Black Silk (29 page)

Afterward, in the sore and satiated moments of pre-morning, Graham thought perhaps he
had
found nirvana. What on earth could be better than undisputed, undiluted—undeluded—sex?

That day at the inn, Gerald Schild stayed only slightly more than half an hour. There was little Submit could do for him. She listened politely until he seemed finished, then offered the only wisdom she knew. He took it in silence, his eyes downcast. It was not very palatable to him. She wasn’t even certain he was capable of hearing it: If someone is not good for you, if she cares nothing for your feelings, she told him, you should get away from that person.

On Friday, after a week of fevered writing, two more episodes mailed off, Submit packed for Netham again. This time she packed all her notes, all her clothes. She didn’t anticipate returning to the inn. She would stay at Netham until she had imbibed enough of Graham to fill out Henry’s notes, to bring them into the present. She should have enough by the end of the summer. Then she could afford a nice flat in London until William’s suit had run its course.

She caught the afternoon train and enjoyed a strangely wonderful trip. Watching the countryside travel by, Submit felt herself cutting free, clacking along over the rails toward a
new life. She could write the serial indefinitely; as long as she did, her security was assured. London waited. And at the very end, like a beacon, shined Motmarche. Wonderful, regal old Motmarche felt closer than ever before. It somehow seemed possible that she would get there again. Everything seemed possible.

Waiting at Netham was a letter addressed to her, set against a candelabra on a table in the entry room.

Submit stared at the writing, more puzzled than alarmed. She couldn’t decide how much to worry that
William should be asking after the case. Yet the box felt like a loose string, one of the many of Henry’s ambiguous leavings, that could come round to catch her up in an unexpected loop. What, she wondered, would the good queen’s court think of a marquess’s sanity, a marquess who bequeathed, like surreptitious treasure, a box of pornographic art?

The large disasters, Submit would recall later, do not come announced with either bright trumpets or the dark baying of hounds. The larger disasters of life are usually laid and stored and built of ordinary things, assembled over time by one’s own device, so that one feels almost on friendly terms with all the little bits and pieces; the false convictions, the unresolved incongruities. One lives always, Henry used to say, with the components of one’s own undoing. Yet seldom had Submit ever seen calamity assemble so quietly, so calmly into so ferocious a mess as it did in the next twenty-four hours.

Disaster for her, she would always think, was announced by the sound of doves in dovecotes and the distant, healthy screams of children playing down by the shore of the lake. Graham’s butler escorted Submit as she stepped outside into the back garden. She had already washed up and left her things in a room upstairs. From the window of that room, she had seen there was something unusual going on outside. There were boats on the lake—schooners, sloops, and cutters, along with some sculling boats, even two leisure punts. The third weekend in September, she was told, was the date of the Netham Fall Regatta. She smiled. The May balls at Cambridge were always held in June; the Fourth of June at Eton was usually at the end of May; Cowes Week lasted nine days. English upper-class logic. Of course, a fall regatta would take place several days before fall arrived.

Beyond the back garden and all around the lake were well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, with children and dogs allowed to run through this melee under the direction of uniformed nannies. The butler guided Submit down to the lake with apologies. It was difficult to find her host in such a mass of humanity. There must have been two hundred people, almost half of whom, the butler mentioned in passing, would be spending the night. Others were staying in homes and lodgings in the area. The regatta would go on for two days.

“This spot is fine, Mr. Smathers.” A widow was obligated to be more an observer than a participant in such an event. Graham’s butler settled her down on a blanket in a terraced part of the garden. Mossy steps and plateaus of blue campanula, forget-me-nots, and veronica made a soft, cushioned seat overlooking the lake’s dock and beach. She was set back from the swarm of picnickers, though close enough not to miss anything going on. The butler handed Submit a hamper from the kitchen, then left her there alone, exactly as she wanted to be. Alone, an observer of Netham in frolic, with a hamper full of cold chicken, asparagus, strawberries, and champagne. Beyond, the water glistened. A conflux of boats at one end of the lake rocked at anchor. A band somewhere played the strains of a distant varsovienne. The people—the ladies in hats and dresses as bright as flowers, the men in frock coats and top hats—sparkled as prettily as the water. Submit found herself amazed, in every sense, to be at the edge of this.

