She missed the first train; overslept as if resting up for coming trials. The simplest breakfast order (croissants and coffee) seemed to take this hotel forever; they couldnât believe she didnât want their ânice kippersâ and âfried tomatoesâ. Managing all her new boxes proved impossible until the concierge fetched twine and roped them together into a still threateningly unwieldy parcel. Why wouldnât she have them sent? Impossible to explain that these clothes suddenly seemed more intimate, more âhersâ than the pre-pregnancy and shabby maternity clothes awaiting her at that castle. She definitely required the services of a porter. Scarlet had come up in the world. Unfortunately, she missed the second train, too.
Sitting in the third train â it was lunchtime as this point â she felt dull, self-accusatory, downright stupid. Her buyerâs remorse was so severe she couldnât even open Miss Clew. Sheâd managed everything so badly.
Ian didnât know when she was arriving. Oakhampton was too far to take a taxi. Sheâd have to call him from the station and hope he answered the phone. She was feeling nervous about all this shopping. London clothes in the country? What was the idea behind that? Was the best way to deal with Ianâs sudden aristocratic craziness to get crazy too? The Merry Widow was especially embarrassing.
It now seemed to her like angry, ârevengeâ shopping, which was exactly what it had been. She couldnât forget that spectral look in the eyes of Stella, manager at Montcalm Ladiesâ Clothiers, inciting her by acceptance and flattery into playing the âwealth gameâ. Scarlet had only been too glad to comply. Was that what it felt like being Ian, taken advantage of by all the broadcasters and auctioneers he hoped to impress?
Even the London flat seemed now more like a will oâ the wisp than a solid achievement. How had she let a giggly young estate agent maneuver her into the biggest place on offer, without getting any idea of its actual cost? If she was behaving just like Ian, then his behavior was hardly extraordinary. This is how people go bankrupt, she lectured herself. And how on earth could she ever explain any of it to India?
Ian had done all he could to make his new job sound big and important, but were new people really treated this way at the BBC? In her experience the English workplace was decidedly cheese-paring. She couldnât help feeling there was something else on this table, something she wasnât getting. What if everything was just another one of Ianâs rather terrifying but hopeful daydreams, like winning a football pool?
She calmed herself. She hadnât signed for the flat. Jane was only âtalkingâ to Margalo â surely you canât accept responsibility for something so evanescent! If Ianâs employer didnât give a green light, nothing would happen.
She found herself longing for the ordered world of Miss Clew who alone, it seemed, possessed the razor-sharp standards to brush all this confusion aside. The world of the Victorians was famous for its explosion of pretense, imposture and hypocrisy keeping right up with every new marvel of the technological world. But somehow, Miss Clew always saw through to real motives and intent. Eagerly Scarlet opened the next book in the series and prepared to disappear inside. After all, no amount of money could be considered âwithin their budgetâ because Ian staunchly refused to make one or even explain or plan his income.
Yet even this book flatly refused to come to life with her head in such a whirl. What were her exact fears? She looked blindly out the carriage window and resolved to list and face them. If leasing a tiny hole in the wall meant sheâd be cheek by jowl with the man she was currently feuding with, that would certainly be money down the drain. But this selected flat could potentially be shared â one parent âupâ and the other âdownâ â for the benefit of the children. It seemed like in many ways the best solution, she comforted herself.
The real question was, why did she feel so awful? Such a failure? Because of Pom, dammit! Why was this man so interested in her and why was so she so dependent on that fact? Because her own husband was ignoring her. Dammit, dammit, dammit.
âI liked that manâs helplessness,â she said finally. âItâs the exact opposite of every other movie.â
âWell, he has to trust his girlfriend to do what he canât do.â
âTrust her not to get herself killed, you mean? They share an unbearable curiosity. Audere scire, thatâs my real motto. Dare to know.â
âWhat a perfect phrase! Family?â
âHardly,â said Pom. âI think they chose some scrap of boilerplate that meant âToady like your life depends on it.â Picturing a toad rampant.â
She laughed until his tense face relaxed.
âThe cameraâs like the wheelchair, in a way,â she suggested.
âHow do you mean?â
âWell, heâs at one remove from the action. At a distance, always.â
âA voyeur, you mean,â agreed Pom. âThatâs what they say about Hitchcock, that he turns us all into voyeurs.”
âAnd he wants us to be both intrigued and ashamed.â
âI suppose our hero was so eager to find out if he was right about his neighbor being a killer that he didnât mind putting Grace Kelly in harmâs way,â Pom suggested. âPretty unforgiveable, really. They needed three scriptwriters to figure a way out.â
âShe was brave, I thought. She really went in without his permission.â
âBut knowing she was doing what he wanted.â
âHeâs still helpless at the end,â said Scarlet. âBreaking the other leg.â
âHe needs a special manager,â Pom agreed.
âAnd then Hitchcock makes fun of our happy ending by showing sheâs already bored by his life before theyâre even married.â
âPerhaps heâll realize he must always find â and film – mysteries that keep her interested. Apparently Hitchcockâs real wife always wrote his screen treatments. He thought in pictures, working the film out in storyboards and then sheâd write the first script.â
âWhat a perfect combination of skills,â said Scarlet. Like our movie tonight â heâll be curious about the neighbors and sheâll investigate, and thatâs what happily ever after is.â
âFor their sake I hope so,â said Pom. A little sadly.
Scarlet realized with a start that Pom must always be looking from his lonely life into the brightly lit windows of othersâ married bargains. But she couldnât think of any polite way to broach the subject.
Pom drained his espresso, then effortlessly became very personal indeed. âDo you believe in love at first sight?â
She panicked as she realized two things â both that it was possible to have too good evening and secondly that she needed to put a stop to this very agreeable fantasy right now.
âI want to thank you for such a pleasant evening,â she began formally.
âOh noâŠâ he supplied. âI can feel the disclaimer coming. I brace myself.â
Could she explain, âIâm especially vulnerable right now -â no, that was a mistake. Putting poor Pom in the wrong. Best come clean. âIan and I have been having trouble.â
âI hope itâs not the house. Iâm afraid Iâve sold you a permanently sinking ship.â
âNo. No.â In a way it was, but nothing specific to Pomâs estate. She had assumed the âtriggerâ was her pregnancy but maybe the truth was even worse. Had Ian always been mistress as well as house shopping? âItâs his â attitude. As a country gentleman.â
âI begin to see,â Pom supplied. âThe âgirlfriendâ thing?â
âYes. Heâs separating himself from us, as if heâs fulfilling some kind of ancient pattern that I thought weâd both rejected. It closes him off to me and to the baby.â Really, this conversation was getting too intimate. It proved that she was desperate for a friend. But could Pom â could any man, much less an Englishman – ever be that?
âTell me,â she hazarded, âWhen English men go shopping for a country house are they really looking for an excuse to be unfaithful?â
She was trying to lighten the desperate moment but Pom gave the comment deep consideration. âI suppose so,â he said finally. âItâs the nest thing. Youâre asking, does ânestâ mean âharemâ to an Englishman?â
âAm I?â She felt stunned. She gave a gasping, nervous laugh but neither that nor her stricken face intimidated him.
