When April came, so did the latest issue of Perennial. It had Di's essay, that essay, titled as Vanity Fair, was total success, with flowing, and tender style of light social commentary, a delicate balace that was hard to achieve. Walter had written an enthusiastic letter of praise from the front, and Alice knew that Di slept her brother's words under her pillow.
Doss!
I have been reading your essay with fascination, over and over again. That sensitive way of yours, and your style of observing. You describe above all atmosphere, and back rooms of the glittering corridors of old secrets, contracts, and the slow traffic of money, and influence and you combine them with the glamour and splendour of the transparent bubbles of imported French champagne, the sharp smell of whiskey, and the heat of the ballroom curling, flower arrangements, with just a touch of eroticism, when describing rows of dancing women, without their partners, their bare shoulders, and their hazy and silky dresses, then you twist that glimmering, epolece towards to my reality, of torn bodies, and torn souls, of endless horror, and mud, and barbed wire, and blood seeping into destroyed earth of the trenches. Editor of Perennial must be bursting with pride, maybe he puffs on his cigar in his office, in that room, that I miss, every now and then, still. For years I imagined that it would be me, who with my pen would bring renown to Blythe's name, to our name, but now I realize that it is you who will do it, for your prose and essay style will in time, reach wider masses. Of course, there is always room for poetry, and I have already reached my own corner, on the hills of fame. I am extremely proud of you, dear Doss.
With love, always.
W.C.B.
Alice´s days were full of inspiring lectures, and Red Cross duties. Rhythm of life in Primrose Hollow were soothing as sung notes of Elgar´s compositions in that spring term of 1916. Sometimes Alice came across CEF flyers on the streetcornes with Walter's poem printed on them. It lived a life of its own, part of a strong propagada machinery, and inspired new men for the Cause.. Even Walter's handwriting was now grey, and exhausted.
Golden Alice.
I'm in a very unreal place here. Pardon my bluntness, this letter is a mixture of a relatively brutal description of my current circumstances and lyricism you are more familiar with. Sometimes it feels like I'm living on the surface of the moon. A moon that's mud and a bloody mess, large jagged craters, and the sound of a machine gun echoes. All special things, like cigarettes, are damp, here underground, in the dug out.
You know, by now that my poem has become surprisingly popular. It's still not as well known as the one written by a doctor and poet last year in 1915, you know, the one written in rondeau style that begins, "In Flanders fields, poppies blow."
I can almost see you smiling and the spring sun shining on your hair. Maybe you're sitting with Dorian having tea, and you're discussing something that wasn't clear in the lectures, you both attended, and Di rushes up to you, her hands in ink, laughing. And Dorian smiles, and throws in some anecdote, and drowns you in the regulated cream cakes, he's bought, because, as he always says. "No teatime is complete without pastries." As for Dorian, I have one piece of advice, if you care to listen, give him moments of your time. If you do, you could be plesantly surprised one of these days.
With loving regards, as ever.
Walter.
One partly cloudy afternoon, Alice wandered through one of the libraries. The smell of leather-backed books and the slight dust was intoxicating. Alice ran her finger along the shelves when a familiar voice, Dorian's, came from behind her. " Alice, are you there, if so, I assume your Primrose Hollow is an oasis of harmony, literature, mild chaos, and crafts and baking." Alice went around to the other side of the table and sat in a chair and looked at Dorian who had ink on his cheek. After a moment of silence Alice inquired "How did you know it was me? Did you know that you have ink on your cheek." The dark haired youth, was smiling wryly, as he stated in a regal tone, "No one else in Redmond wears that scent, so the conclusion was easy. Walter sometimes talked about his afternoons in Primrose Hollow, so I formed a picture based on his words."
An irritated look crossed Dorian's face, and he took a pure white monogrammed handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his cheek, but the ink stain remained. Alice replied in a calm tone, " Your description was about right, but there is no chaos, at least if you don't count countless Red Cross sheets." Dorian shrugged, in artful way as he opened the nearest book, from the top of the staggering pile, and delved into it, and after a moment he said, " Remember not to wear yourself out completely. I would like you, and of course Di too, to come to have tea at Gardiner Hall. That dear old mausoleum is such a lonely place at times, and in the spring, as now, it really bursts into flower." Dorian glanced over his books at Alice, a little uncertainly, as if to check what effect his words had produced.
