It had been a year before her storm of grief and guilt over the loss of her baby and the failure of her marriage had begun to abate. It had been a terrible year and sometimes she thought the only thing that had saved her sanity was her work. She threw herself into her studies with a feverish and grim intensity. By day, working in the library or attending classroom lectures and seminars, she kept the agony at bay.
It was at night that it overwhelmed her, and she would cry silently in her solitary bed. She blamed Kit. He became her scapegoat; on him she hung all the responsibility for their failure.
He
had run out on her when she needed him.
He
had not wanted the baby. It was desperately important that her consciousness should have someone else to take responsibility, because deep in her subconscious, she blamed herself. Although she tried, she could never forget that her first reaction to news of the baby had been dismay. That had changed, and as he had grown inside her her feelings had become warm and protective. But initially, she had not wanted him. Deep, deep inside her, her Irish Catholic upbringing was saying that God had punished her for that initial rejection. And the more she felt this the more feverishly she tried to blame Kit. Lying awake night after endless night, she began to understand what Thoreau had meant when he said “The mass of men live lives of quiet desperation.”
* * * *
She had thrown herself into her work and her work had saved her. None of her professors or her fellow students had ever mentioned Kit to her again. They behaved to her with the scrupulous and impersonal respect that her scholarly achievement commanded in their world. It was a world she clung to: a quiet and traditional place where only intellectual things counted.
In two years time she had her Ph.D., and the following January the university published her doctoral dissertation as a book. It established her scholarly reputation immediately. She was offered a job at a prestigious Massachusetts university and knew, if she produced as she was fully capable of doing, she would be given tenure. She had achieved a place for herself, a place worthy of reverence, and she had thought her life was settled.
And then Kit had come back.
Nothing had really changed, she told herself as she walked back to her brother’s cottage through the brightening day. She still had her job. The university had stood behind her: her colleagues had been supportive and unquestioning, her students had been fiercely protective, the university security force had acted as her bodyguards. It would all die down and by September be forgotten.
Only she would not forget. She had seen his movies; why, then, she thought despairingly, should seeing him again in person have had such an effect on her? When she at last reached the cottage, her face was once again wet, but not this time from the rain.
* * * *
She left Nantucket the following day and went back to her own house to do laundry and repack for her three-week sojourn in New Hampshire. She arrived home on Saturday night and was to leave again Monday morning. Sunday afternoon, taking a break from the ironing board, she called her parents.
Her father answered the phone.
“Hi, Daddy,” she said cheerfully. “It’s me. How are you doing?”
“We’re just fine, honey,” he answered. “How are you?” There was a cautious note to his inquiry that puzzled her.
“Great,” she replied. “The weather on Nantucket was super and Mike and Kathy and the kids were just what I needed. So sane, if you know what I mean.”
He chuckled. “I don’t know if I’d call my grandchildren sane, precisely, but I know what you mean.”
“I feel like a bird on the wing. I had wanted to get down to see you and Mother but I leave for Yarborough bright and early tomorrow morning. I won’t see you until August, I guess.”
“You’re still going to Yarborough?”
“Of course I’m still going to Yarborough. Daddy, what’s wrong? You sound funny. Is mother all right?”
“Your mother’s fine,” he assured her. “She’ll be sorry she missed your call. She’s out playing tennis with Sue Bayley. The town tournament starts next week and they’ve entered the doubles competition.”
“Oh. Well, wish her luck for me and give her my love. I’ll send you a postcard from Yarborough.”
“Yes, you do that.” Her father’s voice came strongly now over the wire. “Have a good time, honey. And—give the place a chance, will you? Remember, things aren’t always what they seem to be.”
“You sound like Hamlet,” she replied in a puzzled voice. “Are you sure everything’s okay at home, Daddy?”
“Positive.”
“All right, then, Daddy, I’ll say good-bye for now.”
“Good-bye, Mary Kate. Call us if you need us.”
“I will. Good-bye.” She hung up the phone and stood staring at it doubtfully for a full minute. What on earth had gotten into her father?
