Afternoons with Emily (54 page)

“Miranda, here is Mr. Daniels from Chicago, who has come calling,” announced Miss Adelaide at her most Charlestonian. “I have
asked him to stay at York Stairs while you confer about foundation matters.”

I stood, staring at both of them.

“And,” Miss Adelaide went on, “he will help me with all the legal doings for Ravenel Moore’s inheritance.”

None of this was credible. How could this be? It was as if my brain would not take in what I was seeing in front of me. Finally,
I forced myself to step forward.

“Roger.” I took his hand, my throat tight. “How . . . when . . . did you get here?”

“I contacted your aunt Helen, and she wrote where I could find you. Then I took a mail packet from Norfolk — a very pleasant
voyage.”

“Let me show you to the
garçonnière,
” said Miss Adelaide, the paradigm of a southern hostess, taking his arm and sweeping him away before I could speak again.

She had to pass my room to return to the main house. I waited for her on the path.

“Miss Adelaide, how long is he staying?”

“I’m sure I can’t say. However long it takes to settle your affairs. But isn’t that for you to determine?”

I saw her smiling.

“What has he said to you?” I asked.

She took my hand. Her expression was unfrivolous, adamantine.

“Miranda, he has come a long way. Let us make him welcome.”

Before I came here, I had gone to Boston to stay several days with Cousin Ellen Lyall, and Madame Lauré made me a few evening
dresses in muslin and linen, Empire style. Tonight I chose the cerulean muslin and added Roger’s brooch. If Roger had come
to let me down gently, away from Alan and Ethan and our foundation connections, then the least I could do was hold on to my
pride and look my best.

Finally I was satisfied with my appearance and arrived at the terrace to find Elena and Roger deep in conversation. He smiled
at me, obviously as delighted to see her as she was to see him. Then we all played the cloud game and had a lovely half hour
before I excused myself to tuck Elena in. She was flushed and happy, and told me that Uncle Roger was now her “bestest.” When
I returned, Miss Adelaide was laughing at something Roger had told her, and she smilingly led us inside.

With a man’s presence, our dinner was lively. Roger and Miss Adelaide steered carefully around the war. Instead we talked
politics, and President Johnson’s mistakes, and the history and evolution of the foundation. We were handsome and festive
in the candlelight. I enjoyed seeing Roger through Miss Adelaide’s admiring eyes.

After dinner, Miss Adelaide excused herself. “I have early morning business in town,” she told us, and Roger and I moved to
the gallery, where moonlight now slept on the broad expanse of sea beyond. I listened to the measured rush of the Atlantic
unfurling its huge skirts upon the beach. Tonight, the sky was awash in stars, its phosphoric light illuminating and altering
everything.

“Have you noticed how all the planets here are in new places?” I said at last.

“Yes, well no, no, I had not,” Roger answered. “Miranda, that’s not why I came here.”

Suddenly I sensed he was nervous. This made me even more nervous than I already was.

“I came to talk about your letter.” He looked at me, his eyes opaque. “It made me worried for you — such sadness. And I suppose
I wanted to tell you how very much
your
friendship means to me. To talk more about that friendship.”

This startled me; it was not at all what I had been expecting. “I — I didn’t think . . .” I was stammering. “That — that there
was anything else . . . to say.”

“There is a great deal. And I have had to come all the way here, at no small inconvenience to others, to say it in person.”

“If you mean to scold me —”

“Not at all, Miranda. You have had enough trouble of late. I want only to let you know that you are not alone, that you need
not bear your sadness by yourself.” He placed his hands firmly upon my shoulders. I imagined his intention was to calm me,
but his touch had quite the opposite effect.

“You must think me very foolish,” I murmured.

“Foolish? Good Lord, Miranda, to lose your Davy, Kate, and now your father in such a brief span of time is a blow that could
have destroyed someone less resilient,” he declared. “You are strong, but that does not mean that you need to shoulder such
burdens alone. I may not agree with your conclusions —”

“What conclusions?” I asked. I could barely remember what I had written.

He released my shoulders and raked a hand through his thick hair. “Your belief that a career necessarily unfits you for marriage.
There are many men who would cherish a wife who is as strong and ambitious and confident as you are. I have read about the
‘New Woman’ emerging from her experiences and responsibilities during the war. I have even met a few but none as lovely as
you.”

