The Lightning Keeper (8 page)

The ironmaster cannot be altogether ignorant of Fowler Truscott's attentions to his daughter, but as the senator has not announced himself as her suitor, he need not acknowledge them in any way. Truscott does not call upon Miss Bigelow at home, but it is public knowledge that in order to further her amateur musical interests he had delivered to her a console harmonium, which sits in the front parlor of the house. The ironmaster, owing to his impairment, cannot actually hear much save for the deepest tones of the Bach, but he smiles at her when she plays, for her mother, too, was fond of music. And the mahogany cabinet of the instrument bears a curious mark that no amount of turpentine or beeswax can altogether disguise. To humor his daughter, the ironmaster will kneel to the harmonium and lay his teeth just there upon the corner of the case, receiving in this way the vibrations and some intimation of those now vanished higher registers. Miss Bigelow has read an article in the
Chautauqua Journal
about Mr. Edison, that man of electrical genius and keen musical interests who suffers from the
same defect of hearing, but who nonetheless has given the world his astonishing device, the phonograph, and who monitors the quality of those recordings, even judges the relative merits of vocal artists according to the impression received thus, through his teeth. “Can you hear it, Papa?” she will say to him. In truth, he cannot, but he would not dream of disappointing her in this matter. It is one definition of human kindliness that a man must suffer such things in silence for the sake of another rather than speak his mind frankly, and the ironmaster, of course, has every reason to perceive virtue in silence.

Our balloon, buoyed these moments by the giddying thermals of Great Mountain, now descends, and where but a while ago we held that lofty and foreshortening view of the town and its sad history, now we come near the particular, the individual who sees not over the line of trees or beyond the hill, knows not what his own destiny may be, and has all too limited an understanding of how he came to this place, this moment.

Look to the left, over the spire of the church rising to meet us, and you will see the ironmaster's house and truncated garden. In the driveway stands his forest-green Packard touring car, whose fenders are being buffed by a tall young man, and coming down the steps is Miss Harriet herself, wearing a dress that seems quite new and an expression that betrays some uncertainty.

And there to the right, in the distance, under the slope of Lightning Knob, you may see the senator hitting golf balls on his lawn: a very strong shot will land them in the lake, and the others will be retrieved, several at one time, by his faithful bulldog. We cannot see the expression on his face, but he looks at his watch with some impatience, and the exercise with the golf club seems just a way to pass these minutes of anxious waiting. Miss Harriet lays her gloved hand on the gleaming handle to the door on the driver's side of the Packard.

 

“G
OOD MORNING,
T
OMA
,” said Harriet with bright emphasis as the door swung soundlessly on its hinges. That annoying squeak that her father could not hear had been attended to.

“Good morning…” He would not call her Miss Harriet, as he was
careful to do in the presence of Bigelow, and something now made him stumble over the familiar diminutive of H. “Where shall we go this morning?”

The awkwardness of this moment weighed on Harriet. She had taken the keenest pleasure in these driving lessons: partly because the mastery of the machine came naturally to her after absorbing MacEwan's example; partly because the modest speed and consciousness of danger were intoxicating, like taking her horse over a gate or stone wall; and partly because this was time spent alone with Toma. If she had sensed anything odd in Fowler Truscott's note she chose to ignore it. Why the urgency? Why a Saturday? Why at his home rather than at the bank? In the flush of her new competence she had answered before giving herself time to reflect. “I shall be there at eleven.” She had planned to drive herself to the Manor.

“I want to try it myself today, Toma. You have taught me so well. I shall be quite safe.” Her father, who observed no day of rest except the Lord's, need never know. He had been brought grudgingly to the idea of these lessons. She had insisted on the grounds of economy: MacEwan's salary would be saved.

“Your father will not have it so.”

“I am quite sure he will not mind. He trusts me, you see. In fact he depends on me.” She made the mistake of consulting her watch, again forgetting its uselessness.

“You have an appointment? It would be better, then, if we leave the lesson for tomorrow. I shall drive.”

“Toma, please. I shall be quite all right if you will only start the motor for me.”

