By The Sea, Book One: Tess (13 page)

"Everything? You've scarcely touched on
Edward Hillyard," he said calmly.

Surprised into a blush, Tess answered, "What
is there to tell? I allowed myself to become attracted to a man
well above my station. I got no more than I deserved."

"You don't believe that."

She sighed. "No—no, I don't. It seems a very
cruel trick."

"You think it was cruelty on Hillyard's
part; it wasn't. He's idealistic but poor, which is an unhappy—and
perhaps unavoidable—combination. It makes for an angry young man.
He can be ill mannered but, I'm sure, not with you: no doubt
there's a note of regret calling off the rendezvous in your room at
Beau Rêve."

"Do you think so?" Her bottle-green eyes lit
up with hope. If everything was only a misunderstanding ....

Gould's smile was sympathetic. "He's a
homosexual, Tess. You knew that, of course."

She stared at him blankly. Was this a word
she should know, like "matriarchal"?

"It's a barbarous word, I know: it means he
might well prefer my company to yours, Tess, though only God knows
why."

Still Tess stared. Snatches of conversation
from the Servants' Ball shot meteorically into her consciousness,
illuminating nothing.
It's only women he has no use for.

"
It wasn't because you're a maid that
nothing came of it, Tess," he explained patiently. "It had nothing
to do with you. Some men are simply like that."

Some men ..
.. A long-forgotten memory
from her childhood returned, of a man who stopped her on the
streets of Cork to ask directions in heavy, broken English. "Vich
vay?" he had asked. His accent was odd but he looked even odder,
with his brightly rouged cheeks and scarlet cravat, and Tess had
giggled and run away.

"But … Edward Hillyard?" She said the name
so timidly that Gould gave her a sad and reassuring wink.

Her breath broke from her in a rush; she
shook her head slowly, incredulously. And yet so many things made
sense now: he had never kissed her, for one thing. And he despised
the women in Newport. She felt as if she'd been pushed violently on
a dark street by some stranger who wanted nothing from her and had
no reason to harm her.

"Why?" she whispered to Gould.

He shrugged. "Put it out of your mind."

"How can I?" she cried. "I made a fool of
myself, ruined myself and my family—but not for love? There was
never any chance for love?"

"You are young; you believe in the power of
love. And you are Catholic," he added with a smile. "You believe in
miracles."

"Yes! Yes, I do!" Her breath was coming
fast, and a slow, angry flush drove out the tear-stained paleness
of her face. "I think you can do anything for love, all kinds of
love—anything!" Edward Hillyard
could
have loved her; he
should
have loved her.

"Well, you may be right," Gould answered
coolly. "I wouldn't know." Glancing out the window he added, "Here
we are."

Tess had no idea how long the coach had been
stopped, or why. "I'm sorry. I'm taking up your evening—" she
began.

"I've told you, I'm an observer of human
nature," he said, climbing out of the carriage ahead of her into
the rain. "Do you think a drama half so interesting is unfolding at
The Ledge tonight? In any case, the guests will be preparing their
own meal, and I think we deserve better than sliced tomatoes and
onions on toast, don't you? I have a business proposition for you,
which I mean to discuss over decent food."

He turned to the coachman. "That will be
all, Fagan. Good night."

The coachman touched his whip to his cap and
murmured good night, and before Tess could cry out or further
embarrass herself, the horses were pulling away, leaving Tess and
Gould at the entrance to a small alleyway that led to a pier at the
south end of Newport harbor.

Tess was not exactly afraid: Aaron Gould
struck her as neither violent nor impulsive. She was less than a
mile from her father's waterfront shack; she could bolt right now
if she wanted to. But she didn't want to. In half an hour this man
had learned more about Tess than any other man on earth, and he had
a business plan to propose. She waited cautiously to hear what he
had to say.

He took her arm. "What an odd couple we
are—me in my gardening get-up, you in the dress of a lady's maid,
both of us getting soaked in the rain. I hope my crew allows us
aboard, or we'll
both
end up in the street and
starving."

"Aboard—what?" she asked, her heart leaping.
"A ship?"

