NEW INFLUENCES
"Here in a world without a sky,
Without the ground, without the sea,
The one unchanging thing is I,
My self remains to comfort me." - Sarah Teasdale, White Fog
"I won't be needing it any longer, I suppose." I said, holding out the checkbook to Malcolm. Instead of taking it, he plucked a fountain pen from the onyx holder on his desk, and gave it an unneeded filling from the inkwell.
"I see." A peculiar light leapt into his eyes. "You won't be needing it." He repeated my words in a tone that presaged trouble.
"The transfer will soon be completed for my father's accounts. I thought..."
"You thought what? That simply because you have a foolish whim to be independent, that you would go about making me the brunt of town gossip?"
"You know very well that wasn't what I meant."
"I won't have people saying that I can't or... that I am not in charge. What are you planning?"
"I don't know what you mean, Malcolm."
"Don't you?"
Malcolm had been particularly on edge lately-not surprising, perhaps, considering the past few weeks. He had seemed more approachable earlier this day,
but now I regretted having mentioned this.
"It doesn't really matter, if you're going to take it like that. Must you always think the worst?" I said, taking back the checkbook.
The house had become unnaturally quiet, the servants having discreetly vanished into distant rooms, busying themselves elsewhere. I did not care in the least what the servants' opinions were, but the knowledge that they would talk about us behind my back filled me with shame.
I watched Malcolm stride out of the library, his back straight. Intimidation was what he did best, but I would not be worn down by this pointless sniping.
I would be the stronger of the two of us.
But I did not feel strong; I did not even feel angry. All I felt was an overwhelming lethargy.
There were days when I thought I could carry on as before, but the gloom never abated. I am ashamed to say that once, in a speculative way, I thought of ending my life. I did not envisage rescue fantasies. I ran the tips of my fingers over my unblemished skin, and thought of how I could cut myself-how willingly I would see my life drain away. I thought of how my suffering and bleeding would no longer be hidden.
I did not wish sorrow on anyone, only for my own to fade. How unfair to my boys abandoning them in such a cruel way would be-for they would be the ones most hurt, if left to grow up motherless, like Malcolm. One of my greatest fears, when I thought I'd have another child, was that, likely, it would have killed me. So how could I, intentionally, think of killing myself?
I tried to keep in perspective that this was just one season of my life, a very short time, compared to the time that had preceded it, and the time which would follow. Intermittently, rational thought would take hold, reminding me that I would make it through this, as I made it through every other difficulty,
but depression isn't rational.
I tried, dejectedly, to go about my regular daily activities, but they tired me. I lost weight because I had no appetite, and no enthusiasm for all that I usually enjoyed.
The phonograph remained silent, unless Mal asked to hear music. Needlework kept the hands busy, but was an inadequate distraction. I went outside one evening with the thought of taking one of the horses out for a brisk ride-sometimes Malcolm and I did this on weekends-but even that did little to lift my lassitude.
I awoke naturally, and earlier than necessary to the carol of birds, at five-thirty, and having the best of intentions each morning, I dressed for the day, knowing that most likely, after involving Mal in one of his Bubble Books or some other diversion, I would take the first opportunity to languish in my room, like a neurasthenic Victorian lady.
Analyzing my problem did not help to pinpoint its cause. I hadn't much wanted the baby. In that first instant when I'd been told it was gone, I had felt relief to have been spared all I'd struggled with, so why did I feel so bereft? I was sure my father's death played a part as well, but I'd done most of my grieving in the weeks following my trip up north. This depression was nameless.
Dozing listlessly in the silence one afternoon, I wished that I could stay in the soft cocoon of my bed forever, slumped against the crocheted pillows,
blankets pulled up to my chin. I opened my mother's diary, skimming, and read:
"July 1891
We went to hear Mr. Jackson preach last Sunday, and although some of his message was thought provoking, its delivery was off-putting and unseemly. The man has spent too much time among the followers of Calvinism, and similar harsh religious traditions.
It was so hot. I felt ill, and though Margaret passed me her fan and salts, I was obliged to leave before J. had quite finished his sermon. From Margaret's note of today, she may not soon forgive me, but I shall not go again.
It is better I seek the Sure Source as always I have, in silence.
"February, 1892
Our little girl came to us on the 17th, and all is well. I am recovering from the confinement, have not been able to leave my bed.
