Black Silk (18 page)

Grief, Submit discovered, could be a very selfish thing. Though she was sure she had felt grief for the loss of Henry whom
she
had loved, on the day of the tears at Whitehall, she knew that her sorrow was for the Henry who had loved
her
. Henry would have known immediately that she could not “affiliate” herself with a man like Graham Wessit, as attractive as he might be. More importantly, Henry would have understood and agreed that she must go and tell the truth, no matter what others thought. Yet no one, not the police nor even Arnold, seemed to grasp her actions or her motives without reservation. Henry, Henry, she had thought, and cried off and on all the rest of that day. Henry had seen her in a way no one else ever had, and he had loved unquestioningly what he saw. Without him, it seemed a part of her grew dark, as if a light had been turned out, an aspect of her never to be fully known and loved again. Submit felt a part of herself quietly receding from the world’s awareness, unknown, and that part hung its head and grieved in deep sorrowful tears, as if with Henry it had suffered a demise.

This was how she explained her tears to herself. Submit hedged away from the notion that her tears were for something else: that she felt bereft of something living, something possible that she would not, could not, have.

On the day Graham missed her at the posting house Submit had gone into London. Practicality had rallied her from her doldrums. She had to get on with the matter-of-fact consideration of next week’s rent: She went to London to cash the drafts on Henry’s bank.

Henry’s writing, through back payment, was keeping her
going. She thanked goodness for what had annoyed Henry no end—for publishers’ delayed and dallying accounts. So far, eight drafts had come to her in the first month after Henry’s death. In the first three weeks of the second month, however, she had received only three (rather surprisingly from august, though not particularly scholarly, collections the likes of
Bentley’s
and
Eclectic Review
and
Punch
). She had tried to put aside some of every payment, but her savings were small. If her future continued in the present train, she would have to go into debt, which frightened her slightly. She didn’t know how she would ever repay such a debt if William’s lawsuit did not settle quickly and in her favor.

She talked to Arnold briefly to find out how soon she might see something from the estate. He could report only that he was bogged down in the other side’s delays. William meant to keep her from all monies for as long as he could, and the English legal system was only too happy to oblige. There was no precedent for her inheritance, nothing by which to make short, clean work of a very rich and titled old man leaving virtually everything of value to his very young, middle-class wife, while his only and illegitimate son claimed foul play.

William was suggesting design on Submit’s part, painting her as a greedy, self-seeking young woman who had befuddled the mind of a rich, all but senile old man. Two things gave William’s argument some credibility. First, Henry’s will, completed just the month before he died, had been written by Henry himself—a surprisingly careless thing to do in view of the intricacies and convolutions of his estate. The document, it seemed, stood to lawyers as a hallmark of obsession, written with loving detail on minuscule point after minuscule point. Henry, so far as Submit and Arnold were concerned, had simply known his son very well. He had tried to seal and secure every avenue on which
William might attack. But the will’s careful language backfired on the chivalrous husband. The document was puzzled over as “obsessive,” “uxorious,” and “preoccupied,” not only by the other side but also by the court magistrates. Whether such judgments made Henry legally mad was another matter. But as William sought to show that his father’s mental state was other than perfectly sound at the time he wrote his will, Henry’s own overcautious words, left behind in his own hand, lent support to that premise.

In conjunction with this, William’s use of the Channing-Downes name and his upbringing in Henry’s house were becoming an issue. William was Henry’s only son, his only offspring for that matter, and had been raised by Henry. Henry had paid for his education, arranged for his marriage—a marriage in which William had given, with Henry’s full knowledge, the Channing-Downes name, like a son, an heir. William had begun to sign himself “William Channing-Downes” at university. Henry knew of the use of the name from the beginning and could have said nay at any of several crucial points, yet he said nothing. Henry never disputed William’s claim to his own last name; full honors, William said, by default. Pride and bloodline were added to this. It seemed reasonable, William’s lawyers argued, that without William, the marquessate and a great English family would be made extinct. Henry was perhaps alienated from his son, a situation exacerbated by Henry’s marriage to “a grasping, much younger wife,” but the marquess always intended his son to carry his name, like a flag unfurled in full colors and right.

