Social Crimes

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  To be fair to Nate, however, I have to say that his position was understandable. From his point of view, I was nothing but a poor nobody from Oklahoma who’d finagled herself into becoming the mistress of an enormously rich, married man. The fact that I was nearly thirty years younger than Lucius didn’t help any more than the fact that Nate had been like a second son to Ruth, who adored him.

  Lucius, on the other hand, really understood how much I loved him. He told me not to worry because he had made a will that divided his fortune equally between myself and his only son. This will overrode the prenuptial agreement. Like many rich men, Lucius considered divorce, not death, a real possibility. I was very touched, but frankly, money was the last thing on my mind in those days.

  Over the years, Nate and I called a truce. We both understood that since neither one of us was going away, we’d have to tolerate each other for the sake of the man we both loved.

  “What are you up to today, sweetheart?” I asked.

  “Playing golf with Gil.”

  “I invited their houseguest over for lunch. Did you meet her last night? She’s attractive.”

  “A frog, right?”

  “A frog countess. Join us, why don’t you? A little new blood for you.”

  “I doubt I’ll be back in time. I’ll try and join you for dessert.”

  Lucius was always pushing me to reel in glittery fish for his amusement. As he so often jokingly said: “Ask not for whom my wife trolls: She trolls for me.”

  It was glorious weather. A high canopy of tree leaves glinting with sunlight cast a delicate web of shadows over the garden. I took a long swim. The refreshing water melted away the vestiges of a slight hangover.

  Monique arrived at the house promptly at twelve-thirty. She looked older in the daylight—mid-thirties, rather than late twenties as I’d originally pegged her. Dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, she reminded me of a dark version of myself in my younger days when I was more toned and looked less like an overripe peach. We had the same basic conformation: broad shoulders, medium-size breasts, svelte midriff, and long, shapely legs. Monique’s attributes were still buoyant with youth, however, while mine were sagging into middle age despite a trainer, a masseuse, and ten glasses of water a day.

  I asked the Countess if she wanted to take a swim before lunch, but she said she preferred to have a tour, if that wasn’t too inconvenient. I adored showing visitors around so I was quick to oblige.

  Monique wanted to know every detail of the renovation of the main house and the landscaping—who had helped me, how I had decided on this, that, and the other thing. I found out we both loved to garden. She was eager to know about all aspects of my household—everything from my linens, china, glasses, and silverware, to what candles I burned, what flowers I preferred, and what my breakfast trays looked like, how I organized my staff.

  As we strolled around peering into all the nooks and crannies, she hung on my words with rapt attention, seemingly fascinated by everything I said. In others, I might have found this behavior somewhat cloying, but the light way Monique had of giving a compliment made her sound sincere rather than sycophantic. I felt flattered, not fawned over.

  “Tell me again how you know the Watermans?” I asked her as we strolled toward the far end of the property.

  “My husband owned a small art gallery in Paris,” she replied. “He was a friend of Gil’s.”

  Whenever she spoke of her husband, she got a faraway air about her that made me think his death had hit her very hard and that she was by no means over it, but she was putting up a brave front.

  “Betty was so sweet to invite me out here,” she continued. “It’s such a beautiful place—so green and luscious right up to the sea. It reminds me a bit of the south of France.”

  We crossed the emerald lawn and walked down an intricate terrain of terraces and brightly colored flower beds leading to a little woods, through a leafy bower, at the end of which was a cottage covered in sweet-smelling honeysuckle and wisteria, inspired by Le Hameau, Marie Antoinette’s famous rustic retreat.

  “The guest house,” I announced.

  Monique clapped her hands in delight when she saw it. “C’est une merveille!” she exclaimed.

  I unlocked the door and we went inside. I pulled up the shades and opened the windows to air the place out.

  “We usually have guests in and out all summer,” I explained. “But this year, Lucius has been too ill.”

