by Greyspid
‘I don’t know. But I’ve given him opportunities, and he’s not really showing himself. Strange things happen, crazy things, but I’m never sure…’
‘Like what things?’
‘Oh, not worth dwelling on. Look, you’re tired. You want me to drive for a while?’
‘Good Lord, no. And I’m not tired. I just don’t want him here with us right now, in this conversation. I have a feeling he’ll come soon enough.’
Late that night, he woke up in the big hotel bed alone. He found her sitting in the living room. He realized she’d been crying.
‘Rowan, what is it?’
‘Nothing, Michael. Nothing that doesn’t happen to a woman once a month,’ she said. She gave a little forced smile, faintly bitter. ‘It’s just… well, you’ll probably think I’m insane, but I was hoping I was pregnant.’
He took her hand, not knowing whether it was the right thing to kiss her. He too felt the disappointment, but more significant, he felt happy that she had actually wanted to have a child. All this time, he’d been afraid to ask her what her feelings were about such a thing. And his own carelessness had been worrying him. That would have been great, darling,’ he said. ‘Just great.’
‘You think so? You would have been happy?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Michael, let’s do it then. Let’s go on and get married.’
‘Rowan, nothing would make me happier,’ he said simply. ‘But are you sure this is what you want?’
She gave him a slow patient smile. ‘Michael, you’re not getting away,’ she said, with a small playful frown. ‘What’s the point of waiting?’
He couldn’t help but laugh.
‘And what about Mayfair Unlimited, Rowan? The cousins and company. You know what they’re going to say, honey.’
She shook her head, with the same knowing smile as before. ‘Do you want to hear what I have to say? We’re fools if we don’t do it.’
Her gray eyes were still rimmed in red, but her face was very tranquil now, and so pretty to look at, so soft to touch. So unlike the face of anyone he’d ever known, or loved, or even dreamed of.
‘Oh, I want to do it,’ he whispered. ‘But I’m forty-eight years old, Rowan. I was born the same year your mother was born. Yes, I want it. I want it with all my heart. But I have to think of you.’
‘Let’s have the wedding at First Street, Michael,’ she said in her soft husky voice, her eyes puckering slightly. ‘What do you think? Wouldn’t it be perfect? On that beautiful side lawn.’
Perfect. Like that plan for the hospitals built upon the Mayfair legacy. Perfect.
He wasn’t sure why he was hesitating. He couldn’t resist. Yet it was all too good to be true, too sweet actually, her openness and her love, and the pride it engendered in him -that this woman of all women should need and love him just the way he needed and loved her.
‘Those cousins of yours will draw up all the papers to protect you… you know, the house, the legacy. All that.’
‘It’s automatic. It’s all entailed or something. But they’ll probably manufacture a storehouse of papers of one kind or another.’
‘I’ll sign on the dotted line.’
‘Michael, the papers really don’t mean anything. What I have is yours.’
‘What I want is you, Rowan.’
Her face brightened; she drew her knees up, turning sideways on the couch to face him, and she leaned over and kissed him.
Suddenly it hit him, grandly and deliciously. Getting married. Marrying Rowan. And the promise, the absolutely dazzling promise of a child. This kind of happiness was so completely unfamiliar to him that he was almost afraid. But not quite.
It seemed the very thing that they must do at all costs. Preserve what they had and what they wanted, against the dark current that had brought them together. And when he thought of the years ahead - of all the simple and heartbreakingly important possibilities - his happiness was too great to be expressed.
He knew better than to even try. After a few moments of silence, bits of poetry came to him, little phrases that barely caught the light of his contentment the way a bit of glass catches light. They left him. He was contented and empty, and full of nothing but a quiet inarticulate love.
In perfect understanding, it seemed, they looked at each other. Questions of failure, of haste, all the what if’s of life, did not matter. The quiet in her was talking to the quiet in him.
