AFTER TWO WEEKS at the Blackwells’, Elwyn found he was hungry. The hunger was like a fire inside him. He was hungry when he woke. He was hungry when he sat down to breakfast. He was hungry when the maid cleared the plates, and he and Timothy sat down in the library – Timothy’s library – and worked through hours of books, tests, exercises.
‘Your future lies before you, an improved self, a civilised life. One musn’t be distracted by anything,’ Timothy said and wrote ‘Trouble concentrating’ in his notes. Elwyn tried to ignore the feeling, but it kept burning in him. And also burning in him, distracting him from the work at the desk, were Elwyn’s memories of the Rhoad house. He had only been there a few minutes, but every detail cast a vivid impression: the light through the glass, the light on the girl’s hair, the light off the vases. The images danced in his mind, growing and growing. Every day Elwyn worked with Timothy, glimmers of that place would appear like the sun reflecting off the chandelier. It made an ache in his chest like the ache in his stomach.
Elwyn didn’t bear it entirely quietly. Between workbooks and recitations, he’d ask his uncle questions: Who is Rhoad? Where did he come from? What is his daughter like? Timothy mistook these questions for an interest in civics, and answered them gladly. He told Elwyn that the house he had seen was the Rhoads’ summer residence. The rest of the year they spent at an equally gaudy house in St Louis, where Rhoad ran his business and, now, his political campaign. After making a fortune in lead mines, Rhoad was entering public service, campaigning for the Chancellorship of the Central Homesteads, campaigning with Mrs Rhoad, who was his third wife, and their daughter Hestia, who was a year older than Elwyn.
Timothy also loaned Elwyn a book on the lives of prominent businessmen in America. It had a section on Rhoad, but Timothy encouraged his nephew to look at the stories of less garish examples – there were plenty of people who made their fortunes more slowly, deliberately, traditionally. But it was Rhoad’s story that Elwyn read again and again. Rhoad, like Elwyn, came from poverty: his father had worked on riverboats, his mother had died young. Rhoad ran away when he was fourteen and began trading on the river. At sixteen, he drove lumber down the Messipi from the Northwoods to New Orleans, then walked the river north again and used the profit to buy part of a lumber mill, then lead mines, and on and on. There was colour to the stories: floods, fires, bandits, wife-wooing.
It was colour much needed on summer days that seemed long and dim. Study was constant, broken only by meals – and those meals were observed in silence. Occasionally Piety and Timothy talked business – menu plans, instructions for the housekeeper, clothes that needed pressing – but even this was done in reserved tones. Elwyn was used to a loud home: Enid and Dewey arguing, Teilo trying to bring his chicken to dinner, Neste’s laugh, his mother’s scolding. He never thought the noises would be the thing he missed most from home.
But the days went on. He studied. He didn’t break the silence at dinner. He didn’t return his cousin’s glares. He didn’t complain about the hunger in his stomach, in his heart. He followed all the rules.
Then one night, Elwyn’s stomach woke him and wouldn’t let him back asleep. He stared up at the stars through the skylight, then finally got out of bed and walked the dark halls to the pantry, which was beautifully stocked with rows and rows of jams and dried meats, cheeses and breads – all forbidden between meals. Elwyn grabbed what he could and began slicing away in the empty kitchen, tossing piece after piece into his mouth, hungrier and hungrier with each bite. He was so busy with this slicing and eating, he didn’t hear anyone enter the kitchen until he heard the kettle clank on the stove.
Elwyn jumped. Aunt Piety faced him, chin high, arms folded. His mother had the same way of standing when Elwyn was in trouble – like when he once followed a passing caravan going downstream and returned two days later with his skin scraped and his clothes ruined. Mirth was more formidable than her sister: taller, wider, like a bear. But Elwyn was used to his mother. Her anger often made him laugh. His aunt was a stranger. He froze for a minute. Then, thinking, he turned back to the food and kept slicing.
