Toward the end of the voyage the weather improved, much to everyone’s relief, and Marguerite began to look less green. In the hope of luring her to stay up late for a chat I raised the subject of my marriage (she had always been dead keen for me to marry), but now to my surprise she showed no interest in the subject and even went so far as to tell me it would be much better if I postponed marrying until I was at least thirty years old because marriage did so tie a man down. This was such a complete reversal of all her earlier advice to me that when I’d recovered from my astonishment I couldn’t help remarking on such a brisk turnabout
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said—very snappishly, I thought. “A woman’s entitled to change her mind now and then, isn’t she?”
Well, it was very unlike Marguerite, and I didn’t know what the devil lay at the bottom of it, but in the end I attributed her attitude to lingering seasickness and tried not to be too down about her snappishness.
My first impression of New York was that it was a magnificent place to approach by sea.
“There’s Sandy Hook!” exclaimed Marguerite, bobbing up and down like a jack-in-the-box by this time. “And the white houses beyond those lovely sands over there belong to Rockaway Beach and Fire Island. Oh look! You can see the hotels of Coney Island! How clear it is today—and there’s the Quarantine Station in the lower bay …”
But I was more interested in a glowering headland and the enormous network of fortifications ahead. Everyone says New York is impregnable, and I’m quite sure they’re right. I’d never seen so many guns in all my life. The whole shore was lined with them.
“Staten Island!” sobbed Marguerite in ecstasy. “The Narrows. And oh look, Thomas, David, look at all the little boats in the Inner Bay!”
We chugged into the great harbor, the city straight ahead of us, Brooklyn on our right and Jersey City on our left. The Hudson River stretched north as far as the eye could see, and the color of the water would have put even the Bay of Naples to shame.
“The light is Italian,” I said, fascinated. “It’s not English at all.”
“Well, of course it’s not English!” cried Marguerite, rabidly patriotic by this time, and hung over the rail as if she could already see her brother waiting at the docks.
He was there, of course. He came hurrying to meet us, and Marguerite ran into his arms so fast that I was surprised she didn’t trip over her skirts. I must say that Cousin Francis, a sporty-looking old cove, did seem awfully pleased to see her. He was pretty civil to me too and patted the boys on their heads and said what fine fellows they were.
“Dearest Francis!” said Marguerite, mopping up her tears with his very own silk handkerchief. Being an American handkerchief, it was almost as big as a tablecloth.
New York is a jolly sort of city, rather plain but with lots of spunk, like a terrier puppy. I don’t care for cities myself, but I should imagine that if you do like them you would easily find New York exciting. Certainly I was excited by the time I entered the drawing room of that house on Fifth Avenue, but that was because I knew I was at long last going to meet Sarah.
I can see that drawing room now. The “shades” were drawn to keep out the oppressive summer heat, and three little black boys in livery stood around waving enormous fans. Unfortunately they were of little use to me as I was already so hot that my shirt was sticking to my back and the sweat was almost washing away my trousers.
Sarah wore a lilac gown. Her skin, untouched by that savage foreign sun, was creamily pale so that her heavily coiled hair seemed unusually dark. She had brown eyes, but they were such a light shade of brown that they seemed golden. They were extraordinary eyes, wide-set and with a slight upward slant that emphasized her high cheekbones. Her mouth, straight and rich, was a luscious shade of red. She had an unbelievably small waist, slender shoulders and a long and lovely neck.
She was gorgeous. I instantly forgot all the pale simpering English roses who came out each season in London, forgot all the overeager misses on the boat and even forgot how to say a simple “how do you do.”
“Allow me, my dear Patrick,” said Cousin Francis Marriott in his plummy voice which reminded me of a bad actor playing Macbeth, “to make the formal introductions. Of course since you’ve been corresponding with each other for some months introductions are hardly necessary, but …” He waffled on for a while about God knows what, but finally he stopped talking and I managed to say something like “Um. Well … delighted, Miss Marriott. Cousin Sarah, I mean. Yes. How are you?” I was red as a lobster by this time, and so hot that I couldn’t conceivably have been any hotter even if, like a lobster, I had been flung into a pot of boiling water.
