Judith Ivory

by Black Silk

  Nudging his horse, Graham entered the corridor of trees. Very distantly, he could see the gatehouse.

  As he walked his horse along, he noticed that chestnuts lay in the roadbed, rolling about, crunching under the hooves of his horse, popping out of their spiny shells. He had never seen this before—the fruit ripening and left on the ground. He had lugged bags of these chestnuts up this road. He and William, with Henry overseeing now and then. The chestnuts were not to be entrusted to servants. For half of every year, they were the treat at eleven o’clock tea. They were the gift at Christmas for all the local scholars and farmers. Graham had forgotten about the chestnuts of Motmarche, nutty and aromatic when roasted. The taste of fall. Sweet, in syrupy jars by winter, available through spring.

  At the gatehouse, he had to get down from his horse and let himself in; no one was there. Graham’s heart began to thump. The place was deserted. He would be alone here with Submit. The thought began to beat through his brain.

  On the other side of the gates, he urged his horse to a trot. As the trees flickered by, between them he glimpsed outer lands. There were woods, grasslands with black-faced sheep grazing, then came the family chapel, distantly nestled, with its twin spires. Behind the chapel was the dairy. Beside this was a poultry house so large it might have been taken for a small stable. The servants’ quarters lay clustered together like the cottages of a village. There were orchards—four kinds of apples, an acre of French pears. There was a large, walled kitchen garden, its own small farm, and a distant pasture fenced off neatly for horses with the stable, a kingdom unto itself, beyond. Then, before him in the far distance, the house itself materialized.

  Turrets and tiers rose up, like a slice of wedding cake, through the trees. Mullioned windows blinked in the sun. As Graham rode closer, Motmarche unfolded and unfolded and unfolded out of the woods that surrounded it, out of the lane of trees, born like a wunderkind to become an elegant, symmetrical castle on a rise of land. It was laid out in spectacular color, its turrets and domes a bright verdigris-blue against its marble white stones. It grew and grew, until Graham could see even the cressets at the far ends, bracketed into the thick walls. In times gone by, these metal baskets had been stuffed with ropes soaked in rosin or oil or pitch, to burn like beacons in the night. They had guided galloping horsemen across the fields, into the bowels of the Castle of Motmarche. Beneath the structure, the cavernous cellar, full of wine in Graham’s youth, had once been a dungeon, a labyrinth pass-through that could swallow up a small army of warriors. Graham had never gone down there without hearing the echoes of hooves pounding in his imagination, at least fifty strong, the sound clamoring against the vaulted stone ceilings and walls.

  Motmarche. At night, it could be lit up by its cressets and torches, becoming an incredible vision, its walls turned to sheets of fiery light. By day, as a man rode up to it, its balance and majesty impressed with their absolute authority to lay claim to the word palace: perfect, ornamented, bright. It stood before Graham, stone by stone, exactly as it had always been in his memory. The only surprise, as he tied his horse, was a vehicle he recognized down the bend in the drive. He could not quite believe it at first. It looked distinctly like one of Rosalyn’s carriages.

  Graham frowned, pondering the likelihood of her carriage being part of what he should see in Cambridgeshire—when two days ago he’d left her more than a hundred miles away. She couldn’t afford to load her carriage onto the train. Was she careening, hell-bent, even as he had been arranging for a house for her in London? While he was talking to Tate? Had she known where Submit was all along? How much trouble could she cause? Graham hastened up the steps. He didn’t care who stood between himself and Submit, he would have his say, plead his case—even though he hadn’t quite been able to articulate to himself yet exactly what his case was.

  The bell wasn’t answered till the fourth pull. The servant who opened the door stepped back in startled surprise.

  “Why, Master Graham.”

  Graham was for a moment equally nonplussed. He knew the man, though he couldn’t remember a name.

