The Age Of Desire: A Novel Part 32

"We'll cross together. We can see Henry, then I'll catch my ship." She can't help feeling sorry for him. He looks worried and worn. Desperation molds his mouth, his brow. The June liner is the first reservation Morton can find at his price, now that his money is funneling to his landlady.

Edith debates. Should she go ahead of him? Since withdrawing her affections, he has grown more insistent, more interested. The game of cat and mouse irritates and stimulates her all at once. A struggle for power that she's never known before. The worry about his father makes him more vulnerable, more reachable. More desirable.

So plans are made to travel in June. Cook will drive. They'll cross on the ferry. She doesn't speculate what will happen.

The crossing is brutal.

"A green crossing," she tells Fullerton, for they all feel bilious being tossed about by the waves. Though it is rainy and cold, the two of them climb the stairs to the deck where at least they can see the horizon and settle their inner ears. Gross has spent the entire crossing vomiting into a spittoon in their suite. Cook has disappeared, perhaps enduring the same fate.

Standing in the dark gray mist on deck, shivering, at least they feel less seasick.

"I'm afraid to go home," Morton tells her after a while, throwing his cigarette into the waves. "I've rebelled against my father my whole life, Edith. If he dies, I know I'll feel unmoored."

She looks at him, hunched over the rail, pale and miserable, rain caught in his lashes.

"When my mother died, I felt free," she tells him. "And terribly guilty about it. I couldn't discuss it with anyone. Dying is so sacrosanct. But when she was alive, she stepped on me. Made me feel less than I was. Perhaps your father does the same?"

Morton closes his eyes.

"Actually, once, he was my champion. He always said I was the brightest in the family. Now I'm his biggest disappointment. The last time I saw him, he called me selfish and amoral. Undisiciplined."

He is, Edith thinks, but feels for him, longs to take him in her arms, press her face against his. There is no one else on deck, and who on this miserable afternoon would mind? But the nausea shoving up under her throat is too strong. And Morton looks like he wants to endure his misery alone, the way he hunches, folds his shoulders inward.

"Perhaps," she says, "when you see him, you can tell him how much it pains you to have disappointed him. Ask what he wishes for you. Tell him you will try to be what he wants you to be."

"A reverend. That's what he wishes me to be. Or a monk. A dried out scholar . . ."

"I doubt he wishes any of that," she says.

"Have I given you something of value?" he asks suddenly.

"I don't understand. . . ."

"Has our . . . our friendship touched you, mattered to you, been of value to you?"

"I . . . of course. You know it has."

"Then I am not as useless as he says I am. I give people pleasure. I soothe people. I understand what people need. . . ."

"That you do," Edith agrees. She reaches over and gently takes his arm into her hand. Feeling his biceps beneath the coat, she remembers the pleasures of his flesh. Her longing for him rises. Unwraps itself. Against her will.

"G.o.d, when is this journey going to be over?" he cries out.

"This crossing? Or your journey?"

"Either. Both."

"I know," she says. "Soon."

Arriving in the sodden dark in Folkstone, they all feel so dismal, they only want to sleep. Edith is glad they planned to stay there by the ferry rather than travel up to London.

"Sleep well," she whispers to Morton in the hall as he enters his room and turns to shut the door.

"As though I can," he says. Her room is just down the hall. And a few times in the night, she wonders if he will knock at the door. She wakes thinking she hears him. But it's just the wind shuddering the windowpanes.

The next day the sun is shining again as they head up to London, where Morton can catch the train to Southampton. He's booked a hotel for himself a few blocks from Edith's. A sooty, redbrick and terra cotta pile right above the train station, Victorian, haunted looking, with trains running directly beneath.

"It's all I can afford," he tells her when they drop him off. "I've stayed here before. It's serviceable."

"I'm sure it will be fine," she a.s.sures him, wondering.

Henry, coming up to town from Rye for dinner, has arranged to meet them at Peppers, a restaurant half a block from the entrance to his club.

Henry's gained weight in just the months since Edith's seen him. He's added an extra chin, his skin is looking hepatic, but when he sees Morton he breaks into a joyous smile.

"My dearest friends. Together again. This is a marvelous occasion." He hugs Morton like a drunk might clutch a bottle of whiskey.

