by P. J. Fox
“As your…boyfriend.”
He used the word, as though he were describing some particularly unfortunate species of bug.
She stopped. She didn’t turn, but she waited.
“Belle,” he said, “please sit down.”
“No.” She sounded like a petulant child but she didn’t care.
“I…brought this up badly. I should have thought…how it would sound.”
She sniffed, silent tears streaming down her cheeks.
“I meant…I don’t want to go to Maine as merely your lover. I want to go as your husband.”
She reached a hand out to steady herself, found nothing, and started to totter. He was there in an instant, holding her up. He led her toward the couch in front of the fireplace and then went to ring for sandwiches. A minute later he was back, sitting beside her.
He took one of her hands in his. “This morning…I’d planned on taking you out for a picnic. Because that’s what you said you wanted. Something…romantic. I don’t know the first thing about romance, but I was willing to give it a go. Nevertheless, I suppose the anticipation wore me down a bit.”
“So that’s why you were being so unpleasant?”
“I’ve never proposed to anyone before.”
She sniffed. “You haven’t, yet. Not really.”
“This is true.”
She smiled slightly. This whole situation was so surreal.
“Belle Elizabeth Wainwright, I….” He stopped.
She waited. In all the time she’d known him, a time that in and of itself seemed to defy time, stretching back as far as she could remember, she’d never seen him at a loss for words. Or uncertain of himself. That he was so now struck her as inexpressibly charming.
“A gentleman, upon determining a marriage prospect, must bear in mind several crucial features that constitute an ideal lady and wife: accomplished manners, an amiable personality, an unblemished reputation and, to quote a book my father used to read, ‘a mind stored with virtuous principles.’” He paused. “Once a gentleman finds such a creature on which to fix his affections, the most important thing for him to do is to allow himself to reveal to her his character.
“Some men possess all the traits of a gentleman—a handsome exterior, a more than acceptable grasp of etiquette. But these…are not sufficient.” He sighed. “Before I met you, I thought myself to be quite accomplished. Spectacular really. I had looks, of course. And the most refinement that an expensive education could produce. I’d grown up in a palace, too, which didn’t hurt. I know how to, as my father would couch the issue, ape my betters. Those men who, in addition to possessing means and letters, also possessed something far more important: character.
“Seeing myself reflected in your eyes, I realized that I had no character. I wanted to marry you almost immediately, if for no other reason than fear that you’d escape my clutches if I didn’t. I wanted you to be mine, morally and legally.
“But I knew, too, as I came to know you, that you’d never accept.”
She stared at him, speechless.
“And why should you?”
Another tear trickled down her cheek.
“So I set about doing my best to become a man to whom you would say yes. I meant what I said to Piers, that the only reason I hadn’t proposed was simple fear. Fear that you’d say no. Fear that I’d never wring from you—if not love, then acceptance. A mutual regard that might, in time, grow into something more. That was—is—all I’ve dared to hope for. More than I’ve dared to hope for.
“Within my own world, a man’s next step is to seek permission from his beloved’s parents. Only if, of course, he has reason to believe that doing so would not be presumptuous. That she has, if no particular reason to agree, then at least no particular reason to object. But here…there were no parents to whom I could plead my case. And, being a modern woman, I came to the conclusion that you wouldn’t cherish my taking such an action besides.”
Her lips quirked into a small smile.
“Belle Elizabeth Wainwright, my life began when I met you. I love you. Please marry me.”
She broke down into sobs.
“I know the timing is dreadful but—”
“I love you, too!”
He froze. “You…do? Truly? Because Belle, you don’t—”
“I know! But I do! I thought—all this time, I thought you didn’t love me, and that’s why you never told me. That you loved me, I mean. Oh, I know you said other things and I wanted to believe that those meant the same thing but part of me always doubted that…that…that someone like you, someone as wonderful as you, could love me.”
“But, darling, I feel the same.”
She sniffed. He handed her a handkerchief. “I can’t—we can’t get married now though.” She remembered what he’d said, about wanting to go to Maine as her husband.
“We can, though. All we need is a magistrate and—”
“No!” She blew her nose. “I want to have a real wedding. The kind of wedding that Piers was talking about. The kind your brother had.”
He considered this information. “Alright,” he said finally. “In that case, I’ll settle for merely a more formalized arrangement.”
Reaching into his jacket, he produced an exquisite box: leather the color of fresh blood, tooled with gold. He held it out to her, without a word. Gingerly, she took it. She flashed him a quick half smile. He waited. Pressing a small gold button, she opened the box.
And gasped.
There, on a bed of equally blood red velvet, sat a ring.
And what a ring! She’d never seen anything so beautiful, so large, in all her life. “Everyone’s going to think it’s fake,” she blurted.
“A cushion-cut canary diamond, flawless in every respect, set in a split trellis.”
She nodded.
“Those were your exact words.”
“You remembered.”
“I remembered,” he agreed. “I thought—hearing those words, you have no idea. I dared to hope as I’d never hoped before. That you weren’t immediately repelled by the prospect suggested that, at some point…oh, God, Belle, I’d dreamed of being the kind of man you’d want to marry.”
