A Good Woman

by Danielle Steel

  “What happened to him?” Consuelo asked in a small voice. So many people had died in her mother’s life. Everyone was gone.

  “He got very sick, and he decided that he didn’t want to be married to me anymore. He didn’t think it would be fair to me, because he was so sick. So he went to Mexico, and he divorced me, which means that he ended our marriage.”

  “But didn’t you want to be with him even though he was so sick, to take care of him?” She looked shocked, and Annabelle smiled as she nodded.

  “Yes, I did. But that wasn’t what he wanted. He thought he was doing a good thing for me, because I was very young. He was a lot older. Old enough to be my father. And he thought I should marry someone else who wasn’t sick and have lots of children.”

  “Like my father,” she said proudly, and then a cloud passed her eyes. “But then he died too.” It was all very sad, and made her realize, even at seven, all that her mother had been through, and come out the other end, whole, and alive, and even a doctor.

  “Anyway, he divorced me, and went to Mexico.” She didn’t tell her about Henry. She didn’t need to know. “And everyone here was very shocked. They thought he divorced me because I did something wrong. He never told anyone he was sick, and neither did I. So they thought I had done something terrible, and I was very sad. I went to France, and went to work in the war. And then I met your father, and had you. And everyone lived happily ever after,” she said with a smile, as she took Consuelo’s hand in her own. It was a highly edited version, but it was all Consuelo needed to know. And her marriage to Josiah was no longer a secret. It seemed better that way. She didn’t want to keep secrets, or tell lies to cover them anymore. And she had been fair to Josiah in the story. She always had been.

  “But why was everyone so mean to you when he went away?” That seemed horrible to Consuelo, and so unfair to her mother.

  “Because they didn’t understand. They didn’t know what had really happened. So they told bad stories about it, and about me.”

  “Why didn’t you tell them the truth?” That part made no sense to her at all.

  “He didn’t want me to. He didn’t want anyone to know he was sick.” Nor why, which was far more understandable. Not to mention the part about Henry Orson.

  “That was silly of him,” Consuelo said, glancing over her shoulder at the empty house.

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Did you ever see him again?”

  Annabelle shook her head. “No. He died in Mexico. I was in France by then.”

  “Do people know the truth now?” Consuelo asked, still looking pensive. She didn’t like that part of the story at all, when they’d been mean to her mother. She must have been very sad at the time. She even looked sad talking about it now.

  “No, they don’t. It’s been a long time,” Annabelle answered.

  “Thank you for telling me, Mama,” Consuelo said proudly.

  “I was always going to tell you one day, when you were older.”

  “I’m sorry they were mean to you,” she said softly. “I hope they won’t be anymore.” The only one who had been recently was Antoine. Not just mean, but cruel. It had been the worst betrayal of all, and had reopened all her old wounds. Talking to Lady Winshire about it had helped her. She saw now what a small, petty person Antoine really was, if he couldn’t love her, even with her past. She wouldn’t have done the same to him. She was a far bigger person.

  “It doesn’t matter now. I have you,” Annabelle reassured her, and it was true. Consuelo was all she needed.

  They got up and walked back to their cottage then, and for the next three weeks they played and swam and did all the things Annabelle had done as a child and loved there so much.

  It was during their last week there that Annabelle took Consuelo to the Newport Country Club for lunch. It was one of the few grown-up things they had done. Other than that, Annabelle had avoided all the places where she might run into old friends. They had stayed mainly on their own grounds, which were large enough. But this one time, they had decided to go out, which was brave of Annabelle.

  And just as they were leaving after lunch, Annabelle saw a portly woman walk toward the restaurant. She looked flustered, red-faced, there was a nanny with her, and she was leading six young children and had a baby on her hip. She was snapping at one of them, the baby was crying, and her hat was askew. And it was only when they were inches from each other that Annabelle saw that it was her old friend Hortie. Both of them were shocked and stopped walking, and stood staring at each other.