âIâm imagining things I havenât experienced,â he went on. âThatâs my voyeurism for you right there. Itâs been my perpetual difficulty because Iâve always been considered such an odd duck. Ian blocks you off so you open yourself up to me and I donât want that to stop because Iâm feeling something Iâve never felt before, something that Iâd given up expecting to ever feel – something I assumed would always be impossible for me.â
Blood flooded her face; she couldnât speak. She was grateful for his calm. Was this something adults whoâd just met could discuss? He kept his voice level and his eyes serious. âI put a curse on you by selling you that house. Sadly, you canât have the money back.â
She hadnât been able to lighten the moment but he certainly could. She laughed to the point of tears.
âIn America, we call that âno backsiesâ, she said.
âNo backsies,â he agreed. âIâve spent most of it anyway.â
When she raised her eyebrows â he shared, âDebts. I bought an annuity with the rest. Keep a little money coming in.â
So he was careful! A cautious, forward planning man. Ian was the one equating masculinity with carelessness, Ian, who enjoyed recklessness for its own sake. To such a man, thoughtful Pom seemed a âpoofter.â
Pom said, âSo what are your plans, if I may ask?â
âIâm going to confront him with what Iâve found,â she allowed. âWe have to start telling each other the truth. So really itâs about what HE will do.â
âOr?â
She pulled away. He was too persistent.
âThere is no âor.â
âIâve got a lot riding on it,â he admitted.
Once again, she was wrong. Pom was, in his own way, a reckless man.
âI canât go that far. Yet.â
Truthfully, she had imagined so many possible scenarios. She wanted to pray, to hope, even to pretend. Anything rather than dwell upon the ugly possibilities. She knew she couldnât live with a liar and continue to seek the truth in art. One of those devotions must be sacrificed. She had never imagined Pom stepping in to fill her husbandâs place.
He squeezed her hand. âKeep in contact,â he said. He stood up over their empty coffee cups. Their ride to the hotel was silent. She wondered if his mind was as busy as hers. He seemed to concentrate on the route.
âDonât come up,â she said at the hotel. âI can only repeat what a wonderful time Iâve had.â âAre you going back tomorrow?â
She nodded. âFirst train.â
âIâm driving down tomorrow night and I can give you a lift if you can wait.â
She couldnât wait. She couldnât bear to be parted from Nick for an extra moment.
âYou wonât cut me off?â he requested anxiously.
She was touched â a little scared â to have so much power over this wonderful man so recently encountered.
âOf course not.â
In the elevator, she reflected on the oddness of their exchange. What kind of man made overtures to a woman who had just borne a baby to another man? It made him sound so awful. She heard herself trying to explain to anybody â India perhaps – that he âwasnât like thatâ. But where honesty and directness stopped and fantasy took over in either of their hearts and minds she really couldnât say. She didnât know him that well, and it was beginning to seem like she didnât know herself either.
At the hotel salon, she had just enough time for a wash and set. She refused to let them cut her hair so Angelique swept it up into a stiff French roll that Scarlet knew would showcase her new dangly jet earrings to perfection. Angelique didnât want money either; just her room number.
âThis is almost too wonderful,â thought Scarlet. âI definitely see why people claw at each other like crazed rats just to enter this world.â However, Angelique didnât object to a tip.
Scarlet stopped at the front desk for her parcels: âIn your room, madam.â
Well THAT was a bit creepy and unforeseen. She WAS a rube, fresh from the country. A âgooberâ, India would say. She didnât care for the idea of strange men entering her room.
Hopefully the bell captain watched while the parcels were unloaded â but if he delivered them himself, didnât that mean that technically he had access to her room at any moment? Hotels were creepy! She could see that this attractive new world came with a side serving of helpless paranoia.
If you expected to be waited on by anonymous people closely scrutinizing your behavior, wasnât that like inviting permanent spies? Could the loss of privacy ever be worth it? wondered Scarlet. Already she missed her anonymous old free-wheeling self â independently setting herself up as a critic whom it would never be worth anyoneâs time to criticize back.
The idea for a play began to stir inside her â people following a treasure hunt finding terror instead and unable to warn the optimists still coming. Eyes glittering with an imagined future, like something out of a om painting â endless warnings but no one would listen! Hmmm.
Ten minutes to change meant a âwhoreâs bathâ in Ianâs unlovely terminology: just a once over at the sink. She hadnât brought perfume but the hotelâs lavender and cucumber soap left a pleasant enough scent. She wore the brocade top and the long black velvet skirt â she wouldnât need the merry widow for that – what a pity she hadnât thought to purchase a new pair of gold high-heeled sandals. Her old black court pumps would just have to do.
The phone rang: a gentleman awaited her in the lobby. The brocade top came with a matching evening bag â and once she had a room key and a handkerchief she didnât really need anything else. That, she realized, was because she trusted Pom. He wasnât a masher or a blackmailing cad â she felt certain he wouldnât stand her up or strand her anywhere. On the other hand, if the hotel staff wandered in and out of her room at their pleasure, then she needed to add her coin purse and datebook, jut in order to feel confident nothing âtruly Scarletâ had been left behind. Just another anonymous hotel room filled with a dayâs shopping.
Pom glowed with a fresh shave and a deep crimson tie set off by his dark suit; no paint stains in evidence. Funny, thought Scarlet, we each removed a layer of skin and donned unaccustomed finery to spend the evening together.
âNew outfit?â he inquired. âYou look smashing.â
The doorman opened the passenger door of his battered Dorset with a flourish and Scarlet climbed in. âI suppose you know what Thoreau said about new clothes,â she teased.
âThoreau?â He pronounced it âthorough.â âYour naturalist fellow?â
âHe was a philosopher. He said to beware enterprises requiring new clothes.â
âI hope you donât feel that it was truly a requirement,â drawled Pom. âCertainly not by me. You know, we English also have a philosopher: Keats.â
âOh, and what did he remark?â
âThat beauty is its own excuse for being.â
No doorman at Luigiâs, the dark little restaurant in Soho whose shrimp scampi came so highly recommended.
They shared a dark booth, a bottle of chianti and an antipasto salad. Scarlet ate with an appetite.
She supposed any comment about the depthless hunger of breastfeeding Moms would dampen the conversation. Just thinking about Nick made her breasts leak. Perhaps she wouldnât dry up after all. âIs there anything I should know about this film?â
âNo,â said Pom. âHitchcock introduces the problem very elegantly. A fresh mind is all thatâs required.â
âBut thatâs a lot,â said Scarlet. âThen tell me about the first time you saw it.â
âAnd the only time. Letâs see: it was two years ago â I just happened on it at The Rialto. The picture of James Stewart with a telephoto camera was intriguing. I think I assumed it was about blackmail, gangsters â you know, typical American. Then I saw the wheelchair.â He grimaced. âYouâre tricking me into giving away the plot.â
âIâm not trying to. Itâs just hard to get you to talk about yourself.â
âThatâs a very English quality. I think weâre raised to be self-deprecating and make fun of ourselves.â
Not Ian, thought Scarlet. He always said no one toots your horn if youâre too shy. Maybe it was a class thing. But she certainly didnât want to discuss her husband tonight.