He was hurrying her toward the water. "No,
Tess, not a ship. A yacht. My yacht."

A dark form stepped quickly out of the
shadows, and Tess let out a little scream.

"Ah—there you are, Peterson."

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, if you'll wait
here I can fetch some spare oilskins. Be but a minute, sir."

He left and Tess and Gould took up his place
under the overhang of a closed-up shed. The rain was falling much
harder now. A steady stream of water cascading from a break in the
roofline above them was the only sound as they waited in silence
for the crewman to return.

A business proposition. That could mean
anything. His wife could need a lady's maid or his yachting blazer
a spot of mending. He seemed kind; perhaps he knew of someone who
needed a servant. Whatever it was, she would be glad to hear
it.

The crewman returned with a black oiled
cape-coat which he laid like a lead blanket on Tess's shoulders,
and yellow oiled slickers for Aaron Gould. The three made their way
quickly through the wind and rain to the west end of the pier,
where a steam launch was tied up.

"Damn! I forgot about the tide," Gould
muttered. "Can you climb down to the launch, Tess?"

Tess peered over the side of the dock. Ten
feet below them, a sleek dark vessel pitched into the southwest
chop. A ladder nailed to a pylon led down alongside the violently
moving target. Tess nodded confidently, although it seemed to her a
broken leg was the very least she could expect. She watched Gould
scamper down the ladder with the ease of one who spends most days
in a treehouse.

In for a penny, in for a pound,
she
told herself, and swung her wet skirts around to the top rung. The
patent leather needle-tipped toes of her shoes caught on each rung
as she descended carefully. She held the rungs above her head in a
death-grip, and when she lost her footing on the green slime on the
bottom rung, it was the strength in her arms alone that kept her
from falling between the launch and the pylons.

Gould's arms were around her instantly. "All
right, girl?" he asked.

"Yes, yes—I can manage," she said
impatiently, and he let her go to find her own way around the
smokestack and boiler to the fantail seat. The leather cushions had
been stowed out of the rain. Tess took up a place on the varnished
seat next to Gould, bowing her head into the slashing wind.

"Peterson! What do we have in sou'westers?"
called Gould to the crewman, who had scrambled aboard and was
starting the engine.

"Under the seat, sir."

Gould pulled out two wide-brimmed, oiled
hats and handed one to Tess as Peterson hauled in the dock lines,
letting the wind blow them off the dock. He put the launch in gear,
and Tess, steadying herself on a brass grabrail, peered out from
under the brim of her hat at the white-capped harbor. The launch
lifted and fell as Peterson expertly played the crests, easing the
launch to windward. The small steam engine puffed along with a
minimum of fuss, cutting through the turmoil.

"It's a stinking night, Tess," said Gould.
"I'm sorry."

"The weather's not your fault, s—Mr. Gould,"
replied Tess. She backed away from the "sir." She hated the very
word.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself, in
fact."

"I am," she admitted. "It's exciting."

Far more exciting than washing linen or
brushing shoes,
she thought. It was such a struggle to get
where they were going; she assumed the end would be worth it.

Peterson positioned the launch alongside the
gangway of an elegant black-hulled steam yacht anchored in Brenton
Cove in the lee of the howling southwest wind. Peterson yanked at
the launch's steam whistle, and before they reached the top of the
teak and brass companionway, a uniformed crew member was waiting
for them with a large black umbrella.

"Never mind, Pratt," said Gould, "we're
soaked through, anyway. Take these oilskins. We'll find our own way
below. Ask Oberlin to see me straightaway, would you?"

He took Tess's arm and hurried her along a
side deck and through a paneled and windowed mahogany door,
alongside of which hung a white life-ring with the vessel's name
leafed in gold:
M/Y
Enchanta.
They were in the main
salon, a large, beautifully paneled cabin marked by the unfussy
elegance of a gentleman's study. Silver humidors on small rosewood
tables and ashtrays in brass stands waited confidently next to
overstuffed chairs, expecting to be needed. The walls were hung
with old etchings and oil renderings of epic battles at sea. Brass
oil lamps, set on brackets shaped into sea creatures, threw off a
golden, flickering light. It was a man's refuge, devoid of a
woman's touch, and Tess said so.

