The Age of Desire

by Jennie Fields

  “You know it takes time for him to get better. Especially when he’s so melancholy. Last time it took months. He needs your patience.”

  Edith’s nostrils flare. “Nothing I do seems to have any effect.”

  “He was patient with you, all those years you were ill. He was kind to you. Remember how he brought you flowers every day and books, and cheered you up? Again and again . . . unfailingly. He’s a good man, Edith.”

  “Don’t lecture me.”

  “I don’t mean to lecture. I meant to remind you.”

  Edith nods. “Sometimes I think nothing good will ever happen for me.”

  “I know, Herz. But nothing good is happening for Teddy right now either, and he needs your patience. Your loyalty.” Anna places her hand on Edith’s shoulder but Edith turns her face away, a signal that Anna should leave. Still, she stands there for a moment, waiting to see if Edith will say more, will reach out to her again. Instead, there is only silence.

  Perhaps I was too harsh with her, Anna worries all through the evening. But she feels angry too. How could Edith be so selfish to find distaste in her own husband’s return? That night, Anna’s lovely soft bed beneath the eaves feels as though it’s made of nails, her pillow of hardwood. When she gets up, her bones aching, and goes to the window to look out over the roofs of Paris, she sees a bat circling and circling over the hammered silver moon. She closes her eyes, allowing the cool moonlight to paint her eyelids, feeling far too small to make her dent upon the world.

  Edith, unable to sleep, sits close to the fire. Having finished a terse pneu to Morton—“Cannot join you as planned”—she now sits with the new diary open on the desk and composes a poem on a separate piece of paper.

  L’me Close

  My soul is like a house that

  Dwellers nigh can see no light in.

  “Ah, poor house,” they say,

  “Long since its owners died or

  Went their way.” Thick ivy

  Loops the rusted door-latch tie.

  The chimney rises cold against the sky

  And flowers turned to weed down the

  Bare path’s decay . . .

  Yet one stray passer, at the shut of day,

  Sees a light trembling in a casement high.

  Even so, my soul would set a light for you,

  A light invisible to all beside,

  As though a lover’s ghost should yearn and glide

  From pane to pane, to let the flame shine through.

  Yet enter not, lest as it flits ahead

  You see the hand that carries it is dead.

  When rereading the poem brings tears to her eyes, she carefully transcribes it into the diary she has begun for Morton, then turns off the light and searches blindly for sleep.

  With Teddy home and confined to his bed, bellowing and complaining and clearly furious at his wife for not having joined him on his journey, Edith gives up any hope of comforting him, grabs her wraps and, without the slightest notion of where she might go, leaves the house. Paris is perfumed with a surprising spring breeze. There are men strolling down the street, cloaks in hand, though it is far too cold not to wear them. And a parade of babies slides by, aired in their carriages by nannies and mothers while the weather is cooperating. It would have been the perfect day to explore Montfort and Edith’s disappointment is bitter. What has Morton chosen to do today instead? she wonders. She hadn’t the heart last night to explain to him why she must cancel their plans. It was too wounding to even think of what she’d miss. And describing Teddy’s illness makes her feel weak and compromised. He already questions her for staying with Teddy all these years. His pneu back sounds bewildered and a touch angry. “As I recall,” it says, “you were the one who asked me to come. Perhaps you were not able to locate your courage after all.”

  With nowhere to go, Edith decides to see if the Bourgets are home. It’s entirely unlike her not to phone or write first. But the Bourgets never mind surprises, and if they are out, Edith will take a long walk—stride across the length of Paris and back if she must—to dispel the feeling of corrosion that courses through her veins.

  At their neat sunny apartment on the Rue Barbet de Jouy, Minnie welcomes her, book in hand, wearing a light blue tea gown and the softest expression.

  “I’m so sorry to come unannounced,” Edith says. “But one more minute in the presence of Teddy’s misery and I thought I would do damage to myself. He’s grouchy and toxic and not fit for anything.”

  “Paul is out,” Minnie says. “But you couldn’t have come at a better time.”