“I thought—when Piers first said that, about you getting married, that he was talking about someone else!”
“There was never anyone else. There never could be anyone else.” And then, “do you like it?”
“I love it.” She let him take the ring from its box and slip it onto her finger. It was a perfect fit. “But really—how large is this? Everyone really is going to think it’s fake.”
“Five carats.”
“How much—how much did this cost?” she asked, looking up. Under normal circumstances she wouldn’t have asked but this had been a tough day. Almost anything might come out of her mouth right now, and Ash could just deal. She had just agreed to marry him.
“It’s from Buccellati. In Milan. Their slogan is timeless eccentricity.”
“So it fits you perfectly!”
“And you as well, I hope.” His voice was quiet.
“Yes.”
“This is a custom design. And, to answer your question…more than most houses.”
He just—there were no words to describe him. He was the most wonderful, most intelligent, most thoughtful, most frustrating man on the face of the earth. He was kind and sweet and cruel and terrible, in so many ways a little British schoolboy who’d never grown up. But he was also the man who’d fled his own country because he couldn’t let himself belong there. Whose dreams vastly exceeded his capabilities, but who nonetheless was the most capable man she knew. The best man she knew. “I love you,” she said, reveling in the words. In finally, finally speaking them to him. In knowing that he felt the same.
“I love you, I love you, I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
NINETY-THREE
Belle slept for most of the flight.
She awoke disoriented, uncertain for a minute of
where she was. And then she remembered: she was on Ash’s private plane, heading for a home that no longer felt like home. They’d arrived at the airport late. How late, she couldn’t have said; she felt the same sense of losing time that she had the night she was kidnapped.
The plane had indeed been ready, waiting only for their arrival. Belle leaned heavily against Ash as they boarded, his movements sure in a pitch black little alleviated by sodium-vapor lamps. She’d sat down on one of the couches and the flight attendant brought her a glass of water. And, a minute later, a down comforter. Belle had wrapped herself in it and, within minutes, been unconscious.
Now, the same flight attendant was bringing her juice. Tattooed and glamorous, she was just as friendly as Belle remembered her.
She blinked. “Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning, ma’am.”
Belle sat up. “Maria, right?”
The other woman smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”
There was a bump. Belle’s eyes widened. They’d just landed.
“Welcome to the Portland International Jetport,” Maria said.
Belle gazed past Maria, out the window. The familiar sights of airport-area Portland greeted her: a flat expanse of fields and, beyond that, trees. Miles and miles of trees. On the other side of those trees was an ever-expanding urban sprawl. The coast was beautiful; the interior wasn’t. At least, not in the south.
Ash appeared. “We’re here.”
Belle stared at him dumbly. They couldn’t be here. Not already. She wasn’t ready for this. That overpowering sense of unreality, the one she thought she’d gotten rid of forever, was back and stronger than ever. Like the earth kept tilting, and reversing on its axis. Like she was looking down at herself from a great height, watching herself say and do things that she didn’t understand and couldn’t predict.
She looked down at her hand. That was real. There was her ring, shiny and new and perfect.
Some day, far from today, there’d be wedding plans.
“I called your mother,” Ash said. “To apprise her of our arrival.”
“Oh.”
“She’s meeting us here.”
“Oh.” And then, “oh!” He’d called her? Was he insane? Except—of course he was. And that was beside the point. He’d in effect met her mother without her being there.
This was—she couldn’t decide if this was the best or worst day of her life.
She got up and, stiffly, made her way toward the head. She locked herself inside with as much dignity as possible. Her mother was here? Her mother, whom she hadn’t seen in what felt like lifetimes? And Ash—what had he said to her?
Was her mother right outside, at this moment?
She splashed water on her face, brushed her hair out, and put it up. She removed the raccoon smudges left from sleeping in her mascara, and added another coat. After a moment’s hesitation, she added a little blush. Bobbi Brown luminizer in Maui, a place she’d never been but that Ash said was nice. There. She regarded herself in the mirror. She no longer looked half dead. Maybe a quarter dead.
She used the facilities, almost as an afterthought. She washed her hands. She gave herself another once-over. And then she came to the depressing conclusion that she couldn’t hide in here all day. She might not be ready to face the real world, but the real world was more than ready to face her.
Ash, waiting for her near the door, looked perfect as always. Like he’d just climbed out of a hatbox, to use one of his own phrases: daisy fresh and crisp at the edges. He looked the same whether he’d been up all night, working, or had just finished dressing for a dinner party.
“You look lovely,” he said.
“No I don’t.”
Then again, her father had just died. A fact that still didn’t seem real. How good was she supposed to look?
“You do to me.” His tone was firm. “You always do.”
She flashed him a small smile.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She wasn’t, of course. Not in the least. She was terrified of leaving her safe haven. The one in her mind. The one she’d built with Ash. The one that didn’t involve placating angry parents. She didn’t—she didn’t want her life to change. She’d managed to block out all the things that had kept her so unhappy before. Would they now all return? Would something awful happen? Something more awful than what had already happened?
