The door swung open at the sound. A black servant in uniform smiled in welcome at the visitor framed in the doorway.
“Good evening, sir.” The warmth of the smile reassured Fabian.
“Good evening,” Fabian said. “Am I late?”
The servant grinned. “Never too late to enjoy yourself, sir.”
Fabian touched him on the shoulder with the freedom of an old acquaintance. “You’re Joseph, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Brady, sir. Just Brady,” the black man answered, responding to the new guest’s interest.
“Tell me, Brady, where is everybody?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Stanhope and their guests are having drinks in the library.”
“And Miss Vanessa?”
“Miss Vanessa is also in the library,” Brady said.
Fabian took Brady by the arm and brought him close with an air of amiable conspiracy. “When Miss Vanessa called me, she said she wanted to talk to me alone before we join all the guests. Now, Brady, would you take me to her rooms, and then go and tell her that her old teacher is waiting for her there, but don’t let on to anyone else, just keep it a secret between the three of us. Would you do that for her, Brady?”
“I sure will, sir,” the servant said. “You just follow me.” They passed too swiftly through the halls for Fabian to take in more than a shimmer of light and polished wood, his heels hard on the marble, then melting into carpets, a blaze of crystal from a chandelier irradiating the furniture and the staircase.
They stepped aside to make room for several servants, trays of drinks and food adroitly balanced in their hands.
Brady took him upstairs, toward the end of a long corridor, its walls a rich glow of portraits and drawings. A gust of laughter and voices from below followed their ascent.
The servant stopped in front of a door, rapped perfunctorily and then opened it, ushering Fabian into the foyer of a suite, a small carriage lamp on the wall its only light.
“You just make yourself at home, sir,” Brady said, gesturing toward a sofa as he receded noiselessly through the door. “Miss Vanessa will be right with you.”
Fabian moved through a study toward the entrance to Vanessa’s bedroom. He trailed a hand across a chest of drawers, the pretty clutter of objects dotting the room, his eyes gliding over her bed. These were the realities of her intimate life and had been so before he entered it, would be so after his departure from it, things closer to her than any man.
He returned to the study. On the desk, another lamp revealed two large, framed photographs of him: in one, cut from the pages of U.S. Horse and World Report when the magazine had interviewed Fabian about the current state of horsemanship, he was mounted on a polo pony, the Fairfield club in the background; in the other, he was on Captain Ahab, accepting from Vanessa the second-place prize at Madison Square Garden.
A stack of envelopes, all open, addressed to Vanessa, lay on the desk. He touched the thickness of the letters inside and glanced at the return address on the first envelope. It was from Stuart Hayward. Instantly Fabian regretted that he had seen them. In his relationship with the world, whether of nature or of men, he took his cue only from what was a consequence of his own doing, from what, by confronting him directly, demanded an equally direct response from him. He would no more look through a keyhole, read the letters of someone else, go through someone else’s possessions, than he would steal someone’s money. An uninvited venture into the life of others carried, for Fabian, the risk of denying the unity of his own.
He turned toward the door at the sound of steps. The lamp in the foyer revealed Vanessa as she came in, the evening gown making her look nubile, more womanly.
She looked at the man in the room, searching his face in the obscure light; she stepped closer, and suddenly astonishment broke on her. Wordless, she went to him, put her arms about his neck, the gown flattening against his suit, her face against his, hands caressing his forehead and hair.
He disengaged himself. “Your gown, Vanessa,” he said tenderly.
She turned on another light, and in its sweep he saw how radiant she was, lustrous, the beauty he had known always, makeup enhancing the symmetry of her mouth, the scar a reminder of her fragility.
“Finally, after all those times in your VanHome, you’re my guest now,” Vanessa said. She took in the formality of his clothes. “I’ve never seen you looking so—”
“Fatherly?” he suggested wryly.
“Fatherly,” she agreed, laughing. Then he saw her eyes turn pensive, concerned, a mistress of the house. “When did you arrive?”
“A few hours ago. I took a nap in the VanHome.”
