Just then Emmy reentered the room, carrying a tray, which she set on the coffee table. She refilled my teacup in careful, measured steps: first pick up the teapot, support it under its belly as well as by its handle. Angle your wrist, do not allow your arm to tremble. Pour. Straighten your wrist now, quickly, so that you interrupt the stream of tea decisively, so that no drops of boiling water leap from the weakening stream and land on the porcelain tray—or, God forbid, silver, which shows everything and more—or even worse, on the lady for whom you are pouring.
Emmy did not once raise her head or glance at me. Her hand was perfectly still. She was here in Masters for a reason.
She handed Mr. Holmes a tall, clear glass and left. My mouth felt chalky. More tea was exactly what I wanted least.
Mr. Holmes took a long swallow from his narrow glass, halfway done already. He was pale, but that could have been the quickly dimming light, orbiting us into darkness.
A bell rang. Everyone would still be at the Hall; I thought of Sissy, who was probably expecting me. I was going nowhere.
“Class time,” Mr. Holmes said, but so informally, as if I needn’t worry myself. He swallowed the rest of his drink.
I heard water run upstairs, Emmy drawing Decca a bath.
“Excuse me for a moment, Thea,” he said quietly, and left the room.
Mr. Holmes returned with a glass decanter. We kept similar ones in our formal room.
I’ve gotten into a bad habit since Mrs. Holmes left, I imagined him saying.
He seemed very far away, at the other end of the room, mixing a drink on top of the piano, his sweaty glass on the bare wood—it would leave a ring, he was a man and did not think about rings—but no, he picked the glass up and smoothed away the dampness with his coat sleeve.
He sat down and examined his drink. We heard a noise from upstairs and both looked up. I caught his eye and smiled, he smiled back, this was how to be easy and natural with a man. I looked up again but Mr. Holmes was looking down, stirring his drink with his finger.
“Thea,” Mr. Holmes began, then paused. He flicked his spirit-sopped finger and then smelled it, and I was suddenly and unbearably embarrassed—these were private gestures, I was not meant to see them. He took a long swallow of his drink.
And because I was nervous, the first thing that came into my head popped out, like one of Sam’s tree frogs.
“Mrs. Holmes is still gone?” And it was precisely the wrong thing to say. It sounded like I sat in judgment of Mrs. Holmes’s absence, when truly I was grateful: if she was here I would not be, that was certain.
He nodded slowly. “I’m of half a mind to send Decca there, brace and all, but I think I would be too lonely.”
I smiled—it did not seem possible that an adult’s loneliness could be relieved by a child. But I supposed we had relieved Mother’s loneliness.
“Only a month until her return,” he continued. “Hopefully I can hold the camp together for another month.” He took a sip of his drink and grimaced the way adults did when they drank hard liquor. The grimace meant the taste was pleasurable. I knew from watching Uncle George.
“Are there more donations?”
He looked up at me, surprised. “You mentioned before,” I explained, “that people were not donating as much as you’d hoped.”
“Yes, yes. You have a very excellent memory, Thea.”
“Not really,” I said. “My brother is the one with the excellent memory. He knows all the names of all the plants and animals, hundreds and hundreds of them.”
“Your twin,” he said. “I remember some things.”
I could feel my face flush with pleasure. He could remember one detail about my life and make me so, so happy, more happy than I could remember being in ages.
He finished off his drink and cradled the glass in his lap.
“Beth is having better luck, yes. Better her than me. I’m no good at separating people from their money. Do you know what has made everyone more willing to contribute?”
I shook my head.
“Horses.” He laughed in disbelief. “For the women, at least, this seems to be their soft spot. There are girls here, girls on scholarship, girls who will be sent home if their scholarships are not funded. The women are unmoved by the plight of such girls. But mention the plight of horses and”—he snapped his fingers—“the check is signed.”
“The plight of horses?” I did not want to align myself with the women he so obviously held in contempt, but I wanted to know what he meant. If I couldn’t ride, I didn’t know what I’d do.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to alarm you, Thea. The horses aren’t in any danger of being taken away.” He sighed. “No one would buy them now, anyway. It’s their expense that’s daunting. Grain prices have shot sky-high, thanks to the drought. I never thought I’d be so familiar with the agricultural economy. Horses eat a great deal, as I’m sure you know well.”
