An Embarrassment of Riches

by Margaret Pemberton

  She dug her nails deep into her palms. She would not cry. She would not. She was his wife and she loved him and she wanted their estrangement to end, but their estrangement wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t favouring an illegitimate child over her legitimate children. She wasn’t conducting an adulterous liaison. With welcome relief she felt anger lick along her veins, subduing grief. No doubt Ariadne would also be a guest at the coming season’s balls, and no doubt it had not occurred to Ariadne that invitations would also be extended to herself.

  A small, bleak smile touched her mouth. She wasn’t going to allow herself to be discomfited by Ariadne’s presence. It was Ariadne who was going to be discomfited. And Alexander.

  The season began in earnest in the middle of the month. Mansions that had been closed for the summer were again inhabited. Shutters were opened, red carpets unrolled and triple layers of window-drapes hung.

  Alexander escorted herself and Isabel to an opera at the Royal Academy and then on to the first ball of the season, Mrs Roosevelt’s birthday ball.

  Isabel, as befitted her single state, wore a gown of white tulle with a spray of lilies of the valley pinned to her bodice. Maura wore an ice-coloured blue dress which emphasized her pale creamy skin and cloud of dark hair. Daringly décolleté, it exposed her shoulders and the rise of her firm, high breasts, fitting tightly over her hips before sweeping back into a bustle and half-train.

  As she was being greeted by Mrs Roosevelt, Alexander couldn’t help but stare at her. How was it that the first time he had seen her, aboard the Scotia, he had not realized how very beautiful and socially assured she was? She was smiling at Mrs Roosevelt, her wide-set and thick-lashed eyes sparkling in genuine delight and interest. Her bone structure was almost identical to Isabel’s, but she possessed a luminous vivacity that paled Isabel’s blond prettiness into insignificance. As she tilted her head slightly he noted with pleasure the purity of her jawline and with wryness, the unmistakable hint of wilfulness about her chin.

  Mrs Roosevelt was turning to greet him and he dragged his attention away from Maura and towards his hostess.

  ‘So very kind of you to attend a ball given so early in the season,’ she was saying to him. ‘I am always surprised at the number of people who return from Europe before November. The Beekmans are here and the Van Rensselaers – and Mrs Ariadne Brevoort.’

  There was no mistaking the barely veiled prurient curiosity in her voice and eyes as she uttered Ariadne’s name. Alexander smiled blandly, uttered a polite and meaningless inanity, and escorted Maura and Isabel into the Roosevelt ballroom.

  Meeting Ariadne socially, when he was with Maura, was a disaster that had been bound to happen now that Maura was as welcome in society as Ariadne had always been.

  His eyes flicked around the room. With luck Ariadne would keep her distance. She wouldn’t want the embarrassment of such a public confrontation any more than he or Maura would.

  The instant he set eyes on her he knew that his assumption was wrong. She was at the far side of the ballroom dressed in her favourite shade of royal purple and he inclined his head slightly towards her, making no move to close the vast space between them and not bringing her presence to Maura’s attention. It was Isabel who did that.

  ‘Who is that woman over there, standing near to Augusta Astor? Why is she staring at you in such an intense manner?’ she asked curiously.

  Maura looked in the direction Isabel was indicating. Her eyes met Ariadne’s. From the moment she had instructed Stephen Fassbinder to accept the shoal of invitations that had arrived for them she had known that such an encounter was inevitable. Even so, shock still stabbed through her, nearly robbing her of breath.

  The elegant, silk-gowned, bejewelled woman so hostilely holding her gaze, went naked to bed with Alexander. It was a reality so incredible, so monstrous, that even after all these months she could scarcely believe it.

  ‘It is Ariadne Brevoort,’ she said to Isabel, her knuckles white on her eagle-feathered fan.

  She heard Isabel take in a swift breath. Augusta Astor began to talk to Ariadne. Ariadne turned her head towards her. The moment was over.

  ‘Don’t forget I expect you to partner me in the quadrilles,’ Alexander was saying, adjusting the cuff on one of his white dance gloves.

