An Embarrassment of Riches

by Margaret Pemberton

  ‘Alexander told me to tell you and Henry the truth, but no-one else is to know,’ Maura was saying, a hint of warning in her voice. ‘When he returns with the baby he’s going to say that it is the orphaned child of distant European cousins.’

  ‘You mean he’s going to give it his name? It’s going to be called Karolyis?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Not for the first time Maura wondered what the baby’s Christian name was. Had Genevre given him a name, or had she died before being able to do so and had the nuns given him a name? If so, would it be a name that Alexander could live with? She remembered how unwilling he had been, before Felix’s birth, to give Felix a name. He had said that names were too important to be chosen haphazardly. What if the baby had been named William after Genevre’s father? Despite the stressfulness of the situation the corners of her mouth twitched into a smile as she thought of Alexander being faced with a son named William.

  ‘How you can look so happy about the situation is beyond me,’ Charlie said, mystified. ‘Living with Alexander must be like living in a danger zone. You can’t possibly know what is going to happen next.’

  Maura’s smile deepened in affection. Charlie was a chump, but sometimes he hit the nail right on the head.

  ‘At least it isn’t dull,’ she said truthfully.

  Charlie was unimpressed. Neither were wars and natural disasters and he wouldn’t choose to live in the vicinity of either.

  Three weeks after Alexander’s departure she received a telegraph. He had landed in England and would be setting out on the return journey within days. There was no mention of the baby. Nothing to indicate whether he had been to the convent and its orphanage and been civilly received.

  In mounting tension and impatience she waited for his return. She had engaged Bridget’s and Caitlin’s cousin as an extra nurse. A small bed had been put into the nursery. A large white-painted cupboard, full of toys, had been placed next to the bed. She had bought an extra nursery wardrobe and had shopped lavishly for clothes suitable for a fourteen-month-old child.

  At the end of the month she received another telegraph. He was sailing aboard the China and expected to arrive in New York in eight days’time.

  The eight days seemed like eight years. Even though it was now winter she ensured that the house was filled with fresh flowers. She told the uncomprehending Felix all about the little boy who was coming to live with them and of how they would be friends for each other. She worried incessantly about conditions at sea, praying night and morning that Alexander and the child would have a voyage undisturbed by bad weather.

  In an effort to make the time pass more quickly, she studied every war report with even greater diligence than usual. General Lee had hunkered down in Virginia for the winter, not very far from where he had been at the beginning of the year. Union forces had also dug in and were watching the Rebels warily.

  Much as she wanted to be at the pier to greet Alexander, she was sure that he would be annoyed by such a public reunion. On the morning of his arrival she had Stephen Fassbinder check with Cunard that the China was due as scheduled. On receiving confirmation that it was, she went along to the nursery, checking that the new girl was crisply dressed in her uniform and ready to receive her charge.

  ‘The child may not be too well after such a long voyage,’ Maura said to her and to Bridget and Caitlin. ‘Mr Karolyis will no doubt have engaged a nurse while in England, in order to care for him on the voyage. If she wishes to remain in America, she will, of course, be allowed to do so. It will mean that there are four of you to care for two children and so duties and time off will be much easier to arrange.’

  She had then gone back to her room and dressed with great care. She chose a turquoise dress, because she knew that turquoise was Alexander’s favourite colour. It had a V-neck filled with ruffles, and was softly gathered beneath the bosom to disguise the fact that she was enceinte. She had Miriam brush her thick hair into a fashionable chignon, with curls and tendrils framing her face. She sprayed herself with Lily of the Valley cologne and waited.

  Time passed with interminable slowness. She asked Stephen Fassbinder to verify whether or not the China had berthed. It had. Another fifteen minutes passed and still Alexander’s carriage did not roll into the courtyard. She asked the secretary to verify that Mr Alexander Karolyis had been aboard the China when she had berthed. He had.

