I put the coat away, fighting a burning sensation in my throat. Could I have done worse? If I had tried, could I have found a more deceitful, perverted, dishonorable husband? Why hadn’t I seen behind the scoundrel’s fashionably high-cut waistcoats and pearl-pinned cravats? That episode of the stealthily pressing hand under the lap robe should have given me a clue. But reared in innocence, I had not known what to make of it, had even doubted its reality.
Perhaps Mama, with her greater experience, might have sensed a flaw, wondered if the prospective bridgegroom was all he presented himself to be. But Mama was anxious and harried—and Roger so good at hiding his true self. And Papa? He had come over at the last moment, and his acquaintanceship with Roger had been quite brief. Even so, Papa had had vague reservations about him, and I’d been a fool to ignore them, a fool to rush into marriage merely because Roger bore some resemblance to Page, because it was a “good match.”
Yet it was done. Fate—myself, whatever—had dealt me a miserable blow. I would have to cope with my marriage as best I could. As I had told Roger, I had no legal grounds on which to leave him. I would have to stay. Breast-beating and wallowing in self-pity would only make me weak, and I had to be strong for what lay ahead. God knew I didn’t feel strong. I had never needed to be strong, supported as I was by loving parents, brothers, and friends, cosseted and protected from unpleasantness and the sordidness of life. But now my family and friends were gone, changed in their roles by two words spoken in front of a vicar: “I do.” I was a grown woman, married, wife to a man who would protect me from nothing. I had only myself to look to, and the thought struck fear in my heart.
It was the last time, however, that I would allow myself the luxury of being afraid.
We arrived in Richmond on a chill, blustery day, the last week of October. A driving rain dashed against the carriage windows as we rumbled over the wet pavements to Roger’s house, on Charles Street. The gray lowering sky and the pinching cold gave the city a depressing look. Shops were closed, pedestrians few: a lone woman huddled in a brown shawl, carrying a flapping umbrella ineffectual against the downpour; a child chasing a dog. The houses we passed seemed deserted, with doors shut, curtains drawn, and tiny gardens behind ragged hedges drowning in plots of mud and rain-dimpled puddles.
“Here we are!” Roger announced, the first words he had spoken to me since the train pulled into the Broad Street Station. “I could do with a whiskey.”
The carriage stopped while the coachman got down and opened the iron gate. The house itself stood back some fifty yards from the street, two-storied, white-pillared, the pitched roof guarded by a huge bare oak.
We were to stay here with Roger’s father until our own house was built, a residence Roger had planned since the day of our engagement. I had not met the senior Mr. Prescott. He had been too infirm, he wrote, to travel to England for the wedding. From the tone of his letter I took him to be crotchety if not somewhat rude. He did not disappoint me.
When he heard us arrive he came out of his lair in the study, tapping an ivory-knobbed cane. He and Roger did not embrace or shake hands.
The old man said, “You’re back.”
I smiled at him. “How do you do, Mr. Prescott?”
He ignored my greeting. “So this is the filly you married.” He pointed his cane at me. ‘‘Let’s have a look.”
For a moment I was too stunned to move. Then Roger was helping me off with my coat. I unpinned my hat and gave it to the waiting butler.
“Turn around,” Mr. Prescott ordered.
I looked at Roger, but he was busy divesting himself of his own coat and did not, or would not, meet my questioning gaze.,
“Turn!” the old man repeated.
I did as he asked.
“She’ll do,” he said.
He had the coldest blue eyes I had ever seen on a human being, fish eyes that stared without blinking. Bald except for a fringe of white hair over his ears, with a veined bulbuous nose and a tight mousetrap mouth under a bushy moustache, he bore little resemblance to his son.
“You in the family way yet?” he barked at me.
I colored, fighting the impulse to snatch my hat and coat from wherever the butler (now gone) had put them and flee the house. I conquered the impulse and met the old man’s eyes with a steady gaze. I knew instinctively that if I showed any fear to this bully, living under the same roof with him would be living in hell.