The nurse is kind, and brings the baby whenever I wish (not like that tyrant Mr. Jackson engages for my sister Margaret). How I wish I were stronger so Joseph could take us out driving. To-morrow, perhaps. For now, I wrap her up warmly, and keep her with me, so I may gaze for hours, and marvel.
I despaired of our child being born in February; winter babies seldom survive the year. Margaret has lost several to these harsh northern winters, so that she couldn't be as happy as I, at my news.
"I can't get used to the idea of you as mother, Connie." she said. (For all her trials, she still is not one.)
She brought good wishes and a vase of lilies (I dislike roses) when she and Jane Kimbrough came to see Olivia, for the first time.
That is what Joseph has named her, Olivia Kate.
I had rather set my heart on calling her Miriam. but I am glad he did not name our daughter after his mother.
... Daughter-how lovely it is to write that, after all."
"January, 1898
Joseph is home from his visit to Yarmouth Port, and is getting better, though he refuses to take cod liver oil. There is so much sickness about; I am in a panic each time he leaves the house.
Margaret's husband now has the fever, and she, soon to have another child. For her sake, I pray this one lives."
"April, 1900
My sister's husband has moved his family to Maine. We won't see them often. I think Joseph is secretly glad; he has never taken to Mr. J.
Olivia is growing quite missish, but at times, is more outspoken than a girl ought to be. I fear it may cause her trouble, in future. Olivia isn't timid; Joseph has seen to that. But I do wish she had a more cheerful disposition. My daughter is so unlike me; she is a steadfast,
quiet one, with eyes the color of the ocean.
Naturally, Joseph thinks her the most exceptional girl ever to live, but I am not so smitten that I cannot also see that she is willful. If this means she is also tenacious and healthy, I suppose I should be thankful. She is very much Joseph's daughter; I only wish... but it would not do to write such a thought.
Margaret says Olivia will surely look fully grown, by the time she is thirteen. I hope not, I would worry so! After what happened to poor Beryl..."
No great secrets would be revealed within these pages, and I was glad. I closed the book and hid it away in my dresser, beneath chemises and nightdresses,
unable to read about my mother's quite natural worries, or her happiness.
What had become of that lively girl my mother had described? How had she become so superfluous-so invisible?
Spring was unfolding beyond my covered windows, but I could not bestir myself to go out and enjoy it.
The door opened and closed softly. I didn't move, didn't turn to see the intruder, only silently wished him away. I knew the scent of that shaving soap,
which lingered faintly on the air after Malcolm vacated a room.
His heavy footsteps were muffled by the rug, as he crossed the room and pulled open the blue pleated curtain nearest the bed, to let in light. He switched on a lamp. Its teal frosted-glass shade cast out weak light that played over his face.
"What is this, Olivia?" asked Malcolm, obviously annoyed, but holding his temper in check. "Have you called the doctor?"
I could not respond.
"Luise Steiner called me. She thinks there's a problem." he paused. "Shall I ring Braxten?"
He waited another minute, then touched my shoulder in a tentative way.
"Are you unwell?"
"It's all gone wrong." I said, my voice thick with the effort not to cry. "I-I have failed."
"You're simply overwrought."
He made as if to give me his handkerchief, but finding he hadn't one, reached across to the sewing cabinet that served as my nightstand. Pulling open a shallow drawer, he rummaged until, in my glove box, he found a handkerchief, and pressed it into my hands.
"This will pass. I won't hear this kind of talk. We don't fail-you do not fail." he continued, as if repetition of the words would make it so.
"Have you been taking this?" he asked sharply, seeing a bottle of Veronal capsules in the drawer.
I shook my head, wondering if he believed me.
"Get up and get dressed. I did leave an important meeting; I'll have to be back by two, but we shall have lunch in town first. You can do some shopping,
if you wish."
Did he think a shopping excursion was a solution?
I started to reply that I did not want to go anywhere, but then thought better of it. This was the most concern he had shown for me in weeks, and I couldn't fault him for trying. Since I did not know what else would have made me feel better, his was as good a suggestion as any other.
"You didn't come all the way home for... for this, surely."
"No." he said, regarding me, before producing an envelope. "No. This appears to be from your father's attorney. A Mr. Teller?"
"You opened my mail?"
"It was mailed to my office." he said, his narrowed gaze remaining riveted on me.
I reached for the envelope, extracted the papers and swiftly perused their content.
