An Embarrassment of Riches (63 page)

He ran past the Schermerhorn mansion, he ran past Union Place. If Stasha had smallpox and was at the Fifth Avenue mansion, what about Felix and Natalie? Did they have smallpox too? And for how long had Stasha had it? For how long had he been desperately ill, perhaps even dying?

‘Jesus Christ!' he panted, running, running, running. ‘Don't let him be dead. Don't let Felix or Natalie be sick!
Please! Please! Please?'

As he approached the giant gates of his home they remained closed. No minions hurried out to open them for him. In rising terror he heaved them apart, running across the cobbled courtyard, running up the lion-flanked stone steps.

The house was as still and quiet as a tomb. No Haines came to meet him. There was no sign of house-maids or footmen. Dust had settled on the intricate carving of the grand staircase.

Sweat was dripping into his eyes, his heart was pumping as if it were going to burst. Still he continued to run. Up the stairs; along the corridor towards the nurseries.

It was Dr Bridges who hurried to meet him.

‘I've just got the message!' Alexander gasped, almost hurtling into him. ‘Where is he? Have Felix and Natalie caught it as well?'

Dr Bridges took hold of his arm, steadying him.

‘No. Your children are safe and well and at Tarna …'

‘And Stasha? Is Stasha at Tarna, too?'

‘No, Mr Karolyis. He's here and he's well on the way to recovery. There's no fear of blindness and …'

Alexander swayed with relief. ‘Take me to him. I must see him!'

‘Yes, sir. Of course. But I have other news for you. Your wife took it upon herself to nurse the child. When she announced her intentions I naturally assumed she had been inoculated. If I had known otherwise, I would never have allowed her near the sick-room …'

He forgot all about the recovering Stasha. One look at Dr Bridge's face was enough to tell him what had happened.

‘Jesus God,' he whispered, drowning in horror, suffocating in it.

‘I'm afraid that though the child is now no longer infectious, your wife is still ill. The delirium is at an end, but the pustules are still suppurating …'

Alexander rocked on his heels. He had been so terrified that Stasha had died that he had not given a thought to the consequences of the disease if Stasha lived through it. Now he thought of Stasha, physically marked for life. And Maura …

‘Take me to her,' he said harshly, feeling the gilded walls of the corridor spin around him. ‘Take me to her! Now! Immediately!'

‘I can't, Mr Karolyis. Not unless you have been inoculated …'

‘Of course I've been bloody inoculated!'

But Maura hadn't. Living in the depths of Ireland she had not received the kind of scrupulous modern medical attention that he himself had received. And he had been too negligent a husband to have ensured that the omission was rectified.

When he entered the room he stood still for a moment, rooted by shock. She lay motionless. Her hair was brushed damply from her face in a long, thick braid. It made her look very young and vulnerable, almost schoolgirlish. Her hands lay on the crisp white coverlet, encased in cotton gloves. Her face was barely recognizable, masked in pink, dry paste.

‘Maura!' he said chokingly. ‘Oh, dear Christ!
Maura!
'

She turned her head weakly towards him, relief flooding her eyes.

As he strode towards her, her relief changed to horror.

‘No! You mustn't! I'm still infectious …'

‘I've been inoculated. And why the hell didn't you tell me you had never been inoculated? You know what a cesspit of disease New York is …'

His voice was so thick he wondered how on earth she could understand him. He sat by the side of her bed, taking her gloved hands gently in his. ‘You're going to be all right,' he said, trying hard not to cry. ‘Bridges says the worst is over …'

‘Stasha,' she said, the soft fullness of her mouth trembling slightly. ‘Have you seen Stasha?'

‘Not yet. Bridges says he's well on the way to recovery.'

‘And his face?'

It took Alexander all the strength he possessed not to flinch. ‘I don't know.'

Tears glittered on her eyelashes. ‘I'm sorry, Alexander. So very sorry.'

He said fiercely: ‘A few pockmarks won't destroy Stasha's handsomeness. They will make him look swashbuckling. And you're not going to have any marks on your face, Maura. I promise.'

