“I’m afraid I don’t. I thought you were the kind of girl who wanted a husband. A family to hold her dear. I thought, after last night—”
I felt my head grow dizzy, my fingers grow cold. My voice soared upward into a high, thin shriek, like a frantic animal, like some kind of cheap hysteric. “Well, I’m not that kind of girl. I never was. If that’s what you expect from me, then I can’t—we can’t see each other again, we can’t meet like this—”
Simon reached out and grasped my face between his cool, dry hands. “No! Don’t say that. Don’t be upset. Calm down; it’s all right. No, I don’t understand, but I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll do anything that makes you happy.”
“Don’t just say that—”
“I’m not. Virginia! Listen to me. We don’t need to speak of marriage. Just don’t—for God’s sake, don’t disappear. Don’t go away again.”
“You must understand.”
“I’ll try. Of course. I’ll do whatever you want. Just—just allow me to see you again. On whatever terms. For God’s sake. Can you promise me that?”
There was no looking away. He was so close, I could count his black eyelashes and the flecks of brown in his irises, if I wanted to; I could smell the trace of coffee in his breath. And yet his proximity, instead of increasing my panic, steadied my nerves. His fingers, instead of entrapping me, secured me in place. The pressure of his thumbs returned strength to my bones.
I nodded.
“I will do whatever you want, Virginia. There’s no other choice. I can’t be without you. The idea of never seeing you again is impossible. You know that. Don’t look away.”
Well, I lifted my gaze, which had swept downward in relief at his words, and I remember thinking I had never seen an expression so earnest as his. Brows knit carefully together, irises bright.
“I’ve got to run up to London next month. I’ve got to see this through, because I can’t go on pretending to the world, I can’t keep us—keep Lydia and myself—frozen in this damned morganatic tableau for the rest of our lives. And then I’m yours. Every possible chance, I’ll find you. With or without the prospect of marriage. Is that perfectly clear? Whatever you’re seeking, Virginia, I promise you, you’ve found it.”
I nodded.
He sat back against the seat and said, “Thank God.” His smile was huge; I can still picture its breadth. The sun caught his face. He reached inside the breast pocket of his tunic and brought out his cigarette case, made of gold, from which he selected a long, white cigarette that seemed to glow by itself in the glare of the sun. He placed it in the corner of his mouth and struck a match. The flame wobbled as he held it up, though I couldn’t tell if this was because of a draft or a tremble in his fingers. I stared at his lips and felt the pulsing of my own blood against my skin. He shook out the match and blew a gentle breath of smoke to the side of the carriage, away from the window glass, and the pressure of his gaze forced me to look up into his eyes.
“This is only the beginning of us, darling,” he said. “I swear it.”
Chapter 15
Maitland Plantation, Florida, June 1922
I suppose I’m not surprised to see that Simon’s plantation is thriving. By his own testimony, he was an accomplished horticulturalist, a man with an inborn gift for making things grow or die, according to his own whim.
Still, the sight of all those rows of trees, thick-leaved and green, undulating along the gentle slopes toward the horizon, traps my breath in my chest. A fine haze drifts from the treetops toward the rising orange sun. The air is heavy with perfume. I think how much work it must have been, how much sweat and travail, to create an orchard so lush.
“How many acres again, Miss Bertram?”
“One thousand four hundred and thirty-three, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. Not all of it’s planted in trees, though. He’s got gardens and a whole plot set aside for the workers. Fields for the horses, too.”
“Horses?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. Didn’t you know? He’s got a whole string of them.”
“Of course. Horses. I remember.”
“My brother looks after them. He’s a good man with horses, my brother.”
“Does your whole family live here, then?”
She hesitates. “Yes, ma’am. There aren’t many of us. Just me, my brother, and mother.”
“How nice.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She chirps to the pony, and Evelyn, somewhat lulled by the motion of the cart as we drove out, lurches forward in my lap. “Hungry for breakfast, yet, Mrs. Fitzwilliam?”
“Certainly,” I say, but it’s a lie. I took a little coffee and a sweet roll from the tray in my room before coming downstairs, and an hour or two later it’s still enough for me. Something about the heat, I guess, stifling my ordinary appetite. It’s eighty-two degrees already, settling on our skin like a warm, moist Turkish towel, and who could face breakfast in that? Well, except Evelyn. When I found her this morning, playing about the kitchen while Miss Bertram instructed the cook, she had already eaten a whole poached egg on toast and drunk a tumbler of fresh orange juice. (Oranges, you understand, are in plentiful supply around here.) Now she squirms against my leg until I free her, and grasps the side of the cart with her long, plump fingers and calls out to the pony.
“She’s an angel,” says Miss Bertram.
“Most of the time,” I reply. “I wonder if Clara’s awake yet. She’d like to see all this, I think.”
“Clara? You mean Miss Fitzwilliam?”
“Yes, of course. She must be exhausted; she’s usually such an early riser.”
Miss Bertram chirps again to the pony, who’s slowed to a lazy walk, parting the haze with effort. “Didn’t she tell you? Western Union boy arrived last night. I don’t know what the telegram said, but she packed up and left first thing.”
“Left! Clara’s gone?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Miss Bertram stares straight ahead, between the ears of the pony. “Took her trunk to the Packard all by herself. Didn’t even say where she was going.”
But she left a note, which I discover when we return to the main house a quarter of an hour later. It’s tucked beneath the vase on my chest of drawers, so she must have entered before I awoke.
Dearest Virginia,
I’ve had a bit of terrible news from Miami Beach, a dear friend in straits, so I’m off for a few days to sort things out. Hope you don’t mind I’ve taken the motor. Give sweet Evs a kiss for me.
Much love,
C.
I gaze at the letters for some time, in much the same way as I read the note last night, until some whim strikes me and I open the top drawer, where I put the earlier message. I hold the two in the air, side by side, framed by orange blossoms, but the notepaper of one is smaller, a shade or two creamier, and while both are written in opaque black ink, the really expensive kind, Clara’s handwriting is quicker, spikier. They are really nothing alike.