“Would you care to bet against me again?” I asked sweetly. “I will try not to win.”
They decided that my luck wouldn’t hold, but it did and they lost their money. I always knew which cards to bet on but I was careful not to win every time. A small crowd gathered to watch me play. Seth stayed away.
More players started to bet with me against the house. Then the dealer announced that he was unable to cover all our bets and that he would have to suspend play while he replenished his supply of chips.
“I think I have won enough for one evening,” I said decisively. I swept my pile of chips into a handkerchief. “Any more and I won’t be able to carry them all!”
The men offered to lend top hats. A few of them made suggestions for ways in which I could spend my small fortune. I bid them all a merry farewell and went to find Seth. He was playing roulette.
“How did it go?” he asked casually. The wheel spun, whirling the small lead ball around its circumference.
“As we planned,” I shrugged, trying to match his coolness although I was feeling excited and elated. “I broke the faro bank. And you?”
“Losing.” He smiled at me. “Any suggestions?”
“Play five on the black,” I said. The wheel turned. Five black lost. We laughed companionably and moved away from the roulette wheel. Seth put his arm around my waist.
“So you’re not infallible after all! I’m glad. Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to get along without you.”
It was a strange thing to say, I thought. I handed him my makeshift sack of chips. “Take care of these, will you? I need to check my hair.”
I went to the ladies’ powder room and came face to face with Odette Mornay. “Good evening, Madame,” I said courteously. “I trust you are having good luck tonight?”
“I’ve heard about your luck,” the old woman sniffed. “Don’t let him take your money. It’s yours. You won it.”
“I’ll be careful, ”I promised.
“At least you’ll have something to fall back on when he leaves you.” Madame Odette said, walking away.
“I won’t let him leave me,” I vowed silently. “He’ll never want to leave me!”
Seth wasn’t in the main salon when I went to look for him. I peeked in on the faro games, then decided he had gone to the bar. I went back to the corridor that separated the gambling rooms from the bar and came face to face with Martin de Vernay.
“I congratulate you on your good fortune,” he said with a polite nod.
“Oh.” I felt myself redden slightly. “I didn’t expect to see you in a place like this, Monsieur.”
“And I did not expect to see you here, either,” he said. His blue eyes probed mine. I thought he looked older, and very handsome.
I said stiffly, “If you will excuse me, I am looking for Monsieur Garrett.” I added bluntly, “I live with him.”
“Yes, I know.” He was utterly serious and unsmiling. “Rhawnie, why—”
“Please, Martin,” I said softly, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I do. I must! I want to talk to you, alone. Ride in the Bois tomorrow. Please!”
“I can’t. He won’t let me go out alone. Please, Martin, don’t ask me. It’s impossible.”
“I love you.”
My knees felt weak. It was the first time in my life a man had ever said those words to me. “No,” I whispered. “No!”
“Yes. With all my heart.” His voice was intense and his eyes burned. “Tomorrow, in the Bois, near the horse fountain at noon. Please, Rhawnie. I’ll be there tomorrow and every day after that until you come!”
I heard Seth’s laughter in the bar. I left Martin abruptly and went in. Seth and his friend François Nerval were toasting each other with whiskey. They saw me and lifted their glasses.
“To Mademoiselle Rhawnie, the most beautiful and accomplished mistress a man could ever hope to have!” François said loudly. I cringed. I was sure that Martin, lurking just outside the door, could hear every word. “Listen, Seth, when you’re tired of her, give her to me! I’ll treat you like a queen, Rhawnie,” François promised. “By God, with your faro winnings I could buy you Versailles!” The two men roared. I smiled feebly. “If you don’t mind,” I said to Seth, “I would like to go home. I have a slight headache.”
“Of course, darling.”
