Fallen Beauty (24 page)

I’d overstated my bravery. I’d never traveled this road alone at night. It led to the main highway to Pittsfield, and I worried about motorists failing to see us and running us down. Punctuating my unease was the long, high cry of a wild animal. I picked up my pace, and was glad to see Grace asleep so she wouldn’t be frightened.

When I reached the end of the long driveway, I heard the door slam to the house and looked over my shoulder to see Gabriel’s large silhouette. His hat was pulled low and his shoulders hunched high, bracing against the cold. Puffs of breath came from his mouth and encircled his head. He reminded me of a bull.

As nervous as I’d been, I was angry now. He was relentless. And why? If he planned on leaving, why bother to start a relationship? His cruelty appalled me, but I reflected that he’d once told me he was selfish. Now I could see it was so.

In spite of my quickened pace, Gabriel caught up to me. He looked down and saw that Grace was asleep.

“Lord, woman, what is wrong with you?” he hissed.

“Me?” I whispered back. “You won’t get the message.”

“What message, that you’re a fool who’d deny herself happiness because she’s so damned stubborn?”

“How dare you—thinking you know me? You don’t know a thing about me. And you don’t care about me. All you care about is scratching some itch before you’re off to New York City and your bohemian lifestyle.”

He had the audacity to laugh.

I slapped his arm. “You’re going to wake her.”

He covered his mouth and quieted down for a moment, but then continued his rant. “I can’t believe your hypocrisy. You blame the town for judging you. What about your judgment of others? You think you have me figured out from watching me carve a statue.”

“You’re wrong. I can’t figure you at all. I can’t understand why you’d try to get involved with someone like me when you know you’ll leave. What kind of man does that to a woman, especially one with a young child?”

“Is that what you think?” he said, raising his voice. “Did you ever stop and think your coldness has something to do with my leaving? Why would I try to stay?”

Grace stirred, but resettled when we fell quiet.

“You’ve spoken of betrayal like you’re the only one who has ever known it,” he continued. “I know betrayal.”

We had reached a bend in the road and I shivered. I didn’t know what to say to Gabriel, but I wanted to know what he meant. Whatever it was, I couldn’t believe it compared to what I had experienced. Soon he continued.

“I was supposed to marry a girl after the war—a wealthy American girl studying art in Italy. I let myself believe that someone like her could love someone like me, and I was a fool. I found her in bed with my best friend. She’d told him she loved him too, and then left us both for a rich Italian doctor. So don’t talk to me about betrayal.”

All I could hear after his speech was his heavy breathing and the crunch of our steps on the road. I felt sick to my stomach for jumping to conclusions. There was so much about him I didn’t know—so much about everyone. I’d allowed my own self-pity to blind me to the pain of others, and worse, I’d made assumptions and judged them. It was the very hypocrisy for which I blamed the town.

A sudden vision of Gabriel being intimate with a beautiful woman intensified my unease. I was sick at the thought of him with another and angry with myself for having allowed my desire of him to grow into something more. A sharp wind blew and I leaned down to cover Grace more snugly. When I stood up, I dared to look at him. He stared ahead, and I had an urge to touch his face. Instead, I squeezed the handles of the pram.

We crossed the bridge under ice-encased branches. So much of the stream in that place had frozen, and the world seemed suspended in time. I could scarcely remember what it looked like in the spring with the cherry blossoms drifting on its currents, the long tips of the willows grazing the surface of the water. But I knew that season would come. It lay dormant under nature’s sleep, waiting for its resurgence.

The darkness gave me courage.

“I’m sorry, Gabriel.”

He glanced at me, and then back at the road. I knew I’d have to explain, so I let the words spill out, as if I were in a confessional. I felt reckless, with nothing to lose since I’d already lost it all.

“Grace’s father lives here, in town. Our relationship is a scandal that no one knows about. I can’t involve you in it. And I can’t risk the fragile place I’ve reclaimed in this community.”

“Do you love him?”

I thought about Grace’s father, how much I’d once loved him. I couldn’t understand this longing that remained. It could be for him or for what was. The two seemed the same in my mind. No, it was a longing for companionship, not for him.

