The Age of Desire (45 page)

In the morning, there is little to say, but little needs saying. Edith feels so utterly happy with Morton, satisfied, connected. When a dozen paisley roses arrive at her own hotel room later in the morning, she takes them into her arms. Not feeling the thorns which nick her wrists and palms, she lowers her face into the silky blooms and breathes in last night’s musk. If only this ecstasy could linger, could permeate her life. If only.

Within just a few weeks, Dr. Kinnicut’s new serum treatments have done Teddy a world of good. His teeth are no longer tormenting him. His headaches seem to have evaporated. But what has raised Teddy’s spirits more is that he has managed to track down and telephone the proposed renters of The Mount to tell them that the property is no longer for rent. No discussion with Edith. He doesn’t even let her know. Anna has to write Edith to warn her: Teddy
will
be in residence at The Mount this summer. And Anna and White will be there as well.

Anna can’t help but be pleased, but there’s much to do. She and White have to interview and hire a new housekeeper since Gross is traveling with Edith. And with an untried housekeeper at the helm, it’s also their responsibility to engage new maids and footmen. “You should hire a ladies’ maid for yourself,” Teddy tells Anna. “I would happily pay for you to have one.”

Anna laughs, baffled. “What would I do with a ladies’ maid, Mr. Wharton?”

“She could do your hair. Take care of your clothes. Rub your back?”

“No one’s ever looked after me in my life,” she tells him. “I doubt it’s a good idea for me to start.”

He holds up his brandy glass in toast. “You, my dear, are an independent! It tickles me.”

It is strange to be at The Mount without Edith. Watching the gardeners clear the weeds out of the flower beds gives her a sad pang when she realizes Edith will never see the blooms. Walking the new paths alone some afternoons—happy, truly happy!—Anna feels ashamed that she should take such joy in the dark green bushes, the wildflowers, the sunshine, when Edith is missing out on the beauty she helped to create.

Teddy insists Anna take dinner with him every night in the dining room. The first night, she is shy. She can never remember sitting at a table with Teddy without Edith there as well. He seems to think it’s the most natural arrangement in the world.

“My dear,” he says, seating her and pushing in her chair. He takes the seat across from her, tucks in his napkins, and launches right into describing his plans for expanding the staff quarters.

“Perhaps,” he says, “you should move to one of the guest rooms. I don’t like the idea of you climbing to the third floor and sharing a bathroom with the servants.”

“I don’t mind,” she tells him. “It’s what I’m used to.”

“You deserve better.” he says.

She raises her face and looks at him. She has a sick feeling in her stomach. He wants to make her what she’s not. An equal. What might the servants think? Alfred lives out in one of the outbuildings. He wouldn’t mind one way or the other. But what about the maids? The cook? The new housekeeper? Would they think she was taking over? Putting on airs?

But Teddy moves on to other subjects before she has a chance to comment, rattles on about the chickens. Describes in detail his day, and wants to know about hers. He is in good spirits again. Changed entirely since the dark days of Paris. She feels so light in his shiny new presence.

He asks her to join him in the drawing room afterward, insists on pouring her a sherry and says he’d be very happy if she’d stay with him until he goes to bed. And so it goes every night after. Often there is little to say, so they sit quietly, with the doors open to the terrace and gardens, the pine breezes wafting in lemony and cooling, the hoot of a wayward owl sometimes breaking the silence. Then she and Teddy will look up and smile at each other. Mostly she does her darning, or writes letters to Kansas City or London on a lapboard. Or she reads poetry in German. He reads his animal husbandry books, occasionally reciting a fact that takes his fancy. They might be an old married couple: happy in each other’s presence but with no need to constantly communicate. Once, saying good night, he calls her “my darling.”

The Mount’s summers have always been peopled by a rolling list of guests: writers, painters, scientists, all invitees of Edith. There are no guests now. And Anna is happy. Happy to see Teddy thriving. Happy to immerse herself in the natural beauty of the place Edith created and once so dearly loved with no distractions.

Once, passing the scullery, she hears one of the new maids speaking to another.

“It’s odd,
him
having
her
around him all the time like that. You’d think the lady of the house might be miffed if she knew.”

“She’s just a companion. They’re old. Why should the mistress care? Though I hear the Missus is gallivantin’ all over Europe. Most likely, she don’t care one way or t’other.”

Anna watches the mail, hoping that a letter might arrive sometime from Thomas, acknowledging that he hopes to see her when she returns to Paris. But the letters with her name on them come from Aennchen or her brother or sometimes Kate Thorogood or Fannie Thayer. And from Gross, who tells her of the whirling time Edith’s having: whipping from Windsor to Rye to London to Gloucestershire. All through that part of Edith’s trip, while Gross was along, there were short, breezy letters, then suddenly none. And none at all from Edith to Teddy.

Edith is enjoying England immensely, eating well, sleeping well, and at peace with herself. She hates to break the spell and return to France, but she simply must get back and look for an apartment before the season, or she’ll have nowhere to stay at all. Having told George Vanderbilt she had no intention of taking his apartment for the winter, he’s already leased it to someone else. So she prepares herself: thinks of her beloved Paris, its blur of lights and food and laughter, and books tickets for her departure.

But at the last minute, she receives a note from Henry asking if she’d be so kind as to return to Lamb House before she crosses the Channel. Edith can’t help but worry. Henry’s health has been spotty. And he’s not one to ask her for help unless it’s important. Arriving in the early evening, she’s shown to her room to wash up before she sees him. She chooses a green frock he’s always liked. And pins up her hair with more artifice than usual. But when she steps toward the drawing room, washed and kitted out as if for a formal London dinner, she hears someone speaking to Henry. And, knocking lightly, she opens the door to see a dark-haired man leaning on the mantel, his back to her.

“Henry, so sorry to interrupt . . . ,” she says.

“Ah. At last! The firebird has alighted,” Henry exclaims, his voice full of merriment. “Step right in, my dear. I have a little surprise for you.” The man at the mantel turns slowly and rests his blue eyes on her. It is Morton. Henry chuckles like Old St. Nick himself, having brought his favorite little girl the one gift she’s longed for most.

When the whole house is seemingly asleep, Edith hears an almost imperceptible rap on her door. She sits up, her heart thrumming. Without an answer, Morton opens it and slips in.

“Are you awake?” he whispers.

“As though I could possibly sleep knowing you’re here,” she says.

“Perfect! Warm me up!” he begs, climbing into her bed. “How could it possibly be so cold in July? Aren’t my feet like ice?” It is past midnight. The Rye night is thick and sooty. Absent the streetlit glow of London, she can barely see him. But his eyes twinkle like starlight.

“It’s the coldest summer I’ve ever spent,” she tells him. “It’s rained every day since you left. I do believe I am growing moss on my left side.”

“That is not a romantic thought,” he says drily.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry. It doesn’t dampen my enthusiasm an iota. There. Do you feel my enthusiasm?”

“Yes. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more enthusiasm.”

He laughs softly, and then his lips brush her ear, “All through my time in Massachusetts, I thought of you. When things were bad with my father, I thought of you.”

“Oh . . .”

“But if my father had the least idea exactly
what
I thought about you, it would surely have killed him!”

“You are terrible.”

“I am terrible, aren’t I? And to prove it, I’m going to do things to you you’ve never dreamed of,” he tells her. “Terrible things.”

“Oh, do expand my worldview,” she tells him. “I dare you.”

“You oughtn’t dare me. That could be dangerous.”