Days of Winter (7 page)

“Rubin, you mustn’t be cross.” Solange was grateful for Magda’s absence. “She’s swimming in a big sea, and she must feel as though she’s drowning.”

“I know. There are times I think she’s happy, and just as suddenly it’s as though a … well, a sort of cloud comes over her.”

“Oh, dear boy, men are so foolish—”

“And women so wise?”

Solange smiled. “She’s magnificent, Rubin, and she will grow. We will become good friends, so put your mind at rest. She’s rebelling, not at you but at herself. Every woman needs the security of that one special man, and
you’ll
be leaving her stranded. I do believe she loves you, Rubin. But when she gets frightened, she gets angry, and has to lash out.”

“You’re right, but what can I do? You know about my obligations … I can’t just abandon my family and—”

“Then perhaps it would have been better if you had left her where she was. It might have been kinder.”

“I couldn’t. If I can’t marry her, at least I can take care of her needs …”

“Rubin, I’ve often wondered what would have become of my life if I’d had the courage to—oh, well, that’s long over … but if you love this girl as you seem to, why don’t you marry her?”

“Do you think I haven’t thought of that? …Maybe I’m a coward, too, but I can’t hurt my family, go back on my word to a lovely girl … and I hardly need tell you, Solange, no matter what, Magda would never be welcome or even accepted. Do I have the right to subject her to that? And I repeat, I am engaged to a most lovely young woman—”

“But you don’t love her …”

Rubin sat staring blankly for a moment. “Not in the way I love Magda … no one will be like that again for me, but Jocelyn is so decent—”

“
I’m
speaking about love.”

“I love Jocelyn, too, but in a different way.
Please
, Solange, don’t make it worse than it is—”

“You need to be honest with yourself, Rubin … did you ever truly
love
this other girl?”

“Yes, I think so … but Magda coming into my life has, to put it mildly, confused my feelings. I do still love Jocelyn but …”

“Rubin, I’ve no right to press you. No need to explain further. Whatever you do, you do and I am your friend … and I would suggest, with your permission, that I also try to be Magda’s. Which at the moment means getting her to trust me.”

Rubin nodded gratefully.

Solange left the room, crossed the hall and knocked on the bedroom door.

“Come in.”

Magda was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

“May I sit down?” Solange asked in a soft voice.

“If you like,” Magda answered.

“Magda,” Solange began, “if two people are to become friends, they must be completely honest with each other. I know you do not like me. In fact, you resent me. Is that not so?”

“Yes.”

“I appreciate your frankness. Have you asked yourself why?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me. My feelings are not fragile.”

“You make me feel so … inferior.”

“You mustn’t feel that way, because you aren’t. You are actually superior in many ways. You are also extraordinarily lovely. I want to be your friend. If you will accept my hand in friendship, you will find that I can be a very good friend indeed. Just remember one thing: You need not fear me, and you need not fear yourself.” She took Magda’s hand. “Now I’ll go back to Rubin. Please believe what I have told you.”

Magda looked around the silent room. You’re a fool, Magda … a ridiculous, stupid fool. Here’s a man who loves you. No matter how hard you try to twist it … defy it … fight him … he loves you. Why else would he be doing all this? And the Countess … why did you behave the way you did? …You know the answer. She was born a lady and in spite of what Rubin says, being born a lady is not like inventing one … and that is what poor Rubin is trying to do …You’ve embarrassed him in front of his friend, you acted like the stupid dunce that you are … I hate you, Magda. Instead of trying to learn from the Countess, she told herself, you antagonize her. She’s trying to help you, not hurt you. Can’t you understand that? Allow yourself to learn from her. Admit you’re jealous … yes, jealous …You don’t have to love her, but you can at least try to
act
like a lady.

Bracing herself, Magda returned. Standing contritely before the Countess and Rubin, she said, “Please forgive me, Countess. I was very rude.”

Putting her finger to her lips, Solange pretended surprise. “Strange, I hadn’t noticed …” Arranging the sables around her slender shoulders, she got up. “Well, my dears, I have to be going.” She grasped Magda’s hand warmly. “We will be in touch. Thank you for your gracious hospitality. You’re a most beautiful young woman.” She smiled, cupping Magda’s face in her hand. “I can scarcely wait for Paris to meet my lovely niece from Bucharest. Now,
au revoir
…” She kissed Rubin lightly, and he walked with her to the door.

