Pride's Folly

by Fiona Harrowe

  Muffled in a long coat and a woolen scarf, I would sit in the little park just off Capitol Square and watch the pigeons as they clustered, flapping their wings or perching atop the head of the tarnished statue of some anonymous Revolutionary hero who stood frozen in time with his musket clutched in one rigid hand. I would give myself over to memory, glossing over unpleasant events, remembering the past in a golden haze; my childhood, the bright orange poppies that dotted the meadows beyond Milbrae in spring, the green-blue sparkling sea, the ships rocking at anchor in the bay. I recalled the sound of mourning doves in the dawn’s stillness, family picnics, Page teasing, Page squeezing my hand, Page crying, “Look!” at a flock of migrating curlews. Page exclaiming, “Has no one taught you to ride?”

  Page was gone, pursuing the green-eyed Deborah Baines, lost to me like my childhood. But the poppies and the mourning doves and the sea would still be there, as well as Mama and Papa.

  The weeks went by and I didn’t hear from my parents. It puzzled and hurt me. Then a fortnight before Christmas I finally received a letter from my father, a baffling reply.

  Dear Sabrina: You must forgive me for not writing sooner, but your mother has not been well. Nothing to be alarmed about—a chronic ailing and depression which good Dr. Ferman says happens quite habitually to women passing into their middle years. He has suggested I take her abroad for the waters at Baden-Baden, which are supposed to have curative powers. At any rate, we shall try to visit you on our way back. She sends her love. She speaks frequently of you. Having you happily married gives her such peace of mind. I must say it pleases me too. . . .

  I reread the last passage again and again as if I could wring some sense from it. Had my father chosen to ignore my plea for the sake of Mama’s “peace of mind”? But it wasn’t like him to pretend. However he felt, he would have acknowledged receipt of my distressing communication, my call for help. He might tell me to make the best of things, advise me not to leave Roger, but he would not ignore my situation. The only other possibility—and the more I thought of it the more likely it seemed—was that he had never received my letter. Once I reached that conclusion, I began to wonder if it had ever been mailed.

  George insisted that he had posted my letter that morning along with a number of others. But there was something in his manner, his eyes not meeting mine but staring off into space, that made me doubt his word. In addition, the servants were old family retainers who would do Roger's bidding long before they would do mine. Roger could have guessed that sooner or later I would write to Papa and so might have requested that all my mail be brought to him first. Useless to accuse him of intercepting my correspondence. He would deny it. I thought of writing another letter and stealing it out of the house, but quickly dismissed the idea. With my mother ill and my father worried, I was loath to burden them with news of my wretched marriage. I couldn’t do that to them, not now.

  So again I was back in the lonely, teeth-gritting position of having to rely on myself. I thought of secretly leaving, taking a bag and my jewels and slipping off. But where would I go? New York? Roger would surely track me down. He had the means and the determination. Perhaps when Papa and Mama came back from Baden-Baden . . . But that wouldn’t do either. I would think of something, even if I had to kill Roger in self-defense.

  It was during this period that I acquired a personal maid. Hazel had a niece in need of employment, and she managed to persuade Roger that ladies of social standing did not “do” for themselves. I had gotten quite accustomed to being without a maid, but in any case I was not consulted.

  I was prepared to dislike the girl, one more of “them” arraigned on the side of Roger. But she disarmed me from the first. A light-skinned darkie with large brown eyes and a shy smile, her name was Marigold. Terrified of her aunt, she tried desperately to please and was in a constant state of nerves until I told her that I had no high standards and she suited me admirably. From then on, we got along like two magpies, chattering away about inconsequentials as she brushed my hair, brought me my morning coffee, or buttoned me into a dress. I never discussed Roger with her or any of the things that weighed on my heart. But she did bring a little cheer into my life and I was grateful for that.

  A few days before Christmas, Marigold gave me a note from Roger (we now communicated only in writing). The Thompsons were giving a gala ball, and we were invited; he wished me to attend. The “wish” was couched in terms of an order. I thought of refusing, in fact had already scribbled a few succinct words to that effect, but then I changed my mind. My refusal would only precipitate a quarrel whose consequences might be far more painful than appearing in public with Roger. He had not forced his attentions on me since that awful night and I did not want to give him an excuse to do so now.

  The ball—arrived at in complete silence between Roger and myself—was attended by the elite of Richmond. The women, gowned in high fashion and dripping with jewels, preened and batted their fans, looking over each new arrival with the supercilious air of the privileged. The men, formal in black tails and white gloves, gathered in little knots on the fringes of the dancers, talking of railroad lines and land development and the proposed Jefferson Hotel. Richmond was experiencing a boom, drawing investors from the North and West and even from abroad. But this serious talk, the making and breaking of empires, was not for the delicate ears of the wives, who complied with custom and sat separately. Every now and again, Mrs. Thompson, followed by a servant with a tray of champagne-filled glasses, would attempt to disband a male group by twittering, “Now, now gentlemen, the ladies have no partners. You must dance.”