My throat tightened so that I could not speak.

But Roger was going on. I began to feel that he was circling around the main topic of his visit, but I was flushed and weak
at the same time, and not, therefore, in any hurry.

“After seeing the countrywomen who came to Andersonville, who brought us their starving families’ food, and who, against orders,
walked through our filth to tend our dying and bury our dead — I knew women were the superior sex. No man could have done
what they did,” he said.

The breeze from the sea caught at my skirt and lifted my hair while I stared at him, emotions rushing through me.

“And as to your other conclusion, that no man would want — what was the phrase? — that no man would want
to have his posterity held ransom to his wife’s fear,
your fear is not unreasonable, Miranda. But I hope you don’t think every man will regard you as a brood mare! Not every man
. . .”

He took my arm and walked me to the balustrade. “That sea is like beaten silver tonight. We might as well look at something
beautiful while I tell you something ugly.”

I waited. I felt my heart beating and gazed out at the sea as he instructed, readying myself.

“While I was at Andersonville, we prisoners were stacked like corn in a crib. Every kind of disease raged through the camp.
I contracted adult male mumps, the most serious sort — everywhere a man can get it. When the war ended and I was discharged,
I went to the hospital in Chicago to be tested. The doctors there told me that I could never be a father. My point is that
not every man can expect or will expect children.”

I put my hand on his, grieving for him. Now I understood why he wanted me to watch the water — it would have been too hard
for him to face me as he described this most intimate of losses.

“The friendship and respect I have felt for you since our first meeting has ripened into affection of the deepest, most joyous
sort. But Miranda, dear Miranda, you must understand. There can never be marriage between us, and any impropriety would risk
a great deal — your work, your position, your daughter. The ostracism that would follow . . . I have thought about this .
. . and little else . . .”

And then Roger stopped speaking, hesitated a moment — and drew me against him. We rocked back and forth, our arms, our bodies,
becoming one. His touch released sensations that cascaded over me like rushing water. Finally, we moved apart, slowly, shakily.

Roger drew a deep breath. “Say nothing now,” he said quietly. “We will think for a few days, and we will know what to do.”
Then he took me by the arm and guided me down the stairs in silence, bidding me a formal “good night” at the bottom. We separated,
and he strode away firmly in the moonlight.

Dreamily, I made my way to my room, my mind swirling. Roger’s revelations had entirely erased my reasons for ending our connection.
Each of us came to our attitudes about women’s careers and motherhood separately and painfully — but we had reached the same
conclusions, and we were in total agreement. What reason would there be, therefore, to keep us apart?

There was more, of course. On this beautiful, pulsing island, perhaps especially on this island, I was remembering the Polynesian
customs I had read about, the handsome young people enjoying each other without shame or deceit. Reading about the Polynesians
had given me a clear image of lovemaking, of intercourse as an expression of affection, good spirits, and goodwill. Did Roger
want this experience with me? I had the impression that a man’s needs were more dominant and demanding than a woman’s. Of
course I had never discussed this with anyone — whom could I have asked? Even dear Kate and I had only skimmed the surface
of these deep waters.

In bed I turned and tossed. My body would not reach its usual peace. It was not Roger alone who sought this experience. My
restless aching called out for the man who had traveled all this way to find me.

I am an adult woman, I told myself, who would harm no one. But as I drew one conclusion, its opposite would appear, and my
mind would spin again. It was nearly daybreak before I fell asleep.

The next morning at breakfast, Roger was, as always, the courteous guest, asking Miss Adelaide about Barbados and the York
Stairs sugar operation. Conversation then turned to the day’s itinerary.

“Since my college days I have had a secret passion, Miss Adelaide,” Roger confessed. “And that passion is — wave riding! I
used to visit a classmate on Cape Cod, and I learned to ride the waves there. I would love to take Miss Chase and teach her
how. Where shall I do that?”

