Alfred Gan, as fragile and transparent as a pressed flower, shook my hand with tears in his eyes.
“So good to see you, my boy. So good.” Later, over blackberry wine, he said, “We didn’t know where you were. Your mother has been worried to death.”
“I wrote and told her I went to Haiti.”
“But that’s been such a while.”
“Yes,” I agreed. A lifetime.
There were packets of letters waiting for me. I went through them hurriedly. Not one from Sabrina. But then our parting had not left us on the best of terms. I would write, apologize, humble myself.
My mother’s letters were full of irrelevant gossip, news of Invernean, trout fishing, my half-brother’s departure for boarding school. “Carmella and Sabrina are having a season in London,” she wrote casually. “They were invited to stay with the Marchioness of Axebury—she’s American, you know—but they preferred Claridges. A marvelous hotel. When you come to London you must stay there ...”
I did not bother to read the rest, which I guessed from experience would go on and on about such trivia as Claridges. The important thing was that Mother had given me Sabrina’s present address.
I sat down immediately and wrote to her. I must have penned and torn up three drafts before I was satisfied with the last. It was simple and to the point.
Dear Sabrina: I love you. Whatever I have said, whatever I’ve done, I’ve never ceased loving you. My future without you is inconceivable. Sabrina, my darling, I know you feel the same. There must be some way we can be together. Tell me there is hope.
It was a letter that fell far short of my deepest feelings, the emotion, the longing, the guilt, the bittersweet memories. But I was not a poet, and I hoped Sabrina would understand.
One afternoon about three weeks after I had sent the letter, Jane Bainbridge came for a visit. I remember everything about that day, what Jane wore, what we ate, what we drank. I remember the cool June breeze blowing the parlor curtains, an errant glint of sun sending a beam of reflected light from the Japanese bowl inside the glass doors of the étagère. I remember thinking, Aunt Jane is getting old and the little hat set upon her gray, poufed hair has been out of fashion for at least a decade. I remember her smile, sweet and warm, taking me in like an embrace and the little pang of guilt at my silent criticism.
“And what great news did you bring from the city?’’ Alfred asked.
“Alex Harkness passed on, poor soul. I think it is a blessing. He never got over his wife’s death, you know—he missed her.’’ Mrs. Harkness had died some twenty-three years earlier. Perhaps I should feel the same if Sabrina preceded me in death. And suddenly I wished I was old, that all this fire and agony was over, that we, Sabrina and I, were two elderly souls with children and grandchildren, content. . . .
“And of course,’’ Jane went on, “the big news is that Sabrina Falconer is marrying Roger Prescott. In London. Very romantic. Yes, thank you, Daisy,’’ this to the cook passing a plate of pastries. “I will have one—so delicious. I remember eating them at Wildoak before the war—pecans and brown sugar . . . mmmmm.” She bit into the tart, while walls, buildings, whole cities trembled and crashed in my mind.
I heard myself say as from a long way off, “But she can’t!”
“Indeed, she can. You were always sweet on her. Page—oh, I knew.” She wagged her finger at me. “But that was a childhood fancy, calf love, my dear. You’re cousins, you know. You ought to feel happy for her. Roger comes from one of our best Richmond families. A fine young man— handsome and rich into the bargain.”
“When . . . ?” I asked, my throat dry.
“On the twentieth of June,” she said. And then, putting her hand to her mouth, “Why, that’s today!”
PART III
Sabrina
(1888)
Chapter 27
“You look so pale,” Mama said. ”A discreet touch of rouge, perhaps?”
My unsmiling face gazed back at me from the gilt-edged mirror. “No, I think not.”
Mama twitched the ivory satin skirt of my wedding dress, adjusting a fold, lifting and inspecting the long train behind. “I must say, Mrs. Nettleship did a fine job on such short notice.” She touched my hair, its dark abundance piled high and fastened into a topknot. ‘‘Are you nervous, darling?”
