The Theoretical Foot (9 page)

They were so good.

François's steps sounded cautiously on the stone stairs and Lucy hurried back to bed, fluffing her hair out as she passed the mirror. She pulled the sheet up to cover half of her large chintz-emblazened breasts just as he tapped on the closed door with early-morning discretion.

“Yes?” She sang it gaily on two notes as she wiped a little chocolate from the corner of her mouth.

ii

It was almost nine o'clock before Lucy thought to glance up from the last pages of
Hasty Wedding.
She'd known all along that that lovely girl was innocent, still her heart had beat with anxiety toward the last, but now everything was put to right.

Lucy placed the mystery on the bedside table with the other books she'd brought with her from America. She smiled as she read their titles:
Ways and Means, A Philosophy of Solitude, The Pasquier Chronicles, Science and Health.

She gave herself credit that she'd at least opened the last book and had read a page, well, half a page, after François left. She was truly amazed at her own sudden interest in the kind of cheap thrillers she'd always scorned, and a little ashamed of herself. As soon as she left La Prairie, with its shelf of these books in every room, she'd get back to her taste for good literature.

Another minor thing—but indicative of the entire subversive atmosphere of the place—that if a woman with as strong a will as hers could find herself growing even slightly lax about her reading, what might a weaker person risk and about more important things?

Lucy absently licked her fingers, the better to lick up the last crumbs of her breakfast roll. There was a thin smear of honey on the side of the plate so she cleaned that too. She did wish François would learn to bring her only what she asked for, which was her accustomed cup of strong black coffee, but he refused and insisted on giving her the same pot of hot milk, the same pile of butter curls, the same crisp rolls that he brought to the others.

It was natural for the children to be hungry, as they were like young animals and it mattered not at all with a little thing like Nan that she lost her figure altogether. Still, a tall woman who cared
anything
about the dignity of her appearance had to be careful.

Lucy resolved—and this time really meant it—that tomorrow she would send the tray back downstairs untouched.

She now lifted it carefully to the end of the bed and crawled out from beneath the covers. Her decision made her feel much better, more strong and cheerful and now she hummed a little.

She was nearly dressed when she heard Nan on the balcony. She was buttoning the front of her shirtmaker dress with hurried, slightly trembling fingers before she realized that Nan's high sweet voice wasn't addressing her; rather, it was calling to someone on the terrace below.

She moved to the window and looked out to see Nan, her hair blowing like a golden cloud around the shoulders of her soft, corn-colored dressing gown, was leaning over the railing of the balcony with her arms dangling down, and Lucy's lips puckered into a hard knot as her mouth flooded with bitterness.

Abandoned! That was how Nan Garten looked,
abandoned,
lolling about like that at the edge of the balcony with her negligee half open and calling out.

But who was it below?

Lucy peered down to see Tim and Sara sitting at one end of the green terrace table drinking beer and eating something from a little pewter bowl. Each was looking up at Nan and they were now all laughing. Lucy wondered if Sara had seen her, but—if so—there was no sign of this on her smooth, if silly, face.

“Come on, darling,” Nan was saying. “Do please throw me one more!”

“You don't want pretzels for breakfast,” Tim was saying, still laughing. “They're not for the likes of you.”

“Oh, go ahead,” Sara said. “Let Nan have them. She's got to learn the facts of life sometime.”

Nan cried out as her frail little body tottered half over the railing as she reached to catch what Sara had thrown as Lucy watched, feeling agonized.

“Here,” Tim said, “try this one,” his pretzel landing almost at Lucy's feet as she ducked back into the shadow of the detestible blue curtains. She reeled, she almost fell, as she heard Nan say, “Tim, you did that on purpose, you old bastard.”

Lucy picked up a handkerchief, looked at it dully, let it drop. She then felt under the pillows for the wet wad she'd used earlier and—closing her own door quietly behind her—let herself into Nan's room without knocking, there to burst into a flood of heartrending, noisy sobs.

iii

Through her sobs, Lucy Pendleton then heard the sound of feet hurrying across the linoleum floor, then the light throbbing of Nan's voice. She felt a hand touching the flesh of her own shaking shoulder.

“Lucy, dear, what's wrong? Are you ill?”

“Ill? Of course I'm not ill!” Lucy listened to the croaking of her own voice with astonishment as she shrugged away from Nan's light touch. She then leaned against the wall, as if her legs would no longer carry her, and sobbed wildly in true anguish.

“Oh, Nan,” she said, groping for her friend's long, slender fingers, which were not there. Lucy opened her eyes to see Nan Garton sitting quietly in bed, the covers pulled up, her large eyes looking oddly blank, even as her small square face watched the spectacle ensuing before her. It looked as if she was thinking of elephants, muffins. Her wide mouth was held in a polite, if slightly pained, smile.

Lucy's own eyes cleared. She abruptly stopped sobbing.

“Nan!” she cried, throwing her head back, flattening both hands against the wall, all the tragedy of the ages in her anguished voice.

