted through the window. I yawned and smiled. Summer afternoons beckoned in all their glory. Perhaps a holiday jaunt to Europe would be in order.
“Did you ever think this day would come?” I said to David when class had ended. “This term is over! I never have to read that damn poem again.”
At the head of the classroom, Professor Felton was shaking each student’s hand. Students smiled and thanked him for his lectures, slowly filing out. David gathered his books, wiping his slate.
“You like it when things are easy. If you had to work, you wouldn’t believe that God was on your side.”
“As we have read again and again, gods choose sides. Whether it is the Greeks and the Trojans, or Satan and God. I’d have preferred if the poems remained simply about their subjects, rather than teaching moral lessons.”
I shook Felton’s hand, surprised to find it damp in the heat. He said nothing and nodded. He was President of Harvard College the previous term. Other students put their poetry books on the teacher’s table before they left. I was eager to rid my leather bag of a term’s worth of classic epic poetry. No more Homer! No more Virgil! No more Milton! I could sing with elation.
David nodded to Felton, joining me at the table. “The great poets became teachers so we would know the right thing to do when moral questions presented themselves.”
David was fair, with a girlish complexion and pale blond hair. He was of small stature, but he carried himself with gravity and walked slowly and deliberately. A pretty girl from Cambridge was in love with David, but David didn’t know it. I glanced at the table, stacked with green covers like bricks.
“So, you have settled on the Divinity School?”
“Yes,” said David. “It is the only choice for me.”
I laughed at the gravity of his countenance. It was far easier to discern someone’s future potential than to try and pull meaning from a poem. I followed David out of the classroom, smiling at the professors in the hallway. Elocution class, Natural History class, Greek class, Latin class. Fellow students alighted cold wood within me. Friendships sprang up like blossoms amidst these halls. I’d never thought I could connect with others my age, though perhaps that was because some differences were too great. Yet, amidst the disparities, I counted comrades where before I could not. My freshman year was extraordinary.
“Hello, rich boy!”
Andrew appeared from his final Rhetoric class, and we walked down the hallway together. It was not so many months ago I met my boisterous friend, as we both stood up to do our Iliad recitations in the fall term. One of the largest young men I’d ever seen, Andrew was stocky, solid, with a large square face, choppy brown hair, and startling green eyes. He strutted and grinned with a self-assured air, accustomed to being right and liked. Many young ladies wrote to him, enough to make him think they all would.
“Where’s Matthew?” I said. “I have to tell him of the final examination.”
“Eh, trying to beg the professor to let him borrow the dissecting lens.” He shrugged and gestured back towards a classroom. “You’d think he wouldn’t fret like a nervous ninny on the last day of school. How goes the Bible verses, Davy?”
Before David replied, fellow students surrounded us. Eager faces passed us, running towards the door like a sea of suited fish. Our final day in a long year. I hadn’t crossed the Charles River in months, but my carriage waited outside. In ten minutes, I’d be on my way home to Beacon Hill.
Andrew rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a yellow piece of paper. “Never mind Matty. Look what jumped up at me today.”
It was a telegram, sent from the city of Washington. I guessed how my friend managed to procure such an item, but it was not honorable. The Radical Republican viewpoint was alive and well amidst our halls.
David glanced at it, then snickered a little. “Is this another of your vulgar war things, Andrew? You shouldn’t keep abreast of that Greeley paper.”
“Read it!”
President Lincoln announces quota for Massachusetts to fill!
Volunteer regiments need three-hundred thousand recruits!
McLellan begs for troops! Governor Andrew must comply!
Urge all to join! Sign and fight today!
I waved the telegram away. “I can’t believe you read The Liberator. You’ll see that this fighting nonsense will commence by Christmas. You even said the reports from that Tennessee battle were disturbing!”
“Shiloh, Daniel. And enough about Christmas! You know, there’s to be a recruitment rally at Fanieul Hall two weeks from Saturday. You want to come see what it’s like?”
“I cannot. It is my mother’s birthday gala.” I was annoyed he had forgotten. “Take Matthew if you wish a companion. I have an obligation to my family.”
“Sorry to see you miss out, but we are going.” He wrapped an arm around David’s thin shoulders. David did not look the least bit pleased he had been invited along.
I sighed. “You constantly speak of war, Andrew. Now is your opportunity.”
A grateful voice drifted from up the hall. “Well, I’ll be writing to you, sir, then!”
Matthew emerged from a nearby classroom and approached us. He opened a notebook to a page of scribbled motion drawings, and kept pushing up his spectacles. He greeted Andrew with a friendly jostle to the shoulder.
“He won’t let me take the lens, but he says I can write to him!”
“Good grief, Matty!” Andrew rolled his eyes. “Forget about school, will ya?”
I smiled. “Are you going to study even over the summer?”