  “Oh… what are you doing here?” Hortie said as though Annabelle didn’t belong there. And then she tried to cover the awkward moment with a nervous smile. Consuelo was frowning, looking at her. Hortie hadn’t even noticed her, she was just staring at her mother as if she’d seen a ghost.

  “I’m here with my daughter for a visit.” Annabelle smiled at Hortie, feeling sorry for her. “I see the baby factory is still producing,” she teased her. Hortie rolled her eyes and groaned, and for an instant looked like the friend Annabelle had loved so dearly, and would never have abandoned.

  “You’re remarried?” Hortie asked with interest, and then glanced at Consuelo.

  “Widowed.”

  “And she’s a doctor,” Consuelo piped up proudly, as both women laughed.

  “Is that true?” Hortie looked at Annabelle, impressed if it was, but she knew that Annabelle had loved medical things as a young girl.

  “It is. We live in Paris.”

  “So I heard. I was told you were some kind of hero during the war.”

  Annabelle laughed. “Hardly. I was a medic, riding ambulances to field hospitals to pick up wounded men. Nothing very heroic about that.”

  “It sounds heroic to me,” Hortie said as her gaggle of children swirled around her, and the nanny tried to keep them in control with little success. Hortie didn’t apologize for the betrayal or say she’d missed her, but you could see it in her eyes. “Will you be here long?” she asked wistfully.

  “A few more days.”

  But Hortie didn’t ask her to come over, or say she would drop by the Worthington cottage. She knew that James would never have allowed it. He thought Annabelle would be a bad influence on her. Divorcées and adulteresses were not welcome in his home, although the stories about him had been far worse.

  For a minute, Annabelle wanted to tell her that she’d missed her, but she didn’t dare. It was too late for both of them. And seeing her had made her sad. Hortie looked blowsy, tired, and overwhelmed, and wasn’t aging well. The pretty young girl she’d been years before was gone. She had become a middle-aged woman with a flock of children, and had turned on her best friend. Annabelle would miss her always. Running into her was like seeing a ghost. They said good-bye without embracing, and Annabelle was quiet as they left the restaurant.

  Consuelo didn’t speak until they were driving home and then turned to her mother and spoke in a soft voice. “Is that one of the people who said mean things about you?”

  “Sort of. She was my best friend when we were growing up, and until then. People do silly things sometimes,” Annabelle said, smiling at her. “We were like sisters when we were your age, and even when we grew up.”

  “She’s ugly,” Consuelo said, crossing her arms and frowning. She was angry in her mother’s defense. “And fat.” Annabelle laughed and made no comment.

  “She was very pretty as a young girl. She’s had a lot of children.”

  “They’re ugly too, and they make a lot of noise,” Consuelo said in disapproval and snuggled up to her mother.

  “That they do,” Annabelle commented. Hortie had never been able to control her children, even when she only had one or two. It looked like James had kept her pregnant ever since.

  The rest of their stay in Newport was everything they had both hoped it would be. It was a real homecoming for Annabelle and warmed her heart. And as they packed to leave, Consuelo asked her mother if they could come back again. Annabe
lle had been thinking the same thing, and was glad she hadn’t sold the house. Once again, Lady Winshire had been right. She was, about many things. And her emerald never left Annabelle’s hand. It was a gift she cherished, particularly now that they were friends.

  “I was thinking that it might be nice to come back every summer for a few weeks. Maybe even a month. What do you think?” Annabelle asked Consuelo, as Brigitte closed her charge’s bags.

  “I’d like that.” Consuelo beamed at her mother.

  “So would I.” It would keep her connection to the States, and would establish one for her daughter. With time, all things healed. She had felt it while she was there. Even if they still talked about her, and remembered the scandal of years before, if you held your ground for long enough, people forgot. Or at least the ugly labels faded so people didn’t bother to read them quite as often anymore. It didn’t matter as much to her now. And so much had happened since. She had a whole life of her own somewhere else, a home, a profession, and a child she loved. But she also felt that an old part of her had been returned to her. And it was a part of an old life that she had missed.

