Women Within

by Anne Leigh Parrish

  Darren stayed for dinner. She served vichyssoise, followed by cold lamb and small roasted potatoes. She apologized for having no dessert. He didn’t usually care for dessert, and said he’d gotten out of the habit of eating it. The way he studied her linen tablecloth at that moment told her that dessert had been something of a tradition, when his wife was alive.

  “I don’t know how I feel about traveling with a man possessed by a ghost,” she said. She apologized at once, saying she was seldom so bold.

  “I don’t believe that of you for a moment. A woman who martyrs herself must be bold at heart.”

  She finished her wine. It was a good Pouilly-Fuissé.

  “Rather a strong word, don’t you think?” she asked.

  “It suits.”

  She supposed it did, though she’d never looked at it that way before. For years she thought her decision was either incredibly brave, or reckless, depending on her mood. What she did know then, and hadn’t really faced, was that the decision had harmed Meredith.

  “It’s not right, to ask a child to assume your mandate, is it?” she asked.

  Again, Darren studied the tablecloth.

  “I think we’re all duty-bound to keep those close to us from harm,” he said.

  He wasn’t talking about her, he said, but of himself. His wife had been a frail woman, and the doctors advised her not to have children. He was willing to live without the activity that brought them about. She wanted one, though. She wore him down. He relented.

  “It’s a normal thing, to want to sleep with one’s wife,” Constance said. She wondered, suddenly, if her death had ruined him in some fundamental way that would make him a bad companion. She had no reason to think so, but now that she was more attracted to him, his ability to respond was key.

  “Yes.”

  The evening took on a golden tone. The patio glowed. The smooth stone was a delight under her stockinged feet. She danced before the lavender hedge, her empty glass in hand. He sat in his chair, tie loosened, neither approving nor disapproving, it seemed to her. Just an observer. But then he stood, took her hand, and danced too, humming a familiar tune she couldn’t recall the name of.

  . . .

  Being again on the open sea reminded Constance of her voyage over twenty years before. Then, she travelled alone. Now, sharing Darren’s stateroom made her feel deliriously grand. They did not have sex until the last day, as if the time up until then was a trial, an experiment in how well they got along. In the morning, Darren studied her across the table. Clearly, her physical passion had surprised him. When she looked up, he had trouble meeting her eye. But when he finally did, the warmth of his expression pleased her.

  Their destination was France’s Loire Valley and the resplendent castles therein. Seeing them had been Darren’s lifelong dream. How glad he was to have Constance by his side! Sharing their beauty with her made the experience so much better. He became a different man as they walked slowly through the great rooms, apart from the larger tour group they’d initially joined. He was openly joyous. His field was the reign of Louis XIV. When he was writing his thesis, he’d had no money to travel abroad. He’d had to content himself with books that held crucial information, but had in no way prepared him for the magic of actually standing before the bed in which some French nobleman had slept.

  Constance thought of the women. Their part in preserving the peerage was always the same. They rocked the cradle, but seldom ruled, and though they may have advised and guided, it was always in private. They almost never sat in counsel, held office, presented bills. This is what she had tried to make Meredith understand as she grew up. She spoke often of the scant opportunities available to women even then, in the middle of the twentieth century. Constance bought her a copy of The Feminine Mystique, which lay untouched on her dresser. Her secret fear was that Meredith would marry a man who demanded that she play the traditional role of staying home, cooking, cleaning, and raising children. Not that the lesser chores would necessarily fall to her. Meredith would be in an income bracket that made maids, cooks, and nannies possible. If Lois were still alive, and knew of her specific concerns, she’d tell Constance she was being narrow-minded. Lois, herself, had lived a quiet, domestic life. She took care of one husband who sadly had died young, then a second while raising the child from his first marriage. She never seemed to mind. She hadn’t been trapped by anyone’s view of her—a goal Constance had always put in front of Meredith, who was simply too fragile on an emotional level to feel the wisdom of those words.

  And would the truth have changed her? If she had known she was a sister, not a daughter, would she have become a bolder spirit? The ceiling of the chamber in which they stood, side by side, was painted navy blue and emblazoned with tiny gold stars. Constance gazed upward and implored them for an answer. None came.

  At the end of a narrow corridor, they entered a grand chamber with a magnificent carved fireplace. It was easy to imagine the leap and dance of flames, and servants bearing plates to and from the immense wooden table. The sound of their footfalls echoed as they strolled, held in a state of reverence, the past a palpable, living thing all around them. Beyond the fireplace a large tapestry hung on the wall, behind a velvet rope so visitors would not be tempted to touch it. Constance, though, needed to touch it, if just for a moment. She asked Darren to stand guard.

