The Red Door

Chapter 2

Essex, Late May, 1920

There were Japanese lanterns strung high across the lawn, the paper ribbons tied between them lifting and fluttering with the evening breeze. The lanterns hadn’t been necessary in the lingering dusk of a spring’s night, but as the hour neared eleven, they came into their own, sparkling in the stream that ran by the foot of the lawns, adding a fairy-tale look to the façade of the old house and gleaming in the windowpanes, red, gold, and blue.

Most of the guests had gone home finally, leaving behind the usual detritus of a party. The plates had been stacked at the ends of the three tables for Dora to collect tomorrow, and a pile of table linen, like a miniature iceberg, stood out in the green sea of the grass.

I ought to move that, Walter Teller thought, before the damp comes and ruins the lot. But he stood where he was, looking toward the house, his back to the darkness beyond the stream.

“A penny for your thoughts,” his brother said.

Walter had forgot that he was there. Peter had taken two of the chairs and brought them together so that he could rest his bad leg, sitting quietly as he often did when he was in grievous pain. Turning, Walter said, “Sorry?”

“You were miles away,” Peter commented, lightly tapping his chair’s leg with his cane.

“Birthdays remind me that I’m a year older,” Walter lied.

“Any of that whisky left? My leg is being attacked by angry devils.”

“Yes, I think so.” He went to the drinks table, found a clean glass, and poured a measure of whisky into it.

“Thanks.” Peter downed half of it in one swallow.

“You ought to be careful of that,” Walter said, keeping his voice level, without judgment.

“So they tell me. Which is why I wait until I’m going up to bed. It helps me sleep.” He shifted his leg, searching for comfort. “I should have gone back to London tonight, with Edwin. But I couldn’t face bouncing about in the motorcar for hours on end. Cowardly of me, wasn’t it?” he added wryly.

“Why? This is where the four of us grew up. You. Edwin. Leticia. Myself. It will always be home.” But it was in fact Edwin’s house. The eldest son’s inheritance. He himself lived here because Edwin preferred London. It had been a thorn in his side for ten years, this kindness, but Jenny loved Witch Hazel Farm, and so he had said nothing. It was a small sacrifice to make for her sake.

“Jenny and I are going up to London tomorrow,” he went on. “You and Susannah can come with us or stay on here for a few days.” Walter considered his brother. The damaged leg was beyond repair. And there was no doubt his pain was real. Still, of late there were times when he had the feeling that Peter’s nightly whisky dulled more than the ache of torn muscle and smashed nerves. “All’s well between you and Susannah?” he asked lightly.

“Yes, of course it is,” Peter answered testily. “Why shouldn’t it be?”

“No idea, old man. Except that she was a little quiet this weekend.”

Peter shifted under Walter’s gaze. “We’ve been talking about adopting a child. She has. It’s complicated.”

Walter looked away. “I didn’t intend to pry.”

“No.” Changing the subject, he said, “Is Harry looking forward to school? He doesn’t say much about it.”

“I expect he is. He knows his mother is against it. For her sake he doesn’t dwell on it.”

“Jenny’s a marvelous mother. Edwin was saying as much the other day.” Peter hesitated. “Harry’s only just seven, you know. I don’t see why you can’t wait a year.”

Walter turned on him, suddenly angry. In the light of the blue lantern above his head, his expression was almost baleful. “It’s what Father wanted. Harry’s the only heir, it’s what’s been arranged since the day he was born. You know that as well as I do.”

Peter said gently, “Father has been dead these six years. Why are we still under his thumb?” When Walter didn’t answer, he went on, “He got it all wrong, you know. The eldest son to the land—that’s Edwin, and he’s no farmer. The next son to the Army—that’s me. And I hated it. The next son to the church. That’s you. And you lasted barely a year in your first living. I think, truth be told, that you found you weren’t cut out to convert the heathen savage, either.”

It was too close to the mark. Only that morning Walter had received a letter from the Alcock Missionary Society, wanting to know when he would be ready to return to the field. That, and Harry, had haunted him all day.

Jenny called from the house, saving Walter from having to answer his brother.

“Yes, coming,” he replied, and then to his brother he said, “I’ll just put these candles out. Why don’t you go on up to bed? You aren’t going to find any peace until you do.”

Peter reached for his cane and struggled to his feet. Walter caught one of the chairs he’d been using as it almost tipped over. Peter swore at his own clumsiness. Leaning heavily on his cane, he made his way across the lawn toward the house. And halfway there, he turned and said to his brother, “Things will look better tomorrow.”

Walter nodded, then set about reaching into the colorful paper cages and pinching out the flame of each candle. As he came to the last of them, he stopped.

It was too bad, he thought, that life couldn’t be snuffed out as easily as a candle flame.

Could a man will himself to die? He’d seen it happen more than once in West Africa but never really believed in it.

Now he wished he could.

His sister, Leticia, would call that arrant nonsense. After all, he didn’t suffer in the same way that his brothers did. Not physical pain.

He could have borne that.

It was not knowing what to do that haunted him.