These arguments had the court’s attention, for their newness, their audacity perhaps, though so far no further encouragement was coming William’s way. All those concerned were aware that ultimately the disposition of Henry’s honors would be in the hands of the Home Secretary, not to mention the Queen, both of whom could be
very particular about birthright. Out of wedlock was out of wedlock. The chances of William getting Motmarche remained slim. But the chance of his getting something looked better by the day.

While in London to cash the drafts, Submit offered again to settle hers and William’s dispute privately. She tried to entice William with as much as he might, in his most optimistic hour, hope to gain—all properties outside the entailment of the marquessate per se. But William would have none of it. He still wanted Motmarche or nothing at all.

“Fine. Nothing at all.”

They were coming out of Gray’s Inn, where William’s solicitors had offices. Submit was once again trying to get him to understand. She would not give up Motmarche. He couldn’t expect it. And she intended to hold on to enough income from everything else to run the very large estate.

“You can’t do this indefinitely,” she added. “I’m not without resources myself.”

“Have another old man lined up, do you?”

Submit gave him a sharp look, suppressing the anger that rushed more and more easily these days to the surface whenever she spoke to William. She picked up her pace as she headed toward the main street. “You should watch your accusations. Neither am I defenseless.”

He laughed. “And don’t we all know it.” Following William’s example and her attorneys’ advice, she had had him thrown out of the house on Charlotte Street. Neither one of them had a place to call home for the moment.

The crush of carts and horse traffic as they came onto High Holborn made it difficult to see, let alone hail, a hansom cab. William used his umbrella, none too subtly, to keep the struggling mass of humanity around them at bay.

“Perhaps you would be a little more feminine,” William said, “more attractive to someone other than doddering old fools, if you were a little more helpless.”

“What a bill of goods—”

“It’s not. Men like—”

“
You
like to have your own way. Don’t generalize beyond that.” She caught the attention of the driver of an omnibus behind two horsecarts. “Just don’t imagine you can get what you want by bullying me, nor by reminding me that my brand of femininity does not appeal to you. I don’t need you to admire me; I just need you to leave me alone.”

“You
are
alone, Submit. You just don’t know it yet.”

Submit reached into her reticule to get change for the omnibus. The vehicle inched its way toward her through the congested traffic.

“Lord,” William said with a sniff, “you don’t mean to get on that thing?”

She began to weave her way toward it rather than wait.

Behind her, William followed, chattering. “Lord God, Submit, but you’ve come a long way down.”

She glanced over her shoulder as the omnibus conductor took her hand. “I’m getting by.” She stepped onto the platform. “You can’t be doing any better, and I probably mind less—”

William elected to follow along. When she looked over the gate, he was right there, smiling his smug, irritating smile. She wished he’d go away. She wished traffic would pick up so he couldn’t follow so easily. Over the street’s, and her own, commotion the hour began to toll from the tower of a nearby church.

“I’m doing quite well, actually,” William called. “Margaret and I are staying on Haymoore Street, as guests.” When this didn’t immediately register, he explained, “As guests of my cousin, my dear.”

She looked at him blankly.

“Graham,” he expounded. “He says he has no use for his London flat, that we can stay as long as we like.”

“Where to, madam?” It was the conductor.

“What?” Submit stared at the man in uniform beside her.

“Where to?”

She couldn’t think for a moment. “Ah—oh, Victoria Station.”

When she saw that William remained, walking gleefully along, she called loudly, “There’s dung”—the word
dung
made him start, though not so much as her next words: “There’s dung all over the street, and you’re walking in it. Look.” She pointed down.

Small satisfaction. Truly, it was childish of her. Still, though, Submit enjoyed watching William look down; she enjoyed deeply the sight of his face draining of blood as he once more discovered she was on very good terms with the truth.