That one brief encounter with the Countess made a deep impression on Magda. She now wanted to emulate her in every way, to become the gracious lady Rubin had promised she could be. Instinctively, thereafter, Magda responded to every challenge. She began to handle Mignon with the kind of respect due a servant, and if Mignon resented having her position challenged, at least she knew her place. Painstakingly, Magda observed everything Mignon did. And after her duties were done and she had left, Magda rummaged through every cupboard, taking out pieces of china and turning them over to look at the hallmark. With the aid of a book, she soon knew the difference between Limoges, Sèvres and Dresden.

She discovered a ledger of menus, recorded over the years, with dates and the names of guests Emile had entertained. After certain names were checkmarks, indicating what Monsieur or Madam had not liked. Ah … so that was the way it was done! Very clever. It took a lot of skill and planning to be a hostess, and Magda was going to be perfect if it killed her. If she could become Rubin’s equal, at least in such matters, he would be proud to introduce her to his family. And with all her new accomplishments, how could they not accept her? …She saw herself becoming a great hostess in London society. Why not? Why shouldn’t she become capable of that? As the Countess’s niece from Bucharest, wouldn’t Rubin’s family be proud of her? She would almost be royalty, after all. What if Rubin was engaged? So what? Engagements were broken all the time. …With the help of the Countess, she’d learn all the amenities. It wouldn’t take a hundred years. Ladies were created, that was what Rubin had said. And Magda’s confidence was being fortified each day with his compliments. She was on her way to becoming a woman of breeding.

Rubin had planned it all, the itinerary of her education. The books, the ballet lessons, the fencing, the voice training, that was all it took. The Countess was so wise. Bucharest, indeed, was becoming less and less ugly.

The days and nights were enchanted. Rubin showed her a side of Paris she never knew existed. She visited the Louvre … Maxim’s … the theater … the opera … the antique shops … Fontainbleu and Versailles. They drove out into the countryside for lunch. A whole new world had opened up for her. She was seeing it through different windows, different doors and different eyes. …

Rubin, she knew, would never be able to leave her, not when their nights were filled with such love. He seemed obsessed with wanting her. There was something almost spiritual in the way he loved her. A woman could tell. There seemed to be an urgency in him to live a lifetime within a few weeks. …

But the sands in Rubin’s hourglass had run low. He was going home tomorrow, and the reality of that was suddenly more than he could face. He too had played the game of forgetfulness these last weeks. He too had lived in a world of fantasy.

That night Rubin had slept badly. Getting out of bed at dawn, he put on his bathrobe and went to the kitchen. Preparing his coffee, he looked out the window at the soft spring rain, as though it could ease his journey to London. He took his coffee into the dining room and seated himself at the window.

He could still hear Magda’s voice, whispering I love you so …Oh, Rubin, I love only you … only you … you. But not once had she said I cannot live without you. Though he knew that was what she wanted to say; she wouldn’t try to trap him. Solange’s words came back hauntingly to him … she’s swimming in a big sea. …

What was he leaving her with? Only material things. What had he really done for her? Taken her out of one hell into, perhaps, another. Yet when he’d first wanted to secure her future, it had all seemed so right, so simple, then to help her. But he knew she was reaching out for him without her having to say so. After all, he had helped create a new Magda … But Magda would marry … although he couldn’t face the thought of her belonging to someone else. And quickly he told himself there was such a thing as honor. Remember, Rubin, he said to himself, you’re an Englishman, brought up in a certain tradition. And above all remember that you’re a Jew, taught to honor your father and mother. It’s a sacred commandment you can’t forsake. …And Jocelyn, what about her? You can’t find happiness built on the unhappiness of someone else whose suffering you’re responsible for. …

He covered his face with his hands.

They stood facing one another in these last moments before Rubin was to board the train. Everything had been said, there was nothing left. Rubin held her very close as the final boarding call was heard. Then he disengaged himself quickly and walked off. Magda watched the train disappear into the mist of steam as the engine moved on slowly. Within seconds it was gone. She was heartsick but she knew that Rubin would return. She was so certain, she was able to smile as she left the station.

