“No doubt you could make me bleed too.” He turned away. “Given time. The right circumstances.”
“Montague—”
“Look. I have bought you a present.”
Ignoring the expression on Constance’s face, and the tone in which she spoke his name (a tone she regretted, a second later, for it gave too much away), Stern put his hand in his pocket. He drew something out. Constance could not quite see what it was, but it glittered. Then, with deft fingers, he snapped it about her wrist.
It was a bracelet—a bracelet that, some fourteen years later, Constance would present as a christening gift. A most cunning, lovely, and intricate thing, this bracelet: a coiling snake of gold and rubies. It curled about her arm and the black material of her sleeve: once, twice, three times it curled. The blunt head of the snake, with its jeweled forked tongue, rested at the base of her palm, just above the pulse point. Stern lifted her hand and examined his gift.
“It would look better,” he said at last, “against bare skin.”
Constance gave a cry. She snatched her hand away.
“I cannot wear it. You know I cannot. It is too beautiful. Too costly. People would notice it. Even Gwen would notice it. They would ask … how I came by such a thing.”
“No matter.” Stern shrugged. “Keep it here. Wear it when you come to me. For the time being. And then—”
“Do you care for me?” Constance broke away from him. Her voice rose. “Do you? I care for you, I find. A little. More than I expected—more than I bargained for. I promised myself I should stay as free as air—and now, I am not so free. I don’t say that you could break my heart—I’m sure no man could break my heart. But … there are things you do. Things you could do. I—”
She stopped. Her face becoming set, her eyes black and angry. Stern, who was used to these odd and sudden storms from Constance, said nothing. He waited, watching her—and that watchfulness seemed to perturb Constance even more, for she began to scrabble with the clasp of the bracelet, as if she might pull it off, as if she might—quite possibly—hurl it across the room. The clasp was tiny, and it defeated her. She gave a cry of anger and frustration. Stern took her hand quietly; he undid the clasp.
“You see? You may wear it or not, as you please. It is simply a gift, Constance—that is all.”
“It is not simply a gift. Nothing you give is simple—”
“I’m sorry you dislike it so much. I thought it might please you.”
Stern turned away. He put the bracelet down on a table. He walked away from her, about the room, moving an object here, an object there. Constance watched him, her heart beating fast. She had said too much: stupid, stupid, stupid! She must learn better control. She watched Stern pick up a vase and examine it. She told herself that Stern was a collector—he liked to acquire beautiful things; he liked to own them. She thought: He will never own me! Yet the idea of being in this man’s possession—that idea drew her on even as she rebelled against it. Possession. She gave a small shiver. Stern, replacing the vase, looked back at her. There was now on his face an expression of unmistakable displeasure.
Constance found this displeasure exciting. She did not understand the reasons for this; she simply knew it was so. The threat of his anger was like a charge through the body; it gave her a sharp, slightly furtive thrill.
She met his gaze with her child’s face, intimidated but slightly impudent.
“Oh, such an expression!” She gave a small pout, then hung her head. “I have offended you now—I have been rude and unkind, and hurt your feelings. Except you have no feelings to be hurt. See, Montague, I did not mean it. I am penitent. You may punish me at your will.”
“I have no wish to punish you.” His voice was cold.
“Are you sure, Montague? You look as if you would like to … smack me. Perhaps smack me quite hard.”
“Really? It is not my practice to hit women.” Curt now, he turned away.
“What then? I know I have made you angry.”
“Not in the least. I had a mind to be practical. I thought we might discuss plans.”
“Plans?”
“Plans. I am a methodical man, Constance, and plans need to be made. We cannot continue like this. Subterfuge. Alibis. Deception. It has gone on long enough.”
“I don’t see why.” Constance, recovering now, gave another small toss of the head. “Besides, I hate plans. They confine one so….”
“You did propose marriage to me once. Marriage might be described as a plan.”
