Afternoons with Emily (55 page)

Then in the evening at dinner and on the gallery afterward, we continued general conversation. On Roger’s sixth night, Miss
Adelaide excused herself early, and after dinner Roger and I talked about opera, recalling the performances we attended in
New York. The cool breeze lifted my curls as I gazed up at the stars, remembering.

“Opera is wonderfully democratic,” I commented. “Young and old, rich or poor — opera speaks to everyone.”

“That’s because it expresses universal feeling — better than words ever could.”

“You’re right. Often an aria said exactly what I felt about Davy or Kate — only in Italian. It spoke to me, and it spoke for
me.”

“Opera goes beyond words,” Roger agreed. “Some feelings won’t fit into words — like this one.”

And finally, finally, he kissed me — gently, deeply. It was not a question, not a prelude. It was simply a statement.

Before this visit to Barbados, I had not kissed a man for seven years, and my response amazed me. I leaned to kiss him again
— but Roger evaded me. Instead he stepped backward, smiling in the moonlight.

“Please think about that as you go to sleep, Miranda. We will talk tomorrow, in the waves.”

And at last I did think, as I slowly and dreamily undressed in my room, that something wonderful was going to happen, that
Roger and I would affirm our bond, a bond neither legal fiction nor social morality could pull asunder. Roger might not be
free to marry, but he was free in another way — for a great love, and with me. I would wait and see what tomorrow, and the
waves, would bring.

In the morning we headed for Lantana Reach. There the surf appeared taller than at Galleon Bay but still manageable — till
we dove under the waves and swam out to beyond where they crested and broke. Then I saw the scale of the dark menacing shapes
gathering and looming over us — and my breath failed me.

“Roger, you want me to ride the Alps!”

“You can do it. I’ll watch for the right one,” he promised, holding me in readiness. We let two monster waves sweep past.
Then the third lifted us high over the beach, and he pushed my whole body onto the foaming crest.

“Go!” he shouted. And I felt the entire Atlantic under me, behind and around me. The wave owned and used me, tipping me along
its crystal curve, booming in my ears, bearing me ashore wildly — then smoothly — then casually. I was laid tenderly on the
wet sand, with a caress. All that violence died in a little frill, running sweetly over my extended arms.

I was lying there, weak and proud and incredulous, when Roger glided in on the next wave to stretch beside me.

“Oh, Roger — I never — never in all my life —” I breathed.

“I know.” I heard his whisper, and as I rolled over to smile at him, I saw he was leaning over me, his eyes intent. And then,
with a great rush, his face was buried in my hair, his hands were stroking my shoulders, my breasts, until we were entwined
with each other, our bodies together in such a rush of passion that I felt my heart would stop. But it
was
beating, and before my body surged into another world, I heard myself whispering, “At last, at last . . .”

Like my decision to leave Springfield and Ethan, my choosing to become Roger’s lover was not sudden at all. I had already
gone over and over the reasons I might do so — and understood now the prescience in Miss Adelaide’s toast the evening of my
arrival here. As it did so many years ago, this place, York Stairs, would once more restart my future. And there was a reason
more compelling than any of these: I could not do otherwise. I desired all of Roger’s body with all of mine.

I bathed and dressed in my favorite evening dress: Madame Lauré’s white linen, draped like one of Artemis’s tunics. Before
the cloud-show hour, I knocked at Miss Adelaide’s door.

“Come in, dear child. How that gown does flatter your complexion!” She turned to a vase on her bedside table and handed me
an exquisite rose, a deep rosy gold. “You are a ‘Lady Caroline Paget’ tonight. Don’t you just love the English flower names?”

When I failed to answer, she looked at me closely.

“Is Mr. Daniels leaving, Miranda?”

“No, Miss Adelaide. I believe he would like to stay on at York Stairs a little longer.”

“Then I will invite him to do so, tonight. He is surely charming company.”

“Miss Adelaide, I wanted to thank you.”

“There is no need to thank me for anything.” She took my arm, smiling. “You are more than a guest here; York Stairs is your
home.”

