The Messenger by Jill (franollie)

Madeleine Hart gazed dreamily out her bedroom window at the autumn sunset. Her eyes were focused on the myriad of trees standing at the edge of the perfectly manicured lawn. The setting sun accented the changing leaves, the rays setting them ablaze and illuminating the western sky with fire just, it seemed, for her. The redness of the waning sun teased her eyes and invaded her mind. All she could think about was red, in every shade: the crimson embers of the fire in the den, her father’s new cherry Mustang convertible, her mother’s scarlet nails and lips, and-- sigh--the ruddy hues of Matthew Wheeler’s hair.

She hadn’t seen that much of him or his hair since the day they met.

After she fainted at Camp Tamaqua’s closing ceremony, the dining hall turned into chaos. Helen rushed to her. Alicia, Helen’s sister, and Gopher Guts, the camp director, pushed through the campers and guests, to get her outside. She vaguely remembered Matt’s arm supporting her and clearly remembered his green eyes. It wasn’t long before Gopher Guts detected the smell of campfire on her clothes and Helen’s and surmised that the duo had not been at the closing ceremony. Helen was called on the carpet for leaving a camp-sponsored activity and “endangering” another camper. Madeleine tried to protest, but Helen proudly accepted every bit of reprimand with a glint in her blue eyes and a hint of a smile at her lips. Only when Alicia entered the conversation and firmly stated, “Don’t worry, sir, I’ll make sure that Helen writes a formal letter of apology to Madeleine and her parents. Our parents will ensure that Madeleine is never bothered by Helen’s disregard for her well-being again,” did Helen seem to deflate. This only lasted a moment, however and the spark quickly returned to her eyes.

All this occurred nearly two months ago. It was now October, and Madeleine had seen nothing but glimpses of Matt since her return from camp. Even though the Johnsons called and offered a full apology on their daughter’s behalf and the promised letter in which Helen took all responsibility for her “dangerous actions in leaving closing ceremony” (Madeleine could imagine Helen rolling her eyes at this), the Harts laid a large portion of blame with Matt. He had not been fired, but his shifts consisted of driving her father to and from work and her mother to social engagements in the evenings. He never drove for Madeleine.

At first Madeleine wondered what he did during the day since she was always stuck with decrepit and distant Dirk as her driver. Then she overheard two of the maids giggling about how Matt was so handsome, and lamenting the fact that he rarely moved his nose from a text book or The Wall Street Journal. She also overheard the older housekeepers clucking their tongues and singing Matt’s praises for earning a scholarship to Yale and working to pay the rest of his college education.

Madeleine wondered what Matt was studying: medicine? Law? She shook herself from her warm thoughts and noticed that the sky was completely dark now. She redirected her attention to her American history book. She couldn’t concentrate for thinking about Matt. Did he ever think about her? No, he was too mature to think of a little fifteen-year old like her. He had to be nineteen, at least.

One of the young giggly maids opened the door and bobbed her head toward Madeleine. “Pardon me, Miss Madeleine, but,” the maid paused, “your mother requests your presence on the garden patio.”

Grateful for an excuse to stop studying, Madeleine closed the textbook with a small sigh. “Thank you, Bridget,” she murmured. “Please inform my mother that I will be there momentarily.”

Bridget bobbed her head again and replied with a slight smile, “I’ll deliver your reply.”

Madeleine stood and stretched. She turned to the mirror above her bureau examined herself critically. She smoothed her hair and her skirt. Hopefully her mother found her appearance acceptable. Perfection in appearance was expected and required to be achieved daily. She looked again in the mirror and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her right ear. All was in place.

Madeleine took a cardigan carefully hung on a chair near the door and then walked sedately and silently down the hardwood hallway. She could imagine her mother’s voice coaching her as she walked. “A lady is serene and silent, keeping her chin up and eyes forward.” Madeleine allowed herself a flash of a smile as she wondered what Helen would say if she ever met her mother, Gwendolyn Hart. Helen certainly would not be silent or serene.

