“I don’t see what we have to chat about.”
“Sabrina, you can’t dismiss me as if I were a stranger. Have you forgotten I was once your friend, if nothing else?”
“That was long years ago, Page, when we were very young. Now—well, now things have changed. I’m married, and you have your Miss Baines.”
“Miss Baines! For God’s sake, Sabrina! I was only teasing! What’s happened to you? In the past you could always tell when I was pulling your leg. Miss Baines! I have no more interest in her than she has in me. Because of that, her parents consider me a safe enough escort. But affianced, married? You ought to know me better than that.”
Had I lost my perspective? Had marriage to Roger made me bitter and suspicious when I had no cause to be? Had I become so narrow-minded as to suffer pangs of envy every time Page smiled at another woman? Page was right. I never could have felt that way in the old days.
Page put his hand on my arm just as the man in the black bowler peered through the door again.
“Please, Page—I must go. If we are seen together people will gossip, and my husband is a jealous man.”
“All right. We can meet elsewhere.” He lowered his voice. “I’m staying at the caretaker’s cottage at The Vales. Just outside of town, about a mile from the end of Pine Street.”
“Are you mad? I can’t.”
“Just to talk, nothing more. For old times’ sake, Sabrina. No one uses the cottage but me. The big house is empty.” He brought out a key and pressed it into my hand. “In an hour.”
“I can’t.”
He turned abruptly and walked to a corner of the bookshop where he began to examine the shelves.
The shopkeeper gave me an inquiring glance. I said, “Perhaps you could help me? I am looking for a certain novel by Dean Howell.”
Of course I wouldn’t go. The gall! I would drop the key into the nearest gutter.
Once outside, I saw Roger’s bloodhound across the street, lighting his pipe in the shadow of a butcher-shop doorway.
I was not going to meet Page. The whole idea was insane, impossible, especially with that horrible creature dodging my footsteps.
I walked down the street, pausing to look into the milliner’s window. A half dozen hats were displayed on wooden stands, toques trimmed with bands of feathers and brown ombre ribbons. One hat had a small stuffed bird perched on its brim, wings outspread as if in flight.
Gazing at it I caught the reflection of the man in the bowler in the plate-glass window. As he passed, his beady, close-set eyes met mine in a penetrating look.
That particular inquisitorial stare seemed the final breach in the dike, releasing a tidal flood of anger. The unjustness of Roger’s surveillance! How dare he! How dare he treat me like a criminal, have me watched, followed, as if I had committed some venal crime. Couldn’t I look at a hat without being spied upon?
Still fuming, I went on and presently heard his footsteps behind. I was about to turn and meet him head on when I saw a policeman approaching.
“Pardon, sir,” I said, detaining him. “There’s a man following me, the one with the bowler pretending to look into a shop window. He’s been tagging after me all this morning.”
The freckled-faced, brass-buttoned policeman said, “I shall see what he’s up to, ma’am.”
My beady-eyed shadow, glancing over his shoulder and seeing the law making tracks for him, turned swiftly and began to hurry away. The policeman hastened after him, and I ducked down the nearest alley. Coming out on Broad Street, I hailed a passing hansom.
“Where to, ma’am?” the driver asked.
“Pine Street,” I said.
Now, why, why had I done that? I’d fully intended to give him my home address. I shouldn’t see Page; there was no point to it. At best a meeting would only make me sad, bring up old memories, remind me of a past I could not retrieve. I could still change my mind, I thought. Suddenly I realized that the key was still in my hand. Why hadn’t I thrown it away?
The hansom rumbled on, each turn of the wheels telling me to go back. Gobackgobackgoback. I put my hands to my ears, to shut out the sound. I didn’t want to go back. I wanted to see Page. What harm could there be in talking to him for a few minutes? I needed a friend so desperately.
I did have the sense, however, to stop the hansom in front of a brick house on Pine Street, pretending this was my destination.
“You needn’t wait,” I said, paying the driver.
When he clattered off, I began to walk toward The Vales. Presently I heard hoofbeats behind me, and turning my head I saw that it was Page on a beautiful chestnut bay. He dismounted, doffed his hat, and gave me a small smile.
