Roger drew a deep breath. “Say nothing now,” he said quietly. “We will think for a few days, and we will know what to do.” Then he took me by the arm and guided me down the stairs in silence, bidding me a formal “good night” at the bottom. We separated, and he strode away firmly in the moonlight.
Dreamily, I made my way to my room, my mind swirling. Roger’s revelations had entirely erased my reasons for ending our connection. Each of us came to our attitudes about women’s careers and motherhood separately and painfully — but we had reached the same conclusions, and we were in total agreement. What reason would there be, therefore, to keep us apart?
There was more, of course. On this beautiful, pulsing island, perhaps especially on this island, I was remembering the Polynesian customs I had read about, the handsome young people enjoying each other without shame or deceit. Reading about the Polynesians had given me a clear image of lovemaking, of intercourse as an expression of affection, good spirits, and goodwill. Did Roger want this experience with me? I had the impression that a man’s needs were more dominant and demanding than a woman’s. Of course I had never discussed this with anyone — whom could I have asked? Even dear Kate and I had only skimmed the surface of these deep waters.
In bed I turned and tossed. My body would not reach its usual peace. It was not Roger alone who sought this experience. My restless aching called out for the man who had traveled all this way to find me.
I am an adult woman, I told myself, who would harm no one. But as I drew one conclusion, its opposite would appear, and my mind would spin again. It was nearly daybreak before I fell asleep.
The next morning at breakfast, Roger was, as always, the courteous guest, asking Miss Adelaide about Barbados and the York Stairs sugar operation. Conversation then turned to the day’s itinerary.
“Since my college days I have had a secret passion, Miss Adelaide,” Roger confessed. “And that passion is — wave riding! I used to visit a classmate on Cape Cod, and I learned to ride the waves there. I would love to take Miss Chase and teach her how. Where shall I do that?”
Miss Adelaide recommended starting at Horseshoe Beach and Galleon Bay, which I knew, and perhaps going on to Lantana Reach, where the rolling waves were better suited for the stronger swimmers. She also suggested that Elena might accompany her to the weekly flower market, which was to take place that morning in town and which would give her much joy. Elena was truly excited at this prospect, and Roger and I were free to go off in the governess cart, drawn by the torpid Hercules. Roger did not refer to last night, nor did I, but I felt the electricity between us. He talked around it; he was friendly and, for the moment, impersonal. He reminded me of his more reserved trustee self that I had met in New York!
At Horseshoe Beach the waves were distinct and safe; there was no ditch and no undertow, and we could wade out to beyond the breakers. Roger held me by the waist and pointed me to shore. At the right moment, he lifted me forward to join the breaking wave, and I was able to ride it to the beach on a surge of foam and a rush of exhilaration, thrilled to feel myself a part of the strong sea. I hurried back out to do it again. I remembered, suddenly, swimming with Davy in the Connecticut River and teasing him that he was Michelangelo’s young David. This was different, for now I was with a full-grown man, not a boy, one with a long muscled back and Greek runner’s legs. And I was now a woman, not a teenage girl.
I found myself prolonging the intervals of waiting for the right wave, and I asked Roger’s help in placing my arms for each ride. By noon, when it was time to return to the plantation for lunch, I was tingling with awareness and eager for Roger’s reaction to this intimate morning — but he would talk only about foundation business as we rode back to York Stairs.
In the afternoon I retired for a rest with Elena, delightfully tired and almost as sleepy as my little charge, who was relaxed and happy from her morning’s expedition with Miss Adelaide. When once more I appeared upstairs, Roger was nowhere to be seen, and Miss Adelaide told me he had taken one of the horses and ridden to town.
“He had some business to take care of and letters to post,” she informed me. And then, with a sideways look, she added, “You will see him tonight.”
I blushed. Could she discern my feelings? But she was steadily arranging some bougainvillea in a silver tureen.
