Seeing me open my eyes, she waved a hand at me, as if to tell me not to make the effort of speaking again.
“Don’t exert yourself yet. I will send your husband to you, and after that, when you feel well enough, we will let him perform the proper introductions, oui?”
She was gone, with a rustling of her long skirts, before I could protest, and then Mark was bending over me, his face concerned.
“Rowena! I had no idea… why, my poor girl, how you must be suffering. Lie still. Are you sure you will be all right now?”
I tried to sit up, and he put his hand on my shoulder, gently, but firmly.
I was frowning with the effort of trying to remember. “What happened to me? I’ve had more champagne than I had last night, and never felt so unwell. Mark—I cannot remember…”
But I did—it was beginning to come back in snatches. The mirror… Mark undressing me, caressing me… the dizzy feeling that had made everything whirl around me and seem unreal…
“It was not a very good champagne, I’m afraid, and I should have remembered your delicate condition.” Mark laughed suddenly and boyishly, “I’m afraid you were quite drunk, my love! And it’s a pity you cannot remember, for I can—every detail, I must confess.” He leaned close to me and whispered, “Never have I known a woman so passionate, so abandoned! My darling, you were everything I imagined you would be.”
Was it possible? How was it I could not remember? But then, the whole evening seemed rather vague to me. There was only a slight soreness between my thighs to remind me that I was now Mark’s wife in every way. I told myself that it would all come back later, but I must have seemed unusually quiet for the rest of the afternoon, while we journeyed to the Kingman Ranch, which was some thirty or forty miles distant from Socorro.
My silence was put down to the fact that I had been so ill this morning. They were all very patient with me, and from time to time Mark would give my hand a reassuring squeeze. He seemed so confident, so sure of himself! I watched him, and listened to him talk, and wondered how it was possible that I had once accused him of being nothing more than his uncle’s lackey.
We were riding in the Kingmans’ own light carriage—custom-made by Abbot & Downing, I had noticed. John Kingman was a still-handsome, graying man of about forty-five or so. Monique, his wife, must have been at least ten years younger. And yet, there was an air of easy comradeship and affection between them. She spoke vivaciously, gesturing with her hands; I could not help noticing that she had long and slender fingers that were accentuated by the rings she wore.
Later that day, soon after the lamps had been lit, I was to hear Monique play on the grand piano that her husband had ordered snipped from Europe, especially for her. To this day, I cannot hear a piece by Chopin without remembering Monique, her auburn hair catching the light as she bent her head over the keyboard.
She wore black that first evening. Stark and unaccentuated, and her skin seemed to take on a pearly sheen under the lights. She was beautiful, and she played like an angel. No wonder John Kingman seemed so proud of her!
The ranch house was large and rambling, built Texas-style, Mr. Kineman explained. It was by no means a palace, such as Todd had built for himself, but far larger than my own small house, although it was built of stone and adobe, with a shingle roof.
“It’s just a typical ranch house, nothing very grand,” Monique said with a deprecating shrug when she showed me through it. But it was comfortable inside, and the guest room where Mark and I would sleep was spacious and airy, with a polished wooden floor that had colorful rugs scattered over it.
I assured Monique that I would be very comfortable here, and she smiled, showing white, slightly pointed teeth. “Oh, but I hope so! For I have already told Mark that you must stay longer than just a few days. I think it is a ridiculous idea, to take you all the way to Boston, traveling all those miles when you are enceinte—only to turn right around and come back. Why should you not spend your honeymoon here? Me, I would not trust that uncle, that fierce Monsieur Shannon. He is—what is the word?—a very unscrupulous man. I think he would not want you to keep what is yours.”
I felt that Monique was the kind of woman who would always speak her mind. She knew of my condition; she knew how short a time Mark and I had been married. And yet she showed no signs of condemning me, but seemed slightly amused instead.
