The Age of Desire

by Jennie Fields

  So Edith announces to Teddy, and anyone else who will listen, that her insomnia and her hay fever have gotten the best of her. She requires a change of scene and quickly. Teddy shrugs and says he will book into the Knickerbocker Club until it’s time for him to go on his hunting trip, and then perhaps go off to Hot Springs for another cure. (Oh, if only he were always so acquiescent!) The servants begin to roll up The Mount’s mattresses and bring the oatmeal-colored drop cloths up from the storage room. Usually, this tucking away of her summer life makes Edith sad. But not this year. Teddy bids a tearful good-bye to his beloved Lawton, and the pig keeper reports to Edith that Lawton was literally whimpering at the farewell. Could a pig possibly be so smart?

  Edith loves the thought of England, and time with Henry on his own turf. She feels so full of energy at the thought, she even quickly writes a comic story. When was the last time she felt up to that? And as she and Teddy and Fannie Thayer load themselves into the motorcar for the trip to New York, the dogs between them and at their feet, yipping and crazed by all the commotion, she feels as expectant as a young girl heading toward a ball. Teddy will be dropped off at the Knickerbocker Club, and Edith will check into the Belmont—no point opening up 884 for a single night. Besides, at the last minute, they’ve found a tenant to fill it. The servants can stay at 882 until winter.

  And Anna! Anna’s ship is supposed to arrive this evening—such good timing! Edith will send Cook down to the pier to fetch her. How she looks forward to seeing her dear friend! She imagines Anna’s pale skin burnished by the Greek sun, roses in her cheeks. Tonni’s cheeks! How she loved to press her face against her governess’s face when she was a child. Tonni’s cheeks were always warm and soft as velvet. She would hold Edith close and sing German songs. Hold her the way her own mother never would. As though she were happy to be in her company. As though she were precious. Edith wants so much to show Anna that she still cares about her—that sending her off this summer was a gift, not a snub.

  Tonight, she imagines Anna’s clear, shining eyes across a restaurant table, retelling her adventures and explaining the mysterious friends who whisked her off to Greece.

  But Cook is soon back at the Belmont. Unfortunately, Anna’s ship has been delayed by inclement weather in the Atlantic. The Bremen isn’t expected to dock until late the next day, two or three hours after Edith’s own ship, the Provence, is set to sail. Fannie Thayer, who has set herself up in Edith’s hotel room to organize her papers, shakes her head with distress.

  “She’ll be crushed, you know. Anna’s been longing to see you. . . .”

  Edith debates. Should she not go? Should she wait until the next ship in one week’s time? But how can she? Walter needs to get to Cairo now that he’s been elected to the tribunal. There is a job to do! Counting the three days he plans to stay in England, he told her, this is the last possible date he can sail. Still, Edith fears that Anna will think she’s been snubbed again. It wounds her to think that she allowed anyone—even Morton Fullerton—to come between her and her dear Tonni, who never wished her anything but kindness.

  And so she writes. Writing is her best way of communicating. But not with Tonni! She had so longed to see her face-to-face, to make things right.

  Dearest Tonni,

  The disappointment of not seeing you before I sail! I know it seems heartless, unsympathetic and unnatural. I know Miss Thayer thinks it is.

  Well, I’ve had insomnia badly for two months, and Dr. Kinnicut, who came to Lenox early in Sept., tried different things, of a mild kind, but said, “If it goes on, you must have a change.”

  It did go on, and got worse, and I came to town to see him about three weeks ago, and he said more emphatically, “Do go away at once.” The trouble is that the least little sleep drug stupefies me the next day, and unfits me for my writing, which is such a joy and interest to me—and that makes me restless and bored. So I felt he was right.

