Gould's arms were around her instantly. "All right, girl?" he asked.
"Yes, yes—I can manage," she said impatiently, and he let her go to find her own way around the smokestack and boiler to the fantail seat. The leather cushions had been stowed out of the rain. Tess took up a place on the varnished seat next to Gould, bowing her head into the slashing wind.
"Peterson! What do we have in sou'westers?" called Gould to the crewman, who had scrambled aboard and was starting the engine.
"Under the seat, sir."
Gould pulled out two wide-brimmed, oiled hats and handed one to Tess as Peterson hauled in the dock lines, letting the wind blow them off the dock. He put the launch in gear, and Tess, steadying herself on a brass grabrail, peered out from under the brim of her hat at the white-capped harbor. The launch lifted and fell as Peterson expertly played the crests, easing the launch to windward. The small steam engine puffed along with a minimum of fuss, cutting through the turmoil.
"It's a stinking night, Tess," said Gould. "I'm sorry."
"The weather's not your fault, s—Mr. Gould," replied Tess. She backed away from the "sir." She hated the very word.
"You seem to be enjoying yourself, in fact."
"I am," she admitted. "It's exciting."
Far more exciting than washing linen or brushing shoes, she thought. It was such a struggle to get where they were going; she assumed the end would be worth it.
Peterson positioned the launch alongside the gangway of an elegant black-hulled steam yacht anchored in Brenton Cove in the lee of the howling southwest wind. Peterson yanked at the launch's steam whistle, and before they reached the top of the teak and brass companionway, a uniformed crew member was waiting for them with a large black umbrella.
"Never mind, Pratt," said Gould, "we're soaked through, anyway. Take these oilskins. We'll find our own way below. Ask Oberlin to see me straightaway, would you?"
He took Tess's arm and hurried her along a side deck and through a paneled and windowed mahogany door, alongside of which hung a white life-ring with the vessel's name leafed in gold: M/Y Enchanta. They were in the main salon, a large, beautifully paneled cabin marked by the unfussy elegance of a gentleman's study. Silver humidors on small rosewood tables and ashtrays in brass stands waited confidently next to overstuffed chairs, expecting to be needed. The walls were hung with old etchings and oil renderings of epic battles at sea. Brass oil lamps, set on brackets shaped into sea creatures, threw off a golden, flickering light. It was a man's refuge, devoid of a woman's touch, and Tess said so.
"As a matter of fact, before she died my wife had never been aboard. As all women do, she looked on boats as competition for her drawing room and her affections. She was right, of course." He was holding open a stateroom door for Tess. "You'll find dry clothes in there. When you've finished, join me in my cabin across the way. I'll have something hot brought in."
He excused himself and Tess was left standing on a silk Persian rug in her wet shoes. She unbuttoned them immediately and pulled them off, then tiptoed barefoot to the built-in armoire. Rather timidly, she slid open one of the paneled doors. Inside was a collection of exquisite dressing gowns in an array of flattering colors: creams, mauves, pale blues. They would not have belonged to Aaron Gould's wife, of that Tess was sure. They were too young, too utterly feminine, too intimate for a woman who apparently had preferred to spend her days presiding over high tea. Possibly they belonged to his daughter, who must be grown by now? Possibly.
She passed over the wraparound versions in favor of the only one with actual buttons, a heavy, creamy silk brocade. There was a selection of opera slippers in soft, luxuriant kid—in different sizes. Not the daughter's, then. Tess's heart turned upside-down in her chest for a moment, then righted itself and went on beating: he had given his word, a gentleman's word, that she was free to go ashore whenever she chose.
But in the meantime her own dress was sodden; she had no choice but to change. She stripped down to her drawers and corset, no further than that, and slipped the dressing gown over her head. In the full-length brass mirror she looked too ... fine.
Never in her life had she felt the luxury of brocade next to her skin. Panic set in: Off with the gown.
She was fumbling with the top buttons when a knock came on the door. It opened: Aaron Gould, in a wine-colored smoking jacket, said, "There are combs and brushes somewhere in that bureau. Is there anything else you need?"
