“I'm not so sure about that, young man. Maybe if you promise to leave it in your trunk.”
“But I have to take it, Dad! They don't have baseball bats in France.”
“Probably not,” Nick agreed. They were going over for a year, or six months, if things got too tense. Nick had so many contracts over there this year, that he had decided to run the Paris office himself, and leave his right-hand man in charge in New York. And of course he was taking Hillary and John. He wouldn't consider staying there for that long without them, and it was important that he go. At first Hillary had wailed and moaned and complained to him every day, but for the last month she had seemed resigned, and John had decided that it would be fun. They were putting him in an American school just off the Champs-Élysées, and Nick had rented them a handsome house on the Avenue Foch. It belonged to a French count and his wife, who had moved to Switzerland the year before, during the panic before the Munich Accord, and now they were happy in Lausanne and in no hurry to return. It was a perfect arrangement for Nick, Hillary, and the boy.
“Want to come to dinner with me, Dad?” The nurse had just signaled John that it was time to go, and he turned hopeful eyes up to Nick.
“I think I'd better go upstairs to see your mom.”
“Okay.”
“I'll come down after you eat, and we can talk for a while. How's that?”
“That's good.” John smiled at his father again and left with the nurse as Nick stood for a quiet moment in the room, looking at his old desk. His father had given it to him when he was twelve, and almost ready for boarding school, but he had given it to John long before that. And if he had his way, his son would never be sent away to school. He had hated his years away, feeling banished from his home. John would never know the agony of that, Nick had told himself long before besides, he was far too crazy about the boy to let him go.
He closed the door behind him then and walked back down the long beige hall until he reached the grand piano in the central hall, and then walked slowly up the carpeted stairs to their rooms.
As he approached the landing he saw that the door to their suite of rooms was ajar, and he could hear Hillary's voice beyond, calling shrilly to the maid, who ran in from Hillary's dressing room, carrying an armload of furs.
“Not those, dammit! For chrissake …” He could only see her from the back, her shining black hair hanging like silk to the shoulders of her white satin dressing gown, but he could see just from the way she was standing that she was annoyed. “You fool, I told you the sables, the mink coat, and the silver fox. …” She turned then and glanced at Nick, her dark eyes meeting his green ones for a long moment as everything stood still. He had told her often not to shout at the help, but it was something she had done all her life, and she had never adapted well to change. She was only twenty-eight years old, but she looked every inch a woman of the world, with her well-coiffed hair, her carefully made-up face, her long red nails, her stance, her style. Even in her dressing gown she was the epitome of chic. “Hello, Nick.” The eyes and the words were cool, but she stood still as he approached, held up her cheek for him to kiss, and then turned her attention back to the maid. But this time she didn't raise her voice. “Would you please go back and get me the right furs.” But even at that, her tone cut like a knife as Nick watched.
“You're awfully hard on that girl.” It was a tone of gentle reproach, one she had heard ten thousand times before, and she didn't give a damn. He was always nice to everyone, except her, of course. He had ruined her life, but he'd got what he wanted out of it. Nick Burnham always got his way, but not with her. Not anymore, she told herself again and again. Once was enough. And she'd made him pay for it for the last nine years. If it hadn't been for Nick, she'd still be in Boston, maybe even married to that Spanish count who was so nuts about her the year she came out…. Countess … she liked the ring of that…. Countess…. “You look tired, Hil.” He gently stroked her hair and looked into her eyes, but he met no answering warmth there.
“I am. How do you think everything in this house has got packed?” By the maids, he almost said, but he bit his tongue. He knew that in her mind she'd done it all. “Christ, I have to pack everything for you, for John, table linens, sheets, blankets, plates, your things …” Her voice grew high-pitched as she spoke, and he walked away and sat down on a Louis XV chaise longue.
“I can pack for myself, you know that. And I told you, the house in Paris has everything we need. You don't have to take your own bed linens and plates.”