“I’ll bet he would,” David said. “The Scientific school would accept his application based on obsession alone.”
Matthew flipped a page in the book, comparing two physics drawings. He was a thin fellow, with bulbous joints and big eyes. A rational one though, more given to reason than his pea whit brother. I reached in my bag and handed him my end-of-term marks.
“I have you to thank for the passing marks, my friend.”
“He nearly failed the final exam,” David said. “Even after you tried to help him.”
“It’s Paradise Lost!” Matthew spluttered in his usual way. “You should thank Felton for not teaching Beowulf in the original Middle Ages vernacular! Milton was trying to show Satan’s power. Adam and Eve getting thrown out of Eden – it’s timeless classic poetry!”
Andrew shoved The Liberator telegram under Matthew’s nose. He interrupted when our conversations became too complicated, which was often. “Listen, there’s a rally two Saturdays from now. You’re coming with me, all right Matty?”
“Daniel, try to understand Milton’s epic idea,” Matthew went on in that nasal tone of his. “The poet says it is Man’s fault we were expelled from Paradise. He depicts Satan as a hero. It flies in the face of conventional Biblical thought!” He turned to David with a proud smile. “I bet you did well, huh?”
“I am tired of thinking about poetry!” I made as if to grab the natural sciences book from Matthew, but he deflected my arm. He was teasing me now.
“Well, if it is Man’s fault, then what is God’s role in our lives? If we were going to get expelled, then why show us Paradise to begin with?”
“Because God made us in His image and wants us to be better than what we are,” David said impatiently. “It appears Andrew deserted us.”
Indeed, our impatient friend was striding down the hall towards the open doors. David smiled and hurried his steps to catch up. Matthew tucked the sciences book inside his bag and chuckled.
“I guess I’m going to that rally. Will you be joining us, Daniel?”
“All this talk of war. There were thirty empty seats in our classes this term. You have heard me speak of Mother, and what Father wanted. War is . . . for others. I have my duties.”
War fervor escalated after the Shiloh battle. Each week, Harper’s splayed whiskered officers and lines of fresh troops across its cover. The Confederate army was proving to be more than a mere annoyance. If three hundred thousand new volunteers were needed, the frenzy would definitely increase. Yet, if the Pierce brothers joined the army and left to fight, then I had little but luck to wish them.
My carriage sat outside the school. It was a gorgeous summer day, hot and clear. I loosened my cravat. Andrew pulled out a small flask and saluted me.
“To our last day as Harvard freshmen!”
He took a nip. I chuckled at David’s pursed lips when he sipped. He would take Chapel classes in the fall. Matthew would return to the dissecting-room, peering through a microscope or pursuing the intricacies of plant botany. I took a refreshing swallow and passed it back to Andrew. He gave me a hearty jab in the ribs.
“Off home, eh? You are not going to stay for the commencement?”
“The Washburns are to dine with us tonight.” I leaned in closer to them. “Catherine will be there.”
David smiled. “Prettiest girl in Boston. Are you going to try for a moment alone?”
“Of course.” I took a few steps towards the carriage. “But you can look for me at the tavern tomorrow night. Hope to see you there.”
Andrew raised the flask. “Until we drink again, Daniel Stuart!”
I laughed and waved good-bye. They were good school-mates, and I looked forward to seeing them tomorrow. Their paths would meander towards Boston’s North End tonight, crossing the river bridge on foot. Mine had a far different destination. Mother sent the open-air brougham. I was glad for it and settled comfortably into the plush seat.
“To the house, sir?” The driver said.
I set my book bag beside me, watching my friends as we drove away. Matthew pulled out a book and was explaining something to Andrew that he clearly didn’t understand. David spoke to another student from his Theology class. No matter if their homes were in a palace or a tenement, I would miss them this summer.
We drove down to the banks of the Charles River and followed it to the bridge. The water was tipped with white and small sailboats rode alongside the larger steamships. An enormous three-masted whaling vessel eased into a dock and the men began unloading huge barrels of oil and sacks of goods from foreign ports. They sang as they worked, and their voices mixed with the cry of the gulls overhead. I breathed deeply of the Atlantic air. At last, I was in Boston again.
Carriages bunched up along the streets like packed train cars, jostling for position. The squares were crowded with people protesting or supporting the war, squawking like chickens in a farmyard. Many of the businesses, churches, and homes were decorated with colorful bunting and several men in Union blue uniforms stood near the telegraph offices, smoking cigars and greeting those who went up to speak with them.
“The 33rd marched out of here this morning,” the driver said. “Can you believe that, sir? Thirty-three regiments already.”
“I did not see them.” I remembered Andrew’s telegram. “Yet Massachusetts now has a quota to fill.”