Her musings turned toward her mother’s request for a meeting. She was often summoned for “girl talks” as her mother called them; though they weren’t so much “talks” as “listens.” Her mother would speak of the current happenings in the Connecticut social world and how Madeleine would fit into scene when she turned sixteen, and Madeleine would nod politely.

Madeleine opened the French doors to the garden patio and stepped outside into the autumn evening. The outdoor fireplace was lit and warmed the air around the flagstone porch and eating area. Her mother was nowhere in sight. Madeleine was surprised she had arrived first when a slight clearing of a throat startled her. She jumped and whirled around, hand to her chest.

Matt Wheeler stepped quickly from the shadows of a rhododendron bush. “Maddie,” he said sheepishly, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, I’m not your mother,” he replied, coloring slightly, “but I had to talk to you.”

He removed an envelope from the inside pocked of his chauffeur’s jacket and held it out to her. “Helen sent me a letter and asked if I would deliver it to you.”

“Yes, and asked if I would give it to you.” He reached out and took her hand and placed the envelope between her fingers. Her hand tingled. She wondered briefly if she were having a stroke. Could fifteen-year olds have strokes?

“Yes, she did,” he smiled at her and touched his index finger to the brim of his cap. “It’s been nice talking to you again, Maddie.”

His eyes met hers and held them. “It has.” Then he winked at her and disappeared again into the shadows.

She stared unblinking after him. Her heart was pounding; she couldn’t breathe. She was having a stroke! Madeleine reached out and grasped the back of a wrought iron chair for support and forced herself to breathe slowly. Then the reality of what happened sank in. She just talked with Matt Wheeler! Alone! More reality sank in. She recalled what she said, or rather what she hadn’t said, during their conversation. It was horrific! He probably thought she didn’t have a brain in her head. She winced as she brought her hand to her eyes. As she pinked with embarrassment, she realized a stroke might have been less painful.

Then she felt the envelope in her hand. A letter from Helen! Glancing nervously around her, she slid it into the pocket of her skirt. It wouldn’t do for her mother to arrive for the meeting and catch her with it.

Realization dawned. There was no meeting with her mother! Matt set the whole thing up! Rather than take the risk of having the letter discovered, and Matt getting in trouble, she walked swiftly, but silently and sedately back to her room. She softly closed the door, slipped off her shoes and settled back against her bed pillows to read.

Madeleine smiled as she unfolded the letter. The pale blue stationery reminded her of the sky at camp. Helen’s script was formed of textbook perfect letters and the lines of words were perfectly straight on the unlined paper. There was, however, life in the penmanship. The lines were thick and bold, and Helen’s t’s were crossed with up-slanted bars that seemed to fill the page with energy.

Behind the blue paper was a smooth cream-colored sheet. The paper was filled with pencil lines both fine and bold that detailed Camp Tamaqua. The center of the page was the Meadow with Madeleine, Helen and Pete smiling around the campfire. The lake and cabins were clearly drawn and in the corner was the dining hall, filled with sleeping campers and guests. It was amazing how much detail Helen created. Madeleine could pick out Gopher Guts droning through his speech, Alicia watching spellbound, and there was Matt Wheeler leaning nonchalantly against the wall.

Carefully, Madeleine folded the letter and drawing and placed them under her pillow. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, stood and resettled herself at her desk to begin her reply to Helen.

Part II

Madeleine stared at the paper trying to decide what to write. Helen requested all the social goings-on in Connecticut. The most exciting thing that happened in the months since camp was receiving Helen’s letter. Madeleine woke up, went to school, came home, practiced the piano, dined with her parents, listened to her mother talk at her, studied, and went to bed. Oh, and she thought about Matt, but she certainly couldn’t write to Helen about the nothing that she did.

Madeleine heard the cliquish clusters of her fellow students at St. Drogo’s as they talked about their activities. There were artistic girls who performed in plays, painted sets or sewed costumes for Shakespearean dramas and musicals; athletic girls who competed in field hockey and softball, or sometimes cheered the boys’ teams to victory; intelligent girls who debated politics or played chess against the boys; finally, the popular girls who batted their eyelashes, snapped their gum, smoked cigarettes and gushed about their dates and the recent installment of their favorite soap operas.