  The interior of the house had the same sort of feel, an astonished, welcoming familiarity not easy to label. The entryway, with its six-foot-thick walls, was wonderfully cool and dry. Niches along the wall held the exact same statuary as had stood in them twenty years before, including the broken “Phaedra in Repose,” who had lost a marble finger when he had slung a cricket bat accidentally against it. As he was guided through, every room, every stairway, every hall called to him. He found himself surprised and pleased to find so much unchanged. It made him want to touch, to reexplore the most quotidian of corners. So much familiar association called to him to visit it properly, like an old acquaintance. In the main hall of the keep, at the very center of Motmarche, he stopped and looked around.

  “Where are they?” he asked.

  “The north terrace, sir.”

  “I know the way.”

  “Yes, of course, my lord.”

  On his own, Graham felt suddenly foolish. It felt odd, impossible, even silly that he had stayed away so long.

  He came to the study full of books. Dark and ominous, with its Persian carpets and heavy woods and walls and walls of dark leather books, it was always the room that had felt most like Henry. Walking through it was like walking into the musty dense matter of another’s soul. The terrace outside it, however, was the reverse. Crystal panes in the heavy oak doors looked out onto light. An old wych elm, older than time itself, more than three stories tall, sheltered a small patio like a green awning.

  The terrace door opened noisily with a new squeak it had acquired. There were unfamiliar chairs of curved wrought iron, beautifully kept. A small table was set with confections and sherry. And beside this sat a young woman, her back partly to him, whom he almost didn’t recognize. Small, petite, she wore a dress made of thin blue-striped taffeta, a white quilted underskirt, ribbons, lace, flounce. Her skirts spilled artfully onto the tiles of the patio floor, over the armrest of her chair. Her hair was pulled back into a net, a reticulation of gold threads that held her profuse hair in a neat billow, the style of the day. That was the word: a stylish woman. Tastefully decorated, demure, pristine. Like an idealized picture—young aristocratic woman, her position and accomplishments worn in the ease with which she sat. Gerald Schild was sitting opposite her, his legs comfortably stretched out and crossed: The carriage had transported the husband, not the wife.

  On seeing Graham, Schild lifted his eyes. They were wary, withdrawn, revealing a man as hopelessly morose as ever. These eyes were reluctant to let Graham intrude, leaving the impression that if allowed, Schild would go on indefinitely as if Graham were not there at all. The man looked back to Submit.

  “It’s a domestic arrangement easily worked out,” he said. “I shall write her a good reference and let her go. Perhaps you would prefer to hire one here, bring her across. It might make you feel more at home to deal with an Englishwoman.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Gerald—”

  Then she knew Graham’s presence, even if Schild preferred not to acknowledge it. Submit turned her head.

  There was an awful moment of recognition, not of each other, but of an outer context. They each saw themselves in roles never fully appreciated or experienced before: a delayed meeting between Henry’s wife and Henry’s ward. She was so perfectly composed, so at ease in this house. By some subtle shift, Graham was put in his place, his hat literally in his hand. He stared at its brim.

  Submit didn’t even flinch. Instead, as gracefully as you please, she rose. “Lord Netham.” Her hand invited him to a chair. “Have you come to say good-bye?” She was politely, cheerfully, asking a lie.

  Her civility, along with the unyielding self-possession in her face, seemed almost edged with defiance. Lord Netham, indeed. Graham sat. “No,” he said. “I have come to ask you not to go.”

  Her eyes went down to her lovely manicured hands, then slid to Schild, as if asking suf
ferance. “Our boat leaves at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “We shall not go until then.”

  Our. We. These small words weighed on Graham with the enormous information they conveyed. Blackly, looking from one to the other, he asked, “What is this?”

  He must have looked as though he needed help, because she came to sit solicitously in the chair next to him, bending forward. “Cousin.” She spoke very gently. “Mr. Schild has asked me to marry him. I’m leaving for America.”

  “How? It can’t be true. There hasn’t been time—”

  “We started seeing each other right after he brought me a coat I had left at his house—”

  “The black coat?” Graham asked. The black coat from months ago that he himself had found, then left, in London. His fury compounded.

  “Why, yes.” She was surprised. “Gerald brought me my coat. We began seeing each other right after that.” She couched her face, not offering long explanations. “We are to be married aboard ship, on our way to America.” Like a small concession, she added, “Perhaps you will visit one day.”

