The Age of Desire (17 page)

Bundling back into the motorcar, they drive on to Herblay, and, at a distance from the town, overlooking the Seine Valley, they at last come upon the miniature twelfth-century church. The exterior of St. Martin d’Herblay is so simple it might as well be a child’s drawing of a house of worship. Before entering, they stop to take in the leaden Seine slipping through its bend far below. For just a moment a dart of sun turns it a molten bronze, and the whole scene alters, as though someone has pressed the lever on an old stereopticon.

Morton says, “One could do with a view like this. Perhaps you and I should move in.” He gestures to the church behind them. It does seem almost small enough to be a house. “A few lace curtains and we’d be all set.” Edith wonders if he says intimate things like this to other women.

Inside the chapel, the silence has a velvety quality, and though the structure is made of stone, it radiates warmth—which strikes her as no less of a miracle than loaves transforming into fishes. Beneath the Romanesque arches, Edith takes a seat. It’s the rare church that makes her regret she’s never felt drawn to religion. If she prays for Morton’s continuing presence in her life, will God heed her or strike her down?

When the curé, a willowy, faded man in a worn cassock, steps out of the vestry to tend to the candles, Morton approaches to ask him what he knows of Hortense Allart. How sturdy Morton looks beside the rusty old priest. For one fragrant second, Edith feels entirely happy just watching him, thrilled to be near him. She feels as though electricity has run to her fingers, her toes, the roots of her hair. She can hear the curé’s hoarse voice proclaim, “Allart? Non, monsieur, je ne connais personne de ce nom. Elle habite la région?”

“Elle y a résidé, il y a une cinquantaine d’années,” Morton says. “Elle était écrivaine.”

“Désolé.” The curé shrugs. “Je n’en ai jamais entendu parler.”

“How’s it possible?” Morton asks Edith, settling into the chair beside her. “He has no idea who she is. Never heard of her.”

“Well, God has spared him. If he had known, he would have been offended by all that she stood for.” Edith looks up to see a particularly comic gargoyle peeking out from the groin of a vault. He seems to be winking.

Pulling their wraps up to their faces, they step once more out into the cold. Across the street from the church, with its own view of the valley, a blowsy stucco house with brown shutters leans into the wind, its roof curtseying one way, its windows the other. Splintered flower boxes dangle beneath the windows, still clutching clumps of dirt, dried stalks and seed heads. Once, the house must have been beautiful. Edith can imagine children running in and out of the hobnailed door, can see Allart standing in her yard looking wistfully out toward the river, her hair pulling from its pins in the breeze.

“I feel a ghostly presence pointing the way,” Edith whispers and gestures to the house across the way with her chin.

Morton laughs. “The book did say she could view the church through one set of her windows, the river through the other.”

Battling the gusts, they cross the road side by side.

“Shall we knock on the door?” he asks. “Maybe the owner knows of her.”

“If there
is
an owner,” she says.

Continuous rapping brings no response. So they edge around the cottage where summer’s weeds have shattered and matted in the cold, creating a carpet as soft as the Turkey rugs at George Vanderbilt’s apartment. Morton has no compunction peeking into the grimy windows.

Dusty furniture sits forlornly inside. A heavy carved bed with torn curtains around it. A table. But no effects. A damp emptiness rises from the rotting wooden window frames.

“The era where a woman could do as she pleases seems long gone,” he says.

“Did that era ever exist?” Edith asks.

Morton turns to her. “If not, I hope it’s about to.”

She smiles. He takes her elbow and goes on.

“I’ve never understood why there should be a difference between our expectations of men and women. Especially a woman like you.”

“Thank you,” she whispers. She loves the pressure of his fingers, his optimistic tone.

“I didn’t say it to flatter you.”

“No, after your trip to The Mount, I imagine you won’t misuse that word again.”

He looks at her askance, then breaks into a laugh.

“Promise you will never flatter me,” she says. Her voice is coy and joking, but she’s not.

“I do solemnly swear I shall never flatter you, Edith. Ever. Besides, you’re far too clever to be flattered.”

“Morton . . . I’m hesitant to ask, but are you flattering me?” Their combined hilarity echoes back on the wind. How harmonious it feels to be with him! In some ways, she has never met a man who displays less pretense, less guardedness. In other ways, she instinctively knows that he hides a great deal. Is it this dichotomy that makes her so dizzy?

When they come around the other side of the house, battered by the most monumental gust yet, he pulls her close to shield her and she senses he’s about to put his lips to hers. The whole world becomes drugged and dreamlike as his beautiful, masculine face draws close. Yet suddenly, confoundedly, what she feels isn’t the fluttering of her heart, or the warm flow of passion. Instead, she is watching herself in third person, thinking, “Who is that dreary woman? She is
destined
to disappoint him. Where the well of that woman’s passion should be shivers an inch of gelid water skimmed over by a pane of ice . . .”

As if he is reading her mind merely by searching her face, he lets her go suddenly, the kiss not taken, and says, “We ought to be getting back, oughtn’t we?”

Two nights later, after a meal that makes Edith glad she hired the new cook—filet of sole braised in butter, squab perfumed with juniper berries, haricots verts in a bath of tomato and thyme—Morton sits in the dark red fauteuil near the parlor lamp at 58, rue de Varenne, reading out loud to her from
Le Revue de Paris.
Tête a tête in the heated embrace of the Rue de Varennne, she feels utterly happy—has she ever been so happy? It’s after dinner, and, with Teddy out of town, Morton’s removed his jacket and looks rumpled and husbandly in his shirtsleeves in the pool of lamplight.

