went off and had an affair with a man.”
“You seem to know the story. Is it as ordinary as all that?”
“Not a bit. One doesn’t need to be a detective to guess the next step as you tell it. You’ve just kept it a secret so long.”
“It was such a daring plot, you see. I didn’t ever want to wreck the magic of that scene by telling anyone. It succeeded beyond my wildest hopes.”
“You planned it.”
“Of course. She was very clear about not wanting the baby, as she had been clear about having it. A rarely honest woman, for that time. She adored the child, but recognized her impatience, her lack of desire to be a mother, let alone a single mother. She had never told the father she was pregnant; she never told me who he was. I keep saying how different it all was in those days: you have to remember that.
“Caroline was a magic child; that made the plot easier. One of those children who are friendly, open, who greet all the world with delight. I made excuses to visit the country house alone; it wasn’t hard. I had work to do, and my husband knew the summer with the children here and guests was not an easy time for intense work. Caroline was brought here secretly, for a short time each day; I played with her. A game. I was in the house; Caroline was put down by the bushes, and she came toward the house to find me. It’s simple, isn’t it, when you know?”
“Did your husband know?” Kate asked.
“No. I was terribly tempted to tell him, but it was clear he would play his part better if he didn’t know it was a part. His being off the scene was just chance; I didn’t plan that.”
Kate thought about it awhile. “And your friend,” she finally asked, “what became of her?”
“She died. In some freak accident–it was horrible. I heard only later, by chance. All the time she was here with the child, she never melted, never said anything meaningful beyond ‘Help me’ in the beginning, and, just before the end, ‘Goodbye.’ She crept off through the woods as Caroline moved toward the twins.”
“Your plot worked more perfectly than most plots. Like magic.”
“Just like magic. I didn’t even know the Rayleys would be reached immediately that day, would come so soon. That afternoon’s legend has always seemed to me to have some of the qualities of a Homeric hymn. But before and after the afternoon, that’s the sorrow. We never made it up; she never forgave me.”
Kate could find nothing to say except “There’s Caroline.”
“Yes,” Henrietta answered. “And she’s your friend. Neither of you is my friend.”
“That can always change,” Kate said. “Maybe this time, you’ll find the words to change all that.”
“Don’t tell Caroline,” Henrietta said. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“No,” Kate said. “But I shall be breaking a promise to Caroline. I promised to tell her if there was ever an answer. Perhaps one day you will let me keep that promise, or you will keep it for me.”
“Perhaps. But there are no parents for Caroline to find.”
“There is a friendship between two women when thatwas rare enough. And there is the magic afternoon. That’s more than most of us begin with.”
Henrietta only shook her head. And after a time, she went to bed, leaving Kate by the fire. In the morning, before Kate left, Henrietta spoke cheerfully of other things. The sun was not yet bright on the lawn as Kate drove away.
A RRIE AND J ASPER
M Y aunt Kate Fansler doesn’t care for children. I’m her niece, but I never really got to know her till we ran into each other when I was a student at Harvard. It’s true my cousin Leo spent a summer with her, and lived with her a year or so when he was in high school, but he wasn’t really a child in high school, and during that summer she had a hired companion for him and sent him to day camp besides. Kate Fansler always refused to become defensive about this. “I don’t much like children,” she admitted. “I know it’s an
“You seem to know the story. Is it as ordinary as all that?”
“Not a bit. One doesn’t need to be a detective to guess the next step as you tell it. You’ve just kept it a secret so long.”
“It was such a daring plot, you see. I didn’t ever want to wreck the magic of that scene by telling anyone. It succeeded beyond my wildest hopes.”
“You planned it.”
“Of course. She was very clear about not wanting the baby, as she had been clear about having it. A rarely honest woman, for that time. She adored the child, but recognized her impatience, her lack of desire to be a mother, let alone a single mother. She had never told the father she was pregnant; she never told me who he was. I keep saying how different it all was in those days: you have to remember that.
“Caroline was a magic child; that made the plot easier. One of those children who are friendly, open, who greet all the world with delight. I made excuses to visit the country house alone; it wasn’t hard. I had work to do, and my husband knew the summer with the children here and guests was not an easy time for intense work. Caroline was brought here secretly, for a short time each day; I played with her. A game. I was in the house; Caroline was put down by the bushes, and she came toward the house to find me. It’s simple, isn’t it, when you know?”
“Did your husband know?” Kate asked.
“No. I was terribly tempted to tell him, but it was clear he would play his part better if he didn’t know it was a part. His being off the scene was just chance; I didn’t plan that.”
Kate thought about it awhile. “And your friend,” she finally asked, “what became of her?”
“She died. In some freak accident–it was horrible. I heard only later, by chance. All the time she was here with the child, she never melted, never said anything meaningful beyond ‘Help me’ in the beginning, and, just before the end, ‘Goodbye.’ She crept off through the woods as Caroline moved toward the twins.”
“Your plot worked more perfectly than most plots. Like magic.”
“Just like magic. I didn’t even know the Rayleys would be reached immediately that day, would come so soon. That afternoon’s legend has always seemed to me to have some of the qualities of a Homeric hymn. But before and after the afternoon, that’s the sorrow. We never made it up; she never forgave me.”
Kate could find nothing to say except “There’s Caroline.”
“Yes,” Henrietta answered. “And she’s your friend. Neither of you is my friend.”
“That can always change,” Kate said. “Maybe this time, you’ll find the words to change all that.”
“Don’t tell Caroline,” Henrietta said. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“No,” Kate said. “But I shall be breaking a promise to Caroline. I promised to tell her if there was ever an answer. Perhaps one day you will let me keep that promise, or you will keep it for me.”
“Perhaps. But there are no parents for Caroline to find.”
“There is a friendship between two women when thatwas rare enough. And there is the magic afternoon. That’s more than most of us begin with.”
Henrietta only shook her head. And after a time, she went to bed, leaving Kate by the fire. In the morning, before Kate left, Henrietta spoke cheerfully of other things. The sun was not yet bright on the lawn as Kate drove away.
A RRIE AND J ASPER
M Y aunt Kate Fansler doesn’t care for children. I’m her niece, but I never really got to know her till we ran into each other when I was a student at Harvard. It’s true my cousin Leo spent a summer with her, and lived with her a year or so when he was in high school, but he wasn’t really a child in high school, and during that summer she had a hired companion for him and sent him to day camp besides. Kate Fansler always refused to become defensive about this. “I don’t much like children,” she admitted. “I know it’s an
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