Chapter 7: Mrs. Stroud

The Stroud family table sat fourteen, and that Sunday night every chair was taken but two.

Noreen walked me in at seven.

I wore a gray sweater from my own closet, and I carried the receipt folded in my fist.

The dining room had a ceiling painted with ships, a fire at each end, and a long black table lit by candles.

Twelve men sat on one side, in dark jackets.

Two old women in pearls sat at the foot.

At the head sat Donovan, and the chair at his right hand stood empty.

Conversation died when I came in.

"This is Miss Ferrand," said the oldest man at the table.

He was a stooped white-haired uncle with a cane hooked on his chair.

"The girl who dropped on you at the theatre. The whole harbor's talking."

"Let them talk," Donovan said.

"I'm sure the young lady is very nice. But a family table is a family table, Donovan."

"Sit, Miss Ferrand," Donovan said to me.

I stayed standing.

I held up the receipt.

"Seven years ago," I said, to the whole table, "my father owed two million dollars. Somebody paid it."

Not one man moved.

"Mr. Stroud, you held my father's debt for seven years.

You watched me teach school and pay my rent.

You let me walk into your theatre box, and never said a word."

"Billie," Donovan said.

"I signed something that day. I was twenty-one. I thought it was a guarantee on the loan. Tell me what I signed."

He stood.

I had not seen him stand in a room full of his own family before.

All twelve men came to attention in their chairs.

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