Cashelmara (4 page)

She had been discreet. Neither Blanche nor Francis gave me any indication that she had betrayed the slightest detail of my confidences, and as soon as I realized this my mind was made up. I found it difficult to see her alone, for her brother and sister were continually fawning at my elbow, but one day when Francis was at Wall Street and Blanche was suffering yet another harp lesson I met Marguerite by arrangement in the little Chinese room where she played her solitary games of chess.

“I’m so glad you’ve given me another opportunity to play chess with you,” she said, smiling at me. “I thought you’d be too busy to play again before you left.”

“I wanted to talk to you.” As I sat down opposite her I hoped my nervousness had not made me sound too abrupt. “We can play chess later, of course, but first there’s something I want to say.”

She looked astonished and then alarmed. “I hope I’ve done nothing to displease you.”

“On the contrary you please me so much that I would like you to visit me in England next spring.”

“England!” she gasped. “Me?” She looked as if she could hardly believe her ears.

“If you would prefer to postpone such a visit until you are older—”

“Oh no!” she said. “I’d truly love to come. It’s just that …”

“Yes?”

“Francis will never let me go!” she said desperately. “Contrary to what you may think, he’s dreadfully anti-British.”

“Are you fond of Francis?”

“Yes, very,” she said without hesitation. “I used to be his favorite when I was little, though now he cares only for Blanche, and since Blanche and I don’t get along at all …”

“I see.”

“And Amelia’s horrid to me, worse than a stepmother. I do wish Francis had never married her!”

“So you’re not perhaps as happy as you might be here in New York.”

“I wouldn’t waste away with homesickness if I visited Europe, if that’s what you mean. In fact I’m sure I should fall in love with England at once and never want to leave.”

“In that case you could stay as long as you wished.”

“With you? Indefinitely? As a sort of adopted daughter?” She was sitting on the edge of her chair and regarding me as if I were a magician engaged in performing some staggering sleight of hand. “Oh, I should like that so much!”

“Well,” I said, taking great care to speak lightly so that she could treat my words as a joke if she wished, “I have no need of any more daughters, but for some time now I’ve been in great need of a wife. However, if you prefer to regard me as a father …”

Her face changed. I stopped, made a careless gesture with my hands, laughed and leaned forward over the chessboard. “I hope my high opinion of you won’t make you think harshly of me,” I said rapidly, watching my fingers arrange the pawns into a square, “and I hope you won’t think my proposal too gauche, but I haven’t proposed to anyone since I was twenty-two, and I fear I’m sadly out of practice. Of course I’m far too old for you—”

“Old?” said Marguerite. “What do I care how old you are? I don’t care if you’re a hundred.”

I looked up. Her small pointed face had a white, set expression. At first I thought she was angry, and then I realized with a shock that she was sick with excitement. My composure deserted me. I tried to speak, but she did not allow me to finish.

“I shall be quite old myself when I arrive in England next spring,” she was saying in a rush. “I shall be eighteen by then. I shall be very grown up and very wise and you won’t even remember how young I am now. I quite understand that my youth would be a dreadful disadvantage to you in your position, but I’d make amends to you in other ways, truly I would. I’m sure you wouldn’t regret marrying me.”

“My dearest child—”

“Of course I’d much rather be your wife than your adopted daughter, but adopted daughter seemed the most I could hope for. I mean, quite apart from the fact that I’m so horribly young, my hair is such a nasty color and I have freckles and you’re so clever and distinguished and so … so …

Despite my stupefaction I was unable to resist a smile. “Yes?”

“So very tall and handsome,” cried Marguerite, bursting into tears.

I am uncertain exactly what happened next. All I know is that within a second I was on my feet; she was standing up and I was taking her in my arms. It never occurred to me to ask myself if this was prudent, and no doubt it never occurred to Marguerite either. She had flung her arms around my neck and was weeping unashamedly against my starched shirt front. I pressed her closer to me. Her dress was closely fitted in the front, despite the inevitable surge of the crinoline at the back, and I was aware for the first time that, although she was slight, she was not so lacking in flesh as I had always supposed.

