“Where’s Gross?” she asks. One by one, they shake their heads, make a moue, shrug their shoulders. So she opens up the butler’s shelves where a forest of Vanderbilt silver shimmers: candlesticks, jam jars, ashtrays, serving pieces. On the bottom shelf is a fat glass tub of silver salve and a stack of rags. Anna chooses a particularly tarnished divided dish engraved with a flourished V, and, retrieving a handful of newspaper from the trash bin, she lays it out on the scrubbed kitchen table and begins her task. The cook and the maid stare at her as if she is mad. Rubbing the dish’s voluptuous shoulders as hard as she can, the tarnish begins to melt. As the piece comes alive again, Anna finds it easier to breathe and not care that the Whartons’ entire world has been turned upside down.
And what if Teddy were to die? Edith suddenly wonders as Anna leaves her room. What if he were to take his own life, suddenly, cleverly, even here in Paris? There are a thousand seemingly innocent poisons all around them. Or, she thinks excitedly, what if melancholia isn’t the cause of Teddy’s excruciating head pain, but a tumor the size of an orange! No one could possibly guess it’s growing there. What if one moment from now he whispers her name and keels over and is released from his suffering! Edith is mortified to come upon these thoughts in her brain. Like fat toadstools growing on a manicured lawn. A spider slipping across a lacy pillow. What are these iniquities doing here? She doesn’t really want her husband to die, does she? And yet she cannot shake the idea of how it would feel to be free of his misery. She would make a fine widow, the sort everyone would gladly invite out. How proud they’d feel for effecting a charitable act. “Poor Mrs. Wharton. She’s been through so much. It wouldn’t hurt to have her to dinner.” They would call her brave. Applaud her unexpected good cheer. And she’d have endless time with Morton. Days and days to grow closer, to entwine like wisteria, and become one strong branch. For, after all, isn’t that all they need? Time. Alone. Together.
Oh, these cloven thoughts. Not worthy of her. And yet they linger. They wind and wind, all around her heart. If she had gone with Morton to the inn that day, would that have been more depraved than what she is doing now: longing and pining and dreaming of the death of the person to whom she’s pledged herself? Now she knows why she has closeted herself with books and secret dreams, caught in a cement of fear. How safe it was in that prison!
When Anna is feeling more like herself, lifted by the table of polished silver she’s left behind, she slips quietly into Teddy’s room to sit by his side for a while, allowing the nurse who’s been hired to have a moment’s respite.
“Miss Anna,” he whispers when she settles down beside him. He reaches out for her hand, and she gives it. He has unusually delicate hands for a man. Elegant, but freezing cold. She folds both her hands around his and rubs softly.
“Help me to die,” he whispers.
“I know you are suffering, Mr. Wharton. But you don’t want to die. You have a great deal of life ahead of you.”
“Edith doesn’t love me anymore.”
“Nonsense.”
“You don’t know,” he whispers.
Anna shivers. “You mustn’t speak like this.”
“You don’t know what I know,” is all he says.
“Tell me all about the pain in your head. Maybe together we can make it go away.”
“It feels like a horse is stepping on my brain. Right here.” He points to the place between his brows, just above his fine nose.
Anna reaches out and touches the offending spot. She rubs it in a soft circle.
“Imagine my touch is erasing that pain,” she says. “Just as you might erase a pencil error.” Anna imagines absorbing his pain through her fingers—how she wishes she could. She knows she could deal with it better than he. She is so much stronger.
“You can’t help me,” he says. “No one can help me.”
“I can. You have to let me. You have to give up your pain. Imagine just letting it go . . . up and out through my fingers.”
He groans, and she almost wishes she could kiss his brow as a mother might. Or hold him in her arms, the way she would hold her young students when they wept.
“Let it go,” she whispers. “Shhh, let it go, my friend. That’s it. I can see the pain is lifting. Can you feel it?”
“Yes,” he says, his voice rising. “It’s better. Don’t stop.”
“I’m right here.”
“Don’t stop doing that.”
“I’m not going to stop. We’ll make you better. And then you can go to The Mount. Can you imagine that good mountain air? You’re in the barn, in the room with all the saddles. The light burns golden through the window.”
“Yes.”
“The sunlight makes all the saddles glow. Choose one. Your favorite. The horses are waiting. Have you chosen one?”
“Yes.”
“Take it down off the peg. And after your ride, you’ll take the time to stop at the new pig house. Imagine it’s built now. We’ll visit all our lovely squealy fellows. They’re so happy to see you. They’ve missed you. Lawton misses you.”
“Anna, dearest Anna!”
“Shhh,” she whispers, her heart beating sweetly. “Imagine being there. Let’s make you better. Then we’ll all go to the mountains together. It will be a wonderful summer. Cool and beautiful and fresh.”
“We’ll go together,” he whispers.
In the morning, there is a petit bleu scrawled in Morton’s familiar, clear hand.
Dearest,
I accept your apology. Perhaps I should learn to be more tender with you, or more patient. But passion makes me a bounder. Still, I cannot blot out my desire for you. Perhaps if we weren’t in Paris . . . would that make a difference for you? An inn far away in a wood somewhere, where we could lie abed and hear the cuckoos . . .
