Susan Speers

by My Cousin Jeremy

  He’d return to sit up until dawn at our piano, come to bed after I rose, then work in his new studio before dressing for an evening out. We still waited for our larger living quarters. We dined together, but even then my husband’s attention drifted. He was always kind, but his eyes were fixed on points behind me, points where his hat and coat hung beside our door.

  “Do you have any new music for me?” I asked him more than once.

  “Not really,” he’d say. “It isn’t going well. I can’t seem to capture my feelings.”

  *

  Daisy paid a visit. She was very sweet and brought me a lace matinee jacket for the baby, a beautiful garment stitched by nuns in a French convent.

  “I didn’t waste my time with the embroidered layettes,” she said. “Nothing could be as fine as your own handiwork.”

  I was ashamed to think I hadn’t set a stitch for the baby. I remained superstitious, though I could feel my little one roll and kick with vigor.

  “You’ve landed happy,” Daisy said, her eyes on Chase’s piano, gilded by the afternoon sunlight. “It’s a pity Jeremy is so miserable.”

  I looked away. My better half told me not to listen. My human half was sick with curiosity.

  “He travels abroad as much as possible, and when in London stays at his club. Meanwhile Dr. Redstone cannot be shaken loose.”

  “He saved Arthur’s life,” I protested.

  “The Tsarina clung to nasty Rasputin for much the same reason,” Daisy said, “and look what happened to her.”

  I could not answer.

  “I love Chase’s new song,” Daisy scooped up the last cream cake on the tray.

  “New song?”

  “Irresistible. You are a lucky girl. Few men find a pregnant woman irresistible.”

  The song wasn’t about me.

  “Say,” she said, “you look a little queer. I’ll go and let you rest.”

  *

  I lay on the chill surface of my satin coverlet, waiting for Chase to come down from his attic studio. As the sky turned dark, I decided to go and fetch him. The lift was slow to arrive and slow to ascend. By the time it reached the top floor, I was perspiring and dizzy.

  His door was locked. My pains began on the endless trip down to the lobby. The concierge called for an ambulance and promised to find Chase and send him after me to the lying in hospital.

  My night was filled with pain that grew worse every hour and bewilderment that Chase did not come. I was alone, fighting for breath. The nurses were rushed, every baby in London was bent on arriving that night. My doctor’s infrequent visits increased toward dawn, the expression on his face changed from impatient to concerned.

  “Twilight sleep,” he said to the nurse.

  “No, I want to see my baby,” I said, but nurses follow doctors’ orders. I sank into darkness, my eyes on the forceps in the doctor’s hand.

  *****

  When I opened my eyes, all was quiet. The pain, a clamoring, unbearable noise, had stopped. It left aching emptiness within me.

  Chase stood a distance away from my bed. His eyes were red, his clothing rumpled, his tie undone. I smelled sour champagne. We stared at each other for a full minute.

  “Are you awake?”

  “Where’s my baby?”

  “The baby’s gone, Clarry, she didn’t live.”

  “You’re lying.” I was sure of it.

  “No, darling, I’m not. She — the birth was too hard. She died before the doctor could —”

  “You never wanted our baby, you sent her away!” I couldn’t stop myself, and saw guilt crease his face.

  “I swear not, Clarry. I saw her, for the tiniest moment. She was beautiful, but so still. She never breathed.” His eyes watered, but he held my hand tight and he didn’t look away.

  “I don’t believe you!” I grabbed for the bell and my flailing hand knocked it away. “Call the nurse,” I said, “or I’ll scream this place down until I see my child!”

  I made enough noise to wake every infant on the ward and their pitiful cries maddened me. I was determined to escape the room and search until I found my little girl. Two nurses held me down and a third gave an injection.

  My last sight was Chase backing out the door.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  I woke in a different room, curled away from the window, my body cold and leaden. I was paralyzed with misery.

  But as I lay there, I felt a blessed warmth, a sensation so gentle, that at first, I thought I imagined it. I saw my fingers curl and felt my limbs relax into the soft mattress beneath me. The warmth didn’t falter, it grew in strength until I was completely warm, come alive again despite myself.

  I turned toward the window, the light, the warmth, and he was there, as close as he could manage. Jem sat motionless until he saw me recognize him, and then his dark eyes smiled.

  “Welcome back,” he said.

  “How long —”

  “As long as you need me.”

  “How did you —”

  “Shh,” he said. “Rest now. I won’t go, I’ll be here when you wake.” Warm and safe, I could relax into sleep. Chase ran from my hysteria and never came back, I knew that by instinct. But Jem would watch over me until I could survive this unspeakable loss.

  Hours later, he fed me spoonfuls of broth, and I took it from his hand when I would have refused a nurse. I could manage only a little.

  “No more,” I said.

  “Later, yes,” he said. “I find a certain satisfaction in feeding you like this.”

  Whenever I woke he fed me more. “You need to be strong,” he said.

  “I will be.” In time, I thought, with his help.

  “You need to be strong now,” he said. “Dr. Gifford is here.”

  “I don’t want him!” Dr. Gifford was the hospital’s director, a learned man, whose learning had failed me utterly. “I can’t — I’ll never have another child, I know what will happen. I’m a Marchmont, after all.”