“When that happens,” I replied, infusing my voice with acid dredged up from some inner source, “you shall be the first to know.”
“Humph!”
I wanted to add that I resented being looked over like a horsetrader’s mare, that I deserved a more courteous welcome, and that his manners were abominable. But I had been taught to respect my elders and my previous remark had been brash enough.
Roger said, “Shall we have a whiskey. Father? And I’m sure Sabrina would like a cup of tea.”
“Tea!” Mr. Prescott sneered.
“Thank you, no,” I said, turning to Roger. “I wonder if I might be excused and shown to my room? It’s been an exhausting day.”
The old man snorted again. “One of those headachy females, is she?”
What made that scene with old Mr. Prescott even more humiliating was Roger’s unwillingness—or inability—to intervene in my favor. A real husband would have done so. Was Roger afraid of the old man? It didn’t seem possible for Roger to be afraid of anyone.
A maid was summoned and I followed her up the stairs to a narrow room that smelled of camphor. My trunk had already been brought up, and now the maid began to unpack it. She was a mulatto of middle age, tight-lipped, deferential, and not at all interested in making me feel any more welcome than the old man downstairs.
“What do they call you?” I asked civilly.
“Hazel,” she answered shortly in a tone that discouraged further inquiry.
I moved to the window and looked down at the rain-soaked garden. A twiggy lilac bush and a maple losing the last of its red leaves stood forlornly among the dead flower beds.
I turned back to the maid. She was hanging my gown in a tall, mirrored wardrobe. “Perhaps we ought to leave room for my husband’s things,” I suggested.
“Mr. Roger asked that his trunk and portmanteau be brought to the room across the hall.”
That cheered me. We were going to have the separate rooms I had asked for. A blessing. Since our honeymoon he had twice performed sexual intercourse (with a violence that had left me in tears) on me, squeezed into a narrow bunk, jammed up against the ship’s bulkhead. Having to share a bed with him was torture. But now I would be spared.
Old Mr. Prescott frowned on visitors. He rarely entertained, claiming there was no one in Richmond who was worth a whiskey or a meal at his expense.
Nevertheless, people came to call. My father had cousins, the Bainbridges, in Richmond as well as friends who had known him since boyhood, and they were anxious to meet me. I had hardly unpacked when the doorbell downstairs began to ring with the arrival of cards, little notes, invitations. Jane Bainbridge sent a messenger in the person of a little black boy, neatly dressed and so shy I had to coax the whispered words out of him. Would I be at home this Thursday next at three oclock?
* * *
I came down to the parlor a minute or two after she was announced, not knowing what to expect. I had been told that she was a sweet, kind person without a mean bone in her body. But then I had been told many things that had proved dubious if not untrue.
“My dear!” she cried, coming toward me, arms outstretched, plump and white-haired, her gray eyes set under wrinkled lids alight with pleasure. “At last we meet!”
Her embrace was warm and, I felt, genuine. “Let me look at you, Sabrina! Why, it’s your mother you favor, but there’s a bit of Miles in the shape of your nose—no, the chin. Well, my dear, well, well!’’
Jane Bainbridge, despite my newfound cynicism, disarmed me. She was the sort of rare soul who never spoke abo
ut a person unless she could say something good. Yet this trait which might be Pollyannaish in someone else, did not detract from her wit and vitality.
“Come sit beside me,’’ she said, patting, the sofa, “and tell me all about London and Paris. And your parents. Why have they never brought you to Richmond before?’’
“I don’t know,’’ I said. “It’s the distance, I suppose.’’
“Dear, dear! I don’t know why they should have settled in San Francisco. But no matter. I understand that Roger is building a house for you.’’
“Yes, on the Heights, a little way from the city.’’
“All these new suburbs going up. I don’t know what’s to become of the old neighborhoods. But then I suppose young people these days like to have their own place. Not that I blame them, you understand.’’ She leaned forward and tapped my knee. “Living with one’s parents can be a trial. And Mr. Prescott, by his own admission, is a bit . . . well, a bit eccentric.’’
