Instead, Miriam was living alone with Lucille in Washington. She’d left her dreadful husband, Alcée, who drank, but now she was living as a divorcée, and what would Mother have said to that? Jem was on his third wife, Frances (the awful Ella had died of the typhus, poor thing)—and had a new baby, Frederica. They lived on a farm outside Washington, though Jem’s last attempt at farming had gone so poorly. He couldn’t seem to settle: a diplomatic post in Australia hadn’t gone well, either. Still, he was the merriest of them all.
Taking down a skirt from the armoire, she thought of her father in his study, his beautiful long fingers on the carved arm of his chair. He seemed suddenly present; she felt him in the room.
She heard herself speak: “Father.” The word was shocking in the quiet air. She waited for a second, as though something might happen.
But she could not leave her children for nine days. She could feel them in her arms, warm, impatient, their angular limbs, their whorled, mysterious ears.
The front door opened and she heard them start up the stairs, footsteps pounding. Warrington was always first; he burst into the room, still in his coat. Ethel came behind, holding something. Warrington was already talking, complaining about school. He came across the room, jumping to avoid Bruno.
“I knew the answer, and he didn’t call on me,” he said. “I had my hand up and he wouldn’t call.”
He looked up. His skin was translucent. Beneath his eyes were smudges of purplish-green.
“I’m sorry.” Sarah smoothed his head. His hair was lank and pale, fine as silk thread. “I’m sure he didn’t see you.” She stooped and put her arms around him; he curved backward, flexible, indifferent.
“I’m sure he did,” Warrington said. He climbed onto her bed and sat, his feet dangling over the side.
“You always say that, afterward, that you knew the answer and he didn’t call on you,” said Ethel. “What was the answer that you knew so well?” She came over to stand by the bed, looming over him.
She was tall and lanky, a dense cloud of crinkly blond hair massed on her back. Her skin was so pale it was greenish, like Warrington’s.
Were they ill, her children? Should they not be pink and white, not this strange, wan greenish hue, like lilies? Their narrow chests, this changeable weather.
“Not your affair,” Warrington said. He had sat on the stack of scarves, crushing them.
“Don’t argue,” Sarah said. She said to Ethel, “Was today your music class? Did you remember your piece?”
“I did,” Ethel said. “Except for one passage. I had to repeat it. Don’t tell Papa.”
“No,” said Sarah. She smoothed Ethel’s hair away from her high bony forehead. She had a greyhound’s long nose. “Will you play it for me?”
“What if I forget it again?” Her eyes were anxious.
Sarah shook her head. “No one will mind.”
“You said I must learn it properly,” Ethel said.
“Yes, but forgetting is part of learning it properly. There are lots of times before it’s learned when you’ll forget it.”
On the eve of departure she was infinitely indulgent. Her children were beloved. She could feel their hearts beating in her chest.
“I knew my whole piece,” Warrington said.
He was still in his coat. And muddy shoes. If he kicked his feet, if he moved them one inch he would leave muddy smears on her white bedspread. Hélène was meant to be in charge of this.
“Where is Hélène?” she asked.
“Disparu,” said Warrington. He picked at the edge of one of the shawls, bouncing the fringe on his fingers. Disappeared.
* * *
IN THE EVENING she drove with Frank down to the office. It was raining harder, fine needles rattling against the phaeton roof. Isaac sat hunched beneath the huge black umbrella. Frank stepped down and turned, squinting against the rain as he kissed his hand to her. Driving back through the chill twilight, bundled up in her shawl, Sarah thought of her trip and felt a flush of anticipation. She thought of Jem tucking his chin down. She thought of Frank’s squinting smile, the fling of the kiss. Impulsively she leaned forward and asked Isaac to take her to Marie Chazal’s.
Frank wouldn’t approve, but Marie was brilliant at fortunes, the things that weren’t rational, but were real, part of her life.
At the front door she stepped inside and called, “Marie, it’s me.” Her heart was pounding as she drew off her gloves. She felt as though she were on a secret mission.
