twittered, frowning at his tennis outfit.
“Sorry, Mother.” Alban grinned. “I considered it, and decided that being late would be the greater social crime, so I came as I was. Oh, Aunt Amanda, Simmons sent word that he’ll be around tomorrow morning on his legal errand, whatever it is.”
“Thank you, Alban, we were expecting him. Oh, Robert, here you are! You remember Elizabeth, of course? Do sit down. Where is everybody else?”
“I’m right here, my girl,” said Captain Grandfather, taking his place at the head of the table. “And don’t tell me I’m late, because you said twenty hundred hours.”
“Never in my life have I said ‘twenty hundred hours,’ ” Amanda assured him. “And it is now eight- seventeen.”
“Excuse me,” said a voice from the doorway. “Has anybody seen Eileen?”
Elizabeth later wondered whether the family’s reaction would have been the same had Eileen been an “ordinary” bride, without her particular history. Certainly they seemed unduly concerned about a grown woman who was late for dinner. When everyone jumped up from the table, apparently intending to rush outside and search for her, this realization seemed to strike them, because they stopped abruptly and began to murmur little disclaimers.
“Probably forgot her watch.”
“It’s still very light outside. Doesn’t look past eight o’clock.” This from Louisa.
“She’s absorbed in her masterpiece,” Amanda announced. “But we can’t let it ruin her health, can we now?”
“Or our dinner,” murmured Geoffrey, resuming his seat.
“She’s down by the lake. Charles, would you-”
“Aunt Amanda,” Alban cut in. “I’m dressed for a trek through the weeds. I’ll go and find her. Sit down, everybody. I’ll be back before you finish your salads.”
He was gone before anybody could protest.
Michael Satisky shied past Amanda’s benevolent smile with a nervous titter of his own and took his place between his prospective father-in-law and the empty chair reserved for the bride.
Elizabeth, ostensibly listening to Charles’s monologue on proton decay, watched Michael nibble forkfuls of salad and wondered if Geoffrey’s assessment of him were correct. He looks as though he’d forgotten his lines, she thought.
“… Because although the proton is 1,836.1 times heavier than the positron, they have identical charges, which has been explained by…”
“I’ve always thought so,” Elizabeth assured him.
“Just the slightest nuance of desperation in your voice invites me to interrupt this conversation,” said Geoffrey. “Perhaps I should introduce our new dinner guest. Elizabeth, Michael Satisky.”
Satisky started at the sound of his name and produced a stricken smile at them from across the table.
“This is my Cousin Elizabeth,” Geoffrey told him. “Her brother is in law school at your university. Bill MacPherson. Perhaps you know him?”
“I-er-no,” Satisky mumbled. “I’m in the English department. We don’t see much of the people in law school. Eileen didn’t tell me…”
“It’s a big place,” said Elizabeth. “Sixteen thousand students, I think. In fact, we didn’t even see Eileen all year. You’re in graduate school?”
Now that the conversation had become less awkward, Geoffrey lost interest in it and reentered his mother’s conversation on the relative merits of various punch recipes. His own favorite, he insisted, was made with grain alcohol and anything.
Michael began to explain about his interest in the Brontes (Branwell was the real genius of the family), and his own modest efforts in what he called “the realm of poetry.” He seemed more relaxed as the conversation progressed.
Here at least is a chance to say something, Elizabeth decided, because in a physics conversation it is hard even to come up with a question unless you know a little about the subject. Since Michael looked less miserable when expounding on his own interests, she decided that it would be kind to encourage him.
“What did Branwell write?” she asked.
Satisky pulled up short in mid-sentence. “What?”
“I said: ‘What did Branwell write?’ Branwell Bronte.”
“Well-actually, nothing. I mean, not a novel or stories or anything. Actually, when he was a child he wrote fantasies with the girls, but his potential-”
“Oh, I see!” said Elizabeth eagerly. “He died while he was still young, and the others grew up to become writers.”
“Well… no.” Satisky rearranged a few stray peas on his plate. “Emily and Anne only outlived him by a few months.”
“But-I don’t understand. How is he the real genius of the family when he didn’t do anything?”
Geoffrey, whose attention had been recaptured by the scent of conversational blood, had followed this last exchange with lively interest. “What Michael is trying to say is that Branwell must be the genius of the family by sheer potential, Elizabeth. Because his sisters were mere girls, and look what they accomplished. Since he was the male of the family, think what a wonder he’d have been if he’d tried. Right, Michael?”
Satisky flushed and stammered that he hadn’t meant that at all, but by then Elizabeth had begun to talk to Geoffrey about something else, so he lapsed into silent contemplation of his baked ham. He professed to be something of a vegetarian himself at the university, but he told himself that there was no sense in letting all this good food go to waste-a thought which he hastily amended to: a change of diet will be good for my system, and anyway I can’t save the creature’s life by not eating him now that he’s already here on the plate. I might as well eat, since conversing with these people is impossible.
He wished Eileen would hurry up. At least she was so besotted with him-committed to their cherishing relationship, he corrected himself-that she would listen to all his opinions in respectful silence. Eileen had thought the master’s thesis on Branwell was a good idea. Thank goodness she wasn’t a little schemer like that catty cousin of hers sitting over there talking and laughing with the Cobra-Fairy.
Oh, well, thought Satisky, he could put up with it. He had a million reasons to put up with it.
Eileen Chandler always braced herself before she entered a room. She envisioned herself walking in to a hail of laughter and catcalls, and she cringed in anticipation of the ordeal. Never had it happened in real life, but years of dread had forged the possibility into a tenuous reality in her mind.
“Well, Eileen, you haven’t got time to change, so we’ll have to take you as you are. Whatever kept you?” her mother demanded.
“She was on her way, really she was,” said Alban, who stood smiling in the doorway. “She was just packing up the painting when I got to the lake.” He patted Eileen’s shoulder reassuringly. “Go and eat, kiddo.”
Eileen took her place beside Michael, giving him a quick smile and then staring absently at her plate.
“Is the painting finished?” asked Charles.
Eileen shook her head.
“How much longer will you be, dear?” asked Amanda. “I expect you want it framed before the wedding. It would look so nice on display at the reception, wouldn’t it, Lou?”
“I should be finished by tomorrow night,” said Eileen to no one in particular.
“What are you painting?” asked Elizabeth.
Eileen stared at her for a moment, and then slowly shook her head.
“That’s the bride’s little secret!” said Amanda gaily. “She won’t breathe a word ’til it’s finished.”
Thinking back on it later, Elizabeth realized that this moment was the turning point. If Eileen had answered her question, then the rest would not have happened.
CHAPTER FIVE
