by Robyn Carr
As she looked up at him, all she said was, “This is the only place I have ever really been myself.”
The urgency of their early romance had been replaced by a constant and reliable togetherness that made their intimacy richer, more gratifying. And having weeks as compared to hours was something to be grateful for. She knew that if they could have each other publicly, they would not be like other couples. They were too closely entwined. They were a solitary pair, could predict each other’s thoughts and needs, were dependent on each other for so much…for so long.
“How is she?” she asked him, a question that came very infrequently.
“The same. It doesn’t change. Do you have trouble saying her name?”
“I have no quarrel with Brenda, Andrew. I never have.”
“She’s become so ugly, Lilly, you wouldn’t know her. She’s too thin, pale and sometimes wild-eyed, sometimes drawn and melancholy. Sometimes she has a rare reprieve and seems almost well, but it doesn’t last. The most painful thing, I think, is that she always hopes she is getting well,” he said, a hollow laugh following. “This pitiful creature who doesn’t remember more than snatches of her behavior, who doesn’t know what her illness is, is so excitable when she thinks she’s recovering. When I married her, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. For a while she was everything a man could want. She fooled me so completely; it was a few months before I knew I had been her mother’s plan.”
“Andrew,” she said cautiously, “I couldn’t love you if you were the kind of man who would completely abandon a sick wife…But this sickness--does it sometimes become your own sickness? Do you sometimes fear telling Brenda the truth because it might make her ill?”
“You mean tell her about us?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No, that would never do. But do you let her believe, whether she’s ill or well, that you can have a marriage with her? You told me once that she didn’t want to be your wife, that it was Mrs. Waite who controlled her.”
“I spoke to her about--well, an annulment. We were married in the Catholic Church and a dispensation can be made. I will always pay for her care. If the church would grant an annulment, the courts might.”
“What did she say, Andrew?”
“She said it was absurd. I couldn’t be her husband. She would never have married a Yankee.”
“How long would such a thing take? Months?”
“Longer. Years, perhaps. I would hope for less, but I haven’t been encouraged by what I’ve learned. Of course, my petition could be denied altogether. There is no other recourse.”
“Do you ever…love her? It’s all right to tell me the truth.”
“Love?” This was the only facet of his life, he explained, in which he felt a complete failure. He had fallen in love so thoroughly, was duped so completely. A young man with plenty of money, destined to grow richer, had been completely seduced, coddled by a beautiful, twenty-year-old woman, a mad woman controlled by her widowed mother. Wilson had warned him against love; Wilson had told him that a wife was an exceptional idea, but love drew the strength from a man and made him a victim of his own dire illusions.
They had to get him married quickly, Brenda and her mother, because he would have been warned by her strange moods and rages had he known her longer. And his rage, he told Lilly, when he discovered they wanted his money, his ability to keep them in style, had been boundless. Then there were four years in a house filled with duplicity and frequent quarreling. He worked harder, avoiding his wife, but still kept the public pretense of having a marriage because he had delayed in divorcing her when he should have quickly gotten that done. By the time he was desperate to be free of her, she was alone and ill.
With the death of Mrs. Waite and Brenda’s insanity, the anger was somehow lost. He wished he could seize it again. “Explain to me, Lilly, how it is that I feel almost responsible for her agony? I had nothing whatever to do with Brenda’s past, but when I discovered my wife had been a battered and raped child, a victim of the brutality of her family and Union soldiers, I had nothing left but pity, and the urge to protect her.”
Lilly had heard Andrew speak of guilt before. He felt guilty because his mother had died in loneliness and poverty, guilty because he had not divorced Brenda when he should have, and now he was guilty because she was ill. “This business of being Catholic,” she said, “seems to have a lot to do with those feelings. Guilt must be a chiefly Catholic occupation.”
“Do you ever feel guilty, Lilly?”
“Never,” she said honestly.
“When Brenda doesn’t have strange visions or the voice of her mother in her head, she has asked my forgiveness and received it.
She has begged me not to abandon her, and I’ve promised. When I asked her to free me from marriage, she simply told me I was not her husband.”
“I think, Andrew, your commitment to Brenda will outlast us all.”
“And what would you like me to do?” he asked her.
“Nothing for me,” she said. “But, since you did not create this disaster, stop acting as though you did. Whatever else you do will be much easier if you are not guilt ridden.”
“But you never ask me to hurry.”
“I know if you could hurry, you would.”
Lilly was learning that the grip Brenda had on Andrew’s conscience was more powerful than the legal ties, the one-time love, the disappointment, or the shame. Sometimes she was more sorry for Andrew than for Brenda. She had never really believed free love was possible; she thought the cost would be higher for Andrew than for her. She felt trapped by her body and her desire, and this was something she almost welcomed; Andrew was trapped by a demon within himself.
When he made love to her, her body sang for hours afterward. He could arouse passion in her that took her out of the worldly state and into a trance that drove all earthly troubles from her mind. She had once feared not knowing this joy. Now she was beginning to fear knowing it only in this cottage, in their city flat, for a few hours here and there, in secret. Hopeless, but for Andrew, not for Lilly. Lilly knew what she wanted, what trades had to be made. Andrew wanted more, but could not seize it.
