Half Moon Street Read online

  She had already tried hints so direct any decent man would have taken them. It was perfectly obvious to anyone, except a fool, that he was attracted to Caroline, and she was thoroughly enjoying it. It was intolerable.

  “I’ve just read The Picture of Dorian Gray, and I was fascinated,” Samuel said with enthusiasm. “The man is truly brilliant. But of course meeting him would be the real thing.”

  “Really?” Mrs. Ellison said icily. She had not meant to join the conversation, but this was too much to allow to pass. “I would not have thought he was the sort of person any respectable man, and any woman at all, would care to associate with. I believe ‘decadent’ is the term applied to him and his like.”

  “I believe it is,” Samuel agreed, turning away from Caroline to face her. “I’m afraid my desire to experience as much of life as I can has led me to some very questionable places, and most certainly into some company you would not approve of, Mrs. Ellison. And yet I have found honor, courage and compassion in some places you would swear there was nothing good to see . . . maybe not even any redemption to hope for. It’s a great thing to see beauty in the darkness of what seems to be lost.”

  There was a kind of light in his face which defied her to go on disapproving. He was so like Edward it was deeply disturbing, and also unlike him, and that disturbed her as well, because it was inappropriate, and yet it was also kind. She wished with a fierceness that nearly choked her that he had never come.

  Caroline saved her the necessity of replying.

  “Please tell us the sort of thing you mean,” she asked eagerly. “I shall never go to America myself, and certainly even if I did I would never go westwards. Is New York like London . . . I mean now? Do you have theatres and operas and concerts? Do people care about society and fashion, who is being seen with whom? Or are they beyond that sort of silly concern?”

  He laughed outright, then proceeded to tell her about New York society. “The original ‘four hundred’ is superb,” he said with a laugh. “Although the word is now that there are at least fifteen hundred, if one were to believe all those who claim to be descendants.”

  “I don’t see how that bears any resemblance to us,” Mariah said acidly. “I don’t know anyone at all who claims to have arrived on a ship from anywhere. I cannot imagine why they should wish to.” She fervently desired him to change the subject away from America and ships altogether. If she could freeze him out of it she would.

  “William the conqueror!” Caroline said instantly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Or, I suppose, if you want to be even grander and older still, Julius Caesar,” Caroline explained.

  Had they been alone, the old lady could have disclaimed all knowledge of what she was talking about, and indeed of the conversation at all. But ignorance was not a satisfactory riposte to Samuel Ellison. He would only believe her, and then she would have to explain, probably at length.

  “I have no idea whether my ancestors came over with William the Conqueror, or Julius Caesar, or were here before either of them,” she replied, drawing in a deep breath. “Half a dozen generations should be sufficient for anyone.”

  “I agree with you wholeheartedly,” Samuel said with great feeling, leaning towards her a little. “It is who a man is that matters, not who his father was. Good men have had bad sons, and bad men good ones.”

  Mariah wanted to say something to end this subject before it became catastrophic, but suddenly her throat was too dry to speak.

  Caroline was regarding Samuel with gentleness and concern. She had caught a deeper note of meaning in what he said, or else she had imagined it. Mariah shivered. This was appalling. What did he know? How much was possible? Anything! Everything! What would a woman tell her son? A decent woman, nothing at all. How could she? It was unspeakable—literally—beyond the power of being put into speech. She must get rid of him! Out of the house forever. Caroline must be made to see the unsuitability of this—immediately.

  But for now, she must make her heart calm down, cease choking her. This was all unnecessary. His choice of words was unfortunate, but it was accidental, no more. Face him down.

  Caroline was talking again. “Bicycles!” she said with delight. “How interesting! Have you ridden on one?”

  “Of course! They’re wonderful, and incredibly fast,” he enthused. “Naturally I’m speaking of gentlemen’s machines.”

  “I’m sure ladies’ could be very fast as well, if we wore the correct clothing,” she countered. “I believe they are known as bloomers.”