“Don't be an ass. God only knows who's slept in those beds.” And for an instant, just an instant, he almost said that they couldn't have been any worse than the people who had slept in hers. But he said nothing, he only watched as the nervous little maid returned, hopefully with the right furs this time: two sable coats, one mink, and the silver fox jacket she had received at Christmas, in a large handsome box, from God knew who. One thing was certain, it was not from Nick. The sables were, the mink, the chinchilla coat she was leaving behind, but the fox was an enigma, more or less, although he assumed it was from Ryan Halloway, the son of a bitch.
“What are you staring at?” Without intending them to, his eyes had strayed to the fox. They had fought about it several times before, and he did not intend to discuss it with her again. “Don't start that. I don't have to go to Paris, you know.”
Oh, Christ, he thought to himself, not that. It had been such a long day, and he was so hot. He didn't want to fight with her today. “Do we really have to go through all this, Hil?”
“No, we don't. We could stay here, you know.”
“No, we couldn't. I want to run my Paris office for the next year. I have important contracts over there, and you know it. So we're all going. Somehow, I've never thought of Paris as a rough place to live.” But she did. For some reason, she was bound and determined to stay in New York. “Come on, Hil, you've always loved it over there.”
“Sure, for a few weeks. Why the hell can't you fly back and forth?”
“Because I'll wind up never seeing you or John. For crissake.” He stood up all at once, and the maid scurried out of the room. She knew the pattern of their fights. Eventually he blew his top and began to shout, and more often than not she threw something at him. “Can't we just let this thing lie? Can't you just accept that we're going? For chrissake, the ship is sailing in two days.”
“So let it, or go by yourself.” Her voice was like ice as she sat down on the bed, stroking the silver fox and looking up at him. “You don't need me over there.”
“Is that right? Or is it that you'd like to get rid of me for a year, then you could run back and forth to Boston to visit that little son of a bitch.” He knew how promiscuous she was, he had known for years. But he believed in preserving his marriage, for John's sake, for his own. His own parents had been divorced, and he had led a lonely, unhappy life as a child and had vowed never to do that to his own son. All he wanted was to be married and to stay that way, and he would, no matter what, no matter what Hillary did. But still the angry words slipped out more often than he wanted them to. “Aren't you ever afraid you'll get pregnant, Hil?” They both knew he meant by someone else.
“Apparently you've never heard of abortion … if what you say is true, of course, that I play around, which I do not. But babies are not exactly my thing, dear Nick, or don't you recall?” They always aimed their blows below the belt. They had for years.
“Oh, yes, I do.” The muscles in his jaw tensed as he clenched one hand, but his voice was oddly soft. She had never forgiven him for what had happened nine years before. She had been the most beautiful debutante in Boston. He remembered well her raven hair in sharp contrast to the white gowns her parents had had sent from Paris. There were many men who wanted her. Her father was in his fifties when she was born, her mother thirty-nine, and they had long since given up hope of having a baby, when suddenly Hillary appeared. She had been spoiled from the beginning, adored by her father, pampered by
her mother, grandparents, and nurse. She had had everything she wanted, and she intended to go on living that way forever, until suddenly, on the night of her debut, she saw Nick. He was tall, blond, and handsome, with one of Boston's prettiest girls on his arm. And everyone had whispered from the moment he walked in … Nick Burnham … Nick Burnham … a fortune in steel … sole heir of his father … At twenty-nine, he was one of the richest young men on Wall Street, handsome as hell, and single. Hillary had almost floated out of the arms of the man she was dancing with, and had gone to meet Nick. They were introduced by one of her father's friends, and she had done everything she could to sweep him off his feet. And with surprisingly little effort, she had succeeded. Nick had gone to Boston often after that, and then Newport the following summer, and it was there that it had happened. Hillary had wanted him to want her more than any other woman he had ever known, and she had given her virginity to him, because she thought she loved him, and because she wanted to own him.
