“Oh, I’m sure he said all kinds of decent things in his last letter. Simon’s superb at saying decent things. Though I expect you’re already aware of that.”
My head was spinning a little, trying to pin down facts that refused to stop shifting around. I placed my palms on the table and stared at my knuckles.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand. You can’t be saying that Simon knew you were a prisoner all this time.”
“Of course he knew.”
“But that’s ridiculous! Why on earth would he say the opposite? Say you were killed? When he had every reason to want you alive! Didn’t you know that? Didn’t you know you have a—you have a child?”
Major Fitzwilliam dropped a long crumb of ash into the chrysanthemum jar. “Ah. Now we’re getting to the truth of the matter. The reason I came to see you, of all people, in this godforsaken little French hole in the mud. The fact is, I didn’t know there was a child, and if I had known, I would have been happy to tell anyone who cared to ask that it wasn’t mine.”
“What? How can you say that?”
“Because it’s the truth.” He tapped his temple. “There are things, Miss Fortescue, about which a man can be pretty certain, and the question of whether or not it’s possible he’s fathered a child on a particular lady is one of them.”
“But then who is the father?”
“An excellent question. I’ll give you a moment or two to ponder it.”
“You’re not saying Simon . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence. The blood in my cheeks seemed to interfere with the ordinary function of my jaw.
“Got my fiancée with child, as soon as I’d marched off to war? I can’t say for certain, of course,” he drawled. “Since I wasn’t there at the moment of conception.”
“He wouldn’t have. He wasn’t in love with her.”
“You don’t have to be in love, Miss Fortescue. Where do you get these ideas? You only have to want something. If you’re my brother, it’s usually something you shouldn’t have. Your brother’s fiancée, for instance.”
For an instant the image blinked before me. A pretty girl in a white dress, trimmed in lace; wearing, perhaps, a wide-brimmed hat with a pink grosgrain ribbon and an air of moneyed desirability. The heiress, the one whose wealth was meant to save the family estate.
I whispered, “You were actually engaged, then? You and Miss . . .”
“Gibbons. Yes, we were engaged. I rather thought she was in love with me. We hadn’t told my parents, of course, or hers. It wouldn’t have done for her to marry the second son. A waste of perfectly good capital.”
“But you never—”
He squinted at me. Squeezed the glass in his hand.
“Never . . . ?”
“Don’t make me say it.”
“Never went to bed with her? Let’s just say that I know the baby isn’t mine, hmm? The birth of young Samuel Fitzwilliam came as a cracker of a shock, when my family got a telegram through with the news. A rather brusque telegram, if you must know. There I was, rotting away in a German prison camp, kept alive only by my faith in the love of a precious girl—the only girl, I might add, who has ever liked me better than my charming, elegant brother . . .”
He paused grandly to pour himself another glass. I thought, Surely he ought to be drunk by now, even a big man like him. But he wasn’t. He was exquisitely lucid, his movements elastic and precise. The sherry didn’t wobble as it fell happily into the glass. His thick, dark hair remained in place. Only his mood showed any sign of poisoning: maudlin and reckless, like a man on the brink of some self-destructive act.
“It’s not true,” I said softly. “I know Simon. I know what he told me. Why would he lie?”
“To get you into bed, of course. It seems to have worked.”
“He asked me to marry him. It’s a sham, you know, his marriage to—his marriage. It was only because of the baby. They aren’t intimate. He’s divorcing her, with her full support.”
“Is he? I haven’t heard anything about that.”
“Because you’ve been in prison.”
“I hear news, believe me. Heard that he was enjoying himself with an American nurse, for one thing—”
I made a little noise of outrage, but he held up his hand and went on.
“I don’t give a damn, Miss Fortescue. I really don’t. Long since given up counting Simon’s conquests, let alone blaming them for being conquered. My parents, of course, and then the nannies and the governesses. Even Lydia, it seems, though she used to see through him. When we were young, I mean.”
“Or maybe she only sees him clearly now.”
