Anna Godbersen - Envy
Penelope stood, so that her next statement would have the maximum impact. “I’ll pay your gambling debts if you keep the game up.” A crescent emerged at the left corner of her mouth when she saw the reaction to this in her brother’s face. He looked up at her very quickly, and his wide-eyed gaze remained on her as she moved toward the fireplace. She rested her right elbow against her left wrist, and brought her cigarette very elegantly to her lips.
“How did you know…?” He trailed off. “Anyway, where would you get the money?”
“You forget that I am a married woman. You know how much my allowance from Father is, and Mr. Schoonmaker gives me twice that monthly. I order all my clothes on the elder Mrs. Schoonmaker’s account, so you see, I have saved quite a bit.”
Grayson’s lips parted slightly as the possibilities began to sink in. He swallowed hard, and then he said: “What do you want me to do?”
Penelope smiled broadly now, and tossed the end of her cigarette into the fire. “Bat the mouse, Grayson, but harder this time, all right? Make her fall in love with you in a way that she’ll end up regretting forever.”
He put both of his feet against the floor, and rested his elbows against his knees.
“I know you’ve made lots of women feel that way already.” She could see that he was going to acquiesce, so she let her voice turn a touch patronizing now. “It won’t take too much effort.”
Penelope returned to her settee and took Grayson’s crystal snifter from the little regency side table and sipped. He must have been desperate, for he ignored her insinuation and looked up at her with focused eyes. “How soon can you have the money?”
Penelope opened her own large blues magnanimously. “Oh…as soon as you agree to wipe that aura of innocence off our little Di.” She let one eyelid fall in her signature smoldering wink. “And Grayson? Don’t bother being too discreet. It would be so much more fun if everyone”—by which she meant Henry—“knew she’d been compromised.”
Thirty Three
Miss Diana—
When I come by you are always
out. When I send messages to you,
it’s as though you’ve disappeared.
When you grow bored of torturing
me, please call at the Hayes
mansion for a visit.
— G. S. H.
DIANA LOOKED OUT HER WINDOW AT THE INEVITABLE snow that fell on the middle lot yards. She pushed a stray curl away from her nose and wondered at all that enormous feeling that remained within her, even after so many blows. It was now clear that she had deceived herself all those long months — and yet she still yearned for Henry. When she thought of him she thought of the breakers in Florida, which had swayed her back and forth during the day and then later on in bed, too, even when they were only a memory of sensation and the faintest sound in the distance. Henry was like that too — he still swayed her, even so long after the fact. She was tired of it. She closed her eyes.
Her small body slumped against the window frame and she tried to imagine that all the pull she felt in Henry Schoonmaker’s direction could be formed into a tight ball of newspaper and casually dropped into one of those fires that tramps made on street corners in weather like this. It would smolder to ash, and then the soft snowflakes would fall on top, melting and disintegrating it to nothing. When Diana opened her eyes, she knew that her trick of the mind had failed. She made a little petulant noise—“Gah!”—and pushed herself away from the sill. Somewhere in the house, Elizabeth was moving from place to place like a ghost that had an axe to grind with the living, and their mother was clasping and unclasping her hands. Every being in No. 17 was distracted, and so it was easy enough for her to locate a wrap and slip out the front door unnoticed.
“Will you place the bet for us, Miss Diana?”
Hearing her name out loud, in a shadowy house of chance — over the constant noises of dice hitting hardwood and cards mid-shuffle and pealing laughter — caused an uncontrollable shiver up the younger Holland girl’s spine. But then she reminded herself that all eyes were on the clubs and spades, or the black and red wheel, and that even if they had been curious about her, she wore a cat-eye mask dripping with black jet beads. Grayson had handed it to her when he met her at the door of the Hayes mansion, just before he whisked her into a waiting coach. He had kept a sheltering hand on her as she placed her foot on the little iron step, and his physical closeness had not abated since they arrived at the gambling hall somewhere on West Twenty-third. She had been unnerved by this at first, but she had come to see that — despite the red velvet seats and the chandelier that hung over them like some vast, illuminated jellyfish — this room was very different from all the rooms she had been in before. No one here was in the least shocked that she was positioned on Grayson Hayes’s lap, or that his hand went back and forth across her knee.
“But I don’t know how,” she cooed, like some ingénue in one of those French novels that she kept under her bed. She had been watching the roulette wheel spin, and had by that time figured out how the game was played. But she enjoyed feeling his broad arms come around both sides of her as he whispered in her ear what to do. The low-lit room was reflected in the vast ormolu-encrusted mirrors, which faced each other so that the scene of black-suited men clustered at tables across the carpeted floor and, here and there, a woman like her whose hair was still covered by her evening wrap, repeated over and over again.
