Eating Memories (24 page)

With that he whirled and stamped out, leaving her beached on the broken-shelled, sandy shore of her ambitions. It was a while before she was able to compose herself. When she was calm she blotted the tears from her face, dressed in a suitable gown, and went out her door.

In the hall she met Adeline who, at her approach, hastened to hide a medicine bottle in the folds of her skirt. Perhaps realizing she had been caught, she gave Iona a simpering grin. The woman’s eyes were slightly glazed, her mouth a bit too slack.

“Laudanum,” she explained thickly. “For the palpitations, you know. They are all waiting for us downstairs, I suppose, but I felt the need for a little strengthening.” At that divulgence she tittered rather too loudly and hid her mouth with her hand.

Slipping her arm in Iona’s, more to steady her stride, Iona gathered, than from any show of friendship, Adeline walked downstairs to the withdrawing room.

A fire had been lit. The two men were seated, apparently trapped in one of Rosanna’s tirades on the frivolities of the young. The trio glanced up as the two women entered and Iona caught the sharp, accusatory glance Sir Edward gave his wife. Loosing her arm, Iona watched as the woman fell, rather too awkwardly, into a chair.

The conversation strained for a moment and then broke free, fraudulent and lighthearted.

It was well after dinner that Iona had the courage to enter her rooms. The floor had been cleaned; the shelf that had once housed the exotics was vacant. She swept her hand along the wood, feeling the places they had once been, her fingers sensing their cool, fragile ghosts all lined up in a row.

A while later Lionel carne in, approached her rather too roughly and was injured when she did not respond. He soon left, possibly, she thought, as much out of fear of his failure than from any rebuff on her part. She undressed and lay under the covers, thinking at first she would never sleep, but at last falling into a drowse and dreaming of sun-shot forests rising at her back, the trees tall as cathedrals, light as air.

A sound woke her. She roused and crept to the door. In the flickering of the gaslamp which had been lowered for the night, she caught sight of a figure making its way down the hall.

Haverty, she thought at once, her cheeks draining of blood. He must be making his way to Adeline. But then the figure turned and the gaslamp lit the face. No. Not Haverty to Adeline, but Sir Edward to Rosanna Powell.

She heard the old general’s furtive knock, heard the squeak as the door was opened, watched him disappear. Poor Adeline and her Ghurkas and her laudanum, Iona thought as she made her way back to bed. The woman had fashioned for herself a dark, heavy shell, one strong enough and thick enough to protect against the grinding, pressured seas of her husband.

Iona did not sleep again that evening. Hours later, just before dawn, she heard Rosanna’s door open and heard quiet steps retreat down the hall. A few minutes later Iona arose. Earlier than the parlormaids to their duties, earlier than cook to her post, she dressed and went down the stairs to the door.

Haverty caught her there, his face stark even in the kind glow of the candle. His hair was mussed, and he had put his coat and trousers on hastily over his nightshirt.

“I heard a sound,” he said by way of apology. Then his gaze grew troubled and he blurted, “Are you quite all right?”

“Yes. Of course,” she told him stiffly, hoping that he would not wake Lionel. “I couldn’t sleep and thought a morning walk might settle me.”

“I’m so sorry about the terrarium,” he said, his expression more than solicitous. “The pretty shells aren’t cast away, though. I’ve saved them for you in case the master should change his mind.”

“That is very kind,” she murmured, torn between the shocking implications of his disobedience and the utter generosity of it.

“I have them in my room, all wrapped in cloth so they shan’t break. They are quite attractive. With your permission, I should like to take them out occasionally and look at them myself.”

In the luminosity of his eyes she thought she caught a glimpse of fond words and heartbreaking questions. It would be best, she knew, to leave them mute. Muttering a short agreement, she walked out into the humid morning air.

On the steps she turned. Haverty was standing, still gazing at her cryptically. “Thank you for saving them for me,” she said.

He nodded. After a moment of what seemed to be vacillation, he quietly shut the door.

* * *

“You are sadder today,” Froggy said.

She strode past him to the window, not bothering to respond.

