The Age of Desire (14 page)

“Yes,” she says hesitantly.

“She has seen the world and delights in its bounty, but doesn’t need to prove it to anyone. She brings together the classicism of New England with the sophistication of Europe. But there are secrets here. Illusion. Doors that look double on one side but are in fact single on the other. I believe your life is rather like those doors.”

“My life?” she asks. She knows that she has grown crimson. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Edith,” he says, then nothing more. She revels in the tingling feeling his words have generated. Does he know that she and Teddy are nothing to one another? That she is a free and single soul? The air is icy, the breeze picking up. But the warmth between them is palpable. “And what does your home in Paris say about you?” she asks.

“It says I rent a few rooms from a landlady because I am a poor, lowly journalist.” He gently takes her elbow and turns her back, so her eyes meet his. “It says I would rather be at Edith Wharton’s house.” She hears her breath catch.

“Mr. Fullerton,” she says too loudly, “it’s late.”

For a moment he doesn’t let go of her arm. They stand face-to-face in the snow, alone, the fog of their breath blending and swirling together in the cold.

He finally releases her and, leaving her on the terrace, removes Teddy’s galoshes at the French doors. Albert, hearing them return, takes the dripping overshoes with a look of distaste. Edith, after stamping her feet at the door, sits on the sofa to remove her boots. She feels self-conscious because she knows Fullerton is watching her.

“Yes? Is there anything I can get you?” she asks. She shudders at how dismissive she sounds. Her tone reminds her of how her mother used to speak to her father.

“No, thank you. I have everything. I’ll be going up to bed.” There is a touch of hurt in his voice.

“Good night, Mr. Fullerton. Sleep well.”

“Call me Will,” he says. “My family does.”

She smiles weakly. She can’t quite imagine calling him “Will.” It is too simple, too American.

“Might I call you Morton? Henry sometimes does.”

“Call me any name but Mr. Fullerton,” he says.

“Good night, Morton,” she says and listens to each and every one of his footsteps on the stairs.

The next day, after an excited night tossing, often waking, Edith props herself up in bed and writes, but stops early, feeling the tug of wanting to see Fullerton again.

Eliot and Fullerton are chatting by the drawing-room fire when she comes downstairs. “Would anyone like a tour of the gardens?” she asks. Eliot shakes his head, announcing he is happy to stay inside with old Jules warming his feet. Jules barely lifts his head to acknowledge Edith’s presence, and sighs loudly as he settles his chin back down on Eliot’s velvet slipper. But Fullerton stands, and with an impish smile, raises his hand like a little boy at school. Wraps and boots are supplied, and the pups intuitively head for the French doors.

As Edith and Fullerton work their way down the icy staircase from the terrace, he holds out his arm for her. She grabs onto the warm tweed of his coat, relishing the solidity of his muscles. Fullerton turns his head to her, his eyes gleaming.

“So, this is how Admiral Peary felt as he ventured out into the frozen wild. Imagine Nicette and Mitou pulling our dogsled.”

The thin panes of ice at the edges of the steps shatter beneath their feet. The dogs run ahead onto the pristine garden paths, kicking up flurries of white, letting out shrill foxlike yelps.

Frosted like ice cream bombes, the lime trees, whose beauty arises from how they flutter, now stand encased in ice, paralyzed, like the trees in murals she’s seen in old New England houses. Epic. Childlike. Beneath them, Fullerton gathers sticks brought down by the storm and tosses them toward the dogs for a game of fetch. As Edith watches his youthful antics, she feels as though Fullerton is the only object in her world that’s moving at normal speed. All else feels slowed. The late morning sun breaks at an angle through the pines, spreading the hedges and frozen beds with buttery light. She can hear her own heartbeat in her ears. How measured it sounds! The snow silences all else. Has she ever felt so extraordinarily sated or content?

The game moves farther and farther along the path toward the edge of the woodlands, until Fullerton has gone so far, he stands and waves and begins to run back to her. He exudes such joy, as though he could not possibly wish to be anywhere else or with anyone else.

Later, as they walk through the beds of frozen flowers, their footsteps match, and Edith can feel the heat and pressure of his arm through her wraps. It makes her too breathless, too giddy.

So she stoops to tap snow off the once-glorious chrysanthemums.

“I do hate seeing the season end like this,” she says.

What was just yesterday an efflorescence of russet and spice has grown limp and blistered, black and slimy. “It’s a shame you weren’t here even one day sooner. The garden was still beautiful.”

“I wouldn’t have given up this snow for all the flowers you had,” Fullerton says. “We’ll remember the snow. I might not have remembered the flowers.” She is warmed by how he speaks of them as “we.”

As they chat and stroll beyond the gardens and through the shady paths, Edith finds it difficult to concentrate on his words—she is so distracted by the insistence of his presence. She feels dented by him. He marks her soul more than anyone she’s ever known. She thinks briefly of Eliot’s warning. Fullerton is indeed a very charming man.