  Taking a careful look around at the cheerful hunting toiles, the latticework on the walls, and the finely made wicker furniture, Monique commented on what she called the “studied quaintness” of the little house. She immediately recognized the porcelain milk pails flanking the mantelpiece as copies of the ones Marie Antoinette had made for her play “dairy.”

  As we were walking back to the main house, the Countess turned to me and said, “I am not disappointed. They are right. You do have the greatest taste of anyone, Jo. You do.”

  “I wish I could take all the credit myself. I had help from a brilliant landscape designer—Pearson Potts. The secret is not so much knowing how to do it yourself—it’s knowing whom to choose, as my dear friend Clara Wilman used to say. But I am a little house proud, I admit. Particularly of the guest house, which I did design myself. The Hadley Museum includes us on their garden tour every summer, which is very nice.”

  “Betty tells me you have the most beautiful apartment in New York as well.”

  “Betty’s a pal. Lucius insisted on a very grand style in the city. You know, lots of gilded furniture and silk curtains woven by the nuns at Beauvais, which took two years to make—that sort of thing. I like it, but to be honest, this house is much more my taste.”

  “Betty said he’s been quite ill, your husband?”

  “Heart attack. We’re not supposed to say that but everybody knows.”

  “My husband died of a heart attack. It was very sudden.” Monique stopped walking. She buried her head in her hand.

  I touched her lightly on the arm.

  “I’m still not used to it,” she said. Looking up, she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and made an effort to smile. “Forgive me.”

  “Please don’t apologize. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Monique and I sat out on the terrace and had one of those magical lunches where the atmosphere, the food, the wine, and the conversation all merge into a sublime conviviality. Though we chatted about my birthday party and touched on a variety of innocuous subjects—gardening, eighteenth-century furniture, clothes, face-lifts, books, travel, food, and so on—what we were really doing was exploring the possibility of becoming friends.

  It was evident that Monique knew a lot about me—superficially, at any rate—and that she regarded me as a kind of role model. She reminded me of a young apprentice of beauty who had come to learn from someone she considered a mistress of the art. I, who had once felt exactly the same way myself about the late, great Clara Wilman, one of the most beloved grandes dames of New York Society, recognized the signs of heroine worship and was touched the roles were now reversed.

  Clara had taught me nearly everything I knew about style and about the ins and outs of New York. People considered her my mentor, which is important in society because the person who takes you into a group—any group—will define your friends for some period of time, if not forever. Clara considered me her protégée, as she often told me. She was much older than I and she always emphasized the importance, particularly as one got older, of making new, young friends.

  “Having youth around you will keep you young,” Clara always said.

  My problem was that most young people weren’t particularly interested in the things I’m interested in. I’d never really been able to find anyone who could share my intense fascination with Marie Antoinette and her period. Ethan came close, but Ethan had a complicated and secret private life that he was reluctant to share with the world, even me. I longed for a companion of the soul to replace Clara. Though
Monique wasn’t that much younger than I—only about ten years or so—her energy, enthusiasm, anxiousness to please, and, above all, curiosity about all the things that I loved were a tonic to me. The roles had switched. I was Clara. She was me.

  Not all of our talk was on an elevated plane, either. We gossiped quite a bit. Monique went out of her way to be kind about Dick Bromire, which impressed me because many of his friends were predicting his doom. Several of my morning confidantes had mentioned that great as the party was, it looked like the swan song of a crook.

  Monique and I were still sitting out on the terrace talking when Lucius appeared in a long terrycloth robe, headed for the pool. He was trailed by Caspar, his chauffeur and attendant, a squat fireplug of a man, with a large head and a wide, creased face. Upon seeing us, Lucius quickly closed his robe to hide the scar from his heart operation. Though his skin was as loose as an elephant’s and his gait lumbering, Lucius was a man who dwarfed his surroundings with an aura of majesty.

  “How’d you make out, sweetheart?” I cried.

