An Inconvenient Wife (3 page)

“I’m surprised he let you in,” I said.

William smiled. “I used my charm and told him I was with you. It wasn’t too difficult. I think he wants to go home.”

“Yes. I’m sure he does.”

“Your father said you were going to supper at Bayside.”

“I changed my mind.”

“So I gather.” William smiled again and came away from the pavilion to squat beside me. He looked as if he’d walked far in
his flannel suit and boiled shirt. When he took off his hat, his dark hair was pressed to his head, damp with sweat. “What
are you doing here, Lucy?”

“I was hiding,” I admitted.

“Hiding? From what?”

“Everything.”

“Ah. Everything.” He made a broad, sweeping motion. “The water, the beach, the parties, the music, your friends, your teas
. . . running away?”

“I was bored by their . . .” I bowed my head, embarrassed at what I was about to admit to him.

“Their company?” he teased. He tilted my chin so I had no choice but to look at him. His smile was gone, and I wanted to squirm
at the expression on his face. “Now, I know that can’t be true. Have you missed me this summer, Lucy?”

I pulled away from him and got to my feet quickly. The breeze blew the sand from my skirt into his face. I picked up my hat
and shook it too. Sand floated from its pale satin flowers like pollen. “Why should I miss you?” I asked him, and though I
meant my words to be careless and cruel, they sounded only fretful. “Have you written me a single letter? Sent me a single
word? Did we make some promise to each other that you would do so? You’re my father’s stockbroker. Why should I care what
you do?”

“Oh, Lucy, Lucy.” He barely blinked at the sand I’d thrown so rudely in his face. That smile was there again, and a twinkle
in his eyes. I turned so I would not have to see it and walked toward the water.

I heard him rustle in the sand, and then he was hurrying after me. “You did miss me, then.”

“I’ve been far too busy.”

“You’ve been sitting on the beach. Your father says you’ve been distracted.”

“As distracted as I might be over a romantic novel. The days are long here. It’s easy to get lost in . . . daydreaming. It’s
nothing to do with you.”

“That’s too bad,” he said. “So if I were to—oh, say if I were to ask you to marry me . . . you’d certainly say no.”

“Of course—” His words suddenly came to me, and I gasped and faced him, my boot sliding in the wet sand. “What did you say?”

He was expressionless. There was no smile, no teasing now. He said, “I’ve spoken with your father. I asked him for the right
to—”

“How dare you,” I said. “I’ve not heard from you for months. How dare you come here and surprise me this way.”

“Lucy—”

“No.” I backed away from him, holding up my hands as if I could keep him from me. Beyond him I saw the gatekeeper start from
his post, heading toward us as if he thought I was in danger. I waved at him and shook my head, stopping him before he could
come too close. “I thought you no longer cared for me. I was . . . To be truthful, I was not sure you ever had. You’ve never
said a word to me. . . . I’ve had no idea of your feelings. . . .”

“Of course you had,” William said gently, and he kept moving toward me, closer and closer, until I realized I’d been standing
still, no longer backing away. He captured me neatly with his hands before I could rally myself to move. “You’re no fool,
Lucy. Don’t act like one. You’ve known exactly how I felt. I thought you felt the same.”

“You never asked me—”

“Should I have, when it was so clear to me? I’ve treasured your smiles, darling. I’ve thought of nothing but you all summer
long.”

“But you didn’t write. You didn’t visit—”

“I’ve had no chance. I wanted to make sure everything was right, that I was secure enough to come to your father, to be a
viable suitor.”

“There was no need. He anointed you from the first,” I said bitterly.

“I’ve made him a fortune,” William said, without pride or arrogance; it was simply truth.

“And I’m your reward.”

He released me and stepped back. “Only if you want to be, Lucy.”

I saw the hurt in his eyes and felt ashamed for having put it there when the truth was as he’d said it. I did love him, and
I knew that I was merely punishing him for his inattention, for the hurt he’d caused me. But something in me would not let
me stop—it was a flaw, one that I’d fought often over the years. Now I did not even try to calm myself.

“I don’t know if I want to marry you,” I told him, feeling a dim satisfaction when he flinched. “How can I believe you truly
care for me? This summer I’ve seen no evidence of it.”