She can hardly bear to end the garden walk, but the sun is now directly above them and there isn’t much more time: they need to eat lunch. The plan is for all of them to enjoy a motor trip through the Berkshires, then drop Fullerton at the Westfield station where he can board a train for his parents’ house in Brockton. Afterward, Edith and Eliot will head south to the home of William Sheffield Cowles and Anna Roosevelt in Connecticut. When she tells him they must go back in, he presses his lips together with disappointment.

“Must we? I could stay out here forever,” he says.

She nods. “I’d stay with you,” she says, “but you have a train to catch. Unless you can extend your visit another day. Might you?” she entreats. She would happily give up her own journey for him.

He shakes his head. “Mother would be wounded to her toes.”

Edith shrugs. “Well then . . . come,
mes petits
,” she calls out to the dogs. Mitou obeys cheerfully and dances toward the house, but Fullerton has to chase Nicette as she darts away from them down the garden paths.

“Nicette is a nature lover,” she calls after him.

Morton slips and slides, running after the puff of fur.

“You devil,” he yells. Eventually, he corners her in the Italian walled garden. Picking her up, he displays her like a prize through the opened arch in the wall. “Voila!” he shouts out. How enchanting he looks as he comes into view, warming tiny Nicette against his chest.

Anna Bahlmann peers down from her window at Edith and Fullerton in the snow. She didn’t have a chance to greet him last night—he arrived late from the station, long after she had joined the staff for dinner. But she knows his compact shape, his neatly arched back. She met him once or twice in the Rue de Varenne apartment. And even then she thought him a popinjay. Seeing them together now makes her apprehensive. For, even from up here where their voices reach her panes only by riding the wind, she can tell that Edith fancies him. She watches her lean into him like a girl being courted. Anna can hear her laughter, see how animated Fullerton makes her; she gestures openly, touches Fullerton as she speaks. She is never like this with Teddy. She is often icy, or bored. Anna closes the sheer curtains and sits down on her bed with a sinking heart.

It’s not my business, she tells herself. But how at odds she feels, for it’s most natural for her to love what Edith loves. When it comes to plays, music, books, they have always been of such intellectual sympathy that there is rarely, if ever, discordance in their tastes. And with people, it’s the same. Anna is a bit afraid of Henry James but worships his brilliance, as Edith does. And Sally Norton is the dearest human being alive. Eliot Gregory is always entertaining, if treacherous. The Bourgets are a treat. Anna de Noailles is fascinating. So why does she feel this way about Fullerton? Nervous. Distrusting. It makes her cross with herself.

She forces herself to think of her family in Missouri, where her life was indeed her own. She goes to the desk and begins a letter to her niece.

“Dearest Aennchen,

How I miss all of you! How is your dear Papa?”

At lunch, Fullerton suddenly looks up from his soup. “Good God, Edith! There’s something I must tell you.”

“What’s that?”

“The
Revue de Paris
will be publishing
The House of Mirth
.”

Edith sets down her spoon and puts her hands on either side of her plate. “That’s wonderful. Thank you so much for making that happen, Morton,” she says. “What perfect news. You were saving it to surprise me?”

“I was saving it because . . .” He looks delightfully sheepish. “Because I forgot to tell you.”

“Well, I’m glad you remembered.” When their eyes meet, Edith sees something in his that is indefinable: pride, joy, pleasure at having pleased her? Eliot seems to notice it too, for he flashes Edith a raised eyebrow and a warning smile.

After lunch, Fullerton sends down his bags, and Edith and Eliot each have their cases packed for their overnight trip. Cook brings around the Panhard. Fullerton is amused by it. “I could barely see it in the dark last night, though Cook showed me the electric lights inside,” he said.

“Henry says it’s a moving divan.”

“Oh no, it’s much bigger than a divan! It’s a moving parlor!”

Eliot sits in front with Cook. Edith, dressed in her heavy serge driving duster and veiled travel hat, shares the back with Fullerton. She is so delighted to be near him, to feel the pressure of his knee against hers. It’s a glorious afternoon as the Panhard takes to the road. The snow has mostly melted where the sun has licked it. As they climb the first real peak, panoramic views stretch open and they all sigh with appreciation, even Cook.

“Can you see a single thing?” Fullerton asks her, tugging at her veils. He pulls them back, then—in a sweet, unexpected way—smooths her hair, enchanting her with his touch. “Much better,” he says. “You’ve improved your view, and mine.”

The farthest mountains are a dazzling dragonfly blue; the fields glow amber with the syrup of late-afternoon light.

“There couldn’t be a more perfect day, could there?” Fullerton says.

“Not in all the world,” she says. But halfway up the mountain, they can feel the car shimmy precariously near the edge of the embankment, making Edith gasp.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Wharton. We’ll have to turn off,” Cook announces. “It’s slippery up here still. We need to put chains on the tires.” He turns onto a packed-earth dogleg, meant as an overlook. As he heads back to the boot to find the chains and Eliot joins him, Edith gets out of the car and stretches in the chilly mountain air. Fullerton stands beside her and presents an open silver cigarette case. “Care to?” he asks. She takes a cigarette and waits for him to find a match.