The Elopement (2 page)

She remembered what the stranger had said about the quartet, and, feeling the urge to appear as worldly and witty as he’d seen her to be, she said to Michael Bayley, “Dear God, that violinist is blind as a bat. I don’t think he can see a note—and if he can, he’s certainly ignoring them.”

Michael Bayley’s smile was soft, as if he believed she could not possibly mean to be cruel. “He
is
blind. Did you not know? He plays by ear. He’s been blind since birth. He’s Mrs. Stephenson’s nephew. She brought him here as a favor to her sister.”

She felt terrible—crude and stupid, chastened, though Michael Bayley’s words had not been unkind. She would never have said such a thing before meeting the man on the balcony, and she was aware how much she must have fallen in Michael Bayley’s estimation, how much she’d fallen in her own. Surrounded by badly played music and the people she had known the whole of her life, she became herself again, and she breathed a sigh of relief over her near escape—how close she had come to disaster! When the dance was over, she fled to her father and begged him to take her home, pleading a headache.

She did not see the man from the balcony again that night, but she thought about him. She had a dream of him that woke her in the middle of the night, restless and flushed. It felt as if things weren’t over between them, though nothing had even
started
.

For two weeks, she found herself watching for him at every entertainment. He was not there. She began to think he was a figment of her imagination, and she was glad of it. She did not want to be tempted by such a man. She was afraid of what she might do with him. He had been so very
persuasive
, though he had done no persuading at all. And that was what frightened her most, that she was afraid he would lead her to do something she did not feel quite ready to do.

Enough time passed that she began to feel certain of herself again. She believed that if she saw him, he would not tempt her; she could not be led into . . . into whatever it was he had thought to lead her. She was not that woman. She could resist.

When she saw him next, it wasn’t at any entertainment at all, but an exhibition. She had gone with her father and Michael Bayley, whom she was growing to truly appreciate; he really was an honorable and decent man. She had stopped to look more closely at a pretty little still life of flowers—dahlias, which she loved, and the colors were so beautiful! How had the artist captured that little glimmer of light on the petals? She waved Papa and Mr. Bayley on, saying she would catch up in just a moment, and they were no sooner gone than she felt someone at her elbow. When she turned to see who it was, he was so close she nearly tripped into him.

“Why look who it is—my little temptress,” he said amiably.

She felt herself grow hot. “Hello. How nice to see you again, but I really must hurry off. My father—”

“And the estimable Mr. Bayley,” he finished. “Yes, I see the pathway to mediocrity laid well before you.” He caught her arm, imprisoning her as he whispered, “I waited an hour for you. What happened? I had not taken you for a coward.”

She did not like to be thought one either. She
wasn’t
. It was only . . . “I just . . . thought better of it.”

“Ah.” He leaned close.
“Coward.”

“I am
not
.” Dear God, she sounded juvenile.

He smiled as if he thought so too. His gaze went beyond her to the painted dahlias, and he winced. “Vulgar colors, aren’t they?”

She heard herself saying, “The orange is a bit bright,” and suddenly thinking it, when only moments before she had found it vibrant and enchanting.

His fingers gripped her elbow. “Come with me,” he said in a low, urgent voice.

And oh, she wanted to. She was stunned at how much she did. How was this possible? She didn’t know him. She had hardly spoken to him. And yet it seemed that he understood the things she desired—even when she had not known them herself until he said them. “I can’t. My father . . . Mr. Bayley . . .”

“Just for a moment,” he urged. “I won’t keep you long. Over here.”

He led her away from the painting, through the crowd, through a door she hadn’t seen before that led into an abandoned hallway. She had a moment, time enough to think:
Turn back. Don’t do this
, and then she was in a corner, and he was pressing to her, kissing her, and she had never been kissed like that before. It overwhelmed, it possessed. She found herself curling her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, wanting to lose herself in him. She felt burning and shivery all at once. When he finally drew away, she lost her balance—were it not for his hold on her, she would have fallen, her knees having completely given way.

