“Is that it then? Are we ghosts? Nothing more?”
“Maybe.” It had taken her two years in a sanatorium to understand that it was over, to live with the pain, to be able to go on after what had happened. She couldn't jeopardize that now, not even for him, especially not for him. She couldn't allow herself to step back, no matter how much she thought she still loved him. She touched his hand and then his cheek, and he bent to kiss her, but she turned her head just a fraction. He kissed her cheek, just near her lips, and she closed her eyes for a long moment as he held her.
“I love you … I will always love you …” His eyes were blazing with the passion she knew so well, as he said it. It was not the passion born of desire, but of believing and wanting and caring so much it almost kills you. Charles cared about everything that way, and she knew that one day it would kill him. She had barely survived his flame, and now she knew that she could no longer risk it. He had his scars, and she had her own, no less fierce because they hadn't been won in battle.
“I love you too,” she whispered, knowing that she shouldn't say those words to him. But it was a whisper from the past, a salute to all that had been and had died with Andre.
“Will you see me before I leave for Spain again?” It was so like him to pressure her, to make her feel responsible for him once he went into battle. She smiled at him, but she shook her head this time.
“I can't, Charles. I'm married.”
“Does he know about me?” Slowly, with a look of agony, she shook her head in answer.
“No, he doesn't. He thinks I went a little wild one summer on the Grand Tour, and got a little out of hand, as I think my father described it to his friends. That's what my father said years ago, something about a little romance.' And that's all Malcolm knows. He has never allowed me to discuss it. Malcolm has no idea we were ever married.” It was so like her father to tell people that. He had never told people of her life with Charles and their staying in Europe had made it easier for him. All he cared about were appearances, and reputation. He had lied to protect her, and told everyone she had stayed in Europe to study. He had to save face at all costs, and he had wanted to save Marielle from her “terrible mistake” when she married Charles Delauney. And now, Marielle's husband still believed the lie, because she let him.
Charles couldn't believe she had never told her husband the truth. They had told each other everything. They had shared all their secrets. But at eighteen, what was there to hide? At thirty, it was different.
“He knows none of it, Charles. Why tell him?” Why tell him she had spent twenty-six months in a sanatorium, wanting to die …that she had tried to slash her wrists …take pills …drown herself in the bathtub …why tell him any of that? Charles knew, he had paid the bills …and she had recovered.
“Will you tell him you saw me today?” He was curious about her, and them. What kind of marriage could they have if she told him nothing? Did she love him, or he her? She had said “I love you” so easily after all these years, and Charles believed her. And now she shook her head in answer to his question.
“How can I tell him I saw you, when he doesn't know you exist in my life anyway?” Her eyes were very calm, and her face very lovely. She seemed at peace, and that was something.
“Do you love him?” He didn't believe she did, and he wanted to hear it.
“Of course. I'm his wife.” But the truth was she respected him, she admired him, she owed him. She had never loved him as she loved Charles, and she never would. What's more, she didn't want to. A love like that caused too much pain, and she no longer had the courage. She glanced at her watch and then back at Charles. “I have to go.”
“Why? What will happen if you don't go home, if you come home with me instead?” He looked as though he meant it.
“You haven't changed. You're still the man who convinced me to elope with him in Paris.” She smiled at the memory, and so did he.
“You were easier to convince in those days.”
“Everything was easier then, we were young.”
“You still are.” But in her heart, she knew she wasn't.
She pulled her coat more tightly around her, and slipped on her other glove, and he began to walk her slowly toward the main door of the cathedral.
“I want to see you again before I go.”
She sighed, and stopped to look up at him. “Charles, how can we do that?”
“If you don't, I'll come to your house and ring your doorbell.”
“You probably would.” She laughed in spite of the sorrow of the day that had brought them together.
“You'll have a hell of a time explaining that.” Just thinking about it almost brought on one of her migraines. “You know where I am. I'm at my father's. Call. Or I will.”
After seven years, here he was threatening her, and looking so damn handsome while he did it.
“And if I don't call?”
“I'll find you.”
“I don't want to be found.” She looked serious, and so did he when he answered.
“I'm not sure I believe that. And after all these years, we can't just … I can't just let go, Marielle …I can't …I'm sorry.” He looked so forlorn, and in an odd way, almost broken.
“I know.” She slipped a hand into his arm, and they walked through the door, just as Malcolm's chauffeur darted through a side door. He had spent an interesting hour watching them. It was a side to Marielle he hadn't seen before, but in some ways it didn't surprise him. Malcolm had his own life too, and she was a beautiful young woman. Beautiful, and frightened, he knew. She was intimidated by everyone, especially her husband. And he wondered who would pay more for the intelligence of what he'd just seen, in time …Mrs. Patterson herself? Or her husband?
Charles and Marielle were walking slowly down the steps arm in arm, and he held her close to him as they reached the bottom. “I won't press it if you don't want me to, but I'd like to see you before I go.” But he really looked as though he meant it.
“Why?” She looked straight at him, and he gave her the only answer he could have.
“I still love you.”
