3. Peter
3
PETER
I ’d not thought much about Betsy’s new friend or what she would be like. Mother had written simply that my little sister had a wonderful new roommate at school and she would be joining us for the Thanksgiving weekend. Thus, I was not prepared for my reaction to meeting Mireille Perrin for the first time. Enchanted. That was the word that echoed through my mind that first day. Mireille enchanted me.
I’d never understood what it meant to hang on someone’s every word or notice each small, nuanced expression pass over someone’s face. After an hour or two with Mireille, I grasped the concept perfectly.
I dismissed my infatuation as merely that. She was a beautiful girl. A sparkling, intelligent girl with the prettiest eyes I’d ever seen—thick-lashed and the color of dark honey.
That first afternoon, after introductions to my mother and father, Betsy and Mireille went upstairs to unpack. Snow had continued to fall, big fat flakes that at one time, years ago, Betsy and I would have been obsessed with capturing on our tongues. Today, though, I was content to watch how it slowly covered the grounds of our estate.
As I stood at the window, my mother came to my side, reaching up to touch her cold fingers to my cheek. “Darling, tell me how you are.”
Lenora Westbrook had been the debutante of her season back when my father had been lucky enough to capture her heart. Twenty-one years later, she was as lovely as ever. My sister and I took after her, fair-haired and blue-eyed, tall and athletic. However, Mother and I shared a similar disposition, quiet, serene even. More comfortable listening instead of talking. Father and Betsy were the social ones, outgoing and clever.
And there was George, of course. He was like my brother, and I loved him. Sometimes, though, I wished I could be more like him. Occasionally, a dart of envy would sour my stomach. Not for long. My admiration and affection for him outweighed my occasional jealousy. It was just that George was so articulate. Words came easily, and witty remarks rolled off his tongue. People were drawn to him, like honeybees to succulent flowers. A single taste of his sweetness, his life-giving nectar, and it was all one wanted. I’d seen it play out a dozen times. Every girl we’d ever met had fallen for him. Each of them had thought she was the special one, but he soon grew distracted, his gaze wandering to the next unfortunate soul. It was as if he had to keep moving for fear the sadness would pull him permanently into the darkness.
But I don’t mean to say that George was careless. Not with the people he truly loved. If he loved you, he would do whatever he could to protect you from harm. There wasn’t an underdog at school who hadn’t benefited from George’s good heart. He simply couldn’t stand to see anyone left out or left behind.
When it came to Betsy and me, George loved us and always would. He would have done anything for us. We knew that and thus forgave him for his romantic indiscretions. He was our brother. Family.
My mother and father adored him, too. Sometimes, I would catch my mother staring at him with a wistful longing on her pretty face, and I could feel the heaviness in her heart as if it were my own. George looked like his mother, my mother’s best friend in the world. Mother never talked about it, but I knew how deeply she missed Bernadette. Bernie. They’d been friends for as long as either of them could remember. Long before, Bernie and George’s father were killed in an accident.
That terrible day remained fresh in my mind, as did the ones that followed. A cold, dark day with a sad funeral in the morning and another in the afternoon. Poor George, sixteen years old and not yet a man. Ill-prepared to say goodbye to the people he loved most in the world. Still, he kept a brave front, his even features stoic and his eyes dry. Perhaps it was only I who noticed the differences in him. The way his hands trembled slightly all that unimaginable afternoon and for weeks after, or the bitter clench of his jaw as if to keep whatever grief wanted to escape deep inside.
After his parents’ death, the only thing to do was bring him into our own home. Mother would not have accepted any other solution. An elderly aunt had offered to take him, but my mother was having none of that. He would live with us. She would finish raising him right alongside Betsy and me. Fortunately, George’s father had laid it out in their will. Should anything happen to them, George was to live with us.
George Sr. had left George a substantial estate that would become his on the day he turned twenty-one. Until then, he was ours. My father paid for his education and all his expenses, just as he did for Betsy and me.
Mother and Bernie’s relationship had come to mind today when I watched Betsy and Mireille giggling together as they scurried upstairs. I couldn’t help but think what a gift it would be—having such easy access to the contours of one’s own heart that there was no need to hide anything.
“I’m well,” I said to Mother. “It’s nice to be home.”
“You look thin. Have you been eating enough?”
She asked me this question every time I came home, and the answer was always the same. “I’m eating fine. But nothing’s like home-cooked meals.” By home-cooked, I meant made by Mrs. Burns, our longtime housekeeper. Mrs. Burns, who ran our household with precision and efficiency, had been with our family since before I was born.
“And how’s George, do you think?” Mother asked.