  Edith notes as she comes closer that the softness in Minnie’s face is the aftermath of tears.

  “Whatever’s wrong, Minnie?” she asks. She lays her hand on her friend’s arm, and Minnie motions for Edith to sit.

  “I’m not sure I can speak about it,” she says. “It’s too early for tea. Have you had luncheon?”

  “You don’t need to serve me anything. I merely came for company. Tell me what’s troubling you.”

  “I wonder if I can trust you to keep a confidence,” Minnie says nervously. Minnie is the most even person that Edith knows. She sails through life with grace and good humor. Tears are the last thing Edith expects from her.

  “You can trust me with anything,” Edith says.

  Minnie nods and worries her bracelets for a moment—a pair of old Etruscan-work snakes, wrapped tight about her left wrist. “I believe Paul is seeing a woman,” she says.

  “No . . . are you quite sure?”

  “Ever since Un Divorce opened, he has been a different man. He struts around like a peacock. He is everyone’s darling. ‘The play of the year,’ they call it. But it started even before then. His absence in this past year, well, I assumed it was the play . . . the stress of the play, not who’s . . . in the play.” Minnie grows crimson about the ears, but her lips pale. “I found a petit bleu in his pocket last week that said, ‘Saturday at noon?’ and nothing more. And at a quarter to noon, he darted out the door with a very guilty, happy look on his face and his most flattering suit.”

  “But it could have been from anyone.”

  “I know who it’s from,” Minnie says huskily.

  Edith shakes her head. “Someone in the play? An actress in the play?”

  Minnie closes her eyes very tightly as if trying to block out an image.

  “You don’t mean Mrs. Davreau?” Amélie Davreau is the most beautiful woman in Paris. Her hair is the color of butter, and her figure like that of a china figurine.

  “I don’t wish to say. . . .” Minnie’s voice cracks at the end and Edith knows she’s spoken the unspeakable name. Amélie Davreau is so beautiful, she is the only actress on the Paris stage who wears no heavy stage makeup. Her dark-lashed lavender eyes can be read across the entire theatre. Even Edith fell in love with her during the play. Her grace and her modesty were so unique for an actress, so appealing.

  “But how do you know it’s from this . . . woman?”

  “When he speaks of her, his voice changes. I’ve wondered for a long time what might be going on between them. Men have no idea how sensitive a woman can be to the smallest clues. When we are all three in the same room together, it’s as though I’m not there, even when I am. She is slender and fine. The very opposite of me. He hangs on her every word. He quotes her when she’s not around just to hear himself say her name. She’s married. Why should she want my husband as well?”

  “Some women get no pleasure from their own husbands . . . ,” Edith says. Minnie glances over at her with a clouded eye. Can she read what Edith is thinking? She blinks at her for a moment, and Edith feels the heat of her own wayward desire.

  “I know you are unhappy with Teddy. But it isn’t as though you would simply stomp off and have a love affair with another man.”r />
  Edith can’t swallow. She wishes now that Minnie had called for tea.

  “I try not to be old-fashioned,” Minnie goes on. “But I guess I’m not as modern as I profess to be. Or as Parisian. I do believe one should honor one’s vows. And if that’s old-fashioned, then I’m happy to be.”

  Edith puts her hand to her face to cover up what must be a painful flush. But Minnie is looking out the window, paying no attention to Edith’s distress.

  “You’re not a bit old-fashioned,” Edith says, just to keep Minnie talking until her blush has subsided. “But perhaps they are merely friends? Perhaps nothing’s . . . happened at all? Sometimes men just set their hearts on other women and do nothing but pay them attention.”

  “You see, that’s the point. Does it matter? I don’t think it does. It’s that he has feelings for another woman that hurts the most. I know men think that if they are physically faithful they are in the clear. But it’s not so for me. It’s that he desires her. That he thinks of her when he’s not with her. I watch him. I see him. He’s a man who loves women. Who desires women. I fell in love with him for that, really. I have no patience with men like Paul Hervieu, who would rather read poetry and pick flowers. So if he has been faithful or not, he’s wounded me. I thought I would always be the one he desires the most.” Minnie pulls a crumpled handkerchief from her sleeve and dabs her tears, which are falling too quickly to catch.