Edith feels effervescent. This is what it would be like to be married to a man she truly loves: the hiss of a fire, the crisp sound of his voice enlightening her about an article she’s already read but didn’t quite grasp, her needle dancing through linen stretched between the circles of her embroidery hoop. He questions the article, a mostly unfavorable revue of Meredith’s poetry. She selected it—for she didn’t know quite what to make of it when she first read it. How is it that he is able to draw so much more from the words than she, discern weaknesses in its argument that eluded her? She is impressed with his acuity, his sensitivity, his sheer brainpower. Has she ever known a man so undeniably bright? She is giddy with happiness.

How can she not indulge herself with the dream of what life would be like if nights such as this were habit. Habit! Never has this dull tweed word ever meant anything so rich with possibility. Utterly different from her present existence, in which every surprise has been wrung from each day. If merely sharing a weekday meal, reading together, being domestic side by side could bring such joy, how infinite the possibilities! She’d wish to live to a hundred. She would age like fine wine. His wisdom would seep into her work, into every single breath she took!

He closes the magazine and sets it in his lap, then picks up a tiny, phenomenally valuable crystal clock on the side table and observes it silently for a few moments.

“George Vanderbilt has an eye,” he says. He glances around with satisfaction.

“Yes. It’s extraordinary here.”

“Is this where you sit every night after dinner?”

She nods.

“Good. Now I can imagine you here when I am not.”

He feels what I feel! Edith thinks. He wishes our nights were intertwined! And she sees it: a glimmering glass of crystalline bliss balancing between them. She will never forget this moment, this night!

And so she ventures further. Oh, to have him confirm it, so she can lie in bed later and savor his affirmation!

“Having you here is so gratifying. I wish it were so every night,” she says. She hears the girlishness in her voice. But a worried look crosses his brow. He presses his lips together and catches her with a sideways glance. “I’m just wondering what you want from me, Edith,” he says softly.

“Pardon?” Maybe she’s misheard him.

“What I’m wondering is, do you wish us just to be intellectual companions?”

“Well, it is nice that we are, isn’t it? Not so easy to find someone so utterly compatible.”

“And not so hard.”

Edith’s mouth goes dry. “I don’t think I understand. . . .”

Is there someone else? Is this what he’s telling her? She’s been brave, and now will he send her back to her dark hiding place? Why?

“Maybe you overestimate my ability to interpret you,” she says. She hears the imperiousness in her voice.

“Do you have feelings for me?” he asks.

“I . . . I . . . do. . . .” Should she have said no? Will he now say he doesn’t have feelings for her?

“Well, you must know how I feel about you.”

Oh, why doesn’t he say it? Why must he torture her?

“I’m not sure I know,” she says.

He shakes his head. Not annoyed. Amused, it appears.

“I didn’t take you for coy. It’s very simple, really. I want you, Edith. Desperately. What I’m trying to parse out is whether you want me.”

She has never heard words so bald, so unornamented. He is a Harvard man. Couldn’t he have stated it more gently, more romantically? Even Teddy was more romantic. What does he want? To
have
her? She feels herself blanch.

“You see, I can’t tell if you’re toying with me or are serious,” he says.

“Morton.”

“Because you’re married, be that as it may, and I am a single man. And you might be just flirting.”

She feels indignation straighten her back, puff out her chest, send fire to her eyes.

“I don’t flirt,” she states coldly.

He laughs at her. “How little you know yourself,” he says.

“I know myself quite well.”

“So why do you put yourself out at every turn? And a moment later demur? You’re a tease.”

Edith gasps, hears her perfect goblet of happiness shatter, spilling every drop.

He has spoiled it. Spoiled everything. She feels sick with disappointment.

She stands. “Perhaps you should go, Mr. Fullerton.”

“Now, dear.” He stands too, and puts his hands on her shoulders. She doesn’t want him to touch her, not feeling the way she’s feeling. Men are so clumsy. So heavy-footed.

“Listen. Look at me.” He tilts her chin upward. “I merely want what every man desires from a woman he cares deeply about. I find you impossibly alluring. Don’t you see? Being intellectually sympathetic is only one part of the equation.”

How can she tell him? How will she explain it? She is a freak of nature.
Mismade
 . . .

“Some women are made for that sort of thing,” she starts carefully. How can she tell him this? “It seems perhaps . . . I am not.” Her voice is very quiet. Pained. She feels utterly chastened.

“So it’s true,” he says. “What Henry says about you and Teddy? There’s . . .
nothing
between you?”

Edith closes her eyes for a moment. She can’t hedge now. She shakes her head. “It didn’t feel right from the start. For either of us.”

Morton shakes his head. “It’s incomprehensible . . .”

“That nothing would happen?”

“That you would stay married. That you wouldn’t seek out something that
did
feel right. You
are
human, after all.”

“You mean . . .”

“One would imagine you’d seek out desire . . . for anyone.”

“But women are different from men.”

“Are they? It’s not been my experience. It was Eve that proffered the apple, wasn’t it?”

“What are you saying about me?”

“That you are curiously devoid of passion.”

Her indignation propels her toward him. “That’s unfair and unkind. I have a great passion for life.”