They went into the parlor and sat down. Marie put a folding screen across her lap. She shuffled the deck, then began to lay out the cards, one by one.
* * *
LATER SHE WAITED upstairs for Frank, listening. She knew the rhythm of his footsteps, how they sounded coming down the sidewalk from the corner. They’d stop at the gate, and she’d hear the click of the lock, the creak of the hinges. She’d hear him mounting the front steps. She was reading, but really she was listening. After dark he was more present, closer to the surface of her mind. It had stopped raining by then, and the night was still. She went to the window and drew open the curtains. She raised the metal shaft, twisting and sliding it, then pushed open the tall French windows. She swung them out onto the night and stood, listening.
Outside, the city was quiet. The air was chill and damp. A small breeze sifted against her skin. A dog barked in the distance, alone. The city seemed hushed, waiting. She listened, listened, listened: the air seemed to tingle. She could feel the great animal of the city around her, hushed and dark, but full of hidden life. Like the ocean, full of subtle inscrutable movement. She drew in a long sweet breath, like cold water.
Something rustled suddenly above, a rapid fluttering: a bird had come inside. Or a bat. She turned around, hearing anxious wings. She saw nothing. The door to Frank’s study was open, and the one to the hall. She closed the door to the hall and went into his study: the bird was there, balancing nervously on a lampshade. It was a gray phoebe; they nested every year under the eaves. She was watching Sarah, her black eyes brilliant, her long tail twitching. Sarah went back to her bedroom and opened the French windows farther, a great black gape onto the night, and then went back to the study. The bird watched her, the tail jerking.
Sarah moved toward the bird. “Outside,” she said quietly. The bird lofted up toward the ceiling, hovering clumsily in the air. Sarah passed underneath her, then raised her arms slowly, walking back, gently herding her. “Outside,” she said again softly. Panicked, the bird fluttered along the top of a gilt picture frame, then flew back out into Sarah’s room. Sarah followed and shut the door to the study. The bird, vibrating with anxiety, trembled in the air up near the ceiling.
“Outside.” Sarah whispered it. She raised her arms again, the movement wide and slow, as though she herself were about to fly. The bird, her eyes bright with fear, dropped down into midair and hovered, desperate. Sarah stepped closer, and suddenly the bird understood the black rectangle. She lofted into the darkness and was gone.
As she drew the windows closed Sarah heard his steps on the sidewalk. She went to the dressing table and leaned over to look in the mirror. She drew in her breath. She smoothed her hair, then settled the lace at her collar. No matter how late Frank was, Sarah was always soignée.
They had supper alone. The house was silent, servants gone, children in bed. The candles made a light-filled space, holding the shadows in the corners. In the center of the table was a silver bowl heaped with crystal grapes. The soft light reflected on the grapes.
She asked if he liked the sauce on the chicken. “If I have to tell Celia you don’t she will quit.”
“It’s very good,” he said.
“She threatens it constantly,” Sarah said. “Quitting. And Jane asks to borrow money.”
“You must be firm,” Dawson said. “But generous. If they need money who else can they ask?”
“Yes,” said Sarah. “Only I’m never quite sure if they really need it.”
“It’s so disagreeable to ask,” Dawson said, “I assume no one would do it unless things were dire.” He tore off a piece of bread. “Tell me what you did this evening.”
“Something foolish,” Sarah confessed. “You won’t approve.”
“Try me,” he said.
“I went to Marie’s.”
Frank frowned. “Why? And it was raining.”
“I was wrapped up,” she said. “I had a sudden urge.”
“What did she say?” asked Frank, irritated. All this was nonsense. It was the fashion now, to have tea parties and a fortune-teller. Sarah had given one a month ago; the children were there.
“She was brilliant,” Sarah said. “You’ll be amazed.”
He waited.
“First she said I’d just said goodbye to someone who was about to die. Someone who loved me, but had no connection to me.”
“And who was that?” Frank asked.
“Miss Celena,” Sarah said. “I saw her this morning.”
