Love and Other Consolation Prizes(56)
“I’m sorry, we’re closed for the evening.” Ernest glanced toward the back of the car. “The Tenderloin will be open again in a few days.”
“Well, I guess I’m at the right place then. Wasn’t sure if I’d be able to find it, what with all the snow,” the driver said. “Special delivery for Madam Florence.”
“Would you like to come in and get warm? And what exactly are you delivering?”
“Oh, my apologies, young fella, I thought it was rather obvious, I’m delivering…this.” The driver brushed the snow off the hood of the car with his coat sleeve and handed Ernest a strange-looking silver key. “That’s for the coil box below the steering wheel; the switch is inside. Ever start one of these things in winter?”
“I’ve never started one of these, ever.” Ernest spoke calmly but could barely contain his excitement. He clapped his hands together as though trying to keep warm.
“Well then, I guess you folks are going to have fun figuring out your new toy. The only other motorcar in the world that I know of that’s this nice was a Pierce-Arrow limousine delivered to the White House just last week, even though Taft’s a big horse-and-buggy guy.” The driver reached into his coat and handed an envelope to Ernest. The front was addressed to Madam Florence Nettleton, with the initials L.J.T. elegantly pressed into a waxy seal. “Have a merry Christmas, kid.”
Ernest stared at his Cheshire cat reflection in the wet chrome as the man walked away. The roadster sparkled like a starry night. It was the most beautiful machine he’d ever seen and certainly the most luxurious. Ernest wiped the falling snow off the polished chrome, then sat inside the motorcar and placed his hands atop the padded steering wheel. The pedals and levers were a mystery, one he looked forward to unraveling. But as his breath fogged up the windshield, Ernest grew cold and he went inside.
There he was startled to find Madam Flora, standing in the parlor in a flowing nightgown of pleated lavender. Her matching dressing jacket hung loosely, almost haphazardly, from her shoulders as she stared into the fire.
“I’m sorry,” Ernest apologized, “I thought you might have gone with the others. Would you like me to fetch you a blanket or a cup of tea?”
The matron of the house didn’t reply, didn’t blink, as the fire crackled and popped. Ernest began to worry that she was having one of her bad spells and wondered how he would handle her without help from the others. Miss Amber had been keeping her in her room, so the fits of madness had been confined to shouts in the night, blamed on nightmares.
“Do you have something for me?” she asked.
Ernest had forgotten about the envelope in his hand. “This came for you,” he said, “along with…”
“I saw. It’s a very nice automobile.”
He handed her the envelope. She regarded the embossing, and then pitched it into the fire without bothering to open it.
“Some people…” She sighed. “Some people think the world is for sale.”
Ernest looked on in disbelief as the paper lit up, was quickly engulfed in flame, and then crumbled to ash. He wanted to say something, but could only watch as Madam Flora slowly walked away from the hearth, from the warmth. Ascending the grand staircase, her figure disappeared into the darkness like a ghost.
Ernest sat down and waited for the others to return, thinking of the letters that had sealed the envelope, and the name: Louis J. Turnbull.
—
AN HOUR LATER the residents of the Tenderloin noisily tromped back inside, a mass of teasing and laughter. Miss Amber immediately went upstairs to check on Madam Flora, while the others kicked snow off their boots and warmed their rosy cheeks and frost-kissed noses in front of the fire. The Gibson girls doffed their coats, and the servants disappeared into the kitchen and returned with platters of sausage and cheese, bishop’s bread, black molasses cake, Christmas cookies, dried fruits, and shelled nuts of every kind. Mugs of cider and spiced wine appeared in everyone’s wet, cold hands. And Professor True shed his red Santa coat and began warming up his fingers on the piano. The suit’s oversize suspenders draped over his woolen button-down shirt as he removed his cuff links and rolled up his sleeves.
“Do we have a visitor?” Maisie asked Ernest. “I thought Amber made it perfectly clear that we were closed…”
“The automobile was delivered as a Christmas gift,” Ernest said, hesitating. “I was given a note…with the initials…L.J.T., but Madam Flora didn’t even bother to open the envelope. She just threw it in the fire.”
The Gibson girls overheard as they returned. “Louis Turnbull is back in our lives, ladies,” one of the girls said with a laugh. “Funny how the richest fella in town can’t seem to buy a hint.” They began decorating the tree with dyed popcorn strings, gilded eggshells, and small, shaded candles. Though some churches banned Christmas trees, Miss Amber had bought the largest one they could find, a towering noble fir.
Maisie frowned at Ernest as her cold, pink cheeks grew pale.
“Is it really all that bad?” he asked. “Madam Flora had been talking about getting a car for months now.”
“It’s not the gift that’s the problem,” Fahn said as she handed him a mug of steaming cider with a cinnamon stick. She offered one to Maisie as well, but Maisie shook her head. “It’s what the giver wants in return.”