Splendor: A Luxe Novel (19 page)

“As you can see, we have very fine tapestries in this house…,” she said as they moved down the hall. She had returned to a rather distanced manner of speaking, as though she were any young matron showing off the family treasures. “But then I suppose you are a little sick of tapestries.”

“Yes,” he answered in a banal tone that belied the movement of his hand from her elbow to her waist,

“we have far too many tapestries in my own country. I did not, my incomparable Mrs. Schoonmaker, come all this way to search out more.”

They had walked through a series of corridors, and the chatter and the music of the party had become far away and indistinct. Around the corner and down a short flight of stairs was the entrance to the greenhouse, which had been a favorite assignation spot for Henry, back when he still wanted her. “What would you be interested in seeing? We have plenty of statuary, and all manner of hothouse flowers—” The prince dropped his arm and drifted away from her for a moment, as though he really were considering what part of this fine home he was most curious about. He batted down a smile and lifted a well-manicured finger, placing it against Penelope’s exposed clavicle. Then he drew it down, across the smooth skin of her chest, to the elaborate gold embroidery at the edge of her black velvet bodice, and then slowly along the embroidery until he reached her right arm, at which point he began tracing a line upward to her opposite clavicle. He had taken his time, and when the gesture was over her chest was rising and falling rather more quickly, and his mouth stood open.

The noises from the rest of the house had grown clamorous, and she realized the mood of the party was ascendant. She was the hostess, and she would soon be missed. The fragrance of flowers and loamy earth emanated from the greenhouse, which for her had always meant one thing. She was inclined to show the prince the rest of her, but knew there wasn’t time. She extended her neck and waited for his kiss. When it came, it was with such force that she felt the wall against her back and the medals on his jacket sinking just slightly into her skin. That, she thought to herself, just before she heard the servants shouting from down the hall that both Mrs. Schoonmakers were needed, was how kings must kiss. Footsteps were growing closer, and she knew that she was at a very great risk of being found out, but she remained in place, staring into the prince’s eyes, feeling him press in against her, for as long she possibly could.

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Twenty Four

Then Jesus said unto his disciples, Verily I say unto you, That a rich man shall hardly enter the kingdom of heaven. And again I say unto you, It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.

——MATTHEW 19:23–24

THE GHOSTLY GASOLIER LIGHT FELL ON MR. AND Mrs. Cairns, as the gentleman of the house gazed silently onto the street and his lady read from an open Bible propped against her full belly. Neither had spoken much since dinner, which had itself been a rather wordless affair. She had never stopped to think very much about what occupied Snowden’s thoughts; the realization made her feel even more of a churl. He had done so much for her—the perfectly chosen silver rattle was only the most recent example—and she had never so much as stopped to consider what preoccupations might plague him.

And then of course there was the word Klondike, written in that childlike scrawl, which kept returning to her thoughts. She tried to put it away, and then laid down the small Bible and crossed the floor. The avenue framed in the tall windows was darkly purple, except where the street lamps illuminated it, and was populated by subdued carriage traffic. It was a Monday, but she knew from the servants’ gossiping that the Schoonmakers and several others were holding parties that night. The season would be over soon, and Elizabeth knew very well from years past, when she had been at the center of things, the kind of reckless energy that must be overtaking all social functions just then.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Cairns?” Elizabeth asked, hovering just slightly behind her husband, and watching their two reflections in the glass.

He nodded.

“I have a confession to make,” she went on, in a small voice that twinkled just slightly. This was the way she said things when she was playing the hostess, the little lady of the house, the lovely and demure girl who set about defining perfection for her peers.

In the reflection she could see his brow lift, and then his head rotated in her direction, although not far enough that their eyes met. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Her words fell sweetly into the air, although she was speaking too quickly now. “I saw the rattle—

I mean, I didn’t peek, but I have given the same gift, so I knew what it was. I am sorry, but I have been feeling such gratitude all day, it is such a lovely thing for you to have purchased for me, and I wanted to thank you.”

