Raphaella, let's go in the other room.
She followed the doctor into the dressing room, which the nurses had so often used, and they stood there together like two conspirators, but he looked unhappy as he stared at Raphaella and it was clear that he had something to say.
What is it? What is it that no one is telling me? It wasn't a stroke, was it? Suddenly she instinctively knew. And the doctor shook his head and confirmed her worst fears.
No, it wasn't. It was a horrible accident. A terrible mistake, an almost unforgivable thing, except that it wasn't done maliciously, and no one could have known how he felt.
What are you trying to tell me? Her voice was rising, and she felt as though something in her head were going to explode.
That your husband' John Henry ' the nurse gave him a sleeping pill, and she left the bottle on the night table' . There was a long pause as she stared at him in horror. He took the pills, Raphaella. The whole bottle. He committed suicide. I don't know how else to tell you. But that's what happened. His voice faltered, and Raphaella felt herself wanting to scream. He had killed himself' John Henry had killed himself while she was out screwing Alex' . She had killed him ' killed him as though she had done it with her bare hands. Was it that he knew about Alex? Was it that he sensed something? Could she have stopped it if she'd been there? Could it' would it' what if' her mind raced as her eyes grew wide with what she was thinking, but she could not make a sound. She could say nothing. Her father had been right. She had killed him. John Henry had committed suicide. At last she brought herself to look at the doctor.
Did he leave me a note? He shook his head in answer.
Nothing.
Oh, my God. She said it almost to herself and then sank to the floor at his feet, in a dead faint.
Chapter 30
Antoine de Mornay-Malle arrived from Paris at six o'clock the following evening and he found Raphaella sitting staring out at the bay. As she heard his voice behind her she rose from her chair and turned to greet him, and when she did so, he saw that her eyes were almost glazed. She had not gone to bed the previous evening, and despite the doctor's offers of a sedative she had refused. Now she stood looking very tired and very thin in a black wool dress that seemed to shrink her further, her hair pulled severely back, her eyes huge and almost gouged into the ghostly pale face. When he glanced at her legs he saw that she wore the black stockings of mourning, and she was bereft of jewelry except for the heavy gold knot she had worn for fifteen years on her left hand.
Papa' . She came toward him slowly as he approached her and his eyes searched her face. He had known from her voice when she called him that something was desperately wrong, more than just the death of her husband. There was something about it that she had not yet revealed.
Raphaella. I'm very sorry. He unbent a little and settled himself in a chair next to hers. Was it was it quick?
She said absolutely nothing, staring out at the bay and holding tightly to his hand. I don't know ' I think so' .
You weren't with him? He stared at her face and began to frown. Where were you? His voice was suddenly filled with suspicion and she couldn't bear to look him in the eye.
I was out for a little while.
Her father nodded. It was another stroke' or did his heart just give out? Like many people his age he wanted to know exactly how the end had come, possibly so that when it came to him, he would know what he should be expecting. But still he found something odd about the look on his daughter's face. As she sat there she was seriously thinking of not telling him, but she also knew that it was pointless to lie to him. Knowing her father, she was certain he would engage in conversation with everyone, the servants, the nurses, the doctor. Accidentally or on purpose he would discover the truth. Everyone in the household already knew it. The doctor had agreed with her to say absolutely nothing about the circumstances of John Henry's passing, but the nurses told the maid who mentioned it to the butler who gave the news to the chauffeur with a look of astonishment and dismay. And it wouldn't be long before one of them told a friend in one of the other houses, and eventually word would be out all over town. John Henry Phillips had committed suicide. And somehow Raphaella knew that her father would find it out too.
Papa' . Slowly she turned to face him, and at last she met his eyes. It wasn't a stroke' . She closed her eyes tightly for a moment, gripped her chair, opened her eyes again, and went on. It was' he took pills, Papa' . Her voice was barely audible as he looked at her, not understanding what she was trying to say. I' he' he's been so depressed lately' he hated being sick' he's been She faltered as tears filled her eyes and a sob clutched her throat.
What are you trying to tell me? He stared at her, not moving at all in his chair.
I'm telling you that She took a big gulp of air. The nurse left the sleeping pills next to him on the table' and he took them' all of them. She said it clearly now.
He killed himself? Her father looked horrified, but slowly she nodded. My God, where were you? Why didn't you see that the nurse put the medication away? Why weren't you here?
I don't know, Papa' but no one knew that he wanted to die. I mean, I knew it' he was so tired, and lately he was so sad from having been sick for so long. But no one thought' I didn't think' I never thought he would
My God, are you crazy? How could you not be more careful? How could you not watch everything the nurses did? It was your responsibility' your duty' . He prepared to go on but Raphaella leaped from her chair, looking as though she were about to scream.
Stop it, Papa! Stop it! I couldn't help it' . Nobody could! It was no one's fault' it was
You'll bring charges against the nurse, won't you? He looked businesslike as he watched her from his chair. But Raphaella shook her head, once again looking broken and bereft.
Of course not. She couldn't know ' it was an accident, Papa.
