Another Eden

by Patricia Gaffney

  “I’m drunk, Sare. How the hell di’ that happen?” He pushed Alex away and draped his other arm around her too, leaning heavily. “Mm, smell good.” He buried his face in her shoulder, humming with drunken appreciation. His hands fumbled at her waist. She stumbled and would have fallen from the weight of him if Alex hadn’t pulled him off with sudden, hardly suppressed violence. “This’s my wife, Sara. Oh yeah, you know ’er, I forgot. Know ’er mother was a duchess? Her bleedin’ grace, fer Chris’ sake.” He laughed, then staggered again and swore. Sara didn’t know she was crying until he pawed at her face. “Whatsat?” he mumbled, squinting at her.

  A hansom pulled up in front of them at the curb. Alex and Blackman put Ben in first; he landed with a thud that rocked the carriage like a boat in the water. “I’m coming with you,” Alex said grimly, reaching for her hand.

  She pulled it out of his grasp and backed up, blocking the door. “No. Thank you.”

  “But you need help. We’ll both come—”

  “You’re very kind, Mr. McKie. I have servants who will help me.”

  He couldn’t stop himself; he whispered, “Sara—”

  She whipped around, feeling blindly for the step. The touch of his hands on her sides made a sob rise in her throat. She knew she was perilously close to disaster. Even so, when he reached for the door to close it, her stiff-armed grip held it open for a few more precious seconds. I didn’t mean what I said, she told him with her brimming eyes, praying he would understand. Alex, I love you.

  She sat back. The door slammed. Blackman gave the driver money; Alex told him her address. The coach jerked. Ben groaned and put his head in her lap, winding his arms around her knees. Her hand went to his shoulder. She patted it automatically while the electric griffin on Rector’s yellow facade slid past the window and the hansom merged cleanly into late traffic on the Gay White Way.

  Eighteen

  THE MANTEL CLOCK STRIKING ONE woke Sara out of a light doze. But she didn’t get up from the sofa, on which she lay in her beige striped traveling suit and high-button shoes. Hours ago she’d lit one candle and set it on the low marble table in front of the couch. Now she watched it sputter for a few seconds and go out, leaving her in the dark. Maybe she would stay here all night. Who would care? Michael and Tasha were asleep upstairs; they would never know. She’d left Ben this afternoon in Tuxedo Park; he would never know. Who cared what the servants thought?

  She did. No, that wasn’t it; she worried about what sort of woman she would have become if she stopped caring what the servants thought. So there was still hope for her; she wasn’t completely lost.

  She’d felt lost this afternoon. So lost that she’d had to leave the Kimmels’ gay house party a day early and come home on the train alone. “I’m sick,” she’d told Ben for the second time in eight days. But this time he’d refused to come with her; a weekend in Tuxedo Park with the likes of the William Whitneys and the Horace Duveens was a social opportunity he would not relinquish on any account, certainly not hers, probably not if she was dying.

  Anyway, he wasn’t stupid; he’d almost surely seen through her excuse. She wasn’t ill, not really. But she was giving out. Breaking down. She couldn’t do it anymore.

  A noise she recognized as the closing of the front door echoed through the silent house. She’d locked it herself, hours ago. It must be Ben, then, using his key. But why would he be getting home now?

  She sat up dully, wondering if she ought to go and greet him. What was the point? He would only make her explain why she had behaved so oddly as to fall asleep downstairs in her clothes, and she had no explanation. Better to avoid him.

  But now she heard a woman’s low laugh, and for a second her heart stopped. She stood up, stiff-legged. She heard a man’s heavy footsteps in the hall, coming toward her, and the accompanying staccato of a woman’s high heels. The door to the drawing room wasn’t closed; two dark shadows loomed in the threshold. Sara stood frozen in place while the couple in the doorway merged, fusing into a black, indistinguishable silhouette. The rustle of cloth rubbing against cloth sounded loud in the silence, and somehow obscene. She covered her mouth with both hands when she recognized the woman’s deep, throaty voice, purring. Because she couldn’t speak, she reached down toward the end table and switched on the electric lamp.