He shrugged. “As you like. Anyway, it’s always come up trumps for good old Simon, which—as I said—doesn’t bother me a bit. But I thought you should know what’s really going on, that’s all. That you’re being led down the garden path, just as I was.”
“I’m not being led down the path. Any kind of path. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation for all this.”
“Really? I can’t think of one. Either Simon’s been lying to you all this time, or I have. Naturally you’ll say it’s me. But the question is, Miss Fortescue, the question you have to ask yourself is why. Why would I lie?”
“Because you’ve conceived a terrible and ungrateful bitterness for your brother, just because he’s a good man, just because he happened to be born before you. And you think he’s betrayed you, when in fact he’s only done the right thing, a noble thing, giving your poor child a name—”
“Ah! Is that how he won you over? God, what a rotter, my brother. A true rotter. If I were you, I’d consider this a lucky escape, provided you’re clever enough to take the opportunity. Before he gets you into real trouble. Or has he already done that? Gotten you into trouble.”
I rose. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Oh, now, don’t cut up like that. I beg your pardon. I have a habit of saying the wrong thing to a lady—again, the exact opposite of Simon. I like to speak plainly, and it’s no more than the truth, you know.”
“That’s quite enough.”
He held up his hand. “Forgive me.”
“Why should I? You’re not really sorry. You like to say things that disturb people. You relish it. You enjoy being the exact opposite of Simon, don’t you?”
He tapped his enormous thumb against the base of the sherry glass. He had remained seated while I stood— not a very courteous stance, on the face of it, but I didn’t mind. I felt a little power return to me, as I stood there next to the table, glowering down at the shiny, monochrome waves of his hair—again, so unlike Simon, all mottled in gold and silver—and I later wondered if he understood this, if he kept his seat out of generosity instead of rudeness, defying a custom that must have lain very close to instinct.
But that was only later, when I had the time—weeks and years—to examine every detail of this conversation in my mind, over and over. In that August of 1918 I thought Samuel Fitzwilliam was simply a boor, in addition to being a vengeful, bitter liar. I didn’t understand him at all. I was the one who couldn’t see him by any other angle, except in opposition to his brother.
“Well,” he said at last, “I can see you’re not his usual sort, anyway.”
“Thank God for that.”
“I suppose that explains why he went to such lengths to seduce you. I don’t blame him for that, at least.”
“That’s generous of you.”
Samuel parted his thick lips—he had a strangely sensual mouth, for so blunt a man—as if he were about to say something. I felt the nearby stares of the nurses, who had given up pretending to make conversation, and the weight of so much silence became unbearable.
“Well? Do you have something else to say, or are you finished? I’d really like to return to my friends, Major.”
“Nothing at all, really. I’m just finding myself in a damned odd position. Wanting actually to defend the poor bloke, for once in my life.”
“You don’t need to bothe
r.”
“The truth is, Miss Fortescue, as I said before, you’re better off without him. Better off without the whole family, really. We’re a bad old lot, deserving of extinction, I expect. Only the animal instinct for self-preservation keeps us going, like one of those wind-up toys that refuses to stop ticking along, crashing his silly little cymbals. I suppose I can’t even blame him for Lydia. He has to find the money somewhere, doesn’t he?”
“Of course not. There are others ways to make money.”
“Spoken with the ridiculous optimism of an American. Yes, I suppose there are many ways to make a stinking great pile of money, the kind of money you need to keep up moldering estates and pay the taxes on them, too. But not for a humble surgeon in the medical corps. That’s another thing he wanted and got. Well, now he’s got to live with the consequences, hasn’t he?”
“I don’t understand.”
“I mean he insisted on his medical course, instead of doing the sensible thing and reading, say, law or history. Something that might lead to riches in Temple Bar, or the City. I don’t know how he got our parents to agree. Why the devil it meant so much to him. I suppose he just likes to have the power of life and death over someone, like some kind of god, which is rather a chilling thought. But there it is. And now he can’t see why he’s got to make a choice between love and money. Because he does, you know. Lydia’s fortune is all tied up. If you’re hoping he’ll divorce her, I’m afraid you’ll be waiting for eternity.” He finished his glass and set it down on the table, next to the bottle and the pot of yellow chrysanthemums that matched the one on the table occupied by my friends. “But I’ve taken enough of your time. I’m not in the habit of doing Simon’s women any favors, and I only really came here out of curiosity.”