“In the VanHome? Where is it?” she asked.
“Outside. At the stables.”
Vanessa came closer, lifted one hand to graze the back of his head, then let it drift down, along his back. Her hip brushed his, then disarming the gesture with a teasing husk of laughter, she gathered his hand to her breast. “Why didn’t you come straight here, to nap with me?” she murmured, her lips on his neck. “You’re going to stay with me here, aren’t you?”
He turned to her and tried to release himself. “You must listen to me—” he began.
“I won’t listen to you. This is our home now, yours and mine.” She stopped, distress clouding her face. “You upset me, Fabian, by leaving the bank without—” She broke off, and he could see it was difficult for her to speak. “Without claiming what’s yours now.” She was silent again, intent, her features tightened as if in pain. “No one has ever done more for me than you. You made me free with myself, with others. With my thoughts, my needs, my body. Free with my love for you: you can’t turn down a gift of love—you must accept it.” She brought her eyes to his. “You must because I love you, Fabian,” she whispered.
He did not answer but held her, the two of them sealed in embrace, Vanessa’s forehead bent to his shoulder, her hands clutching at his hips, his face eclipsed by her hair, her hands trailing the contours of his body.
“With that gift, you’re free to do anything,” she whispered, “free to go anywhere. Most of all, you’re free to be with me.”
He listened to her, his tenderness more that for a child confessing her secrets than for a woman who was his lover. He found himself, though, on the verge of telling her that he understood her, that he would never refuse anything of hers again, that all he wanted was to be with her, to have her at his side. But he remained silent.
She took him by the hand. “We shouldn’t let the guests wait, should we?”
Suddenly, sharply, he was conscious that he was a stranger in her world. “But—your parents? I wasn’t invited.”
“You are now—it’s my house, too.”
Fabian followed her out into the corridor, and, as if to give him time to compose himself before they went to the library, Vanessa took his arm and drew him through some of the rooms. He felt confused by the easy splendor of antique furniture beneath bronze sconces, swelling porcelain vases, windows that were fretted networks of stained glass, the floors a mosaic of ebony and citron and boxwood, the doors sheets of mahogany, mantels of marble under paintings of landscapes, people and horses, their faithfulness of detail a challenge to nature.
From behind the door of the library, the rhythm of conversation, muted, filled Fabian with apprehension. Vanessa boldly opened the door and went in before him.
He saw the fireplace first, ten or twelve couples grouped before it, a few scattered on sofas, secure in conversation. Vanessa took Fabian’s hand and walked straight toward a tall, rangy man, slightly balding, his face broad, the smile a flash of gums and large, uneven teeth. Fabian saw a resemblance to Eugene Stanhope.
The man was in conversation with an older couple when Vanessa tugged gently at his arm, and he bent indulgently toward her.
“I want you to meet someone very special, Father,” she said.
With a vacant smile that was the reflex of a lifetime of social exchange, the residue of countless cocktail pa
rties and receptions, Patrick Stanhope extended his hand to Fabian.
“Father, this is Fabian,” Vanessa said. “He’s just arrived to be with me.”
Patrick Stanhope’s hand was firm when Fabian shook it, but at Vanessa’s introduction his smile narrowed, then vanished. Fabian observed with surprise that he was probably older than Stanhope.
“I’m glad you could come, Mr. Fabian,” Stanhope said curtly. Then, conscious of Vanessa’s watchful gaze and the curiosity of the older couple, he introduced Fabian. Vanessa’s mother approached at that moment. She was in her forties, a handsome woman, with thick brown hair and a healthy complexion, her limber body announcing her ease in the world of sports.
“I’m Doris Stanhope, Vanessa’s mother,” she said pleasantly, “and you taught our girl to ride so well!”
At his daughter’s side, Patrick Stanhope faced his wife and Fabian. The older couple drifted away. “Eugene spoke often of you,” Stanhope said to Fabian, his voice matter-of-fact.
“I apologize for coming without an invitation,” Fabian said, on guard in what he knew was not neutral ground. “But I was eager to see Vanessa—and to meet you.”