âBut ask me anything about cricket, shooting, or the ancient Greeks and Romans,â Pom continued. âThe jokeâs on my parents who spent all their assets qualifying me for a club I donât care to join. Quantum ille canis in fenestra?â
âFamily motto?â
âI suppose it ought to be. How much is that doggy in the window is what it really means.â
Scarlet burst out laughing. âYou can see Iâm deficient in dead languages.â
âTheyâre dead for a reason. Thereâs a credible theory that the English became great conquering explorers just to get away from their bad weather, repellant nannies and disapproving headmasters.â
âI heard something about the pursuit of sunlight. Warm weather.â
âSadly, it seems we carry our inner darkness with us. All this âwhite menâs burdenâ stuff was really about trying to make seemingly happy people as miserable as we were.â
âI love your iconoclastic approach to history,â said Scarlet. âLearning iconoclasm is Artistâs Job #1 in my book.â
âAmen. How else could the whole colonial adventure have gone so horribly wrong? They gave us so much and we gave them so little. Sterno-flavored tea and cricket paddles explains everything.â The scampi was worth waiting for. The shrimp were tiny, but encrusted with garlic and pecorino like so many little nuts.
âThis is divine,â gasped Scarlet. âBut Iâm afraid Iâm going to reek. What if they refuse to allow us into a public place?â
âThis is Soho,â Pom explained. âEveryone in the theatre will have dined on garlic and onions.â If they had, Scarlet wouldnât be able to tell, but of course that was the wickedness of garlic.
The film was unexpectedly funny. Scarlet had expected something very dark and shocking but it was in full color and seemed to focus around an entire apartment house of fascinating relationships.
âLike an ant farm,â she whispered to Pom, but his, âPardon?â seemed to suggest this was just another incomprehensible American reference.
âWe used to get ant farms for Christmas,â she explained as the credits rolled. âDirt encased in glass. You watched ants digging tunnels and rushing their little eggs around.â
âSounds awful,â said Pom. âI was spared American excitements. It was all nuts, oranges and socks for the likes of us. I think I got a compass one year.â
They were silent until they found themselves sitting in the Dorset on the way to her hotel.
âSo what did you think of the film?â
Her mind was bursting with complex impressions.
âCould we stop at a coffee bar? This is going to take some time to hash out fully.â
âIâm certain youâll like this one,â said Jane as both women drove in Janeâs Ford Anglia toward Hampstead Heath, âNo garden but such a view! Itâs a second floor maisonette â two whole floors with a bit of a balcony. Lots of room, considering itâs a London flat. Be honest if you take against it â Iâve got four other possibilities â itâs just that this is the one with the most space.â The yellow stone-faced outside bore a plaque honoring the building â or at least the location â as one of William Blakeâs London residences.
âPromising augury for poets,â said Scarlet, resolved to love the place and get this over with. âOf course!â agreed Jane, who clearly had never noticed the plaque before. Possibly a disorganized, half-crazed ancient mystic was not the type her usual clientele yearned to emulate. âSo, you write, too?â
âIâve been a bit absorbed in the baby,â said Scarlet. âBut I have hopes.â
The entrance was cramped and unphotogenicâ obstructed as it was by dustbins â and the narrow staircase was clearly impossible for prams.
âFurniture comes in through the windows,â said Jane, and when Scarlet commented, âLike Hollandâ she agreed, âAs you say.â
Jane was too agreeable â it was beginning to make Scarletâs skin crawl. What would Jane would say if a male client asked to squeeze her knockers? âAs you say?â Or is that just my cynicism, Scarlet wondered. Have my husbandâs predilections ruined my temperament?
After the hard work of stair climbing they stepped into a lovely, light filled flat, large as promised, with a full bathroom on each floor. Scarlet wanted it at once. The kitchen was miniature with the usual unacceptable Stone Age English appliances â but there was a bedroom off it â âServant quartersâ according to Jane â which would do for an au pair. Scarlet fantasized that if you got rid of the huge Victorian bathtub and installed a shower instead the downstairs bath could contain a modern washing machine. Three large reception rooms, and upstairs three big-windowed bedrooms. Off the largest bedroom was a tiny balcony with room only for a pair of chairs but with a glorious view all across London.
âWeâll take it,â said Scarlet and Jane crowed with satisfaction, âI thought you might.â There was nothing to sign and no mention of money.
âWe need Margalo to negotiate with the builders,â said Jane, âSheâll tell them whatâs what. Iâll give her the green light, shall I?â
âHow lovely,â sighed Scarlet. Was this what spending was like for rich people? Minions took care of all details, while your sole obligation was to consult your pleasure. âShall I drop you at your hotel?â queried Jane.
âNo,â said Scarlet. âMontcalm Ladiesâ Clothiers.â She couldnât say, âI have a date.â And after all, wasnât shopping what ladies were expected to do when they came up from the country? Scarlet needed London clothes for her new London life.
âI can find it,â Jane said confidently.
Two suits, two cocktail dresses, a long black velvet skirt and a brocade gold top were what Montcalm Clothiersâ fashion wizard Stella told Scarlet she would require, and Scarlet quite agreed. Two tweed suits â for town and country â thrown into the bargain. Scarlet sat on a miniature Louis Quinze sofa, accepted a cup of weak China tea (no milk, sugar or lemon) and watched a parade of garments. The dark blue chiffon cocktail dress made her heart beat fast but, âI donât think I have a waist yet,â she sighed.
âNonsense,â said Stella brusquely, âWhere would any of us be without our corsets?â And she produced a buff and black merry widow complete with stocking suspenders. âGive it a try.â It worked.
Stella said, âWe donât sell proper jewelry here, just a few outfit-finishing costume pieces but nothing better instructs a man what to give for Christmas and birthday when he contemplates the shortcomings of your jewel box.â
So thatâs how itâs done, thought Scarlet. Clever girls!
A brooch, a necklace and a wonderful pair of dangly jet earrings were consequently chosen.
Scarlet felt most important. No mention of Margalo here â but merely â âWould you like to open an account? We need a few items of personal information.â
These included references. Scarlet gave Margalo and both the London and Oakhampton bank managers.
âShall we bill the country or town home?â Stella was good. She was almost as good as Jane but, because she was older and consequently wore a lot more makeup the tension lines around her lips gave her away.
âThe town home,â said Scarlet, âWeâre not moving into the London flat till February 1st.â Stellaâs face relaxed and she purred like a kitten as she took down the address. âWyvern Houseâ did sound quite chi-chi.
âShall I send these along to your hotel?â
âWill there be delivery by five?â asked Scarlet and when reassured, gave her address. Mentioning the Cumberland seemed to seal – not queer – the deal.
It was a mews flat â small and tucked away above a car barn.
âYou canât seem to get away from the auto motif,â was Scarletâs comment as she climbed the steep stairs.
âI do keep my vehicle downstairs,â said Pom, âSo itâs right handy.â
It was a cute little space elegantly furnished with modern Scandinavian fittings. Tiny bedroom, tiny bath, a kitchen separated from the lounge by a polished wooden pub top.