  A woman stood in a bright clearing, with trees all around. She stared quietly at the ground, hands clasped as if in prayer. She was waiting for something, clearly. Her dress had tones of red and gold. The wool was surprisingly coarse. One of the fibers felt particularly sharp, and Constance wondered if someone had left a needle behind. She withdrew her hand and leaned back, certain that she’d taken a very long time to inspect the fabric, and then to brush it with her fingertip. Darren assured her that she’d been quick. He moved off, making for a wide doorway leading to another chamber, then turned when he realized that Constance was still staring at the tapestry. He came back and placed his hand lightly on her elbow. She knew he wanted her to leave then, to go where he wanted to go and see what he wanted to see.

  She stood still. He asked if she were well. She said she needed just one more moment, and to go on ahead. He cautioned not to touch the tapestry without him being there to alert her if someone came into the room.

  “I’m all through with touching,” she said.

  Over dinner, he asked her why the tapestry had fascinated her so. They ate in the back garden of the auberge they would spend the night in. The light faded slowly; a duck quacked in the distance, perhaps on its way to the small lake nearby. Other birds quickened the hedge bordering the garden. The fish course had been eaten, a beef dish was then being presented by a serving girl with scars on the backs of her hands. Constance suspected her attendance at a Catholic school, where liberal punishment with rulers was allowed, even encouraged. After she withdrew, Constance explained.

  “It’s what the women did. The weaving, I mean,” she said.

  “Ah. You and your women.”

  “Men warred, conquered, stole land, plowed it, and so on. Women wove.”

  “A very useful skill, given how cold these castles are.”

  “The servants wove, I should say. Their mistresses embroidered. Being skilled at needlework was considered a very fine trait.”

  Constance was aware that her face had flushed. She hoped Darren would blame it on the wine.

  “Are you fond of it, yourself? Embroidery?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes.”

  She had the Stages tapestry with her in their shared room. She wondered if she’d be in the mood to work on it. She hadn’t for some time. She’d packed it at the last minute. She couldn’t bear to be parted from it, even though it remained rolled up.

&n
bsp; “My mother was quite keen on needlework, though I don’t think she used a canvas to embroider. Just a plain piece of fabric. What’s that called?” he asked.

  “Cross stitch, maybe. Or crewel work.”

  “I think it was crewel.”

  “Hm.”

  Artisans at their looms. Great ladies at their smaller stands, pushing their needles in and out, in and out. Life’s rhythm.

  “You’re a million miles away,” Darren said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  They ate in silence for a time. Neither felt the need to bring up a new topic, or to continue on the previous one. Dessert consisted of stone fruit in cream. Darren suggested a cognac. Constance agreed and asked if they might take their glasses with them while they wandered around the grounds before turning in.

  “That’s a lovely idea,” he said. He signed the check. They hadn’t talked about money. He was clearly spending a lot, and Constance felt bad. Though to offer to share expenses might insult him. It was a matter she’d have to return to later, for further consideration.

  The air had cooled. The stone path along the auberge led through a patch of woods, then arrived at a clearing where a stone bench had been installed so visitors could sit and contemplate their good fortune. Or so this was how Constance understood its presence. The remaining sunlight streamed at an angle, and gazing at it, feeling remarkably clearheaded despite the bottle and a half of wine with dinner and now the cognac warming her throat most pleasantly, she realized that before her was the scene from the tapestry. Who was the woman? There’d been no information, nothing tacked to the wall beside the piece to explain what it depicted. She thought of the hands that wove the fabric. She looked then at her own. Age had begun to show. The veins had thickened. She lifted her glass from where she’d set it on the stone at her feet, and drank gratefully. Tonight was the night. She would sew again.

  In their room, Darren stood on the balcony, watching the night. He was restless. The calm Constance enjoyed as she worked the stream flowing past the cave was made opposite in him. He smoked a cigarette, and then another. He sat in one of the two chairs placed side by side, then stood once more. He entered the room and sat at the desk. He attempted to write a letter, to whom Constance had no idea. He put the crumpled paper in the fireplace, then lit it. Constance lifted her head and watched the few thin flames rise, then die down.

  No sooner had she resumed sewing, there he was, directly in front of her, begging her to listen to what he must say. Reluctantly, she put the tapestry in her lap. He sat.

  When he was young, before he met his wife, he’d made a mistake with a woman. She was a college student in Michigan. He was too. That’s where he was from, Michigan. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever told Constance that or not. In any case, he fell in love with her. Even then, he was the kind of man who fell in love easily. Surely, Constance must have noticed that.

  She didn’t want to hear about love. It was always a pointless subject to discuss. Love required action, not words.

  He continued. He assumed this woman cared for him, too. She gave all the signs. She smiled every time they met. She laughed at most things he said, and he began to wonder, under her warm approval, if he weren’t more interesting than he thought. He came from a large family and was often overlooked in favor of his two older brothers, and three younger sisters. A middle position is always hard, and he hadn’t realized until then just how ordinary he’d always felt. After a few months he was ready to propose marriage. He saved his money, took her to an elegant restaurant. They drank a lot of champagne, and afterward, back at her rooming house, she invited him to her bedroom. He’d never seen the inside of it, and assumed that she was ready for the physical side of things, even though he had failed to get the words out over dinner, the proposal still unspoken.

