Anna Godbersen - Envy
More than anything, though, her thoughts marched relentlessly back to Henry, and how she had been near him again after so many months. He had worn a tuxedo to dinner and given her only fleeting looks. But he had said that he still wanted only her, and that was enough kindling for her imagination. Now every time he touched his wife she saw his scorn; each time he so much as turned his dark eyes in Diana’s direction she felt the brush of lips against her throat. There was no sleeping after that. She was like a heroine in a novel that she herself was writing; the character kept protesting that she was too strong for love, and yet the narrator went on describing her desire.
So she had taken off, at a pace that might have been better suited to a jaunt in the park, down the aisles of the train. She had no destination and, in any event, resided more in head than body. Parts of the country that she had never seen and ordinarily would have been curious about were passing in the windows, illuminated by moonlight, but she did not pause to look. Time passed and she continued in the same way. The only thing that stilled her restless walking was the sound of her own name, followed very quickly by the feeling of hands on her arm.
She spun and focused her gaze on the man whose path she had crossed. They were in a narrow passageway — her back was against a paneled wall, and Henry Schoonmaker was standing in front of her, the golden quality of his skin obvious even in the dim light. His eyes were a little puffy, she couldn’t help but notice, and they were on her, boring into her, the way a man just coming out of the desert might stare at a glass of water.
“Di, I’m sorry,” he whispered wearily.
She glanced up and down the corridor to make sure no one was watching them. He had caught her at a windowless juncture, and there was only the light of a few sconces. “Whatever for?” she replied, her voice straining in an attempt to sound careless and witty.
She inhaled the familiar smell of him, of cigarettes and musk and all those other undefinable masculine things, and she wondered if he wasn’t maybe a little drunk. She wondered how he could drink — she herself felt entirely too light-headed already, just from being in his general vicinity. Then he looked away, just long enough to catch his breath and let his eyes dart right and left before settling on her again.
“Your being here is such a risk. If Penelope told anyone what we have been to each other it would never be the same for you. I fear I’ve been very selfish….” Diana was distracted by Henry’s broad, aristocratic face, with his long, narrow eyes and fine nose and the lips, which she wanted, even now and against all her better judgment, to press her own against; she had lost track of what he was saying. “If that is the case, I am so sorry.”
“I’m not,” she said.
“Oh, Di,” he replied hoarsely.
She was acutely aware of the speed with which the floor she stood on was passing over the earth, rendering landscapes and idle observers blurry, if only she could see them. She herself felt blurry and rushed. One part of her wanted to listen to Henry for hours, but another part — the one that was all tingly — knew that someone might come down the aisle at any moment and see a married man in a dark corner with a vulnerable girl. Then she would never find out how this story ended.
The train rattled on its tracks, the movement of the car unsteadying Henry, so that suddenly he was much closer to Diana. He was still looking at her with those ardent eyes, and for a brief moment she was sure that the same idea was in both their minds.
Diana’s lips parted. He was close enough to her now that she could feel his pulse, which was quick. Her breath had grown short, and she knew his had too, because she could feel it against her face. He hesitated for another second, and then a door opened at the end of the car. All the loud, outside noises broke the moment. Diana turned her head toward her shoulder and Henry lowered his chin. They would have to move fast. He let his hand run down her arm and across her fingers, and then he turned and walked toward that opened door, his shoulders squared with the old, inveterate entitlement. A moment later, she heard him intercept the porter.
Diana turned left and hurried in the opposite direction. There was plenty more train to walk, and already she knew that she wouldn’t sleep at all that night.
Fifteen
A woman coming out of mourning, especially if it is her husband who has passed, must be ever vigilant of her nerves. I have known not a few ladies who, when they went back into society, with its excess of voices and tendency to overstimulate, saw stars, became dizzy, and had to be taken hastily to bed.
— VAN KAMP’S GUIDE TO HOUSEKEEPING FOR LADIES OF HIGH SOCIETY, 1899 EDITION
“OH, LIZ, IT’S SO GOOD TO HAVE YOU ALL TO MYSELF away from the city.” Penelope approached at a rapid gait and reached for her old friend’s hand. Over her hostess’s shoulder, Elizabeth could see the bobbing heads of the other guests, and perhaps she made a doubtful face, because Penelope went on quickly: “Or all to ourselves, rather, which is the next best.”
Elizabeth managed not to appear disgusted by these false sallies and opened the small roundness of her mouth into a generous smile. Yesterday, after the train had finally departed and after so many hellos, and also after being corseted by the train’s on-call lady’s maid and rouging her once-famous alabaster complexion so that it did not appear quite so deathly, she had felt a little tired. This was to be expected, and anyway, she didn’t mind so much, because every time she grew weary, she knew she might find her eyes drifting shut, and then she might be with Will for a time. But this morning she was feeling better than she’d expected, not in the least because of the contented little sighs that Diana had let out in her sleep. She was glad that she had helped her little sister come on this trip, and that knowledge made her feel not so weak.
“What a lovely and gracious hostess you are, Penny,” Elizabeth replied as she drew her onetime friend closer to her. She had known Penelope for some time, and was quite aware how little she cared for that diminutive.
