Somewhere in Time (24 page)

"Please let me think," she answered. It was neither command nor plea but somewhere in between.

The atmosphere was hardly lightened by the passage of two men discussing the wretched appearance of the beach. It was garbage, I learned. The hotel's garbage scow repeatedly failed to go beyond something they referred to as "the ballast point." Accordingly, all "dumped detritus" floated back to "befoul the beach."

I looked at Elise abruptly. "Do you have to leave tonight?" I asked.

"We're scheduled to be in Denver by the twenty-third," she said. It was not exactly an answer, I thought, but it would have to do.

Reaching out, I took her hand in mine and held it tightly. "Forgive me again," I said. "I no sooner finish telling you that I don't mean to pressure you than I do that very thing." I felt a twinge of new uneasiness as it occurred to me that the phrase "pressure you" might sound foreign to her. My uneasiness increased as I found us starting back toward the hotel. I wanted to say something to restore the feeling we had experienced while walking in silence, but nothing came to me which might not aggravate the situation even more.

A couple passed us, the man wearing a long black frock coat and a high hat, a cane in his hand and a cigar between his lips, the woman wearing a long, blue dress with matching bonnet. They smiled at us in passing and the man crimped the brim of his hat and said, "We are looking forward to this evening with much anticipation, Miss McKenna."

"Thank you," she replied. And I felt even worse, now reminded, once again, that I had chosen to fall in love with no less than a "Famous American Actress."

I 'wracked my brain for something to say which would alleviate this sense of mounting alienation. "Do you like classical music?" I asked. When she said she did, I responded instantly, "So do I. My favorite composers are Grieg, Debussy, Chopin, Brahms, and Tchaikovsky."

Mistake. I knew from the way she looked at me that I had lost far more than I'd gained, the impression I'd given being that of a well-researched suitor rather than a genuine lover of music. "My favorite composer is Mahler though," I added.

Her reply failed to register at first. I stared at her for several moments before it sank in that she'd answered, "Who?" Confusion tumbled my mind. The book had said that Mahler was her favorite. "You're not familiar with his work?" I asked.

"I've never heard of him," she said.

The feeling of disorientation was returning again. How was it possible that she had not heard of Mahler when the book had stated that he was her favorite composer? Immense confusion gripped me until I got the idea that, perhaps, I am the one to introduce her to Mahler's music. This being true, was more time between us indicated? Or had my mention of his name accomplished the introduction?

I was enmeshed in this conflicting thought when Elise turned to me and smiled; not a smile of love by any means but one I treasured nonetheless. "I'm sorry if I became remote," she said. "It's simply that I'm so confused. Pulled in two directions at the same time. The circumstances of our meeting and what there is about you that I cannot comprehend yet cannot turn away from draws me one way. My . . . well, suspicion of men draws me in the other.

"I must be honest with you, Richard. I've been dealing with approaches of men for many years now; without the least difficulty, I might add. With you-" Her smile was wan."-it is so difficult that I scarcely believe I am the same person I have been." She hesitated, then 'went on. "I know you understand that women are made to feel inferior as far as objective accomplishment is concerned."

That brought me up short. Not only a non sequitur but a statement of Women's Lib in 1896?

"Because of that," she went on, "women are forced into a state of subjectivity; that is, into making self more important than it should be-accentuating appearance and vanity rather than mind and capability.

"I have been spared this plight by my theatrical success- but spared at the cost of basic respectability. Females in the theater are distrusted by men. We imperil their world with our attainments. Even when they praise us for these attainments, it is in the lexicon of male acceptance of the female. Reviewers always write of actresses in terms of their charm or beauty, never of their skill in role delineation. Unless, of course, the actress under consideration is so old that the critic has nothing else left to mention."

As she spoke, two feelings vied in me. One was appreciation of the literal truth she spoke. The other was something akin to awe at being suddenly exposed to the depth of this woman I had fallen in love with. Clearly, I could not have seen this depth in a faded photograph and yet she possesses something I admire most in a woman-progressive individuality contained within a discreet nature. I listened to her fascinated.

