The Wildest Heart (49 page)

“But, my father…”

“Your father did not want to believe that his protégé, the son of the woman he loved, would lie to him. And Cord, of course, had his own motives for going to your father, instead of running away. We know what those were, don't we? That letter, the money he hoped to inherit. I think he believed your father's influence would get him off scot-free; you should have seen the stunned look on his face when the judge handed down his sentence!”

“Must we talk of these things
now
?
It's all in the past, Mark.”

“But to understand the future you must understand the past as well. Don't you see that, Rowena? This is not an unjustly treated, put-upon man we are talking of, but a cold-blooded, calculating one. ‘And the truth shall set ye free'… remember?” Mark quoted.

“Very well!” I raised my chin defiantly. “I accept the truth. You were all right and I was wrong, gullible, foolish! But is it foolish of me to ask that we change the subject of our conversation to… something more pleasant?”

“Of course!” Mark said equably. “I didn't mean to upset you. One day, you know, we will be able to mention his name and you will do no more than give a casual shrug…Well, shall we talk about Paris and London now, or shall we go upstairs to bed?”

“To bed, please,” I said a trifle unsteadily. “I think I have had a little too much champagne to drink.”

Mark carried me across the threshold to our room because, he said, this was our
real
wedding night. And although I did not realize it at the time, another threshold had been crossed as well—this time, in our relationship. For at last I was to begin understanding the real nature of the man I had married.

“I am a sensualist,” Mark said to me, as he turned up the lamps, one by one. “Does it surprise you?” I stood with one hand on the back of a chair to support myself, watching him, and made no answer. He smiled at me and went on, “You see, I am being honest with you. I want you to understand
me,
Rowena, just as I mean to understand every little thing about you. Your likes and dislikes, your desires, your—needs. Our marriage is going to be perfect. We shall be partners, lovers, friends, achieving all our goals together. Why do you think I have waited so long to be married? I was looking for the perfect woman, you see, and I think I have found her in you. Beauty—and I love beautiful things around me, had you guessed that? Intelligence and wit, strength and ambition; the ability to rise above all obstacles and setbacks…”

“Mark, you flatter me!” I said a trifle desperately. “But I don't think I can ever live up to the perfection you demand. I'm
not
perfect, surely you of all people must realize that?”

“I realize that you are the only woman I have ever wanted,” he said seriously, coming to me and tilting my chin up with his fingers. “Your being here with me as my wife is an example of what I have just been speaking of. You see, from the first moment I saw you I was determined to have you; just as I am determined now that you shall love me and admire me too—just as much as I do you.”

“Mark!”

“Hush,” he said, turning me around as if I had been a doll. “It's time I made love to you, worshiped your body as it deserves to be worshiped.”

Somehow I found myself in front of the mirror again, almost too dizzy to move or do anything more than grip the edge of the dresser with both hands as my husband began to take the pins from my hair.

One by one, just as slowly as he had turned up the lamps so that the whole room glowed with their light like the center of a giant ruby. And then the tiny hooks that held my gown together at the back. I would not look at Mark's eyes in the mirror. Mirrors reminded me of Edgar Cardon, of myself, naked except for the diamonds sparkling about my throat.

The silk gown fell rustling to the floor around my ankles, trapping me where I stood, trapping me like the gold circle on my finger. Mark was a blur behind me as he began to slip the thin silk chemise I wore down my shoulders, his fingers lingering against my skin. Mark—or Edgar? I saw only my own eyes in the mirror, and they were the eyes of a stranger, staring back at me, wide and startled and shining with an unusual, glittering brilliance.

“Sapphires to match your eyes,” Edgar had whispered once, and I was a marble statue with jewels for eyes.

I felt Mark's body move against mine—the rough texture of his clothes, the softness of his hands as they stroked my cringing flesh.

“Watch…” he was whispering, or did I only imagine it? “Watch, Rowena! See how beautiful you are? All this loveliness—mine.”