We followed the edges of the Common and headed towards Beacon Hill. There were many people out this lovely June afternoon, enjoying the leafy shade of the park. A woman dressed in black had a red, white, and blue rosette pinned to her bodice. Her head was bent, her face shadowed by her bonnet. I thought of Catherine. She would never have to worry about me.
Leaving the busier streets behind, we turned up Walnut Street and ascended the Hill. It was quieter here, the old brick and brownstone homes insulating us from the city. Golden light reflected off the glass windows and shapely roofs.
The Stuart house was set back from the street, three stories rising above the trim front lawn. Having not been home since Christmas, I smiled when I beheld its impressive size. It was a Federal mansion, built sixty years earlier by a former mayor. I loved the deep color of the brick, the way the lacy curtains in the upstairs windows were framed by candlelight in the evening, the classic columns in the front. It was a grand home.
The driver pulled the carriage into number eighty-five Mount Vernon Street, clip-clopping up the cobblestones. He circled the carriage around and opened the door for me. I got out, thanked him, and stepped beneath the portico.
It was still strange Father was not at the doorway to greet me. I entered past the large and impressive front door. Its heavy door handle was cold, and it made a soft swish as it closed behind me. The valet was oddly absent. I’d never entered my home alone before. The foyer was quiet, save for the large clock ticking beside the staircase and clanging pans in the back kitchen. The cook must be preparing the evening meal. I heard footsteps upstairs, padding across the carpet. Then Mother appeared at the top of the staircase, wearing a knitted bed-jacket over a simple housedress.
“Daniel?”
Her voice was softer than I remembered, her frame slighter beneath the large, plain skirts. She hadn’t readied herself for my arrival. Had she forgotten today was the final day of classes? I shifted my bookbag under my arm and began climbing the stairs.
“I am home, Mother,” I said. “Forgive me for implying, but are you well?”
She tucked several hair strands under her lacy cap, more gray than brown now. She aged, and I felt older, too. I reached her and kissed her cheek. She smelled of firewood, though the house was warm.
“I received your letter,” I continued. “We are having the Washburns over tonight?”
“Mmm,” she said, then leaned past me and called down the stairs: “Mary!”
“Who is Mary?”
“Maybe I had not written. I have a new maid. Mary!”
A girl poked her head out from the master bedchamber, a bowl of water balanced on her hip. When I met her gaze, her dark eyes widened. Her apron was starched white and her dress clean. She was new.
“Yes, mum?” Her voice was clear and strong. She shut the door behind her and came out into the hall.
“My son needs his room aired. Oh, and unlock the garden for him, won’t you?”
“Mother, I can do it.” I turned to the new maid. “Pay no heed to my room or the garden, please. See that dinner is served at eight. We have company this evening.”
“Aye, Daniel, I will.” She stopped, put a hand to her mouth. “Sir. I mean, sir. I am sorry, sir.”
I smiled. “You are forgiven.”
“Aye, thank you sir.”
Mother shooed the girl away. “Go to it, Mary. I need fresh water.”
She passed by us and started down the main staircase, but Mother’s sharp eye was on her and she understood. She lowered her eyes, turned and went down the back stairs.
“I cannot believe you hired another Irish maid, Mother,” I said. “We never had good luck with them.”
“You mean you had too much good luck.” She didn’t smile. “In any case, it was Erik’s suggestion. He should have been home by now.”
I patted her on the shoulder. “Let Mary help you into your dinner dress. I will see you at eight o’clock.”
She pulled at my sleeve, questioning. I thought she wouldn’t need me now. I wanted to see the roses and have a few moments alone before supper.
“Join me in the parlor. Please.”
She began downstairs, moving slower than I remembered. The parlor was dark and strangely unused. A fire had not been lit for several days. Heavy drapes remained on the windows, odd this late in the season. Mother settled into the sofa near the fireplace. I leaned upon the mantel. Father’s portrait still hung above, though it was more than a year since his bright, cold funeral.
“Tell me of your spring term, Daniel. It is a good thing I convinced you not to make rash decisions. Did you choose which path you wish to take?”
I played with the base of a candlestick. “My friends have. David will go to the Divinity School, and Matthew tends towards the sciences.”
“That leaves the law school. Well, you certainly have experience in the field. The bar is suitable to your temperament.”
“I don’t think Erik wishes me to follow him around the rest of his life.” The light was fading and I felt hungry. “I will summon Mary for you.”
“Did I ever mention what your Father wanted for you in his will?”
“I think it had to do with my attending Harvard. I assume so, that is.”
She stood and went over to the little desk in the corner, a place where she often wrote letters and tallied household accounts. She opened the desktop and took out an envelope. Inside was my Father’s will. I remembered the day we all gathered at his office in town to read it. A brisk spring day, late April. Newspapers in the office shouted headlines of war. A fort in South Carolina was attacked. God, I wanted it to be over.
