He paused, looking at the carpet.
“What did you say?”
“I said no, that I would visit you, but everything would go on as before.”
Dorothy inhaled sharply. “What happened then?”
“A few tears fell from her eyes. They trickled down her cheeks and she made no effort to wipe them away. Presently, she admitted that she couldn’t bear to see you again.”
Dorothy swallowed. The bonds of her oldest friendship were severed; bonds with the past. She felt herself cut adrift … falling … Briefly, she wondered if Bertie was worth it. Was any man worth it?
“Jane wanted to know if you’re having a difficult time,” he said, “and she told me to look after you…”
They fell silent. Dorothy was imagining the supreme effort it must have taken Jane to maintain her control during this conversation. She was an accomplished ice queen, but at what cost to herself?
At last, Bertie asked: “Have you told your father or sisters?”
Dorothy gazed at the oil lamp standing in the little fireplace, its single flame glaring nakedly against the black grate. “No. They’ve suffered so much already, I don’t want to add to their pain.”
“You can’t avoid them forever,” he said gently.
Fifteen
A letter from Benjamin arrived. The sight of his familiar handwriting filled Dorothy with trepidation. It was almost certainly another demand or plea for help, and she felt incapable of giving the succor he needed. But his opening lines assured her he was not in trouble. He simply missed talking to her and wanted to call on her. “I come as friend. No requests, no complications. On my honor.”
The letter transported her back to a more carefree past. She wrote a hurried reply, saying she was available the following evening after work, and was looking forward to seeing him again.
On her way back from the postbox, she decided to play the piano, if the drawing room was free. Reaching the house, she paused outside the drawing room door. All sounded quiet within; she turned the handle cautiously and went in. The gas was out and the room was dim, but there was enough light to see two figures talking quietly and earnestly on the sofa. There would be no solitary music making tonight.
It was Mrs. Baker and Mr. Cundy. Her concerns about them had been knocked from her mind by her own troubles. As she moved toward them, a tide of shock and disbelief roared in her ears and made her eyes film over, dimming the forms in front of her. They were holding hands!
Briefly, she wondered if her vision was playing tricks. Mrs. Baker tried to withdraw her hand when she saw Dorothy, but Mr. Cundy kept firm hold of it.
“I think you’ve realized by now,” he said to Dorothy, “what we mean to each other.”
Dorothy was lost for words. Mrs. Baker managed to free her hand from Mr. Cundy’s; she took Dorothy’s and pressed it ardently. Dorothy bent down to kiss the haggard cheek, and was rewarded with a motherly hug. Straightening up, she offered her hand to Mr. Cundy, who grasped it and pumped it up and down. Looking into his eyes, Dorothy read a confusion of tenderness and half-abashed pride. So his feelings were real. Outside the house, St. Pancras clock chimed the quarter hour into the night.
How in the world had Mrs. Baker allowed such an astonishing thing to happen? But it was also touching and marvelous. Marvelous that Mr. Cundy was discerning enough to see the pure-hearted woman beneath the harassed exterior. He had arrived at the struggling house, just as Mrs. Baker’s vanishing youth was making her failure with it absolutely heartrending to watch. Yet he had fallen in love with her glorious smile and the courage behind it; undaunted by the difference in their ages. He knew she was innocent and rare and beautiful.
When the flurry of congratulations subsided, Mr. Cundy excused himself saying, “I’ll leave you two ladies alone to talk.”
“I feel for him,” breathed Mrs. Baker, as the door closed behind him, “getting tied down to me.”
“Why on earth? He’s the luckiest man alive,” said Dorothy stoutly, sitting down beside her.
“Really? I’m glad you think so; I’ve fretted something awful over him. I’ve been saying no to him this past year and a half.”
There was a brief pause, while Dorothy digested this extraordinary fact. She had been too self-absorbed to see the drama taking place under her nose.
“I worry because he’s ten years younger than me,” Mrs. Baker confessed, blushing. “He’d be better suited to Carrie.”
“But he looks and acts far older.”
