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It was on a fine Saturday afternoon, cheerfully warm and delightfully breezy, that Deerwood witnessed – or so claimed to witness – an event that would set sewing circles exploding with gossip for the next twenty years. It would be recalled at every church picnic, reminisced over every afternoon tea, retold at every silver wedding celebration, and would usually be prefaced by the low-toned, confiding statement, “I myself always knew there was something deeper in the fellow, but gossip, gossip—downright shameful, you know.”
That Saturday afternoon, the earth seemed to remember Eden. Balmy winds floated carelessly through the streets, their lazy wanderings carrying fresh, cool air. The last of the May mornings with their raw chill had disappeared and slipped the world into the golden days of early summer. The sky was sheer blue, and the occasional majestic white cloud, adorned with glints of sunlight, drifted overhead. Ethel—of the Montreal Traverses—had gone walking under this sky down Lover’s Lane with Olive Stirling. Both were certain that the other should be grateful of the company. Ethel believed herself as being extraordinarily gracious to a backwater village girl, while Olive considered the Stirling presence a gift worthy of the Magi.
They sailed forward like two slim boats swathed in ruffled silk and filmy laced flounces, followed by a small muddy tug. Valancy Stirling trailed after them with her eyes cast down, quiet, dull, miserable. But Valancy was always quiet. Her misery had no relevance to anyone. Especially not now, when a distinguished visitor had come to town, and everyone was jockeying for a call.
The visit of a former Traverse—a Traverse, Mrs. Frederick Stirling had intoned reverently—had set Deerwood aflutter. A visit from an old blood family was a mark of distinction. It implied—at least so the Stirlings chose to believe—that you occupied the same social circles. The Stirling conclave, solemn as its papal counterpart, had decreed that an introduction with Olive must be arranged. After all, there could be no great difference between the old family sets of Deerwood and Montreal. All things considered, it was really a courtesy more than anything else. Uncle Benjamin had jovially made the arrangements himself, complete with a joke he only used when particularly pleased with himself. “Why are old maids similar to football teams?” Upon Valancy’s dutiful ask as to what: “Both love winning a match.”
Valancy had seen at a glance that Ethel held no great respect for her surroundings, Olive included. She had extended a lily white hand to Olive airily and almost boredly. “What a lovely little town you have here.” Olive held her head high and offered more than one toothy smile, but Valancy could see her stiffness of, for once, being outshone. It was not an experience Olive was accustomed to.
Valancy, however, was. The barely disguised disdain slipped past her like stream water by a rock. Ostentation for the sake of impressing snobbery held a vague flavor of disgust for her. Especially when so contorted. Besides, no one said a word to her for the first hour. Olive and Ethel had loudly purred at each other about lace and hat trimmings the entire time. Valancy would not have come at all, except Olive had insisted Valancy join them. Cousin Stickles had yowled at Valancy about being grateful for the kindness of her cousin as Valancy had left, but Valancy had known that Olive wanted her drab little cousin next to her to emphasize Olive’s own beauty and aplomb. Like a little gray moth next to a monarch, Valancy thought bitterly. But she did not say it aloud. There were many things Valancy did not say aloud.
“You really should convince your father to buy a car,” Ethel tutted at Olive lazily. “I swear, I don’t know what we’d do without ours in Montreal. I suppose it’s different here, however.”
“Oh, hardly,” Olive laughed lightly. “Even our local tramp owns one. But do let me know if you have any advice. I’ve been teasing my father to get one with no luck. Motoring around in this weather would be such a treat.”
“You must show me around,” demanded Ethel, rising from her spot. “I believe I saw most of the town in our ride in, but there was a lovely bit of greenery—”
“Lover’s Lane,” Olive strained a brilliant, flashy smile. “It is quite popular.”
“We shall walk there,” Ethel decided, unknowingly sealing fate. “It’s a lovely day for it.”