Would Ash see where she was from and change his mind about wanting to be with her?
Would her mother somehow guilt her into staying?
“I have one question,” she said.
Maria opened by the door, ready to open it and let down the stairs.
“Yes?”
“What happened to Charlotte?”
The idea of Charlotte dead in a ditch wasn’t terribly upsetting to Belle, at least not right now. She was glad they hadn’t been friends when Charlotte arrived, greedy for the chance to break Belle’s spell. Because they wouldn’t have been friends after. It wasn’t that Charlotte had been the bearer of bad news but, rather, how much Charlotte had obviously reveled in that duty. She could have put Belle in touch with her mother. Charlotte had money and connections, and the power that came with those things. There were a lot of things she could have done.
“After you left, we chatted for a bit. I told her what I thought of her and she told me what she thought of me and I’m certain we’re both better for that. Did you know that her brother did an exchange semester at Harrow?”
“How did that ever come up?” Both Charlotte and her older brother had gone to Phillips Exeter Academy. Or, as the people who actually attended it simply said, Exeter. Charlotte was very proud of carrying on her family’s legacy and still wore her ring.
“She impugned my presumed lack of education and I informed her that wherever she’d attended, there were apparently no classes in how to be less of a cunt.”
“I see.”
“At which point she informed me that she’d attended Exeter, which I then agreed proved my point. And rather handily. As everyone knows that Exeter merely serves as a backup for those not intelligent to qualify for admission to Harrow.”
They’d been fighting about schools? This was a world that Belle would never understand. A world that both Ash and Charlotte had been born to, in their differing fashions. Ash, true royalty, and Charlotte the American equivalent. Charlotte, the scion of manufacturing barons, had grown up surrounded by people who used the phrase hors d’oeuvres non-ironically and who took croquet seriously.
Perhaps that was what made them so suited to be enemies.
“You haven’t answered my question,” she pointed out.
“I told her that if she came back without an invitation, I’d call her superiors at this supposed internship. And, more terrifyingly, I told her that I’d call her father.”
“You what?”
“I know him.”
“You do?”
“Manufacturing is a small world. She, naturally, felt that you would be unable to extend the invitation yourself. To which I replied that perhaps she’d better accept the fact that the reason you hadn’t invited her over was because she wasn’t fit to serve you in the kitchens.”
Belle laughed, in spite of herself.
The hatch released, and sunlight spilled in.
Belle blinked, turning her face from the glare. The sun appeared to be shining right at them. She almost turned around and went back inside, but then she heard a shout.
“That’s my daughter! Look! Right there! The hot one in the plaid pants!”
Ash offered her his arm and she took it, descending the steps to the tarmac.
Donna rushed forward, shrieking and waving her arms.
“That’s my daughter!” she continued to announce, to no one in particular.
She pulled Belle into an all-encompassing hug. Belle gasped. Donna Wainwright was a heavy woman, and she had a powerful grip. She looked the same and she smelled the same, too: Clinique Aromatics Elixir, that classic
old lady in a bottle scent, mixed with some drugstore brand powder. Her mother, for as long as Belle could remember, had powdered the backs of her knees.
She’d forgotten just how much her mother smelled of cats, mothballs, and fruitcakes.
Donna stepped back, holding her daughter by the shoulders, studying her. “You look different!” she announced.
Donna herself looked exactly the same. Belle was shocked by how much the same. But of course, why wouldn’t she? Belle only felt like she’d been gone for years. Even with Belle missing, Donna’s life hadn’t changed that much. She’d woken up every morning in the same bed, gone to work with the same people, and spent her leisure time doing the same things she’d done now for twenty years.
“Everyone at bingo is going to be so surprised!”
“Mom, I’m not going to bingo.”
Donna patted her sweater. “And what’s this?”
“Cashmere, Mom.”
Belle’s pants were a lightweight wool in a subdued tartan of black and an almost black violet. Her shirt was a lighter shade of the same purple and her cardigan was black as well. She barely remembered putting the outfit on. She thought the pants, which hung loosely from her hips while doing everything to suggest the scant curves underneath, were simply comfortable.
How her own standards for clothing had changed.
“You didn’t buy this at Sears.”
“No, Mom.”
“And—oh, Sweet Mary, Jesus and Joseph!” Donna clutched Belle’s hand, holding it up. “What on earth is this?”
“It’s a ring.” Belle sounded so lame, even in her own ears.
“Are you engaged?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Well.” Donna made a face. “I think it’s a nice gesture and all but tell him that he should really save up to buy you a real one.” Then, Donna remembered that the him in question was standing a few feet away. His expression was bemused.
“This is him?”
No, Mom, she felt like saying, I flew into Portland from fucking Romania with another man. “Yes. This is Ash. Ash, I’d like you to meet my mom.”
Taking Donna’s hand, Ash inclined his head in a small bow. “Ashwin Singh,” he said. “At your disposal.”
