“Have you called the police yet?”
“No. The doctor, but not the police.”
“Do you want me to call them?”
“Thank you—but no, I think it’s better to wait until tomorrow. What could they do tonight anyway, except upset her even more? She says she never saw the man, couldn’t even describe him.”
“Did he rape her?”
She looked up quickly, shock in her eyes. But his steady gaze steadied her, and she nodded. “Yes.” She swallowed what was in her glass and handed it back to him. In silence, he poured more sherry, then another whiskey for himself.
After all that had happened, they had little to say to each other now. But Sara found the stillness between them extraordinarily comforting. She walked to the windows, pulling the draperies across each one in turn. “I can’t think what would have happened if you hadn’t been here, Mr. McKie.”
“I think you’d have been just fine.”
“No, I doubt that. You must be starving—why don’t you stay for dinner?”
“Thanks, no. I’ll be going now.”
“Oh. Yes, of course, you must have things to do….” She trailed off. Neither of them moved. “When will you be leaving for Newport?”
“Thursday, I expect.”
She wanted to ask, When will I see you again? She didn’t. “If there are any problems, you could call me on the telephone. I won’t know the answers, but I can call Ben. Or”—the depressing thought just occurred to her—” I guess you could call Ben directly in Chicago. Do you have his number there?”
“Yes.”
“Well.” Finally she turned away and led him out into the hall, to the door. “Thank you again, you’ve been so kind.”
He ground his teeth, tired of being thanked. He was used to her loveliness now, he realized, familiar with her cool expression and the warmth in her eyes that belied it. He felt as if he knew her much, much better than the short time they had spent together measured. Leaving her now with nothing between them but polite smiles and casual words—what a loss, what crude, regrettable hypocrisy. More than anything, he wanted to touch her. Not even sexually—or not exclusively. Would she allow it? He wanted to hold her slim white hands until they warmed and began to move in his. He wanted to massage the tension out of her proud shoulders. Run his fingers inside that prissy white collar around her throat. Listen to her sigh. And then slide the buttons open down the front of her jacket and touch her through the thin chamois blouse.
She put out her hand and he took it. Something flickered deep in her dark-fringed eyes, but all she said was, “Good night, Mr. McKie.”
“Good night, Mrs. Cochrane.”
“Have a safe trip to Newport.”
“Thanks.”
Their hands slid apart. He stood there for two more seconds. Then he turned, bounded down the four steps to the sidewalk, and strode away.
Sara remained in the doorway another minute, watching until he was out of sight. She wasn’t naive; she knew where Mr. McKie’s thoughts had wandered just now. Her own had followed him part of the way there, before skidding to a nervous halt and retreating. Nothing shocking in that—she had, after all, been the object of a man’s admiration before now. Sometimes she found it pleasant, sometimes tedious, always meaningless. It was none of those things now, she realized. What was it, then? Rather than answer that question, she closed the door and hurried upstairs to sit with Tasha until the doctor came.
Six
THERE WAS NO ANSWER to Sara’s light tap at the guest room door. She tried again, infinitesimally louder; at a faint response, she pushed the door open a crack and looked in. “Are you sleeping?” she whispered.
“No, no, please enter.” Tasha sat up in the wide bed and sent her a wavering smile. “Oh, you have brought me tea. That is so kind.”
“And some delicious scones with Mrs. Carrick’s damson jam; no one can resist it.” Since Tasha had eaten nothing for lunch except a few slices of orange, she hoped the tea would tempt her.
“Who is Mrs. Carrick?”
“She’s our cook. Do you take cream and sugar?”
“Only sugar, if you please. Would you care to sit with me for a little?”
“Yes, if you like. Come, have one of the scones, Tasha, you’ve got to eat something.” She sat on the edge of the bed and watched the dark-haired girl nibble obediently at a triangle of sweet bread. Her peach silk nightgown looked strange on Tasha, Sara couldn’t help thinking; it was probably only the contrast with her olive skin, but somehow the gown seemed too young and childish, too—virginal. “Is your wrist paining you as much as before?”
