Harper Sutton stared at the letter cradled in her palms, feeling the great whirring engines of the train jerk and sputter. She glanced out the foggy window. A wet haze rolled over the tracks, a greeting care of the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers. In the distance Pittsburgh reared up, gray and unexpectedly small, hedged in on every side by waterways. It seemed to crouch on its little triangle of an island, hunched over the land possessively.
Her bones ached from the journey. Already she missed the misty, dirty comfort and familiarity of London. She looked back down at the letter.
My dreams are full of you my darling. It's lonely here with you, as it always is, and I feel lost, aimless. Without you the house is just a shell – walls and floors and ceilings and empty corridors with no laughter and no light. You are my light.
Harper felt an urge to fold up the letter and tuck it back into her suitcase. Instead, she let it lay flat on top of her hands, the cramped handwriting flowing across the page in even, black rows. When she arrived at the Hockley's she would need to write back to her husband, let him know the trip had gone without a hitch, that she was safe and well and looking forward to returning to London. And as she wrote the letter she would need to wrack her brain for appropriate sentimentalities and try to recall the secret language of their marriage.
I would bribe every porter, sailor, engineer and policemen from here to New York to your destination if it meant getting you there and back safely. Fate terrifies me. You know I never put much stock in religion, but I become a fiercely devout man when you are away. I find myself praying constantly, absentmindedly and still I worry, as if not even the promises of God or the angels were enough.
Harper smiled, moved by her husband's agonizingly sweet devotion. So many of her friends and family members had married without knowing love or affection; Roger adored her, worshipped her, but sometimes it all felt a little forced, as if he loved an idea of Harper Sutton and not the woman as she was. Sometimes Harper was sure that was her own fault. Roger loved her, yes, but did he know her? These letters, these meandering, sodden letters – did he really believe she wanted this?
Remember our agreement. Write as soon as there are any developments of note. I love you, darling. I love you and I miss you every moment.
And yet he was so kind, so determined in his love for her… she couldn't help but love him back. A person would have to be made of stone and ice to refuse tenderness to someone like Roger. He deserved everything, she thought with a frown, and he deserved so much more. She slid the letter into her attaché and looked at the piece of paper that had been placed immediately next to it in the envelope. She scanned down the page, her eyes lingering over words like suicidal, unstable, childless, failing, cuckold. Her stomach turned. This part of things always made her feel slightly ill. There was nothing sunny or sentimental about this part of the letter. Even Roger's handwriting looked more efficient and mannered. And if the information here was correct then Harper had her work cut out for her.
The train shuddered to a stop. Harper stuffed the piece of paper away quickly, startled. She collected her carry-on bag and adjusted her rose pink cloche hat. The porter arrived, taking her ticket and helping her down from the train. The station was noisy, busy, families calling to each other, lovers reuniting. This was the sort of sight that greeted her all of the time and she had become accustomed to that alien feeling of knowing there would be no familiar face in the crowd. She watched a young woman run into the arms of a man in a gray flannel suit. He picked her up and they spun, kissing and laughing as she landed back on the ground.
"Miss?"
Harper whirled, disoriented, and then smiled at the middle aged man in a black driving uniform. He wore a dark cap and had a neatly trimmed beard. Her bags appeared, hauled off the train by a strong young man.
"Mrs. Sutton?" the driver asked, clearing his throat. It was difficult to hear him over the huffing and whistling of the trains and the chattering crowd.
"Yes," she said, "You're with the Hockleys?"
The driver nodded, breaking out into a relieved smile. He took up her bags and she followed him through the station and out into the chilly morning fog. So far so good, she thought, at least they had the decency to send a car. The driver led her to the curb where dozens of taxis and shiny black cars waited, exhaust rumbling into the atmosphere. Harper had seen nicer automobiles in her time, but the Hockley's Bentley was by no means cheap. She ducked into the back seat, keeping her attaché close to her side.
As they pulled out away from the curb and joined the flow of car traffic leaving the station, Harper took the powder compact from her attaché and opened it, dusting her nose with a fine, fragrant powder. The journey had left her feeling greasy and sore, jostled by boat, by train and now by car. She was tired and wanted nothing more than to lie down. Harper recalled the telegram that had been waiting for her at the boat terminal. The Hockleys had organized a fete for the evening, just a little gathering to welcome her to Pittsburgh. What a nightmare. She hoped that at the very least she would be allowed to nap in the hours leading up to the party.