‘Can I get you some?’ he said. ‘This cheese is good with the jam, I think.’
He felt his aunt staring as he found another plate and made a large sandwich. He turned to her, holding out the food and trying to look friendly. The kettle was steaming, but she hadn’t moved. Elwyn couldn’t read her like he could read his mother. She stared at him, not taking the plate, not smiling. Then, without saying anything, she walked over to the pantry, took a jar down from the top shelf and held it out to Elwyn.
‘Blackcurrant,’ she said, ‘is better with that cheese.’ Her lips were tight, but there was a spark of humour in her eyes. She took the plate and poured the hot water into a teapot. ‘Follow me,’ she ordered, picking up the tea. The two of them took their sandwiches to Piety’s parlour, which had lamps nicely arranged and lit, a plate of crackers. ‘I’m fond of a midnight snack myself,’ Piety said.
‘Isn’t it against the rules?’
‘A person should take pleasure where they can find it.’
Elwyn smiled, though his aunt did not. The room was cool, and Elwyn relaxed into his chair. He felt comfortable for the first time in weeks. ‘I see why you spend so much time here,’ Elwyn said, looking around at the pictures on the walls, the plants in pots.
‘There are many reasons I spend time here,’ Piety said archly, pouring them both tea and blowing on hers.
‘I’ve been wanting to thank you again,’ Elwyn said, ‘for letting me come here. For all your letters. They meant a lot to me growing up. Even when you stopped writing, I still read the old ones over and over. I kept them all. They made me believe in myself, believe I could be more than what I saw around me.’
Piety’s mouth tightened into a sour smirk. She took a small sip of tea that was too hot and burnt. ‘Do you know when I started writing to you?’
‘When I was four.’
‘I had come to your town. Taken the train, walked from the station. Your grandfather had died – your mother’s father and mine. He had been a taciturn man, unkind to his animals and cold to his family. He disowned Mirth when she married a Forester, and I hadn’t been in contact with him for years. For a while, I regretted that. I went to see him in his last days. I wanted to tell Mirth he was sick, but he held a grudge against her even on his deathbed. After he died, I went to tell your mother about his passing. I wasn’t looking forward to it, and not just because I didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news – I knew that for someone like her, not being invited to her father’s funeral would be unforgivable. But I went anyway.’
Piety chuckled sardonically. ‘The trip was worse than I imagined. Mirth’s life had become so limited, and it was hard for me to see at a time when I felt so much was possible. But there, surrounded by kids playing in the dirt was you: a four-year-old boy in a largely illiterate community, reading a book.’
Elwyn enjoyed stories like this. He smiled. ‘I like reading.’
‘It reminded me of myself. I had been a young girl who loved learning who lived in a home where learning wasn’t valued. I used books to claw my way out of the life I was born into. And back then, when I first saw you, I was proud of what I had done. I thought I had achieved something. I went to university. I married a wealthy, intelligent man. I had a child. But in time I would find that the world I had fought my way into was empty.’
The smile on Elwyn’s face began to fade.
‘Timothy wanted you to come here. He wanted to work on this project with you, help you move up in the world with the hope that it would help him. But I want you to know that I was against it, Elwyn.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Elwyn said. The sandwich became sandy in his mouth, and it was hard to swallow.
The tea had cooled enough for Piety to take a larger sip. Her eyes again looked sharp above the rim of the cup. ‘This,’ she said, nodding to the room around her, ‘is worth nothing. Don’t waste your youth striving for a hollow prize.’
‘I want more than this, too,’ Elwyn said. He spoke almost urgently, wanting his aunt to understand. ‘I want a house like Cronus Rhoad’s, and life with adventure and travel—’
‘You misunderstand me, Elwyn. It all is empty,’ Piety said, setting her cup down in her saucer. And Elwyn tried to take another bite, but the bread stuck to the top of his mouth. ‘You were better off where you were. Timothy wanted you here. I think we’re all better off left alone.’