I was surprised. He was not in the habit of using endearments when he spoke to me. We left Monsieur de Blazon’s gambling hall together. Seth was euphoric, happier than I had ever seen him. He laughed a lot, and he was lavish with his praise and affectionate gestures. He was so delighted with “our” success at the faro table that he didn’t notice my thoughtful silence and my lack of triumph at winning. I had earned more money that night than I had ever seen in my life, and I didn’t care. My encounter with Martin de Vernay spoiled the evening for me. It blighted all the delight I would ordinarily have taken in fleecing the gorgio.
Seth was exceptionally tender in his lovemaking that night. He was gentle and attentive to my pleasure. But I was distracted and reserved, because my thoughts were full of Martin.
“You’re just tired,” he said, holding me close. “It’s the let-down after all that intensive preparation and the strain of actual play. I’ll leave you alone, if you like—”
He started to go but I held him back. “Please Seth, stay with me,” I implored him. “I don’t want to be alone tonight. Hold me!”
Two days later Seth mentioned that he intended to visit his tailor at eleven o’clock. He left the house half an hour early, and I slipped away at eleven. Neither Jules nor Boucher saw me leave. I went to the Bois on foot. Martin was already waiting.
“I knew you’d come!” He slid off his horse and came forward with hands outstretched. I did not offer my hands, but kept my arms down at my sides. I said calmly, “I only came because it would be unfair to you to let you go on thinking about me, Martin. Please, don’t make this harder for me—. I can’t stay long. He’ll be back—”
“Why do you stay with him at all?” The young duke’s voice was bitter. “Everyone knows what he is like. He doesn’t love you, and I do!”
“No, you don’t understand, Martin. Where would I go if I left him? It’s all the same now. And—he needs me.” That part was a lie, of course. Seth didn’t need anyone, least of all me. But it made my situation sound a little better.
“He needs you to warm his bed and to bring home money from cards,” Martin said angrily, with penetrating truth. I bit my lip and turned away. “No, wait, Rhawnie!” he cried. “Forgive me for hurting you. I know it wasn’t your fault. Everyone at the ball that night knew what was going to happen. I heard them joking about it. And I did nothing! Why didn’t I stop him?”
“I can’t bear this,” I said in a thick whisper. “I must go—”
“Oh, God, I’m sorry, Rhawnie.” He caught my hand. “I wouldn’t have hurt you for the world, you know that. I love you so much, so much!”
“No!” I cried, facing him squarely. “You love me the way boys love an ideal, a dream. You don’t even know me, Martin. You don’t know what I am. Did you know that I cheat and lie and steal—for fun? I was born and raised Gypsy, and I am still Gypsy! Seth understands that, and it doesn’t matter to him. But it would matter to you. You hate my cardplaying, don’t you? But I love it! I love gambling and taking chances and betting and winning and easy money. I’m as bad as Seth that way. And in other ways, too. We’re the same, he and I. Please, Martin, don’t torment yourself. You are not in love with me. It wouldn’t be right. It’s not possible!”
Martin shook his head and said, “I know you, Rhawnie. I know that you’re kind and good and loving. And I know that he’s just using you and exploiting you. He’ll get tired of you and—”
“No! He is very good to me! He would do anything for me, I know it!”
Why, why was I lying to him? I was telling him exactly what I myself wanted to believe.
“Would he marry you?” Martin demand
ed. I looked away. Not even I could tell a lie that big. “Because I would.”
8
The End of a Dream
IN THE WEEKS that followed Seth was unusually attentive and warm. He presented me with gifts—jewels, gowns, a fine new saddle for Blaze—and escorted me to parties, concerts and balls. We played cards at least three times a week, and I always won.
I tried to be honest with myself. “He is not being so nice because he cares about me,” I thought. “When I first came here I was a sex machine. But now in addition to that, I am a card-playing machine, a money machine. Seth Garrett can’t love anyone. He is not like Martin.”
Seth became increasingly possessive of me. He was reluctant to let me out of his sight at gatherings and even at home. I felt suffocated by his constant vigilance, but when I complained about it he told me laughingly that I was too valuable a property to take chances with. He said he “couldn’t afford” to lose me.
He thought of me as property, I thought of myself as a machine. It was the same thing, I thought bitterly.
