So indoctrinated, Sarita had moved in the orbit of Brock-Innes and his ilk. Money. Prestige. Children. Respectability. She was all for it. And even if he was an invert, so what? All women were cheated on, and maybe this, added insult to her uxorial majesty, would work as a bargaining chip—better vacations, more say in the children’s upbringing, more freedom. It all sounds very convincing but, despite weeks of considering this, she still finds herself unpersuaded.
And now Mr. Ward.
What does he have to offer? He is handsome. He is young. He is impulsive. Is that a good thing? He does not make her feel companionable and steady, but rather still deep in youthful compulsion. She remembers asking him to show her something new, and there she is, a new Sarita, who might have been there all along but that she is seeing for the first time. She is also aware that she doesn’t believe in money the way that she used to and that the development of these sacrilegious thoughts exactly mimics her loss of faith in God. What if God/money didn’t exist? What would I do without God/money? Am I brave enough to live in a world of self-determination without God/money?
This seems to be what Ward offers: a loss of innocence. How romantic.
Oh, but there are things against him. She knows about the Emin Pasha Relief Expedition, although not his role in it. The news stories make good reading, lit with an African light, buoyed by the heat and the drum beat of sorcery, savagery, insanity—the notion that these were civilized men lashing others to blood, succumbing to the glamour of cannibalism, losing themselves in embraces with black bodies: all of it such a welcome read, the perfect antidote to one’s life where an entire waking hour each day is spent assembling the architecture of one’s clothes—the garters, the bustles, the stays and laces, the buttons and overskirts, gloves and pins, hats and collars, jewels and perfumes.
After their encounter on deck, her hair lopsided, her face flushed, she returned to the cabin. Sleepy Paz had been waiting for her, had loosened her stays and let down her hair, first smacking the side of Sarita’s head (although gently) to determine why half of it seemed to have collapsed. Of course, that’s where Mr. Ward’s hand had been digging around, as if trying to find where Sarita’s head actually existed in all the fluff. Paz had yanked and unlooped, pulling the pins from the coif and dropping them on the salver where they pinged like angry hail.
Once the maid retired from her room, Sarita had immediately gone to her father’s study. Miracle of miracles, he was not in there and, as she determined from the snores across the passage, actually seemed to have gone to bed. The letter was not in the stack on the small correspondence table that was serving as his desk, nor in the clutch of papers in his leather case. It had to be somewhere. And then she saw his bathrobe hanging from a hook on the door and sure enough, there in the pocket was the letter, the envelope torn open in haste, probably with her father’s thumb rather than a letter opener, and the pages themselves thrust, slightly crumpled, back into it. She would learn what her father knew, what Hatton knew, what recommendations and reservations existed against this man. In truth, she felt, the letter of introduction was intended for her.
The letter is standard, recommending Ward’s character, diligence, work ethic. Hatton goes on to say a word about Ward’s iron constitution, his ability with languages, his honesty. And then something in strong admiration of Ward’s moral character, which strikes Sarita as protesting too much. Hatton calls Ward a “pocket Hercules,” referring to both his height and strength. Pocket Hercules? This makes it seem as if Ward is a circus performer. But Hatton ends on a somber note, saying that he has taken a particular interest in Ward since the death of his son. As far as letters of introduction go, it is solid.
What are the odds now?
If the newspapers are against Ward, Father will favor him, because Father prides himself as being a freethinker and seldom has an opportunity to exercise his skill as judge of character. What else? Brock-Innes must need money, or why would he be courting her? Father likes his money. Is the purchase of a title really worth the loss of capital? What else? Grandchildren. Good genes. Look at Ward, a shockingly handsome man with a hale temperament, devoted friends, strong physique—a fine example of masculinity. And Ward’s not stupid, but regardless, Sarita has brains enough for both. This is her hand and she knows how to play it—the only question is whether or not she wants to. Sarita chooses her battles and doesn’t see the point in parlaying with her father unless she sees her future raveled in with Ward. This won’t be easy. She taps the envelope against her palm. She could consult Ward and see what he thinks, but there’s no protocol for that. She’ll just move forward and fix the details as they arise.
Sarita’s surprised at the surge of feeling she has for Ward when he enters the cabin. Is it nerves? She feels slightly breathless and wonders if her stays are too tight—although the dress is one that fits well. Paz, who is taking coats, is staring at her, although she lowers her eyes when Sarita catches her.
“Good evening, Mister Ward,” she says. And he says whatever he needs to say, shakes her hand, and sizes up the scene. He gives Sarita an honest, nervous look. She smiles apologetically. He raises his eyebrows back to her. This is shorthand, which means they’re in it together. And how the next half hour passes, who can say? There’s some refreshment, some chatter, and Sarita is grateful when her father, who is an undeniable blowhard, starts on about the railroad in Argentina—grateful until she remembers that she said that Ward had done survey work in the Congo. She realizes her eyes are bulging—which is what happens when she’s nervous—and then, thank whatever god you choose, Cook is at the door and they’re ready to eat.
