Grahame, Lucia

by The Painted Lady

  “My head hurts far too much to have such a conversation now,” I whispered at last, hoping the evil moment might be postponed forever.

  “But you must have it soon. If not with me, then with someone in whom you have faith and confidence. I fear for you, Fleur. Few things can destroy you so long as you face them bravely. Bring your dragons out into the light and stare them down in the open—with someone at your side. It’s the only hope. If you go slinking after them into their murky caves, they’ll eat you alive. I ought to have said this months ago, but I’ve been reluctant to impose my own convictions on you. As a result, I’ve let you suffer far too long —I am ashamed of my cowardice. Now I am begging you to open your heart. Surely you know you have nothing to fear from me.”

  My heart! That Pandora’s box of grief and despair, bitterness, and lies.

  “You have nothing to be ashamed of, Anthony,” I whispered at last. But there I halted, unable to exonerate him further without incriminating myself. Finally, I said sadly, “I could not ask for a better husband. My low spirits have nothing to do with you. I have suffered from them for years. Perhaps I was too hasty in agreeing to become your wife; I ought to have given you time to know me better. Then you might have discovered that I have no dragons— only moods.”

  My husband considered this sorry blend of fact and fiction in silence for a moment or two.

  “And that is all you will say on the subject?” he said.

  If only J could say more! If only I could trust him! If only he were not quite so good, so upright and virtuous! If only he had had one or two little weaknesses that might have enabled him to comprehend my own!

  “It is all I can say!” I whispered brokenly.

  I could not see his face as his dark shape disengaged itself from that of the chair. He moved toward the light-filled doorway. For a moment he stood there, looking back at me. At last he turned away. The door closed behind him and the light was gone.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  As soon as I awoke on the following morning, fragments of my husband’s latest appeal for honesty drifted back to haunt me. I sat up among the bed pillows to sip my coffee from an eggshell porcelain cup, and heard again his calm and level voice begging me to open my heart to him—or to someone—and promising me his support.

  But was it possible? Could anyone be so selfless as to forgive entirely? He had said he would make any sacrifice for me; was he prepared even to let me go? Could he really be willing to end the sad charade?

  No one, of course, could dissolve a marriage merely for the lack of love. Lovelessness might drag a couple down as surely as a millstone tied about their necks, but it carried no weight in the courts. Nevertheless, there was no reason for us to remain together. Life would be so much easier for both of us if we were to live apart. And my husband could set me free in body and spirit if not in name, if he chose. At least there was no child on the way to complicate a separation! Then I could return to Paris, where at least I had friends.

  But if he did release me—oh, here was the rub—would he yet provide for me sufficiently so that I might continue to toss bones to that insatiable monster Poncet, who was forever snapping at my heels? And for how much longer would the monster remain satisfied with bones?

  Not long at all, it seemed: That morning’s post brought a letter from Paris. The brownish envelope, with its French stamp and no return address, had a familiar look. It would be yet another notice from my persecutor. Amidst profuse apologies, he would announce that once again he must raise the stakes. I could hardly bear to contemplate what this would mean for me.

  Well, there was still my grandmother’s jewelry.

  I opened the envelope, expecting the usual request. But this one was different.

  “You must come to Paris immediately,” Poncet had scrawled. “It has become necessary to renegotiate our arrangement.”

  I had no idea what this cryptic and alarming message implied, but I was far too frightened of what he might do to ignore the imperious summons. I sent him a note to advise him that I would leave for Paris immediately.

  Then I told my husband I had received word that my dear friend Marguerite was ill.

  “Madame Sorrel ill?” he exclaimed. Two fine little creases appeared between his eyebrows. “Why, I had no idea!”

  I couldn’t imagine why he might; she was, after all, my friend, not his.

  “Is it serious?” he asked. His whole demeanor suggested the gravest concern.

  “I think not. She says it is merely fatigue—that she has been working too hard. But still I would like to see her to assure myself that it is nothing more.”

  The clouds left my husband’s face; his expression became almost hopeful.

  “Oh, but of course,” he said eagerly. “You must go to her at once.”

  He urged me to let him know if there was anything he might do on Marguerite’s behalf or to make my journey easier. He even gave me money for the trip.

  I realized then that he suspected Marguerite’s illness of being a mere invention to conceal my true reason for traveling to Paris; he had come to the happy conclusion that I had decided to follow his advice. To think of it! This man, knowing I could not bring myself to confide in him, was yet so generous as to feel relief in supposing that I was going off to pour my secrets into the ear of my closest friend!

  When I bade him farewell, it was with uncharacteristic warmth and deep sadness.

  Since my last visit to him, Poncet had moved his place of business to larger quarters and had outfitted these even more ostentatiously than his previous ones. A rather plain-faced, bespectacled young woman, who projected an air of enormous self-possession, presided over a rococo little writing table in the front salon. She rose as I entered and started to inquire how she might help me. But then her face turned crimson. I knew instantly that she had recognized me, and that she fully understood the reason for my visit.

  We stared at each other in silence.

  She too much resembled the stolid-featured Poncet to be anyone but his daughter. The spectacles magnified her eyes tremendously. But to my amazement what I saw in those two great, limpid pools was not scorn or condemnation. It was distress.