"So, you are independent, it seems."
"I'll be ready to go in a few minutes," I said, as if I hadn't heard-a tactic he often used, dismissing one with indifference. "I need to speak to Mary,
and then we can leave."
Malcolm started for the door, then turned back, as if just deciding something, and casually produced a small box. From it he withdrew a gold filigree bracelet,
and fastened it to my wrist, where it fit securely with a kind of buckle effect.
"It's very pretty." I said, astonished.
I turned my wrist this way and that, admiring the bracelet's array of intricate, tiny engravings of violets, starburst circles, feathery leaves and scrolls,
and three small diamonds which caught the light.
"Some of these belonged to my grandmother, Rosamond Foxworth."
I examined the contents of the box, which held some very old and lovely heirloom pieces, much finer than the simple bracelet.
"But why are you giving them to me?" I asked. It wasn't my birthday, or any occasion, and I could not give him a daughter to inherit these valued pieces.
"You should have them," he said, then after a pause he brusquely added, "for safekeeping, I suppose."
Malcolm, about to take his leave, remarked captiously, "No doubt my father would give it all away."
"What do you mean?"
"Just that, Olivia." he said, as he left the room.
Indeed, things must have fallen to an unacceptable state for Mrs. Steiner to have alerted Malcolm. Of course I should have had a word with her about it,
but I never did, for it would have been too humiliating. I put the matter out of my mind when I opened my closet, and felt disproportionately grateful for the unflagging efficiency of my housekeeper, as I looked over the neat row of clean, pressed dresses that hung there.
As quickly as I could manage, I ran a brush through my hair, found my gloves and stepped into my shoes. I was expected to pretend that all was well, and I was becoming an expert at creating appropriate facades.
I found Mary in one of the small rooms off the foyer. She agreed to give the boys their lunch.
Mal, who sat on the floor amid a jumble of toy soldiers and train cars, was too absorbed in building a block castle of questionable symmetry to notice my departure. Joel, when he saw me, shrieked and crawled toward me. I picked him up, pressed my nose to his, which made him laugh. I kissed the almost invisible line of his blonde eyebrow, put him down again and gave him a toy, then escaped without incident.
Malcolm and I shared a rather good lunch in near silence, then parted ways, as planned.
After spending an hour being shown various hats and dress gloves, and discussing the inappropriateness of certain new fashion trends with an over-enthusiastic salesgirl, I almost managed to leave empty-handed, before a skirt the right color and length was located. Escaping the perfumed air of the shop into the crowded street, I wandered along slowly, looking idly through windows, until I came to a jewelry store.
I entered the shop to pass some time looking into its display case, first at a sapphire ring which was stunning, and had an equally stunning price tag.
Then my attention was drawn to a brooch, flower-shaped, with small diamonds and scroll decoration on the edges of the petals. It reminded me of one of the Foxworth portraits that hung in an out-of-the-way corner.
The woman in that painting was-aside from myself-one of the few dark-haired Foxworths. She was perhaps thirty-five and remote-looking, with that pin (or one very like it) affixed to her high-collared, ruffled dress. There was no nameplate on the gilt frame of the portrait, and Malcolm, when asked, did not know her name or precise place on the family tree, just that she had never married.
I liked to pause and take in her serene expression, when I walked past, hoping my observance of it might bestow that quality upon me. Seeing this pin,
holding its cold sparkling weight on my palm, was in some odd way, reassuring.
I wasn't at all sure the pin was anything I would ever wear, but appreciating the fact that she did not try and use my hesitation to push a sale, I asked a question of the woman behind the counter. She hastily put aside the Harper's Weekly she'd been reading.
"I am not the expert. You see, I'm only here as a favor to my brother-in-law. He owns the shop. He's gone to Harrisonburg, this afternoon. From time to time I help him out when my business is slow."
"Your business?" I asked, genuinely intrigued by the thought of a woman owning something independently.
I peered at her with more interest. She had delicately molded features, was slender of build and quite tall-perhaps five-nine or -ten, and smartly dressed-very modish. She introduced herself as Millicent Hanscomb, and said she was a seamstress.
"I work a few blocks down," she said, describing the location.
"It's quite likely that you'll soon be seeing me. There are a few things I need to have made, and I just don't have the time to do much sewing. It has never been one of my talents, anyway."