I thought: If he says, I knew you would come, I’ll turn and leave if I have to walk all the way back to town.
But he didn’t. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Prescott.”
“Hello, Page.”
“May I give you a ride?”
“Thank you. But I’m afraid I couldn’t manage your saddle with my skirts.”
He examined the saddle with a mock-critical look. “Perhaps you could perch sideways? It is a mile over a rutted road. I’ll lead the horse. Petrarch is very gentle.”
“Very well. I see no harm in trying.”
“Good girl,”
Good girl. Oh, Page, you mustn’t try to bring back the old days, the pet names.
He lifted me in his arms and swung me into the saddle, and it was no use, no use at all, for a sudden rush of memory took me back to the stables at the foot of Nob Hill. (Page had been laughing, teasing, as he settled me on the hired pony in a flurry of petticoats. “Be a good girl, now, forget your silly feminine modesty, pay attention, or you’ll never learn to ride, you goose,’’ he had ordered.)
Looking down at the top of his head now, it all came back to me with a bittersweet ache. We proceeded in silence, I clinging to the reins, he leading the horse, the felt hat replaced, the shoulders broad, the sun-browned hand on the bridle. The hand that could touch, stroke, caress—but I mustn’t think of that.
The cottage was small, divided into two rooms; the larger serving as a combination kitchen, dining room, and parlor; the smaller, glimpsed through a half-open door, a bedroom.
Page took my coat and fur muff, but I kept my hat, my way of telling him that my stay would be brief.
“It’s a bit chilly,’’ Page said, rubbing his hands. “I’ll stir up the fire. Would you care for some tea?”
“No, please don’t bother.’’
A deal table and four pine chairs stood on the hearth rug close to the fire. I sat down on one of the chairs and watched while Page worked the bellows, adding sticks to the orange flames as they sprang up. A blackened copper pan hung from a hook on the chimney breast. In the kitchen next to the stove a banjo clock ticked away, and on the opposite wall a poster of Lillie Langtry extolled the virtues of Pear’s soap.
“Now, Sabrina, tell me,’’ Page said, seating himself opposite me at the deal table, “why were you so ruffled at the bookshop.’’
“I was being followed.’’
“Followed? I might have guessed as much. By your husband?”
“Someone in his employ.”
“That’s rather drastic, isn’t it?”
“Roger is a drastic man.”
He searched my face. “You aren’t happy, are you, Sabrina?”
He reached out to touch my hand, but I moved it away. “I’d rather not discuss my marriage.” If I did, I should be weeping, and I didn’t want him to pity me.
“Tell me about Haiti, Page.”
“Yes. Well. You knew I had gone there with my father, my real father?”
“No—only that you had gone.” His bastardy, thrown at me during a quarrel, had never again been mentioned by my parents.
“He—my father—had been left a coffee estate in a central province and a small interest in a rum distillery in Port-au-Prince. But he never had the money to go and claim it. I offered to finance our trip.” He paused, rubbing the back
of his neck. “He was delighted at first—and later disappointed. You see, the estate had been taken over by squatters, who refused to budge. My father was killed, shot by one of them.”
“Oh, Page, I’m so sorry.”
“It was . . . bad. I felt guilty about it. Still do when I think of it. Perhaps I should never have agreed to make that trip.”
“But how could you have anticipated such a disaster?”
He studied his hands, lying palm up before him on the table. “I don’t know. The distillery, however, proved more profitable than we had thought. Before I left Haiti, the man who owned it arranged to have Harry’s share of the income sent to his widow. She insisted I take the money I had advanced. And that’s where my stake for Shaizar comes.”
“Shaizar?”
“He’s beautiful, Sabrina.” Page’s blue eyes lit up. “A thoroughbred descended from the Beyerley Turk, one of the three top lines. He’s too old to race, of course, but he will make a magnificent stud. Good bones, fine head. With what I get in stud fees I can buy several brood mares. And then I’ll be on my way.”
