To say that Dexter Wiggin was handsome would be a gross
understatement. He was
radiant. He had the fair skin of a
maiden. His midnight black hair set off his fine features in sharp
contrast. Whether in profile or
full face his perfect head graced a slim, supple body equally admired. But, oh, how he suffered. He was so extremely shy and
retiring as to be almost pathological.
Growing up with no siblings in the small town of
Quincy, south of
Boston, he had lived quietly with
his mother – his father having been killed in the civil war. He was bright, studious and sang like an
angel in the church choir. He was
often teased by the other boys because of his stunning, androgynous looks, which
drove him even deeper within himself.
The headmaster at his school sought to guide him into law, thinking he
would make a fine attorney with his sharp mind, but Dexter was far too modest
and timid to take up that profession. And of course the military was
totally out of the question for a young man of his sensitivity.
Instead, after graduating from Harvard at twenty-three, he took the
position of tutor with a prominent Boston family, the Howland’s; engaged to lead
the studies of both the younger, fifteen year old boy, Charles, and his only
slightly older sister, Flora – a ravishing beauty herself at only
seventeen.
Trevor Howland and his wife, Martha, who were often engaged in social and
civic duties, seldom had time to monitor their children, and were greatly
relieved to finally have a fine young gentleman with a sterling reputation in
charge of the moral and scholarly education of their somewhat rambunctious
progeny.
Dexter could see that he had his work cut out for him, though, especially
with Flora. At seventeen she
already considered herself a grown woman and had little use for the distractions
of any further education; even though her mother insisted she master French, as
it was considered such a fine ladylike accomplishment in
Boston social
circles.
Flora was slouched at the breakfast table and had a ribbon in her hand
that she was winding around her forefinger. She would not look up at Dexter even
when he spoke to her.
“Flora, have you studied the verbs I assigned you
yesterday?”
Flora pouted, and pulled the ribbon off her finger in one grand gesture,
flinging it out towards Dexter with a snap like a whip. “Nasty old French verbs. I hate them.” She rose from the table and flounced out
of the room totally ignoring Dexter’s entreaties for her to
remain.
Poor Dexter hated confrontation of any kind. And despite the authority granted him by
the Howland’s, he had absolutely no will to exercise his disciplinary
prerogatives with Flora at the moment.
But at least there was Master Charles, a willing student and an eager,
wide-eyed acolyte. He hung on
Dexter’s every word and ferociously completed every assignment with great
enthusiasm and mastery. But this
afternoon Master Charles seemed to be having a hard time concentrating on his
English grammar assignment. The
schoolroom window was open for the first time this spring and Charles was gazing
outside at the maple tree putting out its first few tentative leaves. A soft warm breeze played with the
curtains at the window. And he was
further distracted by the sounds of the horses and carriages in the street
outside. Poor Charles could not get
his mind around to the subject at hand.
“Please, read me your last sentence,” Dexter demanded once again of
Charles.
“What?” Charles snapped back into the present. He looked down at his exercise
book. “Ah, ah…” he read again the
sentence he had just finished.
“Rushing to finish his essay, Tom’s pencil broke.”
“Now, tell me what’s wrong with that sentence,” Dexter
quizzed.
Charles stared blankly at the notebook. He shrugged. “No idea.”
“You have a dangling participle.
The verb and the subject do not agree. ‘Rushing’ – the participle and verb -
does not agree with the noun – ‘pencil’.
The pencil is not rushing, Tom is.
Thus the participle - rushing - is dangling.”
Charles stared up at Dexter in complete bewilderment.
“Now complete the sentence so that it makes sense, please,” Dexter
demanded.
Dexter was standing in front of the open window. He was backlit and as he turned his head
towards Charles the sun broke through the clouds for a brief moment and lit up
Dexter’s face like the subject of the Dutch painting in the library. Charles was stunned. It was a defining and illuminating
moment in his life. He had never seen anything so absolutely beautiful
before. He felt stirrings in his
loins that he could not account for, and he rushed out of the classroom. “Excuse me, Mr. Wiggin, I have to use
the commode.”