Once again I dressed for the evening carefully, wondering if my bronzed skin was to Roger’s liking, wondering if my hair was arranged in a way he would find appealing, suddenly laughing out loud when I realized how girlish and silly such thoughts were. “He will have to see me as I am,” I said firmly, but I was not sure I believed my own words.
The clouds were a towering bronze citadel, delighting us all.
“Do you see such sunsets from your house in Chicago?” I asked Roger.
“Yes, but there is no comparison with these ‘cloud-capp’d towers,’ ” he replied. “I have only a fine winter view of the lake, where the city has placed miles of rocks to protect the shoreline.” He shook his head. “Nothing else could be like this.”
This was the civilized way we talked all through dinner — impersonal, polite. After dessert, when I was counting on a gallery tête-à-tête, Roger rose to excuse himself. I forced myself to hide my disappointment.
“Those waves have worn me out,” he explained. “I’ll go over our notes, Miss Adelaide, and then turn in.” He smiled at her and then at me. “Miranda, I suspect you should get a good rest too, for tomorrow’s wave riding.”
Of course I didn’t. The memory of his hands on my body — and the uncertainty of his thoughts or intentions — made sleep out of the question. What was I to think? How were we to be together? Perhaps he didn’t intend anything, any more than this. When I found that the next two or three days followed the same exasperating pattern, I grew more and more uncertain. And began to feel irritated.
We had progressed to the larger waves at Galleon Bay, where we went each morning. There I floated, waiting in his arms in the lively luminous sea, watching for just the right wave to crest. When Roger lifted me forward, the wave and I became one irresistible headlong force, racing ashore. I did this over and over; I couldn’t get enough of Roger holding me, pointing me, launching me — and then the blissful roar and rush to shore.
“I was the same way with sledding,” I told him when he suggested we take a break. “I always wanted one more ride.”
Roger was careful not to burn in our tropical sun; he oiled himself and then asked me the favor of doing his back and shoulders. I loved the feel of his muscles sliding under my hands and the gleam of his brown skin. I wished I could oil his chest too and his legs that recalled the elegant athletes on the Olympic vases. He wore a sort of short knit overall, but it could not conceal his stunning classical physique. Sometimes I wondered if he requested this daily anointing to remind me of his masculinity.
Then in the evening at dinner and on the gallery afterward, we continued general conversation. On Roger’s sixth night, Miss Adelaide excused herself early, and after dinner Roger and I talked about opera, recalling the performances we attended in New York. The cool breeze lifted my curls as I gazed up at the stars, remembering.
“Opera is wonderfully democratic,” I commented. “Young and old, rich or poor — opera speaks to everyone.”
“That’s because it expresses universal feeling — better than words ever could.”
“You’re right. Often an aria said exactly what I felt about Davy or Kate — only in Italian. It spoke to me, and it spoke for me.”
“Opera goes beyond words,” Roger agreed. “Some feelings won’t fit into words — like this one.”
And finally, finally, he kissed me — gently, deeply. It was not a question, not a prelude. It was simply a statement.
Before this visit to Barbados, I had not kissed a man for seven years, and my response amazed me. I leaned to kiss him again — but Roger evaded me. Instead he stepped backward, smiling in the moonlight.
“Please think
about that as you go to sleep, Miranda. We will talk tomorrow, in the waves.”
And at last I did think, as I slowly and dreamily undressed in my room, that something wonderful was going to happen, that Roger and I would affirm our bond, a bond neither legal fiction nor social morality could pull asunder. Roger might not be free to marry, but he was free in another way — for a great love, and with me. I would wait and see what tomorrow, and the waves, would bring.
In the morning we headed for Lantana Reach. There the surf appeared taller than at Galleon Bay but still manageable — till we dove under the waves and swam out to beyond where they crested and broke. Then I saw the scale of the dark menacing shapes gathering and looming over us — and my breath failed me.
“Roger, you want me to ride the Alps!”
“You can do it. I’ll watch for the right one,” he promised, holding me in readiness. We let two monster waves sweep past. Then the third lifted us high over the beach, and he pushed my whole body onto the foaming crest.