“I’m so glad for you. Page. It’s what you always wanted, isn’t it?”
“Not all." He looked at me, a direct blue look under stiff, bristly lashes, and I lowered my eyes. The fire crackled, sending sparks up the chimney. Page got up to turn the log.
“How long did you stay in Haiti, Page?”
“Six, seven months.”
“Quite a while. And this would-be wife . . .”
He replaced the poker with a loud clang. “I have no would-be wife.”
“But there was a—a woman?”
“Would you feel better if I lied?”
“Yes.”
He said nothing. A drift of hot ashes had fallen on the hearth and he brushed them back into the fireplace with the toe of his boot. “Are you sure you don’t want any tea?”
A small silence. “Page, was she beautiful?”
“Yes,” he said.
Pain squeezed my heart. I was jealous. Whatever I may have felt in the past, I was jealous now. I looked away from him. The curtains were not quite drawn, and I could see though a gap that it was snowing outside. I did not want to think about Page kissing this beautiful woman, holding her, his mouth nuzzling her ear, caressing her hair.
“Did you love her?”
“I’ve never loved anyone but you, Sabrina,” he said softly. “Do you remember . . . ?”
“No. You mustn’t; I don’t want to remember,” I said angrily. “What’s the use of it?” I got up. “I must go back. It’s a long way and it’s getting late.”
“. . . You fell asleep in the gardens and I woke you by tickling your nose with a dandelion.”
“I can’t remember. It never happened. Where are my things?” I strode to the faded, floral sofa and retrieved my cloak, my muff.
Page did not move but stood by the fireplace, gazing at me.
“Page, I can’t. ...” The protest died quickly on my lips.
No denial, no gesture, no words, could erase the open, naked, tender, vulnerable look of love in Page’s eyes, a look that spoke to my longing heart.
“Sabrina, come to me,” he whispered.
“No, Page,” I murmured, the negation slipping out in meaningless syllables.
“Come, my darling.”
I couldn’t. It was madness to listen, and yet I found myself moving slowly toward his outstretched arms as if in a dream. The room, the table, the fire on the grate, were fantasy shapes; only Page standing there, his eyes drawing me, was real. Closer, closer I came. His broad shoulders grew larger, and now I could see the laugh lines at the edges of his eyes, the bleached strands of hair among the blond. I could see the firm mouth, the pulse beating in his throat. His arms folded around me as I was gathered to his chest. My cape dropped from my shoulders, the muff from my fingers, and I gave him my mouth with a sob.
Oh, Page, Page, no man in the world can hold me like you.
He took my face between his hands and said, “Why?” That was all, just, “Why?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. But it’s too late, it’s—”
“No. It isn’t too late. If you knew the nights I’ve dreamed of this moment, holding you close, the weeks and months, the lonely days, the guilt, the silent words begging you to forgive me, the letters unwritten, unsent. After I heard you had married—”
“Page, please ...”
He reached up and unpinned my hat, tossing it on the table. When he began to draw the combs from my hair, I struggled to release myself. “No, Page ...”
His arms went around me like bands of steel, holding me close as he bent his head and kissed me softly. Then suddenly, with the force of pent-up passion sprung loose, he covered my face with wild kisses that stung and blistered, kisses that sent my heart racing, blood pounding in my ears.
“Page!”
Breathing hard, he rested his mouth in the hollow of my throat, tenderly kissing the pulse that beat there. Later I was to wonder if it was that particular, soft kiss that had melted me, banishing the last vestiges of restraint. I don’t know, but suddenly I was aware of him in a way that was new and exciting. Stretched along his lean, hard body, my breasts crushed against his chest, I felt the bulge of his manhood through my clothing. With a shock, I realized that his arousal did not repel me as Roger’s had, but touched a corresponding chord, in me, a sweet, fiery quickening in my loins. When he lifted his head, my arms flew up around his neck, bringing his mouth back to mine. My sudden abandonment widened Page’s eyes in surprise. He bent my head back across his upper arm, his lips engulfing mine with savage hunger, drawing from them as if to devour me. His tongue parted my trembling lips. I clung to him, breathless, half swooning, my whole world, every sensation, reduced to the moment, to Page and me. Page and me.