When Charles returned his face was flush. He had obviously splashed water on his
face, as the hair framing his face was wet. He stood in the doorway, not sure how he
should proceed.
“Are you coming in, Master Charles?” Dexter queried.
“Sir. Sir.” Was all he could muster in
response.
“What is it, Charles, are you ill?”
“Sir…” Charles suddenly rushed forward to where Dexter was now sitting at
his desk. He took Dexter’s hand in
both of his. “Sir.” He leaned forward and kissed the back of
Dexter’s hand with great intensity.
He then abruptly straightened, letting go of Dexter’s hand and stared at
Dexter like a startled deer, and then turned and rushed out of the room. The soft breeze blew a curtain against
the back of Dexter’s neck. He
lightly brushed it away. He was
utterly bewildered, and uncertain now as to how he should respond. Should he go after his charge, or
pretend it never happened? He was
paralyzed with indecision. He was
blushing brightly, and for the first time felt he might not be up to the task of
tutoring this household. He was
frantic with regret and guilt, even though he had instigated nothing. He was far too embarrassed to speak to
the child directly and could only think to retire to his attic room, lie down,
and restore his equilibrium.
He rushed out of the schoolroom and headed for the main staircase leading
to his room. But as he passed by
the solarium, Madam’s voice called out to him.
“Oh Mr. Wiggin, may I see you for a moment please?”
Dexter froze in the dash to his room. He was certain that Charles had told his
mother everything and he would now be tossed out of the house in utter disgrace
and humiliation – even though he had not instigated anything.
“Madam,” he responded, and hesitantly poked his head through the solarium
door.
“Please come in, won’t you?”
Madam smiled and patted a welcoming place on the sofa next to where she
was seated with a tea tray on the table in front of her. “Tea?” she offered with a smile as she
began to pour even before he consented.
Dexter was beginning to feel that perhaps Charles had not communicated
the unfortunate occurrence to his mother after all.
“Tea would be nice.” He sat
gingerly on the edge of the sofa, a comfortable distance away from Madam.
“Milk, sugar, lemon?” she asked, the cup poised in her
hand.
“Lemon only, thank you.”
Madam placed a small slice of lemon on his saucer with a pair of silver
tongs.
“Do have a lemon tart. It
will be such a delicious compliment to your tea.” And again, without his response, she
placed a small yellow nugget of tart on a plate and handed both the tea and the
tart to Dexter.
It was late afternoon now and the sun was spilling into the garden room
with the force of the burgeoning spring.
Mr. Howland was quite fond of Orchids and the mossy, woody haze of the
solarium air was set in motion by the afternoon sun streaming in through the
double glazed windows. Dexter was
beginning to feel uncomfortable. He
was not used to sweating and he delicately brushed back a lock of hair off his,
now, moist brow. Madam remained as
cool as the cucumber sandwich, sans crusts, on which she was ever so
politely nibbling. Her blond curls
were as perfect as an alabaster freeze.
Her muslin dress was taught and trim across her breasts and around her
perfect little waist.
“More tea, Mr. Wiggin?” She
slightly lowered her gaze and turned more directly to him.
“Thank you, no.” He was even
more uncomfortable now. Madam did
not seem to have a perceptible reason for calling him into the garden room. The scent of the Orchids was now
becoming cloying and he felt that he might soon fall into a swoon if he did not
escape this oppressive room. He put
down his teacup.
“I really feel I must get back to my room now,” he spoke abruptly. “I have to prepare the lessons for
tomorrow’s classes.
“Oh please don’t go just yet, Mr. Wiggin. It has been such a pleasure sharing
afternoon tea with you.” She
reached over and placed her hand on Dexter’s knee. He was so startled he actually executed
a slight jump on the sofa. He
looked around wildly. The giant
ferns seemed to imprison him. The
Philodendron, climbing the pillars, scowled down on him - ancient disapproving
gargoyles. The scarlet Hibiscus
scolded from their pots in the corners of the room.