“A little.” I smiled. Dear, dear Mama; she had worked so hard to make this occasion a success.
‘‘Brave girl,” she said.
‘‘Not at all,” I said, lifting my chin a little higher. “I don’t think you—or Papa—would have behaved any differently. I gave Roger my word and I intend to stick by it no matter what people say or how much the world is against him.”
Roger had been accused of cheating at cards two days earlier in a well-known London club. It was considered a heinous crime but one Roger had sworn he didn’t commit. A poor loser, an earl’s son in his cups, had hurled the accusation at him. Circumstances had made it impossible for Roger to prove his innocence.
“Will you wear your necklace?” Mama asked.
It had been a wedding gift from Roger, matched diamonds, as extravagantly costly as the engagement ring I wore on my finger. “I think not,” I said. “It would look too—well, ostentatious.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Mama agreed. “The marchioness has had more than enough to talk about as it is.”
The marchioness and her coterie whispering behind fans and over cups of sugared tea, their male counterparts speaking in low bass voices through clouds of cheroot smoke, had concurred among themselves that I should repudiate Roger. No one would blame me, they said. In fact, the marchioness claimed, it was expected of me. But what she and the others did not realize was that I was a Falconer, heir to their stubborn loyalty and code of honor. I had promised to marry Roger and I would.
“The veil,” Mama commanded. The maid handed it to her, and Mama placed the cloud of Valencia lace on my head, firmly settling the crown of orange blossoms.
“You make such a beautiful bride,” Mama said, leaning over and kissing me through the veil. “Are you happy?”
“Yes, of course. What a question!”
I felt no love for Roger. Fondness, perhaps, but not love. I would never love anyone but Page, who no longer loved me. I had consented to become Roger’s wife because Mama did not want me to be a spinster and because he was the only man I had met who seemed tolerable as a potential husband. He was handsome, devoted, kind, companionable, and, most important perhaps, bore a faint resemblance to Page. It was the way a lock of his light brown hair fell over his forehead, the angle of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. Looking at him, I could think of Page. I could imagine Page’s arm about my waist, his lips on my hand, his voice in my ear.
“Imagine,” Mama said, “coming all this distance to England to meet and marry a Virginian.”
It was a comment she had made several times before. I forgave her. As the mother of the bride she had earned the right to be nervous, even repetitive. It had been such a whirlwind courtship.
Someone knocked on the door and Papa’s voice called, “Are you ready? The natives are getting restive.”
“In a few minutes,” Mama answered. “No!” she warned as the doorknob turned. “Don’t come in!”
Papa was less than enthusiastic about the match. He’d never said so aloud, but I sensed it in the way he would sometimes look at Roger, assessing him thoughtfully. “Are you sure you love this man?” he had asked.
I had lied to him when I said, “Yes, of course.”
“I have always given you what you wanted, Sabrina. ...”
Not always, I thought, not Page.
“. . . And if you think this man will make you happy, you have my blessing.”
“He’ll make me happy. Papa. He dotes on me, just as you do.”
I wondered if he believed me.
There was a flurry of laughter and the bridesmaids came in, English girls with their smooth, rosy-cheeked complexions, friends I had made
during the season when Mama and I had made the rounds of teas, dances, and suppers.
“Shall we go?” Mama asked like a schoolmarm to her flock of giggling females.
A happy, excited chorus answered her affirmatively.
After the ceremony at St. Giles we returned to the hotel for a gala reception in the ballroom. The music, dancing, and feasting were still going on when I stole away, slipping upstairs to change for the trip to Paris, where Roger and I planned to honeymoon. Mother, flushed and in a dither, sentimental with champagne, helped me out of my wedding gown.
“It went beautifully,” she said, pressing her knuckles to her cheeks in an effort to control tears. “Your father and I never had a proper wedding, you know.”
