For the next three days, the accountant remained hidden away in Wilson’s office, occasionally meeting with the clerk, who guided him through the estate’s records. At noon on Saturday, Carter told Pamela that he would be leaving. He had finished the final draft of his report and had given a clean copy to Mr. Jennings. She passed the information on to Lydia. Upset, she hurried to the office with Pamela in tow and demanded to see the results of the investigation. Pamela stayed in the background, observing.

  Carter balked. “Mr. Jennings would prefer to keep that information between him and me.”

  Lydia bristled. “I’m not surprised. If this scandal got out, it could damage his reputation for business skill. But I own this house. Anything that’s likely to hurt it concerns me.”

  Her outburst had its intended effect. The accountant gave her a copy of the audit and explained how Wilson had embezzled over a thousand dollars and lost it all in gambling. Mr. Jennings intended to fire him after the Fourth of July festivities and eject him from Broadmore without pension or recommendation. Wilson would be kept in the dark until then.

  After Carter left, Pamela reported on her garden conversation with Wilson. “He realizes that Mr. Jennings intends to ruin him.”

  Lydia nodded. “Perhaps Henry is tempting fate. His crimes and weaknesses are familiar to Wilson and offer many opportunities for revenge.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Wounded Warrior

  2–3 July

  The next evening, Pamela drove one of the estate’s light, open coaches to the railroad station. Prescott was supposed to return to Lenox. She needed to tell him about Carter’s audit of Broadmore’s books, the financial scandal he had uncovered, and Wilson’s dire prospects. The train arrived on schedule, and Prescott waved from a window. But he descended painfully to the platform.

  Pamela was struck by his haggard appearance. “You look ill. What’s happened?”

  He replied in a weak, halting voice. “Young men at the club celebrated the thirtieth anniversary of the battle of Gettysburg. They had no idea of the slaughter—they were infants at the time. They drank and sang as if our side had won a football match. That distressed me. I called them insensitive clods. They called me weak-kneed and gutless. While we argued, images from the battle surged into my mind. I tried to describe how dreadful it was, and I worked myself into frenzy. By the time I went to bed, the anguish was almost unbearable. A glass of whiskey at the club had made matters worse. During the night, the most ghastly experiences of the war crowded into my mind. I hardly slept a wink.

  “Today, I went to my office, couldn’t concentrate on work, just sat at the desk all morning, my heart pounding, my head throbbing. Things just got worse on the train. That’s my story.”

  By the time they reached his cabin, he could barely sit up. She helped him from the coach. He leaned on her as they made their way into the cabin. They staggered to the sleeping alcove, and he collapsed on the bed.

  “Shall I call a doctor?” she asked anxiously.

  He shook his head. “These spells happen occasionally. There’s nothing doctors can do. They claim I lack moral fiber. ‘Be a man,’ they say. ‘Thousands of other soldiers came out of the shock of battle mentally sound.’ ”

  Pamela sat by his side. “Your doctors should learn from my mother, a wise and compassionate woman. During the war, she nursed hundreds of wounded soldiers, read and wrote letters for them, listened to their stories. Often as badly wounded in mind as in body, they confided things to her that they couldn’t tell to another man.”

  “Did she share her views with doctors?”

  “She tried, but they refused to take her seriously, because she was a civilian and a woman. She suspected that some of the doctors really didn’t want to know the truth. It was more convenient and patriotic to blame the victim’s character.”

  His expression remained skeptical. “What do you recommend for me that doctors haven’t already tried?”

  “Compassionate, careful listening and a serious, open-minded effort to understand. Speaking about wartime experiences might work like a catharsis and expel them from your mind, or at least bring them to the surface, where you could confront them. I’m willing to listen. You won’t shock me after the horrors I’ve witnessed in the tenements of New York.”

  He had begun to sweat profusely. His breathing was labored. But his eyes expressed interest and a ray of hope.

  She fetched towels from a chest of drawers and patted the sweat away.

