At the Water's Edge (14 page)

“Get that down you,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said, taking a sip. The warming sensation was immediate.

We were silent for about a minute before she spoke again. “And they left you to walk back on your own, did they?”

After a pause, I nodded.

She tsked. “It's not my business and I'm usually not one for the blather, but it's weighing on me and I'm going to say it anyway. When your husband and that Boyd fellow went to Inverness, they never asked Angus if you could stay. I wasn't going to say anything, but then he lied straight to your face, and I thought you should know.”

I sat in silence, absorbing this. They'd wagered that Mr. Ross wouldn't throw me out if I was on my own, and no thanks to them, they were right. I wasn't just their plaything, their pretty, fake wife. I was their unwitting pawn, theirs to strategically play.

There would be no second telegram.

A
fter my stag sighting, we fell into a pattern that was as unwavering as it was stultifying. Ellis and Hank left with their equipment every day, presumably rowing to different vantage points around the loch, while I stayed behind and did nothing but grow increasingly depressed about the war and wait for my father to send for me. The weather was so remorselessly foul I didn't even feel like walking.

Hank and Ellis returned each evening obscenely smashed, and arguing incessantly about whose fault it was that they hadn't found the monster. It was like watching a snake try to eat itself from the tail up. One particular night, they arrived so sauced up it was hard to believe they were still on their feet. I was surprised they'd managed to row back, never mind climb out of the boat with all their gear.

Ellis was sure he'd seen the monster and Hank hadn't even tried to film it because
he
was sure it was just another otter, and definitely not large enough to be the monster. Ellis said that maybe there was more than one monster, and although this one might have been a juvenile, it would have been just as useful for their purposes. Hank said he wasn't going to waste film on yet another otter, and Ellis insisted
again that it was a monster. An otter, a monster, an otter, a monster—on they went, round and round.

The next morning, I went downstairs and found the two of them sprawled next to each other on the couch. Hank hadn't even gotten dressed. He'd just thrown a robe over his pajamas and stuffed his feet into slippers. He was unshaven and his hair stood in spiky tufts.

Ellis was in even worse shape. It appeared he hadn't made it upstairs at all, because he was wearing the same clothes as the night before. His shirt was untucked and his collar open. His belt and shoes were missing.

Hank pried one eye partly open as I approached.

“Morning, sunshine,” he croaked.

“Good morning,” I said.

Ellis grunted.

“I'm warning you right now, I'm not rowing today,” said Hank. “I'm not even sure I can walk.”

“Me either,” said Ellis, draping an arm over his face.

They sat in silence for several minutes, not moving even as Anna set cups of weak tea in front of them.

She stood looking at them, and then shook her head. Her gaze moved to me.

“I'll be back with your tea,” she said. “It's still steeping.”

After she left, Ellis said, “I was thinking, maybe we've worn out that particular vantage point.” He neither lifted his head nor opened his eyes.

“Huh,” said Hank. “Very possible.”

“Maybe we should take the day off and regroup, so to speak.”

“I think you're onto something,” said Hank.

“Let's reconvene later then, shall we?”

“Absolutely,” said Hank. He climbed to his feet, wobbled for a few seconds, then lurched toward the stairwell.

Ellis followed. “Say, do you want to try some hair of the dog?”

“Can't hurt,” said Hank.

Anna brought me a cup of strong, sweet tea and returned to the kitchen. I gulped it, collected my things, and headed for the door.

“And what do you think you're doing?” she said, reappearing behind me. “I was just about to start your breakfast.”

“I'm sorry. I need to…not be here,” I said.

“They've gone back upstairs, have they?”

I nodded.

She tutted. “Foolish men. Where are you off to, then?”

“I thought I might go up to Craig Gairbh and have a look at the Big House.”

“You canna go there!”

I was stung by her tone. “I was just going to take a peek from a distance.”

“You canna go near it at all unless you want to get killed! It's a battle school now, and they train with live ammunition! Many's the morning I see tracer bullets crossing the sky when I'm out milking the cow.”

“Oh,” I said. “I wasn't aware. In that case, I suppose I'll just wander around.”