“No,” I said.

We walked on and passed the Virgin’s form shrouded in darkness. I had an urge to stop and touch her, but I hesitated only a moment before continuing. When we arrived at the shop, I unlocked the door. Gabriel lifted Grace and carried her inside for me while I pushed the pram around the side of the house and came in the back way. He met me in the kitchen, and I took her from his arms, and started up the stairs. I placed her in bed, took off her boots and coat, and pulled up her covers, then returned downstairs.

Gabriel stood in the front room, looking out the window with his hands in his pockets. I walked up beside him and stared out at the night, toward the statue. It was difficult to see in this light.

“I’m going away soon,” he said. “I’ll be back for visits to look in on Michael from time to time. He’s lonely, and I hate to leave him. He helped me during the bad time in Italy. He taught me how to trust again.”

“You’re lucky.”

“Not in all matters.” He stepped toward the door and put his hand on the knob. “I hope I see you again.”

A lump formed in my throat and I clenched my fists. I had let this tension come between us. It was my fault, and now we’d both suffer for it.

He closed the door on his way out, and walked back to the rectory. I wondered how many more nights he’d lay his head on the pillow across the street from me.

•   •   •

VINCENT

W
hen we went to Europe in ’twenty-nine, the separation from George was excruciating.

My sweet boy with his soft Kentucky accent had transferred his mother love to me, so when the wrenching away began, it held more force than usual. The death of Elinor clung to that time like a parasite, with its relentless reminder that we’d all meet the same fate. We would all end.

I’d put such prophecy in the sonnets. Perhaps if I’d written them more happily, things would have turned out differently. But, no. Mortals cannot stop the passing of the seasons or the turning of the earth.

While Eugen directed porters and bags, I walked to the railing of the
Rotterdam
, thinking of my first trip to France when I was twenty-nine years old. A decade had passed, and I felt no more wise or worldly than I had in 1921. I felt used. Empty. I thought of the people whom I’d allowed into my body. Each one of them had left a scar or a bruise, but no laceration stung more than that of yours, George Dillon. I hoped that leaving you and sailing for Europe would help the wound heal to a benign scar I could still see, even admire, but one that would no longer plague me.

I was wrong.

In my room, I found a piece of stationery. At the last moment, I scribbled a little message to you, a simple farewell I had wired, but it was a mistake. The note tethered us. It kept me bound to you across an ocean and would not break.

April in Paris was a prolonged, inebriated fantasy, an endless parade of artists and ideas, lightness and darkness, a crush of heaven and hell. The phone rang endlessly. “Why aren’t you here? Everyone’s asking. Come to the
Oubliettes Rouges
!”

Eugen would button and brush me while I ran the tube of lipstick over my lips, staining them more like blood, trying to ignore the throbbing in my head from yesterday’s champagne. That place was hell—a medieval dungeon turned bar on the Left Bank, decorated with devices of torture, human bones, a guillotine. How could these people make merry in such a place, surrounded by all this death? It was like stepping into the hollow, abused cavern of my heart. The chains and cuffs hung from its fleshy walls, stained in blood. I wrote this to you so you could know that though I wasn’t with you, I carried you, always. How I wished for the cruelty of my youth. How I wished for the divine cynicism I once held.

In a haze of absinthe, I clutched Eugen’s arm. “We must go. Get me out.”

“Vincie, you’re not having fun? Drink up!”

“No, I am haunted. I need the light.”

In spite of his annoyance, Eugen threw back his glass and took me outside, where I could breathe.

“I’ll never go there again,” I said. “I could feel their suffering.”

“It is your own,” he said. “Reflected.”

He escorted me to
la Closerie des Lilas
. We sat in the open air, staring at the shadowed linden trees, when suddenly I saw you. A young man walked by, his face like a cherub, and I knew you haunted me. But then you were gone. I began to shake uncontrollably, and felt like I was drowning. I knew then I’d never be free of you.

