Prequel to 1895 storyline: Quentin's Story
The characters don't belong to me but what happens in this story are my ideas. The characters and series belong to the late Dan Curtis and his company.
1875
Someone was always shouting in the house. Quentin thought everyone’s halls resounded with angry, recriminating voices. He didn’t know any better, and so it didn’t frighten him much, especially since the voices belonged to those, he loved the most, his parents and his grandmother. He didn’t understand all of the words, just that they were angry with each other. The important thing was, no one was angry with him. If the voices got too loud, he could always find his sister Edith. She would take him out of the house.
He loved to go outside with his sister. He was a big boy now and could keep up with her to the old tree out near the dark, scary woods. Carl was too little so he always had to stay behind. Someone had made a swing for the children that hung from a strong sturdy branch of that tree. Edith would pick him up and put him on it and he would hold on tight while she pushed him. He liked it better, though, when she would swing with him. She would hold him on her lap and he wasn’t afraid when they went high because she held on to him tightly.
At night, his mother would come into the nursery and rock him or Carl. Sometimes she would read or sing to them and often she looked sad. “What’s wrong, Mama?” he would ask her. He felt lucky to have such a sweet pretty mama and he didn’t like it when she looked so sad. She would always smile and say that nothing was wrong.
Sometimes, after she’d left, Edith would come in to say goodnight too. She would tickle both the boys until they giggled frantically. “Time to say goodnight,” she would say then and she’d flutter her eyelashes over each boy’s cheek until they began giggling again. “Butterfly kisses!” she told them, closing the door softly behind her.
Quentin didn’t see much of his father or grandfather. They went “to the shipyard” every day, a mysterious place that took up a lot of their time. They didn’t come home until very late, almost bedtime, and he would see his father long enough for a pat on the head and a gruff “good night”. His grandfather would pick him up and hug him to say goodnight, smelling strongly of cigars and something else. He had a bright ruddy face and a cheery smile, unlike his father who always looked so serious.
During the day, he didn’t see much of his mama or his sister Judith. Sometimes he wondered idly what they did during the day. Judith was as tall as mama but not nearly as old. She was very pretty, too, and occasionally she would visit him and Carl in the nursery. She didn’t seem to know what to do with them, though. She didn’t like to read and said she couldn’t sing. She was not nearly so much fun as Edith, who would sometimes come and tell them secrets. “It’s boring being a girl,” Edith would confide.
“Why?”
“Because there’s so many things girls have to do that boys don’t,” she answered. “You and Carl and Edward are the lucky ones.”
“Where IS Edward?” He would ask that every time his brother’s name came up because he would forget.
“Away. At school. He’ll be home for the next holiday.”
“Can you take me to the swing now?”
“No,” Edith would say with regret most of the time. She either had to go sew with mama and Judith, or “go calling” or some other thing only girls did.
He had a nanny, Annie, who was very young and sweet. Annie would take him out to play with Carl when the weather was pleasant. There were some pleasant days in Maine, but often it was cold and gloomy. On those days, Quentin and Carl, who was two years younger, would stay indoors and play.
Some days Grandmama would come and take Quentin to play their special, secret games. He loved Grandmama almost as much as he loved Edith. Grandmama’s room was filled with interesting objects and she always had sweets for Quentin when they played the game. It was easy to play with Grandmama. She let him draw stars on her floor and had him repeat strange words after her. Sometimes she would teach him to mix herbs together along with water and salt, repeating more strange words.
Once in a while, the game was scary. She would send him in to Mama’s room to fetch a pin or a handkerchief. He didn’t like taking Mama’s things, although Grandmama insisted there was nothing wrong with it. She showed him how to make a clay doll and then she would take Mama’s handkerchief and drape it around the doll.
“Why are you doing that, Grandmama?” Quentin asked.
“I’m just making a talisman, dear,” Grandmama said. “Do you know what a talisman is?”
“No, ma’am, what’s a t-talis-man?” The word sounded foreign and was difficult to say.
“It’s good luck for your Mama,” Grandmama answered. “A talisman, my dear, is like this doll. We give it magic by making special markings on it and then we take something of your Mama’s for the doll to wear that the good luck can pass to her.”
“Magic?” Quentin was wide-eyed. “Are we doing magic, Grandmama?”