  “May I take off your boots and brew you an infusion?”

  He gave her a weak smile of assent and let her loosen his collar as well.

  When she returned with the tea, he was under the covers, his clothes piled onto a chair. She propped him up with pillows and served the tea. He sipped it thoughtfully, then said, “Many dreadful scenes of battle have haunted me, but I’ll tell you about one that comes back frequently. It actually happened at Antietam in September of ’62, the year before Gettysburg. A little after dawn, we were advancing in close formation on the Confederates. The fighting became intense. Cannon balls came at us thick as a hailstorm. The screams of wounded and dying men filled the air. Suddenly, a ball smashed my comrade’s head. He fell against me and almost knocked me over. His blood soaked my uniform; his brains spattered me from top to toe. I laid him down and joined the others. The battle raged through the day, but I felt numb, as if my mind had left my body. That night, still covered with my comrade’s blood, I had my first spell. His image came back more hideous than ever. My heart began to race. Soon I was weeping out of control. I hid from the others. They’d have thought I was a coward. I forced myself to go back into battle, then and many times thereafter. I’ve occasionally suffered similar attacks ever since.”

  “Think of your ailment this way,” Pamela began. “It has nothing to do with your character—you’re as courageous, as morally upright as any man I know. We don’t understand exactly how mind and body affect each other. But common sense tells us they are closely connected. In that battle, your brain received a powerful blow. It still makes your heart palpitate and causes other symptoms. Think of it as an honorable wound, as worthy of respect as losing an arm or a leg in battle.”

  He gazed at her for a long moment. “Thank you, Pamela. Now I must try to rest. Tomorrow, I should feel better.” He took her hand and kissed it and slid back beneath the covers. She continued to towel beads of perspiration from his forehead. In a few minutes he was asleep. She tiptoed from the room and returned to Broadmore.

  Pamela awoke from a troubled sleep. In her dreams Prescott had lain feverish in bed. She had watched helplessly as he turned from side to side, seeking relief. She shook the dream from her mind, wondering if she should visit the cabin later in the morning. He might need medical attention. But she was loath to invade his privacy. Unless he was desperately ill, he would prefer to take care of himself.

  Pamela finished breakfast in her room and walked out onto a porch. She sensed nervous excitement in the air. The final, hectic preparations for the next day’s festival had begun already at dawn. The resources of this huge estate would be stretched to their limits.

  When she returned to her room, Brenda was dressed, lines of anxiety on her brow. “Do you think tomorrow will be a disaster? There’s so much to do.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be ready. For ten years, Wilson has arranged this event, and it has always run like clockwork. It’ll be a great birthday party for our nation.”

  Brenda looked skeptical. “The Jenningses have invited more than a hundred guests, plus servants and children. How will they get here and where will they stay?”

  “Many will come by train. Mr. Jennings has rented parlor coaches for them. A bus will ferry them from the train to the Curtis Hotel in the village. A large block of rooms is set aside for them. Cabs will move them to and from Broadmore. A select few will come directly to Broadmore and settle in the guest rooms on the first and second floors. Their servants will stay in the attic or the basement or above the stables. Tents have been erected for children and young college men. Many neighbors will come in just for the day. We must find space to park their coaches.”

  A bell rang in their room. “That’s Lydia,” Pamela said. “I’ll see what she wants.”

  As Pamela entered the room, the remains of breakfast lay on the table by the window. Lydia seemed indisposed and irritated. “Neither Wilson nor my husband will keep me informed. ‘Everything is going as planned,’ they say. I realize they are very busy, and I’m not fit to run around the estate. So I’d like you to observe the preparations and occasionally give me a report.”

  Pamela agreed and was about to leave the room when Lydia called her back.

  “What’s wrong with Mr. Prescott?” she asked. “Last night, one of my guests from New York saw him on the train. He appeared to be ill. I was counting on him.”

  “I met him at the station,” Pamela replied. “A wound from the war is afflicting him. He should be better today.”