Another of her common questions upon my return home from school. I felt certain she didn’t ask George about me. But how could I mind? George was an orphan, and my mother had promised Bernie she would look after him.
And anyway, that was George. No woman was immune to his charms.
“George seems the same,” I said. “That says, who knows what’s really afoot under all that good cheer?”
Mother raised one eyebrow, studying me, looking for cracks in my placid demeanor that would indicate a hurt of some kind. But I kept it hidden from her, from everyone, that at times, George’s light made me feel invisible, even to my own mother. My father seemed equally enamored with him, often commenting on what a fine business mind George had and how suited he was for this capitalistic world. I was never certain if his praise of George meant that he found his son lacking in these ways. He had never referred to me with such words of praise. In fact, I had the distinct feeling I disappointed him. The way his eyes lingered on me when he didn’t think I knew he was watching me, with a slight downturn at the corners of his mouth.
During those times, I wanted to look over at him—directly in the eye—and ask, “What is it, Father, that I have done or not done that would evoke such feelings?” Of course, I didn’t. Peter Westbrook would never ask such a thing. My job was to fade into the background, like a wallflower at a country dance, tolerated but not celebrated. I would not be following my father into business. Instead, I would use my unique skills in the art of observation as a journalist, where my attention to detail would be an asset.
My sister, on the other hand, never made me feel second-best. Not even to George. She showered her affection upon me with such abandon that it was impossible to feel anything but loved. Oh, the way she looked at me as if I had hung the moon and stars. It was a grand affair to be a big brother. A prince in someone’s eyes. From the time she could talk and walk, she’d followed me around, begging for my attention. I gave it to her freely.
Betsy and Mireille arrived in the parlor, having changed out of their traveling clothes and into trousers and sweaters. Mother clucked her tongue at the sight of their attire but didn’t say anything further. She’d long ago given up trying to tame my sister into the perfect lady.
“We’re going out to walk the grounds,” Betsy said. “I want to show her the stables and the horses before the snow gets too deep.”
“Would you like to join us?” Mireille asked me.
Before I could answer, George bounded into the room as if summoned. He really did have perfect timing.
“I’d love to,” George said.
“She asked me,” I said, nudging him in the ribs with my elbow.
George made a face as if deeply wounded.
“You may come too,” Mireille said, flushing.
Another woman down. Charmed by George Winchester.
Ah, well, what else could I expect?
Betsy and George walked a few feet ahead of Mireille and me as we strolled across the crunchy grass toward our stables. What did Mireille see and think about the estate my father had bought after making his fortune? From her shabby coat and shoes, I suspected she came from modest means. Did it seem aspirational or intimidating?
“Are you enjoying your time with us thus far?” I asked, tugging a cigarette from the carton in my jacket pocket.
“It’s lovelier than Betsy described.” Mireille wore a red cap she’d borrowed from my sister. Tugged over her forehead, with her brown curls pressed into her neck and lovely hazel eyes, she looked like something from a postcard advertising the benefits of country living. “My home in France is very beautiful but old. Not like this. What would you call this kind of architecture?”
I glanced behind us at the Georgian Revival-style mansion with its symmetrical redbrick facades, white columns, and elegant, multipaned windows. “Georgian Revival. The columns give it away.”
“It’s lovely. We’re all stone and rock,” Mireille said.
“Is it hard to be so far away from home?” I asked.
“Yes. I miss my family. However, they felt they had no choice but to send me here.”
“What were they afraid of?” I asked. “Other than war.”
“My paternal grandmother was Jewish. Which makes my father and me Jewish.”
I jolted, shocked. No wonder they’d sent her here.
“Will you think less of me now?” Mireille asked.
“My God, no. I’m not an anti-Semite if that’s what you mean.”
“It is.”
“There are people here who are, though,” I said. “Which helps them ignore what’s happening overseas.”
“I’ve kept it a secret at school. For that reason. Except for Betsy, of course. She knows absolutely everything there is to know about me.”
“Lucky her.” I had a lot of opinions about what was happening in Europe and how much it challenged the notion of a peaceful world, but I found most people had no interest in hearing what I thought. My mother had told me when I was a boy that most people didn’t think as deeply as I did about things. She said I should be proud of my intellect but have realistic expectations that others would be as interested as I am in politics or literature. It was fine. I had Betsy. She always listened to me, no matter the subject.
We continued to walk across our manicured lawn, bordered by tall hedges and clusters of mature oaks and maples. I pointed to the east. “My mother’s beloved rose garden is there. Would you like to see it?”
“I’d love to.”