Mother looked down at the envelope, not at me. “Edward wanted you to be a lawyer, Daniel. He expressed his clearest wish for you to attend the law school and become a partner in the firm of Stuart, Washburn, and Gage.”
“You would have both sons follow him?”
She thrust it at me. “One moment you speak of running off West, the next that you do not wish to be like your brother? I would not have my son be so aimless.”
I was confused by her sudden anger. I could read the will tomorrow. Why was she so insistent on showing it to me? Before I could imagine an answer, the front door closed with a bang.
“Hurrah to all!”
Erik entered the parlor. He tossed his coat and hat to the valet. He looked well, had become a man of solid and good reputation. Erik carried himself with the same air of command as Father, but his eyes were merry. He came over and kissed Mother on the cheek.
“Good evening, Mother. And Daniel, my little brother! How goes the university?”
“Quite well.” I returned his vigorous handshake and clapped his back in an embrace. “You seem the accomplished fellow these days.”
“Ah, yes. Drinks in the library with me? We shall talk of gentleman pursuits!”
I turned to Mother. “Have Mary help you ready for supper.”
She folded up the will and placed it back in the desk. “It is good to see my boys at home. These old walls have missed you.”
We both smiled at her and she retreated upstairs. Erik snapped his fingers for the valet, and our servant knew us well. Not two minutes elapsed between us receiving our twin glasses of sherry and relaxing in the library. Erik lit a lamp and set his glass on the side table, running a hand through his thick hair. I settled into the deep leather chair.
“Was that Father’s will?” Erik asked.
“Yes.” I took a hearty swallow. “God, I feel better now than I have in an hour.”
“Don’t get too comfortable. The Washburns will be here soon.” He gulped his drink. “I presume Mother gave you the ‘Father’s last wishes’ talk.”
I laughed. “To remind me of my true duties, of course. You would not have me working alongside you at the firm, would you?”
“The profession never suited you. Now that you have remained in school, I assume you will choose businesses or medicine. Something with less personal politics.”
“Yes, you do know me. I am going to be a professor, Erik. I have not only done well in school, I have excelled. It is a natural fit.”
“A good thing you stayed.” He knocked back the rest of the sherry. “Well, it is not as lucrative as the bar or as stable as the pulpit, that’s for sure. Perhaps not enough to persuade Catherine, either.”
I poked him in the shoulder. “She knows that my intentions, no matter what they may be, aim for the good. If she is the girl for me, and how could she not be, then she will come to accept all of my choices.”
“Daniel, I think she should accept them already.”
I stared into the sherry. “She does.”
“Then, you have nothing but happiness ahead of you.”
“Of course.”
We sat in silence. I looked across the room at the rows of books behind glass cases. Many were Father’s law books. I stood and went over to read some titles. This was how I remembered Father, my memories so clear in this room. He sat in the library reading, several books opened at once, spectacles balanced on his nose, his quill pen dashing lines across the pages. Maybe I could be a lawyer. I liked reading well enough.
A carriage slowed outside and horses clipped on the cobblestones. Erik stood and straightened his waistcoat.
“The Washburns are here. I shall fetch Mother.”
He left the library. Somebody, probably the new maid, scrambled up the back stairs. I hoped Mother was ready to receive our guests. Hopefully, they wouldn’t mention Harvard. Yes, I stayed in school and did not run off West. Yet, didn’t all young men feel the hot blood call of adventure, of a world beyond square desks and moral poetry? I must purchase more dime novels before my days were wholly consumed by obligations.
Tucked beside one of the law volumes was a slim little book. I opened the glass door and took it out. A plain green cover. I immediately knew what it was and wanted to shove it back into the bookshelf and never think of it again. I tried for three months to read this damn poem and nearly failed the exam.
The front door opened and the Washburns’ voices conversed in the foyer. I tucked Paradise Lost inside my jacket and strolled out to meet them.
CHAPTER TWO
“Daniel!” Mr. Washburn shook my hand. “Good evening! How was your first year at university? Mrs. Stuart, your son has settled into being a scholar, I hear.”
I smiled at him. Catherine was dressed finely tonight, her face luminous. Beauty the likes of which no poet could capture. A delightful air to her being instantly cheered me. Her smile, a kind look. Complexion as white as my roses, eyes like twilight.
“It has been a good year,” I said.
“Come in to the dining room,” Mother said. “We have a wonderful supper prepared.”
Erik placed Mother’s arm in his own and escorted her down the hall. A servant took Mr. Washburn’s hat and coat, and he followed them. I lingered and stepped over to Catherine.
“How are you this evening, Miss Washburn?”
“I am well, Daniel. Thank you.”
She did not take my arm, so I walked into the dining room behind her. She knew that I hadn’t left school and, in fact, completed my first year. Was she still angry about my letter from February? It was nearly four months ago.
