At about the same time each morning, Charles sat on the bottom step of a long, winding staircase. The little boy felt very small and insignificant, next to the staircase’s ornate, heavily-carved newel post and its towering curve of highly polished banister and spindles.
Charles was waiting for his mother, as he did every morning, to watch her breeze down the steps with a flourish, long skirts trailing and swirling behind her. She would stop at the bottom of the stairs briefly, only long enough to give him a little hug and a gentle push, sending him on his way.
You see, Charles’ mother was a very busy lady, especially in the mornings. After having a light breakfast with Charles’ father and their daily farewells, she would retire immediately to her boudoir to sit at her escritoire, answering correspondence pertaining to her many social obligations. This writing desk was tucked cozily into a bayed alcove with diamond-paned casement windows, from which she could look down onto her lovely rose garden. The garden was her pride and joy, with its numerous varieties of prize-winning hybrids in many rich colors, that gave her endless delight.
The family home was built atop a knoll, which allowed a panoramic view of the entire estate from the Mistress’ upper story vantage point. Beyond the pleasing informality of the rose bushes was an English garden with flagstone paths leading to passages between privy hedges and flowering shrubs. Climbing vines entwining trellises and lattices lent mystery and secrecy to its beauty. Throughout, there were fountains and statuary of mythological nymphs, gods and creatures of fantasy. The twisting, turning stone walkways would open suddenly to inviting sitting areas, giving the garden an aura of magical charm and beauty. Beyond the gardens was a vast expanse of lush green lawn that fell away to a riverbank with a verge of trees that almost hid one’s view of the water beyond, wending its way in peaceful serenity.
Allowing herself to be distracted by these picturesque scenes only occasionally, Charles’ mother would sit at her desk writing endless regrets, invitations, thank-you cards and a thousand and one other necessary notes about clubs, committee meetings, teas, small intimate suppers and large well-attended dinner parties. Not to mention the balls and many other niceties of her many social and civic engagements and responsibilities.
Such a beautiful young lady, she was, with flushed cheeks, dancing eyes and long golden tresses which she wore piled high for formal afternoons and evenings; however, for these morning occasions, she let it fall free of pins, bound only by a silk ribbon. It cascaded over her shoulders and down her back over the silks and satins of her dress. Her wardrobe included a rainbow array of pastel green, pink, lavender and blue dresses from which she chose each morning, all with cream-colored laces at the wrist and throat that complimented her delicate coloring and made her a delight to look upon.
Charles’ father was also a handsome figure, with his tall stature, waxed mustaches and glossy chestnut hair parted in the middle.
Though not a stern man, he had a “no nonsense” demeanor, being often preoccupied with the duties of managing the estate, either surveying the grounds with various workmen or ensconced in his office with his books and ledgers.
He too would dismiss Charles daily with good-morning well-wishes, a pat on the head and a brief inquiry as to what his son might be up to on “such a fine and glorious day”, no matter what the weather was doing outside! Charles learned very quickly that there was never any need to answer; for, like his mother, his father was always far too busy to wait for a reply.
. . .continue to Chapter II: Cholly