Stern’s voice was now studiously polite. Constance, anxious to appear careless when she was most alert, began to move away.
“Marriage? Oh, I may have done,” she began in a light voice. “That was months ago. So much has happened since then. Acland has died. I am in mourning now. I have been coming to you, I admit, but—”
“Was that another lie, then, your suggestion of marriage?”
Constance stopped. “Another lie?”
“Well, you lied to me about your mother, Constance,” Stern said, politely still. “I wondered how else you might have lied, that is all.” He moved toward her. “Constance, my dear, if you are to lie—and especially if you are to lie to me—then lie in ways that cannot be checked. Do not go into unnecessary detail—it is always a mistake, that, when lying.” He paused. “No Jessica Mendl ever registered as a student at the Slade. In fact, I doubt there was any Jessica Mendl at all. Did you invent the surname? Pluck it out of a book?”
There was silence. Stern was now close. Their eyes met, and held. After a pause Constance began to smile.
“From a book,” she replied. “One belonging to Acland, actually.”
“And the real Jessica—was she Jewish?”
“She might have been. She was my father’s secretary—when he could still afford secretaries. He married her when she became pregnant. He did not care for her, of course. He hated her—he told me often enough. If she was Jewish, she did not practice her religion—but then, of course, neither do you.”
This was said with some edge, and Stern, who perhaps liked Constance best when she fought back, inclined his head, as if to acknowledge she had scored a point.
“So why did you lie to me?”
“Why? To make you notice me. You know that already.”
“Did it occur to you I might investigate? Did you mind that you might be found out?”
“It did not occur to me then. I underestimated you, Montague.” Constance scanned his face. The displeasure seemed to have gone.
“It did not occur to me,” she went on, more slowly. “And I suppose that it should have. As for being found out—I am quite glad. I never claimed to be a virtuous woman. I prefer you to know me as I am.”
“Oh, I prefer it too.” Stern paused, then took her hand. This time, Constance did not snatch it away. “I prefer it, provided you understand one thing very clearly. It would be better—for us both, Constance—if you were not to lie to me again. Play games, by all means, but not with me. Then, after we are married—”
“Married? Shall we be married?”
“Certainly. And, after our marriage, let that be our pledge. Do you agree? No lies. I shall not ask anything else of you. I shall not ask you for declarations of love …”
Stern paused. When Constance did not speak, he frowned slightly, then continued, his manner stiff and (Constance found) rehearsed. “I shall not even ask you to be faithful to me. I am older than you, and I consider sexual loyalty to be of limited value. Other forms of fidelity concern me more. So—no lies between us. Our contract now, and our contract then. Is that agreed?”
Stern’s face was serious; he spoke in a deliberate way, as if he intended her to remember this. Constance felt a rush of excitement. Also a certain wariness. Unsure why Stern should choose to propose in this way, she opted for a light, flirtatious reply.
“You put it very coolly, Montague. However, I agree. There! You have my hand, and my word upon it.”
She sighed. She
placed her small hand on her heart. “However, I do think, now it is your turn to propose, that you might do so with a little more passion. Contracts, indeed! We are not in the City now. You might betray a little emotion. Come now, Montague—won’t you make me a declaration?”
“Very well.” Stern seemed amused. “A declaration it shall be. A truthful one, according to our contract.” He paused to consider.
“I do not love you, Constance—but I come closer to loving you than I have any other woman. I like you, Constance, despite your lies—or, more probably, because of them. I think we are alike. I think we have the … measure … of each other.” He smiled, his manner becoming less tense. “Also, my dear, I think you would be an asset to me, as I would be to you. I think our … merger … might be turbulent, but also rewarding. And the dividends—the dividends should be generous. There, will that do? Is that declaration enough, from a City man? I find myself a little distracted….”
During this speech Stern had touched her. When he spoke of assets, he began to undo her jacket. By the time he came to “turbulent,” Constance’s blouse was undone. When he reached “dividends,” the palm of his cool hand cupped her breast.