  Tasha screamed. But it was only half a nightmare, Sara saw, because the man wasn’t Ben. He was a stranger, black-haired and white-faced, his mouth slack with shock. They both wore evening clothes. Tasha had on Sara’s midnight-blue opera cloak and, under it, already unhooked at the bosom, her new crimson moire evening gown.

  No one spoke for a full half-minute. At last the black-haired man cleared his throat theatrically and made a rather touching attempt to charm Sara with a smile. “Madame, je suis navré, désolé! This is most awkward. Perhaps I should go, oui?”

  “Yes.”

  Tasha made a grab for his arm; for a second Sara thought she would try to detain him. But when he pulled away, she dropped her hand. The man made an ironic bow that managed to include both women, murmured something low and insinuating to Tasha, and escaped. A moment later, they heard the front door open and close.

  Another silent moment passed. When she realized Tasha wasn’t going to speak, Sara held out a helpless hand. “Where have you been?”

  “To the opera, is it not obvious?” She threw Sara’s cloak on the back of a chair and began to rebutton the front of her gown, her movements deliberately casual and unhurried.

  “You told me you would stay with Michael while Ben and I were away this weekend.”

  She shrugged. “Sheila looked after him.”

  “That’s not the point. You lied to me. And you brought a man into this house.”

  “So? What does that matter?”

  She stared intently, but she could see no remorse, not even embarrassment in Tasha’s hot, sullen eyes. She drew a long breath. This was partly her fault, she thought wearily, the payback for putting off the inevitable because it would be unpleasant. Now it was intolerable. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly and, as much as possible, without rancor, “but it’s time for you to find somewhere else to live.”

  Tasha faced her, a faint smile on her full red lips. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  “I’m afraid you must. There’s no reason for you to stay here now. You need to find work—”

  “Work.” She laughed in genuine amusement. “I do not work.”

  “No? How else do you intend to support yourself?”

  “I intend to stay here.”

  “Are you listening to me? You can’t stay here any longer. I offered to help you find a job once; I’m willing to help you again, if you want me to. I’ll give you some money until you get back on your feet. But you must go. I’m sorry, but it’s the best thing, Tasha, even for you.”

  “Even for me?” She bared her teeth and came closer, so close that Sara caught the high-priced scent of her own perfume. “So you will throw me out for my sake? How kind! Please to tell me, Sara, how is that best for me?”

  She stared back unblinkingly. “It would be more honest.” Tasha uttered a coarse word in a language Sara didn’t understand, but she comprehended the sentiment perfectly. “I’m sorry,” she repeated stiffly. “I would like you to go tomorrow.” She started to walk past her when Tasha grabbed her shoulder and twisted her back around.

  “Do you do this because of Louis?”

  “Louis?”

  She made a rude, impatient gesture toward the door with her thumb.

  “Ah, Louis. Yes, partly. To bring him here was a betrayal of my tru—”

  “Hypocrite.”

  Sara went rigid. “There’s no point to this—”

  “Whore. How dare you judge me when you are the lover of a man who is not your husband? Eh? Yes, yes, you have no answer to that, have you, Sara?”

  No, she had no answer; she was too shocked to speak. The opportunity to deny the accusation slipped irretrievably away as she went dead
white and tried to draw air into her paralyzed lungs. “Get out of my way,” she finally managed to grate through numb lips. “You’re not welcome here anymore, I want you gone by morning.”

  Tasha struck her, a blow to the shoulder with the flat of her hand. Sara made a sound of amazed wrath, but the younger woman only stepped closer until their faces were inches apart. “No, I won’t go. If you try to force me, I will tell your husband about you and Mr. McKie.”

  “There’s nothing to tell!” she denied belatedly.

  “Liar. You sleep with him, I know it. I will tell your husband.”

  “No!”

  “Tomorrow I’ll tell him, I swear before God, and he will throw you out. He will keep his son and throw you out. I’ll do it, I’ll do it!”