They argue. They dine. Morton orders plate after plate as though he is sure he's having his last supper.

"I will have to lend you my clothes after this supper, young man," Henry tells him.

After she puts Morton on his train in the morning, Edith will spend a few days in London, then a week or two with Henry. She has so looked forward to that part of her journey. But, laughing at the table with the two of them, she's sad to think that Morton won't be part of the company.

Not wanting Cook to have waited while they dined, they walk Henry to his hotel. He holds Morton in his arms for a long while before he goes in.

"Have courage, my boy," he says. He has never sounded more avuncular. "I'll see you soon, my dear," he tells Edith.

And then Edith and Morton step into the street to wave down a cab.

"Will you come to my hotel with me tonight? Say you'll be with me tonight," Morton says.

She turns to him in the streetlight. She has never seen him look more serious. More sincere.

"What are you asking?"

"You know," he says, taking her hand. "Please. I am desperate to hold you. To have you. It's been too long. And I know I've disappointed you. In so many ways. But if you only would. If you only would say you're willing. I can make some of it up to you. Show how I feel about you."

Show how I feel about you. The words have special resonance for her.

When the cab is secured, and they step inside, she merely says, "Yes."

Morton's room is small and dark with a tarnished bra.s.s bed, a soiled chintz spread over a hammocked mattress, an armchair whose cushion shows the impression of too many weary travelers. He lights the single lamp, a small mushroom of ruby gla.s.s whose glow is like a steady jeweled eye. The trains move beneath their window, howling into the spring night.

It is not the room she would ever have chosen for lovemaking. Nothing like the pristine inn laced in chestnuts. Nor the bower of lilacs where she knelt before him naked and thrilled. But when Morton takes her face into his hands and presses his lips to hers, she doesn't care where they are, wonders why she has resisted all spring. The sweetness of his mouth sends shockwaves through her. His touch, his presence make her giddy, but not too giddy to take it all in. He helps her with her wraps, and without words, begins to unb.u.t.ton her dress.

"Morton . . ."

"Hush. We don't need to speak. We need each other, my love. We need each other."

She sees the two of them in the old-fashioned looking gla.s.s by the wall. A slender woman, a smallish man. They could be any age. But their pa.s.sion, their desire to touch is undeniable. How many lovers have spent a moment captured in that gla.s.s? How many lovers, escaping crushing lives, marriage, sadness, have found peace in this threadbare room? Have allowed pa.s.sion to rise and wash their miserable existences away? Morton moves behind her and, turning her toward the mirror, draws her dress from her shoulders.

"Look how beautiful you are," he says. "How I've missed seeing you!"

In the soft red light, she is transformed, her lips full and flushed, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s creamy and plump above her corset. He loosens the laces, kissing the back of her neck, sending hot and cold thrills all through her.

"Look in the gla.s.s. See that woman. I have wanted that woman more than I can say."

The heat of pa.s.sion is more than Edith can bear, seems more urgent than she has ever imagined. Tearing off the bedspread, he lays her down onto the sheets and undresses before her, showing off his body to her hungry eyes, his taut chest, his boyish hips. He lifts his swollen manhood for her to approve, reaches for her hand, inviting her to take him into it.

"See how much I want you?" he says, pressing his own hands around hers. He slides down next to her on the bed, holding her and kissing her throat. The trains below rattle the bed, cry out into the night, allowing her to call out too with the pleasure of his exploring, his touching. How sweet it is to release the deliciousness, the agony of her ardor into a sound like a song. There is so much fondling, kissing, teasing, it must be an hour before he slides inside her, a sensation she knows she will relive again and again. Keen as a freshly honed knife, opening her petal by petal, a blooming flower. And even then, he takes his time, beckoning her to the brink, stopping just when she wants more, hurrying when she wants him to slow. Maddening her with his control, his understanding of her needs. Denying them. And then giving her all she could want. And when that dizzying spinning thrill comes to her again, she allows it to become her. Tonight, she doesn't care who hears. She calls out full-voiced along with the howl of the trains. And calls and calls as the night spins around them, pulling them both into a pool of dark silence.

In the morning, there is little to say, but little needs saying. Edith feels so utterly happy with Morton, satisfied, connected. When a dozen paisley roses arrive at her own hotel room later in the morning, she takes them into her arms. Not feeling the thorns which nick her wrists and palms, she lowers her face into the silky blooms and breathes in last night's musk. If only this ecstasy could linger, could permeate her life. If only.