His control was slipping, and Constance—who loved it best when he still tried to resist this weakening, who liked to tempt, see him struggle and then give in—caught his hand in hers and pressed it tight against the beating of her heart. She drew back just a little, her eyes bright with excitement.
“And do you know what I think?” She looked up at him. “I think, Montague, that we could make conquests together, you and I. I think we could be so powerful, and so rich, and so free that we should have the world at our feet. We could stamp on it, and disdain it, or stoop and pick it up—anything we pleased. Oh, we could be invincible—”
Here she broke off and became practical. She removed her jacket; she loosened her blouse. Then, when these now-customary preparations had been made, she turned back. She gave him a wicked glance.
“I also think it will be difficult. I hope you have it well planned. When people find out—when Maud finds out. Denton. Gwen. I am still under-age. There will be terrible scenes. Oh, Montague, there will be mayhem.”
“I am sure you would enjoy that, Constance.” Stern took her arm. “It might even amuse me. But as it happens, you are wrong. Now, where? Over here, perhaps …”
Stern had recovered some of his composure. He led her now to a small French armchair in a corner of the room. The armchair was upholstered in scarlet. It was positioned so that it faced a mirror. Constance allowed herself to be seated. She found she could not remember whether the chair had always stood in that position, or whether it had been moved in preparation for her visit. Moved, she thought—that excited her too.
She turned an expectant face to Stern, and Stern—as he liked to do—made certain preparations.
He removed her blouse. He adjusted her hair so that it lay in the way he preferred, its tendrils across her bared shoulders. He arranged her black skirt in such a way that the scarlet of the chair was still visible and her thighs were bared. When the composition satisfied his critical eye, he picked up the discarded snake bracelet and fastened it about her wrist. This time Constance did not resist. As he had predicted, the bracelet was more effective against bare skin.
“Tell me how I look to you,” Constance said, gazing at their reflection in the glass. (This was something she often said to him.)
Stern looked toward the mirror with some seriousness.
“You look impure,” he said, after a pause.
At that, Constance—who claimed she would like to be more impure; it was Stern who held her back—made a face.
“When?” she said.
“Oh, after we are married.” Stern turned away. “You can lose your virginity only once—you might as well do so with some ceremony. Besides, I’ve told you, though I’m sure you already know, the sexual repertoire is limited. It is a great mistake to exhaust the variations too soon. So, today, when our time is brief, I thought—”
“Touch me.” Constance caught his hand and drew it down against her. “Kiss me. Talk to me. Talk to me when you touch me. I like that. Tell me—tell me what will happen. Tell me why it will be easy. A man your age, my aunt’s lover, and a girl young enough to be your daughter. Why will there be no scenes, no outrage?”
Stern moved behind the chair. He leaned forward. His eyes met hers in the mirror. His hand lay against her throat.
“There may be argument,” he replied. “And I am sure there will be some outrage. That much is unavoidable. But I think you will find that no one, Constance, will put obstacles in our way.”
“Maud?”
“I shall take care of Maud.”
“Denton, then? Denton will never allow it.”
“Denton is not your father. In any case, Denton will agree.”
“Touch me. Oh, God, yes, like that. Denton? That is impossible. Why?”
“Why?” Stern bent forward. “Why? First, because Boy is no longer to marry an heiress. Second, because Denton owes me a great deal of money.”
The word money, as he spoke it, seemed to carry some sexual charge. They both became still for a moment. Their eyes held.
“A great deal?” Constance leaned back. She rested her head against Stern’s thighs. She rubbed her head gently back and forth.
Perhaps it was this action of hers, perhaps the cupidity in her voice—whichever the reason, Stern abandoned his pretense of control.
“Oh, a very great deal,” he replied in a deliberate voice, and at that, a small shudder passed through both their bodies.
“Be quick,” Constance said.