Her fingers curled in his. It was a promise he couldn't possibly keep and both of them knew it.

‘I think it is quite safe to say that if your nephew had gone into a fever hospital, as I first suggested, he would have died,' Dr Bridges said to him later that evening. ‘Between them your wife and your children's nurse-maid saved his life.'

When Alexander had visited Stasha he had found him sitting up in bed, cutting figures out of magazines, Caitlin at his side.

‘Uncle Xander! Uncle Xander!' he cried, dropping the scissors, magazines and cut-outs slithering to the floor.

Alexander had hugged him, and hugged him, and hugged him.

‘I like it here, Uncle Xander,' Stasha had said to him as Alexander took over Caitlin's task and began helping him cut out figures for the toy theatre she had made him. ‘Can I stay here? Will you stay here, too?'

‘We'll see,' Alexander said, not daring to make a promise to him until after he had talked to Maura, wondering what her reaction would be when he did so.

It went without saying that his previous objections to Caitlin and Bridget no longer stood. And he had known for months past that his remarks about her Irishness and about the likelihood of Stasha being accepted in society and Felix not being accepted had been crass stupidity. If he began living at home again, perhaps he could even publicly admit that Stasha was his own child. Perhaps the impossible was still possible. Perhaps he and Maura could live together as happily as they had done in the early days at Tarna.

When she was fully recovered he would talk to her. He would tell her he had never truly wanted to be estranged from her, that his affair with Ariadne was well and truly over.

At the moment both of them were still living fearfully day to day as the suppurating lesions on her face began to heal and they waited to see if she would be scarred and if so, how badly. It was now obvious that Stasha was going to be permanently scarred, but Maura had had less lesions on her face than Stasha and Dr Bridges was holding out hope that they were going to be less damaging. Whether they were or not, pockmark scars would make no difference to the passion he felt for her; that he had always felt for her. She would always be beautiful because her beauty came from within, as well as without. And if he and Maura began living together again as man and wife, then Stasha, Felix and Natalie could grow up together, aware of their true relationship to each other. It was an idyllic prospect. A prospect that sent the blood singing along his veins.

It was a letter from Kieron that put an end to all his hopes for the future. Because there was still not a full complement of household staff in the house, he had been attending to all correspondence himself. Dr Bridges had strictly forbidden Maura to read anything until she was fully recovered, fearful of her illness causing permanent damage to her eyes, and so he opened all her mail for her, informing her as to who was sending best wishes for a speedy recovery.

Kieron's letter had been sent from Kansas.

I should be back in New York by the end of the month for a few days before returning here permanently. Thanks to Henry's generosity I'm now the owner of a fine ranch and all that's needed to make life heaven is yourself. I know that your greatest fear is that himself won't allow you to take the children, but I think you're wrong. The four of us could have a grand life out west. Before I left New York I spoke to the Bishop about the chances of having your marriage annulled and he was cautiously encouraging. You could free yourself completely from the slum landlord tainted Karolyis name that you hate so much. We've always been meant for each other
, élainn.
As you've said yourself, how could anyone else ever understand us as we understand each other? The answer is no-one. Don't let your fear of losing the children stop you finding happiness out here. It won't happen. I swear to God it won't. I love you, sweetheart. I love you more than anything else in the world.

He didn't read any more. He couldn't. Were Maura and Kieron Sullivan already lovers? It was impossible to tell from the letter. What was obvious was that Sullivan's love for her was reciprocated and that Maura had only refused to leave for Kansas with him because she was frightened of losing the children. Slowly he resealed the envelope. He had suffered years of guilt because of the misery he had inadvertently caused Genevre. Was he now going to feel guilty for the rest of his life because of Maura's unhappiness? He could make her happy if he chose to. He could free her and allow her custody of the children. She had, after all, given him Stasha. Without Maura, Stasha would have died. He remained sitting at his desk, his shoulders slumped, his head in his hands.

When he finally emerged the skin was taut across his cheek-bones and there were white pinched lines around his mouth.