  Sara believed her. Because she was not an optimist—had never known any reason to be—she saw it all happening, the fated inevitability of it. At the same time, she knew exactly what price she was going to have to pay to escape it. But how could Tasha know about Alex with such certainty? Was she herself that transparent, or had Tasha only made an assumption, using the standard of her own reckless morality? She felt the fury and helplessness of the trapped, and under that a keener anger toward Tasha, not because of her treachery, but because her dangerous knowledge dirtied and degraded the one honest act of love Sara had ever committed.

  Backing away, she resisted the tempting solidity of the chair behind her. Blood pounded in her throat, her wrists. The possibility of actually fainting had never been more real; but Tasha had enough power already and she wouldn’t add to her advantage by sitting down. “What is it you want?” she asked as calmly as possible. The instant flare of triumph in her adversary’s eyes made her feel physically sick.

  “I want a thousand dollars.”

  She almost laughed. There was a lesson in humility somewhere in the ludicrous distinction between the utter ruin of her life and the paltry cost of saving it. Maybe someday she would find it instructive. “All right,” she said immediately.

  “That’s only to start. I would like it tomorrow, no later than noon because that is when I’m going shopping. You may come with me if you like—I have always valued your sense of style, Sara.”

  The conversation was veering toward absurdity. She snapped out, “What else?” to bring back grim reality.

  “In fact, you will come with me, I have just decided—you will introduce me to your dressmaker at Longine’s. What else? Oh, many things.” She began to pace back and forth, her usually languid movements hurried and jerky with excitement. “On Tuesday, when you visit or leave cards at the homes of your acquaintances, I will accompany you. You will introduce me to everyone as your friend. Your very dear friend.” She stopped pacing abruptly. “And I would like a party. In my honor. A sort of debut. You will invite many eligible men to this party, and”—she laughed coquettishly—“many ugly young ladies. Perhaps you may even wish to invite Mr. McKie; he is very handsome and soon to be very rich, yes? Well, we will see.”

  Sara’s voice crackled with anger. “Even if I agreed to this, my husband would never allow it, you must see that. What you’re asking is impossible.”

  “But I am not asking, and you will make it possible. Otherwise, it is I who will have to find you a job.” She laughed again. “Delicious, is it not? Tell me, Sara, can you sew? No? Well, there are other things you could be—a governess, a whore. But we needn’t speak of that yet.” She folded her arms, savoring Sara’s expression. “But where was I? Oh, yes. Tonight Louis and I made use of the Cochrane family carriage, which was most pleasant. That will continue. We enjoyed your box at the Metropolitan Opera as well, and will do so again, as often as we like.” She tapped her lips with her forefinger, thinking. “I need the names of your milliner, your hairdresser, and your furrier. I will need money all the time. You can either give me cash or I can charge what I need to your accounts. I think perhaps a combination of these is best. Well? You are so silent. What are you thinking?”

  She was thinking that if she believed she had committed a sin by loving Alex, this was undoubtedly the kind of retribution his grandfather would have wished on her. She wondered what sort of justice was at work when a simple act of kindness was repaid with heartlessness and perfidy. She marveled at how naive she had been to expect friendship, perhaps even gratitude, from a woman who must have detested her for a very long time. Aloud she said, “Do you plan to continue living in this house?”

  “Oh yes, for a while. Later, after I am established, I will take a place of my own. Uptown, I think.”

  “How long have you been planning this?”

  Tasha raised innocent brows and didn’t answer.

  “It won’t work, you know.”

  She smiled a thin, nasty warning. “It had better work.”

  Sara shook her head. But it would be futile, and maybe dangerous, to explain to Tasha that an immigrant gypsy seamstress had less than no chance of acceptance in society, even the lowest circle of it, and that if she thought it would work because the former Lady Sara Longford was going to be her sponsor, she would suffer precisely the same disillusionment Ben had suffered eight years ago. She might have felt sorry for Tasha—in spite of everything, she sometimes felt sorry for Ben—but Tasha’s exploitation of her was more ruthless and even more calculated than her husband’s had been, and Sara found she had no pity to waste on her.

