Hers the Kingdom (35 page)

I lay awake in the heat, afraid to let myself think about it all. Afraid to admit the mortification of being wrong, utterly wrong, about McCord. The idea was too large to confront: I was too frightened to consider it in the dark.
Connor had been a lie . . . nothing about him had been true.
I could not bear to think of it, not yet.

     I lay in my lonely bed and tried not to think of Connor, tried not to think of my sister, of what agonies she would be enduring. I heard them mount the stairs together, Willa and Owen. I heard the door close on the room they had not shared for many long months. I wondered if it ever would be morning again.

WILLA MADE HER way through the days that followed as if performing a curious kind of penance. She answered Owen's every need, and the children's. She was at their command, ready to do whatever was wanted of her. She did not seek the solitude I was sure she longed for, she did not ride off on Princess into one of the canyons or quiet sea beaches which might, by their very beauty, ease her pain. She could not allow herself the luxury of solitude; she did not believe she deserved it. Had Willa been of a religious temperament, she might have sought out a church and spread herself recumbent before the altar. But for Willa there was no altar, no confessional, only this domestic atonement for her sins.

     Her sin. She was guilty of the sin of believing in Connor. She was overcome with self-loathing now, was awash with disgust for that which she had committed, the sin of false belief. Connor McCord had been an article of faith for Willa. The death of that faith had thrown her into a purgatory. Outwardly, she seemed not much changed. Only a tightness in the muscles about her mouth, the set of her jaw, betrayed the gnawing within. I feared for her, I
ached for her, and I could not think how to help her through this terrible time.

     For Owen, the event seemed to pass quickly enough. He spoke of it for a few days, angry and incredulous that Connor could have deceived us so. He called him a hoaxer, a serpent, a Judas, a cheat. He was full of righteous indignation, and then—for Owen, at least—it seemed to be done, forgotten.

     But Willa would not forget, and neither would I. It would be months before she could bear even to think of Connor. She pushed him away from her waking thoughts, she locked that part of her away forever, sealed it off as completely as she could. She intended to erase the summer of her thirty-first year from her consciousness. If she did not sleep well, it was because Connor invaded her dreams. Dark circles beneath her eyes attested to the struggle.

     I felt that I knew something of Willa's mortification for I, too, had been duped by Connor. I had not doubted him, had accepted all he said as the truth, though in retrospect I could see my mistakes—the unexplained absences, the trips to Calabasas, vague references to business opportunities. We had not thought him to be secretive at the time, which only showed how gullible we had been, Willa and I. Trusting and stupid and deluded and terribly gullible. We who had thought ourselves to be so clever and daring, not bound by ordinary convention. We had been, instead, smug and silly as girls—and unutterably dense, not to have so much as suspected. If I could feel such mortification, I could only imagine Willa's.

     I did not try to talk to Willa about Connor, not then. I think I knew that she needed to excise him from her mind, that she could survive this time only if we were very careful.

     She walked upright, straight. Often it seemed to me as if she were sleepwalking. Once, quite by accident, I came upon her out behind the chicken shed. She was bent over, clutching her knees and moaning. She thought she was alone, and I slipped away before she could see me. I did not doubt the terrible toll that summer was
exacting. All I could do to help was to wait, wait and hope that she could maintain her composure until the wound closed. Willa needed healing time.

     There were distractions enough. Owen, even ailing, saw to that. He imposed his rhythm on our lives; people began to appear. Sara and Charles were the first of our old friends to come for a weekend outing.

     Sara came a day ahead of her husband, so that we might have a private visit. As soon as I saw her buggy, I moved to meet her, not even caring that she see my curious running side step, or my hips heaving up and down in my hurry.

     "I had no idea you were back," I called out to her.

     She accepted my worried look and welcome kiss and said, "Some things don't happen. Italy with Charles didn't happen, Lena. That's all."

     "That's all!" I repeated, "But Sara, you were looking forward to it. It was your
wedding
trip."

     Sara only shrugged. "Let's go for a ride on the beach as soon as we can get away," she murmured, and I nodded. There was much I wanted to say to Sara, though at that moment I had no idea if I would speak to her of Connor McCord. Sara seemed to be carrying her own burden, and I would not want to add to it, I thought.

We dismounted at the water's edge, tied our shoes onto our saddles and walked slowly down the beach, leading the horses and letting the water lap about the hems of our dresses. The weight of the wet cloth and the sand on my bare feet felt strangely comforting.

     "I heard about McCord," Sara said. "Were you surprised?"

     "Surprised?" I answered, my voice thick with irony, "oh, yes. Very surprised."

     "I wondered . . ." she started, then stopped. I turned to look at her, still not knowing how much I would say.

     "What does it all mean—Connor McCord, that business? Willa introduced us, remember? On the beach that day. It struck me as strange at the time, the way she called him over—with such elaborate respect. It seemed important to Willa, then. I've been curious."

     I took a deep breath. "We felt that way about Connor—both Willa and I did," I said (realizing that I was protecting Willa, even with Sara). "We trusted him and we liked him, that's what makes it all so confusing. That we could have been so
wrong
about the man."

     "Yes, it is confusing," Sara answered, deep in thought. "There is to be a trial. Charles told me. It's to be heard by one of his cronies, Judge Peal."

