A Prologue To Love (33 page)

A few days before the meeting between Caroline and her cousin, Timothy Winslow, something very remarkable indeed happened to Cynthia.

She had been very restless and suffering from what was fashionably called ‘the vapors’. She sat in her warm and silent little garden one day, dressed loosely in a white silk-and-lace robe; she had rolled up the sleeves, and her ivory arms were translucent in the green light that fell through the trees. She was considering her life with unusual sadness. She thought of John Ames with pain and loneliness and a sick longing. She had never loved any man but John in this particular way. Now it was as if her life, pleasant, full of flowers, music, laughter, beauty, and grace, had been convulsed, shattered, darkened, abandoned. She had not been John’s wife; she endured the secret anguish and torment of a widow. Her friends were sympathetic, but after all, they would say to her consolingly, he was only her brother-in-law and not her husband. It is quite different, the widows would tell her with sighing significance. For the first time Cynthia wished she had married John Ames. She could then be honestly and openly grieved.

Cynthia, who held many moral laws lightly, knew bitterly now that a woman in an ambiguous situation must hide her emotions and must permit those emotions to fester in her silently. She controlled herself as much as possible, not for her own sake, but for the sake of Melinda, whose young life must not be ruined and despised. But it was almost too arduous for the sorrowing woman. Three months had passed since John had died. Cynthia longed to weep openly, to let her grief be known so it would not poison her in the dark nights.

She was a woman to whom the intimate presence of a man was absolutely necessary. Her nature was ardent and graceful, and in many ways dependent. Her bed was not a new widow’s bed; it was nonetheless empty. She might be middle-aged, but her passions were young and had been aroused only by John Ames. Her beautiful body was as urgent as a girl’s. Care and coddling of her flesh, her naturally vivacious and interested personality, good health, and eager awareness of living had kept her unusually young for her forty-five years. Moreover, there had been little stress in her life, and much love and affection. These had prolonged her youthfulness. In all but actual years she was like a woman of thirty.

So, in spite of herself, she thought of marrying, in her hunger. But the desirable men were already married; the widowers were cautious and were looking for younger women; the bachelors were beyond desire and unhealthy. She was also a woman who, though the beneficiary of a life trust, would have nothing substantial to leave a prudent man. She was beautiful and desirable, but in the eyes of Boston men these were not enough. She was condemned to be an observer of life from this time onward and no longer a participant. There would be no nights of excitement, no confidences in the dark, no smothered laughter and kisses, no warm turning in arms, no sense of being of the first importance to any man. She had no desire for another liaison, though the opportunities were there among disgruntled husbands and a few wary bachelors. It must be marriage or nothing, and the nothing was terrible to Cynthia Winslow.

She had not kept Melinda in town this hot and steaming summer. The young girl was sorrowful enough for ‘Uncle John’. So Cynthia had been persuaded by a close friend to let Melinda accompany the family to Newport. The friend was Mrs. Bothwell, who was fond of the girl and who frequently thought of the fortune left her by John Ames. After all, there was her son Alfred. Cynthia was alone in her house; the idea of going to Newport was distasteful to her. Had there been any opportunity of meeting a strange man of substance and charm she would have gone. But she knew there was no such opportunity. She could see the dreary years ahead, years of discretion, emptiness, loneliness, and deprivation. Melinda would marry and have her own affairs. She, Cynthia, would live virtuously and in desolation in this house, bored and silent. She highly regarded those who were engrossed in good works, but good works as the sole aim of life repelled her. The world was made for joy, also, and pleasure and intimacy. I should really go to New York, she thought restlessly in her garden on this hot, still day. But she knew she could not. A lone woman in New York was in a most anomalous position.

Locusts sang in the crab-apple trees; a wet, hot wind blew over the flower beds. Large yellow bumblebees hummed stridently in the silence. A bird drank from a distant stone bath. A rabbit timidly poked its head from the end of the garden, a leaf in its working mouth. “Go away,” said Cynthia listlessly. “I don’t plant petunias for your supper.” She lifted the weight of her lovely hair from her neck and threw it over the back of her low chair. She fanned herself and fluttered a perfumed handkerchief over her moist forehead and cheeks. Nothing, she thought, could be more oppressive than Boston in August. Yet when she instinctively caught the shadow of autumn in the hollows under the trees, in the frantic exuberance of the flowers, in the light of the vivid sky, in the color of the little crab apples, in the faint browning of the grass, she was unbearably depressed. She hated winter; she now even hated the topaz deepening of autumnal Boston. Melinda, it was arranged, was to go to school in England in late September. Not Switzerland! Cynthia thought of those five months she had spent in Switzerland, immured in a luxurious villa near Lucerne, awaiting the birth of Melinda, when she was ostensibly supposed to be traveling all over the Continent as a gay widow.

“Darling John,” she murmured now, “I should have married you. It might have been awful, but then again I might have been able to do something with you. I am no poor little Ann. Besides,” she added with a faint and mournful smile, “as your widow I should have had a great deal more money and so should have been much more desirable.”

