The Whimsy

part 1

by R. D. Larson

As the train neared New Duryea, Bethany opened again the single sheet of paper. Barely legible, Bethany stared at the splotched words. Two words. Please Come. Cleveland Gibson had signed it.

She journeyed to New Duryea to start a new life. The death of her parents from influenza had been devastating for Bethany and her sister. Almost as wrenching she had to let Catherine live with Aunt Elena. She had no way to support and feed a ten-year-old girl.

Aunt Elena had contacted her friends asking for a position for Bethany. A solicitor friend of her parents, a man who had known the family during their travels in Romania, had responded saying his great nephew lived at New Duryea Bay. The nephew was a writer of some reputation and needed a secretary for answering mail and tending to other matters, allowing him freedom to write. Bethany wrote immediately to Cleveland Gibson listing her accomplishments and reasons for wanting the job. There was no answer for two weeks. Then this terse note. Please come.

Bethany rode on the new Scottish Flyer to Glasgow and then onto New Duryea Bay. She gave a great intake of breath when the smell of the sea indicated that she had reached the end of land. When the train arrived at the station no one was waiting for her. The building was shut.

She stood at the edge of the mud flats looking across the bay. A fishing boat drifted landward, its work for the day finished. The inky water spread endlessly beyond the curve of the bay. The far away lands on the other side of the ocean weren’t there. Not really. Just empty endless ocean. The only world that mattered was this little spit of shore and bay.

She began to walk along the main street. A half of a dozen shops on either side seemingly had whatever a person could want. Bethany saw women glance at her but none of them spoke. Finally, she went in to the Grocer’s.

“Hello, I’m Bethany Delaine and I’ve taken a position with Mr. Cleveland Gibson. Have you seen him in town or do you know where he lives?”

“Good heavens, that tightwad’s finally hired more help. Well, you won’t like him, Miss Delaine. Gibson’s got pots of money — buys nothing. And pays nothing for his help. He won that literature prize some years back — they made a famous movie out of his book,” rattled the chubby grocer. “You don’t look strong enough to clean that big old house, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“I’m to be his secretary, sir,” Bethany said.

“To be sure, you are. I can see that now. Well, that is his house up the road — see there? — bathed in sunlight it is. On that hill. Gets the last rays of warmth, Gibson does. Also gets the worst of the wind.”

“Thank you so much. I’ll go along then and thank you for your help.” Bethany turned and went back out into the golden watery light that only shows at ocean’s edge. She lifted her face to stare at the hill. The house was huge and seemed to have many added rooms. The top story had what appeared to be a long porch with a rail around it. A dark figure could be seen leaning against the rail.

Onward, Bethany, she said to herself striding down the main street of New Duryea toward the hill. A slight wind off the bay whipped her skirt around her legs and chilled her. Still, she thought, it’s fresh and clean.

As she grew closer to the huge white house, she could more easily appreciate the architecture. It was not overly fussy. Unlike some houses, it had character and grace. The additions seemed to be part of the whole house, not as some are obvious and tacky. The figure was still there. When she reached the long driveway, the figure suddenly turned and went inside. The wind kicked up again, nearly causing her to stumble, as she wasn’t paying attention to the ruts in the driveway. Enthralled by wild flowers growing along the sides Bethany picked one, a buttercup, and walked on twirling it in her fingers.

There was a mossy brick path to the steps. Taking a deep breath, Bethany walked toward the blue door. It opened quickly. A fattish sort of woman stood there frowning.

“Well, don’t begin by picking Mr. Gibson’s wild flowers. He holds them dear.”

“I’m sorry — it was just so beautiful. Hello, how are you? I’m Bethany Delaine. I’ve come to work for Mr. Gibson as his secretary.”

“Well, who else would you be? Come in. Come in. Just that valise? No other cases, maybe at the train station?”

“No, I don’t have many clothes. I’m sure I can manage.” Bethany said, frowning slightly.

“Come along and meet Gibson; he’s been watching for you from the porch. Now, mind, don’t act put off by his looks. T’was terrible accident years ago. Just a few months after the Award. You’ll get used to his face, I’m sure.”

Bethany shivered slightly. What could Gibson look like? Would it be truly dreadful, as the housekeeper had implied, or was she exaggerating? Bethany felt as though the sea air were laying on her like a damp cloth. As she reached the door, she caught her breath.

“My name is Regan, I’m the housekeeper here and we have a staff of four so not much labor will be asked of you.” The broad woman stood aside as Bethany stepped into the darker entry hall. The transom over the door did not let much light in as it was colored glass depicting a bleeding and ruptured heart surrounded by clinging purple vines. Spying it as she turned Bethany could not stop a harsh gasp.