She looked me up. And she looked me down. The ice at the North Pole was never half as cool as Miss Sarah Marriott in New York City on June the eighteenth, 1868.
“I’m delighted to see you in person at last, Cousin Patrick,” she said with a casual, graceful formality. “Welcome to New York. It’s considerably hot, isn’t it?” She gave me no time to reply but glided neatly past me to meet my little brothers, and I saw only her straight back and that lush opaque hair coiled above her long lovely neck.
My embarrassing gaucheness had meant nothing to Sarah Marriott. She was eighteen years old and had already received proposals from a Russian prince, a California millionaire and an Italian count. She was one of the great beauties of New York society, so accustomed to wealth that fortunes were meaningless to her, so used to admiration from supremely eligible men that my speechless wonder was almost beneath her notice. I knew at once that she was spoiled and pampered; I knew at once that she was enjoying giving all her suitors a hell of a fine run for their money; I knew too that I had about as much chance of success as a donkey in a steeplechase for thoroughbreds—but I didn’t care. All I cared about was that for once in my life I didn’t have to be embarrassed by my good fortune because for once in my life, as far as Sarah Marriott was concerned, I was no more than one of a crowd.
III
I couldn’t believe it when she said she would marry me. We were sitting in the garden under a shady tree, and Sarah was drawing a pattern on the gravel path with her parasol. The weather was still unspeakably hot, but three weeks had passed since I had arrived in New York and I was more used to the climate by this time. We were discussing the merits of dogs and cats. Sarah had a nasty overbred Pekinese called Ulysses (after General Grant, who was running for President that year) and desperately wanted a white cat, which she planned to call Omar Khayyam. She was just saying how she hoped her father would give the creature to her when I heard myself announce, “Sarah, I’d like to give you anything you want. You wouldn’t possibly want to marry me by any chance, would you, because I’d be awfully thrilled if you did.”
She burst out laughing. I suppose it was rather a silly way of proposing, but I’m not much good at acting parts and making flowery speeches, and at least I said exactly what I felt.
“That’s the best proposal I ever had!” she exclaimed, still laughing. “Have you spoken to Papa?”
“No, I didn’t know I was going to propose. That’s to say, I thought I’d wait. I mean …”
“If you hurry you can catch him before he leaves for Wall Street.”
“You mean you—”
“Oh yes,” she said. “I’d love to. I was afraid you were never going to ask me, and we’ve known each other almost a month. I’d practically abandoned hope.”
“But why—all your other suitors …”
Sarah yawned and fanned herself. “You’re different from the others. You talk to me as if I were human instead of an illustration in a picture book. And you’ve never once tried to slobber kisses all over me when you’ve thought no one was looking. I can’t bear men dribbling affection like spaniels.”
“May I kiss you now?”
“Very well, but don’t slobber.”
I did my best not to. Sliding my arms around her waist, I kissed her once on each cheek and once briefly on the lip
s. She relaxed in my arms, her body pressed against mine and suddenly I felt as if I had had two drams of poteen and was as strong as an ox. I moved back sharply, but she hardly noticed my withdrawal. She was already talking again in her low, oddly accented voice, saying that she would be glad to be married because her mother didn’t understand her and her brother Charles was away in Boston for so much of the year and no company for her at all, and as for Papa, well, she guessed it would nearly kill her to leave him, but.…
“He’ll always think of me as a child,” said Sarah, “and I’m not. I’m grown up and I want to be grown up. I want to have my own house and my own life, even if it means I have to be separated from darling Papa.”