  ‘Yes.’

  He had already told her that six quadrilles were the highlight of any Roosevelt ball and that it would look extremely odd if he were to partner anyone in them but his wife.

  A cluster of eager young bachelors was already surrounding them, eager to further their acquaintance with Isabel. The musicians began to play and the light of the candlelit chandeliers glittered on highly glazed shirt-fronts and fresh glacé gloves and revolving tulle skirts. A stout, brocaded matron swept past sporting a diamond stomacher in the style of Marie Antoinette. A tiara that had once graced the head of a Romanov adorned the head of a Rhinelander.

  Maura felt sick and giddy. How had she ever imagined she would be able to face Ariadne Brevoort socially and not be consumed by the most crippling, most devouring jealousy? When the ball was over it would be Ariadne Alexander would return to; Ariadne who would lay all night in his arms; Ariadne who would hear his honeyed words of love and passion.

  Alexander tapped his foot frustratedly to the music. He didn’t want to dance with any other woman in the room, not even Isabel. He had been lying when he had told Maura it would look extremely odd if he partnered anyone other than his wife in the quadrilles. It wouldn’t have done so in the slightest. What would look odd, was if he were to dance with her, and her alone. Yet that was what he wanted to do. How the hell else was he ever going to have her in his arms again?

  ‘They’re playing a waltz,’ he said unnecessarily, sliding an arm around her narrow waist. ‘Let’s dance.’

  Maura found it both heaven and hell. She could smell the tang of his cologne, feel his heart beating next to hers, and she knew that somewhere in the room Ariadne Brevoort was watching them and that Alexander was no doubt watching Ariadne.

  Later, courtesy insisted that he dance with Mrs Roosevelt; that he dance with Isabel.

  Maura sat on a gilt chair, striving to make polite conversation with Gussie Schermerhorn and not think of Alexander and Ariadne laughing together; making love together.

  William Backhouse Astor approached Gussie, reminding her that his name was on her card for the next dance.

  Gussie rose to her feet. Ariadne Brevoort swept across to the vacated chair and sat down amid a slither of purple satin.

  ‘I think it very brave of you to venture into polite society in this way,’ she said, flicking an ivory fan open.

  Maura didn’t deign to look at her. With her eyes on the dancers she merely said indifferently: ‘There is nothing brave about living as I am accustomed to live, Mrs Brevoort.’

  Ariadne snapped her fan shut, her eyes scanning the dancers for a glimpse of Alexander. If he saw her in such close proximity to Maura he would leave the dance-floor and join them with the intention of separating them, no matter who his partner. The message she wished to impart was going to have to be given without any more malicious preliminaries.

  ‘And I am overcome by your magnanimity in allowing Alexander to bequeath Tarna to Stasha, and not Felix.’

  The music continued to play. A footman approached, carrying a tray of champagne-filled glasses.

  Ariadne waved him imperiously away.

  Maura drew in a deep, steadying breath. Ariadne was baiting her deliberately. Alexander would never have done such a thing. The remark was too ridiculous to even deserve a response. Dignity lay in ignoring it. In not speaking another word.

  Ariadne clicked her fan open again. Alexander had seen her; was looking thunderously towards her. She saw him lower his head to speak to his dance partner; saw a flower-decked head nod in assent. In another second; he would have left the floor and would be making his way towards them.

  ‘If you don’t believe me, speak to Lyall Kingston,’ she said, r
ising to her feet, a smirk on her face. ‘Or Alexander.’

  She slid away before Alexander could apprehend her and ask what the devil she thought she was doing.

  Maura remained perfectly still. There had been utter confidence in Ariadne Brevoort’s voice; naked delight at the prospect of inflicting hurt.

  ‘What the devil did Ariadne want?’ Alexander asked, staring down at her grimly.

  ‘Nothing.’ There was no way she could begin questioning him about Stasha and Felix now. Not in a crowded ballroom. It would have to wait until they were alone together. ‘I suspect she merely wanted to make the point that she was not intimidated by my presence.’

  Alexander clenched his jaw. Every damned ball they attended, all through the season, was going to be exactly the same.

