The Age of Desire (26 page)

Edith is disappointed to see that Morton is not in one of his better moods. She knows immediately, even before he speaks. His mouth looks pleasant enough beneath the dark arc of his mustache, but the appearance of two parallel grooves between his brows spell annoyance. She’s sorry to catch sight of them now.

“It was good of you to let me see you,” she begins in her most cheerful voice.

“What was the hurry?” he asks.

“I didn’t think you’d mind a ride to the
Times
.”

“It throws me off. I’m used to the walk. It’s my time to sort myself out, to think.”

“I’m sorry then . . . I never want to be a bother. . . .”

“I doubt you wanted to see me just to provide a conveyance.”

He told me he’s never good in the morning, she thinks. I should have waited. Why didn’t I wait?

“No. It’s just that I’ve . . . well, I’ve heard something . . . ,” she says. “Something very odd about you . . . And I wanted . . . I needed to ask you about it.”

“Go on. . . .” There’s malice in his voice. He is not so beautiful when his expression is pinched with annoyance.

“I heard that you’re engaged to be married.” Edith watches his face carefully, and what she sees unnerves her: his mouth twitches, he swallows before he speaks and he doesn’t even break into a smile, as she expected.

“And who am I supposed to be engaged to?” he asks carefully.

“Katherine.”

He closes his eyes for a brief moment. As one might when confronted with one’s worst fears. And then his face completely transforms, and the change is even more unnerving because it is so patently false, so nonchalant.

“To Katherine? That’s absurd.”

“Is it?”

“Where did you hear this?”

“It hardly matters. It came from someone who knows your family in Massachusetts.”

“You know how news gets perverted as it travels. . . . Didn’t you play that whisper game as a child?”

“I heard that Katherine’s not really your sister.”

He licks his lips. “Well, that’s true. At least the gossips got that right.”

“But she is your cousin?”

“Yes.”

“Your first cousin?”

“Yes. Am I on trial?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to harangue you.”

“Then stop.”

He crumples his leather gloves in his hands. And she sees how a pulse twitches in his forehead. She knows he can’t wait to get out of her motor. What will happen now? Edith wonders. Why did she even ask him about Katherine? Just the thought of her young, breezy beauty gives Edith a twinge. But what if he does have feelings for Katherine? It’s not as though Edith’s ever expected him to marry
her
, even if she were to free herself from Teddy. She’s never imagined she’d be lucky enough to have Morton as her lover for more than a blink of an eye. As long as he wants her, pursues her, isn’t that enough? And how delicious it’s been. Will their beautiful connection now be snapped like an electric wire in a storm, sparks flying? The truth is overrated, she thinks.

They’ve reached the building where the
Times
keeps its offices. In the light rain, people on the street have popped open their umbrellas. Through the motorcar window, she watches a parade of them bob along the sidewalk like mourners on their way to a funeral.

Morton touches her hand before he gets out of the car. It should be a comforting touch, but his palm is cold and damp.

“Don’t spoil what we have,” he says.

When he is gone, she feels grief stricken, foolish, doubtful.

“I’d like to go back home,” she tells Cook.

“No errands this morning?” he asks. “I thought you wanted to stop at the bank.”

“No errands.”

Anna thinks a great deal about happiness after her talk with Edith. And it strikes her as a foreign topic, for it’s something she hasn’t expected for years. When she was young and just a guest in Aunt Charlotte’s house, she deemed happiness something for other people. Her cousins were clearly beloved even though Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Heinrich were stiff and strict. And other children at school with bows in their hair and pet dogs and summer plans all seemed to have a little golden key that opened a door to happiness along their way. When she became a governess, she noted the blooming cheeks of her little charges, how oblivious they were to the dangerous world in which we all reside. They knew they would always be protected with trust funds and family jewels, and significant plans for their futures.

Sometimes in those days, Anna tried to imagine that her life would turn out like Jane Eyre’s. Back then, she could see herself as the little orphaned governess who finds love and a new life in her job. But Anna’s employers were never handsome, mysterious gentlemen with mad wives in the attic. Just bored married men with tired eyes. Her own happiness came from the offspring of these men, their unspoiled delight at discovering new books, new ideas. And no child ever made her as happy as Edith did.

She doesn’t believe she’s ever been as close to the precipice as she now feels. Teddy gone. Edith angry at her. She wonders, just as she did the night she was mortified after telling Teddy she would have been proud to have him as a husband, whether she will be orphaned again and have to begin anew at the age of sixty. She imagines ringing a doorbell at a strange house and saying, “I’m here to apply for the position of governess.”

