The Age of Desire (19 page)

It’s grown cold again and rain is threatening to turn to snow, so Edith offers to take the three of them in her motorcar. Snuggled into the backseat with their theatre coats and muffs, she feels happy for the first time since her lost Saturday. But she does notice that Paul has seated himself on one side of her, Minnie on the other. And Edith is required to carry the bulk of the conversation. When they speak, they mostly speak to her or through her, not to each other.

The theatre is as unreal as a carnival, thumping with sound and color and energy. Settled in the Bourgets’ baignoire, she enjoys the parade of women in their gowns and gloves, the men in their stiff suits, the jumble of perfume, conspicuous jewels, and half-heard conversations. Women peer out over fans or gossip behind them. Held up to this circus of humanity, Edith’s long days at the Rue de Varenne with gloomy Teddy seem utterly moribund.

Seated next to poor Minnie, Edith perceives that while her friend is present at the play, she is not truly watching it. The same clouding of her eyes, the same pressing of her lips as Edith observed the other day convey her pain. While the actors prance and argue and weep on stage, twice Edith reaches out and touches Minnie’s shoulder, her elbow. Once, Paul notes the gesture and looks at her askance, but she merely smiles sweetly at him.

And then, before the first act is over, Edith hears the muffled squeak of someone opening the velvet door to their baignoire and the thump of it closing on its own. And with the scent of lavender, she realizes that Fullerton has seated himself directly behind her. She turns to take in his gaze, clear as a child’s, and his gentle, beautiful face lit by the lights of the stage. He mouths the word “Hello,” and she finds herself visibly shivering. But his eyes warm her: they are kind and beseeching and flash a sweet shyness in their blue glance. He must wonder what she feels toward him, since it was she who put him off in that scribbled pneu. Edith gets the sense that Morton isn’t used to being put off. If he only knew how much she suffered by losing their day together. If he only knew how much she’s since longed for him. He must see it in her face, for the meeting of their eyes is electrifying. A communication of such kindness, sympathy and desire, no words could impart it, no touch has ever affected her so. What flows between them feels as though it might ignite the baignoire. Or the whole auditorium. How is it that Minnie hasn’t turned to see it, or that the play itself hasn’t stopped in deference?

How can anything stand in the way of what is already happening between Edith and Morton? She has never been one to believe in predestination. But as clear as Minnie’s sad figure next to her, fate stands in front of her with outstretched hand, and no shaming from Minnie’s situation, no moral qualms can keep her from taking hold of those warm fingers.

When the curtain drops on the first act, Morton stands and greets Paul and Minnie as though it is the Bourgets he has come to see. He kisses Minnie’s fingers. He charms her with kind remarks about her dress, which he says is the color of an angry sea. And he tells Minnie that she is the one who surely must appreciate this daring play since she’s the only one among them with a developed sense of right and wrong. The struggle of the main character surely must speak to her. Edith wonders how on earth he knew this about Minnie? Minnie blushes under his ministrations and color flows back into her cheeks. Edith is happy to see it—Minnie is the one who needs his attention. He makes Paul laugh as well, comparing the play they have come to see unfavorably to
Un Divorce
, which he says makes all other plays this year seem shabby. Not nearly as brilliant or insightful. Not nearly as polished. But the entire time he is speaking to the Bourgets, Edith knows he is doing it for her benefit. She has never felt so secure in her sense of connection with anyone. And when he glances her way, she feels the buzz, the heat of their bond. This must be what happy women feel, she thinks. I have waited a lifetime to know it.

Fullerton stays in their baignoire for the length of the play and walks them out to their motorcar, refusing a lift home, saying he’d prefer to walk in the rain.

“But sharing the play with all of you has made this evening one to remember,” he says, once again kissing Minnie’s hand and looking into her eyes, shaking Paul’s hand mightily, then giving Edith the ultimate warm glance as she is last to climb into the motorcar.

“Soon? Please?” he whispers.

“Perhaps I have misjudged Fullerton,” Minnie says on the ride home. “It
was
kind of him to come by and see us.”

“I believe he was flirting with you, Minnie,” Paul says. “Was he?” He reaches over Edith and squeezes Minnie’s hand.

Minnie laughs like a young girl and looks down. “I believe he was,” she says, with burning cheeks and a voice brimming with pleasure.

“He certainly was,” Edith says. “What impudence to flirt with a woman right in front of her husband!”

“Well, a roué like Fullerton is all about overconfidence,” Paul says with a harrumph, clearly playing up his displeasure. When Edith drops off the Bourgets, they say it was a fine evening, and Minnie takes Paul’s elbow as they open the gate to their building. But Edith knows: no one enjoyed the theatre that night as much as she.

Anna sits with Teddy Wharton, reading out loud to him from the
Journal of North American Agriculture
about ileitis in pigs. Teddy says the pain in his head precludes him from reading to himself. And Anna’s voice is as soft as silk, he tells her.

She doesn’t mind reading aloud. It reminds her of her teaching days, when the best way to calm a rowdy student was by reading a story aloud. Even the most restless child could be settled by a good tale. Well, this is no story, but she finds the article enlightening too, for she knows nothing about pigs. How interesting that stressed pigs are most at risk of ileitis. Anna did not know that pigs could become stressed.