Strike one, she thought, lighting up a cigarette.
Harper watched the rivers and the city come into view, a panorama in silvers, blues and grays. Compared to Paris or Cairo or New York City, Pittsburgh was hardly more than an industrial pimple. Still, she thought, exhaling a stream of smoke thoughtfully, it did have a gritty kind of charm, a lot like London in that way.
"Lovely view, eh Mrs. Sutton?" the driver called.
"Certainly," she lied, taking another drag on her cigarette.
"The Venice of America," he added proudly, "We even got more bridges than they do!"
"Indeed?"
They drove over just such a bridge and Harper grinned, deciding it wouldn't be sporting to crush the driver's spirit by pointing out that what Venice lacked in bridges it made up for in superior charm, beauty, history and elegance. Clearly the man was proud of his dirty eyesore of a city. The heart of Pittsburgh unfolded in front of them, the University and the skeletal Cathedral of Learning stabbing up through the sea of brownstones and warehouses.
The driver steered them down a shaded, gated neighborhood. Large, sprawling manor houses appeared, set back from the road and hidden behind tall, stone fences and hedgerows. The Hockley's house was a squat, gothic nightmare with turrets and balconies and a lavish front garden that was beginning to burst with hyacinths and daisies. Harper had to admit that the gardens were nice, by far the most attractive feature of the house. The car turned up the drive, the gray stone façade of the house looming up over them like the mouth of some great and terrible cave. She half-expected a flurry of bats to rain down from the arched alcove over the door.
"Here we are, Mrs. Sutton."
Harper opened the door without waiting for the driver, tipping back her head to take in the full height and size of the house. A butler emerged from the front doors.
"Welcome, Mrs. Sutton," the butler said, "I trust your journey was pleasant?"
"It was," Harper replied, "Thank you."
"My name is Jeffrey, ma'am. Please do not hesitate to ask for anything you might require."
Harper followed him inside, liking the man at once. He had a gentle face, creased with age and hardship but still open and friendly. If the Hockleys treated him badly there was no trace of it on his countenance. His voice was pleasing too, deep and resonant like a grandfather's ought to be.
Inside, Hockley manor was warm and fragrant with freshly-cut lilies in tall, crystal clear vases. The floors were immaculately clean, the wood shining as Harper stepped over the threshold and the mid-morning sun followed for the briefest of flashes. There was no laughter from children, no phonograph emitting distant music. Not a happy home, necessarily, but a pretty one. A miniature chandelier hung in the front hall, illuminating a wide, round room with a grand staircase leading up to the second floor and a balcony along the top. Harper could imagine many a dramatic entrance being made down those steps. As if on cue, a woman appeared at the top of the stairs. She swept down toward Harper, a long, crepe silk dress trailing behind her. She was dressed in dark blue, a color that did nothing for her pasty complexion.
"Mrs. Sutton!" the woman exclaimed, opening her arms wide in welcome.
"Mrs. Hockley," Harper said pleasantly, pulling off her cloche hat and tucking it under her arm, "What an immense pleasure!"
"Oh aren't you a dear," Mrs. Hockley said, beaming. She had thin lips and a harsh, unnatural smile but her energy seemed genuine enough, if not a little theatrical. Mrs. Hockley had probably been a beautiful woman at one point, but age and stress and too much make up had robbed her of any fresh beauty that might've remained into middle age. After all the stories Harper had heard of Caledon Hockley's good looks, she was surprised to find Miriam Hockley was far beyond her expiration date. Her hair was long, dark and waved but out of fashion, too long and heavy for her thin frame.
Mrs. Hockley took Harper by the hand, forcing her to turn around.
"I just love your hair, dear! And what an adorable coat," Mrs. Hockley said, cooing over her turquoise, fur-trimmed Lanvin. "Where on earth did you get it? I absolutely must have one for myself."
"Harrods," Harper replied, a little overwhelmed by such an effusion of praise. Mrs. Hockley turned her again, studying Harper's face closely.