  She wasn’t ready. She refused to sleep with him. If he hadn’t been drunk, he might not have been so demanding. She stopped struggling early on, which at the time he took as her assent. Afterward, he fell asleep. When he woke up, she was gone. She’d returned home. He had a letter from her father saying he was in full possession of the facts of his daughter’s situation and hoped that Darren understood that the right thing must now be done. Since he wanted to marry her anyway, being presented with this mandate was providential. Then he realized that the girl didn’t want to marry him and never had. Darren assumed she was pregnant. She wasn’t pregnant, though in time he learned that she said she was, to further the pressure brought on Darren by the father.

  “But you said she didn’t want to marry you. Why would she want her father to say that you must?” Constance asked.

  “Because she wanted me to come to her on bended knee, apologize, then beg for her hand, just so she could turn me down.”

  “Sounds fair.”

  Darren lifted his head. His eyes were unkind.

  “You raped her,” Constance said.

  “I didn’t know I was raping her. I thought she wanted me to make love to her.”

  “You mean ‘with’ her.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “If you don’t understand that, then I’ve severely misjudged you.”

  He put his head in his hands. She could see he was all in. She told him to get undressed and get into bed. No good would come of his being exhausted the next day. They were due to leave the auberge and visit another castle quite a few kilometers to the south.

  He was asleep at once. Constance was wide awake. She was troubled. Why had Darren told that story? As a way of garnering sympathy? To bring them closer together by baring his soul? When he commanded her attention, she’d been afraid that he was going to ask her to marry him, though in retrospect, that would have been too soon, despite the fact that there they were, alone together, traveling as man and wife, despite how supposedly progressive the Europeans were about such things.

  On their last day in France, as they prepared to go north into Belgium for their final two days because Darren longed to see Bruges, Constance returned from a damp morning walk to find him bent over her tapestry, which he’d unrolled and laid across the bed.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “I hope you don’t mind. I was just curious about it since you’d worked on it that other day, and then not again since.”

  “I’ve gone years in between.”

  She put her purse on the bedside table. She checked herself in the small oval mirror on the wall. The rain hadn’t caused her hair to frizz. She wore it short those days, as was the style.

  “The stitching has pulled it out of shape,” Darren said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Look.” He held it up, his hands far apart.

  Constance saw at once what he meant. She had never secured it to a frame to keep the canvas taut. It leaned, like an old barn in a field. She took it from his hands, began to roll it up, when he took it back from her, not altogether gently.

  “There’s a name on the back,” he said.

  “Where?”

  He showed her. It said, Gerrard et Fils. In red ink, no less, at the far left corner.

  “Must be the manufacturer, or whoever designed the image,” he said.

  Constance looked closely. Why had she never noticed it? The back was always of far less interest than the front, but it felt odd, even so.

  Darren was clearly delighted. He was younger then, full of energy. His short-sleeved plaid shirt added to the effect.

  “Don’t you find it a bit fascinating? I mean, we’re historians, after all, and here’s a little piece of history,” he said.

  “It’s not very old. Made in the last century, at the earliest.”

  “Where did yo
u get it?”

  She sat on the bed and explained about her trip to England, going north, the tavern, Tess, Maeve, the letter about Lady Norbury and Maeve’s time there.

  “An Irish manor. Good stuff!” he said.

  Constance reclaimed the canvas. She vowed not to work on it again until she was back in her own home, comfortably alone.

  “Don’t you want to find out more about it, though?” Darren asked. He sat on the bed next to her.

  “It’s a pastime, that’s all.”

  “I wish you could see your face when you’re sewing.”

  “Why? What does it look like?”

  “Beatific.”

  “Oh, nonsense. Let’s go eat lunch.”

  Darren didn’t bring up the tapestry again. He grew quiet, preoccupied, though not necessarily downcast. Constance didn’t mind. She preferred to think her own thoughts. She wondered how Meredith was getting along. She’d written her several postcards detailing what they’d seen. She assumed Meredith would take in stride that Constance was traveling with a man. She would disapprove, naturally, but her disapproval would be unvoiced.

  Their three-week itinerary was then at an end, and Constance was looking forward to the voyage home. Belgium had been disappointing. The hotel there had had narrow stairs and a shared bath down the hall, much lower quality than places they’d occupied in France. Constance understood that Darren was being more careful with money. On the first night out, she asked him to be honest with her about his situation.

  “It was a small inheritance, that’s all. My father died last spring,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry! I wish I’d known!”

  “It’s fine. We didn’t get along. In fact, he hated me.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “It’s true.”

  They were walking on deck. The wind had quickened. The sea became restless. Its gray was tipped with white caps. Constance felt insignificant in a way only an ocean could make her feel.