The Rich Are Different

by Susan Howatch

  All I had wanted was his acknowledgment that I had a right to be angry, and now that I had it I had little interest in asking the routine questions. However, since my new dignity obviously did not allow me to let him escape unscathed I did my best to assume the role of inquisitor.

  “Why did you stop writing in August after you went to Norfolk?” I said at last.

  “Because I was ashamed,” he said without a second’s hesitation. “Do you think I didn’t feel guilty about indulging myself with a lengthy European vacation when I should have been on my way back to America to join you at Bar Harbor?”

  I fidgeted with my hairbrush. “What finally brought you back?”

  A less honest man would have said, “You.” But Paul said, “I would have come back anyway, as you know, but my actual decision to return when I did was prompted by a business difficulty in New York. That was why I had to spend all my time away from you this evening. There was a matter which required my immediate attention.”

  “I suppose I guessed that when Steve insisted on coming with me to meet your ship.” I fidgeted with the hairbrush again.

  “Go on,” he said.

  I did not know what to say. It was no use asking him why he had stayed so long in England. His obsession with Europe was a matter best not discussed, since I could not understand it and he was incapable of giving me a rational explanation. Groping for a safer subject, I remembered Dinah Slade with relief.

  “This girl,” I said, “the girl you met there. It’s over?”

  “Of course.”

  It was the answer I had expected and I felt sure he was telling the truth. I had filled up a few more seconds, but I was tired of my role of inquisitor and was about to tell him I had no further questions when he said unexpectedly, “I was attracted to her for what she represented to me. You know what a sentimental fool I am about Europe.”

  I stared at him. At last my voice said, “She represented Europe to you?”

  He saw his error. I had never seen Paul make such a slip before, and part of me watched with detached interest as he bent all the power of his personality on redeeming it.

  “Well …” He shrugged, smiled, made a careless gesture with his hands. “Forgive my poor choice of words, but it’s been a long day. What I meant was that the world she lived in had enormous appeal for me. She had this old manor house—the hall was really a perfect example of medieval architecture complete with hammer-beamed ceiling … Well, I won’t bore you with the details. I’d like to go back there someday, but I doubt if I shall—in fact, I doubt if I’ll go back to Europe for some time. I have too much to do in New York, and besides, America does have certain attractions which Europe can’t offer.” He smiled at me. His hand smoothed my hair and drifted to my shoulders, but I did not lean against him.

  “Sylvia, there’s something I want to say.”

  “Yes?” I turned to him at once, my heart beating more quickly.

  His voice was low, little more than a whisper. “I was so sorry last June … your miscarriage …”

  “Oh, Paul!” In my agitation I rose to my feet. I was disappointed that he had not told me he loved me, but at the same time I was moved by this unexpected reference to the baby. In the second after he spoke I told myself that I was a fool to be disappointed because he had not told me a truth he was incapable of expressing in words, and that I should be grateful he was not angry about my third attempt to give him a child he had sworn he did not want.

  “I expect you thought I didn’t care, but I did feel for you so very much. I’m sorry I could only write you that cold empty letter.” He too had risen to his feet, and when I saw that his distress was genuine I moved unquestioningly into his arms.

  We kissed. He held me very tightly and at last I heard him say, “You of all women deserve a child. There’s no justice in this world, is there? None at all.”

  Although the subject was a sad one I felt illogically happy that we should be so close.

  “ ‘God moves in a mysterious way,’ ” I quoted lightly, trying to steer the conversation away from past unhappiness by making him smile, no matter how wryly, at my deliberate choice of cliché.

  I was successful. “Why, Sylvia!” he said amused. “How Victorian!” And then the expression of amusement faded from his face and his eyes became darker as if mirroring some intense inner pain.

  “Paul …”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t say anything else. I need you, Sylvia,” he said, reaching for me blindly. “I want you very much, more than I’ve ever wanted you. Help me.”

