by Marvin Kaye
springing from his attraction. If only my attraction were not
deepening as well. It has been so long since I have let myself be loved
knowingly; for the last decade I have taken my pleasure— such as it
has been— in the dreams of men who have been interesting to me,
and interested in me. And that has sufficed; it is gratification but not
nourishment. For that, there must be intimacy without fantasy. And I
cannot help but long for that intimacy, for knowledge and
acceptance— although why I believe I should find either from William
T. Sherman, I cannot tell, except for what is in his eyes.
Madelaine arrived at the French Theatre on Montgomery Street and found
herself in a crush of carriages trying to get into position at the front of the theatre,
where the sidewalk was broader and two wide steps were in place for those
leaving their carriages. Ushers were at the edge of this boardwalk helping the
arriving audience to alight.
"I don't think I can get much closer, Madame, not in another ten minutes, and
you would then be late," said Enrique, her coachman, as he looked over the line of
vehicles waiting to discharge their passengers. "It is less than a block from here."
"It is satisfactory, Enrique," said Madelaine with decision, handing him a small
tip as she prepared to get out. "I will walk the rest of the way; if you will watch
me, to be sure I am not—"
"I will watch, Madame," he said, drawing the coach up to the boardwalk. "Do
you need me to let the steps down?"
"No," she replied. "I can manage well enough. The street is well lit, and I doubt
anyone will importune me with so much activity about." With that, she opened the
door panel, set her lap rug aside, and stepped down from the carriage, swinging
the door behind her to close it. She was about to turn when she felt her cloak snag
on the door latch; as she struggled to free it, she stumbled back against the coach.
"Allow me, Madame," said a voice from behind her; William Sherman reached
out and freed her cloak, then held out his hand to assist her to the wide, wooden
sidewalk. "Good evening, and permit me to say that I am surprised to see you
here."
"At the French Theatre? Where else should I be?" Madelaine recovered her
poise at once. "Thank you for your concern, Mr. Sherman. Why should you be
surprised?"
He answered indirectly as he glanced at his pocket watch. "The curtain will rise
in five minutes. You will have to join your company at once."
"Then I will have to hurry," said Madelaine, starting along the boardwalk in the
direction of the French Theatre. "But there is no one I am joining, Mr. Sherman.
And no one is joining me. I am a Frenchwoman here for the pleasure of hearing
her own language spoken, not to indulge in the entertainment of society."
"Surely you do not go to the theatre unescorted?" He gazed at her in dismay.
"No, no; Madame, you must not."
"But why?" she asked reasonably. "I have attended the theatre alone in
London." As soon as she said it, she realized she had slipped; it was rare for her
to make such an error.
"Never tell me you went alone to the theatre as a child," he countered. "Not
even French parents are so indulgent."
"Not as a child, no," she allowed, irritated that her tongue should have got her
into such a pass with Sherman, of all people. He was too acute for her to forget
herself around him.
He stopped walking, and looked down at her, cocking his head; the lamplight
made his red hair glow like hot coals. "As a gentleman, I should never ask a lady
this question, but I fear I must."
She returned his look. "What question is that? I have told you the truth, Mr.
Sherman."
"Of that I have no doubt." He answered so directly that she was startled. "I
can perceive the truth of you as if it grew on stalks. No, the question I ought not
ask is: How old are you?" Before she could answer, he added, "Because I have
received an accounting of your money in the Saint Louis office of Lucas and
Turner, and with a portrait and a description to verify your identity. It would seem
that you have not altered in any particular in the last decade. You appeared to be
about twenty when you first went there, and you appear to be about twenty now."
Very carefully she said, "If I told you when I was born, you would not believe
me."
He studied her eyes and was satisfied, "That, too, was the truth." He again
looked at his pocket watch. "We are going to miss the curtain."
"Does this mean you are escorting me?" asked Madelaine, unable to resist
smiling at him.
"Perforce," answered Sherman, his eyes creasing at the corners.
"But what of the gossip you have warned me about? And your wife is still with
her parents." Madelaine noticed that the theatregoers had all but disappeared from
the street. She glanced at Sherman. "Are you really set on seeing Racine?"
His face did not change, but his voice softened. "No."
"Nor am I," said Madelaine, who had seen Phaedre more than twenty times in
the last sixty years. "Surely there is somewhere we can go that will not cause
tongues to wag?"
Most of those going to the theatre were in their place. The few who remained
on the street hurried to reach their seats before the curtain went up; they paid no
attention to Madelaine and Sherman.
He coughed once. "There are rooms at the casinos, private rooms. Men dine
there, in private. Sometimes these rooms are used for assignations."
"Would that bother you?" asked Madelaine. "Going to such a place?"