âLooks like the only wine available is burgundy,â he said as he uncorked it. âI was cooking boeuf bourguignon last night. Or trying to.â
Scarlet readily accepted a glass. âYou cook?â
âIâm taking a cookery class. Letâs say I wish I cooked. I hate interrupting my work to travel out for forage. Ideally, Iâd like a big pot au feu I can dip into, but it needs to taste like something other than burned. I see youâve got the roses back in your cheeks. Ready for the studio?â
She averred that she was ready. The studio was a big empty room on the other side of the stairs â well lit by skylights. Canvases were stacked against the walls and a big unfinished one hung from the ceiling. Pom slung a tarp over it.
âI canât bear comments before Iâm ready,â he said. âIâm sadly impressionable. I always end up seeing it their way, get completely derailed and end up with a buggered mess.â
He tossed some drawings aside and spread the portfolio open on a paint stained table.
She studied the picture before her. The paintings she had previously seen were all about color â these were different. Black and white with a slash of red.
âItâs like⊠an eye.â
âYes. Reflections.â
He leafed through the collection slowly. She wasnât sure she liked them so she didnât know what to say.
âI know,â he said. âMy abstracts are a lot more popular. I suppose your husbandâs money â your money â has given me the courage to risk rank unpopularity. Iâve always been rather ashamed of my brushwork so Iâm attempting to evolve. Using my palette knife more. Iâm playing with â not needing beauty. With ⊠whateverâs the opposite of beauty.â
âTheyâre scary,â she said finally. Who would have guessed! So unlike his social presentation. He zipped up the portfolio. âIâll accept that,â he agreed. âLife has a decidedly dark side.â
âDoesnât it,â she agreed. âWhen did youâŠevolve?â
âTruthfully, you had something to do with it.â
Was he blushing? He seemed to be studying her face, looking at her hungrily, as a portraitist looks. Suddenly she regretted the good lighting.
âLady Scarlet to the Dark Tower Came,â he said softly. âYouâve instigated a good many of my sleepless nights.â
She quivered. She couldnât face it â turned to flee.
âI donât know whatâs happening,â she said when he grabbed her shoulders.
âI find itâs best to wait storms out,â he suggested. They stood quietly for a moment. âThen assess the damage. If youâre staying in town, thereâs a Hitchcock movie Iâd like to see again.â
âReally? Which one?â
âRear Window.â
âHavenât seen it.â
âThen you should. Whatâs your favorite meal?â
âShrimp scampi. Are you going to try to cook it?â
âI most certainly am not. But I do know the perfect Soho restaurant with exactly that specialty. Now you will experience the pleasures of running a car in town.â
âAs long,â she said, âAs the car doesnât run you.â
âNow letâs see – whereâs this estate agent?â He studied the card. âThatâs almost Kensal Green. Letâs check you into the hotel and then Iâll run you over.â
She didnât argue. When the English said, they would run you over they offered a favor, not a traffic accident. She trusted him more each minute. His company felt like a benison.
Why was she so completely certain âeverything would work out?â The confidence Pom lent her must surely be misplaced. Squarely faced, the facts were bad. Ian had a girlfriend â that was terrible enough. Worse, he had met her in a London hotel. And when he came home, he was not interested in sex with his wife. Could she ever get the old Ian back? Did she want him?
She stepped thoughtfully into Pomâs 1950 Austin Dorset two-seater. The bucket seats were so low it was as if they sat directly on the road.
âDo I get goggles with this thing?â she queried.
Pom laughed as she tied up her hair.
The Cumberland was huge, impersonal. They seemed unconcerned about single ladies. No one cared that she had only a dressing case, and no one watched Pom carry it to her room. âIâm not tipping you,â she said.
âYes, you are,â he insisted. âBy coming to dinner with me. It will have to be early because of the film. Six oâclock?â
Could she choose a flat in four hours? How could she still contemplate a London flat? Yet one seemed preferable to The Dark Tower she realized. It functioned as some kind of promise that she wouldnât be abandoned in the country with a baby while her husband swanned about ordering room service.
She was ten minutes late to the estate agentâs, but as Pom had insisted, estate agents donât care. After all, it was only young Jane Lumley and her very elderly father who seemed more like her grandfather. Jane was fresh, pretty, a real English rose. Scarlet looked at her sadly with Ianâs eyes.
Was there any girl left in the universe whom she could trust her husband not to desire?
In the end, Ian insisted on looking after the baby himself, saying, âDonât worry. I have Fern to help me.â
Scarlet couldnât imagine her husband changing a diaper but how could she object to a father willing to spend time with his infant? She could tell by his smug face that he appreciated her dilemma. Any claim from an English husband for a desire to spend time with his son should be a dream come true to an American girl. But Ianâs âtellsâ â specifically his exaggeratedly âinnocentâ expression â were present in full flower. She suspected him of attempting to make his mind impenetrable to hers â the exact opposite of what their relationship had been in its most satisfying phase, when their love had been redolent of sharing, empathy and transparency. He had yet to touch her sexually â and now she too refrained out of some fatalistic curiosity to see just how long he would make her wait.
She must allow him to look after his own child. In her dreams, they would always be a âtwo-parentâ family, and never a lord, a lady and an infant in thrall to a succession of aging nannies, fake nannies and wannabe nannies.
She insisted on staying at a hotel. Just as he had done she knew the exact argument to use – âCandi and Davidâs place is so tiny â remember we moved because it gave me claustrophobia!â He couldnât argue with that.
âWhy not The Royal Grenadier?â she first suggested, only to hear that it served only men. This must be the reason for the receipted bill from the Carpathian Hotel she had found in his jacket pocket and which was currently residing in hers. She hadnât asked him about it because she didnât want him to wrest the bill away â which he would have. She had a different plan in mind.
âOh, Iâm sure the Royal will suggest something,â she told her husband confidently. âThey have to put the ladies somewhere. I also need to find an estate agent.â
âOh, here.â Ian searched his trousers pocket, proffered a card. âWeâre using this friend of Margaloâs. Sheâll know all about the BBC job.â
âJane Lumley, Lumley & Lumley. WEStminster 2012.â Read the card.
âToney,â was Scarletâs comment.
She made sure he heard the call she placed to the Royal Grenadier.
âCan you recommend a hotel for ladies?â was her polite enquiry.
Old buffer on the other end sounded gobsmacked. âMost ladies stay at their clubs,â he harrumphed.
Scarlet thanked him smoothly, reholstered the phone. âHe suggested the Carpathian.â She pulled the earpiece off its socket and began dialing but she was covertly watching Ianâs face. Ianâs face told her all she needed to know. He had gone as white as a sheet.
âNot the Carpathian,â he gasped, âWhat a dreary dump. Iâm certain we can do better than that. How about the Cumberland? Itâs in Marylebone, right next to Broadcasting House. Has a lovely bar.â
âPerfect,â said Scarlet. âI can say hello to Margalo.â His face relaxed. That meant Margalo was not The One. This was what she had come to â what must inevitably happen when Ian closed himself off: suspicion. So Scarlet reserved a room at The Cumberland.
