My Heart Laid Bare (44 page)

Matilde smiles half in anger. Whispering, “But not, dear Roland, I hope, on
you.
”

“Nor on
you
, dear Matilde.”

Matilde St. Goar in her airy chiffon gown with its layers of mauve and white flounces glances down at her voluminous skirts with a look of trepidation. A number of observers watch: will Roland, dare Roland,
can Roland
overcome his fatal shyness, and succeed in getting the girl to dance with him? Poor Roland! A virgin at the age of—is it thirty-five? And he'd survived, if only barely, an adventure in the West that few if any of his Philadelphia acquaintances could have survived. The heir to so many millions, it makes one's head spin to calculate the mere interest rate per annum.

Yet St. Goar's daughter scarcely seems to tolerate him. So very different from the father, who'd cut to the chase within weeks, capturing one of the prizes of Philadelphia, Eva Clement-Stoddard, who'd vowed (it was said) she would never, never marry again, her heart having been broken past repair.

Matilde walks swiftly away, to an outer alcove where, on the sly, she can smoke one of her bitter little cigarettes under the pretext of needing to breathe fresh air. Roland surprises his sympathetic observers by following in her wake, limping only just slightly. Mrs. Anna Emery, seeing the “young lovers” moving off the dance floor, feels a thrill of excitement. Nothing
would thrill the old woman more, despite her failing eyes, kidneys and bones, than to cradle in her arms little Roland Shrikesdale IV.

Matilde, snatching up a half-filled glass of champagne from a table, drinks it down and says to Roland puffing up behind her, “I wonder you can stand it—you. For it's a prison here, isn't it? It's death.”

Roland assumes a suitor's gaping, besotted look. In case anyone should be watching; and surely someone is. He says, slitting his eyes at her, and lighting up a cigarette of his own, “You're wrong. Death is dirt in the mouth, and never any music.”

“Is that where ‘Roland Shrikesdale III' is?—in the dirt?”

“Shut up.”

“Why?—no one can hear. Not even Father.”

Roland begins to speak in Harwood's gravelly voice. Smoking his cigarette in short, quick puffs as if he wanted to get it out of his hand. “He's worried they've hired a detective. Evidence is being unearthed.” There's a pause, Roland laughs, chokes off his laughter with a fist against his mouth, says soberly, “—Not that evidence, I hope.”

“The actual corpse? Of the actual heir?”

Matilde, that's to say Millicent, is trembling with emotion; whether hatred of her brute brother, or terror of him, or the simple exhilaration of her own daring she couldn't have said. She would flee him now and return to the ballroom din of music and laughter except, daringly, he grasps her thin wrist between forefinger and thumb and retains her. Saying, again in Harwood's voice, “I have Father's permission. His blessing. You're in with us. And there's a kind of . . . I wouldn't have guessed . . . sport in it. Such as a man feels on the back of a bucking steer. So long as you don't get thrown and trampled, you'd think you were the steer; the steer, and you, can trample anyone in your path. This, I wouldn't have guessed.”

Millicent wishes she didn't understand her brother and for a moment pretends she doesn't. Then says, “It's a trap, Harwood. Even for you it's death.”

But Harwood, that's to say Roland, only laughs, a high-pitched giggle. “Who's ‘Harwood'? Never met him.”

Millicent stares at her brute brother in black tie and tails, starched white shirt, his coarse hair trimmed and brushed and oiled and half his face disfigured by a vertical scar like lacework; his mica-glinty eyes are smiling; he exudes an air of . . . sincerity? Innocence?
For what if he isn't Harwood any longer, exactly; but under the influence of the man he murdered?
Millie feels the blood drain out of her face. Millie would seek a place to sit, to overcome this spell of faintness, but Harwood, that's to say Roland Shrikesdale, continues to grasp her wrist between his forefinger and thumb strong as an iron ring.

YES, A TRAP
. And, yes, sport. The Game.

And God saw that it was good.

And all these are the beginning of sorrow.

On the subject of Prince Elihu, the scandal-subject of this Sunday's
New York Herald Tribune
‘s front page, Abraham Licht declares in a voice to preclude discussion, “He is no one we know, or have ever known. You're being irrational, Millie—too much champagne last night, as I've warned you.” And Millie says calmly, “Father, I hardly need be ‘rational' to recognize Elisha when I see him.” And Abraham Licht says, bringing his fist down softly upon the breakfast table like a Broadway actor for whom each gesture, beneath lights, has become so stylized it need not be completed, “Millie. My dear. You have not seen this ‘Prince Elihu'—you have only seen his photograph in the papers.”