"As a matter of fact, before she died my
wife had never been aboard. As all women do, she looked on boats as
competition for her drawing room and her affections. She was right,
of course." He was holding open a stateroom door for Tess. "You'll
find dry clothes in there. When you've finished, join me in my
cabin across the way. I'll have something hot brought in."

He excused himself and Tess was left
standing on a silk Persian rug in her wet shoes. She unbuttoned
them immediately and pulled them off, then tiptoed barefoot to the
built-in armoire. Rather timidly, she slid open one of the paneled
doors. Inside was a collection of exquisite dressing gowns in an
array of flattering colors: creams, mauves, pale blues. They would
not have belonged to Aaron Gould's wife, of that Tess was sure.
They were too young, too utterly feminine, too intimate for a woman
who apparently had preferred to spend her days presiding over high
tea. Possibly they belonged to his daughter, who must be grown by
now? Possibly.

She passed over the wraparound versions in
favor of the only one with actual buttons, a heavy, creamy silk
brocade. There was a selection of opera slippers in soft, luxuriant
kid—in different sizes.
Not
the daughter's, then. Tess's
heart turned upside-down in her chest for a moment, then righted
itself and went on beating: he had given his word, a gentleman's
word, that she was free to go ashore whenever she chose.

But in the meantime her own dress was
sodden; she had no choice but to change. She stripped down to her
drawers and corset, no further than that, and slipped the dressing
gown over her head. In the full-length brass mirror she looked too
... fine.

Never in her life had she felt the luxury of
brocade next to her skin. Panic set in:
Off with the
gown.

She was fumbling with the top buttons when a
knock came on the door. It opened: Aaron Gould, in a wine-colored
smoking jacket, said, "There are combs and brushes somewhere in
that bureau. Is there anything else you need?"

She shook her head. He left, and Tess felt
better. Aaron Gould was treating her with perfect courtesy. If the
armoire was not stocked with muslin Mother Hubbard gowns and felt
slippers, it was for the same reason that she was not standing on
China straw matting just then: the wealthy did things
differently.

She located the brushes, combed her hair as
dry as she could and pulled it back with two tortoise-shell
side-combs she chose from among a drawer filled with them. It
seemed obvious to her that Aaron Gould had a lover, or a collection
of them; but she pushed the thought away. She was not interested in
his private life.

The door to his cabin was open. Tess stepped
across the cabin sole and peeked in. Gould was staring out a
brassbound porthole, absently scraping the bowl of a Meerschaum
pipe with a pen-knife. Tess stepped boldly into the room.

He turned to face her. "Excellent. Almost
nothing left of the poor drowned kitten." His look was coolly
appreciative. He pulled a sturdily built mahogany chair away from a
small linen-covered table, which glowed discreetly with candlelight
and sterling.

"You look enthusiastic," he said with a
smile. "Are you so very hungry?"

"Well—that too," she admitted, coloring.
"But I was admiring your yacht. It's very pretty. Have you had it
long?"

"Seven years. An intense love affair. I
can't help thinking it contributed to my wife's death two years
ago."

"You can't mean that!"

"I'm afraid it's true. We could never agree
on the proper way to summer. I preferred knocking around in the
Enchanta;
she liked to install herself in or near a European
court. Two summers ago I was here, she was there, and during a hunt
she was thrown from her horse and killed. If I'd been there I
should have tried to prevent her going out."

"You don't approve of women riding?"

"I don't approve of the hunt. Secretly I
cheer whenever the critter gets away."

"All the same, it must have been horrible
for you."

"Very sad—but not horrible. We hadn't lived
as husband and wife for years. Will you have an aperitif?"

Since she'd never had one before, Tess
didn't know. "That would be nice," she said vaguely. He poured the
sherry and she sipped cautiously. "Does your daughter enjoy the
yachting life?" she ventured.

"As a matter of fact, no. She prefers winter
sports. I suppose that comes of attending a school in
Switzerland."