Twenty-One
The next month was the most exhilarating of Marianne’s life, mostly because of her clandestine meetings with Luke. She no longer felt guilty about meeting him. The icy time last February when her father put his foot down felt so long ago. Besides, respect for her family’s position regarding the Delacroixs had plummeted ever since she saw those files. The Delacroixs didn’t file false insurance claims, look the other way when a dog was killed, or hide inconvenient scientific studies.
Her life was busier than ever because the McMillan Plan was gathering steam. The proposed park in the middle of the city meant each building slated for demolition needed to be photographed inside and out. The reclaimed space would be filled with acres of open lawn where tourists could exhaust themselves walking hither and yon, more than two miles of parkland in all.
Luke passionately endorsed the McMillan Plan, but Marianne mourned the loss of the buildings and the arboretum. Luke accompanied her every day as she created photographic memories of the buildings that would be torn down. Although they got along like a house on fire, they argued incessantly about the coming National Mall.
“We will finally be able to appreciate the grandeur of the city,” Luke enthused. “We can’t do that with this standing in the way.”
He gestured to the Redwood Tree House, a charmingly ridiculous exhibit that had once been on display at the 1893 World’s Fair in Chicago. It was an actual redwood tree that had been imported from California. After the World’s Fair, it had been moved to a permanent home outside the Department of Agriculture. It had a twenty-six-foot circumference, large enough to have been hollowed out to accommodate a staircase inside that led to a viewing platform at the top.
Her task today was to photograph it. The rough texture of the bark made for an interesting image, especially since she included Luke in the picture. She regularly asked him to be in her photographs, but at least today she had a good excuse. How could one appreciate the size of a redwood unless a person stood next to it for scale?
“Stand there and quit making fun of me,” she said as she unscrewed the cap of her viewfinder.
“Are you going to get weepy over this old redwood?” Luke teased.
“I’m getting weepy over everything that’s going to be torn down to make way for your fancy park.”
He held still while she took the photograph, then dove straight back into his arguments. “Sometimes you have to clear away the old to make way for the new and improved. Come on, let’s climb this thing.”
It was musty inside the tree trunk as they climbed to the viewing platform at the top. With the summer breeze on her face and the fully leafed trees in the arboretum below, it almost felt like they were at the top of a primeval world. Luke braced his arms on the railing as he gazed toward the Washington Monument, one of the few structures tall enough to be seen over the thickly wooded trees. Even the spires of the Smithsonian castle could barely be seen because the ugly blot of the Washington Gas Works obscured most of the view. The Baltimore and Potomac Railroad Station also sat in the middle of the proposed National Mall.
“Someday we will be able to see for two full miles,” he said. “The mall will be like a smooth carpet of grass stretching from monument to monument.”
She shook her head and pointed to the Gothic splendor of the B&P Railroad Station. “That is the most beautiful building in the entire city, and it’s only thirty years old. You want us to tear it down?”
“We must tear it down. Marianne, just imagine! On one end of the park we’ll have the Capitol, where our nation’s laws are being created as we speak. At the other end will be memorials to our greatest heroes. This mall will be a hymn to the nation, built of granite and grass. This is the only place in the entire country for such a park. Go build your piddly railroad station somewhere else,” he said with a wink.
When he spoke so passionately, she could almost see his vision. It would take decades and cost a fortune, but it would be appreciated by generations of people long into the future. Someday soon all this would be swept away. Even the grand old redwood tree in which they stood would be torn down, and people would forget it had ever been here.
“It’s still sad to see it all go,” she said.
“Change is always a little sad, but exciting too, don’t you think?” Before she could answer, he reached for her camera. “Let me take your picture. At this exact moment you are the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, and I want to remember you this way forever.”
“Because I’ll be old and grizzled someday?”
“You certainly shall, but not today,” he said, looking down through the viewfinder. She instinctively knew how to stand against the railing and tilt her chin for the best angle.
“You’re wasting film,” she said as Luke proceeded to take a second and then a third photograph of her. She didn’t need to ask why he was doing this. They both knew these stolen afternoons couldn’t last forever, and someday these photographs might be all they had left to remember this time.
“I’ll pay for the film,” he said, not even lifting his gaze from the viewfinder as he took another photograph.