On the train she found herself staring curiously into the closed faces of the other riders. None of them appeared to sense that she was facing a personal Rubicon. Possibly everyone was sealed into their own private nightmare and the pessimistic existentialists had been right all along. She had always pushed away such dreary cynicism â life was just too pleasurable. But now it seemed that every pleasure had its âmorning after.â
She welcomed the chance to open a Miss Clew book â nothing suited her present mood so much as the pursuit of justice. Miss Clew was an elderly spinster with a clear mind and an untroubled righteousness who found herself pulled into one mystery after another. She was never fooled and she was never stymied. She thought the worst of everyone and she was never wrong. Scarlet found her very refreshing.
At Waterloo she took a cab straight to the Carpathian. It was not, as she had been told a âdreary dumpâ but a rather discreet looking and charmingly small hotel tucked into Knightsbridge near Cadogan Hall. Convenient to Sloane Square â was that the reason for its choice? Scarlet knew Sloane Square was the location of Candiâs gallery.
She raced up the stone steps of what had obviously once been a private house. The reception desk was a real desk, behind which sat a little bald man in a slick grey and gold uniform. She slapped the hotel bill on the polished oak surface.
âI am Mr. Ian Wyeâs assistant,â she began, but he interrupted her,
âIâm so sorry,â he said. âWe havenât found it.â
âYou havenât found it?â Scarlet stared at him stupidly.
âMrs. Wyeâs petticoat. Weâve looked everywhere. Will Mr. Wye expect a discount? We try to guarantee ââ
She staggered backwards and snatched the bill away, as if attempting to replay this scene. As she did she saw a sympathetic look of understanding come into his eyes. Suddenly it seemed that he knew exactly who she was and what was happening – it had occurred before and was probably occurring at this very moment in hotels all around the world. For all she knew hoteliers fended off heartbroken wives on a daily basis. She couldnât speak: she turned bright red. She simply turned and fled.
She began to walk, trying to sort her jumbled feelings. She had once considered London âher cityâ but now she felt herself on utterly unfamiliar, even hostile terrain. Why was this happening? Since she had been so fearful that exactly this might occur â how could she then be so astonished? And yet she was.
Also terrible and completely unexpected was that strange manâs pity. A complete stranger had pitied Scarlet Wye at what should have been the peak of her life. Scarlet Wye, American girl with a country castle, a hunky husband and a healthy new baby, currently canvassing London to shop for a pied Ă terre was an object of pity to a hotel flunky.
She saw now that she had only postponed all her emotions of grief and rage, by telling herself not to feel them until All Was Lost.
Was all lost? It felt that way. Talk about âparadigm shiftsâ! In spite of the universal belief that one act of infidelity could never signify âthe endâ of a long-term, committed relationship, to her American mind it was the end. They had pledged before God and the rector of St. Barnabasâ Church to worship each other with their bodies until death do them part, not to worship other people. Now all bets are off, she thought, recalling the casino warning: Rien ne va plus.
She realized she was standing directly across the street from the Escarpa Gallery staring at it without comprehension. Some part of her subconscious had brought her unerringly here. Its main window featured an enormous, glittering, swirling green and blue abstract â an impressionistic ocean, perhaps. And out the front door as just if her echo of âparadigm shiftsâ had summoned him up, strode Pom, black leather portfolio in hand.
He saw her at once, raised a hand and dashed through traffic.
âWell this is a surprise,â he said, taking her arm and her train case in one smooth gesture, âMay I take you to lunch?â
Somehow, they were walking. Away from the gallery. Scarlet sighed with relief. She need not confront and unmask the false âMrs. Wyeâ today.
She couldnât speak and he seemed not to expect explanation. She pressed his hand gratefully. Pom steered her immediately into a Steak and Egg where he first tried to sit by the window but when she shied away from that he guided her to a small dark booth.
âNever been here before? I love these places, they let me sit as long as I like. I conduct all my town business in that very front window. Let me get you a cup of tea.â
The English conception of âteaâ was black sludge with plenty of milk and sugar, just the way Miss Clew recommended it. And as Miss Clew promised to her suffering clients, it felt amazingly strengthening.
âSeriously, you look like youâve seen a ghost. Is it me? What happened?â
He was so charming! She fought an overwhelming impulse to tell him everything. How could she possibly trust him? He was a brief acquaintance, an unmarried Englishman at that! They were strangers to each other. She tried getting a grip on herself.
âWhy were you in the Escarpa?â she asked him, flat out. He didnât seem insulted or confused by being intimately questioned and answered promptly.
âI had an appointment with Chipster,â he said. âThe manager. Showed him my work.â
âAnd?â
âThey all say the same thing. âMaybe someday.â He laughed and she managed to laugh too.
âIâm so sorry,â she apologized, âI just had an upset. Did you see a strawberry blonde with Cleopatra eye makeup?â
âI might have.â He looked a bit more guarded.
âI think she might be my husbandâs girlfriend. Candi.â The nerve of Ian to suggest she board with Candi! She trembled with rage.
He kept his poker face while the attendant delivered a pair of sandwiches. Looked to Scarlet like a hamburger with a fried egg on top. Pom shook a bottled sauce all over his. Scarlet began separating out the ingredients carefully with the assistance of a plastic fork.
âIâm sorry,â said Pom finally. âHeâs a fool.â
The hamburger was acceptable. The egg was another story. Scarlet finished her tea. Pom waved a hand in the air.
âThey donât really wait on you here,â he said, âbut they do wait on me.â
Pomâs a natural aristocrat, thought Scarlet, smiling. The soap manufacturerâs poor artist grandson, temporarily flush from selling the family estate.
âI didnât come up to confront Candi,â she said, realizing as soon as the words were out of her mouth that they werenât true. She took a panicked look at her watch, then sighed with relief.
âIâm meeting an estate agent,â she said, âAt two oâclock. Weâre looking at flats.â She gestured at the portfolio. âIâd love to see your work.â
âNot in this light,â said Pom. âWhirlwind visit? Or are you staying somewhere?â
âI have a reservation at the Cumberland,â she said. âBut I havenât checked in.â
âThe Cumberlandâs miles away,â he said. âWhereas my flat is right around the corner.â
An independent married woman invited to a bachelorâs London hideaway? Thought Scarlet. Yes, please! Served Ian right!
Because Ianâs train came in at the dinner hour, Scarlet hoped to turn the event into a sorely needed romantic date. Fern agreed to look after Nicholas if Scarlet dropped the baby off in his carrycot at her parentsâ home. Fernâs mother oohed and aahed over Nicholas and offered to give him a bottle of warm, diluted condensed milk if he cried.
She seemed so motherly Scarlet agreed. It was glorious to be set free for the evening, to imagine herself young and carefree with her whole life ahead of her. Those had been such good, such memorable days â she needed their nostalgic power to propel her through this crisis. When she dared to fall for an acknowledged heartbreaker, she told herself his bad reputation had grown out of disappointed spite. Every girl was attracted by Ianâs glamor but it was the shy American girl who had captured his heart.
She had dressed carefully for this evening. Technically they werenât supposed to âgo all the wayâ tonight but what could twenty-four hours possibly matter? A whisper of the forbidden could spice up routine. According to Scarletâs thinking this was the second time the future of their relationship required her to throw caution to the winds.