“Yes, Mama.” She and Papa had been married at the bedside of my grandfather as he lay dying in a place called Virginia City. It was during the famous Comstock strike in Nevada, and Mama had gone there along with grandfather and Papa—grandfather’s dearest friend—who wanted to try their luck. From the way my mother told the story I sensed that she had not loved my father when she married him, but had grown to love him later. I took great hope from that.
“You look très chic,” Mama said, surveying me. “You will put all those Parisiennes to shame.”
“Oh, Mama—really!” But I had to admit my costume was very fetching. It had been especially designed for me by a famous London couturiere, a suit of red-and-white tweed set off by a red silk collar and cuffs.
“Oh, Sabrina, darling—” Mama’s voice broke, and she flung her arms around me, her wet face pressed against my neck, a sob shaking her body.
“A fine thing,” I murmured, my own throat tight. “Tears on my wedding day.”
“I know, I know,” she mumbled, shaking her head. Producing a handkerchief, she blew her nose.
“There.” I kissed her on the cheek. “Why don’t you go down to your guests? I’ve only to wait for the porter to pick up my bags.”
She gave me one last hug. “Sabrina ...” Her voice was solemn, her blue-violet eyes moist. “I want you to always remember that I love you. Everything I’ve ever done has been for your happiness. ”
Alone at last, I took a deep breath. I would miss Mama and could understand her tears. My own lay lodged in my throat. We would be separated by a continent—she in San Francisco with Papa, I in Richmond with Roger. We would be apart for the first time since I’d been away at school. I would miss her, but I had a husband now and a whole new life to look forward to.
Sighing, I drew on my gloves, noticing that one had a large spot on the palm. It was too late to have it cleaned, but I remembered Mama had a similar pair. I went into the adjoining bedroom and opened her bureau drawer. Going through handkerchiefs and scarves I found the gloves, and as I picked them up I saw the letter underneath.
It was from Page. To me.
The handwriting on the envelope was as familiar as my own. A cascade of memories poured over me, so many years, so many letters, from Virginia, Wildoak, Richmond, San Francisco, letters, letters, cousin, sweetheart, my own dear love . . .
My hand trembled as I picked it up. The envelope was still sealed. I tore it open and took out the single sheet of notepaper.
“Dear Sabrina: I love you ...”
I read it through twice, every word etching itself on my heart. Page had never ceased loving me; he could not imagine a future without me. “Tell me there is hope,” he pleaded.
I examined the date, the postmark. The letter had been written three weeks ago. A letter withheld.
I stood over the opened bureau drawer, holding it in my hand, debating, agonizing, loving yet damning Page for our quarrel. He had expected me to run away with him on the spur of the moment. No time to gather my wits, to make plans, no time to think. “Now,” he had said, counting on me to flee the country, to sever all ties with a father and mother who had shown me nothing but love and kindness.
And yet if I had read the letter when it came, even if he had written the same words he had spoken then, I would have gone. A Page whom I had thought as good as dead, asking, loving, pressing me—how could I refuse? Roger would have released me. He would not want to marry a girl who loved another man.
But all this was academic now. It was too late. I was married. I had my mother to thank for that. Now I knew what she’d meant when she said that everything she had done had been for my own happiness. How misguided, how cruel! I could never forgive her.
There was a tapping on the door. “Porter, ma’am.”
I crumpled the letter in my hand and left it lying in the open drawer. Let her see, let her know what she had done to me.
“Come in,” I said.
Indicating the bags to be taken, I picked up my furled red silk umbrella and left the room.
Roger had ordered champagne brought to our rooms, the bridal suite in one of the most expensive hotels in Paris. The gilt-and-white furnishings, the virginal sofas and sensually thick carpets, the emerald draperies, and the bed itself, seen through the open sitting room door, testered and curtained in white satin, all created an illusion of a romantic bower designed for new lovers.
“À votre santé!” Roger exclaimed, holding his glass high.
“And to your health, also, Roger.” We clinked glasses and drank.
