Grahame, Lucia (43 page)

How Marguerite rhapsodized over the Niderviller porcelain and the
silver Paul Storr tea service! But it seemed to be my fate to have
disconcerting news dropped upon me while I was juggling cups and saucers.

"So, your Valorys are not for show," remarked my friend.
"Théo would be wounded. Where do you keep them—in London? Or the
attic?" She glanced up at the ornate plastered ceiling. "Attics, I
suppose," she added wryly.

"I don't know
what
you are talking about. I have
nothing of Théo's. I dearly wish I had. He would never sell to Frederick, you
know."

"I mean the ones Tony bought, of course," replied
Marguerite.

The priceless fifteenth-century apostle spoon with which I had
been about to stir my tea—fittingly, it was the Judas spoon—went flying to the
carpet, and it was all I could do to prevent the cup and saucer from following.

However, I managed to set them down carefully, pick up the fallen
spoon, and finally confront my friend's innocent gaze.

"Tony?"
I said, unable to prevent
sarcasm from oozing into my voice. "And when did
you
become such
good friends?"

Marguerite turned crimson.

"Oh, Fleur! Do you really mean to say that you don't
know!"

"I know nothing," I said. "How the baronet occupies
himself is a complete mystery to me—except for such sketchy but intriguing
reports as I may occasionally receive from Neville and the Mansard woman. And
now, it now seems, from you."

"Impossible! Why it was all your doing!"

"My
doing! My dear Marguerite, you are
thoroughly mistaken."

"But it was you who kept insisting that Neville must visit
Théo's studio! Surely you remember how he finally managed to corner Théo on
your wedding day!"

I continued to gape at her in angry confusion, for I did not see
what this could possibly have to do with my husband.

"Well, Neville found Théo's work... challenging at first, but
it so fascinated him that he kept coming round and soon he decided he
absolutely had to own one or two of Théo's more accessible canvasses. He was
dying to show them to Tony, but, as you know, your husband never had any time
for Neville during the first few months of your marriage. However, Neville
brought it off at last, and after that nothing could have kept Tony out of the
studio. He has such a passion for color.... Are you angry, Fleur?"

"Not in the least," I lied. "Please, tell me
all."

"Well, Tony would have bought the lot, I think, but he did
not wish to seem greedy, so he brought round some of his radical friends, and
Théo has now become quite a sensation with the most daring collectors."

"Really? And when did all this occur?"

"Oh, let me think... his first visit was a few weeks before
you came to Paris for that dreadful meeting with Germaine's father. I assumed
that you knew then—in fact, I rather feared you might suppose that was my
reason for seeming to take Tony's part—he having become a sort of patron of
Théo's, you know. And then, when I heard from you again, when you were so very
unhappy, I was indescribably relieved to think that you still knew you could
turn to me!"

"And so ready then to betray your husband's patron by
arranging that meeting between me and Madame Mansard! Really, Marguerite, how
do you contrive to serve such opposing interests?"

"Is that what you think!" Marguerite fairly flung down
her cup as she leaped from her chair. She then threw herself on her knees at
the foot of my own chair and looked at me piteously. "Forgive me, Fleur.
Perhaps I
was
wrong to meddle. But how can Théo and I take sides when we
are so fond of you both? I wanted only to bring the two of you together. I
thought that besides impressing Tony with how little right he had to sit in
judgment upon you and extract some horrid kind of penance—what was it, exactly?
You've never told me, you know!—Germaine might also show
you
the danger
your marriage was in before it was too late. I never intended it as a betrayal.
One can scarcely fault Tony for taking mistresses after all
you
have
told me! But neither could I overlook his cruelty to you! Do you call
that
double-dealing?"

Cruelty. I thought of the silks and perfumes, the diamonds and the
white-brass bells. Which of us was indeed the crueler one? I burned with
discomfort as I recalled how I had seduced my husband among the apple trees,
exploiting what must have been for him no more than a demanding biological
urge, without the smallest regard for the concerns he had expressed about
children. No wonder he hated me.

How could I melt that hatred? Why did I yearn to?

"Did you ask him why he never brought me to Paris with him
when he came to visit Théo?" I asked irrelevantly, after a long silence.

"Of course I did, but you know how he can be. He simply drew
the blinds in that way he has and said something about your being disinclined
to travel. I hoped
that
meant we might be receiving happy news from you
shortly; however, it was not to be. It is no wonder—separate bedrooms, separate
lives! Where is Tony now?"

"I'm sure I don't know. I might as well ask you," I
admitted sadly. I reached out and took her hand. "Never mind, Marguerite.
I know you meant well. To tell the truth, I rather wish you had succeeded in
your object."

Marguerite got off her knees and returned to her chair. There was
a little flush upon her cheeks.

"Ah, does that mean you are more favorably inclined toward
your 'Sir Galahad' these days?" she asked hopefully.

"And if I were? He
hates
me, Marguerite."

"Surely not! I have never had that impression from him!"

"And why would you? You
are
my dearest friend, and he
is very adept at concealing his emotions. I myself did not suspect the full
degree of his antipathy until lately."

"I am sure he does not hate you. His manner with you may be
calculated to make you feel rather small. I saw how it was when Théo and I
called upon you in Paris, but even with all that, I can tell you this: He was a
good deal happier then than I have ever seen him when he is apart from you. Oh
yes, it would break your heart if you knew—he mopes like a lovesick dog."

