The Age of Desire (29 page)

Drawing away from the kiss, he runs his lips down her throat, makes circles around each breast as he did in Montfort, lingering and teasing her with his tongue; then his kisses move down the meridian of her belly, which makes her gasp. How has her body become such a crucible of sensations? Ordinary places feel sensitized. When his fingers find the tiny buttons of her bloomers, she worries that they’re too small for a man to unfasten. But he conquers them one by one, slipping them gently through the fine-stitched buttonholes. She realizes as he slides them from her hips that she has never been thoroughly naked before a man. With Teddy, she wore her nightgown. And there was no touching, no sweetness.

“My God, you’re beautiful,” he says, modeling the lines of her waist and breasts and hips. “As slender as a young girl.” So many touches, so many caresses, it’s as though he has a thousand hands. His face is lit with pleasure. He really thinks me beautiful! she tells herself. He parts her legs and with his fingers softly begins to explore. What she feels is so exquisite, so beyond anything she’s ever known.

“You’re flowing with honey,” he says. “You want me, Edith. Do you know it? Do you realize? Not all women respond like this. You want me.”

“I do?” she asks. “I do!” she says. The same exact words she spoke twenty years ago at an altar, a shivering numb bride. What a different meaning they hold now. She did not want Teddy Wharton then. She never wanted Teddy Wharton. She must not think. She must feel. . . .

Suddenly Morton’s gentle probing locates the very bud of all sensation. By parting the petals with soft touches, he has exposed her long-suppressed desire. Stroking the spot with circular caresses, he makes her arch her back, lose her breath. The sensation is nothing she’s ever known or imagined, fiery and tingling and urgent. And when he slides down to press his mouth to this very spot, this vortex of pleasure she never imagined was part of her, and worships it with his lips and tongue, something happens. First, she sees nothing but white light beneath her lids. Then a sensation like quicksilver shoots to every part of her. She gasps, she calls out his name. Ripples of flame roll over her again and again and again. The convulsions stun and thrill her. An effortless ecstasy, close to agony. The shock of a body sliding into cold water, biting on a lemon, standing too close to a flame. But with no pain. No pain; just utter rapture. As intense as pain, but for the first time, pleasure.

“What’s happening to me?” she says when she can speak. “What’s happened?”

Morton smiles down at her, pleased.

“You don’t know?” he asks.

She shakes her head.

“It’s never happened before? You never made it happen yourself?”

“No. Is it all right? Am I all right?” She is still softly shuddering.

He laughs aloud. “You climaxed, darling.
La petite mort
.”

“
La petite mort
?”

“Each time we die to be reborn again.”

“This has happened to other women?”

“Not often enough,” he says, amused.

“It’s normal?”

“In a perfect world.”

She sits half up, feeling utterly spent and blissful. More relaxed than she’s felt in her entire life.

“Can it happen more than once in a lifetime?”

“It can happen every day. Ten times a day . . .”

“No,” she says, lying back down. “I wouldn’t want that!”

Morton roars, and then kisses her, still laughing. She feels how hard his heart is beating. Her own lips feel swollen and sensitive. He lifts her hand and draws it to his chest.

“Touch me too,” he says, his voice dark and longing.

His chest is perfectly modeled. The vestigial breasts, like a statue’s, hard as stone but covered in dark fur. He guides her hand lower. She has never felt a man’s member before, has never imagined how heavy it might feel, how firm. He lays it into her hand like a gift.

“Are you afraid?” he asks.

“No,” she says, and it’s true.

He shows her how he wishes to be stroked. She feels awkward, but interested. She wants to do it right. She wants to make him happy he chose her. Is there anything she wouldn’t do to please this man who seems like an offering to her from the gods? The answer to a thousand hopeless prayers . . .

Morton seems swept away by her touch. His member, velvety on the outside, so marble hard on the inside, satisfies her hand as much as her hand seems to please him.

“It’s perfect,” he says. “Perfect.” His voice is ragged. The out-of-control sound of his words frightens her. But she remembers the pleasure he bestowed upon her. She wants to give it back. His breathing is torn, worrisome, interlaced with moans that move her inexpressibly.

“Edith,” he whispers, his voice husky, lost.