Madam gave a crystalline laugh and scooted closer, placing her arm
lightly around Dexter’s shoulders as her other hand slid slowly up his leg. “Now Mr. Wiggin, I got the impression in
our first meeting that you were a man of the world. I certainly wasn’t wrong was I? A Harvard man, after all,” she uttered,
as Dexter strove to disentangle himself from her advances.
“Madam,” he asserted as he rose from the sofa and backed towards the
entrance, “I’m afraid you must have a mistaken idea about me. I am your family tutor, and I have a
responsibility that does not allow for familiarities with any members of
the family. I am gravely sorry if
you have found me wanting.”
Again Madam laughed lightly and leaned back against the sofa, her arm
languishing along the back. “Oh Mr.
Wiggin. Are you always so
serious? My, my. Do come back.” She patted the sofa seat next to
her. He refused to move. “Well, you have quite bewitched me, what
can I say? Surely you don’t want to
fall into my bad graces now, do you?”
And then, with just an edge of pleading, “Dexter, certainly the life of a
solitary bachelor cannot be long endured – a handsome, virile, young man of your
age. I’m certain you must have
needs as well. Just imagine how
advantageous it could be to both of us if you could melt just a little.” She scooted down the sofa even closer
towards Dexter.
Just then Charles came bounding into the garden room. He froze and blushed bright pink upon
seeing Dexter with his mother. He
feared the worst. It was all over
now. Mr. Wiggin had certainly
revealed all about his schoolroom indiscretion.
Madam looked intently at Charles.
“My dear, do come closer.
You look so flushed. Do you
have a fever?”
Charles sidled over to his mother who put her hand up to his
forehead. Charles kept his eyes on
Mr. Wiggin and awaited the reproach from Mama. But none came. She pulled him around so he faced her
square on.
“I think some hot water and lemon, and then to bed for the rest of the
afternoon. Don’t you think, Mr.
Wiggin?”
“It might be advisable.”
“No, I’m fine, mother - really.” Charles pleaded, wanting only to escape
the solarium at this moment.
“Now don’t argue with your mother, Charles. Mr. Wiggin, would you please kindly
escort Master Charles to his bedroom, and see that he gets undressed immediately
and put into bed. I shall have
Clara bring up the hot water and lemon straight away.
Poor Charles was now doubly confounded - not only was there the kiss
earlier, but now he must completely undress and stand naked in front of Mr.
Wiggin. He was not at all sure what
the result of that would be.
Dexter was also feeling uncomfortable about this development for much the
same reason.
“I’m not quite sure that Master Charles needs my assistance, Madam. At fifteen and with his agile mind, I am
certain that he can undress and get himself into bed quite efficiently without
my supervision.”
Madam paused, brushed a crumb from her dress, and turned to Mr. Wiggin
once again. “I seem to remember,
Mr. Wiggin, that in our interview with you for this position, you clearly stated
that you would be more than willing - nay, eager even - to assist any
member of our family with any need that might arise. So far I have not witnessed that
willingness, Mr. Wiggin. Am I to
assume that you no longer desire to continue in this position?” She smiled very
sweetly.
“I am very much obliged to assist Master Charles, as you wish, of
course.”
“And as to the other matter that we were discussing earlier, l shall wish
to resume our conversation on that subject again at another time - soon. Good afternoon.” She waved the two away and sank back
into the sofa where a delicate Ghost Orchid seemed to whisper in her
ear.
Dexter marched Charles to his room.
Neither of them spoke about the kiss, but Charles was clearly nervous and
expecting a reprimand. Dexter,
however, could not muster such a response and quickly left the room as soon as
Charles had undressed himself and slipped into bed, gratefully, without any
further incidents.