"Like all actresses," she was saying, "I am imprisoned by this male requirement that only acceptable female attributes be displayed. I've played Juliet but I do not enjoy the role because I am never permitted to present her as a human being in travail, only as a pretty soubrette spouting flowery speeches.

"What I'm trying to say is that, because of my general background as a female and, particularly, as an actress, I have developed through the years a network of emotional defenses against the male attitude. My financial success has only thickened that network, adding yet another layer of suspicion toward any male approach. So understand, please understand: that I have been with you as much as I have is, in light of past actions, a miracle of altered outlook. That I have said these things to you goes beyond the miraculous." She sighed. "I have always tried to contain my predilection toward the occult because, as a female, I felt that it would have a tendency to vitiate resolve, make gullible a mind that needed to be strong and aware; in short, to make me vulnerable.

"Yet I can only attribute my behavior with you to that very partiality. I feel-there is no escaping it-as though I am involved in some ineffable mystery; a mystery which disturbs me more than I can say, yet one I cannot turn myself away from." She smiled forlornly. "Have I spoken a single word of sense?" she asked.

"It all makes sense, Elise," I said. "I understand-and have a deep respect for-every word."

She made a sound as though some kind of weight were being lifted from her shoulders. "Well, there is something anyway," she said.

"Elise, could we sit in your railroad car and talk about this?" I asked. "We're getting close to fundamental truths, we mustn't stop now."

This time there was no hesitation on her part. I felt a surge of response from her as she said, "Yes, let us sit and talk. We must go beyond the mystery."

Passing through the grove of trees and high bushes, we turned toward the railroad siding. Ahead of us was a small, white frame building with a miniature cupola on its top. Beyond it were the tracks, a growth of trees on each side of them. We walked past a small, planted island and turned left to the car. Reaching it, I helped her onto its rear platform.

As she unlocked the door, she said, not apologetically but in the nature of a simple fact stated simply, "It is more ornate than it need be. Mr. Robinson had it designed for me. I would have been as happy with a simpler decor."

Her comment did not prepare me for the spectacle before my eyes. I must have gaped for several moments. "Wow," I said, thoroughly non-Victorian at that point.

Her soft laugh made me look at her. "Wow?" she repeated.

"I'm impressed," I said.

I was. As she conducted me on a tour of the car, I felt as though I were in the presence of royal splendor. Paneled walls and inlaid ceiling. Thick carpeting on the floor. Richly upholstered chairs and sofas with great, puffy pillows, all in princely shades of green and gold. Ship-type lamps on gimbals, designed to burn erect whatever the sway of the car. Window shades with gold fringes on their bottoms. Money speaking in its loudest if least tasteful of tones. I was glad she'd told me that Robinson had it designed.

Beyond the parlor compartment of the car was her private sitting room. Here, the "ornate" quality she had mentioned became almost stifling. The carpeting was orange, the walls and ceiling quilted, the ceiling a light gold tone, the walls regal purple matched by that of the thickly upholstered sofa and chairs. Along the wall were a writing table and straightback chair with a small lamp hanging over them, its cloth shade the same color as that of the ceiling. At the end of the room was a paneled door in a blond color with a narrow, shade-drawn window on it. If I had misinterpreted Robinson's attitude toward Elise in any way, I could not fail to understand it now. To him, she was a queen-albeit one who, hopefully, would rule alone.

I wonder if the feeling started to arise when we were standing in the open doorway of her bedroom.

I find it difficult to believe that such an obvious evocation as the sight of her large brass bed could have been a determinant at a time like that, after everything that had been said about our mutual need for understanding.

Then again, perhaps it was exactly that symbolic reminder of the basic attraction between us which made us fall into a heavy silence as we stood there, side by side, looking into the shadowy compartment.

Very slowly, I began to turn toward her and, as though compelled to movement by the same wordless impulse, she, too, turned until we were standing face-to-face. Was it because, at long last, we were totally alone, apart from any threat of outside intervention? I don't know. I can only write with authority about the aura of emotion which was building, steadily and irresistibly, around us.