ON THE SUBJECT
of “Roland Shrikesdale III”—Millie would like to speak with Abraham Licht seriously, for is it true that a private detective
has been hired? And what is this, Anna Emery Shrikesdale is urging Roland and Matilde to . . . become a romantic couple?

Initially, Abraham Licht refuses to discuss the matter.

Not for Matilde to worry about, he says.

Nor even for overly inquisitive Millicent.

Then, next day, in an ebullient mood following a seemingly profitable game of poker at the most exclusive gentlemen's club in Philadelphia, to which Albert St. Goar has recently been admitted, Abraham Licht confides to Millie that, yes, there was a detective making inquiries after St. Goar some months ago; and after Harwood as well; and no doubt after her. “But as my own informants have assured me, this man, ‘Gaston Bullock Means' of the Burns Detective Agency, has given up the case as hopeless. He is of no threat.”

“No threat! If old Stafford Shrikesdale and his sons suspect Harwood, they suspect him; and they suspect us. We may be in danger.”

“Danger, Millie? Never.”

“Father, please. You underestimate our enemies.”

“In such matters, it's as well to think of ‘enemies' as ‘accomplices' in a unified effort. I'm well aware of Stafford Shrikesdale's suspicion of Roland, and of Bertram, Willard, Lyle—and others. But they're stymied, you see. They don't dare accuse ‘Roland'—they would never initiate a lawsuit. Philadelphia is too proper, my dear, for such scandal. And you might, you know, even ‘marry' Harwood—I mean, Roland. To consolidate our history, so to speak.”

“‘Marry'! My own brother! That brute! That—murderer!”

“Millicent! Hush!”

This time, Abraham Licht brings his fist down hard on the table, and cups, saucers and silverware go flying.

Millie persists daringly, “He
is
a murderer. Twice over. You know, and I know. He killed that poor woman in Atlantic City, for which Thurston was blamed; and he killed Roland Shrikesdale III—obviously. Yet you seem to forgive him. You seem not to
remember.
”

“Memory is not an American predilection. Where it cripples action, it's wise to forgo the past. For what is the past but—”

“‘The graveyard of Future.' Yes. But it may be a blueprint of Future, too. For people repeat themselves in action; a man who murders once may murder twice, and a man who murders twice may murder a third time. It will be on your head, Father, if—”

“Millie, I don't at all like your tone. This isn't a Broadway melodrama, that you can stand there, bristly as one of those little yapping Pomeranians the Philadelphia ladies adore, and speak to your father so—arrogantly. In so masculine a style. What if someone overheard? We must always assume that our own servants may be spies in the hire of the Shrikesdales; just as one or two of theirs are spies of Albert St. Goar.”

“Father, really? Is that so?” Millie smiles, for this is news. “Who is it? And since when?”

“Since the day it became clear to me, seeing Gaston Bullock Means in Philadelphia, with dyed hair and moustache, that the Shrikesdales were in pursuit. Months ago. Exactly who, which of the male servants, you needn't know; except to bear in mind that in the matter of spying and bribing, you must always hire men, not women. For a man—any man—is open to hire; but even a sensible woman may be handicapped by loyalty.”

At this, Millie laughs; goes away shaking her head, and laughing; as if the original subject of their conversation however grave, worrisome, profound has been quite banished by Abraham Licht's good humor.

For perhaps Father is wisest after all. Perhaps we would all do well simply to trust in him.

What an attractive couple!—and so unexpected.

Yet both seem shy of each other. Even she.

Aloof with other young men yet agreeably, modestly shy with Roland. Surely that's a sign?

Only a quiet young woman could appeal to Roland. The more a young woman “charms”—the more terrified he is, and retreats like a turtle into its shell.

Poor boy. All he's endured. So brave. So good. Anna Emery prays for him even now, you know—“That he marry, and have children, and become one of us.”

It seems that Matilde St. Goar and Roland Shrikesdale III are continually being thrown into each other's company. By the design of Philadelphia dowagers in Anna Emery's circle, as well as the enterprising Anna Emery herself; she's one of those older women who under the guise of self-effacing solicitude possess a will stronger than a stallion's. One day after Anna Emery's repeated invitations, Matilde reluctantly agrees to accompany mother and son on a drive along the Delaware River north into Bucks County, that they might all “rejoice in the beauty of fresh air and nature”—for it's a gloriously bright blue Sunday in winter, and much of the world fresh-coated in snow; and Roland has only just acquired a remarkable new imported car, a lemon-yellow Peugeot sedan with steel-spoked wheels, mahogany fixtures and cream-colored leather interior. Of this expensive car, Anna Emery herself is rather girlishly vain—“It quite suits Roland, doesn't it? So handsome.”

