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Authors: Jennie Fields
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what he wanted us to do if he
died
.”
Edith can’t help but laugh. “He’s not going to die. He simply has a head cold.”
“I took notes,” Anna says, and with only the faintest smile holds up a pad of paper filled from top to bottom.
“We’ll have to have these framed for future reference,” Edith says. “Good heavens. He wants only
black
horses in his funeral procession. No cars. Very old-fashioned of him.”
A week later, when Henry is himself again, guests begin to arrive once more, including Henry’s particular request: the journalist Mr. Morton Fullerton.
Fullerton arrives on a Tuesday afternoon bearing an elegant top hat, a walking stick and a nosegay of roses, violets and daisies for Edith.
“For me? Or Henry?”
“You, of course,” he says.
“Oh lovely! I appreciate flowers so much this time of year!” She strokes the slick lavender silk gracing the stems. “Thank you.”
“The magic of hothouses,” he says. “I hear
you
are quite the gardener.”
“And who told you that?”
“Charles Eliot Norton.”
“You know Mr. Norton?”
The well-known Harvard scholar is the father of Sally Norton, one of Edith’s dearest friends. Edith feels flattered that Fullerton bothered to mention her to them.
“He influenced me more than anyone at Harvard. I know all the Nortons, and they seem to know you. I don’t wish to be brazen, Mrs. Wharton. But the Nortons say I must visit you when I’m in Massachusetts. That your house is the ‘embodiment of you.’”
“The embodiment of me. Hmmm. Largish and white?”
He looks her up and down with a grin. “Well put together. Elegant.”
Fullerton’s good looks make Edith uncomfortable. She’s heard that the glaciers in the Alaska territory hold such an extraordinary azure color they seem to have trapped the sky beneath the ice. And that’s how Morton Fullerton’s eyes strike her. Caught in the black fringe of his long lashes, they are glistening, chilling, reflective. “Oh, and Sally says I
must
smell the pine trees at night from your terrace.”
Wise Sally. To step out on The Mount’s terrace in the moonlight, after a pulsingly hot day, and feel the cool breath of pine is one of Edith’s greatest pleasures. “I’ll count on you visiting me, then?” she asks.
“We’ll shake on it.” he offers his hand. With her hand enfolded in his, an odd sense of peace comes over her. She reluctantly lets go, but her very skin seems to vibrate.
“Please excuse me while I get Mr. James.” She hears a girlish lilt to her own voice.
Henry is thrilled to see Fullerton. His face lights up like a starving man being presented a chocolate cream pie. He pulls up one of the Louis XIV tapestry chairs to sit closer.
“My boy,” he says, “you’re looking well. The world of journalism hasn’t ruined you, I see.”
“I am quite good at hiding the damage,” Fullerton says. “And you, Mr. James, are looking fine, despite your brush with death.”
Henry apparently doesn’t hear the irony in his voice, for he goes on in flinching detail describing the misery of his week in bed. Fullerton furrows his brows with appropriate concern.
“I am sure Mrs. Wharton was relieved that you didn’t die chez Wharton. It would have been a blot on her reputation as the consummate hostess.”
“I am too thoughtful to die in someone else’s home,” Henry says with a harrumph.
The
bonne
arrives with a spread for tea: tea cakes, pastries and small sandwiches. Henry isn’t too shy to fill his plate with little pleasures. Fullerton merely sips his brew. He must be in his early forties, but his body appears fit and disciplined. His face unlined. There’s no mark of indulgence in drink or gluttony.
“I hear that Charles Du Bos is translating
The House of Mirth
for you,” Fullerton says, turning to Edith.
“Yes, I’m hoping to have it serialized here. To place it in
Le Temps
or
Revue de Paris
. Do you think that’s a good idea? That’s how it was done in
died
.”
Edith can’t help but laugh. “He’s not going to die. He simply has a head cold.”
“I took notes,” Anna says, and with only the faintest smile holds up a pad of paper filled from top to bottom.
“We’ll have to have these framed for future reference,” Edith says. “Good heavens. He wants only
black
horses in his funeral procession. No cars. Very old-fashioned of him.”
A week later, when Henry is himself again, guests begin to arrive once more, including Henry’s particular request: the journalist Mr. Morton Fullerton.
Fullerton arrives on a Tuesday afternoon bearing an elegant top hat, a walking stick and a nosegay of roses, violets and daisies for Edith.
“For me? Or Henry?”
“You, of course,” he says.
“Oh lovely! I appreciate flowers so much this time of year!” She strokes the slick lavender silk gracing the stems. “Thank you.”
“The magic of hothouses,” he says. “I hear
you
are quite the gardener.”
“And who told you that?”
“Charles Eliot Norton.”
“You know Mr. Norton?”
The well-known Harvard scholar is the father of Sally Norton, one of Edith’s dearest friends. Edith feels flattered that Fullerton bothered to mention her to them.
“He influenced me more than anyone at Harvard. I know all the Nortons, and they seem to know you. I don’t wish to be brazen, Mrs. Wharton. But the Nortons say I must visit you when I’m in Massachusetts. That your house is the ‘embodiment of you.’”
“The embodiment of me. Hmmm. Largish and white?”
He looks her up and down with a grin. “Well put together. Elegant.”
Fullerton’s good looks make Edith uncomfortable. She’s heard that the glaciers in the Alaska territory hold such an extraordinary azure color they seem to have trapped the sky beneath the ice. And that’s how Morton Fullerton’s eyes strike her. Caught in the black fringe of his long lashes, they are glistening, chilling, reflective. “Oh, and Sally says I
must
smell the pine trees at night from your terrace.”
Wise Sally. To step out on The Mount’s terrace in the moonlight, after a pulsingly hot day, and feel the cool breath of pine is one of Edith’s greatest pleasures. “I’ll count on you visiting me, then?” she asks.
“We’ll shake on it.” he offers his hand. With her hand enfolded in his, an odd sense of peace comes over her. She reluctantly lets go, but her very skin seems to vibrate.
“Please excuse me while I get Mr. James.” She hears a girlish lilt to her own voice.
Henry is thrilled to see Fullerton. His face lights up like a starving man being presented a chocolate cream pie. He pulls up one of the Louis XIV tapestry chairs to sit closer.
“My boy,” he says, “you’re looking well. The world of journalism hasn’t ruined you, I see.”
“I am quite good at hiding the damage,” Fullerton says. “And you, Mr. James, are looking fine, despite your brush with death.”
Henry apparently doesn’t hear the irony in his voice, for he goes on in flinching detail describing the misery of his week in bed. Fullerton furrows his brows with appropriate concern.
“I am sure Mrs. Wharton was relieved that you didn’t die chez Wharton. It would have been a blot on her reputation as the consummate hostess.”
“I am too thoughtful to die in someone else’s home,” Henry says with a harrumph.
The
bonne
arrives with a spread for tea: tea cakes, pastries and small sandwiches. Henry isn’t too shy to fill his plate with little pleasures. Fullerton merely sips his brew. He must be in his early forties, but his body appears fit and disciplined. His face unlined. There’s no mark of indulgence in drink or gluttony.
“I hear that Charles Du Bos is translating
The House of Mirth
for you,” Fullerton says, turning to Edith.
“Yes, I’m hoping to have it serialized here. To place it in
Le Temps
or
Revue de Paris
. Do you think that’s a good idea? That’s how it was done in
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