But she didn’t have a complete story yet. Perhaps if she did more research, she’d discover one. That was usually the case. She’d carted down some of her books on the Napoleonic Wars to Witley from London, hoping to get something from them. They were heavy tomes. The Memoirs of the Life of Sir Samuel Romilly, a solicitor general during the wars, and The Principles of the Law of Evidence: With Elementary Rules for Conducting the Cross-Examination of Witnesses.
Now, every morning, she got up, went to her desk, and read through the various books, jotting down notes. Her days started to assume something of their old, contented rhythm, work in the mornings, entertainment in the afternoons, only now with Johnnie at her side, encouraging her and propping her up.
In early September, the air was golden, dryer. The leaves began to turn, drifting softly to the ground. The flowers in the garden were mostly gone, except for the late-blooming purple asters.
Barbara Bodichon wrote to say that she was coming down to Witley for a visit. It had been so long since she’d seen her friend, with whom she’d shared so much — even John Chapman. She was coming alone because the good Dr. Bodichon was in Algeria.
It was a shock when Barbara got off the train. She was in her fifties now, her once golden hair was graying, and she’d had a stroke. Instead of her old self-confident stride, she dragged her foot. Seeing her, Marian couldn’t speak. Was this what she, Marian, must look like now to her old friend Barbara, worn and gray?
She recovered, and rushed to hug and kiss Barbara and to help her with her things.
They arrived at the Heights, and suddenly it was filled with Barbara’s energy. She brought out gifts, including a painting she’d done for Marian of the sere Algerian countryside. Barbara was quite well known now, her work had been exhibited at the Salon and the Royal Academy. “And here’s Eugène’s book, Étude sur l’Algérie et l’Afrique.”
Marian had invited Johnnie over from Weybridge to see Barbara. At supper he was charming, as if trying to win her old friend over to his cause. Barbara was full of news about Girton, the women’s college she and her friend, Emily Davies, had founded at Cambridge, to which Marion had donated fifty pounds, a generous sum, more than Brett’s annual wage. “The main building’s complete,” Barbara said. “We’ve got a new science laboratory for the women. Now we’ve got to raise more money … By the way, Marian, I assume you’ve made George’s physiology studentship open to women?”
“At the moment, it does say ‘male,’ ” she admitted.
“But you can’t do that,” Barbara said. “How can you?”
“You know how confused I am about the whole thing.”
“Confused?” Barbara said. “How can you be confused about it, knowing me?”
“I signed the women’s property rights petition because the law is so obviously unjust. And I did contribute money for Girton. But as I’ve said, I worry about the effects of all these changes.” As they spoke, Johnnie looked from one to the other smiling, as if in awe of them. She felt self-conscious at his unreserved worship, his open adoration.
“But you have to change the studentship to allow women,” Barbara said. “You know that George would have wanted it.”
“I’ll look into it. I promise,” she said.
“You’d better,” Barbara said. “I’m going to keep at you till you do.”
“I know you will,” Marian replied, with a smile.
The next day they went for a ride in the trap. “You’re feeling better, aren’t you?” Barbara said, smiling at her, as they drove along the Surrey lanes.
“I’m always better in the country.”
“I’m so grateful you’ve got Johnnie Cross. It makes me happy to know he’s watching over you.”
“Yes.” Her face reddened.
Barbara stared at her. “Are you actually blushing, Marian?”
“He’s over twenty years younger than me.”
“There’re plenty of men who’ve fallen in love with older women. Look at Annie Thackeray and young Richmond Ritchie. By the way, I hear she’s enceinte again too.” Two years before, Thackeray’s daughter, Annie, had married her cousin, a man who was eighteen years younger than she. And they’d had a child, a daughter.
“Obviously, Johnnie wants to look after you,” Barbara said. “He could have plenty of other women. He’s certainly good-looking enough. You’re not holding him prisoner, are you?”
“Really, Barbara.”
“Marian, I knew George. I’d swear with my full heart that he always wanted you to be taken care of. He loved Johnnie.”
“But … I’m an old woman.”
She groaned. “You’ve always said that sort of thing about yourself. No one who loves you agrees with you. You’ve got a lovely figure, the figure of a much younger woman.”
“A figure that’s aging rapidly … I’m ill all the time.”
“You’re ill because you’re still grieving. When you give it up, then your life will be restored. Give the poor boy a chance.” She went on. “Sometimes, young men want something more than just … physical satisfaction. They’re searching for spiritual fulfillment too. They want something other than a stupid, pretty face. Marian, be kind to the poor man. You’re going to lose him.”
Lose him? And then what? Then she’d be alone. How would she manage? She had a vision of the coming winter in London, the cold, the silence of the Priory walls, no voices but the occasional sound of the servants, all those days to fill, trying to work, without love, without encouragement.
Johnnie announced that he was going up to London.
“Must you?” But she had no claim on his company.
“I’ve got business I simply have to attend to.”
That night, after he left, for the first time, she was afraid here in the countryside, though Brett and Mrs. Dowling and the other servants were in their rooms. She saw herself, a small figure in the great dark space of the house, all those empty, unused rooms, the woods beyond. Who knew what lurked there?