  “Please excuse me, Lady Camwell,” she stammered at last.

  Without another word, she turned and disappeared into a little passage at the back of the salon. Soon I heard, from the rear of the shop into which she had vanished, a murmur of voices and then a man’s voice raised in anger. I could not discern his words. Then the woman’s voice—higher and clearer—cried, “And you led me to believe that you had thought better of it!”

  A door slammed.

  A few minutes later, Poncet himself appeared, alone.

  He was more extravagantly well dressed than before, and although he wore an unhappily preoccupied expression as he stepped into the room where I awaited him, he routed the shadows from his face at the sight of me and greeted me as unctuously as if he had not a care in the world.

  “Oh, just tell me the purpose of this meeting,” I snapped, cutting off his effusions.

  We sat down facing each other across the recently vacated writing table.

  “I have been waiting for you to purchase the paintings outright,” said he, “now that your circumstances are so improved. But during all these months, you have not done so, although I know that you have the means. I’ve been patient for as long as I can, but my expenses are increasing. There is simply no way I can continue our arrangement on the present terms.”

  “Yes, yes,” I said impatiently. “You need something more than what I have been paying. Tell me how much. You might have done it by letter. There was no need to waste my time with this journey.”

  As if I had anything better to do with my time!

  “You misunderstand me,” he said. “I cannot continue our arrangement on any terms. I have virtually no choice but to auction the paintings, as we discussed so long ago.”

  I froze.

  “However,” he said, “as a courtesy
to that most upstanding and respectable gentleman, your husband—who, I am certain, would prefer to have their existence remain a secret—I am prepared to offer him the paintings outright for the price that I quoted to you some time ago. Of course, if you can come up with the money yourself, there will be no need for me to approach the baronet.”

  I stared at him across the table, nearly blind with despair. I could always sell a few more of my grandmother’s jewels and buy a few more months, but in the end it would inevitably come to this.

  My husband had begged me for the truth. Now he would learn it, but not from me.

  “Do as you must,” I said wearily and left.

  Then I did call upon Marguerite. Théo was not at home, but the sunny rooms of my friend’s splendidly furnished house and her equally sunny manner proclaimed that the couple were living well.

  Marguerite, who had not known I was in Paris, welcomed me with her usual effervescence.

  “Fleur,” she said, “how wonderful to see you. It has been far too long. Théo will be wretched that he missed you. Sit down. Will you have something to eat or drink? You look a little faible. Is everything well with you? What has finally brought you to Paris? Does the distingue baronet accompany you?”

  “I am here because you have been so ill,” I said. “The distinguished baronet remains in England but sends his best wishes for your speedy recovery.”

  “Ah,” said Marguerite with a frown. “Am I the pretext for an amorous tryst? That seems very unlike you, Fleur. Are you sure it is wise? Oh well, how long must I languish?”

  “The tryst is over,” I answered. “And it was hardly amorous.”

  For one of the few times in my life, I actually did attempt to pour out my troubles. But once I had begun, I found myself relating the sorry tale in the same brittle manner with which I had parried her initial questions.

  Even so, my friend listened quietly and with sympathy.

  “Oh, but you must tell your husband everything,” she declared the very instant I had finished.

  “Are you mad! I can’t possibly do that!”

  “He will find it out anyway,” she pointed out sensibly. “Isn’t it better for him to hear it from you than from a scoundrel, who may twist the truth in ways that you cannot imagine. Besides, Anthony seems to be such a good man. Surely he deserves to hear the story from your lips.”

  “He is a good man, Marguerite. That’s the trouble. He is so good, I cannot bear it! Even when I lose my temper and am unkind to him, he never changes.”

  “Then what is there to fear? Perhaps the truth will even provoke him enough to show more spirit. And did he not say that he would do anything for you? You ought to have told him then. He must love you, Fleur—God knows why, for I don’t believe he is one of those men who likes to be treated badly,” she added wickedly.

  “It is impossible,” I said. “I could never tell Anthony myself. I think I would rather have him believe the worst inventions about me than to subject the truth to his judgment.”

  I recalled once again, this time with a sharp, unexpected pang that burned for only an instant, how he had defended me against his mother. She had goaded him numerous times in the course of her visit; the insults had seemed to roll off his back. I had never spoken up for him except on that single occasion when he had asked me, so casually, for my opinion of the subtle abuse she was showering upon him. Yet the very instant that lady had unsheathed her claws to me, he had sent her packing. As he would, no doubt, soon have occasion to do with me.

  “Don’t be a fool, Fleur. Tell him the whole truth. Not only about the paintings—I’m sure they can be nothing to be ashamed of—but about everything. Of course, it will wound him—after all, he is in love with you. But if it shakes him out of that equanimity you seem to find so aggravating, would that be entirely a bad thing? Think what a great relief it will be to have everything out in the open! If anything can breathe life into your marriage, it will be honesty.”

  “Nothing could breathe life into that marriage!” I cried. “It’s too late.”

