“Turning my house into a meeting hall,” she fussed on more than one occasion. “That wasn’t what I had in mind when I invited you to come and stay.”
“I’m very sorry they disturb you,” her daughter-in-law replied, biting her tongue. “But the causes are so worthy.”
Perhaps because she was so young and so eager to please, Elizabeth soon became the darling of the elite crowd and, with her wild hair and classic beauty, the darling of the media, as well. Newspaper photographers fell all over themselves to capture her on film. Television cameras seemed to pick her out of a crowd. Although she rarely had anything earthshak-ing to say, reporters sought her out for comments on everything from haute couture to Haight-Ashbury.
She had inherited her mother’s elegant Parisian style which, together with her father’s generous allowance and her own boundless energy for shopping, resulted in an exquisite wardrobe that provided her with the perfect outfit for every occasion.
“Does your daddy own the majority stock in Magnin’s?” Robert roared when he saw the bills.
“It’s my money,” she reminded him. “And I should think you would want me to look my best.”
“You’re a Drayton now,” he snapped, “and Draytons do not go around flaunting their wealth.”
Elizabeth smiled at him sweetly. “The only thing I’m trying to flaunt is that I’m the wife of a very successful attorney who will one day be President of the United States. But if you think that’s the wrong image, I’ll gladly donate all my clothes to the charity of your choice and wear sackcloth to your firm’s Christmas party next week.”
“Isn’t there a compromise here somewhere?” he grumbled.
Always the politician, she thought with amusement. “Sure,” she replied, looking pointedly at his six-hundred-dollar suit. “You can wear the sackcloth.”
Robert never mentioned her wardrobe again and Elizabeth continued to set fashion standards among her peers in the cosmopolitan city by the bay. Matrons of means tried to emulate her, less affluent ladies envied her, bachelors and husbands alike attempted, without success, to compromise her.
By the end of her first year as Mrs. Robert Drayton Will-mont of Pacific Heights, Elizabeth Avery was a social triumph. She was one of the first to don a miniskirt, one of the last to abandon hats, one of the few to forgo the perils of platform shoes, and she stopped conversation dead when she wore a black satin pantsuit to the opening of the opera.
Early in their second year of marriage, Elizabeth became pregnant, but lost the child in the tenth week. She was devastated, even though her doctors assured her that such occurrences were not uncommon and it in no way meant she couldn’t have children in the future.
By the end of the summer, she had conceived for the second time. Fearful of another tragedy, Elizabeth cut her social obligations to a minimum and spent much of her time in bed. Her efforts were in vain. She miscarried again, this time during her fifth month, and along with the fetus she almost lost her life.
The doctors no longer made light of the situation. They suggested that it would be unwise for Elizabeth to risk a third pregnancy for at least a year. They recommended a long rest, perhaps even a change of scene. They advised the young couple to cease all sexual intercourse for at least three months and thereafter to exercise extreme caution.
If she had expected an explosion from her husband, she was surprised. He accepted the warning in stony silence.
“We can do that other thing you like so much,” she offered, because she felt so guilty.
“Sure,” he replied carelessly.
But she noticed that he began to stay up later at night, frequently not coming to bed until she was already asleep. Several times, when she went looking for him, she found him in the library, snoring over a briefcase full of work and a half-empty bottle of Scotch.
A despondent Elizabeth went home to Denver. Her mother and father and three brothers welcomed her back with loving concern and fussed over her as though she were a visiting head of state.
It was marvelous to be back in Denver, but she missed Robert more than she had ever believed possible, and cut her visit short after only three weeks. She returned home to find that he had moved into an adjoining bedroom.
“I just won’t be able to sleep next to you and not want to— well, you know,” he said in explanation.
“I understand,” she said, although she didn’t, not really.
“So I thought, until the doctors say it’s okay again, this would be easier for both of us.”
The weeks slipped into months, the months moved toward a year. Once the doctors gave their permission, the Willmonts began to practice careful sex but Robert continued to sleep in the adjoining room. As time passed, husband and wife settled into a routine. Robert would stay with Elizabeth on Saturday nights, during which they would rekindle some of the hot flames of their honeymoon, and then they would share a long, leisurely breakfast in bed together on Sunday mornings.
But always, in the back of her mind, Elizabeth thought of it as temporary, and she lived for the day when the doctors would tell her it was all right to try again to have a child.
Shortly after Robert had informed Archer Avery of his intention to enter politics, he and Elizabeth had mapped out a strategy. The key, Robert told her, was to start small and build rapidly. He was sure that he could use his Drayton connections to capture a local election, and once he had proved him self a winner, he reasoned, the party bosses would fall all over themselves to promote him—all the way to the White House.
But first, Robert had to become a partner at Sutton, Wells, Willmont and Spaulding. This was essential, he explained, in establishing his credibility. Moreover, to maintain his timetable, he had to do it by the time he was thirty-two.
To keep the odds in his favor, he told Elizabeth upon her return from Denver, it would be necessary for him to maintain a higher visibility in the firm.
“For the past few years,” he said, “I’ve been much more interested in my bride than in my business.”
