Dark Angel

by Sally Beauman

  That is what I remember of my leaving: Franz-Jacob, and the promise he never kept. I forget the voyage that came after it, and I never dream of it. The ocean liner, the view of the Atlantic from its decks—all that has gone. But I do dream sometimes, of the city that waited, the far side. I see Manhattan then as I saw it for the first time, a foreign place of startling loveliness. There is mist on the water; I can taste the morning on my mouth; winter sun glints upon a Babylon of pinnacles.

  Constance stands waiting on the pier. She is dressed in black from head to foot, whereas I have only a mourning band sewn on the sleeve of my Harris tweed overcoat. In my dreams Constance greets me as she greeted me then. She advances. She clasps me in her arms. Her clothes are soft. I smell her scent, which is as green as ferns with a damper, hungrier smell under it, like earth.

  She is wearing gloves. She touches my face with those gloves. Her hands are tiny, almost as small as my own. The gloves are of the finest kid, tight as a second skin. How Constance loves to touch! She touches my hair. She smiles at my hat. Her face becomes serious. She frames my face in her hands. She examines my features one by one. The pale skin, the freckles, the muddy and indeterminate eyes—and something she sees there seems to please her, for she smiles.

  It is as if she recognizes me—although that is impossible. I stare at my godmother. She is radiant.

  “Victoria,” she says, clasping my hand in hers. “Victoria. It’s you. Welcome home.”

  “It’s you—”

  Miss Marpruder was to say the very same thing to me, thirty years later, when she found me on her doorstep, unannounced.

  “It’s you—” she said again, and her face crumpled. She seemed unable to go on.

  She did not add “welcome back.” She simply stood there, blocking her doorway—Miss Marpruder, who had always been so hospitable. We stood there awkwardly, staring at each other, while an ugly blotch mounted her cheeks. Beyond her, I could see the familiar sitting room and that defiant red couch. One sagging chair had been drawn up, close to the TV set; the set was tuned to a hospital soap opera. Miss Marpruder’s mother was dead now, I knew. She lived alone, and I could smell the loneliness; it seeped out into the hall.

  “Prudie,” I began, mystified by this reception. “I tried to call. I’ve been calling and calling, all weekend. In the end I thought—”

  “I know you called. I guessed it was you. That’s why I didn’t answer.”

  I stared at her in consternation. There was no attempt to disguise the hostility now in her voice.

  “Go away. I don’t want to see you. I’m busy. I’m watching TV—”

  “Prudie, please, wait a second. What’s wrong?” She had been about to close the door in my face, then changed her mind. To my astonishment, her face contorted with anger.

  “Wrong? You’re wrong—that’s what. I know why you’re here—it’s not to see me, that’s for sure. You’re looking for Miss Shawcross. Well, I can’t help you—wouldn’t, if I could. I don’t know where she is. There. Is that plain enough for you?”

  “Prudie, wait. I don’t understand.” I put out my hand to touch her arm. Miss Marpruder reacted as if I’d attempted to slap her.

  “You don’t understand? Oh, sure—believe that, you’ll believe anything. Little Miss Successful—oh, we’re doing real well now, I hear. All the big fancy clients. Kind of funny, isn’t it—how many of them used to be your godmother’s?” Her speech was rapid, as if launched on a tide of pent-up resentment. Under its force I took a step back, Miss Marpruder a step forward.

  “You used Miss Shawcross—you think I don’t know that? You used her; now you’re trying to use me. Eight years—I don’t set eyes on you in eight years.”

  “Prudie, I haven’t been to New York in eight years. Only to change planes. And anyway, I wrote to you—you know I’ve written. I wrote when—”

  “When my mother died—oh, sure.” Miss Marpruder’s eyes filled with tears. “You wrote. So I’d owe you—that it?”

  “Of course not. Prudie, how can you say such a thing?”

  “Easy. Real easy—because I see now what you’re like. I didn’t one time, maybe—but I do now, and it makes me pretty sick.”

  She advanced on me once more; she was trembling—with the effort to convince me of what she said, I thought at first. Then I changed my mind. It occurred to me that at least some of this anger was self-directed; it was as if Miss Marpruder were also trying to convince herself.