When they went into the bedroom, she said she wanted to spend their wedding night at the house, and then go on to Florida for the honeymoon. Wouldn’t that be the best way to handle it? A wedding night under that roof, and slipping away afterwards.
Surely the workmen could get the front bedroom ready in a couple of weeks.
‘I guarantee it,’ he said.
In that big antique bed in the front room. He could almost hear the ghost of Belle say, ‘How lovely for both of you.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
UNEASY SLEEP. She shifted, turned and put her arm over his back, drawing her knees under his, warm and snug again. The air-conditioning was almost as good as the Florida Gulf breeze.
But what was it tugging at her neck, tangled in her hair, and hurting her? She moved to brush it away, to free her hair. Something cold pressed against her breast. She didn’t like it.
She turned over on her back, half dreaming once again that she was in the Operating Room, and this was a most difficult procedure. She had to envision carefully what she meant to do - to guide her hands every step with her mind - commanding the blood not to flow, commanding the tissues to come together. And the man lay split open all the way from his crotch to the top of his head, all his tiny organs exposed, quivering, red, impossible for his size, waiting for her somehow to make them grow.
‘Too much, I can’t do this,’ she said. ‘I’m a neurosurgeon, not a witch!’
She could see every vessel now in his legs and arms as if he were one of those clear plastic dummies threaded through and through with red, to teach children about circulation. His feet quivered. They too were small, and he was wriggling his toes trying to make them grow. How blank was the expression on his face, but he was looking at her.
And that tugging in her hair again, something pulling at her hair. Again, she pushed it away, and this time her finger caught it — what was it, a chain?
She didn’t want to lose the dream. She knew it was a dream now, but she wanted to know what was going to happen to this man, how this operation was to end.
‘Dr Mayfair, put down your scalpel,’ said Lemle. ‘You don’t need that anymore.’
‘No, Dr Mayfair,’ said Lark. ‘You can’t use it here.’
They were right. It was past the point for something so crude as the tiny flickering steel blade. This was not a matter of cutting, but of construction. She was staring at the long open wound, at the tender organs shivering like plants, like the monstrous iris in the garden. Her mind raced with the proper specifications as she guided the cells, explaining as she went along so that the young doctors would understand. ‘There are sufficient cells there, you see, in fact, they exist in profusion. The important thing is to provide for them a superior DNA, so to speak, a new and unforeseen incentive to form organs of the proper size.’ And behold, the wound was closing over organs of the proper size and the man was turning his head, and his eyes snapped open and shut like the eyes of a doll.
Applause rose all around her, and looking up she was amazed to see that they were all Dutchmen here, gathered at Leiden; even she wore the big black hat and the gorgeous thick sleeves, and this was a painting by Rembrandt, of course, The Anatomy Lesson, and that is why the body looked so perfectly neat, though it hardly explained why she could see through it.
‘Ah, but you have the gift, my child, you are a witch,’ said Lemle.
‘That’s right,’ said Rembrandt. Such a sweet old man. He sat in the corner, his head to one side, his russet hair wispy now in old age.
‘Don’t let Pety
r hear you,’ she said.
‘Rowan, take the emerald off,’ Petyr said. He stood at the foot of the table. ‘Take it off, Rowan, it’s around your neck. Remove it!’
The emerald?
She opened her eyes. The dream lost its vibrancy like a taut veil of silk suddenly torn free and furling. The darkness was alive around her.
Very slowly the familiar objects came to light. The closet doors, the table by the bed, Michael, her beloved Michael, sleeping beside her.
She felt the coldness against her naked breast, she felt the thing caught in her hair, and she knew what it was.
‘Oh God!’ She covered her mouth with her left hand but not before that little scream had escaped, her right hand snatching the thing off her neck as if it had been a loathsome insect.
She sat up, hunched over, staring at it in the palm of her hand. Like a clot of green blood. Her breath caught in her throat, and she saw that she had broken the old chain, and her hand was shaking uncontrollably.
Had Michael heard her cry out? He didn’t move even as she leaned against him.