“Don’t mind that, dearie; Gibson has a bent for lurid art.” Regan stepped into the foyer. “Come along, leave your valise; you must go right on up to see him. Oh, I expect you want to wash up?” The words conveyed that there was no choice. She had to meet the author. But she must straighten her clothes or else. The implied threat made Bethany nod.

She went into the door opening off the entry into a hall. Regan pointed, saying, “There’s the washroom. I’ll be in the kitchen, dearie, when you’ve finished with Gibson. As soon as you’re refreshed, go up the stairs. The door directly in front of the stairs. Knock right smartly. And don’t wander about. Gibson doesn’t like that, either. Very private man.”

After attempting to tame her wild chestnut hair and washing her face, Bethany went up the carpeted stairs and approached the door with great foreboding. She’d have left if she had any other place to go, she thought sadly. She knocked on the door lightly, hold in her breath. Then, she remembered and knocked harder.

“Come in, then,” shouted a voice. Slowly she turned the handle of the mahogany door and peeked in.

Cleve Gibson stood outside on the porch beyond open doors. His broad shoulders were hunched against the wind and his long dark hair blew about his head. The room stood bare except for a huge desk and a wooden swivel chair. The floor and desk were obscured with pages of handwriting. Tablets were stacked in corners and boxes of papers attested to the writer’s work.

He did not turn for many seconds and when he did, Bethany shrieked and jerked back sharply.

“Well, what are you screaming at?” said Gibson pushing away his hair.

“It took you so long to turn, Sir, that I...” said Bethany, as his face revealed its terrible burn. One cheek, puckered and red; his left hand burned and deformed spoke clearly of his accident.

“Don’t gawk. You’ll get used to it.”

His dark hair fell around his shoulders. Bethany inwardly shivered. It must make him feel cross often because she could see that he’d been the handsomest of men. “I’m sorry for staring,” she murmured.

“Don’t be; it was perhaps my own fault. Perhaps it was the Whimsy,” he said, his dark eyes pinning her. She saw self-loathing on his face.

“I’m familiar with your work. Very beautiful and touching prose,” said Bethany.

“Thank you. I’ll have work for you after the evening meal. It should be shortly; ask Regan which room is yours.” He flung his long-limbed frame into the chair and stared out at the surf. The white caps peaked in the brisk wind. “You know, of course, the wind brings the Whimsy.”

“What’s the Whimsy?” Bethany immediately asked. Cleve turned his head, the burned cheek flaming against his white linen shirt and black hair. His eyes glowed with an unhealthy light.

His dark look gave her a chill and he did not answer, but turned again to the sea.

Bethany let herself out the door and went down to the kitchen to see Regan. The cook was helping a young girl to knead great balls of bread. The girl was about eight or nine to judge by the size of her. A pale pinched face glanced at Bethany as the girl punched down her puffy mound. Regan turned smiling.

“Well, here you are Miss Bethany. This is Fiona, Gibson’s niece. She lives here as well.”

“I know about girls your age,” said Bethany, smiling. “I have a sister that just turned ten. She lives with our aunt. Perhaps we’ll all be friends.”

“Don’t think so,” said Fiona her mouth puckering. “Don’t think so at all.”

“Now, Fiona, don’t be rude, she’s come to help your uncle with his work.” Regan said.

“You won’t like it. You’ll be scared. Scared to death maybe. Wait and see,” Fiona said coldly, and stomped from the kitchen.

“Oh, dearie, don’t mind her. She’s a bit out of sorts since her cat died. She thinks some kind of evil spirit killed it,” Regan said optimistically, nodding in agreement with herself. “She was orphaned, you know. Been with Gibson ever since. Poor little thing.”

Bethany made sympathetic mew. “I understand as I lost my mother and father a few months ago to the influenza. I should — where’s my room?”

“Oh, you’re to be on the ground floor, at the back. Go into the parlor to the left of the door. Your room is down the hall leading off the parlor. It’s on the left side, next to Fiona’s room. Gibson uses the whole upper floors for himself and his work.” Regan said.

As Bethany went to her room, alone, down the dark hall, she wondered why the child was so rude. Spoiled by her uncle perhaps. If Catherine could come for a visit for a few weeks, it would be wonderful, thought Bethany, opening the paneled door. It moved stiffly as if it had been shut over the winter.

