But it wasn’t her disarray that chilled their blood, or even the sight of Morgan, limp in her mothers arms. No, it was Devon’s strange crooning. She was muttering words of comfort and hope, applying pressure to the girl’s head, doing something with a bloody scarf, smoothing back the soaked hair from Morgan’s pale face.
As if any of it would help. As if she didn’t realize that Morgan’s large green eyes were staring blankly up at her.
CHAPTER 36
“IT was not your fault, and you have to stop telling yourself that it was.” John enfolded Devon in his arms.
Only in the dark of the night, in the shelter of their bed, was she able finally to talk about Morgan’s death. For two days after it happened, she had hardly uttered a word. She was drowning in remorse, shock, grief.
Then, the day of the funeral, it had seemed that the presence of her friends and family had reminded her of the existence of the world outside her private nightmare. Although her speech had been stilted and her responses automatic, she had conversed normally under the circumstances. But not until now, the night after the funeral, had she been able to share her grief and guilt with anyone else. Why was she unhurt while Morgan lay dead in the ground? Why hadn’t she listened to John and not tried to overcome Morgan’s fear of horses? Why hadn’t she checked to see that Morgan was holding the leading rein correctly? Done something different? She flayed herself endlessly.
Devon did not sob or moan in a way that might have been cathartic. She cried silently, continuously.
“You must hate me,” Devon insisted quietly. The voice that told of her grief escaped her in whispers, like poisonous vapors.
“Don’t be crazy. It was an accident.” John did not know how to comfort his wife. There was a part of him—an ugly, hidden part—that agreed that Devon was to blame. But he fought to keep it concealed, even from himself.
“But if I hadn’t tried to convince her…”
“Look, if you think that way, you could as easily blame me. I agreed to go along with giving her the pony,” he offered.
“No.”
“You did what you thought was right at the time.”
“I killed her—” Devon’s voice broke. “And—she must have been in such pain. She was so scared, but she trusted me to protect her and I let her—” Devon couldn’t continue. She choked on her tears, lost in heartbreak and remorse.
“You never forced her to go with you. You were always careful about that.” John tried to reassure her, near tears himself. “Don’t paint yourself as a monster because you wanted her to enjoy the things you enjoy. Morgan loved you and wanted to be like you. That’s only natural for a little girl.”
Devon’s logic told her that John’s words were true, but in her heart she bore a guilt that would never, ever be erased.
CHAPTER 37
THE only relief Devon found from the torments that plagued her was in her work. She immersed herself in it to an unprecedented degree. The time that she spent in New York with John seemed idle by comparison. There she found herself with too much time on her hands and too little to occupy her mind.
The atmosphere at Willowbrook calmed her. The quiet country nights, the warming presence of her parents nearby, the multitude of living things around her—horses, flowers, butterflies, birds, and other country sights—all these she found soothing.
John, in contrast, found that evenings filled with laughter, dance, and champagne took his mind off his sorrow. He was basically a social animal, Devon a solitary one.
Devon also found that there was more and more for her to do at Willowbrook, for over the past seven years the enterprise had grown. Willowbrook was once again internationally renowned as a racing stable and her top stallions now commanded stud fees as hefty as any in the world. Willowbrook had become a profitable business concern, and Devon and Willy regarded as among the most knowledgeable horse experts in the country.
Prior to Morgan’s death, Devon had made the effort to participate in the activities John liked, to spend time in New York with him. Now, being with John was a strain. He was always urging Devon to put her grief behind her, to “rejoin the world,” as he put it. But instead of rejoining someone else’s world, she had created her own, and if she was not happy, she was at least not tortured.
“Devon, have you heard?”
John’s voice over the long-distance telephone line crackled through the static.
Devon brushed the dirt from her hands into the kitchen sink and put aside the spade she had been using to repot her ginger plants.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Devon spoke loudly to compensate for the static.
“Germany has defeated France!”
“Oh my God! Grace and Philip are in France!” Her stomach plummeted. She slumped forward, gripping the edge of the sink.
“Devon, I can barely hear you, but I just wanted you to know that I’m coming down to Willowbrook. I’ll fly down tonight after work.” Devon had a thousand questions, but the connection was so full of static that it was no use prolonging the conversation.
“I’ll see you tonight!” she yelled into the receiver. What to do? What to do?
No sooner had Devon put down the telephone than it rang again. It was Laurel.
“Devon, have you heard?”
“You mean about France? John just told me!”
“Oh, Devon, I’m worried about Grace and Philip.”
Devon didn’t want to worry her mother more by sharing her own misgivings. Instead, she said, “Mother, he’s an American diplomat! I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll tell you what. I’ll call John back and tell him to wire Grace and Philip. It will be much quicker than if we have to go to Western Union ourselves.”
“Good idea. And Devon… would you come over? I… I would feel better with you here.”
“Of course! John is coming down from New York, but he probably won’t arrive until ten o’clock tonight. I’d like to be home by then, though.”