She stared at him, unable to think, and he caressed her jaw and said, “I don’t think I can live without you.” It seemed a commandment of sorts; she felt it as an imperative she could not deny or refuse. When he said, “When can I see you again? Alone. Just you and me,” she heard herself say, “Whenever you wish. Wherever you wish.”

He had a lovely smile. His eyes were dark with a desire that fed her own. She was captivated. “The Fifth Avenue Hotel. Thursday, in the afternoon. Can you be there then? At three?”

It hardly mattered. He could have said midnight and she would have assented. She nodded, agreeing, and he kissed her again, hard and fleetingly, leaving only the briefest of tastes on her lips, and then she was back in the gallery, looking for her father and Mr. Bayley, feeling as if she’d been in a dream—or no, as if she were in a dream now, and the time with him, in the hallway, in his arms, had been the reality.

But once again, the magic of him did not linger. She was no sooner home, ensconced in her room, dressing for dinner, when she realized what she had done with such dismay that her maid said, “Are you quite all right, miss? You look ill.”

What spell had he cast upon her? Meet him at three at the Fifth Avenue Hotel? Was he mad? She could not do such a thing. Her place in society, everything she was . . . How dare he even ask her? Surely he knew the kind of woman she was?

And yet . . . perhaps he did not. After all, she had gone with him into that hallway. She had kissed him so wantonly—it embarrassed her now to recall it. What had she been thinking? Well, she would not do it. It was too much to risk. She was not what he thought her. She did not want to be. She could lose everything.

Thursday came. She did not go to the hotel. When the clock struck three, she called for tea, if for no other reason than to prove to herself that she was not tempted. She refused to think of him. She had supper with her father and listened to him speak of his investments and the news of the day and pretended she was not remembering a kiss, hands on her waist pulling her closer. She was not remembering the feel of the warm skin at his neck, her fingers winding in his curling hair. She was not thinking of him at all, or of his insult. The Fifth Avenue Hotel!

More weeks passed. Michael Bayley pressed his suit, and she allowed herself to think only of him. He brought her a little bird, a pretty white-and-blue canary that sang so beautifully. He said, “He reminded me of you—see how he tilts his head? How very thoughtful and intelligent he is. And sweet. I thought . . . I hoped that when you look at him you might understand how I think of you.”

Thoughtful and intelligent and sweet. The things she wanted to be, though sometimes his expectations felt too great—how could she be the woman he thought her? How could she be good and kind and honest, when the truth was that she knew herself to often tell little lies, to be impatient and sometimes cruel, to be good at feigning friendliness even to those she disliked? She could not bring herself to explain to Michael Bayley that sometimes she wanted to say exactly what she felt, that sometimes it seemed as if only the barest thread kept her from incivility. She wanted to be the kind of person who remembered to ask about someone’s sick nephew, or who cared whether one’s bunion or dyspepsia might be acting up. But she wasn’t. She never thought to offer a soothing word or give pennies to the poor, or to wonder—at least not until Mr. Bayley did—if the newsboys spent their nights on the street and whether they were cold. She liked him, and she did not want to disappoint him, but she felt an imposter when she was with him. She longed to say:
I am not who you think I am
, even as she rather wished she were.

But she wasn’t who her stranger thought she was either, and there were times when she wished equally that she’d given way to his blandishments. Sometimes, when she passed the Fifth Avenue Hotel, she thought of him and wondered what she had missed. She felt it as a shining opportunity she had tossed away with both hands out of fear—and was horrified at herself for thinking it. She had done what was best. What was right.

Fall was deeply entrenched. The leaves were falling in the park, brown and orange, red and gold. She loved the autumn, the crisp air scented with smoke and leaf dust, the rustle of fallen leaves crunching beneath her feet, dislodged by her skirts as she walked the path in the park, the tinge of frost in the air. She loved the soft fur of her collar snuggled tight about her throat, the feathers of her hat dipping in a faint breeze to brush against her cheek, the thick wools and deep colors that complemented her coloring. She had been made for fall.