“He does, it’s true. His mother passed away when he was young; his father remarried and his stepmother was shockingly hard on him. He says this is the first place he’s felt at home and wanted; he’s happier than he’s ever been in his life.”
The whole time, Mr. Cundy had been hanging around the house, apparently at a loose end, making annoyingly flippant comments and seeming to prey on Mrs. Baker. When in fact, he had been feeling at home and cherished and joyful; his joy growing as their love grew and blossomed … Was he worthy of Mrs. Baker? Dorothy still wasn’t sure if she liked him, or approved of the match.
“It’s wonderful news,” Dorothy said. “Mr. Cundy is a lucky man.”
“Yes, it’s all fine and good for now, but there’s plenty of obstacles in the future. He wants me to sell this house and get a place just for us. But there’s my girls to think of. I can’t give up the boarders till they’re settled. I keep telling him, I must do the right thing for my girls.”
“Of course you must, and you will. He’s a lovely man, I’m sure he understands.” But how noble and bounteous the failing household suddenly seemed, when the alternative was sharing some poky dwelling with Mr. Cundy. Dorothy could see him coming home in the evening, and Mrs. Baker waiting to greet him with the house spotless and dinner on the table, growing more rundown and exhausted every day. She would be an old woman before he turned forty.
While Mrs. Baker talked on, Dorothy found herself torn between pity and wistful admiration. Mrs. Baker had achieved something that Dorothy had failed at. Mrs. Baker was going to be a wife; it was, supposedly, the highest destiny of woman. She had settled triumphantly, justifying her everlasting confident smile.
As Dorothy left the room, there entered her mind an image of herself introducing Benjamin to Veronica. It stood there, vivid and complete, as though it had taken root while she was talking to Mrs. Baker. It seemed to offer a future miraculously cleared of encumbrances. Ridiculous. The whole idea was ridiculous, yet it was compellingly attractive and persuasive, too.
What was left of her conscience checked her, insisting on an examination of her motives. In her current unstable state, she had to be absolutely sure the introduction would not have hurtful or damaging consequences for any of them. As she looked within, trying to analyze her true intentions, she found herself confronted by her own reflection … something deep inside, unattached to any specific motive, had chosen this course of action, was refusing to heed any conflict attached to it, and was already viewing the decision as made. This unequivocal unconscious response, whose purpose was impenetrable, might be harmful or benign, but it was impossible to ignore.
* * *
IT WAS A side to Veronica she had never seen before. Veronica playing hostess to a man she had never met. Veronica, in one of her kimonos with the pale chunky beads around her neck, opening the French doors and leading Benjamin outside; showing him, with a graceful sweep of her arm, the view of the square, and her scented geraniums in their grey-stone basins that brought the small balcony to life. “I feel like a queen up here, watching the world go by,” she said.
As she poured tea from the Empire set, Benjamin stopped her putting milk in his cup. “To a Russian, that is not tea,” he said. “It’s a weak greasy mixture, quite undrinkable.”
“Sorry, I didn’t realize. Sugar?”
“Yes, please.” He took a lump and placed it between his lips. Dorothy braced herself for the inevitable sucking of tea through it, while Veronica handed around a plate of
small, golden, sugar-dusted biscuits.
“Why don’t you sit over there, Benjamin?” Veronica said, gesturing toward the armchair. She took her place on a little carved wooden stool beside him.
Veronica listened to Benjamin’s stories and gazed with calm gravity at his glowing opulent beauty: the thick black hair and neatly pointed beard, the melancholy eyes, the wide forehead and strong gentle features. He drank his tea through the sugar lump with audible sips, talking all the while in a voice grown thick and slurred, yet she gave no sign of finding the ritual unusual or abhorrent. He was telling a story about his married sister that Dorothy had heard before.