  At the same time, he urged Teddy very strongly to go back to the Hot Springs for another cure, before going to his shooting in Dec. Teddy has had the best summer he has had in years, as the result of his Hot Springs visit, so it seemed as if he ought to do this. [Isn’t it better to tell Anna that he is going to Hot Springs because he has had success there? Why worry her by mentioning his overexcited state, which is the real reason she hopes he goes. Tonni would never approve of her leaving him in the shape he’s in.] Therefore I should have had to stay alone in Lenox all of Nov. or go with him, and I disliked the idea of that, as the hotel is very much over-heated, food very indigestible, etc.

  So I decided I would go out to Europe six weeks ahead of him; but I should have waited over another week in NY expressly to see you, if it had not been that Mr. Berry (who has been appointed a judge of the International Tribunal at Cairo) suddenly decided to sail on the Provence—that is, as soon as he was appointed, he settled on that date as the latest. It gave me the opportunity of having a companion instead of crossing utterly alone, and as I knew no one going out in Nov. I was very strongly tempted, and decided I had better go with him.

  If I had felt well, I should not have minded being alone, but the insomnia has pulled me down, naturally, and it made all the difference having him with me. Dr. K. thinks my bad hay-fever was one of the causes, and he assures me it will all be over in a short time with complete change, as my general physical condition is good. But I want to break it up before it becomes anything like a habit, because it unsettles my whole mental life, and leaves me so good for nothing.

  Miss Thayer will tell you that it hasn’t yet affected my spirits, or prevented my writing what she considers a very funny story!!

  I write this in great haste, as I was so sure of seeing you today that I didn’t allow myself time. But you shall get a real letter from the steamer.

  Dear Tonni, I do hope you understand that it is not heartless or inconsiderate of me to go off like this, and that it wrings my heart not to see you, and hear from your own lips the story of your summer.

  Teddy will tell you all the details; I only want to assure you that I wouldn’t have gone without seeing you for a few days first if I hadn’t dreaded the long solitary days at sea and the sleepless nights.

  I have a feeling you’ll understand, and not be hurt, and above all, not worry. That’s the thing I want most. I am well, essentially, only this special thing has to be cured.

  Your devoted EW

  Anna is thrilled as they steam past the Statue of Liberty. Oh, to be home at last! She breathes in the oil-infused perfume of New York Harbor, and glories in the crush of buildings and motorcars she spots on shore. What a journey it was, bringing her experiences she never imagined she’d encounter in her life! But during her most rousing moment abroad, she wished not any other outcome than this: to return home to Edith. Edith’s most recent letters sounded kind, contrite. Perhaps at last they can be what they were to each other once more. How Anna longs for that.

  Cook is waiting on the pier, looking nervous, his hands held behind his back as though he is hiding something.

  “Miss Anna,” he says, doffing his cap. “Welcome home. Have we many trunks to collect?”

  “Just one.” She smiles at him, and sees that he’s aged: his boyish face has begun to tighten around the eyes, and loosen at the chin. How many years has she known him?

  “What is the plan? Are we to go straight away to Lenox? Or are we stopping at 882?” she asks. “There are some books I’d like to pick up there first, if it would be no trouble.”

  Cook bites his lip. Another steamer moving out of the harbor lets out a low and mournful howl.

  “We’re only going to 882,” Cook says. “You see, Mrs. Wharton’s had to go on. She’s awfully sorry. She gave me this note to give to you.”

  “On? Go on to where?”

  “To France. On the Provence.”

  Anna feels as though her feet have been k
nocked out from under her. The late October wind whips up the river, forcing her to pull her wraps more tightly.

  “To . . .” Her mouth is dry. Her heart is slamming too loudly. “To France?”

  “Then back to England on the ferry.” Cook holds out the letter. “Take it. Please.”

  She accepts the ecru envelope. It says in large looping letters, “Tonni.”

  “She knew you’d be upset,” Cook says sotto voce. “It worried her.” He looks away as he scrabbles to find a cigarette in his pocket, then takes it out and lights it.

  “I’m . . .” Anna feels slapped.

  “She says the letter explains everything.”