Someone by the dock was yelling, “On your mark, get set…”

Four eight-oar sculling boats were about to race. Young oarsmen tensed over the oars, a coxswain at the helm. She noticed one boat decked out in colors from Cambridge.

“Go!” Cheers went up.

Her heart went into her throat. As if in a race of his own, Graham Wessit was trotting up the steps and runs of lawn toward her. No frock coat. No top hat. He was in his shirtsleeves and a lavender-striped vest made of satin that shone in the sun. Bouncing and flapping against this was a bevy of glittering watch chains. He came forward, following his own broad shadow, then stood before her, between her and the bright sun. Submit lifted her hand to shade her eyes. He squatted, leaning an arm casually on a knee for balance, then eased up onto the blanket to sit beside her, presumably to change angles and spare her eyes.

He made one of his brilliant smiles, the sort that fanned lines out by his eyes, cut deep indentations into his cheeks. “I had to come over and tell you,” he said, “that that is the ugliest dress I have ever seen. Where’s your hat?”

“What?” She was so confused by his smiling rudeness, she almost laughed. “Which hat?” She had one on, a small black bonnet that fit to the back of her head.

“The straw one with the ribbons. It’s perfect for today.”

“It’s upstairs.”

“Go up and get it.”

She laughed outright. “No.”

“I’ll send someone.”

“No.” She couldn’t help but be amused. “And this is a very nice dress.”

“I hate black.”

“That’s entirely too bad.”

In two disdainful fingers, as if it were wet or muddy, he picked up the edge of her dress. “It’s keeping you up here. Come down and sit with us.”

Submit looked in the direction he vaguely indicated to see who “us” was. She saw nothing but mobs of people.

“When did you get here?” he asked. He leaned back onto a forearm and stretched his legs out, making himself quite at home.

“About forty-five minutes ago.”

“You missed a single-man skiff race. I won.” He made a shrug that was almost a bow, mock modesty. He beamed self-satisfaction.

“You are a child.”

“I should hope so. I would hate to become as stuffy as you.” He looked at her again, his eyes circling her face, her hair, her hat. “What you need is a wide straw brim. With—” He paused in a brief, more sober introspection. “With ribbons someone sent you.”

Submit felt a curious wave of embarrassment, as if within his flirtatious manner there were something she should take seriously, something her pride would not let her explore.

His sleeves were wet, his trousers spattered. Despite herself, Submit smiled. She found herself glad to see him. She even rather liked the way he looked, or at least she was getting used to it. How could one look away from a long-legged, gold-chained, black-maned centaur, with a vest striped the color of phlox?

She looked out over the lawn, at all the people chatting and eating on the patchwork of picnic linens. There was not a soul, she thought, who could match Graham Wessit for eye appeal. Then she realized she was doing something else; her eye was trying to locate Mrs. Schild.

A round of cheering rose up from the far side of the lake, marking the end of the race. The band, on a pavilion across the water, had taken up the more sedate rhythm of a Prince Imperial. On a platform beside the pavilion, people were dancing in the middle of the afternoon. Graham spoke.

“Are you staying long?” He was watching her.

“Do you mind if I do?”

“Not at all. I left all my drawers and cupboards in my private apartments upstairs unlocked.” He rested his chin in his hand. “Come up and have a look.”

He reached into her hamper and pulled out the bottle of champagne. He had already had quite a bit, she realized.

Across the groups of seated picnickers, Submit suddenly caught sight of Rosalyn Schild—and the reason Graham was free to sit where he was. Rosalyn Schild was standing near the folly with her husband. Gerald Schild had not stayed away as Submit had advised. Submit glanced at Graham. He set down the wire from the champagne and popped the cork.