Once more, the house is in an uproar, because the lease at 58, rue de Varenne, is nearly up. Edith will soon be moving to Harry’s cramped townhouse on the Place des États-Unis. At first, Harry said he had business in Germany and wouldn’t be there at all, but at the last minute, his trip was canceled. So because Harry and his staff will be present, Edith is sending Gross and White home.

“It was crowded enough last year. And it would only be worse this year,” she announces to Gross. “We needn’t make the same mistake twice.” Gross is happy to be returning to Park Avenue. She hasn’t been feeling well, and a few weeks of rest are just what she might wish for.

But Anna has no doubt
her
services will be required. After all, Edith will be in the Sixteenth Arrondissement for more than six weeks. She will want to keep writing, although there has been little to show for her efforts lately. Edith is still asking not to be disturbed in the mornings, but only a few half-written pages are left on the floor outside her door these days, when before there were almost more than Anna could type. If this were the only effect of Morton Fullerton on Edith’s life, it would be enough for Anna to resent him.

So Anna is stunned when Edith calls her in one afternoon to tell her, “Tonni, perhaps it’s best if you go back to Park Avenue with the rest of the staff. There’s no need to put you through the cramped accommodations at Harry’s. I’m even asking Harry to put up Henry James, which I wish I didn’t have to do, but what other choice do I have? Harry’s happy to have him, but there will be no room at all.”

“Edith . . .” She is momentarily speechless, then composes herself. “I’d be willing to stay in the smallest room in the house, a broom cupboard, if you could find use for me. Surely, there’s correspondence to attend to?”

“I can write my own letters for a while,” Edith’s voice is breezy but oddly strained. She shuffles the letters on her desk, not once raising her face to Anna.

Edith has never sent Anna away before. In fact, if anything, she likes to complain when Anna—as was the case last summer—is gone for reasons of her own. And though her explanation of why the change in plans appears thoughtful, Anna can smell fraudulence.

“Has a reservation been booked for me?” she asks.

“I’ve told White to book your passage.”

“I see.”

Edith glances up at last. “I think it’s best,” she says, catching Anna finally with frank eyes. “Don’t you?”

TEN

SPRING 1908

O
n Edith’s first full day at Harry’s, Anna de Noailles is scheduled to visit at 3:30 for tea. All spring, Edith’s been inviting her to come to the Rue de Varenne, but despite their best plans, she never did make it. Now Edith will have to entertain La Comtesse at her brother’s, which is less than ideal. Overdecorated, over-Americanized, the house embarrasses Edith. Especially in light of the sleek Bohemian sumptuousness of de Noailles’s own manse.

And Edith feels both overexcited and miserable. Time has been a loudly ticking clock. Amidst the move to Harry’s, Anna’s apparent sadness at being sent away and Henry’s upcoming arrival, Edith has had no room to reflect, no time to breathe. She is giddy with the passion Morton has unearthed in her, yet once again he has been withdrawn: his notes are short, his
Times
assignments longer. Edith blames Anna for sharing the news about Katherine. And she blames herself. Why did she ask him about it at all? Even if Morton were—and how could he be?—engaged to Katherine, would Edith feel differently about him? Would she love him any less?

As expected, de Noailles is late, and Edith hopes once again a note will arrive saying she’s been forced to change her plans. But just at five, when Harry’s oversized American grandfather clock starts to chime, the Comtesse sweeps into the parlor, laughing and bright eyed, sporting a beautiful crushed-satin hat the color of Arizona turquoise and a translucent aqua dress with an aqua slip boldly displayed beneath. Edith has never seen clothes like this before, and she can’t take her eyes off them. To be so original! To be so fearless! Oh, to be so inimitable as de Noailles!

“Well, look at you, chère Edith,” Anna says the moment she and Edith are side by side on Harry’s stuffy chesterfield. “You’ve found yourself a lover!”

“What . . . ,” Edith stammers. “What have you heard?” Edith feels the blood rush to her ears.

“Relax. Not a thing. You just look changed. A blind man could see it. Marvelous! Rosa says Mr. Wharton is away. Be an industrious little mouse and have yourself some fun for now is what I say.”

“Perhaps we should keep our voices down. My brother isn’t here, but his servants might well tell him. . . .”

