Grahame, Lucia (21 page)

My heart! That Pandora's box of grief and despair, bitterness, and
lies.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of, Anthony," I
whispered at last. But there I halted, unable to exonerate him further without
incriminating myself. Finally, I said sadly, "I could not ask for a better
husband. My low spirits have nothing to do with you. I have suffered from them
for years. Perhaps
I
was too hasty in agreeing to become your wife; I
ought to have given you time to know me better. Then you might have discovered
that I have no dragons— only moods."

My husband considered this sorry blend of fact and fiction in
silence for a moment or two.

"And that is all you will say on the subject?" he said.

If only J could say more! If only I could trust him! If only he
were not quite so
good,
so upright and virtuous! If only he had had one
or two little weaknesses that might have enabled him to comprehend my own!

"It is all I
can
say!" I whispered brokenly.

I could not see his face as his dark shape disengaged itself from
that of the chair. He moved toward the light-filled doorway. For a moment he
stood there, looking back at me. At last he turned away. The door closed behind
him and the light was gone.

As soon as I awoke on the following morning, fragments of my
husband's latest appeal for honesty drifted back to haunt me. I sat up among
the bed pillows to sip my coffee from an eggshell porcelain cup, and heard
again his calm and level voice begging me to open my heart to him—or to
someone—and promising me his support.

But was it possible? Could anyone be so selfless as to forgive
entirely? He had said he would make any sacrifice for me; was he prepared even
to let me go? Could he really be willing to end the sad charade?

No one, of course, could dissolve a marriage merely for the lack
of love. Lovelessness might drag a couple down as surely as a millstone tied
about their necks, but it carried no weight in the courts. Nevertheless, there
was no reason for us to remain together. Life would be so much easier for both
of us if we were to live apart. And my husband
could
set me free in body
and spirit if not in name, if he chose. At least there was no child on the way
to complicate a separation! Then I could return to Paris, where at least I had
friends.

Not long at all, it seemed: That morning's post brought a letter
from Paris. The brownish envelope, with its French stamp and no return address,
had a familiar look. It would be yet another notice from my persecutor. Amidst
profuse apologies, he would announce that once again he must raise the stakes.
I could hardly bear to contemplate what this would mean for me.

Well, there was still my grandmother's jewelry.

I opened the envelope, expecting the usual request. But this one
was different.

"You must come to Paris immediately," Poncet had
scrawled. "It has become necessary to renegotiate our arrangement."

I had no idea what this cryptic and alarming message implied, but
I was far too frightened of what he might do to ignore the imperious summons. I
sent him a note to advise him that I would leave for Paris immediately.

Then I told my husband I had received word that my dear friend
Marguerite was ill.

"Madame Sorrel ill?" he exclaimed. Two fine little
creases appeared between his eyebrows. "Why, I had no idea!"

I couldn't imagine why he might; she was, after all, my friend,
not his.

"Is it serious?" he asked. His whole demeanor suggested
the gravest concern.

"I think not. She says it is merely fatigue—that she has been
working too hard. But still I would like to see her to assure myself that it is
nothing more."

The clouds left my husband's face; his expression became almost
hopeful.

"Oh, but of course," he said eagerly. "You must go
to her at once."

He urged me to let him know if there was anything he might do on
Marguerite's behalf or to make my journey easier. He even gave me money for the
trip.

I realized then that he suspected Marguerite's illness of being a
mere invention to conceal my true reason for traveling to Paris; he had come to
the happy conclusion that I had decided to follow his advice. To think of it!
This man, knowing I could not bring myself to confide in him, was yet so
generous as to feel relief in supposing that I was going off to pour my secrets
into the ear of my closest friend!

Since my last visit to him, Poncet had moved his place of business
to larger quarters and had outfitted these even more ostentatiously than his
previous ones. A rather plain-faced, bespectacled young woman, who projected an
air of enormous self-possession, presided over a rococo little writing table in
the front salon. She rose as I entered and started to inquire how she might
help me. But then her face turned crimson. I knew instantly that she had
recognized me, and that she fully understood the reason for my visit.

We stared at each other in silence.

She too much resembled the stolid-featured Poncet to be anyone but
his daughter. The spectacles magnified her eyes tremendously. But to my
amazement what I saw in those two great, limpid pools was not scorn or
condemnation. It was distress.

"Please excuse me, Lady Camwell," she stammered at last.

Without another word, she turned and disappeared into a little
passage at the back of the salon. Soon I heard, from the rear of the shop into
which she had vanished, a murmur of voices and then a man's voice raised in
anger. I could not discern his words. Then the woman's voice—higher and clearer—cried,
"And
you
led me to believe that you had thought better of it!"

A door slammed.

A few minutes later, Poncet himself appeared, alone.

He was more extravagantly well dressed than before, and although
he wore an unhappily preoccupied expression as he stepped into the room where I
awaited him, he routed the shadows from his face at the sight of me and greeted
me as unctuously as if he had not a care in the world.