  “You will see him,” Jeremy said. “I can’t help you with bread poultices and birch bark tea.”

  *

  Dr. Gifford was kind but matter of fact, and that calmed me. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Gordon,” he said, “and I’m sorry to intrude on your grief, but your cousin raised a question that demands an answer for your peace of mind.”

  I couldn’t speak for the ache in my throat. I kept my eyes on Jeremy’s hand holding mine.

  “Your baby died in the violence of birth, Mrs. Gordon, because her umbilical cord was depressed, pressure from the contractions of labor cut off her vital oxygen.”

  “What does it matter now,” I whispered past lips stiff with bitter sorrow.

  “Mr. Marchmont believes you blame yourself, or rather you blame an inherited trait of weakness.”

  I nodded and a tear escaped my fierce control.

  “That is not the case, Mrs. Gordon. Your baby died from an accident at birth, not through any inherited defect. These accidents are not common, thank God, but they do happen. It was an accident.”

  I closed my eyes, and he left me to my sorrow after a brief conversation with Jeremy outside the door.

  Jemmy came back to take my hand. Part of me was glad I was too weak to pull away. “Damn you,” I said.

  “You had to hear it, Clarry.” He paused. “What is your baby’s name?”

  It meant so much that he asked. “Léonora,” I said. My lost one, named for Willow’s lost Léon.

  Jem stayed with me through the next day and night then took her body home to Hethering, where he stood with the Picketys at her burial.

  *****

  My husband returned to the hospital in Rutherford’s custody, my uncle’s bombast silenced by my grief. For the next two weeks, Chase paid dutiful afternoon visits, but Jeremy came to sit with me through the sleepless nights. I had flowers and hothouse grapes from my husband. I had comfort that kept me whole from Jeremy. I knew we’d part again, but I carried the memory of his enduring love to war
m me in my cold home.

  *

  Chase brought me back to our original hotel suite, all mention of moving forgotten. He was very kind, he treated me with the care he’d give a piece of spun glass. He spoke in quiet tones, he ordered light but interesting fare to tempt my appetite, he played soothing melodies for hours. He slept in the spare bedroom “to not disturb your rest”.

  He didn’t go to parties. When I slept or lay on my bed in dry eyed misery, he went upstairs to his little room under the eaves and worked hard. Sometimes he played the result for me and it was very good.

  I was numb, my grief a frozen mass within me. Bit by bit as the numbness surrendered to feeling, I wept, but never when Chase could hear. He looked guilty and unhappy, several times he’d stop playing, and I thought he might say something, but he just began again without a word.

  One morning he came down from his studio to find me sitting by a sunny window. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better, I think.” It was true. I didn’t dread opening my eyes in the morning anymore. I knew my day could be difficult, but I was finding solace in music and stitchery again and visits from friends. Maybe I would go back to work on Willow’s story. I’d left it in the little room where Chase slept.

  “I’m leaving you, Clarry,” Chase said. “I’m going home to Boston to study composition at Harvard.”

  “I see.” I was so calm.

  “You’re not surprised, are you?”

  “No.” I was grateful he had the strength to end this travesty of a marriage.

  “You need a different sort of husband,” he said. “Even if the baby hadn’t —”

  “Léonora. Her name was Léonora.”

  “Yes,” he said, and looked away. When he turned back, his eyes were red, but he had schooled his face into an expression of pleasant regret.

  “Even if I was a different sort of man, a man who could have comforted you better,” he said, “I’m not Jeremy.”

  “I never said you had to be —”

  “Clarissa, you love him,” he said. “You’ve always loved him, you always will love him.” He sat down beside me. “I read your book while you were in hospital. That’s not Willow’s story, it’s yours. The love, the loss, the regret, the dedication.”

  His perception surprised me.

  “I understand his marriage is in a bad way,” he said. “And I wish you luck with all that, but I can’t stay to watch you leave me. You’re already quite a bit gone, aren’t you?”

  “Please don’t write a song about this,” I said. “I couldn’t listen to it.”

  “No songs,” he promised. “Maybe, one day, an aria. This is heartbreak, after all, not sentiment.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Chase, you were —”

  “The very good time you needed,” he said, “the light touch. But you want more than I can give. You always will.”

  I nodded with a measured tempo. He was right.

  “I guess I’ve always known that,” he said, “but I couldn’t stop myself from trying. My dream of you was irresistible. Let’s say goodbye before it gets — difficult.”

  “I’ll never forget you,” I said.

  “Don’t think I’ll ever let you.”

  Chapter Fifty

  I did better on my own than I thought I might. Chase left for America and we only told our friends where he’d gone, not why. We could arrange a quiet divorce in due time. An annulment didn’t matter, for I was done with men and marriage. I had my writing, I had my painting, I had my embroidery.

  I put Chase’s piano in storage and bought myself a cream colored baby grand. I drew flowers over its light wood and painted them in the pastels of spring blooms. I began to learn Bach’s two-part inventions and their regular patterns of quiet beauty eased my grief.