We’d fallen farther behind Betsy and George, who appeared to be good-naturedly arguing about something. I offered my arm to Mireille, and we walked over the stone pathway that wove through the lawn, leading to a central fountain that sparkled with cascading water and the rose garden just beyond. This time of year, the bushes had taken on a stark, dormant appearance, reduced to a framework of bare, woody stems ranging in color from gray-brown to reddish hues.
I opened the gate for her, and she stepped inside. “We have to keep the deer out. They enjoy a good rosebud if they can get one.”
Mireille withdrew her arm from mine and bent over to inspect a particular gnarled and thorny bush, still bearing remnants of dried leaves and blackened hips, its branches lightly dusted with glistening frost crystals. “Have you ever seen anything more beautiful? The way the light reflects?”
I hadn’t. But I wasn’t thinking of the rosebush.
“They remind me of our cabernet grapes,” Mireille said. “In the winter, their woody branches twist and tangle around our trellises. My father prefers the months when he can see the grapes growing and ripening, but I’ve always found them equally lovely during winter. When I was a child, I’d stare down at the tiny, dormant buds nestled against the stems, amazed they held the promise of new growth when they seemed almost dead. Isn’t it remarkable if you think about it? Something can look like this in winter and so lush in the spring and summer? The capacity to bloom, even after the harshest of winters?”
“I think about that all the time,” I said. “Not just shrubs and trees, but people too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Humans have a great capacity for enduring grief and tragedy only to find themselves reborn, ready to try again.”
“Do you speak of someone in particular?” Mireille asked.
“Perhaps George.”
“Yes, George. It must have been a hard time for him. I can’t imagine anything worse than losing both parents.”
“He’s resilient, no doubt. I’ve admired his spirit over the years. The way he just got on with life.”
“He may seem so to others, but inside, he hurts.” She tapped just above her chest. “Yet he’s been blessed—invited to be part of your family.”
“My mother would not have had it any other way. Bernie was her dearest friend, like a sister.”
“Yes, Betsy told me. She told me many things about all of you. I love to hear all her stories. As an only child, it’s fun to live vicariously through her.”
“I hope she hasn’t bored you.”
“Oh no. She tells everything in such vivid detail, too. Have you noticed that about her?”
“I have. She has a great capacity for remembering details about people.”
Her face lit up. “Yes, I’ve thought that many times. She never forgets anything anyone tells her. I find it remarkable.”
“Maybe it will be her who becomes the writer instead of me,” I said.
“I don’t think newspaper writing would suit her. Not enough heart. Too many facts without color or emotion.”
I laughed, in full agreement. “Yes, perhaps she would write fiction if she were to choose writing.”
“Do you dream of writing for one of the large newspapers? Travel the world?”
“I would like to, yes. We’ll see where life takes me, but that’s the plan. I’m the editor of our college newspaper now. I hope that will lead to something after I’ve graduated.”
“Betsy thinks so.”
“She’s biased.”
“She adores you.”
“And I her.”
We left the rose garden, passing by our tennis courts, flanked by wrought iron fencing. In the warm months, the courts were shaded by pergolas draped in climbing wisteria, where spectators could lounge on wooden benches beneath the dappled sunlight. Now, however, the wisteria had a skeletal appearance, having shed its vibrant leaves and flowers and leaving behind only its wood framework.
I showed her the seed pods that remained on the vines through the winter. The pods were long, flat, and velvety, hanging like ornaments. “They gradually dry and sometimes even burst open on warmer winter days. If this happens, the seeds make a loud popping sound when released. Betsy and I used to sit out here and wait for them to pop, but rarely was our time right.”
“It’s a theme, then, no?” Mireille asked. “All these dormant bushes, waiting to bloom, yet so beautiful.”
Delighted, I simply nodded.
We walked toward our horse stables, a long, U-shaped structure of whitewashed wood with green shutters. When we reached the door, I held it open, inviting Mireille inside. “This is one of my favorite places in the world,” I said.
The stables smelled of fresh hay and leather, with a faint tang of manure that couldn’t quite be scrubbed away no matter how hard the stable hands worked. Mireille wrinkled her nose when we stepped inside, but she smiled, tugging at her cap.
“Does the smell bother you?” I asked.
“Not at all. But it’s strangely specific, isn’t it?”
“The smell of home. For me, anyway. The stables were where I spent a lot of my childhood. Our stable hands probably grew weary of my presence, but I couldn’t get enough.”
We strolled past the first row of stalls, the wooden doors polished to a rich, dark gleam. A chestnut Thoroughbred stretched his neck over the half door, and his ears pricked forward in curiosity. I stopped and scratched the smooth patch between his eyes.
