Episode 19

Miss Eugenia peered out the window which faced the street. Her chambers ran the length of the home, and the front part was still grand for a home its size. A pocket door on the other side of Miss Eugenia's bed divided the chamber from the back room where Miss Martin stayed.

Two weeks earlier, Miss Martin was called back to her home state of Virginia to help settle her parents’ estate. It was unknown when she would return. In the interim, Miss Eugenia was faring better than anyone would have guessed.

Mr. Berry’s shock in seeing his aunt at the dinner table that evening was only rivaled by Phee’s conclusions.

“Father, I supposed it should not have surprised me; I have not been noticing much lately. But you have been seeming melancholic and I finally figured it out.”

Phee sat with her elbows on the table, chin upon her interlaced fingers.

Miss Eugenia could scarcely hide her irritation.

“Ophelia, I for one would like to know what you figured out. But I must insist you place your hands properly in your lap.” Turning to her nephew, she lectured, “Arthur, is this what it has come to in my absence, this lack of acceptable dining behavior?”

But Mr. Berry’s attention was undeterred. He, too, wished to know what was on Phee’s mind.

“It is her absence. Miss Martin not being here.” Phee’s triumphant gaze at her father was met with a blushing, downturned face.

“You…we have had her presence in our midst for four years now,” Phee announced in a revelatory manner. “She fits in like the stained glass window on the stair landing.”

“Interesting you believe so, Ophelia,” a mesmerized Miss Eugenia surmised. “Please elucidate.”

“Well, there is the obvious: she is, in all senses, a beauty. The kind you glance at, smile, think a moment about. Not a stunner, especially, but one who captures your attention. You don’t speak about her to others on a daily basis, but you are wistful, even longing, in her absence.”

The three dining companions paused to consider Miss Martin’s attributes. It had not occurred to any that she possessed anything of note. But as they thoughtfully reflected, each added an observation.

“Of course, there is much more to his lady than her refined looks,” began Phee. “It is just that I had not thought of her in that way—as someone worthy beyond what she offers us on a daily basis.” She paused. “Oh, I am not precisely articulating what I mean.”

Miss Eugenia placed her own elbows on the table, having given up all pretenses. “I believe you might be speaking to how we all have taken the dear Miss Martin for granted.”

“Exactly!” Phee nodded.

Mr. Arthur Berry shifted in his chair, glancing uneasily out the window, then back.

“Father, I believe you are smitten!”

“She, um, I…,” stammered Mr. Arthur Berry. The gentleman could bear it no longer. He arose, walked to the front vestibule where he grabbed his hat and coat, muttering he needed a walk.

When he opened the door, a brisk wind blew a letter onto the floor. Normally, Mr. Berry was the only occupant of the house to open the mail and distribute it accordingly. But the envelope was opened, its contents peeking out, simply begging to be read. Or so Phee reasoned.

“My dearest Mr. Berry,” Phee began.

“Dearest! See, Auntie, I was not wrong.”

Miss Eugenia held out her hand. “Give that to me, Ophelia. That obviously is private correspondence not meant for our gratification.”

“But Auntie, my father never divulges his feelings on any matter, and I suspect we will gain some insight.”

The spinster slowly lowered her outstretched arm as she considered the rationale.

“I want no part of this,” she stated.

Ophelia concluded she had just been given tacit permission to read the letter, but not in the presence of her auntie. She placed the missive in her apron pocket and offered her arm.

“Here, Auntie. Allow me to escort you to your chambers. I suspect you are exhausted after a full day of going hither and yon within the house, partaking in two meals. It has been years since you have done so!”

Once Phee got her great-aunt situated, she ascended to her room. There, she laid a fire in her fireplace and pulled her armchair toward the hearth as the flames grew to a height of about two feet. She lit a lantern on the nearby bedstand, took out the letter, and read:

My dearest Mr. Berry,

I have been up to my chin in the many activities associated with settling my father’s estate. I am sure you are familiar with might be involved.

What you probably do not know—as we have never discussed it—is that I am his only heir. He left an estate which has taken me quite by surprise. Once the house and farm are sold, I shall be well set for the entirety of my lifetime.

My father dictated a note to me saying he hoped I understood how he thought I should make my own way in the world. He believed doing so would build character, and about that, he is undoubtedly correct.

However, he alienated our mutual affection, cutting off all communication. For all I knew, he ran the farm into bankruptcy.

The opposite is true.

Let me progress to what I wish to say to you.

Your long-standing proposal to marry me provided me with a sense of security—no small matter in this confused world. I long thought your initial offer was one of gratitude for my services and a hope that I might care for you someday the way I have for your aunt.

In the past several months, I have seen how your eyes follow me as move from room to room, straightening and dusting. I have noted your smile when I place a quilt upon your dear aunt. I especially noticed your gaze when I hummed or sang, or when I quoted from a book or poem or Bible verse as I moved about.

Did you also notice the care I put into mending your coat or in ironing your shirts? Did you hear my hand linger on the other side of your chamber door before I descended the steps each night after checking on you and Miss Ophelia? Have you seen me brushing your daughter’s hair or straightening her room?

Phee put the letter down.

The three family members of the household appreciated Miss Martin but thought little more about her beyond assuming she would always serve them. Or was it only Phee who believed this?

She contemplated the glances exchanged between her father and Miss Martin. They seemed to communicate wordlessly with some kind of an understanding. Phee remembered, too, how her father’s hand lingered upon Miss Martin’s as she served him tea.

Of course! How could she not have realized?

Suddenly, Phee felt a sense of guilt. She quickly descended the steps, intent upon replacing the letter on the table where her father previously laid it. But as soon as she turned the corner into the library, her father awaited her.

“Ophelia,” he stated simply, “we have much to discuss.”