“Hah!” Anna says. “Who cares what anyone thinks when you look so well? Like you’ve been sipping a magic tonic! Are you happy?”

“Yes. . . .”

“But a bit miserable too, no? You have to be a bit miserable in love or it doesn’t amount to much.”

“Really?” Edith is taken aback. This is the last thing she expects to hear from de Noailles, who she assumes is all about pleasure. The
bonne
arrives with the tea, taking far too long to set it out on the tea tables in front of the sofa.

“Why does one have to be miserable in love?” Edith asks when the
bonne
has at last curtsied in her insipid little way and disappeared.

“Well, think about it. Love must come with a soupçon of torment or even a great deal of torment, or how can it leave a lasting mark? What would Romeo and Juliet be without their troubles? The most ordinary fairy tale must have something to keep its lovers apart: someone evil, or a spell, or a nasty little gnome. Well, you’re a writer. You know this all too well. If Lily Bart married Lawrence Selden in the first scene of
Chez les Heureux du Monde
, why would we have bothered to keep on reading?”

“But in real life . . .”

“You don’t want a boring lover who worships you to your toes. A good lover should distress you a bit. ‘Does he really love me? Maybe not. Maybe there is someone else. Someone who gives him more pleasure than I do! Is giving him pleasure this . . . very . . . minute!’ Well, you know. It makes you want him more.”

“Oh!” Edith says, knocked flat at the thought. She tries to pretend her gasp is a chuckle, but of course, Katherine Fullerton’s rose-petal face appears instantly before her.

“A good lover lets you hang on the edge of agony before he takes you to ecstasy. The very act of love, the pleasure of love is enhanced by sheer misery, no?”

Edith parts her lips, understanding what de Noailles is saying. She thinks of the ecstasy she felt in Montfort. If it had been delayed even a moment . . .

“I see your lover
does
know the power of anguish. He must be French.”

“Well, no.”

“No? An American?”

“I don’t wish to say,” Edith says.

“Oh, don’t bother. If he’s an American I know who it is.”

“You do?”

“Of course! It’s that boulevardier: Fullerton. Again, a blind man could see it.”

“How? How do you know?” Edith is stricken. She and Morton have been too open, too foolish! If de Noailles knows, everyone most know.

“My dear. Enjoy the moment. I would never interfere. I have my secrets too.”

“But I must hear. How do you know?” While she’s waiting for the Comtesse’s answer—for Anna is nibbling at a biscuit and watching Edith with amusement, purposely torturing her as her proposed ideal lover might—Edith asks herself if maybe she’s a little pleased that her secret is out, that the whole world knows that someone as worldly and handsome and desirable as Fullerton has chosen
her
.

“Well, how shall I put this?” de Noailles says. “You’re rather his type.”

Edith is crestfallen. “His type?”

“Of the moment. Once it was older men . . . but now, it’s older women. Not that you’re old, mind you. Not that you’re old.”

“Men?” Edith feels her mouth open, and has a sense of losing balance, dropping, falling.

“Oh, stop asking me,” de Noailles says. “You can be such a bore. Enjoy the moment.”

Edith says nothing. She knows she is as red as can be. And her hands have lost their steadiness.

“Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t know Mr. Fullerton has a reputation. Surely you knew
that
,
ma chère
?”

“I assumed . . . but I didn’t know what you’re telling me. . . .”

“Well, so let’s discuss your writing, and I’ll tell you all about mine!” De Noailles taps her on the knee. “But first, is there no liquor in this house?”

“Wait, I want to know more about Mr. Fullerton.”

“Absolutely not,” de Noailles says, straightening her long neck. “Ask him yourself. I am here for the liquor and the company. Not to give you a biography of Mr. Fullerton. Go on. Tell me about what you’re writing. Have you created any characters based on me?”

Edith won’t do it: won’t ask Fullerton about what Anna de Noailles told her. Asking about Katherine did damage enough. And what if Morton
was
involved—in his youth—with some older man. What if he was? She can’t obsess over what happened long ago. Years ago, in her stupid youth,
she
chose Teddy Wharton over Walter Berry, and what did
that
say about her?

Still, now that desire is her new play toy, constantly rekindled by the smallest reminder, she cannot help picturing a graying, elegant man propping himself on his elbow on some Oriental daybed, gazing down over Morton’s beautiful body, testing the smooth surface of Morton’s young chest with his beringed fingers, exploring Morton’s masculine lips with the tip of his buffed thumbnail. It makes her shiver with a sort of agonized delight. De Noailles is right. The very inappropriateness of it, the shocking thought of it makes her heart pound. She will not, cannot ask him. The image is too delicious to spoil.