At midnight, as Roger and I had previously arranged, I stepped from my bedroom out to the moonlit path, walking between the
tall syringa bushes bowed with blossom, stirring in the sweet night wind. Roger came to meet me and led me down the cedar
path to the beach, where he had laid a cotton mat by the silver water. He took me in his arms, saying my name over and over
— otherwise we did not speak.

He was gentle yet forceful and insistent; his will and experience carried us along without hesitation. He slipped my dressing
gown of satin cream from my body and tossed his trousers after it. We were naked in the moonlight. Slowly, he pulled me down
onto the mat, where he began to stroke me gently — over and over, on and on, in parts that woke under his touch. I was faint
with love, fresh with pleasure. His mouth sighed over mine, and then he moved his lips to my neck, to my breasts, and then
I felt my blood throbbing everywhere, and I began to moan. I felt his sudden weight and his hard brown back over me. I caressed
its muscled length in a way I had longed to do earlier on the beach. When at last he entered me, I knew again that this union
was what I had wanted from the very first moment, on the day that we met.

Finally, we cooled, and Roger cradled my head in his arms while we lay for a time on the moonlit sand, half dreaming, half
dozing, joined in body and in spirit. Then Roger spoke, his voice low.

“Darling Miranda, I promise there will be more for you soon. You’ll feel just as I do — swept away by love.”

“That is how I feel now, Roger,” I murmured, but he was getting to his feet and pulling me up.

“You will see.” His voice was gentle. “My love, I’m not going to keep you any longer. You will be very tired in the morning.”

I kissed him tenderly. “And it will not matter.” I sighed. “Something as wonderful as this could never make me tired.”

We breakfasted as usual with Miss Adelaide and Elena, entirely at ease; then we rode to Lantana Reach again and dared what
Roger called the “professional waves.” We caught three or four, delighting in their height, their danger, their urgent power.
We rested on the sand in a harmony of silence. There was much to be discussed, but right now we did better without words.
He stroked my shoulders and my back, and I felt a deep sweetness stirring, the same as last night. And I had an inspiration.

“Tonight, could we just go down the path to Learner’s Cove and swim there? The moon is almost full; I have always wanted to
swim in the moonlight.”

Roger smiled. “That is a perfect idea.”

He came to my door at midnight, and we walked down the cedar path to the glittering water. Roger dropped his robe and went
into the sea naked. After a shy moment, I shed my robe and followed him into the silver water, delightfully warmer than the
night air as it caressed our bodies.

Though I was eager with desire, Roger was in no hurry. After spreading the straw mat, he uncorked some delicate French wine.

“This is Pouilly-Fuissé,” he explained. “I found it in Bridgetown. When we make love, I want us to drink our own particular
wine.”

After a few sips of the crisp wine, he began to stroke me gently, his strong male hands tender but insistent, and slowly,
more and more powerfully. I was faint with love, with pleasure, with longing — and then something happened that I had waited
for all my life. There was a feeling of infinite sweetness, a tide, and as I called out, Roger entered me once again, and
we rode it together.

“That was a bigger wave than at Lantana Beach,” I murmured, and he laughed tenderly.

“Of course it was, my darling Miranda. That was the biggest wave of all.”

I lay contentedly, drinking the lovely wine, and my head was on his shoulder as though it had always been meant to be there.
Roger stroked my curls until we grew drowsy, and then, sighing with happiness, we turned quietly into each other, where we
stayed until the sea and the dawn sky and the wet sand at the water’s edge were all the same exquisite pale mauve. Then slowly,
sleepily, we returned to our separate beds.

In the quick, fleeting succession of days and nights that followed, Roger and I reveled in a privacy that would have been
impossible anywhere else. During the day, we frolicked with Elena, an almost family of three, building elaborate castles in
the fine white sand or picking mangoes and coconuts to bring to the cook for the evening’s supper. We took Elena for gentle
surfing, where the waves provided us with many small contacts, each one a thrilling promise for midnight. And we often rested
on the sand; our shortened nights were tiring! After dinner, on the gallery, when Miss Adelaide had retired, we made our plans.

“I go to New York every month on business,” Roger reminded me. “I expect you will want to visit your foundation offices there
often.”