“No, it’s better, thank you. The binding the doctor put on makes it much better.” But she still favored it and could not even lift a teacup with her left hand, Sara noted. Dr. Patterson had said it was a bad sprain, although there was no swelling, and that she should avoid using her left hand until all the discomfort was gone.
“We would not even have known you’d hurt yourself if the doctor hadn’t discovered it by accident. It isn’t good to be so stoical, Tasha, not now.”
She looked down, crumbling the scone on the plate in her lap. “I don’t know that word,” she mumbled.
“Stoical? It means denying that you’re in pain.”
“Oh. But I’m all right now, I am not in pain.”
“No?”
The downcast eyes evaded her. “Soon, perhaps tomorrow, I will be able to leave.”
Sara shifted impatiently. “Nonsense, you’re not ready to go home. You’ll stay here until you’re completely well.”
“But I cannot! How can I impose on you in this way? You are so good, but I can’t stay any longer, it’s not right.”
“We’ve been through this before. You can’t work. You can’t operate your sewing machine because of your wrist. Besides, where would you go? You’re afraid to return to your old apartment, and I wouldn’t let you go anyway because it’s not safe. Why are you crying? Don’t, it’s all right, please don’t cry.”
“I can’t help it,” she whispered, burying her face in her hands. “Oh, Mrs. Cochrane, I’m so ashamed. I’m so ashamed.”
Sara set the tray aside and took the girl in her arms. “Why?” she murmured, although she knew why. She knew everything about sexual humiliation.
“Everything is changed. Nothing can ever be the same again for me.”
She sighed, unable to lie. “Perhaps that’s true. But the important thing to remember—try to remember—is that you did nothing wrong. You were that man’s victim. Nothing you deliberately did provoked his cruelty. It was out of your control.”
Tasha pulled away. “I know this, in my mind I know it. But I’m still so sad. And—shamed. I can’t help it.”
“I do understand. It’s easy to share the blame because what happened has made you feel dirty. But listen to me, Tasha. You must not let that man’s corruption poison you. The way to help yourself is to look deep inside your own heart and realize that you were innocent. Do you understand me? Remember what your life was like before this awful thing happened, remember what you were like. All your hopes and dreams, your faith that others were as simple and well-intended as you—” She broke off, dashing at the tears on her own cheeks. She had said too much, for Tasha was watching her intently.
“All I can tell you,” she finished more calmly, “is that it does get better. Time helps us form scars. And then the pain is only a remembered thing, not constant anymore.” She smiled a bit wanly. “It can even make you stronger.”
They fell silent, and after a little while Tasha said she would like to try to sleep now. Sara took away the tea things and left her alone.
“That is a very stunning outfit,” Tasha declared admiringly from the satin-covered chaise longue in Sara’s bedroom. “Those colors are good for you; you are pale, but you can wear such a high contrast because you are tall. If you are short like me, it is better to wear the single color.”
Sara studied herself in the wardrobe gla
ss. She had on her new pink tulle blouse, sleeves puffed at the shoulders and narrow at the wrists, a black taffeta skirt with a perky pleated flounce, and a pink straw sailor hat trimmed in black maline. She liked to think her taste in clothes was sound, but her approach to fashion was much more intuitive than Tasha’s, who always knew why something was good or not good. “You aren’t short,” she responded automatically, tightening the saucy black bow at her waist. “You’re slightly below average.”
“I’m going now, Mum,” Michael called from the open door.
“Oh, darling,” she said, turning, “is it time for your lesson already?” Michael’s piano lesson had been moved up an hour this week. “Come and give me a kiss, then.”
He came in, glancing shyly at Tasha and muttering a greeting. He regarded their new visitor as an oddity, staring surreptitiously sometimes but rarely speaking to her. Sara was sure he would loosen up soon, for he’d never yet met anyone he didn’t like. Even Mrs. Drum, and that was saying something.
He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Oh, I forgot—look what came for me in the post just now!”
“What, love? Tell me what it is, I’m in a hurry too, and my hands are full.” She was back at the mirror, fastening her earrings.