Martin continued to haunt me. Instead of achieving its desired effect of discouraging his attentions, my meeting with him in the Bois seemed only to fire him with new purpose. We hardly ever had a chance to speak privately after that, but wherever Seth and I went, to the opera or the theater or the ballet, or to gamble at Albert de Blazon’s salon, Martin was there, too. He glowered at Seth, gazed at me worshipfully and meaningfully, and often waited an entire evening to speak to me, even for half a minute. If Seth was aware of these attentions to his mistress, he gave no sign. He probably considered Martin beneath his concern.
At the end of June Seth told me we would be spending the summer in England, first in London, to take advantage of the wonderful opportunities to gamble, and then at a country estate he had rented. I was grateful for the chance to get away from Paris and Martin for a while. I told myself that I hoped when we returned to Paris in the Fall, Martin would have found himself a new diversion.
I did not like London. It reminded me of Moscow, dull and gray and dirty, not white and beautiful, like Paris. I wasn’t too surprised to find that Seth’s command of the language was as good as any native’s. I learned to speak fair English, and he laughed at my Russian-Gypsy-French accent. The estate was truly wonderful, with miles of hills and fields for riding, a rambling house with servants, country parties and dances. And cards. Seth and I prospered. He did not try to cheat me, as Odette had warned. He shared with me and I shared with him, equally. I locked my money away in my jewel box. Being a Gypsy, I distrusted banks—I had won a fair amount of money from bankers—and not even Seth could persuade me to put my money where I couldn’t see it.
His gray moods were few and far between that summer. He did not suffer another black period at all. I am sure he felt that things were going well for him. Life was full of distractions and his Gypsy mistress had proved to be an amusing and profitable acquisition. If anyone had suggested to Seth that he was becoming attached to me, he might have admitted that it was so: he continued to find me interesting and diverting, and I hadn’t yet begun to pall. If anyone had suggested to him that he was falling in love with me, he would have denied it in no uncertain terms. But if any man had suggested that he was becoming obsessed with me, he would have knocked him down.
Yet I was an obsession, I must have been. Why else didn't he leave me alone? He would have told anyone—as he told me—that I was free to come and go as I pleased. But it wasn’t true. He controlled every aspect of my life: dress, hair styles, my choice of card partners, my public behavior, my hours of sleeping and waking, the times we made love. I was as much his prisoner as if he had kept me chained and behind bars. I had no real desire to escape, not at first. But the seeds of hatred had been planted in my heart long ago. And there, in England, they started to grow and blossom.
I resented his constant watchfulness. It seemed to me that I couldn’t even bathe or use the chamber pot without his spying on me. Perhaps it wasn’t that bad, but at the time I thought it was. I thought longingly of Paris and of the house on the Rue de Montmorency that was the home I never had. I thought of Jules and Boucher, and of my horse. Blaze. And I thought of Martin de Vernay, and I began to hope that he hadn’t found another love in my absence. I wanted desperately to talk to someone about my situation, and I felt that only one person in the world would understand: Martin. I was becoming as obsessed with Martin as Seth was with me.
We spent a few more weeks in London at the end of the summer, playing for high stakes at the gambling halls in Soho. I lost heavily once or twice, and when Seth wanted to know what had happened to my remarkable, infallible gift, I answered truthfully that I did not know. Most of the time I knew which cards to play, but occasionally I had to gamble, like everyone else. This was the first indication I had that my talent was linked to my emotional state: when I was desperately unhappy, I lost.
Then Seth decided that it was time to go back to Paris. He wrote to Jules, instructing him to prepare the house and giving him the date of our arrival. We took a train to Dover, crossed the channel by steamer, then travelled to Paris by coach. A few days after our return we attended a ball at François Nerval’s house.
Martin was there. We were able to dance together only once.
“I missed you terribly,” he said when our waltz finally came. "I thought about you every minute. I couldn’t bear Paris and so I went south. I couldn’t bear that, either. I love you, Rhawnie. I adore you! And I hate—him.”