  I did not answer him in words. I simply drew his mouth against mine until finally, all anger forgotten and all passion fired, I shut my mind against the past and we went to bed.

  Two

  I

  WHEN I AWOKE THE next morning I stretched out my hand to touch him, but he had gone. It was already half-past seven and he would have left the bed an hour ago to swim in the pool before dressing for breakfast. In the hope of catching a glimpse of him before he left for the office I rang for my maid and had just put the finishing touches to my appearance when he swept into the room to look for me.

  “Oh, Paul, I was going downstairs to join you for breakfast! Am I too late?”

  “Yes, but never mind, we’ll make up for it at lunchtime.” He kissed me and I clung to him. My maid eased herself tactfully from the room. “You look wonderful!” he exclaimed, kissing me again. “The sort of vision every man should see first thing in the morning. Can I be very brutal and discuss domestic affairs with you before you’ve had your first cup of coffee? I can only spare ten minutes, so you won’t be deprived for long.”

  “Of course! I’ll just get my notes.”

  “I’ll be in the library.”

  When I reached the library he was pacing up and down as he waited for me, and I had barely closed the door before he launched into instructions for a dinner party for thirty, his favorite number.

  “… and then I think it’s time we had another ball—can we fit it in before everyone runs off to Florida? Find out the best date and get the invitation list drawn up—not less than three hundred but no more than four hundred, and I’d like to approve the list as soon as possible. …”

  I scribbled frantically in my notebook. There was no time to look at the clock, but I heard it strike the half hour.

  “… And now tell me what’s happening in New York.”

  “Well, Lord and Lady Louis Mountbatten will be the guests of Brigadier General and Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt before returning to England—their names are appearing in connection with a new supper club which is being inaugurated by Count and Countess Zichy. …” I skimmed over other important social events, dances at the Plaza, Sherry’s and the Colony Club, a thé-dansant at the Ritz-Carlton, a musicale at the Rockefellers’. “There are a series of lecture-musicales being given at various private houses, and I’m on the committee with Mrs. Winthrop Chandler, Mrs. Otto Kahn, Mrs.—”

  “What’s the Kahn lecture to be?”

  “Significant periods in the history of choral music. I’ve volunteered the use of our house, of course, Paul, and suggested a guest speaker on bel canto.”

  He approved. Our conversation gravitated naturally to the opera. “I’ve seen the list of new boxholders—fewer changes than usual in the Golden Horseshoe this year, and since none of the prominent families who own parterre boxes are in mourning this season, there are fewer absentees.” I talked about Boris Godounov and a production of Der Rosenkavalier. “Oh, and, Paul, the talk of the town is that Hamlet opens on the sixteenth with John Barrymore in the lead.”

  “Get tickets at once.” He glanced at his watch. Time was running short. “How are the charities?”

  “The December ball at the Ritz-Carlton is being given to raise funds for Grosvenor House …” I skimmed feverishly through the charities and listed the appeals while he said “Accept” and “Refuse” whenever I paused for breath. “Th
en there’s Christmas,” I added rapidly. “The question of the servants’ bonus.”

  “Draft a proposal and show it to me later.”

  “And Mrs. Wilson’s in the hospital. I’ve sent flowers, of course, but the bill—”

  “Pay it.”

  Another minute had ticked away.

  “Yes—oh Paul, what about Mildred? She’s invited us to Cincinnati for Thanksgiving.”

  “Out of the question, but write and invite them all here instead. I must do something about that boy of hers.” He was moving toward the door. My ten-minute audience was about to expire. “Twelve-thirty at the Ritz-Carlton,” he said, smiling at me over his shoulder as he moved into the hall.

  “I’ll be there.” I hurried after him. Peterson was waiting as always, and Mason the butler held Paul’s coat and hat.

  “Goodbye, darling!” I gasped, and just had time to snatch a kiss before he disappeared outside and left me breathless with exhaustion in his turbulent, exhilarating wake.