  “You don’t know it’s not so.”

  “I know his world has shifted. A woman knows when she’s no longer the center of someone’s sphere. It’s just cruel, Edith. If you loved someone, how could you hurt them like that?”

  “Maybe if you spoke to him. Maybe if he knew that you knew . . .”

  “When a person has a different sense of right and wrong, what does it matter? When the man I love no longer thinks I am enough, what does it matter? When we live in a time where sin is more delicious than loyalty, what does it matter?”

  “Perhaps,” Edith says, as evenly as she can, “sin has always been more delicious than loyalty. . . .”

  “Not by people who are guided by what they believe in, rather than by a fleeting urge. . . .”

  Edith feels as though Minnie is speaking directly to her. She closes her eyes. But the bright sunlight of the day she was meant to spend with a man she longs to love, a man who is not her husband, burns her.

  For two days, there are no notes between Edith and Fullerton. She wishes to explain to him what caused her to cancel their day together, but after her talk with Minnie, she feels chastened and unable to pick up a pen.

  When Minnie writes that she’d like Edith to accompany the Bourgets to the Renaissance Theatre that night, Edith is more than happy to say yes. She is relieved to leave the house. Teddy has not improved. But, happily, Anna says she will stay with him. Teddy is more himself with Anna anyway. What is it about Anna that everyone finds so consoling? Small children, miserable old men find her a balm.

  Knowing that Teddy’s in good hands and off her own, she’s curious to see how the Bourgets will relate to each other. And she wonders if Minnie is inviting her to see for herself the change in Paul.

  It’s grown cold again and rain is threatening to turn to snow, so Edith offers to take the three of them in her motorcar. Snuggled into the backseat with their theatre coats and muffs, she feels happy for the first time since her lost Saturday. But she does notice that Paul has seated himself on one side of her, Minnie on the other. And Edith is required to carry the bulk of the conversation. When they speak, they mostly speak to her or through her, not to each other.

  The theatre is as unreal as a carnival, thumping with sound and color and energy. Settled in the Bourgets’ baignoire, she enjoys the parade of women in their gowns and gloves, the men in their stiff suits, the jumble of perfume, conspicuous jewels, and half-heard conversations. Women peer out over fans or gossip behind them. Held up to this circus of humanity, Edith’s long days at the Rue de Varenne with gloomy Teddy seem utterly moribund.

  Seated next to poor Minnie, Edith perceives that while her friend is present at the play, she is not truly watching it. The same clouding of her eyes, the same pressing of her lips as Edith observed the other day convey her pain. While the actors prance and argue and weep on stage, twice Edith reaches out and touches Minnie’s shoulder, her elbow. Once, Paul notes the gesture and looks at her askance, but she merely smiles sweetly at him.

  And then, before the first act is over, Edith hears the muffled squeak of someone opening the velvet door to their baignoire and the thump of it closing on its own. And with the scent of lavender, she realizes that Fullerton has seated himself directly behind her. She turns to take in his gaze, clear as a child’s, and his gentle, beautiful face lit by the lights of the stage. He mouths the word “Hello,” and she finds herself visibly shivering. But his eyes warm her: they are kind and beseeching and flash a sweet shyness in their blue glance. He must wonder what she feels toward him, since it was she who put him off in that scribbled pneu. Edith gets the sense that Morton isn’t used to being put off. If he only knew how much she suffered by losing their day together. If he only knew how much she’s since longed for him. He must see it in her face, for the meeting of their eyes is electrifying. A communication of such kindness, sympathy and desire, no words could impart it, no touch has ever affected her so. What flows between them feels as though it might ignite the baignoire. Or the whole auditorium. How is it that Minnie hasn’t turned to see it, or that the play itself hasn’t stopped in deference?

