by Amber Brock
The jeweler’s voice rang in her head again as he read the initials engraved on the pocket watch. Initials that were neither hers nor Arthur’s. A pocket watch. Not a necklace, or a brooch, or earrings. The truth about Vera’s husband suddenly flashed before her, a truth she had carelessly dismissed time and time again. Like a dust mote passing into a beam of light, a new understanding of his indifference came into view, then slipped into shadow and was gone once more. Hallan had said Vera was living the tragedy she knew. She had not grasped that there was tragedy enough to go around. What if, all this time, Arthur had been living his? What if Vera, willfully blind to it, had made his reality sadder still?
She stared at the rug so long the pattern became a noisy jumble of colors and angles. Arthur seemed content to sip his drink in the silence. She knew at last the battle was over. Any further fighting for his affection would be as futile as all her previous efforts had proven to be.
“I’m leaving you,” she said.
He snorted. “That’s not the solution you think it is.”
“I am. I’m leaving.”
“What, are you going with him? You think he can provide for you? You can’t provide for yourself, that much is certain.”
“Maybe with him. Maybe not.” She stood and placed her empty glass on the table beside Arthur. “But I’m not staying here.”
He shook his head. “You’ll regret it.”
“Possibly.”
She left the library, shutting the door behind her. The unexpected honesty of the conversation left her drained. She took a few steps up the stairs but grew dizzy, and she sat on the landing halfway up. Her hope, misguided though it was, had kept her fighting for the life she thought was possible. The marriage she wanted that might have made the penthouse a home. She looked over the foyer, her eyes lingering on the closed door of the library. The familiar rooms became the landscape of a foreign country, harsher and colder than any journey into new territory could ever be.
Her energy restored somewhat by her brief rest, she continued up to her room. Vera tossed in the bed for a bit, as the familiar twitch of insomnia agitated her muscles. Giving up, she turned on the lamp on the nightstand. She certainly did not have to worry about Arthur joining her that night, so no need to worry about the light bothering him. Inside the nightstand’s drawer, she found the little book of Hopkins poetry Hallan had given her. She flipped through its pages, taking note of poems he had marked and reading the words he had penciled in its margins. The sight of his handwriting reminded her of what she was capable of, what she had the strength to do, and its reassurance brought with it the heavy comfort of sleep at last.
The next morning, Marguerite tapped Vera’s shoulder, waking her. Vera blinked in the morning sunlight streaming through the drawn curtains. As she had expected, Arthur’s side of the bed was still neat and smooth.
“Madam,” Marguerite said with a slight waver, “your mother is here.”
Vera bolted up, now wide awake. “Did she say what she wants?”
“No, madam. Shall I ask her?”
“No need. Is my dress laid out?”
“It is.” The maid wrung her hands and glanced around the room, as though she were the one about to be castigated.
“Tell her I’ll be right down.”
Vera threw on her dress and brushed her hair, winding it into a plain knot at the base of her neck. She knew better than to keep her mother waiting too long. A few minutes later, she sat in the drawing room, her mother’s eagle glare pinning her in the chair.
“Would you like some tea?” Vera asked.
“Let’s not waste time,” her mother said. “I hope you know why I’m here.”
“I imagine you’ve spoken to Arthur.”
Her mother’s lips flattened into a thin line. “I have. He says you’ve threatened to leave him. For the artist, I assume?”
Vera struggled for a way to explain her thoughts to her mother, but nothing she could say would make sense to a woman like her. Instead, she stared at her hands, crossed in her lap.
“Right,” her mother continued, “let’s get one thing straight. This is not a fairy tale, and you are not some princess in a tower to be rescued. You have responsibilities. To your father and to me, who raised you better than this. To your husband, who gives you an exquisite home. And to your society. Honestly, Vera, what would people think?”
“I don’t know,” Vera said softly.
“Oh yes, you do. I want to be perfectly clear. If you continue this affair, your husband has every right to cast you aside without a penny.” Her mother thrust out an arm, as if physically trying to toss Vera aside.
Vera looked up. “But why should I be the only one punished? He’s carried on all over town, with God knows who, God knows how many.”
“Of course he has, that’s his right.” Her voice lifted on the final word, as though Vera’s objections baffled her. Vera weighed the matter-of-factness of the statement. Had her mother looked the other way at her father’s indiscretions? Was that what her mother had been trying to warn her about all those years ago by the lake? Did her mother know what Vera was getting into with her marriage to Arthur? Had she known what Arthur was struggling with? How impossible his needs would make their marriage?
“You knew?” Vera asked slowly.
“What really matters is that you knew. I told you marriage to him wouldn’t be bliss. But no matter what your husband does or does not do, you must conduct yourself like a lady. That does not include falling into bed with whomever happens by.”
“He’s not someone who ‘happened by’—”
Her mother held up a hand. “I am not interested in the numerous admirable qualities you believe you’ve found in that man. I am merely telling you that you will not see him anymore. Nor will you speak to your husband as you have. It is unacceptable, and I will not tolerate it.”
