by Jo Graham
“Good God!” I heard a man’s voice say. Oh, I thought drunkenly, I’m not wearing anything but a pillow over my head. The door slammed shut.
Jan and his father were having a shouting match on the upstairs landing.
“Twelve years old! Jesus Christ! Jan, you’re not my son! Jesus Christ! I told you to stay away from her! I ordered you! Jesus Christ!”
“Sir,” said Jan dispassionately, “I informed you that I was going to marry Mademoiselle Versfelt.”
“You are not!” his father shouted. “That little girl is getting dressed and I am taking her straight back to her mother, where I am going to grovel to her family and hope that you don’t face criminal charges. And you are going to be on the next ship to the Dutch East Indies, where you are never going to mess with her again!”
I sat up in bed suddenly, hardly believing that Jan’s father could be so cruel. My body was very stiff and sore, a little blood streaking the insides of my thighs.
Jan didn’t raise his voice. “No, sir, I am not. Because if I am, then Mademoiselle Versfelt is ruined. The marriage has already been consummated. If it does not take place, it is she who will be the injured party. No other suitor will ever wed her. She will remain unmarried the rest of her life, cooped up with her madwoman mother.”
There was a long silence in the hall, so long that I wondered if they had gone away.
Then I heard his father say, in a low, strangled voice that sounded almost like tears, “Damn you. There’s not a drop of human feeling in you, is there? You would do anything for money, regardless of decency.”
“That is your opinion, sir,” Jan said.
His father’s voice was very low. “Tell your fiancée to get dressed. I am taking her back for her mother’s blessing and consent. I will not have her speculated about by all good society. You will be married in the First Reformed Church in Amsterdam like respectable people. God help the poor girl, married to you!”
I lay back on the bed, listening to his father’s footsteps on the stairs, suddenly frightened to death.
That had been seven years ago, and I was no longer the naïve girl I had been then, blinded by dreams of love. I had given him two sons and brought him a great deal of money. I was a good hostess, a personable wife on the arm of an ambitious man. And of course, I brought my family connections, as awkward as it was to trade upon them, showing up at house parties to which we had not been invited.
As a result, I tried to be as pleasant as possible to our hosts. M. van der Sleijden, my distant cousin, was married to a woman of my mother’s age, who immediately bade me call her Aunt Sofie. Their eldest daughter was a lively dark-haired girl of fifteen named Maria.
Maria and I shared many interests, including a love of early-morning horseback rides—Jan was never even up at that time, having stayed up until the wee hours talking politics.
The second day after I arrived, we had a very nice ride, cantering across the fields in the gray morning, the mist rising off every stream and canal, doves calling and crossing the pearly sky. We stopped at the top of a gentle rise and watched the sun come up. Neither of us said anything. It was too beautiful.
Along the line of the canal a man was riding toward us on a black horse, his shadow flung out before him in the morning. I sighed. It was too early for social pleasantry.
“Oh!” Maria said, and I was startled to see her blushing.
I looked at the man again. It was General Moreau. “Do you know Moreau?” I asked Maria.
She bit her lower lip. “I’ve just met him this week. He’s terribly gallant, don’t you think? And a bachelor.”
“Maria, he’s forty if he’s a day,” I began, but could not finish because Moreau rode up, doffing his hat and making a pretty bow from the saddle.
“My dear ladies,” he said.
“Good morning, General,” I said.
Maria blushed again. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“The pleasure is mine,” he said. “Surely your fair countenance lends more to the day’s beauty than does mine.”
I made some sound that might have been a snort.
He raised black eyes to mine, a look of amusement rather than insult there. “Perhaps my countenance does not give Madame Ringeling the same pleasure. The last time we met, she roundly whipped me on the subject of feminine virtue.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “I would hardly characterize our brief conversation that way.”
Moreau inclined his head. “Believe me, Madame, being whipped by you gave me the greatest pleasure.”
“There’s no accounting for taste,” I said tartly.
Maria was gaping. Her eyes were huge, and she stared at me as though to send me some secret message. “If your presence does not please my cousin, it certainly pleases me. I am by no means ready to return to the house. General, would you accompany me on the rest of my ride? Elzelina was just saying how tired she was.”
Moreau inclined his head politely. “Of course, Mademoiselle. I am sure that such an independent woman as Madame Ringeling will have no objection to returning to the house alone.”
“Of course,” I said sweetly. “I am on my way just now to take breakfast with your mother, Maria. Shall I tell her you will be returning soon?”
“Fine,” Maria said. She was looking at Moreau as though he were made of marzipan, a look I distrusted immensely.
At luncheon, Maria would not speak to me. And that evening Jan wanted me at his side constantly to run off anyone who tried to impede his progress at political conversation. I had no chance to talk to Maria until late, when she had already retired. As I came along the corridor, I saw the light under her door and knocked.
“Come in?” she said.
I opened the door. Maria was sitting up in bed, her dark hair braided for the night in two plaits. She was writing in a little journal by the light of a candelabrum beside the bed. “Oh, Elzelina!” she exclaimed.