Anna's outrage fell away. “You stay there a wee moment, and I mean it—no running off on me.”

A few minutes later, she was back. She handed me an umbrella and pressed a paper-wrapped packet into my hand. “It's just a bit of Spam in a sandwich. I added some drippings to the bread. You need fattening up. And mind what I said about the estate. There's a reason you don't see any green berets around town. Even the men don't get to come and go—except Angus, of course, but he knows the grounds like the back of his hand.”

I was as lost outdoors as I was inside, but I had to put some physical distance between my husband and me.

We were no strangers to alcohol at home, but he and Hank were now drinking outrageous amounts—dangerous amounts—and I wondered, again, what might happen if they never did find the monster.

Hank would be fine, of course, but Ellis had lost everything. Even if he somehow managed to redeem himself socially, I wasn't sure I wanted to be part of that life anymore, not knowing that my whole marriage—what I'd always thought of as my salvation—was nothing but a pretty, pretty fraud.

And pretty it was: I'd lived in fabulous houses, been driven around in fancy cars, and drunk only the finest champagne. I had a closet of designer gowns and furs. My life consisted of waking at noon, meeting up with Hank and Ellis, and then bouncing from eye-opener to pick-me-up to cocktail to nightcap, and staying out all night at dances or parties before starting all over again the next day. It was full of luxurious trappings and shiny baubles, and that had blinded me to the fact that nothing about it was real.

Growing up as I had, how had I not seen that it was all posturing?

Society's love affair with my fragile, martyred mother came to an abrupt end just after I turned thirteen, when she left a note on my father's desk, secured by a glass paperweight, that informed him she was running off with a man named Arthur.

Seven weeks later, when Arthur was persuaded to return to his wife by means of social shunning and a few solid turns of the financial screw, my mother also slunk home. She had no choice. Although the money had come from her side, my grandfather hadn't left her in control of it.

My father retreated on an almost permanent basis into his study, even taking his meals there, which left me to deal with her entirely by myself.

She took to her bed, and her weeping became more than I could bear. She was sure that she was the one who'd been wronged, and her indignation was huge—Arthur's lack of chivalry and bravery were incomprehensible. She'd have been happy to live with him in a cave, so passionate was her love, and he'd simply tossed her aside.

When she discovered that the thick letters she sent every day were
being returned by the postman and then burned, unopened, by my father, she went off her rocker.

She was furious that Arthur couldn't even be bothered to read the words that pained her so to write. She was furious at my father, for his complete and utter lack of understanding, and also, incredibly, because he, too, couldn't be bothered to read the letters, which she was convinced would move any human being with a soul to forgive her. And she was especially furious at June, Arthur's wife, for allowing my mother's former friends to surround and comfort her.

When none of this worked, she began writing to June instead, warning her that Arthur was feckless and unfaithful—he'd lured my mother in and was responsible for her ruin. She and June had been equally deceived. Couldn't June see how similar their situations were? Those letters were also returned unopened.

In the blink of an eye, my mother had gone from social darling to pariah. It was irrevocable, but she was incapable of accepting that. She showed up at public venues, presumably in a bid to convince people she was still the brave, stoic, tragic Vivian, but no woman would talk to her, and not one man was allowed to.

The injustice of it, particularly when she found out that Arthur was being accepted back into society, pushed her entirely over the edge. She wished my father dead, and cursed her own, consigning him to hell for locking her away from what was rightfully hers. She cursed the servants and fired the housekeeper, whom she suspected of being my father's spy, and whom he immediately rehired. She even cursed me, because if I was going to ruin her figure and keep her trapped in a loveless marriage, I could at least have been a boy.

My mother became essentially housebound, and I became an unwilling confidante. She sought constant reassurance. Was she losing her looks? Was her neck still tight? Because there was a surgery, a thing called a “skin flap,” that was supposed to turn back the clock. Did I think she needed one? I did not, but she went to New York and got one anyway. She came back with her face pulled taut and, more alarmingly, full of ideas for the improvement of me.