“Taking pictures is cheap and easy. It’s developing them that is the challenge.”
His fingers stopped moving. “Truer words were never spoken.” His words were calm, but she sensed the tension just beneath the surface.
This was a difficult subject, and she probed gently. “Will you help me in the darkroom?”
“Must I?” He cocked a brow at her, probably trying to charm her, which usually worked. But not today.
Luke’s claustrophobia was getting worse. It began the day they visited the prison together, when the experience awakened bad memories and old fears. Last week when he helped her in the darkroom, he’d abruptly left after only two minutes, claiming he needed a drink of water. Yesterday he’d accompanied her to photograph the interior of the B&P Railroad Station. Spare parts were stored in a windowless room crammed to the rafters with supplies. The moment she and Luke entered, he unknotted his tie and tugged at his collar. His complexion was pasty and covered with perspiration.
“Are you all right?” she had asked.
“Not really,” he admitted. “Go ahead. I’m not leaving. But be quick about it, please.”
Her work took only a few minutes, and the moment she was finished, Luke stumbled outside, drawing in huge gulps of air even though the atmosphere in the repair shop had been fine.
His symptoms were getting so bad that she wondered if he would be able to join her in the darkroom at all. “I’ll have six rolls of film to develop on Friday,” she said. “I could use help hanging the wet images.”
“The part that’s done with the window shades drawn?”
“The very same.”
His mouth tightened. “I’ll be there,” he said as grimly as though he were facing an execution.
“Good,” she said, but a little laughter had gone out of their day.
Marianne’s photography assignment on Thursday took her to Fort Myer, a US Army post directly across the Potomac River. She’d been asked to photograph the row of homes informally known as General’s Row, where some of the nation’s top military leaders lived. It was a lovely, tree-shaded street with spacious red brick homes set well back from the road. It was a typical assignment except for the person selected to accompany her.
Colonel Henry Phelps.
Usually a job like this would be assigned to a low-level clerk, not a colonel, and Marianne sensed her father’s hand in this. Clyde had been pulling strings to throw her and Colonel Phelps together for months, and he probably not only arranged the assignment sending her to Fort Myer, but hand-selected her escort too. Colonel Phelps was in his mid-thirties, had light brown hair with a fine mustache, and ramrod-straight posture. Many women would find him appealing.
“This is some of the finest military housing anywhere in the country,” Colonel Phelps said as they walked up a flagstone path leading to the first house on her list. The Victorian home featured a wraparound front porch with white railings.
“Have you ever lived in such a place?” she asked while setting up her tripod.
“Heavens, no. I grew up in a third-story tenement in Pittsburgh, where my father worked in a steel mill. I’ve never actually lived in a proper house. I went straight from the tenement into the army, so it’s been a barracks life for me.” His eyes took on a wistful look as he gazed at the stately homes on General’s Row. “Maybe someday I’ll be on this street.”
She took her first photograph, then cranked the roll of film. “Don’t you have to be a general first?”
“That’s the plan,” he pointed out with a good-natured smile.
He continued talking about his family while she took pictures. He had a brother who was a steelworker and an uncle who worked as a machinist for the railroad. Both his sisters married millworkers. Colonel Phelps was clearly the pride of the family, the one who had already cracked through the barriers of class to make his mark in the world. He carried her satchel as they moved to the far side of the home for another set of photographs.
“Tell me about your own family,” he said courteously as she began her next round of pictures. “I believe I read that your father has a sister, but I don’t know more than that.”
She turned to him in surprise. No one ever spoke about Aunt Stella, and she was surprised he even knew of her existence.
“How did you hear about Aunt Stella?”
“I’ve been reading whatever I can find about your family,” he said. “Your grandfather is a fascinating man and widely lauded in the press. I saw mention of a daughter long ago, but then nothing. Did she pass away?”
Marianne thought carefully before answering, for this wasn’t the time or place to air old family scandals. “Aunt Stella left home after she got married.”
After she was banished from the family. The man Stella loved was a member of the Lenape Indian tribe. He had worked as a builder in downtown Baltimore, and Jedidiah said he would disinherit Stella if she continued to carry on with an Indian.
“Where did she go after getting married?” Colonel Phelps asked.