Mother’s had too much of her headache medicine and seems to have forgotten that she is supposed to lead the way, with Ward, and this crazy dowager from Pittsburgh that Father dug up in the first-class lounge—intended to even things out—has proven herself to be of appropriate pedigree and fabulously wealthy, but also a bit deaf. The other man should have been Ward’s friend Glave; however, Glave had already made plans—but what, and with whom? Regardless, he’s not here and instead she has Mr. Smith, a nervous-looking man who keeps looking from end to end of the room as if he’s a rabbit in a hawk-ridden meadow. Father knows him from import/export something or other, and Smith has been telling Sarita about his apiary, of which he’s very proud, and although she knows it’s bees, she keeps imagining him tending to monkeys. Suddenly, they’ve all stood up, although no one has made a move towards the table. Perhaps they’re confused because escorting people from one side of a room to the other doesn’t make much sense. Although, escorting people from one room of a house into another is also a bit extreme. But of course everyone’s confused. Sarita’s the host and she’s confused.
“Mother,” Sarita says.
“Hmm?” goes Mother, seemingly surprised to see Sarita standing there.
“You have to take Mister Ward in,” she whispers. She gently pushes her mother’s elbow in Ward’s direction, who—if he were someone else—would have a better idea of what was going on, but is naïve and, although he seems to be ready for Mother, is not suave enough to take the lead. Mother toddles over to Ward, and together they make the ten-foot crossing to the dining table. After, it’s Sarita with Mr. Smith. And, bringing up the rear, here come Father and the Widow Plumly of Pittsburgh.
Father finally seats himself and the servants spring into action. Sarita’s glass is soon poured with sparkling wine and she looks at it for a moment before allowing herself to pick the thing up. Ward sits across from her in an ill-fitting, large jacket. His overcoat is also too big: He’s lost weight, or maybe he just likes big clothes. She looks over at him and they lock eyes before quickly turning to their neighbors. The chatter starts up and Sarita finds herself yelling to Mrs. Plumly that she enjoyed her last trip to Pittsburgh and would like to see Mr. Carnegie’s art collection. She finds herself repeating “Mister Carnegie’s art collection” several times, and then, when “Mi
ster Carnegie” has been successfully communicated, she soldiers on with the rest of the statement, increasingly loud, until the table grows quiet.
“Art collection,” she says. “Art collection. Art. Art. Art.”
Mrs. Plumly, smiling to one side and then the other, suddenly turns to the table and says, “I’ve always been a lover of art.” Mrs. Plumly pats Sarita’s hand with a warm concern for this slightly unhinged young woman.
“How wonderful,” says Sarita, although she’s taken aback by Mrs. Plumly’s sudden ability to hear. “Mister Ward is an accomp—” Did Ward shake his head? He did, although almost imperceptibly. “Mister Ward is about to go on a lecture to promote his book”—she looks at him; he hadn’t wanted her to mention the art, which is wise—“about his time in the Congo.” And she was about to say he was an artist, after keeping this information from her father—must be the wine. He’s not so inept, this Mr. Ward. He knew that talk of art would lead nowhere, particularly not with him, and now the conversation has been steered in a better direction. So Mr. Ward can now rehearse his lecture on the Congo cannibals for the Sanford dinner table and thank God. Apiaries and art. Is this the best that Father could do?
The food service wears on and Sarita is actually amused, as opposed to poor Mr. Smith, who delivers a series of feeble nods as Father batters him with an unrelenting squall of emphatic and not particularly interesting money-speak. At least Mrs. Plumly has a good sense of humor, and that, coupled with several glasses of wine and an eccentric family, passes the time. All Sarita has to do is to let Mrs. Plumly do all the talking. She can listen and laugh. That’s good. Although she tries to catch some of Mr. Ward’s entertaining stories—elephants, natives, bad weather, lack of food, and an awful lot of walking. Mrs. Plumly, now finishing up her tart, is momentarily quiet. Mr. Ward is relating his time among the Maori of New Zealand, which is a bit of surprise, but has Father interested.
“So what is there in New Zealand?” Father asks.
“It’s sheep, Mister Sanford.”
“Any money in that?”
“Quite a bit, although none for me, I’m afraid. I was sixteen years old and an amateur shearer, although I learned quickly. I’d say for you, Mister Sanford, Australia would be more of interest. More places to lay track. And there’s mining there, of course gold for now, but who knows what else exists in that red dirt? It’s an enormous country.”
“Mining.”
“I prospected for a time.”
“Find anything worthwhile?”
“If I had, I wouldn’t have left for Borneo.”
“Mister Ward,” says Mother, who suddenly seems to have achieved actual consciousness with the added benefit of speech, “what is the strangest job you’ve ever had?”