  “I hope so,” said Lydia. She hesitated slightly, then asked, “Would you go to his cabin? If he’s well, tell him to watch out for tramps, confidence men, and other troublemakers today during the preparation and tomorrow during the celebration. The estate is going to be crowded and hectic, ripe for serious mischief. Think of what happened to you a month ago in the woods. Tramps are becoming increasingly insolent and violent.”

  “I’ll go immediately,” Pamela promised.

  She found him outside the cabin, stripped to the waist, chopping wood and sweating profusely. As she approached, he looked up. “Excuse my appearance. I wasn’t expecting visitors.” He laid down the ax and put on an old shirt.

  He looked fit, though the pain from his illness seemed to linger in his eyes.

  “You appear better today,” Pamela began. “I’ve come on an errand from Mrs. Jennings. She wants your help today and tomorrow and will pay an appropriate stipend, I’m sure. You’re invited to lodge at Broadmore.” She described Lydia’s fears and the vigilance she hoped from him.

  He thought for a moment. “Her concerns are reasonable. Tell her that I’ll assume my duties in an hour. At that time, you can give me the details I need to know.”

  As she was about to leave, he gazed at her. The hurt in his eyes seemed to give way to a look of fondness.

  “Thank you again, Pamela, for the care you gave me last night.”

  She nodded. “I pray that one day you will enjoy peace of mind.” She lingered for a moment, meeting his gaze. “And now I must return to the cottage.”

  Pamela found Lydia sitting on a porch in a light pink frock, observing the activity on the garden terrace below. A wide-brimmed straw hat protected her face from the midmorning sun. A glass of fruit juice was on the table at her side.

  Pamela joined her. Lawn furniture had been brought out of storage or borrowed or rented and was being set up all over the estate. Men were putting up tents to cover the serving and dining areas, ensuring that the celebration would go on regardless of the weather. Inside the tents, men were hanging colorful Oriental lanterns.

  “What do you have to report?” Lydia asked.

  “Prescott seems to have recovered his health and should be here any minute.”

  “And the preparations?”

  “Moving ahead like clockwork, as Wilson repeatedly says. An orchestra from New York will arrive early this afternoon by rail and lodge at the Curtis. Later in the afternoon, they will practice in a special shed built for them. The chef and his staff came from New York a few days ago and have prepared a small mountain of food: meat for roasting, potatoes and various salads, fresh vegetables, and loaves of bread. Work has begun on the ice cream.”

  Lydia took a sip of the fruit juice. “At breakfast, my maid said that a huge ‘birthday’ cake will come from New York this evening. Its appearance is shrouded in secrecy, but I’ve been told that it will be spectacular.”

  Pamela described a litany of preparations. “Crates of beer and ale and wine—enough for a small army—are stored in a cool basement room. Gallons of coffee and tea are ready to be served, either iced or hot. Ice is being cut in the icehouse and put into coolers. Serving tables have been cleaned and will soon be placed in the tents. The fireworks for tomorrow night are being set up on a large raft in Lily Pond.”

  Pamela added that fresh sand had been hauled onto the pond’s small beach for visitors who wished to bathe. The bathhouse there had been spruced up. The firing range, the tennis and croquet courts, and the exercise track had also been groomed.

  Lydia seemed reassured that the celebration would be a success. She smiled wryly. “My husband lacks many of the attributes of a Christian and a gentleman. But he excels in organizing an enterprise, whether a copper company or a patriotic celebration. This event is the biggest and best of the Berkshire social season. It’s the high point of his stay here and a thumb in the eyes of his critics in the social elite.”

  “Who are his critics?” Pamela asked. “And why should they object?”

  “Mrs. Astor and her select Four Hundred,” Lydia replied. “Henry resents their exclusiveness and mocks their pseudo pedigrees and their aping of British aristocratic customs and manners. He’s an original American, a kind of simple democrat who believes that enterprise, hard work, and achievement should determine a person’s social standing. It’s an attitude that I’ve always appreciated.”