A perspiring maid came from the house, gliding over the grass as if she had no legs at all. She has forgotten the brandy, thought Cynthia irritably, aware that she had been drinking too much since John died. The maid carried a card on a silver tray, and Cynthia, yawning, picked it up. There was really no one in town, except some very elderly and tiresome widows who lived on back streets. Had one of them really emerged in her rusty black and decided to pay Cynthia Winslow a visit? Cynthia read the card: ‘Montague Lord Halnes’.

“Who on earth?” Cynthia murmured, frowning, then remembering not to frown. She could not afford wrinkles. She knew no Mr. Montague Lord Halnes. She said so, very shortly, to the maid. But the maid was an Englishwoman, and she was awed; she curtsied, to Cynthia’s astonishment, not to Cynthia, but to the card. “It is Lord Halnes, Mrs. Winslow,” she said with a touch of superiority in her voice. “A very famous family in England. The old lord died nearly two months ago, and the present lord came into his title and the estates. I read about it in the papers from home.”

“Oh?” said Cynthia, sitting up and vaguely excited. “But why should he come to see me?” She shook out her hair, and the long bright curls fell down her back.

The maid smirked importantly. “Indeed, Mrs. Winslow, I do not know. But Lord Halnes was a Mr. Montague Brookingham, and I do remember overhearing that he was a friend of Mr. Ames.”

Cynthia sat up even straighter and was more excited. Of course, Montague Brookingham. John had spoken of him often and admiringly.

“His lordship is awaiting Mrs. Winslow,” said the maid with some reproof. Americans did not keep nobility waiting; but then, Americans were very ill bred and ignorant.

Cynthia felt the first prickling of animation she had felt for months. She examined the smooth white card and its fine engraving. “Oh dear,” she said. “I am not dressed. I do wish he had written first. Why, I might have been out of town!” The very thought was calamitous. Then she paused. “Lady — Halnes — she is not with him?”

“I believe his lordship is not married,” said the maid coldly. Cynthia smiled at her. “Do you study the Almanach de Gotha in your spare time, Jordan?” she asked mischievously.

“Certainly, madam,” said Jordan, whose accent was becoming more and more British each time she spoke. Cynthia thought she was covertly sneering at her, but a sharp glance reassured her that the woman was entirely serious. “There is a whole page devoted to the family in the Almanach,” added Jordan. “They go back to King John.”

“I must dress,” said Cynthia. And then she saw herself as a man would see her, in thin white silk and lace, with loosened and warmly disheveled hair, with bare and pretty arms, and with a face flushed delicately in the heat. The maid stood apart to let her mistress stand, but Cynthia leaned back indolently in her chair and smiled.

“On second thought, bring Lord Halnes out to me in the garden,” she said.

Jordan was horrified. She looked closely at Cynthia; the white silk and lace only half obscured the handsome high breast, and it was obvious that the lady wore no stays and that there was little under the loose gown, if anything. It was indecent! Nobodies — and Jordan was convinced all Americans, including the President, were nobodies — did not receive nobility like this, half nude in little city gardens. It was shameful. Had Mrs. Winslow no sense of the proprieties at all, no self-respect, no pride? She was dressed for the boudoir, like one of those creatures one spoke about only in whispers and behind one’s hand.

“Don’t stand there gaping,” said Cynthia impatiently. “Didn’t you hear me? Bring Lord Halnes out to me here. And fetch brandy. You might consult with Cook; it is possible that his lordship will have dinner with me.”

“You don’t wish tea, madam?” asked Jordan desperately. “It is teatime.”

“Brandy,” said Cynthia with emphasis, waving the woman away with her lace handkerchief. “Do I ever have tea when I am alone?”

Crushed and appalled, Jordan sailed leglessly over the grass to the back door of the house. How does she manage it? thought Cynthia, shaking out her soft and luminous laces and observing with pleasure how her long thighs and calves were lovingly implied under the thin silk. She became excited again. A rich and unmarried nobleman! Englishmen were tall and slender and handsome and very ruddy, especially the nobility. They were charming. Cynthia’s heart began to beat rapidly. Why was he visiting her? For what purpose? Had he a secret message from poor John? She moved her chair a trifle and let two long curls flow over one shoulder.

Jordan appeared again, leading the way for Lord Halnes, practically genuflecting at each step, thought Cynthia. Then she looked at Lord Halnes and was sharply disappointed. What an undistinguished, rather short, and obviously portly man! He resembled a dull stockbroker or upper bookkeeper or obscure businessman. His quiet face was plump and expressionless, with a small double chin, unremarkable features; he was partly bald, also, and his clothing was entirely too heavy for this climate. Why, he’s not even as tall as I am, thought Cynthia, depressed, and he’s probably very tedious. She made no move as he came toward her over the grass, visibly perspiring.

Lord Halnes, wearing an appropriately grave expression and not appearing to see anything about him, was really acutely aware of and astonished at the beauty of the woman half reclining under the trees. Well, well, he thought with pleasure. Johnny did himself well, after all. What a handsome creature. She looks hardly more than a girl. And a devil, if I’m not mistaken. Good old Johnny!

