A ruling passion : a novel (35 page)

"Nobody." But he gave her a wavering smile. "Sorry I cried; cry at every damn thing these days; like a baby."

"It's all right to cry." She frowned. "I wish I could find the words ... Rudy says they'll come when I'm older, but I have trouble.,. Crying is good; so is laughing. They're part of you. It's like your good side and your paralyzed side; you're stiD a whole person, it's just that one side can do more than the other. Do you believe that.!""

"No." He peered at her. "Dinner with us tonight—Rudy and me— not Syb. She works."

"I'm going back to school, Quentin. Did you forget?"

He looked confused. "Isn't it summer?"

"Yes. July. But we have summer school."

"Where?"

"Renwyck Academy. In Massachusetts. And I must be going." She kissed him again. "I'll think about you, getting stronger, and I'll pray for you. I have faith in you, Quentin. I believe in you."

"Wait—" He struggled with his good arm to push himself up, then fell back. "Don't go. Schools in Washington... lots of 'em. Why you have to go... where is it?"

"Massachusetts. And I go there because that is what Rudy tells me to do. Goodbye, dear Quentin, I'll pray for you; I'll see you soon."

"When?" he asked. 'When?''

"Christmas," Dominus replied. His voice was like deep velvet after Lilith's cool high one. He put his hand briefly on her head in what may have been a caress or a small push out of the room, and she left. He sat beside Enderby. "She is only fifteen, you know, and in my care, and I do what is best for her. In all conscience I can do no less."

"Up," grunted Enderby.

Dominus cranked the handle on the hospital bed Sybille had had delivered the day before Enderby came back to their Watergate apartment, and raised him to a sitting position. "We'll soon have dinner; can I get you anything until then?"

"Drink."

"Ah." He poured a shot of Scotch into a large glass of water and handed it to Enderby. "What would you like with it?"

"Less water, more Scotch. Please, Rudy, you trying to kill me?"

Dominus chuckled and helped Enderby hold the glass as he poured from the botde. "Enough, Quentin; in all conscience—"

"Talk to me about Lily," Enderby said.

"Ah, yes, Lily. Someday she will be a fine preacher. She learns from me, but there is something special in her that I do not have. What she said about crying and laughing—that was good, you know; it needed refinement and polishing, but it had depth. Lily has depth. She does not know that yet, and of course I will not tell her until she is ready, but in time she will be superb."

"Fifteen," Enderby said. "No parents?"

Dominus spread his hands. "As far back as she can remember she has known only foster homes. She was a wild litde creature shifted from one place to another when she became uncontrollable. By the time I met her—"

"Where?"

"Kentucky. I was preaching there, but my parishioners were too poor to support me and I took a job passing out leaflets in a shopping mall—a tragedy, of course, when I had greater work to do, but, still, I talked to people about their souls as I handed them the leaflets, and Lilith was one of them. So small and frightened; she had run away again. She was wearing shabby blue jeans and a work shirt, and her hair was every which way. She took my hand when I went to dinner; she said she was hungry and belonged nowhere. She said she was twenty-one and had heard me preach and wanted to study preaching with me. If I closed my eyes, she sounded somewhat older than she looked, and she was so pathetic, and of course she admired me... Ah, am I in the way?"

The nurse was there, carrying the tray prepared by the cook. "I'll just put it here," she said stiffly. She could not get used to Dominus's presence and was happy only when she had her resdess, demanding patient to herself for a few hours. She leaned forward and wiped En-derby's mouth before Dominus could stop her, then marched out.

For the first time since he came home, Enderby did not grab for his food like a greedy child. His eye was fixed on Dominus. "Not twenty-one," he said.

"Alas, no. She was not quite fourteen. But she wept so bitterly when I said she must go back to her foster home that I decided I could be a better guardian than they, whoever they were, and so when I heard of a small pulpit in New Jersey, she came with me. I know, I know," he said, though Enderby had not interrupted. "It was wrong to take a child to another state, but you see no one cared about this child but me, and I cared a great deal. She was so gratefiil, she made me feel like a truly good man, though I am as weak as anyone. She kept to

herself; she went to school like a good girl, calling me her father; she cleaned and cooked for us; and she has never been—"

"Concubine," said Enderby, a glint in his eye. "Mistress. Wife. Daughter. Chef Maid. Lucky fella."