LAURA

Two nights passed, and while I waited for Eugen to take us to Steepletop to finish the scarlet robe, I grew restless to begin. I pushed Gabriel from my mind, and avoided looking at the rectory or the square. To fill the hours, I prepared, packed a few items, and spent time with my sister, making sure Grace and I saw enough of her so she wouldn’t notice one day’s absence.

Dr. Hagerty delivered Grace’s repaired glasses, and she delighted in the new red frames. I paid him and invited him into the shop, but he declined and set out for home as quickly as he’d come.

The morning Eugen was scheduled to pick us up behind the cemetery at ten o’clock, I took Grace to Marie and Everette’s house for breakfast, and to give Marie the new baptismal gown I’d sewn for her baby. I was proud of the small ivory creation embroidered with ivy in the same shade as the rest of the gown. Boy or girl, the frock would become an heirloom, and I’d add his or her initials, and all of their subsequent children’s initials, to the band along the hem.

“Oh,” said Marie in a whisper, laying the gown over her growing belly, “it’s precious.”

Everette ran his hand over the material. “Very nice.”

I could see he didn’t care about baby baptismal gowns, but that didn’t bother me. In truth, I wanted him gone. His presence gave me the jitters since he’d told me to watch out for Millay. Knowing that I’d be in her home in mere hours made me even more nervous, and I spilled a small pitcher of cream on the table when we began to eat.

The pumpkin loaf and poached eggs smelled delicious but stuck in my throat. My anxiety rose with each passing movement of the clock on the mantel, and when I saw that it was nine forty-five, I began to panic that we’d never be able to leave without it seeming unusually hurried. I was also frustrated to see a new snow falling in tiny flakes that accumulated at a frightening rate. It was the snow, finally, that gave me a good excuse to go.

“I’d better get Grace home, where it’s warm and cozy, before this snow really starts to pile up,” I said, nearly knocking over my chair as I stood. Everette grabbed the headrest and righted it for me, while giving me a strange look. I slipped out from behind the table, and cleared the empty dishes in haste.

“Don’t worry,” said Marie. “I’ll get that. Just take Grace home. I’ll send Everette to check on you later this afternoon.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” I said, with perhaps too much emphasis because they both stared at me in surprise. “I only mean that I enjoy shoveling and our electric is working, so we’ll be just fine. Really.”

Sweat formed on my neck and I glanced at the clock in the town square. It was three minutes to ten.

I hurried about bundling Grace in her coat and gave Marie a kiss before I left. By the time I locked the front door, it was five minutes after ten. I ran to the kitchen and strained my eyes through the falling snow to see if Eugen was already there. He was, of course, so I opened the door and waved my red hat to show him that I had seen him and would be there soon.

“Grace, put Dolly and your blocks in this bag to take with us. We’ll be gone all day.”

While she worked at filling her small bag of amusements, I made sure I’d packed everything I needed to complete the cloak. I’d done all of the machine work, and wanted to hand-stitch the rest. I grabbed my sketchbook and Grace’s sled, and pulled her over the field to where Eugen waited.

•   •   •

“W
inter is best enjoyed in an open sleigh,” said Eugen.

I had to agree with him. It thrilled me to dash up white forest paths, catching glimpses of the jagged trail of the frozen river through naked trees. I pointed out a streak of orange to Grace, a fox that dashed from the underbrush. A wink of red on the wings of a male cardinal. Two spotted brown deer.

The way winter revealed the rise and fall of the hills in the woods caught my interest. It was a pleasure to see the graceful texture of the forest floor, which was camouflaged during the leafy parts of the year, now revealed in the carpet of snow. A gust of wind sent a large branch nearby crashing to the ground, relieved of its snow burden and in preparation to become a shelter to some small woodland animal. The sharpness of the air invigorated me.

“How is she today?” I asked, now well acquainted with the ever-changing tempest of emotions present in the small poet.

“Today is a day of light and cheer. Visitors usually bring that satisfaction to her. Every time you come, it is a gift. She was toasting your arrival with an early glass of wine just as I was leaving.”

“It’s my last gown for her tour. I felt compelled to work on it at Steepletop.”

“I’m glad you listened to your compulsion,” he said.