There was then a long silence in which Lucy felt her throat thickening, daring not to look at the small woman in the bed for fear she'd see more of that ghastly polite tolerance. Lucy began to sob again, now in a harsh and ugly way, no longer caring about how the line of her throat looked as she thrust her head back, nor about her harsh tone of voice.

“But, Lucy, my poor dear Lucy, please do tell me what's wrong, won't you?” Nan asked. “Don't cry like that. Come and sit here beside me.”

Lucy weaved blindly toward the low bed and sank down upon its edge, mopping at her eyes with the wet hankie. She sighed in a noisy, wavering way. Never had she been this miserable.

“Oh, Nan,” Lucy asked. “What has
happened
to you?”

Nan looked at her with obvious surprise, then glanced toward the open window, as she stared at the lake over the tops of the apple trees. “Tim and Sara are still down there, Lucy, and they can hear you.” Nan didn't look at her.

“Of course,” Lucy said, “how typical, Nan Garten, always thinking of what other will think of
you
! They can't hear us, they only listen to themselves. Do you ever really consider me? How can you act this way, how can you be so weak?” She mopped her streaming eyes, waved the sodden hankie. “It's soaked,” she said. “I cried all night!”

Nan's face was guileless, as she asked, “Would you like one of mine?”

“No, this is all right. I'll try not to make such a fool of myself, an old fool, but if you knew what I've been going through as I've watched you change this summer. It's a terrible change, Nan. And it's not just being so uncomfortable and being forced to live in this questionable atmosphere, with its irregular hours and slipshod meals that's exhausted me so. It's that I've had to sit helplessly by as you've allowed yourself to be cheapened. You know how I've always revered you and . . .”

“Lucy!” Nan's voice was now full of gentle ridicule.

“Don't laugh at me! Yes, I've
revered
you as the finest, purest woman I've ever known. Your manners, the way you carry yourself, the manner in which you speak, and
now
listen to you!” Lucy groaned, now twisting her hand in desperation.

“Listen to what, Lucy?” Nan asked. “I really think you're exaggerating. You do know, don't you, that I love you just as I always have and . . .”

“Don't change the subject!” Lucy said harshly. “I heard you out there on the balcony talking to those two. I heard what you called Timothy and can tell you, Nan Garten, that the very fact that you'd let such a word cross your lips is as horrible to me as
poison
!”

Lucy, tired suddenly, stopped. What was the use of fighting for her love? She felt again what she'd often felt that summer, that Nan was now lost to her, that never again would she be with her darling as they'd been that wonderful winter after the death of Nan's husband, when it was only the two of them and they were so happy together in the little studio in the woods.

“I'm an old fool,” Lucy mumbled. “Forget it. Forget all I've said.”

Lucy stood at the door stiffly. In her heart, however, she was still crying, screaming in fact like a wounded animal, begging in her mind for Nan to love her, for her to take her back, for her to be the beautiful gracious fairy creature of those other blissful days. Nan, she whimpered in her heart, I'm old and ugly and I hate all the world but you, you're my darling. Take me back, feed me with your beauty, comfort me with your gifts. Feed me, I'm so hungry.

Nan opened her hands, as if she'd heard, and left them open, lying like two lilies on the soft green blanket.

“Please, Lucy,” she said softly. “Tell me what's wrong. This is such a lovely place and you're so unhappy. Why is this?”

Lucy fought the need to throw herself on her knees beside the bed, then smiled waveringly, saying, “Do I seem unhappy? I'm surprised you've noticed, you're so busy being with your brother and all these relatives of Sara's. Please don't worry about
me,
Nan, as I can manage perfectly well.”

Face puckered as if she'd eaten alum, Lucy's heart was breaking.

“Oh, Lucy,” Nan said, “don't make things harder for me.”

Lucy's heart thudded to life. She'd known this, she'd
felt
that Nan wasn't as lighthearted and happy as she'd been acting over all these horrible lonely weeks. She'd known that Nan was secretly needing her. She wanted to run to the bed, to sit eagerly on its edge.

Nan looked at her. “You've changed, too, Lucy darling, you know? You don't seem to enjoy anything anymore. I try to think of
things to do, a picnic in the woods? You
used to
like that. And Sara does her best and never has food again that you say you can't eat and Tim . . .”

She was startled that Nan Garton should set about reprimanding her, after all Lucy had suffered this summer for Nan's sake. It was too incredible. She sighed, large tears welling in her swollen eyes.

“What
is
it?” Nan's voice now sounded sharp. She sighed. “Here, smoke, Lucy, it will help.”

When Lucy spoke again she tried not to sob and to have her voice sound calmer. “You do know, Nan, that you're the person I love most in the world. We've alwys been close and since dear George passed beyond I have willingly devoted my entire life to helping you forget your grief. But now I find I cannot simply sit by and see the very things I've so admired in you and respected you for dragged down.” She saw Nan's blank look and repeated it. “Yes! dragged in the dust. I've always thought,” she then went on, “that I was the most fortunate person in the world to be so close to you, to listen to your beautiful—yes!
Beautiful
—way of speaking. And now . . .” Her voice quavered but she went on valiantly. “Now I hear you shouting down to them like some common
girl,
using words that you shouldn't ought to even know the meaning of.”

