Episode 10

Mr. John Gatewood became the unexpected guest of the Berry family for nine days. He contracted pneumonia and despite efforts to cure him through hot soup and tea, he took a turn for the worse. The day after Thanksgiving the family physician was called in. He prescribed bed rest, a continuation of soup and tea and the sort of vapors Miss Eugenia had been given in prior weeks.

When recovered enough to engage in conversation, Miss Ophelia—who at her auntie’s urging took to nursing the guest—the conversation turned to literature.

“Sir, might I inquire if you have had the occasion to read American literature written by a female?” Phee sat in the chair nearest Mr. Gatewood’s bed. She had just given him a bowl of porridge which he deemed as “most delectable.”

“Miss Berry, though I am a teacher of English literature, I do venture into American books when reading personally. I have had the pleasure of borrowing a few volumes written by women, and of course, I am quite familiar with English female authors, Jane Austen being a particular favorite.”

“Goodness! You must be feeling better! Today, you are speaking in paragraphs while yesterday, you uttered only phrases!”

Phee sat back in her chair, amusement registering on her face, her upturned corners of her mouth giving her away.

“Miss Berry, perhaps the subject of literature sparked my elocutionary skills. Do you read often?”

Phee answered in the affirmative but told her patient of her most passion—that of reading her great-aunt’s unpublished tale aloud.

Mr. Gatewood set his bowl on the table nearby.

“Oh! I hope you will allow me to be part of an enthusiastic audience for such endeavors!”

“I do not expect my auntie would grant permission. It is an intensely private story.”

Mr. Gatewood’s napkin fell to the floor as he repositioned himself. Phee hastened to retrieve it just as the young instructor was engaged in the same objective. The two heads collided.

“Pardon me, Miss Berry! I am so very clumsy. Are you all right?”

“Of course, Mr. Gatewood. Perhaps we should notify each other when next maneuvering.”

The creases on the young teacher’s forehead faded as he weakly chuckled.

“That is unfortunate it is a private tale, Miss Berry, because I am quite intrigued! Although I have been unable to descend the stairs to meet Miss Eugenia, I can overhear her. She is very amusing!”

Phee stood, her mouth agape.

“Well, sir, if you can overhear her conversations, then I can manage for you to overhear my readings! I expect to resume the effort sometime today. We have had a pause.”

“A pause due to my infirmity, undoubtedly.”

“Partially true, Mr. Gatewood. But I did not expect to be reading on Thanksgiving. And afterward for a few days.”

Phee considered whether her charge could have audibly witnessed the numerous times the older relative nudged her niece to pay special attention to their guest. She concluded it was unlikely, because the “discussions” were always in low tones. She most sincerely desired that Mr. Gatewood did not ascertain the firm reluctance the niece possessed in doing so. Her efforts in being in Mr. Gatewood’s presence, caring for him, were only directed toward restoring his good health. Her reticence grew in proportion to the elderly spinster’s urging.

However, the prospect of gaining an outside opinion as to whether the tale should be published, say, posthumously, gave her impetus to read with proper diction and purpose. And volume.

Thus, when Phee volunteered to again take up the tale, she made a special effort in enticing her aunt’s permission to resume.

“Auntie,” she implored with saccharine inflection, “I come ready to continue on our tale.”

Miss Eugenia—now recovered enough to sit in her favorite wing chair, displacing her niece to a nearby oak straight chair—frowned.

“Ophelia, your duties to Mr. Gatewood will go neglected.”

“Auntie, the gentleman is sleeping, not to be disturbed. He has a bell to ring, should he be desirous.”

“Perhaps, then. I admit I look forward to you doing so. It has been ages since examining the tale. But…,” she paused to emphasize, “your agreement to hand me the journal when I feel you should cease reading still has application.”

With a nod from Phee, the young woman commenced after standing to lean against the doorframe, ensuring both an open door and clear pathway to the upper chambers.

Chief Half-Moon continued to pull me away from the staircase as though we were waltzing. He had one hand on my back, the other holding my wrist. The same position we found ourselves two weeks ago.

“I am always tripping when you are there to catch me,” I uttered before thinking. I was blushing, and I felt… strange.

The chief released me and stepped back, but not as far as a gentleman otherwise would. I had before noticed this about Natives. They stand close without realizing they might be offending, and when they back away, they feel no need for apology. We stood a moment without speaking, but it could have been an eternity.

“Let us go downstairs so we do not disturb my wife,” he said, without indication one way or another what he might be thinking.

Mr. McQueen, as I thought of him at that moment because he was exquisitely dressed as a gentleman, escorted me to the parlor. I realized I had not eaten and noted with disappointment the refreshments were gone.

“Supper will be served shortly,” he told me. Did he notice I was famished?

I needed to return home, but before I could ask for the coach to be brought around, Mr. McQueen interjected.

“I took the liberty of sending men to fetch your belongings and inform your family you will remain here a while.”

“I… do not understand,” I stammered, for I most certainly did not comprehend. Why did he think I would stay when we had not yet discussed the matter?

“You are the only person she has asked for,” he explained.

I shook my head in disbelief.

“How is that possible? We scarcely know each other as friends.”

“Mrs. McQueen long ago lost her mother, she never had sisters, and she has been without any female White acquaintance for four years. She always wished for a friend such as you.” He looked sorrowful. “I took her away from her world.”

A servant told us our food awaited us. As we walked to the dining chamber, I pondered how sad it must be to have no true confidante.

“What about Calming-Waters?”

Mr. McQueen chuckled as he held my chair out for me.

“Especially not Calming-Waters.” I must have looked astounded. He added, “I did not mean to imply they do not tolerate one another, only that they rarely encounter each other.”

How does that work? Zora in this large residence, Calming-Waters in a small cabin. I glanced around the room, taking in its grandeur.

“Mrs. McQueen’s father had this place built. He was not at all pleased with our marriage, but he could not turn his back on his only daughter. Besides, most of the family money came from the mother’s side. He knew he could spend what would become my wife’s inheritance and make it seem a generous gift.”

As they served the first course, I reflected on how Mr. McQueen was very forthcoming. If he felt comfortable with such a level of intimacy, I sensed I could venture further.

“If you will excuse some intrusion into your privacy, I was wondering how you two met? Was it at a mission school?”

“I believe,” he said between bites, “my wife should be the person to tell you.”

“Ophelia, that is enough for now. I am weary, and this part brings me sadness, even now.”

Phee wondered if Miss Eugenia, as an author, was so attached to her own work that she continued to empathize with each part. Or… Or, perhaps the tale is more true than she was letting on? She glanced at her aunt and thought she detected tears as the older woman gazed out the window as though in a sad, but beautiful dream.