Another Eden (15 page)

"So you would feel better."

He digested that. "And no one else knows it?"

"God, no. I thought I would take it to my grave."

The willow leaves threw delicate moving shadows against the pale oval of her face. It was the finely arching brows that gave her that look of quiet composure, he decided—that and her straight, unsmiling mouth. But he was learning that she was a mixture of open-heartedness and deep cynicism, kindness and extreme wariness. "What was it like growing up?" he asked. "Were you happy?"

Later she could worry about the dangerous intimacy of this conversation; for now, she would allow herself to be seduced by his interest in her, and by the striking and rueful fact that no one had ever asked her that question before, not directly, not even Lauren.

She found she couldn't answer it directly, either. "My mother wasn't a very strong person," she said slowly. "She found she didn't like being a duchess after all, but she lacked the initiative or the energy to do anything about it. She was unhappy. She…"

"Drank."

"Ah. You've heard."

"I'm sorry, it was just—"

"It's all right, I don't know why I'm surprised."

Ben's attitude toward her "aristocratic" background was a lethal mixture of contempt and grudging admiration, and he took perverse pleasure in maligning it at the same time he took advantage of it to elevate himself socially. Her mother had been a target of his public ridicule from the beginning, not only because her weaknesses were easy to sneer at, but also because vilifying her was a clever and economical way to wound Sara.

"Yes, she drank. She'd been left with nothing but a molding, decaying estate she wasn't allowed to sell and a five-month-old baby. She was allowed to sell the furnishings, though, so she did that, bit by bit, and scraped by on the yearly pittance that was all my father's will had left her. By the time I was ten, his ancestral home was nothing but an empty, echoing barn, stripped of everything of value to pay for my mother's secret vice."

"What was it like for you, living like that?"

"It was…" She resisted the deep, gentle sympathy in his resonant voice and didn't say the word
lonely
, or
frightening
, or
dreadful
. "I was lucky, because my father provided quite handsomely in his will for my education. Yes—it's odd, isn't it? I'm sure my mother shared your surprise when she learned of it. She wasn't allowed to touch that money, which must have driven her crazy. Very prescient of my father, don't you think? Anyway, there were governesses when I was little, and then rather grand boarding schools until I was sixteen. So you mustn't think it was just my mother and me shut up together at Kell Hall, getting battier together year after year." He stared owlishly back at her feeble attempt at a smile until it faltered and she looked away. "And were you happy at these grand boarding schools?"

She got up from the swing and walked a few steps away before turning around to face him. "No, of course I wasn't. I was lonely, poor as a churchmouse, my shyness was taken for arrogance, I had almost no friends." Which accounted for her excessive sensitivity today—according to Lauren—to being thought a snob. She overcompensated, Lauren claimed, by befriending the likes of Tasha Eminescu and working to exhaustion at the Forsyth Street Settlement.

Alex stood up too and came toward her. Music had begun to drift on the air. Daisy's lanterns twinkled like fireflies in the tree branches. Overhead, the moon rode behind a long, thin cloud and then broke free, showering down silver. Sara's hair caught icy fire in the radiance; her quiet eyes glowed. She looked like a straight, slim goddess to him in the colorless moonshine, cool and warm, marble and flesh.

"What?" she said softly, misinterpreting his look. "Are you feeling sorry for me? You needn't, I assure you."

"Because you're happy now? Ben rescued you and now you have everything?" He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth.

Her face crumbled, went from proud to distraught in the space of an instant—he had to reach for her hands to keep her from turning away. "I'm sorry, that was a stupid thing to say. I
don't
feel sorry for you—how could I? Look at you, you're—" He broke off; that wasn't the way. "I've never met anyone like you, no one with your courage, your goodness—" He held tighter when she tried to wrench her hands away. "There's no meanness in you, none. Do you know how rare that is?"

"Oh,
Alex
, you don't know me!" She half-laughed, a bitter sound, as she pulled harder at his hands. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know all about you. You're sad most of the time, you've given up hope for your own happiness, but you never stop trying to make other people's lives better. The work you do at the settlement house—even your husband ridicules it, but you don't stop. Women in your circle soothe their social consciences by putting on all their jewelry and dragging their husbands to charity balls, but you—"

"
Please
stop."

"Why? Why does this embarrass you?"

"Don't you know that nobody's motives are ever completely pure? That's not cynicism, it's just a fact. Even a
saint's
reasons for doing those selfless-seeming deeds would very likely not bear scrutiny—and I can assure you I'm not a saint!"

