Grahame, Lucia (23 page)

"Note, for example, the expression of desire on the female's
face," he directed me, indicating the closed eyes and parted lips of the
transported nymph. My face. "I'll want you to replicate that
precisely."

"That can't be feigned," I whispered.

"Oh, I don't expect an imitation," he replied.
"From the trappings in these paintings"—now the paper knife lightly
tapped the golden fetters on the wrists and ankles of the odalisque—"it
looks to me as if you can be stimulated to... the real thing. So
that
was
the secret of your blissful marriage."

I leaned against the writing table and crushed a sob back into my
chest. My husband stroked the blade of the paper knife absently with his
fingers as he gazed with hard, unflinching eyes at my painted selves.

"I could
never
feel passion without love," I told
him when I was sure my voice was steady.

He turned.

"I'll teach you otherwise," he said in a voice like a
velvet glove. "I'll give you such a taste for loveless passion that, when
I'm through with you, you won't be able to survive without it. And then what
will become of the cast-off Lady Camwell? Believe me, when this marriage is
over, your punishment will have just begun."

This absurd prediction struck me as so ludicrous that, as
miserable as I was, I had to leave the room to prevent myself from laughing
hysterically in his face.

He did not stop me.

Once I had attained the relative safety of my bedroom, an even
stranger thought flickered through my mind: If only he
could
make me
feel again.

I did not leave my bedroom again that day. Nor could I eat the
meal that was brought to me that evening. All night long I lay awake, listening
for the sound of footsteps at my door, dreading his first assault. Only as the
sky outside my windows began to lighten did I fall into an uneasy sleep.

I remained sequestered for all of the following day as well and
sent my untouched breakfast tray back to the kitchen. A housemaid, Ellen,
brought lunch to me, as she had been directed to do, she said, by Sir Anthony.
When she returned to collect this second untouched meal, I told her that she
might as well bring dinner to my room that evening. Perhaps by that time I
would be hungry enough to choke something down.

As the clock struck the dinner hour, there was a tap upon my door.
"You may enter," I called, expecting to see Ellen and a tray. But
this time it was my husband. I drew my dressing gown more closely around me as
he approached the bed.

"You are ill," he said with a searching look. There was
no kindness in it.

"I did not sleep well," I replied.

"I hope you sleep better tonight," he said. "We
shall go to London a few days from now, and I'll be displeased if you are not
well rested and in the best of health."

For the next several days, I kept to my room and my husband
continued to leave me blessedly alone. I supposed he was occupying himself with
the arrangements necessary to complete his change of residence. I even hoped
that by venting some of his rage in making his threats he had dissipated the
will to carry them out. Perhaps he had come to his senses and was even now
planning to release me into a comfortable separation without exacting his
merciless price.

But this was not at all what my husband had in mind. And when he
departed for London, I was at his side.

We barely spoke during the railway journey or after our arrival.
But my husband did not come to my room that night, although again I lay awake
for most of it, fearful that he would. Every creak of the great old house as it
settled into its own slumber destroyed any hope of mine.

In consequence of that unrestful night, I rose very late the
following morning. I was glad of it, too. It happened that my husband had an
early caller, and I would not have been up to the exigencies of playing
hostess. But the faint, occasional gusts of masculine laughter that drifted
upward from below filled me with resentment, not because they had broken my
sleep but because it galled me to be reminded that my husband could be so
content with his own lot while I submitted so unhappily to mine. This new
merriment on his part, under the present circumstances, struck me as unfeeling
and shockingly inappropriate.

That he could now be carelessly trading jokes with some
light-minded acquaintance told me, beyond any doubt—in spite of what I'd
imagined had been in his eyes at Fontainebleau and in spite of all his old
gentleness and patience— that he had never really loved me at all.

His visitor had gone by the time I dressed and descended. Luncheon
was about to be served. Having eaten no breakfast and scarcely any dinner the
night before, I was rather hungry. But my appetite flew out the window when my
husband announced that we would be going out as soon as the meal was over.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"We are going to have a look at your new wardrobe," he
replied.

I fell silent, uncomfortably aware of how worn my dress was. I did
not want to subject it to the ill-concealed contempt of a fashionable modiste.

"Then I must change my gown," I announced, rising from
the table.

"There isn't time for that," said my husband. "Your
first toilette took you half the day, although the results are"—he
surveyed my attire with distaste—"not impressive. However, if you
considered
that
good enough for
my
eyes, surely it is good enough
for the rest of the world's."

Although I now preferred to avoid his gaze, the untempered
arrogance of this declaration wrung a quick, sidelong glance from me. I saw a
glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Yes, there could be no doubt; my husband was
thoroughly enjoying himself.

I expected his carriage to deposit us among the fashionable shops
of Regent Street. Instead, it came to a stop in Maida Vale, on a quiet little
street, well shaded by trees and lined with pretty houses. My husband escorted
me across the pavement toward one of these.

"What is this place?" I asked uneasily.

"This is where I dress my mistresses," he said. "I
took the liberty of ordering some garments for you when I returned from Paris.
Now we will see how they fit."

I stopped dead.

"Please," I said, hating myself for using the word
almost as much as I hated him for bringing me to the point where I must.
"You know that I have been unwell. I am far too weak to subject myself to
hours of standing to be fitted." Or to anything else, I thought, that may
be in store for me in
that
low establishment.