  Graham stood abruptly. “Oh, that would be fucking splendid. Schild.” He turned on the man. “I want to speak to her alone.”

  “Not if you’re going to speak like that—”

  Graham took a step toward him. “Get out of here, you son of a bitch!”

  “Now see here—”

  “When did you take her the damned coat? Have we been trading women back and forth all summer—”

  Schild stood. “I’m not leaving. If you have something decent to say—”

  Submit interceded. “Gerald, he’ll calm down if you go. And we still need to crate the carriages—there is so much more to do.” She added, not rebelliously, but with a frightening, definitive competence, “You can’t do anything about this.” She could, her tone said.

  Schild remained there, full of remonstrance. For God’s sake, Graham thought to himself, if I am here, you fool, then Rosalyn must be free. Why don’t you go pester her? The jealous question rose again. How long had the man been seeing Submit? Just who had been taking whose leftovers?

  Reluctantly, Schild nodded. He kissed her quickly. On the mouth. He touched her arm. Both were the briefest of contacts, but nonetheless Graham wished fervently they hadn’t happened: The man had kissed her before. How many times? He’d touched her before. In what way? How often? Graham turned his back, though not for their privacy but for his. His chest constricted so tightly he couldn’t swallow.

  As soon as Schild was gone, Graham turned on Submit, more violently than he’d meant to. “You let him kiss you, so easily, just like that?”

  “I care for him, and I’m going to marry him.” She spoke the words like a recipe or algorithm; her own little bland formula for happiness.

  “And me?”

  Her look hinted at more resentment for having to come across on this question. “You have always”—she paused, as if debating the wisdom of honesty—“thrilled me.”

  “You’re damn right—”

  “Like fireworks.” She made a brisk, denigrating click of her tongue, so as he wouldn’t misunderstand. “I can’t live in the midst of your pyrotechnics, Graham.”

  “I’m more to you than that.”

  “Perhaps—”

  “For certain. What sort of hysterical mess are you making—”

  “I’m not the one behaving hysterically.”

  “Yes you are.” He took a breath. “Yours is the worst sort of hysteria. Cold and controlled. When I asked if you were going to run away, I never dreamed you’d run as far as across an ocean to another continent.”

  She startled, frowned, then let out a little breath, before she said, “I’m not running. I’m starting anew.”

  He made a disgusted sound. “With a man who loves someone else—”

  “Gerald loves me differently. Without all the unhealthy insanity of obsession and passion—”

  “Jesus!” Graham threw up his hands.

  He paced to the patio’s edge, folding his arms, standing spread-legged; a slightly theatrical stance from having so little practice at rampaging in earnest. “You’re running off, away from me. With a wounded man.” Quoting Rosalyn without conscience, he said, “Who’ll paw you like a bear. He has the temperament of a beaten dog—”

  “Not with me, he doesn’t. I’m good for hi——”

  “The old, the sick, and the wounded, Submit.” He looked over his shoulder. “What’s wrong with loving a man who might give you a run for your money?”

  She didn’t answer. And finally she didn’t look so damned calm. She had a hand pressed to her blue-striped breast, her fingers over the low neckline. He stared, then wet his lips. Perhaps the neckline wasn’t so low, actually, for anyone else. But to see Submit’s naked collarbone, her pale, freckled chest…

  “Gerald is more than you’re giving him credit for.” She looked down, aware of his look. At the ground, she made an impatient face. “And with him, I feel balanced, safe. He’s asked me to marry him. We have a commitment to each other.”

  “He broke his previous commitment.”

  “It was broken for him. Before the divorce.”

  “Or perhaps hasn’t been broken at all, in that respect—despite a divorce.”

  “I will make what I can with what I am given.”

  “I can hardly believe this.”

  “Graham, you don’t realize that Gerald—”

  He interrupted. “No, I think I am the only one who thinks about Gerald, these days. In fact, I think about him quite a lot.” After a pause, he said, “And it is the saddest thing I can imagine: to exchange one indifferent wife for another.”