She wondered what he was really doing in the city. He said he was staying at the Devonshire. But did he have some other life up there she didn’t know about? That was silly.
While he was in London, she continued working on the new book. When she was finished for the day, she drifted restlessly about the huge house. She tried to read, but she could only read so much.
A kind of madness overtook her and she wrote to him at his club. “Best loved and loving one,” she said, “the sun it shines so cold, so cold, when there are no eyes to look love on me …”
He didn’t know anything about Hebrew verbs, “or the history of metaphysics or the position of Kepler in science, but thou knowest best things of another sort, such as belong to the manly heart — secrets of lovingness and rectitude —” She hesitated, then signed it “Beatrice.” “Beatrice” — that was what he called her, what he wanted her to be. As she sealed it, she realized it was a love letter.
At the beginning of November, in London for the season, he took her about to galleries and concerts and on long, brisk walks through Regent’s Park. He came up with new ways to occupy and distract her, just as he’d done in the old days with her and George.
They went to the Grosvenor Gallery to see Whistler’s scandalous Nocturne in Black and Gold, the subject of Ruskin’s scathing review. It was a painting of a fireworks display in an industrial park, with a dense, foggy night sky, a mass of black and gray, and flashes of light, nearly indistinguishable from anything real except for a few crudely drawn human figures watching the festivities.
Johnnie asked, “Do you agree with Ruskin?”
“I rather venerate him. I’ve tried hard in my own work to follow his theories about truth and nobility in art.” She nodded at the painting. “I think it’s a dreadful mess.”
As they went about, she was conscious of what they must look like to the world, the tall, striking young man with the older woman, her head bent, her face shaded by a mantilla.
Perhaps people thought he was
just one of her many acolytes, escorting the widowed celebrity. Perhaps they thought he was her son. He seemed to have a kind of dazed, beaming pride at being with her, as if her fame gave importance and meaning to his life.
One evening, as they were leaving the theater, a young woman stopped her, went down on her knees in front of her, and clutched at her skirts. “George Eliot! Oh, the wisdom in your books!”
Embarrassed, Marian bent down to the woman and tried to extricate herself. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I don’t think we’ve met, have we?” She looked to Johnnie for help.
“What are you doing?” Johnnie said to the woman. “Please! Mrs. Lewes is in a hurry.” He sounded a bit proprietary, she thought, guarding his exclusive access to her.
But she didn’t begrudge him that. He’d made himself her protector, her encourager, and she needed him now. He was an ornament on her arm, he had such fine carriage, he walked with pride, conscious of his good looks and expensive clothes. He was at her beck and call. She, who’d been such a plain young woman and had never been sought after by any handsome man, now had the handsomest man of all.
He came to supper almost every night. Afterward they sat in the drawing room by the fire, reading aloud, just as she and George would do. They finished Dante and went on to Shakespeare, Chaucer, Wordsworth, none of whose works he really knew. It was strange to be with someone who’d read so little, or remembered so little of what he’d read, but she was touched by his desire to learn. Again, it was like having a son. Brett would come in and say good night, and seeing them together, would smile benignly at them.
She read: “There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream …”
He: “The earth, and every common sight / To me did seem / Apparelled in celestial light …”
They read in rhythm, as if they were playing chamber music. Saying the words to each other was the romance, the basic declaration unspoken.
The days grew shorter, winter came, their walks through Regent’s Park were curtailed by the cold. The rains began and the fog made the days even darker. The shop windows were lit even in the afternoon. There were reports of hansom cabs crashing into one another in the miasma.
She sensed the coming sorrow in her bones, the anniversary of George’s death. She asked Johnnie not to visit that day.
The week before Christmas, Johnnie left London to see his sister, Emily. Emily and Frank Otter had resolved whatever their mysterious quarrel was that day long ago in Weybridge, when Frank had seemed to be angry at Emily and made her cry. Marian had never discovered what their argument was about. But Emily and Frank had married now and were ensconced at their estate in Lincolnshire.
On Christmas Eve, Charley and Gertrude and little Blanche and Maud and Elinor came to lunch and she gave them their presents, including a big doll house, completely fitted out with furniture and miniature paintings and china. She played with them for an hour, lost in their little world. When Gertrude told the girls it was time to leave, Blanche, who was seven, asked politely, “Can we take it home with us?”
“I want to take it home!” Maud cried.
Baby Elinor, sensing her sisters’ discontent, started to cry.
“I’ll tell you what,” Marian said. “I’ll have it delivered to your house, but I’ll get another one just like it for here so we can always play together when you come. Is that all right?” And the little girls nodded solemnly.
Outside the window the gaslights glowed faintly in the yellow darkness. She wrote to Johnnie, calling him her Bester Man, and told him that she’d be alone on Christmas Day, smelling the servants’ goose cooking, but she was well and content. She didn’t want him to think she was lonely for him so that he’d feel burdened by her.