“Yes. They’re big creatures.” I understood the impulse to protect the animal that had no voice, no parents to look out for it. I would certainly be more willing to donate to a horse fund than a girl fund.
“I shouldn’t bore you with all this,” he said.
“I’m not bored.” And I wasn’t. I’ve never been less bored, I wanted to say, because this adult world, where I was not someone’s daughter, or niece—well, this was entirely new to me.
“Thea Atwell, from Florida. So serious. Were you a solemn child?”
“I don’t know.” Usually Mr. Holmes held something in reserve; his current sociability seemed an act, bought with a drink.
He laughed. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Look here,” he said, leaning forward, twisting his glass around and around, “thank you for all your help. You’ve been a blessing.”
“In disguise,” I said, and Mr. Holmes didn’t laugh, as I had intended, but nodded, as if he agreed.
Walking to my cabin, I savored the quiet campus. I savored his hand that had glanced off my shoulder as I left, lingered—was that my imagination?—no, it had lingered, it had not wanted to leave. He leaned forward and thanked me and it was such a thrill, such a feeling of grace.
—
A
fter dinner that night—a thick, dull stew, surprising for something so bland to emerge from the Yonahlossee kitchen, but I ate it anyway—Mr. Albrecht stood as we were eating our dessert of standard shortbread (rich but also a little dull) and told us to find our riding groups. Mr. Holmes sat next to him.
“But why?” I asked.
“The Spring Show,” Molly answered, “it’s soon.”
“It’s still February.”
“There’s a lot of planning. And then there’s the Spring Fling, right afterward.”
“You haven’t heard of it?” Henny asked. “Everyone competes, everyone watches. It’s splendid. If you’re a house mistress you sip champagne with the adults and watch the rides.”
“It is splendid!” Molly said. “There’s a picnic lunch and then you get all pretty afterward for the dance.”
The dining hall was a swarm of Yonahlossee girls as each of us tried to locate our group. I saw Leona from across the room, walking in a straight line. Girls moved out of her way in a neat sort of folding when they saw her coming, as if she were a thresher and they were the wheat. Her family’s troubles only made us more careful of her. I remembered Leona’s picture, on the wall outside Mr. Holmes’s office. Most people were not themselves in a photograph: the camera rendered them too solemn, too straight-lipped, too unknowable. Sam used to say that the way people stared at the camera made it seem as if they were watching something awful. But Leona was not any more discernible in the flesh. She passed by me without acknowledging my presence and I fell in line behind her.
We found a table and sat down. My group, advanced, was responsible for designing a course for the intermediate girls. Gates sketched a triple, and we all leaned forward to watch, her pale hand flashing against the white paper. Jettie watched closely, murmured approval.
This was perfect: Mr. Albrecht still sat with Mr. Holmes at the head table; Mr. Holmes was close enough that I could see the details of his person—his crisp collar, his watch, the blunt edge of his hair—but we were arranged at such an angle that he could not see me.
Mr. Albrecht drew something in the air, Mr. Holmes nodded, his elbows rested on the table but that was fine, everything was cleared and men sometimes did that. Mr. Albrecht crossed his arms against his chest and listened to Mr. Holmes; then they were done speaking, for Mr. Albrecht was not the type of man who was good at speaking about nothing. Both their chairs had arms and ours didn’t, because we were girls, not headmasters, not men. I watched their faces but they were like masks, neither looking at anything, staring past each other into the deep space marked by Yonahlossee girls.
It didn’t occur to me then that it might be difficult to be a grown man surrounded by hundreds of girls, so certainly out of their reach that we could flirt, we could playfully take Mr. Albrecht’s elbow in the tack room, let our hand linger in his when he helped us dismount, and he could do nothing in return. Mr. Albrecht wasn’t a man, not to any of us, I don’t think, because he wasn’t handsome or rich or young. But we flirted with him because he was there and so were we. He probably touched himself at night, when we were ensconced in our cabins, he at home in town. He would hold himself and think of Leona’s white hair against her naked back, the curve of Eva’s breasts, contained by her white blouse—he cupped his hand against one, then the other, she wanted to unbutton her shirt but he wouldn’t let her, liked to feel how her nipples stiffened against the cotton. She wouldn’t be wearing her thick undergarments, there would be nothing except the thin, stiff cotton between his hand and her breast.