I felt myself begin to shiver. Lucas… Lucas… oh, God, where are you? Roughness of his hands, hardness of his mouth… hardness… I closed my eyes against the memory, feeling my head spin as I leaned back passively against Mark.

Even my thoughts had become disjointed now. Too much champagne… I was dreaming all this…

“I think I forgot to mention one other thing I searched for in the perfect woman,” Mark said softly, his hands moving lower. “She must be the perfect lady in public, ice-cold and reserved. But in our bedroom… my mistress and my whore…”

I cannot, like some popular novelists of my day, draw a discreet veil over all that is unpleasant to recall. I write in these journals for myself, only my eyes and the eyes of my children will read what I have written. And it has become a compulsion with me to write everything down exactly as it happened. I have learned that nothing can be gained from running away from the truth. And so I will be exact, and detailed in my account of all the events that have taken place.

I am full of good intentions, and what is past is past. But even now I feel a certain reluctance to remember certain things. And that morning in Socorro, when I woke up with a headache that was like a thousand hammer blows in my temples, threatening to split my skull open, is one of these.

At first I could not even remember where I was, could hardly recall
who
I was. There was the pain in my head that seemed almost to blind me—and then, surge after surge of sickness so acute that I must have cried out weakly. I say I must have, because I was suddenly aware that someone was supporting my head, holding a basin for me while I gasped and retched and was disgusted with myself all the while for being subject to such weakness.

A strange voice spoke soothingly to me—in French of all things.

“
Pauvre petite!
There, there, it is just one of these things that all women must bear,
hein
?
So—you will be all right soon, no need to feel ashamed. It is that husband of yours who needs a talking to, yes?” I was lying against the pillows, limp and exhausted, too drained of strength to open my eyes. And I felt my lips and forehead sponged gently with water so cold it made me gasp.

“You feel better now?”

Something—I did not yet understand what—made me imagine for a moment that I was still in London, lying in my bedroom at Cardon House.

“Martine?” I could not manage more than a faint whisper, but I heard a gurgle of amused laughter underlying the voice that answered me.

“Non, non! You are thinking of someone else,
pauvre cherie.
I am Monique, and we have not yet met… formally. But that is all right, for I had already heard so much about you.”

I forced my eyes open at last, and saw a smiling yet sympathetic face bent over me. Strange how much I noticed, even in my semi stupor. She was attractive, with a piquant face and masses of auburn hair that contrasted sharply with her milky white skin. Her eyes were green—large, and slightly slanted, and she wore a pale green gown that formed a pleasing contrast to her vivid coloring. Everything about Monique Kingman, I was to discover later, was vivid, exciting. Some might even have called her flamboyant. Certainly she seemed out of place here, in the dull red hotel room.

Seeing me open my eyes, she waved a hand at me, as if to tell me not to make the effort of speaking again.

“Don't exert yourself yet. I will send your husband to you, and after that, when you feel well enough, we will let him perform the proper introductions,
oui
?”

She was gone, with a rustling of her long skirts, before I could protest, and then Mark was bending over me, his face concerned.

“Rowena! I had no idea… why, my poor girl, how you must be suffering. Lie still. Are you sure you will be all right now?”

I tried to sit up, and he put his hand on my shoulder, gently, but firmly.

I was frowning with the effort of trying to remember. “What happened to me? I've had more champagne than I had last night, and never felt so unwell. Mark—I cannot remember…”

But I did—it was beginning to come back in snatches. The mirror… Mark undressing me, caressing me… the dizzy feeling that had made everything whirl around me and seem unreal…

“It was not a very good champagne, I'm afraid, and I should have remembered your delicate condition.” Mark laughed suddenly and boyishly, “I'm afraid you were quite drunk, my love! And it's a pity you cannot remember, for
I
can—every detail, I must confess.” He leaned close to me and whispered, “Never have I known a woman so passionate, so abandoned! My darling, you were everything I imagined you would be.”

Was it possible? How was it I could not remember? But then, the whole evening seemed rather vague to me. There was only a slight soreness between my thighs to remind me that I was now Mark's wife in every way. I told myself that it would all come back later, but I must have seemed unusually quiet for the rest of the afternoon, while we journeyed to the Kingman Ranch, which was some thirty or forty miles distant from Socorro.