Stern adjusted the chair a fraction of an inch. Above the black silk of her stockings, Constance’s thighs were very white. Constance fixed her eyes upon the mirror. She watched his touch, and his taste. When Stern bent between her thighs, she cradled his head; she began to speak. Salty and staccato rushes of words. Constance liked words, particularly those kinds of words; she liked the sweetness of their shock.
Words, and watching, the most reliable trigger of all: They had never failed her, so far.
Some weeks after this, as she had known was inevitable, Constance received a summons from Maud.
She went alone, at Maud’s request. She waited alone in Maud’s drawing room. She touched the furniture. I am afraid she first looked at the paintings and then counted them.
This would be the first time she had seen Maud since Stern had paid his visit to Denton, and the permission for their engagement had been obtained.
Stern, to Constance’s irritation, refused to discuss his own conversations with Maud. On that subject, his discretion was absolute.
From Gwen, too, she had been able to learn little of Maud’s reaction, although she had questioned her at length. Gwen was still sunk in grief for Acland. She roused herself sufficiently to plead with Constance. She suggested this engagement was unthinkable. Then, faced with her husband’s inexplicable intransigence, with Constance’s insistence that she must obey the dictates of her heart, Gwen had submitted. Unable to dissuade Constance, she avoided her.
So now, waiting for Maud (and my great-aunt kept her waiting some time), Constance felt a certain lively curiosity. She wondered how Maud would appear. Would she be tearful? Reproachful? Might she, even now, still hope to persuade Constance that this marriage could not occur?
Constance was learning to prepare for all the major scenes in her life as an actress might for a new role upon the stage. For this occasion she had composed a very pretty little speech. When my great-aunt Maud finally appeared, Constance was disconcerted. Maud entered her drawing room in her usual way, with an air of brisk efficiency and apparent good temper. She did not embark upon arguments or reproaches. She made no pleas.
Constance, taking a pause for a cue, then launched herself upon her speech. She reminded Maud of how much she owed her; she recalled Maud’s kindnesses to her in the past. She made it clear that this indebtednes
s had, for a long time, caused her to fight her own feelings for Sir Montague. She had tried to ignore them; she had tried to combat them—but at length, when she came to realize his regard for her, she had been overcome.
She went on in this vein for some while; Maud heard her out. If, once or twice, Constance felt Maud’s expression was scornful, she ignored it. She pressed on to the end. When she had finished, Maud remained silent for some while; both women were still standing.
“You did not mention the word love,” Maud said at last, in a reflective way. She turned her gaze to the windows. “How odd. Neither did Montague.”
Constance was annoyed by this. She felt love was a word Stern should have employed to give strength to his argument with Maud, even if he avoided it when with her. She frowned.
“I don’t wish to cause any further hurt,” she began.
Maud cut her off with a wave of the hand.
“Constance, please do not take me for a fool. You are perfectly indifferent to the hurt you cause, as I am well aware. In fact I sometimes think it goes beyond that. You have a positive taste for mischief, I suspect. In any case …” She turned back to Constance and gave her a thoughtful look. “I did not ask you here to question you, or argue with you, Constance. I have no desire to listen to pious speeches, so you can spare your breath.” She paused. “I asked you here to tell you something.”
“And what was that, Aunt Maud?”
“You are not my niece. Please to avoid that title.”
“What was it, then?”
“You do not know Montague.”
Maud moved away. Constance stared at her back. She made a face at it.
“Obviously I shall come to know him better—”
“Possibly. You do not know him now.”
“Do you?”
At that, Maud turned. Constance had spoken in an insolent tone of voice; she perhaps hoped to provoke Maud, whose containment was beginning to vex her. If so, she failed. Maud looked at her for a while in silence. Her expression could be read as contemptuous; it could also be read as pitying.
“Yes, I do,” she replied after that pause. “I know him perhaps as well as anyone can. I don’t intend to meet you again, Constance, and so, before you leave, I thought I would give you a warning. Not that you will heed it, of course.”