  William drove them back to Boston, and they took the train to New York. They were only planning to spend two days there this time, and do the few things they had missed when they arrived.

  “Take good care of yourself, Miss Annabelle,” William said with tears in his eyes again. “Will you be back soon?” They could all see what a good time she’d had. There had been times, at the beach, or running on the lawn with Consuelo, when she looked like a girl again herself.

  “Next summer. I promise.” The farewells with Blanche had been tearful too, but she had made her the same vow.

  William hugged and kissed Consuelo and Annabelle, and stood waving from the platform for as long as they could see him.

  And then mother and daughter settled into their compartment for the trip to New York. They had had a wonderful time in Newport. It had exceeded all of Annabelle’s hopes.

  Chapter 27

  Their last two days in New York were hectic but fun. Annabelle took Consuelo to the theater to see a musical and she loved it. They had dinner at Sardi’s and the Waldorf Astoria, in grand style. They took a ferry around Manhattan, and Annabelle pointed out Ellis Island to her again, and told her more about it. And on the last afternoon they walked past her old house again, just to say good-bye. Annabelle stood there for a long moment, paying tribute to it, and all of those who had lived there, even the innocent part of herself that had been lost. She no longer had anything in common with the girl she had been then. She had grown up.

  She and Consuelo walked away quietly hand in hand. Consuelo had learned much about her mother during this trip, and her grandparents, her uncle Robert, and even some of her mother’s friends. She hadn’t liked her friend in Newport, the one with all the children. She hated knowing that she had been mean to her mother and made her sad. And she was sorry about the man who had died in Mexico. She could tell that her mother loved him.

  This time, Brigitte was slightly less nervous as they boarded the Mauretania to go back. The ship had been so comfortable and luxurious on the way over that she had calmed down considerably. It was an odd feeling for Annabelle as they slipped past the old White Star piers, and Cunard. It reminded her suddenly of when she had gone to pick up her mother thirteen years before, after the Titanic sank. But she didn’t mention it to her daughter, and surely not to Brigitte, who managed to bring it up anyway. Annabelle scowled at her and she stopped.

  Annabelle felt herself leaving a piece of her heart behind as they glided past the Statue of Liberty again. She hadn’t felt this tied to her own country for a long time and it was a comfort knowing that they’d be back next summer. Consuelo had talked of it constantly in New York. She loved the cottage and couldn’t wait to return.

  There was no one they knew on the ship this time; Annabelle had checked the passenger list. But she wouldn’t have cared. She had nothing to fear. She had braved Newport and New York without incident, and had no more secrets to protect. And even if someone found out about her past, what could they do to her? They couldn’t take away her house, her life, her work, her child. All they could do was talk about her, and she had lived through it before. They had nothing that she wanted. Even Hortie’s painful betrayal had shrunk in size on this trip when she saw her. All the people who had once hurt her so badly were gone, and they had nothing she wanted anymore. They could take nothing from her. She had her own life, and it was a good one.

  Annabelle and Consuelo visited the dog kennels again, as they had on the last trip. There was no pug this time but several Pekingese and poodles. Consuelo had missed Coco, her pug, and couldn’t wait to get back to her. Her mother had promised her a weekend in Deauville when they were home. Even Antoine’s impact on Annabelle had faded during this trip. He was a nasty little small-minded man, who lived in a tiny world full of people with narrow ideas. There was no room for her in that world. And no place for him in hers.

  They were walking back from the dog kennel, and stopped at the rail to look out at the sea. Consuelo’s long blond hair was blowing in the breeze, and Annabelle’s hat blew off her head and rolled like a wheel down the deck as they chased it, laughing. Annabelle’s hair was still as blond as her child’s, and the hat stopped finally at the feet of a man who picked it up and handed it to them with a broad grin.

