Ceremony of the Innocent (29 page)

“But you seem somewhat subdued, Ellen.” Again, that faint amusement, tinged once more with implied rebuke.

She could not tell him she was enceinte. That would be most indelicate. “I am not in the least subdued,” she said. “But, after all, I am now eighteen, and no longer the child you knew, Mr. Francis.”

Now he was annoyed; he truly thought her saucy and was speaking out of her “place,” to him, who was a gentleman. Why, the girl was actually being impertinent! So much for those who rise out of their station, when they should have been happy in their proper milieu. His thoughts became confused; he wanted to reproach her meaningly and he also wanted to take her in his arms and kiss and fondle her and tell her of his love for her. The very thought that Jeremy Porter embraced her intimately sickened him both mentally and physically. He shut his eyes for an instant, to banish the lascivious vision, then he opened them to look at her pliant body, the new swelling of her breasts, the outline of round thigh; for a second or two his eyes lingered at her pelvic area under that flowing velvet. He imagined her in bed with him, and his face changed so eloquently that she said in haste, “Is there something wrong, Mr. Francis?”

“No. No, nothing, Ellen. It is just that I have been worried about you. After all, you were, in a manner of speaking, in my care in Wheatfield. I wanted to be sure you were—contented.” (Her breast rose and swelled softly with her breath. He had an almost uncontrollable urge to go to her and enclose one of those breasts with his hand, to reveal, to kiss it.)

Ellen was smiling with deep tenderness, for she thought of Jeremy. “I am very contented, Mr. Francis. And thank you. More sherry?”

“No, thank you, Ellen.” He spoke very graciously as one speaks to a young and appreciated servant, who was being very attentive, even if with “exaggeratedly genteel airs.” He hesitated. “Ellen, I should like to visit you occasionally, in the afternoon, in confidence, so that I can reassure my aunt.”

Ellen spoke with new directness. “You mean, Mr. Francis, that you do not want me to mention your visit, or visits, to my husband?”

Above all things Francis detested open confrontations, directness, and unequivocal approaches. He thought them crude and even barbarous. Then he reminded himself that he must be patient with this ignorant girl who came of such a coarse and plebeian background. Tutors and teachers, indeed! How ridiculous.

He said, with a dainty dropping of his eyelids, “You know, Ellen, that Jeremy and I do not have anything in common, in sympathy, though we are cousins. He would not understand why I was concerned about you, which I am. He is a very blunt man—”

Again Ellen had to remind herself strongly that he had always been so kind to her, and that she had some fondness for him, and that he was only anxious about her. He had been the first person in her life, with the exception of her aunt, who had shown her solicitude. He had given her her first pair of kid gloves; he had been like a brother to her.

“I don’t like to deceive Jeremy,” she said. She paused and considered, while he watched her and lusted for her young body and urgently desired to kiss her soft open mouth. “Well, I don’t want to disturb him, either, though I don’t see why he should object to your kindness towards me, Mr. Francis. I don’t think he would; he might even be pleased. Still, if you’d rather I’d not mention it—”

“I’d rather you would not, at least for now, Ellen. Later, perhaps. Jeremy and I sometimes encounter each other in the courts; I am hoping we may become more congenial as time goes by.”

Ellen nodded, though with a certain disquietude and the old guilt. Love and trust—she was always forgetting. Mr. Francis certainly de-sewed both love and trust and here she was, nearly insulting him in spite of what she owed him. Francis had an almost feminine perceptiveness, though he customarily disliked women. He caught the import of her expression, and so he said, “You must remember, my dear, that it is only my concern for you, and the concern of my aunt, which brought me here.”

“Yes, I know, and I can’t thank you enough. Please tell Mrs. Eccles that Aunt May is much better than she was in Wheatfield, and that most of the time she is without pain, and that I am very happy. Aunt May has every attention that money can buy, and affection give her.” He noticed, with fresh vexation, that her diction and manner had greatly improved, almost miraculously so in these few months, and he thought it all pretension.

He stood up and she stood with him, guiltily thankful that he was leaving. She gave him her hand, and then he could not help it: he leaned towards her and kissed her velvety lips and the contact with her mouth almost made him cry out. But he spoke in a tight and restrained voice. “Goodbye, Ellen, for just now. I will call again soon, if I may.”