“Thea?” Leona asked.
“Yes,” I said, hopefully authoritatively, though I had no idea what they wanted.
“Does a triple meet with your approval?”
I shrugged, then tried to still my shoulders, nodded instead. Last week I’d had trouble with a triple. “It does,” I said, and wondered at her composure. Her world had altered dramatically, her family no longer what it was, and she acknowledged nothing.
Then Martha passed by our table, holding her group’s sketch (she was in Sissy’s class, and though she was a better rider than Sissy, Martha’s tranquility did nothing for her on horseback). She had little diamonds in her ears tonight, and I watched her and she was a sparkle, a glimmer, a flash—something not of this world.
Mr. Holmes seemed to be studying Martha, too. His face was very calm. I did not want to admit to myself that Martha was more beautiful than I was, though of course I knew she was, I knew almost everyone at the camp, if asked, would point to Martha as the most beautiful girl. But I also knew there wasn’t any real way to measure beauty, and perhaps something specific about my face was something Mr. Holmes might love.
Mr. Holmes turned his head, and it was a second before I realized he had caught me staring. I looked away, quickly, flustered.
“How does this all sound to you, Thea?” Leona asked again.
“I think,” I said, and glanced at the sketches laid upon the table, “I think this all sounds perfect.”
Leona smiled. “Are we distracting you?”
My cheeks flamed. Everyone watched me. Leona turned in her seat and looked pointedly at the table where Mr. Holmes and Mr. Albrecht sat. I shook my head. I didn’t want to submit so easily to Leona, but it seemed like the quickest way to stop her.
“Well, good,” she said. “We wouldn’t want to do that.”
Gates trailed beside me as we gathered our things and left, her sketchbook tucked neatly beneath her arm.
“Thea.” Her voice low. Her cheeks red underneath her heavy freckles. “Leona won last year. She was the youngest girl to ever win.”
“I know,” I said. Didn’t everybody know?
Gates nodded slowly. “Then you must also know how badly she wants to win again.” She touched my arm. “Just be careful,” she whispered.
I was surprised that Gates cared. She didn’t usually involve herself in camp pettiness.
We watched Leona, who sat alone at the table, reviewing Gates’s sketch. She seemed to be giving the piece of paper all her attention, which is how Leona moved through the world: whatever she did received her full attention.
“Who knows if she’ll even be here by the show,” Gates said, and what I felt was disappointment, not relief. Leona was my only true competitor.
That night I opened a letter from Mother. Sissy was gone, with Boone. I had been impudent in my last letter, I knew; addressing Mother as if she were my equal, when of course she was not.
Dear Thea,
You sounded angry in your last letter. I understand, of course. Yes, I was friends with Beth Holmes. She was Beth Babineaux, then. Her family was a great New Orleans family. Rich as the day was long. I don’t suppose they’re rich like that now, but who knows. I lost touch with her; I lost touch with everyone, and would you like to know why? I had all I needed with you and Sam and your father. I could have had twenty friends; I could have had thirty. But your family is your greatest friend, Thea. I didn’t tell you I knew Beth before you left because there were so many other things on my mind. It wasn’t a plot, Thea. I honestly wouldn’t have imagined you’d cared.
We sold the house. Astonishingly, someone wanted to buy it; I hadn’t thought there would be any takers but your father was right: there are still people with money. We are among them, luckily. I am packing up all our things now. We are moving to Orlando, where your father will work. We might eventually move farther south, to Miami. It’s all up in the air. We needed to get Sam away. We needed a fresh start, as you have there, at Yonahlossee.
Love,
Mother
I tore the letter into tiny bits as soon as I was finished. I was not astonished that someone else wanted my house; it was beautiful, perfect. What shocked me was that my parents would do this. That it was gone. I truly hadn’t thought that Mother would ever leave.
I knew even as I was ripping the letter that it was foolish, a gesture no one but myself would see. I’d have to get on my hands and knees tomorrow to gather any stray pieces from beneath the bed. And the other girls might notice, they might wonder what in the world I was doing, and then I’d have to come up with a lie, yet another one, to make my family seem like a different one.