“My brother-in-law was determined she should not go to the Sabbath service at our synagogue. She had a heavy cold; she had been up half the night with the baby, who was also sick, and she absolutely needed to rest. But my sister is headstrong, she will not listen to reason, so he tried to stop her in the only way he knew. He locked her hat cupboard—a married woman is forbidden, you know, to enter the temple bareheaded. But can you guess what he saw when he looked out of the window half an hour later?” Benjamin drained his cup and looked at Veronica, who encouraged him to go on with a gracious smile. “He saw his wife, my sister, walking down the road in his big black hat with a blue lace scarf twisted most stylishly around it!”
The laughter with which Veronica met this suggested that she found his idea of how to entertain a lady in a social situation just as funny the story itself. But there was also warmth in her voice, as though she was humoring a particularly winsome child. “I like your sister’s unquenchable spirit,” she told him, when her laughter subsided.
“A strong woman will always find a way to do what she wants … we men are no match for a strong woman.”
Dorothy flinched inwardly; she’d heard too many of Benjamin’s neat generalizations. Charming as his stories were, his vision of life seemed to miss some vital element: it was too clear, too one-dimensional to embrace the rich paradoxes and constant fluctuations that made up life.
She wondered what Veronica really thought of him, beneath the amiable mask that was her social manner. Dorothy had told her their history. Did she appreciate his mellow dignity and simplicity, or did she find the stream of anecdotes merely tedious? There was something in his bearing that many people would not like; something heavy and stolid: an absence of mirth.
The occasion was given a poignant duality by the consciousness of what Dorothy and Veronica were to each other. While Veronica flirted with Benjamin and gave every appearance of being charmed and charming, she belonged to Dorothy. While Veronica offered more tea, promising to remember not to put milk in it this time, Benjamin sat within touching distance of the bed on which they lost themselves to passion, night after night. There was undeniably a charge in the air. Veronica placed a cup of tea on Dorothy’s lap, her fingers brushing Dorothy’s thigh, and Dorothy felt her cheeks flush and her underclothes grow warm and damp. She glanced at Benjamin, who was saying “This is delicious. It’s rare to find an Englishwoman who knows how to make tea”; so innocent and oblivious that she was ashamed. She had the strange sense that while the scene was playing out, it had already happened in some distant universe, and was proceeding upon preordained lines to its inevitable conclusion.
After about half an hour, Dorothy could see Benjamin caving in to the fatigue that swept over him during any conversation failing to engage his full interest. His eyelids were growing heavy and his face looked paler than ever. Slumped in his armchair, he gave a sigh that turned involuntarily to a yawn. The white lids were almost closed. “You can probably tell how the story ended,” he said opening his eyes wide, and Dorothy saw in them the desire for escape. “And I think I have talked enough about myself. I’m afraid I have started to tire you.”
He looked at his gold pocket watch and got to his feet, saying gently—and Dorothy thought a little guiltily—“We had better go to dinner now, Dorothy. We are already running late.” Turning to Veronica, he thanked her for the tea, and took his leave formally, bowing over her hand as he raised it to his lips.
Dorothy sent him downstairs to wait for her, shutting the door behind him, so that Veronica could freely vent her opinion of him and of the occasion.
But Veronica was not paying any attention to her. She stood gazing out of the window, showing her clear profile and the curve of her cheek, very upright and slender, lost in thought. Dorothy walked over and stood beside her, looking down at the blazing colors of the autumn trees in the square. A group of young men and women was approaching along the wide pavement, laughing and talking; a blare of lively voices reached them. Veronica’s continuing silence held Benjamin’s presence in the room; it came between them, breaking them up. Dorothy waited, with increasing impatience, for her to speak, conscious of Benjamin standing captive in the hall.
“Dorothy!”
“Yes, what? What did you think of him?”
Veronica fell silent again, as though gathering her thoughts, while Dorothy’s pulse quickened with apprehension. Perhaps she had sacrificed Veronica, forcing her to undergo an unpleasant meeting so that Dorothy might have the gratification of managing a social event.
“Was it an ordeal?” Dorothy asked. “I’m sorry if you hated it. Let’s put it behind us, shall we? We’ll pretend it never happened.”