She pretended great concentration as she fastened the camera to the tripod, all the while trying to figure out how to tactfully answer the question.
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” she finally said. After Stella left Baltimore with her husband, it was as if they vanished from the face of the earth. To Marianne’s shame, she didn’t even know the husband’s name. He’d always been called merely “the Indian that Stella married.”
An awkward silence stretched as Marianne began taking pictures. After it became clear she intended to add nothing more about her mysteriously missing aunt, Colonel Phelps picked up the conversation.
“Family is very important,” he said. “In a way, you and I have much in common. Your grandfather came from humble roots but made something of himself, and now his progeny have all benefitted from that. I feel a similar obligation.”
“My goodness, such a long-term thinker,” she teased.
“It’s no laughing matter,” he said. “Hard work, accomplishment, reputation . . . all of these things are vital if a man is to claw his way out of poverty.”
“You’re right, of course.” She kept her tone light, but why did he have to be so serious? She had always worked hard and protected her reputation, but she still found time for fun and laughter along the way.
“Your father invited me to dinner on Sunday evening.”
“He did?”
Colonel Phelps nodded. “He said that your brother and his family would be in town, and I asked for the chance to meet them.”
It seemed like Clyde wasn’t the only one keen to see an alliance between herself and Colonel Phelps. This morning almost felt as though she was being interviewed for a position as a prospective general’s wife. A position she didn’t want, but how was she to slow this momentum?
“Andrew and his family are coming to hear a speech my father is giving on Monday,” she said. “We are all very proud.”
“As you should be. There’s nothing more important on this earth than family.”
On that she was in complete agreement with Colonel Phelps. Too bad the rest of her family never felt that way about Aunt Stella.
Luke wasn’t going to allow the darkroom to defeat him. His stint in a Cuban jail had already cost him fifteen months of freedom; he wasn’t going to let it rob him of a normal life now that he was out. That meant he had to be able to walk into an enclosed space without a crippling attack of panic. These spells needed to be conquered, because they were getting worse.
Marianne was already setting out the trays of solution when he joined her in the darkroom.
“You don’t have to be here,” she said. “I shouldn’t have pressured you the other day. Six rolls of film aren’t too much for me to handle.”
“I need to be here.” He took down jugs of chemicals from the shelf and set each beside the correct tray. Having something to concentrate on would help divert his mind from the crawling sensation skittering across his muscles that urged him to escape and run.
Besides, he wanted to see how his photographs of Marianne in the tree house came out. She’d been so beautiful, with dappled sunlight in the background and the woodsy scene carrying a timeless aura.
When it came time to darken the room, Marianne clicked on the tungsten lamp before crossing to the windows. Knowing she was about to draw the window shade made his restless need to climb the walls even worse. Maybe standing by the door would bring relief. Marianne might not even notice this humiliating weakness starting to strangle him once again.
She placed a hand on the heavy drape. “Ready?” she asked. Her face was full of compassion. She knew exactly what he was feeling.
“Ready.”
She lowered one drape, then the other. He forced his lungs to pull in a breath of air.
“Are you all right?” she asked. There was just enough amber light to see the pity on her face.
He could lie and say everything was fine, but his heart was beating so fast he was becoming dizzy. This wasn’t imaginary discomfort, it was real. His skin prickled, his vision blurred. He couldn’t get ill. Tomorrow was Caroline’s wedding. There would be time to deal with this humiliating weakness another day.
“I’m sorry, Marianne, but I’ve got to get out of here,” he said. With the last of his dignity, he summoned a smile. “I want a copy of the picture I took of you in the trees. I’ll wait for you outside.”
Relief hit within seconds of escaping the darkroom. His lungs filled naturally. The crawling sensations eased. His body felt better, but his humiliation was complete. No man wanted the woman he loved to see him like that.
He paced the sidewalk outside while pondering how to put a good face on this for Marianne. This stretch of sidewalk was in a rough part of the city, but he could breathe out here and savor the sunlight on his face.
After an hour, Marianne emerged, weighed down with a satchel slung over her shoulder and a crate in her arms. He rushed forward to help with the crate.
“Sorry about that in there,” he said. The excuses he’d toyed with to explain his behavior all seemed foolish now, so he simply told the truth. “Enclosed spaces are still tough for me.”