I was surprised by my own words, for up until that very moment, in spite of my earlier foray into the dress shop, I hadn't been interested in anything,
much less new dresses. It had been a long time since I'd known the thrill of feminine excitement which a new dress can give. The prospect cheered me almost as much as did the affable conversation.
"I know what you mean about not having much free time. I have a three-year-old daughter, Caroline-Carrie, we call her."
Millicent told me about her daughter, and later, I learned that Millicent's husband had died in the Great War, a month before his child's birth. This piece of information was delivered with a curious lack of emotion.
Millicent told me about her brother-in-law who owned this shop. She told me about Isabel Bertram, a friend of her mother's who had played a significant role in Millicent's upbringing, and who now helped out by watching the little girl, Caroline, while Millicent worked.
We talked of books and of a picture Millicent had seen, Way Down East, which she wanted to see again.
As unlikely a friendship as it may seem, Millicent and I discovered common interests, and much to like in each other. She was self-sufficient and independent.
She was satisfied with her modest circumstances, with her work, and by raising her daughter alone. I couldn't imagine living her life, and she had no aspirations for one such as mine.
I appreciated her openness, and her acceptance of me as I was, for it was something I didn't encounter, especially among the women in the social circles that Malcolm and I moved in. Millicent was not part of that, although she was superficially acquainted with most of them because of the work she did.
"Now that one," she said, breaking off in mid-sentence and lowering her voice when one of the other customers left the shop. "if she had another button undone, she could, as my mother might say, serve up her wealth on a platter."
Startled, I looked after the woman, and smothered a laugh-the first time I'd laughed in weeks. What she'd said was unkind, but true, and I had no reason to defend the woman who had just left-Amanda Biddens.
Mrs. Biddens went out of her way to attract the attention of men, as I'd found out firsthand. She did not live with decorum and decency.
"She believes in brevity," I agreed. "she's cut her hair unflatteringly short."
Mrs. Biddens would have a child three years later, her first, and motherhood would mellow her. With an attempt at a friendly overture, wanting advice,
she would approach me as if there had been no impropriety in the past-as though she had not made a spectacle of herself with my husband. I did my best to avoid her. I couldn't accept the olive branch, for it had never been easy for me to relinquish a grudge.
I'd learned that it was well known that Mrs. Biddens' husband was a drunk, and violent toward her, and was the cause of her frequent emergency hospital visits. Why did she stay and permit it? I was sure that if I found myself in such a position, I would not stay, nor would I seek to replace one violent husband with another.
Standing with Millicent and watching Amanda's retreating back, I marveled at all the kinds of sorrow women can live with, and still find strength to go on. It took years for me to understand Millicent's particular kind of strength, and to realize that she did not view the circumstances of her life as a trial.
"Mother and I saw you once-it must have been last fall, because Mother remarked on how pretty your coat was, and your hair. You were just coming out of the Amesbury building, and you were holding a baby."
As one who has few friends, I felt that I was seldom noticed, as though I went about under a cloak of invisibility, though this was, of course, not true-could not be true simply because Malcolm was so eminent a figure in our small community.
"My husband keeps an office in that building." I said.
Malcolm, predictably, would later pronounce Millicent Hanscomb unsuitable company. He said she was common, that her clothes were garish and that she wore too much perfume. None of this was quite true. He never approved of her visiting Foxworth Hall, which she rarely did, in any case. Fortunately, he expressed his voluble opinions to me, alone.
"Is this a gift for someone special?" she asked brightly, as she began to place the brooch in a box. I had decided against buying it, but I found I couldn't say so.
"Yes," I said. "it is. It's for myself."
"Ah, you're the very limit! I like that." she smiled.
"Don't trouble yourself; I'll just wear it." I said, gesturing to the tiny box.
I pulled the passbook out of my purse and happily wrote out a check for an item which Malcolm, with his parsimonious mindset, would object to, viewing it as an unnecessary, frivolous expense.
Millicent glanced at the check as I handed it over. Her eyes widened a fraction in recognition as she read the name on it.
"I met your husband before Christmas, when he came in to select your watch." she said. "I wrapped it for him. How clever of him to remember that it would match your ring."
I assumed it to be a coincidence.
"He must have an extraordinary memory for details."
"Yes, I suppose he has." I said laconically.
"Most men-" she shrugged, leaving off the rest of a common pastime of women: complaining about the faults of their men.
