Something was missing. Instead of her soul swaying with new life, it seemed to droop, to bleed, as if it were wounded. She would sit for a long time with her hand in his, looking away at the sea. And in her dark, vacant eyes was a sort of wound, and her face looked a little peaked. If he spoke to her, she would turn to him with a faint new smile, the strange, quivering little smile of a woman who has died in the old way of love, and can’t quite rise to the new way.
She still felt she ought to do something, to strain herself in some direction. And there was nothing to do, and no direction in which to strain herself. And she could not quite accept the submergence which his new love put upon her. If she was in love, she ought to exert herself, in some way, loving. She felt the weary need of our day to exert herself in love. But she knew that in fact she must no more exert herself in love.
He would not have the love which exerted itself towards him. It made his brow go black. No, he wouldn’t let her exert her love towards him. No, she had to be passive, to acquiesce, and to be submerged under the surface of love. She had to be like the seaweeds she saw as she peered down from the boat, swaying forever delicately under water, with all their delicate fibrils put tenderly out upon the flood, sensitive, utterly sensitive and receptive within the shadowy sea, and never, never rising and looking forth above water while they lived. Never. Never looking forth from the water until they died, only then washing, corpses, upon the surface. But while they lived, always submerged, always beneath the wave. Beneath the wave they might have powerful roots, stronger than iron—they might be tenacious and dangerous in their soft waving within the flood. Beneath the water they might be stronger, more indestructible than resistant oak trees are on land. But it was always underwater, always underwater. And she, being a woman, must be like that.
And she had been so used to the very opposite. She had had to take all the thought for love and for life, and all the responsibility. Day after day she had been responsible for the coming day, for the coming year, for her dear Jill’s health and happiness and well-being. Verily, in her own small way, she had felt herself responsible for the well-being of the world. And this had been her great stimulant, this grand feeling that, in her own small sphere, she was responsible for the well-being of the world.
And she had failed. She knew that, even in her small way, she had failed. She had failed to satisfy her own feeling of responsibility. It was so difficult. It seemed so grand and easy at first. And the more you tried, the more difficult it became. It had seemed so easy to make one beloved creature happy. And the more you tried, the worse the failure. It was terrible. She had been all her life reaching, reaching, and what she reached for seemed so near, until she had stretched to her utmost limit. Then it was always beyond her.
Always beyond her, vaguely, unrealisably beyond her, and she was left with nothingness at last. The life she reached for, the happiness she reached for, the well-being she reached for all slipped back, became unreal, the farther she stretched her hand. She wanted some goal, some finality—and there was none. Always this ghastly reaching, reaching, striving for something that might be just beyond. Even to make Jill happy. She was glad Jill was dead. For she had realised that she could never make her happy. Jill would always be fretting herself thinner and thinner, weaker and weaker. Her pains grew worse instead of less. It would be so forever. She was glad she was dead.
And if Jill had married a man it would have been just the same. The woman striving, striving to make the man happy, striving within her own limits for the well-being of her world. And always achieving failure. Little, foolish successes in money or in ambition. But at the very point where she most wanted success, in the anguished effort to make some one beloved human being happy and perfect, there the failure was almost catastrophic. You wanted to make your beloved happy, and his happiness seemed always achievable. If only you did just this, that, and the other. And you did this, that, and the other, in all good faith, and every time the failure became a little more ghastly. You could love yourself to ribbons and strive and strain yourself to the bone, and things would go from bad to worse, bad to worse, as far as happiness went. The awful mistake of happiness.
Poor March, in her goodwill and her responsibility, she had strained herself till it seemed to her that the whole of life and everything was only a horrible abyss of nothingness. The more you reached after the fatal flower of happiness, which trembles so blue and lovely in a crevice just beyond your grasp, the more fearfully you became aware of the ghastly and awful gulf of the precipice below you, into which you will inevitably plunge, as into the bottomless pit, if you reach any farther. You pluck flower after flower—it is never the flower. The flower itself—its calyx is a horrible gulf, it is the bottomless pit.
That is the whole history of the search for happiness, whether it be your own or somebody else’s that you want to win. It ends, and it always ends, in the ghastly sense of the bottomless nothingness into which you will inevitably fall if you strain any farther.
And women—what goal can any woman conceive, except happiness? Just happiness for herself and the whole world. That, and nothing else. And so, she assumes the responsibility and sets off towards her goal. She can see it there, at the foot of the rainbow. Or she can see it a little way beyond, in the blue distance. Not far, not far.
But the end of the rainbow is a bottomless gulf down which you can fall forever without arriving, and the blue distance is a void pit which can swallow you and all your efforts into its emptiness, and still be no emptier. You and all your efforts. So, the illusion of attainable happiness!
Poor March, she had set off so wonderfully towards the blue goal. And the farther and farther she had gone, the more fearful had become the realisation of emptiness. An agony, an insanity at last.