“My love,” she says, observing how his back arches, his eyes shut tightly. The arcs of his glistening black lashes flare on his cheekbones. His lips part. He stops her hand very suddenly and sits up, then raises his body over hers.

“Guide me into you,” he whispers.

“I . . .”

“Don’t be afraid. I promise I’ll stop if it hurts. Guide me in.” How kind he sounds. But she can tell there’s effort in what he’s saying. She takes hold of him. There’s no going back now. She is stepping over the line. But they are doing this together. Lovers. Partners. His member feels even more swollen. Far too big. She doesn’t quite know where it should go. But it knows. In a fluid, honeyed movement, he is entering her. The feeling is as far from pain as she can imagine. No resistance. No friction, just shining light and sensation.

She hears a sound spring from her lips. A sound she has never made before.

“Am I hurting you?” he asks.

“No. Don’t stop.”

He plunges fully into her and holds for a moment, and then pulls away, enters again and pulls away. Just as he has done a thousand times to her before in other ways. A metaphor for everything he’s been to her. Approaching. Retreating. Mustn’t think. Can’t think
.
Suddenly, it’s easy not to think! His breathing is torn and insistent. Together, the sounds they make could be agony. How close agony is to joy! She never knew. Never knew. Never knew. She is caught in the vortex again. The quickening. She finds herself thrusting upward to draw him in deeper. She wraps her legs around his hips. She wants more. She wants all of him. They are one. Ensnared in the swirling. The sensation is even stronger this time. Every nerve ending sparking. White light! She gasps and cries out like someone falling.

And then he cries out too. She feels his whole body shudder. Even inside her. Shivering. Quaking. Tears flow down her face. They will not stop. When she opens her eyes, all she can see are the frills of white blossoms through the open window kaleidoscoped by her tears, shimmering in the soft blue breeze. It feels like the beginning of the day all over again.

“You’re a brave girl. I knew you would be. A wonderful girl.” He touches her face. “You’re crying!”

“Only with joy,” she says. He kisses her nose.

“I’ve made you happy.” He sounds so pleased, she feels effervescent. “You did it beautifully, Edith.”

“Did I?” she asks.

“Brilliantly. You are very special. Very, very special,
chère
!” His voice is paternal, and soothing. She is preternaturally proud.

He lifts himself off and lies down beside her. “Lie in my arms for a while,” he whispers, accepting her into the crook of his shoulder. “Before we go back to being tourists. But,” he says, after a moment, “I think it’s safe to say I’ve taken you somewhere you’ve never been.”

“You have,” she whispers. “The most wonderful place. I hope to visit often.” Later, as they gather their things, she leans out the window just far enough to snap off a sprig of chestnut flower. Sliding it into the pocket of her skirt, it’s the last thing she does before they go out into the world together, lovers at last.

TWELVE

We met the other day at the Louvre, and walked to St. Germain l’Auxerrois. Then we took a motor and went over to Les Arènes de Lutèce and then to St.-Etienne-du-Mont. . . . Then we walked to the Luxembourg, and sat for a long time in a quiet corner under the trees. But what I long for, these last days, is to be with you alone, far off, in quietness—held fast, peacefully, “while close as lips lean, lean the thoughts between” . . . there is no use trying to look at things together. We don’t see them any longer. . . .

E
dith watches helplessly as each day ticks by and the calendar forfeits its leaves. At eleven-thirty on a perfect May day scented with an aroma not unlike gumdrops, just five days before she is to sail, Cook drops her off at the station and she wanders into the echoing crowds. The electrically broadcast announcements for trains buzz incoherently. The vendors promise buttery pastries and coffee. Feeling lost, and sick at heart, she searches for Morton. What if he doesn’t come? It’s possible. With Morton, anything is possible. Then, there he is, elegant and crisply turned out, leaning by the entrance to the platforms, waiting. His face completely alters when his eyes find her, his mood turning playful. Her own heart opens and sings out like a bird sprung from that ever-ticking clock. Climbing aboard the train, Morton lifts her to reach the first step, then kisses her right in the doorway. Openly, deeply. He laughs like a naughty boy. It’s part of his pleasure, pushing her to do things she once wouldn’t have dared.

But she’s energized. Thrilled to be with him.