  Pamela detected feelings in Lydia akin to affection for her husband, feelings still alive—barely—after ten years of marriage.

  Lydia allowed herself a few moments of nostalgia. Then her lips tightened and her eyes darkened, revealing deep hatred for the man. “Pamela,” she said, “I would like you and Mr. Prescott to observe Henry and tell me what he’s up to. I’m particularly curious about how he behaves toward Mrs. Allen.”

  At midmorning, Prescott arrived at Broadmore, his usual confident self. Pamela met him in her parlor and passed on Lydia’s request that he investigate her husband’s affair with Helen Allen.

  He chuckled. “George Allen has charged me with the same task. Let’s look for Jennings.”

  He was easily found. From the porches of the cottage, he was surveying the preparations. Puffing out his chest, his diamond lapel pin glittering in the sunlight, he struck the pose of a proud, confident potentate. He rarely smiled. From time to time he would give a curt order to Wilson. The steward would convey it to the gardener, the stable master, the cook, the housekeeper, or one of the other principal servants in the household staff. Jennings created the impression that his eye was on everyone. They should give their best effort and make no mistakes. Helen Allen wasn’t in the picture—yet.

  Pamela and Prescott took a walk through the cottage and its grounds. As she gazed at the men clearing vegetation from the pond and the others cleaning the bathhouse, she remarked, “I don’t know half of the men and women working here today. That makes me uneasy.”

  Prescott shrugged. “Wilson or one of his men should have investigated the new, temporary staff before hiring them.”

  “Still, I’m concerned,” Pamela persisted. “Wilson could have been extra careful in hiring because he would want to please Jennings, hoping to receive a generous pension and to retire with dignity. Or he’s probably—and rightly—convinced that Jennings will show him no mercy or respect, regardless of how well he prepares the celebration. In that case, he could hire tramps, clean them up to look like decent, temporary workers, and pay them to beat and rob Jennings.”

  “You may be on to something, Pamela. The celebration will offer Wilson opportunities for revenge.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Independence Day

  4 July

  At dawn Pamela rose from bed, still half asleep. The songs, loud shouts, and bursts of laughter from young people tenting on the lawn had kept her awake until near midnight. She threw on a robe and shuffled out onto a porch facing west. The sky was cloudless. In the distance Lake Mahkeenac lay still, its surface a smooth, glassy mirror. The air was sweet and fresh. Pearls of morning dew sparkled on the grass. She drew deep breaths and stretched out her arms toward the mountains. Nature promised a glorious day.

  She performed her morning toilette and stepped out into the hall. Visitors who had arrived yesterday and spent the night in the guest rooms were still asleep. But their servants in the attic had begun to stir.

  Led by the steward and the housekeeper, the staff was preparing breakfast for early risers, raising more tents, and making other last-minute arrangements. Pamela breakfasted with Lydia on a porch that gave a view of guests coming from the Curtis or the neighborhood. Lydia smiled or frowned, depending on whether they suited her. She turned livid when Helen Allen came into view together with her husband, George. He had forced a smile onto his face.

  This was Pamela’s first opportunity to see him undisguised. Today, he was clean-shaven, though a thief nonetheless. The beard he had worn that evening in Macy’s jewelry department probably still lay in his closet at home on Gramercy Park. The thought of meeting him again this day caused her a frisson of fear.

  Pamela shifted her eyes from Allen to study her mistress’s reaction. Lydia seemed fatigued and tense.

  “Did you sleep well last night?” Pamela asked.

  “Frankly, no,” Lydia replied. “Mr. Jennings and I had a sharp, very unpleasant disagreement in his study. He refused to be civil with his son, John. When I pressed him, he became rude, threatened me with divorce, and ordered me out. Then for hours, I lay fully awake. A sense of dread gripped me. Finally, I took a dose of laudanum and went to sleep.” She sighed.

  Pamela gave her a sympathetic smile. “It should be a bright and happy day. That also might calm your nerves.”

 

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