  I held my ground. I said, as quietly as I could, “Prudie, all right. I’ll go. But before I do, I’d just like to make one thing clear. I won’t have you thinking I poached Constance’s clients. It isn’t true. Constance and I work in totally different ways, you must know that—”

  “Is that so? How about the Dorset place? How about the Antonellis?”

  The names tripped off her tongue as if long rehearsed. I stared at her in bewilderment. “Prudie, listen. They both asked Constance to do the work first. When she refused, they came to me.” I paused. “Those are the only two clients of mine who ever had any connection with Constance. I have made my own way, Prudie. At least give me the credit for that.”

  “She turned them down?” Miss Marpruder seemed to shrink back into herself. She gave a puzzled look, a shake of the head.

  “It’s true, Prudie.”

  “I guess so. It could be. You may be right. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. I was mad at you…. I’m tired. I guess I haven’t been sleeping too well. You’d better go now. I told you—I can’t help you.”

  “Prudie, is something wrong?”

  “Wrong?” She said the word with great bitterness. “What could be wrong? After all, I’m a lady of leisure now! No crises to deal with. No rushing to get the subway every morning. Watch the TV twenty-four hours a day if I feel like it. Oh, sure, I’m fine all right. I’m retired.”

  I stared at her. I could not imagine her retiring, and I could not imagine Constance’s business functioning without her—unless there was some new and younger replacement, of course.

  Pity twisted in my heart. Miss Marpruder, now the animus had left her, did look aged. There were runnels in the thick powder on her face. The tendons of her neck jutted. Her permed hair had thinned. I realized, guiltily, that I did not know her age.

  “Sixty-five,” she said, as if she read my mind. “And before you ask—no, it wasn’t my idea. I never wanted to quit. Miss Shawcross … she retired me. Two months back. I argued, but she wouldn’t listen. You know how she is, once she’s made up her mind….”

  “Prudie, I’m terribly sorry—”

  “I’ll adjust. I’ll get used to it. She’s running it down, you know—the business. Like she’s ready to quit, herself. That’s why she let me go. I guess.”

  She must have read my expression, because she spoke again before I could frame the question.

  “Oh, she’s not ill—not her! Still beautiful. Still full of energy. But she’s changed. Since you left—maybe it started back then. And it hit her hard, your uncle Steenie dying like he did. She’s sick of it all, I reckon. She wants to travel—she told me that.”

  “Travel? Travel where? Prudie, I called all the hotels. She’s made no reservations. Her friends aren’t expecting her—at least, they tell me they’re not—”

  Prudie shrugged. Her face became closed.

  “I wouldn’t know. She had her route mapped out—she said that. I don’t know where; I don’t know when. And I didn’t ask.”

  “Prudie, please. That can’t be true. You must know where she is and where she’s going. You always did. I must see her. I need to talk to her. Now Steenie’s dead … she’s my past, Prudie. There are things only she can explain. Surely you can understand that?”

  She hesitated. She fiddled with the glass beads and for a moment I thought she would relent. Her expression became gentler. She nodded once or twice.

  “Sure. I can understand. When my mother died, there were things, things I wished I’d asked her, things only s
he could’ve told me, but I hadn’t asked, and then it was too late.” She stopped in an abrupt way. Her face hardened. “So I understand. Makes no difference. I told you. I can’t help.”

  She took a step back. Behind her the television blared a new tune.

  “Can’t, or won’t, Prudie?”

  “Take your pick.” She shrugged. “That’s my favorite program starting now. I don’t want to miss it, okay?”

  “Prudie—”

  “Just leave me alone,” she said, with another little spurt of anger. And, for the second time, a door was shut in my face.

  I think, if that meeting with Prudie had not taken place, that I might have given up and gone home. The dream of Winterscombe had remained with me all evening, on the edge of my consciousness: I felt my home pulling me back.