“When did Mr. Schild return?” she asked.

“This morning.”

“A little awkward,” she said, “for all concerned.”

He poured and handed her a glass, raising his shoulders slightly, a shrug.

She ought to pursue his disinterest, Submit thought. She ought to push her way into details of Graham’s currently entangled affair for the future pages of
Ronmoor
. But instead she found herself shifting forward. She huddled her knees, staring off at Mrs. Schild—who, she noticed, was now staring back.

“In a way, I wish I were more like her,” Submit said. “She seems so carefree.” Even under the worst of circumstances.

“I keep telling you to go up and get your hat.”

She slid him a look that said,
As if this would make me into something else.

But he wasn’t being dense. He was being persistent. He looked down, breaking off a piece of lilac veronica, running a thumb along its furry stem. He played with it, ignoring his full glass of wine. Very seriously, he said, “I really do hate that dress.”

“It’s Henry. It reminds you of—”

“No, it’s you. We never talk about you. We’ve gone end
lessly into my dissatisfactions with Henry, with my life in general. But you give very little of yourself.”

“Perhaps because I’m not so dissatisfied.”

“And you wear that dress earnestly?”

She looked at him, eye to eye, so there could be no mistake. “Don’t doubt it,” she said.

He sighed deeply and leaned back, downing the champagne in one swallow. “There’s something wrong,” he told her. “When I see you here, so delicate and light”—he held up the little flower—“I can’t help but think you belong in bright dresses and sunshine, at parties, with people—”

“No, I don’t. I belong just as I am. Don’t try and make me into you. Or Mrs. Schild.” After a moment, Submit tried to soften what she’d said. She explained, “If I knew how, I would make hordes of friends. Have ladies in, gentlemen in, parties, favorites to confide in, a gay time. Like Mrs. Schild.” Submit looked at Mrs. Schild across the way. She had turned her back on them. “She is lovely. I admire her so,” Submit murmured, only just realizing it was true. She added, “I only wish she would stop leading that poor man along.”

But the man beside Submit, apparently feeling poor and put-upon himself, gave a snort. Then someone from below called out.

“Netham! Moffet says we can take
Bloomin’ Madness
upriver if you’ll sit the tiller.”

He got up, brushing off the damp bits of grass and weeds, picking off one tiny crushed flower from his knee. “Would you like to ride upriver on
Madness
for an hour or two?”

He meant the question to have its funny ulterior meaning, she thought. “No.” She shook her head. “Thank you.”

He lifted off her hat.

Submit grabbed with both hands behind her just in time to feel its ribbons pull through her fingers. She let out an exclamation of complaint.

But it did no good. He ran with the bonnet, trotting down the terraced land onto the beach and out onto the dock with it crumpled in his fist. Perhaps he meant to throw it up and out, into the lake. It would have been quickly out of sight, the straw soaking up water, its veils half submerged like some tenacious seaweed. It seemed unlikely he meant it to do as it did. Just before he stepped onto the deck of a ketch by the dock, he sailed the hat into the air. It caught on the topmast, spinning once precariously before its ribbons caught. The ribbons, blown by the wind, tangled themselves into the rigging of the sail. The hat’s veils blew out. The ketch shoved off.

Graham Wessit knew about sailing, like he knew about rowing and swimming and riding, anything that took energy and coordination, it seemed. The others on the boat took his direction. He moved them to one side, ducking under the boom as it swung. The boat jibbed, turned in a graceful arch and tacked out. Then, clear of the other boats, the wind full in its sails, it cut out over the water, flying a flag of widow’s veils.

The sun set slowly, not fully down till almost eight. By then, all the boats had pulled to anchor, sails lowered and furled, oars put to bed. Late evening calmed to the clank and knock of riggings and masts, the murmurs of quieter talk. Guests milled about, waiting for something, while gnats gathered in clouds over the lake. At about nine, as if on cue in the dark, everyone settled back down on their picnic cloths. Submit had already risen and walked back as far as the orchard when it started.