“It wasn’t an ordeal at all. I was just thinking…” Veronica paused dramatically, drawing herself to her full height. “If you want respectability so badly, why don’t you marry Benjamin? If you should be with any man alive, it’s him. He’ll let you breathe and be yourself. It isn’t too late; I can tell by the way he looks at you.”
Everything wavered and went silent; Dorothy could not feel her feet. She could not believe she was being abandoned by Veronica, who seemed to have crossed sides and was standing in league with Benjamin. But Veronica was right. Veronica saw both Dorothy’s lack of backbone, and the cruelty of pushing Benjamin away to fend for himself in the world. These things were so blindingly evident to her that she was ready to renounce their joined life, at the drop of a hat.
The room stopped heaving and shuddering, but Dorothy was left utterly chilled and depleted. Betrayed. She thought she knew Veronica, but how could she suggest relinquishing their life together so easily? A gulf was opening between them, leaving Dorothy desolate. For the first time, she realized that Veronica was fickle; running through personal relationships, wanting to clear the ground for fresh conquests and excitements. Beside this discovery, Veronica’s failure to understand the impossibility of marrying Benjamin was trivial.
“I’ve never met a man so transparently good,” Veronica was saying, “and so beautiful.”
Her words brought a faint improbable hope, nudging Dorothy out of dejection. As she pondered a future which did not hold any place for her, she found a reply forming in her mind, and she let the words fall hurriedly, without pausing to think about what she was saying: “If you feel like that, why don’t you marry him yourself?”
“I would! In an instant!” exclaimed Veronica. “I’d adore to have children with him. Just think what beautiful children we’d make.”
“Beautiful,” Dorothy repeated. “Yes, they would be beautiful,” and she looked, excited and cut to the quick, at this image from which she was shut out. Veronica, Benjamin, and their children: a family. They gazed back at her with dark inscrutable eyes, lovely and secure.
She said a hasty farewell to Veronica, freshly seen and irrevocably lost. Who would have thought that Veronica, of all people, might rescue Benjamin? Their good-bye was unlike all those that had gone before: it was matter of fact, almost perfunctory. Veronica was too preoccupied to reach out to her for their usual loving and protracted parting.
* * *
THE CAFÉ WAS hot, noisy, and crowded. Dorothy felt overwhelmed by the fug of tobacco fumes and frying meat, the clamor of voices, the clatter of cutlery and dishes being set down on marble-topped tables. They found an empty table at the back, near the kitchen, and s
he sank onto the red velvet sofa seat gratefully.
Benjamin had difficulty summoning a waiter. Eventually, a tall stooped man in a stained white uniform ambled over.
“We must have service!” Benjamin bellowed, while Dorothy sat shrinking by his side. “Bring me two glasses of red wine at once! And please wipe the table, it is revolting!” He gestured, with the hand that bore the jeweled ring, to the blots of beer and cigarette stubs left by the previous clients.
Dorothy waited until their drinks had arrived before she asked Benjamin what he thought of Veronica.
“She laughs for no reason; it is most annoying.”
“She is still young.”
“That is no excuse. She is not ten years old. But let’s not talk about Veronica. Tell me, rather, what you are thinking. I can see a thought on your face now that is most troubled. It has wiped away your dimples, and brought a pale and worried countenance.”
“I was just thinking … oh, nothing, really.”
“Ah, you must tell me”
His solicitude made her want to confide in him. Glancing at him, she was touched by the concern in the steady dark eyes, as he sat waiting for her to speak.
She told him she was pregnant; the words falling numbly from her lips. She felt as though she was talking about another person entirely; one distantly known, but not particularly relevant to either of them.
For a few moments, he was silent; every fiber of him motionless, brooding on what she had said. His face was a blank mask. Through the hum of conversation and the bustle of meals being served, he began to question her, softly and doggedly. She told him everything about her and Bertie, sparing neither of them. She did not mention Veronica.
When she had finished, he fell back into silence. His usual pallor was heightened. Though his expression was composed, his hands shook as they rested on the table, and his mouth was a hard line. He would not look at her. She could not see his eyes.
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