Within just a few weeks, Dr. Kinnicut's new serum treatments have done Teddy a world of good. His teeth are no longer tormenting him. His headaches seem to have evaporated. But what has raised Teddy's spirits more is that he has managed to track down and telephone the proposed renters of The Mount to tell them that the property is no longer for rent. No discussion with Edith. He doesn't even let her know. Anna has to write Edith to warn her: Teddy will be in residence at The Mount this summer. And Anna and White will be there as well.

Anna can't help but be pleased, but there's much to do. She and White have to interview and hire a new housekeeper since Gross is traveling with Edith. And with an untried housekeeper at the helm, it's also their responsibility to engage new maids and footmen. "You should hire a ladies' maid for yourself," Teddy tells Anna. "I would happily pay for you to have one."

Anna laughs, baffled. "What would I do with a ladies' maid, Mr. Wharton?"

"She could do your hair. Take care of your clothes. Rub your back?"

"No one's ever looked after me in my life," she tells him. "I doubt it's a good idea for me to start."

He holds up his brandy gla.s.s in toast. "You, my dear, are an independent! It tickles me."

It is strange to be at The Mount without Edith. Watching the gardeners clear the weeds out of the flower beds gives her a sad pang when she realizes Edith will never see the blooms. Walking the new paths alone some afternoons-happy, truly happy!-Anna feels ashamed that she should take such joy in the dark green bushes, the wildflowers, the sunshine, when Edith is missing out on the beauty she helped to create.

Teddy insists Anna take dinner with him every night in the dining room. The first night, she is shy. She can never remember sitting at a table with Teddy without Edith there as well. He seems to think it's the most natural arrangement in the world.

"My dear," he says, seating her and pushing in her chair. He takes the seat across from her, tucks in his napkins, and launches right into describing his plans for expanding the staff quarters.

"Perhaps," he says, "you should move to one of the guest rooms. I don't like the idea of you climbing to the third floor and sharing a bathroom with the servants."

"I don't mind," she tells him. "It's what I'm used to."

"You deserve better." he says.

She raises her face and looks at him. She has a sick feeling in her stomach. He wants to make her what she's not. An equal. What might the servants think? Alfred lives out in one of the outbuildings. He wouldn't mind one way or the other. But what about the maids? The cook? The new housekeeper? Would they think she was taking over? Putting on airs?

But Teddy moves on to other subjects before she has a chance to comment, rattles on about the chickens. Describes in detail his day, and wants to know about hers. He is in good spirits again. Changed entirely since the dark days of Paris. She feels so light in his shiny new presence.

He asks her to join him in the drawing room afterward, insists on pouring her a sherry and says he'd be very happy if she'd stay with him until he goes to bed. And so it goes every night after. Often there is little to say, so they sit quietly, with the doors open to the terrace and gardens, the pine breezes wafting in lemony and cooling, the hoot of a wayward owl sometimes breaking the silence. Then she and Teddy will look up and smile at each other. Mostly she does her darning, or writes letters to Kansas City or London on a lapboard. Or she reads poetry in German. He reads his animal husbandry books, occasionally reciting a fact that takes his fancy. They might be an old married couple: happy in each other's presence but with no need to constantly communicate. Once, saying good night, he calls her "my darling."

The Mount's summers have always been peopled by a rolling list of guests: writers, painters, scientists, all invitees of Edith. There are no guests now. And Anna is happy. Happy to see Teddy thriving. Happy to immerse herself in the natural beauty of the place Edith created and once so dearly loved with no distractions.

Once, pa.s.sing the scullery, she hears one of the new maids speaking to another.

"It's odd, him having her around him all the time like that. You'd think the lady of the house might be miffed if she knew."

"She's just a companion. They're old. Why should the mistress care? Though I hear the Missus is gallivantin' all over Europe. Most likely, she don't care one way or t'other."

Anna watches the mail, hoping that a letter might arrive sometime from Thomas, acknowledging that he hopes to see her when she returns to Paris. But the letters with her name on them come from Aennchen or her brother or sometimes Kate Thorogood or Fannie Thayer. And from Gross, who tells her of the whirling time Edith's having: whipping from Windsor to Rye to London to Gloucestershire. All through that part of Edith's trip, while Gross was along, there were short, breezy letters, then suddenly none. And none at all from Edith to Teddy.