Miss Adelaide recommended starting at Horseshoe Beach and Galleon Bay, which I knew, and perhaps going on to Lantana Reach,
where the rolling waves were better suited for the stronger swimmers. She also suggested that Elena might accompany her to
the weekly flower market, which was to take place that morning in town and which would give her much joy. Elena was truly
excited at this prospect, and Roger and I were free to go off in the governess cart, drawn by the torpid Hercules. Roger did
not refer to last night, nor did I, but I felt the electricity between us. He talked around it; he was friendly and, for the
moment, impersonal. He reminded me of his more reserved trustee self that I had met in New York!

At Horseshoe Beach the waves were distinct and safe; there was no ditch and no undertow, and we could wade out to beyond the
breakers. Roger held me by the waist and pointed me to shore. At the right moment, he lifted me forward to join the breaking
wave, and I was able to ride it to the beach on a surge of foam and a rush of exhilaration, thrilled to feel myself a part
of the strong sea. I hurried back out to do it again. I remembered, suddenly, swimming with Davy in the Connecticut River
and teasing him that he was Michelangelo’s young
David.
This was different, for now I was with a full-grown man, not a boy, one with a long muscled back and Greek runner’s legs.
And I was now a woman, not a teenage girl.

I found myself prolonging the intervals of waiting for the right wave, and I asked Roger’s help in placing my arms for each
ride. By noon, when it was time to return to the plantation for lunch, I was tingling with awareness and eager for Roger’s
reaction to this intimate morning — but he would talk only about foundation business as we rode back to York Stairs.

In the afternoon I retired for a rest with Elena, delightfully tired and almost as sleepy as my little charge, who was relaxed
and happy from her morning’s expedition with Miss Adelaide. When once more I appeared upstairs, Roger was nowhere to be seen,
and Miss Adelaide told me he had taken one of the horses and ridden to town.

“He had some business to take care of and letters to post,” she informed me. And then, with a sideways look, she added, “You
will see him tonight.”

I blushed. Could she discern my feelings? But she was steadily arranging some bougainvillea in a silver tureen.

Once again I dressed for the evening carefully, wondering if my bronzed skin was to Roger’s liking, wondering if my hair was
arranged in a way he would find appealing, suddenly laughing out loud when I realized how girlish and silly such thoughts
were. “He will have to see me as I am,” I said firmly, but I was not sure I believed my own words.

The clouds were a towering bronze citadel, delighting us all.

“Do you see such sunsets from your house in Chicago?” I asked Roger.

“Yes, but there is no comparison with these
‘cloud-capp’d towers,’
” he replied. “I have only a fine winter view of the lake, where the city has placed miles of rocks to protect the shoreline.”
He shook his head. “Nothing else could be like this.”

This was the civilized way we talked all through dinner — impersonal, polite. After dessert, when I was counting on a gallery
tête-à-tête, Roger rose to excuse himself. I forced myself to hide my disappointment.

“Those waves have worn me out,” he explained. “I’ll go over our notes, Miss Adelaide, and then turn in.” He smiled at her
and then at me. “Miranda, I suspect you should get a good rest too, for tomorrow’s wave riding.”

Of course I didn’t. The memory of his hands on my body — and the uncertainty of his thoughts or intentions — made sleep out
of the question. What was I to think? How were we to be together? Perhaps he
didn’t
intend anything, any more than this. When I found that the next two or three days followed the same exasperating pattern,
I grew more and more uncertain. And began to feel irritated.

We had progressed to the larger waves at Galleon Bay, where we went each morning. There I floated, waiting in his arms in
the lively luminous sea, watching for just the right wave to crest. When Roger lifted me forward, the wave and I became one
irresistible headlong force, racing ashore. I did this over and over; I couldn’t get enough of Roger holding me, pointing
me, launching me — and then the blissful roar and rush to shore.

“I was the same way with sledding,” I told him when he suggested we take a break. “I always wanted one more ride.”

Roger was careful not to burn in our tropical sun; he oiled himself and then asked me the favor of doing his back and shoulders.
I loved the feel of his muscles sliding under my hands and the gleam of his brown skin. I wished I could oil his chest too
and his legs that recalled the elegant athletes on the Olympic vases. He wore a sort of short knit overall, but it could not
conceal his stunning classical physique. Sometimes I wondered if he requested this daily anointing to remind me of his masculinity.