Mother looked splendid in her burgundy eveningwear, and Erik ordered two more glasses of sherry for us. No matter. I was here to relax. I forgot how much I missed my family, how much I loved our dinners together.
We stood at our places and Mother said a short grace. Then the servants tucked in our chairs and dished out the first course. Mother sat at the head of the table and I sat beside Erik on one side, with Mr. Washburn and Catherine facing us. She met my eyes once and then began enjoying the meal. I wanted to speak to Catherine alone. I decided I would after dinner.
We were all the way into dessert and I was feeling relieved at the polite, but dull choices in conversation, when Mother finished her peach iced cream and said, “Mr. Washburn, can you take Daniel tomorrow to the office? He is interested in learning the business.”
Catherine looked at me with a wondrous hopefulness in her eyes. I hadn’t told her I did not want to go to law school. Erik kept eating, but I realized all waited for me to speak. I chose my words as I would place a chess piece.
“I am interested as far as my family’s profession is concerned. Father chose his career wisely and amply provided for his family.”
“He did want you to attend law school,” Mr. Washburn said. He ate like a bird and barely touched his plate. I wondered if Mother discussed this with him. Or Erik. I did not want to be a lawyer. I could be great if I so chose, but the choice did not agree with what I wanted.
“Mother reminded me of his will this afternoon. I have decided I want to be a professor.”
It felt good to speak the truth, to say what I honestly thought. It was relieving, a burden from my shoulders. Mother stared at me with the same sharp eye she directed at the servants. Erik dangled his empty glass of sherry. He wouldn’t have spoken in such a direct manner. He did things rashly, but not in an ill-thought way.
Catherine turned to her father. “I don’t think Daniel understands, Father. You have a place ready, and Mr. Gage was to begin a private study with him.”
“Thank you for reminding me, my dear,” said Mr. Washburn. “It has already been arranged, Daniel.”
Arranged? I hadn’t seen the Washburns since Christmas, nor set foot in the law office for nearly a year. Annoyed, I managed a stifled smile.
“We’ll see you tomorrow morning, then,” Mr. Washburn said.
“Tomorrow morning, then,” I echoed, trying not to sound angry. I might as well have never said a word, for all the impact. It was enough to see Catherine’s smile, though. Oh, what would my friends think of this!
“I can’t wait for the gala,” Mother was saying. “We’re having a tailor over on Saturday to fit Erik and Daniel. I thought of a string quartet, but Mrs. Tavington said a quintet would be far more suitable.”
“We have the room for either one,” Erik said.
“Have the extra servants arrive that morning promptly at seven o’clock,” said Mother.
“I can offer two maids, three manservants and an extra housekeeper,” said Mr. Washburn.
Catherine touched my foot under the table. I nudged her foot back. After twenty more minutes of discussion about Mother’s birthday celebration, I was ready to retire for the evening. What did it matter whose invitation had been returned or when Erik and I would shop for supplies in Quincy Market?
“We’ll ride in together in the morning,” Erik said to me when we rose from the table and walked our guests to the door. It was late, and I was more exhausted than I hoped others realized. I helped Catherine into her shawl and Mother handed Mr. Washburn his hat.
“Thank you both for coming tonight,” she said. “I do hope to see you before the gala.”
“A pleasure, as always.”
Mr. Washburn tipped his hat, and escorted his daughter out and into the carriage. I waved one final time and watched them pull out into the street and pass down the hill.
Mother grasped my shoulder and turned me towards her. “I am going to bed, Daniel. You have a good day tomorrow, if I do not see you.”
“Good night, Mother.”
“And you, Erik.” She accepted his kiss. “Good to have you both home.”
She passed up the stairs, in better spirits than I had first seen her. Perhaps it was the meal or the air, but her state of health had been frightening when I came home. Erik turned down the flame in the lamp at the bottom of the stairs. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigar.
“Care for a smoke outside, Daniel?”
I looked beyond the staircase, down the hall. “Not tonight.”
“Suit yourself.” He pushed open the front door. I felt a whoosh of warm summer air.
Thank God they were gone. I stood alone in the dark foyer. The house settled into its evening quietness, the same familiar noises and creaks during my childhood. Yet, despite the familiar, I felt part of me came home a stranger to this life. For weeks I lived in close quarters with like-minded peers who supported my dreams and desired a more leisurely and high-spirited life. I never realized before how formal my early years had been. It was hard to fathom spending an entire summer here. Without Andrew’s high temper, without David’s funny remarks, without Matthew’s astute observations.
Yet, there was one place that could not change. I went down the hall to the darkened rear door. I passed by the back staircase and heard someone quietly walking up the steps. I wondered if it was Mary. Perhaps Mother sent her on an errand for hot tea. I reached the rear door and felt around on the top door jam. A little golden key slipped from its hiding place into my fingers. I inserted it into the lock and pushed the door open.