  “Bloomers are hardly ‘correct clothing’ for anything at all!” the old lady said. “Really! What will you think of next? As if your theatrical antics are not sufficient, you want to dress like a man and career around the streets on wheels? Even Joshua would not allow that!” Her voice rose sharp and high. “Presuming you care what Joshua likes? You used to be besotted enough upon him, I think you would have jumped off Brighton Pier into the sea if you thought he wished it.”

  Caroline looked at her with wide eyes, perfectly steady and unblinking. For a moment the old lady was quite alarmed at the boldness of them.

  “I think that might be a pleasant thought on a hot summer afternoon—a tedious one when everybody is gossiping and talking essentially nonsense,” Caroline replied deliberately. “Not to please Joshua, to please myself.”

  That was so outrageous, so perfectly idiotic, that for a moment the old lady was robbed of a reply adequate to the occasion.

  Samuel was only too apparently entertained by the notion, and that Caroline should not only think it but say it. But then he did not have to live with her.

  Then the perfect answer sprang to her tongue.

  “If you act to please yourself, Caroline”—she glared at her former daughter-in-law—“then you may very well end up pleasing no one else. And that, for a woman in your situation, would be catastrophic.” She pronounced the last word with relish.

  She was rewarded by a look of startling vulnerability in Caroline’s face, almost as if she had seen an abyss of loneliness opening in front of her, yet the old lady did not feel the satisfaction she had expected to feel. This was nearly victory, and yet isolation, inadequacy, guilt and the burning sense of shame were too familiar, and she wanted to put them behind her forever, so far behind she would never see them or think of them again, not in Caroline, not in anyone. It was intolerable that Caroline, of all people, should remind her.

  “It is vulgar to speak so much of oneself,” she said quickly. She turned to Samuel. “How long do you intend to remain in London? You will surely wish to see the rest of the country. I believe Bath is still very attractive. It used to be. And highly fashionable. Anyone who had the slightest aspirations to be anyone would take the waters, in the right season.”

  “Oh yes.” He must have been aware it was dismissal, but he refused to go. “Roman baths, aren’t they?”

  “They were, yes. Now they are entirely English, if anything can be said to be.”

  “Please tell us more of your own country.” Caroline poured more tea and offered the sandwiches again. She seemed oblivious to decency. “How far west did you go? Did you really see Indians?”

  A sadness came into his face. “Indeed I did. How far west? All the way to California and the Barbary Coast. I met men who panned for gold in the Rush of ’49, men who saw the great buffalo herds that darkened the plains and made the earth tremble when they stampeded.” His eyes were very far away, his face marked with deep emotion. “I know men who made the desert blossom, and men who murdered the old inhabitants and tore up what was wild and beautiful and can’t ever be replaced. Sometimes it was done in ignorance, and sometimes it was done in greed. I watched the white man strengthen and the red man die.”

  Caroline drew breath to say something, then changed her mind. She sat silently, watching him, knowing it was not a time to intrude.

  He turned and smiled at her.

  The understanding between them was tangible in
the quiet room.

  “Caroline, will you pour me more tea!” Mariah demanded. How could she make him leave? If she claimed a headache she would have to retire, and he might well be gauche enough to remain even so— alone with Caroline. And she was stupid enough to let him. Couldn’t see a foot beyond the end of her own nose. Ever since poor Edward died it had been one disaster after another.

  “Of course,” Caroline said willingly, reaching for the pot and obeying. “Samuel, would you care for another sandwich?”

  He accepted, although he was doing far more talking than eating or drinking. He was showing off, and enjoying it thoroughly. Could Caroline not see that? He probably did the same to every woman who was fool enough to listen. And there was Caroline, simpering and hanging on his every word as if he were courting her. Joshua would be disgusted—and then she would lose even what little she had, which now she had let the world know about it by marrying him, was at least better than nothing. Then where would she be? A disgraced woman! Put out for immorality—at her age—with no means and no reputation.