Frank inclined his head and said nothing.
“Then she talked about you, my darling,” Sarah said, as though she were giving him a present. “She said that in two weeks’ time you’ll have your heart’s desire.”
“My heart’s desire,” said Frank. “I can’t think what that is.”
“Two weeks,” Sarah repeated. “March the twelfth.”
“Peace and quiet, that’s what I’d like.” Frank started eating his salad. “An end to all this furor at the paper.”
“That’s a very modest request,” said Sarah.
Frank said nothing. It was actually a large request; things were getting worse. Every day he kept thinking the tide would turn in his favor, and every day it did not. He might need another loan from Siegling, which he dreaded requesting. Two more of his staff had left. He might have to go back to New York for a loan. He now had to worry about meeting his payroll. He felt the silver blade.
“All your friends will gather,” Sarah went on. “You’ll receive great honors. I picture you on the balcony at City Hall, receiving a medal.”
He didn’t want to remember that balcony. “Doesn’t sound like peace and quiet to me.”
She changed the subject. “Also, there’s some terrible danger threatening Jemmie.”
Frank said nothing. Jem had always been reckless.
“But I can’t believe it’s true,” she added.
“Why not? You believe everything else she says.”
“Why are you such a skeptic? Marie sees things she couldn’t possibly know. She told me about a terrible scandal, everything but the woman’s name, which I already knew.”
“Who was it?” Dawson asked, diverted.
“I can’t possibly repeat it,” she said. “It’s the most appalling gossip.”
“Sarah!” he said. “Now you must.”
“In two weeks,” she said, “I’ll tell you everything.”
He shook his head.
“Another thing,” she said. “This is very strange. In two weeks someone will bring me a bundle of clothes, during the night, in the rain. It’s something that shouldn’t come to me. It looks like soiled clothes, but they’re fresh. They’ve been dragged in the dirt, and they’re stained. Marie asked me what on earth I thought it meant. I said it must be a baby, left at our gate, like the one at Mrs. Wyttle’s.”
“I hope you know what to do if a baby were left here,” Dawson said.
“I’d look after it until we found out where to take it,” Sarah said.
“You certainly would not,” Dawson said. “I had no idea you were so ignorant on such matters.”
“I’m sure I’m ignorant on many matters.”
“You’d call the police,” said Dawson. “Don’t touch the baby. Call the police, and let them handle it.”
“But there are times when you’d take matters into your own hands. You wouldn’t wait for the police.”
“If it’s a matter for the police,” said Dawson, “no one else should interfere. Please pay attention to me.”
“Well, it wasn’t a baby,” said Sarah. “Just a bundle of clothes.”
“It wasn’t anything,” Dawson said. “It was words made up by Marie. The cards don’t say anything about a scandal, you know that. Or a bundle of clothes. The cards are just cards. A ten of clubs is not a bundle of dirty clothes.”
“Marie is gifted,” Sarah said. “It’s a kind of art.”
“It’s not an art,” said Frank. “You like Marie because she’s Creole. She speaks French.”
“Hardly,” said Sarah, now haughty. “There are lots of Creoles here I don’t speak to. And this is a gift. Marie said the same thing at my tea. The cards said the same thing. The children heard it.”
“I don’t like that nonsense told in front of the children,” Dawson said. “It’s against the Church, among other things. I don’t want them listening to soothsayers and fortune-tellers. We’ll have the gypsies in next.”
Sarah said nothing. She began cutting her meat into small pieces. Without looking up she said, “Do you remember writing to me at Hampton’s, telling me you felt me in the room with you?” She looked up. “It was just past nine at night, and you asked if I’d been thinking of you at that moment.”
That moment: he’d been in his room at the Fourgeauds’, reading. He’d been startled. He looked up from his book, the sense of her flooding through him like a wash of warm air. He was staring at a print on the wall, an image of classical ruins, a temple, while feeling her presence, vivid, unmistakable. She was there with him. He could smell her hair.