None of the cliques clicked with Madeleine. She couldn’t memorize lines, paint a inside a sketch or thread a needle; her mother often spoke of the impropriety of the theater. Running made her lightheaded and the dust of the softball field made it hard for her to breathe; besides which her mother cautioned her daughter about the danger of developing a muscular figure. Madeleine was not overly smart. She passed her classes with Bs and the occasional C. She felt she could do better, but a man did not like a woman to be smarter than he. Every woman knew that. And most assuredly, Madeleine was not popular. She couldn’t bat her eyelashes, snap her gum, inhale smoke without coughing (her father smoked a pipe), and if her mother thought that theater was improper, soap operas were completely vulgar.

Sighing, Madeleine picked up her pen, looking again at the blank paper. Blank, flat, dull and empty, just like her life.

A sharp tap sounded on her door. “Madeleine,” her mother’s voice projected through the wood. Madeleine stuffed Helen’s letter under the desk blotter. She had barely secreted the page before her mother, never one to wait, entered her bedroom.

Gwendolyn Hart was perfect. Not a honey-colored hair was out of place. Her eyebrows were flawless arcs across her unlined forehead. She neither truly frowned nor truly smiled. Mascara accentuated her light blue eyes, and her lips were lined impeccably with a scarlet lipstick. Matching polish shone on her fingernails. Her posture was irreproachable.

Madeleine sprang from her chair, praying that no sliver of paper peeked from beneath the blotter. “Good evening, Mother,” she murmured politely.

“Good evening, dear,” her mother replied, her perfectly-modulated voice low. Gwendolyn reached forward and smoothed a single strand of hair back from Madeleine’s cheek. “How are your studies?”

Gwendolyn looked at her for a long moment. “I knew that American history would be too hard for you.” She continued to examine her daughter with a critical eye. Madeleine held her breath as her mother removed a tiny piece of leaf from the sleeve of her cardigan sweater. “Are you cold, dear?”

“Really?” Her mother’s eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch. “But, my dear, you seem to be perspiring.”

Madeleine’s mind and heart were racing. She knows! She knows about the letter, and, oh no! She knows about Matt! He will surely be fired!

Madeleine opened her mouth to say something, anything, but her mother continued on, “You will not be ill.”

“No, dear, you will not. You have a very important social engagement this weekend.”

“Yes, dear. You will be escorted to supper at the club this Saturday evening by Ronald Dorning.”

“Yes, you will. He telephoned your father this evening to ask permission, and your father and I think it is a wonderful idea. Ronald is a charming young man. You will have a delightful time.”

“I know, dear, you have nothing to wear. I will take care of it. This is so exciting! Ronald mentioned to your father how highly he regards you, and you are, of course, aware of Ronald’s father’s standing at the club.” Her mother turned to leave. “And Madeleine?”

Gwendolyn tucked another single strand of hair behind Madeleine’s cheek. “See that you make yourself a bit more presentable.” Her mother whirled around and strode softly from the room. The door closed firmly behind her with a click.

Ronald Dorning! Madeleine thought with horror. He is a toad! Tears welled up in her eyes. She loathed Ronald Dorning. He would sidle up to her in class or the hallway. His eyes never focused higher than the third button on her uniform blouse. His comments to her made her uncomfortable, teetering on the edge of forwardness. The tears fell.

Madeleine scrawled a letter to Helen as quickly as she could, explaining the “Ronald” situation and begging for help. She folded the page, found an envelope and quickly sealed, addressed and stamped it. It was only then that she realized the futility of her fervent letter writing. First, she would have to get the letter to a post office or to Matt. If she tried to slip it into the house’s outgoing mail, one of the nosy housekeepers would surely notice it. Second, today was Tuesday. It would take at least two days for a letter to get to Helen, and as many to return a reply. She was sunk.