The place Grayson had taken her to was a short drive but a long way from Gramercy or Fifth. Diana liked the idea that this distance brought her far from Henry, too. Oh, he was still there, thumping in her head, but now there was also Grayson, who, while hardly the same man, was at least in the same category of man. They wore the same bespoke suits, for instance, and carried similar cigarette cases, and harbored like dishonest intentions, and anyway, every moment she spent with Grayson, he eclipsed the memory of Henry a little more, so that soon she was fully in the blooming moment of spinning wheels and whirring ceiling fans and cigar smoke thick and dusky in the air, and there was no past and no future and only the man whose barrel chest she leaned back into a little dizzily.
A waiter in a deep purple waistcoat paused to refill her champagne glass — she was unused to having her glass refilled so casually, or so often. Grayson whispered again in her ear, but she didn’t hear what he said, and was not bothered by the fact. She placed their bet.
“Are you sure?” She could hear that he was a little frightened and a little thrilled by where she had placed their chips.
She only nodded and winked at the croupier, who called out for the rest of the men crowded around their table to place their bets. Then he let the roulette wheel spin and the little white ball fly in the opposite direction, above the blur. She closed her eyes and imagined that she was floating, that she was unattached to everything in the whole vast universe. That Gramercy was gone and money a game that children played at. She would have to go back to that sad house and her own sad room, but not just yet. She would go later. When she opened her eyes again, the ball had fallen into a pocket.
She blinked and it was only a moment later that she realized that the pocket corresponded to the single number on which she had put every one of their remaining chips. All around them, gamblers gasped and clapped Grayson on the shoulder. She felt his hands tighten around her, one palm on her belly, and then he brushed his lips against her cheekbone.
“I can’t believe it,” he whispered. And then: “You must be my lucky charm.”
It took another few moments before she could believe it, either, and then she was able to finally take a breath. Perhaps it was the sweet fizz of the champagne, or this very foreign realm she had too easily slipped into, but she did feel, in that moment, anyway, very lucky, or very lovely, or whatever it was he had said.
She threw back her head and laughed, raising her small white arms into the air, full of some feeling approximate to joy.
Thirty Four
My readers know that I am exceedingly honest, and that I strive to give every question its full and most accurate answer. Yet, there are some things that never go said, and that still each mother knows in her private way to do, in order to protect her young and innocent daughters from the harsh glare and opinion of the world. Try to think on such things only in the winter, and pray you do not have to keep too many secrets.
— MRS. HAMILTON W. BREEDFELT, COLLECTED COLUMNS ON RAISING YOUNG LADIES OF CHARACTER, 1899
ELIZABETH PAUSED AT THE DOOR. SHE HAD BEEN hoping that if she lingered before knocking, her slight shoulders might cease to shake. But she had been there some minutes already now, and she was no steadier than when she’d arrived. On the other side of the door was the morning room, where so much of the work of the house was done by the Holland women’s own hands these days. Her mother liked to crochet and worry there, crochet and worry, although when that lady went into the room after dinner she had still believed her greatest trouble was that her daughters had gone to Florida and back without securing marriage proposals. Elizabeth raised her fist to knock; she was going to have to tell her mother that there was something else to worry about, and better to do it before the physical evidence became overwhelming.
“Come in,” was Mrs. Holland’s sharp reply.
Elizabeth came around the cracked door. She had chosen an old dress of rich brown muslin, with a high waist and puffed sleeves, although inside she was all white fear. The gown was too large for her in some places and too small in others, and it blended with the dark stained wood of the room so that Elizabeth’s soft, pale heart of a face must have seemed almost to float as she leaned back into the door to press it closed. This invisibility did very little to alter the heaviness she felt within, for she was weighed down by all the things she had done and could not take back. She had meant to live only for the good of her family, but now she carried in her a stark fact that would make them suffer all over again.
“What is it?” The quality of Mrs. Holland’s black eyes changed when she saw her daughter; she brought her chin up and the skin of her throat tightened, for perhaps she already sensed some very large piece out of order. There was a fire going beside her, which flickered in her watchful eyes. She put down her hook and yarn and appraised her daughter, before gesturing gently that she should approach.
Elizabeth crossed the room and sank down beside her mother. The older woman’s face was hard as always, with its tough lines around the thin mouth, but she gazed at her daughter with an imperturbableness that had warmth deep at its core. “Tell me,” she urged.
And then Elizabeth did. Her confession came in tumbling breaths and was punctuated with little sobs. “Before Will…before he died, we were…as one, as man and wife….” She paused to put her forehead against her mother’s knee. There was some wetness on her lashes, and she did not want it seen. “And now I believe…I know.” She gulped air. “I know I am. In a family way.”