His grandmother, a small plump woman with a kindly face, looked suddenly cunning. She frightened Quentin when she got that look on her face. She looked like Kitty just before catching a mouse. “Yes, it’s magic, Quentin, but we must keep it a secret. Do you understand? You must never ever tell about it.”
“Why?”
Now Grandmama gave him a stern look. “Because I won’t love you anymore if you tell. This is our special secret and no one else is to know – ever.”
The threat of the withdrawal of her love was frightening enough to keep Quentin quiet even about things he didn’t like – like taking things for Mama, even if it was supposed to be for good luck. He wanted to ask Grandmama about these good luck talismans. They never seemed to work. Mama frequently complained of headaches or backaches.
The loud voices reached the nursery. Quentin was bored. He’d been playing with his tin soldiers for what seemed like hours. The voices bothered him today. He could hear his father and Grandmama shouting at each other and wondered why they were always angry with each other. “I want to go outside,” he said to Annie.
“Oh, dearie, tis a raw kind of day,” Annie said.
“But the sun is out,” Quentin objected petulantly. “The talking is too loud,” he added.
Annie gave him a sympathetic look. “Aye so it ‘tis today then,” she agreed. “All right, on with your coat and we’ll go outside for a bit.”
She bundled Carl up snugly and, taking Quentin’s hand, took the two boys down the back stairs. The carriage was just inside the kitchen and Annie got Carl settled.
“Yer goin out?” the cook asked incredulously.
“Aye, just for a wee bit,” Annie said.
There was a crashing sound from the drawing room. The Annie grimaced and shook her head. “Can’t say as I blame yez.”
Quentin scampered ahead of Annie through the garden. The sun was out but a chill wind blew in from the sea. Still, it was better to be out here than indoors. They spent about an hour outdoors before Annie called Quentin back to go inside. By then, the argument was over and there was peace in the house once more.
Within a day or two, Quentin had trouble swallowing and felt hot. His head hurt terribly. Distressed, Annie brought his mother to his bedside.
His mother’s hands felt cool and soothing on his hot little face. “Go into town for the doctor, Annie,” she said, sponging Quentin’s face with a cool cloth. It felt good but his throat hurt so badly he couldn’t speak. The palms of his hands itched and he stared, consternated, at the red rash on them.
“Let me take care of the child for a while,” he heard Grandmama say once.
“No, thank you,” his mother answered coolly.
He happened to look up in his grandmother’s eyes and was frightened at the coldness he saw in them. She was looking at his mother with naked hatred. He closed his eyes, frightened.
He didn’t remember very much of the next few days. He slept a lot. He woke up once when the doctor poked and prodded at him and said in a hushed tone the house had to be quarantined because Quentin had scarlet fever. What is that? He wanted to ask but fell asleep, only to awaken to the sound of angry voices. Grandmama demanded that Annie be fired for taking the boys out on such a raw day. Quentin was aware that Carl was in the bed beside him, red as a tomato.
His mother came in and shut the door, leaning back against it, her face white and pinched looking.
“Mama,” he said softly.
His mother sat on the edge of the bed, putting her hand on his face. Her eyes looked red and swollen. Her hand felt hot on his face. “You’ll be all right, darling,” she said, but she sounded frightened. “Go back to sleep.”
When he woke up again, he heard soft chanting. He opened his eyes to find his grandmother bending over him, saying strange words and putting drops of water on his head. “Mama,” he protested, weakly trying to brush the drops away.
“No, dear, don’t do that,” Grandmama said sternly, taking his hand and putting it back by his side. She moved to the other side of the bed and he heard her chanting over Carl.
“What are you doing?” he asked softly. It hurt to talk.
“Trying to make you better, of course,” Grandmama answered shortly. She looked tired, too.
“Is that medicine?”
She hesitated. “Yes. It is,” she answered finally, and he closed his eyes again.
Somewhere, he could hear people weeping. He opened his eyes again in the darkness. “Mama?” he whispered.
“I can’t believe it,” his father was saying out in the hall. “What will I do now? What will I do?”
“Get hold of yourself, Geoffrey,” Grandmama answered sharply. “What did you expect? Really, to be in that condition again, what did you honestly expect?”
“Can’t I ever get a little human feeling from you, Mother?” his father cried. “Even now? I need a drink …”
“Papa!” Quentin called, a little louder. His throat didn’t hurt so much now.