An amused look flickered across Nan's attentive face and Lucy, seeing this, said, “You
shouldn't
!”

“Well, Lucy,” she said. “You do remember that it's my business to know the English and American languages, don't you? I believe that word that you're delicately referring to is in each of them, but I do admit I've never before said it with so much real pleasure. That was fun.”

“Oh, good, laugh! Laugh! You enjoy torturing me, anyone can see this from the way you make people laugh at me when I'm out of the room, but now I'm beyond caring.”

“Lucy, dear, can you be fair? You are deliberately hurting yourself and over nothing. You make people leave you out. You do this on purpose. You seldom sit downstairs, you leave the moment there's
any kind of merriment. If we ask you to come with us to Veytaux or even just to walk to the village you . . .”

“Yes, you
ask
me. First you all whisper behind my back then one says, ‘Well, I suppose we'll
have
to ask Lucy.' And can you not honestly see that we are both being treated this way?”

Nan looked hurt, which made Lucy happy, so she hurried on. “That's right, it's not only me. If you're so dazzled by all the seeming attention you're getting from your own brother and from young Daniel Tennant, not to see it, then I need to simply tell you. That's right, Nan Garton. Can't you see how they laugh at us both, how they push us to one side, how they always pretend to defer to us as if we were a thousand years old, then go ahead and do what ever they want to do? Could you honestly feel, after all your experience with hero worship, how they flatter and kowtow to you simply because you're famous? Can't you see how they . . .?”

“Who are
they
?” Nan asked, her face stony.

“Why . . . why, all of them! The two Tennants were all right when they came but they soon got their instructions.” Lucy laughed in a mean way and went on. “And Sara Porter, or whatever it is she's calling herself, and I do admit, Nan, that you told me before we came what the situation was but I never thought I'd have to live on here all this time with a woman as smooth and as deceitful as
that
one is. And yes, I might as well say it. It's
Timothy
! Yes, your own dear little brother, whom you so adore! He's against you, too, thanks to his horrible mistress. He's as bad as the rest of them, trying to get rid of us all the time.”

“What are you talking about?”

Lucy looked at the doll-like creature sitting back against her pillow who seemed to have only kindness in her voice. Nan now looked older than she had a few moments earlier, which made Lucy feel strangely lighter.

“Last night.”

“Last night?” Nan asked. “We were all a little tired from the ride to Dijon and perhaps we'd eaten too much before we started but . . .?”

“Oh, please do not be so damned charitable,” Lucy exploded. “You
know
what I mean. Last night when that Sara sent us packing off to bed so she and Tim could stay up down there alone and talk to the children? What if Honor had just arrived? After all, she's been here for practically every weekend and, Nan, my blood simply
boiled
! For myself, for you too! How dare they? I asked myself, how dare they treat
Nan Garton
this way, after all she has done for them? How dare they send us upstairs as if we were two old ladies who . . .?”

“Lucy, dear, don't you think you have that a little too much on your mind? After all Tim is only a few years younger than I am and I'm only two years younger than you.”

“Nan, if I didn't know that you are the dearest, loveliest person in the world, I'd think . . . yes, I'd almost think . . .”

“What?” Nan asked.

“Oh, that's all right, let's forget it. I'll get used to it.” Lucy's voice now sounded pathetically jaunty. She stared away, looking at the wall over her friend's shoulder with a resolute smile.

“What?” Nan asked. “Please tell me. We mustn't let these misunderstandings spoil all our good feelings for each other.”

“Well, Nan, I will tell you frankly, then. It seems to me, and not for the first time either, that since we've come to this
awful
place you're letting yourself be influenced by the others to act just the way they do toward me. Of course I know I'm big and fat and I have no shape and do not tell me any differently! I know what you all think of me. I know I am not as young as the rest of you. But it does seem to me you forget you're nearly my age.”

“I actually never think about it. We
are
a little older but what difference does this make?”

“What difference?” Lucy's tears were now past all control and they rolled from her enflamed eyes like hot drops of fire. She buried her head in her hands, her wet handkerchief falling to the floor. After a moment, feeling Nan's light fingers on her hair, she straightened.

“Oh, I know you must think I've lost my mind, Nan, and I really hate to be this way, but I truly don't feel well. I try not to show it, but I feel so weak, so tired, and I'm so disappointed sometimes,
after all these years of wanting to go back to Europe and now the chance to be alone with you and you just
dawdle
here, when every day we could be drinking in the beauty in the famous galleries together, instead of staying in
this place,
letting Timothy and Sara wheedle you into wasting even more of our time. I thought we were going to . . .”

“But, Lucy, I told you before we came how quiet it would be.”

“But, Nan! You said we'd only be here a little while, then we'd go to Fiesole and take a villa, just the two of us, and you'd write and I'd paint and . . .?”

“I know. But you must remember that I wasn't yet sure that Tim and Sara really wanted us here or that we'd be happy. It's lovely here. I simply cannot leave for a little longer. I don't want to. I'm happier than I thought I could ever be and I feel sure you can paint beautiful things and . . .”