The back garden was empty and quiet, moonlight glinting off the silvery leaves. I shut the door behind me and stepped out amongst the greenery. Deep breaths, gulping the summer air like a parched man. I calmed immediately. The rush of the dinner party, the excitement of ending school for the summer, the madness of seeing my family. All produced a state of nervousness in me that I wondered if others felt.
Well, no matter. I was alone and the emptiness created a cushion of serenity. The rear garden was a place of solitude and occupation. I spent many an hour in here when young, pushing soil in a broken pottery bowl and helping the servants with rakes and hoes. I loved the barren way it looked in winter, the vines stripped of their leaves, and the aged brick dusted in white snow.
Tonight it was a summer bounty at its height. June was the ideal time for this small world to stream riotous color. An enormous old wisteria climber drooped pretty blooms by the doorway like a fragrant gate. Tiny golden-faced pansies peeped from the deep shade of the wall, twilight blue delphiniums waved their parasol-esque blooms, and tiny strawberry plants offered their harvest to me. I nibbled a jeweled fruit, exquisitely sweet, making my way towards the back of the garden.
An old wooden bench sat smothered in trailing vines. Arrow-shaped English ivy leaves wound between the rear slats and over the weathered arms. Briar rose bushes tipped full with blossoms as carelessly scattered as if a child blew them about. I reached down, caring little for the thorny stems, and plucked a pale bloom, as white as the inside of a shell. I eased onto the bench, unbuttoned my jacket, took off my shoes, and stretched bare feet into the cooled earth. Tucking my hands behind my head, I relaxed in the sweet summer air. From here, I could see the back of the house, square and shadowed. My garden was as beautiful as I remembered it those nights at school. June flowers would make way for the mid-summer vegetables, then I’d tend to August chrysanthemums before heading back across the Charles River to Harvard.
A small flame flickered in a top-floor window. A servant’s room. I stared at it for a moment, and then a small face appeared in the glass. Startled, I sat up straight. The flame darkened, and the curtains swept the face from view.
I stood up and took the rose with me. I went back into the house, replaced the key, and climbed up to the third floor. It was stark up here, the plaster walls whitewashed, the floors bare. Servants’ quarters. I found the room looking out on the back of the garden. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. I thought about leaving, but the door opened.
“Daniel!” Her hands flew to her mouth again. “Sir, I’m sorry. I keep forgetting.”
“I saw you watching me from the window,” I said to Mary. “Do you like my garden?”
“Aye, sir, I do.”
I leaned my head down, but she wouldn’t look at me. I held out the rose to her. She smiled and took it, inhaling the wonderful fragrance.
“Good night, Mary.”
“Good night, sir.”
I left and headed down the servants’ staircase to the second floor. When I walked over to my bedchamber door, Erik poked his head out of his room.
“Visiting the maids again, eh, Daniel?”
“Leave me alone,” I snapped, sharper than I wanted to.
“She is a pretty one, that new Irish girl.”
“I said stop it. I am not interested in her.”
“Not like Fiona, then?”
I walked over. “Drop the subject, Erik. I am going to ask Catherine to marry me. There will be no more talk of servants.”
He grinned that insipid grin I hated so much. “Here comes the bride. Here comes the bride.”
I made as if to hit him, but he blocked my arm.
“Good night, Daniel. Don’t forget to be ready at seven.”
I backed off and went to my bedchamber. I gave her a rose. What difference did it make? Mary was different. Catherine was different.
And how was I going to get through tomorrow?
CHAPTER THREE
“Good morning!”
Window drapes were thrown back and a swath of new white light cut across my face. I groaned and pulled the bedclothes over my head. Erik tossed open the bed curtains.
“We leave within the quarter hour! Up we go.”
He gripped the bed and shook it. I reached beneath me, grabbed hold of a pillow and threw it at him. He caught it easily, my throw clumsy with sleep.
“Nice try, fellow. We’ll be late, Daniel.”
Thank the Lord for manservants. I was ready and even able to throw a splash of cold water on my face before I followed Erik down the staircase. Mother was waiting, in a bed jacket and cap, to see us off.
“I want you to help me with the guest list tonight,” she said when we boarded the carriage.
“Guest list?” I yawned and settled into the seat.
“For her birthday gala. Drive on!” Erik tapped the roof of the carriage. “You are not that exhausted, are you?”
“Well, I remembered it yesterday. I even told some of my friends from school I could not attend a recruitment rally because of it.”
“A rally?” Erik rolled his eyes. “Daniel, you are meant for better things.”
“I don’t think it would be a waste of time, if that was what you were implying.”
“Certainly not, for the other young men of the city.”
“The army has already raised and sent thirty-three regiments. And Massachusetts has a quota to fill, issued from the President.”