Higher visibility, according to Robert, meant assuming a heavier workload that would involve stretching the limits of his specialization, accepting some of the cases that no one else wanted, and generally calling attention to himself through a clever combination of diligence and excellence.
“And the only way I’m going to be able to do that,” he said, “is to work longer hours.”
“I hope you’re not talking about weekends,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “We can’t possibly renege on any of our social obligations. Why, the telephone’s been ringing off the hook ever since I got back, and now there’s hardly a weekend right through Labor Day that we’re not already committed.”
“Well, if weekends are out,” Robert said with a sigh of resignation, “then I have no choice but to work late during the week.”
“How late?”
“That’s hard to say,” he replied smoothly. “Why don’t we just play it by ear.”
Soon, Robert was staying on at the office one or two nights a week, sometimes not getting home until three o’clock in the morning. Occasionally, when Elizabeth awoke and went looking for him, she would find him sound asleep in his room with all his clothes still on.
“I worry about him,” she admitted to Amanda during one of the increasingly frequent occasions when the two women dined alone together. “He’s going to wear himself out. I’m not sure that becoming a partner one year sooner or later is worth ruining his health.”
But Amanda only shrugged. “Men must do what men must do,” she said vaguely, leaving Elizabeth more confused than reassured.
“You’re not getting enough sleep,” she said to Robert when six months had passed. “If you keep up this kind of pace, you’re going to make yourself sick. I think you ought to ease up a little.”
“I’ve never felt better,” he assured her. “Besides, how do you think it would look to the partners if I were to tell them that my wife didn’t think I was up to the job?”
“
That’s not what I said,” she protested.
“What if I did slack off?” he posed. “You can bet the competition won’t, and I can’t afford to get left behind.” He winked at her. “After all, I’m already thirty-one.”
“You know you’re going to make partner someday. Does it really matter all that much when?”
“It matters to me,” he said flatly. “And I thought it mattered to you, too.”
“You matter to me.”
“Then why don’t you want me to have what I want?”
“I do want you to have it,” she protested. “It’s just that… I miss you.”
“I miss you, too,” he assured her. “But we made a plan and we have to stick to it if we want to get where we’re going. I intend for you to be the first First Lady of the twenty-first century. And, if accomplishing that means we have to make a few minor sacrifices now, I say it’s worth it.”
“When you put it that way,” she conceded reluctantly, not bothering to tell him that being the First Lady was not really one of her greatest ambitions.
But then, for a month, he didn’t work late at all.
“Things are a little slow right now,” he explained.
He showed up promptly for dinner at seven o’clock and even sat with her well into the evenings, as he used to, but he was preoccupied much of the time and seemed out of sorts.
Soon enough, the late hours began again. Only, instead of one or two nights a week, it was now three and even four. There was always an excuse, always a promise that it wouldn’t be forever, and always a reminder of their ultimate aim.
But Elizabeth was lonely. While her days were filled with one charitable endeavor or another, her evenings were long and empty. Her mother-in-law was little comfort. Amanda retired to her room immediately after dinner and did not encourage company. To relieve the boredom, Elizabeth took to going out for walks after dinner, wandering up and down the steep streets, pausing sometimes to look in the windows of her neighbors, at families who had gathered to share the end of the day together. But then her heart would begin to ache for her two lost babies and she would turn away, searching for something to help her forget the tragedy.
So it was that she came to accept an invitation for dinner and the ballet one Tuesday evening shortly after the Willmonts had celebrated their third wedding anniversary.
It was an innocent-enough occasion, arranged by Marian Pinckton, one of San Francisco’s formidable matriarchs, who worked with Elizabeth on a number of committees and who needed a partner for her visiting nephew.
“I apologize for this being such a last-minute thing,” Marian explained. “But the lady who was supposed to join us came down with influenza this morning and I’ve been just beside myself trying to think what to do. Then I remembered you saying something about Robert occasionally working late during the week, and I was hoping that tonight might possibly be one of those nights.”
“As it happens, it is, Marian,” Elizabeth replied, barely able to contain her delight. “And as I have nothing on my calendar for this evening, I’d be happy to fill in for you.”
The nephew turned out to be a fastidious gentleman in his early forties, with sparse hair and an Adolf Hitler mustache, who sat up very straight and didn’t have two words to say to anyone around the dinner table, despite Elizabeth’s best efforts. From the corner of her eye, she watched him separate his salad into little piles of tomato and cucumber and lettuce and onion, and then proceed to eat each ingredient in its turn. After that, he cut his filet mignon into minuscule pieces and then dabbed his napkin at the corner of his mouth with each tiny bite. Elizabeth half-expected to see him take his fork and spear one green pea at a time, and she had to try very hard not to giggle.
Everyone at the table seemed to talk around him, even his aunt, as though they didn’t know how to include him in the topic of conversation and had decided not to bother.
How lucky I am to have Robert, Elizabeth thought to herself, making one of the unfailingly favorable comparisons she had become so fond of making since her marriage. He was so handsome, so winsome, so charming that people couldn’t help but warm to him, and he quickly became the center of any group he entered.