  In rising panic Maura imagined Alexander suffering a premature heart-attack or the carriage over-turning in the busy street. When the clatter of wheels finally turned into the courtyard it was all she could do to prevent herself from running to the door. Instead she remained in a fever of impatience in the Chinese drawing-room. This was where he would want her to be. He would not want a reunion in front of Haines and a score of other servants.

  ‘Hurry, Alexander!’ she whispered under her breath as she stood in front of the marble mantelpiece, facing the double doors. ‘Oh, please hurry!’

  The doors opened and in he strode. She ran towards him, hurtling into his arms like an arrow entering the gold.

  ‘Oh, I missed you so much!’ she said fervently, raising her face for his kiss.

  His mouth met hers and the long days of waiting went whistling down the wind. He was home. Life was complete again.

  When at last he raised his head from hers, she said, ‘Where is the baby? Were there any problems about you taking him from the convent? Does he look like you? Does he look like Felix?’

  Gently he released his hold of her and crossed to a table on which stood a decanter and glasses. As he poured himself two fingers of bourbon, she realized for the first time how tired he looked, how tense and strained.

  He didn’t answer any of her questions, instead he said tautly: ‘Genevre called the baby Stasha.’

  She didn’t know what to say. It was an unusual name. And something in Alexander’s voice indicated that it had emotive meaning. And that she should have sense to know what.

  ‘Is that … Hungarian?’ she asked uncertainly as he remained standing near the table.

  He lifted his glass and drained it and then said, ‘Not really. It’s more Russian than Hungarian.’

  ‘Then why …? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

  He turned towards her but made no attempt to put his arms around her again.

  ‘It’s a diminutive of Alexander. The Hungarian diminutive is Sandor, and that was the name my grandfather was always known by. Because of that, when I was small, he always called me by the more Russian diminutive, Stasha.’

  ‘I … see.’

  A pang of jealousy flooded through her. She hadn’t known that his grandfather had always called him Stasha. He had never told her. Yet he had told Genevre.

  She saw now that there were fine white lines around his mouth and realized with mounting disquiet that he had returned home just as stressed as when he had departed.

  ‘YOU understand what Stasha’s name means, don’t you?’ he asked her, his eyes burning into hers. ‘It means that by the time the baby was born Genevre had forgiven me. She had realized that my not being with her was not my fault. That I did still love her.’

  ‘But that’s a good thing!’ She crossed the room to him, sliding her arms around his waist. ‘Be glad that Genevre called the baby after you.’

  ‘I am,’ he said thickly, putting his glass down and hugging her tight. ‘But dear Christ, whenever I think of her dying in that awful place, being told all those lies by my father …’

  His voice became dangerously unsteady and with horror she realized that he was close to breaking down.

  ‘There was nothing you could have done,’ she said speedily. ‘None of it was your fault. You have no reason to feel guilty and to torture yourself like this. All that matters now is Stasha.’

  He took a deep, steadying breath and she knew that the terrible moment was over.

  She took a step away from him, sliding her arms from around his waist and taking hold of his hands. ‘Where is he?’
she asked curiously. ‘Did you hire a nurse to accompany you? Is she to return to England or does she want to stay in America? I’ve already warned Bridget and Caitlin and Aisling that there may be a fourth nursery-nurse …’

  ‘Aisling?’ A frown was puckering his brow. ‘Who the devil is Aisling?’

  ‘The new nursery-nurse. I thought I had better engage one just in case whoever had travelled with you didn’t wish to stay on in America. Even if she does, it doesn’t matter. We need four nurses anyway if the girls are to have any regular time off. Aisling is a cousin of the O’Farrells and …’

  ‘No.’

  She blinked.

  ‘No,’ he said again, pulling his hands away from her loving hold.

  ‘The girl who travelled with me will stay and I’ll hire another nurse to help her.’