“Please do,” she said. She had been taken aback by the kiss, and then again reminded herself that he felt towards her like an elder brother, and she was touched. He left her for the waiting hack outside; the street was gray and leadenly shining with sleet, and he shivered. He detested New York. The long rows of brownstone houses revolted him; he thought they frowned on him with hostility. The door shut gently behind him. He went to his small and inexpensive apartment on West Twentieth Street, also in a brownstone house, which had recently been converted from a private mansion to “gentlemen’s establishments,” much to the consternation of neighbors. After seeing Ellen, and feeling still the heat of contact with her, the prospect of returning to his apartment was singularly bleak and lonely, and he ached with an unfamiliar despair.

Cuthbert had been discreetly listening and watching in the background, and he had been smiling a little to himself. He was not deluded. He came into the library, where Ellen stood aimlessly before the fire, and he said, “Is there anything else, madam?”

“No. No, Cuthbert. That gentleman is Mr. Porter’s cousin.”

“So I gathered. There is not much resemblance, is there?”

“No, indeed,” Ellen replied with such fervor that Cuthbert smiled under his nose. She hesitated. “Cuthbert—it seems—well, it seems—that Mr. Francis Porter, and my husband, are not—are not—”

“
En rapport
, madam? I guessed that, in some manner. You do not wish me to mention that you had a visitor today?”

Ellen felt somewhat soiled. “That is it, Cuthbert,” she said, and hurried from the room, almost running.

She remembered that as she absently dressed for the dinner she and Jeremy were giving tonight. She thought of Walter Porter, Francis’ father. She did not know why she experienced such a sudden uplift of relief, such a happy anticipation. She was so very fond of him, and he insisted that she call him “Uncle Walter,” and he would look at her with an admiration she could not understand, and a deep affection.

“Madam is looking very beautiful tonight,” said Clarisse, the maid, fastening the last button on the black velvet gown. She took up the bottle of Worth scent and sprayed Ellen’s arms and throat with it.

Ellen laughed. “Madam is feeling a little confused, Clarisse.”

She heard Jeremy’s step on the stairs—he rarely used the elevator. She ran to him joyfully and threw herself into his arms and said, “Oh, my darling, how happy I am to see you, how happy!”

“Well, I haven’t been away for years,” he said, holding her tightly and rubbing his lips over her blazing hair. “Why are you so exuberant?”

“It’s just—it’s just that God is so good to me, as little as I deserve it,” she said. She thought of Wheatfield, and she shivered, and clung tighter to Jeremy, looking up into his taut dark face with adoration.

“You must really let me go, Ellen,” he said, and wondered at her unusual excitement. “Uncle Walter is down in the library waiting for us, and drinking up my best Scotch whiskey. And I have to dress. As always, you look divine, and I’d rather go to bed with you this instant than entertain guests.”

She blushed and whispered in his ear, “And so would I.” She looked about her beautiful boudoir and sighed with rapture.

C H A P T E R   13

THE YOUNGISH WOMAN WHO HAD become Ellen’s best friend in New York was the wife of a partner in Jeremy’s law firm. She had long been in love with Jeremy Porter, a fact he had soon discerned and, being a gentleman, had affected to be entirely unaware of, and so had spared the lady’s sensibilities. He hoped that in this case the old aphorism of “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” would not apply in his case. Her name was Mrs. Jochan Wilder, and she was nicknamed Kitty. Though Jeremy had always been a womanizer, Kitty repelled him, for she was like a dark little sinuous cat, constantly vivacious and in movement, with a narrow and very small lean face, a distinctly olive complexion, round staring eyes the color of agates, and enormous flaring white teeth. The teeth were startling in that tiny countenance, and when she laughed or grinned they seemed to fill that countenance from side to side, and worse, up and down. (She was proud of them.) Her features were rarely in repose, and even then they had a feline alertness and impatience as she waited for others to cease talking so that she could pour out a rush of words so shrill, so insistent, so vehement, as to irritate her listener. Then she would laugh noisily, the teeth would engulf her face so that the other features sank into minor significance and were almost obliterated. To make the teeth even more conspicuous—predatorily glistening and glaring and wet—she would redden her thin wide lips, and she had a way of inserting her crimson tongue between them. She thought this irresistible.