I don’t know when I can get away next to travel so far, or stay away for long. My sister is coming to Paris soon, and the bureau is hell-bent on paralyzing me with endless, unmanageable assignments. But the day will come.
Yours with love,
Morton
“I’ve rarely seen anyone so deeply depressed, so wretched,” Dr. Bastien tells Edith, drawing her aside into the library where the fire is crackling. “But I believe there’s a reason for Mr. Wharton’s misery. It’s gout. In his head.”
“Gout?”
“The pain. The noises. The moods. It’s gout.”
“I didn’t know that was . . . possible. I thought because his father had a history of melancholy . . . He killed himself, you know. . . .”
“Perhaps his father had gout as well.”
“Sit down, doctor, please.” She points to Teddy’s favorite leather armchair by the fire. How she hated finding Teddy there day after day. “Well, that’s good news, then,” she says. “It’s something that will pass like the gout in his knee? He’ll get better? I’ve never heard of it, gout in the head.”
“It’s rare and troublesome. It causes startling shifts in mood. Anger even. Sadness, like Mr. Wharton’s. But it can be treated.”
“How?”
“Rest, mostly. No alcohol. No heavy foods.”
“The only thing that’s helped him in the past has been taking the waters,” Edith says. “When his knee was disastrous, it did the trick when nothing else made a whit of difference.”
“It might be worth a try,” the doctor says. “It certainly is known to help gout in the joints. Of course, it makes the condition worse for a short while, forces a flare-up, but by doing so, it may clear the system. . . .”
“He went to Hot Springs in the United States last time. He could go now.” Edith tries to modulate the joy in her voice.
The doctor looks at her with a cocked head. Why is he staring at her that way?
“And you?” he says drily. “Of course you’ll go along with him
? He’s far too ill to travel alone.”
“If I don’t go, a nurse will. Or Albert White, our butler. Or both.”
The doctor nods. He clears his throat. “He said something to me I found a bit disturbing.”
“Yes?”
The doctor blinks his pale spiky lashes closed, wets his lips, then opens his eyes with intention. “It could be the gout, of course. It might be making him delusional. But he said you . . . well, it’s not my business . . . but he suggested you might no longer care for him as you once did. That you’ve been . . . distracted . . .”
“It’s the gout. I can’t imagine what he’s thinking.” Edith hears the snap of her voice. She stands. She feels herself burn. Her chest, her face. “Thank you so much for stopping by,” she manages to say.
“Whether or not it’s true,” the doctor says, not even attempting to hide the disdain in his voice, “perhaps you should take care to prove otherwise. Mr. Wharton needs to feel secure. He needs to feel beloved. It’s essential to his recovery. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Edith tries to swallow, but hasn’t a bit of saliva. She decides then and there they need to find a new doctor in Paris.
“Perhaps I should go with him,” Anna says upon learning that Teddy is to be shipped out immediately.
“It’s not necessary,” Edith tells her. “You’re not strong enough to help him with his needs. Albert will go. He trusts Albert. And we’ll hire a nurse. Some young English-speaking girl will be quite happy to take a trip to Hot Springs.”
“Of course,” Anna says. She turns to the window so that Edith might not see her disappointment.
“I need you, Tonni. I’m deep into my book. I couldn’t possibly manage without you at this stage.”
“No, I understand. Will he be all right?” Anna asks, turning back to Edith. She knows she has tears in her eyes. “Will they really be able to help him? He’s in so much pain. He’s suffering so. . . .”
“The doctor says there’s a chance. I know he’s not getting better here in Paris. He despises Paris, as you know. What choice do we have?”
“No other choice.”
“Well, then, stop looking like that,” Edith snaps. Anna presses her handkerchief to her mouth and hurries out of the room.
“And please finish your typing. I need my pages,” Edith calls out after her.
But even though Edith can’t help feeling happy that Teddy is leaving, she is also not of one mind. The morning Teddy’s trunks are hauled down to the motor and Teddy follows, wrapped in a heavy coat, his face white and swollen, his eyes distant and liquid, Edith feels a surprising sadness.
“I know you’ll be happy in Hot Springs, dear,” she tells him, taking his elbow, kissing his cheek. “Remember how it helped you last time?” She waits for his answer. “Dear, remember?”
Teddy barely looks at her, and doesn’t say a word. She knows he doesn’t want to go. Not without her. A good wife would wrap up her affairs and board the ship with her ailing husband. She would sit on a deck chair embroidering, making sure he ate his supper and felt beloved. She might be unhappy, but she would go. While Teddy has hardly been a good match for Edith, and has often been a trial, she is fully aware that there are far more malicious, difficult, selfish and unkind men in the world.
Maybe she is not a good wife. Maybe she has never been a good wife. Maybe she is no better than her mother, whom Edith has often thought of as a terrible wife. The notion haunts her. And Tonni’s mute resentment doesn’t help. Every time she steps into the room to return typed pages, to ask a question, to comment on the manuscript, Edith feels pierced by the arrow of her contempt.
