Improper Arrangements (The Improper Series)

by Juliana Ross

  “You’ve enjoyed it, haven’t you? You’ve been happy with me, these past weeks.”

  “I have. I did. But it was an interlude. It wasn’t part of my real life.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because it’s true. I’ve enjoyed traveling these past months, but my life is back in England. I have a home there, and work to do that pleases me—”

  “But at the end of every day you’re alone.”

  “As are we all,” I insisted. “You must understand what my independence means to me. You should understand. I told you why I live as I do.”

  “Yes, and I respect you for it. Aren’t you lonely, though?”

  “Of course I’m lonely from time to time. Everyone is. But I’m not as lonely as my friends who are unhappily married. Or as lonely as I would be when you were off on one of your adventures,” I said, unable to keep the anger from my voice.

  “When have I even once spoken of haring off on another ‘adventure,’ as you term it? This is the farthest I’ve been from Argentière in more than a year.”

  “But as soon as you’re recovered you’ll be wanting—”

  “I was done with that, all of that, years ago. You’re describing a different man, the man I was when I was twenty-five. That’s E. P. Keating, not me.”

  “You’ll still want to climb mountains.”

  “From time to time. But I’ll rope myself in, if it makes you feel better. And I’m getting too old for all of that. I want a normal life, Alice. A life that includes a wife, children, a proper home.”

  I twisted my hands together, faintly repelled at how clammy and cold they felt. “You told me—you couldn’t have been clearer—that you could make me no promises, could offer me nothing.”

  “I know. I’ve changed my mind. Alice, I thought you might die. I thought I was going to lose you. And in that moment everything became clear. You’re mine. You’re meant to be mine, and the thought of being parted from you again—”

  “You cannot be serious. We’ve only known each other for a matter of weeks.”

  “How well do most betrothed couples know one another? How well did you know Leo?”

  “That was different, and you know it.”

  “Of course it was different. Because you know me better than anyone else alive. And I know you. You’re curious and funny and talented and intelligent. My God, you’re intelligent. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, and the most alluring. I’ve never desired another woman as I desire you, and I never will.”

  His words were lovely, but they fell on me like petals of lead, oppressive and imprisoning. “I feel the same way about you. But to cast aside everything I value, everything I’ve worked for...can you not see what it would do to me?”

  “So you wish to spend your life alone? Without ever knowing the love of a husband? Of children?”

  “I’m very fond of children—I’m godmother to nearly a dozen. But becoming a mother would require me to bind myself to a man. And I resolved long ago that I would never marry.”

  A terrible silence followed my words, freezing the air, burning the breath from my lungs.

  “You care nothing for me?”

  “Of course I care for you. I just said I do.”

  “Do you think me a fortune hunter? Because I swear, Alice, that I will ask nothing of you. I want nothing from you. Nothing apart from your regard.”

  “And you have it,” I assured him. “But I cannot countenance anything more. If you care for me, you will understand.”

  “To make you happy, you need to be free,” he muttered.

  “Yes—”

  “Free of me.”

  Panic took hold, wrapping me in icy coils of dread and fear. I had been so certain that he understood. But he was a man, and saw the world through a man’s eyes. He couldn’t know, would never know, how it felt to be powerless at the hands of another.

  “You know that’s not what I mean. If I were to marry, everything I owned would become the possession of my husband. I would become his possession, to use or abuse or even discard at a whim.”

  “And I promise, on my honor, that I will never attempt to possess you. Never. I know we agreed there would be nothing more. I know it. But I’m not made out of stone, Alice. I feel. As do you. Why won’t you admit it?”

  “I have. And I’ll always be grateful to you for saving my life—”

  “Gratitude? That’s what you feel for me?” He stood, his chair scraping nastily across the floor, and stalked across the room. His back to me, he set his hands on the windowsill for a moment, his head bowed. Then he straightened his shoulders and turned around.

  “I think it best if I take my leave of you now.”

  “I’m not rejecting you, Elijah. I spoke rashly—there’s no reason we can’t continue on as we have. We could travel together to Zermatt, or you could come with me to Zurich or Paris. Nothing needs to change between us. Why must you introduce this talk of marriage and children and...and feelings?”

  “Because I was mistaken. I thought you’d come to care for me as I care for you. Since it’s clear you don’t, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Don’t leave like this. Please, Elijah. I do care for you. I esteem you greatly, I value your company, I delight in your lovemaking—”

  “That’s not enough, and you know it.”

  He picked up his hat from where it lay upon the table. Even from a distance, I could see his knuckles shining whitely beneath his skin. Then he looked me in the eye, his silver gaze tarnished by the wounds I had inflicted.

  “My mistake was in assuming you felt the same way. Now that I know the truth of your feelings, there’s nothing more to keep me here. And there’s nothing more to be said.” He paused at the threshold, his back to me, his head bowed.

  “Goodbye, Lady Alice. I wish you well in the life you have chosen for yourself.”

  The door shut softly behind him and he was gone, gone forever.

  I had done it. I had sent him away, banished him from my life.