“All right,” he said. “I remember.” He took a swallow of water. “But I wasn’t making a prophecy from a pack of cards.”
She raised her eyebrows and looked down at her plate.
“What is this about Jem? What danger?” he said. “Probably financial, which is not news.”
Actually, Marie hadn’t said anything about Jem. She’d said that the person Sarah loved best in the world was in danger. Who could that be? Sarah decided that Frank would say it was Jem. Then Marie had used Frank’s name.
“She also said that you were in danger, from a small dark man. A stranger. A professional man, maybe a doctor.” Sarah looked at Frank. “I told her that was nonsense. You’re too well-known to be attacked. You have enemies, but you know who they are.”
“It is nonsense,” said Dawson.
“But maybe you should be careful,” she said.
“What should I do? Careful about what?”
“This man,” Sarah said. “Protect yourself from him.”
“What man? The man Marie Chazal made up from reading a pack of cards? Should I watch out for the jack of clubs?” He stared at her, vexed. “There is no man. I won’t carry a gun, if that’s what you mean.”
“No, no, I know,” Sarah said. She thought of Marie’s face, turning up to her, over the cards. “Maybe for a day or so.”
“It’s a matter of principle,” Dawson said. “I will not carry a gun. And there is no man.”
They ate in silence. The candles flickered, the shadows wavered in the corners. Overhead, the light faded upward, rising toward the dim ceiling.
Marie had said she saw Sarah in the twilight, surrounded by a crowd of men. She said sorrow would come to Sarah. Sarah thought of sorrow like a dark mist, moving toward her. She thought of the servants, how they bothered her. How she never knew whether or not to believe them.
If Dawson could get another loan he’d hire another reporter. He wanted more news, more energy. When he allowed himself to admit it he felt some terrible sapping taking place. He was afraid that the essence of the paper was draining away. He didn’t know how it began, how to stop it. In the morning, stepping into the downstairs office, he’d always felt charged with energy and purpose at the sight of the reporters at their desks, busy and intent. They’d looked up and nodded, smiling, calling out greetings, in the thick of their work. Now they looked up silently, cool, restrained. He was afraid they were planning thei
r exits; he didn’t know how to greet them now. He couldn’t remember how he’d greeted them before. Did he nod? Did he speak? Now, curt, uncomfortable, he nodded, frowning, walking through them on his way upstairs. He wished Riordan were still there. He remembered when the paper was a churning center of energy, people walking back and forth, calling out, laughing. He remembered when he thought they were like dogs, wagging and barking. All that excitement had drained away. He was thinking of paying a wire service for a weekend package of columns and jokes. He’d never done this, he’d always wanted his own writers’ voices to make the paper, but he couldn’t afford to pay his writers to produce all this anymore.
Thinking now of walking into the office the next morning he felt as though he were drowning, as though something were rising up his body, pressing cold against his waist, his chest, rising to his shoulders, lapping at his neck. He remembered the balcony at City Hall, the faces of the crowd lit up by torches. He picked up the silver salt cellar, the little silver basket set on curved legs, and shifted it to the left, as though he could correct what was happening inside him by this gesture.
He looked up at Sarah.
“My heart’s desire,” he said, “would be to spend more time with you and the children.”
Her face in the candlelight opened like a flower.
“We’d all like that,” she said. Marie’s comments became trinkets, to be laid out and exclaimed over, then put away. Sarah put them away, all but the heart’s desire.
“Perhaps we should move to Provence,” Frank said.
“Marie did say I’ll move to a foreign land,” Sarah said. “She says I’ll die there.”
Why had Marie reappeared in the conversation? Dawson frowned. “That will be after I die.”
“But don’t die,” Sarah said. She put her finger on her own lips, to keep him from using the word.
“I have no plans to,” said Frank. “I can’t afford it.” He gave a short laugh. “I can’t get life insurance.”
“And why is that?” Sarah asked.
He didn’t want to tell her about the ulcer. “I’m changing companies.” He was looking for one that would give him at least partial insurance.
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