She was glad it was over. She was glad to sit on the shore and look westwards over the sea, and know the great strain had ended. She would never strain for love and happiness any more. And Jill was safely dead. Poor Jill, poor Jill. It must be sweet to be dead.
For her own part, death was not her destiny. She would have to leave her destiny to the boy. But then, the boy. He wanted more than that. He wanted her to give herself without defences, to sink and become submerged in him. And she—she wanted to sit still, like a woman on the last milestone, and watch. She wanted to see, to know, to understand. She wanted to be alone, with him at her side.
And he! He did not want her to watch anymore, to see anymore, to understand anymore. He wanted to veil her woman’s spirit, as Orientals veil the woman’s face. He wanted her to commit herself to him, and to put her independent spirit to sleep. He wanted to take away from her all her effort, all that seemed her very raison d’être. He wanted to make her submit, yield, blindly pass away out of all her strenuous consciousness. He wanted to take away her consciousness, and make her just his woman. Just his woman.
And she was so tired, so tired, like a child that wants to go to sleep, but which fights against sleep as if sleep were death. She seemed to stretch her eyes wider in the obstinate effort and tension of keeping awake. She would keep awake. She would know. She would consider and judge and decide. She would have the reins of her own life between her own hands. She would be an independent woman to the last. But she was so tired, so tired of everything. And sleep seemed near. And there was such rest in the boy.
Yet there, sitting in a niche of the high, wild, cliffs of West Cornwall, looking over the westward sea, she stretched her eyes wider and wider. Away to the West, Canada, America. She would know and she would see what was ahead. And the boy, sitting beside her, staring down at the gulls, had a cloud between his brows and the strain of discontent in his eyes. He wanted her asleep, at peace in him. He wanted her at peace, asleep in him. And there she was, dying with the strain of her own wakefulness. Yet she would not sleep, no, never. Sometimes he thought bitterly that he ought to have left her. He ought never to have killed Banford. He should have left Banford and March to kill one another.
B
ut that was only impatience, and he knew it. He was waiting, waiting to go West. He was aching almost in torment to leave England, to go West, to take March away. To leave this shore! He believed that as they crossed the seas, as they left this England which he so hated, because in some way it seemed to have stung him with poison, she would go to sleep. She would close her eyes at last and give in to him.
Then he would have her, and he would have his own life at last. He chafed, feeling he hadn’t got his own life. He would never have it till she yielded and slept in him. Then he would have all his own life as a young man and a male, and she would have all her own life as a woman and a female. There would be no more of this awful straining. She would not be a man anymore, an independent woman with a man’s responsibility. Nay, even the responsibility for her own soul she would have to commit to him. He knew it was so, and obstinately held out against her, waiting for the surrender.
“You’ll feel better when once we get over the seas to Canada over there,” he said to her as they sat among the rocks on the cliff.
She looked away to the sea’s horizon, as if it were not real. Then she looked round at him, with the strained, strange look of a child that is struggling against sleep.
“Shall I?” she said.
“Yes,” he answered quietly.
And her eyelids dropped with the slow motion, sleep weighing them unconscious. But she pulled them open again to say, “Yes, I may. I can’t tell. I can’t tell what it will be like over there.”
“If only we could go soon!” he said, with pain in his voice.
Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:
Invitations: Now or Never
Isabelle Drake
Excerpt
Chapter One
Emily climbed the gritty Metro steps, then slipped to the side of the packed Georgetown sidewalk and for the third time since leaving her apartment peeked into her magenta satin bag. Of course, everything was still there—two short coils of soft, white rope, a black scarf and her phone. Along with the two lavender-coloured scarves tied around her waist, she had everything she needed.
Her ringtone hit the air just as she was about to tug the drawstring tight. She pulled her cell out, checking the display as she headed south towards the Potomac. “Hey, Jenn.”
“Where are you?”
She held the phone close to her ear, doing her best to block out the rumble of traffic. “Georgetown.”
“Duh. Are you at the party?”
Talking to her best friend meant she could tell the truth. “If I was there, I wouldn’t have answered.” Rushing forward to catch the crosswalk light, Emily added, “I’m about six blocks from Gino’s now.”
“Then what’s all that noise?”
“It’s Friday night. What do you expect?”
“Oh my God—you’re on the street. You didn’t take a cab?”
“Why would I take a cab?” she replied, hopping up the kerb.
“Are you wearing—wearing…”
“My costume?” Emily glanced down at the silky combination of lavender, yellow and pink. Tiny bells jangled from her slippers and her skin flashed in the golden rays of early evening autumn sun. “Sure, I’m wearing it. It’s DC, nothing is too scandalous.”
“But…”
Laughing, Emily imagined Jenn’s expression. “It’s no big deal.”
“That top is so low and with that half corset on—”
Emily glanced down. Jenn was right—she knew because she’d designed the outfit to show off what Emily had recently realised was the best she had to offer—her double Ds—and disguise what she still considered her fatal flaw—her too curvy hips. The layers of long, sheer fabric floated around her legs, leaving everything to the imagination.