I wanted to ease the torment in his eyes, and I confessed that I had thought about him, too. Martin was ecstatic; this was the first encouraging sign I had given him.
“When can I see you again?” he asked. “Tomorrow, in the Bois—”
“No, Martin. It’s harder than ever to get away. I don’t want him to suspect. I’m not afraid for myself, but for you—”
“I’m not afraid of Seth Garrett,” Martin said grimly. “If I were any kind of man I’d go to him and tell him that I was taking you away from him. You don’t want to stay with him, do you? Do you?”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t. I’m like a prisoner now. Oh, Martin, it’s impossible. Can’t we just go on—”
“No. Either you tell him you’re leaving or I will. I’m serious, Rhawnie. I want to marry you.”
It was the second time he had mentioned marriage. My heart thumped. “If only it were true!” I sighed.
“It is true! I know what you’re going to say, that it’s out of the question. I know there are a hundred reasons against it—the way you’ve lived and the way I’ve been brought up, my title, my family. But that’s all nothing, compared to the one reason in favor of it: our love for each other.” Our dance ended. François came over to claim me for a mazurka, and Martin bowed politely, thanked me for our dance, and moved away. I saw him as my hero, my rescuer, my salvation. And I told myself that I loved him.
Seth and I left the ball early to go to a new gambling place François had told us about. I caught sight of Martin when we were on our way out, and I gave him a slight nod to tell him that he had reason to hope and that I was willing to leave Seth for him.
I played badly that night. I won but bet foolishly. We rode home in silence.
“I must talk to you,” I said when we were inside the house. “It’s very important.”
“Of course, my dear.” Seth led the way to the drawing room. He lit the sconces on the walls, poured himself a drink—there were decanters of brandy and glasses all over the house, so he wouldn’t have to ring for Jules whenever he wanted to drink—and then he settled back in a soft chair. “Now, what’s preying on your mind? Do you want a new dress? Are you bored with Paris already? Where would you like to go? I’m open to suggestions.”
A new dress. Leave Paris. He thought me so frivolous. I stood in front of him with my hands at my sides. I didn’t want him to see that I was nervous or apprehensive.
“I want to leave you,” I said steadily. "Martin de Vernay and
I are in love. We want to get married.”
I thought he would laugh, loudly and mockingly, but he didn’t. He merely lit a cigar—taking an agonizingly long time over it-—and drawled, “Indeed?”
I waited. He smoked thoughtfully. Then he said, “So you want to get married. That’s very interesting.”
“You think so?” I bridled. “Why? Don’t you believe that a man would want to marry me?”
“Oh, I believe it all right. I know that fools come in a variety of sizes and shapes and that they show their foolishness in different ways. It is not inconceivable that a man would want to marry, or even that he would want to marry you. But de Vernay? And you?” He permitted himself a chuckle. “It’s ridiculous.”
“I will leave here tomorrow,” I said firmly. “I will take a room in a hotel and—”
“You’re not going anywhere, Rhawnie,” he said patiently. “Don’t get yourself all worked up ahead of time over something that will never come to pass.”
“You are saying that you won’t let me go.”
“I’m saying that if you believe that Martin de Vernay is really going to marry you, you’re living in a fool’s paradise. Do you really think his family would stand for it? In France a man has to obtain parental permission to marry, whether he’s fifteen or fifty. Martin would never get it, never. Besides that, you’d both come to regret it in a very short time. You’re thinking of yourself right now. But think of Martin for a minute. He’d be a laughing stock, an outcast."
“We would be able to live with all that! We have talked about it. We are both strong and—"
"You’re both full of foolish dreams," Seth said harshly. “I’m sure the whole idea seems very beautiful and romantic to you now, but it would turn sour in just a few days, I can tell you that with assurance." He tapped his cigar over an ashtray. “I don’t want to hear any more about this. Go to bed. I’ll come up in a few minutes."
Dangerous Obsession Page 19