Judith Ivory (11 page)

“Would you help me?” she asked meekly.

He laughed. “Yes, Mrs. Pinn. You may have a carriage, if that’s what you want. Though I think you are a fool to go. I’m leaving, as I told you. And I’ll lend you money without strings.” He held up his hands. “Absolutely without strings. I don’t know where you’ll find a better offer.”

“Why? Why would you do this for me?”

He took a step. Again, his leg seemed to give a little. He winced, then smiled. “Jesus. Stupid thing,” he muttered. “Because, my lovely young woman, I hate to see people I like backing themselves into destructive cor
ners. Especially when I can easily provide relief. Now.” He walked around to collect his coat and vest, then saw the scarf. He came back for it. “I ought to leave, I suppose. I hope my barber hasn’t disappeared too far.” He held his left leg out, rigid, as he stooped.

“Your leg. It was in France?”

As he stood, she received another of his long, contemplative looks. It was not the look of trust or confidence. She didn’t know how to change this.

But she knew how to offer him something in the way of compensation. “You know your woman? The one from your opium dreams?” She had his attention. “I am the one.” She couldn’t help but laugh. “In a sense.” She tried to jar his memory. “Christina Bower,” she said. “You sent me flowers. Don’t you remember?”

But his face didn’t. It remained blank. His eyes responded politely. “Vaguely, perhaps.” Then he shook his head. “No, not really.”

“We were at a dinner party. We met in the entranceway. You were very mean.”

He nodded, sober, as if he now recognized something. But she could see he didn’t. “I suppose it was something you did quite a lot. Tease the ladies, I mean. And your mind was elsewhere that night. But you did find out my name. And send me flowers. My father flew to pieces over it.” She laughed, embarrassed now that she’d mentioned it. “It’s quite all right, really. I don’t think the incident itself meant much to you.”

“No,” he said. “Perhaps not the incident.”

They had a very nice moment. He stared. She smiled. Then he shrugged and shook his head, smiling. “You are the strangest woman,” he said. There was a pause. “And I do wish you’d consider staying. I won’t touch you, if that’s what you want.”

“Yes.”

It was an instinctive response. Somehow, he’d made it possible for her to stay. Then she realized how. He had
offered friendship. And honesty. He’d told her bluntly what she needed. Money. A secure roof over her head. And people. She needed to become part of things again. Then he’d shown her, just as bluntly, that all these things were right in front of her. Never mind that he’d told her she also needed to take a lover—him. That was his roguish self speaking. But there was a part of him that was genuinely wise and genuinely kind. And if there was one thing she could use right now, it was a wise, kind friend.

Richard
did
have debts.

With money borrowed from the earl, Christina was able to buy up three of Richard’s notes. She confronted him with these through her attorneys; he was made to understand. He would do whatever she asked, or his notes would be called in. Richard agreed; he couldn’t cover his debts. He would go to prison if he didn’t cooperate.

It was not a pretty scheme, Christina realized. But it was satisfying. She liked the sense of having turned the tables on conniving Richard. At this point, her lawyers awaited “whatever she wished.” Christina felt like a child let out to play; a little in charge of her own destiny, at last. She decided to sit back and enjoy this feeling for a while. Richard, all the lawyers could wait. She announced it would take time for her to consider how she wished the final papers to read.

Meanwhile, as to the earl, it was exactly as he’d promised: He left, and she stayed.

This arrangement turned out to be a surprisingly fine one. With the earl away, the larger group tended to
fragment into smaller ones. Christina was welcomed easily into a little batch of friends that included Evangeline, Charles, and Thomas. This group was made up mostly of married couples and other “serious people,” as they called themselves. About a dozen or so of them would gather in the card room or front salon. They were a happy lot, homogeneous in age and tastes. All about thirty. And, one and all, enthusiastic for cards, talk, music, and dancing.

When Charles was in the mood, it was the last two—music and dancing—they liked best. Evengeline’s husband played the piano quite well. Sometimes the little group just listened or chatted, with Charles’s fortes and diminuendos trilling in the background. But usually, they moved all the chairs and furniture against the walls and danced. Christina had forgotten how much she liked this.

It was not a staid group. Everyone danced with everyone else—Evangeline would have pouted unbearably if they hadn’t. After all, her partner, Charles, was at the piano. They laughed a great deal, were silly, then seriously intellectual by turns. Discussions could turn from metaphysics to the subject of women’s ankles in an instant, with a vague and wonderful connection made between the two that would have confounded any philospher.

These people made Christina smile. She looked forward to the afternoons and evenings she spent with them. They treated her well. Almost immediately, they seemed to let off expecting anything different from the young woman who had been so slow to join them. They accepted her. Christina felt herself well-liked—and quickly had the pleasure of becoming a favorite of several of the gentlemen as a dance partner.

Adrien had been gone five days when the larger group found cause to come together. Some traveling musicians had been found in the nearby town. They
were good. They were many—nine of them traveling together. And a “ball” had been put together in a day.