As she entered, her eyes were drawn immediately to the window. It was wide open, and gauze curtains, long and full, billowed into the room on the breeze. The open window cheered her. As she put her valise on the bed, she realized her first impression had been right. No one had been in this room for a long time. A thin layer of sandy dust smudged every surface. The furniture had been covered with sheets. Quickly, Bethany removed the sheets and dusted. She would have to wash the floor tomorrow. The only carpet was a handmade one that copied exactly the transom over the door, the bleeding torn heart. She looked closely at it seeing the bloodied heart and the great blue rocks, entwined with a purple vine. A vine that looked like spiderwort, or Wandering Jew. A prolific vine that could choke out the natural plants of a forest floor. Among the gypsies, spiderwort cursing powers.

Bethany shivered. The gypsies called it amria — evil curse. Grisly, she thought and rolled up the rug, shoving it under the bed. The wood floor seemed too white under the rug almost as if it had been scrubbed with salt. Exactly where the rug had laid.

Quite odd really, Bethany noted. She tucked her hair up and put on a clean blouse, just as she put on her shawl there was a knock on the door. She opened it.

“Regan sent me to fetch you for supper, Miss Bethany,” said Fiona, obviously not pleased with her errand.

“Come in; would you like to see a picture of my sister?”

“No. Gibson’s ready to eat.” The child turned on her heel and strode down the hall. Bethany sighed and followed her, leaving her door open to further air out the room.

Strangely, Regan and Hendricks, introduced by Gibson as the jack-of-all-trades, ate at the same table with Fiona and Gibson and Bethany.

“There are two other men who worked the gardens, but they’ve gone into the pub for the evening,” Regan said.

“It’s the most practical,” said Cleve Gibson seeing her glance. “We can all eat together. Regan and Hendricks have enough to do to keep me sane.”

“Oh, you’re fine, Mr. Gibson,” said Hendricks a pale man with huge ugly hands, heavily veined with large purple blotches on the back of them. A fresh bloody scratch ran along his forearm. “I think I’ve gotten the power line adjusted so that it won’t keep blowing loose.”

“I hope so, I can’t be going down when the sun does,” Gibson said.

Fiona giggled and said, “Uncle, you made a joke.”

“Not much of one, I dare say,” Gibson said, grasping his hair into a tail at the back of his neck. His jaw grew tight. “Fiona, do you need to visit your mother’s grave after dinner? I’d rather not.”

“I can take her if you like,” Bethany put in as she spooned up a few more of the boiled potatoes. “I could work on your manuscript when I get back.”

“It’ll be there tomorrow. Go ahead; she knows the way. It’s just that I need to finish this sonnet before it scurries from my mind.” Gibson speared another piece of roast beef on to his plate. He picked up one of the thick slices of warm bread that Fiona and Regan had made. “I just don’t like her to go alone. A grief so weighty that anyone would need comfort. You might as well see the family plot and get to know all our secrets.”

What had happened to Fiona’s mother, wondered Bethany.

“What secrets, Uncle Gibson? You didn’t tell me,” Fiona whined.

“Not a secret to you, Fiona, a secret to Miss Bethany. It’s those strange headstones that we have loved so long as a family,” Gibson said as he stood. He looked out at the slowly sinking sun. “Just be back in the house before the wind comes up.”

Fiona and Bethany helped Regan carry the dishes to the kitchen. Then Fiona got her sweater and they went along toward the back of the house. A great flat field stretched out before them with a winding footpath. Fiona started to run down the path, her arms outstretched to touch the new tassels on the grasses.

After about a hundred yards, Bethany finally caught up with her and puffed, “Is it very far?”

“No, almost there.” Fiona said. She half-turned, frowning. “You must stay away when I talk to my mother as I don’t want you to hear.”

“I understand; I do the same thing when I talk to my mother,” Bethany said.

Fiona looked back and said, “Really, why? When she’s dead?”

Startled, Bethany said, “My mother is dead, as is yours, Fiona.”

“Not dead. Something else but not dead. It doesn’t have a name.” Fiona gave her a scathing look as she said this.

“Perhaps I too know the something else — it’s a longing to have our mothers with us again.”

“No, I don’t mean that!” Fiona said, turning away and walking quickly.

Bethany followed her. She felt such sorrow for the child, just as she did for her own sister and yes, even herself.

Fiona had paused. When Bethany stood beside her, she looked down into a perfectly round circle cut five feet into the ground. Around the edges where twelve blue-black slabs of rock encircled the area of dark green grass. In the very center of the circle stood a taller stone cut in the shape of an obelisk. It gleamed smooth and austere. These headstones were not carved, but rugged and sharp-edged, like spewed from the bowels of the earth.

To be concluded...