“Mother, I’m not a child—”
“But you are a child.” Her mother’s voice grew cold. “I cannot believe we’re having this discussion again, after that business at college. Did you learn nothing? How many times will I have to rescue you from your own foolishness? You are absolutely a child. You’re still behaving like one.”
“Please, I don’t want to talk about what happened back then—”
“But it’s the same thing all over again. You didn’t think then, and you’re not thinking now. You say you’re leaving. What do you think it will be like, hmm? Can you launder a sheet? Can you cook a meal? You don’t even dress your own hair. Look at it this morning, it’s a mess, you must have done it yourself. You think this man will take care of you? Do you have any concept of what kind of income is required for a life like this?”
Vera’s arms and legs suddenly felt very heavy. Her mother was right. She had not thought it out. Her experience in looking after herself was limited to personal care and the occasional mending of stockings at college. Even there she had someone to clean, someone to cook. She could not even light the stove for tea. How would she survive? And the only thing she knew for certain about Hallan was that he had lied. She did not even know his real name. What if she did leave with Hallan, and he abandoned her? Or worse?
Her mother leaned in and, as though reading her mind, said, “If you leave Arthur, you will be on your own. Your father and I will see to it that you are cut from the will, and we’ll certainly offer you no assistance while we’re alive. Any correspondence from you will be destroyed unread. Do you understand me? You will have nothing.”
Daddy. She would never be able to contact her beloved father again. Her mother would see to that, and he knew better than anyone not to fight Lorna Longacre. Vera closed her eyes briefly then nodded. “Yes, Mother. I understand.”
Her mother stood. “Good. I’ll see you at lunch on Wednesday. And no more of this madness, please. It gives me a headache.” She glared down at Vera. “Well? Show me out.”
Tears threatened as Vera walked her mother to the door. She assumed she would need to apolog
ize to Arthur. Her mother would not have it any other way. She had kept Vera from making a mess of her life once before. To see her standing on the brink of disaster again had clearly reopened the old wound. Behind her mother’s stony glare had been a flicker of something like regret. Not for Vera’s situation, but for her own. Her mother had worked tirelessly for thirty years to mold Vera into the perfect society wife. Vera’s failure meant her mother had failed, too.
Then Hallan’s heaven-blue eyes replaced the image of her mother’s, and his words came back to her: Names only matter to people like you. The gatekeepers of culture, the very soldiers of civilization, to hear her mother tell it. Vera had spent her whole life locked behind those gates and protected from herself. Hanging from the wall like a painting in a museum, lit with perfectly angled yellow lights. Dusted. Admired from time to time. Valuable, beautiful, and untouched.
Now the terms were clear, etched in sharp relief by her mother. This was no scandal about college-girl carelessness. If Vera left, she left it all behind. The money, the husband, the mother, the father, and her name. Most of all, the security. The end result was indisputable: she could not leave. She got up and went to the library to compose a note to Hallan. She had promised herself she would say good-bye, after all.
Vera heard the front door open when Arthur arrived home from work shortly before the dinner hour. She had asked Evans to send him to the library, and she presented him with a martini when he walked in.
“I hope you had a pleasant day,” she said.
“You spoke to your mother, did you?”
“I did.”
He settled in the large leather chair by the fireplace, crossing his long legs. “Good. I hope she talked some sense into you.”
Vera tugged on her earring. “Yes, well. I hope we can forget about it. I know I’d very much like to.”
Arthur gave her a tight smile. “Forgotten.”
“Thank you.”
“And, until this little episode, you have been a commendable wife.”
Commendable. As though he were thanking her for her service. “I’m glad to hear it.”
He lit a cigar and rolled it thoughtfully in his fingers. “We so rarely get what we want in life. It’s important to be content with what one does have, instead of worrying about what one doesn’t.”
“I agree.”
“People like your artist…they contribute nothing. I knew you’d see it, sooner or later. You’re a smart girl, for the most part. You’d never have been satisfied with a man like that.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Of course not. They’re all layabouts, those artist types, flitting from one place to the next with no obligation. If he were a serious man he’d have a job, a home. Instead he’s living on the handouts from his betters. I’d bet he hasn’t done a thing in that pool room. He’ll probably take off one day and we’ll never hear another word about him.” Arthur took a drag on the cigar. “Did that detective ever find anything on him?”
Stanton’s careworn but kindly expression rose to her mind. He would be pleased she had made the right decision. Of course, she could not tell Arthur what she knew; it would only make her look more foolish. “I don’t think he’s told Clarence anything,” she said.
“Well, doesn’t matter to me anyway.” Arthur sipped from his glass. “Perfect martini, well done.”
Vera stood, smoothing out her skirt. “Shall we see if Gertrude has dinner ready?”
“Excellent idea.”
Arthur stood and walked out of the library, and Vera followed in the haze of smoke from the cigar. The years of dinners, with him, with the others, and alone, stretched out before her, empty and hollow. She hoped she could numb herself enough to endure them all, knowing now how large the hole in her life really was.
Marguerite came into the dining room early the next morning while Vera was finishing her breakfast. Arthur had already left for work, and Vera was planning to go out early to get in a little shopping before lunch with her mother. After the excitement of the past few days, she wanted nothing so much as to get back into her routine. But Marguerite’s troubled expression meant something was likely about to prevent that.