  How can anything stand in the way of what is already happening between Edith and Morton? She has never been one to believe in predestination. But as clear as Minnie’s sad figure next to her, fate stands in front of her with outstretched hand, and no shaming from Minnie’s situation, no moral qualms can keep her from taking hold of those warm fingers.

  When the curtain drops on the first act, Morton stands and greets Paul and Minnie as though it is the Bourgets he has come to see. He kisses Minnie’s fingers. He charms her with kind remarks about her dress, which he says is the color of an angry sea. And he tells Minnie that she is the one who surely must appreciate this daring play since she’s the only one among them with a developed sense of right and wrong. The struggle of the main character surely must speak to her. Edith wonders how on earth he knew this about Minnie? Minnie blushes under his ministrations and color flows back into her cheeks. Edith is happy to see it—Minnie is the one who needs his attention. He makes Paul laugh as well, comparing the play they have come to see unfavorably to Un Divorce, which he says makes all other plays this year seem shabby. Not nearly as brilliant or insightful. Not nearly as polished. But the entire time he is speaking to the Bourgets, Edith knows he is doing it for her benefit. She has never felt so secure in her sense of connection with anyone. And when he glances her way, she feels the buzz, the heat of their bond. This must be what happy women feel, she thinks. I have waited a lifetime to know it.

  Fullerton stays in their baignoire for the length of the play and walks them out to their motorcar, refusing a lift home, saying he’d prefer to walk in the rain.

  “But sharing the play with all of you has made this evening one to remember,” he says, once again kissing Minnie’s hand and looking into her eyes, shaking Paul’s hand mightily, then giving Edith the ultimate warm glance as she is last to climb into the motorcar.

  “Soon? Please?” he whispers.

  “Perhaps I have misjudged Fullerton,” Minnie says on the ride home. “It was kind of him to come by and see us.”

  “I believe he was flirting with you, Minnie,” Paul says. “Was he?” He reaches over Edith and squeezes Minnie’s hand.

  Minnie laughs like a young girl and looks down. “I believe he was,” she says, with burning cheeks and a voice brimming with pleasure.

  “He certainly was,” Edith says. “What impudence to flir
t with a woman right in front of her husband!”

  “Well, a roué like Fullerton is all about overconfidence,” Paul says with a harrumph, clearly playing up his displeasure. When Edith drops off the Bourgets, they say it was a fine evening, and Minnie takes Paul’s elbow as they open the gate to their building. But Edith knows: no one enjoyed the theatre that night as much as she.

  Anna sits with Teddy Wharton, reading out loud to him from the Journal of North American Agriculture about ileitis in pigs. Teddy says the pain in his head precludes him from reading to himself. And Anna’s voice is as soft as silk, he tells her.

  She doesn’t mind reading aloud. It reminds her of her teaching days, when the best way to calm a rowdy student was by reading a story aloud. Even the most restless child could be settled by a good tale. Well, this is no story, but she finds the article enlightening too, for she knows nothing about pigs. How interesting that stressed pigs are most at risk of ileitis. Anna did not know that pigs could become stressed.

  “Pigs are sensitive,” Teddy tells her. “They have feelings. And faces that show those feelings, like our little Nicette and Mitou do.”

  “Indeed?” Anna says. “I don’t think I shall ever eat ham with the same feeling again.”

  Teddy laughs, for a moment forgetting his pain. His guffaw is deep and rich. Her life has been adorned by his laughter for years; when he is away, she pines for it.

  “Next time we are at The Mount, Miss Anna, perhaps you’ll come down to the new piggery with me and meet some of my favorite sons.”

  “I’d be honored,” she tells him.

  “Lawton. You’ll particularly like Lawton. He will steal your heart!”

  “I’ve never had my heart stolen by a swine,” she says jollily.

  “Well, since most women do at some point or other in their lives, it’s about time you did,” he tells her. “It’s what makes it hard for nice fellas like me. But honest, Lawton is a gentleman . . . er, a gentlepig.”