T
HE HACKS, THE ENTIRE
family, were seated around the table in the oak-paneled dining room. Nothing had changed. Only more chairs had been added as the Hack sons married and the number of grandchildren grew. Conversation was the same. Dinner, too, was the same formal yet convivial affair it had always been. Rubin alone felt alien. None of the other Hacks carried his burden of deception.

This morning he had come face to face with an excited, jubilant Jocelyn. She ran into his arms when he got off the train at Victoria Station. She held his face in her hands, kissing him tenderly. There was no other way—he had to respond, if not with the same pleasure, at least with a show of emotion. It was almost more than he could stand. His mother and father had stood by smiling broadly.

“I’m afraid you’ve lost weight,” his mother had said. And his father had added, “Stop fussing so, Sara.” He could not remember the banal amenities which had followed if his life depended on it. He vaguely recalled feeling Jocelyn’s arm in his as the four of them walked out into the soft rain of London. In the silver-gray Rolls-Royce, they drove through the familiar streets … past Hyde Park, Marble Arch … but Rubin didn’t see them. Instead he thought, When I left Paris it was raining, too. Is that a sign, an omen? A warning of what life is going to be like from now on?

As he lifted his napkin from his lap, he felt Jocelyn’s hand on his. He was chilled with guilt at her touch. How could he do this to someone as tender and decent as Jocelyn … and how could he not? … should he have broken his word to her? …He had hardly been attentive to her all evening, but if Jocelyn noticed his lack of interest, she didn’t make it apparent. Rubin had always been reserved.

For a moment Jocelyn felt somewhat embarrassed. Perhaps she had been too demonstrative when she saw Rubin get off the train. But she hadn’t seen
him
for a month, and there had been only one brief note and a letter whose meaning she could only try to understand. But she refused to dwell on anything so negative. He was home, after all.

After dinner the men went off to the library to enjoy their cigars and brandy while the ladies retired to the solarium, where they talked about the new fashions: Queen Mary’s turbans were becoming the rage of London …The upcoming charity ball had everyone selecting costumes. Sylvia Rothchild Hack was the chairman; the things she had planned were simply captivating. …She was too clever for words. Now what about Jocelyn? …Well, all the china had been selected, the silver, the crystal, the linen …The house was almost ready …And what about the wedding? Oh dear, so many details …She and Mother had a mild tiff about the style of her bridal cornet …Mother thought it should have been less modern, more in the Victorian tradition, but she finally relented and let Jocelyn have her way. …

In the library, Rubin looked at his watch. Dinner tonight had been in his honor, but now he could leave, having spent enough time with his father and brothers. He was very bored. He couldn’t have cared less about the Prime Minister’s position on colonial rule, or if the Thames overflowed. He wanted to be alone with his memories of Magda. The thought of sleeping in that oversized bed upstairs was too terrible to contemplate. His body ached for her.

“If you’ll excuse me, Father,” he said, “I’m very tired.”

“Of course, dear boy. It’s understandable after crossing the channel. Terribly choppy water.”

Rubin said goodnight to his brothers and crossed the vast hall to do the same with Jocelyn and the others.

All evening Jocelyn had waited for Rubin to come to her so they could be alone and walk in the secluded garden, perhaps, since it had stopped raining, sit on the stone bench, discuss his trip … then kiss in the cool, crisp air of the London night. Instead she found herself being kissed perfunctorily on the cheek.

Rubin went upstairs to his room, closed the door, and sat down at the desk. He had always loved home, a fire glowing on the hearth, the portraits, the hunting scenes, the pictures of himself as a boy at Eton, then Oxford, all carefully mounted in heavy silver frames. But that Rubin no longer existed; he was lost … as lost as Magda Charascu. …

Downstairs, Phillip sat puffing on his cigar. “Our Rubin must have made the most of his last weeks of Paris bachelorhood. I think that, rather than crossing the channel, exhausted him.” Nathan nodded, and everyone smiled except Leon, who had sensed a reserve in Rubin. Leon knew Rubin best. Since childhood they had been closest. Perhaps it was the two-year difference in their ages, but Leon had always understood Rubin, had known his sensitivities, his secret desire to paint. He also knew that Rubin was not in love with Jocelyn. Poor Rubin. Well, they would have a man-to-man talk, not tomorrow, but soon. To pry into his brother’s personal life now would only result in making Rubin even more withdrawn. But when Rubin could no longer cope with the problem alone, Leon would be there to help him.