Erik patted me on the shoulder. “You’re my little brother, and I stand by you. So, I’m saying with all respect, please don’t ever speak of regiments or war or rallies. Mother wouldn’t like it and I would –“
“You would what?”
“I would not support any choice involving fighting some ignorant southerners over some silly cause. As I said, you are meant for better things.”
“Like a forced profession?”
Erik shrugged. “There are many ways to be a lawyer, Daniel. You could teach at the law school, if you wish. Despite the fact you and Father didn’t see eye to eye doesn’t mean the entire profession is, well, a hellish experience.”
I stared out the carriage window. Andrew and Matthew had no money and no obligation to follow in a father’s footsteps. David heard his spiritual calling amongst the drone of voices around him. It was not fair, in its usually illogical way.
“I won’t speak of the war again, Erik.”
“Good.” He smiled. “We’re nearly to the office.”
The carriage turned the corner, and we drove down Washington Street. It was a beautiful summer morning, and the dazzling light glinted off the white windowsills, doors and starched gloves of those parading about the square. Boston’s citizens were out in their finest walking suits and dresses. The traffic jammed and our driver restrained our horses from collisions. I laughed at the boys playing hoops in the street, remembering my happy days with old comrades. Several men walked about in their deep blue wool uniforms.
“The three-month-men,” I said, referring to those who first signed up last April, and then were discharged after ninety days. I saw Erik’s stern look and remembered I wasn’t to speak of the war. Oh, well. Mother wasn’t here.
“Ah, here we are.” Erik thumped the roof of the carriage when we sidled up next to a large thick brick building with a blocky square front.
We stepped out onto the sidewalk. It had been more than a year since I’d been to the law office, though little changed. The law partners’ names brightened the glazed front window, painted in a flourishing gold script:
STUART, WASHBURN, & GAGE, ESQ
Erik brushed past me and I followed him inside. The inner entry was a waiting room for clients, set up simply but comfortably with padded leather chairs and a small table for refreshments. In the rear of the waiting room was a large desk, and I recognized Mr. Gage’s bent white head even before our eyes met.
“Good morning, Erik! And Daniel, too. Mr. Washburn mentioned you would come today.”
I forgot how youthful he was, merrier than Father or Mr. Washburn, a trifle less rigid in his personal habits. I shook his hand with genuine congeniality.
“It appears I am to learn the profession.”
“That’s right, you completed the first-year at Harvard. Ready to enter the law school, are we?”
“Are we?” Erik repeated.
I removed my gloves. “There are many choices. It doesn’t hurt to explore each option.”
Gage was grinning like a schoolboy. “Well, glad to have you. Mr. Washburn is upstairs with a client, I believe. Erik, could you show him your office?”
“Ready, Daniel?” Erik placed his hat and coat on the little rack by the desk. I put my gloves in my pocket. As ready as I would ever be.
We ascended the little staircase in the rear of the entry. I stifled a yawn. It was quiet and warm, and those leather chairs looked quite comfortable. I was rarely up at this hour. Erik bounced along beside me, eager to show off his stature.
“The dinner hour is at noon, so I’ll lock up the office and we can dine in the hotel lobby across the street. Did you know Mr. Washburn orders the same meal every day? He merely calls it the ‘special’ and the cook knows what he wishes. Father ordered his own special, too. Can you imagine, with the hundreds of guests, that they remember one meal?”
“Mr. Washburn barely eats a bite.”
He ignored me. “That is how well-known I want to be. I want to walk into any restaurant on the street and they immediately know what meal to serve me.”
We reached the second floor where a row of doors awaited, each stamped with an engraved brass nameplate. Father’s door was on the far right, leading to the largest office. He founded the firm more than thirty years earlier, fresh out of Harvard’s Law School, and his descending from one of the most prominent Boston families must have helped. It was difficult to contribute to his eulogy, like writing a paper on Milton.
Erik opened Father’s office door and I stepped inside a room I remembered distinctly. Large round gas lights, thick patterned carpeting, those gloomy flat portraits that frightened me as a child, and the rows and rows of glass-clad books stretching all the way around the room. The place felt like an entombed library.
Erik went to Father’s old desk, a massive piece of furniture with carved lion’s feet and a matching throne-like chair. I didn’t want to see him sitting there where Father had sat all those years. I loosened my cravat. Too little sunlight, too little air, not enough greenery to cheer the dark wallpaper. I would be buried alive.
“Like old times, right Daniel? I saw you looking at those portraits. I have actually gotten used to them.”
“Can we go back downstairs? I would rather wait for Mr. Washburn there.”
He sat back, tapping his fingertips. “You certainly do not want to be here, do you?”
“Erik, I do not want to analyze a client’s troubles the rest of my days. I need to be amongst more activity, people of academic merit who seek more . . . well, more meaning in their lives. I don’t know.”