  II

  He was five minutes late for lunch. “But I had to stop,” he said, “to buy you this.” It was a corsage of orchids, pale and graceful.

  I had been waiting in the lobby for him, but now we set off through the Palm Room and up the short flight of stairs into the main restaurant, which had long been a favorite of ours. It was a delightful room decorated in white and robin’s-egg blue and adorned with girandole mirrors reproduced from the eighteenth century. In the corner by the Georgian windows our special table was surrounded by banks of flowers which provided both romance and privacy—the latter an essential ingredient, since I soon realized we were about to break the law.

  “And where’s that lemon soda you promised me?” exclaimed Paul to the headwaiter as soon as we were seated.

  A tray of hothouse lilies was raised to reveal a bottle of vintage French champagne.

  “Paul!” I protested halfheartedly as all the waiters smiled, but Paul only said, “The Eighteenth Amendment is the enemy of all fine restaurants—look how it’s wrecked Delmonico’s,” and after that I felt it was my duty if not my legal right to drink champagne. “To us, my dear!”

  “To us …”

  We had dressed crab, roast duck and Florida strawberries. For Paul, who liked the English custom of concluding a meal on a savory note, there was some Camembert, but I merely contented myself with a cup of fresh-ground coffee.

  Afterward we both thanked the headwaiter and then leaving O’Reilly to attend to the delicate task of handing out the tips, we walked into the sunshine of Madison and Forty-sixth Street and took the Rolls south to Thirty-seventh and crosstown to Fifth Avenue.

  Inevitably O’Reilly had informed the press of our impending visit to Tiffany’s, and as the cameras clicked, the representatives of the Tribune, the World and—most celebrated of all in its reporting of society news—the Herald converged upon us, followed closely by reporters from the Post, the Mail, the Globe and the Sun.

  “A little late this year, aren’t you, Mr. Van Zale?” inquired a large overrouged lady whose skirts rose embarrassingly toward her knees.

  “What is time,” said Paul, “when one’s in love?”

  They lapped that up greedily, said it was “just lovely” and asked if they could quote him.

  “Why not quote Tennyson?” said Paul. He was quite shameless. “He says it so much better than I do.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “ ‘Love took up the glass of Time, and turn’d it in his glowing hands; every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.’ ”

  “Well, isn’t that nice! You’re a lucky lady, Mrs. Van Zale. Are you glad he’s home?”

  I simply laughed because the question was so ridiculous. The cameras clicked again as Paul led me into the store, and no sooner had we crossed the threshold than the chief floorwalker came gliding up to us.

  “Good afternoon, sir … madam …” More pleasantries were exchanged.

  “Well, my dearest,” said Paul, “what would you like?” I had one of those helpless moments which often assail me when I walk into a store such as Tiffany’s.

  “Perhaps one of the fancy gold pins,” I began, but he waved that aside.

  “You had a brooch last year. This time you must have something special! After all—ten years! I’ve never been married ten years to anyone before.”

  “Might I suggest diamonds, sir?” breathed the floorwalker. “An excellent suggestion,” said Paul. “Let’s look at diamond rings.”

  He bought me one of the most exquisite rings I had ever seen, a large central yellow diamond surrounded by small white diamonds, all set in a plain circle of gold. He wanted to have the band engraved with the date of our anniversary, but I said that was unnecessary. I did not want to be reminded of the day I had been alone in New York, and the ring alone would recall memories of our reunion.

  “Now what can I possibly buy you?” I said in despair. “And please, please don’t say cufflinks!”

  Paul laughed. The floorwalker began to murmur discreet suggestions and I continued to pray for inspiration.

  I finally chose a watch. I had no idea how many watches he already had, but he always enjoyed wearing a new one. It was a plain gold fob watch with Roman numerals, a touch which appealed to his fondness for the classical.