“You’ve wasted your time.”
“Have I?”
“Yes. I’m happy you’re alive, Major, and I do hope you come to your senses. But you’ve wasted your time. I have nothing but faith in Simon, and if you could have seen him, if you could see him for what he really is, what he’s suffered, I think perhaps you might change your mind.”
Samuel Fitzwilliam folded his arms across the vast khaki field of his chest.
“What a damned shame, really. At least on our side.”
“A shame?”
“A shame that you haven’t got any money.”
“It doesn’t matter if I haven’t got money. You’ll see. Simon and Lydia will divorce, and the two of you will at last have your chance to be happy together, if you can set aside your pride and seize what lies before you.”
He turns back his head and starts to laugh. “Oh, my dear girl. What a beautiful innocence you have. But you do know that’s illegal, don’t you?”
“What’s illegal?”
“Why, marrying your brother’s wife. It’s against canon law. There’s some talk of allowing a chap to marry his brother’s widow—the Deceased Wife’s Sister’s Marriage Act passed Parliament some while back, at least, and now that the war’s taking all their husbands, the women are clamoring for the same opportunity—but to divorce one chap and marry his brother is quite beyond the pale. I’m afraid we’re done for, Lydia and I, unless we escape to some heathen isle. My brother’s fortune is safe from temptation.”
As I said before, I never liked wine. I never liked the smell and the taste and the instant recollection of dread. In most cases, I could force down a sip or two, just to make myself social, but at the moment I stood before Samuel Fitzwilliam in that small, sweaty café in Château Thierry, I had never once taken so much wine as to make myself drunk. Never once experienced even the slightest sensation of inebriation. Nor had I ever known the desire to feel anything other than perfect, reassuring sobriety.
And yet I thought—as I listened to Samuel Fitzwilliam speak, as I heard him say We’re a bad old lot, deserving of extinction, as I examined the familiar, exciting outline of his eyes and the faint yellow reflection of the chrysanthemums against his jaw—I thought, Maybe I would like to try a little sherry.
I lifted the bottle, which was about two-thirds full, and poured a reckless splash into Samuel’s empty glass. The vessel looked much larger, now that it stood on its own, outside of his giant hand, and the old-fashioned facets splintered the glow from the guttering candle in the center of the table. I sniffed the rim once: no black dread, no throttling panic. Just a vague, sweet excitement that made me feel capable of anything. Any possible folly.
I swallowed quickly, before I lost my nerve, and as I returned the glass to the tablecloth, I said, “Just how much money does she have? Simon’s wife.”
“Lydia? Quite a lot. I expect her father’s worth a hundred thousand or so, at least.”
“A hundred thousand? Is that all?”
“I call it a decent fortune. But perhaps you feel cheapened?”
“Cheapened? Not at all. Just struck, I suppose, by the irony.”
“The irony? Of a hundred thousand pounds?”
To my left, four steaming plates of cassoulet had been brought to the table where Mary and the nurses were sitting, including one set before my own empty seat. I smelt the earthy flavor, the beans and herbs and the meager, mealy sausages, past the sweet haze of the sherry that still fumed about the passages of my throat. I was hungry now, hungry as a lioness, and wanted to eat. But not yet.
Not before I leaned forward and said something utterly out of character, straight into those disturbing hazel eyes.
“Yes, irony. You see, Major Fitzwilliam, my father’s a millionaire.”
Chapter 18
Maitland Plantation, Florida, July 1922
I’m trying to write a letter to my sister, Sophie, but I can’t seem to make any sense. I’ll etch out a sentence, or a few restless words, and I’ll read them over again and there’s no meaning there. Or maybe it’s too much to explain. Too strange and far-fetched, too hysterical. Or maybe it—all of it, the whole story, the tale of my existence here at Maitland—maybe it’s just crazy. I’m crazy. That knock on my head alongside the midnight ocean, it scrambled my brains.
