Marcia Talley - The Last Refuge

‘The price of priestly pederasty spreads far beyond the original victims. I read about some nuns in Los Angeles who were evicted from the convent they’d lived in for more than forty years so that the property could be sold.’

Amy shook her head. ‘I’m glad Mother Church is finally getting around to compensating victims of its pedophile priests, but the nuns weren’t exactly the guilty parties, were they?’

‘Where do you live?’ I asked as Amy knelt to shake the wrinkles out of my gown and arrange it more attractively over the petticoat.

‘Virginia Beach. A really nice neighborhood in Lynnhaven,’Amy continued. ‘Or so I thought. Then I started getting harassing phone calls. I can’t prove it, but I think they came from this hate group out in Topeka, Kansas that calls itself a church. “Thank God for dead soldiers” the voice would say. They told me that Drew was killed by an angry God and that whenever God saw fit to send him home in a body bag, they’d happily picket his funeral.’

I laid a hand on Amy’s shoulder. ‘I think I’m going to be ill.’

‘Tell me about it. I reported the calls to the police, of course, but they had other more pressing cases, so I had my phone changed to an unlisted number. When the son of a bitch called that, too, I simply had the landline taken out. Then someone vandalized my car. Two weeks later, my condo was broken into. Totally unrelated, I’m sure, but when my mother found out, she worried – you know mothers – called me three times a day from Nashua, New Hampshire, left messages on my cell, insisted I move back in with her, but… well, if you knew my mother, you’d understand why I preferred to run away to the eighteenth century!’ She paused, head cocked while she concentrated on hooking me into my stomacher. ‘There!’ She took several steps back, examining her work. ‘You look fabulous, but we have to do something about the hair.’

Over the summer I’d let my usual wash-and-wear, ash-brown curls grow out. By September they’d reached the length where I could, with some effort, scrape them into a short ponytail. Amy sat me at the dressing table, and by some legerdemain, swept my hair up in wings over my ears, using a hairbrush to coax the ends into a mass of mini-sausages at the back of my head. She topped off the do with a soft, lacy mob cap. Examining myself in the mirror, I had to agree with Amy’s assessment: I looked fabulous – for a grandmother of three wearing no makeup.

‘Where did you learn to do that?’ I asked.

Her reflection shrugged. ‘I have a little sister. I used to do it for her. French braids, mostly. Sue married a Mormon and moved out to St George, Utah.’

‘Whew!’ I said, patting my curls appreciatively. ‘I was afraid they’d want me to wear a wig.’

‘For the ball, yes.’

‘You think so?’

She nodded. ‘For sure. I overheard Jud talking to Derek about setting up a shoot at the wigmakers.’

‘As long as it’s not one of those mile-high creations with ribbons, feathers and live birds,’ I said.

Amy grinned. ‘They come with fleas, too. For lice, you pay extra.’

‘Euuuuw!’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Well, let’s hope the producers’ passion for historical accuracy doesn’t stretch that far.’

For a house with a dozen (or so) residents, it surprised me that only five were at breakfast that morning. Alex Mueller, the dancing master, wouldn’t be joining us until later in the day, I learned, so it was just me at one end of the table and Jack at the other, with Melody and her brother sitting on the side facing the windows opposite Michael Rainey, their tutor. And the cameraman, of course. Derek (or was it Chad?) who was standing as inconspicuously as possible next to the buffet like a black, brooding potted plant, filming us as we ate breakfast.

When I finally managed to arrange my skirts, underskirts and hoops in such a way that I could actually sit down in my chair, Jack offered a quick blessing of the ‘Oh, Lord we just…’ persuasion and I was about to open my mouth to say that we were supposed to be Anglican, thank you very much, saying graces from the Book of Common Prayer circa 1662 such as, Give us grateful hearts, O Father, for all thy mercies, and make us mindful of the needs of others; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen , when French appeared with the scrambled eggs, hominy, fried potatoes and onions – followed by, bless her, cups of rich, dark coffee that brightened my whole day. I hoped Amy and the others were eating just as well down in the kitchen.

I was helping myself to another spoonful of eggs from a covered bowl when someone began knocking at the front door, the sound of the brass knocker echoing sharply through the house. A few minutes later, a man I hadn’t met before, dressed in a plain dark suit with gold braid, entered the dining room, carrying a silver tray. ‘No reply required, sir,’ the man said, holding the tray out in front of Jack. On the tray sat a piece of parchment-colored paper that from my vantage point, looked to be folded in fourths and sealed with a blob of red wax. Jack scooped up the message and said, ‘Thank you, Jeffrey. You may go.’

While Jeffrey was busy bowing theatrically and backing out of the room, I said, ‘Mr Donovan, may I ask why I’ve never met that individual?’

‘What did you say?’

I’d forgotten about the missing hearing aids, so I repeated the question, only a little louder.

‘He’s my valet.’ Jack picked up his table knife and used it to pry up the seal and unfold the paper.

While Jack was engrossed in reading his correspondence, I leaned in Michael’s direction and whispered, ‘Why haven’t I seen him before?’

‘That’s Jeff Wiley. From Colorado. He was in Williamsburg early on, but came back to Annapolis before the rest of us to help get the house ready. His room is on the third floor of the main house, next to French’s.’ Michael pointed at the ceiling.

‘Oh,’ I whispered back. ‘I didn’t recognize him. In the photo they gave me, Jeff had a mustache.’

‘Shaved it off.’ Michael nodded knowingly. ‘Tragic. A casualty of learning how to use a straight razor.’

I smothered a laugh with my napkin.

‘So, that’s how it’s going to work,’ Jack muttered from the opposite end of the table.

Melody looked up from her plate where she’d been rearranging her fried potatoes, constructing little mounds. ‘How’s what going to work, Father?’

‘Attention, everyone!’ Jack waited until all eyes were turned in his direction, then addressed me directly. ‘Mrs Ives, this message is signed by “Founding Father,” who informs me that the new styles from France are in at the dressmaker’s in Cornhill Street. You and Melody are to be measured for a gown at eleven o’clock this morning. You’re to take your maid with you.’

Melody’s fork clattered to her plate. ‘I’m going to have a gown made? Awesome!’

By ‘maid’ I presumed he meant Amy. I also presumed this meant the whole expedition would be recorded by Derek and/or Chad, one of whom had just sidled around to Jack’s end of the table, all the better to zoom in on my smiling face as I said, ‘I’d be delighted, sir.’

‘How about Melody’s schooling, sir?’ Michael asked. ‘She’s to be starting Greek at ten.’

Melody frowned. ‘Greek? Oh. My. Boring. God!’

Donovan scowled at his daughter, then waved a languid, lace-trimmed sleeve. ‘Get her started on her Greek then, Rainey, but missing an hour or so of lessons isn’t going to hurt her.’

Melody pressed her pudgy hands together and beamed.

And so, on the instructions of Founding Father, our first outing began. I wore my green, Amy her blue, and Melody turned up wearing a gown of softest gray. We’d tied broad-brimmed straw hats over our mob caps, of course, and pulled gloves over our hands so no neighborhood gossips could titter over their teacups that we were ‘no better than they should be.’ We strolled down the narrow sidewalk, single-file (how else?) with Chad, the cameraman trotting along behind.