  Caroline was looking at Samuel again.

  “The way you speak of it makes me feel as if there is much tragedy attached. I had always heard of it as brave and exciting, filled with hardship and sacrifice, but not dishonor.” She sensed in him a real wound, and she wished to understand, even to share a fraction of it. There was an emotion driving her she did not realize, but there was a need for reassurance, to find her own balance and certainties, and she was drawn to Samuel’s pain. If one could not gain comfort, one could at least give it. And she could not remember when she had liked anyone so quickly and easily before, except perhaps Joshua, and that was not something she wished to think about just at the moment.

  She watched his face for an answer, avoiding Mariah’s eyes. The old lady was in a strange frame of mind, even for her. If Caroline did not know such a thing was impossible, she would have said she was afraid. Certainly she was angry, but then Caroline had never known her when there was not an underlying emotion in her which she realized now was a kind of fury. She had always been quick to find fault, to criticize, to strike out, as if hurting another person released something within her.

  But today was different. Was it loneliness, the grief she referred to every so often because she had been a widow so long? Did she really mourn Edmund still? Was she angry at the world because they went on with their own lives regardless of the fact that Edmund Ellison was dead?

  Caroline had loved her own husband, but when he died her grief was not inconsolable. Time had not robbed her of the need for affection. Occasionally she still missed him. But shock had certainly healed, as had the momentary numbing loneliness without him.

  Now, of course, there was Joshua, and that was a whole new world: exciting—sometimes too much so—exhilarating and threatening, full of laughter deeper than any she had known before, and disturbing new ideas—perhaps not all good ones, not ones she could keep up with, or wanted to.

  She liked Samuel Ellison very much. Was it for himself or because he reminded her of everything that had been good in Edward, and of a past which was so much less threatening, less dangerous to her safety, her self-esteem, to keeping the ideas and values she had grown accustomed to?

  Samuel was talking to her, his face puckered with concern, perhaps because he knew she was not really listening.

  “. . . all about land,” he was saying. “You see, Indians don’t see land as we do, to be owned by one individual or another. They hold it in common to the tribe, to hunt, to live on and to preserve. We didn’t understand their way of life and we didn’t want to. They didn’t understand ours. Their tragedy was that they believed us when we said we would feed and protect them in return for allowing us to settle.”

  “You didn’t?” she asked, knowing the answer already from his face.

  “Some would have.” He was not looking at her but somewhere into the distance of his memory. “But more moved west, and then more again. Once we saw the rich land we were greedy to keep it, put fences around it, and let no one else in. The story of the Indians is a tale of one tragedy after another.”

  Caroline did not interrupt as he recounted the betrayal of the Modoc tribe. She did not know whether Mrs. Ellison was listening or not. She sat with her black eyes half closed, her mouth thin and narrow, but whether it was the Indian Wars which she disapproved of, or Samuel Ellison, or something else altogether, it was impossible to say.

  Caroline was startled, and deeply moved, to see tears on Samuel’s cheeks. Without thinking she stretched out her hand and touched him, but she said nothing. Words would have been pointless, a mark of failure to understand, an attempt to communicate the incommunicable.

  He smiled. “I’m sorry. That really wasn’t a teatime story. I forgot myself.”

  “This is not an ordinary teatime call,” Caroline said instinctively. “If one cannot speak to one’s family of things that matter, then who can one speak to? Should it be strangers, so we don’t have to think of it again, or live with those who know what we have said and felt?”

  Mariah Ellison ached to agree, the words throbbed inside her, but fear held them in. It would be too much, too precipitate. Once out they could not be withdrawn, and they might give her away.

  Samuel smiled. “Of course not,” he answered Caroline. “But I do speak too much.”

  “It is customary in England to talk of less personal things,” Mrs. Ellison said with emphasis. “Not to disturb people, or cause them embarrassment or distress. Teatime is supposed to be pleasant, a small social interlude in the day.”

