Beast (46 page)

the door. There, ineffable misery found her. Unnameable, no clear cause. Or too many causes; too many-dissatisfactions, too many significant failures, too much self-loathing. This feeling pulled her under, making her cry from its onslaught. She could find nothing to hang onto, no possible way to mitigate or pacify the effect. Louise sank deep into a dark pool of defeat and injustice, down, down to the bottom where she drowned for more than half an hour in diaphragm-deep, hiccuping sobs and tears.

This left Charles on the other side of the door, his forehead leaning against it while he witnessed the sounds of Louise's collapse. He felt bereft, appalled—appalled at himself. And guilty. Guilty above all else. She grieved for something, for him possibly, the other him. As if he really were dead.

Which, Charles thought, he may as well be.

This can't go on. Enough. It was time to sit her down and explain the whole dastardly business. No more hedging or protecting himself. He was making her sick with this game.

In some oriental cultures, ambergris is believed to increase fertility.

Charles Harcourt, Prince d'Harcourt

On the Nature and Uses of Ambergris

"What you have made her, Harcourt, is pregnant," said Doctor Olivier. Charles had called him the next afternoon when Louise had slept like the dead past midday. "Don't fret so," the doctor told him. "Your wife is perfectly healthy. Robust, in fact. She may have lost a little weight, but that sometimes happens at the beginning. The new baby affects the mother's appetite. Favorite foods don't sit so well as they once did. And you mustn't take it to heart if she cries over one thing or another. New mothers can be a little emotional."

"Pregnant," Charles repeated stupidly. "Then—Then what do I do?"

"Do?"

Charles didn't know what sort of advice he was asking for. Pregnancy was the one thing that had not occurred to him as a reason for Louise's listless behavior. One didn't leap to the idea of a fruitful womb when one hadn't planted, well, any fruit in a while. "Pregnant," he repeated again.

Olivier laughed. "Yes, and you do nothing. These things take care of themselves. Besides, she is only a little bit pregnant."

"A little bit pregnant?"

"The internal tissue has begun to darken, change color. The uterus is up, the tiniest bump rising up out of her pelvis, hardly anything. But I am fairly sure: She tells me her menses are two weeks late." He winked at him. "This is a very indicative sign when one has been married just over a month." He winked again, like a nervous twitch of the eye. "A honeymoon baby." He thumped Charles on the back, his
thwack,
thwack, thwack
saying,
you potent dog, you
. "Congratulations." The doctor offered his hand. "With a beginning like this"—he pumped Charles's arm vigorously—"you will catch up to your uncle in no time: knee-deep in children."

The doctor left, and Charles just stood there in the foyer. Pregnant. His wife, whom he had never slept with as his wife, was pregnant. This could be a little delicate—

But, no. No more delicacy. Pregnancy might explain some of Louise's distress, but it didn't explain the degree of it. And Charles was fairly certain what did. He must be absolutely brave and forthright. He was going to march up to her room, tell her everything, and—he smiled at the thought—claim this child. A child. A family. Charles was astounded to think of himself as a father. A baby. His baby.

In a kind of delighted daze, he walked upstairs, steeling himself with explanations, admissions, apologies.

Long, heartfelt apologies. Louise was about to have the object of her rage appear before her. And he had no illusions that he would get off easy, just because a baby was involved. He was prepared: she would be fuming-mad. But once she knew, once she forgave him—

He paused at Louise's bedroom door, then drew a deep breath and knocked.

"Come in," Louise's voice said.

Charles entered, nodding at Josette. To the maid, he said, "Would you leave us alone, please?"

The door closed as he walked to the foot of the bed. Louise looked quite a bit better than yesterday.

Her eyes were slightly puffy, but her color was good. She lay flat out under the canopy, her head and shoulders propped up. As terrible as it was, he thought she looked fabulous, all tousled from a bad night's sleep, her hair unbraided, under and about her in tangles, lying there with his child inside her.

And she looked guilty. This realization—that she felt guilty of something—was surprising for an instant, then almost humorous. Louise had always spoken of her "affair" in phrases that sounded distant, in a previous time, a previous life, an eon ago—never so recent as to leave her present self pregnant.