The earl’s recital salon was opened. It was a room where normally one sat and heard a duchess’s nephew or “discovery” play endless pages of his own composition, imitation Bach or Handel. But the divans and little chairs with their footstools were moved to the side. The terrace doors were flung open. And the sound of a real orchestra drew those few who resisted in the upstairs rooms.

It grew dark. Wind from the terrace blew the curtains swirling against dancers as they promenaded past. It had begun to drizzle and bluster outside. But inside, it was bright and gay, lit by a thousand tiny-candled chandeliers, cooled by a perfect summer rain.

Food and wine appeared at one end of the room. The earl’s guests lacked for nothing. Then, about ten o’clock, there was a stirring of servants toward the entranceway, a general movement like a swarm of lemmings out onto the portico and into the rain. It was obvious what was happening. The master of the house was returning.

Christina was drawn with several others to observe the arrival. The front door was already open. A handful of people stood just inside, shaking off rain. He was easy to spot. He was several inches taller than anyone else. A half dozen servants clustered about him. And a woman. He had brought a woman with him. Christina recognized her as Adrien took her wrap and folded it with his own over a servant’s arm. It was the woman with the chignon, the one who had stayed so briefly just before the Chiswell girl had arrived.

This woman was older. Adrien’s age, perhaps. She was tall, rich, elegant-looking. And composed—she looked not the least upset for having been rained on.

Someone called to them. “This way, old man. We have a jolly good impromptu ball going.”

Adrien looked toward them. His eyes rested briefly
on Christina. Then he declined. “Mlle. Deluc is very tired. She wishes to retire.”

They disappeared.

And with them went much of Christina’s former contentment. She resumed dancing, but a lump had settled in her throat, a tightness behind her eyes. He had barely looked at her.

Evangeline found her sitting in the crush of empty chairs pushed against the wall.

“Are you all right?”

“Who is she?”

“Who?”

“You know perfectly who I mean.”

Her cousin made a sound, a sigh of impatience, worry. “I do. But I pray to God no one else does. You have no business minding, you know.”

“Who is she?”

“Nadine Deluc. She sings with an opera company in Paris. She used to have a little soiree-following there as well. Artists, literary people, you know the sort. I don’t know if she has it still. But, yes, for years now, though it is sporadic, if that’s what you’re wanting to know.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea—”

Evangeline bent and squeezed her hand. She whispered closely, almost with anger. “He sleeps with her. And you won’t mind, do you understand me? At least not in public. Now get up and dance.”

Christina got up, but thinking only to get away from a too perceptive cousin. Then she was yanked back by her skirts.

“Look! No, don’t look,” Evangeline whispered. Her voice was much lighter. She laughed, triumphant. “He’s not with Nadine tonight. On the terrace. Watch. There is a cigar burning. Find a partner and dance, for heaven’s sake.”

Christina did so, mechanically. She moved through the steps, daring a glance now and then toward the ter
race doors. But there was only the orange glow, the cigar outside in the dark. She began to doubt that the earl would materialize, or that he was even there. Until, suddenly, on a turn, she was staring right at him.

He had come to the edge of the doorway, the white recital-room curtains waving beside him. The rain, the wind and tossing curtains seemed to be in a conspiracy with him to shed gloom. There, at the edge of the dance floor, in the penumbra of light and gaiety, music and chatter, he stood: dark, moody, brooding. He was not the least bit sociable. And there was no mistaking; his eyes found and followed Christina. Then, after a minute or two, he disappeared back out onto the wet terrace.

Twice more this happened. And each time, he retreated the moment she looked at him. She caught only glimpses. But they were enough. He was there. And his presence made her heart thump. Why? she thought. Things had been so pleasant without him. Why did there have to be this beating in her chest, this excitement down the veins of her arms, this tingling through her whole body? She was so aware of him. She laughed. She smiled. She danced. She created the gayest hour of her entire life. But she did it with a kind of perverse and strange pleasure. She knew she did it because he watched.

The next morning, Mlle. Deluc came down for breakfast about fifteen minutes before Adrien did. She was the sort of woman, it occurred to Christina, that one expected to see with Adrien Hunt. Hers was a polished, regal beauty. She carried several more inches of height than Christina, and did so with such grace, it made Christina want to stand on her toes. The woman was stunning. Her skin was flawless. Her face was beautiful. And her thick hair, defying gravity with one effortless sweep, seemed held to her head, weightless in a
mass. Undone, it would hang, Christina thought, as long and heavy, as shiny as an armful of shot silk.

Despite herself, Christina couldn’t help but slide little looks at the woman. She was so lovely, free of all the awkwardness of youth without any of the physical drawbacks of aging. Nadine Deluc glided. She hardly spoke, yet seemed perfectly comfortable. She did as she pleased. Buttered her toast. Drank her tea. She pointed to the jam,
“s’il vois plâit.”
It was as if the fifty people around her hardly existed, except as her audience. As if, Christina thought, she were the French queen:
Let them eat cake.