  Samuel looked uncomfortable. It was the first time Caroline had seen him disconcerted, and she felt instantly protective.

  “And criticism of other people’s behavior or remarks is an excellent thing to avoid,” she said sharply.

  “As is family unpleasantness,” the old lady retorted. “Disrespect,” she went on. “Or any form of unseemly behavior, overfamiliarity or clumsiness.” She did not look at Samuel but at Caroline. “It makes people wish they had not come, and desire to leave as soon as they decently may.”

  Samuel glanced from one to the other of them uncertainly.

  Caroline did not know what to say. Even for Mrs. Ellison this was extraordinary behavior.

  The old lady cleared her throat. She was sitting rigidly upright, her shoulders so tight they strained the black bombazine of her dress. The jet beads hanging from her mourning brooch shivered slightly. Caroline was torn by conflicting loathing and loyalty. She had no idea what emotions raged inside the old woman. She had known her for many years and never understood her except superficially, and they equally disliked each other.

  “Thank you for coming to see us, Mr. Ellison,” Mrs. Ellison said stiffly. “It is good for you to spare us the time when you must have many other commitments. You must not rob yourself of the opportunity to go to the theatre and see the sights of London, or wherever else you may care to go.”

  Samuel rose to his feet. “It was my pleasure, Mrs. Ellison,” he replied. He turned to Caroline and bade her farewell, thanking them both again for their hospitality, then took his leave.

  When he had gone, and before Caroline could speak, the old lady stood up also, leaning heavily on her cane as if she needed it to support herself, and half turned her back. “I have a fearful headache. I am going to my room,” she announced. “You may have the maid bring my dinner upstairs to me. You would be well advised to spend the rest of the afternoon considering your behavior and your loyalties to the husband you have elected to marry. Not that you ever took advice. But you have made your bed . . . you had best learn to lie in it before you fall out and have no bed at all! You are making a complete fool of yourself. In the privacy of your own home is one thing, but if you throw yourself upon him like this in public, you will cause scandal—and rightly so. A woman who has lost her reputation has lost everything!”

  She lowered her voice and stared at Caroline intently. “You had better hope that yo
ur husband does not learn of it. Consider your situation!” And with that as a parting shot she stumped out of the room and Caroline heard her heavy footsteps cross the hall to the stairs. She felt cold inside . . . and angry.

  There was nothing to say. Not that she was sure what she would have said, were the old lady listening. Actually she was glad to be alone. The words stung precisely because she realized she was thinking all sorts of things which a few days ago had seemed unquestionable, matters of loyalties and beliefs and a sense of belonging.

  She half turned and caught sight of herself in the glass over the mantel. At this distance she was handsome, dark hair with a warmth of color in it, only a little gray, slender neck and shoulders, features still almost beautiful, perhaps a trifle too individual to please the strictest taste. But closer to she knew she would see the telltale signs of age, the fine lines around eyes and mouth, the less-than-perfect sweep of jaw. Did Joshua see that every time he looked at her as well?

  He would not be home until that evening. He was performing onstage, and she was going alone to dine with the Marchands. She did not feel in the least like going out and making pleasant conversation about trivia, but it would be better than staying there alone and wondering about herself, about Joshua, and how he saw her compared with someone like Cecily Antrim.

  Had she really made as big a fool of herself as the old woman said? Would it all have been better, easier, far more honest if she had married someone her own age, with the same memories and beliefs, someone even like Samuel Ellison?

  She hadn’t! She had fallen in love with Joshua, and believed it when he had said he returned her feelings. She had wanted it so much, it had been the most important thing in the world to her. Was she utterly blind, like a schoolgirl, as Mrs. Ellison said? Could she lose everything?

  She turned away from the glass impatiently and went upstairs to her room to consider what she should wear for dinner. Nothing would make her feel beautiful, charming or young.