“Because you haven’t seen me—”

“Why is that, William?”

“I told you—”

“You said you’d been busy. Is this how it’s to be when we’re married? When you’re busy, I just won’t see you at home? You’ll
begin taking your dinners at the Knickerbocker or Union League—”

“Good God,” he said. He lurched forward, grabbing my arms and pulling me hard so I fell against his chest. “Do you really
think I could? Do you really think that I could keep from you a single moment longer than I must? Lucy, don’t you know me
at all?”

He held me away, and before I could answer, he kissed me.

I was twenty-five, and though I’d had suitors before, I’d never been kissed quite this way, so hard, with such need. I felt
ravaged there on the shore, breathless as he pulled away and stared at me in a way that brought heat into my face. It was
then that I first felt it: this sense that there was something hovering just beyond my knowledge, some vast landscape that
I could not recognize, could not begin to know.

The tide had crept up higher so we were both standing in the weak surf. It lapped against the leather of our shoes. Above
us, the gull keened and dipped; beyond us, the watchman turned discreetly away.

“We should . . . we should go,” I managed, pushing away from William. I was shaky, the hem of my skirt wet and dragging against
me as I tried to move. William took my elbow, steadying me until we had stepped onto firmer sand. I felt the press of his
fingers on my skin. I was too tender; it felt like a bruise.

“Marry me,” he whispered, and his voice called to some yearning deep within me, something untried, that had only just been
summoned. When I looked at him, I knew that whatever this feeling was, it was not mine alone.

“Yes,” I said.

That feeling did not go away. In the years since, it had grown stronger, until that odd yearning left me restless and weary.
I had assumed children would silence it, and when there were none, I thought I should put my energies into filling the world
with beauty. But William only laughed at my efforts: I was not a good pianist, and he was the much better singer. My father
told him that as a girl, I had become unhealthily obsessed with art, so William brought me embroidery silks and gave me carte
blanche to shop.
Make
my
world more beautiful, Lucy. I should like to come home to a palace of peace and contentment.

Foolishly, I had agreed with him; I had thought being the queen of his castle might be enough. But that strange longing began
to create its own place within me. Only the laudanum helped ease it.

William did not think the morphia was healthy, and I deferred to him; I did not take it as often as I wanted. Not in the morning,
nor before a ball. Never—like tonight—before the opera, though my anxiety was such that I could barely fasten the diamond
earrings William had given me. I glanced at the dark bottle on my dressing table, and Moira paused in brushing out my cape
and said, “Should I bring it to you tonight, ma’am?” My throat constricted in want of it.

But William would know, and he would be angry, and I was tired of seeing that desperate concern in his eyes, so I shook my
head and turned back to the mirror, finishing my toilette before I went downstairs to find William pacing the hall. He stopped
when he heard me and grinned as if he could not contain himself.

“What?” I asked. “What is it?”

“Only that you’re so beautiful,” he said.

“That is certainly not why you’re smirking like a fool.”

“No. I’ve a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” I could not help my dismay.

“I know you dislike surprises. But not this one, I think.”

“What is it?”

He clucked at me. “Not yet. Not yet.”

I could not explain, but I felt anxious again, and afraid. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Moira coming down
the stairs with my cape, and I grabbed hold of the newel post and said in a quiet voice, “Moira, will you bring me my cordial,
please?”

“She’ll do no such thing,” William said. He held out his hand for my cape, and Moira, that stupid girl, hesitated between
us, until she gave it to him and curtsied and slid past me. William draped my cape over my shoulders and handed me my bag.
“Come along, Lucy. Don’t spoil it.”

He propelled me to the door, out into the cold evening. The air was clear and frozen, with small, dry flakes of frosted snow
swirling in the streetlights, blown by the wind. The black iron frets and anthemion of the front fence glittered with ice,
and beyond, Washington Square was silent, imprisoned by snow.

The carriage waited on the street; our driver, Jimson, was rubbing his hands together madly, trying to stay warm. Once we
were inside the carriage, William sat heavily beside me, taking my gloved hand in his as if he wanted to anchor me there,
as if he were afraid I would fly out the window and into the world. In truth, had I been able to do that, I would have been
gone into that frigid air, breathing it so deep it stung my lungs.