‘Lasher!’ she whispered, her eyes moving up as if she could find him in the shadows. ‘Do you want to make me hate you!’ Her words were a hiss. For one second the fabric of the dream was clear again, as if the veil had once more been lowered. All the doctors were leaving the table.
‘Done, Rowan. Magnificent, Rowan.’
‘A new era, Rowan.’
‘Very simply miraculous, my dear,’ said Lemle.
‘Cast it away, Rowan,’ said Petyr.
She flung the emerald over the foot of the bed. Somewhere in the small hallway it struck the carpet, with a dull impotent little sound.
She put her hands to her face, and then feverishly, she felt of her neck, felt of her breasts as if the damnable thing had left some layer of dust or grime on her.
‘Hate you for this,’ she whispered again in the dark. ‘Is that what you want?’
Far off it seemed she heard a sigh, a rustling. Through the far hallway door, she could just barely make out the curtains in the living room against the light of the street, and they moved as if ruffled by a low draft, and that was the sound she heard, wasn’t it?
That and the slow measured song of Michael’s breathing. She felt foolish for having flung the stone away. She sat with her hands over her mouth, knees up, staring into the shadows.
Well, didn’t you believe the old tales? Why are you shaking like this? Just one of his tricks, and no more difficult for him than making the dance of the wind in the trees. Or making that iris move in the garden. Move. It did more than move, though, didn’t it? It actually… And then she remembered those roses, those strange large roses on the hall table. She had never asked Pierce where they had come from. Never asked Gerald.
Why are you so frightened?
She got up, put on her robe, and walked barefoot into the hall, Michael sleeping on, undisturbed, in the bed behind her.
She picked up the jewel and wound the two strands of broken chain around it carefully. Seemed dreadful to have broken those fragile antique links.
‘But you were stupid to do this,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll never put it on now, not of my own free will.’
With a low creak of the springs, Michael turned over in the bed. Had he whispered something? Her name maybe?
She crept silently back into the bedroom, and dropping to her knees, found her purse in the corner of the closet and put the necklace into the side zipper pocket.
She wasn’t shaking now. But her fear had alchemized perfectly to rage. And she knew she couldn’t sleep any more.
Sitting alone in the living room as the sun rose, she thought of all the old portraits at the house, the ones she’d been going through, and wiping clean, and preparing to hang, the very old ones she could identify which no one else in the family could. Charlotte with her blond hair, so deeply faded beneath the lacquer that she seemed a ghost. And Jeanne Louise, with her twin brother standing behind her. And gray-haired Marie Claudette with the little painting of Riverbend on the wall above her.
All of them wore the emerald. So many paintings of that one jewel. She closed her eyes and dozed on the velvet couch, wishing for coffee, yet too sleepy to make it. She’d been dreaming before this happened, but what was it all about — something to do with the hospital and an operation, and now she couldn’t remember. Lemle there. Lemle whom she hated so much…
And that dark-mouthed iris that Lasher had made…
Yes, I know your tricks. You made it swell and break from its stem, didn’t you? Oh, nobody really understands how much power you have. To make whole leaves sprout from the stem of a dead rose. Where do you get your handsome form when you appear, and why won’t you do it for me? Are you afraid I’ll scatter you to the four winds, and you’ll never have the strength to gather yourself together?
She was dreaming again, wasn’t she? Imagine, a flower changing like that iris, altering before her eyes, the cells actually multiplying and mutating…
Unless it was just a trick. A trick like putting the necklace on her in her sleep. But wasn’t everything a trick?
‘Well, boys and girls,’ said Lark once as they stood over the bed of a comatose and dying man, ’we’ve done all our tricks, haven’t we?’
What would have happened if she had tried a couple of her own? Like telling the cells of that dying man to multiply, to mutate, to restructure, and seal off the bruised tissue. But she hadn’t known. She still didn’t know how far she could go.