When he lost control again, he cursed. “Damn, there’s a hex on this place! When I get inside you here, I can’t protect you! You overwhelm me. Ah, Lilly, I love you so!”
She touched his cheek and gently told him it was all right; there was no need for concern.
Noel Padgett let the sheet drop over the still, cold features of Ned Armstrong. He turned to the doctor and handed him a slip of paper with Emily’s name on it. “Send a telegram to this woman. This man’s name is Ned Armstrong…and this is the address of his wife.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“How did you know him?”
“He was a friend of mine, on and off. I was at the table. He was a gambling man. He was a cheat. I’ve played cards with him sometimes. I come here from Wyoming where I ranch. I met him last year in the fall, he played for high stakes and was sometimes lucky. I swear I don’t know the real name of the man who shot him--called himself Francis, and he made a big bunch of dust getting away. Has anyone else told you what happened?”
“It seems no one saw anything at all. Nobody but you. I’m afraid the constable doesn’t want to let you go just yet.”
“Makes no difference to me,” Noel said. “I’m a patient man.”
“Why did you want to see the body?”
He shrugged. “Wanted to make sure you knew he had kin.”
“Well, I sure can’t reason your interest. You might’ve got yourself more trouble than you need staying around. Now you’re the only one to blame, and the law is going to close up that place.”
“Don’t matter. That’s a godawful place.”
A Chicago constable led Noel away. He hoped this affair would solve itself quickly.
Noel hadn’t been back to Wyoming for two years. His ranching was falling apart back there and
he couldn’t quite get himself interested in saving it. He was getting ready to sell at a loss. Money was no real problem. He had a little less than before, but he had enough to live out his days simply and without scrimping by too much.
He’d been stalking Ned Armstrong. He had meant to kill him. It was the purest luck someone else had.
Noel spent months in Chicago looking for him for two winters. When he did find a man by that name, he wasn’t sure it was really he until he overheard some fabrication of a rich wife in Philly who owned a big hotel named after him. Ned didn’t run with a famous crowd; he was gambling and trying to sell false land certificates for property out West. Noel could see that in his younger, more agile years Ned could have successfully seduced young girls, but middle-aged women with lots of money must have proven a little harder to trick. Ned had to alter his philandering, and so he went after men with money to invest. Noel befriended him, led him along, offered to help him make a lot of money easy, and set him up.
It wasn’t difficult to convince a fraud and gambler to get involved with a lot of frauds and gamblers. Noel found every back-street card game and bordello in Chicago and staked Ned. When Ned was finally in real deep, Noel was going to shoot him and leave his body somewhere with Emily’s name and address in his pocket. But they got into a bad card game, Ned drank too much whiskey and cheated stupidly, and a drifter by the name of Francis pulled out his gun and shot him through his heart. Noel couldn’t get scarce like everyone else at that card game and still be sure some authority would get the message to Emily that she was a widow; Noel stayed with Ned’s body when everyone else ran and the proprietor of the place went for the law.
Chicago was growing into a pretty, new, rich city, but in the parts Noel and Ned had frequented, people still strapped on guns. It was obvious that Noel’s gun was cold and the body still warm. The owner of the place was pretty reluctant to tell the law who had been gambling in his place; he didn’t want some angry varmint coming around and shooting him. Now everyone was fooling around trying to decide if Noel had actually killed the man and tried to blame it on someone else.
After a week in jail, Noel paid a big fine and was released. The man had no family, he was told. There was no one to bury him. There were still a lot of killings in that part of town and too many possible criminals to put in jail. Noel realized he could have killed Ned, lied about it, bought his way out of jail, and done so much sooner than he had. He also believed that Emily would have sent money for a burial. “Did anyone get word to the widow?” he asked.
“Yessir.”
“And she didn’t offer to get him planted?”
“You know her?” he was asked.
“Nope, nor do I intend to introduce myself,” Noel said.
“Well, there ain’t no one to plant him. He’s gone over to the Sanitary Commission.”
“Uh-huh,” Noel said, and left to gather his things and take the first train to Philadelphia. He went around by the tavern where Ned had died; they were doing a right fine business. The owner must have parted with a little money of his own to keep the place open. The illustrious Chicago officials had done all right for themselves on Ned’s death, between Emily’s money, Noel’s fine, and a little bribery.
He hoped his name had not been connected to the death, but figured he’d know soon enough. If nothing about him had been telegrammed to Emily, he wouldn’t be leaving Philadelphia again.
Lilly spent nineteen days with Andrew. When he left the cottage to go back to his work in New York City, she stayed a few days longer. The ocean was slowly warming up, and buds were starting to pop open. She was beginning to feel ready to leave and confront the hotel again; she felt as full as spring. Her cheeks were bright, her eyes deep, and a certain peace filled her. It was peace and certainty she had come here to find.