"Well, I'm relieved to hear it. Now you don't scare me so much." Her helpless laugh heartened him. His hands slid gently up her bare arms to her elbows where, under his thumbs, he could feel the quick flutter of her pulse. Ambivalence clouded her fine gray eyes. She started to speak—to say, he was sure, something like, "You mustn't touch me like this"—when he forestalled her. "Mrs. Cochrane, would you like to dance with me?"

Her indecision was thick, palpable. The silence went to foolish lengths, and she began to feel silly. "Mr. McKie," she said with perfect truth, "I'd love to."

They moved into position too slowly, their skimming hands too much like caresses. Sara stiffened her spine and waited for him to begin. He didn't move, didn't move—she lifted surprised eyes—and then he did, a slow, smooth glide that brought them closer. She closed her eyes, and immediately his scent, a subtle, lemony cologne, shockingly intimate, began an insidious assault on her senses. If she lifted her left thumb from its discreet resting place on the back of his collar, she could touch his curling, gold-tipped hair. She did, and reveled secretly in that soft, cool thrill. They were moving to the slowest of waltzes, paying no attention to the brisket tempo of the orchestra next door. She had a poignant awareness of her own body and the pleasure it took from the pressure of his steady hand on her waist, his warm breath on her hair, the light press of her breasts against his chest. The sizzling rustle of her skirts against his long legs seemed more erotic to her just then than the sounds of lovemaking. When his hand tightened at the small of her back to bring her closer, she didn't resist. But nerves made her break the risky silence that was stretching between them like a thin, tight wire. In a murmur she said, "Michael blessed you in his prayers tonight."

"Did he? I'm sure my wicked soul can use it. What a nice boy he is, Sara."

She wondered how wicked Alex's soul was. Not very, she thought. What she sensed in him was the restlessness and confusion of a man who didn't know himself yet. Was it arrogance or only naiveté that sometimes made her think
she
knew him, and that there was greatness in him if only he could find it?

"What are you thinking?" He drew away to look at her. Her eyes were deep and mysterious, and her soft, serious mouth told him nothing except that she was sweet. He already knew that. His deepest wish was to touch her body with his mouth—anywhere, her hair, her lips, her throat. The soft, dark cleft between her pale breasts.

"I was thinking…"

"What?"

"That Michael is making something for you that's a surprise."

The carnal fragrance of the flower in her hair was making his head swim. "What is it?"

"Well, I can't tell you, of course." Now she could feel his breath on her lips. They were dancing much, much too close, they had almost stopped moving at all. "Did you tell him what kind of house you'd like to live in someday?"

He sighed. It was difficult to talk, and he understood perfectly why she kept at it. "Yes, once. Is he building it for me?"

"I didn't say that. You did not hear that from me." He smiled with his eyes closed. He stopped dancing, or the pretense of dancing, and put both hands on her waist. "Sara."

It wasn't fair to back away from something she wanted and had conspired to get at least as much as he. But he had a choice and she did not, and for some reason the moment had just come, belated but inescapable, when she remembered it.

"Forgive me," she whispered, and stepped out of his arms.

He blinked in disbelief, hands outstretched, mouth open. A vision of his own foolishness restored his composure, but it was cold comfort. He teetered on the edge of anger, but toppled instead into regret. "Do you want me to go?"

"Yes," she answered immediately. "You must go."

"Right." Then it was anger, pure and simple. "Right. I'll leave. But don't be an idiot. Don't think this—" He stopped; he had no idea what he was talking about. "Sorry. I'm going. But don't—"  What? He cursed violently under his breath, and she just stared at him. This was crazy.  "Sara—"

"No, it's better if you go. Please let's not talk anymore, not right now. I don't know how this happened. I do beg your pardon, but you must go."

He looked up at the black sky, stalling for control. He didn't understand how it had happened, either. He remembered his careful plans for a "strategic retreat." If he was serious about withdrawing from her, he ought to let this night's work stand, for it had accomplished all of his alleged goals in a fraction of the time. But he heard himself say, "I apologize if I've offended you, Sara. I assure you there will be no repetition of my behavior tonight. You're perfectly safe from me, in other words. And so if you were thinking of avoiding me from now on, I promise you it won't be necessary. I promise." She was squeezing her hands together and staring up at him with odd, painful intensity. He couldn't think of anything else to promise without making an even bigger fool of himself He made her a short, formal bow and escaped.

"Tasha? Is that you? Hello, it's Sara."

"Mrs. Cochrane! Yes, this is Tasha speaking, I can hear you. How do you do?"

"I'm fine, how are you?"

"Thank you, I am very well!"

Sara held the earpiece away from her ear because Tasha was shouting. "Is it raining there?"

"No, the sun is shining. It is very hot! It rains there?"

"Yes, all afternoon. How are things at the house?"

"Things at the house are very good! The plumbing men have finished their work. Everything is fine now."