Dexter was so distraught after the episodes with Madam and Charles that
he went immediately to his room. He
asked that his dinner be sent up to his chambers that evening, and retired early
with the idea that a good night’s sleep would refresh him and allow him to more
fully consider the consequences of what was happening in this wretched
house.
* * *
It was about one in the morning.
Dexter knew because he had just turned over in bed, surfacing slightly
from sleep, and heard the church bell chime the hour. It was then that he became aware of the
very slightest movement in his room - a rustling. He was instantly awake and sat up in bed
and peered into darkness. There at
his door was a faint white shape.
“Hello?” he called out.
The shape moved hesitantly forward but stopped, still some distance from
his bed. He was unable to make out
who it was.
“Who’s there? What do you
want?”
Suddenly the form rushed forward and Flora threw herself on top of
Dexter, flinging him back onto his bed.
“Oh Dexter, my beloved, I can resist you no longer.”
Dexter tried freeing himself from her, but she was straddling him and her
hands were holding down his arms in a vice like grip.
“Flora, please get off. This
is totally inappropriate.”
“Oh my darling, do you not feel the same about me? I have lain awake many nights thinking
only of you.”
She leaned down and gave him a moist, passionate kiss. He turned his head away and struggled to
free himself from her grasp. She
reached down and slid her hand under his nightshirt. But by releasing one of his hands to do
this, it allowed Dexter to finally get some leverage, and he pushed on the bed
with great force and flung the quite distraught Flora most ungraciously onto the
floor. Dexter immediately lit the
lamp by his bed, pulled down his nightshirt, and put on a
robe.
“I don’t know what to say to you, Flora.”
Flora rose from the floor and rushed forward, flinging her arms around
Dexter’s neck.
“I can’t help myself. I am
consumed with love for you,” she sighed.
As Dexter was considerably taller than Flora she could not quite reach up
to kiss him again, as he was leaning backwards, trying to pull away from her, so
she threw her arms tightly around Dexter’s torso, buried her head in his chest,
and began to cry.
Once again Dexter was utterly perplexed. What was it about this family? Yes, he had been admired all his life
for his stunning looks. But never
before had he been so unrelentingly accosted. He finally managed to pry Flora from him
and held her out at arms length.
“Flora, this has got to stop, right now. I will not tolerate this. You have somehow turned my concern for
you as your tutor into some kind of romantic nonsense. Let me assure you that I have
absolutely no romantic interest in you whatsoever.”
At that, Flora gave a soul-wrenching cry and fled out of the room as
quickly as she could. Poor Dexter
collapsed onto the edge of his bed and rested his head in his hands. It was clear to him now that this was
a very disturbed family, and he decided that he would have to give his
notice to Mr. Howland first thing in the morning. Needless to say he did not get much
sleep the rest of the night.
* * *
Mr. Howland was in his study first thing in the morning, and Dexter was
determined not to delay tendering his resignation. What he had wrestled with all night was
how to give his resignation without incriminating the rest of the family. It would be entirely inappropriate for
Dexter to disclose to the head of the family the indiscretions of his wife and
two children.
“Sir, might I have a word with you?”
Mr. Howland looked up from his paper. He nodded.
“I regret having to do this, sir, but I have had word that my mother is
gravely ill and I must return home.”
“Indeed? I am saddened to
hear that.”
“And as I don’t know what the situation is with her, or how long I might
have to remain in Quincy, I believe
it best if I tender my resignation now.”
Mr. Howland was silent as he contemplated this news. He put down the newspaper and rising,
crossed over to his desk. He turned
and looked out the window at the blustery spring morning.
“Sir?” Dexter was becoming unsettled by the long
silence.
Mr. Howland turned to face Dexter.
“Son, I don’t believe a word you’re saying.” He walked over and put his arm around
Dexter’s shoulder and led him to the window.
“But sir…sir,” Dexter stammered.