“No need to apologize, Mr. Fabian. We’re glad you came,” Doris Stanhope said, politely.
“Aren’t you going to ask them for my hand?” Vanessa broke in, the playful child again. “He might as well.” She turned abruptly, but laughing, to her mother. “He’s already taken everything else!”
Patrick Stanhope looked around him, apprehensive that his daughter’s remark might have been overheard. He maneuvered his wife to block a group of guests bearing down on them, then he moved closer to Fabian and spoke with a low, blunt urgency. “How long will you be in Totemfield, Mr. Fabian?”
“Fabian is staying with us for a while,” Vanessa announced confidently.
Fabian was startled at the security of his voice as he took Vanessa’s arm and replied to her father’s question. “Unfortunately, I have to leave early in the morning.”
A flush rose to Vanessa’s face as she pulled back in dismay. “You can’t, Fabian!” she whispered, pain on her face. Stanhope reached out instinctively to shield her shoulders.
Stuart Hayward walked across the room toward them; there was a smile of familiarity, an assurance of being welcome, in the way he wedged himself between Vanessa and Fabian.
“How have you been, Mr. Fabian?” He shook Fabian’s hand. “I’ve never had a chance to thank you for what you did at the Garden for us.” He paused. “For Vanessa and me. And for Captain Ahab, who’s now in the big leagues.”
“It was easy after all the great jumping you’d done with Captain Ahab so often,” said Fabian.
Vanessa raised her eyes toward him. The stricken expression was still on her face and, noticing it, Stuart bent toward her in concern.
“Are you visiting Totemfield for long, Mr. Fabian?” he asked. He was trying to slip his arm around Vanessa’s waist, but, still distressed, she avoided him.
“Mr. Fabian is leaving tomorrow,” Stanhope said, forcing the bonhomie.
Locked into uneasiness, his smile automatic and mirthless, he clapped Hayward on the shoulder with perfunctory heartiness. “Why don’t you and Vanessa help her mother with the other guests, while Mr. Fabian and I take some time out in my study? We’ve got to have a little talk about this troublesome colt of mine.” Before Vanessa could interrupt, he motioned Fabian toward a door off the library.
Stanhope led the way into his study, its stateliness hushed and curiously insulated from the stir in the library. Fabian took in the leather and mellow wood, the baroque desk in the corner. The only incongruous notes were a large video system to one side of the desk and a sleek array of telephones on its top, their ranks of buttons burnished in the light of the fireplace. For a moment, he remembered that other afternoon with a Stanhope, in another place, a drawing room, Eugene shouting from behind a hunt table, Alexandra at his side. Now, with Patrick Stanhope, a lush ruby spill of Persian carpet muffled their voices as well as their steps.
Patrick Stanhope gestured Fabian toward one of a pair of large red armchairs flanking the fire. When Fabian sat down, he looked up and caught the imperious mien of Commodore Ernest Tenet Stanhope, the family patriarch, whose massive portrait commanded the room.
The façade of a false bookcase swung open at Stanhope’s touch, revealing a bar. After Fabian’s refusal of a drink, he prepared one for himself and then sank into the armchair across from Fabian.
Stanhope’s face was haggard with disquiet. “I can’t quite bring myself to tell you what’s on my mind, Fabian,” he began. “Somehow, it just seems either too strong or not strong enough. First, let me assure you that I have never, never,” he repeated emphatically, bringing his glass down on the arm of the chair, “held you responsible for my brother’s death. It’s true, Eugene and I had our differences, we didn’t see much of each other, but I knew he and you were the best of friends. Of course, I also knew about your reputation as a tricky player. God knows, there was enough talk about it. Still, I’m convinced Eugene’s death had to be an accident, an accident pure and simple.” Stanhope was putting all his conviction into his voice. “And I hope you know that I was the one who asked Stockey to keep trying to get you as the host for our polo television series.”
Fabian nodded.
