Amanda’s seasonal letters to her sister’s family had been voluminous on the subjects of tomato plants and carpeting. She lavished great detail on her own occasional indispositions-her every headache was a migraine-but on the subject of Eileen’s illness she was consistently reticent. Therefore, Elizabeth knew very few of the details. Amanda mentioned it first as “Eileen’s sensitive nature,” or “bad dreams and other signs of a delicate temperament.” Just what symptoms were masked by these euphemisms the MacPhersons were not told. Finally Amanda announced in a letter that her daughter had been sent away to a “finishing school” that specialized in dealing with sensitive girls. The MacPhersons knew that Cherry Hill was a private and rather expensive mental institution, but they never betrayed this knowledge to Amanda, though Bill was fond of alluding to it in ambiguous jests.
Eileen had been out of Cherry Hill for a year now, during which time she had been enrolled in the university as an art major, though she had produced no works except for small sketches assigned as class projects, which she did not bring home.
Elizabeth wondered what her family felt about her engagement or her present health. Whatever she learned would not come from Amanda.
CHAPTER FOUR
WHEN ELIZABETH REACHED the bottom of the staircase, the only person in sight was a pleasant-looking young man in a tennis outfit who was sitting in the library leafing through a copy of Sports Illustrated. He fit the description of Mr. Bryce’s new law partner, so Elizabeth concluded that he must have been summoned a day early. Aunt Amanda must be matchmaking in earnest, she thought. Still, he wasn’t bad-looking.
“Hi!” she said, peering over the magazine. “Are you here for dinner?”
“So they tell me,” he said. “But if Charles chose the menu, I may remember a pressing engagement. He’s into soybean casseroles.”
“Dinner is destined to be strange no matter what we have,” Elizabeth retorted, taking the chair across from his. “He’s coming, too.” She nodded in the direction of the castle.
“You mean Alban?” he asked.
“Yes. I can’t wait to see what he’s like. He’ll probably come clanking in wearing a saber and an iron cross from the Thirty Years War.”
“Actually, they didn’t start giving out iron crosses until 1813,” he replied. “But it sounds like a very interesting sort of evening. What do you do?”
“Well, if you mean ‘What do I do’ in the sense of: do I worship oak trees or think I’m Peter Pan, the answer is nothing. I’m Elizabeth MacPherson, from a sane branch of the family. I just finished college a few weeks ago, and I haven’t started job-hunting yet, so I guess the answer to what I do is still ‘nothing.’ ”
“Enjoy it while you can,” he replied. “Because if I know Amanda, you won’t be doing nothing for long.”
“I’ve been addressing invitations all afternoon,” Elizabeth said.
“But the wedding is next Saturday. Surely it’s a little late to be mailing them!”
“They’re afterthoughts.”
“Friends of the bride,” her companion offered. They looked at each other and burst out laughing. “Well, if it gets too grim, you can always sneak off and amuse yourself. Do you play tennis?”
“Yes, after a fashion,” Elizabeth answered. “I mean, you haven’t seen me at Wimbledon.”
“Well, you’ll make a nice change anyway. I get tired of beating Tommy Simmons. He’s Bryce’s new law partner, so he doesn’t get much of a chance to practice.”
Elizabeth stared at her companion. “But if he’s Mr. Bryce’s new law partner, then who-”
Just then Amanda appeared in the doorway with her best company smile. “Oh, here you are, Elizabeth. Dinner is ready. You and Alban come along.”
When Amanda had marched away to assemble the rest of the family, Alban turned back to Elizabeth. “I gather I’m not what you expected.”
“Did I tell you I’m considering a career in the diplomatic corps?” asked Elizabeth faintly.
He laughed. “I always got along with you, Cousin Elizabeth. You were my favorite relative.”
Elizabeth was puzzled by this remark, because she could scarcely remember Alban speaking to her at all, but she had made enough gaffes for one day, so she made no reply. It was probably an exaggerated form of Southern politeness, she decided.
Charles and Geoffrey were already in the dining room, standing stiffly behind their chairs like sentries. Even Charles had put on a coat and tie for dinner, probably because anyone more casually dressed would feel uncomfortable in the strict formality of Amanda’s dining room.
Elizabeth stole a glance at Alban, who was padding to his place in bleached sneakers and sweat socks without a flicker of self-consciousness. Of course, there’s no telling what he’s got, she thought. His dining room may make this look like a Dairy Queen.
It would have been hard to outdo Amanda Chandler in traditional opulence, however. The room was a careful blending of red and silver: crimson carpet and curtains; white linen tablecloth stretched across a William and Mary table with places for twelve; red roses in silver bowls for the centerpiece and on the sideboard, where more silver serving dishes gleamed. Even the huge painting on the long wall conformed to the color scheme: a bloody stag lay collapsed in the snow while wolves approached him, their red tongues lolling.
“So appropriate for our dining room, don’t you think?” asked Geoffrey, nodding toward’ the painting.
Amanda and her sister Louisa appeared in the doorway, their conversation in full swing. “… Though if we don’t get some rain soon, heaven knows what’s to be done about it…”
“Better notify the florist in case you need him, dear,” Louisa replied. “You know they cannot conjure up arrangements at the last moment.”
“Yes, but I did want to do the flowers myself from the garden. Those things from Wallers are so trite, they might as well be plastic!”
“Amanda, you don’t have any flowers to speak of,” her sister reminded her.
“Well, I was thinking of your garden, actually, Louisa. You know what a genius you are with growing things. I just know that you could create something perfectly splendid-oh, good evening, everybody!”
“General Patton and Omar Bradley have arrived!” Geoffrey announced.
Amanda ignored this sally. “Elizabeth, you are over there between Alban and Charles; and, Louisa, of course you’ll be on Dad’s right, across from me. I think we can all sit down; the others are on their way.”
Louisa, a smaller, grayer version of Amanda, took her place beside her son. “Well, Alban, you are a sight!” she twittered, frowning at his tennis outfit.
“Sorry, Mother.” Alban grinned. “I considered it, and decided that being late would be the greater social crime, so I came as I was. Oh, Aunt Amanda, Simmons sent word that he’ll be around tomorrow morning on his legal errand, whatever it is.”