Yarborough College was set on a crystal-clear lake in the foothills of the White Mountains. It had been founded eighty years ago as a small men’s liberal-arts college and had managed to survive with much of its original character intact. It offered its students—who now included women—an excellent academic program coupled with one of the best ski schools in the country. In the summer it ran its now-famous drama school and festival. Of the last five productions to come out of the festival, three had gone on to Broadway.
Mary had never been to Yarborough herself but she had seen pictures of the campus and she was looking forward to the idyllic peace and serenity promised by such a lovely setting. Her own schedule called for her to deliver one hour-and-a-half lecture a day. Her students, who were all also involved in the production of the play that opened at the beginning of August, would receive six graduate credits for the summer school. The stipend she was to receive for giving the lectures was nominal, but room and board was included, and her lectures covered material she knew thoroughly and so had not taken a tremendous amount of work for her to put together. All in all, she was looking forward to relaxing in the beautiful New Hampshire summer.
As she turned in to the gates of the campus she was surprised to see a crowd of people standing on the drive. She braked the car and someone shouted, “It’s her!” Cameras started to flash and questions were shouted. Very frightened, Mary gripped the wheel of the car and a man in a guard uniform opened her door and said, “Move over,
Dr. O’Connor, I’ll drive you in.”
Obediently she slid over and in a minute the man had the car moving briskly forward. The reporters all jumped aside, and as the car moved up the drive another guard firmly slammed the huge iron gate shut.
“My God,” said Mary faintly. “What was that all about?”
The guard smiled briefly. “You’re Mrs. Christopher Douglas, aren’t you?”
“Are they
still
harping on that?” she said incredulously.
“They’ve been here for almost a week now, I’m afraid. Nasty lot.” The car came to a halt in front of a venerable old brick building and a slim, wiry man came running down the steps. “Here’s Mr. Clark,” said her escort.
“Dr. O’Connor?” The director of the festival opened the door of the Buick and Mary got out and offered her hand.
“Yes. Hello, Mr. Clark. What a fuss at the gate!”
“Isn’t it terrible?” he replied, looking not at all distressed. “I’ve put you in one of the summer cottages we had built a few years ago especially for the festival. I’ll drive with you over there and we can unload your luggage. Then, if you like, I’ll give you a quick tour of the campus.”
“That sounds great,” Mary agreed. The guard got out of the car and she and George Clark got in.
“Turn left at the bottom of the drive here,” he said and she accelerated slowly.
The cottage she had been allotted was charming: small and rustic, with a bedroom, a sitting room, and a screened-in porch. “Meals are served in the dining room,” Mr. Clark told her. “I’m afraid we all eat together: professionals and students alike. It’s supposed to be part of the charm of the program.”
She smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure it is, Mr. Clark.”
“George, please,” he answered. “We’re very informal here in the summer.”
“Then you must call me Mary.” She looked around her. The row of cottages was set in the side of hill and surrounded by huge pines. The sparkle of the lake was just visible through the trees. “It’s like a summer resort,” she said, half humorously.
“I hope you are going to enjoy yourself,” he replied with a warm smile. “We didn’t ask you here just to work.”
They walked around the campus and Mary found herself liking George Clark very much. He was not precisely good-looking but his narrow face and quick, nervous hands, were oddly attractive. They talked about her lectures and she told him a little of what she had planned. He was pleased and encouraging and told her something about the students she would be working with.
“How is the play shaping up?” she asked curiously. “You’ve been rehearsing for a week now, haven’t you?”
“Yes. And the most damnable thing has just happened. We’ve lost our Gertrude.”
“Oh no,” she said with sympathetic concern. Gertrude was Hamlet’s mother in the play and it was a central role. “You had Maud Armitage, didn’t you? What happened?”
“She broke her ankle on the tennis court.”
“Good heavens.”
“That is putting it mildly. I have a New York agent scouring the earth for a replacement—hopefully an actress who has done the part before. Time is getting short. It’s only three weeks until we open. That’s the one great drawback of this summer school—there just isn’t enough time.”