And so they’d gone. Olive and Ethel had walked ahead, tittering arm-in-arm—even if a number of those titters sounded sharp-pitched—and Valancy had hung back behind. She did not want to be part of their confidences. They were talking of men and beaus, and these were lands Valancy was forever foreign to. Even now, she walked down Lover’s Lane alone.
Although the rumors in the following weeks would imply that half of Deerwood had been strolling down Lover’s Lane that day, only a few other Deerwood residents were meandering by. Valancy did not pay attention to them, caught on the sight at the end of the path. There, whistling merrily as he worked underneath his car, was Barney Snaith. Any passerby floated a few feet away from him as they hurried past, but Barney did not appear to care a jot. He swung himself up from under his car, unshaved, grease stained, dust splattered, and happy, then leaned into the front to dig around for whatever tramps stranded by the side of the road carry in their front seat.
Valancy’s miserly existence had never allowed for a movie, but in the next few moments, she witnessed a scene that would have outdone the greatest that any cinema house has to offer. Much like the other passerby, Olive and Ethel floated past Barney; Olive delicately tugged Ethel away; Ethel glanced idly at the object they were avoiding; and then, Ethel stopped still, went pale, and called out, “Bernie?”
The figure digging in the front seat halted. Valancy, from her vantage point, could see a sudden tension in the lean lines of his shoulders.
“Bernie, it really is you!” Ethel hurried forward, leaving behind a stunned Olive. “We’ve been wondering where you were all this time.”
Barney Snaith—or Bernie, apparently—slowly straightened. There was something in his face—grim—disillusioned—tired. Valancy had the sudden urge to smooth it away and promptly felt rather horrified with herself.
“And what are you doing here?” Ethel let out a peal of laughter, shaking her head. “You look like—well—a tramp.”
“Stench of turpentine and all.”
That mysteriously unsettled Ethel. Only for a moment, however. Her face cleared in a smooth movement, and she arranged an elegant smile, the picture of grace. “Oh, pah. That all happened such a long time ago. I don’t hold it against you, you know. In fact, you must dine with us tonight—your father really is desperate for news of you.” She turned to Olive. “I believe there’s still space for one more?”
“Why, yes,” Olive said stupidly, “But…”
“You aren’t acquainted with Bernie,” Ethel realized.
“No, we’ve—“ Olive paused. Valancy could see her conundrum. It did not seem quite true to say they’d been introduced. But everyone knew Barney Snaith.
“She knows me,” Barney broke in simply. “No need for introductions.” He nodded at Ethel, Olive, and then Valancy. “Thank you for the invitation. But I don’t plan to stay in town this evening.”
“Bernie, you can’t be serious,” Ethel scolded, taking a step closer. Valancy and Olive watched, mesmerized. There is really nothing else to do but watch when the world ceases to make sense, or, as the case may be, when a thoroughbred woman from Montreal approaches the town tramp with the affection of an old and longtime acquaintance.
“I think you’ll find that I am,” Barney said bluntly. The unmistakable snub broke the spell that had descended over Olive. A scattering of other Deerwood residents had stopped to watch the scene in slight befuddlement and significant disapproval—it really did not do for young ladies of proper breeding to dally with tramps—and Olive felt she had to save Ethel from herself, a prospect all the more attractive for its opportunity for superiority.
“Ethel,” Olive said superbly, “we really must move on.” She looped her arm back through Ethel’s and turned away, loudly not bidding goodbye to Barney. Ethel nee Traverse was many things, but imperceptive was not one of them, and her eyes flicked from Olive to Barney, registering the coolness in the air that had nothing to do with the clean breeze. She gave Barney one last, lingering glance, an ugly glint in her expression—Valancy primly looked away for reasons she could not explain to herself—and then followed Olive.
Valancy’s eyes crept to Barney worriedly, but he seemed to have no complaints. He offered her an enigmatic, worn smile with a barely there quirk of his lips that made Valancy’s heart twist, somehow. Tentatively, she smiled back at him, and then quickly scurried after the other two.