But Edith knows what she must do. She cannot help Teddy. She is impatient with him. Unloving. Easily irritated. Just what Teddy doesn’t need right now. What he does need is a cure. In the geo-heated waters, he once found what he sought: relief from pain. Perhaps he will find it again.
The disturbing sadness parts with him, though, and once he is gone, Edith cannot dismiss the giddy sense of freedom she feels. He is gone, and did not need to die to be out of her life. Now, she can spend more time writing, more time reading, thinking. She will no longer have to feel she is holding up the world with her very tired arms. And she can make plans without the sense that she is sneaking away. That’s all she’s wanted, isn’t it, to not feel underhanded in spending time with Morton?
But, free at last to spend time with Morton, it’s as though there’s a conspiracy against them. As Morton predicted, his superior loads assignment after assignment on him, assignments that even swallow his weekends whole. Still, Edith is baffled that somehow, suddenly, Morton seems reluctant to see her. One day after a number of notes, begging him for his time, he writes that he has just an hour for a walk in the Tuileries. “Meet me at the Louvre,” he writes, “just beneath the Diana of Goujon.”
It’s a damp day, though everyone is trying to pretend that spring is moving forward. Children run between the statues, nannies push prams, shivering in the breeze. She shivers too, wondering if he’s coming at all.
When he finally arrives, rushing across the courtyard, she discovers a pale Morton, his face pinched, his eyes distant.
“Are you all right, dear?” she asks, gently touching his arm.
“It’s not a good day,” he says. She can see the energy crackle from him as from a Tesla coil.
“I’m sorry.” She modulates her voice, the way she might with Teddy when he’s out of sorts. “What’s happened?”
“You couldn’t possibly understand,” he says. “We should go if we want any time in the Tuileries at all.”
“Yes.”
She listens to their footsteps echoing together on the gravel.
“Is my worldview so narrow?” she asks after a while.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You said I couldn’t possibly understand what’s bothering you. You might try me.”
“This has nothing to do with you,” he snaps.
“I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. “You wanted to see me?” he asks.
“I don’t understand,” she tells him. “You longed for nothing but time alone together and now that it’s easier, you eschew it. And we’re seeing each other less.”
“Well, we’re together now.”
“Yes, but you’re not talking to me.”
“I’m talking to you. You hear my voice.”
She shudders. “I know I’ve been tiresome. Who’d want to be with a tedious woman like me? And I’m aware how busy you are, how the bureau has tormented you for days. Is that it? Is that why you’ve been reluctant to commit more time?”
“I have my reasons,” he says.
“I’m sure you do. Just share them, please.”
“There are things you don’t know about me. Pressures you can’t possibly imagine.”
“I can imagine them if you share them. It’s not much to ask. I can support you better if you tell me.”
“I wish I could.” He doesn’t look at her. His eyes have a glazed, far-off stare.
“I don’t like it when you’re being mysterious. I suppose some women might find it exciting. It merely makes me distrust you.”
“Distrust me, then. . . .”
How could things have become so awfully derailed between them? If only she’d gone with him that day to the inn. Why is it so hard for her? Other women in love would have followed, would have lain down with him in those sheets, enjoyed his whispers and caresses.
“Is it your work?” she asks.
“I told you I don’t want to discuss it.”
A warm tear escapes and runs down her cheek. Perhaps it’s over. Perhaps there’s someone else already more willing than she. A younger woman, no doubt more beautiful. What woman wouldn’t respond to his attracti
veness, his magnetic charms? She barely suppresses a sob, and feels him glance her way.
“So,” he says, suddenly falsely bright. “Tell me what you hear from Henry. He writes he’s coming to visit!” Seeing her cry, he must pity her, and is trying to make small talk.
“Yes,” Edith says, ruing the quaver in her voice. “He’s coming. In May.”
“Splendid. I wrote him about us, you know.”
“You did? About us?”
“He was pleased. He said you should be treated with the sweetest care. He’s right, of course.”
She can hardly believe it. She looks at him and cannot read his face. If Morton has told Henry their secret, then he must have lasting feelings for her. She should be angry—having been exposed as a philanderer to the one person she most admires—but Morton says Henry’s glad for them. In which case she’s thrilled to include him in the conspiracy.
“He says he loves us both, and can absolutely see why we might love one another.”
“Is that what you told him? That we love one another?” she asks, her voice brightening.
“More or less . . .”
“Which is it, more . . . or less?”
Morton just shakes his head and laughs, but she can see it’s with aggravation.
“What did you tell him?”
“Well, I don’t have a copy of the letter in my jacket, Edith. I suppose I told him we have feelings for each other.”
“What sort of feelings? Like good friends, I suppose.”
“Do you know you really can be vexing?”
“I’m not trying to be vexing. . . .”
“We’re not even lovers. And yet you’d like to manage every word that’s spoken about us. Everything we say to one another. As though we’re characters in one of your books and you can rewrite the scene to suit yourself.”
“That’s unfair. I have a right to know what you’re saying about us to Henry. . . .”
The Age of Desire Page 17