Because I had been distracted by thoughts of Page’s letter (and my mother’s hiding it under her gloves and handkerchiefs), I hadn’t given much thought to what would happen once Roger and I were alone together as man and wife. Yet now that the moment had arrived, I wasn’t as nervous as I’d expected to be. Mama, in an indirect way, had explained something of what to expect. The rest I had gleaned from the hushed confidences of a girl at school who had been “ruined.”
“Why don’t you slip into your nightclothes while I have another sip of champagne?’’ Roger asked with a small smile.
“Yes, it is getting late,’’ I said, returning his smile. I put my glass down and went into the bedroom, debating an infinitesimal second before quietly shutting the door. I had wanted to bring my maid, but Roger said she would only be a hindrance. “Not on our honeymoon, darling.” Now I regretted leaving her behind as my hands, suddenly all thumbs, struggled with buttons and hooks. But I finally managed to divest myself of the last petticoat, the confining stays, and the frilled drawers.
My nightgown had been laid out on the bed by the hotel maid. It was an Empire creation of pink nun’s veiling gathered under the bosom, its neckline cut daringly low. It was not until I slipped the gown on and examined myself in the mirror that it struck me I would have to exhibit myself thus—full white breasts rising under tight lacings, the hips and legs dimly outlined—to the husband awaiting me in the next room.
Suddenly he became a stranger. What did I really know about Roger Prescott?
The essential sketchy facts I had been aware of from the beginning. He was the only son of a wealthy Richmond cotton-mill owner who could trace his Virginia ancestry back to a pre-Revolutionary plantation owner. Roger had gone to the best schools, had impeccable manners, was rather humorless but intelligent. He had come to England to study the manufacture of cloth at the Manchester mills, and I had met him at one of the marchioness’s teas. Obviously taken with me, he had asked Mama if he could call on us. All very proper. As my escort to subsequent parties and suppers, he had always behaved like a perfect gentleman, handing me in and out of carriages, fetching my shawl, a glass of sherry, a plate of sweets, kissing me lightly on the fingertips and later on the cheek. Only once did he overstep the bounds of good taste, and then in a rather odd way.
We were returning one chill evening from a bail in his hired carriage, I seated next to Roger, Mama facing us. Because the night was cold we had been provided with lap robes—rugs as the English called them. As we clattered through the silent streets, Roger’s hand under the robe covered mine. I smiled a little, pleased because to me it was an affectionate gesture, one that Roger had not indulged in before.
Mama, unaware of th
e reason for my smile, said, “It was a lovely ball, though I thought the new Lady Bixwell too haughty for words.”
“They say she was a seamstress,” Roger said. “Perhaps she is trying to make up for it.”
“Oh,” said Mama, “there’s nothing wrong in being a seamstress.”
The pressure from Roger’s fingers tightened and then he moved my hand carefully, stealthily—still under the robe—to cover a bulge in his trousered lap. It took me a shocked moment to realize what that bulge was. I had felt a similar one, even seen it, on Page when he had kissed me too long and passionately. Roger was aroused and yet not a sign of it appeared on his face. I sat rigid in an agony of embarrassment. He began to rub my hand over his swollen member, pressing down on it, all the while discussing with my mother the difficulty of obtaining a truly good meal in a London restaurant.
I felt hot and cold by turns. I think it was the furtiveness of it—and Mama’s presence—that bothered me the most. But I was afraid that by forcibly withdrawing my hand from his iron grip I might create a scene. He shifted slightly, moving the palm of my hand under his stiff manhood, cradling it in my unresisting fingers.
Mama must have seen me shudder, for she said, “Are you cold, Sabrina dear?”
“No—I ...”
“It is a bit drafty,” Roger said, quickly releasing my hand, replacing it by my side and solicitously tucking the robe more securely about my legs.
Then he went on talking in a normal voice, making me wonder after a few minutes if the incident had really happened or been a figment of my imagination.
Now that same man was calling from the other side of the door, “Are you ready, darling?”
I had a moment of panic before I swallowed it and replied, “In a moment, Roger.”
Pride's Folly Page 33