Stanhope leaned back in the chair wearily, as if the burden of what he had to say was a physical weight on him. “But, frankly, Fabian, I wanted you to work for us partly because I also knew how much Vanessa worshiped you as her riding coach. I want you to know this, to show how much I appreciate what you did for my daughter.”
Stanhope took a long, slow draught from his drink. “Vanessa is our only child, and with her deformity—” He broke off, suddenly desolate, then looked up.
“You mean her scar?” Fabian said gently.
“Her scar.” Stanhope nodded. “The poor child went through all those operations to have it removed. The first one was just after she was born. Her mouth was so bad they could only do a little at a time, and soon there was another operation. When the Commodore, my father, up there,” he said, raising his glass toward the portrait, “saw what she would have to go through, he made Vanessa the chief heir to his money. She was his only grandchild. He passed over his two sons, Eugene and me, for her.” Stanhope was speaking vacantly now, dull with recollection.
“She was operated on again when she was seven, in New York. But nothing seemed to help. And that wasn’t the end. When the scar still showed, and she was no longer a child, we took her to Switzerland, to a clinic in Sion. He corrected a lot of it, but—” Stanhope’s voice faltered in resignation, but then he rallied himself, as if to underscore the importance of what he was about to say.
“Doris and I have always tried to be good parents to Vanessa,” he said distantly, his eyes moving without expression over the richness of the room. “Because of what she’d had to go through, we’ve often let her have her own way,” he went on, “even when we weren’t sure it was a good thing. The doctors told us that all that surgery, all those operations, might have just as damaging an effect on her psychic life as the original deformation—such a violation, all that mauling of her mouth and face.” Stanhope flinched at the memory. “They said a child who had to go through things like that could turn on herself or come to hate everything around her.” He was suddenly more alert, still in pain, but measuring every word. “Or that she might become desperately anxious for love and terribly possessive about it when she found it, always afraid of losing it.” He rose abruptly, the glass empty in his hand, and went to the bar. “Vanessa is such a possessive girl, Fabian. The money she gave you is part of her trust from the Commodore. This money is her only power.” Stanhope was preparing another drink with the precision of a chemist. “She gave it to you not because she loves you—not only because she loves you,” he corrected himself, “but because she wants to own you, to control you.” As he finished, the glass rapped sharply on the counter. H
e returned to his post across from Fabian and sat down, his eyes tracing the design of the carpet.
“When Vanessa made up her mind to transfer this money to you,” Stanhope continued, as if musing aloud to himself, “until she had arranged it all with her lawyers and bankers, it seemed as though she was afraid you might run away from her” His voice thickened not with bitterness but with a pain he could not stem. “That was when she told us she was going to marry you. Even when Doris and I pointed out that she was hardly out of school, that she still had college ahead of her, that she was—” he faltered, unwilling to wound, but gathering boldness from the sympathetic intentness of Fabian’s presence, “that you were—that she would be marrying a man so advanced in age, in fact, a man older than her mother, older even than her father—she said age didn’t make any difference, that she wanted you, and only you. She said that her gift would make you free and make others certain that you wouldn’t be marrying her for her money.”
Stanhope put his drink on the table before him. “But now that you’ve turned down Vanessa’s gift, Fabian, everything’s different. Do you think that marrying Vanessa would be the best thing for her? For the children she might want to have one day? The wisest thing for you?” In the play of light on the pale eyes confronting him, Fabian saw tears.
Fabian rose and crossed swiftly to the other man, his arm going out to touch Stanhope’s shoulder. Vanessa’s father accepted the gesture and its warmth.
“I love Vanessa,” Fabian said. “I always have. She is a child I never had, a daughter I always wanted, the lover so much younger than I.” The pressure of feeling tightened his grasp on Stanhope’s shoulder. “Most of all I love the spirit that makes her as free as she is. I hope I’ve done nothing to confine her—and I won’t now.”
Gently he removed his hand, and spoke to the silence of the room, more than to Stanhope. “That’s why I could never marry Vanessa or take her away with me. And that’s why I’ll be leaving tomorrow, leaving without her.”
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