She was a small woman, hardly five feet tall, and so very thin that she had to wear additions to her meager bosom and her backside, and her hands were even darker than her parched facial skin, and always rapidly gesticulating. When she was not screeching with laughter—she considered herself to have a devastating sense of humor—she was murmuring while others spoke. However, she was very stylish and animated and lively, and very knowing, and could also purr like the cat she so closely resembled. Her sophistication was complete: She was cunningly aware of human nature in all its aspects and exploited it when she could, sometimes for a profit for herself and sometimes sheerly out of malice.

Ellen, for some reason baffling even to the astute Jeremy, found Kitty fascinating. But Ellen said, with gentle pleading, “She is very
soignée, distinguée
, as ML Penserres would call it. She has elegance and wit, and is so very kind. She teaches me so many things I should know about New York, and the people, and takes me everywhere during the day, to see everything I should see so that”—Ellen hesitated—“you won’t be ashamed of my ignorance.”

Your dangerous innocence, you mean, my pet, Jeremy thought.

“She teaches me how to select clothes, too,” said Ellen, pleading for her new friend. “You do admire my new clothes, don’t you? Kitty chose them all, especially that gray velvet with the little yellow topazes on the bodice, which you particularly like, and the earrings and bracelet and chain to match. There is nothing Kitty doesn’t know, just about everything. Her taste is perfect; you must admit that. I wanted to buy a scarlet dress, and she refused to let me, with my hair. She chose my maid, Clarisse, for me, and Clarisse is excellent, not that I know anything about ladies’ maids. She has been tireless in helping me, so very kind. I don’t know why she does it; I am not much of a companion to her.”

But Jeremy knew, to some extent. Kitty Wilder was a very rich woman in her own right, and her husband was almost as wealthy. Kitty, however, had ambitions. She was a consuming woman, never satisfied, always reaching avidly for something she considered more important, more befitting her hungers, her aspirations. She had no patience for the plodding, the conscientious, the content, the dutiful. She had long discerned that Jeremy Porter had the talent for power, over and above money, and that in many ways he was as restless as she was herself. However, his restlessness was masculine; hers was feline, if voracious. Her less than delicate pursuit of him earlier had not been mere physical lust (though she was a lustful woman and often too demanding for her husband, who believed that females indicated no pleasure in bed, if they were ladies). Her desire for Jeremy was for his potential as a ruthless leader, a powerful man in all ways, who would never be satisfied, as she was never satisfied, even though she was considered a reigning socialite. She smelled success about Jeremy, and she adored success.

She detested Ellen and laughed inwardly at her “country bumpkin ideas and ways,” but she was very careful in concealing that, attending sedulously to the girl. (She was thirty-three herself.) Through Ellen, she believed she would either seduce Jeremy by being so constantly in his house, or she would be able to attach herself also to his star, or rather, she would attach her husband. She would have liked both, but would be delighted with either. She was beguiled insatiably by his potent qualities; she loved the very sound of his voice. Her husband’s voice was somewhat high and he had a deplorable habit of giggling, and was tall, thin, extremely fair and a total gentleman. Kitty was not a lady for all her birth and antecedents and money and the fine finishing school she had attended, and her demure and proper relatives who were invariably correct in their conduct and their conversation, and, she suspected, in their thoughts also. Propriety was not admirable to Kitty Wilder. Only a few suspected her wild scheming nature, and her husband was not one of them. He thought Kitty vital and amusing though her sallies at him held the venom of a cat’s teeth. He loved her even when she was most grinningly obnoxious. He believed she was simply full of high spirits and vivid sprightliness.

That she was very intelligent, not even Jeremy denied. She was a patron of the arts, the opera. She lived with her husband in a gray stone house on Fifth Avenue, decorated in the most superb taste, with not a single hint of vulgarity. Her refinement and discrimination were famous in the city. She had no children, for which she was thankful.

Her devoted friends—and they were multitudinous, being attracted by her constant air of humor and good nature and worldliness, and her family and money—believed her to be beautiful, though Jeremy Porter thought she was one of the ugliest women he had ever encountered, so “scrawny” was she, so apparently made of tight tendon and dark skin and drawn ligaments. “She never sits quietly for an instant,” he once complained to Ellen. “She wears me out, just watching her.” To which Ellen had replied, “Oh, Jeremy, she is just so full of life, that’s all. Not dull and heavy like me.” “You are so restful, love,” he said, and she answered, smiling and sighing, “So is a feather bed.”