“It’s a postcard from Mr. McKie.”
“Is it?” She turned around again. “Let me see.”
“Look, he printed the message. He doesn’t know I can read script.”
“You shall have to write him back and tell him. Oh, it’s a picture of the Casino at Newport. Read it, darling. What does he say?”
“ ‘Dear Michael,’ ” he read slowly, “ ‘have you seen this splendid building yet? A fine architect named Stanford White designed it. It has shops and a restaurant, reading rooms, a bowling alley, billy—billy—billiard parlor, even court tennis and a polo field. There’s a gallery on the second floor, from which the resorters sit and gossip and look down on the townspeople below—whom they call rubber plants because they’ve got the aud … audacity to stare back.’ ” Michael laughed; “rubber plants” struck him as funny.
“Is that the end?”
“No, it says, ‘Tell your mother I’m looking forward to the 27th. Yours truly, Alexander McKie.’ What’s the 27th?”
“That’s the night he’s coming to dinner. Well, that was very nice of him, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, yes. When do we go to Newport, Mummy?
“In a few weeks. You’d better run now, darling, don’t keep Mrs. Drum waiting. Have a good lesson!” she called after him.
“Bye!” And he was gone, taking his postcard with him.
Sara turned back to the mirror with a smile. Her expression startled her a little; she’d been about to pinch her cheeks for color, but now she saw it wasn’t necessary.
“Mr. McKie,” mused Tasha from the chaise longue. “Is that the gentleman who was with you that night you came for me?” Sara said it was. “He is a friend of yours, of your family?”
“He’s our architect. We’re building a house in Newport.”
“Ah, Newport. Where the rich people go for the summer.”
Sara raised her eyebrows at her in the mirror.
“This is a beautiful thing.” She fingered a flowered scarf of light challis Sara had tossed aside while she dressed.
“Take it,” she offered. She and Tasha hadn’t much in common, but one thing they shared was a love of beautiful clothes. Then again, perhaps they did have things in common—who knew? But Tasha would not talk about herself or her life before she’d arrived in this country. Instead she asked endless questions about Sara’s life. She was fascinated by the way “the rich” lived, and she was hungry for news about plays and parties, concerts and the opera and the people who attended them. Yesterday she’d made Sara explain the complicated protocol of card-leaving when she’d found one in the foyer, left in Sara’s absence, with one corner turned down. For the most part, Sara found her curiosity touching and was glad of anything that helped bring her out of her dark, brooding melancholy. It astonished her to learn that Tasha was an avid reader of “Town Topics,” a weekly scandal sheet that was the terror of New York high society, and it amused her to hear her drop the names of the Bradley Martins, the Hamilton Fishes, the Astors, and the Vanderbilts with comical familiarity in her slow, beguiling Slavic accent.
“Thank you,” she said now, folding the scarf with great care, “but I could not. It is not possible.”
She was also proud, Sara had discovered. “Why not? It would look nice on you, Tasha.”
She compressed her lips and shook her head, briefly but finally.
Sara shrugged. “I have to go to work now. What will you do while I’m gone?”
“Study my English. I am enjoying this book, this Trilby you have lent me.”
“Good. Ring for tea when you want it and have a nice lazy afternoon. I’ll be bringing some of your things back with me, and Paren says he’ll send the rest.” Tasha bowed her head and started to say, “It isn’t right,” when Sara interrupted with a cluck of the tongue. “Enough already, as Mrs. Clayman would say. Your employer says you may stay away until you’re well, without losing your piece rate—”
“Only because you called him on the telephone and spoke him into it.”
“Talked him into it. As for your apartment, what sense does it make to pay seventeen dollars a month for a place you aren’t using and probably won’t be returning to anyway?”
“Then where will I go?” she wailed. “I am so stupid, I can only do one thing—sew—and my hand is still too weak to do it! I have no money put by, I am a useless burden to everyone—”
Sara went to her before she could start to cry. “Stop that. You’re not a burden and you know it. Listen to me, Tasha.” She took her firmly by the chin and made her look up. “Today, after I’m through at the settlement house, I am going to visit Lockhart’s.”