The scene in the window brought her a counterfeit peace. Rain pebbled the glassy surface of the pond. The chrysanthemums bloomed in their rocky borders, all unchanged.

“How long?” she asked and turned around.

He must have sensed her weariness, for the room had grown suddenly larger. A red chaise longue lay like a stripe of blood in a comer near his chair.

He must have also understood her question. Her mind to him was not a painting in a locked house, but a bas-relief on an outside wall. Therefore, when he did not answer, she knew he had simply chosen not to. “You’re very tired. Come and sit down. Tell me all that makes you sad. Telling of sadness takes the sting away.”

“Why did your people leave you behind?” she snapped, her tone more irritated than she had planned. She didn’t sit. She refused to. It was enough that she complied with Lionel’s every wish.

Froggy regarded her somberly. “Will you not come and talk? Must you stand there glaring and tight-fisted?”

The words made her aware of her defiant stance. With an effort she unlocked the muscles in her back and eased her fists open, brushing idly at her skirt as though she could whisk away her misplaced anger.

“Dear God,” she said in a grim undertone. “I think it is all that can be asked of life that one go through it a harmless creature. To please people is not only a futile undertaking, but it makes one subservient and eventually weak.”

When she glanced at him this time he seemed to be smiling at her, although his large mouth was in its usual expressionless line.

“Do not dare to find amusement in my sorrow, sir,” she cautioned.

His large eyes widened even further. There was no iris, no white, only a jet blackness that went on and on, like the unchanging gardens outside his room. “I was merely wondering if it would be advisable of me to try to please you when you appear to want to spurn all pleasure-givers.”

“I am a pleasure-giver!” she shouted. “Have I not tried, against my nature, to be a dutiful wife? Although, God knows, Lionel rarely has the ability to take his pleasure of me.” She bit her lip on the shameful admission and whirled to face the window again. “That can be fortunate, of course. At least his impotence saves me from the disgrace of his adultery.”

To her back the silence grew, companionable, but questioning.

“I am—” she began and paused. What she needed to say seemed so vulgar that she only went on with the greatest of efforts. “I am quite comely,” she muttered. “We are so unlike it is possible that you have no idea of that. Lionel saw only my beauty; and my father, who was dismayed by my unsuitable bookishness, thought hapless, sport-loving Lionel a good match. It was only later my husband would suspect my spirit rebelled under his rule. And, because he is a simple man with uncomplicated thoughts, it took Lionel years to discover the worst: that I was merely an imitation of a woman; I have no interest in fashion or child-rearing. By then, of course, it was too late.”

She turned to Froggy with a wry expression. “In my own way, you see, I am a hermaphrodite, too.”

He patted the chaise longue in invitation. She ignored him.

“Why should your friends leave you?” she asked. “Did they have no choice in the matter? Had you angered them?”

He tipped his head to the side. “It was altogether unavoidable. Now, come sit down and rest. Not for my sake, but for yours. Although I must admit it would please me not to be the focus of your irritation.”

She came forward grudgingly and lay down. Sleepily, she gazed at him, and an astounding idea wriggled through the dense earth of her consciousness. “I think you are dead,” she told him.

He closed his eyes, the wrinkled lids shuttering in either surprise or pain.

“That was the unavoidable circumstance, was it not?” she asked softly. “The visit must have been a long, long time ago, long enough so that no people saw your expedition. Otherwise there would have been stories. There would have been myths. How long have you been alone, Froggy?”

Sleep was overwhelming her. For the first time she was aware of the quality of air in the room. It was stuffy and warm, like a long-closed greenhouse in summer. Her eyes fell closed and she opened them with an effort.

She must have been dreaming, because Haverty was standing before her, his gloved hands clasped before his waist.

“Haverty?” she whispered, but he did not answer. He did not even seem to have heard. She attempted to rise and couldn’t.

Because it was a dream, she forgot about Froggy watching, forgot about the gulf between Haverty’s station and her own. She watched in fascination as he took off his gloves, coat, and shirt and laid them on the empty chair.