Dominus drew himself up. "She has never been in the shghtest danger, from me or anyone else. She has placed herself in my care. In all conscience I could do no less than protect her. There can be no redemption if you nurture evil thoughts, Quentin. Do you doubt that she is a virgin?"

Enderby shrugged. "Can't tell. Never could. Got fooled a couple times when I was young." He burst into a high giggle. "Fooled a girl myself, when I was fourteen... how I learned it all. God she was something, wasn't anything she said no to, and I learned fast. Virgins. Hard to spot."

"She is a child," Dominus said flady. "And I am a preacher."

"Sounds pretty combustible," Enderby said with another giggle.

Dominus stood, towering above the bed, turning away. "I will leave you to your dinner. Perhaps later, when you can speak of Lilith and me with sensitivity, we can—"

'Wait! Chrisfs sake, wait!" Enderbys voice rose in panic. "I didn't mean it! Just a joke... stupid joke... you wouldn't leave just 'cause I... Rudy, don't leave me!"

Dominus turned back. "It was a joke in the poorest possible taste."

"I know! Sorry! Won't do it again! Listen, Rudy, sit down, eat with me! Christ, you know I can't be alone, can't stand it—"

"You have your nurse."

"Not the same! I want you! Always liked preachers, always had a weakness for preachers. Find sin, sweep it away. Rudy, I count on you!"

Slowly, Dominus sat down. Very slowly, he took one of the linen napkins from the tray and tied it around Enderby's neck. Enderby sighed deeply and picked up his fork. His hand shook.

They ate in silence. Dominus stopped now and then to wipe En-derby's face and clean up the food he spilled, and Enderby made murmuring sounds when he wanted more, but they did not speak until their plates were empty. 'Want to do something for you, Rudy," Enderby said then. He closed his eye."Tired. Hard work, eating. Never used to be. Do something for you."

"Later," Dominus said. He removed the tray and cranked down the bed. "Right now you must sleep."

"Television. God show." Enderby chuckled sleepily. "Thafs what we call 'em. You ever hear that? News, sports, weather, talk shows,

sitcoms, movies, God shows. Do your preaching on television. You like that? Bigger audience than Kentucky or New Jersey. No more leaflets in... where was it?"

"A shopping center," Dominus said. His voice was husky.

"Right. No more of that. You like the idea? Do it for you. Have to clear it with Syb. You like it?"

"Yes," said Dominus with a long sigh. "I like it very much."

"Good. Clear it with Syb."

'Tou want me—?"

"No, no, Christ's sake, keep out of it! Fll do it. Tomorrow. Remind me... sometimes I forget..." His head lolled to the side. "Clear it... Syb..." He began to snore.

But he did not see Sybille the next day; she left early in the morning, before anyone was awake. It was a Sunday and the air was still fresh, and she put down the top of her sports car as she drove across the bridge to Virginia. She kept going past the turn to Fairfax, past the offices and studios of the Enderby Broadcasting Network, and on toward Leesburg, speeding on the empty highway. The sun spread a misty gold wash on the rolling fields that stretched beyond the city, and the wind was cool, whipping loose a few strands of hair from her braided chignon.

Past Leesburg, she slowed for the turn to Carraway Farms, and drove the half mile to the stables. It was exactly eight o'clock when she stepped out of her car. Sleek and trim in her riding habit, she nodded to Wink Carraway, her riding instructor, who was waiting for her, holding her horse. She was known everywhere for punctuality, but here especially she would never be late: she had too much to learn and she was in a hurry.

A step at a time, she was becoming the person she had determined she would be. She was an expert skeet shooter, a hunter who brought down birds, foxes and deer with unerring accuracy, and she was on her way to becoming a strong rider, as determined in the hunt as in the ring and the steeplechase. She was wealthy; she dressed impeccably and bought herself fine jewelry and fiirs; she could do what she wanted. And she had the power of the cable network to herself; En-derby was no longer a consideration. It would be better still when he was dead, and her life could really begin, but at least he was out of the way, and for the first time it was Sybille Enderby, not her husband, who was making a name in the world of television.