  “I birdied the ninth. Gil’s mad as a hornet.”

  “Come say hi to my new best friend, Countess de Passy.”

  Lucius ambled over to the table and shook hands with Monique.

  “We met last night,” she said. “But very briefly.”

  “Join us,” I said. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “I’m dying for a cup of coffee.” Then quickly raising his hand before I could protest, he added, “I know, I know! No caffeine.” He turned to Monique and said, “She watches me like a hawk.”

  I asked Caspar to bring us a fresh pitcher of herbal iced tea.

  “So, what have you two ladies been up to all afternoon?” Lucius inquired.

  “Your wife gave me a tour of your marvelous property,” Monique said. “Then we had the most delicious lunch—lobster soufflé and a wonderful white wine.”

  “So I see,” he laughed, nodding toward the empty bottle.

  Lucius leaned back in his chair, crossed his hands behind his head, and turned his face up to the cloudless blue sky.

  “What a day, huh? Gorgeous. It was so beautiful out on the golf course. The only good thing about having been sick is that you really appreciate everything so much more . . . So Gil says you have a Monet you want to sell?” he said. “I collect a few Impressionists. Maybe I should take a look at it.”

  “My painting is definitely not for you,” Monique said.

  “No? How come?”

  “It has Monet’s signature on it. But I’m afraid he was having a bad day. Monet with a migraine, I call it.”

  As we all laughed, Lucius pinned her with his gaze. I knew that look of his. He was intrigued by her. I was happy she amused him.

  “Well, if anyone can flog it for you, Gil can,” he said. “He’s the consummate salesman. He once talked me into a Pissarro on Prozac.”

  “And a suicidal Seurat,” I reminded him.

  We all laughed again.

  “So how long are you out here for, Countess?” Lucius asked, loosening up considerably.

  “Please call me Monique. As long as Betty and Gil will put up with me. I wanted to rent something but everything is so expensive. Worse than Saint Tropez, where we used to go.”

  “Well, if you get stuck, we’ve got a decent little guest house,” Lucius said, winking at me.

  “That house is a dream,” Monique said.

  “So come and live in a dream,” I said.

  “No, no . . . I could not impose.” She gave me the sort of vaguely incredulous, awestruck look I gave Clara the first time she had invited me to her celebrated house in Virginia. Clara was my idol, and her friendship seemed slightly unreal to me in the beginning. I wanted to be around her but I was a little frightened of her as well—afraid I would do or say the wrong thing and put her off. I was sure Monique was reacting to me in much the same way.

  “It’s no imposition,” I assured her. “We’d love to have you stay for a few days if you want to come.”

  “You play backgammon?” Lucius inquired.

  Monique suddenly beamed. “I adore backgammon,” she said. “I’ll have you know I once won twenty francs from a Saudi sheik in Biarritz . . . I was fifteen.”

  “Well that settles that,” I said. “Lucius has been trying to teach me backgammon since the day we were married. I’ll never get the hang of it. It always looks to me like a game you make up as you go along.”

  Lucius forgot about his swim and immediately challenged Monique to a game. I knew he would. I went to get the backgammon set in the library, leaving Lucius and Monique laughing and chatting together on the terrace. She seemed more relaxed with Lucius than she did with me. I suspected I intimidated her a bit.

  Monique and Lucius played backgammon until five o’clock, which gave me some precious time to myself. I sat back on a lawn chair, reading de Maupassant for my reading group, lulled by the sound of the rolling dice and the murmurings of the players.

  Monique came over for lunch two more times that week. Each of her visits was a pleasure for me. We laughed a lot, talked a lot. And, I confess, having this cultivated, attractive younger woman around hanging on my every word was very flattering.

  After our third lunch together, a very endearing thing happened—a small thing, but significant in the way that small things often are. Just before getting up, Monique, who had always casually thrown her napkin down on the table after meals, carefully folded it up and placed it beside her plate, just as I always did. Either way was correct, of course. But she had watched me and adopted my style.