  They would acknowledge their thoughtlessness with apologies, offer their arms to us where we sat aglitter in our silks and satins, trot us about the floor dutifully, and then return to their discussion. Roger had only danced with me once, a miserable five minutes during which I suffered his hand on my waist. Then he disappeared into the library with a Mr. Mahone, and (thankfully) I did not see him for the rest of the evening.

  “Where have you been keeping yourself?” Jane Bainbridge asked. She and her husband had arrived late. The moment she saw me she had come up to me, her warm eyes kindled with concern.

  “I’ve been busy, Aunt Jane. The new house is almost finished, and I must order furniture, draperies, wallpapers.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m so sorry you could not continue with the House of Hope, but I understand.” She touched my hand. “For a time there I thought you might be ill, but I can see now that you are in good health, blooming, my dear.”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve never felt better,” I replied, grateful that I had used rouge on my cheeks, a subterfuge I’d refused on my wedding day.

  “And your gown—so lovely—Paris?”

  “Yes. I had it made at the house of Doucet during our honeymoon.”

  “Broché satin?” She fingered my paneled, swathed skirt rimmed with lacy ruffles of pink silk.

  “How did you guess?”

  “Well,” she said, “I may be a bit dowdy and old-fashioned, but I do know my material. The color is very becoming. Ah, here is Mr. Bainbridge! You must dance with him, Sabrina.” Morton Bainbridge and I had finished a lumbering waltz when a young man from Annapolis home for the holidays rescued me from an encore. I’ve since forgotten his name and face, but I remember the outrageous compliments he paid me, the witty anecdotes of academy life he repeated, at one or two points actually making me laugh. I was beginning to feel alive again when Page arrived with Deborah Baines.

  She looked very young, very pretty in robin’s-egg blue, and the way she clung to Page’s arm plunged the all-too-familiar jealous knife through my breast.

  “I say!” my partner exclaimed. “Who’s she?”

  I told him.

  “Not half as attractive as you,” the young man gallantly acknowledged. “Is she married too?”

  “As far as I know, not yet,” I answered, the knife stuck and twisting.

  When the young man handed me back to my chair, I sa
id, “I wonder if you would do me a courtesy? Would you please tell my husband I have a headache?”

  I didn’t want to stay. I didn’t want to speak to Page.

  “My dear Mrs. Prescott, I hope it was not my dancing?”

  “Not at all,” I assured him with a bright, forced smile. It's the champagne. I should know better. But would you kindly notify my husband?”

  “Of course.”

  Roger was annoyed. “I was having such an interesting talk with Mr. Mahone,” he grumbled. “He’s in a position to advise and help my political career.”

  “I’m sorry. Perhaps I could go home alone.”

  “I wouldn’t permit it. How would it look?”

  As we were waiting for the butler to bring our wraps, Roger spied Page and Deborah at the edge of the ballroom.

  “There’s your cousin and that girl. I wonder her parents permit her to be seen with him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve had it on good authority,” Roger said, “recently, mind you, that Page Morse is already married. Some colored female, a mulatto in Haiti.”

  Chapter 31

  I had a moment of utter blackness.

  Roger’s voice at some distance said, “You look very white. Perhaps you’d better lie down.”

  I don’t know what held me up. Perhaps the tight lacing of my stays. “It’s the headache,” I said. “I’ll be all right once we get into the air.”

  The drive back to the house took an eternity. Having to sit there beside Roger in the carriage, holding tightly to myself, trying to appear as though nothing more than a pain over my left brow bothered me, was agony. It reminded me of the old Greek fable about the young boy trained in stoicism who sat talking with his teacher while under his cloak a fox gnawed at his vitals.

  Page was married.

  Even now I can’t say why the news stunned me so. Page’s courtship of Deborah Baines should have effectively cushioned the shock. But courtships, even engagements, still left room for a change of mind, withdrawal, or cancellation. Marriage was so final. Like death.

  But I had married; why shouldn’t he?

  I had married because I knew I could never have him. Perhaps Page had done the same. Did he love this mulatto girl in Haiti? Was he going back to her? Or was he secretly divorcing her so he could marry Deborah Baines.

  Did it matter? Why should I care?

  But I did. My life was nothing, an empty void without him. I thought of the years ahead, the days, weeks, and months. At twenty-one, time seemed to stretch endlessly, time that must somehow be lived through to the bitter end.

  “You aren’t thinking of Page?’’ Roger asked.

  “Why should I be?’’

  “I just wondered.’’

  The carriage rounded a corner, tilting slightly. I hung on to the leather seat and kept my body rigid to avoid touching Roger.

  Breaking a silence he said, “We’ll get along if you don’t cross me.’’

  “Will we?’’ I queried tartly. “I think you’ve said that before.”

  “I did and I meant it. But you always seem to find a way to anger me. I should think you would have learned by now.”

  I said nothing. What recourse did I have if he angered me?

  “That letter you wrote to your parents. I did not like it at all.”

  The admission, coming so blandly, took a moment or two to sink in. “I guessed as much,” I said, very much annoyed at his matter-of-fact attitude toward what I felt was a dastardly act. “It’s immoral to read other people’s mail, much less to intercept it.”