There was silence for a moment and then Grandmama opened the door, light streaming in behind her. “What is it, dear?” she asked.
“Where’s Papa?” Quentin asked, blinking. The bright light still hurt his eyes.
“He’s not feeling well,” Grandmama answered. “He’s gone to lie down.”
“Does he have scarlet fever too?”
“No, he does not. Something else ails him.”
Quentin thought about that. He wondered what it was. Something a drink would cure, obviously. “Where’s Mama?”
“She can’t come right now.” Grandmama came over and took his hand. “You must be a brave little boy, dear.”
“Because I’m sick?”
Grandmama pursed her lips. “Yes, that too. Now, go back to sleep, dear.”
He did.
“Mama,” Carl croaked, and Quentin woke up again. He felt tired of lying down for so long. It felt like forever. He kept having strange dreams. People cried or argued with each other, most especially Grandmama and Papa. Once he thought he heard both grandparents talking in the hall, and Grandmama said bitterly that “he” was drunk again. Quentin wondered who it was and what drunk meant as he looked at his brother.
“She’s not here,” he answered.
Carl began to cry, big fat tears rolling down his baby cheeks. “Want Mama.”
“I’ll get her,” Quentin offered. It was a good reason to get out of this bed. He padded over to the door and looked out into the hallway, wondering where everyone was. He’d last seen his mother last night. She came and sat beside him, stroking his cheek and saying strange things to him. He went to her room first but it was cold and dark.
Perturbed, he went to his sister Edith’s room. He left the door open, looking around in confusion. The room smelled funny. “Edith?” he called tentatively. Maybe she went downstairs for breakfast. Where did everyone go, anyway?
“Quentin! What are you doing out of bed?”
Quentin turned at the sound of his brother Edward’s voice. He was surprised. Edward was supposed to be at school. He was much bigger than Quentin, almost a man. He looked pale and tired. “Carl wants Mama,” Quentin explained.
“I see,” Edward answered, suddenly looking sad. He came in, bent over and lifted Quentin up into his arms. “Come on, you shouldn’t be in here. You’ll get sick again.”
Quentin put his arms around his big brother’s neck. He didn’t get a chance to spend much time with Edward, who was always at school or busy with grown-up stuff. When they went on summer holidays, though, Edward did take time to play with him. “When did you come home?” he asked now, pleased to have his brother with him now.
“Just a couple of days ago,” Edward answered, carrying him back to the nursery.
“What holiday is it?” Quentin asked as Edward laid him gently back in the bed.
“Mama?” Carl asked, taking his thumb out of his mouth and looking up at Edward with large wet eyes.
“I’m sorry, Carl, she can’t come,” Edward answered, a little awkwardly. “What do you want?”
“Want Mama!” Carl insisted.
“Where is she?” Quentin asked, when Edward only looked sadly at his brother and didn’t answer.
“She got sick too,” Edward answered. “Very sick.”
“Oh, like me?”
“Yes, like you.”
Quentin thought about it. He remembered how hot he felt, how his throat hurt, and the light bothered his eyes. “Do her hands itch?” he asked now, remembering the rash. It had peeled off over the last few days.
“No,” Edward answered, and Quentin could sense he was very uneasy about something. It was troubling. Carl didn’t say anything, sucking his thumb and looking up at Edward. “You shouldn’t do that,” Edward said now, gently disengaging the thumb. “It’ll make your teeth crooked.”
“Mama,” Carl said immediately, beginning to cry again.
“She can’t come,” Edward said again, trying to be stern.
“Sometimes he stops crying if Edith sings to us,” Quentin said, trying to be helpful.
“Oh, well, she can’t come either,” Edward answered, going red in the face.
“Is she sick too?” Quentin asked. This was very puzzling. Maybe that’s what happened to everyone – they were all sick.
“Yes,” Edward answered shortly. “What if I got Judith?”
“She never sings,” Quentin answered doubtfully.
“Well, she knows how,” Edward replied brusquely. “I’ll go get her. Stay in bed now, do you hear me?”
“Yes, Edward,” Quentin answered meekly. Edward shut the door behind him, and Quentin turned toward Carl. “I don’t want Judith, do you? I want Edith to sing to us.”
Carl popped his thumb back into his mouth as soon as Edward left the room, but now he took it out long enough to say adamantly, “Mama.”