That evening, Devon arrived back at Willowbrook a few minutes before ten to find John waiting for her in the sitting area of their bedroom. He was reading a book, a glass of cognac on the table beside him.
“John! I thought you’d be later! I was at my parents’. They’re frantic about Grace and Philip. Do you have any more news?”
“No,” John said stonily.
His icy tone made Devon take a step backward. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“It would have been nice for you to have been waiting for me here when I came home.”
“I intended to be. I didn’t think you could possibly be here until ten o’clock at the earliest,” Devon explained. They had made it a practice since the beginning of their marriage for each to be at home for the arrival of the other.
John did not reply, but returned to the book he had been reading.
Devon, annoyed that he should focus on her mistake in the midst of a crisis, walked to the easy chair where he sat, and stood in front of him, palms out. “Look, I’m sorry. And I’m glad you’re back. No response to your telegram?”
John did not reply. “John!” Devon repeated, “did they answer your telegram?”
John put his book facedown on the table beside him and stood up. “Not yet.” He proceeded into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. Devon could hear the sound of water running as he took a shower.
Such incidents were occurring between them with greater and greater frequency. This time it had been her fault, in a way. But she couldn’t have anticipated that he would arrive earlier than expected. Surely he could see that, Devon thought.
The more Devon thought of John’s reaction the more it annoyed her, so that by the time he emerged from the shower, Devon was ready to confront him.
He reentered the room casually drying his hair, his monogrammed terrycloth robe the only garment he wore.
“John, I have something I’d like to say,” Devon stood directly in his path.
He raised his eyebrows in a signal for
her to go on.
“When I explain why I’ve done something and I apologize for it—even if it’s something that you don’t like—I expect a little more gracious a response than you gave me tonight.”
“Well,” John said, moving to past her to the armchair. He sat down and stared into the cold fireplace. “I had intended to put that incident behind us, but since you insist on resurrecting it…” John began bitingly.
Devon sat in the chair adjacent to his. “I ‘insist’ because it is the type of behavior that seems to engender more of the same… on both our parts, I’ll admit,” Devon said evenly. It wasn’t just tonight. It was the lack of understanding that was now a thick concrete wall between them.
John stood up and poured himself another glass of cognac from the cut-crystal decanter that rested on the table between the two easy chairs. Standing before the fireplace, his back to Devon, he said, “I don’t see that I was responsible for any aggravating behavior tonight. Even if you didn’t know what time I’d arrive, it wouldn’t have hurt you to stay here and wait for me. You know we’ve always tried to do that for each other.”
Devon stood and put her hand on his arm and gently turned him toward her. “And I tried tonight, too. You just arrived earlier than I expected. Surely you can understand that with the news about the war, and our worries about Grace and Philip, I would want to spend some time with my parents.”
“Or your husband, most people would say.” John released himself from Devon’s grip by moving away from her and once again sitting in the armchair.
Devon was hurt by the gesture “Well, here I am. But instead of being pleased to see me, you had to start an argument.”
“Devon, we had no argument,” John pointed out in a voice that he tried to keep reasonable, but which she found patronizing, “until I came out of the bathroom and you decided to start one.”
His tone caused her to speak more sharply than she had intended. “The alternative would have been to leave you feeling martyred and self-righteous about a perfectly innocent mistake on my part. John, sometimes it seems as though you look for opportunities to become offended by things I do. I can say the most innocent thing, and you always seem to take it as a personal attack.”
“There you go! Why do you have to speak in generalities when we’re discussing a specific, isolated incident?” John’s voice rose a decibel and he threw up his hands in frustration. “Don’t tell me about what I ‘always’ do. Let’s just discuss tonight.”
“Tonight wouldn’t be an issue if it were an isolated incident, but it’s not!” Devon replied heatedly. “It’s the kind of thing that always”—Devon emphasized the word by placing her hands on her hips and leaning toward John—“seems to happen.”
John, quieter now, said, “If it always seems to happen, that begs the question of why we’re still married.”
Devon stared at him, too stunned to reply. She felt a knife turn in her stomach as she reflected on the bitter truth of his statement. He was right, they never seemed to have civil conversations anymore. Agreed on very little. Had almost nothing in common, now that Morgan was dead. Emotionally exhausted, Devon slumped into her chair.
For the first time, John approached her. He sat down beside her and spoke with more sincerity than he had all evening. His defense mechanisms were gone. What he said came from his soul.
“I love you, Devon. Even now, after all our disagreements. But it’s not working between us. I’m worn out. Too tired to keep fighting. To keep asking for things you seem unable to give.”
“But John, I love you too,” Devon protested.
“I know,” John said, shaking his head in resignation, “but it’s not enough. I need someone beside me all the time. I need to come first with my wife.”
“But you do—” Devon began to protest.
“You know that’s not so. You have become a very successful trainer. And you seldom want to leave Willowbrook. When Morgan was alive, she came before me, too. I’m not saying that’s right or wrong. All I’m saying is that it’s not what I want in a wife.”