Instead I looked out my window, watching the lights of Fifth Avenue flash by, until we jolted to a stop before the storied
citrus-yellow facade of the Metropolitan Opera House, and I was both relieved and anxious again. It was William’s way to deliver
surprises before crowds, to shower largesse and distinction before those who still did not quite respect his background. He
knew, too, that I would never challenge him before my friends, that I would feign the pleasure he wanted me to feel.

The door to the carriage opened, and William stepped down and waited as I came out. I took his elbow. His arm was like an
iron bar beneath my fingers. The doormen ushered us inside, into globe-lit brilliance that played off marble and gold and
elaborate chandeliers. The opera had already started as we went to our box, which was, as William was wont to say, one of
the finest in the house, near the middle of the first tier of boxes—the Diamond Horseshoe. My father’s name—or mine—would
have brought us such positioning, but William had made sure of it by doing some business for the Vanderbilts and had procured
this box well before the building was finished.

The talk and laughter were loud even above the music. William pushed aside the heavy plush curtains and stood back for me
to go inside. We arrived well into the performance, but it was early yet, and many of the boxes were empty, as they would
stay until near the second intermission.

William tapped my arm, and I reached into my bag for the opera glasses and handed them to him. I heard the little catch as
he opened them up, then the quiet clicking of his tongue as he surveyed the boxes.

“Julia Breckenwood is here sans Steven,” he leaned forward to whisper to me. “Ah, look at those diamonds at Daisy Hadden’s
throat. No doubt old Moreton is paying for last week’s indiscretion.” He handed me the glasses. “Look for yourself.”

I took them, but not to look at Daisy Hadden’s diamonds. I searched for Millicent, though I was not sure why. The intimacy
of the other night was an embarrassment to me. When I did see her, sitting in her upper box with her husband, looking back
at me with her own jeweled glasses, I glanced away, hoping she thought my attention had been elsewhere. Still, I sat until
the first intermission in a gloom of anticipation; she would search me out, I knew.

But it was not Millicent who arrived first at our box. It was Charles McKim.

He was an architect who was developing a reputation for designing homes, and though I knew of him, I had never met him. Nor,
I thought, had William. But when McKim entered our box, my husband nearly jumped in delight.

“Charles!” he said, shaking the man’s hand and patting him on the back. “How good of you to come.”

McKim nodded. “It was good of you to invite me. I confess I’ve been too busy this year to make many performances.” He looked
past William to where I sat and said, “This must be the lovely Mrs. Carelton.”

“My wife, Lucy,” William said. Then, to me, “My dear, this is Charles McKim. He’s an architect with McKim, Mead and White.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with your reputation, Mr. McKim.” I held out my hand, which he shook limply, his eyes lingering—as they
were meant to—on my diamond bracelet.

“I’m delighted to be working for you, Mrs. Carelton. I cannot tell you how pleased I am to be of service.”

“Working for me?”

“Your husband has graciously hired me to design your new home.”

“Our new home?” I looked beyond him to where William stood beaming with pride, and I realized that this was his surprise.

“What do you think, Lucy?” William asked. He seemed hardly able to stay still. “I’ve been planning it for months.”

“Planning . . . what?”

“That property on Fifth Avenue. I’ve decided to build. It’s time, don’t you think, that we leave the Row?”

I stared at him in shocked disbelief. Finally I said, “But . . . I grew up in that house.”

“It was fine twenty years ago, Lucy, but things have changed. Why shouldn’t we have a fine house? Everyone else has. Mansions
are going up daily. Certainly we should be among them. There’s electricity now. Electricity. Think of it—no more dim gaslight.”

“No doubt Mrs. Carelton would be ecstatic about the chance to decorate such a home,” McKim put in.

William came close to me and whispered, “What woman wouldn’t love the chance? You can shop all day if you like. It will take
your mind off—it will . . . ah, just think of it, Lucy.” He turned to McKim and said silkily, “As you can see, my wife is
quite overcome with excitement.”