“Will you marry me next year in England?”

“I would marry you tomorrow—in the darkest corner of Africa if necessary!”

I laughed. “No, we must wait a few months in case you should change your mind.” Her uptilted face was so close that I could have counted the freckles on the bridge of her nose, but it seemed infinitely more sensible to kiss her instead. Not wishing to alarm her, I did no more than kiss her cheek, but while I was still savoring the delicate freshness of her skin she turned her head impulsively and my mouth grazed her own.

She acted on instinct, for she was hardly experienced enough to act otherwise, but her instincts were extraordinarily sensuous. So astounded was I that for a moment I made no response, and she, thinking she had committed some appalling
faux pas,
blushed scarlet, withdrew from me and began to stammer apologies.

But I put an end to all conversation. Again I did not stop to think. I merely pulled her back into my arms and kissed her until we were both breathless, and then at last, after a long time, I said wryly, “If your brother could see us now he would be quite justified in asking me to leave his house immediately.”

“Francis!” She was horror-stricken. “Heavens above, I’d forgotten all about him! Oh, Cousin Edward, he’ll never let you marry me, never!”

I smiled. I took great pleasure in smiling, and my pleasure was immensely sweet to me.

“My dearest child,” I said fondly, “Francis is going to be very, very pleased.”

“Cousin Edward!” exclaimed Francis sociably. “How nice! I was about to come in search of you.”

“Yes,” I said. “Now that my departure is only two days away I suspected you might wish to speak to me about certain matters. May I sit down?”

“Of course!” He scrambled with alacrity to offer me the best chair.

We were in the smoking room on the ground floor of the house. It was a small masculine chamber furnished with comfortable rounded lounging chairs, and on the walls were hung pictures of handsome race horses. The windows, like those of the Chinese room upstairs, faced the garden, and as I glanced outside I saw Francis’ two children, Charles and Sarah, playing tag around the fountain.

“We shall be so sorry to lose your company at last, Cousin Edward,” Francis was saying in his fine, flexible actor’s voice. “Blanche in particular will be entirely devastated.”

“Blanche?” I had endured his tomfoolery for some days, and I did not feel inclined to tolerate it a second longer. “Surely you mean Marguerite.”

He stared at me, and I noticed again what odd eyes he had. They were such a light brown that they were almost yellow, and his cheekbones, set high in his fleshy face, gave his eyes a faintly Oriental cast.

“Marguerite?” he said at last in confusion.

“Marguerite.” I was speaking in a blunt, casual voice that I had never used with him before. “You’ve realized, of course, that she’s in love with me.

He was stunned. We were sitting facing each other in our armchairs, but presently he stood up. He moved very slowly and clasped his clenched fists behind his back.

“Cousin Edward,” he said, “I think you must be mistaken.”

“I think not.” I leaned back in my chair, stretched out my long legs and crossed them neatly at the ankles. “She has given me every indication that she wishes one day to be my wife.”

There was an utter silence. I watched the color drain from his face and noticed what an enormous effort he was making to control his temper. He was thinking hard. I could almost hear his brain shifting from thought to thought as he tried to decide how much he dared say to me.

“Since you’re her guardian,” I said after a pause, “I naturally felt I should broach the subject with you before I left. I am anxious to marry Marguerite. I believe she would make me an excellent wife. With your consent I would like her to come to England to visit me next May, and then after she has seen something of the country and if she still wishes to proceed with the wedding I would like to marry her during the course of that summer. I’m well aware, of course, that our present acquaintance is brief, but I think the coming separation will serve to test our feelings and ensure that neither she nor I act rashly.”

He said nothing, and when I saw he still did not trust himself to speak I added for good measure, “I realize this must come as a shock to you, my dear Francis, since you were apparently unaware of Marguerite’s feelings for me, but as you have always treated me with such warmth I can only trust that the prospect of us becoming brothers-in-law will be pleasing to you.

He managed to say with difficulty, “Cousin Edward, she’s very young.”

“Come, Francis, girls marry at eighteen every day!”