Yes, dreaming. Everyone walking through the halls at Leiden. You know what they did to Michael Servetus in Calvinist Geneva, when he accurately described the circulation of the blood in 1553, they burnt him at the stake, and all his heretical books with him. Be careful, Dr van Abel.
I am not a witch.
Of course, none of us are. It’s a matter of constantly re-evaluating our concept of natural principles.
Nothing natural about those roses.
And now the air in here, moving the way it was, catching the curtains and making them dance, stirring the papers on the coffee table in front of her, even lifting the tendrils of her hair, and cooling her. Your tricks. She didn’t want this dream anymore. Do the patients at Leiden always get up and walk away after the anatomy lesson?
But you won’t dare show yourself, will you?
She met Ryan at ten o’clock and told him all about the plans for the marriage, trying to make it matter-of-fact and definite, so as to invite as few questions as possible.
‘And one thing I wish you could do for me,’ she said. She took the emerald necklace out of her purse. ‘Could you put this in some sort of vault? Just lock it away, where no one can possibly get at it.’
‘Of course, I can keep it here at the office,’ he said, ’but Rowan, there are several things I ought to explain to you. This legacy is very old - you have to have a little patience now. The rules and rubrics, so to speak, are quaint and bizarre, but nevertheless explicit. I’m afraid you’re required to wear the emerald at the wedding.’
‘You don’t mean this.’
‘You understand, of course, these small requirements are probably quite vulnerable to contest or revision in a court of law, but the point of following them to the letter is - and has always been - to avoid even the remotest possibility of anyone ever challenging the inheritance at any point in its history, and with a personal fortune of this size and this
And on and on he went in familiar lawyerly fashion, but she understood. Lasher had won this round. Lasher knew the terms of the legacy, didn’t he? He had simply given her the appropriate wedding present.
Her anger was cold and dark and isolating just as it had always been at its worst. She gazed off, out the office window, not even seeing the soft cloud-filled sky, or the deep winding gash of the river below it.
‘I’ll have this gold chain repaired,’ Ryan said. ‘Seems to be broken.’
It was one o’clock when she reached First Street with lunch in a
little brown sack — two sandwiches and a couple of bottles of Dutch beer. Michael was all excited. They’d found a treasure trove of old New Orleans red bricks under the earth on the back lot. Beautiful bricks, the kind they couldn’t make anymore. They could now build the new gateposts with the perfect material. And they’d also found a stash of old blueprints in the attic.
‘They look like the original plans,’ he said. ‘They may have been drawn by Darcy himself. Come on. I left them up there. They’re so fragile.’
She went with him up the stairs. How fresh it all looked with the new paint; even Deirdre’s room was lovely now, the way it should have always been.
‘Nothing’s the matter, is it?’ he asked.
Wouldn’t he know? she thought. Wouldn’t he have to sense it? And to think she had to wear the damned thing at the wedding. Her great dream of the Mayfair Medical Center, and everything else would go right out the window if she didn’t. He’d go crazy when she told him. And she couldn’t bear to see the scared look in his eyes again. She couldn’t bear to see him agitated and weak, that was the truth of it.
‘No, nothing’s wrong,’ she said. ‘I was just downtown all morning with the lawyers again, and I missed you.’ She threw her arms around him, nuzzling her head under his chin. ‘I really really missed you.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
No ONE seemed the least surprised at the news. Aaron drank a toast with them over breakfast, and then went back to work in the library at First Street, where at Rowan’s invitation he was cataloging the rare books.
Smooth-talking Ryan of the cold blue eyes came by Tuesday afternoon, to shake Michael’s hand. In a few words of pleasant conversation, he made it clear that he was impressed with Michael’s accomplishments, which could only mean of course that Michael had been investigated, through the regular financial channels, just as if he were bidding on a job.
‘It’s all sort of annoying, I’m sure,’ Ryan admitted finally, ‘investigating the fiancé of the designee of the Mayfair legacy, but you see, I don’t have much choice in the matter…"