  ‘It’s nearly time for the quadrilles,’ he said, wishing he had entered a monastery at sixteen; wishing he didn’t need sex in order to function rationally; wishing he had never ever left home, putting himself in a position where to return without an abject apology

  on her part would be to lose both pride and dignity.

  It was dawn as they left the Roosevelt mansion. During the short carriage ride up Fifth Avenue Isabel fell asleep and Maura was sorely tempted to raise the subject of Stasha and Felix. She didn’t do so. A tortuously whispered conversation would be barely adequate for the subject she wanted to discuss.

  When they arrived home Alexander gently woke Isabel and bade them both goodnight. He didn’t step down from the carriage. She was burning with the need to ask him if he was continuing on to the Fifth Avenue Hotel or to the Brevoort mansion, but she said only: ‘Good night, Alexander.’

  He gave her a tired grin. ‘It’s dawn, my love. You should be wishing me good morning.’

  It was the first time he had called her his love since the morning they had parted after Natalie had been born.

  She was filled with an overwhelming temptation to hurl herself into his arms; to tell him that the Citizens’ Association didn’t matter; that if only he would enter the house with her she would even come to terms with his affair with Ariadne. She remembered Ariadne’s extraordinary remark and fought down the temptation. Tomorrow. She would speak with him tomorrow.

  The next morning, without even telling Isabel where she was going, she left in the landau for the Fifth Avenue Hotel. In all the months that Alexander had been resident there, it was the first time she had visited it.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Karolyis. I will see if Mr Karolyis is awake, Mrs Karolyis,’ the gentleman on reception said, highly flustered.

  Alexander was awake.

  ‘You’re to go straight up, Mrs Karolyis.’

  A little black bell-boy showed her the way.

  Without surprise she noted that Alexander had taken over an entire floor of the hotel for his personal use. She wondered if other wives before her had visited estranged husbands at the Fifth Avenue, or if she was the only one ever to do so. She wondered if she would, at last, see Stasha. She wondered what on earth she was going to say when Alexander opened the door to her.

  She needn’t have worried. The instant their eyes met she knew that he had guessed the reason for her visit.

  ‘The bitch,’ he said vehemently. ‘The mean-minded little bitch. She told you last night at the ball, didn’t she? I should have guessed why she was talking to you, what it was she was saying …’

  ‘I didn’t believe her. I still don’t believe her. You couldn’t possibly have done such a thing, Alexander. Not without talking to me about it first …’

  Grim-faced, he led her into a luxurious sitting-room, its long row of windows all overlooking the avenue. He was wearing only a knee-length, silk dressing-gown, tie-belted at the waist. He had obviously just bathed. His glossy black hair was slicked back wetly and drops of water still clung to the short, springy hairs on his strongly muscled legs. As he turned once again towards her she felt the blood begin to drum in her ears.

  ‘If Ariadne told you that I had bequeathed Tarna to Stasha, then she told you the truth. It isn’t anything I intended keeping secret from you, although Ariadne wasn’t to know that. I was going to tell you immediately I got back from Tarna, there just hasn’t been the right opportunity …’

  ‘How could you?’ She could hardly force the words past her lips. ‘You know what Tarna means to me. You know what I would like it to mean to our children. You could have bequeathed anything else to Stasha, you could have left him your entire financial fortune, and I wouldn’t have cared. But not Tarna. Tarna is your most cherished possession. By bequeathing it to Stasha you are saying quite categorically, in a way that can never be denied, that Stasha comes first with you. That Stasha holds a place in your heart Felix and Natalie are never going to hold.’

  ‘It’s not true!’ His voice was raw with pain. ‘I bequeathed Tarna to Stasha because I felt I owed it to Genevre to do so. You’re right when you say that it’s my most cherished possession and that is why, for Stasha, it has to be Tarna. I owe it to Ginnie to make this gesture. Surely you can see why? Surely you can understand?’

  ‘No.’ She was blinded by tears. Drowning in a sea of pain. He didn’t love her and he didn’t truly love Felix or Natalie. He was still in love with Genevre. He would always be in love with Genevre.