"It should bother you," said Sherman sternly. Then he made up his mind. He
took her by the elbow and started to lead her in the direction away from the
French Theatre. "My carriage is in a livery around the corner on Pine Street," he
said.
"I wish you would not hold on to my arm in that manner," she said to him. "It's
uncomfortable."
He released her at once, chagrined. "I meant nothing unsuitable, Madame." He
put more than two feet between them. "You must understand that I only sought to
guard—"
"Oh! for all the saints in the calendar!" Madelaine burst out, then lowered her
voice. "I meant nothing but what I said: I dislike having my arm clutched. But I am
glad of your company, Mr. Sherman, and your protection. I know these streets
can be dangerous."
He paused at the corner of Pine Street. "I will take you home."
"My coachman will do that, thank you," said Madelaine amiably, "after we
have our private discussion."
This time there was an eagerness in his eyes as he looked down at her. "What
did you mean by discussion, since you are clarifying your meaning, Madame?"
"That, in large part, is up to you," said Madelaine, regarding him steadily. "I
will not seduce you, or demand what you are unwilling to give; I want no man who
is not enthusiastic to have me."
He laughed abruptly. "What man would that be? One who is dead, or prefers
the bodies of men?"
Madelaine answered him seriously. "I do not mean only my body, Mr.
Sherman. If that is all I sought, it is there for the taking, all around us, at
&
nbsp; acceptable prices. I mean a man who is willing to see into my soul. And to let me
see into his."
Taken aback, Sherman straightened up and stared down the dark street. "Well,
your candor is admirable." He paused thoughtfully. "Let me make myself plain to
you, Madame, and if what I say is repugnant to you, then I will not impose upon
you any longer, and I will forget that any of this was said. No matter what you may
stir in me, I cannot, and I will not, compromise my obligations to my family. I am
married, and that will not be changed by any desire I may feel for you."
"I don't recall asking you to change, or to hurt your family," said Madelaine as
she put her hand through his arm. "I only remember suggesting that we spend the
evening together."
"And that I may have you if that is what I wish," he said, as if to give her one
more chance to change her mind.
Madelaine's smile was quick. "I am not challenging you, Mr. Sherman. I am
seeking to spend time with you."
"Whatever that means," said Sherman.
"Whatever that means," Madelaine concurred.
San Francisco, 16 June, 1855
… Tonight will be better.
The sheets were fine linen, as soft as antique satin, and there were six pillows
and a damask comforter flung in glorious disarray about the bed. In the wan spill
of moonlight from the window, Sherman was standing, wearing only a loosely
belted dressing robe, and smoking a thin cigar as he gazed out into the darkness.
"The other evening and now this. What must you think of me?"
"Nothing to your discredit," said Madelaine quietly, hardly moving as she
spoke. "I think you do not trust what you want." She pulled the sheet up to cover
her breasts.
"That's kind," he said tightly. "Many another woman would be offended."
Madelaine turned on her side to look at him, regarding him with a serious
expression. "If that's not it, what is bothering you?"
He met her eyes. "You are."
"Why do I bother you? Would you rather not be here?" she asked, more
puzzled than apprehensive.
"No. There is no place I would rather be," he answered evenly.
"Then why—?" she began, only to be cut off.
"Because it is what I want," he said bluntly, and stubbed out his cigar in the
saucer she had set out for that purpose. "A man in my position, with a wife and a
good marriage, has other women for convenience and amusement. It isn't that way
with you. You are not a convenience or an entertainment. You are not convenient
at all. You are what I want. All of you. And I should not. I must not." He started
toward the bed, tugging at his sash and flinging it aside as he reached her. He
stared down at her as his robe fell open. "Do you know what it means to want you
so much, to go beyond reason with wanting you? I want to possess you, and I
fear you will possess me. I am afraid that once I touch you, I will be lost."
"Is that so terrifying a prospect?" she asked, moving to make a place beside
her in the bed.
"Yes." In a shrug he dropped his dressing robe to the floor, letting it lie in a
velvet puddle.
"Then come and stretch out beside me. We can talk as friends, all through the
night." She piled up the pillows. "I don't require you to take me."
"How do you mean?" he asked sharply.
"If you do not want to touch me at all, you need not." She regarded him
kindly. "If you would like to, then you may."
He scowled. "How can you say that you want me, that you have me here in
your house, in your bed, and not care if I—"
She sighed. "I've told you before, William."
"Don't call me William," he interrupted, seeking a distraction from the
confusion that warred within him.
"I won't call you Mr. Sherman, not here," she said, slapping one of the pillows
with the back of her hand; though it was dark, she could see his face clearly and
knew he was deeply troubled. She strove to lighten the burdens of desire that so
plagued him, and decided to stay on safe ground. "What does the T in your name
stand for?"