He began to undress me, all the while murmuring passionate words in my ear. His hands, warm and sure as he removed my clothes, peeled away bondage to principle, duty, convention. Everything I had been taught to believe in and revere fell to the floor with my petticoats, chemise, pantaloons. He was releasing me not only from the confines of a tight-waisted bodice, but from prison, and it was glorious to be free!
Naked, I stood before him, my hair tumbling in disarray past my shoulders, trembling not from the chill but from joy.
Page’s eyes glowed as they went over me. “How truly beautiful you are, Sabrina!”
He swept me into his arms, swinging me up, his mouth on mine as he carried me into the next room. Giddy with excitement, I was only dimly aware of the bed and the quilted cover as Page threw me down upon it. I saw him above me, hurriedly stripping, the strong neck, the muscled torso, the narrow hips, and finally, as he divested himself of his trousers, the swollen evidence of his masculinity.
I raised my arms and he came to me, the bed sagging under his weight. Lying over me, he stroked my hair, my brow, whispering words of endearment. His hands found my breasts and I remembered the first time he had touched them, my shocked intake of breath, my protest. Not now, never now. Cupping the back of his head, I brought his face down to the aching fullness so that he could kiss them. Wordlessly he complied, giving each white globe its due, kissing the crevice between, his tongue lapping, teasing, titillating. When his mouth closed on a pink nipple and sucked at it, a sudden stab of desire arched my hips and he laughed.
“I always knew you were not made of spun sugar.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to say, Roger thinks I’m cold.
But this wasn’t Roger, this was Page, and I was a different woman because of it. I was alive, my bare flesh vibrating under his touch, his lips. He was exploring my body with exquisite caressing strokes, finding places I never dreamed existed, pressing his lips to my belly, to the vulnerable inside of my thighs. A shocked outbreath as his tongue found the warm, moist spot between my legs now throbbing with unbearable yearning.
I couldn’t stop him, I didn’t want to stop him, for I was shivering now, spiralin
g in ever dizzying circles of sheer, wanton pleasure. He moved up, penetrating me slowly, easing himself in, watching my face. The fire in his eyes matched the burning heat of my own desire. Nothing had prepared me for this, certainly nothing Roger had taught me. It was all new, as new as if I had come to a man’s bed for the first time.
Page was making me his willing slave, and I gloried in his mastery. I gasped as his shaft drove deeper and his movements accelerated, moaning in delight, the last blind thrust wringing a startled cry from my lips.
“Sabrina, my own, sweet, dearest Sabrina.’’ He brushed the damp hair from my forehead and kissed me tenderly.
I smiled up into his shadowed eyes, not ashamed, not guilty, not regretful, only happy.
How could I have felt otherwise?
Chapter 32
I nestled closer in the circle of Page's arms, sleepy, content, safe. He stroked my hair absently, staring into space.
Outside, the snow fell softly. The wind sighed under the eaves, rattling the windowpanes. From the valley a train called piercingly as it crossed the turnpike on its way to Fredricksburg. In the kitchen the banjo clock struck four.
I sat up. “It’s late! I must go home.”
“To him?”
“Oh, Page ...” The thought of Roger, his cruel mouth, his bullying voice, was like a heavy hand on my heart. “He is my husband.”
“One whom you do not love.”
“I was married to him in the sight of God.”
“And bound to him until you die? Look at me, Sabrina. Sabrina!”
He brought my head around, too late for me to hide the tears.
“Oh, my darling, my sweet, sweet Sabrina.”
He wrapped me in his arms, and I wept brokenly on his shoulder, telling him in snatches and gasped words of my wedding night, of Roger’s maniacal temper, of his threats, and of his role in old Mr. Prescott’s death.
“He—he says that if I manage his household, act as hostess to his guests, he will not ask more of me.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I . . . No, not really.”
“You can’t stay with him. I won’t let you. I know a good lawyer; perhaps he can find a way to sue for divorce.”
Pride's Folly Page 39