  She stared at him bewilderedly. ‘But why? It isn’t necessary. Aisling is far more capable than Bridget or Caitling were when we first employed them. Unlike them, she’s been employed as a nursery-nurse before and she brought glowing references with her. The girls all get along so well together and …’

  ‘No.’ His voice cut across hers, an odd edge in it. For some ridiculous reason she was reminded of the time she had faced him in the billiard-room, when she had thought that he had joined the Citizens’Association.

  She fought down a rising sense of foreboding. ‘I’m sorry, Alexander. I don’t understand. I’ve already engaged Aisling. Are you suggesting that we have five nurses? The girls are so competent that I don’t think it’s really necessary, but if you think it is then, of course, I have no objection.’

  He didn’t reply. Instead he walked across to the occasional-table again and poured himself another bourbon.

  As she tried to reason out why he should think five nurses, not four, were necessary, she was seized with sudden horror. Was it because there was something he hadn’t yet told her? Something that would account for his tension and stress? Was Stasha sick in some way? Perhaps even disabled? Was that why he hadn’t brought him into the drawing-room with him? Was he trying to prepare her for some terrible shock?

  She said fearfully, ‘Is there something you haven’t told me? Is Stasha well? Where is he, Alexander?’

  He gulped back the bourbon saying, still with an odd inflection in his voice, ‘There’s nothing wrong with him. He was sleeping when we arrived and I told a footman to take him and his nurse straight up to the nurseries.’

  Her relief was so vast that she felt quite dizzy. As long as Stasha was healthy then nothing else really mattered. Alexander was only being so aggravatingly obtuse because he was over-tired.

  ‘Then can I see him?’ she asked with a placating smile. He nodded, putting down his glass. ‘We’ll go to the nurseries now. If Aisling is there I will tell her she is no longer needed. You needn’t worry that I won’t do the right thing by her. I’ll give her at least three months’wages and a reference and if she’s as good as you say she is, she’ll have another job by the end of the day and plenty of money to put in the bank as well.’

  Incredibly, she had been so overcome with horror at the thought that there might be something wrong with Stasha that she had forgotten all about his intention of firing Aisling.

  She said again, deeply puzzled, ‘But why do you want to fire Aisling? I’m sorry, Alexander, but I just don’t understand. You have to give me some logical reason.’

  Their eyes held. His hair had grown longer while he had been away and now glossily skimmed the high-waxed collar of his shirt. For the thousandth time she was aware of how stunningly handsome he was. And she was aware, too, of how very much she wanted him to make love to her.

  He gave a slight, very mid-European shrug of his shoulders. ‘She’s Irish,’ he said simply.

  She forgot about making love. She forgot about Aisling. She could hear the French ormolu clock ticking, hear her heart beating and at last she heard herself say: ‘So are Bridget and Caitlin. If you don’t object to Felix being nursed by Bridget and Caitlin, how can you possibly object at the prospect of Stasha being cared for by Aisling?’

  He made an impatient gesture with his hand. ‘Felix is partly Irish and so how can I object to Bridget and Caitlin? But Stasha isn’t partly Irish. Stasha is different, Maura. Surely even you can see that?’

  There it was. The source of all her barely acknowledged forebodings. He felt Stasha to be different. He felt him to be special. Because he was Genevre’s son. Because he was his first-born.

  ‘Stasha is only different because he is illegitimate,’ she said, struggling not to plunge into the chasm opening at their feet. ‘And as I am also illegitimate I can empathize with him utterly. For his sake, it is vitally important that he and Felix are treated exactly alike. The nurses who care for Felix should also care for Stasha and …’

  The skin across his cheek-bones tightened. She had seen him lose his temper enough times to know that he was on the brink of losing it again.

  ‘You’re being deliberately unperceptive, Maura. I don’t want Stasha to be cared for by an Irish nurse for several reasons. One, I don’t want him to begin speaking with a brogue. Two, I have every intention that, despite his illegitimacy, he will one day be accepted into the kind of society that is his due. In order for that to be accomplished he has to be brought up in a way society finds acceptable and …’

  The last remnant of happiness drained from her. She was in the billiard-room again. In a world fast approaching that of nightmare.