I sat down opposite the desk. Erik listened, for which I gave him credit. But it was plain from his quizzical look that he simply didn’t understand. I did feel better on one account, though. Entering this office did nothing but reaffirm my aversion to this career. Some people never knew what they wanted. But I did, and if there was going to remain such opposition, then I would have to work my way through it.
Mr. Washburn opened the door. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything, lads.”
Erik rose. “We were waiting for you, sir. Are you at your leisure now?”
“Yes. I’ll borrow Daniel, if you can spare him.”
I left Erik sitting at Father’s desk, using his blotter and his inkwell. I went across the hall to Mr. Washburn’s office, a sunnier place with more windows and light. I felt a little better in this room. Not quite as cloying. We sat down and business commenced.
“Catherine mentioned last night that Mr. Gage would do a private study with you, Daniel. However, due to the war, he has an unexpected amount of work lined up for the summer and will be unable to assist you.”
This was unexpected. If there was any man here I would rather have as a mentor, it was Gage.
“So, I have decided to have your brother take you on, as an apprentice of sorts.”
“Erik?”
“He completed the Law School last year and has already proved himself a capable and trustworthy young man.” Mr. Washburn chuckled. “Reminds me of Edward, when he was young like that. Handsome, driven, compelled to succeed. I see more of your mother in you.”
I flinched. I was often compared to her, though never under the best of circumstances. I reminded others of her indecisiveness, her fickleness, her impulsive ways.
“Daniel, you must overcome those tendencies to not make up your mind. Catherine told me of your attempts to leave school.”
“That was only in the first semester,” I said. “I wanted to do some traveling before settling into university life. For a time, I was thinking about perhaps going West.”
“West?” Mr. Washburn laughed. “Yes, we’ve all heard the fine stories about Indian raider parties and dime-novel shenanigans. But I think being realistic will serve you as a far better quality here in Boston. Catherine makes no objection to your advances, and neither will I, as long as I understand you are serious.”
I didn’t need it spelled out in a primer. “I am serious, Mr. Washburn, though it may not appear that way. I recognize the facts and I do make decisions. I merely live by a different schedule than others, at times.”
“Well, for that problem, I have something you’ll find useful.”
He reached into his waistcoat and pulled out his pocket watch. After unhooking it from the fob, he handed it to me. It was still warm and ticked in my hand.
“Consider it an initiation gift,” he said. “Now you can live by the schedule of those of us here.”
“Thank you, Mr. Washburn. I am honored.”
“I noticed you didn’t carry one, and thought it odd. But, the clock ticks and I have work to do. Return to Erik’s office, and let him know you will be his apprentice. He is efficient and will put you to work, I’m sure.”
I stood and we shook hands. I placed the pocket watch in my pocket, and decided not to tell Mr. Washburn why I stopped wearing a watch.
“Oh, and ask Erik to give you twenty dollars.”
“Twenty dollars? What for?”
Mr. Washburn laughed. “Your Father left it in his will that each of his sons should be paid in the beginning of the week.”
How odd, I thought, but didn’t question it further. Erik was not surprised to see me again. He was more than a little put out with my naiveté around the office, so I moved the chair away from the desk and sat staring at one of those crackled old portraits until he looked up from his paperwork and realized I was still there.
“Are you going to watch Grandfather all day?”
“Perhaps.” I slouched into the cushion. “I’m glad I do not have to wear a wig like he did.”
“I don’t think you remember his stories about fighting in the War of 1812, do you?”
“Some, and he gave me that toy soldier set for Christmas when I was five.”
“That’s right.” Erik took out a magnifying glass and peered at an open ledger-book filled with tiny numbers. “You played with those all the time.”
“Until the paint rubbed off.”
I stood up and went over to one of the bookcases. The glass was polished and the titles quite stuffy and uninteresting. I reached into my jacket and took out Paradise Lost. I stood beneath the light of the single small window and read the first few lines.
Brought death into the world, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden.
“A loss of Eden,” I murmured aloud. “Why, Milton, I do believe I understand what you are implying.”
“Daniel, I have something for you.”
I put the poem back into my jacket and went to the desk. Erik handed me a small red book and a folder of papers.
“I am arguing a case next Monday against a textile factory owner who insists his Constitutional rights were affected. He claims, due to the rising costs of cotton, he has paid too much in taxes. Go through both his filed report and the Constitution, noting all discrepancies.”
“I don’t see why I shouldn’t speak of the war,” I said. “The reason cotton is so expensive is the South’s secession.”
“Don’t think about the circumstances of the case, Daniel. Do as I ask, will you?”
If there had been more command in his voice, he would have been Father. Directing me with such authority. But his plea was strained. Maybe he didn’t want me to be here, either.
“May I return to the lobby? If I have any questions, Mr. Gage is there.”
He thought for a moment, and then nodded. With a smile of relief, I left the office.
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