  Submit let out a breath. “That’s not your—”

  “Do you like him?” Without waiting for an answer, he asked, “Do you even admire him a bit? Poor Gerald. He doesn’t upset you—or thrill you, does he? He inspires only your sweet, comfortable indifference.” He waited, then added harshly, “I think that is the most deadly reaction any human being can provoke.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. It was possible her lip trembled, but then she drew in a deep breath, before saying curtly, “I am content with the evenness of the course I have set for myself. Now if you’ll excuse me.” She indicated the door, turning briskly toward it.

  He followed her.

  At the door, he reached in front of her for the knob. He didn’t touch her or even intend to. Yet the second she saw his arm, she turned—an abrupt churn of skirts that matched a ragged breath she drew in—and said, “I will scream, I promise.” He saw her breasts heave once, twice.

  It took him a few seconds to understand. He withdrew his arm, the same arm that had held her hostage against a staircase banister. “I was only opening the door for you.”

  There was an odd moment where, he could have sworn, a flash of disappointment crossed her face. Then it was quickly washed over by relief; she relaxed. Her skin flushed pink as she stared at him. She wet her lips, then pressed them together and swallowed. Her eyes dropped. She and Graham stood there, so near that their clothes touched, that his hat lost its brim in her skirts. He felt a vein in his neck begin to beat, the blood in his arms come alive. His groin stirred.

  He stood frowning, baffled for several long seconds before it dawned on him. “You like this, don’t you?” he murmured. “I’ll bet you haven’t had a good snapping fight in two months.” He narrowed his eyes. “And you know how I feel. That I—” Emotion, yearning roiled up in him so powerfully, he realized he was going to say something sexual, something dirty.

  He took a measured breath, inhaling slowly; exhaling. He did this twice. And still the words, the thoughts buzzed. He wanted to penetrate this woman everywhere, with his penis and fingers and tongue, lick her naked body, without considering reservations or restraints. He wanted to express with all that was proper and all that was profane that he loved her beyond limits, beyond rationality.

  He watched her close her eyes.

/>   “Will you please go?” she said. Her voice was almost inaudible. “You’re absolutely right. It’s pure sickness that I should want—revel in—your upheaval.” She turned her back on him, turning toward the wall like a child putting herself in the corner. “Go,” she whispered. “Please just go.”

  Graham wondered what had become of all the pretty speeches he’d intended Submit—”

  Vehemently, she said, “I am going with him. In one day’s time. Why did you have to come? Go away. Just go.”

  He looked at her a moment longer, then, beaten, empty, frustrated, he turned and pushed his way through the door.

  He might have finished there, kept up his brisk exit from room to room all the way out the front door—but for the sudden, reconstituting sight of Gerald Schild. He was sitting in the study behind Henry’s desk.

  Fury rose up instantly in Graham, like black bats taking flight from his chest. He bellowed, “Are you still here!” He half lunged over the desk. Schild sprawled backward, out of the chair. “Haven’t you grasped that Rosalyn is waiting for you?” he shouted. “She is a thorough wreck. She is alone at Netham without the first idea what to do with herself. Waiting for something, for someone, for you!”

  “Sh-she’s not—”

  “She is, if you’ll make it so. You’re packed, with two tickets for America. Go get her, for God’s sake, and take her home.”

  The man’s eyes lifted, helpless, full of apology and contrition. They spoke to a presence just beyond Graham’s shoulder. “If—if she’s really bad off—”

  Graham heard Submit behind him utter the briefest of sighs. “Go on, Gerald. Check on her, at least. If it will make you feel better.”

  “Y-yes, I—I’ll just see if she’s all right—”

  It was an ancient house, where every sound echoed off its hard floors, its stone walls, through the cool air and into its high domes. Gerald Schild’s steps faded off audibly. Click, click, click, a turn into the next room, click, click, click, toward Netham and the beautiful, floundering—needy—Rosalyn Schild. The sound tapped a kind of certainty into Graham’s brain: Whether Submit liked it or not, he had probably just disposed of Schild, as surely as if he’d shoved the man into the Atlantic himself, to sail out only on the small raft of wishful hope.