Tears filled her eyes as she looked away from him. She didn't want to love him anymore, or be loved by him, didn't want the memories, the pain, the anguish. She looked up at him again. “I can't call you.”
“You can do anything you want. And whatever you do, I'll still … is it just as hard for you …” He glanced back at the church, thinking of the day that had brought them here, and then he looked down at her, his eyes filled with tears, as hers overflowed in answer, and she nodded.
“Yes, it's just as hard. It doesn't go away.” And it never would. She understood that now. She had to live with it, like constant pain. She looked up at him again. “I'm so sorry …” She had wanted to say those words to him for years, and now she had, but nothing was different.
He shook his head, pulled her tight against his chest, and then let her go. And with a last look at her, he walked away, up Fifth Avenue, without saying good-bye to her. But the truth was, he couldn't. She watched him for a long time, and then she slipped into Malcolm's car. As the chauffeur drove her home, she was thinking about Charles …a life long lost, never to be found again …and Andre.
Patrick, the driver, took Marielle home, driving north up Fifth Avenue, but she didn't see Charles there. And finally, they drove east on Sixty-fourth Street, to the house where she had lived for six years with Malcolm. The house was between Madison and Fifth, just around the corner from the park, and it was a beautiful home, but it had never been hers. It was Malcolm's. She had felt ill at ease there from the first. It was an awesome establishment, with a huge staff, and it had once belonged to Malcolm's parents. He had maintained it almost as a memorial to them, with priceless collections everywhere, added to only by the rare objects he collected on his travels, or sometimes by curators of museums. Sometimes Marielle felt like a precious object there, something to be displayed, but never played with. A doll to be admired on
a shelf and never handled. His servants treated her politely, for the most part, but they had always made it clear that they worked not for her, but for her husband. Many of them had been there for years, and after six years, she still felt she scarcely knew them. Malcolm always urged her to keep her distance. She had, and so had they. There was no warmth in their exchanges with her. And from the first, Malcolm had let her make no changes. It was still his home, everything was done his way, and if her orders differed from his at all, they were politely ignored, and the matter never mentioned. He hired the staff himself, and most of them were Irish or English or German. Malcolm had an enormous fondness for all things German. He had gone to Heidelberg University in his youth, and he spoke the language to perfection.
Marielle wondered sometimes if the reason the staff resented her, albeit secretly, was because she had worked for Malcolm. It had been impossible for her to get a job when she came back from Europe in 1932. The Depression was in full swing, even men with college degrees were unemployed, and she had absolutely no training. She had never worked for anyone before, and her parents had left her nothing. Her father lost everything in the crash of '29, which basically had killed him. He'd been too old to survive the strain, to start over again. In the end, his heart had given out, but before it, his spirit. And there was nothing left but a few hundred dollars when his wife died six months later. Marielle had still been in Europe then, and Charles had arranged for their house to be sold in order to pay their debts. She'd been too ill to take care of it herself, and when she went back to New York eventually, she was left with nothing and had no home to go to. She stayed in a hotel on the East Side, and started looking for a job the week she'd arrived. She had two thousand dollars she'd borrowed from Charles. It was all she'd let him give her. She was totally alone. And in many ways, Malcolm had saved her. She was grateful to him for that still, and she always would be.
She had appeared in his office on a wintry February day, and the face that smiled at her across the desk was like a ray of sunshine. She had gone to him because she knew he was one of her father's friends, and she hoped that somehow he might know of a job, or someone who needed a companion who spoke French. It was all she knew other than her graceful drawings, but she hadn't drawn now in years. She had no secretarial skills at all, but after speaking to her for an hour, he hired her, and until she found a place of her own, he even paid for her hotel bill. She had tried to repay him afterward, but he wouldn't hear of it. He knew what dire straits she was in, and he was happy to help her.
She learned quickly and she worked well, as an assistant to his senior secretary, an Englishwoman who clearly did not approve of Marielle, but was al ways civil. And it came as no surprise to anyone when Malcolm started inviting her, first to quiet lunches, and then to romantic dinners. Eventually, he started taking her to important social events with him, always discreetly suggesting that she buy a new dress for the occasion, at a store where they knew him. It troubled her at first. She didn't want to take advantage of him, didn't want to put herself in an awkward position. Yet, he was always so kind to her, so intelligent, so amusing, so understanding. He never pressed her about what her previous life had been, why she had lived in Europe for six years, or why she had finally returned. They kept their conversations strictly to the present. She was surprised that she was always comfortable with him. He was so polite, and so kind, and so easy to be with. All her earlier resistance to him disappeared, and she was particularly surprised that he never made improper advances. He just seemed to like her company, being seen with a beautiful young woman in the expensive clothes he paid for. She was painfully shy then, and sometimes she still felt a little shaky. But he never seemed to notice it, and when she was with him, she always felt more confident, and surprisingly stronger than she had in a long time. She wasn't her old self anymore, but at least she was a new one she could live with.
