Although rumor ran rampant, she never did become his mistress. It was apparent that his love for her grew, as hers did for him. But she always knew her love for him was different. He was her friend, her mentor, a paternal figure. The difference in their ages was vast. But he wanted to marry her anyway. He had argued that he could make her love change.
And then three weeks before the wedding that was to be one of the grandest in Europe, Pieter found out about the disease that would rob him of his manhood—and eventually his life. Disbelieving and astounded, he railed against fate and cursed all who came near, never admitting the cause of his horrendous rages.
Except to Ronnie. He had told her, feebly offering her the release he couldn't bear, but she wouldn't go. And then it was he who turned to her for strength, she who salvaged the artist, Pieter von Hurst, she who gave him back to the world—at the cost of her own happiness and life.
But she did love him. When her own world had fallen to pieces, he had been there to pick her up. He had given her himself. She could give no less.
After a very quiet wedding—recently proved too quiet!—they quit Paris society and retired to the small island Pieter owned off the coast of South Carolina. Ronnie knew he could not bear for the public that idolized him to see him dissipate into a shrunken old man, long before his time.
She accepted interviews. She gave the papers the story of a perfect, complete marriage, of a one-to-one commitment that sent them scurrying into privacy to devote themselves to one another and to his art, And because of her, he did keep creating; he did find a reason to go on living.
At first there had been a natural fondness between them. The little that they had been able to share Pieter accepted—her touch, her lips, the glory of her beauty. But after the first six months of their self-imposed exile, his mind began to warp, the ravages of bitterness clouding all reason. To have Ronnie as his wife but not to have her, sent him reeling into a world of cruelty and anger. He lashed out at her constantly for no reason. Twice he had thrown things at her, drawing blood from her golden satinlike skin.
And still Ronnie tolerated him. She knew he would be contrite, knew she could never leave him. He needed her. And he did love her as he so often told her. She was a heaven-sent angel. He couldn't have made it without her then, but now he had acquired her strength and wisdom from their years together.
In his more lucid moments he had confessed that he also knew he had robbed her of her life, or at least of her youth. He told her that after his death, she would be well taken care of; she would be exorbitantly wealthy. But he was aware that money meant little to her, and that she was fiercely independent. Upon her insistence, the bulk of his estate had been left to world charities that benefitted children.
The recent passage of her twenty-ninth birthday had been more of a milestone for him than for her. He had finally been able to reach from his web of self-absorption to realize what he had done—sacrificed her for himself. She had uncomplainingly given him life, while he took hers. He had stifled all the joyous youth that had been rightfully hers.
And he had become determined to set her free, although it was proving a difficult task. She fought him, but he persisted in her taking the cruise, that she at least taste the pleasantries of life away from him and the depressing manor. She was impatient at his insistence, adamant against him, but he forced her to go. He repeated the same argument he had used for wanting the divorce. Her time for youth and love had been all too brief. He could live as a cripple for years to come. And if she refused to leave him, then she needed to have a season of happiness to recall when he inevitably took his turns for the worse. And though she knew that the bitterness ripped him apart at times, he fervently hoped that she would have a wonderful time.
Ronnie cried herself to sleep.
She woke to a crisp tapping on her door. "Just a minute!" she called out, aware that she was a sight. Springing into the bathroom, she washed her tear-stained face, resolving that she would have no more excursions into self-pity. Pieter must never know how wretched she was, nor how his insistence on the cruise had only made it all worse. No one knew the seriousness of his condition—except herself and his doctor. And she could weave illusion for him when others believed that he had a weak constitution, common among brilliant artists.
She had long ago schooled herself against tears. Only the cruise had brought them to the surface. They would have to be shelved again, with the new love that she had found.
Combing her hair back into its neat knot, she walked into her bedroom and called, "Come in."
Henri opened the door and stepped inside, a silver tray in his stiff arms. "Good evening, madam. Mr. von Hurst suggested I bring you a tray. He didn't think you'd feel up to dinner, nor did he desire to dine downstairs. I hope you find this satisfactory."
"Yes, fine, Henri," Ronnie said. "Thank you."
Henri nodded, his head as stiff as his arms. "Where would you like the tray, Mrs. von Hurst?"
For a whimsical moment Ronnie was tempted to tell him she'd like to see it dumped upon his proper head. In the five years of their living beneath the same roof he had yet to address her as anything except madam or Mrs. von Hurst. In this house, she mused, it was easy to forget she had been given a first name, much less a nickname. Pieter spent days enclosed when he didn't see her; when he did see her, often as not he didn't address her at all. The earlier encounter had been unique.
Ronnie did not tell Henri to dump the tray on his head. Instead she bit back the giddy smile that tinged her lips and replied properly, "Set it on the low table, please, Henri. I'll get to it in a minute."