  ‘You mean that Felix is being brought up in a way that you privately think will exclude him from high society?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ He ran a hand fretfully through his hair. ‘But now that you yourself have brought up the subject, let’s face a few facts. Despite Henry’s efforts, society is never going to fully accept you and the sooner we both face up to that the better. Because of his half-Irishness, there is every chance that in some quarters Felix will also be snubbed. All I am trying to do is to make sure that Stasha doesn’t suffer in the same way. I want him to be brought up just as he would have been if Genevre had still been alive. I want him to have an English nurse and later on, an English tutor. I want him to …’

  ‘You’re going to favour him above Felix.’

  It was a blunt statement of fact. She felt curiously unemotional. In her heart of hearts she had known that he was going to do so the instant the Burrage girl had told him of Stasha’s existence.

  The last reins on his temper snapped.

  ‘Hell-fire, I’m not going to favour him above Felix! I’m simply going to do my damnedest to make sure he doesn’t suffer because of your wretched nationality!’

  The words were out before he could stop them. Nor did he apologize for them. He was tired and stressed and, as far as he was concerned, it should have been obvious to an imbecile that he would not want an Irish nurse for his child by Genevre.

  Maura stood very still for a moment, her hand still on her stomach. Once again everything had turned to ashes between them. Their reconciliation at Tarna might as well have never happened. Despite all his many protestations to the contrary, when it came to the nub of things he was as contemptuous of her nationality as the most snobbish De Peyster or Van Rensselaer. If the illegitimate Stasha was one day, by some miracle, admitted into the circles of the haut ton and Felix, because of his Irish blood, was excluded from those self-same circles, then the situation would have Alexander’s blessing. It was a prospect too unspeakable to even think about. Almost with relief she felt anger beginning to roar along her veins.

  ‘How can you be so stupid?’ she demanded, her voice cracking with emotion. ‘How can you possibly care so much about my nationality that you will allow it to spoil everything there has been between us? Don’t you see that happiness for Stasha lies in him being treated as if he were Felix’s legitimate brother? Don’t you understand how Felix is going to feel one day if you continue treating him as if he were second-best because of his Irishness?’

  ‘I’m doing wha
t I believe is best!’ he shouted back at her frustratedly. ‘I’m doing what Genevre would have wanted me to do!’

  ‘You’re wrong.’ Her raging anger was still with her, but she was in control of it now and her voice was far steadier than his. ‘Genevre wouldn’t have wanted you to favour Stasha over Felix. If she were alive she would be appalled at the way you are beginning to think and the future you are prepared to countenance. I don’t believe that the person you are becoming is the person Genevre fell in love with.’ There was a terrible pause and then she said tautly, ‘Nor are you any longer the person that I fell in love with.’

  As he stared at her, hardly able to credit what he was hearing, she spun on her heel. Always, before, he had been the one who stormed out of the room. Now, as the double-doors rocked behind her, he was the one left behind, white-faced and appalled.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  He continued to stare at the closed door long after she had made her exit. What the devil had happened? When he had walked into the room he had wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and make furious love to her. They had been apart for just over a month and he had missed her like crazy. And now instead of them being in bed together they were once again at an impasse. And it wasn’t his fault. Not this time.

  Slowly his shock ebbed and frustrated fury began to replace it. He poured himself another bourbon, spilling golden droplets on to the polished wood of the table as he did so.

  He had been in the right. Stasha couldn’t possibly be cared for by an Irish peasant girl. He was Genevre’s son, for Christ’s sake! It had been the height of stupidity for Maura to have engaged an O’Farrell as his nurse. And it had been even more stupid of her to have pursued the subject of why he couldn’t possibly sanction the arrangement she had made.