  “I don’t see why. You have not said one thing that reflects badly upon your husband. Really, he sounds quite wonderful. Why do you assume that he could never understand and forgive?”

  “There are some weaknesses a man like that could not possibly understand, much less forgive. You can’t imagine what it’s like to be married to Sir Galahad!”

  My friend fell into a reverie, her expression very sad. At last she roused herself and said, more briskly, “I have told you what I think is right. But you know your situation better than anyone, and you must do as you think best. I believe that you will be making a terrible mistake if you do not go to Anthony with the truth—and quickly, before someone else does. He deserves that from you. But whatever you decide, Fleur, I wish you well. Never, never forget that you will always have a friend in me.”

  I returned to Charingworth and told my husband that Marguerite had been suffering merely from exhaustion. I offered no further account of my visit. For a day or two my husband seemed to watch me with a hopeful, expectant air, but fortunately he never pressed me to reveal what had actually taken place across the Channel.

  On the third day, he left for London and remained away for more than a fortnight.

  As usual, my husband’s absence only made me feel my loneliness and isolation more keenly than ever.

  From time to time, I forced myself to reflect upon Marguerite’s advice. In my heart, I knew that she was right. Yet, when I tried mentally to rehearse the words I might use to present my husband with the awful truth, I could not imagine finding the courage to speak them.

  On the day he was to return to Charingworth, I took Andromeda out for a long ride. It had rained during the night, but now the late March air was clear and fresh. As I rode between the wooded hillsides and the rolling meadows, with their hedgerows about to come into leaf, I began to feel stronger and more hopeful. The world had a clean and polished look. I had the swift urge to do some spiritual housecleaning myself, whatever the consequence might be. Perhaps I could face my husband with the truth.

  For a long time I wrestled with my pride, but there was no avoiding the fact that there was only one high road open to me. My husband had been right. Marguerite had been right. Nothing would do but honesty.

  So, at last, I began to frame the words by which I would confess to my husband simply and fully all that had driven me to marry him and by which I would admit that my claims to love him had been no more than desperate lies.

  I could only imagine the pain this would cause him, but certainly my inept deceptions had not spared him much pain. I remembered the unspoken sadness I had felt the first night that I had lain in his arms. My confession would deal the death blow to any illusions he might still cherish about me, but the fatal illness had taken hold the day he gave me his name.

  There was no longer any way to sustain the fraud. The one honorable thing I could do now was to let him hear the truth from my lips—not Poncet’s.

  I knew that I still had time to act. No dreaded envelope from France had yet arrived by post for him: I had been keeping a careful watch.

  But when I turned Andromeda’s head back toward the house, my resolve began to waver. The whole business made me feel small and unworthy. Was that perhaps the real source of my antipathy toward my husband—that his incorruptible goodness made me feel so shabby? It took all my will to maintain my sense of purpose. Could I cling to it until his return?

  “Oh, my lady,” said Mrs. Phillips, rushing up to me as soon as I came through the doorway. “Sir Anthony has come home and wishes to speak with you in the library.”

  I thought this very odd. We had grown so far apart that it was remarkable now for my husband to request my presence anywhere.

  I felt a clutch of apprehension. It gripped me even tighter as, after having changed from my riding clothes into a dreary little gown, I descended the stairway to welcome my husband home.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

&
nbsp; My husband was standing, staring out of the library windows. He turned slowly as I entered the room. He looked amused. I shut the doors behind me. He held up a brown envelope bearing a French stamp. “I suppose you know what this is,” he said.

  How had it arrived without my seeing it! I wavered in confusion for a moment, then steadied my resolve.

  “I will explain it to you, Anthony,” I said in a low voice. “Why trouble yourself now?” he responded carelessly. “This invitation to a private viewing arrived at Grosvenor Square over a fortnight ago. As you may imagine, it took me immediately to France.”

  I closed my eyes.

  “And as a result,” continued my husband in the same pleasant tone, “I have acquired a remarkable collection of paintings. Come and have a look—I’d like to know what you think of them.”

  “I am sure you know what I think of them,” I said. My back was against the doors; they were all that kept me upright.

  “Well, yes,” said he agreeably, “I suppose I do. After all, you’ve advanced a considerable amount of money for them. Not that it’s spared me from paying the extortionist’s price.”

  I brought my eyes to his and nearly reeled under the disdain I saw expressed there. The kindly concern I had taken for granted for so long had vanished, but not his customary dispassionate, exasperating calm.

  “I thought you were a woman of… delicate sensibilities,” he went on with a little laugh. “I’ve been deceived.”

  The coldness of his laugh hit me like a slap.

  Was this my patient, tender husband?

  I had not forgotten his remarks about casting the first stone. I had consoled myself with them all that morning; they had given me courage. But now those high-minded sentiments were proving to be so lightly anchored that they had gone adrift in the first hard breeze. Perhaps, being virtually without sin himself, he did not feel enjoined by the Biblical precept. But to think that he would have the sanctimonious arrogance to condemn me for those paintings, for having loved Frederick enough to sit for them! I had always behaved as if I thought this must be true, but nevertheless it was a shock to look at his face now and to see there the contempt, the stern, puritanical, ungenerous judgment.