The Honeymoon (43 page)

They went back to the Priory to sign their new wills. Then off to Victoria Station, everyone, Charley and Albert and the sisters and Willie, waving to them as if they were a young bride and groom setting forth in life.

They were exhausted. Once on the train, they sank with relief into their seats. She sat back, Johnnie took her hand. She felt its warmth and strength. No need to be afraid. His determination would carry them along.

On the way to Dover he slept. She watched him, marveling at her prize, his dark eyelashes resting on his cheeks. He was still in his wedding costume, wearing the white carnation she’d pinned to his lapel. She’d changed out of her lavender wedding dress into a black traveling dress, but he’d wanted to keep his wedding suit on. “It’s my first and only marriage,” he said. He’d loved that part of the procedure, being outfitted for his wedding costume at Henry Poole’s, the best bespoke tailor on Savile Row.

As the train rattled peacefully toward Dover, she looked upon him with love. He slept innocently, a pure, clean youth, a work of art — a Renaissance painting or a sculpture. And he was hers. Poor thing, he was exhausted.

He’d booked rooms for them for their wedding night at the Lord Warden in Dover. She and George had stayed there twenty-five years before when they’d first sailed back to England from their “honeymoon” in Weimar as man and wife. Was it a mistake for her and Johnnie to stay at the Lord Warden too? But it was right next to the station and near the pier, the most convenient spot.

They had a quiet meal brought up to their rooms, smiling at each other over the candlelit table, not saying much. In the back of her mind was the question, what would happen next? Would he keep his end of the bargain? Or, now that they were actually married, would he beg her to break it? Overcome by his eagerness, would she give in? To be held and touched and know those sensations again that had been gone from her since George became ill … If he knew what was in her mind, what would he think of her? After she’d insisted, so adamantly. But these thoughts coming to light within her frightened her.

They finished supper. He wiped his mouth on his serviette. What would he do now? She was too nervous to speak.

He stood up. “Come, Polly, you look tired. I think you’re ready for bed.”

“I am. There’s nothing like signing your will to exhaust you. Or getting married.” She laughed.

“But it’s done.” He came around to her, gave her a hug, then smiled. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

“The maid’s unpacked my things.” What she meant was that the maid has gone for the night, we are alone now, we can do whatever we want.

“But the man will be coming to clear away supper,” he said. He was saying, no, they wouldn’t really be alone yet. They’d be interrupted. “I’ll wait up for him. You go to bed now. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

She paused, about to say something else. “Very well.”

He glanced through the door into her bedroom. “It looks like a very nice room.” He didn’t move to enter it. As if it were her sanctuary, and to cross the threshold would be rude, an improper intrusion of his male presence. “You can hear the waves while you’re sleeping. It’s very restful.”

She was lingering. Wondering. There was an awkward silence. He looked away.

“I think I’ll just sit here and have a whiskey,” he said. “Till he comes. It’ll help me sleep.”

“But aren’t you tired too?”

“I slept on the train. Night sleep’s always hard for me.” For a second, she thought of taking him in her arms, and stroking his hair and soothing him until he fell asleep. Making love — that would surely make him wonderfully tired, bring him a delicious slumber.

“See you in the morning,” he said. He kissed her on the cheek and sat down decisively at the table.

She went into her bedroom. She reminded herself that this was what she’d insisted upon. She’d made it a condition and he’d had such a careful, earnest desire to comply with her wishes. He couldn’t know her other desires because she’d never told him about them. Perhaps as they went along, got farther away from England, and relaxed, and were surrounded by beauty, with no one to interfere with them, he would seek her out.

Through the open window, she heard the pounding of the surf below on the beach. She undressed quickly, though she was by herself in the room and the door was closed. Still, he might burst in and see — what? The body of his bride.

She washed herself carefully. Eleanor and Mary had given her a jar of a rose-smelling unguent to rub on her skin. It made her legs and arms gleam. She unfolded the ecru nightgown she’d bought for the first night. When she slipped it on, it clung to her, showing her curves. In the low light, her flesh seemed soft and smooth.

Gently, she trimmed the oil lamp till there was only a faint flame. It was an unfamiliar place and the soft light made her feel secure. Then she lay down. She waited, eyes open, listening for the sound of him out there. It was the first of many times she would listen for him. She heard nothing.

The next morning, he was up before her, and had ordered her breakfast. When she walked into the main room, he was full of smiles. “Good morning, Mrs. Cross!” he said cheerfully.

“Mr. Cross,” she said, inclining her head.

“Your breakfast awaits,” he said.

“Ah, tea,” she said. “You knew what I wanted.”

“Of course. The ferry leaves at eleven. We should take a walk on the beach beforehand to get some exercise.”

They went for a stroll along the sand, arm in arm, the white cliffs behind them, the wind blowing, the waves breaking nobly on the shore, France beyond, not far.