And that was when she saw him again. There, in the park. She had been walking. It was only a short distance from her house, and she felt safe enough there to go alone, particularly in the middle of the day, and her father did not know that she often dodged the maid who was supposed to shadow her steps, or gave the girl a few coins to visit the confectioner’s, the two of them confederates in little lies and evasions, giddy at the merest of purchased freedoms. She had just been finishing the walk, turning from the path to the sidewalk for the few short blocks home. There was a brougham parked along the perimeter—which was not the least bit unusual and hardly worth her notice—and when she stepped off the path, she realized for the first time that a man leaned against the brougham, his dark coat and trousers blending him into the shining carapace. She would not have noticed him at all had he not said, “There she is again. My lovely, cruel siren. Did you find pleasure in luring my ship to crash against your rocks? Did you like to imagine my suffering?”

She recognized his voice with a shiver than ran so deeply through her it seemed to freeze her on the spot.

She looked up. In spite of his words, he was smiling—she had forgotten how she liked that smile. The amusement in his eyes was tempting; there was something in it that made her feel as if she
were
the siren he’d called her, a woman with the wiles to control him, to hold him. She felt powerful and brave. He was one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen, and that he wanted her, that she had the power to
make
him want her . . . it was exciting. She found herself smiling back at him.

He said, “I am still reeling from disappointment.”

“Surely you knew I could not meet you there. If anyone had seen me, my reputation . . .”

“I had thought you braver than that,” he said. “I had thought you ready to throw convention in their faces. I had thought you wanted to
live
.”

“Perhaps I am not so brave as you think.”

“Perhaps not. Perhaps you mean to fill your life with good works and pray upon the altar of the Astor gods and fill your gardens with Nymphes and fig leaves. Perhaps you are truly one of them, and I’m wrong. But I’ll tell you a secret: that night, when you stood on that balcony with me and looked upon the stars and laughed when I sent Constance away . . . ah, how could I resist you? I knew you were like me.”

She couldn’t remember—had she laughed? She didn’t think so, but suddenly she wished she had. She wanted him to see her just that way. Wicked and clever. Like him. Unfettered by social demands, saying whatever he thought, doing whatever he wanted. She wanted to be as brave as he wished her to be. She wanted to throw convention in their faces. She wanted to live heedlessly and well.

His eyes glittered. He opened the brougham door and said, “Will you come with me?” and she saw the kiss they’d shared in his eyes.

She said, “Yes,” and stepped into the carriage. He came inside with her and shut the door, and then . . . and then . . . they did not go anywhere at all. The brougham stayed parked, and he kissed her until she was boneless, until she had no will but his, and when his fingers crept to the fastenings of her cloak, she let him undo it. She let it fall to the floor. His hands were all over her, and she pressed to him, and there was a part of her that thought
I won’t do this. I will stop this any moment. It won’t go further
,
and then it did. It went on and on, until her breasts were bare—how impossible. How had he done that? How had he loosened her corset without her knowing it?—and his hands were dark against the paleness of her skin, his mouth pressing, demanding.
It will end here
,
she thought.
I will stop it in a moment.
But she didn’t. Her skirt was up around her thighs, petticoats and satin bunched at his elbows, cascading over his shoulders as his hands crept to the bare skin above her garters—he had got past the fortress of her clothing so easily, all her armor. She twisted beneath his hands and his mouth; she wanted only to feel more of him. There and there and
there
, and dear God, she should stop it now, she should say no, she
would
say no, and then he was between her legs and pressing deep—was there supposed to be this pain? She cried out, and he captured her mouth with his, kissing her silent, and the pain was gone. He was rocking against her and they were both panting, the rhythm of their breathing a strange and rasping song, so loud in her ears, and she was lost in sensation, in pleasure that made her forget how mired she was in ruin.

When it was over, he helped her dress, kissing away her flush of embarrassment. When she was buttoned up again—disheveled but at least decent—his kiss was so deep and passionate she wished to be unclothed again; she had no thought but to do once more what they’d just done. He said against her mouth, “Don’t tell me you won’t see me now.”