Reaching up as slowly as we'd turned to face each other, I took hold of her shoulders. She drew in sudden breath; at once an indication of her fear, perhaps a recognition of her need. Still slowly, very slowly, I drew her against me and, leaning over, pressed my forehead to hers. I felt the perfume of her shaking breath warm my lips and never have I known such fragrant warmth in all my life. She spoke my name, her voice muted, sounding almost frightened.

Drawing back my head a little way, I reached up further with my hands-still slowly, slowly-pressed one palm to each side of her face and tilted it back as gently as I could. Her eyes peered deeply into mine. She was searching for the last time, with a desperate, pleading need; as though she knew that, whether or not she found the answer now, involvement was upon her.

Leaning over, I kissed her softly on the lips. As I did, she shuddered and her breath flowed lightly in my mouth like warm wine.

Then my arms were around her, holding her close as she murmured, almost desolately, "I wish I knew what was happening; Lord, I wish I knew."

"You're falling in love."

Her reply was weak, defeated. "More fallen," she said. "Elise." I tightened my arms around her, my heart pounding. "Oh, God, I love you, Elise."

Our second kiss was impassioned, her arms around my back now, holding tightly, such strength in those arms that it astonished me.

Abruptly, then, she pressed her forehead to my chest, words pouring from her. "Acting is the only life I've ever known, Richard; I grew up in it. I thought it was the only way for me, that if I concentrated all my efforts on it, other things would follow and, if they didn't follow, that they weren't important. But they are, they are, I know they are. I have such a sense of need right now; a need to divest myself of--what shall I call it?-power? will? resources? Everything I've spent a lifetime building in myself. Here, with you, these moments I have such a longing to be weak, to give myself entirely, be taken care of; to release that bound-up woman from my mind, the woman I have held a captive all these years because I felt that it was what she needed. I want to let her go now, Richard, let her be protected."

She groaned. "Dear Lord, I can't believe these words are coming from my lips. Do you know how deeply you have altered me in such a short time? Do you? There has never been anyone; ever. My mother always told me that, one day, I would marry a man of wealth, a man of title. I never believed her, though. I knew, inside, that there'd be no one in my life. But now you are here; suddenly, so suddenly. Taking away my will, my resolution, my breath, Richard. And, I fear, my heart."

She drew back quickly, looking up at me, her lovely face suffused with color, eyes shimmering with tears about to fall. "I will say it; I must," she said.

At that very second, the most maddening thing that might have happened in the world did happen. Totally alone, did I say? Apart from any threat of outside intervention?

There was a knocking on the rear door of the car and what other voice in the entire universe but that of William Fawcett Robinson, calling loudly, "Elise!"

The impact on her was severe. In the instant she heard his voice, every motivation which had made her stay aloof from men so many years seemed to rush back and she jerked away from me with a startled gasp, twisting toward the rear of the car, her expression one of shock. "Don't answer him," I said.

Words on deaf ears. As Robinson called her name again, Elise stepped hastily to a mirror on the wall and, seeing her reflection, made a pained sound, both palms jumping to her flushed cheeks as though to hide them. Looking around, she moved hurriedly to a counter, poured a small amount of water from a pitcher to a bowl, and dipped her fingers in it, patting it against her cheeks. Compromised, I thought, the wonder being that I really felt that way. I was submerged in a perhaps absurd yet all too real and disquieting Victorian drama in which a woman of quality is caught in an intolerable trap, a trap which threatened, as they usually put it, "to tear the very fabric" of her social position. And it wasn't funny; it wasn't funny at all. I stood immobile, watching as she dried her cheeks, her lips pressed hard against each other, whether from anger or to keep them from trembling I had no idea.

Robinson called, "I know you are in there, Elise!" I'll be out in a moment," she answered, her tone so cold it chilled me. She brushed by me without a word and started through the sitting room. I followed numbly. He followed us, I thought. It was the only possibility.