Submit all but missed the train station. The omnibus conductor had to remind her to get off. Then, lost in the anonymous clatter of her train, she missed the Balkfield stop entirely, the closest station to the inn at Morrow Fields. She had to take a coach from Sleeveshead all the way back. As she climbed the front steps of the inn hours after she had planned to be home, Submit was lecturing herself. She had no right to be upset or angry, no right to be alarmed. But no matter how she looked at it, giving William the apartments, rent-free, seemed like treason on Graham Wessit’s part.

She came into the eating common, taking off her hat. And there, the teary feeling from yesterday at Whitehall all but overwhelmed her again. She sat down at one of the tables and looked around. Her whole life seemed like this room. Neat, ready, empty. She was neither where she belonged nor set firmly on any new path. She felt suddenly lost. The past seven weeks lay like the common room itself, unlived-in, unoccupied. If she was to weather this period, she needed more than just money. She needed something
to absorb her, something besides hating and harrowing William. She needed something interesting, something positive and stimulating to do.

That night in her room, she tried to read a volume of Robert Browning’s poetry she had found downstairs. But when she came to the lines “the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin,” she felt something inside her fold in on itself. She ended the day, quite without meaning to, by staying up until two, fiddling with paper and pen, making poetry of her own as she once used to do. But in the end, her words did not seem poetical to her. She agreed, as she once had agreed with Henry, that her own words were rough and overwrought when they edged anywhere near passion; or were slick and facile when they skirted it rhythmically within the lines.

S
he went to her bed through a sea of crumpled rubbish on the floor, then lay there in the dark. Her wakeful mind remained alive with inexpressible concerns.

Graham stood by the window, looking out on a dozen people playing croquet on the back lawn.

Rosalyn came in, closed the door, then sank back against it as if to shut out the fact that her husband was somewhere about.

“Thank you very much,” Graham said. He swirled around the last of a brandy he was holding in his hand. “What a delightful surprise.”

“I couldn’t help it, Gray.” As if this were something to count on, she offered, “He’s having a ship built in Lyme. They expect him there. He’s already late. He has to go soon.”

Outside, a lady’s skirt dropped over her ball. She walked. Magically, when she lifted her dress again, her ball was in line with the wicket.

Graham glanced at Rosalyn. “Where is he now?”

“Upstairs. He’s tired. I think he might take a nap.”

He made a snort. “Alone?”

“Yes, alone. I told you, he’s tired.” She paused. “I’m dying to see you, Gray, dying to be with you. Don’t be angry. He’s nothing, you’ll see. Let him stay a day, then I’ll accompany him to Lyme, make him stay there.”

Graham looked at her sidelong. “Does he know?” he asked.

“About us?” When Graham nodded, she sighed. “He must at least suspect. Why else would he come?”

Graham stared fixedly at her. “Well. When your duties permit—” He drained his glass, then left to join the group outside.

Mr. and Mrs. Schild left the next morning. Graham had barely seen Rosalyn, had barely known she was there.

A day later, Tilney, who continued to lose nightly at cards, usually to Graham, tried to go for revenge. Bored with croquet, the group decided to improvise something new—a kind of tennis on the lawn. Tilney got very organized about the venture. He took it upon himself to assign men’s opponents for a tournament. Graham “drew” Giles, the Moffets’ nephew, a naval lieutenant-captain on leave—and fourteen years Graham’s junior. Graham decided immediately to lose gracefully rather than make a hot, sweaty fool of himself.

Green grass. Players in white linen. Ladies on the sidelines under a battalion of assorted, colorful parasols. Here was the very picture of genteel summer idleness. At midgame, however, Graham had still not managed to bring himself to lose. The young Lieutenant-captain Moffet was about to serve in his usual manner, an insouciant, effortless swing. The young man looked rested and confident. Graham was not precisely lathered. On the other hand, his shirt clung lightly to his back; very slowly, he’d been wooed into exerting himself.

Tilney sat happily on the sidelines. “Bravo,” he yelled now and then to no particular player, for no particular reason.

The serve came. It was within Graham’s reach, as were so many of the young man’s serves. Graham slammed it. It just barely landed in bounds. The serve reverted, and at the end of a long volley the scorekeeper called, “A deux de jeu.” A tied score, the closest Graham had come yet to a win.