She shook her head. He left, and Tess felt better. Aaron Gould was treating her with perfect courtesy. If the armoire was not stocked with muslin Mother Hubbard gowns and felt slippers, it was for the same reason that she was not standing on China straw matting just then: the wealthy did things differently.
She located the brushes, combed her hair as dry as she could and pulled it back with two tortoise-shell side-combs she chose from among a drawer filled with them. It seemed obvious to her that Aaron Gould had a lover, or a collection of them; but she pushed the thought away. She was not interested in his private life.
The door to his cabin was open. Tess stepped across the cabin sole and peeked in. Gould was staring out a brassbound porthole, absently scraping the bowl of a Meerschaum pipe with a pen-knife. Tess stepped boldly into the room.
He turned to face her. "Excellent. Almost nothing left of the poor drowned kitten." His look was coolly appreciative. He pulled a sturdily built mahogany chair away from a small linen-covered table, which glowed discreetly with candlelight and sterling.
"You look enthusiastic," he said with a smile. "Are you so very hungry?"
"Well—that too," she admitted, coloring. "But I was admiring your yacht. It's very pretty. Have you had it long?"
"Seven years. An intense love affair. I can't help thinking it contributed to my wife's death two years ago."
"You can't mean that!"
"I'm afraid it's true. We could never agree on the proper way to summer. I preferred knocking around in the Enchanta; she liked to install herself in or near a European court. Two summers ago I was here, she was there, and during a hunt she was thrown from her horse and killed. If I'd been there I should have tried to prevent her going out."
"You don't approve of women riding?"
"I don't approve of the hunt. Secretly I cheer whenever the critter gets away."
"All the same, it must have been horrible for you."
"Very sad—but not horrible. We hadn't lived as husband and wife for years. Will you have an aperitif?"
Since she'd never had one before, Tess didn't know. "That would be nice," she said vaguely. He poured the sherry and she sipped cautiously. "Does your daughter enjoy the yachting life?" she ventured.
"As a matter of fact, no. She prefers winter sports. I suppose that comes of attending a school in Switzerland."
"But it's not winter now," Tess pursued.
"No. It's not."
Tess felt the rebuff and it showed, because he added, "Vanessa stays with an aunt outside of Paris in the summer. We aren't that close—at least, geographically. But tell me about your family, with whom you obviously are close. Your mother died on board ship, you said? I truly am sorry to hear that."
"Well, it was all so sudden and most of the family was seasick. I think in an odd way that that eased the pain for us. We were all in steerage at the time." She felt obligated to spell out the difference between a first-class cabin and steerage: "In steerage the bunks are built of hard-edged wood along the inside of the ship; in our ship there was also a second row of bunks that ran parallel. In one of the very first storms my mother was thrown from her bunk into the corner of another one in the next row. She never got conscious after that."
Tess declined to say that her mother had been sleeping off the effects of a bottle when she was hurled out of her berth. That secret was stitched inside a canvas shroud, resting at the bottom of the Atlantic.
"I'm sorry. It must be painful for you still. Steerage can be a dangerous place in a storm. I once rode out some bad weath
er there myself, when I was a boy."
"You?"
"I emigrated from France with my father when I was twelve. My father had been an apprentice in one of Henri Rochefleur's banks. He came over here, eventually to oversee Monsieur Rochefleur's American interests. The Rothschilds had their August Belmont; Monsieur Rochefleur had my father. We arrived in plenty of time for the war, during which my father remained loyal to the Union and refrained from all but the most discreet profiteering, unlike many of his colleagues. A widower, he earned everyone's gratitude but no one's heart—it's never been easy being a Jew in Newport. He died wealthy but quite alone, and it became up to me, the junior Aaron Gould, to prove that it is possible to attain both love and money in one lifetime."
He gave Tess an ironic smile. "Unfortunately, I failed. Perhaps I was naive. It takes longer than one generation for new money to cool off. My well-born wife would never have accepted me if she hadn't been in dire straits financially. I have great hopes for Vanessa, however. She is beautiful, well-educated, fair-skinned, and nicely dowered. She also happens to be a very kind young woman." He poured himself more sherry. "Yes, about Vanessa I am quite sanguine."