What she hadn't counted on was that she would get pregnant, which she did the first time he made love to her. He was shocked at first, and Hillary was totally hysterical. She didn't want to have a child, she didn't want to get fat, have a baby … She had been so childlike as she cried in his arms that he had laughed at her. She said something about finding someone to help her get an abortion, but he wouldn't hear of it. She was an enchanting woman-child, and the idea of a baby pleased him to no end, after the initial shock had passed. He spoke to her father without telling him about the baby, asked for Hillary's hand, and informed Hillary that they were getting married, which they did before the summer ended. It was a lovely wedding in Newport, and Hillary looked like a fairy queen in the white lace dress that her mother had worn at her own wedding. But beneath the happy smiles, she hid a sinking heart. She wanted Nick, but she didn't want to have a baby. She hated every moment of their early days of marriage, despite his constant cosseting and spoiling, because she knew he had married her because of the baby, and she didn't want competition from the child.
When the time approached, Nick did everything he could for her—bought her extravagant gifts, helped her set up the nursery, promised that he would be there to hold her hand— but she sank into a terrible depression in her ninth month, which the doctor felt contributed to a lengthy and nightmarish labor. It was an event that almost cost Hillary her life, and the baby's, and she never forgave Nick for the agony she went through. The depression persisted for six months after the birth of the child, and for a long time Nick thought that he was the only one who would ever love Johnny, but finally Hillary began to come around.
Or so he thought, and then the following winter, she had gone back to Boston for Christmas, without the baby, and visited friends. Suddenly she seemed to be taking forever to come home, and he realized that she was staying there to go to all the parties that her friends gave, and she was pretending to herself and others that she wasn't married, and she was just a debutante again, and she was having a grand time. A month after Hillary had left for Boston, Nick went up to get her, and insisted that she come home. A grand row had ensued between them, and she had even begged her father to let her stay there. She didn't want to be married, to live in New York, to take care of a baby, but this time her father was shocked. She had chosen to marry Nick, and he was a good husband to her. She had a responsibility to go back and at least try to work out the marriage, and she had a responsibility to the child as well, but she returned to New York with the cheer of a prisoner facing execution, feeling betrayed by all, and hating Nick the most, because he represented everything she didn't want in life, which was growing up. Her father had spoken to Nick before they left. He blamed himself for his daughter's behavior. He knew that she had been spoiled as a child, but he never realized that she would expect that as a way of life forever, shirking responsibilities on all fronts and hurting her husband and child. But Nick assured him that in time, and with patience, Hillary would grow into her new role. And at the time, he believed it, and he exercised as much patience as he had promised her father he would, but it was to no avail. She continued to take no interest in the baby, and the following summer she went to Newport, this time taking Johnny and the nurse, to avoid any further comment. She stayed there for the entire summer, and when Nick went up to see her, he became aware that she was having an affair. She turned twenty-one that summer, and was having a hot romance with the brother of one of her friends. He had just graduated from Yale and thought that he was very racy, sleeping with Hillary Burnham, which he told half the town, until Nick paid him a visit, and the boy went back to Boston with his tail between his legs and the tongue-lashing Nick had given him still ringing in his ears. But the real problem in it all was Hillary. Nick took her back to New York again, and attempted to shape her up in earnest, but in the next few years she bounced back and forth between Newport, Boston, and New York like a yo-yo, having affairs whenever she thought she might not get caught, including this last one. She had gotten involved with Ryan Halloway while Nick was in Paris. It didn't mean a thing to her, and Nick knew it, but it was her way of telling Nick repeatedly that she wasn't really married, never would be, that he couldn't own her, that she was free forever, free of him, and their son, and her father, who had died three years after she had married Nick. Her mother had long since given up all hope of having some influence upon her, and eventually so had Nick. She was what she was, a striking, very pretty woman, with a bright mind, which she wasted, and a sense of humor that still amused him, on the rare occasions when they talked. Most of the time they just fought now, or he ignored her. He had thought once or twice of divorcing her, and knew that he would have no trouble doing that, but if he did, she would get custody of Johnny. The courts were almost always favorable to the mother, unless she was a prostitute by profession, or hooked on dope. So in order to keep his son, Nick had to live under the same roof with Hillary, for better or worse, as long as he could stand it, and there were times when he thought he truly could not.