With Malcolm, no one asked her anything. People wanted to know who she was, of course, but beyond her name, they never wanted to know where she'd been or why she wore such a serious expression. They were impressed with her because of whom she was with, and how she looked, and sometimes she even found it amusing. She felt so safe with him, he protected her from everything, and that was precisely what he offered her, when he asked her to marry him at Thanksgiving. He offered to protect and take care of her for as long as he lived, which wouldn't be as long as she lived, because he was so much older. He made no pretense of loving her, and yet in some ways, she felt that he did, because he was always so considerate and kind, so thoughtful, and so decent. In fact, she wanted nothing more from him. She couldn't have taken the risk, or been able to stand the pain, if anything went wrong, or something happened. Even the memories of Charles were still exquisitely painful, and the rest was something she still couldn't talk about, even to Malcolm. She had tried to be honest with him, to tell him that there were things in her past that had caused her great pain, but he didn't want to hear it.
“We each have a past, my dear.” He had smiled gently at her, as they dined at the Plaza. “But at twenty-four, I suspect that yours is still a little more wholesome.” He was so tolerant of her, so accepting. She could come to him with her past and her pain and her wounds and find solace there, and protection. It was that that she wanted from him, not his house, or his jewels or his money. He had been married twice before, and she knew from those who talked too much, that his generosity had been legend. But all she wanted from him was a port in the storm, a place to hide for the rest of her life, and that was what he promised. He sensed easily how frightened she was, although even he did not suspect how battered. And all he required of her was that she be willing to bear his children. Neither of his previous wives had, and at forty-nine, it was something he wanted very much, an heir for the Patterson empire. His money had been made in steel, and several generations earlier it had been far less genteel, but by the time Malcolm was born, the name was highly respected. And in his lifetime, Malcolm had made it even more so.
She'd been stunned by his proposal at first, and for a brief moment, she even thought he was joking. They had certainly been out together many times, and he had been unspeakably generous with her, but until then, he had never even kissed her.
“I … I don't know what to say …are you serious?” He smiled coolly at her, and took her hand in his, amused by her astonishment. She still looked like a child to him, and he gently raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers.
“Of course I'm serious, Marielle.” His eyes met hers, and in some ways he seemed more like a father. But that was part of what she liked about him, and more than that, it was what she so desperately needed. She had been back in the States by then for less than a year, and she had no one in the world, except Malcolm. “I want you to be my wife. I will take very good care of you, my dear. I promise you that. And if we're lucky enough to have children, I will be grateful to you for the remainder of my lifetime.” It was an odd offer, as she listened to him, and in some ways it almost sounded more like a business arrangement than a marriage. He wanted children from her, and she wanted and needed his protection. He hadn't told her he loved her, or looked at her adoringly, she wasn't head over heels in love with him. It was totally different from what she had had with Charles, but that was precisely what she wanted. Only the idea of having children frightened her now. She wasn't sure she wanted to take that risk again, but she didn't dare explain that to him.
“And if there are no children?” Her eyes searched his with a worried expression, as he wondered if there was something he didn't know. He had thought he knew everything about her.
“Then we will be friends.” He looked peaceful as he said it, and that reassured her, but she still couldn't understand why he wanted her, with so many other women who would have died to have him. And in fact, he scarcely knew her.
“But why me? There are … so many other …more suitable …” She blushed as she said the words. She had no money, no social status anymore. Her parents
had been respectable certainly, but not in his league, and they had left her without a penny. But all of that was part of what appealed to him. She was a girl with no ties, no family, no obligations. She was “his” in a way, or she would be if she married him, and he liked that. Malcolm Patterson was a man who was obsessed by possessions, his houses, his cars, his paintings, his Faberge collection, his “things.” Marielle was something more for him to possess …a very important possession if she could give him children. Besides which, she was a very quiet, undemanding girl, and he liked that. She would be a dignified, attractive wife and perhaps, with luck, one day, a very good mother.
“Perhaps I should say I love you,” he said very gently, but they both knew he didn't. “But I'm not sure that's important to either of us.” He knew her well, better than she had realized. “Perhaps that doesn't matter at all. Perhaps it will be better like this, and we will come to love each other in time, won't we?” She nodded, still awed by what he was saying. And then he looked down at her expectantly, as though she knew what she was expected to say, and he was waiting for her to say it. “Do you have an answer for me?”
She hesitated, but only for an instant. “I …” She looked at him worriedly…. “Are you sure? …” She was afraid for him, more than for herself. What if she was a disappointment to him? What if …what if she fell apart again? The past year hadn't been easy. The Lindbergh child had been kidnapped two weeks after her return, and the horror of it had mesmerized her at first, and in May when the world heard that he was dead, she felt a pain in her heart for them that she knew she would always remember. For days she had stayed in bed, claiming to have the flu. But in truth, she had been unable to function. Finally, in a wave of terror, she had called her doctor in Switzerland, and he had been able to reassure her. But what if that happened again? What if Malcolm knew…. “I'm not sure it's fair to you.” Marielle lowered her eyes, and tears clustered on her lashes. Suddenly he wanted to pull her into his arms and make love to her. It was the first time she had actually inspired him with any kind of passion, and for an instant he wondered if he really might come to love her.
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