But, she asked, could he come to supper on Tuesday if he was back in town? If not then, Wednesday?
He did come, and she played the piano for him, Schubert sonatas. He sat apart from her on the settee, watching her from afar with an elated expression on his face. And at the end of the evening, he drew her to him. She raised her face to him and instinctively closed her eyes, expecting him to kiss her on the lips. For a moment, she wanted him to, she was giving him permission. Instead, he pressed his lips to her forehead.
She felt a question, another moment of disappointment. But, of course, she’d been the one to insist she didn’t want a physical relationship. He was observing her prohibition, respecting her fear. She was relieved it hadn’t come to that, that he hadn’t taken that further step. Who knew where it might have led? To a frightening place, to his realizing the truth of what she really was, the truth of her old body. Then he would flee and she would lose him forever.
He took up his coat and hat, went out into the foggy night, and left her in the empty house.
She was alone, and the sadness was renewed, like a rock in her heart, unyielding as ever, the incomprehensibility of George’s absence.
When morning came, she continued on the new novel. The work was reassuring. She had her hero, her impoverished inventor, Cyril Ambrose, desperate for money to feed his family. He wants to sell a weapon he’s invented to the government to earn money.
But how exactly to make that happen? Maybe Cyril could unwittingly sell the weapon to a double agent for the French? Who would the double agent be? “We should presume the strongest case against him,” she wrote. “He travels in the interludes when war allows as an agent for a great Museum or other institution …” She had to give the man a name. What about “Rastin”? Good name for a villain, echoes of “Rat.”
How would she ever finish this without George to read every word and prop her up? She couldn’t imagine asking Johnnie for help, or showing it to him and asking his opinion. He had none of George’s intellect and learning, his magical imagination, his scientific and legal knowledge. Johnnie had never written anything in his life, except for that essay in Macmillan’s years ago about his days in New York.
But it didn’t matter. Just to see his bright face, experience his kindness. He could help her in other ways. Her letter to him had said it all.
At last, spring broke through. Walking in Regent’s Park, they were confronted with a scene of overwhelming beauty, cherry blossoms falling to the ground like pink snowflakes, the willows turning golden as they leafed out, flower beds filled with masses of red and yellow tulips.
One day in April, Johnnie took her hands. “Don’t say anything. But please, at least give me some kind of an answer? I’ll wait, but not for long.”
She opened her mouth to object. But he touched his finger to her lips, the first time, she realized, that he’d touched her mouth. “Don’t answer yet. Just think it over.”
They walked on, admiring the lake, the boats floating on the water, the cricketers out on the fields. There was a peaceful smile on Johnnie’s face. Every now and then, someone would stare at her, as if recognizing her, but he continued proudly with her on his arm, she bending forward slightly, as she always did, to hide her face.
She asked Sir James to call on her at the Priory.
He came in, small and thin, with those twinkling eyes of his, eyes full of knowledge and cheer, though he saw death every day, every terrible disease. He never talked about the royal family, who were his patients, but she knew that he had recently discovered another important disease, Paget’s disease of the breast. His accomplishments were endless, he’d also discovered trichinosis, which came from the parasite found in pork, and when she was writing Middlemarch she’d pumped him for information about medicine for her doctor character, Lydgate, and he’d generously given her details about such things as the treatment of addiction. Everything always had to be exactly right, down to the smallest detail.
She was nervous. “It’s so nice of you to come. I know you’re very busy.”
“Never too busy to see my friend,” he said. “Are you well, my lady?” He answered his own question. “I see from your smile that you are. When will we resume our evenings? I’m eager to hear you play the piano again.”
&nb
sp; “No recurrence,” she said, smiling. “Though I still have that constant sensation in my side.”
“Don’t worry about it. It may never develop into anything again.”
“But how do you know?”
“It’s a sign of a small narrowing in one of the ureters, that’s all. But it won’t necessarily lead to trouble. Try not to think about it.”
“I’ve got something important to discuss with you,” she said. She was smiling, but how could she not, seeing the dear man?
“Because you’re smiling, I imagine it’s good,” he said.
“I don’t know. That’s what I want to ask you about.”
“Ask ahead,” he said. “I’m a man for all tasks.”
“I feel rather … uncomfortable discussing this.”
His voice lowered, but he still smiled. “We’ve been through a lot together, you and I. You should never feel worried about speaking to me about anything.”
“Mr. Cross …,” she began. “He’s asked me to marry him. I said no, of course. I’m sixty years old, more than twenty years older than he is. I’m ill … and weak … and … he’s asked again … I don’t understand it.” She looked at Sir James. He was smiling broadly now. “He does make me happy. The loneliness has been unbearable.”
His face filled with sympathy. He took her hand.
“Madam, you’re healthy now. And the care of someone like Johnnie Cross who loves you, who’s young and strong, will only make you healthier and stronger. I believe happiness is the cure for many ailments.”
“But happiness and love didn’t cure George.”
“No, sometimes we’re defeated. But here, Madam, you’ve got a chance for life. To live a second time. You thought you’d never be happy again.”
The Honeymoon Page 26