My silence was put down to the fact that I had been so ill this morning. They were all very patient with me, and from time to time Mark would give my hand a reassuring squeeze. He seemed so confident, so sure of himself! I watched him, and listened to him talk, and wondered how it was possible that I had once accused him of being nothing more than his uncle's lackey.

We were riding in the Kingmans' own light carriage—custom-made by Abbot & Downing, I had noticed. John Kingman was a still-handsome, graying man of about forty-five or so. Monique, his wife, must have been at least ten years younger. And yet, there was an air of easy comradeship and affection between them. She spoke vivaciously, gesturing with her hands; I could not help noticing that she had long and slender fingers that were accentuated by the rings she wore.

Later that day, soon after the lamps had been lit, I was to hear Monique play on the grand piano that her husband had ordered snipped from Europe, especially for her. To this day, I cannot hear a piece by Chopin without remembering Monique, her auburn hair catching the light as she bent her head over the keyboard.

She wore black that first evening. Stark and unaccentuated, and her skin seemed to take on a pearly sheen under the lights. She was beautiful, and she played like an angel. No wonder John Kingman seemed so proud of her!

The ranch house was large and rambling, built Texas-style, Mr. Kineman explained. It was by no means a palace, such as Todd had built for himself, but far larger than my own small house, although it was built of stone and adobe, with a shingle roof.

“It's just a typical ranch house, nothing very grand,” Monique said with a deprecating shrug when she showed me through it. But it was comfortable inside, and the guest room where Mark and I would sleep was spacious and airy, with a polished wooden floor that had colorful rugs scattered over it.

I assured Monique that I would be very comfortable here, and she smiled, showing white, slightly pointed teeth. “Oh, but I hope so! For I have already told Mark that you must stay longer than just a few days. I think it is a ridiculous idea, to take you all the way to Boston, traveling all those miles when you are
enceinte
—only to turn right around and come back. Why should you not spend your honeymoon here? Me, I would not trust that uncle, that fierce Monsieur Shannon. He is—what is the word?—a very unscrupulous man. I think he would not want you to keep what is yours.”

I felt that Monique was the kind of woman who would always speak her mind. She knew of my condition; she knew how short a time Mark and I had been married. And yet she showed no signs of condemning me, but seemed slightly amused instead.

It was growing more and more obvious to me that Mark's friends knew more about me than I knew of them, in fact, and this was borne out later on that same night, as we sat around the supper table while a smiling Mexican maid cleared away the dishes.

John Kingman, who was a man of few words, was leaning back in his chair puffing on a cigar, a glass of bourbon before him. The rest of us sipped some excellent cognac, which Monique confided had come all the way from France.

“Mark brought it back for us—two cases. Wasn't that nice of him? All I want from Paris is some really good cognac, I told him. And you see? He kept his promise. Mark always keeps his promises, do you not,
mon cher
?”

“I did not know you had been to Paris!” I looked from Mark to Monique. “Why, we've spoken often of Europe, and never once did he mention…”

“Did he not? Mark, you are a wicked man! Yes, of course he has been to Paris—it was about two years ago, I think, and when he came back—ah, he could talk of nothing but you. Remember I told you that Mark always keeps his promises? This was one that he made then. He told me, ‘Monique, I have seen the woman that I am going to marry someday.' And he has done so…”

Before I could speak, Mark leaned forward and took my hand. As it had been last night, his face was rather flushed. “I was going to tell you last night, dearest, but—I'm afraid you made me forget everything but yourself.”

His low, intimate tone made me embarrassed as well as angry.

“
You
spoke of honesty between us!”

“So I did—on both sides, remember? Tonight we will tell each other all our secrets.”

Monique broke into the awkward moment with a bright laugh. “Look at them, John! They are still lovers. And perhaps we should be tactful, you and I, and allow them to go to bed, yes?”