“Tell me,” Olive said teasingly—or made a pretense at teasing, sword jab too sharp for a playful poke, “How did you come to know Deerwood’s resident tramp?”
Valancy glanced behind them at Olive’s words. Barney was back under his car, but the merry notes of his whistling no longer drifted nonchalantly through the air. His movements were jerky and fast. Two of the Deerwood citizens who had watched the scene, a young couple, were whispering to each other loudly and glancing at him.
“Resident tramp?” Ethel echoed, rosebud mouth screwing up distastefully. She came to a stop and gazed at Olive probingly. “He’s the tramp you mentioned?”
“Unless he’s been living a double life for the past five years,” Olive smiled indulgently. She, Olive Stirling, might not have a degree from McGill, but she had never shamelessly consorted with disreputable tramps in full view of the public eye. Her foot was back on her native heath. “He lives in a tawdry little shack on an island out in the boonies somewhere.”
“Five years?” Ethel had gone wide-eyed.
“You know him from somewhere else,” Valancy ventured quietly and hesitantly, speaking for the first time. She couldn’t fathom why she did. But something in her keened to learn more. Although Olive was refusing to believe it, a single called out greeting had irrevocably established that there was more to Barney Snaith than met the eye. Societal darlings did not stop in their tracks and invite tramps to dinner. Half of Deerwood would be gossiping about it before the day was done.
“Yes,” Ethel said cannily. “I do.” She did not expound.
-
Dinner that night was to be hosted by Uncle Herbert and Aunt Alberta. As the Stirlings gathered, there was an undercurrent buzz of discomfort and curiosity. They had seen fit—been downright courteous—to bestow the Stirling hand of friendship to a visiting stranger, and now said visiting stranger had been thoughtless enough to have a scandalous connection. Was not Ethel only recently widowed? And now she was making eyes at the tramp? “Women,” grunted Uncle Benjamin. “Always apt to fly off on tangents.”
Yet the statement, usually smug and jovial, fell flat. Because underneath the suspicion and discomfort lurked a prospect even more discomforting. Could it be that—Barney Snaith—was——someone? What had Ethel called him? Olive had said she used Bernie. The neighbor’s niece claimed to have been there as well and had heard the same. Claimed that Ethel had seemed outright eager to talk to him. Eager. And her a Traverse from Montreal!
“Regardless of any—history, the man cannot be in his right mind,” Uncle James proclaimed ominously. “His lifestyle is evidence enough of that.”
“We won’t say a word,” half-whispered Aunt Alberta, sweeping a fat hand in front of her decidedly. “Whatever the girl’s…past…may be, we shall treat her no differently.”
“I have said nothing,” Olive replied magnanimously. “I am not the sort to cast up such things to others.”
When Ethel swept in a few minutes later, the Stirlings were the picture of obsequious hosts. Uncle Wellington comfortably seated her near the head of the table. Uncle Benjamin posed three riddles in a row with great jocundity. Uncle Herbert gifted her two extra slices of white meat. Even Aunt Isabel told her that she “looked lovely, dear,” looking as if the word didn’t quite fit in her mouth.
Forgotten at the table, Valancy took her moment to examine Ethel, who was seated next to Olive. Olive did not look entirely happy with the arrangement, but Valancy had to concede, Ethel’s big, soft, dark eyes and silken golden hair would have outdone anyone. She looked like a painting of a glorious queen of old, dressed in rippling silk and prepared to knight the noble men at her feet with dignified authority and shining loveliness.
The conversation chattered on, studiously not mentioning earlier events. Aunt Wellington did glance significantly at Ethel when discussing Olive’s engagement to Cecil—“It is difficult for proper young ladies these days to find someone suitable,”—but Barney Snaith went generously unmentioned by the clan.
Until Ethel brought him up herself.