“Cousin Francis Marriott is in his mid-forties and thinks himself an awful swell,” I had written to Derry soon after my arrival. “He drinks two bottles of port a day, fancies himself as a first-rate driver of a four-in-hand and loves to talk about ‘The Street,’ which is where the Americans do their financial business. Marguerite told me he hates England, but he tells me he now has profitable connections with a large mercantile firm in Manchester as the result of the North of England’s pro-Unionist sympathy during the Civil War, and Cousin Francis’ heart is where the money is. Also Sarah is dying to visit Europe and she loves everything English (it’s become the fashion for American girls to yearn for the Olde Worlde). So since Cousin Francis dotes on Sarah so much he doesn’t dare be too anti-European or anti-British for fear of offending her. Marguerite says she would never have believed that her brother could be so subservient to a woman and is quite annoyed that Cousin Francis should dote so on Sarah, but I think Marguerite is jealous because he was always more like a father to her than a brother and Sarah more like a sister than a niece. Marguerite even seems to disapprove of my admiration for Sarah and keeps trying to interest me in other girls. I must say, I do think Marguerite’s behavior is a little odd. However, Sarah’s mother approves of my conduct, so I really have nothing to worry about.
“Cousin Amelia is large, seventeen stone at least, and has three chins, an enormous bosom and large, sad, cowlike eyes. I can’t see how Cousin Francis could even begin to claim his marital rights amidst all that flesh, but I’ve heard he has a string of mistresses scattered through the town. New York is a great town for kept women and what the Americans call ‘houses.’ Prostitutes aren’t allowed to solicit on Broadway but walk along very fast with their eyes on the ground—a most curious sight. They’re called ‘Street Walkers,’ and if they can get a customer they beckon him into a side street where the police don’t interfere. Then there are places called ‘concert saloons’ where there’s no classical music but an awful lot of gin, and dance houses where the dancers are quite the dregs of humanity.”
I tried to make it sound as if I had witnessed these colorful places with my own eyes, but in fact I had only heard about them from Cousin Francis one evening after the ladies had withdrawn from the dining room and he was comfortably launched on his second bottle of port. He had undertaken to warn me against visiting such places, since thievery was common and disease rampant.
“But you would enjoy the gambling here,” I noted to Derry. “It’s against the law in the state of New York, but nobody cares about the law as far as gambling’s concerned, least of all the police. There are gambling houses within a block of Broadway and many more over on the East Side and down the Bowery in the lower-class neighborhoods. The great American game is faro. The first-class houses are usually honest, very sumptuous in their furnishings and attended by well-mannered Negro servants, most of them ex-slaves from the South. Oh God, that Civil War! As a topic of conversation it’s still second only to President Johnson’s impeachment, and, talking of the impeachment, to hear Cousin Francis waffling interminably about the dangers to the Constitution is worse than being forced to read about the latest plans afoot at Westminster for Parliamentary Reform! But I mustn’t say a word against Cousin Francis, who’s really been most hospitable to me, and I suppose if he’s going to be my father-in-law I’ll have to get used to all his boring speeches about politics.”
Derry’s letter in reply to my lengthy discourse on Sarah’s family, street walkers and faro arrived soon after Sarah had accepted my proposal.
“Re Marguerite,” he began in legal fashion. “It’s clear as a spring dawn that she’s jealous of Sarah—but not for her place in your cousin Francis’ affections. You’re very dense sometimes, Lord de Salis.
“Re Cousin Francis and Cousin Amelia: How could two such frightful people have produced the Sensuous Sarah? What’s her brother like? Since you don’t mention him I suppose he’s away pursuing his studies at Harvard, or whatever their colonial imitation of Oxford is called.