She thought
she
had something to explain.

Charles would have laughed if he hadn't been so nervous himself. He put his hands in his pockets, glanced down a moment at her toes where they steepled the covers. "Are you all right?" he murmured.

She nodded in the affirmative, her gaze coming up only as far as his chin, then said. "Though still trying to find my dignity after a pretty embarrassing doctor's examination." She added, "Not half so embarrassing as his diagnosis, though." Meekly, she asked, "Did he tell you?"

"Yes."

The two of them stayed like this for a minute: Charles at the foot of the bed, praying for an easy time, a quick acceptance and forgiveness. Louise, her face slightly lowered, her color high; pink cheeks. Her eyes availed themselves of their long lashes, hiding. Self-convicted and condemned.

"I lied to him," she said.

"Did you?"

"My menses are four weeks late. Almost. You see, they were supposed to come right about the time we were married, so I thought, what with all the excitement and what-not, that they were just late. It's happened before. But—" She sighed. "I guess not."

"No. I guess not." He didn't know what else to say. She was upset. He was actually happy. A baby, he kept thinking. The family he wanted. Charles smiled at her then took hold of her toes under the covers, jiggling them affectionately. "It will be all right." he said. He didn't know where to begin, so he just blurted out the best part: "You see, it's mine. The baby is mine."

Louise sluiced her eyes up to him immediately. She pondered this a moment, frowning. She bit her lip.

"Oh, no, Charles, you mustn't—"

He said it more clearly: "I am the baby's father."

She looked confused a moment, then looked away. "Charles." She pressed her lips. "I appreciate what you are saying, what you are trying to do. You are the most noble, upright, wonderful human being—"

He shifted. "Well, I'm not so—"

"No. no. You are such a good man." She meant it. Her eyes raised up to him, full of belief. Or perhaps of wanting to believe. "So, you see, I absolutely won't have any more pretense between us. I want you to know: The affair I've told you about. It was on the ship." She put her hand over her mouth, bowing her head. "Dear Lord, I am so embarrassed." Then, with her head down, looking as demure and sweet as possible, the lovely Louise murmured in English, "He said something about protection, something: He did this on purpose, that son of a bitch."

Charles's brow rose up of its own accord. He felt his scalp slide back.

She continued. "As much as I love you—and I do, Charles—the memory of this other, oh, this scoundrel, won't let me be. I just want revenge—If I could just have revenge. And now there's a damn"—
sacre
, another surprise, she used the word correctly—"piece of him inside me. I'm so mad, I could spit."

"Don't you want the baby?"

She thought a moment. "Well, yes, I suppose I do. I like the idea of a baby. It's an exciting idea.

But—Well, I hadn't planned on it happening exactly like this."

"No." he agreed. "But it really is mine, Louise. You see—"

"Charles," she interrupted. "If you want the rest of the world to think the baby is yours, if you want to stand by me, I will be only too grateful. I will tell everyone, of course, whatever you wish. But between us, no charades. Please. I am so glad that every last bit of this affair is out in the open. What a relief. I so hate deceit."

Charles watched and listened and chewed the inside of his cheek.

"And I think," she said, "it might be best if Tino and my parents knew the truth as well, because the baby is going to look like someone else. They will think the worse of me, but, believe me, they will think the better of you. And we will all talk about it and be open and get rid of my pasha, exorcize him with honesty."

"Your what?"

"My pasha." She smiled sheepishly. "That is what I called him to myself. He was Arab, I think. Oh, Charles, the baby is sure to have darkish skin and very brown eyes. Oh, my. Oh, no—" She looked contrite. Humble. All in all, not an unpleasant expression to see on this usually self-possessed young face.

"Charles, I'm so sorry. No one will believe it is yours, no matter what you say: We both have blue eyes."

"Louise, what I am trying to tell you—" She looked up. "Oh, Charles. You are so dear." "No." He shook his head. "You see—" She shook hers. She wasn't listening. She said, "I wouldn't have expected anything less of you, I suppose. You are the most noble man I have ever met, Charles Harcourt. The esteem in which I hold you, my husband, is enormous." She fixed a look of utter sincerity on him.