“Olive tells me,” she said, digging a spoon into her soup thoughtfully, “that Bernie—pardon me, I believe you know him as Barney?—has lived here for the past five years.”
“That criminal?” Aunt Isabel said waspishly, who had not had the benefit of being present at the pre-dinner briefing.
“Criminal?” Ethel’s eyebrows knotted. Somehow she made even bewilderment a cream-and-roses beautiful. “He’s on the run from the law?”
“Well, no-o-o,” trembled Cousin Georgiana. A scandal unfolding, and right here at the Stirling dinner table. One simply couldn’t watch. “Not on the run.”
“He’s a drunk and a counterfeiter and spends time with the likes of Abel Gay,” Uncle Wellington harrumphed harshly. “Among other misconducts.” He sent a meaningful glance to the others that said, Cissy Gay.
“How strange,” Ethel said mirthfully. She brought her eyelashes down, the picture of innocence. “I don’t know why he’d bother to counterfeit money when his father is Dr. Redfern of Montreal.”
The table stopped, agape.
“Doctor…Redfern,” said Uncle James senselessly after a loaded moment long enough for a new universe to be born. “The…Purple Pills man? The millionaire? Barney Snaith’s father?” The repetition had the effect of a broken clock clicking rapidly to set itself right again in vain.
“I know him as Bernie. Bernard Redfern. We attended McGill together,” Ethel said coolly. There was a cunning glint in her eyes, a mirror of the one that had appeared after Barney had snubbed her. “That was many years ago, of course.”
“But…why would the son of a millionaire live as a tramp? As Barney Snaith?” Olive asked in disgust. “Snaith,” she reiterated disbelievingly, as if the name alone were a criminal condemnation.
“Are you certain he does?” Ethel inquired politely.
The question posed the group. It was true that few had seen Barney’s island, and fewer had seen the inside of his so-described shack. The uncomfortable possibility that they had overlooked a purple carpeted mansion sat heavily. Then Uncle Benjamin rose to the occasion magnificently.
“Why, bless my soul,” he puffed up his chest. “Bless my soul. Look at the lot of you. Acting as if those seedy rumors have a thread of truth to them!” He cast a sly, understanding glance at Ethel, one that said they were not the sort to be fooled by rags and eccentricities. “Pure gossip and invention.”
“But,” Mrs. Frederick hesitated, “Snaith…”
“Really, Amelia. It’s blindingly obvious. He’s used that name to sort the wheat from the chaff—quite a clever chap, if I do say so myself. I always thought so when he came into my store. I believe I told my clerk as much several times. Anyone who has ever had a conversation with him could see that he’s a decent fellow. It’s ridiculous how ready people are to slander someone they know nothing about. It certainly explains his reticence on his real name.”
“I think you may be right about that,” murmured Ethel, but no one paid attention to her. Uncle Benjamin was still waxing eloquent.
“We must have him to dinner. I can’t believe it’s taken us so long—how time does fly! Five years is a shameful length of time to neglect the acquaintance. We can only hope he will forgive us.”
“A remarkable turn of events,” Uncle Wellington said weakly.
The bluster continued, passing over the room in a wave of hubbub. By the end of the dinner, everyone was quite self-assured that they had always seen something deeper in Snaith and that Deerwood’s treatment of him had been shameful. Only Olive still was reluctant to concede to Snaith as Redfern. Valancy, sitting silently with her hands in her lap, thought viciously that Olive couldn’t reconcile her missed chance at a millionaire’s son. Snaith had never shown interest in her. Inconceivable. And now she was already engaged.
The evening had been so incredible that in a phenomenon worthy of Barney Snaith being Dr. Redfern’s son, Mrs. Frederick agreed when Valancy asked quietly to walk home alone, nodding a single sharp nod without so much as glancing at her daughter. There were dinners for millionaires to plan, and unwed daughters with no chance at a husband needed neither to be seen nor heard.