He came to her, his dark eyes larger and blacker than she had remembered. He touched her breast. She arched her back, her body rising to meet him as warm bread to the heat. His palm slid down and down, drawing in at the nip of her waist, flowing out at the swell of her hips.

When the hand reached her thigh, she looked into his eyes and saw, in their darkness, something alien and infinite. Terrified, she sat bolt upright. Haverty was gone. In his chair Froggy sat, studying her.

She stood, arranging her skirts, her face tight with embarrassment. “You go too far, sir,” she said, “to manipulate me as you have. Are you so lonely that you seek a voyeur’s solace? I am not an experimental creature to be poked and prodded and spied upon.”

“I merely gave you what you wanted.”

She brushed obstinately at her clothes as though to erase the memory of Haverty’s able hands, but need still clung to her, persistent and painful as a burr. “You mistake me.”

“No,” he said, shutting his eyes briefly. “I think I do not.”

She whirled on him, but in that instant reminded herself of what he was and how easily he might misjudge her. “Do not confuse that which I want with that which I will accept,” she told him in a stern but moderate tone. “This was ill-done.”

He seemed discomfited. “Will you please come again?”

Froggy had again picked through her scattered thoughts as easily as a nanny plucking strewn toys from the floor. She hadn’t until that moment realized she wanted to get away, and hadn’t foreseen that returning would be difficult.

“I will try,” she told him quietly.

“I would do anything for you, make concrete your every express wish, if you would only return.” He took on a fearful, woebegone look.

“I really will try,” she promised.

* * *

Outside the ageless sanctuary of Froggy’s room it was storming. Rain was coming down in sheets. By the time she made it out of the forest she was soaked, and by the time she reached the lake she was shivering.

On the road hard by the lake a carriage was waiting. There Haverty stood, a blanket over his head. When she saw him, Iona halted in shock and could not believe he was real until he splashed his way over the wet grass and lifted the blanket over her.

“How did you know where to come?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard above the wind’s rush.

He was standing without the protection of the blanket and was already soaked. His hair hung down miserably on his forehead.

“The grooms can see from the stables,” he replied, pointing towards the low barns. “They remark that lately you always go the same way.”

Froggy. Fear for him lumped in her throat so that she could scarcely breathe. Perhaps someone would stumble onto the passage between the ash trees and discover him. He would be studied. His immaculate, timeless room trampled with mud. Her fear for him came as a surprise, and she was struck by the novel idea that she was not so much a scientist as a simple questioner—her answers precious only to herself.

Haverty was making frantic motions towards the carriage as though he wished to take her arm but dared not. When she finally took his direction he seemed relieved.

“Tell no one else,” she cautioned him as they picked their way through the meadow.

He glanced up, his gaze startled.

“Tell no one where I go.”

The startlement left him and an injured suspicion took its place. “As you wish, madame,” he said, lowering his eyes.

They rode in uneasy and hurtful silence back to the house.

* * *

Lionel did not remark upon her disheveled state, but merely gave her a sullen glance from under his grizzled eyebrows. Iona hastened to her room and changed, the maid having all she could do to make her wet hair presentable.

When she was finally composed, she went down the stairs and was caught by the sounds of an argument in the library.

“I should ask where she goes,” Sir Edward said in a tone as blustery and chill as the weather.

Lionel’s reply was even. “She is not your wife.”

“Indeed, she is not. Were she, I would thrash her. It’s good for a woman, you know, just as it benefits a high-strung horse. She has mannish ways, Iona. Possibly that is the reason she has not given you an heir.”

“What?” Lionel sounded distracted, afraid. Then suddenly his voice seemed to clutch at the hope his uncle held out to him. “Oh, yes. Certainly. Yes.”

“When I was a general, I would brook no disobedience from my subordinates,” Edward said. “Compassion merely softens resolve. And a real man needs stiff-backed determination. Ask her what really interests her in the woods. Ask her, too, how the butler knew where to find her and why he went, rather than sending a footman.”

There was the soft sound of footsteps on the carpet. Someone poked viciously at the fire, toppling a log. “Damn,” Lionel said quietly, and Iona couldn’t be sure whether he had cursed at the fire or at herself.