An accident that killed your husband. Their eyes met and held for a long time. As if he sensed something more that she hadn't told him, he narrowed his eyes as he watched her. Is there more, Raphaella? Something you haven't told me? And then, as though it had come to him more clearly, not as a guess, but as a certainty of her guilt, he sat very straight in his chair and stared at his daughter. Where were you when he did this, Raphaella? She looked woefully at her father, feeling not like a woman but more like a child. Where were you? He put horrible emphasis on the words when he asked the questions, and there was nothing she could say.
I was out.
With whom?
No one. But it was useless. He had already sensed it and she knew that he knew. She looked at him now, her face an agony of self-recrimination that told its own tale.
You were with him, weren't you, Raphaella? Weren't you? His voice rose ominously, and unable to see her way clear of the obstacle before her, she simply nodded her head. My God, then, you killed him. Do you understand that? Do you know why he took those pills? Her father looked at her in open revulsion, but again Raphaella shook her head.
He didn't know about it, Papa. I'm sure of that.
How can you be? The servants must have known it, they must have told him.
They wouldn't have done that to him, and I don't think they knew. She walked listlessly toward the window. The worst was over now. He knew the truth. He couldn't say anything more. It was all out on the table, her perfidy, her betrayal, her failure of John Henry that had ended up in his death by pills, instead of by the hand of God.
Then you lied to me when you said you wouldn't see him anymore?
No, I told you the truth. She turned to face him again. I didn't see him again, until about two weeks ago. We met accidentally.
So of course you climbed right back into his bed.
Papa' please' .
Didn't you? Isn't that what killed your husband? Think about it. Can you really live with that? Can you?
Her eyes filled with tears again and she shook her head. No, I can't.
You're a murderess, Raphaella. He slid the word
s out of his mouth like snakes, their venom poisoning all within reach. A murderess as well as a whore. And then, drawing himself to his full height, he faced her. You have disgraced me, and in my heart I disown you, but for my own sake, and the sake of your mother, I will not let you disgrace me again. I have no idea what you plan to do about your lover. I'm sure you would like nothing better than to run off with him the minute they put John Henry in the ground. But that, my dear girl, is not going to happen. Not for a moment. What you do later is none of my business, and as you keep pointing out, you're a grown woman. A repulsive one, an immoral one, but grown you certainly are. So in a year, after a decent period of mourning, you are welcome to go about your whoring again. But in the meantime, for one year, you will be decent, to me, to your mother, and to the memory of a man I loved a great deal, even if you did not. After the funeral you will fly to Spain with your mother. And you will stay there for one year. I will attend to all the business matters that come up in relation to the estate, it will take almost that long to settle it anyway, and after a year you can come back here and do whatever you want. But one year, one year you owe the man whom you murdered. If you went to prison, it would be for the rest of your life. And the fact is, young woman, that what you have done you will have to live with for the rest of your days. He walked solemnly to the door and turned around. Be prepared to leave on the day of the funeral. I won't discuss it with you further. A year of decent mourning for a man you drove to suicide is a small price to pay. As she stood there and watched him leave the room, the tears slid slowly down her face.
It wasn't until the next morning that she heard from Alex. They had kept it out of the papers for a day, but on the following morning it was there, on the first page. John Henry Phillips was dead. It explained that he had been bed-ridden since his first illness, that he had had several strokes and had been incapacitated for eight years. The article barely mentioned Raphaella, except to mention that he was survived by no children, but by his second wife, the former Raphaella de Mornay-Malle y de Santos y Quadral; after that it mentioned the corporations he had founded, the fortune he had inherited, the important international deals he had consummated over the years. But that was not what had interested Alex. He had stared at the paper in amazement when he picked it up outside on his way to work.
He had stood there, motionless, reading, for several minutes, and then had run back inside to call Raphaella. He had wondered why she hadn't come to see him the night before, and he had been terrified that she might have had second thoughts about resuming their relationship and that their lovemaking the night before had filled her with guilt and driven her away again. Now he wondered what it would mean to her that John Henry had died while she was with him. He could figure out that much from what he had read. It mentioned the night that he had died, and Alex knew that he had either died while Raphaella was out or shortly after she got home. He tried to imagine the scene that had met her when she returned from their hours together, and he shuddered to himself as he dialed the phone. It had taken her several minutes to come to the phone herself after the butler answered, and when she did, her voice sounded lifeless and flat. But at her end, when she picked up the receiver and heard his voice, she felt a tremor run through her. It was like a brutal reminder of what she had been doing when her husband had taken the lethal pills.
Raphaella? His voice was gentle and it was obvious that he was upset. I just read the paper. I am so sorry' . And then after a moment's pause, Are you all right? She had said nothing so far except hello.
Yes. She spoke very slowly. I am. And then, I'm sorry ' I was busy just now when you called. She had been selecting the suit they would put on John Henry, and her father had been standing by wearing an expression that mingled accusation and grief for his lost friend. The funeral is tomorrow. What she told him sounded bleak and disjointed and he sat on the stairs with the phone in his hand and closed his eyes. It was obvious what had happened. She was consumed with guilt over the death of her husband. He had to see her. To talk to her. To find out how she really was.