  The next morning, Monique called me, ostensibly to say goodbye. I was surprised. She said that Betty told her rather unceremoniously that she needed her guest room back. I was tempted to ask Monique to come and stay with us. I knew she’d be wonderful company for me. But there was Lucius to consider as well.

  Lucius had become even more difficult of late, ever since my birthday party, in fact. He was a man who literally couldn’t bear to be alone, not even for five minutes, growing bored and restless when there was no one around to entertain him. It was striking how little in the way of inner resources he had to keep himself occupied. Though very bright, he wasn’t a great reader, which is one way I found of passing pleasurable hunks of time. He loathed television. He had no hobbies. What he needed to distract him was live company.

  Our marriage was childless, and Lucius was estranged from his only son. Country life, therefore, was not a family affair. It was purely social. We depended on friends to take up the slack. If no one was around, Lucius grew sullen and angry, hunting me to ground with arrows of sarcasm, tormenting me with shackling silences. I dreaded those moods of his. In past summers, I always made sure there was a constant stream of houseguests to deflect his depression. But this summer I couldn’t plan anything on account of his health.

  I told Monique to hang on for a moment while I consulted with Lucius. I ran downstairs to the gym in the basement to ask him if it was all right with him if she came and stayed with us for a few days. He was working out and didn’t seem to care one way or the other.

  “Whatever you want,” he puffed, continuing to lift two ten-pound dumbbells up and down under Caspar’s supervision.

  I ran back upstairs and invited Monique to come over and spend a few days with us. She was overjoyed.

  That very afternoon, Monique moved into our guest cottage. We invited her for a week. She stayed the summer.

  Chapter 4

  In all fairness, I have to say that Betty warned me.

  “You’re crazy letting that gorgeous frog in your house,” she said.

  I laughed her off. “Why? Because of Lucius? Please. She wouldn’t be interested, believe me.”

  “What about him? He might be interested.”

  “Not his style, trust me. Anyway, he can’t have sex. He could die.”

  “Are you kidding? That’s how they all dream of going.”

  I paid no attention to Betty. Luciu
s wasn’t a philanderer. Several very attractive girlfriends of mine had come to stay over the years and there had never been a problem. Lucius wanted to be amused, not seduced.

  Like most married couples, Lucius and I knew each other’s bodies, rhythms, likes, and dislikes so well that over the years the act of making love had become a kind of genteel cruise we took together, after which we both felt refreshed. But Lucius wasn’t interested in sex anymore. We hadn’t made love in ages, even before his heart attack. He blamed his lack of libido on age. Being a good deal younger than he, I was often nostalgic for the passion of the old days, but I didn’t dwell on it. My life was good in so many other ways. I had my health and plenty to keep me occupied. I accepted the fact that we had settled into a kind of cozy companionship fueled by deluxe diversions and an active social life.

  The arrival of the Countess was an unexpected lift for both of us. Monique was the perfect guest. Lucius looked forward to their daily backgammon games when he could manage them. He was still weak and tired from his recent operation, so he rested a great deal and saw little of us during the day. The three of us usually got together for dinner and we had some very jolly meals. Most of the time, however, Monique palled around with me.

  Nothing escaped the Countess. I could tell she was watching me closely from the moment she arrived. At first she was dismissive of the servants, barking at them to be careful with her luggage, not thanking them for their efforts, ordering them around. She treated Mrs. Mathilde, Caspar, and the others in an offhand, arrogant manner. It was disconcerting. Granted, sometimes people who aren’t used to dealing with servants try to make themselves seem grander by treating the help rudely when, in fact, just the opposite is true. I felt the Countess should have known better. Still, when she saw the way in which I spoke to my staff, she quickly changed her tune and began greeting them all warmly—perhaps even growing a bit too chummy with Alain, the chef, who was French and with whom she enjoyed conversing in her native tongue.