Elizabeth felt very sorry for all the women in the world who were still out there looking, especially if her dinner partner were an example of what was available. Mrs. Robert Drayton Willmont smiled a private little smile. She knew she could afford to be just a tiny bit smug, because she already had a lock on the best man in the whole world.
The nephew took Elizabeth’s elbow as they crossed the busy intersection at Van Ness and Grove on their way to the Opera House.
“I find that drivers at intersections can be exceedingly unpredictable,” he said. It was the longest sentence he had uttered all evening.
The San Francisco Opera House was an imposing building, with ornately gilded ceilings and crystal chandeliers. Naturally, the Pinckton box was in the center of the dress circle. The nephew sat primly beside her, his legs crossed, his hands folded neatly in his lap, his attention focused on the maroon curtain that would soon rise, making not the slightest attempt at any of the social graces. Elizabeth sighed and began to read her program.
From the second row of chairs, Marian Pinckton leaned forward and laid a hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder.
“Don’t be offended that he isn’t taken with your charms, my dear,” she whispered in her young protégée’s ear. “He’s one of them, you know.”
Fortunately, the lights dimmed at that moment, sparing Elizabeth the necessity of a reply. If she had understood Marian correctly—and how could she not have—it was the first time she had knowingly been this close to a homosexual person before, and the idea both enthralled and appalled her.
Elizabeth stole a sidelong look at the man next to her, seeing him now in a whole new light. She had a thousand questions, none of which she would ever dare ask. There were some things, she had been taught, that a lady just didn’t discuss. Not that his sexual orientation made any difference to her in relation to this evening. She would gladly have partnered King Kong if it meant one less night to spend at home alone.
The curtain went up and the ballet began and Elizabeth didn’t think again about her escort until the first act was over and they filed out of the box for the intermission.
“Would you like champagne?” the nephew asked politely.
“Of course she would,” Marian answered for her guest. “We all would.”
The nephew took Elizabeth’s elbow again as the party of eight began to edge its way through the crowd toward the bar.
“I find that theatergoers at intermissions can be exceedingly unpredictable,” he said.
Elizabeth wasn’t sure whether he had intended to be witty, but she burst out laughing—a delicious ripple that ran the length of the scale and back again. A nearby group glanced over in curiosity, among them a distinguished gray-haired gentleman.
“Elizabeth?” he inquired. “Is that you?”
She turned at the mention of her name and looked up into the intelligent eyes of Stanton Wells, the managing partner of Robert’s law firm.
“Hello, Stanton,” she said, offering her hand. “How nice to see you.”
“How nice to see you, too,” Wells said and then glanced around. “And where’s that handsome husband of yours?”
Elizabeth chuckled. “At the office, of course. You and your partners have him slaving away almost every night these days.”
“Really?” Wells asked in surprise. “I wasn’t aware of that. Well, I can see we’ll have to do something to correct the situation.”
“No objection, your honor,” she quipped.
But Wells wasn’t looking at her anymore, he was looking to her right. With some embarrassment, Elizabeth realized that the nephew still had hold of her elbow.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, hastily disengaging herself. “May I introduce Mrs. Pinckton’s nephew, who is visiting from Chicago.”
The two men sho
ok hands stiffly.
“Are you enjoying the ballet, Stanton?” Elizabeth asked.
“Very much,” he replied. “Giselle has always been one of my favorites.”
“Mine, too,” Elizabeth agreed.
“We were on our way to get champagne,” the nephew said abruptly. “Before the intermission is over.”
“By all means,” Wells murmured. Then he turned to Elizabeth. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, my dear,” he said. “And you can be sure I’ll look into that little matter we discussed.”
While it was true that she would have preferred to have Robert at home with her in the evenings, Elizabeth was not the kind of woman to go behind her husband’s back. She sat through the rest of the ballet wishing she had not been so flip with Stanton Wells. A complaining wife was not an attractive asset and the last thing she wanted was to damage Robert’s chances of becoming a partner at the law firm.
She thought of seeking Stanton out at the end of the performance and asking him to forget their conversation, but she was afraid that would only make matters worse. It had been such a casual exchange, there was a chance he would forget all about it in the light of day. She fervently hoped so, but a nagging feeling told her that he wouldn’t and that her flippant words would come back to haunt her.
She was right. The repercussions were almost immediate. Robert stormed into the house the next evening, well before the seven-o’clock dinner hour, the earliest he had been home on a weeknight in months.
“Just what the hell did you think you were doing?” he roared. “Complaining to Wells about my hours and parading yourself around town on someone else’s arm?”
“I wasn’t parading myself,” she protested. “I was doing Marian Pinckton a favor. And Stanton asked me where you were. What should I have said? Would it have been better if I’d told him a lie?”
“If you’d been at home where you belong,” he snapped, “you wouldn’t have had to tell him anything.”
“But it gets so tiresome being alone all week long.”
“Alone? You’re not alone. My mother’s here, and you’ve got a houseful of servants at your beck and call.”
Guilt by Association Page 18