"Jeffrey! Jeffrey look, look! Why she's the spitting image of Leila Hyams! Yes! The Thirteenth Chair was one of my all-time favorite films," Mrs. Hockley said, blabbering on and on. It all felt like a rather complicated performance, planned down to the moment. "A triumph! I think I must have gone three times!" Harper forced a smile. Jeffrey looked her over and nodded.
"She does indeed bear a striking resemblance to Miss Hyams."
"You're both very kind," Harper said, her face growing warm.
"You're tired," Mrs. Hockley observed, letting go of her hand. "You poor thing, you're absolutely exhausted and here I am going on and on! Jeffrey will take your things to the guest room. It's just this way, let me show you. Would you care for tea? Warm milk?"
"I wouldn't say no to a brandy," Harper said. She noted the way Mrs. Hockley flinched but ordered one for her anyway.
Harper followed them up the carpeted stairs, her feet dragging a little from weariness. Mrs. Hockley continued blathering about The Thirteenth Chair, a film Harper had never heard of or seen. She had no idea who this Leila Hyams person was but she hoped the comparison was a flattering one. Harper didn't have much time for the cinema; her husband's business affairs kept her traveling most of the year and she preferred to relax with a swim or a book and a glass of wine in the garden. The house was cozier and more inviting upstairs, with walls painted in rich jewel tones and artwork hanging every few feet. There were many doors, all of them shut tight. Mrs. Hockley pointed out the bathrooms as they went by and Harper hoped she would be able to find her way back.
"You'll have to excuse Mr. Hockley," she said, stopping outside of a door with ornate dried flower garland hanging on it. "He's so terribly busy these days. He was sorry he couldn't be here to welcome you, he said so himself, but I'm sure you'll have time to speak tonight at the party."
"Of course," Harper said, her eyelids drooping as sleep threatened with greater persistence, "It's no trouble at all."
"Jeffrey, hurry with that brandy, will you?"
"You're very kind," Harper said again, letting Mrs. Hockley manhandle her into the guestroom. It was elegantly sparse, housing a big four post bed with a silver velvet canopy and a tall bay window. The bed looked inviting but Harper was sleepy enough to simply collapse on the floor if she had to.
Jeffrey dodged into the room, laying out her suitcases at the foot of the bed. He nipped down the hallway and returned almost immediately with a tumbler and a generous portion of brandy.
"Thank you so much," Harper said, meaning it. Jeffrey smiled pleasantly and bowed out of the room, adding, "If you need anything, ma'am, simply ring the bell. A maid will be sent up at five o'clock to help you dress and the guests will begin arriving at seven."
"Do rest," Mrs. Hockley crowed as Jeffrey tried to shut the door, "A pleasure to have you with us!"
Harper hardly had the energy to remove her coat and frock before falling into bed. She made sure the curtains were shut tight to keep out the light that was growing stronger as afternoon arrived. Five hours should be more than enough time to rest up and restore her joie de vivre. Harper opened her attaché and took out the slim, tattered book inside. She took it with her to the bed, indulging in a long, grateful swig of the brandy as she settled in to read and let her mind unwind before her nap.
Roger's letter tumbled out of the book and Harper nearly dropped the tumbler in surprise. She hadn't meant to tuck his letter into the book and seeing it there, touching the pages of the novel almost made her sick. Those two things didn't belong and she had no idea why her reaction was so decidedly violent. She edged the letter away from the book and onto the floor, not caring if it spent the rest of the day gathering dust. Harper opened the book, trying to restore her pulse to a normal rate as she found her place. She read, the brandy working its languid, methodical magic, her sleepiness mingling gently with her gradual intoxication. The words on the page seemed to float up to her, alive, shimmering.
The voice of the sea is seductive; never ceasing, whispering, clearing, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in the abysses of solitude; to lose itself in mazes of inward contemplation. The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.
Harper fell asleep with the sentences rolling in her head, undulating through her brain like one warm, unbroken wave. At first she dreamt of water, of having her head covered by it. She didn't panic from the loss of oxygen or the thought that she might die and never see Roger again, or the crushing blackness of the bottomless ocean. And when that vision resolved itself she dreamed of nothing at all, floating in blackness, relieved at that moment to be lost to the world.