"Oh, just tell me the purpose of this meeting," I
snapped, cutting off his effusions.

We sat down facing each other across the recently vacated writing
table.

"I have been waiting for you to purchase the paintings
outright," said he, "now that your circumstances are so improved. But
during all these months, you have not done so, although I know that you have
the means. I've been patient for as long as I can, but my expenses are
increasing. There is simply no way I can continue our arrangement on the
present terms."

"Yes, yes," I said impatiently. "You need something
more than what I have been paying. Tell me how much. You might have done it by
letter. There was no need to waste my time with this journey."

As if I had anything better to do with my time!

"You misunderstand me," he said. "I cannot continue
our arrangement on
any
terms. I have virtually no choice but to auction
the paintings, as we discussed so long ago."

I froze.

"However," he said, "as a courtesy to that
most
upstanding
and respectable gentleman, your husband—who, I am certain, would prefer to have
their existence remain a secret—I am prepared to offer him the paintings
outright for the price that I quoted to you some time ago. Of course, if
you
can come up with the money yourself, there will be no need for me to
approach the baronet."

I stared at him across the table, nearly blind with despair. I
could always sell a few more of my grandmother's jewels and buy a few more
months, but in the end it would inevitably come to this.

My husband had begged me for the truth. Now he would learn it, but
not from me.

"Do as you must," I said wearily and left.

Then I did call upon Marguerite. Théo was not at home, but the
sunny rooms of my friend's splendidly furnished house and her equally sunny
manner proclaimed that the couple were living well.

Marguerite, who had not known I was in Paris, welcomed me with her
usual effervescence.

"Fleur," she said, "how wonderful to see you. It
has been far too long. Théo will be wretched that he missed you. Sit down. Will
you have something to eat or drink? You look a little
faible.
Is
everything well with you? What has finally brought you to Paris? Does the
distingue
baronet accompany you?"

"I am here because you have been so ill," I said.
"The distinguished baronet remains in England but sends his best wishes
for your speedy recovery."

"Ah," said Marguerite with a frown. "Am I the
pretext for an amorous tryst? That seems very unlike you, Fleur. Are you sure
it is wise? Oh well, how long must I languish?"

"The tryst is over," I answered. "And it was hardly
amorous."

For one of the few times in my life, I actually did attempt to
pour out my troubles. But once I had begun, I found myself relating the sorry
tale in the same brittle manner with which I had parried her initial questions.

Even so, my friend listened quietly and with sympathy.

"Oh, but you must tell your husband
everything,"
she
declared the very instant I had finished.

"Are you mad! I can't possibly do that!"

"He will find it out anyway," she pointed out sensibly.
"Isn't it better for him to hear it from you than from a scoundrel, who
may twist the truth in ways that you cannot imagine. Besides, Anthony seems to
be such a good man. Surely he deserves to hear the story from
your
lips."

"He is a good man, Marguerite. That's the trouble. He is
so
good, I cannot bear it! Even when I lose my temper and am unkind to him, he
never changes."

"Then what is there to fear? Perhaps the truth will even
provoke him enough to show more spirit. And did he not say that he would do
anything for you? You ought to have told him then. He must love you, Fleur—God
knows why, for I don't believe he is one of those men who
likes
to be
treated badly," she added wickedly.

"It is impossible," I said. "I could
never
tell
Anthony myself. I think I would rather have him believe the worst inventions
about me than to subject the truth to his judgment."

I recalled once again, this time with a sharp, unexpected pang
that burned for only an instant, how he had defended me against his mother. She
had goaded him numerous times in the course of her visit; the insults had
seemed to roll off his back. I had never spoken up for him except on that
single occasion when he had asked me, so casually, for my opinion of the subtle
abuse she was showering upon him. Yet the very instant that lady had unsheathed
her claws to me, he had sent her packing. As he would, no doubt, soon have
occasion to do with me.

"Don't be a fool, Fleur. Tell him the whole truth. Not only
about the paintings—I'm sure they can be nothing to be ashamed of—but about
everything. Of course, it will wound him—after all, he is in love with you. But
if it shakes him out of that equanimity you seem to find so aggravating, would
that be entirely a bad thing? Think what a great relief it will be to have
everything out in the open! If anything can breathe life into your marriage, it
will be honesty."

"Nothing could breathe life into that marriage!" I
cried. "It's too late."

"I don't see why. You have not said one thing that reflects
badly upon your husband. Really, he sounds quite wonderful. Why do you assume
that he could never understand and forgive?"

"There are some weaknesses a man like that could not possibly
understand, much less forgive. You can't imagine what it's like to be married
to Sir Galahad!"

I returned to Charingworth and told my husband that Marguerite had
been suffering merely from exhaustion. I offered no further account of my
visit. For a day or two my husband seemed to watch me with a hopeful, expectant
air, but fortunately he never pressed me to reveal what had actually taken place
across the Channel.

On the third day, he left for London and remained away for more
than a fortnight.