Sighing she ripped open the envelope and shredded the letter into tiny pieces and dropped it into her wastebasket. Then, thinking the better of it, she picked the shreds out of the basket and placed them back into their envelope and slid the whole packet into her history book. The servant who emptied the trash would be curious about bunch of shredded paper. It wouldn’t do for the help to gossip about her.

Ronald was problem she would have to solve on her own, but that wouldn’t prevent her from writing Helen a real letter. She selected a new sheet of stationary and began again. Like Helen’s, Madeleine’s script was perfect, but, to her eyes, dull and lifeless.

Madeleine frowned at what she had written. It was formal. Helen was anything but formal. Madeleine would simply have to imagine that Helen was with her, and they were talking face to face. She continued her letter.

Madeleine frowned again. How much could she trust Helen? She thought about it for a moment. After the short time she had spent with Helen, she considered her a true friend, quite possibly the best friend she ever had. She could definitely confide in her.

Soon the letter was folded, sealed, addressed, stamped and sitting on the desk. She had to get it to Matt tonight, but how? Looking at the clock, she was surprised to realize that it was nine thirty. Her mother was probably on the telephone, her father in his den. Could she sneak to the garage? Well, she would try.

She slipped her feet into shoes and walked nervously to the door. She opened it slowly, listening for servants in the hallway. All was quiet. She stepped into the corridor and moved purposefully toward the side entrance near the porte-cochère. She heard her mother’s voice from her sitting room, speaking haughtily about some new member at the club.

The floorboards squeaked beneath her feet as she passed the den’s doorway. Her father looked up from his desk. “Madeleine?” He called softly. “What are you doing out and about at this time of night?”

She thought quickly. “Oh, Father, you startled me. I am, um, going to look at the stars.”

“Yes, Father, the stars. You see, it is for my science class. We are studying astronomy, and I wanted to get a head start on constellations.” She was surprised at how easily she lied to her father.

“Hm,” his head was already buried in the newspaper spread on his desk. “Look for Polaris.”

“Yes, Polaris. The North star. Those teachers haven’t taught you about Polaris yet?” He looked up at her again.

“Um, no, Father,” she gulped. “We have just started our chapter. I will look it up, and I will make sure that I know where it is.”

Madeline breathed a sigh of relief as she continued down the hallway and exited the house through a side door. She stood for a moment under the porte cochere. She couldn’t believe she was actually doing this! Never in her life had she snuck away from her room or gone someplace without her parents knowing precisely where she was going and why. She wondered what she would do now. How could she get to Matt?

A sharp voice from the shadows made her jump. “Maddie? What are doing out here?”

But, it wasn’t her father, it was Matt. He was walking on the driveway toward her. He glanced around and then drew Maddie around a pillar, out of sight of the house’s windows.

“Actually,”she gasped, “I was looking for you. I told my father I was looking at the stars.”

“Did you and were you?” He smiled at her. “Two clandestine meetings in one night? To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Yes, you see, this is the second letter I wrote to her tonight. The first one was all about awful Ronald Dorning and my date with him on Saturday, and,” Madeleine ran out of air and had to pause to take a breath.

Matt stopped her before more words could tumble out of her mouth. “You have a date with someone named ‘awful Ronald Dorning?’ Why would you go out with him if he’s awful?” He sounded puzzled.

“I don’t want to go out with him,” she wailed. “Mother arranged it, and he’s an absolute toad. That’s why I wrote to Helen. I’d hoped she would have some advice on how to get out the date, but then I realized that by the time my letter got to her and she wrote back, it would be too late. So, I ripped up my first letter and wrote just a normal letter, but I decided I needed to mail it tonight because if I didn’t, I might ever have the courage to.”

“Whoa,” he said softly, putting a hand on her arm. “Slow down, Stargazer, I’ll mail the letter to Helen for you.” He paused. “And if you don’t want to go out with Ronald, just don’t go.”

“Just. Don’t. Go.” He squeezed her arm gently. “Good night, Stargazer.” He walked away whistling, “When You Wish Upon a Star.”