I shut the door behind me and came and sat on the end of the bed. “Maria,” I said, “I feel that I should warn you. You are very young and—”
Maria turned scarlet. “You know nothing about Victor! Nothing! He’s one of the finest men ever to walk the earth!”
“I do not doubt it,” I said carefully. “And you have told me that he is a bachelor. Indeed, I know nothing to the contrary, and I have enquired of other members of his party this evening. But I think you must be certain that honorable matrimony is his object. He is, after all, more than twice your age—”
“How can you know anything about it?” Maria demanded. “Age is irrelevant when two hearts beat as one.”
I folded my hands. “Maria, I am only trying to help. I know from hard experience how men can take advantage of youth and beauty—”
“You’re just jealous,” Maria said. “You’re nineteen and married and nobody looks at you anymore.”
Now it was my turn to feel the furious heat rising in my cheeks. “Maria, you are clearly infatuated. And if he returns your feelings and wants to marry you, well and good. But I am warning you that if you slip off alone with him again, I will tell your mother.”
Maria threw the journal at me. It caught me at the corner of my left eye, and hurt quite a lot. I resisted the urge to slap her. Instead, I got up and handed it back to her, though my hands were shaking. “I see that you are as stupid as I was. Good night.” I slammed the door on my way out and went back downstairs. I had been so very stupid, and certainly no one could have told me so at the time.
The party was ending. A few gentlemen lingered. Jan had General Pichegru in a corner and was wearing his ear out. Our hostess was nowhere to be seen. Nor our host.
Moreau was pouring another glass of Madeira at the sideboard. I walked in directly, my draped skirts whispering over the parquet floors. He looked up, a little startled. “Madame Ringeling? Would you like a glass of this excellent Madeira?”
“I would,” I said. “And a word with you in private, General.”
His mouth quirked and h
e made a half bow. “It would be my greatest pleasure. I believe the terrace is unoccupied?”
We stepped out through the French doors. The night was cool and moonlit, but not so chilly that I wished for a wrap. The moon was at first quarter and rising clean above the fields. I took a long drink of the Madeira.
“You had something to say to me?” he asked, waiting in his plain black evening dress.
“I want to know the nature of your feelings for my cousin,” I said. “Maria is fifteen, and you have quite turned her head.”
“Ah.” Moreau cradled his glass in his hands. “You are concerned for your cousin’s reputation. An admirable sentiment.”
“It would be more admirable if you answered a direct question,” I said. “Do you intend to marry her?”
“I wondered why you had enquired after my wife’s health with the entire French delegation,” he said, “since there is no such lady. I see that this was by way of intelligence gathering.”
“Are you planning to marry my cousin, or am I going to speak with her father?” I asked. “There are two possible answers, and I will have one or the other.”
Moreau looked down at his glass and smiled in amusement. “Touché, Madame. I have no desire to marry at this point in my life. Your cousin is charming, but I have little patience for the state of matrimony. I fear that she has read far too much into some commonplace pleasantries that I produced for the sake of gallantry. And I see that I have no chance at even such innocent pastimes with a Gorgon guarding her.”
“Men like to term fierce women such monsters,” I said. “But better a Gorgon than a fool, General. Leave my cousin alone, or I will see that her father makes it an affair of honor.”
Moreau did not seem upset. “I will comply with your ultimatum, Madame. I seem to have little choice.”
I nodded. “That is true. And while Maria will be angry now, it is better than that she should do something she would regret for the rest of her life.”
“Does it occur to you that Maria is in every way inferior to you? And that perhaps my ulterior motive in joining you for a ride had nothing to do with the desire to be alone with Maria?”
I looked away and took another drink. “My dear General,” I said calmly, “what flattering sentiments! But as you know, I am a married woman and no fool.”
“Merely married to one,” he said.
I glared at him. Moreau spread his hands. “Madame, do you think I cannot see what a fatuous social climber your husband is? That beneath all his fine talk of democracy and liberty is nothing more than the desire to enhance his own career? His affection for you is a sham, and his principles are the fashion of the day. He is hardly your match in any sense.”
“Jan is a gentleman,” I said. “I do not think that you . . .”
Moreau took a step closer, his eyes on a level with mine. He was taller than I by a finger’s breadth, and in the still night air I caught a faint hint of shaving soap, sandalwood, and oranges. “You cannot tell me that you love him,” he said. “You cannot tell me that he satisfies you in any way.”
“And you could?” I raised my fan between us, causing him to step back. “You think very well of yourself, General.”
“Victor,” he said.
“If you think that I will address you familiarly, you are mistaken,” I said. “I am not interested in being your lover. Or anything at all to you.”
“Can you tell me honestly that you are a faithful wife?” he asked.
“I do not owe an accounting to you,” I said, turning away and taking another sip of my Madeira. Through the French doors I could see Jan still talking with Pichegru. If he looked up, he could see me.
I half-expected Moreau to press, even in full sight of my husband, but he did not. Instead, he carefully balanced his glass beside mine on the railing. “My offer stands,” he said. “Should you tire of him, I am willing to provide other options, options perhaps more appealing to a woman of your wit and taste for danger. And obvious sensuality.”