  I might have said then, the hell with Constance. But the meeting with Prudie changed that. Perhaps Prudie—once my friend—had turned against me of her own accord, but knowing Constance’s ways, I doubted it. It would have been subtly done, I thought: no overt recriminations, just a matter of nuance, Constance’s drip-technique of tiny asides, small but telling hints. Had Prudie understood, finally, that she herself had been used? Was that why she had been so quick to accuse me of using Constance? I considered that charge, which I knew to be untrue, and it made me angry. I suppose it also hurt; since I still loved Constance, she retained the power to wound me.

  Two women. I remembered Mr. Chatterjee. I thought that by some fluke he had been correct, had pointed me, anyway, in the direction of resolution. Who was Constance? Was she the good godmother of my New York childhood, or the bad? Was it my mother, as Vickers had said, who had banished Constance from Winterscombe—and if so, why? What was it my mother had known about Constance that I still did not?

  Your father liked her once, Victoria—liked her very much indeed. And she always liked him….

  A sly suggestion, made thirty years before, yet never forgotten. I wished that voice would go away; I wished they would all go away—but they would not.

  It seemed to me, though, that I had reached an impasse. I believed Constance to be in New York, and I believed her to be avoiding me. If Miss Marpruder would not help me in this search, there was no one left who would—or so I thought. Then, gradually, an idea came to me. I was thinking of the flowers on Bertie’s grave, their similarity to the flowers I had seen in Vickers’s house the previous evening.

  I thought of Constance and Vickers over the years, their shared worship at the altar of style. I thought of them forever swapping the names and telephone numbers of clever, talented young men: young men who could restore French chairs, drape curtains, paint trompe l’oeil, dye fabrics—or arrange flowers so they looked as if they had just been picked by the chatelaine of an English country garden.

  I telephoned Conrad Vickers at once. He sounded wary at first, as if expecting more questions on the subject of Constance. When he discovered all I needed was the name of his marvelous florist, he relaxed at once.

  “Dahling, of course! They’re for a client—a potential client? My dear, say no more. His name’s Dominic. He’ll do them perfectly. One millisecond—I have the number here…. Oh, and when you call, do mention my name. He can be the teensiest bit difficult. Last year he couldn’t be helpful enough, but this year—well, you know how it is! A touch of the temperaments. Folie de grandeur. He’s beginning to drop names to me now—which, when you think about it, is really rather silly. Oh, and by the way, don’t be fobbed off with his frightful assistants. Speak to Dominic himself—he’ll melt before your charms. Yet another feather in his cap. Byeee …”

  “Ye-es?”

  Dominic spread the one word over several syllables. With those syllables, he contrived to convey languor, grandeur, and incipient obsequiousness. Cooperation might ensue, said that voice, in certain circumstances: if a duchess were on the other end of the line, for instance, or should it turn out that the First Lady happened to be calling Dominic, in person, at seven o’clock on a Monday morning.

  I considered. In my work I had to deal with many Dominics. It seemed to me I had a straight choice: Be assertive or be flustered. Fluster might create an ally; it seemed worth a try. I used my English accent, not my American one; I gave a Knightsbridge wail.

  “Dominic? Is that Dominic himself? Thank heavens I’ve reached you! There’s been such a flap …”

  “Calmez-vous,” said Dominic in a very bad French accent.

  I gave him a false and resounding double-barreled name.

  “Love it,” he caroled. “All of it. And the accent.”

  “Dominic—I do hope you can help. You see, I’m the new assistant—and you know how Miss Shawcross is. One mistake and I’ll be the ex-assistant. She’s in a terrible state about the order. You are working on the order?”

  “Dah-ling!” It was a near-perfect imitation of Conrad Vickers. “Of course! I’m working on it now.”

  “You are sending delphiniums?”

  “Sweetheart, of course.” He was now, definitely, an ally. “Delphiniums, the most gorgeous roses, some cheeky little pansies—”

  “No lilies? You’re sure, no lilies?”

  “Lilies? For Miss Shawcross?” He sounded rattled. “Would I? My dear, she loathes them—more than my life’s worth.”

  “Oh, thank goodness. There must have been a mistake. Miss Shawcross thought someone mentioned lilies….” I paused. “Last problem then. Dominic. Which address are you sending them?”

  “Which address?”

  A note of wariness had crept into his voice. My heart was beating very fast.