When we arrived, Eugen carried my bags and I carried Grace into the house, where friendly fires blazed in the hearths. Millay sat at the larger of the two sitting room pianos, playing an impressive rendition of Beethoven’s
Appassionata
with the intensity of a concert performer. She did not look up when we entered. I noted a nearly empty wineglass and bottle on the table next to her. Millay’s cheeks were flushed and her hair blazed as orange as the coat of the fox we’d seen in the forest.

Grace, seemingly at ease in this house, walked to the sofa and found a book of paper dolls. After a short while, she removed her coat and let it rest behind her on the seat. Eugen crouched at her feet and asked about the paper dolls while I strolled the perimeter of the room, running my hands along tables, the mantel, musical instruments, and lamps. I came face-to-face with the massive ebony bust of Sappho in the corner and stared into her black eyes. She was an intimidating representation of the ancient lyricist, and I thought that if I had stood before her months or even weeks ago, I would have turned away. Now I tried to know her, to look unflinchingly at her to decide why she was worthy of my attention. I imagined that she did the same with me.

When the piece ended, silence seeped into the room. I turned to Millay, expecting an open smile and a thrill that I had come. Instead, she trembled and appeared ill. The flush no longer looked like passion but fever. Other than her cheeks, her skin was as cold and pale as marble. I crossed the room and knelt before her.

“Are you well?”

She looked down at her hands, and then her eyes darted to Sappho and to Eugen.

“Vincie, are you all right?” said Eugen, coming to her and wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “Look, it’s Laura. Your friend. Your seamstress.” She looked at me and seemed to see me for the first time. Her eyes opened wider and a lazy smile touched her lips.

She was drunk.

I was frustrated that we’d made the trip for what I’d hoped would be a time of creativity, and I had this dull, blurred woman before me. So much for my lofty ideas of working with the subject of my art. I began to feel foolish for the way I’d built these two up, imagining this artistic salon. Spending time with the river people had put fantasies in my head of meeting others on such terms even outside their circle.

The cook entered the room with a tray of cookies and tea, and smiled at Grace. She placed the tray next to her, offering her sweet treats and asking about her toys, telling her about the sumptuous dinner of roasted pheasant they’d make just for her. Grace glowed under the attention.

Eugen left and returned with a glass of water and an apology in his eyes. Millay suddenly stood and walked past him up the stairs. After she disappeared from view, Eugen made a move to follow her. I put up my hand, took the glass, and went after her.

When I reached her boudoir, she was already reclined on the bed against a mound of pillows, waiting for me with eyes half closed and the strange smile still on her lips. I hesitated for a moment, and then went to her bedside. I held the glass to her mouth as if she were a child, and encouraged her to drink. Then I put it on the bureau and sat on the edge of the bed.

“I have drunk till I’m drunk,” she said with slurred words. “My heart hurt, so I drank him away, but now you’re here and I’m like this.”

She giggled to herself, but a tear slid down her face. I felt pity for this creature before me. I reached up and wiped away the tear with the back of my hand.

“There,” she said. “When my tears dry, I will be on your skin. You will carry me with you.”

“I’ve lately carried you with me, anyway,” I said. “Your generous commission has invigorated me. I am grateful.”

“Good,” she said. “But you have it backward. You are helping me.”

I lifted the glass to her lips once more, and she drank. Then I removed the pillows behind her back, except for one, so she could lie down on the bed.

“I’ll sleep for a while. Then I’ll be better,” she said. She closed her eyes and soon breathed deep breaths. Her hands were clasped together as if in prayer. Her copper hair fanned out around her head in silky waves. I reached out to touch it, leaning closer to study its exact shade. I thought of the red of the cloak, and was glad that it looked more like fire than blood. It would complement her coloring.

When I went downstairs, Eugen had arranged a sewing station in the corner of the room by the window with the most light. Grace still sat showing the cook her dolls. The fire glowed in the hearth, reflected in the marble poet’s eyes.

I felt at home.

