Annie Proulx - Barkskins

“Sir,” said James, “sir…”

• • •

His head aching fiercely and his throat a raw ribbon of fire, he took to his bed at the Pine Tree for the next four days and lay swooning and dreaming of the delights that lay before him. He would move to the house as soon as he was well, and then pay a call on the Winthrop Brandons and thank Mistress Brandon properly with a gift. But he was embarrassed to have been pulled from the water by a woman. He should have saved her. And should he wait until the Trumbulls’ dinner party or immediately pay a call on Cousin Freegrace Duke, who certainly knew of James’s unexpected fortune? No doubt he would try to wheedle it away to himself and the other Dukes or at least to the failing business coffers, for the gang of backwoodsmen had likely put the company in disarray. Perhaps Sedley Duke had been the white sheep in a black flock.

• • •

He directed the hired coachman to his father’s — now his — house. They rolled up a curved drive to a house of rosy brick with a black lacquer door set off by pedimented windows. He counted eight smoking chimneys. A grey-haired woman wearing a grey linsey-woolsey dress opened the door and her eyes widened as she took him in. She curtsied and said, in a welcome English voice, that she was Mrs. Tubjoy, “Mr. Sedley’s housekeeper, sir. And now in your service. We all welcome you.”

As he stepped into the entrance hall he was dashed into his childhood as though seated on a swing that someone had suddenly given a great shove. He knew every inch of this place. There was the complex mahogany staircase rising into the dim upper hall, there a gleaming carpet rod and there — there — the terrible hall stand, ten feet high, intensely authoritarian. This piece of furniture with its blotched looking glass, its hat hooks and cloak holders was the ceremonial guard of the house. Every day when Sedley came home he had placed his umbrella in the crooked holder, hung his tall black hat on the hook, his greatcoat on another and, divested of his city exterior, passed into the world of “home.” He went into his library and drank whiskey until the housemaid rang the bell for dinner. Young James and Sedley sat at opposite ends of the sixteen-foot table with never a word spoken. He shook the memory loose.

In the hall behind Mrs. Tubjoy stood half a dozen servants. He caught vainly at their names; the beardless grinning boy was Tom, the cook, Louisa. Two men brought his trunk and Captain Gunn’s small table into the hall. Mrs. Tubjoy said, “I am sure you wish to see the house, and after a little refreshment, rest until dinner? Follow me, sir, if you please.

“Perhaps you will wish to take your late father’s room, Mr. James?” she asked, opening a heavy mahogany door. The room was large, the windows were large and gave a view of great-trunked oaks.

Mrs. Tubjoy said, “Forgive my familiarity, Mr. James, but you strongly resemble my late employer.”

“Yes, Mr. Trumbull said so as well. But I cannot help it. I never saw the late Mr. Duke — my father — from the time I was a boy. So I did not know of the resemblance.” The monstrous bed was mahogany with a fringed green canopy, the posts carved into dolphins and mermaids. He detected a faded scent of cigar smoke, wool, leather polish and horsiness. As he leaned over the bed to examine the monogram on the pillow slip, another smell, altogether rancid and disgusting, rose from the mattress.

“Those coiled hair mattresses must be changed every few years,” said Mrs. Tubjoy, seeing his flared nostrils.

“I am happy you mention this, Mrs. Tubjoy,” he said. “Shall we not have all the old mattresses burned and replace them with best new?”

On the third floor they entered a room he liked immediately. It was moderate in size but with a large fireplace. In front of the fireplace stood two companionable wing chairs upholstered in faded red brocade. He admired the sun-softened color and suddenly remembered the table with the ivory inlaid ship that Captain Gunn had grudged him.

“Mrs. Tubjoy, could the boy bring my small table in the entryway up at once?”

“Of course. I’ll see to it,” she said and she glided from the room and down the stairs, grey and silent.

• • •

Alone, he examined the room. The furnishings were of rosewood rather than mahogany, and the bed had plain posts; there was neither canopy nor carved dolphins. He liked the brilliant turkey carpets on the floor and opened a small cabinet — it was empty, and he liked the emptiness. Above the washstand hung a large and slightly clouded mirror and he saw himself in it, the dimmed image of a man who appeared resolute, strong, with no sign that he was unworthy. The windows looked out over the oaks toward a shining strip of sea invisible from his father’s room.

He heard them on the stairs. Mrs. Tubjoy came in, followed by the grinning Tom lugging the table and seeming somewhat strained although the table was small. Of course ebony was heavy, ivory was heavy.

“Put it there,” said James to the boy, who stood breathing heavily and gripping the table with white fingers. He pointed to the space before the fireplace and between the wing chairs. The table was correct. This would be his room.

A visit to the stables was a heady experience. He had his choice of a barouche or a sporty gig, and Billy, the fat-cheeked stableboy, said there were four other vehicles in the carriage house including a green sleigh and a very pretty coach. It was a sunny day; he chose the barouche, finished in grey enamel with silver fittings. Billy said, “Mr. Sedley bought the greys special for this carriage,” and began to harness them. The coachman, Will Thing, came in, stuffing his arms into his livery jacket. He was garrulous and obsequious, sprinkling yes sirs around as though casting handfuls of seed on new-raked soil.

Out on the high road he pointed out landmarks and distinguished points, the establishments and houses of leading merchants and men of account. He moved on to the likes and dislikes of Mr. Sedley, and so James came to know his father through the impressions of his coachman.

• • •

The Winthrop Brandons lived in a small cottage in Williams Court near two taverns and a devotional bookshop. There was no room for the barouche to stand and Will Thing said he would wait in the yard of the Liberty Cod across the way.

As James walked up the tramped earth path to the door, in his hands his present of a silver dish (wrapped in a length of muslin) for Mistress Brandon, he heard unlikely sounds inside the house: meaty thumps and a shrill cry.

“Kind Jesus, he is beating her!” He stopped on the bottom step and stood irresolute: should he leave and come another time, or knock on the door and perhaps engage with an enraged husband in the flower of fury? Was it not his responsibility to save the woman who had saved him? It was, and he knocked very briskly. There was a hoarse shriek. He knocked again. The house went silent. After long minutes, just as he was turning away, the door opened and Mistress Brandon stood on the sill, somewhat breathless and with heaving bosom.

“Mr. Duke! What a pleasure. Come in, do come in, please.”

He looked at her but could see no signs of ill use beyond her rapid breathing and a disarranged black curl in front of one ear. The pupils of her beautiful eyes were dilated. He followed her into a disheveled sitting room, where opened books covered an octagonal table. There was a sideboard choked with pewter, five doors and a row of sunny windows.

“Mr. Duke, will you not take tea?”

“I would very much like to do so,” he said, resting his gift on a pine chair with a broken rung.

“I will just be a moment. We keep no servant so I prepare everything myself.” She strode out of the room and he sat looking about him. The bookcase, behind its glass-fronted doors, carried the collected expository discourses of many scribbling preachers. He looked at several of the open pages of the books heaped on the octagonal table. All were sermons, and a half-filled sheet of foolscap, pen and ink indicated that the master of the house, Reverend Brandon, was cribbing up filler for his coming sermon. James heard faint sounds in the distance: the rattling of a stove lid, a clinking sound and nearby, a very discreet low moan. He went to the window and looked out, was about to sit down again when there was a slithering sound behind one of the doors. He turned. The door was ajar and through the gap he saw the raw, wet face of a man of about forty, fair hair matted and sweaty, who muttered something between bleeding lips, then, at the jangle of the approaching tea tray, darted away.