She headed toward a bench farther down the sidewalk. “That’s okay.”
He joined her on the bench, setting her crate of supplies on the walkway. A peek inside showed several rolls of undeveloped film and boxes of celluloid paper.
“It looks like you didn’t get your work finished,” he said.
“Only about halfway. Six rolls of film were too ambitious to tackle in an hour.”
And she’d been counting on his help to get it done. If he hadn’t bolted out of there like a weakling, they could have finished the job. “I’m sorry for letting you down,” he said. “As mortifying as this is, I’m glad I don’t have to pretend with you.”
She squeezed his hand. “It’s no bother, Luke. I know today didn’t go so well, but I need to get the rest of the film developed. I’ve reserved some time tomorrow morning, if you’d like to try again.”
He shook his head. “Tomorrow is Caroline’s wedding. She will hang, draw, and quarter me if I’m late.”
“How silly of me!” Marianne said. “I knew it was coming, but I’d forgotten it was tomorrow. Tell me about it.” She looked properly enthused. There must be something about weddings that spoke to the female soul.
He began to describe it to her. Five hundred guests were expected, including all manner of politicians and industrialists. The reception would probably echo through the ages. “President Roosevelt was called to Boston, so he won’t be attending, but every other high-ranking official and officer in the city will be there.”
“Including Colonel Phelps,” Marianne said, a hint of unease in her voice.
The name was familiar. Colonel Phelps was one of those officers who’d vaulted to prominence during the Spanish-American War, and he was a trusted advisor to the president.
“Why do you bring him up?” Luke asked carefully.
“My father is very keen on Colonel Phelps,” she replied, watching a pigeon wrestle with a crust of pretzel. “He’s been invited to our house for dinner on Sunday.”
Clyde Magruder didn’t do anything lightly. If Colonel Phelps was invited to dinner, Clyde had a reason. Luke cut straight to the chase. “Colonel Phelps seems like the kind of man your father would like for a son-in-law.”
Marianne looked almost relieved that he had said it, rather than owning it herself. “There’s no doubt that is what he’d like.”
“And you?” Luke held his breath. He and Marianne hadn’t made any vows to each other, and she was free to court a more suitable man if she wished.
She snorted. “You have no competition from Colonel Phelps. He’s so stiff and formal, I think he’s got laundry starch running through his veins.”
Unpleasant thoughts took shape in Luke’s mind. Maybe she wasn’t taken with Colonel Phelps, but her status-hungry parents were going to pressure her to reconsider. Marianne continued talking, recounting a handful of encounters she’d had with the colonel over the past few months. Jealousy flared. It didn’t matter that Marianne didn’t care for Colonel Phelps. Luke didn’t like the prospect of anyone else courting her.
“Why didn’t you tell me about him before?” he asked.
“Because he is nothing to me, but I felt dishonest letting it continue without telling you. He’s invited to our home on Sunday for dinner. Andrew and Delia will be here to watch my father’s speech on the House floor. Papa thought it would be a good chance for Colonel Phelps to meet the rest of the family.”
Luke’s jaw tightened. “And what do you think?”
“I think I’m sorry I told you,” she said. “I don’t want to add to your burdens. You’ve already got so much on your shoulders with the Poison Squad and the Don Quixote translation. And now your sister’s wedding. Everyone is supposed to be deliriously happy at a wedding, but I know tomorrow won’t be a day of undiluted joy for you.”
His heart turned over. How easily she could read him, and even this low, selfish part of him didn’t seem to repulse her. “I’m such a lousy rat for feeling that way.”
“Tell me what I can do to make these next few days easier for you.”
The open-ended offer triggered an avalanche of wild dreams. Run away to California with him, go dancing under the moonlight, drink wine straight from the bottle. He lowered his request into the realm of something a little scandalous but not too difficult.
“Meet me at the arboretum tomorrow night. Ten o’clock. The wedding festivities will be over, and we can steal a few hours together. Can you get away?”
“I can,” she agreed with a reassuring smile.
“Thanks.”
It was such a puny word for his boundless gratitude. He needed her company more than she could know, for Caroline’s wedding was going to be tough. He was hanging on by a thread, but knowing Marianne would be waiting for him at the end of the day was a talisman that would make it worthwhile.