  But she had to know one thing. “Were you even raped, Tasha? Or was it all a lie from the beginning?”

  Tasha stretched her arms out wide. “I am so sleepy. From all the excitement tonight, I think.”

  “Come, you can tell me. What difference does it make now?”

  The catlike innocence disappeared and pure venom shone in her dark, lethal eyes. “I don’t tell you anything. You are not so much the great lady now, are you? You’re nothing, the same as me.” She smiled, showing her teeth. “Or else we are both great ladies and I am the same as you. Think about that. Perhaps we will be friends after all, Sara. But whatever we will be, I promise you we are going to be the same.”

  Sara shivered, chilled. She had the answer to her question, and more.

  “Let’s go to bed now,” Tasha said, holding out her hand. “You look very tired. A long day, yes? Why did you come back so early from your weekend?”

  Sara didn’t answer, and she shrank from Tasha’s outstretched hand.

  “But wait—let us be clear. You agree to all this, do you not, Sara?”

  She hesitated, not because there could be any doubt, but because she loathed the satisfaction Tasha would derive from her answer. “Even if I were willing, Ben won’t allow these changes you’re suggesting.”

  “Ah, but you will find a way to manage him, I’m sure of it. Tell me now, do you agree?”

  “Very well.” What choice did she have? “But only on the condition that you stay away from my son.”

  “What? What is this?”

  “Don’t speak to him, don’t go near him.”

  “You are not to demand things from me!”

  “Then we have no bargain.”

  “I tell you—”

  “If you speak to Michael or have anything to do with him at all, I’ll expose you.”

  “Why would I wish to speak to him? We do not like each other anyway!”

  “Then you agree?”

  “Puh! You do not tell me what to do.”

  So Tasha hated making a concession as much as she did. She found that pathetically consoling. “Yes or no. You must say, Tasha, or we have no bargain.”

  “Puh,” she said again. “It makes no difference to me.”

  “You agree?”

  “Yes! I have said so.”

  She nodded once and moved toward the door. Tasha sprang after her, so abruptly that she stopped in surprise, half-expecting some kind of attack. But Tasha only wanted to get through the door first. It was almost laughable. Almost, but not quite. Because the ridiculous incident was revealing. It gave her a sharp, bitter foretaste of what
her domestic life was going to be like—if she was lucky—for a long, long time to come.

  “Say that again, Alex? I couldn’t have heard you right.”

  “I said I’m resigning.”

  John Ogden’s eyebrows jerked up so high that his pince-nez fell off his nose and dropped in his lap. “What? No! Why?”

  Since Ogden was too startled to offer him a chair, Alex took the liberty of draping one thigh over a corner of his desk and folding his arms. “I’m sorry to spring it on you like this, John. I guess it sounds sudden.”

  “I’ll say it sounds sudden! What the devil are you talking about? We just made you a partner.”

  “I shouldn’t have accepted that—I apologize. This hasn’t been an easy decision, but it’s been coming on for quite a while. Longer, I guess, than I even knew myself.” He wasn’t doing a very good job of this, he realized. Ogden deserved better. “I’m moving back to California, John. I want to try to go into business for myself and build a different kind of house from what I can build here for Draper and Snow.”

  “In other words, you want to throw your career away?” Ogden couldn’t hide his consternation. “That’s what you’re saying, let’s be clear about it.”

  “I don’t see it that way.”

  “Alex, I know you. You won’t make any money out there on your own, so you’ll be miserable.”

  There was no mistaking the insult, but Alex supposed he deserved it. “It’ll be quite a change, that’s for sure,” he said mildly.

  “Is that what this is about?” Ogden’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “More money? You could’ve just asked, you know, it would’ve been—”

  “It has nothing to do with money.”

  “No? Look, if it’s the Marshall Farley house that’s bothering you, I could probably get you pulled off it. It’s still early, I’m sure Ames would be glad to jump in and replace you if Farley would agree—”

  “John—listen, I’m honestly not being coy or trying to drive up my price. I’m quitting.”