Fallen Beauty (16 page)

When they left, though they’d been in my shop for only fifteen minutes, I felt so exhausted, it was as if the encounter had lasted an afternoon.

“I suppose you’ll need my assistance to finish these robes,” said Marie. “Perhaps Everette won’t mind if I help, though I do have these baby clothes to work on.”

“I will appreciate any help you can give,” I said. “Leave me to it for now. When it comes down to the final week, I might call on you for trimming.”

“I trim it,” said Grace, wielding a large pair of cutting shears. I jumped up to remove them from her hands and placed them high in the cupboard.

“Lord, that child,” said Marie. “Fearless! I think babies must be easier.”

I thought of the sleepless nights, the painful breasts, the worry over her weight gain and colic, the endless laundry.

“Yes,” I said. “I think so.”

•   •   •

VINCENT

E
ugen returns and takes me savagely. I know Laura did not have to tell him I’d be waiting—he would understand. He can read the vibrations in the atmosphere.

When we finish, he lights one of my Egyptian cigarettes for me and passes it over, then lights a cheap Lucky Strike for himself.

“She is so bound by her self-judgment,” he says.

“Laura?”

“Yes. She is held prisoner by what the others think of her. It must be hell.”

“Aren’t we all in that hell, though?”

“Not you and me. We live freely, open, as we wish.”

“That’s not true. Tell me, does one of our friends know about my affair with George?”

“No, they do not.”

“They don’t because even we fear what they will say. We are as bad as she.”

Our smoke is mingling over us. I don’t like how the cheap smell from the Luckys overpowers the spice of my cigarettes, but I don’t tell Eugen to stop smoking them. There would be fewer for me.

“We must live completely without fear,” he says. “We must live like we did in the summer. When George came to the party, maybe some of them saw. Someone must have realized.”

“There was so much free love going on, even if they saw, they would have simply thought our connection to be one of many, like electric sparks. And remember, I took Laura’s brother-in-law. I used him as a weapon to cut George.”

“That was beneath you,” he says. “You are not made for that kind of smut.”

I stiffen at his judgment. How dare he say such a thing when he has lanced many a woman to satisfy the very smut of which he judges me?

“You are one to talk,” I say. “How many fair maidens have ridden your horse for the pleasure of it?”

“That’s different. I’m a mere mortal.”

“Then go,” I say. “If you’re not worthy of the attention of a goddess, you best get away from me.”

“Blasphemer,” he says, throwing back the covers and walking naked toward the door.

“Hypocrite.”

He slams the door.

I stub out my cigarette in anger. He has left his clothes and shoes in an untidy mess around my room to anger me. I stand and collect his things, open the door, and throw his clothing in a pile in the hall before again slamming the door.

I walk to the window and look out at the night, uneasy about our quarrel. I sense so many unspoken words, a real fissure in our foundation, which I once believed was impenetrable. It seems George has left a wound that might never heal.

LAURA

I cannot escape the clink of Gabriel’s hammer. It rings in the square, from sunup to sundown, every day of the week except Sunday. When I think of the hammer, I think of the arm working it, the fine dust, the debris of the marble, which coats his skin as he removes it from the rock.

He is relentless in his noise, and it calls to Grace. She begs to go see the “rock man,” again and again, and though he rarely talks to me, he obliges her toddler speak. He crouches down to her level, and lets her hit odd pieces of marble that litter the ground around the slab until they crumble into shards sharp enough to draw blood from her dimpled fingers, if she were to touch them.

Clearly he has no children, and isn’t married, but why? Where is he from? What happened to him in the war or after it to bond him to Father Ash? Why does he feel indebted to a priest to do this act in public when I’ve never seen him set foot in the church except to pass to his rooms in the rectory?

On the second of November, I awoke to his steady noise and heard it all morning as I prepared a chocolate cake for Grace’s second birthday. She kept peering out the front window at Gabriel, and begged me to allow her to show him the tiny toy xylophone with fairies on it that I had given her as a present. While the cake cooled, I consented, and she pulled me by the hand to the center of town.

“My birthday,” she said, thrusting the xylophone at Gabriel.

“Happy birthday,” he said. “I must have known because I brought something for you. And it will go with your xylophone.”

How kind of him to think of Grace.

He reached into his satchel and produced a small sculptor’s mallet. He held it out to her, and her eyes widened with pleasure. She snatched it from his dusty hands, placed the xylophone on the ground, and began banging it as hard as she could. I crouched down and tried to soften her force.

“Gracie! Say thank you.”

“Fanks!”

She continued to bang until I wrestled the mallet from her hands and lifted her and the xylophone into my arms.

“Thank you,” I said, breathless with embarrassment.

He grinned at us. He seemed to enjoy her antics.

I started back home with Grace, negotiating all the way about when she could have the mallet. I gave it to her once we entered the shop, and watched her do violence to the musical instrument before shaking my head and returning to the kitchen to check the cake. As I entered, Marie came in the back door with a big box wrapped in flowered paper. She stopped when she heard the noise coming from the shop.

“What is that?”