"Good, I'm glad that's over. What have you been doing?" There was a pause. "Today I went to church." Sara smiled. "Yes, we went to church, too. I meant, how have you been keeping busy?"

"Have I been keeping busy? Oh yes, yes, I have my lessons every day, I read quite a lot, and in the evenings I sew. And the little cat, she keeps me company!"

It didn't sound like much of a life. "Are you able to work yet, do you think? How is your wrist?"

This time the pause was longer. "Mrs. Cochrane."

"Tasha?" The girl's voice had dropped almost to a whisper. "Tasha?"

"I'm ashamed."

"What's wrong?"

"How can I tell you? You will think me lazy and stupid."

"Nonsense," Sara said sternly. "Tell me what's wrong. I'll think you're stupid if you
don't
tell me."

She laughed, but there was a little catch in her throat. "I'm not—I can't—" Another pause. "I do not go out of the house. I just can't. Yet."

Sara bowed her head. "Because you're afraid."

"Yes. Yes. I know it's foolish, but the man—I'm still so scared of him!"

"I do understand. I wish I could help you, I wish you could come here." But when she'd suggested it to Ben, he'd laughed at her. "Listen, Tasha, I've told you before, you're welcome to stay as long as you want. And my husband says the same." Miraculously. "You are so very kind. Someday I will repay you, I swear it!"

"Never mind that, the important thing is for you to get better. I've told Paren—that's Mr. Matthews at the settlement house—that you're there by yourself, and he says he'll call sometimes just to make sure you're all right." Tasha started to thank her again; she cut her off quickly. They spoke for a few more minutes, then Sara hung up. She stood with her hand on the receiver, stating into space. Something troubled her about the conversation, but she couldn't put her finger on it. She was still puzzling over it when the telephone rang again. It was Daisy.

"What are you doing?"

Daisy never slurred her speech when she drank, but in some indefinable way Sara could tell from those four words that she was tight. "I'm looking out the window at the rain," she answered lightly, "trying to decide whether to finish my book or take a nap."

"Oh, boring! Come over here and talk to me. Take an umbrella and walk around to the side; you'll hardly even get your shoes wet. I've got some lovely Madeira, we'll sit on the porch and have a nice—"

"Oh, I don't think so, Daisy. I'm just too lazy. And Michael's playing outside, he's probably wringing wet."

"Outside!"

"Yes, well, it was so warm, I said he could. He wanted to play with his new umbrella."

"Oh, come on, dry him off and bring him with you. We'll have a good time." They went back and forth a little longer. But Sara held out and Daisy finally rang off, disappointed.

Sara wandered into the kitchen. The house was dead quiet; on Sunday afternoon, all the servants were on holiday. It was murky, too; she ought to switch on the light. But the watery dimness suited her mood. She poured a glass of water from the faucet and drank it over the sink, staring blankly out the window. Should she have gone to Daisy's? She'd been restless for two days, ever since she'd sent Alex away. Yesterday she'd made up an excuse to explain to Michael why their walk had to be cancelled; today, luckily, she wouldn't need to because of the rain. He would be disappointed, she knew, yesterday he'd wanted to call Mr. McKie on the telephone—"I haven't seen him for a
week
, Mummy, a
week
. I've got this
model
and he hasn't even
seen
it." His attachment to Alex had seemed harmless and natural in the beginning, even desirable, but now it worried her. What had happened on Friday evening called into very serious question the likelihood that she and Alex could simply go on as they had been, in what she'd told herself was a casual, friendly relationship, one whose sexual undertones always stopped dead at the level of mild flirtation. To believe that now was worse than naive, it was irresponsible. She couldn't afford it. The time had come to open her eyes and see what a perilous game she'd been playing, for the consequences were real and terrible: If Ben ever suspected she was interested in another man, he would punish her in ways she couldn't even imagine. All of them involving Michael.

So. She had learned a hard lesson, and it was a blessing. A good thing. Long overdue. For two days she'd been trying to see it in that light—so far without success. Daisy's invitation beckoned seductively. What an easy solution to this ache she carried inside all the time. An unopened bottle of cognac was gathering dust in the cabinet over the icebox. She thought of lying on the sofa in the living room with a glass of brandy and the serialized novel in the newspaper, and letting the rainy afternoon slip past in a steadily thickening fog.

It could be done. She'd seen it done a thousand times. One of the things she hadn't told Alex was that her job as a child, when she wasn't away at school, had been to take care of her mother—to keep her from falling and hurting herself, to try to make her eat, and most of all to keep the truth of their dreadful domestic situation a secret from the rest of the world. She'd fallen into the conspiracy with no thought that she had a choice. Her mother had turned her into a crafty accomplice, and she'd chosen her ally wisely. With Sara in charge, she could relax and do whatever she wanted. And what she wanted to do was drink.