He had had some faint hope that by taking her to Paris, it would distract her, and she might behave herself for a while over there. But the trip was not off to an auspicious beginning. He knew that the affair with Ryan had ended after Christmas, but he also suspected that she was working on something new. She always got particularly edgy when something new was starting, like a racehorse fretting at being penned in. He knew that there was nothing he could do to stop her. As long as she kept her affairs reasonably secret, he was resigned to living with her, and in recent years she had grown a little warmer toward their son. No matter, Nick saw to it that Johnny had warm, loving nurses, and he had a father who adored him, which was more than Nick had had at the same age. But he would never agree to give up Johnny, to divorce and live a life that would rob him of the child he loved. Johnny was the center of his existence, and if that meant putting up with Hillary and her infidelities and her temper, then it was a price he was willing to pay.
He watched her now as she sat down at her dressing table, ran a comb through the silky hair, and watched him in the mirror, and then, as though to annoy him doubly, she took a long swig of the Scotch and water that was in a glass on her dressing table. And suddenly he realized that beneath her white satin dressing gown she wore a black silk dress.
“Going somewhere, Hil?” His voice was even, his eyes like bright-green rocks.
She hesitated only for a moment, the Thoroughbred in her flaring her nostrils. He could almost see her feet prancing as she readied for another race. “As a matter of fact, yes. There's a party tonight at the Boyntons.”
“Funny”—he smiled ironically, he knew her too well now—”I didn't see the invitation.”
“I forgot to show it to you.”
“No matter.” He started to leave the room, and she turned in her seat, speaking softly.
“Do you want to come, Nick?”
He turned and looked at her. There probably was a party at the Boyntons. But he very seldom went to parties. When he di
d, she invariably wound up in a corner, flirting with someone new or even an old friend. “No, thanks. I brought some work home.”
She turned her back to him again. “Don't say I didn't ask you.”
“I won't.” He stood in the doorway, watching her sip her drink again. “Give them my best, and try to come home early.” She nodded. “And Hil …” He hesitated.
“Yes, Nick?”
He decided to go ahead and say it. “Try not to leave New York in flames when you go. And whatever you're up to, kiddo, remember, we set sail in two days. And one way or the other, you're coming with me.”
“What does that mean?” She stood up and turned to face him.
“It means that whether you leave some bleeding heart behind or not, you're coming. You're my wife, however much you may want to forget that.”
“I never do.” There was bitterness in her voice as she said it. She hated being married to him, more so because he had been so nice to her. It made her feel guilty toward him, and she didn't want to feel guilty. She wanted to be free.
“Have a good time.” He closed the door softly behind him and went downstairs to see his son. And as soon as he had left the room, Hillary dropped the dressing gown from her shoulders, revealing the little black silk halter dress she had bought at Bergdorf Goodman. She clipped diamond earrings into place and looked in the mirror. She knew she would see Philip Markham at the party, and she wondered as she finished the Scotch and water how Nick always knew. Nothing had happened with Phil yet, but he was leaving for Paris in August, and who knew what would happen then … who knew….
he vast, splendidly designed ship lay in her berth at Pier 88 on the Hudson River, and every inch of her looked the part of the elegant queen. As Armand stood for a moment outside the limousine, he glanced upward at the three graceful smokestacks silhouetted against the sky. She weighed eighty thousand tons, and yet was the swiftest, most sophisticated vessel on any sea. To look at her took your breath away, and there was an inevitable moment of reverent silence as one perused her beauty. She was still more beautiful under full steam, and yet even here, at rest in her berth, she was undeniably a queen.
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