  “It’s just as immoral, more so, to criticize a husband, paint him as a brute.”

  “But ...” You are, I wanted to say but immediately realized it would only trigger that rage which always ended in my humiliation.

  “You can’t keep me against my will,” I said, forcing my voice to reasonableness.

  “But I can. However, I would prefer not to put you under lock and key. Your complete absence from society would require too many bothersome explanations, although I suppose I could always say that you are ill or that Dr. Blodgett has advised a mental institution.”

  “My parents would never permit you to do anything of the kind.”

  “Your father is too involved at the moment with your mother and their intended trip to Baden-Baden.”

  “You not only read my outgoing mail, but incoming as well.”

  “You need supervision. You are too childish to make decisions on your own.”

  “I do not consider myself childish simply because I would write to my parents in privacy.”

  “And defame me?”

  “But—”

  “Enough!” After a long pause he said in a calmer voice, “I don’t wish to go on quarreling, Sabrina. I need a wife who will be a gracious hostess, an attractive, socially adept spouse able to help in furthering my political career. After we move into the new house we shall be entertaining a great deal. And—wait. I’m not finished, Sabrina—in return you will have one of the most luxurious establishments in Richmond. Furthermore, I give you my word, if you stop provoking me we will get along splendidly.”

  His word meant little. He had broken it before and would do so again. And what he considered “provoking” might be something as trivial as a negative glance.

  “So I’m to be imprisoned and let out only on state occasions,” I said.

  “How you do exaggerate, Sabrina! Of course not. You are free to come and go as you like as long as you behave with propriety. I needn’t tell you that your reputation must remain above suspicion.”

  “And yours?”

  “I am being most discreet.”

  We drew up at the gates. George, who had doubled as driver, descended, and a moment later the iron portals clanged open.

  “Am I to understand,” I said as we clattered through, “that it is permissible for me to resume my duties at the House of Hope?”

  He hesitated before answering. “Let us say it would be far more enjoyable—and rewarding—if you chose to join Mrs. Mahone’s literary group. I believe it meets on Thursdays.”

  “I suppose literature is harmless enough,” I said, unable to keep the sting from my voice. “Isn’t Mrs. Mahone the wife of the politician who is running for governor in the next election?”

  “Precisely,” he said, biting the word off.

  Roger allowed me freedom, but within limits. He still read my mail, of that I was sure. And he had me followed. It took some time before I discovered this. My suspicion was first aroused by the persistent sound of footsteps behind me, especially when I chanced to be walking on a deserted or nearly deserted street. Then one day as I emerged from a shop I noticed a man with muttonchop whiskers, a black bowler set squarely on his head, casually leaning against a nearby lamppost. Observing him, I recalled with a small start that I had seen him the day before in the same lounging attitude in front of Mrs. Mahone’s house.

  In the days and weeks that followed he became as familiar as my shadow. He trailed me on my walks through Capitol Square, on my afternoon calls, on shopping excursions, to the dressmaker’s and lending library, wherever I went, whether on foot or in the carriage. I was amused at first, then resentful, then angry. Yet to confront this man or Roger, who had obviously hired him, would only bring a denial or, worse, an accusation that I was getting fanciful.

  One morning I had gone into a bookshop to purchase a copy of Dean Howell’s Rise of Silas Lapham, a novel that Mrs. Mahone’s literary group had decided to read, when I saw Page. He was standing at the rear, leafing through a magazine. Before I could make a hasty retreat he turned and his eyes met mine, lighting up with recognition.

  “Sabrina!”

  “Hello, Page.”

  A casual greeting, as if this man had never been the center of my life, as if the sight of him, the sound of his deep-timbered voice, did not stir up a thousand disturbing memories.

  “I was looking for something on the Darley Arabian,” Page sai
d.

  “You’re still interested in racehorses?”

  “Very much interested, and able to indulge myself, since I’ve just recently received some money from an investment in Haiti.”

  “Your wife sent it? Is that the source of your ‘investment’?”

  His astonishment, if not utter bewilderment, seemed sincere. “I have no wife in Haiti or anywhere else.”

  “But Roger said—” I stopped short. From the corner of my eye I saw the man in the black bowler casually saunter by.

  “Roger was wrong!” Page said with some heat. “I wonder how such a rumor could have started? You certainly don’t think it’s true?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” I said.

  “Why should I lie?”

  Yes, why should he? There was no reason to, really. He wasn’t courting me. I was married. There was no reason for him to hide the truth.

  “People will go to any lengths to amuse themselves with idle talk,” he said.

  “Then you are not . . . ?”

  “No, I am not,” he said firmly.

  Given my earlier devastation when I believed Page had a wife, I should have felt relieved. He was still a bachelor, still true to his word that he wouldn’t marry unless it was with me. Yet somehow the knowledge did little to lighten my mood.

  The man with the muttonchop whiskers repassed the door and looked brashly in.

  “I must go, Page,” I said, nervous, edgy. “It was good to see you.”

  “What’s your hurry? Can’t we chat for a few minutes?”