Moffet braced his feet, the stance of a man about to play more seriously now that losing had become a possibility, remote as it was.

From the beginning, Graham’s game had not been so
poor as to be embarrassing. He’d been playing tennis all spring at his club, was in decent condition, and had a good awareness of the position of racket and ball. But without the customary walls of the indoor court, he could ridiculously overdrive the ball. The game was interesting only insofar as Moffet would not press his superior endurance and placement control; which, with the next return to Graham’s inside left corner, it appeared he finally would do. Graham netted the ball.

Moffet served, again right to him. Graham cocked his entire body for the kill. But it was only an attempted murder. The damned thing proved unkillable, continually resurrected, just as lively and back in his court a sixth, a seventh, an eighth time. He ran after the volleys, asking himself, Why was he doing this? What would it prove? That he was twenty-four, which he was not? That he could triumph over Tilney, who was not even on the court? Then,
swack
, he returned the ball, just as hell-bent on the game as he’d been the moment before.

Competitive son of a bitch, he thought, knowing perfectly well he did not mean Tilney or Moffet.
Opposition thrives on opposition
, he remembered suddenly. The words came to Graham, as if from a page, an entire paragraph to quote. Henry Channing-Downes. “You are so competitive,” Henry had said not so long ago. They spoke by that time perhaps twice a year; Graham had been over thirty, and Henry still couldn’t pass up the opportunity to give him advice. “Don’t play the game,” he’d said, “and all your enemies, like chimeras, will disperse.”

With unmincing success, Graham finished off the other man’s serve. He could contemplate losing, to save himself sweat, embarrassment, bruises, exhaustion; but he couldn’t actually submit to this simple expedient in practice.

It was just as Graham lost the serve again that Rosalyn
made her reentrance, like a grand actress able to recover from a bad false start. She came across the lawn alone, in a blue hooded wrap that set off her hair like stamen in the throat of some exotic flower. Beyond her, her carriage was pulling into the carriage house. She called, “Graham!” and waved. Graham raised his racket in response. He was glad to see her returned to her old self—dependably, wholesomely gorgeous and free of a husband’s restraint.

The lieutenant-captain stared openly.

“Deuce,” was the call again.

Graham stepped into a shot traveling toward him so fast it could have been fired from a gun.

It was a short volley, ending when Graham returned a ball that the younger Moffet had simply been unprepared to see come back over his side of the net. The young man sputtered, for he had already begun to walk to the edge of the serve line, ready to secure his victory. When he returned to position, he was red in the face. He lost the next shot by embracing precisely his opponent’s worst flaw: He drove at the ball with too much force, sending it well over Graham’s head to land twenty feet outside the court.

“Advantage Netham.”

Then came a stroke of luck. When Graham served, he tried putting a little spin on the ball, as he would in billiards, and the damned notion worked in an erratic sort of way. The ball jumped almost backward when it hit, beyond returning.

“Game point to the earl of Netham.”

Graham glanced at Tilney. Rosalyn let her wrap fall to the ground, revealing an equally sumptuous display of color, the bright orange-pink of a sunset. She walked onto the playing area. “Can the ladies have a try?”

Graham shook his head, meeting her halfway to the sidelines. “Not with me.” He tossed his racket down.

Tilney sputtered something about this being only the
first game of a set. Rosalyn never took her eyes off Graham, smiling, beaming. As she linked her arm in his, she said very quietly, as if their first reunion several days before had never taken place, “Hello.” Then quieter still, “You look smashing.”

“Better than smashed, I suppose.”

She kissed his cheek. “You’re wet,” she said with surprise.

“I’m exhausted. I have been the most incredible fool—”

A voice broke in. “He’s bloody well won at everything. Someone ought to teach him that it isn’t very hospitable for the host to always win.” It was not Tilney but, good-naturedly, John Carmichael who spoke. Tilney, however, seconded this with a hostile and sincere grunt.