Outside in a dusky Deerwood street, the day was ending as wonderfully as it had dawned. The sky blazed with hues of red and orange, great glowing stripes of light stretching across the western world in its everyday miracle. A gentle breeze crooned to the shady grass, and it fluttered Valancy’s skirt as she wandered home. Valancy did not notice it.
Her mind was on the cruelty—cruelty was the only word for it—in Ethel’s expression as she’d lightly mentioned Dr. Redfern. “She did it to punish Barney,” Valancy understood, something in her rebelling at the thought nonsensically. It should make no difference to her, little Valancy Stirling, whether a socialite was malicious to a millionaire’s son.
For a moment, a desperate urge to warn Barney rose up in her, almost terrible in its potency. He should know that Ethel had spilt his secret, done so deliberately and vengefully. Someone needed to tell him.
In the darkening street, a silhouette stopped—considered—looked back at the direction of Lover’s Lane—then hastened forward. Barney would not be there anymore. If Valancy were not home when her mother and Cousin Stickles returned, their interrogations would rival that of a Spanish inquisitor.
And perhaps Barney would guess on his own.
-
News of a millionaire’s heir in the flesh spread fast. Before the week was out, all of Deerwood knew, and many had arrived at the same comfortable conclusion of the Stirlings. Whenever Redfern appeared again—and surely he must soon—he would be treated as he properly should have been all along. The glittering spark who had lit dynamite, Ethel, returned to Montreal at the end of the week, casting an odd glittering, triumphant glance behind her as she boarded the train, but no one had noticed it. After all, Deerwood had its own millionaire.
Sitting with Cousin Stickles and Mrs. Frederick, Valancy listened to their pricking conversation that darted waspily from Purple Pills to Olive’s engagement. “If only… we had known earlier.”
“Olive could have made the match,” Cousin Stickles moaned. “Et ain’t right.”
“There would have been no match more suitable.”
Valancy, busy at darning, did not agree. In her private opinion, Barney had likely already left without looking back. Deerwood had gained and lost its millionaire in a single day.
“I heard from Mrs. Johnson that Dr. Redfern himself,” Mrs. Frederick leveled her owl-like gaze at Cousin Stickles, “is to visit.”
“He’s supposed to stop by Abel Gay’s.”
“Abel Gay’s—” said in outrage as if Dr. Redfern had decided to summer at the state penitentiary.
“Miss Rebecca told me. Her maid is cousin’s with his housekeeper. Saw the letter herself.”
“Mother,” Valancy said timidly. Both Mrs. Frederick and Cousin Stickles looked at her as if the lamp had spoken. “Do you think…I might…” She took a breath, her chest tightening horribly all of a sudden. “Do you think I might visit Cissy Gay?” Not able to bear the curdled expressions in front of her, she looked down at her hands. Cissy Gay was dying, dying alone with nobody to do anything for her, and Valancy had thought with the possible newfound respectability conferred by the presence of a millionaire’s son…
Mrs. Frederick opened her mouth coldly, but then Cousin Stickles’s wrinkled, yellowed face blinked rapidly.
“Olive could go with her, Amelia.”
Mrs. Frederick paused. It had not occurred to her that Cissy Gay represented an easy path to Bernard Redfern—or at least, Dr. Redfern. Cissy Gay did not tend to occur to her at all.
“We shall speak to the family about it,” Mrs. Frederick proclaimed at last.
And, at the next Stirling conclave, it was agreed they would go. None of the Stirlings, if outright asked, would have described their agreement as intended to link Olive with Bernard Redfern. Olive was a proper young woman, a proper young woman who was engaged, and proper young women who are engaged do not solicit other suitors. But, in a newfound sense of romance, both Uncle Wellington and Uncle Benjamin thought privately that sometimes, these things are destined…and Olive had broken engagements before.
Olive herself, exquisite, pearly, stunning, seemed displeased as she and Valancy set off for Roaring Abel’s. She had not wanted to come. Cissy Gay held no interest for her. Providence had ordained Cissy’s fate. Snaith also held no interest for her. Regardless of what others believed, the creature still looked more jailbird than million-heir.