Alice's face was as attractively cool as before, and she seemed completely engrossed in Plato or some other Greek thinker, a few spots of ink had dripped on her fingers. Dorian sighed to himself as he finished his notes on the importance of the Symbolist trend in painting
The only sound was the clatter of ink pens on notebooks, and the shimmering, spring light filtering through the window. Then, Alice's voice broke the silence. The girl sounded distant but heartfelt as she said, "Dorian, weather permitting we will be there next Saturday." Surprised, but pleased, Dorian looked up and saw Alice's figure walking hurriedly away.
And as the weeks passed, it became a tradition, after that first Saturday, for Di and Alice to spend leisurely afternoons in the quiet, springtime glow of Gardiner Hall.
Wide acres of intense green grass, a small artificial lake, made a glorious settings for Alice, Di, and Dorian's informal picnics, thick blankets, and food borrowed from the kitchen, fresh bisquits, and tea, with sandwitches galore. If the Brotherhood of the White Feather bullied Dorian, he never said anything about it to Alice, nor to Di. Sometimes they saw Dorothy Gardiner, as she came and went with Thompson on the wheel of one of the cars, she was busy with plans, and different causes. Dorothy toiled fervently in local women's societies, and contributed money and supplies to the Red Cross. When she had the time, she sat down to tea with them, graceful and determined, with her large hat, bordered with artifical silk roses, and long gloves in her hands, telling anecdotes, with her playfully humorous style, with flashing dark eyes. Dorian glanced at Alice, and softly, he took her gloved hand in his. Alice was startled by the sudden touch, and she quickly began braiding flower garlands, which she quickly handed over to first Dorian, as a balm to dispel that slight hurtful look that lurked in those pale green, vivid eyes of his. Then, remembering the advice in Walter's latest letter, she smiled at Dorian, and with the quickest of fingers retied his slightly tattered bow, for it spoiled Dorian's otherwise elegant appearance. As Alice's fingers fixed Dorian's bow, she glanced quickly at Dorian, and some pent-up emotion flashed momentarily in his pale green eyes, and then it was gone, but Alice felt as if suddenly, her familiar and safe path of Redmond-life had been shaken, unexpectedly, by small barely hidden tremors. Alice remembered Dorian's passionate and kind letters, last summer, and the way in which from the first moment he had looked at her as if he could not believe his eyes. That look had faded quickly, but instead of its echo something else had arisen, which Alice, unwilling, could not analyze and dissect.
Out of the corner of her eye, Alice noticed that Dorothy and Dorian were talking quietly, with lowered voices. Then Dorothy waved her hand, to her sister, as Adeline's proud, regal figure walked past them. Adeline turned, and saw a happy crowd on the grass enjoying the weekend. With a slight snort, she turned and started driving towards Kingsport, the car revved hard and soon the gates opened.
Alice was striding along main street, of Kingsport, in late afternoon, in heavy April squall, quite damp, and miserable, trying in vain shelter her books, when a car swerved toward her and honked its horn. Alice recognized the car, despite ever flowing rain. It was one of the Ford´s of the Gardiners.
And swiftly driver, not Thompson, got up and opened the door, and motioned Alice to go in, away from the deluge. Shivering with cold Alice slipped into the warm, spicy softness of the car. There was a light scent of cigar, but there always was. There were thick folded blankets in the seat beside her. Alice's creamy cotton dress felt damp, and cold, and it stuck to her skin. The car moved smoothly, like a leaping panther, as it turned corners. The voice that greeted her was not Dorian's light, tenor, but a darker, softer voice, accustomed to command, with a slight accent, as if the speaker had not spoken english for weeks. "What a pleasant surprise, to return from travels, and almost at once to meet such a charming sight." And Alice felt herself quickly being wrapped in a thick blanket, and a silver flask was slipped before her, and that same voice said softly, "Well, drink now. It's not honey water, there's no poison in it, but French brandy, a quality you're not ever heard of, as it is not sold outside of France for the time being." Alice took a small sip, and then another. A faintly soft, and warm taste, a little spicy, and tangy, and the warmth that came from the drink, it seemed to melt and take away the worst of the cold from the rain. Suddenly Alice felt light, and all her worries were very far away, as she glanced between her eyelashes at Royal Gardner, and met Royal Gardiner's appraising gaze caressing her, in slow tendernly knowing manner.
As always, Gardiner was smartly dressed in a light brown overcoat, and a dark waistcoat, and his mustache was impeccably waxed, but his face was narrow, and a little strained, and he had a cream-colored silk scarf around his neck, and, as always, a signet ring on his right hand.