I only have three aspirin left in the bottle. I’m hoarding them carefully, so they don’t run out too soon, leaving me with nothing to soften my state of misery. I can be terribly disciplined, when I must. Have been taking only one each day for the past week. At night, always. I can get through the day without an aspirin if I must, but I can’t face the black night in this state. Agitated and nauseous, sick and confused and sleepless. Sweating through my nightgown. No, at least this way I can look forward to my nightly dose of relief. I can count down the hours and the minutes until the peace descends, brief and precious, and my brain unravels like a spool of tight-wound thread released from its spring. That, of course, is the moment when I should pick up a pen and write a note to my sister, but I can’t. I don’t have the will. I just want to lie in my white-clad bed and watch the drift of the curtains in the moonlight. The slow, silver silence of the room around me.
And then I awaken. Agitated and sick. And I think, Something’s wrong. Something is certainly wrong. I need to do something. I need to let Sophie know. I need to tell Miss Bertram that I’m running out of aspirin.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway, even though I do understand that more aspirin won’t help. Because the aspirin isn’t really aspirin, don’t you know.
But I have to do something. The moon is waning again, and soon it will disappear altogether for a few pregnant black nights. And this is terribly important, this moonlessness, though I can’t quite remember why. Life and death.
I finish the letter to Sophie. I address the envelope in a handwriting not my own, to the house on East Thirty-Second Street that I scarcely now remember. But whom shall I trust to post it? Miss Bertram, of course. Miss Bertram will mail this letter for me. In the morning I will place this envelope on my breakfast tray and Miss Bertram will carry it downstairs to be stamped and mailed.
The letter has taken all day. My hand is tired, you understand, and I’m int
errupted constantly. Miss Bertram and the maid who comes to clean the room at ten thirty every morning, Evelyn and the doctors. I had to hide the drafts under the mattress whenever a knock sounded on the door. Pages and pages. I’m burning them all now, in the flame of the kerosene lamp on the chest of drawers, while my legs tremble under the strain of my weight. The black scratches disappear into the maw of the fire, and the paper curls and fries and crumbles into ash. The reek scorches the lining of my nose. I turn to the vase instead, the nearby vase of fresh orange blossom, and my God, for an instant it’s like I’m all better, it’s like the nightmare has dissolved, it’s like I’m twenty-one years old and newly married, and a damp London spring blooms around me.
And then a brilliant agony sweeps up the nerves of my arm, and I realize my fingers are burning.
I stumble back and drop the burning papers onto the floor, atop the fine pale rug, and the rug smokes and the air turns acrid. I seize the vase and toss the water and the flowers onto the pile of fire. Well, that’s what I mean to do. But my arms are weak, you see, and my muscles don’t obey my commands as precisely as they used to, and as I sweep the vase sideways and jerk the water free, the delicate crystal bowl strikes the corner of the chest of drawers.
All of which occurs in the space of an instant or two, and yet as I experience this series of small disasters, the pulse of time slows to an almost unsurvivable tempo, like the thud of your heartbeat in the moments after sexual intercourse. I watch my own actions as if I’ve flown straight out of my body: the spasm of my fingers, the fall of the paper, the burst of flame, the fatal trajectory of my arm. The extraordinary shattering of the vase, like the burst of an explosive artillery shell upon contact with the earth. The clutch of my hand, trying to retrieve the fragments from the air—to reverse this terrible destruction—and the way one inevitable shard slices straight across my right palm.
I watch the blood bubble up from my skin, first in drops and then in a passionate dribble, tumbling over the ridge of my thumb and onto the rug. The stains are bright and red, next to the burning paper, nearly extinguished, and the strewn flowers. A few dark spots pop out into the air before me, like the reverse of stars, and I drop to my knees, cradling my hand, unable to speak, transfixed by the flow of blood and by the strange pattern it makes among the orange blossoms.