“Re your passion: Well, you always were subject to strange whims. I regard it as part of your charm, but truthfully, Patrick, honestly—you’re not seriously entertaining this mad idea of marrying an American girl, are you? It seems a damned tragedy to marry when you’re only twenty-three, and it’s not as if you’re in my position and have to marry for money (by the way, my latest heiress went to England and is now engaged to some nincompoop called Lord George Swindon-Cunningham). Besides, if you have to marry at twenty-three, why the devil choose an American girl? That stepmother of yours has been influencing you again or I’m a Dutchman, but I’ll say no cross word against Marguerite, because if she’s opposed to your interest in Sarah I suppose we must be allies. Well, fate can make strange bedfellows—which reminds me, American tastes in bedroom matters seem pretty droll, although by God if ever I found myself in bed with an American woman I’d gag her first so that she wouldn’t say anything to distract me. The accent would put me off so, and besides American women are always so damned managing that I wouldn’t put it past them to give directions to the man of their choice when lying on their backs with their legs apart. For God’s sake come back to England before you do anything silly. Yours, etc. DERRY.”
I was amused but also annoyed. The allusions to Marguerite didn’t upset me, for Derry was always talking nonsense about her, but his remarks on American women—which were a comment, no matter how indirect, on Sarah—irritated me immensely. In fact I was so irritated that I even complained to Marguerite that Derry had cut up pretty rough about the idea of my marrying an American girl.
“And what on earth’s he going to say when he hears I’m now engaged?” I added in gloom.
“He’ll get used to the idea,” said Marguerite sharply, and added in a milder, more persuasive tone, “After all, I’ve got used to it, so why shouldn’t he? For a while I wasn’t anxious for you to marry Sarah, I admit, but now …”
I brightened. “You really approve?”
“Yes.” She hesitated before saying positively, “Yes, I do. I was confused for a time, but now I’m sure it’s for the best. Quite sure,” she repeated as if there still remained some doubt about it, and then she smiled and said she was sorry she had been so short with me lately.
I smiled too. Nothing could have pleased me more than this hint that we were to be friends again, and when she saw I was cheered she said encouragingly, “Derry’s next letter will be full of congratulations, you wait and see. He won’t want to quarrel with you.”
She was right, but I spent many anxious days awaiting his verdict, and when the letter finally came I was almost too nervous to open it.
“My congratulations to you,” he had written agreeably. “Your speed took me by surprise, but evidently Sarah has made marriage seem irresistible to you! However, I hope you don’t intend to remain in America till your wedding next June. Now that you’re engaged there surely can’t be any danger of her running off with some other fellow, so why don’t you come home for a visit? Don’t forget that Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder—or, to be a trifle more vulgar, Abstinence (in moderation, of course!) makes the Ardor—but you can guess the rhyming adjective. If you come back for Christmas, think what a jolly time we could have together at Woodhammer Hall! You know how much I’ve always
wanted to see Woodhammer. Well, I must stop. Forgive me for writing only a short letter, but I have a brief to prepare for tomorrow, and I’m already burning the midnight oil. My best wishes to the future Lady de Salis. Yours, etc. DERRY.”
This was all very well, but after I had recovered from my relief I began to feel in the deuce of a quandary. The truth was that the idea of Christmas at Woodhammer did seem appealing, for I was already exhausted by America. But I didn’t see how I could possibly leave Sarah. For a start I didn’t want to leave her, but it was really more complicated than that. It would be more accurate to say I didn’t dare leave her. I knew she loved me, but she was so ravishing and so desirable that I was terrified she might slip through my fingers even though we were now engaged. If I returned to England for even the briefest of visits she could always say afterward, “Well, you left me—you went away. You couldn’t have loved me much, so how can you blame me for having turned to someone else?”
Derry might be unaware of the danger, but I could see it all too clearly.
“Well, of course you must stay!” said Marguerite firmly when I confided in her. “We’ll all stay.”
“But I know you want to return before the end of the year.” There had never been any question of Marguerite remaining permanently in America. She was determined to live in London so that Thomas and David could grow up to be Englishmen, just as my father would have wished.
“Oh, it’s not essential that we should return then,” she said at once. “After all, these are exceptional circumstances. We’ll stay until next summer and then Thomas and David can be page boys at the wedding while I can sit in the front pew and enjoy myself.”
“I suppose we could all go back to England in December and return again next spring.”
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