“Oh. I am glad you like it,” he said in a tone she had never before known him to employ—like relief, except not exactly that. “Or that you will, rather,” he corrected.

He had not turned to look at her, and so she rested a reassuring hand on his arm and allowed the touch to lengthen, compassionately, into the quiet. He did not offer a word or a glance, but still she thought that she was being admirably wifelike, and when she felt that her hand upon his arm had served its purpose, she left the room to search for something soothing to serve him. Tea perhaps, or better yet, brandy, which file://C:\Documents and Settings\nickunj\Desktop\book.html 10/28/2009

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the staff had not yet found time to decant into the crystal bottles that she’d intended for the regency huntboard in the front parlor.

Every day now she seemed to be growing larger and slower, the child within requiring more of her energy. It took her a long time to find a tray, the brandy, and a snifter. The kitchen was quiet at that hour—for Mrs. Schmidt was fastidious and saw that everything was cleaned and put away almost as soon as dinner was cleared—and Elizabeth was distracted from her task by the look of the hanging copper pots and the brick-sized white tiles of the walls. Her new home had been built in the same era as the house she’d grown up in, and the coal range with its iron hood, the porcelain sink, the hot water tank, all of it was reminiscent of the room in No. 17 Gramercy that she had known so well. Not because she had ever spent much time in the Holland kitchen, but because she had had to go through it when she was sneaking to see Will at night. What anticipation it had always held for her—the faint smell of cooking grease, covered over with soap, which she would experience just before stepping down and into the carriage house that had been Will’s domain.

These pleasant associations had largely eclipsed the guilt and anxiety she had felt toward Snowden by the time she returned to the hall, and she caught herself almost smiling in the oval mirror that hung across from the staircase. That was when she heard the voice of a man that was quite plainly not that of her husband, followed shortly by the more familiar timbre.

“It’s late,” Snowden said dismissively.

“It’s late, it’s late—I know that.” The accent, Elizabeth realized, was not what one usually found in drawing rooms like hers. “That’s how I was sure you’d be here.” Elizabeth, in the shadow of the stairs, knew she should announce herself. She glanced down at the glass on the tray, its contents sloshing silently back and forth, and didn’t budge.

“Make it quick, then—what do you want? Though one would think I’ve given you enough already, seeing how you’ve bled me all these months.”

“Ah, but that was for services rendered, and now there is something new, a little story I’ve discovered about you that I think you’d rather not have told. In fact I think we’d both sleep better having experienced that reassuring feeling of money changing hands.”

“Hurry up then. This is my family’s home,” Snowden said.

The other man made a noise like a laugh, but it was the most horrible, sneering thing Elizabeth had ever heard. “Family,” the man repeated, and then she realized that the noise had been in reference to her, her child, their arrangement here. She felt nauseous.

“It’s about what you did in the Klondike—”

So this late-night visitor was the man who’d written the note. A shudder traveled hard across Elizabeth’s body, from left to right, and though the summer heat was as stifling as ever she felt for a moment as though she’d been standing out in a winter gale for several hours. But the feeling was not just within her; her hands shook, and in another moment her tray, and the full glass upon it, capsized. She grasped for them helplessly, but this only caused their trajectory to be more violent, and when they hit the floor the glass shattered loudly and the sickeningly sweet smell of the brandy filled her nostrils.

She looked down at the mess, her mouth forming a small, tremulous circle. In the next moment, her husband appeared on the other side of the pocket door. Behind him was the man with that large, boyish face that had been so marred by pockmarks. When he met Elizabeth’s eyes, he appeared as surprised to be confronted by her as she by him, and after that she was sure they’d encountered one another before.

He should be wearing a uniform, she thought to herself, as she began apologizing for the noise and bent to pick up the large shards of glass at her feet.

“Come visit me tomorrow, when you will not be such a disturbance to my wife, and we will agree on an arrangement then,” she heard Snowden say, followed shortly by the sound of men’s shoes moving toward the door, and then the click of the lock being turned.