“It cannot be. This is not for me to decide.”

“Who then?”

He ignored the sharpness of her tone. “Your father has told me plainly that you are not to be taking the car by yourself. He worries for your safety. And I must take him to lunch with Mr. Truscott at one o'clock.”

“Very well.” She made certain to smile at him here. “I am, I think, late for my own appointment.” She said to herself that it would have been much more convenient to have taken her horse. This outing,
which had once possessed an appearance of simplicity and innocence, was now surrounded with unbecoming nuance. How would she explain Toma's presence to Truscott? How would she explain anything to Toma? Well, she thought, setting her mouth, she would explain nothing.

It was probably her imagination, but Toma seemed to have a sure sense of her destination. “Yes, left,” she said when they came to the fork, but hadn't he already started to turn the Packard? There were not many other houses on this road running between the mountain and the river, and the mist from the falls enveloped the budding elms. She had been told, or had read, that those trees were dying, though they seemed now as perfect as the day. She tried to think of that perfection, of the things that had seemed so pleasant just a short while ago.

She glanced down at her dress, which was too light and summery for April, and was certainly not new. One more season, and she would have to do something more than put new ribbons on it. But the ribbons were prettily done, with a little twist in them that she had seen in
Godey's Magazine
. It had taken her no more than an hour after supper last night and her father, who smoked his pipe on the far side of the kitchen out of courtesy, had neither commented nor noticed. Sewing was a common enough task for her, now that Mrs. Evans's sight was no longer what it had been for fine work. Dear Mrs. Evans—Evie, she had called her as a child—who had made all her dresses for her after Mama died. What would become of Mrs. Evans? What would become of Papa? How would she manage? Well, she
would
manage, that was all there was to be said. There were things she could give up, surely, and the price of iron might turn a corner. She did, of course, put her faith in the Creator of all things, and who could deny the power of prayer? But the thing that had turned up, the Stephenson contract, was no source of comfort to her; if anything, it terrified her, and more than once she had woken in the night, dreaming or at least fretting about it, and had lain awake for what seemed like hours. She would do her best there, controlling Papa's enthusiasm and asking careful questions of Horatio and Mr. Brown. And Toma was her friend. He would help her make things right with Mr. Stephenson. She could fall asleep, sometimes, by thinking of all the wheels made by the Bigelow Iron Company, that name cast in bold letters, carrying people and all sorts of freight to Albany, Boston, Philadelphia, some, perhaps, even as far as
Atlanta or the cities of California. Anything was possible in that vast mystery of tracks crisscrossing the continent, and she imagined that the Bigelow wheels were taking her to those far-off places.

Toma, she was quite sure, had noticed the dress, not just now but last night as well, when he came to the kitchen to take a jug of the spring water from the tap at the sink. He ate his evening meal with them, gratefully demolishing everything that Mrs. Evans put on his plate, and then withdrawing to his room—MacEwan's room—over the horses and the Packard in the stables by the side of the house. She did not know what he did there, perhaps read those difficult books and the
Scientific American
s that he had asked her permission, and the use of her card, to bring from the library. The light of his lamp was always burning when she put out her own. She could see it there on the ceiling, a ghostly geometry whose shape she could not name. She was somehow reassured by it, and missed it when she awoke in the hours after midnight.

He had seen her sewing the bows on her old dress because the water in the well was off: some animal—a squirrel, perhaps—had made its way in there and drowned. The horses would still drink it, but she had told Toma he should come to the kitchen when he wanted water. She had thought nothing of it then, but now she regretted the coincidence.

Fowler Truscott was so pleased to see the Packard turn into his driveway that he hit one mighty shot with his persimmon cleek and it sailed straight and true a good twenty yards beyond the edge of the lake. If he was surprised to see Toma at the wheel, he certainly did not show it, and put his hand out to him after he had greeted Harriet by kissing hers. He asked how Toma was getting on at the ironworks. Toma received the question stiffly and made a polite reply quite empty of content.

“Good,” said Truscott, “I'm very glad to hear that things are coming along well. We all take an interest, you know.”