A light scent of violet and some spice, perhaps nutmeg, wafted through car as it meandered through the streets of Kingsport. And with a light twist of his lips, Royal glanced at the slight, girlish form, of Alice sitting, so alluringly near him. She was huddled in a blanket, holding a worn bag, and two library books, of romantic poetry, Byron, and Shelley, firmly in her hands, the knuckles of her slender, graceful fingers, were quite white, and as he observed her girp slowly lessened, and she folded her hands into blanket. Shadows shrouded Alice's graceful features, and her large purple eyes darkened as the light hit them. Alice's hair was slightly curly, from the rain, and wrist thick braid, of golden hair, fell damply between the folds of the blanket. The rain was pouring and lashing the windows, and people on the street were running for shelter. Finally, when silence had lasted, well over the limit required by politeness, Royal spoke "Adeline told me you've been spending some Saturday afternoons at Gardiner Hall, with Di Blythe, having tea on the lawn, or some such thing. I hope Dorian has been a decent host. Have you, yet seen greenhouses. One in particular is quite, intimate, in certain conditions, all that humidity, and tropical greenery. You, would sparkle there, in the middle of lilies, and orchids, hothouse varieties of flowers all kinds, that Adeline grows there, there are also small tortoises there, well taken care of. My darling, I notice that you read poetry, it is suitable, for one, such as you, all creamy and golden. Gone are the days when I charmed women with poetry, but for you, I can certainly try. Here is a small verse from Wilde."
And your eyes, they were green and grey
Like an April day,
But lit into amethyst
When I stooped and kissed;
I remember your hair - did I tie it?
For it always ran riot -
Like a tangled sunbeam of gold
And the colour of your gown,
It was amber-brown,
And two yellow satin bows
From the shoulders rose.
Hearing Royal's words, Alice felt her features pale, and then flush, for momentarily Alice felt on her arms, not damp cotton, and rough blanket, but soft rustling silk, like autumn leaves on the surface of an icy stream, and around her neck the surprisingly heavy weight of a string of pearls.
In fullness of time the Ford drove in front of Primrose Hollow.
Young verdant May glowed everywhere, and soon after the final exams of the spring term, elaborate bouquets of flowers arrived at Primrose Hollow's door, all carefully selected from Gardiner's greenhouses.
One afternoon Nan said in a low voice in the living room, "Old-fashioned, but romantic, to court interest with flowers, though not exactly bouquets according to Victorian flower etiquette."
Alice, who was embroidering, in mauve-silken thread, yet another handkerchief, startled, and her fingers stopped in the middle of Hardy's verse, Across the spacious pathways stretching Spires of shadow run, And the wind-gnawed walls of ancient brick are fired vermilion, and she quickly left the room, leaving her embroidery unfinished. Di gave Nan a slightly reproachful look, Nan smiled and went to finish her most recent letter to Jerry.
To Alice her, little room, was haven from the turbulece of outside-world. There every item was, in its proper place. Small plain bed, with hand-made coverlet, writing desk, a jasmine-scented notes from Dorian, and pile of books, and notebooks, in front of a window, and a wardrobe, with a mirror. In her subconscious, Alice heard Irene Howard's honeyed whisper, "your clothes are so homespun"as she glanced at her wardrobe, cotton, wool, organza, and two silk dresses, shades of cream and gold, and a few shawls, and an embroidered scarf, and nightgowns, flimsy cotton, and flannel. Shivering, Alice closed her eyes, and twirled her rosary in her fingers, but the familiar, comforting, gesture did not bring comfort, this time. The warm gaslight glowed, in Dorian's letters, and in Walter's letters, as twilight came. Downstairs, Di was humming presbyterian hymns as she baked cookies for Walter. Nightingale was singing in the glowing garden, of Primrose Hollow.
Outside of Kingsport, in the shaded epolence of Gardiner Hall, Royal Gardiner was lounging, in languid, careless dandy style in the opal-green room, on the silken couch, and watching the glow of the setting sun's rays twinkling in a brandy glass. Dorothy Gardiner came to the threshold of the room, and looked at his brother's silent, brooding figure, the slight, restless tapping of manicured fingers.
Upstairs in his bluish room, by the walnut chest of drawers, Dorian, was dreamily gazing at the reddish sunset. He dropped inkpen from his fingers. Slowly stars lit up in the sky, and as he watched their glow, he wondered when, if ever, he would have courage to utter these words, that he had outlined, in his notebook. If only he had Walter's skill at tying words into pure fleeting mix of prose and poetry. Frustrated, he tore off the page, and threw it into a nearby basket, where there was quite a pile of crumpled papers.
To Guest –
I am extremely happy that you like this story so much.
Best wishes!