The man was gone quickly, but the sight of him had caused her such a fright that she could not get her fingers to stop shaking. She tried to pick up the shards with both hands, but it didn’t help the shaking, and in the next moment she realized that she had cut herself and drops of blood were falling from her palm onto her white cotton dressing gown.

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“Are you all right?” Snowden was looming over her now.

“No…” She was not in the least all right. The phrases “services rendered” and “what you did in the Klondike” and “money changing hands” were all ringing in her ears. “I—I know that man.”

“That isn’t possible,” he replied curtly.

“Yes, no, of course…I don’t mean that I’m acquainted with him. But I’ve seen him before. He’s a policeman, and he was one of the men who—” The nausea was wracking her body now, and she slumped against the wll. “One of the policemen who killed my husband.”

“I am your husband.”

“Will.” She was having trouble getting the words out. The horror and fear were as fresh for her as though she were still standing on the platform in Grand Central, under the great glass train shed, the sound of bullets ringing in her ears and the smell of fresh blood spilling from her husband’s body. When the smoke had cleared, the policemen came forward and swept her up—that man, with his pockmarked face, he had been among them. “He was one of the men who killed Will.” Snowden reached down and pulled her up to her feet. All of her was limp, and once upright, she had to be supported. “You are overtired, my dear; you are under too much stress—”

“No! I know that face. I have seen that face in nightmares. I have relived those moments so many countless times.” Her voice was growing shrill, and she had to hang onto Snowden’s shoulder for support. “But what was he doing here? What does he want with you? Oh…God.” Her voice fell to a tragic growl as she realized just what kind of service the man had done for Snowden. “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.”

“You hallucinate, my love.”

Now she pulled away from Snowden instinctively, as though from something vile. “He killed Will, because you told him to,” she whispered. She had to put her hand out for the wall again, as she backed away from her husband. “That’s why you were paying him. You paid him to kill Will so that you could marry me. So that you would own the land in California, so that you would own all that oil we’re living on now.”

There was an unnerving calm in Snowden’s still, watchful pose. He was listening to her, but he was no longer trying to convince her of anything. His light hair was like a beacon in the dark hallway, and she could not make out his eyes.

“But what about the Klondike? Why did he want to see you about the Klondike? What could possibly have happened in the Klondike?” The bile was rising in her throat, and she had to reach up and cover her mouth with her hands. For only one thing had ever happened in that part of the world that Elizabeth cared about, and that was that her father had died. She knew, without quite understanding how, that Snowden was responsible for that, too. She kept stepping backward, one hand against the wall for support, piecing it together out loud as she moved. “That money you gave my mother last fall, you had stolen it, hadn’t you? You weren’t going to give us father’s share. You killed him for it, and would have kept it all, if you hadn’t realized there was more money to be made by keeping up relations with his widow and daughters.

By marrying into the family.” She brought her hands up to cover her eyes as she let out a moan. “Oh, God.”

In the next moment Snowden had moved in close to her and ripped her hands away from her face. The light from the moon, shining through the window over the fanlight, now illuminated his eyes, and she saw in them the plain, forceful avariciousness which had led him to prey on her and those she loved best.

“You are overtired, my dear,” he repeated, all persuasion gone from his voice. Now he was telling her how it would be. “Your condition is not good, you are unwell, and it can be so dangerous, carrying a child. How many young women die trying to bring their precious babies into the world? I think we had better put you to bed and keep you there, as long as possible.” Elizabeth tried to move away from him, but he was holding tight to her hands. What the man she had been living with for so many months was capable of was finally beginning to dawn on her, and the sick feeling faded as the panic set in. Those unremarkable, blocklike features had, in a matter of minutes, come to hold impossible menace for her, and though she told herself that she should cry out, the fear spreading through her was so great, it seized her throat. The last thing she knew, before the faintness file://C:\Documents and Settings\nickunj\Desktop\book.html 10/28/2009