  I had broken my own heart.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Though I was soon recovered enough to depart for home, I stayed on in Arolla for another month. It was simply exhaustion that kept me to my bed for much of the day, weakened my appetite, blighted my sleep. That was all.

  If Madame Devin and the servants at the pension wondered why Monsieur Keating had left so abruptly, they said nothing to me, and I was grateful for it. I missed him so acutely that I could scarcely bear the pain of it. To speak his name to another, even in passing, would have been intolerable.

  I spent my days alone, unable to draw or paint, unwilling to open my portfolio for fear of seeing his face again. I ought to burn every last portrait I had made of him, and indeed I resolved to do so every evening when the fire was lighted. But something, some vague and troubling instinct, always stopped my hand.

  I remembered the sketch I had made of the Mont Blanc massif, and of my resolution to give it to Elijah when our journey together was complete. Several days passed before I found the strength to open my sketchbook and tear out the drawing; several more before I could hand it, carefully wrapped and addressed, to Madame Devin to take to the post office. I enclosed no note, for what was left to say?

  My arm had healed tolerably well, as had my ankle. There was nothing to keep me in Arolla. Nothing beyond the faint hope that he might send some small acknowledgment of my gift.

  But no letter came to me from Elijah, no token of his past regard. Hope flickered, guttered, died. “There is nothing more to be said,” he had told me. Perhaps he was right.

  Why could he not have been sensible? We should still be together had he not been so adamant that I declare my undying adoration for him.

  Although I knew he would never return to me, I couldn’t help but wonder how I would react if he were to reappear. If, by some miracle, he were to come to me again and declare himself, what would my answer be?

  Could it ever be yes?

 
; Yes, I will cast aside the life I have made for myself, the life I cherish, and follow you like a vagabond to the ends of the earth? Or yes, I will wait for you to return from your adventures and, yes, I will gracefully accept nights made sleepless from worry and days rendered agonizing by loneliness?

  It could never be yes. Never, no matter how I longed and ached and wept for him, alone in my bed, alone in the dark through the empty, lonely hours of the night.

  Even if I loved him—for I could admit it now, if only to myself, that what I had felt for Elijah had very likely been love—I would never say yes. For how could our love survive such a life?

  How would I survive?

  * * *

  Winter was fast approaching, and it was time for me to depart for home. I left at dawn, for the first day of travel would be the longest, taking me all the way to Martigny. I would overnight there before continuing north to Montreux, and from there, via ferry, to Geneva.

  Though I had hired a fine carriage, the roads were rough and my arm was aching long before we reached Martigny. Alone with my thoughts, I passed the day in an ever-growing haze of pain and loss. Goodbye, Lady Alice. I wish you well.

  We arrived in Martigny. I signed the hotel register. I ate the supper they brought me. I readied myself for bed with the help of a maid. I went to bed and lay there alone.

  Alone.

  Never to be at his side again. Never to hear his voice again.

  Every mile that I traveled took me farther from Elijah, from the love he had offered, from the life we might have shared.

  I was up at dawn the next morning, calling for my carriage without delay, for stasis was unthinkable. I drew down the shades in the carriage, weary of the vistas beyond, and wished I were the sort of person who became ill whilst traveling. At least I might then be able to direct my mind away from my aching heart.

  We reached St-Maurice, some ways along the road to Montreux, early that evening. I declined supper, asking instead for a glass of wine to be sent to my room. As soon as it was finished, I undressed and lay down on the bed, feeling like a corpse set out for burial.

  Elijah had told me I was fearless, but he’d been mistaken. Fear, not good sense, had driven me to reject him. I had always taken pride in my ability to keep a cool head, to make considered decisions in difficult situations, yet how had it availed me when Elijah had professed his love?

  I had rejected him and, in so doing, had embraced fear.

  I climb past the fear, he had said. I will never let it stop me from doing what I want to do.

  If I continued on this path, I would spend the rest of my life on the ground, looking up, longing for places I would never go. Yearning for a face I would never see again.

  I would have half a life, a bitter, shallow, unworthy life.

  But not if I shed my carapace of fear. Not if I learned how to climb.

  I got out of bed and rang for the maid. She arrived, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes, a quarter hour later.

  “I need to depart immediately,” I told her. “I shall need a carriage to Argentière. Then I’ll need your help getting dressed.”

  I was on the road again by half past four, the coachman none too pleased at having been dragged out of bed at such an ungodly hour. The sun rose and climbed high into the sky and the hours passed so slowly I thought I might go mad from impatience, especially once the horses began to tire.

  Late that afternoon, just as I was beginning to consider alighting from the carriage and running the rest of the way, the outskirts of Argentière came into sight. After we had paused so the coachman might receive my directions, the carriage turned off the main road, onto the chemin du Vieux Four, and halted in front of number four. Thank goodness I had remembered Elijah’s address from our introductory correspondence.

  I descended gracelessly from the carriage, not waiting for the coachman to open the door or lower the step, my ankle pounding with pain and my arm so swollen I could no longer bend my fingers.

  I knocked and knocked, but there was no answer.

  So I waited. I sat in the carriage and waited until the sun had set and my arm hurt so much I thought I might faint from the pain, though it was nothing compared to the agony that speared through my heart.