  She turned, walking unsteadily towards the door. He tried to stop her, but she pushed him away from her.

  ‘No,’ she said again thickly. ‘There’s nothing more to say, Alexander. You’ve asked me to understand and I do understand. I understand too, too well.’

  No force on earth could have restrained her. She left the room. She left the hotel. She walked past her waiting carriage and through a crowded Madison Square, past the Astor mansions, past the Knickerbocker Club. For the first time in her life she felt utterly and completely defeated. Alexander wasn’t ever going to return to her. He wasn’t ever going to treat Stasha and Felix equally or be unconcerned as to her Irishness or be a caring, responsible landlord.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks as she thought of all that could have been. Suddenly, overwhelmingly, she longed for her mother.

  ‘I wish you were still alive, Ma,’ she whispered fiercely beneath her breath. ‘I wish you were here so that I could talk to you!’

  She was nearing the site of St Patrick’s Cathedral. As if she had arranged to meet him there, she saw Kieron standing on the corner of East 50th Street.

  Time wavered and halted. She felt completely disorientated. It was as if she were in Killaree again or Ballacharmish.

  ‘Kieron!’ she called out, relief and thankfulness flooding through her. ‘Kieron!’

  He turned his head swiftly in her direction, his gold-flecked eyes widening in stunned surprise. Then he saw the pallor of her face and he began to run towards her.

  She didn’t hesitate. She hurtled headlong into his arms, burrowing her face in the comforting, familiar tweed of his battered jacket.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  ‘Don’t cry, élainn,’ he said huskily, stroking her hair. ‘Don’t cry, sweetheart.’

  Unsteadily she brushed her tears away from her face.

  He looked down at her in undisguised love, still keeping his arms around her.

  ‘What is it, élainn? Is it himself that’s been distressing you?’

  Despite her misery a smile touched the corner of her mouth. Kieron never called Alexander by his Christian name. It was as if he simply couldn’t bring himself to utter it.

  ‘Yes. No.’ She put her hands against the reassuring broadness of his chest and pushed herself away from him a little in order to look up into his face. ‘I can’t talk about it, Kieron. It wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘Then if you can’t talk about it to me, who will you talk to about it?’ he asked with a lightness that he was far from feeling. ‘Isabel? Mr Frederick Lansdowne?’

  She brushed away the last of her tears, her smile deepening at his idiocy. ‘Don’t be silly, Kieron. Of course I shan’t talk about my marriage to Mr Lansdow
ne.’

  ‘Then it is your marriage that’s causing you distress?’

  This time there was no lightness in his voice. As his eyes held hers steadily, fiercely concerned, her own smile faded.

  ‘Yes,’ she said unwillingly. She turned her head away from him, unable to continue.

  Reluctantly his arms released their hold of her. Instead he took hold of her hand, beginning to walk her down the street leading towards the river.

  ‘It isn’t disloyalty to speak to a friend,’ he said tautly. ‘Especially when that friend loves you.’

  She accepted the declaration as unquestioningly as she would have done if it had come from Isabel.

  Aware of her reaction, he felt frustration almost choke him. Why couldn’t she see what was before her eyes? Why couldn’t she see that he loved her as she ought to be loved? And if she did? What then?

  The crowds began to thin as they walked further and further away from the avenue. He could smell the tang of the river and hear the hooting of boat horns. She was married. Divorce would be as unacceptable to her as he had always believed it was to him. His jaw tightened. But no longer. Not if it would give him Maura. It wasn’t as if her marriage had been a normal marriage. If the Pope was to be told the circumstances then, surely to God, he would annul it?

  She said: ‘Alexander’s bequeathed Tarna to Stasha.’

  He stopped walking and looked down at her. It was a chill day and she was wearing an ankle-length red wool coat with a high, astrakhan collar, a Russian-style astrakhan hat perched at a becoming angle on top of her smoke-dark curls. She looked like a princess and it was hard to imagine her on a working ranch or stud-farm. And then he remembered Ballacharmish.