John had not spoken very much of Cynthia; he had not even hinted of his affair with her. Yet when he had spoken, and with reluctance, his face had warmed, the color of his eyes had become actually human, and his abrupt manner had softened. It needed a very perceptive man — and Lord Halnes was most acute and perceptive — to understand that men like John Ames did not suddenly change at the mention of a woman’s name if inspired only by a brotherly and distant affection. Moreover, there was that package in his, Lord Halnes’, pocket.

He had come to within about eight feet of the silent Cynthia before he smiled, and Cynthia was suddenly astounded. Not only was this man charming, but he was clever and fascinating also. The satanic light in his eyes, the curious expression of subtle evil, the virile power stirred Cynthia and delighted her. He bowed to her and murmured in a voice that sounded marvelous to Cynthia, “Mrs. Winslow? I am sorry to intrude. I should have written you first. But I am here only until tomorrow, and to see you in behalf of my old friend, John Ames.”

What a lovely vixen, he thought agreeably. What great gray eyes and gilt lashes, what a long white throat, what distracting hair, and what a figure. Has she anything on under that silk and lace? Possibly not. But she is a lady of breeding, that is very obvious, even if she is careless. Johnny had taste, at least.

The silk and lace whispered softly as Cynthia held out her hand, and they exhaled a hint of intriguing perfume. Cynthia murmured, “How kind of you to come, Lord Halnes. A message from John? How thoughtful. Please sit down in that willow chair; it is quite comfortable. How kind of you.” She said to the bedazzled Jordan, “Brandy. At once, please. You will have brandy, won’t you?” she added to Montague.

“Indeed. A great pleasure,” he said, sitting down. His eyes danced on her with approval and enchantment and secret teasing, and Cynthia’s heart danced also. It had been a long time since a man had looked at her like this, with appreciative boldness and naughty inspection.

“Of course the English prefer tea. Perhaps?” said Cynthia in seductive tones, as if imparting a meltingly improper suggestion.

“I detest tea,” said Montague, leaning back in his chair and continuing his enjoyable inventory. He had dropped his pleasant voice to a warm intimacy.

“I do too,” said Cynthia with a soft laugh. They were conspirators in a delicious comedy. They smiled happily together. Cynthia’s lashes drooped; between them the smoky gray of her eyes sparkled.

“This is such a surprise,” said Cynthia, her voice still murmurous.

“Indeed. Indeed,” agreed Lord Halnes, implying a deeper meaning.

“You must forgive me for not moving this hot day and being so — undressed,” said Cynthia, indicating her clothing.

“I should not have forgiven you if you had done otherwise,” said Lord Halnes with a long slow glance over the graceful length of Cynthia’s body.

“How kind. How understanding,” said Cynthia, relaxing even more.

“How delightful,” said Lord Halnes.

“So good of you,” murmured Cynthia. She daintily applied her handkerchief to her forehead; the lace and silk fell back along her arm, revealing it almost to the shoulder. The action hinted of the cleft between her breasts. Lord Halnes was more appreciative than ever. He leaned forward a little. That was really a remarkably slender and supple waist and not the result of whalebone, and that curve of hip! Good old Johnny! If he was not mistaken this would be a wonderful baggage in bed. He was enchanted by the white chin, the fragile pulsation in the lovely temples. Give him an ardent lady in the bedroom rather than a voluptuous trollop. There was considerable skin visible, but this did not embarrass Lord Halnes in the slightest. He was suddenly in love, and the realization shocked him and made him silent for a few moments.

What a wicked man, thought Cynthia, who was not unsophisticated. What a marvelously wicked man. Still murmurous, as if the comedy of naughtiness were now in full stride, she asked him where he was staying, and when he told her the name of his hotel she made a gay grimace. “Appalling,” she confided.

“Very,” agreed Montague. “As bad as London. Do you know, Boston reminds me of London.” How could he arrange to get this dazzling creature into bed? It seemed a most urgent matter. He had never felt this urgent before, and it was not only exciting but an absolute necessity. If she was mourning for old Johnny it was certainly not evident.

“Dear London,” sighed Cynthia, who loathed London. They looked intensely into each other’s eyes and then suddenly burst out laughing together. It was the first time Cynthia had laughed since John had died.

Jordan brought the brandy; her face had a fixed and reverent expression. Lord Halnes took the tray easily from her hands and placed it on the wicker table near Cynthia. Jordan retreated. She could not understand. His lordship had not appeared in the least shocked at the madam’s dishabille, nor disturbed by her shamelessness, her immodesty. Ah, these were new and distressing times. “Allow me, dear Mrs. Winslow,” said Montague, bending over the tray. He poured a little brandy into one crystal glass. Cynthia said languidly, “A trifle more, please. I do enjoy brandy.”

“Excellent,” said Lord Halnes, filling her glass and then his own. He gave the glass to Cynthia; their fingers touched; it was electrifying. There was no doubt of it, thought his lordship. He was in love. He was absolutely bewitched. This made him thoughtful. There were always complications in life, but he was accustomed to dealing with them. He had not even the most passing doubt that he could get Cynthia into bed. She was attracted to him; he knew those mischievous and languishing glances well. It would be a miraculous interlude in a country almost as dull as England. Interlude?