In spite of herself, Tasha smiled. “How nice.”
Sara laughed. “No, I’m not going to buy clothes, silly. I’m going to speak to Mr. Lockhart himself and ask if his shop needs the services of the most talented, most fashion-smart seamstress I’ve ever met.” She waited for a reaction, expecting euphoria, but Tasha’s face was a study. “Aren’t you glad?” she asked uncertainly.
“Yes … oh yes, I am glad. Again, you are much too kind.”
“But—? The pay will be very small at first, I know, but the working conditions will be so much better. And after a while, when Mr. Lockhart sees how good you are, your wages will improve and you’ll be able to afford a nice place to live. What’s wrong, don’t you want me to ask him?”
“Oh no, I think it is wonderful. By all means. I was only thinking that perhaps I am not good enough for such a fine establishment.”
“Rubbish, you’re a genius. One day you’ll design clothes for Mr. Lockhart that will rival anything in the city.” She gave her a bracing pat on the arm, saying, “Leave it to me,” and stood up. “I’ll be late if I don’t go now, and Mr. Yelteles will glare at me all afternoon. I’ll give them all your regards, shall I?”
“Oh yes, give everyone my best wishes.” She settled back against the chaise and opened her book, using her good hand.
A few days later, Sara sat in her tiny study, penning a menu for the cook in preparation for Friday’s dinner three nights hence. The casement window was open and a soft breeze that smelled more of summer than spring fluttered the papers on her desk. Behind her in the blue parlor, she heard Tasha set her coffee cup down and turn a page of the Evening News. Her spirits seemed better lately; she was still quiet and kept most of her thoughts to herself, but her natural curiosity was beginning to return. Everything about the Cochrane household interested her—as Sara imagined the living conditions of a Rumanian family would interest her as something completely new and unknown—and she was alternately amused and touched by the girl’s artless questions. Now if she could only overcome her tiresome guilt feelings and the need to express near-constant gratitude becaus
e she believed she was a “burden,” she might even be happy for the time she was here.
A thumping noise out in the hall made Sara lay her pen down and listen. Michael had been in bed for an hour, so who—?
“Well, well, who might you be?”
Sara jumped up and hurried into the parlor. “Ben! What a surprise—I wasn’t expecting you for two more days.” She smiled to hide her dismay; she could guess his reaction to Tasha’s presence and had wanted some time to prepare him for it before they met. She went to him and offered her cheek—something she never did and found herself doing now purely for Tasha’s benefit, because it seemed the sort of gesture a wife would make to a husband she hadn’t seen in over a week. Tasha had stood up and was clutching her hands at her waist. “Tasha, this is my husband,” she said casually. “Ben, I don’t think you’ve met my friend, Natasha Eminescu. Tasha has been staying with me for a while.”
They shook hands. “It is so much a pleasure to meet you,” Tasha said sincerely. “Your house is very, very beautiful, and your wife has been an angel of great kindness to me, Mr. Cochrane. I am so honored to be allowed to visit with you these last days.”
Ben frowned to hide his perplexity. “Well, that’s fine,” he muttered, studying her narrowly. Sara watched them, trying to see Tasha through Ben’s eyes—her still, watchful face, the black eyes that seemed to know secrets. Her voice was soft and smoky, intriguingly foreign, and sometimes she had a fascinating quality of stillness, the capacity to be physically motionless, like an exotic statue.
“Well,” Ben rumbled, dropping Tasha’s hand and turning brusque. “You ladies excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”
“Did you have dinner?” Sara wondered. “I can ring—”
“Yeah, I ate on the train,” he answered on his way out, not turning around.
She went to the sofa and picked up Ben’s topcoat where he’d thrown it, folding and refolding it across her arm to cover her awkwardness. She was aware that Tasha was watching her in her silent, assessing way. What an odd couple they must seem to her. “Will you excuse me?” she said brightly. “I have to—I’d like to check on Michael. I’ll be right back.” Tasha nodded and watched her go.
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