"As you say, madam." Henri set the tray down as directed, clicked his heels with a little bow, and left her.
Ronnie could smell a delicious aroma drifting from the tray, and she was sure that Gretel, their surprisingly wraithlike cook, had intuitively prepared something to especially tempt her palate. Lifting the cover of the tray, she found a light and fluffy spinach soufflé. One of her favorite meals, as Gretel was well aware.
But Ronnie could do no more than pick at her food. Her head was spinning and, consequently, her stomach was churning. She should never have sought out Drake. She should have lied to Pieter.
The emotions and desires she had suppressed for years were now plaguing her with a vengeful agony. Touching her lips, she wondered if she imagined it, or if she could still really taste the sweet salt of Drake's kiss, if his scent still lingered on her own skin. . . .
She had known from the beginning that the cruise could only be a disaster. She had tried to tell Pieter, but he had become so agitated that she feared he would cause himself to have another attack, and so she had agreed, stricken that he should heap this new, inadvertent torment upon her. She had left, intending to come home cheerfully with a tan, assuring him she was complacent with her own world.
Then she had seen Drake. And in frank honesty she had simply wanted him. It had never occurred to her that the experience could so badly shatter her day-to-day existence.
Impatiently she set her fork down and gave up on the soufflé. She just couldn't eat. The memory of a previous shared meal was too close.
So as not to hurt Gretel's feelings, Ronnie guiltily flushed the remainder of the meal down the toilet. Then she unpinned her hair and climbed into the shower, making the water as hot as she could endure it, before scrubbing herself from head to toe and lathering her hair twice, soaking it in the expensive rinse Pieter ordered for her each month from Paris.
She desperately wanted to rid herself of the haunting masculine after-shave that seemed to cling to her body. The scent was driving her crazy; its intoxicating appeal wrenching her apart, creating longings that could not be fulfilled again.
The shower helped, and then she had things to do. After slipping into a set of Chinese lounging pajamas, Ronnie sat at her desk and planned a retinue of meals for the days to come, mulling over the proper wines for each with great care. She and Pieter entertained for only two reasons: Pie
ter's art, and his determination to create a living legend. Every guest was special; indeed, they entertained a number of dignitaries throughout the year.
If an arrogant tycoon had been invited to stay, Pieter wanted him impressed, no matter what his own feelings were. He was allowed to be moody or rude—he was the artist. Ronnie was supposed to create the atmosphere of genteel southern hospitality, to smooth all ruffled feathers. Pieter liked to be envied for his lovely wife. She was part of the elegance with which he surrounded himself.
Chewing on the nub of her pencil, Ronnie decided to have the Blue Room opened for this dubious guest's stay. The room was exceedingly masculine, its decoration basically stained wood paneling. The bed was a firm king-size, and the fireplace a very macho brick. Macho brick for a macho tycoon. That sounded good. And settled.
She picked up some of the correspondence that had accumulated but she couldn't concentrate on the letters. She dropped them again and picked up a book by one of her favorite authors and climbed beneath the cool silk sheets.
But she couldn't concentrate on the words. They kept blurring before her eyes, and the heroine was having a perfect love affair. If there was anything she didn't want to read about at that moment, it was a perfect love affair.
Ronnie snapped off her bedside lamp and curled into position to sleep. But try as she would, sleep would not come. Instead an image of dark eyes kept coming to her, and the memory of tender hands that demanded as they seduced.
Just last night it had all been real. And the reality was so strong now that she felt she could reach out and touch Drake. . . .
But she couldn't. All she could do was toss and writhe and close her eyes to dream—and burn with the sweet, simple memory of being held and cherished through the night.
It was very late when exhaustion finally overtook her and allowed her a few brief hours of respite.
Morning was much better. She had things with which to keep herself occupied. Pieter did not appear for breakfast, and she assumed correctly that he was saving his strength. As she had also expected, he sent her a crisp note by way of Henri, telling her that, after all, they would spend none of the day working. Dave would be motoring their guest to the island at five o'clock precisely—she should please see to it that she was dressed and prepared to greet him.
"Do you wish to reply, Mrs. von Hurst?" Henri asked politely.
"Yes," Ronnie said sharply, dismayed by her own tired irritability. "Ask Mr. von Hurst to please make sure I know this man's name before I greet him!"
If he was surprised by his mistress's uncharacteristic outburst, Henri gave no sign. As usual, he clicked his heels, bowed, and left her.