"Oh, I think you'll manage," he said. His hand grasped
my arm. "It can't be any more taxing than holding a pose," he added,
"and you can always lean on me if you are... overcome."

I wrenched my arm out of his grip and turned to face him. My face
had reddened. His, too, had colored. But before I could give voice to any of
the bitterness his words had provoked, I realized that a rosy-cheeked elderly
lady proceeding along the pavement toward us from one direction was well within
earshot, as were the two gentlemen who were approaching from the other.

Already I felt hideously conspicuous, standing outside this
undoubtedly infamous house; I would not make a public scene for anything. My
only recourse was to rely on my practiced skill of suppressing every feeling.

I walked up to the door like a convict to the scaffold. My husband
sounded the brass knocker, and we were admitted.

The door was opened by a young woman with blue eyes, yellow hair,
and an ingratiating smile. "Good afternoon, Hélène," said my husband.
"Good afternoon, Sir Anthony," she replied, smirking up at him.
"Madame is expecting you."

She led us to an inner sanctum, where a buxom, auburn-haired
Frenchwoman, just approaching middle age, gave my husband a very cordial
welcome. Her greeting to me was a warm one as well, although considerably more
formal. How delighted she was that Lady Camwell would deign to honor her
establishment, etc., etc., etc.

I gave this woman, whom my husband introduced as Madame Rullier, a
chilling look, but she chattered on.

"Sir Anthony's tastes are most particular," she
concluded, lifting a silver-thimbled finger to my husband's face and tapping
him playfully upon the cheek. As she was short and he was tall, it was a
stretch. "Your whims will cost you dearly, my friend," she said with
evident satisfaction. "But
you
have never objected to that."

"I am fortunate," replied my husband pleasantly,
"that I can afford them."

Madame met this with a gay little laugh, and then proceeded to wax
even more garrulous, this time on the subject of my husband's attire. She
admired the intricate stitching of his gloves and the pattern of his tie, and
interrogated him boldly as to where he had obtained these articles and what
they had cost him. He answered all her questions good-naturedly, while I grew
ever more irritated by their peculiar camaraderie.

At last my husband drew Madame back to the matter at hand by
asking her how many hours she expected my fitting to consume. She replied that,
at the very least, it would take the entire afternoon—perhaps longer, if many
alterations were required. Ought she send a message to his club when all was
ready?

"Oh no," replied my husband. "I intend to oversee
this business personally."

Madame appeared to be as pleased at this news as I was displeased.

"I can see why you would take such an interest," she
murmured to him, as she conducted us to a large room hung all around with long
mirrors. A fire burned in the corner grate, which was flanked by an armchair on
one side and a large sofa on the other. My husband settled himself upon the
latter, an audience of one. "How delightful it will be," continued
Madame, "to watch the transformation of this little—"

She stopped abruptly, as if she had suddenly remembered who I was.
In the meantime, I had grown more stiff-backed than ever, if possible. How
dared she speak of me so slightingly? Had I not once been considered one of the
great beauties of the most fashionable city in Europe!

"Yes, I believe it will," agreed my husband blandly.

Madame Rullier plucked at my skirt, rolling the fabric between her
thumb and fingers and making clucking, disparaging noises with her tongue. She
then lapsed into silence for a few seconds and finally burst out, "Oh, I
will
say it—how can you bear to dress like such a grubby little sparrow?"

I swallowed a sharp retort. I saw my husband repress a smile as he
leaned back into the sofa and thrust out his legs with the aplomb of an eighteenth-century
rake preparing to make his selection of bedmates for the night. That he should
appear so at ease and amused routed all my resolutions to endure passively
whatever indignities were in store for me.

"My husband takes a great interest in natural history,"
I told Madame Rullier sweetly. "And, out of deference to him, I dress in
accordance with nature's ways. As you know, the male of the species is
generally the more flamboyant— the peacock of any pair."

My husband laughed.

"Hmmmph," said Madame Rullier. "Your husband is
hardly a peacock. And he is certainly not flamboyant. However, I will not deny
that he has exacting tastes and excellent judgment."

"Perhaps in such trivial matters as dress," agreed my
husband modestly. "But in matters of greater consequence, I fear I am too
easily swayed by what is alluringly packaged."

"Well, anyone can see that is not how you chose your
wife!" said the irrepressible Madame, mistaking his meaning entirely.
"And
you,"
she went on, turning to me, "since you have
chosen nature for your teacher, I would advise you to take your lessons from
the flower garden. There the sexes strive equally to charm each other with
their beauty. They make a far more commendable model than the one you have
chosen."

My husband now appeared to grow somewhat impatient. He shifted his
position and began softly to tap one handsomely shod foot against the carpet.

"Oh, roses and daffodils may charm the world," I
demurred. "They do have a wonderful effect upon bees and butterflies—and
poets, of course—but I am sure they are quite indifferent to each other."

"Ah," said Madame with a dismissive flick of her hand.
"Bees or poets—it's all to the same end, you know. And now," she
declared dramatically, "I shall dress you to charm your husband."

She flung open the door of a spacious closet, revealing a rainbow
of jewellike colors. After rummaging therein, she emerged with a malachite
green skirt and jacket and a blouse of aubergine silk striped in gold. She
draped these over one arm, turned to me, and clapped her hands briskly.