“She’s a little girl,” he persisted stubbornly, and I realized that despite his recent neglect he was still fond of her. “She has had no experience of the world. She imagines herself in love with you because you have been kind enough to spend a little time with her. But she doesn’t—can’t—love you.

“You are, of course, entitled to your opinion.”

“Cousin, I know Marguerite better than you do. For the last year or two she has been unhappy at home and, I regret to say, difficult to manage. Amelia and I have both tried hard to make life agreeable for her, but—”

“My dear Francis,” I said, “I’m not in the least interested in listening to you apologize for Marguerite’s real or imaginary defects. I’m interested in marrying her. We may both wish she were a little older, but I’m prepared to accept her as she is even if you are not. I must ask you again for your consent, if you please.”

For the last time I saw him summon all his histrionic gifts. “Cousin Edward, forgive me,” he said humbly, assuming a troubled, regretful expression, “but in all conscience I don’t see how I can grant my consent.”

“And in all conscience, Francis,” I said, “I don’t see how you can refuse it.”

He looked blank. From that day to this I have never seen any man look half so blank as Francis Marriott when he first realized I was going to beat him to his knees.

“I’ve no idea what you mean by that,” he said rapidly. “No idea at all.”

Now it was my turn to stand up. I uncrossed my ankles, rose to my feet and slipped my hands into my pockets. I said nothing. I simply waited.

He tried to be casual, but he was unnerved. “You’re very misguided if you think you can threaten me,” he said with a debonair confidence and then saw that he had given himself away.

“Who spoke of threats?” I said. “I’ve no wish to threaten you, Francis. I merely wish to commiserate with you on your sad financial position. You lost a lot of money, didn’t you, in the panic of ’57, and ever since then you’ve been trying to recoup your losses so that you can continue to live in the style to which you have always been accustomed. And a very expensive style it is, isn’t it, Francis, from your mansion on Fifth Avenue to the house off Madison Square that your mistress insisted you buy to accommodate her.”

“How the devil did you—”

“I was curious about you, Francis. Before I left New York my secretary hired a private detective to make a few inquiries, and when I returned this week from Wisconsin I was appalled by the report I found waiting for me. You should never have tried to recoup your losses by gambling, Francis. I hear faro is a very dangerous game.”

He stared at me. He still could not believe his ears. There was a white pinched look about his mouth.

“You’re within an ace of bankruptcy,” I said. “You’re trying to borrow money, but no one wants to help you. This is a bad town for bankrupts, isn’t it, Francis? To be bankrupt in New York is to cease to exist. What a terrible prospect you face, Francis! But how fortunate it is that you have a rich relative who might possibly be willing to come to your rescue!”

His self-control snapped at last. His whole body blazed with rage. “You … goddamned …”

“Spare me your curses and save your breath. You’ll need it to give your consent to your sister’s marriage.”

“I’ll never consent!” he yelled. All clarity of thought was at that moment far beyond him. “Never!”

“You’ve no choice.”

At this he abandoned all attempt at civilized behavior and tried to strike me, but I had no trouble in avoiding the blow.

“Come, Francis,” I said abruptly. “Hitting me won’t save you from bankruptcy. Consenting to your sister’s marriage will. Now hurry up and give your consent, if you please, because I’m becoming a little tired of being kept waiting.”

He was trembling in every limb by this time. “You repulsive old man,” he said when he could speak. “What do you do for entertainment in England? Molest ten-year-old scullery girls?”

I turned to the door. “I wish you joy of bankruptcy, Francis. Good day.”

He let me reach the hall before he bowed to the inevitable and came groveling after me.

“Cousin Edward … wait … please … must apologize … under considerable strain, you understand … not myself at all …”

He was the one who was repulsive. He disgusted me. I looked at his fleshy face, at his dissolute, thick-lipped mouth babbling humiliating platitudes, and I was ashamed for him.

“Be quiet,” I said, unable to stand the sight of him a moment longer. “Before I leave New York we shall see an attorney and sign a contract. I shall pay you the money on consideration that you consent to my marriage to Marguerite. Should you lift a finger to prevent the marriage I shall sue for the return of the money and return in person to America to see you adjudged bankrupt. Is that understood?”