Tucked into an overly ornate chair in Harry’s library, falling asleep over a book about xenophobia in French culture, she is jerked awake when the
bonne
raps on the door and says there is someone waiting to see her in the parlor. She isn’t expecting anyone; her hair is pinned up artlessly. A week at Harry’s with little contact from Morton has taken its toll. She’s wearing her old shirtwaist and a gray flannel skirt that’s more comfortable than comely. She can’t imagine who would visit without calling or writing first.

“A gentleman? Did you get his name?” Edith asks.

“Yes, but I can’t remember.” A
bonne
so careless wouldn’t survive a day in
her
household.

Still holding her book to her chest, Edith peeks in through a crack in the parlor doors. In the velvet bergère by the fire sprawls Morton Fullerton. He looks so young, so carefree. Leaning his elbow on the armrest, his head cocked sideways onto his hand, he appears so at home he could easily be the lord of the manor. With his slender legs outstretched, he seems taller than he is, perhaps merely because his confidence is so oversized. She envies him this, and is also wary of it.

“Hello,” she says, gliding into the room. “Did you tell me you were coming?”

“No, I’m a terribly rude, bad boy. I had to pursue a story just across Thomas Jefferson Square. I wanted to see where you’ve been hiding.”

“Well, you found me.”

Just seeing him sends a shock of new energy through her. Since their trip to Montfort, desire sits on the very surface of her skin these days. Anything the least sensuous seems to set a spark. And Morton has allowed this flame to smolder in her alone. Oh, how she wishes to touch him! At the same time, she is certain she will be reduced to ashes if he places his fingers on her.

“This seems quite the house. Take me on a tour,” he says. “I’ve never been to Place des États-Unis.”

“It’s just like my brother to choose to live in Paris but reside on a street called American Place,” she says.

“Ah yes. Sophisticated Mrs. Wharton wouldn’t be caught dead here . . . and yet here you are!”

She shakes her head. “Why is it I feel the way about you that I do?” Oh, the effort to sound dry when he washes over her the way he does!

He flashes a clownish smile, then kisses her lightly on the cheek by her ear, sending waves of delight through her.

“Will you give me a tour?”

“It’s not a very big house,” she says.

She leads him on a short exploration of Harry’s rooms, from the overdecorated parlor with its heavy silk damask drapes, the dining room with its ten paintings of ships all lined up as a grid on the wall and the library with its gilded chairs.

“Harry and I don’t share the same taste,” she tells him. “This is my room for the moment, though pink is far from my favorite color.”

“Like cherry ice cream,” he says, looking about. “Makes me want to lick it.” He shuts the door with his back and pulls her toward him.

“The servants,” she says weakly.

“Hush. They’re not even your servants. And I’ve missed you.”

“But you’ve barely written and made no attempt to . . .”

“I’ve had concerns. It had nothing to do with you.” He turns her around and presses her up against the door, raising her hands above her head and insinuating his body against hers. The feeling is unbearably delicious. To be so totally owned. How easily she melts under his touch, dissolves to nothing. But not here!

“Morton. You disappear for days . . .”

“Stop talking,” he says sharply, then kisses her as urgently as he used to in the dark doorways of restaurants, and at Montfort. Oh, how she wishes to reject him. Instead, she is shamed to hear herself panting.

“I’m being watched here. The woman who brings my breakfast tray . . .”

“Hush. . . . Wouldn’t you like to feel again what I made you feel at Montfort?”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

He walks her backward to the bed, pressing her down onto the cream
matelassé
coverlet.

“No,” she pushes at him lightly.

“My dear.” He runs his hand up her leg.

She continues to push back at him. “No,” she says. When his fingers insinuate themselves beneath her underclothes, her reaction is sudden and violent; her whole lower body shoves him back with enough force that he stumbles against the chest of drawers and almost falls.

For a moment there is a hideous silence. Morton straightens himself proudly, yanking down his waistcoast, smoothing his hair, not looking at her.

“Well,” he says.

Edith is mortified. She stands, her knees quaking. “Not here. That’s all I’m saying. . . .”

“Sometimes you are an awful lot of effort.”

“I’m sorry.” She closes her eyes, remorseful. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Did I hurt you?”

He glares at her, not answering. “HJ is coming soon. You understand?” he says.