“Go!” he shouted. And I felt the entire Atlantic under me, behind and around me. The wave owned and used me, tipping me along its crystal curve, booming in my ears, bearing me ashore wildly — then smoothly — then casually. I was laid tenderly on the wet sand, with a caress. All that violence died in a little frill, running sweetly over my extended arms.
I was lying there, weak and proud and incredulous, when Roger glided in on the next wave to stretch beside me.
“Oh, Roger — I never — never in all my life —” I breathed.
“I know.” I heard his whisper, and as I rolled over to smile at him, I saw he was leaning over me, his eyes intent. And then, with a great rush, his face was buried in my hair, his hands were stroking my shoulders, my breasts, until we were entwined with each other, our bodies together in such a rush of passion that I felt my heart would stop. But it was beating, and before my body surged into another world, I heard myself whispering, “At last, at last . . .”
Like my decision to leave Springfield and Ethan, my choosing to become Roger’s lover was not sudden at all. I had already gone over and over the reasons I might do so — and understood now the prescience in Miss Adelaide’s toast the evening of my arrival here. As it did so many years ago, this place, York Stairs, would once more restart my future. And there was a reason more compelling than any of these: I could not do otherwise. I desired all of Roger’s body with all of mine.
I bathed and dressed in my favorite evening dress: Madame Lauré’s white linen, draped like one of Artemis’s tunics. Before the cloud-show hour, I knocked at Miss Adelaide’s door.
“Come in, dear child. How that gown does flatter your complexion!” She turned to a vase on her bedside table and handed me an exquisite rose, a deep rosy gold. “You are a ‘Lady Caroline Paget’ tonight. Don’t you just love the English flower names?”
When I failed to answer, she looked at me closely.
“Is Mr. Daniels leaving, Miranda?”
“No, Miss Adelaide. I believe he would like to stay on at York Stairs a little longer.”
“Then I will invite him to do so, tonight. He is surely charming company.”
“Miss Adelaide, I wanted to thank you.”
“There is no need to thank me for anything.” She took my arm, smiling. “You are more than a guest here; York Stairs is your home.”
At midnight, as Roger and I had previously arranged, I stepped from my bedroom out to the moonlit path, walking between the tall syringa bushes bowed with blossom, stirring in the sweet night wind. Roger came to meet me and led me down the cedar path to the beach, where he had laid a cotton mat by the silver water. He took me in his arms, saying my name over and over — otherwise we did not speak.
He was gentle yet forceful and insistent; his will and experience carried us along without hesitation. He slipped my dressing gown of satin cream from my body and tossed his trousers after it. We were naked in the moonlight. Slowly, he pulled me down onto the mat, where he began to stroke me gently — over and over, on and on, in parts that woke under his touch. I was faint with love, fresh with pleasure. His mouth sighed over mine, and then he moved his lips to my neck, to my breasts, and then I felt my blood throbbing everywhere, and I began to moan. I felt his sudden weight and his hard brown back over me. I caressed its muscled length in a way I had longed to do earlier on the beach. When at last he entered me, I knew again that this union was what I had wanted from the very first moment, on the day that we met.
Finally, we cooled, and Roger cradled my head in his arms while we lay for a time on the moonlit sand, half dreaming, half dozing, joined in body and in spirit. Then Roger spoke, his voice low.
“Darling Miranda, I promise there will be more for you soon. You’ll feel just as I do — swept away by love.”
“That is how I feel now, Roger,” I murmured, but he was getting to his feet and pulling me up.
“You will see.” His voice was gentle. “My love, I’m not going to keep you any longer. You will be very tired in the morning.”
I kissed him tenderly. “And it will not matter.” I sighed. “Something as wonderful as this could never make me tired.”
We breakfasted as usual with Miss Adelaide and Elena, entirely at ease; then we rode to Lantana Reach again and dared what Roger called the “professional waves.” We caught three or four, delighting in their height, their danger, their urgent power. We rested on the sand in a harmony of silence. There was much to be discussed, but right now we did better without words. He stroked my shoulders and my back, and I felt a deep sweetness stirring, the same as last night. And I had an inspiration.