“No, no, listen. I don’t
care what you told me. You mother
may be ill or not, but I know that’s not the issue. I’ve taken quite a liking to you, my
boy, and I know my children are devoted to you as well, even after such short
period of time. If it’s a matter of
money….”
“No sir, it’s not that.”
“Well, it must be something else, then.” He paused and turned to look directly at
Dexter. “Is it my wife?” Dexter turned pale and looked away. “She and I lead very separate lives,
except for the family, of course.
She’s a very attractive woman and has a great many admirers. And she is not above entertaining them,
if you know what I mean. I am
guessing she expressed an interest in you that has not been reciprocated.” He paused and looked again directly at
Dexter.
“Sir, I cannot say.” Dexter
was now extremely uncomfortable and moved away from Mr. Howland.
“Well, I’m guessing that you might not follow that particular
persuasion. Am I correct?” He walked over to Dexter and put his arm
around Dexter’s shoulder once again.
“As I’ve said, I’ve taken quite a liking to you, and I feel that we might
have a lot in common you and me. If
you could find your way to accommodate me, then I am certain you would benefit
greatly. I have a great many
friends who could offer you similar companionship; they are highly placed
gentlemen, all with sterling connections for the advancement of a young man of
your persuasion. And I am certain
we could offer you a far more generous salary for your position here at this
house. What do you
say?”
Dexter was now in utter panic and could not even speak. He just looked incredulously at Mr.
Howland and fled the study. He
rushed up the stairs to his room, threw his few belongings into his bag, and
fled the house without saying good-bye to anyone. He went directly to the stables where
his horse was quartered and searched for Daniel, the groom.
“Daniel, you there?” Dexter called out.
“Sir?” Daniel responded coming from his small room behind the
stable. “Were you wanting
something?”
“Yes, my horse, as soon as possible. I’m leaving.”
“Going for a ride, Sir?”
“No, I’m leaving this house and all its degenerate
occupants.”
“Sir?” Daniel queried, somewhat confused.
“I’ve resigned my post. I’m
going home.”
“Oh that is a pity, it is, a handsome young gentleman like yourself. Why I was thinking that you and I might
go riding together one day. I know
some really beautiful spots where there are no prying eyes - if you get my
meaning, sir.”
Dexter stared at Daniel in utter disbelief. “No, not you too?”
* * *
Dexter sat with his mother by their fireplace with its warming fire. It was still nippy, even this late into
the spring.
“I don’t know. I just don’t
know,” Dexter responded to his mother’s question about what he was going to do
next.
“Well, Mr. Todd, I hear, is looking for a tutor for his six
children. All sorts of ages. From six to about sixteen, I
believe. You should stop by and
have a chat with the Mistress. I’m
sure they would find you most agreeable.
“Yes, I’m sure they would.
But no thank you, mother, no more tutoring for me.”
“Really? Well, you must have
had a very nasty experience up there in
Boston, then. Why won’t you tell me about it? You’ve been so secretive ever since
you’ve been back home. What
happened? Do tell me,
dear.”
“No, Mother, I don’t think I can.”
He paused and was lost in contemplation for a moment. Then he looked up at her. “But I have reached a decision. I’m going to become a priest. I crave a totally spiritual life. I’ll go into the seminary, where there
are all those young men just like me - so chaste, so pure. It will be the perfect place for me,
don’t you see? And then finally, I
shall have some peace.”
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jon McDonald lives in
Santa
Fe, New Mexico. He
currently has three published novels - a satire, Divas Never Flinch; a
humorous vampire thriller, Bloodlines – the Quest and The Seed – An
Ironic Political Thriller. His
fourth book Gotta Dance With the One Who Brung Ya – Sex, Scandals and
Sweethearts will be published in early 2013. He won first prize and was published in
the New Mexican holiday short story contest, 2009. He has also been published in
Jonathan, Raphael’s Village, ImageOutWrite, and now Bay
Laurel. His website is: www.jonmcdonaldauthor.com
Bay Laurel / Volume 1, Issue 2 / Winter 2012