"My friends and… and family call me Cump," he said, swallowing hard.
"Cump?" She was baffled.
"My given name is Tecumseh," he said at last. "The Ewings added William
when they took me in after my father's death. So that I could be baptized into
Maria Ewing's Catholic religion." He sat on the edge of the bed and absently
reached out to stroke her hair.
Madelaine knew he had just given her a very special gift. "You're named for the
chief of the Shawnee."
"Yes," he said with urgency as he reached out and wrapped his long-fingered
hands around her upper arms. "How do you know about Tecumseh?"
"I know he had a twin brother, Tenskwatawa, and they were both called The
Prophet." It was not a direct answer, but it was all she was prepared to give now.
"Come to me, Tecumseh. You don't have to do anything if you don't want to."
He glowered at her, then looked down at himself, sighed, and swung his legs
up and under the covers. He stared up at the ceiling in the darkness. "What should
we talk about?" he asked, his manner forbidding.
"Anything you wish or nothing at all. Either will please me if that is what you
want." As much as she desired to lie next to him, to feel his flesh against hers for
the length of her body, she, too, lay on her back and stared at the ceiling, noticing
a faint crack in the ornamental plasterwork. She wanted to bridge the rift between
them, and sought for something she could give him, as he had offered his name to
her. "Let us share secrets, as friends do," she suggested impulsively. "If you like, I
will tell you how old I am."
"That is a wonderful secret for a lady to share with a friend, and quite an
admission for any woman to make." He laughed once, then looked grave. "Very
well. On my honor I promise I will never repeat it," he told her somberly.
"You had best not," said Madelaine, and plunged ahead, telling herself that
surprise was an advantage with this man. "For I was born on the twenty-second
day of November, 1724, at Montalia, my family estate, in the south of France."
For several seconds Sherman was silent. Then he chuckled. "Seventeentwenty-four, not 1824. That would make you more than a century old, Madame."
"I am," she said, beginning to worry.
He turned toward her, trying hard to keep the incredulity out of his voice. "All
right. I deserved that. For the sake of argument, we will say you are ancient, a
veritable crone. You are one hundred thirty -one years old, or will be in
November." His chuckling continued, rich and easy, the hard lines in his face
relaxing so that he, himself, now appeared younger than he was. "And how did
you attain this great age without looking older than a girl just out?"
"Because I died on the fourth of August, 1744. I was just out," she replied,
trying to keep her voice from trembling, though she could not disguise the chill
that seized her, making her quiver.
"The fourth of August, 1744," he repeated, as if hearing the words again would
change them. His chuckle turned to coughing, and he took a minute to bring his
breathing under control. He lay back on the pillows, willing hi
mself not to cough.
"You don't expect me to believe this, do you?"
"Why not?" she answered, fighting the desolation that swept over her. She was
afraid her teeth would chatter. "Tecumseh, you know when I am lying. I am not
lying now, am I? This is the truth."
"The truth?" he scoffed. "Well, Madame, you sure look mighty pretty for a
corpse." He rolled onto his side, propped himself on his elbow, and stared at her.
"How can you claim to exchange confidences and then tell such bald-faced…"
The words straggled; when he spoke again, he was awed. "You are telling the
truth, aren't you?"
"Yes," she said as if from a great distance.
"But how… ?" He touched her face with one long finger; he did his best to
comprehend the enormity of what she said. "Dear God, Madelaine, how?"
She gave him Saint-Germain's answer. "I drink the Elixir of Life. And I do not
die. I cannot die."
This was not nearly sufficient to convince Sherman. "Then tell me something
of your youth." His steel-colored eyes grew sharp. "Who was ruling France then?"
"When I came to Paris, Louis XV was king," she answered calmly, though she
continued to shiver as much from the strength of her memories as from
apprehension about Sherman. "That was in the fall of 1743. I went to my aunt so
that she could introduce me into society."
"What sort of fellow was he, Louis XV?" demanded Sherman, making her
answer a test. "I warn you, I know something about the man, and will not be
fobbed off with vague answers."
"Venal, luxury-loving, indolent, handsome, overindulged, manipulative. In a
word, spoiled." She stared at him, surprised when he took her hands in his. "I
escaped the Terror, which is just as well."
Sherman managed a kind of laugh. "A lovely corpse without a head —that
would be difficult," agreed Sherman in ill -concealed excitement. "Limiting, I
should think."
"A corpse is all I would have been. Those who taste the Elixir of Life are not
proof against all death. Madame la Guillotine is as deadly to me as to you. So is
fire." She looked directly into his eyes. "In the time I have lived, can you imagine
the number of times I have said good-bye?" And how many more times I will, she
added silently to herself. She thought of Trowbridge then, of his devotion which