“Pigs are sensitive,” Teddy tells her. “They have feelings. And faces that show those feelings, like our little Nicette and Mitou do.”

“Indeed?” Anna says. “I don’t think I shall ever eat ham with the same feeling again.”

Teddy laughs, for a moment forgetting his pain. His guffaw is deep and rich. Her life has been adorned by his laughter for years; when he is away, she pines for it.

“Next time we are at The Mount, Miss Anna, perhaps you’ll come down to the new piggery with me and meet some of my favorite sons.”

“I’d be honored,” she tells him.

“Lawton. You’ll particularly like Lawton. He will steal your heart!”

“I’ve never had my heart stolen by a swine,” she says jollily.

“Well, since most women do at some point or other in their lives, it’s about time you did,” he tells her. “It’s what makes it hard for nice fellas like me. But honest, Lawton is a gentleman . . . er, a gentlepig.”

“I’ll look forward to our meeting,” she says soberly.

Teddy sits up in bed and leans toward Anna.

“Listen, Miss Anna. We ain’t young, you and I, but we’re both open to experience. People don’t know that about you, I’ll wager. I’m not even sure Pussy does. But you’re an explorer, I think. You like learning new things. I’ve always admired that about you.”

“Thank you,” she says, honored, though the teacher in her cringes at his ungrammatical speech that seems suddenly in vogue with the upper class. She imagines that Edith must hate it.

“And the other thing we have in common is that people don’t appreciate us. That’s what I think. They think we’re simple because we’re not clever with quips and such. But it don’t mean we’re not smart and have our own important thoughts, you know?”

She nods. It is fine to see him smile.

“It ain’t good for me to be here in Paree, and that’s the truth. Paris is no place for a man like me. I’ll go to theatre. And I don’t mind a good restaurant meal. But if you get right down to it, I find happiness outside. Where there are trees. Paris is too cramped. Too mean-spirited. What do you say we both go back on the first steamer out of Le Havre? Spring is a fine time to be there. Still snowy, but beautiful. I’d be better if I were there. You could sign on as my nursemaid.”

“There, Mr. Wharton,” Anna says. “No sudden moves.” She’s flattered by Teddy’s suggestion, but what would Edith think? “You need your rest and a doctor’s care. Dr. Kinnicut isn’t there this time of year. Besides, Mrs. Wharton needs me here to help her with her writing.”

“So you choose Pussy over me. I should have known.” His face collapses like a child told he can’t have a toy.

“Now, that’s not fair. I work for Mrs. Wharton. You know that.”

“I know that you and I get on like a house afire. And that I don’t feel that way about just anybody. You are good company, Miss Anna. Good company, which is what I need right now.”

“Which is why I’m here with you this very minute.” She puts her hand on his arm and squeezes it. He closes his eyes.

“You do soothe me, I’ll tell you that. You’re the best medicine I know.”

“Well, let me go on, so we can find out more about pig ileitis. We’ve got research to do.”

Teddy lies back on his pillow. “Go on, then. Go on,” he says. And then right in the middle of a sentence, she hears him say very softly, “You are a gift to me, Anna.”

Edith has lost all sense of ordinary days. For wherever she goes—and there is much on her calendar in the early spring—thoughts of Morton follow her. She has tea with countesses. She takes walks with Minnie, who happily feels that Paul is paying more attention to her. She dines with dukes. But at every table, she speaks to Fullerton, whether he is there or not. She describes every scene to him in her mind, every ironic observation of Paris. On Tuesday, she dresses carefully, certain he will appear at Rosa’s: her rose-colored shirtwaist again, with an amethyst brooch at her throat and golden earrings (ah, she
must
be fitted for more attractive, younger looking clothes!), but he doesn’t come. She leaves early, telling everyone she’s tired from a bad night’s sleep. And then she manages to have one, her sleep pitted with a longing that wakes her every few hours like a fever.

The next Saturday, she and Teddy drive out to St. Cloud for a luncheon with her brother Harry, Eliot Gregory and essayist André Chevrillon. She is worried about bringing Teddy out into public, for he has become stranger and stranger. Interrupting in the middle of others’ sentences. Moaning sometimes about the buzzing and pain in his head. Starting arguments. Wandering off without warning. Anna says he just needs more of Edith’s attention, and so Edith nervously agrees on this lovely March day to “air him out.” Once in the motorcar with him, she rues the decision. He has a pinched look on his face like a man with smelling salts under his nose. She begins discussing a book she’s reading, a long essay about Darwin which she thinks will interest him since he is so fond of animals and breeding, but quite soon his openly rude sighing tells her he’s bored. So she starts to talk about who will be at the luncheon, but he doesn’t even acknowledge her chatter. Still, she’s hoping that once he gets there, he’ll be glad he’s come. He doesn’t like Eliot, but at least he’ll speak to him in English. And Teddy is always comfortable with her brother, who loves horse racing and can make small talk about breeds and skeletal structure and jockey fitness.