As it turned out, however, it was only that the woman did not speak English. Except for the cook, she couldn’t even deal with the servants. This linked her in a peculiar way to Adrien. She possessed him. She depended on him completely. He spoke for her, while she spoke to no one but him—even sending him off on an errand. He fetched her a comb from upstairs, which she proceeded to casually affix in her hair, the heavy silken hair, as if she had just retrieved the comb privately, idly, from her own dresser.

She could have spoken to Thomas, a few others. But she didn’t make the effort. I don’t need English, I don’t need anyone, she seemed to be saying; I have Adrien.

But the claim, this time at least, only lasted until the afternoon. Adrien lost patience with her at something. He answered her sharply, in the garden with several people listening. He lowered his voice quickly, but it was strange, Christina mused as she listened, how argument sounded so much the same in any language. The woman flounced into the house. Adrien went after her. It became almost ludicrous. What should have been private was echoed by the cavernous entryway’s walls and floors.

Nadine yelled at him, a diatribe. People on the lawn became quiet, looked at one another.

One couldn’t hear his response. But Christina could imagine. She had had hints of his quiet viciousness. And there was more substantial proof of it when he came back out: He returned bearing a faint handprint along the side of his cheek.

When he marched from the house, out onto the lawn, Christina didn’t know if he did it on purpose—if she somehow was drawn to it, or if it was just chance—but he marched straight at her. She stood between him and the path that led to the greenhouse.

He took her by the shoulders and pushed her aside. Though not without pausing. “Well, you seem to be everywhere all at once,” he said. “Come down out of your rooms, have you?” It was not a particularly nice thing to say, nor did he say it nicely. But there was no time to respond to it, either in substance or tone. He all but walked through her as he continued briskly down the path, toward the greenhouse.

It was like being run over by a coach and eight. He had pushed her right into the bushes.

She wanted to call after him. The miserable, inconsiderate, highhanded…She was going to go after him, going to give him a piece of her mind. But then, rather surprisingly, she was restrained.

Thomas drew her back by the arm. “Of all the crazy things I have known you to do, that would be the craziest.”

The remark chastened her more than he would understand. No one knew better than she how foolish it would be to follow Adrien Hunt out there. Yet she had had that in her mind—

Wanting to hide any trace of guilt, she smiled, turned, took Thomas’s arm. “Thomas Lillings,” she said. “I am the sanest woman you know.”

“Woman, yes. But not girl. You used to be full of the devil. ‘A handful,’ my father used to call you.”

“I was not,” she protested. “I was a perfectly well-behaved young lady.”

They had begun to walk. There was a gravel path that extended around the house, making a neat border with the lawns and gardens.

“I could think of a dozen proofs to the contrary,” he teased.

“Can’t—”

“The day you sneaked off from your governess to see our new puppies?”

“That was excusable. Kneebob was a witch. She would never have let me go off to see ‘dirty old hounds.’” Christina laughed. “Don’t forget who helped me climb out the study window.”

“And calling her Kneebob, my God—to her face.”

“She didn’t mind that part. And she did bob at the knees, curtsying and kowtowing to my father—”

“‘Miss Nibitsky.’ I heard her correct you on occasion myself.”

“Well,” Christina insisted with a laugh. “She didn’t mind in private.”

“Is that what you told her? ‘Listen, Kneebob, I’ve been over to the Lillingses to roll around with the new pups. That’s why I smell like a kennel.’”

“I didn’t smell like a kennel—”

He looked at her, as if remembering. Then he spoke more softly. “No, you smelled wonderful.”

Christina glanced away. “It was a long time ago, Thomas.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “Only I wish I didn’t remember it so vividly.”

They continued to walk, around the far end of the house. As they turned, Christina could glimpse back down the path, see the long terrace that ran the length of the rear of the house, see the group, the others they
had left behind picnicking in the garden on the grass. People, food, tablecloths, scattered about on the lawn. It was like a painting, a proper English country setting, everyone positioned by Gainsborough.

The side of the house rose steeply at her shoulder; pinkish-yellow bricks covered in thorny green sweetbrier. A small pond glimmered in the distance, clear water, bright fish. Farther off was the carriage house, the stables. And, coming from that direction, along the mews of servants quarters, was a crested coach, one of the earl’s legion. Christina and Thomas came around to the front of the house just in time to see Nadine Deluc climb into the vehicle.

The carriage shook from the weight of her bags as they were loaded aboard.

“Is she very nice, Thomas?”

“Who?”

“Miss—Mlle. Deluc.”

He made a low whistle. “Lord, no. She’s a crocodile. I can’t stand her.”

“A crocodile?” Christina laughed.

“A man-eater. She goes through men the way the croc at the zoo goes through chickens.”

“But not the earl.”