The Honeymoon (41 page)

How would she ever finish this without George to read every word and prop her up? She couldn’t imagine asking
Johnnie for help, or showing it to him and asking his opinion. He had none of George’s intellect and learning, his magical imagination, his scientific and legal knowledge. Johnnie had never written anything in his life, except for that essay in
Macmillan’s
years ago about his days in New York.

But it didn’t matter. Just to see his bright face, experience his kindness. He could help her in other ways. Her letter to him had said it all.

At last, spring broke through. Walking in Regent’s Park, they were confronted with a scene of overwhelming beauty, cherry blossoms falling to the ground like pink snowflakes, the willows turning golden as they leafed out, flower beds filled with masses of red and yellow tulips.

One day in April, Johnnie took her hands. “Don’t say anything. But please, at least give me some kind of an answer? I’ll wait, but not for long.”

She opened her mouth to object. But he touched his finger to her lips, the first time, she realized, that he’d touched her mouth. “Don’t answer yet. Just think it over.”

They walked on, admiring the lake, the boats floating on the water, the cricketers out on the fields. There was a peaceful smile on Johnnie’s face. Every now and then, someone would stare at her, as if recognizing her, but he continued proudly with her on his arm, she bending forward slightly, as she always did, to hide her face.

She asked Sir James to call on her at the Priory.

He came in, small and thin, with those twinkling eyes of his, eyes full of knowledge and cheer, though he saw death every day, every terrible disease. He never talked about the royal family, who were his patients, but she knew that he had recently discovered another important disease, Paget’s disease of the breast. His accomplishments were endless, he’d also discovered trichinosis, which came from the parasite found in pork, and when she was writing
Middlemarch
she’d pumped him for information about medicine for her doctor character, Lydgate, and he’d generously given her details about such things as the treatment of addiction. Everything always had to be exactly right, down to the smallest detail.

She was nervous. “It’s so nice of you to come. I know you’re very busy.”

“Never too busy to see my friend,” he said. “Are you well, my lady?” He answered his own question. “I see from your smile that you are. When will we resume our evenings? I’m eager to hear you play the piano again.”

“No recurrence,” she said, smiling. “Though I still have that constant sensation in my side.”

“Don’t worry about it. It may never develop into anything again.”

“But how do you know?”

“It’s a sign of a small narrowing in one of the ureters, that’s all. But it won’t necessarily lead to trouble. Try not to think about it.”

“I’ve got something important to discuss with you,” she said. She was smiling, but how could she not, seeing the dear man?

“Because you’re smiling, I imagine it’s good,” he said.

“I don’t know. That’s what I want to ask you about.”

“Ask ahead,” he said. “I’m a man for all tasks.”

“I feel rather … uncomfortable discussing this.”

His voice lowered, but he still smiled. “We’ve been through a lot together, you and I. You should never feel worried about speaking to me about anything.”

“Mr. Cross …,” she began. “He’s asked me to marry him. I said no, of course. I’m sixty years old, more than twenty years older than he is. I’m ill … and weak … and … he’s asked again … I don’t understand it.” She looked at Sir James. He was smiling broadly now. “He does make me happy. The loneliness has been unbearable.”

His face filled with sympathy. He took her hand.

“Madam, you’re healthy now. And the care of someone like Johnnie Cross who loves you, who’s young and strong, will only make you healthier and stronger. I believe happiness is the cure for many ailments.”

“But happiness and love didn’t cure George.”

“No, sometimes we’re defeated. But here, Madam, you’ve got a chance for life. To live a second time. You thought you’d never be happy again.”

“Please don’t say anything to anyone about this —”

“I am, you know, a person who keeps his counsel.”

“I realize that. Forgive me. But I don’t understand why he wants it. I’m not pretty.”

“To many of us, you are very beautiful indeed. Your goodness, your brilliance, and your kindness shine in you.”

“Thank you, dear Sir James. He’s a young man, he could have any attractive young woman —”

“Why wouldn’t he rather have you? There’s no one more brilliant in this land. Youth, prettiness, they fade away. And
far too often when there’s only physical beauty, there’s no meeting of the minds. I’ve seen a lot of unhappiness when that happens, believe me.”

She pondered this while he searched her face with eager eyes.

She stumbled on. “I — I’m very afraid of the … the physical side of things … with anyone but my dear husband. The thought of it terrifies me.” She was too timid to say more, to say that part of her wanted Johnnie’s ardor to overcome her fear, that she did have the wish that he’d love that part of her and that it would all come back, what she’d known with George.