Quentin rolled back over on his back and looked at the ceiling. He wanted his mother, too. After what seemed a long time, he heard Edward and Judith coming back. They were arguing.
“This simply isn’t fair, Edward. I have NO idea what to do with them!” Judith was protesting in a teary voice.
“Surely you must know some song you could sing to them!”
“But I’m in mourning! I don’t feel like singing!”
In morning? Quentin wondered, looking toward the window. He didn’t know what time of the day it was but wondered what that had to do with singing songs. Judith didn’t want to, that was very clear.
When Quentin and Carl were feeling better, Edward came in to tell them they were taking a holiday at Cuddeback. “All of us?” Quentin asked eagerly. He loved the place. It was far far away in a place called New York. Quentin often wondered where Old York was.
“Well,” Edward began, hesitating. “Father, Judith, you, Carl, and me. And Mary Ellen and Annie and Tom.”
Quentin remembered the shouting between Grandmama and Papa. It had something to do with his grandmother wondering why on earth it was necessary to go to “that place”. If Grandmama and Grandfather weren’t coming then “that place” must be Cuddeback. He wondered why Grandmama never liked it there. She never wanted to go that he could remember.
It was wonderful there. Collinsport was a bustling little seaport. The village itself tended to be busy and filled with fishermen. Quentin didn’t find it very interesting. Collinwood seemed a world away. A dense growth of woods set Collinwood apart from the town, yet his home was not out in the country. There were animals all over, to be sure, but the lawns were neatly clipped and manicured and the garden carefully tended.
Cuddeback was different. There was a small town near the Delaware River, Port Jervis, but then it was all wild country after that. The Collins family owned a large tract of land which was bordered on one side by the river. Part of the land had been cleared away and a lodge and several small cabins were built. The lawn was not tended here, and the path to the river became tangled and overgrown when the family went away after vacation. Quentin had seen all kinds of animals here, even a small black bear. This was a thrilling place to be!
The family had canoes. Quentin had vague memories from last year. They took the canoes onto the river, two of them. Quentin reclined against his mother, who trailed her hand in the water and splashed at his father, who was rowing. He and Carl giggled as Papa sputtered and pretended to choke on the drops of water. He’d shaken the paddle in a mock-threatening way, laughing. Edward paddled the other canoe for his sisters. Edith squealed with delight and splashed water toward her parents. Judith, as usual, sat primly in the bow, looking entirely uncomfortable.
This year, everything was different. Annie didn’t come this year; she’d stayed behind with Grandmama and Grandfather. Mary Ellen, the house maid, tried her hand at making breakfast. She burned the bacon and the mush was watery. The eggs were dried out. The mood turned sullen. “It’s a nice day for canoeing,” Edward suggested to lighten the mood.
“You go, son,” Papa said, pouring himself a large glass of amber liquid.
“Papa, it’s not yet noon,” Edward objected, sounding scandalized.
“And who the hell are you to have a say about it?” Papa exploded.
Quentin retreated immediately into one of the back bedrooms. Usually, the yelling stopped for the summer and there was peace. The yelling had come all the way to New York with them, he thought, dismayed. He found Carl lying on the floor, curled on his side. “What are you doing?” he asked.
Carl seemed not to hear him so Quentin got down to look. His brother was dreamily staring at some strands of thread, rolling them into a ball with his fingers and then flattening it, flipping it over, and starting over again. Quentin became bored quickly and went to the window, looking outside toward the river. He sighed, listening to the voices rising. Suddenly, there was a sharp crack and his father shouted, “I’m still the man of the house! You respect me, do you hear?”
In the silence that followed, Carl whispered, “I don’t like it. I’m scared.”
Quentin turned back toward him. “Don’t be scared,” he said, trying to comfort his brother. “The shouting always stops after a while.”
Carl didn’t say anything. He went back to what he was doing.
A few minutes later, Edward came into the room, his face an odd red color. Quentin was a little frightened. Carl looked like that when he’d been so sick. He hoped Edward wasn’t getting sick now. Edward looked at them and said, “Do you want to go on the canoe?”
“Yes! Oh, thank you, Edward!” Quentin exclaimed, excited, nearly dancing with joy. He loved the canoeing. “Will everyone go?”
“Just us,” Edward said. “Papa and Judith will stay here.”
“Will we find Mama and Edith here?” Carl asked hopefully.