It was all I could do to maintain an air of politeness as we said our good nights. I had been deceived too often, and to think that Mark, of all people, whom I thought the only man I could trust, and had married…

“How could you?” I stormed at him as soon as the door had closed behind us. “All these months, when you pretended to be my friend, encouraged me to confide in you—”

“Rowena!” He caught my shoulders, forcing me to face him. “This is not like you, to be so quick to condemn. I remember that you defended Luke Cord almost to the end, even after he had deceived you in the worst possible way.”

“Oh!” I felt as if he had struck me. “How long will you throw
that
in my face in order to cover up your own perfidy?”

“Until I have proved to you that he is not worth your regrets! Until you are able to dismiss his memory with a grimace of distaste! Can't you see that everything I do and have done is all for
you,
Rowena?” He did not give me a chance to reply, but went on heatedly. “Yes, I saw you in Paris. A glimpse of you at the theater once, with your mother and stepfather. And—other times. I tried to get myself invited to all the balls and intimate parties where
you
would be invited. I saw your picture in the newspapers, the glorious portrait that was painted of you and now hangs in the Prince D'Orsini's private collection in Venice. I heard what they called you—‘the marble goddess,' was it not? And I guessed, no, I
knew,
even then, that you were not made of cold marble, that underneath that withdrawn and icy look there was a real woman. Warm and passionate and vibrant…”

I tried to twist away from him, but he held me fast.

“You have not explained anything!” I said coldly at last. “Why you deceived me, why you pretended…”

“I did not even recognize you at first, in that ugly disguise! Don't you remember? And after that—well, you wanted to be left alone. And then, when you showed some slight warmth toward me, I didn't want to spoil anything, in case you might think me like all the other men you seemed to despise. So I waited. Why do you think I remained so long at the ranch? I waited, Rowena, and we became friends. I began to hope, but I warned myself to go slowly, to be careful. I knew that you had been hurt and disillusioned, that for all your poise and beauty you were frightened of me underneath.”

“This is ridiculous!”

“No—it is not! Admit it, you distrusted men. And then—oh, God, can you imagine my feelings when my uncle told me bluntly that he wanted you, and meant to have you? That he had kissed you, and you had responded? He warned me that you were his property, and after a time I began to feel that this was really so. You quarreled with him, stood up to him, swore you would never marry him, and yet—do you think, loving you as I did, that I could not see how flushed and breathless you seemed after you had been alone with him? I knew he had been kissing you, I had seen that triumphant gleam in his eyes before. I tried to warn you…”

“Yes,” I said in a dull voice. “Yes, I know you did. Just as you tried to warn me about Lucas. But that still does not explain…”

“I am coming to that.” Mark's voice became serious. “Come here, sit down beside me on the bed, Rowena. No, I will not do more than put my arm around you—yet. But you must listen.”

It sounded almost too simple, the way Mark explained it. He had seen me in Paris and had fallen in love with me. He had tried in vain to get an introduction to me, had haunted my favorite theaters and art galleries. But I had never noticed him.

“Why should you? You moved in another sphere, another plane. Lady Rowena Dangerfield—and I was only a middle-class American, on his Grand Tour in Europe. How could I ever manage to meet you?”

But Mark had, in the end, contrived it. Having found out who I was, it was
he
who had informed my father of the fact that my grandfather was dead, and I was no longer living in India, but was under the care of my mother and her husband.

“
You
did that? All that—on the slender chance that I might agree to come to America?”

“I would have taken any chance at all! And of course, just to see your father's face when I told him made it all worthwhile, even if you had not wanted to come. He used to talk about you by the hour, Rowena!”

“But why didn't you tell me all this before? Surely, once I had agreed to marry you…”

“For this very reason that we are sitting here now, instead of lying in each other's arms. I was afraid you would be angry and turn against me. I wanted to wait, until I was more sure of you—until I had had the time to win your love. And last night…”

I did not want to think about last night. I still had an indefinable feeling of repugnance, thinking that I could have abandoned myself so wantonly, without even knowing what I was doing. Was that the kind of woman I really was? Was lust my own particular devil?