“Madam? Excuse me, you have a visitor.”
“Who is it?”
The maid paused. “It’s Mr. Hallan.”
Vera’s pulse drummed in her temple. She stood and threw her napkin on the table. She stormed to the entryway, but Evans pointed her to the library.
“Evans,” Vera said, her voice strained. “Mr. Hallan is not welcome here. If he returns in the future, please send him away. And he’s not allowed to leave any notes.”
Evans bowed slightly. “Madam, I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t know.”
“No, it’s my fault. I ought to have told you. I’ll deal with him for now.”
She walked into the library, where Hallan was waiting. The note she had sent him to say good-bye was crumpled in his hand, and there were dark circles under his eyes. His skin was ashen, his hair tousled and flecked with paint.
“Goodness,” she said. “You look awful.”
“I was up all night.” His eyes shone, the note temporarily forgotten. “I finished it. I finished the painting.”
A thrill ran through her, but she spoke calmly. “That’s very nice. I hope you’ll take your payment and be on your way.”
“Oh, no,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere until you see it. You think this little note was enough to keep me from you?” He crossed to her and pulled her into his arms. Her lips burned for the touch of his, but she slipped away.
“Not in my home. Not anywhere, never again. I tried to make that clear.” She lifted her chin. “I think you’d better leave, Mr. Hallan.”
He barked out a laugh. “Yes, I know, I read the note.” He held the paper up. “ ‘Dear Mr. Hallan’—so we’re back to that, are we? ‘I have come to an important decision regarding our friendship. It is with a heavy heart that I must ask you to cease all communication with me—’ ”
Vera pressed a hand to her stomach. “Stop, please stop.”
His expression softened, and he dropped the note on the table. “Come with me. You must see it.”
She straightened her back, jaw set. “I want to know the truth first. Everything. About who you are. If you want me to look at your painting, you’ll have to tell me.” She sat on the couch and motioned for him to join her.
“Can anyone hear us?” he asked.
“There’s no one here but the servants, and I imagine most of them are on the other side of the house.”
“May I lock the door?”
She nodded. He closed the door, then turned the key and removed it from the lock. After placing it on the table, he sat on the couch beside Vera.
“I don’t know where to begin,” he said. His eyes took on a distant look, as if reaching into his memory.
“You could start with your real name,” she said in a gentle tone. “Or where you’re really from. Or why you have the need to hide all these things in the first place.”
He clenched his jaw, letting out a long, steady breath. “I’m German. I was born and raised in Leipzig.”
She furrowed her brow. “German? But your accent?”
“My grandmother was from London. My mother, her daughter, moved to Germany and married there. What I told you about my family was true. My grandmother came to help when my mother was ill. After my mother died, my grandmother stayed to raise us. Her German was poor and never improved, so Peter and I spoke English at home from a young age. The man she worked for was from London—Westminster—so we spoke English with him, too. Peter always spoke with a German accent, maybe because he was older when he learned, but I was able to speak both languages like a native.”
Vera sat back against the couch cushion. Surely something as benign as his nationality was not his secret. “So you’re German. Is that all? Why should that matter?”
“You know why it matters.”
“You fought in th
e war, I assume.”
“More than that.” He rubbed his hands together, then glanced at her. “I want to explain it, from the beginning, so that you understand.”
“All right. Wherever you’d like to start.”
He thought for a moment. “My grandmother was a lady’s maid to the wife of an art collector and professor from Westminster. He came to the art academy in Leipzig shortly after my grandmother moved there to care for us, and she went to work for him then.” Hallan smiled faintly. “I loved his house. Huge, sunny place, full of paintings and sculpture, beautiful pieces. One day—I was young, I must have only been seven or eight—he found me staring at one of the paintings. He asked if I painted, and I told him I’d never tried. So he gave me a set of paints and some brushes. He encouraged me, and when I was old enough, he paid my tuition at the art academy. I started there when I was fourteen.”
“He sounds like a wonderful man,” Vera said. “He must have thought a lot of your work.”
“He thought I had promise, anyway.”
“What was his name?”
“Allen. James Allen.”
She tilted her head in thought. “So that’s where you got the name Hallan.”
“Yes. He took a special interest in me, and in Peter. I suspect it’s because he and his wife had a child, but the boy died in infancy, and they never had any other children.”
“Is Peter an artist, too?”
“No, even from a young age he favored being outdoors, working with his hands.”
Vera considered this. “So you were studying art when the war broke out? Were you called to action right away?”
Hallan shook his head. “I was so grateful. So stupidly grateful. Neither Peter nor I was called up in the beginning. I really began to believe the war would end quickly, and we wouldn’t have to go. But then, after that first year, things got worse. The German army struggled. They started calling up draft years earlier and earlier. Peter wasn’t supposed to be called up until 1916, but he got his letter in 1915.” He cleared his throat. “I knew it wouldn’t be long for me after that, and I was right. I should have had until 1917, but they called me up in the spring of 1916. Fortunately, after about six months or so, I was able to join Peter’s division.”