“A full day together,” she says.

He squeezes her hand and leads her to a compartment where an older woman in black sits, tatting with ecru thread. She nods and smiles at them, her hands flying in circles and knots.

“Bonjour, Madame,” Morton sings out.

“Bonjour.” The woman looks from Morton to Edith, then back to Morton again. Then she lowers her head again to her lace making. Morton takes the moment to grab Edith by her waist and pull her to him, kissing her with tongue and lips, daring the old woman to watch. But the old widow’s eyes are fixed on the results of her airborne bobbin, conjuring tiny picots with ease and artistry, choosing not to note their embrace.

The train is soon slicing sweetly through fields of grain and beans. And before long they disembark at Senlis. Edith has seen it before, but knows that with Morton by her side, the great Gothic cathedral perched atop the hill will look more splendid, touch her more. There’s been no talk of an inn. Edith wonders if Morton has arranged for one, and realizes she will be disappointed if he hasn’t. Night after night since Montmorency she has been lying in bed re-creating the light-filled room they shared overlooking the courtyard of chestnut trees. The faded bedspread. The sky blue ceiling. The ivory blossoms crushing themselves against the window. Now there will be a new memory!

The medieval granite of Senlis’s streets has been smoothed by thousands of pilgrims from afar seeking solace at the Notre Dame cathedral. Could a young girl from Nazareth have imagined this carved monument to her purity? And why should we worship purity, Edith wonders? Her own purity, or at least her blindness to the sensual, has happily and finally been removed like a stone from her shoe. An ocean can part her from Morton, and time can sway his heart from hers, but nothing can take away the power of the knowledge he’s given her or the exquisiteness of its memory. In time, taken out and remembered, perhaps the memory will grow worn and smooth like these streets. But it will never be torn from her heart.

The cathedral is remarkably cold beneath the beating sun, and she shivers under its humbling vaults. Morton takes off his jacket and drapes it around her quaking shoulders. After the tour, she is happy to escape to the warm streets to view the complex frieze on the side of the church. And then they find a small restaurant just down the hill, where they are fortified by buckwheat crêpes and glasses of velvety red wine.

“Let’s walk along the ramparts,” he tells her, taking her hand across the table. “The old Roman walls.” Again the mischievous smile, the twinkling eyes.

“Yes. That sounds wonderful.”

Full of luncheon and softened by the wine, wandering along the cliff-like ramparts holding Morton’s steady arm, she is suffused with a sense of peace completely foreign and delicious. She, who has spent a lifetime restless, is wrapped in syrupy calm. She revels in it. No one has cleared the land in years, perhaps ever. It is all natural and sunburned, full of hiding places and castlelike openings. And then they come upon a lilac bower, a shimmering wall of flowers.

“Come,” he tells her and draws her in beneath the drooping purple tassels. “I’ve rented a room here.”

The dappled shade is full of color. Blue shards of sky, lavender buds, an emerald bed of moss. The scent of lilacs is so heady Edith is drunk with it. Morton draws her down to the mossy cushion.

“Lie down,” he whispers. “Lie down with me.” She drops to the cradle of moss, spreading her skirts out around her, then lays her head down, her heart thrumming. He settles in beside her and touches her face, traces her lips, her eyes. They have discovered utter privacy in nature’s arms. Yet just over Morton’s shoulder and through the flowers Edith can see the glittering belfry of the church. Morton slides his hand up under her skirt, whispering, “Come away with me. Come away.”

Oh, the pleasures they find on their journey!

Later, on the train back to Paris, the black velvet night brushing the windows, they hold hands in silence. The communion couldn’t be clearer. This is how animals in the fields speak to one another. How birds in their nests share their thoughts. Glances and air moving in and out of lungs and hearts beating side by side. Then, as they watch the fields gliding by, just striped shadows of charcoal and ebony, the sky is torn open at the very bottom and an orange flame appears. It rises, eerie, domed, and in a moment transforms itself into a yellow moon wavering in the earth’s last heat, moving upward like an illuminated balloon.

Edith gasps, and Morton squeezes her hand.