I shook my head. “I thought it was a good idea to buy her a xylophone. Then the sculptor gave her a mallet. This is the result.”

Marie gave me a strange look. “Hmm.”

Grace must have heard us talking because she ceased her concert and ran into the kitchen.

“Look what Auntie has for you,” sung Marie.

“Birthday!” shouted Grace, grabbing for the box.

I knelt down and took her hands in mine. “Grace, you must be polite. Say please.”

“Please birthday!”

Marie knelt and passed Grace the box. She tore through the paper and squealed with delight when she saw the little sleigh for Dolly. While Marie took the sleigh out of the box, Grace ran to get Dolly, and then began to pull her all around the house. My heart hurt a little because I couldn’t afford a gift like that, but I knew at Grace’s age, she didn’t notice the difference between a simple present and an expensive one.

“Thank you,” I said to Marie. “That was very generous. Would you and Everette like to join us for cake after dinner?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. There’s an event to benefit the firehouse tonight. I would much rather stay and eat cake with you girls, but you know . . .”

Marie left shortly after her delivery to visit the hair salon, and Grace spent the rest of the afternoon hammering every available surface in the store. The
tick-tick-tick
of Gabriel’s chisel and the
thump-thump-thump
of her mallet were beginning to drive me bats.

“Gracie,” I said as I worked on Millay’s velvet gown, my gaze darting between my work and the door in case Marie returned. “Can you sort colors for me?”

“No. I hammer.”

I raised my eyebrow at her and shoved the basket of extra fabric toward her. She sighed as if I’d asked something very hard of her, and dropped the hammer on the floor. She took the basket and mumbled under her breath while she carried it over to the rug by the fireplace. I waited to smile until she turned away from me. When she looked back, I made my face serious, and she began to sort the cut lengths of extra cloth by color and material for me, throwing out the scraps that were too small or jagged for future use. It wasn’t long before she’d abandoned the basket, and begun to instruct her dolly how to sort the cloth. I felt I’d burst with love for such a cheeky little person.

I turned my attention back to Millay’s dressing gown. After using the machine to sew the body of it, I would hand-stitch the fur collar and cuffs. If Millay wanted to rule her domain, she would surely look the part in this sumptuous frock. I admired my own exquisite work that I had enjoyed creating. I’d sent Eugen a telegram to fetch the dress behind the cemetery tomorrow, so I’d stay up all night working at the fireside if necessary. The material for the church robes had already arrived and I needed every moment possible for that project.

The doorbell rang and the Western Union boy slipped a telegram through the slot. Grace ran to pick it up before bringing it to me. It was from Eugen. Vincent was in bed, suffering from a nervous attack, and he couldn’t leave her side. Could I possibly deliver the gown?

I crumpled the telegram and threw it across the room into the fire. Grace watched me with large eyes. I wanted that gown out of my shop. Every day it sat folded in the back was a day when Marie might discover it.

“Bad news?” Grace said. I laughed at so small a child sounding so grown-up.

“No, just extra work,” I said. “I have to deliver the purple gown.”

“For queen?”

“Yes, because the queen is stuck in bed.”

“I see her?”

“No,” I said.

“I stay with Auntie?”

Yes. Yes. And what would we do once Auntie Marie had her own little one to look after? She was already tired all the time. I couldn’t imagine how she’d take the demands of new motherhood. At least she’d know what to expect. She’d been at my side for Grace’s birth and afterward, valiantly so. Just thinking of the nights she’d rocked Grace while I tried to steal consecutive hours of sleep washed me with guilt for thinking of her with such negativity now. Where was my compassion? The woman was pregnant, and had a husband she’d rather leave. It was almost as bad as not having one at all.

I didn’t want to waste money sending another telegram. I decided that I’d just bike the gown up the hill and hope it was for the last time. With the income from the choir robes, I’d be able to pay my delinquent bills, and hopefully not have to crawl to Millay ever again.

When the next morning dawned, a damp mist cloaked the river valley and penetrated my skin to the bone. It took me longer than usual to persuade myself to get out of bed, and when I did, my head ached. I hoped that a little coffee would fix it, and also the raw feeling in the back of my throat. Had I slept with my mouth open all night? Was I coming down with a cold? I had no time for sickness, so I forced myself out of bed and dressed in layers.

Marie had asked that I bring Grace to her for sitting while I delivered the gown. I told her it would likely take at least two hours because the old woman lived in Spencertown, about a forty-minute bike ride from Chatham, and enjoyed conversation. I reflected that the lies were beginning to roll off my tongue with unsettling ease, and I thought I was caught when Grace told Marie the cloak was for a queen.

“What does she mean by that?” asked Marie.

“Oh, silly Grace. There are no queens in the Hudson River Valley,” I said, trying to distract her with Marie’s cat.

“But you said.”

“I was being silly while we read fairy tales,” I said. “Now be good for Auntie Marie.”

I hurried back to the store, made sure the gown was wrapped securely in the bag in case I dropped it in the mud, and started the long ride to Steepletop.