Edith is enjoying England immensely, eating well, sleeping well, and at peace with herself. She hates to break the spell and return to France, but she simply must get back and look for an apartment before the season, or she'll have nowhere to stay at all. Having told George Vanderbilt she had no intention of taking his apartment for the winter, he's already leased it to someone else. So she prepares herself: thinks of her beloved Paris, its blur of lights and food and laughter, and books tickets for her departure.

But at the last minute, she receives a note from Henry asking if she'd be so kind as to return to Lamb House before she crosses the Channel. Edith can't help but worry. Henry's health has been spotty. And he's not one to ask her for help unless it's important. Arriving in the early evening, she's shown to her room to wash up before she sees him. She chooses a green frock he's always liked. And pins up her hair with more artifice than usual. But when she steps toward the drawing room, washed and kitted out as if for a formal London dinner, she hears someone speaking to Henry. And, knocking lightly, she opens the door to see a dark-haired man leaning on the mantel, his back to her.

"Henry, so sorry to interrupt . . . ," she says.

"Ah. At last! The firebird has alighted," Henry exclaims, his voice full of merriment. "Step right in, my dear. I have a little surprise for you." The man at the mantel turns slowly and rests his blue eyes on her. It is Morton. Henry chuckles like Old St. Nick himself, having brought his favorite little girl the one gift she's longed for most.

When the whole house is seemingly asleep, Edith hears an almost imperceptible rap on her door. She sits up, her heart thrumming. Without an answer, Morton opens it and slips in.

"Are you awake?" he whispers.

"As though I could possibly sleep knowing you're here," she says.

"Perfect! Warm me up!" he begs, climbing into her bed. "How could it possibly be so cold in July? Aren't my feet like ice?" It is past midnight. The Rye night is thick and sooty. Absent the streetlit glow of London, she can barely see him. But his eyes twinkle like starlight.

"It's the coldest summer I've ever spent," she tells him. "It's rained every day since you left. I do believe I am growing moss on my left side."

"That is not a romantic thought," he says drily.

"Sorry."

"Don't worry. It doesn't dampen my enthusiasm an iota. There. Do you feel my enthusiasm?"

"Yes. I don't think I've ever felt more enthusiasm."

He laughs softly, and then his lips brush her ear, "All through my time in Ma.s.sachusetts, I thought of you. When things were bad with my father, I thought of you."

"Oh . . ."

"But if my father had the least idea exactly what I thought about you, it would surely have killed him!"

"You are terrible."

"I am terrible, aren't I? And to prove it, I'm going to do things to you you've never dreamed of," he tells her. "Terrible things."

"Oh, do expand my worldview," she tells him. "I dare you."

"You oughtn't dare me. That could be dangerous."

With Henry up front with Cook, she and Fullerton in the back (How fortuitous that she sent Gross off to Alsace to see her cousins as though she guessed Henry's surprise!), they motor all through Ess.e.x, hunting down quaint little inns, traversing beautiful towns. Every night, after a full meal and good laughter, she and Morton find each other. In her bed. In his. It hardly matters. They want each other equally. Their pleasure seems endless, like a magic bottle that refills every time a gla.s.s is poured. Never in Edith's life has she guessed that her body could give her such unceasing pleasure. With Henry as their buffer and chaperone, they don't argue. There is no tussle for power. She cannot remember ever being happier. If she were to die tomorrow, she knows she's tasted the sweetest morsels life could offer.

Having had Dr. Kinnicut's second round of serum treatments, Teddy grows jollier by the day. One morning he leaves in the carriage and returns with a new car. Sitting behind the wheel, he swerves into the forecourt, spitting stones, screeching the tires, stopping just before the front door. The car is as shiny red as a candied apple. The roof is coal black st.i.tched in crimson. And the steering wheel sports a sewn leather cover with tiny holes in it just like golf gloves. But what really captures Anna's attention is that the car has a face. Its headlights are cats' eyes. Its grille, an angry mouth. She has never seen a car that looks so feral.

The entire household crowds the front door to ooh and aah over the new vehicle.