“Strangest?” says Ward. He smiles at Mother, who is charmed by his handsomeness, because he is really a handsome man. “I don’t know if I should say in the present company.”
“You really must,” says Mrs. Plumly, who seems to hear everything she wants to.
“Right then,” says Ward. “For a time, in Australia, I was in a circus.”
Good lord, thinks Sarita. Ladies and gentleman, I present to you the Pocket Hercules. “You’re playing with us, Mister Ward,” says Sarita, hopefully.
“I assure you, I am not. I entertained with my ability to walk on a wire, high above the heads of the audience.” She thinks this must be some manner of confession—know what you’re getting into, young lady. “And believe me, they wanted me to be good, because if I fell, I would have landed right on them.”
“I don’t believe a word of it,” says Sarita.
“Then you must show us something,” says Mrs. Plumly, which was not exactly what Sarita had been hoping for.
“Oh, please do,” chimes in Mr. Smith. Father, too, seems eager for this new entertainment.
“There’s not very much room in here,” says Ward, and he stands up. He takes off his large jacket and drapes it on the back of his chair. “But I can certainly manage a handstand.”
“Please don’t feel the need to put yourself to any trouble.”
But then Mrs. Plumly gasps and Sarita sees that Mr. Ward is indeed standing on his hands. He takes a couple of steps like this, and manages to move to the side of the table, where Sarita can get a good look at him.
His blond hair is hanging down in a lump of pomade and his shirt-front is becoming untucked. Sarita can see his socks, a slight mismatch. His face is getting very red and yes, he looks silly, but she is astounded at how every muscle obeys and how steady—even in that stance—Ward manages to be. “What does the world look like from down there?” says Sarita.
“Much the same, only completely different.” He’s smiling at her. “I have a very nice view.”
The guests were all gone. She’d only managed a quick exchange with Mr. Ward as they all stirred towards the door and were occupied with finding wraps and coats, although no one had much of a commute. Ward had said, “Perhaps we could do something together.” A simple enough statement, Sarita had been completely flummoxed by it, and isn’t sure what exactly her response was, although it was something positive. She knocks on her father’s door and takes his grunt on the other side as an invitation to enter.
“You,” he says to her.
“Who else?” She shifts some papers that have been deposited on the hassock and deposits herself there. They look at each other for a second, and then she reaches for the laces on her boots and loosens them, because her ankles are throbbing. “Well?” she says.
“I’m not sure,” he says.
She waits.
“It is so much harder to maneuver with daughters.”
She shrugs. “I wish you had a son.”
“But I don’t.”
“You’ll have to hold out for grandsons.”
“Are you sure?” Father asks.
She’s sure of how she feels, but that is not what he’s asking. “I am nearly thirty and you need grandchildren.”
“Brock-Innes would give me grandchildren.”
Sarita doesn’t know what flashes across her face, but her father sees it. “Brock-Innes would be a mistake,” she says. “Another season without a marriage will seal my fate as a spinster.”
“Sarita,” says Father, “wasting the opportunity of your marriage will not be good for anyone in the long run.”
So Father knew about Brock-Innes. Of course he did.
“What is the state of Brock-Innes’s financial affairs?” she counters.
Father smiles as he neatly knits his fingers together. “So you are sure.”
“I am sure,” says Sarita, “that you will do anything you want. And I am sure that I will do anything you want.”
“You should have married earlier.”
“I would be living in the Midwest, producing grandchildren, like Ettie.”
Father nods to himself. “You’re pretty enough to go another season.”
“Thank you, Father, but a part of me believes that you do not want me to marry at all.”
No response.
“You can always count on me to be there for you, as I always have been.”
In response Father pours out some whiskey. There’s only one glass. He takes a sip and extends it to Sarita. She takes a sip. “Acrobats,” her father says.
“If we go belly up,” Sarita replies, “we can start our own circus.”
Ward lies silent on the lower bunk, knowing that Glave is awake too, as his silence gives him away.
“I think I asked her to marry me,” he says.
“You’re not certain?” says Glave.
“I said I’d like it if we did something together.”
“Are congratulations in order?”
But Ward doesn’t know. He is thinking about Borneo—a place he hadn’t known existed—but that had popped up
, sprung from the ocean. Australia, with its harsh light and open sky, had stopped intriguing him, and Borneo, singing a siren song, cloaked in vines, scented with flowering greenery that shook with the passage of monkeys and jewel-feathered birds, had drawn him into her folds and held him close. Altered his life. In the end, Borneo—with its deluding fevers—had nearly killed him.
VI
The United States
November 1889
Ward and Glave are on an evening train headed for Boston. The deadline for the Scribner’s article isn’t for another couple of days, so Ward could put it down and start a letter to Sarita. He’d rather write in privacy—along with all the other things he’d rather do in privacy—but that’s a luxury unknown to him.
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