“No,” Edward answered shortly. “I’m sorry, Carl. They’re not coming either.”
Carl began to sniffle and sob softly. “When will they come back, Edward?”
Quentin looked at his brother quickly, hopefully. His brother’s features worked painfully for a moment and then he answered curtly, “They aren’t coming back, Carl, not ever. You must learn that and stop asking.”
“I want Papa to come,” Carl whined.
“Papa’s not well right now. If you want something, you come and tell me,” Edward said sternly, climbing into the canoe. He reached for Carl and lifted him in. “Sit down.” Cowed, Carl sat quietly.
Edward turned back for Quentin, his stern features softening a little when he saw his small brother already reaching for him. He settled Quentin in next to Carl and then sat down, picking up his oar.
“You won’t get sick?” Quentin asked worriedly.
“No,” Edward answered, using the oar to push away from the dock. “I won’t get sick.”
That summer, Edward wasn’t sick once. He took the two little boys swimming with him every day, teaching them how to float and then to swim. Carl whined, frequently frightened, and Quentin could see that many times Edward seemed ready to explode with frustration but he always held his tongue and cajoled Carl into trying. Eager to please his brother, Quentin became a strong swimmer. He was rewarded with dolphin rides on his brother’s back while Carl watched jealously from the dock.
Edward was not a physical laborer but he did enjoy horseback riding and hunting. He also enjoyed sparring with a body bag in the carriage house. Whenever the circus or a band of gypsies came to town, he’d always challenge the boxer traveling with the group. He’d won a few times, so Quentin knew he was a good fighter. In fact, he’d admired Edward greatly for his boxing feats and wanted to learn too.
Quentin saw very little of his father. He seemed to spend most of his time sleeping or shut up in his room, drinking. Quentin wasn’t sure what he was drinking but it wasn’t very nice stuff because when he did appear, his clothes were rumpled, his hair stuck up all over, his face was beet red and he would either shout or sing. If he was singing, he could be quite funny. If he was shouting, Quentin noticed that Edward and Tom, the yard man, would have a hard time getting Papa back into his bedroom.
“What is Papa saying?” Quentin asked Judith once. He didn’t understand the references Papa made to Grandmama and Caleb and someone named Gerard.
“It’s nonsense, just pure nonsense,” Judith answered coldly. She took Quentin by the shoulders. “You see what drinking demon liquor does to you? It makes you rave like a lunatic, Quentin! You must never drink it!”
Her intensity frightened him. “I won’t,” he promised, but he was curious about it. Once he found one of Papa’s overturned glasses and put his finger into the liquid. He stuck his finger into his mouth. Demon liquor had a fruity taste that also burned his mouth. Quentin waited fearfully for a few seconds but he didn’t begin to rave like a lunatic.
Although he missed his grandparents, Quentin was very sorry when the summer came to an end and it was time to go back home. He missed his mother and sister but not as keenly here as in Collinwood. It seemed impossible that they wouldn’t ever come back here. Worse, his brother left for school again and he felt bereft and lonely after having Edward’s attention all summer. He adored his brother. He wanted to be just like Edward when he grew up.
Back at Collinwood, Papa seemed angrier all the time. Judith frequently had to shoo Quentin and Carl into the nursery while Papa got into quarrels with Grandmama and Grandfather. Quentin wondered wearily why demon liquor made Papa so angry with Grandmama. He hated it not only because of the noise but because of what he needed to do to help Grandmama now. She would come for him sometimes, bringing him to her room. She would say some words, throw some powder into the fire and then make him look into it. She wanted him to see into his papa’s head.
Quentin didn’t understand it. He would see Papa, writhing, tormented, crying out for Mama. He said things that were incomprehensible. Grandmama wanted to know what the words were and he tried dutifully to repeat them. “Cal and I, we know what she did. Cal paid for it with his life and I’m paying for it with mine,” Papa muttered. “Can’t stop her. She’s sold her soul.”
It was very scary to hear Papa talk like that. “What does he mean?” Quentin asked, frightened.
“Don’t you worry, my dear,” Grandmama said. “Your Papa is sick with grief, but I will take care of him.” She held him to her, petting Quentin’s hair, telling him he was the dearest of all her grandchildren. “You are my favorite,” she would whisper to him and send him off to bed, wriggling with pleasure.