  Not a penny changed hands, of course. I doubt if Paul had more than a nickel in his pocket, for he hated to carry money. Later in the month when the bill came I would give it unopened to Paul, who would write a check drawn on one of the accounts in which I had no share. I never knew how much our anniversary presents cost. It was a tradition between us.

  “I guess you have to go back to the office now,” I said as we emerged from Tiffany’s with Peterson trailing in our wake.

  “No, I think I’ll walk down to Gramercy Park and see Elizabeth.”

  I was shocked by the pang of jealousy which shot through me. It was a long time now since I had had any real excuse for being jealous of Elizabeth, and again I remembered Paul saying to me with curt finality sometime after Vicky’s death, “It’s over. I promise you I shall never sleep with Elizabeth again.”

  I knew that as usual he had kept his promise. Elizabeth’s changed attitude toward me proved that, and our friendship, dating from that time, had never faltered.

  “It’ll just be for an hour or so,” said Paul, watching me. “Then I’ll come home.”

  “An hour doesn’t seem long when you haven’t seen each other since March,” I said, pulling myself together abruptly. After all, I could afford to be generous. “Stay longer if you wish. And darling, thank you—for everything.”

  He kissed me warmly and walked off downtown with Peterson while I traveled home alone in the Rolls.

  He returned at six, asked for a plain omelette and said he would really have to go back to the office. I had a cup of coffee with him in the dining room while he ate the omelette and talked about his visit to Elizabeth. At seven he ordered the car to the door.

  “Don’t wait up for me, will you?” he said in the hall. “I may be very late. There’s a large amount of reading I must do in order to find out what’s been going on in my absence.”

  I told him I understood. After he had gone I fingered my diamond ring as if to remind myself conscientiously how much time he had spent with me that day, and then, determined to regard my solitary evening as an ideal chance to catch up with my correspondence, I retired to my boudoir to write to Paul’s niece Mildred in Ohio.

  III

  I liked Mildred. She was the only child of Paul’s only sister Charlotte who had died of pleurisy soon after my marriage. I had never known Charlotte well; she had been ten years Paul’s senior, twenty-seven years older than I, and although she had been as gracious to me as Paul’s mother I had never imagined our becoming close friends. But Mildred was different. Since her mother had married young, Mildred was only nine years younger than Paul, and this small gap in their ages made Paul regard her more as a sister than as a niece. She was
large, good-looking, good-humored, and endowed with a great sense of melodrama, a gift she had exercised to the full when she met an Ohio farmer on a train, fell in love violently and resolved to marry him. What her chaperone was doing while all this was going on I have no idea, but I was quite sure any chaperone would have been as powerless as everyone else to deflect Mildred from her chosen course. The family finally yielded to Mildred’s iron will when exhaustive inquiries revealed that her farmer was not only hardworking and religious by Eastern-Seaboard standards but by Midwestern standards was prosperous and well-to-do. Mildred married her farmer, bore him a daughter and a son and as far as anyone could tell lived happily ever after. Naturally no one ever visited her, but once a year Mildred made the pilgrimage back East and stayed one month with her parents. Her husband did not accompany her, and although the family never failed to inquire after his health solicitously they remained relieved that he had the good sense to stay at home. It was generally agreed that Mildred had managed a déclassé marriage with skill and good taste.

  When her farmer died shortly after their seventh wedding anniversary, Mildred plunged herself into deepest mourning, declared she would remain a widow for the rest of her life and then remarried with a speed that shattered even those who knew her well. Fortunately her second husband Wade Blacken was acceptable to the family. He was a younger son of a prominent St. Louis family, and by the time he met Mildred he was a successful surgeon in Cincinnati. After their marriage they moved to Velletria, one of the most exclusive of the Cincinnati suburbs, and when Wade formally adopted Mildred’s two children Mildred’s story seemed to resemble the happy endings of the romantic novels she read in such profusion. This time the family’s verdict was that after a disastrous start Mildred had done better than anyone had dared hope.