What an understatement! Because old Mr. Prescott was of the aristocracy, his boorishness was considered eccentric, whereas a poor man from a no-account family with similar habits would have been dismissed as impossibly crass.
“Mr. Bainbridge and I thought the best way for you to meet all of us was to have a party.’’ She did not say—or even hint—that it was my father-in-law’s place to introduce me to Richmond society. “And I have already drawn up a guest list.’’ She opened her purse and extracted a sheet of notepaper.
“Would you care to inspect it?’’
“Thank you, Aunt Jane, but I trust your judgment. Besides, I doubt I would know anyone on your list.”
“Oh, but you do. Your cousin Page is at Wildoak now.” I must have looked astonished, for she added, “Didn’t you know?”
“No—no—I hadn’t realized ...” My voice trailed off. I was speaking the truth. His letter had been written from Wildoak, but it hadn’t occurred to me that he had actually settled there. According to his mother, who had been at the wedding, he preferred traveling: New York, Georgia, Haiti.
“Yes, he’s been staying there with just one servant since old Mr. Gan died. You are on good terms, I take it?” she asked anxiously.
“Oh, yes.” Good terms. Did it matter where he was, what he said, what he did? Too much had happened. A crowd of events had divided us. I felt nothing for Page now—no longing, no wish to see him, not even any anger. I was a different person, changed. My love for him had died with that innocent young girl who had become someone else in a Paris hotel room.
“Then you won’t object if I set our get-together, say, on the first of December?” Jane asked. “Of course, you will want to consult with Roger, but I’m sure he’ll agree.”
Roger, to my surprise, was enthusiastic. “I do hope she’ll invite the Floods or the Swansons or both,” he said. “I’m anxious to know these men socially. Have you seen the guest list?”
“No. I didn’t think it would be important.”
“But it is. Hal Flood is very influential politically.”
It was the first I had heard of my husband’s interest in politics.
“Perhaps you could suggest it to Jane. Tactfully, of course.”
I looked at him and wondered how he could play the part of husband as if nothing was wrong between us. His hypocrisy irritated me. I was on the brink of telling him that I would not pander for him, that he could ask Jane himself, when I thought better of it.
I was Mrs. Roger Prescott. That my marriage had been a failure from the start was a shameful secret I did not care to have broached, even to my father-in-law. Being at odds with Roger would not salvage my pride. To publicly display our differences would only serve to fuel the gossips.
“I’ll see what I can do with Aunt Jane,” I said.
Yes. Appearances. By all means they must be kept up. To the world we would seem content, if not gloriously happy, domesticated, companionable partners. Lesser women would envy me for a husband who provided amply, a carriage of my own, unlimited accounts, a new house abuilding. Men would say, What a fine wife—beautiful, intelligent, unobtrusively furthering her husband’s career. Submissive, a decoration, the mother of his children.
Jane Bainbridge lived in a shabby neighborhood, one of those streets lined with old antebellum dwellings slowly going to seed. Her house stood bravely amidst the decay, shutters freshly painted, windows glowing with light, the brass knocker, knob, and hinges gleaming with polish.
Inside, the parlor was so crammed with elegantly dressed guests that one hardly noticed the old-fashioned furniture, the worn horsehair sofa and slippery chairs, the fading Turkey rugs, the chipped marble-topped tables, the dusty wax flowers under glass. I was introduced around: Berkelys, Floods, Carruthers, Hardwicks, each expressing delight in meeting me, offering compliments with a warmhearted sincerity. “You are so like your mother, quite a beauty in her day.” “So, you are Miles Falconer’s daughter, a credit to him, I must say.” “What a beautiful gown, Paris, no doubt, and so becoming!” Charming!” It was almost like being at home again, loved, flattered, the center of attention.
“Buffet is being served in the dining room!” Jane Bainbridge announced. “Please, everyone, come for refreshments.”