•   •   •

T
wo hours passed, and I’d made much progress. I knew the cloak would be used on Millay’s spring tour, so I’d selected a light fabric for the lining. The velvet was thin but soft, and the trim and the collar were made of cool silk. It was a pleasure to touch, and I knew it would be so to wear.

Grace had played outside the window with the dogs for a while, and now sat drying by the fire with Dolly, telling her how she wished she had a dog, speaking loud enough for me to hear. Eugen was outside digging the Cadillac out of the ice and clearing the driveway, and he kept coming in to see if I was comfortable. If I needed anything. If I was hungry or thirsty. If I wanted to put Grace down for a nap in the office on the oversized chair. I assured him that we were comfortable, and each time, he beamed as bright as the sun. I’d never seen such a man.

Eugen clearly ran the household and farm. I witnessed him discuss the menu with the cook, instruct the groundskeeper on which bushes to bag, and oversee the laundry and the mending. I watched the farmhands converse with him multiple times through the window. He shoveled the front walk and the garden path. He called the pharmacy in Pittsfield, placed an order with the grocer, and made lists of hardware supplies to fetch on his next visit to Chatham, and all while Millay slept upstairs.

I tried to imagine what it would be like for a husband to devote so much of his energy to me while I created costumes. I pictured a man at the stove cooking dinner while I pored over fabric books and completed orders, a man taking Grace on a walk while I finished a dress and matching gloves, a man to read to me by the fire at night while I sewed cotillion dresses. For the first time, I could not see a face on this imaginary man.

But the temporary lift in my spirits from such fantasies came crashing down. No such man existed, or if he did, he was here at Steepletop, not only supporting his wife but also encouraging behavior that would no doubt lead to their ruin. He indulged her drinking, antisocial behavior, erratic moods, and whims for stimulation outside of her marriage.

Eugen was an optimist, and life was his grand experiment. I could see from his tortured wife, however, that such indulgences would not support their relationship, but erode it. How could I show that to them without sounding like a haughty church lady? These observations were not moral; they were true. A heart divided could never fully unite to another’s. Split affections couldn’t fully ripen before being ripped from their trees.

At least, I didn’t think they could.

My thoughts were interrupted when Grace stood from the hearth and brought her coat to me. I fastened the buttons up to her dimpled chin, and helped her with her hat and mittens.

“Dry already?” I asked, squeezing the coat. I removed her glasses and wiped them on my dress before setting them back on her nose.

“Yes,” she said.

“Play where I can see you.”

She ran outside with the dog at her heels and, in a few moments, waved to me from the side yard. The snow that had begun that morning had already left three inches of fresh powder, and continued to fall. I glanced at the clock and thought that I should ask Eugen for an early supper so we could get back before the roads became impassable, even by horse-drawn sleigh.

“You are lost in thought,” said Eugen.

I turned my attention to him at his desk, where he was writing in a ledger.

“My mind wanders when I sew,” I said.

“You have a poet’s heart,” he said. “You looked like Vincent for a moment. Racing through a world in your mind. Tell me, what did you find there in the dark forest of your thoughts?”

“I’m afraid you don’t want to know.”

“Ah, but that entices me more. Did you fantasize about a lover, the man who helped make your girl, but who is not here with you?”

“You are direct,” I said. “Plain speech must be so freeing. I have too much of my own constraint to allow it, I’m afraid, so I will keep my thoughts to myself.”

“There is none of that here,” he said. “We are open, as you know. Speak your mind.”

A gust of wind sent a swirl of snowflakes against the window, obscuring Grace’s form for a moment, and then drawing back like a veil, showing my girl running in circles with the dog.

“Yes, speak your mind,” said Millay. She leaned on the doorframe in a severe black dress with a high collar. She’d put on pearl earrings and a necklace, and would have looked entirely formal if it wasn’t for her hair, which she wore loose on her shoulders. Her eyes looked tired, but sober.

“My sweet,” said Eugen, rising to escort her into the room. He led her to the sofa near my chair and kissed her on the neck before returning to his seat.

“Every sentence you utter is like the tip of an iceberg,” said Millay.

“I think not uttering them fully has allowed me to carry on as well as I have.”