Together Rosalyn and Graham settled back onto the sidelines, where people took turns recounting Graham’s “foolishness” during the past few days. Rosalyn proved the perfect audience. The steeplechase, instead of the act of bruising bravado that it was, became a main event, a heroic victory. At cards, Graham became sly and commanding, the winner of untold fortune. At tennis, he was already deemed the champion. The stories were meant to flatter. They had flattered once, he thought; they must have. But now they seemed embarrassing, transparent. Yet no one seemed to suspect Graham’s discomfort with any of it.

Then, worse, Rosalyn brought something out for all to see: “Look,” she said, holding up a little blue book. “Number twelve of
The Rake of Ronmoor
!”

Graham inwardly cringed as most of the ladies crowded around. They teased and cooed, every last one of them speaking with knowledge and enthusiasm for the stupid little serial. Even some of the men made arch, winking remarks, drawing parallels that were unfortunately there to make. The Rake was an energetic Thackeray-like antihero who loved to woo and win.

Graham grew quiet. In the shadow of Rosalyn’s parasol,
he tried to imagine a way to fail, a way people couldn’t rewrite. He planned how to lose. Though surely he had lost at one time or another. And weren’t his losses just as eagerly transformed into melodrama?

He changed his mind. He planned nothing, not winning, not losing, not doing anything the least bit noteworthy. He planned how to be unwritten, how to be seen—and liked?—as an ordinary man. Yet the most ordinary things about him, he worried, sometimes took on significance in other people’s minds. He gave up. He couldn’t imagine how he could control any of this. The important thing was, he told himself, there were at least a few individuals who knew and liked him for himself, in his human, unfictionalized form. At this comforting notion, he looked to Rosalyn, then like a traitor his mind suddenly yielded up a different name. Submit. And he abandoned his pointless, unfollowable train of thought.

Two ladies took to the court, though they kept score not of points against each other but of the number of volleys they could keep the ball in the air. Eleven, twelve, thirteen; then squeals of disappointment.

People milled about. Many came to greet Rosalyn. She knew a surprising number of his friends by name—some from London, some from a quick study from the first days when she had been quasihostess at Netham before he’d arrived. The young Moffet came to sit near. He hovered. (“The neckbreather,” Rosalyn would dub him later, for he would become a fixture of the summer, working his way to stand near her or sit beside her, until she became claustrophobic in the shadow of his unwanted attentions.) So that day, another first, Graham put a protective—possessive—arm over the back of Rosalyn’s chair as they watched the games, stroking her shoulder with his thumb now and then.

Rosalyn’s bosom rose and fell through all this. The stories and his friends somehow primed her. With nary a com
plaint, he would be allowed later, he was sure, to mess up her careful hair, her perfect dress. He counted on doing so, in fact, as an appetizer, before dinner. Dinner itself would be a feast. A hot, rich meal of lamb and mint and puddings topped off with a bottle of old, crusty port. He called himself lucky and planned a geometric multiplication of his blessings and winnings. He became bold and lingered with her after the others went in to change. He kissed her on the open mouth, and she let him, in plain view of anyone who might turn. Like an adolescent.

No one did. His life felt charmed. All was well with the world, everything in its place.

The only discordant note was when Rosalyn, lying in bed that night, asked about the orphaned twins. He had left them in a London hospital in the care of doctors; they were weak, fragile little things, it turned out. Nature, it seemed, might finally accomplish what the English legal system had done nothing but ball up; the babies’ poor health might soon make irrelevant all arguments over guardianship. Rosalyn responded sympathetically. She already knew of the ordeal of their mother’s death, the accusations against him, and of the rescue at the hands of Submit Channing-Downes. As he spoke in the dark, Rosalyn accepted everything as he laid it out. Oh, dear. Oh, dear. How awful for you. Poor darling. The only thing he omitted was the last sight he’d had of Submit and how the memory of it continued to disturb him: those unexplained tears. He could speak almost guiltlessly of the visit to her, “to get the box she’d walked off with.” But a sensation stayed with him. It was not precisely guilt—though he knew he intended to visit Submit again and that Rosalyn would look askance at repeated rendezvous at a country inn. All the same, he felt these visits were innocent, even in some way very healthy, though he could not have explained why to her or even to himself.