  “I’m sure it does.”

  “You don’t want to open it now? I can wait.”

  Anna presses her lips together. Perhaps coming back was a mistake. Perhaps she should have more seriously considered her other options.

  “I’ll open it when we get to Park Avenue,” she says. She folds herself into the motor.

  “I’ll come back for the trunk,” he says. “Could be a long time until they winch it down. “Ready?” he asks.

  She closes her eyes. The letter burns in her hand.

  SIXTEEN

  LATE WINTER 1908

  All through the autumn and winter, Edith steeps herself in the social swirl of England to make up for the one wretched afternoon she spent in Paris with Morton Fullerton after the Provence landed. She had persuaded Walter, against his better wishes, to accompany her on the train to Paris rather then heading straight across the Channel on the boat-train as planned. It came to her on the Provence that she simply couldn’t go on to England without knowing why Morton had stopped writing. It isn’t that I want his reassurance, she told herself. I expect the worst. I merely deserve an explanation. Then I can cut him out of my life with certainty.

  “Just one day. Honestly. I have to sort out hiring a cook for the coming season,” she told Walter. “We’ve never had a good cook at the Vanderbilts’ and it’s essential I find one this year. Teddy’s spirits are at stake. Besides, don’t you want a day or two in Paris before you go off to Cairo?” It did indeed turn into two days, as Fullerton couldn’t see her on the first, and hardly found time, he told her, to see her on the second.

  She and Walter had to hole up at the ridiculous Hotel Dominici because the Crillon was fully booked. And then there were those few miserable moments with Morton. Oh, if only she hadn’t insisted! But she shook it off. She had to. And went on with Walter across the Channel to England, which has never been more welcoming. The country suddenly seems to suit her so well. She can stupefy herself with the parties, with the introductions, with the glitter and glamour and joy of the place. England joyous! She had never imagined it could be so.

  There are dinners with Lady this and Lord that. Time alone with HJ, and time to meet and befriend his crowd: Gaillard Lapsley and Howard Sturgis (who crochets and has a hulking male nephew named “Babe”); and time to meet new friends, like young John Hugh Smith, who, like Carl, seems surprisingly drawn to her. And the people she meets! Legendary. At one dinner, she is seated between Philip Burne-Jones and John Galsworthy.

  “My maiden name is Jones. Do you think we may be related?” she asks Burne-Jones.

  “If you are hoping for an inheritance, I can say certainly not,” he mutters, sipping his wine.

  She and John Galsworthy have much more to share, observing everyone at the table with whispered irony. She thinks she must read his books in case they meet again.

  If only she could tell Morton all that she has done and who she’s met. But no. The very thought of Morton is indigestible these days. The way he sat across from her at Le Fouquet that night, and had nothing to say to her. Nothing. When she begged him for an explanation of his curtailed communication this summer, his nostrils flared. His lips pressed together.

  “Don’t ask me,” he said at last. “I told you I’m having problems. I’m probably harming myself just being here with you. You don’t understand.” She can see him now. How his face looked mottled, how his eyes darted to the door again and again.

  “But dear, I want to understand.”

  “Well, you can’t,” he said, his words breathtaking in their chilliness.

  “Is it Katherine?” she finally blurted out. “Are you in love with Katherine?” Edith was mortified for asking. Why, oh why had those words fallen from her lips?

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. Disdain. That’s what his face read. After all she gave him! All she trusted in him!

  “Then just say it’s over. Say it.”

  Again, he just shook his head.

  “You won’t? You won’t put me out of my misery.”

  “If you just give me time . . .”

  “Can’t you be honest and say it’s through between us? Are you too much of a coward?” She wanted to pummel him. To slap him. Her first instincts were physical and childish.

  “Is that what you want?” he asked drily.

  “Of course not.”

  “Then I won’t say it. Edith, I must get back to the office.” He rose and put on his coat. He didn’t offer to pay.

