The Rich Are Different (31 page)

‘Are you?’ I kept my voice calm and pleasant. ‘Well, if you’re really sorry, you’ll stop by with Grace on Christmas Eve for a cup of eggnog.’

He swallowed awkwardly. ‘Well, I … All right. What time?’

‘Six-thirty. And please be civil to Paul. I shan’t expect you to stay more than ten minutes so you can say you’re on your way to another Christmas Eve party.’

‘May I ask whom I’m doing this for? I can’t believe Paul truly cares whether we’re estranged.’

‘You’re doing it for me. It’s the price I’m asking you to pay for repeating all those wicked rumours the Da Costa brothers have been inventing ever since Jay died. And you’re doing it for Paul. He does care, Bruce – and I can say that because I know him better than you do. And you’re doing it for your mother because I happen to know she’s upset that you and Paul are estranged. And lastly you’re doing it for yourself because I don’t think you’ll ever be at peace with yourself until you’re at peace with Paul.’

‘Are you trying to tell me I’m neurotic?’

‘I don’t
understand all those fashionable modern words. I think you’re unhappy about Paul and I’d like to give you both the chance to sort things out. That’s all.’

‘It’ll never happen, Sylvia.’

‘Six-thirty on Christmas Eve, Bruce. Don’t forget,’ I said, and left him abruptly on the steps of the hotel.

[3]

Paul was out that evening, but although I meant to write some letters I did nothing. I went to bed early and when midnight struck I was still thinking about Bruce. Two of his many disturbing disclosures ran persistently through my mind. The first was that the Da Costa brothers had been responsible for bringing Paul back from Europe in 1922, and the second was that Elizabeth, calm, dignified, self-controlled Elizabeth, had cried all night when she had heard of my engagement to Paul. It was hard to know which disclosure troubled me most but the two together were certainly enough to ensure insomnia.

I lay awake till dawn.

I had never taken the Da Costa brothers’ hysterical accusations seriously, but Bruce’s claim that Paul had come home because they had made trouble for him had the unpleasant ring of truth. It would have taken a crisis of that dimension to drag Paul back from Europe, I could see that now, but if I believed Bruce’s story I would also have to believe Paul had something to hide.

It took me some time to devise an explanation which still allowed me to believe in Paul’s innocence, but I managed it in the end. Guilty or innocent, Paul would have had to suppress any whiff of scandal because the bank could never have afforded a resurrection of the Salzedo affair. Any preposterous lie could thus make life awkward for Paul, and the Da Costa brothers, bent on trouble as usual, would have had no scruple in exploiting the situation for their own ends. A ranch in Mexico would certainly have been worth a lie or two to them.

In the end, I thought to myself at two in the morning, and in the absence of proof, one was thrown back on the personalities of the people involved. The Da Costa brothers were notoriously unreliable with bad reputations. It was far easier for me to believe they had dabbled in lies and extortion than to believe Paul had arranged the Salzedo affair to ruin their father.

I discounted Bruce’s nonsense that Paul had always hated Jay because I could see no reason why such bitter hatred should have existed. They had seen little of each other in the early years and if there had been some dramatic clash – over a woman, perhaps – someone would surely have been only too willing to tell me about it. I conceded they might have disliked each other when young and that on Paul’s side the dislike had been tempered with jealousy since Jay had won success so early in life, but I did not
see why this early antipathy should preclude a later friendship. People change, and besides Paul himself had often said that he and Jay were uniquely well-suited as business partners.

On the other hand, I thought as a faraway clock struck three, there was no doubt that when Jay died Paul’s feelings were tortuous in the extreme. I began to wonder if anyone would ever unravel the full story of Paul’s relationship with Jason Da Costa, and then just as I was debating with myself how much Elizabeth could possibly know, I remembered O’Reilly.

O’Reilly was the only person still alive who knew beyond a shadow of doubt whether Paul had arranged the Salzedo scandal, because the scandal could not have been arranged without O’Reilly’s connivance. I thought of him for a long time, but could see no possible way of asking him for the truth without creating a flammable situation. O’Reilly and I had ostensibly returned to our formal relationship, but I had the uneasy feeling that once he was certain I would not report him to Paul he would think nothing of making a heavier advance.

Brushing the worrying thought of O’Reilly aside I was at once confronted with Elizabeth again. How she must have resented me at first! I felt shattered when I remembered how courteous she had always been to me, and when I wondered how long it had taken her to come to terms with Paul’s decision my thoughts inevitably turned to the beginning of our friendship – when she had stopped sleeping with Paul.

Bruce had not solved this mystery, only made it more unfathomable. What could possibly have happened when Elizabeth had broken the news of Vicky’s death? Even if I had believed Bruce’s theory that Paul had immediately revealed a long-standing hatred of Jay, I could not for the life of me see why this should result in the instant termination of a twenty-five-year-old love affair. It seemed more plausible that Paul had made some very emotional scene which had afterwards embarrassed him so much that he could never see Elizabeth without being reminded of it. Yet that didn’t sound like Paul either. I myself had seen him prostrate with grief after Vicky’s death but he had shown no sign whatever of being hysterical.

‘How well do you really know Paul, Sylvia?’ Bruce had asked me hours earlier, and as dawn broke over Central Park the next day I could only answer: well enough to know that I love him whatever he’s done. But I could no longer tell myself that his past could not affect our present, and as the days passed and the unsolved mysteries seemed to grow larger, I began intuitively to be afraid of a future when they might overwhelm us all.