Mr. Bainbridge gave me his arm and led the way across a narrow foyer. The bell rang and Jane bustled to answer it. I saw her first, a slim, pretty, blondish girl in green watered silk. Then directly behind, framed in the doorway, stood Page, taller, broader of shoulder, his face deeply tanned, greeting Jane Bainbridge, a flash of white teeth in that familiar, disarming, rakish smile.
Chapter 29
I still loved him.
Everything I had told myself these last few months meant nothing. The bitterness, the indifference, the determination to forget vanished like chalk figures wiped clean from a slate. The girl who had loved Page Morse had not died as I supposed. She was still breathing, still hurting, still alive.
He looked up from Jane and saw me, his blue eyes suddenly blazing with recognition. And in that moment the years fell away. I was standing in the paneled foyer of my father’s house on Nob Hill and a younger Page was striding across the rug-strewn floor crying, “Why, you must be Sabrina!”
I loved him then. I had never stopped.
Mr. Bainbridge called in passing, “Hello, Page, better late than never!” before he guided me into the dining room. There the table, cunningly decorated with fall foliage and late asters, was set out with trays of sandwiches and cakes.
“I don’t believe I’ve met the young woman Page Morse is escorting,” I said, as if she were of only casual interest to me.
“Deborah Baines. Her people have the plantation adjacent to Wildoak. Newcomers from Durham. I understand her parents are quite particular about who calls upon her. I suppose they wish to discourage fortune hunters. I’d say anyone allowed to take her to a party would be considered a prospective suitor.”
I glanced at the far end of the table where Page stood with the girl. He was offering her a plate of sandwiches, smiling down at her the way he had once smiled down at me.
“She’s wealthy, I suppose,” I said through stiff lips, trying not to cry out at the sudden knifelike thrust in my heart.
“Quite.”
Later, as I sat with an untouched plate of food in my lap, he came up to me.
“Hello, Sabrina. You are looking well.”
“I can say the same for you. Page.” I did not give him my hand. I could not bear touching him. I knew if I did I should weep.
“I’ve been remiss about offering my congratulations. A thousand pardons. May I do so now?”
“Thank you. I suppose I shall soon be doing the same for you?” I asked, glancing over at Deborah Baines, who was conversing with Aunt Jane.
“One is never sure, is one?” Page said.
Roger appeared with the punch he had gone to fetch for me. “Do you know my cousin. Page Morse?” I asked.
Roger shook his hand. “I believe we’ve met at a fun
ction or two in the past. You are at Wildoak, are you not?”
“Yes. You and Sabrina must visit. Perhaps you can arrange to stay for a few days. There’s nothing like the country for a change of pace.”
“I don’t deny that,” Roger said. “But I’ve been away from business too long. Perhaps Sabrina might like to go.”
“Oh, no!” I protested quickly, flushing under Roger’s inquiring look. “Not for a while,” I amended. “The house ...” Turning to Page in explanation, I added, “Roger is building us a house near Mr. Lewis Ginter’s.”
“Ginter—yes, yes, of course, tobacco, isn’t it?”
“Precisely,” Roger remarked. “His company sells tobacco all over the world. Ginter is a very influential man.” His eyes alighted on a newcomer entering the dining room. “There is Mr. Dooley! Excuse me.”
He went off to capture Mr. Dooley and in his wake left an awkward silence. I pushed some ham salad around on my plate, not looking at Page, who stood over me like a disturbing shadow.
“Are you happy?” Page asked.
“Very,” I said brightly, lifting my eyes to meet his.
He knew I was lying. Page and I had always been able to read each other.
He said, “I’m glad to hear that. My letter—”
“It came too late, Page.”
“Did it? Or would you have married Roger Prescott in any case?”
“Perhaps.”
His expression stiffened, became blank. “I can see why you chose Roger. Handsome, rich, and he isn’t a cousin.”
“I could say the same of your Miss Baines,” I said, returning his taunt.
“You could, but I haven’t married her—yet. Though I’m planning to, if I can.”
Pride's Folly Page 35