  “Are you sending them to the Fifth Avenue apartment?”

  It worked. It was Dominic’s turn to wail.

  “Fifth, dah-ling? No. Park. The same as last week. And the week before. Look, it’s here, right in front of me: Seven Fifty-six Park Avenue, apartment Five-oh-one. Don’t tell me it’s Fifth, because if it is I shall crucify that assistant of mine—”

  “No, no, it’s not. Park is correct,” I said hastily, writing down the address. “Oh, what a relief! And they’ll be there … when?”

  “At ten, sweetie. You have my word.”

  “Dominic, you’ve been marvelous. Thank you so much.”

  “Rien, dear, absolutely rien. Oh, by the way …”

  “Yes?”

  “Did Miss Shawcross like that special bouquet I did for her? She needed it Sunday—to take out to her little girl’s grave, you know? She rang me personally. I could hear the tears. It really got to me—un frisson, dear. I mean I guess I never thought of her in that way. As a mother. I never even knew she’d had children….”

  There was a silence.

  “No,” I said. “No, Dominic. Neither did I.”

  Constance had never given birth to a little girl—or a little boy, come to that. Constance—and she had once explained this to me, at length—had been unable to have children of her own. I was her daughter, she would say. She had always insisted on that.

  Had she been embarrassed to explain that the flowers were for a dog she once loved very much? If so, why elaborate? Why make up a story like that when no explanation was necessary? I thought I knew the answer to that one: Lies were part of Constance’s nature. She once told me a very terrible lie, and I had realized then that Constance lied for one very simple reason: Lies delighted her; she reveled in their ramifications. “What is a lie?” It was one of her favorite maxims. “A lie is nothing. It is a mirror image of a truth.”

  I was standing outside her apartment building on Park as I thought this. It was nine-thirty, and under my arm was a huge box of flowers purchased earlier, in my American accent, from Dominic’s. A flamboyant box, it bore his name in large green letters. It seemed appropriate, I thought, that I should find Constance at last through duplicity.

  I had tracked her down at last. This, then, was where she was hiding. I looked up at the building. Presumably the apartment must be borrowed from a friend; even so, it seemed, for Constance
, a curious choice.

  Constance was full of irrational strictures—one could stay here but not, for some reason, there—and on the subject of Park Avenue she had always been cutting. It was a dull, safe, predictable, bourgeois place. “Park,” she would say, “is unimaginative.”

  It was not particularly imaginative to live on Fifth, of course, but I knew what Constance meant. Furthermore, if Park was respectable and dull, this building she had selected was the dullest, the most irreproachable for blocks. Twelve stories of red sandstone; a grandiloquent doorway reminiscent of the Knickerbocker Club. It seemed an odd place for Constance to hole up. Still, it was a temporary arrangement, I told myself as I entered an august lobby. I was nervous. Another few minutes and I would be speaking to Constance herself. Would she welcome me? Reject me? I advanced on the front desk.

  “I’m from Dominic’s—with the flowers for Miss Shawcross. I’m a little early, I guess. Can you check if it’s okay to go up?”

  I was inept when it came to falsehoods. I blushed as I spoke. I waited to be denounced as an imposter. I was astonished when the man replaced the phone and said, “Five-oh-one. Go right on up.”

  I counted to fifty outside the apartment door. My hands had begun to shake.

  It was not Constance herself who opened the door; it was a maid. Worse than that, it was the same maid, the Lilliputian termagant of the day before. I should have foreseen that possibility, I suppose, but I had not. In despair, I waited for her to recognize me.

  I am five feet ten inches tall; her gaze began somewhere mid-chest. It mounted slowly. I waited for more miniaturized rage, for a door shut in my face. To have come so far and then to fail was more than I could bear. I put my foot in the door. I looked down to do this. When I looked up I saw something astonishing.

  No sign of hostility. The maid was smiling.

  “Victoria—yes?” She gave a tiny giggle. “On time—very good. You come in. Through here—quick.”

  She took the box of flowers, disappeared behind them momentarily, set the box down, and set off at a smart pace down a narrow corridor. She opened a door with a flourish, then stood back to let me pass.