     I knew that I was not going to be able to talk about it, not even to Sara. "Someday I'll tell you all about our friend Connor McCord, opium smuggler," I said, with a laugh that sounded bitter, I knew, "but not now, not yet. Now I want to talk about you. We haven't had a chance to speak privately since your marriage—and I want to know how you are, how everything is. How marriage is." She smiled and made a funny face.

     We tied our horses to a water-worn log that had washed up on the beach, and we sat in the sun, our dresses spread to dry. A crust of sand ringed the hems and now and again a glint of mica sparkled.

     "I cannot tell you how good it is to be here with you," Sara said. I leaned toward her until our shoulders touched. She added, "It is good to know that there is someone in this world I can talk to."

     "Not Charles, then?" I asked gently.

     "Oh, I always could talk to Charles in a certain way," she answered, squinting out to sea. Waves were breaking evenly, and every fourth or fifth wave hit with a crashing boom. "Charles is honest with me, there are no lies between us, not even kind ones. We laugh together. He trusts me, to a certain extent. I think he trusts me as much as he can anyone." She was, I could see, trying to tell me what there was between them, and in doing so only emphasized what there was not.

     "Why didn't you go to Italy?" I asked. "Owen said it was business, that Charles was called back here."

     "Oh, that was the reason Charles gave," Sara answered slowly, "but it was an excuse. Charles just didn't want to go. And he is good at not doing what he doesn't want to do."

     "But it was all planned," I objected. "You wanted so much to go, and he had agreed."

     "No, he didn't really," she said in a steady voice. "I wanted it, and I happened to mention a trip to Italy in the presence of Father Emory. Nothing would do, then, but that he give us the trip as his wedding gift. But I knew we wouldn't go, Charles didn't pretend to me."

     "How did Charles explain the cancellations to Mr. Emory?" I asked.

     Sara laughed. "He didn't have to. You see, when we were in Washington, Charles went to see quite a number of politicians— some of whom fall in the family retainer category—and he managed to stir them up enough to secure the right of way to some New Mexico land that Father Emory has been coveting. Of course, Charles had to come back to secure the arrangement. Italy was a small price to pay for such a grand business advantage, Father Emory agreed."

     I sat quietly, trying to understand why Sara had no anger in her. As if reading my thoughts she explained, "Lena, listen to me. I was disappointed, yes, but not surprised and not angry. It would have been nice had Charles wanted to go, but he didn't. I wish there had been some way that you and I could have gone instead, but I couldn't think of how to make that happen." She laughed, thinking of what people might have said. "I would have been far happier going with you—perhaps we can arrange a tour next year, do you think? I'm taking art lessons, did I tell you? I've always sketched and you know how much I love going to museums. I may even have some talent."

     I was not about to be diverted. "You haven't told me yet about . . . about your
matrimony."

     She grinned at my choice of words. "There is nothing to tell," she said in a quiet voice.

     I looked at her strangely.

     "Sara, I don't mean to pry . . . if you don't wish to talk . . ."

     "You would never pry," she answered. "I am a wife in the carnal sense, yes. Just that. Charles drank quite a lot on our wedding night and introduced me to the married state. For me, it meant a certain amount of pain and some bleeding, which I am told by some of my friends is normal for the first time. I felt only relief when it was over. I suppose it was no better for Charles, for he hasn't repeated the gesture."

     I sat up and looked at her, aghast.

     "Have you spoken to him of it?" I wanted to know.

     "No," she said.

     "But you must . . ." I began, and stopped when I realized I had no idea what she must do, or why.

     "The marriage has been consummated," she said, as if trying to explain something to me. "For legal purposes that is enough." She gave me a small, wry smile. It was all she wanted to say. I could feel myself frowning; I could not drop the subject.

     "I've tried to make you understand," Sara said with a sigh. "Charles is fond of me in a certain way. But I cannot expect more, and I never intended to, you know."

     "A child, you expected a child," I reminded her.

     "I had
hoped
for that, yes. But it was always just that, a hope." She was biting her lower lip.

     "I am prepared for that not to happen, is what I am saying," she murmured.

     Because I could think of nothing better to say, I commented, "At least, Helen is out of the way."

     "Helen?" Sara answered, "Helen's visiting now."

     I looked at her in amazement. "Where?" I asked, "visiting who?"

     "Charles," she said.

     "You mean Helen and Charles are at your house in Pasadena now?" I blurted, indignant.

     "At Charles' house," she corrected me. "It never was mine. That is written in the marriage contract."

     "Nor, it seems, was Charles," I said bitterly. "Was that written in the marriage contract, too?" I lay back, suddenly exhausted.

     "That is what I have been trying to tell you all along," Sara told me patiently. "Charles gave me a name, a legal status. That was all, and I know you think it wasn't enough—but for me it is quite a lot."

     "Helen got her legal status, too," I could not help but say, "along with your husband. At least you share the same name."

     Sara looked out to sea, then she turned to look me in the face. "Helen and I do have that in common, I suppose," she said without the slightest rancor.

     "Oh, you have nothing in common, nothing at all," I all but shouted. Suddenly the anger and confusion and humiliation and fear that had been building within me all summer long, like some great boil, burst. I was crying, sobbing. Not for Sara and not for Willa, not for Owen or Connor or Wen, but for me. For Lena Kerr, who bore the curse of having to know.

     We lay back against the rocks, Sara cradling me in her arms, and I cried for a long time. Someday, she whispered, we will talk about it all, everything. She knew, in the way she had of knowing, that my tears went beyond her own sorry situation, but she said nothing. The time would come when I would tell her all that I knew, but it was not now.