“Well, it’s Hamlet who is really important,” she said soothingly. “How is Adrian Saunders managing?” They were walking up the path leading to the building that housed the English and drama departments, and at these words of hers he stopped dead. “Is something the matter?” she asked.
“Is it possible you don’t know . . .?” He was staring at her in stunned surprise.
“Know what?” Her voice was sharp with alarm.
“Adrian Saunders backed out at the last minute,” he said slowly. “He got a movie offer and of course he wanted to take it. So we got someone else to play Hamlet.”
She felt a warning prickle of apprehension. “Who?” she asked tensely and was not surprised when the answer came.
“Christopher Douglas.”
Her first impulse was to run. She went back to her cottage and set for a long time on the front porch, her hands clasped into tense fists, staring out at the pines. Two things finally got her on her feet and into the bedroom to unpack. One was the knowledge that if she backed out now, George Clark would be left without a teacher for his course. The other was her father’s advice about giving Yarborough a chance. Obviously he had known Kit was going to be here. And he had not told her, had let her come in ignorance of what she would find. Her father, she remembered, had always liked Kit.
So she unpacked, showered and changed into a blue shirt-dress, and made her way slowly over to the dining hall. Sherry, George had told her, was served before dinner in the recreation room of the dining hall. She opened the door of the spacious, high-ceilinged room, stepped over the threshold and saw him immediately. He was surrounded by a pack of girls and seemed to be listening patiently to what one of them was saying. It was such a familiar pose to her: the turn of his head as it bent a little toward the favored person, the clear-cut profile.... He looked up and saw her. He dropped his fan club instantly and came across the room, moving like a panther with long, graceful, silent strides.
He stopped in front of her and she said, “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Yes,” he replied. “So George told me.” His eyes on her face were as black as coal. “Would you have come if you’d known?”
“No.” She stared at him and her lovely full mouth tightened with temper.
“Why,
Kit? You knew I was lecturing here. There was a crowd of reporters at the gate when I came in. It’s going to be horrible.”
“I thought it was time I tried something more serious,” he replied. “And I wanted to get back to the stage. When my agent called and told me the Yarborough Festival needed a Hamlet quickly, I took it. I knew you’d be here, of course, but as the truth of our relationship has already leaked, I didn’t see what harm could be done by my coming too.”
She glared at him, her back rigid. “There’s no harm to you, of course, you’re probably used to people shouting at you and snapping your picture every time you go around the corner.
I, thank God, am not accustomed to being perpetually hounded in such a fashion. And I don’t
want
to get accustomed to it. I am absolutely furious with you for doing this to me.”
Her eyes shot blue fire at him. Infuriatingly, he grinned. “Now, now, don’t get your Irish up, Princess.” A man appeared at her elbow and he said, “I don’t think you know Mel Horner, my agent. This is Dr. O’Connor, Mel, of whom you have heard much.”
Princess. He used to call her Princess when . . . “How do you do, Mr. Horner,” she got out and offered her hand. Somewhere a bell rang and they were all moving into dinner. She found herself between George Clark and Frank Moore, a nice boy from Kit’s old drama school who was to play Laertes. Kit was sitting opposite her, flanked by the pretty student who was to play Ophelia and a young art student who was working on the set. She was also very pretty.
Everyone but Mary had been in residence for a week and they all seemed to be quite comfortable with each other. The girls were obviously overwhelmed by Kit and hung on his every word with breathless attention. Mary sat quietly and let the conversation flow around her.
“What did you think of the costume sketches, Chris?” George asked.
“I liked them.” Kit took a sip out of his glass. He was drinking milk. “I think not quite so much velvet, though? We may be in New England but it is summer after all.”
“True,” George agreed. “And the lights can get pretty hot.”
A little silence fell as Kit attacked his pot roast.
He
had always been a good trencherman, Mary remembered. He ate little breakfast and lunch, but he liked his dinner.