Something in my expression must have cautioned Millicent to drop this line of talk. I never engaged in such pointless commiseration; it is bad form. It would not change anyone, and the difference between myself and the other wives was that beneath their petty grievances, their marriages were still happy-happier than mine could be.
"David didn't believe they would sell so well, but the new wristwatches are quite popular."
"It is more convenient than a pendant or pocket watch." I agreed. "I'll see you next week-on Wednesday, I should think."
"Come in a bit early, if you can, and we'll have tea. You can bring the baby, of course."
"Well," I said uncertainly, "I have two children."
"Bring them both." she smiled, and I detected no falseness in her manner. "Isabel won't mind watching them."
It would be good for Mal to have another child his own age to play with, I thought. Everyone we knew at that time had older children, or none.
"I'm glad to have met you." she said, her light blue eyes following me as I walked toward the door. I was glad, too. Getting away from home and meeting Millicent had lifted my spirits.
Despite the anxieties that would multiply by next week-(what could I find to talk about? What if Mal did not behave? What if I couldn't force myself to leave the fortress of Foxworth Hall, or my nervousness spoiled the day?)-I was determined to go to Millicent's shop. It would be lovely to see unfamiliar rooms; it would be wonderful to be invited into the life of another for a few hours, to talk to someone whom wanted my company.
And if that went well-my thoughts leapt ahead-perhaps, instead of sending Olsen, I would visit nurseries in search of certain perennials I wished to have for our gardens. I might even reply to Mrs. Murphy's polite note, and accept her luncheon invitation for next Monday afternoon. Perhaps life would begin to seem like something I could once again manage, and if not... If not, it was finally clear to me that I should consult a doctor.
Into the Timberlake drugstore I stopped, where on weekdays, Malcolm sometimes ate breakfast, and that was where I found him, animatedly speaking to Edward Camden.
"Unpredictable market fluctuations have unfortunately caused unforeseen losses to many of our largest operators."
"Personally, I would consider the coming six months a much more propitious time to trade than the past half year." said Malcolm, and then, seeing me, "Where have you been? You were to be here ten minutes ago. What is all this?" he grumbled, taking one of my packages.
"Bought out all the shops, did you?" laughed Camden. "It's what you ladies like best to do."
Such condescension would wear on my nerves if I had to hear more of it, so I forced a smile, left them to conclude their conversation, and made a few small purchases.
Aside from Malcolm's announcement that he had to leave for a business trip to Chicago the following week, the hour's drive home passed without conversation.
In those days, the law was that automobiles could not be driven over eight miles an hour, and those with horses still had the right of way. Malcolm,
chafing at restrictions of this kind, cursed under his breath when required to pause at corners to ring the bell, and wait.
Once outside of Charlottesville, however, speed could be increased, and conversations safely carried on. But Malcolm was absorbed in thoughts known only to himself, until, as we neared the house, he broke the silence.
"Olivia, what happened today-" He took his eyes off the road for an instant and glanced at me, to be sure I was listening. "I don't want to revisit this.
My wife does not have a nervous collapse."
I suppose it was meant as a vote of confidence, but it sounded more like a command.
"I've received word that, unfortunately, we will soon have visitors to contend with. I will need your help."
It was a symptom of my mental and emotional exhaustion that I had no curiosity about this statement, nor did I wonder if this was what had been troubling him. On that day, Malcolm did not offer further explanation.
Did Malcolm think I could lock away my emotions as easily as he could? Unlike him, I did not know how to numb frustration and hopelessness, and pretend it didn't exist. But neither could I unburden myself and speak freely.
If I attempted to share my unhappiness with him, his reaction was dismissive. One must bypass Malcolm's own self-absorption before such a conversation could take place. He would feel that his dignity was compromised by the mere fact of listening. Sometimes, he just walked away, as if what I felt was not to be acknowledged, as if, by ignoring my feelings, they would disappear or change. At times he looked at me as if I were slightly crazy.
"You must shake off this self-pity and be a mother to our children." was all he would say.
Just what did he think I'd been doing? I cared for nothing else but the children-until now-until Millicent's friendship became something to rely upon,
somewhat diminishing my isolation, but that did not happen immediately.
The days and years stretched out, one blurring into another, devoid of goodness. I was withdrawn, watching as if from a distance as some half-functioning part of myself went about my affairs, while Malcolm went about his, almost as though I did not exist.