He entered her room. She was sat up, propped by a pile of plump pillows. Her eyes were shining and there were only small patches of camomile on her face.

‘Has Dr Bridges told you? Isn't it wonderful? There are only the slightest of scars. There's one deep one by the corner of my left eyebrow, but I shall see that a wisp of veiling conceals it when I am out, and there's another tiny one at the corner of my mouth, but Caitlin says it looks more like a dimple than a scar.'

He forced a smile, too overcome with grief at what he was about to do to be able to share in her joy.

Her own radiant smile faded. ‘What is it?' she asked, instinctively knowing something was wrong. ‘Is it Stasha?'

He sat down by the bed. ‘No. Stasha is fine and wearing Caitlin to a frazzle. It's just that we have to talk, Maura. Now that you are stronger there are things that have to be said.'

He looked wonderful, his glossy black hair curling low in the nape of his neck, a gold watch-chain across his waist-coated chest, his hips narrow and enticing in his tight-fitting hand-stitched trousers.

She said, very still, very tense. ‘About us?'

He nodded. He was suddenly unsure as to whether or not he was going to be able to do it. He wanted to kiss the soft fullness of her mouth, he wanted to brush his lips against the scar at the corner of her eyebrow and her mouth and tell her that they didn't detract an iota from her beauty. That because of the way she had come by them, they only enhanced it. He wanted to tell her that not only was she the most beautiful woman he had ever met, but that she was also the most compassionate and the most courageous.

He rose to his feet and crossed to the window. The blind was down in order that her eyes shouldn't be strained by fierce sunlight. He stared down at the small amount of glass showing at the bottom of the blind. He could just see the cobbled courtyard, the rim of a fountain.

He said as dispassionately as possible, not turning to look at her, ‘I think it's about time we thought of a legal separation, Maura.'

He heard her quick intake of breath and still he didn't turn. He couldn't.

‘I'll still want to see the children, of course. Often. But if you want to live somewhere other than New York, I will have no objection to you taking them with you. I can always make arrangements to visit no matter where you are.'

‘Yes.' Her voice was strained. He could barely hear it. ‘Of course. If that's what you want.'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘I think it's for the best.'

She made no reply and he turned. ‘And now that you're almost recovered there's no need for me to stay here any longer. Haines came back this morning and the housemaids and footmen are dribbling back by the hour.'

‘And Stasha?' she asked, her face very pale, her eyes very dark. ‘What is going to happen to Stasha?'

‘Stasha will return with me to the hotel. He won't like it very much after being here, but he's an adaptable little imp.' He began to walk towards the door, saying casually, ‘By the way, there's some more post for you. I'll have it sent up. Now that your face has healed I imagine there's no further fear of eye-strain. Have a word with Bridges though, to make quite sure.'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘I will. Are you leaving now?'

‘Yes,' he said, not seeing how he could possibly stay after what he had just said. ‘But I'll call in to see you often. If you want me to.'

‘Yes,' she said again. ‘That would be nice. Thank you.'

He didn't say goodbye. He couldn't. He wondered when she would read Sullivan's letter. He wondered what she would do about it. If she wanted to, she could now go west without any fears that it would mean separation from her children. He wondered if what he had just done had been an act of certifiable madness. Then he remembered Stasha. Making possible her own happiness, at the expense of his, was the very least he could do for her.

He left the house feeling extraordinarily disorientated. There were things he had to do which had been postponed for far too long, the most important being a meeting with Ariadne. He had to tell her that their affair was finally over and he wasn't looking forward one little bit to the scene that would ensue.

Maura told her nurse that she didn't want to be disturbed. She wanted to get over the shock slowly, and in private. It had been stupid of her to have thought that things had changed. Nothing had changed, not between herself and Alexander. Not only did he not want to resume living with her, he was uncaring as to whether he saw Felix and Natalie. Saying that he would want to see them often and then saying that if she wished to leave the city and live elsewhere she could take the children with her was a blatant contradiction. He quite obviously didn't care about seeing them, nor about where she might take them to live.