Footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. With a quick review of her skirt, Elsa plucked a cat hair from the fibers as the butler opened the door.
“Well, hello, Miss Reisner.” Benson’s familiar face warmed her. His back was stooped with age, his hair frosted white from decades in her family’s service. “We weren’t expecting you this early, but come in. I’ll let your parents know you’ve arrived.”
Elsa stepped inside. “Please don’t trouble them, Benson. I’ve come early to look for something in my old room. When it’s closer to dinnertime, I’ll join them in the dining room. Or in the parlor, if they have invited another bachelor guest.”
Benson’s face crinkled with a grin. “Very good, miss. I’ll come get you if you seem to have lost track of the time.”
She wouldn’t, but thanked him just the same, and made her way to the bedroom she’d had as a child. The climb to the third floor and down the hall was good for her, she told herself as she sat on her former bed to rest. Every time she stretched herself, it made her body stronger.
Only, she didn’t feel stronger yet.
No matter. She would keep trying.
For now, she breathed deeply as she recovered from those flights of stairs. With one finger she traced the stitching on the pale pink counterpane. Being here felt like she had traveled backin time, and she didn’t know if she liked it. Even the sound of the mattress creaking beneath her brought back feelings of coming home on breaks from boarding school. It was an awkward in-between feeling. If this place was home, why did she live out of a suitcase when she was here?
Pushing herself up, she went to the dressing room and entered. Elsa moved a footstool to one corner and climbed it to reach whatever was on the shelf. The first thing she touched was her old flute, still in its case, and a sharp edge pressed inside her throat. Before polio, she’d been a prodigy on this instrument. She’d made her parents proud.
That was a long time ago.
She set the case on the floor, then resumed her search through the contents of the shelf, shoving toys and dolls aside. At last, she found what she was looking for: a box of oldBird-Loremagazines and the scrapbook she’d made as a bedridden child.
She carried the box to the bed. Sitting beside it, she lifted out the scrapbook and opened it on her lap. This was the final version, of course, nothing like the original. Elsa had begun by trying to sketch the birds she saw from her window, but she hadn’t been satisfied with the result. After several attempts at various species, she’d ended up tearing out those pages entirely and using illustrations fromBird-Loreinstead. Each type of bird had its own page. In addition to the magazine illustration, she’d recorded the classification and a log of when she’d seen it. Elsa had been doing her own bird count ever since she’d read about Mr. Chapman’s idea when he was the editor ofBird-Lore.
“There you are.”
Her father’s voice lifted her head. “Hi, Father. I told Benson not to trouble you. It isn’t time for dinner yet, is it?” She checked her watch, then turned her bracelet on her wrist to hide the clasp.
“I would never be troubled by learning you’re here. And, no, we have a few minutes yet.” Father’s smile was as dignified asthe rest of him. Sitting beside her, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders.
Elsa stiffened at the unexpected gesture, then glanced at him, waiting to see if he would explain himself.
A lump bobbed behind his celluloid collar. Perhaps he could tell she didn’t know what to make of him. “When you were a baby, your mother and I listened to leading experts in childcare because we had no idea what we were doing. The experts warned against coddling children. Which is why we were never demonstrative in our affection. It didn’t mean we didn’t hold you above all the riches in this world. And as you’re all grown up now, I’d say the danger of spoiling you has passed. Or does it make you uncomfortable? If you mind it, you must tell me.”
Elsa nearly dropped the scrapbook she was holding. Closing it, she gripped the edges. “I don’t mind it.”
“Good.” His brow relaxed, and he folded his hands. “What are you up to in here?”
She showed him the scrapbook and the box full of magazines. “The gardener at the Van Tessel estate has a twelve-year-old daughter who has a keen interest in birds. I thought she might like to see this. She might like to create her own scrapbook with these old magazines.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“They aren’t doing any good gathering dust here.” She gestured to the dressing room. Through the door she’d left open, her flute case could be seen on the floor.
“I didn’t realize you kept that,” she told him.
“Ah.” Father rubbed his hand over his jaw. “I suppose your mother and I thought you may one day want to return to playing the flute.”
“Because I was so terrible at the piano?” Her parents had insisted that she try learning the new instrument at boarding school since it required no lung strength. She hadn’t caught onto it as quickly as her instructor thought she ought to and had been called lazy and rebellious. Honestly, maybe she had been. Maybe it had been a small act of defiance against the turn her life had taken.
“I never cared a fig about the piano,” Father said. “Not specifically. We thought you would be better off with music in your life again, and at the time, piano seemed like a good idea.” His brow furrowed. “You didn’t agree?”
Elsa caught herself before she shrugged, another lazy gesture, or so she’d been taught. “The only thing that seemed like a good idea to me then was being home.” Everything in her longed to confess how lonely and miserable she’d been when she’d needed her parents the most, but Dr. Stanhope’s accusations throbbed in her head.
The past could not be undone. Was she selfish to want to tell her father how she hated his choices for her? What did she think would come of it, other than heaping guilt upon the man beside her?
Was she seeking undue attention even now?
Father’s chin dipped to his chest before he lifted it again moments later. “We listened to so many experts,” he said. “But we failed to listen to you. For that, my dear daughter, I’m sorry.”