He stared at her for a long moment, then looked away, embarrassed. Charles walked to the window and looked out.

She said, "The man who sold you the jasmine was Arab, wasn't he? What was his name?" She was going to proceed point blank. He snorted. "Who? Old Al Baghdad?" "Who?" Her voice was understandably alarmed after such a strange introduction. She said cautiously, "I suppose." After a hesitation, she asked. "He is the father. Do you know him well?"

"I used to think I did." He crossed his arms over his chest. "And he's no Arab. He's French. A French ass," he said. "Who pretends to be Arab or whatever else suits him, who's seduced half the women up and down this coast like some idiotic Don Juan, just to please his vanity. And who is a coward of the first order." He threw a glance at her over his shoulder. "And he has fair eyes, by the way."

She frowned. "I don't think so, Charles. He had brown eyes."

He turned all the way around to look at her. "You are actually going to argue about this, aren't you?"

Patiently, quietly, she said, "Well, they're brown, Charles."

"They are? You have looked? You have looked deeply into his eyes and found them to be brown?"

How annoying. She didn't believe him. More than annoying. Charles had actually told her he was her romantic interest on the ship, and the damn girl was so sure the fellow was otherwise, handsome and suave—with two fine brown eyes, for God's sake—she didn't believe him.

Louise herself sat, staring at the covers, not sure what she remembered. A quick glimpse of a darkish face behind dark glasses from within the folds of a flowing Middle Eastern headdress. A smooth—brown-eyed?—voice over the ship's telephone?

She asked, "How long have you known him?"

He shrugged.

"Is he so horrible as you say? I mean, I can get fairly indignant about him, but—"

Charles threw her a quick glare, his most fearsome expression.

She shut up. Though not out of fear.

How tormenting this must be for him, Louise thought. Here was a man, after all, who snapped the heads oft flowers for no more reason than an amorous note. A man who now faced an amorous note of the largest order—one written on the inside of his wife's womb. It was ruthless to ask further about her lover.

Nonetheless, she said, "Tell me about him."

Her husband didn't, of course. He merely shook his head and let out a long sigh—the exasperation of a man put out, not hurt. Not betrayed, just frustrated.

She would think later, here was where her questions ceased wanting information and began overtly testing for reaction.

He opened his mouth.

She spoke first. "Is he handsome?"

Charles's eyes narrowed into a squint. He said vehemently, "He is ugly."

The second the words were out, he blanched, then drew in a deep, violent breath, as if he could suck them back in.

He won her sympathy for a moment. "Oh, Charles." she said. Louise became confused, unsure again.

Whomever, whatever they spoke of. the ugliness seemed somehow his
own
admission—a brave one she had never heard out his own lips. It cost him a piece of pride to say it. She told him, "There is nothing ugly about you, sir. You are the finest man I know." She meant it. She said from deep feeling, "From the moment I met you, you have been heroic in your consideration of me, in all you have done and continue to put up with. And I have not always appreciated it. But I want you to know I do now, and that I think you have a magnificent soul, the handsomest heart I know."

Yes. Her handsome, doting husband pleased her. She admired him. She loved him. He loved her. All was perfect.

The finest man she knew then looked at her, a long, fixed stare from across the room by the window.

After which he sighed again and headed toward the door. Stopping by the foot of the bed again, he said,

"Yes. Hero that I am." He cleared his throat. "If you don't need anything right now, Louise, I think I want to go downstairs for a drink. You know, a little celebration. Of sorts." He admitted, "I guess I am pretty befuddled." He asked again, "Are you all right then?"

"Certainly."

"Good." He ran his hand through his hair. Then he straightened his coat.

Vanity, she thought. Her husband was vain. In the nicest possible way, of course. But he had a discernable vanity, so robust and palpable one could have felt it in the dark.

A palpable vanity in the dark. This thought made her stop.

No. no. Of course not. Her husband was a good man trying to act nobly. Not a scoundrel playing a—What? A joke? She was a joke to him? No, no, her husband loved her. Indulgently. To extreme. He did everything she asked of him. He was loyal and forthright.