And just when the glory of the moonrise feels as if it’s enough to burst her heart, a nightingale’s aria wafts in through the open train window, its bittersweet melody echoing against the edge of the fields. The song clings to the train for a long, long while, as though, perhaps improbably, the bird has perched on the locomotive’s roof, stealing a free ride to Paris. At that moment, Edith perceives she’s never been closer to the essence of life. Never again will she know so much about sensation, about possibility, about love. One hour like this ought to irradiate a whole life, she thinks. At last, I have lived.

Spring lingers in New York. Soon, raging heat will cook all the odors of too many people and too much life into a devastating stew. Anna has spent enough summers in New York City to know it. But now, everything feels washed and new. In a very short time, Edith will be home. After these few weeks alone, with no demands on her time, Anna has reclaimed herself. She has taken on work as a tutor for some children down the street. She has spent a good deal of time at the library. She has visited her various friends around the city, climbing up to the elevated trains and, for the first time, down into the IRT subway, despite her rheumatic knees, which don’t hurt as much as they did in damp, cold Paris. Sitting on the wicker seats, she thrills at the speed of the underground trains, the subterranean breezes that blow in through the opened windows. She feels strong, and happy. Hopeful.

Word of Mr. Wharton in Hot Springs is very positive. What a good idea it was to send him there! Though she doesn’t think Edith cares enough about Teddy, Anna can’t help but acknowledge she made a fine decision in sending him where he could at last find help.

The pressure of her longing to see Teddy again is disconcerting. The thought that summer at The Mount will be filled with their closeness makes her feel suddenly ashamed, confused. Her dream of walking down to the new piggery to see him worries her. He is her employer. He is Edith’s husband. And no more. He never will be more. . . .

And what will it be like to see Edith again? Will Morton Fullerton show up in Lenox with his perfect, starched French shirts? Cook told Gross in a short note that “Mrs. Wharton is never home. Always off somewhere with MF.” Anna fears that Edith will be even more impatient with Mr. Wharton. Unhappy without Fullerton. And maybe more impatient with Anna as well.

When she speaks about her fears with Gross, Catherine shrugs.

“What are we to do? Edith will do as Edith chooses to do. No one ever has had any sway over that woman.”

The trunks once again are hoisted from the cellar of Harry’s house and set into Edith’s room. Just the sight of them sickens her. Food has no meaning. Sleep is insubstantial and often interrupted. By the middle of the week, Edith is already seasick before her journey has begun, terrified to return home: not just to the emptiness of life without Morton, but to the tyranny of boredom at her husband’s side, to the narrowness of a world she once deemed exciting. And to Anna. She’s thought a great deal of Anna. She’s pined to have her helpful hand. All one has to do is tell Anna what the gist of a business letter should be, and Anna presents it in ten minutes, crisply composed, neatly typed and ready to sign with two shivering carbon papers slipped between the copies. Edith has missed her quiet support, her point of view on her daily pages, and sharing books that have thrilled or interested her, because no matter what Edith likes to read, Anna appreciates the contents, provides feedback. But Anna’s recent censure of Edith’s behavior is painful. And as long as Edith is in love with Morton, that censure will surely stand.

One night, tossing in Harry’s awful
lit bateau
, she dreams that Anna is standing by her bed with a dripping candle. She is younger, almost beautiful, the way she was when Edith first met her, with translucent eyes and braided straw-gold hair that Edith liked to twist and pet. Anna is smiling as she gazes down at her beloved charge, but at the same time, tears are flowing from her eyes, as in paintings of suffering Madonnas, whose goodness always shines through distress. When Edith reaches out to take her free hand, the vision disappears only to appear again at the foot of Edith’s bed, but this time Anna is weeping blood and it’s staining the ivory matelassé coverlet, rolling to a puddle on the floor. The memory of the dream is so real that in the morning, Edith has to check the blanket to reassure herself it was only a dream. What will she do about Anna? Talk to her? Tell her that her love of Morton isn’t going to go away? Confess to her? Fire her? Does she have a cold enough heart to do that?

That morning on her breakfast tray a petit bleu from Morton announces that he has procured tickets at the bureau for an afternoon dress rehearsal of Albert Samain’s play-poem
Polyphème
. She won’t think of Anna—she tells herself—not until she returns home, sees her face-to-face. And then she’ll know, if their encounter is awkward, what she must do.