It was a shame I had not inherited her nose, but there was a surgery that could fix that. I was contrary and worried too much—there was a surgery to fix that, too. It was an easy thing, a simple adjustment of the front part of the brain. I'd be in and out in an hour, and I'd be so much happier. All the best families were having it done. And if somehow that didn't do the trick, there was a promising new treatment in France that involved electricity. It was just that she hated seeing me so unhappy, particularly when a cure was available.

I did not take enough care with my hair, but a permanent wave would fix that. I was not thin enough, but for that, alas, there was no quick fix. I should never put more than the equivalent of three peas on my fork at a time, or one small disk of carrot. I should always leave two thirds of my meal on my plate, and was never to eat in public.

She weighed me regularly, and hugged me if I was lighter. These fleeting moments of affection were enough to keep me drinking my morning “tonic” of apple cider vinegar and eating as little as possible, although occasionally I got so ravenous I would sneak down to the kitchen in the middle of the night and eat an entire loaf of bread. I once ate a pound of cheddar while standing at the sink.

Despite the occasional binge, over the next two years I grew four inches and lost five pounds. My backbone and hips protruded, and there was not—according to my mother—a more elegant neck in all of Philadelphia.

I was desperate to escape. Everyone else my age was already at boarding school, but my mother claimed she couldn't bear to be apart from me, not for a single day, never mind that I hadn't seen her the entire time she was off with Arthur. I had no friends at all. My father wouldn't look at me, and my mother wouldn't stop.

One day, I pulled out the yellow pages and looked up the address of a children's home. In retrospect, stepping out of a hired car in expensive clothing and declaring myself an orphan to the mother superior was probably not the best-laid plan. Certainly I was returned forthwith, and after that was literally a prisoner in our house—the servants were under strict orders to prevent me from going out and to
inform my mother if I tried. They had nothing to worry about. I had nowhere to go.

Shortly after my attempt to flee, my father and I met in the hallway, and instead of passing me by and grunting, he stopped. His eyes ran from the top of my head down to my feet and then back, dwelling for an uncomfortable period of time on my hips and chest. He frowned.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Fifteen next month,” I said.

“You look like a damned boy. Where is your mother?”

“In the drawing room, I think.”

He pushed past me and stormed away, bellowing, “Vivian? Where are you?
Vivian!
”

When he slammed the drawing room door so hard it shook the walls, I realized that something extraordinary was about to happen. I crept closer, eager to hear. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Huffman, was further down the hall, with her eyes wide and her hand pressed to her mouth. We exchanged a look, agreeing implicitly to eavesdrop. She came up behind me.

There were none of the usual weapons of war: no cool but caustic innuendos, no carefully crafted barbs, and there were certainly no devastating silences. My father's opening salvo was a roar, and my mother's response was to cry hysterically.

I expected her to dash out at any moment, her face buried in a handkerchief, but instead her weeping turned into furious shrieking, punctuated by the sound of things smashing. At the height of a primal scream came the biggest crash of them all—it sounded like a billiards table had come through the ceiling. Mrs. Huffman and I looked at each other in horror, but since the battle raged on, it seemed no one had been murdered.

From him: It wasn't sufficient for her to destroy his reputation by running off with another man? Did her hatred of him really run so deep it now extended to ruining the health of his only child?

From her: She was only looking after my interests, because he certainly didn't. He cared as little for me as he did for her—he'd never
loved her, had only ever wanted her money. Was it her fault he was no husband at all? Was it so wrong to want to be loved?

From him: What money? If she was foolish enough to think the proceeds were worth tolerating her antics, she had a vastly inflated view of herself. The principal itself would not be worth the torment of being married to her.

A period of earsplitting cacophony followed, during which they each tried, unsuccessfully, to outshout the other. Finally, my father thundered for silence in a voice so unexpected and frightening he got his wish.

When he spoke again, his voice simmered with determination and quiet fury.

He may have been doomed, he said, but as yet I was not, and since it appeared I was going to be his only child, he would not stand idly by as she starved me to death. I was going to boarding school immediately, tomorrow, as soon as it could be arranged.

The door opened so suddenly both Mrs. Huffman and I had to flatten ourselves against the wall to avoid my mother, who streaked past, her face red and twisted, clutching a handkerchief.