She wore a low cut glittery velvet top â tight, her nursing bra pushing her newly inflated breasts upward. Now that she possessed such a pair of gaudy bosoms she might as well flaunt them. Her black velvet skirt was a bit long, forcing her to wear heels, but Ian liked high heels anyway â didnât all men? If they danced high heels guaranteed theyâd be cheek to cheek. Careful makeup, swinging gold leaf earrings, a fleecy wrap and her pale hair brushed fine and down. She had certainly caused favorable remark at Fernâs house:
âSmashing!â declared Fernâs brother.
She needed this confidence, she realized, as she waited for the train.
The train was on time and she was a bit discouraged to see Ian step out of the dining car, his cheeks lit with comfort and good living, talking and laughing in a gaggle of male strangers. He waved goodbye as she flashed her lights at him, then she climbed out of the station wagon. âI hardly recognized you,â he offered.
She hoped it was meant as a compliment but didnât feel sure. She clambered, heels skittering across the icy cobblestones.
âSteady on!â He grabbed her elbow. âDid you start the celebration without me?â
Thatâs my line, she thought, almost angrily. âNo, I made reservations Sous les Arbres. I thought we deserved a night out. How about you?â
âSuits me,â he said, answering the wrong question, but she left it at that. At least he hadnât dented his appetite which was something to be grateful for. And he didnât seem visibly impaired. She must firmly reject that role of critical wife, Xantippe to a pathetic Socrates. Probably heâd had no more than a Guinness. Or two. Drink rounds were a rigid English social requirement in the club car ethos â especially if the âfriendsâ were new.
Scarlet plunged ahead â straight, she hoped, into their shared new life.
âSo, tell me the good news! Iâm dying to know!â
âI got the job!â he said, grinding the gears into reverse. âItâs a great opportunity. They love my modern mythology series idea. âJupiter in Your Office!â They ate it up. They created a brand new position, just for me, based on me bringing in all my contacts. Director of New Programming. Fresh people, fresh ideas â cultivating movers and shakers. If we make it our business to know everyone it guarantees our place at the top of the game.â
âOh honey, Iâm so glad!â and she kissed him. It really had worked out all right, then, after all. Buying this impossible house in the country hadnât been the end of everything, but a more exciting beginning. Sister India had been entirely wrong â she just didnât understand the English system of presentation, perks, honors and rewards.
âTell you what, you go up tomorrow and look at flats,â he said.
âWhat can we afford? What are they paying you?â
âThatâs not settled but itâll be something pretty generous. Should we call the Pourfoyles so you can stay over? They offered.â
Did that mean he had seen them?
âI donât want to be away from Nick overnight. I think I should take him along.â
âOh Scarlet, stop being such a sentimental American squaw. Face it, the English have a much better system. You wean that baby and give him to Fern. Or Ina. Or somebody.â
Scarlet certainly would not do that but she knew this was not a good time to argue the point. They had arrived at the restaurant where it was time to surrender their battered old car to the valet. âPas devant les domestiques,â said Scarlet and Ian had the grace to laugh.
They enjoyed a lovely meal. Snails followed by steak Diane set flaming in the pan, and a fine old Bollinger to drink it all down. Scarlet thought one glass was all she could manage â after all her abstemious days, wine seemed to soar straight to her head.
Ian talked about all the new people he was meeting â important people with âroyal connectionsâ looking to him to âset the tone.â âTheyâre planning to really build me up!”â
The champagne gave him the confidence to say, âMargalo really has no idea of quality. I believe I could sell them any damn thing. We should tart up your verse play and pretend weâve just discovered it.â
âMargalo Chalmers,â said Ian. âSheâs the one who hired me. Donât be jealous Scarlet old girl, sheâs an unspeakably hideous old lesbian.â
Scarlet knew there was no guarantee whatever that this was true. Margalo was doubtless a perfectly presentable thirty-five-year old businesswoman. Ian had probably flirted with her shamelessly. Scarlet accepted the driving duties as they tottered, flushed, out into the night.
Fernâs Mom â who seemed to have commandeered the baby care â said she thought Nickâs diaper rash was âkeeping him awakeâ and she had âtaken the libertyâ of applying some ointment the locals swore by. Scarlet sniffed at Nicholas like a mother wolf â she couldnât help herself â had these people âalteredâ her child? She thought it much more likely that Nick was exhausted from being passed around to strangers when he should be getting his rest.
The âbaby mindersâ were thanked and coins changed hands, then just at the door Ian announced, âScarletâs going up to town ââ
âI donât know,â Scarlet interrupted almost ferociously. âWeâll see.â
As Ian helped her and carrycot into the car he said, âSee what problems you make for yourself? That nice lady would love having a âbabbyâ to look after!â
Scarlet hissed at him angrily. âThey wonât even tell us what they used to treat our child! Could be deadly nightshade for all you know.â
âHardly, if all the locals have been using it for years. There canât be anything dangerous in the preparation or it would never have lasted this long. Naturally they keep their secret recipes proprietary. You should consider partnering with Mrs. Mugle to sell Failsafe Babby Ointment to every woman in Britain â that would be a lot more lucrative than verse plays.â
There was so much umbrage to take at this sentence Scarlet didnât know where to start, so she chose the better path and said nothing. By the time they got home she would hopefully be calmed down enough to get their âspecial eveningâ back on track.
âWhat I hear you saying,â Ian went on in his most reasonable-sounding way as the car rattled around the corner onto the main road, âIs that you need help but you also want to do everything yourself in your own way.â
Horribly, he was right. Her continued silence would sound like sulking.
âIâm the one who chose Mrs. Mugle,â she said. âAt least letâs see if this magic ointment really works before we try her again.â
But if she asked Mrs. Mugle to put aside her own maternal instincts how good a job of baby-minding could she possibly do? Resentment and secrecy must follow any such request. Anyway, Scarlet had really signed on for the services of Fern â who had been nowhere in sight. Scarlet feared these local coven mothers with their unscientific, outdated superstitions. She couldnât be too careful with her only child.
âAmericans fuss too much over their children and then they all grow up weak, delinquent and neurotic,â Ian accused comfortably. âIn our country, we donât believe in all this indulgence and fetishizing.â
Once again Scarlet could barely control herself. Who could possibly be more neurotic than any aristocratic twit nursing his entitlement or for that matter an Angry Young Man seeking fame by proclaiming his grievance? But she knew she couldnât say this â Ian would only tell her she didnât know anything about it and the fight would be on. That was NOT her plan for the evening. âIâm bushed,â said Ian, pulling off his tie as she tucked Nicholas into his crib. âIâll take the guest bath.â
She heard the water running, but she also heard voices. Creeping down the hall she saw he had taken the hall telephone into the bathroom with him and closed the door.
Who could he possibly be calling at this hour? Margalo? Candi? Someone she didnât even know about? This was insufferable. Sheâd bitten her tongue all evening, now secret phone calls were too much. The moment for intimacy with her husbandâ on this night of nights â had passed. Intimacy with her son was all she had left. Too bad her milk seemed to have dried up.
âYou can reach me at The Royal Grenadier Hotelâ â and he was gone. Leaving her to muse ruefully on all these new positional changes in their relationship.