It was growing more and more obvious to me that Mark’s friends knew more about me than I knew of them, in fact, and this was borne out later on that same night, as we sat around the supper table while a smiling Mexican maid cleared away the dishes.
John Kingman, who was a man of few words, was leaning back in his chair puffing on a cigar, a glass of bourbon before him. The rest of us sipped some excellent cognac, which Monique confided had come all the way from France.
“Mark brought it back for us—two cases. Wasn’t that nice of him? All I want from Paris is some really good cognac, I told him. And you see? He kept his promise. Mark always keeps his promises, do you not, mon cher?”
“I did not know you had been to Paris!” I looked from Mark to Monique. “Why, we’ve spoken often of Europe, and never once did he mention…”
“Did he not? Mark, you are a wicked man! Yes, of course he has been to Paris—it was about two years ago, I think, and when he came back—ah, he could talk of nothing but you. Remember I told you that Mark always keeps his promises? This was one that he made then. He told me, ‘Monique, I have seen the woman that I am going to marry someday.’ And he has done so…”
Before I could speak, Mark leaned forward and took my hand. As it had been last night, his face was rather flushed. “I was going to tell you last night, dearest, but—I’m afraid you made me forget everything but yourself.”
His low, intimate tone made me embarrassed as well as angry.
“You spoke of honesty between us!”
“So I did—on both sides, remember? Tonight we will tell each other all our secrets.”
Monique broke into the awkward moment with a bright laugh. “Look at them, John! They are still lovers. And perhaps we should be tactful, you and I, and allow them to go to bed, yes?”
It was all I could do to maintain an air of politeness as we said our good nights. I had been deceived too often, and to think that Mark, of all people, whom I thought the only man I could trust, and had married…
“How could you?” I stormed at him as soon as the door had closed behind us. “All these months, when you pretended to be my friend, encouraged me to confide in you—”
“Rowena!” He caught my shoulders, forcing me to face him. “This is not like you, to be so quick to condemn. I remember that you defended Luke Cord almost to the end, even after he had deceived you in the worst possible way.”
“Oh!” I felt as if he had struck me. “How long will you throw that in my face in order to cover up your own perfidy?”
“Until I have proved to you that he is not worth your regrets! Until you are able to dismiss his memory with a grimace of distaste! Can’t you see that everything I do and have done is all for you, Rowena?” He did not give me a chance to reply, but went on heatedly. “Yes, I saw you in Paris. A glimpse of you at the theater once, with your mother and stepfather. And—other times. I tried to get myself invited to all the balls and intimate parties where you would be invited. I saw your picture in the newspapers, the glorious portrait that was painted of you and now hangs in the Prince D’Orsini’s private collection in Venice. I heard what they called you—‘the marble goddess,’ was it not? And I guessed, no, I knew, even then, that you were not made of cold marble, that underneath that withdrawn and icy look there was a real woman. Warm and passionate and vibrant…”
I tried to twist away from him, but he held me fast.
“You have not explained anything!” I said coldly at last. “Why you deceived me, why you pretended…”
“I did not even recognize you at first, in that ugly disguise! Don’t you remember? And after tha
t—well, you wanted to be left alone. And then, when you showed some slight warmth toward me, I didn’t want to spoil anything, in case you might think me like all the other men you seemed to despise. So I waited. Why do you think I remained so long at the ranch? I waited, Rowena, and we became friends. I began to hope, but I warned myself to go slowly, to be careful. I knew that you had been hurt and disillusioned, that for all your poise and beauty you were frightened of me underneath.”
“This is ridiculous!”
“No—it is not! Admit it, you distrusted men. And then—oh, God, can you imagine my feelings when my uncle told me bluntly that he wanted you, and meant to have you? That he had kissed you, and you had responded? He warned me that you were his property, and after a time I began to feel that this was really so. You quarreled with him, stood up to him, swore you would never marry him, and yet—do you think, loving you as I did, that I could not see how flushed and breathless you seemed after you had been alone with him? I knew he had been kissing you, I had seen that triumphant gleam in his eyes before. I tried to warn you…”
“Yes,” I said in a dull voice. “Yes, I know you did. Just as you tried to warn me about Lucas. But that still does not explain…”
“I am coming to that.” Mark’s voice became serious. “Come here, sit down beside me on the bed, Rowena. No, I will not do more than put my arm around you—yet. But you must listen.”