I had once been interested in the details Malcolm revealed about his work, and at some point in the future, I would be, again. Lately, though, I had not been as interested in hearing about the successes that comprised what was, to Malcolm, the most important part of his life. He rarely balanced his descriptions out with any mention of the failures which he must surely experience, and even that began to irritate me.
It was as though he needed, constantly, to prove himself. He had to prove that every decision he made was right. Sometimes I thought that he wanted only approbation, not my input. I hadn't signed over my inheritance for his management, and he was still too disaffected by that to want my opinions on anything else.
That night, I had such a lifelike dream that it stayed with me for days, bringing to light something I must have begun to fear.
Something troubled Malcolm. Precisely what this might be came to me, with timorous dread. I could not ask him about it, and in so doing, put into his head an idea which may not have occurred to him.
In the dream, he kept asking for "the book," among other questions which I did not later remember. I seemed unable to walk away from his merciless interrogation. I didn't bother to pretend not to know that he meant my mother's diary.
"It's in New London." I lied, for in fact the book lay in plain sight, on an occasional table. In true dream fashion, he looked right at it, but didn't see it.
"I forgot to pack it, what with getting most of the furniture into storage. I was in such a hurry to leave. Why, I almost missed the train."
Not wanting to overstate or to babble, I stopped. My voice came out steady, not betraying apprehension. His gaze held for another minute, then his eyes slid away.
"I wish you would not read what isn't meant for you; you're sure to misunderstand."
"If I ever see that book, I will burn it." He pronounced each word clearly, so that they lodged in my memory as a reminder that he couldn't be trusted-a lesson I had yet to learn in waking life. "I will turn it into ashes, just as I did to my mother's letters."
"How dare you bring your mother into this! Your mother was nothing like mine, and more to the point, I am not like your mother-or have you forgotten that?"
"You keep in mind what I said, Olivia."
Such a scene was baffling, until, waking, I understood the connections he must have made, the motives his twisted mind had assigned to me. It was frightening,
certain as I was that no amount of reassurance would ever part Malcolm from his doubts, if ever he truly harbored them.
Despite the doctor's asseveration to the contrary, what if Malcolm had convinced himself that the miscarriage was my fault? To Malcolm's way of thinking,
there were no accidents, and his wishes and plans had been rejected (the checkbook incident would be seen as further proof of this.)
It was like standing in a doorway between two dimensions, living under this tension, not knowing what was a true cause for concern and what was not. I existed under a dark cloud that did not diminish, but changed form gradually, as influent forces came into play at Foxworth Hall.
"I don't think much of the way your father has abandoned everything, expecting you to manage it all on your own, for nearly four years." I said, then hastily added, "I know you prefer it this way, but I do think it's inconsiderate of him."
"Do you?" he asked, looking up from his paper, surprised.
Malcolm had never complained that the extra work was burdensome. He had, however, made his opinions of Garland's irresponsibility known, since telling me of his father's impending arrival, due to happen one week hence.
"What sort of person takes a three-year honeymoon trip? That's extravagant, by anyone's standards." I said.
"Once you've met him, you will probably forget everything you're saying now. He tends to win people over."
I thought of the genial smile in all pictures of Garland, and could believe that.
"My God," said Malcolm, the week after, as we stood in front of the house on that mild spring evening. "she's pregnant!"
I was stunned, too injured to speak, but Malcolm's constricted exclamation could have come from my own lips, for his shock mirrored mine, to a degree.
Malcolm glanced my way, but for his own agitation, I didn't think he considered mine. Perhaps I did underestimate him, but I was sure he thought only of his inheritance being halved.
With my first glance at the young woman came a familiar, sinking sensation. I felt that I-in my new soft green dress and peridot hair-clasp, which I had thought complemented my auburn hair and pale coloring-was that much plainer than I'd been, five minutes before. But no, it was not so trivial a feeling as that.
Was it envy-a natural enough reaction, given recent events-or was it some premonitory dread that spread an inexplicable chill through me, at my first sight of Alicia Foxworth?
I felt Malcolm's hand resting on my back, and I straightened, regaining composure, and we managed, somehow, to greet Garland and his new wife. We did not go forward to meet them, for I doubt we could have, but waited on the columned, wide front portico for them to come to us.
"This," Malcolm said importantly, pronouncing his words slowly, so as to make me wonder later about the meaning of such emphasis, "is Mrs. Malcolm Neal Foxworth. Olivia."