  “Thank you,” Annabelle said breathlessly, with a girlish smile. The hat had led them a merry chase. Her face was brown from the sun in Rhode Island. She put the hat on again, at a slightly cockeyed angle.

  “I think it will blow off again,” the man warned her. She agreed and took it off, as Consuelo struck up a conversation with him.

  “My grandfather and uncle died on the Titanic,” she announced, to open the conversation, and he looked at her soberly.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that. So did my grandparents. Maybe they met each other.” It was an intriguing idea. “That was a very long time ago. Before you were born, I think.”

  “I’m seven,” she said, which confirmed it. “And I’m named after my mother’s mother. She’s dead too.” He tried not to smile at the conversation, and it sounded as though their family had been decimated. “So’s my father,” she added for good measure. “He died before I was born, in the war.”

  “Consuelo!” Annabelle scolded her, startled. She had never heard her give out so much information, and she hoped she didn’t do it often. “I’m sorry,” she turned to the man who had retrieved her hat. “We didn’t mean to give you our death rolls.” She was smiling at him, and he smiled back.

  “You must have known that I’m a journalist,” he said to Consuelo kindly.

  “What’s that?” She was interested in what he had to say.

  “I write for newspapers. Or actually, I publish one. The International Herald Tribune in Paris. You won’t have to read it till you’re older.” He smiled at them both again.

  “My mother is a doctor.” She was conducting the conversation with him entirely on her own, as Annabelle looked slightly embarrassed.

  “Really?” he said with interest, and introduced himself, and said his name was Callam McAffrey, originally from Boston, and now Paris.

  Annabelle introduced them as well, and Consuelo volunteered that they lived in Paris too, in the sixteenth arrondissement. He said that he lived on the rue de l’Université, on the Left Bank. It was near the college of Beaux Arts, and Annabelle knew the area well.

  He invited them both to tea, but Annabelle said they had to get back to their stateroom to dress for dinner. He smiled as they walked away. He thought the little girl was adorable, and the mother very pretty. She didn’t look like his vision of a doctor. He had interviewed Elsie Inglis several years before, and Annabelle didn’t look anything like her, to say the least. He was amused at how liberal her daughter had been with their family information, somewhat to her mother’s dismay.

  He saw them in the dining room that night,
but didn’t approach. He didn’t want to intrude. But he noticed Annabelle on deck alone the next day, walking quietly by herself. Consuelo had gone swimming with Brigitte. And this time Annabelle was wearing a hat that tied under her chin.

  “I see you’ve anchored your hat on solidly,” he said, smiling at her, as he stopped for a moment to stand by the rail next to her. She turned to him with a smile.

  “It’s breezier now than it was last month when we came over.” It was the end of July.

  “I love these crossings,” he volunteered, “in spite of our respective losses at sea and family tragedies. It gives you a chance to catch your breath, between two lives and two worlds. It’s nice to have some time out to do that sometimes. Have you been in New York all this time?” he asked with interest. He was pleasant to talk to.

  “Some of it. We’ve been in Newport for the past few weeks.”

  He smiled. “I was in Cape Cod. I try to get back every summer. It takes me back to my childhood.”

  “This was my daughter’s first visit.”

  “How did she like it?”

  “She loved it. She wants to come back every summer.” And then she volunteered a small piece of information about herself. “I hadn’t been back in ten years.”

  “To Newport?” That didn’t surprise him.

  “To the States.” That piece of information did.

  “That’s a long time.” He was a tall, spare-looking man with salt and pepper hair, warm brown eyes, and a chiseled face, somewhere in his early forties. He appeared more intelligent than handsome, although his appearance was pleasant. “You must have been busy to stay away for so long. Or angry about something,” he added, in the spirit of good journalism, and she laughed.

  “Not angry. Just finished. I made my life in France. I went over to volunteer at the front, in a hospital, and I never went back. I didn’t think I missed it. But I have to admit, it was nice to go home, and show old landmarks to my daughter.”