The steward, wearing a silver-buttoned jacket, came in bearing a large silver salver. The repast he laid before them was simply prepared but substantial: galantine of veal, pigeon pie, boiled lobsters, fruits and cheeses, and a hot and spicy crab and spinach soup. Tess sat self-consciously still as the steward opened a bottle of champagne for them. When he left it was obvious that he was not expected to return, which bothered her.
Nonetheless, she breathed more easily after that, listening raptly to a lively but outrageous tale of how Aaron Gould saved his West Indian cook from the clutches of a holdout band of Carib warriors on the island of Dominique. That took them through the soup course.
An hour and a half later they were spreading creamy cheese on thin wafers, and Tess, filled with a sense of well-being, was complaining that her cheeks were tired from laughing so much. Aaron Gould was a raconteur of the first order, well-traveled, but not on beaten paths; well-spoken, but in a candid, self-deprecating way. She felt as though she'd known him for years. While the early part of the evening had seemed endless, now she did not wish it to end. She suspected she might be light-headed with exhaustion; or maybe it was the sherry. Tess had resolutely refused champagne, knowing of its potency secondhand. But it hardly mattered.
She sighed happily, allowing him to fill another of her glasses with a dark red liquid, and sipped. Fire! She put the snifter down too late; its magic heat was already racing through her veins. She smiled and tried to shake her head clear of its crystal cobwebs. "I must begin to think about tomorrow."
"But tonight brings good wine, good food, good company—is there more to life than that?"
"Yes, there is! Of course there is—but I can't seem to remember ... just what, somehow. Tomorrow …?" She sighed.
He hesitated, then said, "All right, then—tomorrow. Suppose we set your mind at ease about it, so that we can return to enjoying today." He dabbed at his lips, threw down his monogrammed napkin, and rose and went over to a built-in mahogany sideboard inlaid with intricate veneer. When he returned he was carrying an exquisite enameled box; he handed it to Tess.
"For you," he said, "with one silken thread attached."
More baffled than thrilled, Tess lifted the lid from the small rectangular box: it was filled with money. How much, she had no idea. She was seeing hundred dollar bills for the first time in her life.
Chapter 11
So this is what drink does, she thought in fuzzy wonder. You dream with your eyes open. Without taking her eyes from the money she asked simply, "Why?"
"I want you to spend the night with me."
She looked up; he was serious.
"You will find one thousand dollars in there, enough to start a nice little hat shop in town. You can live above the shop with your family; you need never tug at a forelock again—except, of course, as a matter of better business. From what I have learned tonight, I have not a single doubt that you will be successful."
"Then make it a loan!" she said in anguish. "Charge me a fair—even an unfair—interest, and I'll gladly pay. You're right; I would be a success. I'm clever, and I'd work monstrous hours. Even Cornelia would patronize me eventually. All I'd have to do was sell one hat to one of her friends; she couldn't bear it! Oh, I would do well at it!"
"If I were an ordinary businessman, I might consider your offer. But look around you, Tess. Give me more credit than that. Surely you see that I am a collector of beautiful objets d'art. The Enchanta itself is such an objet. She is not the largest yacht in the harbor, or even the most opulent for her size, but she is by far the most beautiful, the most exquisitely fitted out. So it is with you, Tess. You are exquisite, and I want very much to have you."
She tried to cut through the sherry in her brain with only partial success. "But I'm not an ... an 'obe-zhay,'" she wailed. "I'm ... a Catholic!"
"Whatever you are, you're very desirable," he said seriously, and poured more cognac in her snifter. "Listen to me, Tess. Suppose I lend you the money with interest, as you suggest. Suppose we do it all quite legally, a business transaction. What do you think will be the reaction of Newport Society when you suddenly flaunt the means to open a smart little shop on Bellevue? Everyone knows I brought you away from the Servants' Ball; everyone will assume the worst in any case. Short of your posting sworn affidavits and the promissory note in your shop window, I can't imagine why they would think otherwise."