Matilde
is
impressed, that Roland does indeed look unusually fit—for Roland—in a belted motoring coat of Scottish brown tweed and a brown leather cap with goggles and chin straps and gauntlets that give him a military air; even Anna Emery, near-blind, near-deaf, with a myriad of medical complaints and a perpetual head cold, looks quite striking in furs, seated plumb in the center of the Peugeot's backseat. And here beside young Shrikesdale in a splendid ermine coat of her own with matching hat and muffler, a Christmas gift from her father, is Matilde St. Goar with ivory-pale skin and small fixed smile . . . having very few words to utter to Roland, as he has few to utter to her, for most of the two-hour excursion.

Is Mrs. Shrikesdale disappointed, that the “young lovers” are so stiff with each other? So reluctant, it seems, even to look at each other, even as she chatters, chatters, chatters to the backs of their heads? If so, she
disguises it; she's a well-bred, that's to say stoical woman; a Philadelphia lady. Only when Roland swings back into the city to bring Matilde home to Rittenhouse Square, in the late afternoon, does Anna Emery murmur, “
I
had thought the day was beautiful, and so promising . . . ,” but neither Roland nor Matilde makes a reply.

At the St. Goar residence on the northeast corner of the elegant square, Roland parks the Peugeot at the curb and politely escorts Matilde into her building. Propriety dictates that he should take her by the elbow, but Matilde shudders at his touch. She says in an undertone, “You must not, you know—please, Harwood.” In his low gravelly voice he says, “‘Must not' what?” She says, “Do away with her. That poor well-intentioned silly old woman.” He laughs. He squeezes her arm between thumb and forefinger so forcefully that, through even the thickness of the ermine, she feels a jolt of pain. “No need, I'll soon have power of attorney. Father so advises.”

Perhaps someone is watching in the opulent overheated foyer: Roland with a shy suitor's smile fumbles for Matilde's gloved hand, in a gesture of farewell. Yet again she shudders, and clumsily shrinks from him. “Murderer!” she whispers. Baring his teeth around the ten-inch cigar her escort whispers in turn, “Nigger's whore!”

Sly little Mina slits her eyes, and Moira's breath grows short with the danger, but it's not to be avoided: haughty Matilde St. Goar in waves of gossamer white, pink-translucent pearls about her neck, must grant a dance to that tall cousin of Roland's with the angry bristling moustache and knowing eyes, Bertram. “Bertie” to his friends—but the St. Goars are not his friends.
I was sailing along on Moonlight Bay . . . singing a song . . .
but neither Matilde nor her stiff dance-partner is listening to the words of the new, popular song for it's clear, Millie thinks,
this man knows.
And his breath is a dog's breath, hot and damp; and the nostrils of his aquiline nose quiver;
and he says not a word to Matilde nor does Matilde say a word to him; yet in the dance, the two are locked together in understanding; an almost erotic bond.

The dance ends. The dancers step back from each other unsmiling.

Bertram Shrikesdale bows, murmuring, “Thank you, Miss St. Goar, for a most enjoyable and edifying turn on the dance floor.”

Matilde St. Goar makes the barest semblance of a curtsy, murmuring, “Thank
you
, Mr. Shrikesdale.”

AND YET
MILLIE
thinks afterward
am I imagining it?

FOR ONE OF
the hazards of The Game, she has come to realize, is that one may imagine too much. Or too little.

This morning at breakfast studying the hazy girl's face reflected in a table knife smeared with raspberry jam as Father, whistling a strain of
Don Giovanni
under his breath, rapidly skims columns of newsprint making pencil checks beside certain stock market listings. Abraham Licht is in one of his good, mysterious moods. He's been chuckling over the news that Henry Ford has leapt into the “war profits” fray with plans to manufacture airplane motors, submarine equipment and other military items—“Having given up, it seems, on peace.” (Abraham Licht has never forgiven Henry Ford for his great success with the Model T and Model A automobiles, for a quarter century ago Abraham had hoped to manufacture a vehicle patented as the “horseless quadricycle,” an open sleigh-like chassis with four-cycle engine and thin wobbly bicycle wheels; this effort, predating Millie's birth, she's heard of only elliptically, and thinks must have been very silly indeed. Bicycle wheels! Yet Abraham Licht firmly believes that Henry Ford cheated him of his rightful fortune, as of his rightful place in American history.)