In truth, a piece of me had been looking forward to this visit. In general, I enjoyed physical exertion, I looked forward to being alone for a change, and I was eager to see a client’s reaction to my first truly creative endeavor. In my mind I pretended that Millay was any rich old woman in search of a disguise, a frock, a dress-up piece to adorn her life. If her acquaintances saw the gown, perhaps they too would want similar pieces, though I couldn’t imagine anyone as eccentric as Millay.

My view did not extend beyond several yards into the woods and up the road because of the thick fog. I could feel the presence of the mountains, however, looming in the mist. My chest felt tight, and I coughed as I pushed myself onward. My headache had intensified, and I began to care less about Millay’s reaction to the gown and more about getting home as quickly as possible.

The sense of unease I experienced whenever I approached Steepletop grew in me, and when I reached the last lonely pass before arriving at the long driveway, I was exhausted from pedaling with a cumbersome load, soaked to the bone from the water vapor and my cold sweat, and anxious because again no one knew where I was, and if I never came back, no one would ever search for me there. I had to stop and get off the bike until a coughing fit passed. I realized I would need to walk the final climb up the hill to the house, and resolved that it would be my last.

My mouth was dry, and I felt dizzy. I stopped to prop my bicycle against a tree, picked up the gown, and made the final ascent, certain that the mountain had grown since my last visit. I rested against the fence post to catch my labored breath, and Ghost Writer, the English setter, ran up to me and nuzzled my leg. I pet him on the back, and his hair felt damp from his forest adventures.

“Shoo,” I said. “Don’t muddy the Duchess’ gown.”

I gave the dog a pat on the rump and waved him off, and he ran ahead of me to the house. When I reached the front door and knocked, Eugen opened it before I could finish.

“Ghost came around the back and told us you were here,” he said. “Are you well?”

I felt the opposite of well, but I just wanted to hand over the gown and pedal down the mountain. I wiped my muddy boots and stepped into the foyer. As soon as I entered the house, I saw flashes of light, and then I collapsed.

•   •   •

S
omeone toyed with the hair on my aching forehead.

“I knew I’d get her into my bed,” said a female voice, followed by a laugh.

“Though not quite under the circumstances you imagined,” said a man.

I opened my eyes and blinked until the room came into focus, but it was dark. A candle burned on the table next to me and the moon hung like a half-grin framed by the window. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming, and then I remembered: the delivery, the dog, my dizziness.

Oh, no!

“Grace!”

I bolted up in bed too fast, and had to drop back to the pillow. My head felt as if someone had slammed it with an ax, and my mouth was dry as cotton. My heart pounded.

“You have to help me,” I said in near hysterics. “They won’t know where I am. They’ll think something awful has happened. You must have him take me home.”

“Shhh,”
said Millay. “You are in no shape to go home.”

“You can’t make me stay. I—”

“I don’t wish to make you do anything, but you fainted in my foyer, and I want to see you to good health.”

“Oh, my Lord,” I said. “Marie will think I’m dead. My daughter must be frantic.”

“They’ll know soon enough that you are all right.”

I rolled over with my back to Millay, certain that my sister would never speak to me once she found out where I’d gone.

“My goodness,” said Millay, running her hand over my back. I shrank from her touch, and scooted as close to the edge of her bed as I could. “I would have never taken you for such an alarmist.”

“But I never told Marie where I was going. I thought she’d be angry with me. I told her I’d be home in two hours. What day is it?”

“Settle down. It’s the same day you arrived, and the sun has only just gone down. Eugen can take you back. Just tell her he found you passed out on the side of the road. That’s mostly true.”

I turned over and looked at Millay, and noted that she wore the purple gown, which set off her green eyes as I knew it would. Her hair fell in gentle waves around the white fur collar, and candlelight cast a flattering color over her features and muted the lines around her eyes, which had seemed so prominent in the light of day.

I sat up slowly in bed and hung my legs over the side. Eugen came to help me stand.

“Can I at least persuade you to eat some soup before you go?” he said. “It’s here and hot, waiting for you.”

I noted the steaming bowl on the table next to the chair by the fire, and my stomach growled, but, no, I had to go. Right away.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I have to leave. Please.”

He looked at Millay and she gave a slight nod, granting her acquiescence. He escorted me past her, and to the door of the bedroom. I looked back once more, where she lay arranged on her bed like a small queen.

“I hope you like the gown,” I said.

“I love it more than I can say.”

I attempted a small smile, but I felt so pulled away that I could not remain to admire my work any longer. Eugen helped me down the stairs and into the car, where my bike was already shoved in the backseat. As we raced home, I clutched my stomach when he took the turns too fast in the misty dark, but I could at least appreciate that I would be home soon to see my little one. I closed my eyes and tried to rest. Eugen respected my wish for silence.

When he pulled up in front of my shop, it was dark, so we continued down the lane to Marie’s house. From the outside, her Victorian home looked so cheerful—a comfortable front porch with a swing, electric lights blazing in every room, tidy landscaping. Yet inside, cold and bitter winds blew between my sister and her husband, winds stirred at the place from which I’d just come. I stiffened and thought about the people who had helped me tonight—that ultimately, their desires guided their lives, and they didn’t have to deal with the consequences because they lived in voluntary exile.