Can I see you after the funeral, Raphaella? Just for a minute? I just want to know that you're all right.
Thank you, Alex. I'm fine. She sounded like a zombie and he was suddenly frightened. It sounded as though she were heavily sedated, or worse yet, as though she were in some kind of shock.
Can I see you?
I'm leaving tomorrow for Spain.
Tomorrow? Why?
I'm going back with my parents. My father felt I should spend the period of mourning there.
Oh, Jesus. Alex shook his head. What had happened? What had they done to her? What had they told her? How long is the period of mourning?
She answered him expressionlessly. One year.
He stared at the floor in stupefaction. She was going away for a year? He had lost her again and he knew it, and he also knew that this time it was for good. If she associated John Henry's death with their reunion, then their affair would remain always an ugly moment she would want to forget. And all that he knew was that he had to see her. For a minute, ten seconds, anything, to bring her back to reality, to remind her that he really loved her, that they had done nothing wrong, and that they had not caused John Henry's death. Raphaella, I have to see you.
I don't think I can. She glanced over her shoulder and could see her father in the next room.
Yes, you can. Then Alex thought of something. On the steps, where I first saw you, outside your garden. Just go down there and I'll meet you. Five minutes, Raphaella' that's all' please?
There was such a tone of pleading in his voice that she pitied him, but she felt nothing for anyone anymore. Not for herself, not for Alex, maybe not even for John Henry. She was a murderess now. An evil woman. She was numb. But it wasn't Alex who had killed John Henry. She had. There was no reason to punish him.
Why do you want to see me?
To talk to you.
What if someone sees us? But what did it matter? She had already committed the ultimate sin. And her father knew about Alex, knew she had been with him when John Henry took the pills. What difference would it make now if it made things easier for Alex? She was leaving the next day for Spain.
They won't see us. And I won't stay more than a few minutes. Will you meet me?
She nodded slowly. Yes.
Ten minutes. I'll be there.
They hung up, and ten minutes later he was waiting nervously at the bottom steps where he had first seen her, her face silhouetted in the lamplight, the lynx coat swathing her in softness, but that in no way prepared him for the vision that came to him now as she walked down the flight of stairs. Everything about her was rigid and dark and depressing. She wore a severe black dress, no makeup, black stockings, black shoes, and a look in her eyes that frightened him to his very core. He didn't even dare to approach her. He simply stood there and waited as she came to him and then stood before him, with that haunting look of agony in her black eyes.
Hello, Alex. It was almost as though she were dead too. Or as if someone had killed her, which in effect her father had.
Raphaella' oh, baby' . He wanted to reach out to her but he didn't dare, instead he just watched her with a look of anguish in his own eyes. And then, Let's sit down. He let himself down on the steps and motioned to her to join him. Like a little robot she did, hugging her knees close to her chest in the chill air on the cold steps. I want you to tell me what you're feeling. You look so bottled up that it scares me, and I think you're blaming yourself for something you had nothing to do with. John Henry was old, Raphaella, and sick, and very tired. You told me that yourself. He was sick of living, he wanted to die. The timing was only coincidental.
Raphaella smiled bleakly at him and shook her head, as though she pitied him for being such a fool. No, not coincidental, Alex. I killed him. He didn't die in his sleep as it said in the papers. Or he did, but it was not a natural sleep. He took a bottle of sleeping pills. She waited for it to sink in as she watched him with
her own lifeless eyes. He committed suicide.
Oh, my God. He looked startled, as though someone had slapped him, but now he understood what he had heard in her voice and what he now saw in her face. But do you know that for certain, Raphaella? Did he leave a note?
No, he didn't have to. He just did it. But my father is sure that he knew about us, so in effect I killed him. That's what my father says, and he's right. For an instant Alex wanted to kill her father, but he said nothing to her.
How does he know that?
Why else would John Henry do it?
Because he was so damn tired of living like a dead man, Raphaella. How often had he told you that himself? But she only shook her head now. She wouldn't listen. Alex was proclaiming their innocence, while she knew only too well the extent of their guilt. And if not his, then assuredly her own. You don't believe me, do you?
She shook her head slowly. No, I don't I think my father is right. I think someone must have seen us and told him, maybe one of the servants, maybe a neighbor when we came home one night.
No, Raphaella, you're wrong. The servants didn't tell him. He looked at her gently. My sister did, when you were in Europe last summer.
Oh, my God. Raphaella looked as though she might faint, but he reached out and took her hand.
It wasn't like that. Kay meant it to be, but it wasn't. One of his secretaries called and asked me to come to the house.
And you did? She looked shocked.
I did. He was a wonderful man, Raphaella. There were tears in his eyes now, as well as hers.
What happened?
We talked for a long time. About you. About me, I guess. About us. He gave me his blessing, Raphaella. The tears spilled from Alex's eyes. He told me to take care of you, afterward' . He reached out to her then but she pulled back. The blessing didn't count now. Even Alex knew it. It was too late for that. Raphaella, darling, don't let them hurt you. Don't let them take something away that we both want, that even John Henry respected, something that is so right.
a Perfect Stranger (1983) Page 25