  Laura wrote from Australia. She’d married a private duty patient whose family owned a sheep station in the outback. “Two sad losses will have you feeling peaky,” she wrote, “though I don’t count that lightweight husband as one of them.” I suppressed a smile at her refusal to mince words.

  “Come and stay with us,” she continued. “Plan on at least six months to justify the journey. It will give you a new perspective for your writing and I have those promised stitches to teach you. You were a good pupil, no one else knitted so many scarves…”

  Mr. Mosely sent a distant connection, Miss Godbold, to assist me as I recovered and to type up revisions to my novel. Part nurse, part companion, part secretary, she, too, eased my difficult days. Her company was so congenial, I asked if she would like to live in.

  “No, I like my independence,” she said. Her rimless spectacles gleamed. “I do appreciate this position. I admire the creative process.”

  She was younger than forty, but looked careworn.

  “Did you have a sweetheart in the war?” I asked. Perhaps she was one of the many women whose dreams had ended with a German bullet.

  “No, no, none of that complication for me,” she said. “I prefer the simple life.”

  I reflected for some time on how her philosophy would have improved my experience, but that afternoon a little bouquet of violets was delivered, tied with my tattered blue hair ribbon. The card only read “…and I want the ribbon back”. I had to smile in spite of myself.

  Rutherford came for tea at least once a fortnight. “Well, that effort came a cropper,” he said in reference to Chase. “No stamina for the long haul. P’raps you should retire from the field for a time.”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  One afternoon, I had tea at the Ritz with Daisy, for I still enjoyed her lively gossip, most of it. I’d never admit I longed for word of Jeremy, I always pretended a vague indifference.

  She knew better though, and made me wait until she’d demolished the cream scones and strawberries.

  “Everyone knows Jeremy and Caroline are separated, but she pretends not,” Daisy said. “He’s installed at his club and only visits the child. Caroline drags him to society functions. I wonder if that’s the bargain they’ve struck.”

  I was spared the need to comment by Rutherford’s arrival at our table. “I came by your digs and that plain creature gave up your direction,” he said in his usual decibels. Daisy was either transfixed or deafened.

  “Please join us,” I said and they were off. Even the legendary kitchens of the Ritz must have been challenged by two such unrestrained appetites. All was trilling laughter, cream spraying ‘harrumphs’ and such a display of gnashing teeth I hesitated to put forth my hand.

  “I must go,” I said, prepared to plead another engagement, but they never heard me. I escaped the Palm Court, slightly nauseated, for I’d eaten well more than I usually did, and ran smack into Caroline and Arthur.

  “Hallo,” he said. “I’m happy to see you again.” I couldn’t help but smile at his increasing resemblance to his father.

  Caroline didn’t acknowledge me with so much as a blink. “Come along, Arthur, we’ll be late.”

  “But, that’s Cousin Clarissa,” he protested. “Papa said so. We must remember our manners.”

  She hustled him away without a backward glance.

  A stocky, mustachioed gentleman followed after them, and then stopped to speak to me. He was so obviously an American, I was prepared to be mistaken as to his identity.

  “You must be Dr. Redstone,” I said. “Thank you for keeping Arthur well.”

  “You must not be ‘Cousin’ Clarissa,” he said with the distinctive speech of the southern states. “You’ll do more harm than good.”

  He left me staring and shaking my head. I went home to Miss Godbold’s good sense and excellent advice.

  *****

  I thought hard about Laura’s invitation to the Antipodes. The sea voyage would be good for me. Six months abroad would give Jeremy time and space to make some necessary decisions without the complication of my presence.

  “Mr. Dane is shouting on the telephone,” Miss Godbold interrupted.

  “Got a good looki
ng evening frock?”

  “Several.” I held the receiver a foot from my face.

  “Time you went out again. I’ll come by at eight o’clock.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Private party. Foreign riff-raff. You’ll add to my consequence.”

  “Thank you for your gracious —” He put down his receiver.

  Thank God we had a driver that night. I was able to quiz Rutherford on the occasion, but he’d only admit to the venue, which was close by the American Embassy.

  “And how do you —”

  “I have my ways. Americans appreciate my derring-do.”

  The private home covered an entire block. Light streamed out over the street and while Rutherford sputtered words of praise for my blue silk gown I gave up my cloak to a liveried servant. Anticipation heated my blood. This was my first party in months and it looked an amazing affair. Anyone might be there.

  I was just outside the ballroom when I saw Jeremy at the far end of its chandelier lit expanse. He was in serious conversation with a man whose medallions bespoke diplomatic credentials, whose old fashioned pince-nez hinted at middle European origins.

  Beside him, Caroline in acid green chiffon had her head cocked to one side, pretending to listen while her eyes darted circles around the room. I left Rutherford behind to step into the arena, my skirts belling around me. Jeremy looked up at the very moment Caroline espied me, but I could only see his dark eyes, I could only drown in their depths.

  Jeremy excused himself from his companion and walked across the empty floor to take my hands. He nodded to the orchestra leader and the strains of Chopin’s Waltz in C# Minor filled the room.

  We weren’t the only couple dancing. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Daisy with Rutherford and a host of other couples. I was grateful for their whirling camouflage as pure happiness buoyed me.