Ronnie finished her coffee and wandered out to the garden, pacifying herself with the selection of flowers. She loved the garden and had nurtured it with tender care, giving her flowers the affection she needed to release. And although she did the planning for any entertainment or renovation, the house actually ran smoothly without her. The black-and-tan coonhounds that roamed the estate were well looked after by the kennel keeper, and the four American saddle horses were tended by a conscientious groom. Only the flowers really depended on her, and so they received her devotion.
Now she savored their sweet aromas, wrinkling her nose into their blossoms as the softness of the petals caressed her cheeks. She clipped and pruned a colorful assortment, planning a myriad display for the huge formal dining table, which would be used that night. Then, with a streak of impishness, she planned an arrangement for their guest's room. If the man was hard as tacks, she mused, a little flower softness might be in order.
Returning to the house, Ronnie set to her arrangements, dryly appreciating the fact that they were to have company. She so desperately wanted to keep her mind busy! To worry about Pieter brought about useless pain; to think about her excursion into the arms of Drake brought agony. To tangle with them both brought a torturous guilt. In the eyes of the world she was married, and she had willingly sought out another man.
But her heart cried out that it was impossible to be untrue to a husband who had never been one with her. She vaguely wondered what her life might have been like had Jamie not senselessly lost his life to drugs. But that was all so long ago. It was in her extreme youth; it was the past. She could barely remember Jamie's face. When she tried to recall it, another appeared—that of Drake O'Hara. And she was back to self-incrimination. . . .
"Mrs. von Hurst?"
"Yes?" Ronnie glanced up as Henri stepped quietly into the salon where she continued to absently trim leaves from her flowers.
"You requested the name of your guest. He is Mister Drake O'Hara of Chicago, Illinois, owner and proprietor of the American International Galleries. Mr. von Hurst would like you to be aware that—Mrs. von Hurst! Are you quite all right, madam?"
Ronnie wasn't all right. The room was spinning around her, going completely black, and spinning around her again. Her heart had ceased to beat. She felt as if she had been drained of blood.
"Mrs. von Hurst!"
For once Henri dropped his cold dignity to rush to her side, appalled by the parchment-white color that had overtaken his usually healthy mistress. He caught her just as her slender body wavered and angled toward the floor.
Ronnie snapped back into physical control at Henri's touch, numb, but aware that she needed to be coherent. Blotting the panic out of her mind and wondering what cruel trick of fate could make such a thing happen, she forced herself to breathe and to find a voice to reply to Henri as she straightened from his saving hold.
"The sun, Henri, I think I stayed out to long. ... Could you please . . . would you get me a glass of water?"
"Certainly, Mrs. von Hurst," Henri exclaimed, loathe to release her until she was seated. "Certainly . . . immediately. ..." Watching her with concern, he hurried to carry out his errand.
Ronnie closed her eyes and kept breathing deeply, willing her heart to beat normally and her blood to pulse regularly through her veins. It wasn't possible. It simply wasn't possible. There had to be another Drake O'Hara.
And yet she knew there wasn't.
She had been destined to meet the man she had chosen wildly as a companion in a clandestine affair long before she had ever seen his intensely probing, magnetic, dark-brown eyes. . . .
He's coming here! she thought desperately, struck by another wave of panic. Oh, God, oh no, oh no. . . .
Henri walked quickly back into the room with a glass of cool water. Ronnie accepted it with a grateful smile and drained it in a moment. Smiling up at the butler, she thanked him.
"Perhaps I should call the doctor," Henri said doubtfully.
"No! Heavens, no!" Ronnie exclaimed hastily. "I'm fine. Really fine, I promise you. It was just the heat. And Henri—I would prefer it if we not mention this little spell of mine to Mr. von Hurst. I fear it might needlessly upset him."
"As you wish, madam."
Henri was quick to agree with her. He knew that there were days when Pieter von Hurst totally ignored his wife, but he also knew that the temperamental artist would worry incessantly if he thought anything was wrong.
"Now"—Ronnie leaned back in her chair with a bright smile affixed to her face—"you were telling me about . . . er . . . this man. Drake O'Hara. Was there anything else Mr. von Hurst wanted me to know?"
She listened, registering facts without really hearing. O'Hara, a man who dabbled in sculpture himself, owned the most prestigious galleries in the Midwest. His shows were legendary; he could make or break an artist with a single critique.
It was shocking, really, that she hadn't known the name. But, she had been in Paris and then on a remote island for many years.
"Thank you, Henri," Ronnie told him placidly, hoping she could trust her legs to carry her. "I think I'll go up to my room and rest for a bit."
"Shall I have Gretel send you a luncheon tray?" Obviously Henri was still concerned.
Ronnie smiled wanly. "Yes, thank you, that would be nice. . . ."
; She made it up the spiral staircase to her room, where she sat numbly at the foot of the bed.
A Season for Love Page 5