“This here is Apollo,” I said. “Fast as the wind when he feels like it, but a bit of a diva. He prefers carrots over apples and refuses to run if he doesn’t get his oats exactly how he likes them.”
Mireille chuckled, reaching out tentatively to touch his nose. “Does he win races?”
“No, he’s fast, but not that fast.”
Farther down, a pair of gray draft horses stood side by side in their spacious stall, their massive heads turning as we approached. “These are Jennie and Jasper—Belgian draft horses. In the past, when there were carriages, you might see these two pulling one. Jennie and Jasper do work around the gardens, helping our gardeners plow and till and carry heavy loads.”
“They’re enormous,” Mireille said, wide-eyed.
“They’re strong. Gentle giants, though. Jennie likes to nuzzle, so watch your hat.”
As if on cue, Jennie leaned over and nudged Mireille’s shoulder, her warm breath making Mireille laugh.
What a laugh it was, too. A bubbly sound that warmed my belly.
We moved on, and I pointed to a sleek black Arabian with a high-set tail that flicked lazily as he shifted his weight. “This one is Prince. He’s as regal as his name suggests, but don’t let him fool you—he’s spoiled rotten. He’ll only let Betsy ride him.”
“Why only Betsy?” Mireille asked, tilting her head.
“She’s the only one patient enough to put up with his moods.”
“She might say that about rooming with me,” Mireille said. “With my bouts of homesickness.”
I hesitated for a moment, thinking of what courage it must have taken to come all the way across an ocean and live with strangers. “You’ve been brave—coming here alone.”
She glanced up at me, tilting her head. “Not really brave. I just did what I had to do, like everyone else. If it were up to me, I would have remained with my parents.”
“It was a great sacrifice for all of you. Hopefully, one that will prove to be good in the end.”
“I hope so, too. It would be sad to think all of this was for naught.” She glanced over at me, worry in her eyes. “The war’s inevitable, I think. Do you?”
Surprised by her question, I nodded. “From my understanding of the situation in Germany, I would say that it is, unfortunately. They were left devastated after the Great War.”
“It’s terrifying. Thinking of our home and all the people who work for us at the vineyard. If Hitler were to invade, my father will enlist. Mama will have to stay alone and try to keep the vineyard afloat. We barely made it the last few years. This can only make it worse. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever see my home again.”
“I’m sorry. I wish there was something to be done,” I said.
“I’ve never prayed so much in my life.”
I chuckled. “Mother would approve.”
We stopped at the last stall, where a pony with a chestnut coat and a thick, unruly mane looked up from his feed. “This is Pippin. Our resident troublemaker. He reminds me of George. As a matter of fact, he has a habit of sneaking out of his paddock. I think he fancies himself an escape artist. It’s not surprising that George and Pippin prefer each other.”
“Pippin, you naughty thing.” She stroked his nose. “How do they get their names?”
“Usually, Betsy.”
“I don’t know anything about horses, but he is fine, isn’t he?” She rested her hand on Pippin’s stall door and smiled at him. “Escape artist or not.”
“He’s a beautiful creature,” I said.
Next, I introduced her to Marigold. “Marigold’s a Morgan, which are known for being eager to please. She’s good for a beginner rider.” I stroked Marigold’s chestnut-hued nose. She nuzzled me in return. “This girl’s the sweetest of all our horses. I’ve always had a soft spot for her.”
“I love her coloring,” Mireille said.
Marigold was mostly chestnut but had a lighter tail and mane that was more the color of butterscotch.
“If you would like to ride, Marigold would be a great choice for you. Would you like to go out tomorrow? I could give you a lesson. Marigold will be patient and gentle.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I might be too afraid.”
“I’ll wager a guess there’s not much you’re afraid of. Anyway, I’d be there with you the whole time.”
“You’re wrong. I’m afraid of everything. Regardless, I guess I could try.” Mireille stroked Marigold’s mane. “Will you be a good girl and take me out tomorrow? I’ll do my best not to cause you too much trouble.” Marigold nodded her head as if she understood perfectly.
“We’ll meet just after sunrise,” I said. “The mornings here can be beautiful, even this time of year. Unless that’s too early for you?”
“I’m an early riser, so no, it’s not too early.”
“I’ll have my sister put together a riding outfit for you,” I said. “I’m sure we’ve got some breeches and a coat somewhere that would fit you.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” She lifted her gaze toward mine, and darn if my stomach didn’t flutter.
In my nineteen years, a girl had never done that to me. I was mulling this over when the stable door opened, and George and Betsy appeared. Mireille grinned and flushed at the sight of George.
I had a bad feeling George was about to charm Mireille Perrin into falling in love with him. I wouldn’t stand a chance.