  The word she came away with from the meeting was cruel. He was outright cruel to her.

  So she swallows England whole, dancing and dining, saying dry, witty things to aristocrats, poets, novelists and hangers-on. In London one night, a week before Christmas, and after two glasses of red wine, in which she almost never indulges, she sits down at the lovely little writing desk in her room at Lady St. Helier’s house and writes:

  Dear Mr. Fullerton,

  You have, if they still survive—a few notes and letters of no value to your archives, but which happen to fill a deplorable lacuna in those of their writer.

  I shall be in Paris on Monday next—the 21st—for a day only, and I write to ask if you would be kind enough to send them to me that day at my brother’s.

  Perhaps the best way of making sure that they come straight into my own hands would be to register them.

  Yrs sincerely,

  E. Wharton

  But of course, when she arrives in Paris, there are no letters from Morton.

  Edith hastily escapes Paris for a tour of Provence with the crocheting Howard Sturgis, his outsized nephew and Cook, who’s arrived early with the motorcar to whisk them all away.

  While Edith steeps herself in distraction, Anna is left to wrestle Teddy. Though he is staying at the Knickerbocker Club and she at 882, he visits the very first day after her arrival. Knocking on the door around teatime, he appears stiff and uncomfortable in his city clothes, his slender-cut suit which barely accommodates his expanding belly, his sharp-folded collar and silky tie. She hardly recognizes him.

  “I want to welcome you, dear little Anna,” he says, lifting Nicette, who has appeared from behind Anna’s skirts. “How I’ve missed your face,” he says, holding the little dog and looking right into her delicate foxy countenance, making Anna wonder if he is referring to her or Nicette.

  “I want to hear every single detail of your infamous journey.” He looks at her now with mischievous eyes.

  Anna is warmed by his attentions and finds some Louisiana crunch cake in the kitchen that Gross bought at the Charming Door bakery and lays it out like daisy petals on a china plate. They sip tea together. He eats three pieces. And then asks for brandy, which White provides from his own stash.

  Swirling the brandy snifter, Teddy tells Anna how crushed Edith was that she missed seeing Anna.

  “I’d say she was crying. She was disappointed, I’ll tell you that. I was already at the Knickerbocker, and we were on the telephone, so I didn’t see tears myself. But she begged me to explain to you that it was a matter of timing, and to read nothing whatsoever into it. Those were the words she used.”

  Anna
nods and traces the rim of her cup with her finger. She wants to believe him. But she can’t know until they are face-to-face, until she can see for herself if Edith will look her in the eye. She shivers.

  “Cold?” Teddy asks.

  She shakes her head. “Maybe someone is walking on my grave,” she says.

  “So tell me about the trip. I read some of the postcards. I want to know more.”

  Looking up, she sees he means it. So she launches in. Avoiding any mention of Thomas, she describes her reunion with her dear cousins, the German castles and Roman ruins she found most memorable. She describes how the taste of the beer in Munich seemed to her bitter and refreshing, the way rain smells on cement when it hasn’t rained for a long time.

  “Ain’t that the grandest description! You should be writing, instead of Pussy. Maybe you’ve been writing all her books and I’m the only one that didn’t know it.”

  Anna blushes.

  “Now, Mr. Wharton, you know that’s not true,” she says.

  She goes on to depict the shimmering light in her ethereal hotel room in Venice. The taste of the retsina in the Peloponnese. He sighs. He lights a cigar. He pours more brandy.

  At six o’clock he rises and straightens out his too-tight jacket.

  “Miss Anna, seeing you is, without a doubt, the nicest thing that’s happened to me all month.” Anna can’t help but be pleased. How lucky she is to have dear Mr. Wharton as a friend!

  But then, Teddy starts showing up nearly every day to see her. To the point that Gross says, “He’s here again? Whatever for?”

  Anna shrugs. “He must miss Edith. That’s the only explanation I have. And the dogs. Maybe he comes to see the dogs.”