“Does Mr. Cross know about your worries?”

“I’ve told him … in so many words.”

“And what does he say?”

“He says — I think he says — he’ll accept me on whatever terms I want.”

“Then there you have it, don’t you? He’s man enough to know his own mind. He’ll take you under all circumstances. That’s love, I’d say. A definition of love.”

“Then, you think I’m well enough?”

Sir James threw back his head and laughed. “Madam, I’m looking forward to seeing you only happier and healthier from this day on.”

Then he kissed both her hands vigorously and left her, smiling.

That night, she sent a boy with a note to Johnnie’s club summoning him.

When he arrived, his face was bright with hope.

Softly, she said, looking up at him, “I’ve spoken to Sir James. He says my health is good enough to marry. He thinks it’s a wonderful idea.”

His face seemed to swell, then tears began to run down his cheeks.

“Are you sad about it?” she asked.

He sat down and hid his face, then took out his handkerchief and wiped his cheeks. She saw that his shoulders were shaking, and she touched his arm.

She drew his head close to her waist and cradled it. At last he ceased and looked up at her and smiled. Then he stood up and took her hands. “We’ve got to set the date!”

“Yes,” she said. She was suddenly dazed, unable to think clearly, disbelieving that she’d accepted him.

“We’ll have the ceremony at St. George’s, Hanover Square,” he pronounced jubilantly.

“The ceremony?” she echoed, still unable to process it all.

“Yes. It’s the only place to marry.” By this he meant St. George’s was where the most fashionable people in London married. “I want to do it properly.” His eyes still gleamed.

“But …” She, who’d disdained for all these years the legal ceremony of marriage, the need for religious sanction, who’d made a principle of marriage based only on true love, she hadn’t thought this through, what a marriage ceremony would mean. Marriage in a church?

Johnnie asked worriedly, “You’re not against it?”

“No, I suppose it would be all right — but if only a very few people, the people we really love, are invited.”

“I’ll make the arrangements immediately. We’ll do it as soon as possible. I’ve waited long enough.”

She marveled at herself — that she’d so readily agreed to this, to be like other women. To be the woman her father would have wanted her to be.

Then, excitement, relief, expectation burst out of her as if she were a young girl again. This meant he’d never leave her. “Shall I ask Albert to give me away?” she said. She sensed it would make him happy to have Albert standing there beside them at the altar.

“That would be wonderful,” said Johnnie. “Then we’ll all be standing at the altar together.”

“Please,” she said, “we must tell absolutely no one till it’s done.”

“But why?”

“Because — people will make fun of us. They’ll try to talk us out of it. It’ll get into the papers.”

“I don’t care. Let them.”

“Can they publish the banns without my real name on them?”

“But we’ve got to tell my brothers and sisters,” he said. “And Charley. You must tell Charley.”

“Will you tell him for me?” she asked. “I’m too afraid.”

“Of course. I’ll go tomorrow and ask him for your hand like a proper gentleman. And I’ve got a surprise. I’ve already found us a house.”

“A house?”

“Yes, we’re going to have our own home. We can’t live here with all the sad memories. We’re going to start fresh.”

“How did you —”

“I’ve been living on hope.” He laughed. “I began looking around, so at least I could imagine it for myself. Discreetly, of course. I didn’t tell anyone it was for you.”

She asked, falteringly, “Where is it?”

“Cheyne Walk. By the river. It’s absolutely perfect. We’ll go over there in the morning. But I’d better go now,” he said, “and start making arrangements.”

And with this he drew her to him and kissed her on the forehead. Not on the lips.

H
e was seized with a feverish happiness, running about, attending to details, the ceremony, the new house. Sometimes, in the middle of his rush, he’d grab her hand and kiss it. “Polly!” he’d cry. (Occasionally he slipped into “Beatrice.”) “I’m so happy.” He was possessed, catapulted into pure joy, as though if he stopped for a single moment she’d change her mind.

The morning after she accepted him, in the kind, spring sunshine, they drove over to 4 Cheyne Walk. The house had belonged to William Sandys Wright, president of the Society of Antiquaries, and it was the prettiest one in the row, red brick, with a crenellated roof and a wrought iron gate with a crown on top.

As they toured the inside, they came to an L-shaped room on the upper floor overlooking the Thames. “This will be your room,” Johnnie said. “It’s got the best view of the river. I’ll be right across the hall.” Married people often had separate bedrooms, of course, though she and George never had. He was reassuring her that he’d keep to his end of their understanding.