“Tonight, could we just go down the path to Learner’s Cove and swim there? The moon is almost full; I have always wanted to swim in the moonlight.”
Roger smiled. “That is a perfect idea.”
He came to my door at midnight, and we walked down the cedar path to the glittering water. Roger dropped his robe and went into the sea naked. After a shy moment, I shed my robe and followed him into the silver water, delightfully warmer than the night air as it caressed our bodies.
Though I was eager with desire, Roger was in no hurry. After spreading the straw mat, he uncorked some delicate French wine.
“This is Pouilly-Fuissé,” he explained. “I found it in Bridgetown. When we make love, I want us to drink our own particular wine.”
After a few sips of the crisp wine, he began to stroke me gently, his strong male hands tender but insistent, and slowly, more and more powerfully. I was faint with love, with pleasure, with longing — and then something happened that I had waited for all my life. There was a feeling of infinite sweetness, a tide, and as I called out, Roger entered me once again, and we rode it together.
“That was a bigger wave than at Lantana Beach,” I murmured, and he laughed tenderly.
“Of course it was, my darling Miranda. That was the biggest wave of all.”
I lay contentedly, drinking the lovely wine, and my head was on his shoulder as though it had always been meant to be there. Roger stroked my curls until we grew drowsy, and then, sighing with happiness, we turned quietly into each other, where we stayed until the sea and the dawn sky and the wet sand at the water’s edge were all the same exquisite pale mauve. Then slowly, sleepily, we returned to our separate beds.
In the quick, fleeting succession of days and nights that followed, Roger and I reveled in a privacy that would have been impossible anywhere else. During the day, we frolicked with Elena, an almost family of three, building elaborate castles in the fine white sand or picking mangoes and coconuts to bring to the cook for the evening’s supper. We took Elena for gentle surfing, where the waves provided us with many small contacts, each one a thrilling promise for midnight. And we often rested on the sand; our shortened nights were tiring! After dinner, on the gallery, when Miss Adelaide had retired, we made our plans.
“I go to New York every month on business,” Roger reminded me. “I expect you will want to visit your fo
undation offices there often.”
“I suspect I will,” I said with a smile. “As often as possible!”
“With the renovations on the school complete, you will be able to stay in the little upstairs apartment. I can use the garden door and visit you there.”
His face was very serious in the light from the evening torches. “I intend to do many other things with you in New York, Miranda, besides making love. Our official relationship is well known. It will permit us to appear together whenever we choose — to go to restaurants, theater, the opera, just as we did before we became lovers.”
This sounded delicious, and I smiled. “It will be very enticing to have such a secret.”
Roger stayed serious. “I am your trustee; I administer your foundation. We will meet openly but correctly and discreetly.”
“The discretion will be the hardest part.” I was still smiling.
Now Roger grinned. “It is only for when we’re in public. In private you can be as indiscreet as . . . this.” And here he pulled me onto his lap, nuzzling my neck.
If we have no choice but to love illicitly, I thought as Roger’s mouth sent tingles along my tender skin, so we should, replenishing commitment to each other with every lush encounter we can steal.
The sad morning came when Roger kissed Miss Adelaide and Elena and me, and bade us good-bye. We continued to wave until his carriage disappeared at the far end of Cedar Avenue, and then we went, subdued, to our usual morning routines: Miss Adelaide to her housekeeping and her arrangements, Elena to her swimming and adventures with Mira, and I to my neglected desk. It was a long and lonely day.
Luckily I had much work that would help me to bear the time until I saw Roger again. And I loved this place, I reminded myself, which, with its great beauty, would keep me cheerful as well. So after our naps Elena and I swam and walked and worked with our shells, and in the evening, after the cloud show and dinner, Miss Adelaide and I took our wine and talked on the gallery. I would never know what she and Roger said to each other, but I discovered she was entirely informed about our particular circumstances.
Afternoons with Emily Page 42