The apartments at the Arms were as full as ever, and she had been missed. The family that surrounded her made her feel safe; she was more sure of herself than ever before. She embraced each one: Sophia, Fletcher, Bertie, Amanda, Mama, Katherine, even Cleaves. Elizabeth was not yet home from her visiting but was due to return soon. The only one absent was Patricia, and after a big, noisy meal, Lilly went down the stairs to her sister’s suite. For some reason she hadn’t fully figured out, she felt the need to make peace with Patricia.
The maid was reluctant to let Lilly enter, and waves of worry began to intrude on Lilly’s peace of mind. “Is she asleep? I’d like to talk to her tonight even though it’s late and--”
Patricia stood in the doorway of her bedroom in her dressing gown. “It’s all right,” she told the maid. “Let her come in.”
“I know it’s late, Patricia, but--”
“Am I in trouble again?” she asked crisply.
“No, I only wanted to talk to you. You didn’t join us for dinner, and I thought, since I’ve just came home, I would--”
“Talk to me? About what, for goodness’ sake?”
“Oh, Patricia, never mind. If you’re too busy or have something better to do--I only wanted to tell you I’m sorry everyone’s been so hard on you. That book doesn’t bother me.”
“Really?” she asked with a sarcastic laugh. “How amazing! All this time you’ve completely ignored me, threatened me, hatefully criticized me, and now you’re sorry.”
“We were friends once,” Lilly said.
“Years and years ago! When Grandmother returned, this family cast me off. I haven’t been part of the family since.” She turned and walked into her bedroom, leaving the door ajar.
Lilly followed. “Patricia,” she began. But when she got to the door and looked in, the sight of many opened trunks and bags scattered about froze Lilly’s words. All of Patricia’s dresses, shoes, hats, gloves, parasols were scattered about to be packed. “What is this?” she finally asked.
“I’m leaving. I thought you would be pleased.”
“Where are you going? Why?”
“John is going to live in New York and write. He has the means to live anywhere in the world. I’m going with him.”
“But what about Katherine? Mama?”
“Katherine isn’t mine,” Patricia said, not looking at Lilly. She continued to fold chemises.
The maid came to the doorway, but Lilly pushed her out. “Give us a minute,” she said, closing the door. “Katherine is your daughter. Every time she sees you she holds out her arms to you and--”
“She belongs to Mama. And you. I can barely look at her. She only reminds me of how awful my life was. Awful and horrid. I don’t want her. I never did.”
“What the devil do you want? My God, Patricia, what is it you think you’re going to have now? Are you going to live in sin with him, then? Are you going to try to divorce Dale? I can’t believe you would--”
Patricia sighed almost wearily. “John is going to write, I am going to inspire him, and Dale can go to hell.”
“Are you planning to say good-bye to anyone? Are you going to run off in the dark of night and--”
“Whom should I say good-bye to, Lilly? My family who can barely tolerate me? I really don’t know what I’ve done to earn the absolute scorn of everyone around me. I made a dreadful mistake in marrying Dale, and when I discovered it, I went to Grandmother and begged her to let me come home! Once I had been tied to a bed and nearly killed, I was allowed home, but to what? To a prison! Your hotel, you said. I was not allowed to socialize with the guests, help the family entertain. I was never a good enough mother, daughter, sister. All any of you ever did was complain about me, constantly.”
“Patricia, let’s try,” Lilly said. “Let’s try to mend our fences. Don’t run away.”
“No, Lilly. I’ve finally found something I’m good at. John understands me, he thinks I’m wonderful, and he never criticizes me or makes me do things I don’t want to do. He isn’t a very public person, but he doesn’t mind that I am. I talk about him when he doesn’t wish to talk about himself. People, I’ve found, are very interested in me--they notice that I’m
like the woman in his book and they like talking to me.
“I have nothing here. No one cares about me here. Everyone cares what people might think. Everyone calls me selfish! Why should I stay where I’m not wanted?”
Lilly suddenly recalled that carriage ride home from the Montaine household just after Katherine’s birth. “If we could get Patricia a position on a throne where she is worshiped…”
“What could we have done, Patsy?” she asked. “What could any of us have done to make you happy?”
“You could have brought me into the family. All you did was give me a bed and tell me to behave myself! You could have treated me like one of you rather than the naughty girl who ran away from her marriage! You could have been proud of me when I inspired a whole novel, but you were ashamed of me! All of you! You invite that wretch into my home to visit his child. You won’t let me go to the parties because someone might notice me and figure out that I’m not with Dale, and you wouldn’t pay any attention to me ever.”
“How will John make you happy, Patsy?”
Patricia’s eyes were clear. She lifted her chin in that notorious defiance that she had been born with. “He will do as he’s always done--tell me he understands how I feel and that I deserve to have what I desire because I am good. He’s kind and gentle and strong in ways no one understands. He thinks I’m smart. You’re the only one allowed to be smart here! And now he is also rich. He’ll deny me nothing! He will never force anything on me that I don’t want! To him I am something I have never been to any of you--I am important.”