The woman could not help herself, of course. She was an actress
and had the characteristic disease of her profession: a compulsion to
dramatize, embellish, and romanticize even the most arid incidents and
situations.

"Perhaps he is yearning for his Three Graces and Mrs.
Hawkes," I said bitterly, unwilling to allow myself to entertain any
notion that he might still care for me. "I doubt they travel with him when
he calls on you. No, Marguerite, I will not deceive myself. He hates me. He has
told me so point-blank, and he never lies."

"So you choose to believe him."

"I have no reason to believe otherwise."

"It suits you to believe him, since
you
hate
him."

"I do not," I said. "That is so far from what I
feel!"

I thought of the reckless, unrestrained passion he had revealed to
me, and of my joyous response to it—until its source had proven to be hatred.

"Ah? At last you begin to see what you have thrown
away."

"I have learned that perhaps I do not know him quite as well
as I imagined I did," I conceded.

"I do not think that is quite all," said Marguerite
softly. She had been watching me carefully. "You really
must
give
serious thought to how you feel, Fleur."

"I have learned
not
to think about how I feel," I
countered, not wishing to reveal all the confusion that had been plaguing me
lately and to which I had, in fact, begun to give a great deal of thought.
"Thinking too much about how I felt was what brought my life with
Frederick to ruin," I continued, but with more uncertainty than
conviction. "Introspection is very morbid. I will not indulge in it again.
These days I try to confine myself to thinking about what needs to be done. And
then to grit my teeth and do it."

In spite of its unpromising beginning, in the end Marguerite's
visit was a great success. How painfully I would have otherwise felt my
loneliness during those long summer days without even the briefest
communication from my husband! Besides, I had absolute faith in Marguerite's
goodwill, and once I had accustomed myself to her and Théo's improbable
friendship with Anthony, I felt oddly bolstered by it, although I am afraid I
continued to resent the easy familiarity with which she bandied his nickname
about.

But I put off charging her with the commission I had decided to
entrust to her, and several days—very pleasant ones—passed before I dared to
broach the subject.

"I have decided to leave Anthony," I told her rather
grandly one afternoon, and was immediately punctured by her crushing reply.

"Mon Dieu,
Fleur, don't be absurd! How
can you leave a man who has left you?"

"I mean," I amended quickly, "I have decided to
leave Charingworth."

"I think you must be crazy," she pronounced. "First
you snub your husband. Now you want to turn your back on all this
splendor!"

"Anthony will be very glad to see the last of me. His only
reason for avoiding Charingworth is that I am here. He loves this house."

"Do you mean that he wants a
real
separation! I can
hardly believe he would court such a scandal!"

"Why not?" I said with a sigh, yet rather proudly.
"He cares nothing for what society thinks. He would not live a lie to
please even the Queen herself!"

"Oh, you don't speak of him at all in the way you once
did," observed Marguerite. "What admiration there is in your voice!
What feeling!"

"You must help me, Marguerite! I have told you that Anthony
hates me and wishes to be rid of me. I accept that. He cannot—or will
not—forgive me for the way I deceived him. I accept that. I have done other
things to set him against me still more, if such a thing is possible. I cannot
go on living here."

"If only you could show him your love," said Marguerite,
"I think he would forgive you anything."

"Love!" I cried, shaken. "Surely you don't believe
that I have fallen in love with my husband!"

Marguerite regarded me with a dubious smile and said at last,
"Look at yourself, Fleur! You are as lovesick as he is!"

But I continued to protest her unsettling diagnosis until at last
she said,
"Eh him,
my friend. And how does this latest folly of
yours require my assistance?"

"Well, you see," I said, "Anthony has promised that
he will support me once I am gone. But I am beginning to think that I cannot
take his money."

"By all the blessed saints, Fleur, you
are
an utter
fool! First, you scorn the man! Then this house! And now the money! What can
you be thinking of?"

"I
must
leave before things get any worse!"

Lately I had been haunted by a vision of the welcome I might have
been tempted to give my husband were he to visit Charingworth and find me there
alone. I saw myself in tears at his feet begging for his forgiveness and for
his love. I saw him, having steeled his resolve and sated his physical
appetites with other women, turning away from me with a chilly and ironic
smile, savoring his ultimate victory: my wanting him when he no longer wanted
me.
Then your punishment will have only just begun.

"I cannot take his money, Marguerite. That would put me on
the same level as the coldest fortune hunter! Yes, I married Anthony to save my
reputation. My reputation has been saved.
Voil
à
.
To take anything
more from him would be to compound the wrong I did him."

"So you wish to restore his good opinion of you?"

"In whatever small way I can," I acknowledged humbly.
"And not to sink any farther in my own eyes."

"I see," said Marguerite. "And, of course, you
cannot retrieve your self-respect except by plunging yourself into abject
poverty. Really, Fleur, living in England seems to have made you very dim. I do
not know why you cannot simply say to him that you are very sorry for what has
happened in the past and would like to start anew."

"It is impossible," I said.

"I don't see why. All you need do is say, 'I'm sorry, Tony.
If you can forgive me, I would like to—'"

"You don't understand," I cried. "We
can
not
stay together under
any
circumstances."