Hadnât she always leaned on his preferences and decisiveness? Was it possible that â after all â she HAD masked her true self from her husband and only now was it beginning to emerge? No. She had masked her true self from herself. And it was understandable â the future was aspirational â one yearned to become a âcertain somebody.â It was only later that you found some doors were closed â always would be closed because you yourself really didnât want them. Really didnât.
Did this work for men as well, she wondered? Did they know their real selves so little? Ian had been raised with certain expectations â to ârise in the world,â for example â which he was fulfilling. But women were encouraged to adapt in a way men were not and so inevitably, they looked for someone to adapt to.
If Ianâs real, poetic self had yet to emerge she was certain the revelation would take a very long time. It could only happen after he had tried his dream of castle ownership, BBC employment and âpartying with the right peopleâ â and found it wanting. It could be, Scarlet realized, a very long wait.
She had thought she knew him so well that she could have said exactly what he was thinking at any given moment and that made him the only man for her. But she was beginning to realize that no couple can really know each other because the challenges of marriage itself â of parenthood â must mold their characters. An unchanged soul would be shallow and undesirable for that very reason. They had always been on a journey; it remained to be seen whether they could travel together.
She recalled Ian on their very first date saying as she dithered over Indian food, âDonât over-cerebrate. Lean on me. Thatâs what Iâm here for.â
Those words â so erotic at the time â now seemed appalling. Naturally, it wasnât just his words but his face and body, his gorgeously explosive masculinity, the testosterone that dripped off him like cologne â turning both her head and heart. She had suddenly felt confident of reveling in the utter relaxation she required for erotic satisfaction. She could float â she could surrender.
Now she was finding out what exactly what it was she had surrendered to. They had both used her âAmerican optimismâ as fuel to stabilize his âEnglish pessimismâ. She had literally been the making of him. And she had given herself to the enjoyment of every moment.
Until now. Now she felt unpleasantly certain that he had dismissed her from his mind as he boarded the train. He was whistling. Whistling was his âtellâ. Long ago heâd criticized her âbadâ poker face, that American refusal to create a social personality â calling out her âgiveawaysâ of furrowed brow and trembling lip. Because he positioned himself as the expert it hadnât seemed appropriate to explain to him that he had âtellsâ of his own â an overly rigid âpoker faceâ for example! Only used while playing poker! And the whistling. That was worse. It meant he was going hunting. And looking forward to it.
Having Ian gone was a relief in at least one way â no regular meals. Much easier to diet — âslimmingâ the Brits called it. Ian loved fried breakfasts, relished cheese, desired iced cakes, dreamed about âold-fashioned English teasâ with the âtop of the creamâ, demanded a constant supply of sandwiches, sweeties and savories. He considered a castle owner entitled to nuts served with his port. It was dangerous (and expensive!) keeping up with him and Scarlet knew she darenât try. She couldnât eat any of it and lose this bulky baby weight. Since she couldnât match him indulgence for indulgence she might as well make up her mind to monastic living.
Ian was a tall man, a big man, perhaps running a bit to fat these days, in the belly, in the chin, but to Scarletâs loving eyes he was only that much more powerful and desirable now that his solid middle matched his massive shoulders.
The easiest things to give up were alcohol and meat: chocolate was the stumbling block. She treasured that cup of cocoa at bedtime too much to surrender it. Another American habit! She had been sleeping badly, listening to Nicholas cycling through his moods. She required comfort to confront these cooling nights.
The day after Ian left it snowed â the first snow she had seen in England, a country which had previously been uniformly cold, wet, dank and gray. This snow was white, full, American in its lushness. But who could she share it with?
The Royal Grenadier had no telephones in rooms, so she left messages that were never returned. Finally, after four days, a telegram.
âGood news. Home 22 6:15. Love, Ianâ.
Scarlet sighed with relief. On the 23rd it would be six weeks since Nicholasâ birth. She had marked that calendar date with a rose.
On the very day Scarlet sent Candiâs telegram, Ian suddenly announced he must go up to London. Scarlet battled hard to suppress her instant jealousy. Jealousy placed her in an invidious position â the Ball and Chain carping wife. Who WOULDNâT want to escape from that? Ian argued that he had appointments about âemployment optionsâ, but Scarlet knew and stated that heâd received no calls or mail.
âOh no?â heâd returned loftily. Heâd always had these appointments, he simply didnât tell Scarlet because âshe would react like thisâ.
Scarlet was stumped. Stymied. How on earth had this happened? Theyâd been so happy just a couple of months ago, when they moved in â theyâd always been a happy, get-along couple. The envy of their friends. Suddenly he had become a âhigh-flierâ and she was a stuck at home as The Complainer! Why, oh why hadnât she listened to India, her own Sister Anne, who warned her about Wives Stuck In the Country?
The seeming inevitability of rigid roles loomed over them. There was the âhardworking long-distance husbandâ who needed and deserved whatever relaxation, rest and entertainment he could find in The Big City versus the âtrapped, bitter drudgeâ of a wife who didnât appreciate all sheâd been given and always wanted more. It was the âbattle of the sexesâ theyâd read about (and laughed over) during courtship. It could never apply to self-aware, intelligent artists: lucky people who knew where to find and how to value âtrue loveâ.
Charming as Wyvern House was slowly becoming, it could never be worth a loss this devastating. Scarlet was facing nothing less than the total corruption of her love relationship. Worst of all, they couldnât discuss it. She darenât even mention it. She knew with absolute certainty that Ian would blame the baby, not the house! Wouldnât he be simply playing to âtypeâ? And wouldnât everyone agree with him? Wasnât this what the âworldâ insisted always happened to everyone else? The mother fell in love with the baby and the father, feeling the loss, sought attention elsewhere. He became freer, she became more burdened, then the fights began. Sheâd never â and Ian said HEâD never â thought any of this could possibly apply to them!
He changed, not me, thought Scarlet mutinously. Suddenly his mind was closed to her. It happened the instant we walked into this house. But how could she have stopped Ian from buying a house sheâd neither heard of nor seen? Talk about inevitability! Theyâd planned her pregnancy together but the house idea was his alone. Although when Scarlet thought honestly about it, hadnât agreed they needed more space? It was a hopeless mess.
Scarlet felt uncomfortable requesting fidelity from her husband considering they were banned from having sex. Although she couldnât feel confident in his devotion, she did ask him â âwill you be true to me?â
His horrible answer was, âWhat do you think?â Either he scorned her for raising the question, or he dared her to tell him the truth, which was, that she thought he wouldnât be. But her pride couldnât allow her to beg from this stranger. Who was he? The more responsibilities Ian had, the more different he became from the playful, imaginative student she had married, and the more he seemed to be turning into a hostile alien driven by unreadable compulsions.
But mightnât he say the same of her? She kept secrets, too.
For example, she had originally considered Nicholas would have better childhood in the country. Ian considered it âAmericanâ and âsuburbanâ (both pejoratives) to dread the dirt and despair, the ârat-raceâ of big cities and to conjure up instead a green Eden where Nicholas could grow slowly, while studying the pastâs best minds.
Scarlet had known she must eventually brace herself to fight the English craziness of sending eight year old boys away to boarding school but in the old days she had enough confidence in herself and her marriage to feel this was a battle she might win.