The steamer to Calais took only three hours. They had a good cabin right on deck.

From then on, every evening, after they finished supper, Johnnie kissed her good night. Then there was a momentary question in her mind — what would happen now? Would he follow her?

He didn’t. And she didn’t raise the issue with him. By not asking the question, she’d never have to know the answer. The mere statement from him of another reason for their celibacy, besides her insistence on it before the marriage, once uttered, would have a terrible finality. Better to leave things uncertain, unspoken.

As the days passed, in the excitement of seeing new places and the distraction of travel, she began to push the question down into the recesses of her mind. Who could be kinder, more loving than he? Only George. He was the best-looking young man, escorting this old woman with eyes only for her, guarding her. How lucky she was. Without him, she’d have retreated forever, seeing no one, bent over her desk struggling to work again with no energy, no hope, and failing.

When they reached Paris, Johnnie went immediately to the poste restante. People had read the wedding
announcement in the
Times
and the letters were beginning to come in. Barbara had immediately dashed off a note:
“Tell Johnny Cross I should have done exactly what he had done if you would have let me and I had been a man.”
Barbara, always so kind, always in favor of life, always on her side. Johnnie held up a letter from Albert, smiling. “Look,” he said. “He’s been going over to Cheyne Walk to check on the work for me. Isn’t he kind? He says it’s proceeding really well.” Even Spencer had sent a warm note congratulating them.

They continued with their vigorous sightseeing. They visited the Louvre to see Veronese’s
Marriage at Cana
, Christ’s first miracle, the panoply of figures rendered in exquisite detail. Then on to the Sainte Chapelle and Notre Dame. And back again to the Louvre. Then a walk in the Champs-Élysées. Each day his pace accelerated as he made long strides through the streets, and she found herself lagging behind, puffing to keep up with him. “I want to see everything. I want to see the world through your eyes,” he said.

“But your legs are so much longer.”

“Then I’ll hold you up,” and he gripped her arm and bore her weight.

Now that they were at a distance from England, she started composing her own letters home. She seized on each happy moment, writing back the letters she’d always wanted to write about a honeymoon. She consciously infused them with joy. For that was what she knew how to do, make things more vivid and dramatic by giving them language. There was pride too, letting people know she’d done the right thing, that she was happy in marriage to this
fine-looking young man. She wanted the word to spread all over London, to allay the gossips.

As the rhythms of the honeymoon continued, she was happy. Her doubts were reserved for the night, when she was alone. She couldn’t believe Johnnie was truly hers. Other women noticed him wherever they went.

To his sister, Eleanor, she wrote,
“When we were walking by the sea-side at Dover we agreed either that wedding days had been much maligned or that ours was a marvelously exceptional one.”

“Marriage has seemed to restore to me my old self,”
she told Charley.
“I am very well — quite amazingly able to go through fatigue.”

They went from Paris to Sens, where Johnnie wanted to walk the old Roman roads, and to visit the cathedral, the oldest Gothic cathedral in France, dedicated to Saint Stephen. And then to the archbishop’s palace, and the House of Abraham. He was relentless.

When did she begin to realize the change in him, to admit it to herself? In Dijon, when they arrived at the Hôtel de Jura, she was getting exhausted by it all, but he was energized, wound up, wanting to go out, to see things, the cathedral and the crypt of Saint Benignus. “It’s supposed to be five hundred years old,” he said.

“I can’t do it,” she said. “I think I’ll just stay here and rest.”

“Well, I’m going anyway.”

Despite the energy he was expending, the days spent walking — running, almost — he only picked at his food. And then, in the mornings when she went into the drawing room for breakfast, he was already up, with dark circles beginning to appear under his eyes.

On they went to Mâcon, and to Lyons.

“You’re losing weight, Johnnie,” she said. “It’s worrisome. Perhaps we should see a doctor?”

“I’ve never been better,” he said, smiling.

“But you don’t look better. You don’t eat.”

“I’m just not hungry.”

“Then that’s another reason to see a doctor. I’m sure we can find a good one here.”

He laughed. “I don’t have time for a doctor.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be. I’m a big man.” He smiled. “I’m very good at taking care of myself. I’ll have some whiskey before I go to sleep tonight. See if that helps.”

“But you always have a whiskey.”

“Then I’ll have two whiskeys. Now,” he said, “let’s be off.”

At Grenoble, they took a carriage to the Grande Chartreuse. As they stood together looking across the vast valley, at the impossible green of it, and the monastery in the distance, the sorrow that had begun to lurk within her, that she’d been holding off, overcame her. George had never seen this place. She wished that it was he who was here with her, the way they’d always seen things together for the first time, their mutual joy, his excitement piercing her innate melancholy. She said nothing to Johnnie, of course. He was standing there open-mouthed, full of wonder at the sight, as if a spell had been cast over him. Well, let him love it in all its beauty, in whatever ecstatic way he wanted.