It was the picture of her mother in a stained dressing gown, oily blond hair awry, sunk in a chair or passed out on the sofa, that turned Sara firmly away from thoughts of brandy and oblivion. Much better to be good and miserable than to choose that path, because she knew exactly where it could lead. Even if she didn't care what happened to herself and she did; thank God it hadn't come to that yet!—she could never do to Michael what her mother had done to her.

Thinking of Michael made her wonder where he was. She'd told him to stay in the backyard, but if he was out there now she couldn't see him. She decided she would make him his favorite supper—old chicken and graham bread sandwiches. Yesterday Mrs. Godby had taught her how to make mayonnaise—how
incredible
that it only had three ingredients—so she would make that and a pitcher of lemonade. Some carrots and celery sticks, if she could get him to eat them. She started to wash her hands. Condensation had fogged the window; she wiped it with the dish towel and saw that the yard was empty. Perhaps he'd gone over to Daisy's to see Gadget. A movement caught her eye, high up in the willow tree. Bright red—his new umbrella. She froze for two seconds, then shouted "
Michael
!" through the half-closed window. Her scream merged with his when he fell. His body struck the lowest branch, slithered off, and hit the ground with a silent thump that jolted through her like an electrical shock.

She went blind. Rain on her face roused her from a sick, waking faint. Over the roar in her ears she couldn't hear herself screaming when she collapsed on the sodden grass beside his still, crumpled body. His arms felt like cold, wet rubber and his face was the color of smoke. She held him tight to her chest and called out for help, help, shouting at the dripping sky, empty-headed with panic.

Time snarled, tangled; she would never know how long it took Daisy to find her. But all at once she was there, kneeling, shaking her shoulder and shouting something in her ear. Then she was alone again and the meaning of the words sank in: Daisy was going to call the doctor.

Doctor. The concept galvanized her. She gathered Michael's heavy, lifeless weight in her arms, stood up, and staggered toward the house. Daisy met her at the door. She took his legs—so thin and bony! the left shin scraped and bleeding—and together they got him into the day parlor and laid him on the sofa.

"The doctor's coming, he's on his way. Where is he hurt?"

Where! She didn't know! She started to cry. Daisy stilled the futile fluttering of her hands over Michael's body and examined him herself.

"His arms aren't broken," she declared, moving them. "Legs are fine."

"Why can't he wake up?" Sara whimpered. Stroking his wet hair, she felt it—a lump nearly the size of a tennis ball on the left side of his head. "Oh my
God, my God
."

"I don't think it's so bad," Daisy said quickly. She pulled the afghan from the back of the couch, spread it over him, and tucked it in at the sides. "Sit down now, Sara, you're going to make yourself sick. There's nothing to do but wait. Honestly, I don't think it's that bad!"

She stayed where she was, kneeling on the floor by Michael's head, holding his hands. His face was so pale, his lips white. The shallow rise and fall of his narrow chest became the focus of all her senses. "Darling," she kept whispering, and "Please God, please, please, please, God."

The doctor came. She didn't hear his name. He told her to move back, please, and she scooted sideways on her knees a few inches. He pulled a chair close to the couch and sat down. He was big and burly, white-haired, and she winced every time his enormous, blunt-fingered hands touched Michael's body.

"That's a big one, isn't it?" he rumbled, gently skimming the bump on Michael's temple with his fingertips. "Round as a goose egg. He'll have a little headache from that, won't he?"

She was literally biting her knuckles; she couldn't form a question because she was too terrified of the answer.

"Has there been any vomiting?"

She shook her head violently.

"That's good, that's a good sign. Well, well, what's this?"

"What?" she croaked.

"Look here. He's broken his collarbone, hasn't he? Now, don't worry, that's all right, that's not serious." He glanced around for Daisy and sent her a warning look.

She went to Sara and put her arms around her shoulders. "He's all right, honey, the doctor's saying he's
all right
. You have to try to stay calm." She gathered up all her courage. Her voice shook ludicrously, but she got it out. "Why won't he wake up? Please, please, tell me the truth."

"Hush, Sara, let him listen."

The doctor was pressing his stethoscope to Michael's puny chest. Next he opened the boy's white eyelids and stared down into his pupils. He looked at his teeth, moved his jaw carefully, then his head, palpating the vertebrae at the back of his neck. "What's that, now?" he said when he'd finished, pulling his glasses to the end of his big nose and peering at her. "Why won't he wake up? Because he's got a bump on his head and he's not quite ready to. Shouldn't be much longer, though. Stand back a little now, I'm going to straighten this bone."