  I would try again in the morning.

  * * *

  After professing his delight at seeing me again, the concierge at the Hôtel de la Couronne had me shown directly to my suite, the same suite of rooms I had stayed in before. They were as pleasant as ever, but I’d have rather slept in the attics. At least there I would not be tormented by the shadow of our past conversations in the sitting room, nor indeed the recollection of how we had spent our first moments alone.

  I slept fitfully, my aching arm awakening me every time I moved, however slightly, and when dawn came I rose immediately, determined to return to Elijah’s pension as soon as decency allowed.

  When I rang for a maid I was pleasantly surprised when Agnès appeared, and with her the trunk of belongings I had left behind before setting off on the High-Level Route. She found a suitable day dress for me, one of my plain traveling gowns that hadn’t been altered by the tailor, and sent it, and a selection of underthings, off to be ironed while she attended to my toilette.

  First she drew me a bath in the fine chamber down the hall, leaving me to wash the dust of travel off my skin, returning only to soap and rinse my hair, which I was still unable to do on my own. Then she sat me before the fire in my sitting room and brushed my hair with long, gentle strokes until it was nearly dry.

  “How shall I arrange your hair, madame?”

  “It doesn’t matter...any way you prefer. Simply, I suppose. Simple is best.”

  Finished with my hair, which she had set in a low chignon, Agnès guided me to my feet and indicated that it was time for me to dress. I stood quietly, meekly, as she arrayed me in a fresh chemise, corset, drawers, stockings, petticoats, crinolette and, finally, the austere day gown I had chosen earlier.

  I looked terrible. I was dressed for defeat, not triumph. I could not return to Elijah in such a dress.

  “I beg your pardon, Agnès, but I should like to wear my aquamarine afternoon gown. Do you remember it?”

  “Of course, madame, but surely—”

  “I know. It is quite inappropriate given the hour of the day. But I am determined to wear it. Please have it pressed and made ready as quickly as possible.”

  “Yes, madame.”

  “I suppose you’ll have to re-lace my corset.”

  “But of course. Otherwise the gown, it is unlikely to fit properly.”

  The gown, once removed from its shroud of tissue, had remarkably few creases, and in short order I was re-laced into breathlessness and inserted into its glorious layers of Alençon lace and silk taffeta. It was entirely ridiculous that I should wear such a gown at the crack of dawn, but it fit the occasion. And it did make my bosom look magnificent.

  Having turned up her nose at my simple canvas sling, Agnès had rummaged through my trunk and found an ivory silk shawl, which she folded just so and tied carefully around my neck. It was exactly the right length to cradle my injured arm.

  Though I might have easily walked the distance to Elijah’s pension, I called for a carriage. If things went poorly, I should not have to endure the further humiliation of walking through the village looking as if my life had ended.

  On the dot of eight o’clock I arrived at his door. I was about to knock when I saw, through the sidelights, the unmistakable shadow of someone moving about inside.

  I knocked sharply and then, when no one came to answer me, I hammered on the wooden door with my free hand until my knuckles were split and bloodied from the effort.

  “I know you are there, Elijah! Answer me, please! I won’t go away until you do!”

  Without any warning, the door swung inward so abruptly that I nearly lost my balance. A middle-aged woman stood before me, her hair scraped back into an unflatteringly tight bun, her apron as smooth and snowy
as the glaciers of Mont Blanc. She said nothing and offered no greeting. Just stared at me, two dots of color high on her cheeks, her thin lips pressed together in disdain.

  “Bonjour, madame,” I said in my schoolgirl French. “Je suis désolée de vous déranger, mais je veux voir Monsieur Keating, s’il vous plaît.”

  “No.”

  “He isn’t here?” I asked, my composure crumbling along with my command of French.

  “Monsieur Keating is here, but he is working. He said he must not be disturbed.”

  “But I must see him—I have come so far. Please tell him that Alice is here.”

  “No. No callers. Especially not you.”

  I would not have it. Not now, not after I had come so far. “You fail to understand me, madame. I will see Mr. Keating and you will tell him I am here. Now. If not, I will stand in the street and scream out his name until you do. I swear I will do it.”

  I had found the chink in her armor. “Very well,” she bit out, her expression that of a person who’d been made to swallow something very disagreeable. “Wait in the salon.”

  The battle won, I went inside and sat on a hard wooden settle to wait decorously for Elijah’s arrival. The clock on the wall, ticking with maddening precision, gave shape to my impatience. One minute turned into five, then ten, then fifteen. And still I sat alone.

  The dull thump of footsteps on the stairs heralded the end of my vigil. Elijah appeared at the door, his clothing rumpled, his hair mussed. He hadn’t shaved. His face was set, hardened against me, as if he were the one who had decided to set himself apart.

  “Hello, Elijah. I—”

  He cleared his throat, swept his hair back off his brow. “How long is this going to take?”

  “Please hear me out. I was wrong.”

  “And?”

  “I was wrong.”

  “About what?” he said, and though he still refused to look me in the eye, he edged a few inches into the room.

  “Everything. I admit it.”

  “Before, in Arolla, you were so certain.”