Now she saw he considered marriage a partnership only when the wife agrees with her husband. When she didnât, it was easier to ignore her.
Before the most recent trip to London she had taken care to mark him with her scent so to speak, to bathe him in her love, remind him of their passion, but after the guest weekend she felt too dispirited and if she must be honest, too angry at his cultivation of someone like Candi and his apparent willingness to use her as a goad against his own wife. How dare he! So disloyal! Her itch to scratch his face was decidedly de-rousing.
He was claiming the Holy Grail â a proffered permanence at the BBC. According to him, âeverybody knewâ television was THE modern workplace nowadays for money and advancement. Scarlet hadnât cared for the BBC people she had met. They seemed so relentlessly â even aggressively, proudly âunpoeticâ. Couldnât Ian see that these people quashed rather than enhanced creativity? But such concepts only made Ian angrier. Their new obligations were expensive. She couldnât contest that.
She found herself yearning hopelessly for the carefree days of courtship and poverty â a honeymoon in Spain for pennies a day â a dingy flat with a toilet on the landing. Too late for such nostalgia. Those days were pre-Nicholas, and now that he was here he needed the best care possible. The universe required Nicholas. It was Scarletâs deepest belief that Nicholas needed to be born. One could even argue that Scarlet needed to become a mother, for Nicholasâ sake. Everything Ian knew of this atavism he instinctively despised. She was certain he considered Wyvern House more important than his son.
A cynic would say this was the oldest Tale Ever Told. Men and women had different investments in children. Who was that American scientist in the thirties who wrote about how important any particular man was to a woman, and how unimportant any particular woman was to a man? Men didnât comprehend the process of giving birth, didnât need to because in biological fact they could father hundreds of children every year. Women, on the other hand, must invest years in bringing up a mere handful of children.
Scarlet certainly didnât want to hash any of this out with Ian. Back in their courting days, he was interested in her thoughts and they could talk about anything; now he seemed resolved on turning her own words into weapons against her.
One morning Ian galvanized her with a totally unexpected argument.
âYou know, if I got this job, weâd have to get a place in town. What a Christmas that would be!â This was casually stated while he was looking in the mirror, tying his tie.
Scarletâs mouth fell open. âA flat in town AND a house in the country?â
âWhy not? Other people do it.â
They certainly did: rich people. Ian did have that thousand pounds â if he hadnât already used it to stave off debts. Theyâd already agreed to skip Christmas presents in the face of all these expenses â but a shared apartment hunt would be a gift in itself!
Wouldnât that be the perfect solution? Had she jumped too fast to all her negative conclusions? Her face burned â was he right when he called her âThe Doomsayer?â
He didnât need the mirror to tie his tie â he was using it to study her face. She had never been one who aspired to mask her emotions â especially from her husband! But this time she really tried. In her mind she saw their lives unspooled â dinners with fake people like Candi, hours spent rushing from town to country and back again, passing the baby between them and multiple caregivers as they sought to keep a precarious footing in the world of âthe lucky onesâ â was that really the life she wanted? She felt certain that even in the midst of these complex preoccupations, people found time to feel lonely and hopeless. Equally she felt certain that such a busy chatelaine would never write a worthwhile word.
Money was universally supposed to solve all dilemmas. She was beginning to see that wasnât true. And yet â if she neednât scrabble for a job herself, a flat in town would solve the education dilemma. And so she said,
âSounds wonderful,â and was touched when he sighed with visible relief. He still cared what she thought!
âI have never been so happy to say goodbye to people,â said Scarlet when at last she and Ian were alone and driving home.
âTheyâre not so bad,â said Ian smugly. âYou must appreciate Candiâs determination to have a good time. Quite the little Cleopatra, isnât she?â
âDonât fall,â said Scarlet sharply and her husband answered, âAs if I would sink so low! Sheâs not my class at all.â
How Scarlet wished heâd said, âYOUR class.â Did he even think of his wife as sexy? Desirable? Feminine? HUMAN, any longer? Instead she asked,
âWhy on earth did we invite them, then?â
And Ian answered complacently, âJust an experiment to get your rusty skills up to speed. One must make plenty of daring social experiments to test the field.â
Scarlet was struggling with the horror of that comment when just at that moment Nicholas woke up mightily discontented with everything about his life, requiring Scarlet to crawl into the back seat and minister to the one male who indisputably put her first.
On Wednesday, the mail contained two thank you letters â one addressed to each of them. She couldnât bear waiting â she had to open Ianâs, unfolding a sheet of empty pink letter paper stiff as cardboard and ornamented with a single gold âCâ â and a shower of rose petals. Not a word.
Candi hadnât written a single word! Scarlet was humiliated to have to pick up every damn petal â there were thirty-six of them. She took them into Ianâs office where he was working on his accounts (or, as he called it âcooking the booksâ. It was only his own father he was fooling.)
âThis is yours,â she said, dumping them in his lap. âSorry. I thought it was for the both of us.â He just laughed.
Scarletâs letter was more substantial, less suggestive and if that were possible, even more aversive. MORE cards from the Escarpa Gallery, fashion trunk show invitations, fulsomely effusive words about the weekend and an onionskin pattern drawing for a stained-glass window âpicking out the colors of your studyâ â some kind of hunting scene.
Scarlet couldnât focus on the huntsman picture, she was so appalled by this barrage. She knew Candi wanted her to think Ian had taken her privately up to Scarletâs study. Damn the woman! And in the guise of offering this idiotic âgiftâ she was literally daring Scarlet to complain.
âWeâll never invite them back,â Scarlet thought. But did she actually have that much power? She could already hear Ianâs voice insisting they must entertain, make friends, cultivate acquaintanceships with people they didnât like at all. Why had she done this to herself? She should have realized a castle came with a heavy psychic as well as financial mortgage.
She toyed with the idea of needing to be âin Londonâ on weekends when the unbearable was expected â but didnât that cede the field to Candi? Wouldnât she love to play hostess? Back in their London days Scarlet considered their coupledom as a unit, indissoluble, because they loved each other and wanted and valued the same things. It just didnât feel true anymore. She felt embarrassed and humiliated by the pink honeymoon cloud that once has obscured the entire sky.
She shouldnât catastrophize. She should play it cleverly. How many women like Candi were there in the world? Couldnât she figure out some way to keep them at bay? She needed to come up with some clever way to tell Candi she didnât want this damn âgift.â
Should she say she hated modern glass? Loathed hunting scenes? Something would occur to her but first things first: she must order stationery bearing the name Mrs. Ian Wye. No, no, that wouldnât do â anyone could be Mrs. Ian Wye. Mrs. Scarlet Wye sounded as if they were already divorced. Ian and Scarlet Wye? That was so American â she could only get away with it if Ian never saw it. Her maiden name was the name she wrote under â Scarlet Stavenger â her âbusiness nameâ she supposed â but taking away her married name seemed to concede the field. Scarlet Stavenger Wye â that was what was required.
Oakhampton Stationers told her the order couldnât be ready for two weeks at least, so she sent a telegram to Candiâs gallery.
âNo stained glass for me thank you â appreciate the thought.â