I flipped my fan open and looked at him over its bars. “I can’t imagine where you would get such vulgar ideas.”
Moreau laughed. “As I said, my offer stands. But now . . . good night, Madame.” He strolled off across the terrace and through the doors. Jan did not look up.
I stayed out on the terrace until I saw Pichegru take his leave of Jan, and my husband put down his glass and prepared to go up. I followed him and knocked softly at the door of the room he was staying in, adjacent to my own. I entered without waiting for him to answer.
Jan was sitting at a table before the window, already working on some piece of correspondence by the light of several candles. He had removed his frock coat, and his cravat was disarranged. He looked at me and frowned. “Yes, Elzelina?”
I closed the door and came to stand behind him. “Hello, Jan.”
“Did you just come up? I hadn’t seen you in quite some time.”
“Yes,” I said. “I was on the terrace talking with General Moreau.”
“Good thinking,” he said, bending over his letter. “Pichegru has the highest opinion of him. Many consider him a finer general than either Dumouriez or Bonaparte.”
“Surely not better than Dumouriez,” I said, thinking of the man they called the Liberator of Holland. “I found him rather tiresome.” I touched the back of Jan’s neck with one finger, running it down to his collar.
“You would. I assume he didn’t talk about fashion.” Jan waved my hand away. “Elzelina, that tickles.”
“No, he tried to seduce me,” I said.
“Obviously he failed,” Jan said. “Assuming that’s what he really meant. The French use so many conversational pleasantries that sometimes it’s possible to read in things that aren’t really there.”
“I’m quite certain he tried to seduce me,” I said. I put my hands on Jan’s shoulders and began kneading them. “I do know what seduction looks like.”
Jan turned around and removed my hands firmly. “Elzelina, I am trying to write a letter. What is it you want?”
“I want you to come fulfill your marital responsibilities,” I said, coloring. “If I am going to say no to Moreau, I believe I have a claim on you.”
Jan just stared at me. “I can’t believe you said that.”
“I can’t believe you don’t even care!”
His voice was perfectly even. “You want me to make some ridiculous display of jealousy over something that may or may not have happened? When even if it did, you handled it both correctly and politely? You have done no more than one might expect of a virtuous wife. And if I can’t trust you to talk to a gentleman in public, where would I be?”
Tears were starting unaccountably in my eyes. “Don’t you even care if a man has designs on your wife?”
“You handled the matter adequately,” Jan said. “There is no reason for any further discussion.”
“You could at least be upset!” I snarled.
“Nothing happened! You said so! You expect me to fly off the handle like some quick-tempered Latin—”
“I expect you to act like you love me,” I said.
“Elzelina, I expect you to act like an adult,” he said. “These girlish fits are unbecoming.” He turned back to his letter. “I have some urgent correspondence that must go tomorrow morning. I don’t have time for these histrionics. You are acting like your mother.”
I felt as though cold water had been thrown in my face. “Fine,” I said. “If that’s how you feel about it, perhaps I will sleep with Moreau.”
“Do you think I care?” he asked dryly. “It might even be helpful, frankly.”
“What?”
“Such things happen. I can’t imagine that there are any married people of our class without diversions of this sort. As long as you are respectable, do you think I care what you do?”
My tears stopped. I straightened up and turned to look at him. He sat there perfectly calm in his well-tailored coat, his hands at his sides and his hair neatly trimm
ed, an expression of complete disinterest on his face, as though he were merely getting through some tiresome task before he could get on with politics.
I began to hate him.
He’d been twenty-five when he had married a girl of twelve for her money. And that was all it was. Money. Not even lust. Not even perversion. He couldn’t care less if I had a dozen lovers as long as I was a perfect hostess. In fact, he would be happy to pimp me out if it would help his political career, because he did not care about me in the least. My actions mattered less than his valet’s or the coachman’s. They, at least, had tasks that mattered to him.
“I’ve told you to be perfectly free. So long as you don’t embarrass me.”
“I understand,” I said. My voice sounded timbreless, even to me.
“Well, then, I’ll see you later.” He bent over his papers again.
I went back to my room and washed my face and sat down before the dressing-table mirror. Charles was not there. It was my own reflection, white-lipped and pale except for my pink nose. I had loved him, or thought I had, when I was twelve. He had played on that, played me for the fool I had been.
“I am leaving him,” I said.
The girl in the mirror had such cool blue eyes.
“I will have more. I deserve more than this. I will have more.”
I squeezed my own hands until I was white-knuckled.
“I am leaving him.”
The Runaway Bride
Having decided, I was completely, dreadfully calm. The next week Jan was going to The Hague on political business, while I was to remain in Amsterdam. He would be gone for four or five days, so that was the ideal time.
I would leave the children there.
What would I do with them if I had them with me? Klaas hated travel, and he was happy and safe there. Francis hardly knew me. Taking them would bring them nothing but misery and uncertainty. After all, I hardly knew where I was going.
I laid the cards out on my bed that night. Fortune’s Wheel was the center card, crossed by the Sword Queen.
“Paris,” I said. “Where the low are made high and the high are made low. I am going to Paris.” I had never been there. But Paris was Paris, and its name cast a spell.