They made a pretty picture, which had probably been one of the former Miss Hayes’s motivations in befriending her in the first place. Their long necks were both emphasized by high collars — intricate, shimmering lace for Penelope, fine blue cotton for Elizabeth — and their narrow waists were showcased by fitted tailoring. The girls’ opposite coloring set each other off. Elizabeth had taken a little extra care with her hair that morning, and it rose in a hazy blond cloud over her forehead. She looked back once and saw her sister give a little exhale of disapproval, and then she focused the full force of her social capabilities — what was left of them — on the dining car’s private room, where breakfast was being laid out on silver trays.
“You’ve lost so much weight since the fall, we’ll have to get some food into you quickly,” Penelope went on as they swept into the room. Elizabeth noted the subtle sadism of that last bit, but chose to ignore it as they joined the rest of the party, who were gathered in a loose group just beyond the door.
A long table was placed below a gothic ceiling of carved and engraved walnut with arched windows set high above them to let in the morning light. Penelope passed Elizabeth off to Teddy Cutting, who escorted her to her place at the table. She had been glad when she saw his name in the paper, alongside her own, in the column that reported notable departures from the city, and had felt a kind of relief at his presence in the dining car that morning. Teddy did not play games like the rest of their peers. He pulled her chair back, and she tried not to reveal the dizziness that came upon her as she sat. Penelope’s brother, Grayson, who was wearing a coat the color of a dove’s wing, took Diana’s arm, and Henry took Lina’s, and they all moved to the table, the gentlemen pulling back chairs and then seating themselves so that no lady sat beside a member of her own sex.
Elizabeth smiled — faintly, but with the old grace — as Teddy took the napkin resting on her silver plate, shook it open, and laid it across her lap.
“Thank you, Mr. Cutting,” she said. “But I’m not an invalid, you know.”
Teddy glanced at her, but only for a polite moment of mute, gray-eyed concern. His blond hair wore less pomade than usual, although it did by habit part on the left side of his head and cross to the right. She had not seen him since last September, when he visited her family on Sundays, when people still did such things.
“I know,” he replied after a moment. “It’s only that you seem so delicate after your…trials, and one always wants to protect you.” He paused and took a long sip of water. “I find myself always wanting to.”
Elizabeth felt her cheeks blushing, as much because of his earnest tone as his familiar words. But Teddy was an old friend and a constant gentleman, and she supposed it was normal for him to have spoken to her with such care, just as she supposed the word always had no special connotation. Nobody else seemed to have noticed. He picked up a tray of scones and proffered it to her. The train rattled on through the countryside and Henry, who was sitting at the head of the table on her right, looked absently into his juice as his wife spoke loudly of Newport cottages and favorite architects and other things very few people could afford.
“I find his work utterly self-aggrandizing,” came Leland’s reply with blazing animation. He expressed everything with his whole body and with total conviction, as Elizabeth remembered him doing when he was more of a boy. It was just one of the characteristics that set him apart from his peers. “Although I appreciate the Islamic influences that he occasionally incorporates. Their architecture is so fascinating to me, all the minarets and mihrabs, all the arches and tiles, all that intricate calligraphy. Did you know that they use the calligraphy in decoration because images are forbidden? Oh, yes…”
Elizabeth smiled privately, thinking how frustrated Penelope must be to have engaged herself in a conversation in which she was destined to be the less active participant. Leland, meanwhile, continued unabated, as though delivering a sermon. Beside him sat Lina, wearing a suit of light brown herringbone trimmed in dark brown velvet. Everything she wore looked ill-fitting in the way that brand-new things often do; none of her clothes had yet softened to her body, and they seemed to be occasionally laughing at the less than fluid way she moved in them.
That was uncharitable, Elizabeth admonished herself. For though she had not quite gotten over the discomfort of seeing her former maid socially, losing Will made it difficult to sustain a feeling of hatred for anyone not made of pure evil. And of course what Lina had said at No. 17 was true — she had loved Will too, and so she couldn’t be all bad. She did look pretty in a way, Elizabeth could see now. With her lichen-colored eyes and her hair done up, she reminded Elizabeth of her childhood nurse, Lina’s mother, who was beautiful and kind and always so calm amidst the Hollands’ chaos.
Elizabeth broke off a ladylike portion of scone and put it into her mouth, hoping that a bit of solid food would have a steadying effect. She felt Teddy watching her, and tried to smile at him reassuringly. Just then the train went round a bend. She became aware of how fast they were going and had to reach out to steady herself on the table. The curve had destabilized everything else in the dining car too, it seemed. The cups trembled in their saucers, and the serving bowls on their platters. Everyone stopped taking, except Leland, who always moved so restlessly that perhaps he was uncomprehending of the train around him. He gestured wildly and his hand met with a carafe of water, which tipped, trembled, and eventually splashed Lina. Elizabeth’s eyes darted to her. For a moment the former maid looked as though she’d dropped a strand of pearls and was watching as they broke apart and rolled away on a hard marble floor.