"You knew you were compromising me when you helped me!" she said angrily.
"And so did you, Tess. If you thought about it at all, you knew you were taking a risk."
"Out of desperation!"
"Absolutely. I'd be the first to admit that." He waited.
It was such an unadorned offer. So rational, so measured, so brutally logical. She stared at the delicately rendered cobalt and emerald pattern on the box, then stood up and tossed it across the table at him. It fetched up against his gilt-edged plate with a thunk and he winced; it was clear that Aaron Gould really was a devoted collector. It gave Tess a sharp little thrill to see that she'd caused him pain. She wondered why, as she walked away from him and stared out a porthole at the drumming torrents of rain.
After all, his offer was quite painless. The consequences—well, the consequences would have to be faced with or without his offer. What a fool she'd been before: blind with embarrassment and rage, utterly without foresight. Her pride again. It always came down to this: her fatal flaw, the source of all the bruising encounters she'd had so far in life, was her damnable, damnable pride.
She turned around to face him. He was seated at the small table still, his fingers gently rubbing the invisible wound on the enameled box, soothing and caressing.
"If I don't accept your offer?"
He reached behind him to a small panel lined with pushbuttons. "I'll have someone escort you ashore instantly." His lids lowered an infinitesimal amount, registering displeasure at her apparent distrust of him.
"That won't be necessary." She swallowed her damnable pride. "I agree to your terms, in the main, Mr. Gould," she said in as businesslike a tone as she could muster. "But there are some things I need to know." She lifted her chin the way she'd seen society ladies do. "Is it required that I enjoy myself, or act as if I am?"
"It would be nice; I don't insist on it."
"Will it involve"—here she blushed furiously—"cruelty or violence, or pain?"
He considered a moment, which sent her into a panic. "I shouldn't think so, but there is once in every woman's life—"
"I didn't mean that," Tess said quickly. "I meant—any other kind."
"Then the answer is no."
"How long am I obligated to stay?"
He matched her formal tone note for note. If he was amused by her whimsical negotiations, he gave no sign of it. With courteous reasonableness he brought out a watch from a pocket in his
jacket and said, "The storm should blow itself out by early morning; when the wind goes around to the northwest the Cove will become an uncomfortable anchorage. I plan to head out for Fisher's Island Sound then, on my way to New York. You should be ashore by, oh, ten o'clock at the latest."
"I see."
And although you seem to have no great love for it," he added, I had intended for you to keep the enameled box." For the first time, he allowed himself a small, wry smile.
'That won't be necessary. The money will be sufficient." Sufficient! She almost laughed out loud at herself. "Well. When do we—?"
"Start? We've begun, dear lady. Please—join me." He stood partly up from his seat. "This really is an excellent cognac.
Tess came warily back to the table and took her seat. Think of Maggie, she told herself. Think of poor Will and of Father. Think of the shop.
So she did. While Aaron Gould rambled on pleasantly about the relative merits of various brandies, Tess spun quick fine dreams of the wonderful life she would provide for her family. Oh, how happy she would make them! Maggie would have the finest care and she would live to a wonderful age. Tess would see to it. They would never marry but would live together in a nice old house with a big front porch with a swing on it for Maggie. And Will would visit with his wife and children, and her father would live either with Will or with Tess; she would have to think about that. But none of them would ever be tenants and beholden again. Ever.
A few hours; it was a small price to pay.
While she nodded absently, smiling whenever Aaron Gould smiled, she was adding up the cost of outfitting her shop: veiling, twenty cents a yard; braiding, ten cents; silk trimming and gimp, ten cents; flowers and sprays and wreaths of silk and velvet, from four cents to eighty cents; ostrich plumes and tips, never more than a dollar and a quarter. No matter how hard she tried, she could not spend one thousand dollars. She would be able to afford to stock ready-made hats to get things rolling more quickly. The question was, Thames Street or Bellevue Avenue? On the whole, she thought perhaps Thames. Bellevue was too seasonal. Still, if that's where the money shopped ....
By The Sea, Book One: Tess Page 10