One of Fowler Truscott's attractive qualities, compared to other men of Harriet's acquaintance, was his ability to converse with ease on any subject whatsoever, an ability that must be distinguished from the ordinary affability of the politician by the element of unfeigned interest as well as by the breadth of his reading, his knowledge of the world.
Whom else could she talk to about the novels of George Eliot, or the writings of Emanuel Swedenborg, or the latest issue of the
Chautauqua Journal
? And real conversations too, in which her own opinion was sought and even prized.

This quality was notable, today, by its absence. He did notice her dress and complimented her on it, though she was quite certain he had seen it before and might recognize its evolution. But once they passed through the door and into the lofty, dim interior of the Manor, his gift deserted him, as if he had left it with his golf clubs on the lawn.

They sat in the great room—it was too grand to be called a parlor—and the staring heads of all those animals on the wall made her feel cold. Truscott made a ceremony of handing her a musty shawl of soft wool from the arm of the settee, and guided her to the front window, where there was light and a little warmth. She declined the offer of coffee, and so they sat with two glasses of water on the tea table, and Fowler Truscott stared at his as if he didn't know what he should do with it.

“It was very kind of you to come, Miss Harriet, and on quite short notice too. I hope I am not keeping you from something more interesting?” His face flushed at this perfectly banal pleasantry, and Harriet realized suddenly that he was going to make love to her: that could be the only explanation of this awkwardness. Why else would he be worrying the crease of his trousers between thumb and forefinger?

Harriet was neither alarmed nor delighted by the prospect of Fowler Truscott confessing that his long-standing regard for her had, over time, been transformed into…or whatever the words he might use to frame his suit. But she was disappointed that it was all, now, so transparent to her, that she had such perfect anticipation of what was to follow and there could be no surprise in any profession of affection. She reflected on this for a moment, even while he was talking of something else, and decided that the element of surprise was not necessary: if one were truly to be surprised by such a declaration, then it would be unwelcome news, an unacceptable revelation. What was lacking now, even when she made the most generous allowance for the chilliness of the room and for Fowler Truscott's embarrassment, was a sense or even an intimation of joy.

He was not an unattractive man: large, squarish features—echoed in the front hall by portraits of ancestral bankers—and a large, squarish frame to match. She had seen a photograph of him making a speech to the citizens of Panama at the ceremony inaugurating the canal, and another where he and Theodore Roosevelt, on safari, celebrated the day's sport, each posed with a foot upon the neck of his lion. He looked equally at home in both settings, at peace with the sure knowledge that money, a white skin, and a willingness to listen would open any door to him. This was not arrogance, or if so it was at least tempered by a humorous recognition of the accidents that had delivered him to such a pinnacle rather than to some mine shaft or clearing in the jungle. His superiority, however defined, real or imagined, was lightly worn.

Harriet Bigelow thought of herself as a sensible and practical young woman: she had no choice but to be so. And although she tried not to dwell on such things, there was no point in pretending that Fowler Truscott was not rich, or that such a consideration was irrelevant. No one had spoken directly of such things to her—when she might marry, and why—but Mrs. Evans, in response to Harriet's concern over the household accounts, had said that everything would come right when she married some fine great man. And who was that to be? asked Harriet. Oh, that's just me talking, dear, and you should pay it no mind, some gentleman as deserves you and would make your mother proud. Here Mrs. Evans began to weep foolish tears of joy mixed with sadness, and she embraced Harriet as if the matter were somehow settled, the nameless suitor accepted, happiness and family assured.

He put his hand on hers now, giving emphasis to his remark about the ironworks and how he appreciated her stabilizing influence, her quiet wisdom. Harriet, who had been lost in her ruminations on the state of matrimony as an abstract proposition, was recalled to the chilly room and the bright-eyed company of the oryx and the wildebeest. Why were they discussing the affairs of the ironworks? Why was his hand unpleasantly moist to the touch, so mottled when she dropped her eyes from his earnest gaze? Why, above all, was she sitting just here, or the Packard parked just there, so that she could see Toma's shoulders and neck as he sat stiffly behind the wheel of the car?