“I’ve tried to—”
John interrupted, “I can’t derive pleasure from your unhappiness, Devon. When you try to please me by doing things that you would prefer not to do, I’m uncomfortable. And, of course, I can’t force you to want what I want. You can’t force yourself, either. I think we’re just incompatible.”
“John,” Devon said, studying him carefully, “is there someone else?”
“Of course not,” John said, as though the very notion were ridiculous.
“No… I know that,” Devon said, looking down at her hands. She was surprised to see the tears that had fallen on them. She had not realized that she was crying.
“Devon, please don’t be unhappy… you’ll see that this is for the best.”
“You mean a… divorce?” Devon hardly dared utter the word. Her family would be crushed. So would John’s. And she would feel cast adrift without an anchor.
“I think it’s best,” John said, gently wiping a tear from Devon’s cheek with his thumb. “I truly believe that Morgan was our main reason for staying together these last few years. Without her, we have very little together.”
“Oh, John,” Devon said, sobbing into the handkerchief that her husband placed in her hands.
“I know,” he said soothingly. He drew her to him so that her tears wet the front of his robe.
Oddly, now that the rupture was inevitable, they felt closer to each other than they had in some time. The shadow of their love lingered, a poignant reminder of what they had lost.
BOOK TWO
CAIRO, EGYPT
1942
CHAPTER 38
CAIRO’S streets teemed with soldiers from every Allied country and every service branch. But Cairo had always been an international crossroads, and the foreigners were absorbed into the frenetic, tightly packed crowd as foreigners in Cairo had been for thousands of years.
Devon, pushing her way through the throng with Grace, thought they would drown in the tide of humanity. Most disturbing to her were the hands that reached out anonymously to touch her. The natives of the city viewed women in Western dress—many of them cosmopolitan Cairenes—as Jezebels sent to entice them, and they pinched the breasts and buttocks of passersby at will. First-time visitors, like Devon, would whirl about in outrage, only to be confronted by a faceless mass of pushing, sweating bodies. Residents, like Grace, knew better than to fight the inevitable.
“Grace,” Devon yelled in order to be heard above the din, “how much farther?”
“Not much.” Grace looked over her shoulder and smiled reassuringly at Devon. They were on their way to the famous souk, the outdoor bazaar. As always, the embassy car, a long black Cadillac, had driven them as far as it could, but the streets leading to the souk were too narrow for automobiles, and the women had had to walk the rest of the way.
Devon’s anxiety turned to excitement as she and her sister emerged into the area that was reserved for the souk. Entranced by the bounty of glittering clothes, jewels, and brass around her, Devon hurried toward a table laden with fancifully decorated caftans.
“Wait, Devon!” Grace hurried after her, grabbing her by the hand. “Don’t let go or you could get lost!”
“You’re right!” Devon laughed. “This makes New York look like an uninhabited desert island.”
“Ah, the beautifool leddy is eentrrrested in a caftan?” A dark-complected man wearing a red fez with a bouncing black tassel lifted a garment of scarlet cloth shot with gold from the table.
Devon was fascinated by the rolling r’s of his speech. Everything said in that musical accent sounded interesting to her.
Devon smiled warmly at the man and took the proffered garment, saying, “This is lovely. How much?”
“I geev you verrry good price.” The man smiled to show a row of gold teeth.
Grace discreetly nudged her sister in the side. “Let me!” she whispered.
Devon looked at
her questioningly.
“Thees eez the best seelk you weel find anywhere, I assure you!” said the man. “Eet eez a beautifool drayss.”
“We may be interested,” Grace said.
The rotund little man turned and bowed at Grace, as if sensing her greater experience with the ways of the souk. “Twenty-seven pound eez norrmal price, but for such beautifool leddeez, I geev for twenty pound.”
“That’s only about thirty dollars!” Devon whispered to Grace. “That’s a good price!”
“Excuse us, please,” Grace said to the man, drawing her sister away from the table. “Look, listen, and keep your mouth shut, my dear. You may know horse-trading, but I know bazaars.”
Returning to the table, Grace resumed her bargaining. “Your offer is very kind, sir, but we only just arrived. There are many other tables.”
“Madam weel not find morrr beautifool seelk than thees,” the man argued, lifting his three chins in pride. He laid the voluminous garment on top of all the others in a dramatic gesture that sent the shiny silk floating over the entire table.
“I’m sorry, but it’s very expensive,” Grace argued, running one white-gloved hand over the fabric.
The man looked crestfallen. “Tell me what you weel pay,” he countered.
“Four pounds,” Grace said firmly.
The man’s eyebrows shot up, a look of shock on his face. “Fourrr pound! Eempossible! No, eet eez robbery!” Nonetheless, he fingered the material thoughtfully. With a despairing sigh, he finally said, “ I offerrr seexteen and half pound.”
Grace pretended to consult her sister, but instead whispered, “Don’t get anxious, you’ll get your dress.” Then turning back to the man with a look of sorrow, she said, “It’s just too much. We can’t go higher than four pounds.”
“But madam, you start weeth fourr pound, I start with twenty pound. I say seexteen and half. You can geev a beet morr than fourr, no?”
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