Looking like a sex slave had been the exact point of the outfit but she hadn’t completely lost her mind. “I have the jacket buttoned for now.” It was true, she did, but still she’d noticed more than a few heads turn when she made her way down the sidewalk.
“Oh. Okay.”
Emily grinned at Jenn’s obvious relief. “Stop worrying about me.” She turned off M and headed up a steep side street, garnering more glances as the bells jingled. “I have everything under control. I know what I’m doing.”
“So you keep saying. Over and over. Is it me or yourself you’re trying to convince?”
Emily veered around a cluster of soccer kids, then paused next to a mailbox, adjusting one of her delicate shoes. “I’ve got my mind made up. I’m not backing out now.”
“But what if—”
“I’ll never have a chance like this again. I’ll get what I want and Randy will never know it was me. Nobody ends up hurt. See? It’s perfect.”
Nothing but silence came across the line, until Jenn finally conceded. “Okay, I guess. But be careful.”
She would to a point, but it was probably being too careful that had been the problem all along. “I thought you creative types were supposed to be wild.” Emily waited for a trio of moms with overloaded strollers to glide past then pushed away from the mailbox. “All I have to do is look for the sultan with the green and blue sash and obnoxious gold brocade-trimmed tunic.”
“And call me first thing in the morning.”
Emily agreed to give her friend most of the details, then clicked off and marched towards Gino’s, tucking the ties of the pink and lavender veil that covered her slim mask behind her ears as she went. There was absolutely no going back now.
Randall Kentworth didn’t stand a chance.
* * * *
“Gino, do I really have to keep this mask on?” Daniel Warren tapped the grey mask Gino had forced on him as soon as he’d crossed his threshold.
“Yes, it’s my only rule.”
Daniel made a show of scanning the crowded room. “Only?”
“Okay…” Gino flashed his famous grin. “The mask and the costume.”
“And that guests stick to the theme…”
“Okay, I get your point. There are rules.” Gino raised his bourbon. “But so what? Everyone loves it.”
Daniel smirked, gazing across the boisterous crowd—all dressed according to the assigned theme of Hot Desert Nights. There were handfuls of women in different variations of skimpy skirts and tiny tops that must have been their interpretation of what harem girls wore, some guys in WWII British army uniforms and several people dressed in traditional African clothing.
“What do you have to complain about? Thanks to Randall you didn’t even have to get a costume together.”
Daniel ran his hands over the white satin shirt and tugged on the green and blue sash holding up the deep green, full-legged pants, which gathered tightly at the ankle. “A sultan? Why am I not surprised that Kentworth would pick this for his costume?”
Gino nodded downward, a wicked grin pulling on his mouth. “The slippers are the best part.”
Daniel followed his friend’s gaze, cringing as he looked at his size twelve feet encased in pointy golden slippers.
Good God.
“His loss is your gain, so shut up and have a good time.” Gino finished his drink. “And because Randall made such an enormous deal about his costume being perfectly authentic, everyone in DC will think you’re him…so if you make an ass of yourself…”
Daniel laughed, lifting his beer. “I could see this as my chance to get back at him for every arrogant, asinine thing he ever said. And did. Tempting yes, but that would take all night and you know that’s not my style.”
“Just an option if you get bored,” Gino said, setting his empty glass on a nearby table before continuing. “One more thing, do at least try not to look as though you’re pining.”
“Fuck off,” Daniel replied, then, unable to help himself asked, “You sure Emily isn’t coming?”
“Sorry to disappoint but I’m sure. Jenn says she’s not due back from her Peace Corps stint until next month.” Stepping into the crowd, he added over his shoulder, “There are plenty more here. Go find one.�
��
* * * *
As always, the crowd was either inside Gino’s place or out in the back yard. Gino knew how to keep the Georgetown neighbours happy—no drunks out front. Noise was acceptable, but they didn’t want to have to explain anything naughty to their kids. Or clean up messes. or worse yet, see their neighbourhood on television or in the newspapers. Scandal in the DC area was wonderful, as long as it involved someone else.
To keep track of the occasional few partygoers who got out of control, Gino always had a man by the door, checking invitations and keeping the peace. Tonight’s doorman wore only a black mask and a pair of loose-fitting, beige linen drawstring pants. No doubt the man’s massive chest and arms deterred anyone who was even thinking of misbehaving.
“Invitation, please.”
Emily handed over the elaborate card Jenn’s temporary administrative assistant had willingly given up and waited while the blue-eyed, bare-chested muscleman looked for the woman’s name on the list on his clipboard. Sure, she could’ve used the card Gino had sent Jenn, but she didn’t want to leave a trail. Nobody, especially Randall, would have any way of knowing that the temp, Kitty Maar, was in any way connected to her. Emily had never even met the woman and she’d only worked for Jenn for a couple of weeks. All Emily knew about her was that she was willing to give up her invitation because she was doing volunteer work at her community garden. The woman obviously had no idea what she was missing. Gino’s parties were always fabulous. No matter, all Emily cared about was getting into the party undetected.
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