“I suspect I will,” I said with a smile. “As often as possible!”

“With the renovations on the school complete, you will be able to stay in the little upstairs apartment. I can use the garden
door and visit you there.”

His face was very serious in the light from the evening torches. “I intend to do many other things with you in New York, Miranda,
besides making love. Our official relationship is well known. It will permit us to appear together whenever we choose — to
go to restaurants, theater, the opera, just as we did before we became lovers.”

This sounded delicious, and I smiled. “It will be very enticing to have such a secret.”

Roger stayed serious. “I am your trustee; I administer your foundation. We will meet openly but correctly and discreetly.”

“The discretion will be the hardest part.” I was still smiling.

Now Roger grinned. “It is only for when we’re in public. In private you can be as indiscreet as . . . this.” And here he pulled
me onto his lap, nuzzling my neck.

If we have no choice but to love illicitly, I thought as Roger’s mouth sent tingles along my tender skin, so we should, replenishing
commitment to each other with every lush encounter we can steal.

The sad morning came when Roger kissed Miss Adelaide and Elena and me, and bade us good-bye. We continued to wave until his
carriage disappeared at the far end of Cedar Avenue, and then we went, subdued, to our usual morning routines: Miss Adelaide
to her housekeeping and her arrangements, Elena to her swimming and adventures with Mira, and I to my neglected desk. It was
a long and lonely day.

Luckily I had much work that would help me to bear the time until I saw Roger again. And I loved this place, I reminded myself,
which, with its great beauty, would keep me cheerful as well. So after our naps Elena and I swam and walked and worked with
our shells, and in the evening, after the cloud show and dinner, Miss Adelaide and I took our wine and talked on the gallery.
I would never know what she and Roger said to each other, but I discovered she was entirely informed about our particular
circumstances.

“Until you are able to marry, you and Roger can’t have a house or a social life together,” she foresaw. “But you will have
your love, and your important work, and your prospect of a shared lifetime. That’s more than most lovers ever achieve.”

And then, as I had always hoped she would, she told me why she and Dr. Hugh came to Barbados more than thirty years ago.

“Our father was a judge in Charleston,” she began. “A well-to-do and decent man.”

I settled down comfortably and gave her my full attention.

“Although we lived in town like most of the oldest families,” she continued, “we had a beach house on one of the sea islands,
a wonderful rambling cottage on Edisto. I spent fifteen summers there, swimming and crabbing and fishing, and, with all the
other children, soaked in seawater the whole day long.

“During those years, my favorite companion was Louis Butler Peyton, who lived next door. I had other friends, of course, but
Louis was three years older, and he was wonderful. He taught me about hooks and nets and boys’ things — he taught me to surf,
Miranda! We island children were inseparable, all those summers. We had a contentment, a belonging together. But it was Louis
I idolized, and when he went north to college and I grew up — or seemed to — we became closer in a different way.” She gave
a rueful smile. “I recall even now how the young people courted, how our set dined and danced, and how in the summer we went
back and forth between the various cottages across the islands — bearing in mind that those cottages were actually quite splendid.
We’d be ferried home in the moonlight . . .” Now Miss Adelaide’s voice turned almost wistful, and her features were soft.

“One night, at Louis’s little sister’s ball, I was wearing my ivory tulle and a camellia wreath. My complexion used to get
very flushed from the waltzing . . . and I could feel Louis watching me; in fact, his eyes never left me. The very next morning
he came to call. He told me that he loved me and that he had never loved anyone else. The little tanned tomboy I used to be,
and the girl I had become, were his destiny, he said.”

I was delighted with this accounting and drew up my knees in my chair, watching the moonlight play on Miss Adelaide’s silver
hair.

“So.” She was still smiling. “In the spring of 1830, when I turned eighteen, I became Louis’s wife. I left my family’s home
in Charleston and went to live on his father’s great plantation out in the river country.”

So there it was. There
had
been a Mr. Darcy, I thought, this simple fact confirming my childhood speculations.
But Miss Adelaide . . . married?
My eyes pleaded with hers to continue.