And she had discovered this countryside, Loudoun County, Virginia, where wealth Hved privately behind unbroken miles of stone

walls and weathered rail fences, and within the high-ceilinged rooms and broad porticoes of mansions from another age. The first time she drove through the county she knew it was what she wanted: this would be her country home. Someday one of these mansions would be hers, and stables of horses, and the hundreds of acres that would guarantee her the attention of the others in the county, especially in Mid-dleburg, the town where she had decided she would live.

For the first part of her lesson, she and Wink rode in the Carraway Farms ring. It was the only time Sybille took criticism in silence, gritting her teeth as she tried to move with the horse, to guide it without force, to shift deliberately as she sat forward, then up, then back, tightened her thighs, moved her wrist. Impatience ate at her. She hated exercises; she wanted to gallop, to push her horse through the countryside with the same abandon with which she drove her car. But she said nothing; she did what Wink told her. Because she hadn't started as a child, the way some people did, born to a saddle, a rifle, tennis, travel around the world...She was starting late—twenty-six last January—and she had to catch up.

The second half of the lesson was jumping. And then she took another lesson, changing to a different horse for riding cross country. That was when she came to life. The faster she went, the closer she came to danger, the more perfect was her day. After awhile, she was barely aware of Wink or the passage of time; there was only speed and those perfect moments when she crossed the boundary between safe and hazardous, and she was terrified and excited and alive.

When Wink pulled up, having circled back to the barn, she was angry. "What are we doing here?"

"Ten o'clock," he said, dismounting. "You were good today."

"Was I? What did I do wrong.>"

"The usual. You have to watch your hands; your movements get too large. Small wrist movements, right? You got a sensitive animal here, you don't want to tear him to pieces by jerking him all over the place."

In the barn, a groom took the horses, and Wink walked with Sybille to her car. 'Tou'll get it; you're like a bull, no offense, fixed to get what you want. If you could sort of connect with the horse, you know, the way you connect with people. Kind of love him, right? You do that, you'd be great."

"Like a camera," Sybille muttered.

"What?"

"Nodiing."

"Listen." He stopped walking. "You'll get it. You've got a real fix on things; nobody can stop you. You shouldn't get bent out of shape if I tell you what needs fixing; that's what you're paying me for, right?"

"I should have learned it by now; by now I should be perfect."

"Wow," Wink muttered under his breath and walked on.

Sybille reached the car ahead of him. "Next week," she said, sitting behind the wheel, but her thoughts were on her lesson. Soft hands on the reins, connect with the horse, love it, for God's sake. She'd figure it out. She'd be the best in Loudoun County.

She was forced to drive more slowly on the way back; traffic was heavier than in the early morning, and she drummed her fingers on the wheel, turned up her radio, and braked sharply each time she was almost upon the car in front of her. When she reached her apartment, the excitement of the morning was gone. All she remembered was Wink's criticism of her hands, and the traffic on the road. She walked through the foyer, dropping her jacket behind her.

"Mrs. Enderby." Sybille jumped. Rudy Dominus stood in the hallway, blocking the way to her bedroom. The shadows in his face were like small patches of his black suit and black vest, and she wondered how Quentin tolerated the gloom that clung to him. "Quentin would like to see you," Dominus said, and held his hand toward Enderbys bedroom, as if he were the envoy, ordering Sybille's appearance.

"I'll be in later," Sybille said coldly "After I change."

Their eyes held and then Dominus nodded. "Please. As soon as you can. He is very anxious."

"Is he dying?" she asked sharply.

A small smile touched his thin lips. "No, you must not fear that. I should think he will live for quite awhile."

Sybille turned and went into her sitting room, slamming the door behind her. While her maid ran her bath and helped her take off her riding habit, she thought about Dominus. It was time for him to leave. Quentin could damn well do without him; they didn't need an intolerable bug-eyed preacher with dyed hair and dirty fingernails in their home, no matter how good he was at keeping Quentin quiet. Valerie wouldn't have tolerated it for a day, much less seven weeks.

Two hours later she went to Enderby's room, wearing a brightly striped silk caftan, her hair loose and held back with a gold band. The bed was raised halfway and he was holding a glass and scowling at Dominus. "Kept me awake," he said to Sybille. "Told me you were coming and I couldn't sleep."