Valancy tripped alongside Olive, meekly silent. When they arrived at the house, her heart gave her a raw pang at the run down fence, the pestiferous daisies cluttering the yard, the leprous roof. Olive marched forward as indomitably as Alexander the Great in the Alps, giving no sign she saw any of it.
Rather cunningly, the Stirlings had arranged the visit while Roaring Abel was due to fix Mrs. Frederick’s porch. Uncle James had said with an air of great tolerance, “Better to spare him girlish confidences.” The thought that he might not allow visitors in was spared no attention.
The gnarled housekeeper let them in with a grunt, gesturing towards the kitchen before shuffling off. And there they found Cissy Gay, resting on the sofa.
“Valancy—” she breathed in wonder. Then her expression changed. “Olive.”
Olive trimly sat. “We’ve come to pay a call. It has been too long.”
“Hasn’t it,” said Cissy softly. “I’d offer you some tea, but I can’t…”
“Don’t you fret it about it,” someone said fiercely, and Valancy realized with surprise it had been herself.
“No, don’t,” laughed Olive. Tea! From Roaring Abel’s kitchen! The idea. “We’ll make do. Are you comfortable?”
“As I can be,” admitted Cissy. Her gaze went to Valancy, wistful. “It has been lonely.”
Just then, a brisk, confident knock came from the front. Footsteps shuffled, the door creaked open, and someone bounded past the housekeeper to enter the kitchen, calling out, “Sorry for popping by so suddenly, but I’ve come to say…”
Barney Snaith’s voice trailed off at the tableau in front of him. Olive Stirling, staring, insolent and curious in equal measure; Valancy Stirling, peering up at him shyly; and Cissy, who looked grateful and sorrowful at the same time.
“I knew you would come,” Cissy smiled. “I knew—you would—” She broke out into a fit of coughing.
Valancy, who’d been gazing at Barney in breathless surprise, sprung forward instantly. “Oh, dear, let’s pull your blanket—do you have something hot to drink? I can whisk up some tea, and—”
Cissy shook her head. “You being here—is enough.”
“You’ll have to excuse me,” Barney said politely. “I didn’t realize you had guests. I can return at a later time.”
“You came to say goodbye,” Cissy said, slight quirk to her mouth. “I understand.”
Olive, who felt she had not been part of the conversation for too long, seized upon this juicy piece of news. “Are you leaving Port Lawrence, Mr. Redfern? Returning to Montreal so soon?”
“I’ve been here for five years,” Barney said shortly. Only Cissy—and perhaps Valancy—caught the jagged underline.
“I’ll miss you,” Cissy said quietly.
“Well, we shan’t keep you,” Olive announced, rising to her feet. “We must return. I have to go to Mrs. Bartlett’s tea.”
“But we’ve only just got here,” protested Valancy.
“You are free to stay. You don’t have any other afternoon engagements, do you?” Olive asked with a triumphant expression, knowing she didn’t. Doss could stay here with the consumptive. Olive saw no reason to. Especially with the news of this Redfern exodus from Port Lawrence.
“No,” Valancy sat down, a great sense of relief lifting her soul like a clean morning breeze. “I don’t.” Olive didn’t know it, but for once she’d given Valancy something worth having: an excuse. Mrs. Frederick could not complain if Valancy had simply submitted to Olive’s request.
“I’ll see myself out,” Olive said in act of grand kindness. She hesitated in the doorway, appearing to wonder if Barney would leave with her as well—many men found excuses to accompany Olive Stirling—but Barney only gave her a single cool nod in farewell. Olive sailed out.
“Now,” said Valancy, suddenly more comfortable. “Do you really not want tea?”
Barney paused…glanced at her…shared a look with Cissy…and then after a teetering eternity of a moment, grinned.
“Perhaps you can tempt me to stay after all."