It sounded almost too simple, the way Mark explained it. He had seen me in Paris and had fallen in love with me. He had tried in vain to get an introduction to me, had haunted my favorite theaters and art galleries. But I had never noticed him.
“Why should you? You moved in another sphere, another plane. Lady Rowena Dangerfield—and I was only a middle-class American, on his Grand Tour in Europe. How could I ever manage to meet you?”
But Mark had, in the end, contrived it. Having found out who I was, it was he who had informed my father of the fact that my grandfather was dead, and I was no longer living in India, but was under the care of my mother and her husband.
“You did that? All that—on the slender chance that I might agree to come to America?”
“I would have taken any chance at all! And of course, just to see your father’s face when I told him made it all worthwhile, even if you had not wanted to come. He used to talk about you by the hour, Rowena!”
“But why didn’t you tell me all this before? Surely, once I had agreed to marry you…”
“For this very reason that we are sitting here now, instead of lying in each other’s arms. I was afraid you would be angry and turn against me. I wanted to wait, until I was more sure of you—until I had had the time to win your love. And last night…”
I did not want to think about last night. I still had an indefinable feeling of repugnance, thinking that I could have abandoned myself so wantonly, without even knowing what I was doing. Was that the kind of woman I really was? Was lust my own particular devil?
Mark did not give me time for more introspection. His manner becoming firm and self-confident again, he insisted that we would finish our talk tomorrow.
“I wonder how many more secrets you are keeping from me,” I said tiredly, and he smiled, drawing me to my feet.
“No secrets. Only surprises—and pleasant ones, I hope. And you, my love?”
“It has become obvious that you know much more about me than I do of you!” I returned sharply. “And as for the rest, perhaps you will discover that too—tomorrow!”
The truth was that I no longer knew how to deal with Mark, or what I could expect of him. I was relieved that he was too patient—or too clever?—to press me further tonight, but contented himself with unhooking my gown, telling me that he was going outside to smoke a cigar and talk over some business with John Kingman.
If he returned to our room, it was long after I had fallen asleep. I did not wake up, although I was troubled by strange dreams, that made me move about restlessly. In the morning the covers trailed onto the floor and the bed linens were all rumpled, and still damp with sweat. I was alone, and the only dream I could remember vividly was that I had been lying with Lucas, and he had been making love to me…
I found myself left alone with Monique for most of that day, Mark having ridden out early in the morning with Mr. Kingman. She wore a thin blouse of pale orange silk, which in some strange fashion seemed to complement the rich color of her hair, instead of clashing with it. Under the blouse Monique wore nothing—the outline of her breasts and nipples clearly visible. Beside her vivid, bright beauty and vivacity of manner, I felt myself to be dull and insignificant. How could any man think me beautiful when Monique was present?
“You feel better this morning, eh?” Her slanted green eyes swept over me and she nodded with satisfaction. “Oui—the dark rings are gone from your eyes. You look more as Mark described you. You do not take offense, I hope, that I am frank? I have always been so. Sometimes it makes John angry, that I must always speak what is on my mind. But I tell him… ‘You knew how I was when we married. If you cannot take me as I am now, well, I will go away.’” Monique stretched with unself-conscious, sensuous grace. “And you know what? This he does not want. He needs me. I am a… how do I say it? I am a clever thinker, me. As you are, Mark tells us.”
The morning passed, with Monique alternately yawning and gossiping. She was lonely, she told me, but she struck me as being a very self-sufficient woman, as well as one used to having her own way. She did not exactly say so, but I received the impression that she and John Kingman enjoyed a rather unique relationship. She spoke of trips to New Orleans and San Antonio and even to San Francisco—but always separately. “Someone has to stay here and look after things, yes?” And once she mentioned that jealousy had no part in a perfect marriage.
“Is there any such thing?” I could not help sounding rather bitter, and Monique, after a sidewise glance, gave a gurgle of laughter.
“Wait,” she said wisely. “You have a lot to learn yet!”
And then, jumping to her feet as if she could not bear to sit still for too long, she asked if I would care to go riding with her. “Just a little way, I don’t want to tire you.”
I noticed, for the first time, the unusual lack of activity around the ranch house. The maids were Mexican, buxom and giggling, and the cook a wizened old Frenchman who had accompanied Monique from Louisiana. But the few men who lounged outside looked more like gunmen than cowboys, and did not seem to have any particular duties to perform. I was struck, too, by the strange isolation of the house itself. Nestled in the foothills, it was built on a small plateau that commanded a view of the rolling Estancia Valley. Behind, the layered peaks of the Los Piños mountain range towered thickly forested; and in the distance to the left the Manzano Mountains.
As we followed the narrow and winding trail that led us downwards, Monique said laughingly, “And now you see why we so seldom have visitors! This place is too difficult to find, and the trail too rough to get here easily—you remember how sick you felt yesterday?”
Yesterday, I reflected grimly, I had been too ill to remember very much, nor to notice much either. But today my mind seemed to have cleared and I observed too many things that puzzled me.
A clearing guarded by heavily armed men who put up their rifles only when they recognized Monique. Far too many cattle milled around in this one spot, and some of them wore unfamiliar brands, although a certain amount of branding was going on at the moment we passed through. Monique stopped only to ask a few questions, her voice clear and businesslike, and then we rode on through a thickly growing stand of trees, splashing through a shallow stream to come out into another small cleared space.
“One of the bunkhouses,” Monique said airily. “Some of our men stay here too, but we keep this place mostly for… certain friends who may be passing through, or wish a safe place to stay for a few weeks.”
Safe? My look must have been questioning, for she laughed.
“I can see that Mark has not
told you anything. Perhaps he preferred that I should do so. I believe that Mark is still a little bit shy of you; isn’t that silly?”
I agreed that it was. I was suddenly very cold, very clear-minded. And as we turned our horses back towards the house and Monique continued to talk, I began to understand everything. It would be left to Mark, when he returned late in the afternoon, to tell me the rest.
Forty-One
Was this really the man I had thought of as “poor Mark,” and even, sometimes, “dear Mark”? I had begun to notice in him a certain resemblance to Todd. Mark was almost as tall; they had the same coloring. And he had thrown off his diffident air to become almost as arrogant, just as self-assured. The difference was that Mark was much more intelligent than Todd. He had reason and logic behind every action, whereas Todd had been more given to shouting and bluster.
Suddenly there was a rational explanation for all that puzzled me.
“Why did you have to pretend?” I asked Mark, and he gave me a twisted smile.
“Did I have a choice? You know what Uncle Todd is like. ‘Overbearing’ is the kindest way to describe him. I was his ‘lawyer nephew’ and he was contemptuous of that. After all, what had my father achieved besides being appointed a judge before he died? Todd Shannon—the illiterate rough-and-tumble fighter from Ireland—he had everything. Land. Money. Position. Power. Yes, you were right. I was supposed to be his lackey. Grateful for the fact that he had chosen me to be his heir, because there was no one else. I must give up my career, my friends, the civilized way of life. And all to come here and run his errands. Follow his orders. ‘Yes, Uncle Todd’ and ‘No, Uncle Todd.’ Do as you’re told, Mark, even if it means staying away from the woman you love. As long as I had no choice, Rowena, I did as I was ordered to. And I learned. Just as you did once.”
The Wildest Heart Page 51