[4]

I was surprised when Bruce duly appeared at our house on Christmas Eve. I had not told Paul I had invited the Claytons because I had doubted they would come, and when Bruce walked into the room I wondered if he could remain unmoved by the spontaneous expression of joy which swept across Paul’s face. They shook hands and then I kept Grace busy with the other
guests while Paul and Bruce talked in a corner. To my delight the Claytons stayed a full half hour and when Bruce said goodbye to me I told him how grateful I was that he had made the effort to keep his promise.

It was only when he said in a low voice: ‘I’d rather you didn’t ask me again,’ that I knew the entire episode had been a failure.

Paul never guessed. ‘Bruce said he’d come downtown and have lunch with me!’ he exclaimed pleased, and seemed to have no doubt that Bruce would keep his promise. It was not until we were in Florida two months later that I said to him casually: ‘Did you ever have that lunch with Bruce?’ and he answered without looking at me: ‘Not yet.’

After that we did not speak of Bruce for some time.

It was the spring of 1925. Paul was enviously watching Dillon, Read, another front-rank Yankee house, pull off a dazzling banking triumph. After purchasing the Dodge Brothers Automobile Company for one hundred and forty-six million dollars, they formed a banking syndicate – which Van Zale’s rushed to join – to pass out to the public the securities of the new Dodge Company. The two issues of bonds, preferred and common stock, were all oversubscribed and the profits of the banking syndicate soared into the millions.

‘It’s nice the stock market is so popular now,’ I said to Paul, privately glad that this Dodge coup had taken his mind off some adverse publicity he had suffered the previous year. The Internal Revenue Service had made their records public for the first time and revealed that he had legitimately paid only fifty thousand dollars in income tax, a disproportionately small portion of his earnings. However, I thought this disclosure proved Paul did not have the influence over the I.R.S. that Bruce had attributed to him, and the more I thought about it the more convinced I became that Bruce had exaggerated Paul’s power.

Our social life was as busy as ever and although I was always meaning to catch up with the latest Galsworthy novel I never seemed to have the time to open a book. We saw a dreadful play by Eugene O’Neill (I did try to keep up with Paul’s intellectual tastes but sometimes it really was impossible), attended a disappointing production of Shaw’s
Caesar and Cleopatra
and endured an interminable evening of
Siegfried
at the Met. We were also at Carnegie Hall when Igor Stravinsky made his American debut, but afterwards to my relief Paul declared he had no patience with modern music. I often wished we could go to a motion-picture theatre for some of the modern films were supposed to be so enjoyable, but Paul thought motion pictures were a debased art form and would have nothing to do with them. I always felt so left out when my friends would sigh over Rudolph Valentino or revile Pola Negri in
East of Suez
.

There were the usual weddings and christenings, with each glimpse of little bridesmaids or infants in long robes reminding me of the baby I wanted so much to have, but I had calmed down considerably since the episode of the Tiffany bill and knew it would be a mistake to rush into another pregnancy without sufficient forethought. When someone told me the illustrious West Coast doctor had proved to be a quack, I had despaired
of finding a doctor who would promise me a nine-month pregnancy, but then it occurred to me that since only a dishonest doctor would guarantee to perform miracles I would be wiser to remain in the care of my doctor who knew my medical history so well. The real problem, I now saw, was not finding a doctor but coping with Paul’s morbid fear of childbirth, a legacy bequeathed to him by his first wife and reinforced by Vicky’s tragic death.

Carefully I worked out a plan of action. It would be best for me to conceive in the very happiest circumstances so that the event would mean something special to him. Our summer vacation at Bar Harbor sprang at once to mind; the unpretentious surroundings of the cottage always drew us closer together, and directly after our vacation that year I knew he was planning a business trip to Chicago and the West. That meant that if I became pregnant and miscarried he would never know about it. I should have to disclose a visit to the hospital, but I could always say I had had to attend to some minor feminine complaint.

And if I kept the baby … I hardly dared consider such a miracle, but I was sure that once all danger to my health was past Paul could not help but be pleased with the news.

Meanwhile I had my charity work to fill the void the empty nursery created in my life, and in May, a year after Bruce’s wedding, I was just returning from a committee meeting to raise funds for the Orphan Asylum Society when O’Reilly cornered me in the hall.

‘Is my husband here as well?’ I said, surprised, for it was still early in the afternoon.

‘No, I just came uptown to retrieve some papers. Mrs Van Zale, before I go back to Willow Street, could I have a word with you for a moment, please?’

I thought he wanted to discuss a domestic matter. The recent supply of gin had been most unsatisfactory and Paul always liked to have the best liquor to offer his guests.

‘Is it about the bootlegger?’ I asked, still thinking of the children in their orphanage at Hastings-on-Hudson as I followed him into the library. ‘Did you find a new one?’

‘Not yet,’ said O’Reilly, closing the door purposefully behind me. ‘I’m still looking. Are you still interested in Dinah Slade?’

[1]

To hear the name Dinah Slade was unpleasant enough. To hear the name spoken by O’Reilly in an atmosphere chilling in its familiarity was a nightmare. But there was no escape. He was blocking the door.

‘He’s writing
to her,’ he said. ‘Personal letters, not just letters about her business, and she writes back. The way they’re going he’ll send for her before long and then once she’s in New York—’

‘Mr O’Reilly,’ I said in my calmest, firmest voice, ‘the subject of Miss Slade is not one I care to discuss with you either now or at any other time.’ I felt sick. My heart was thumping painfully and the strength seemed to be vanishing from my legs. Moving closer to the door – and to O’Reilly – I said levelly: ‘Excuse me, please. I wish to leave.’

‘Don’t you want to see the letters?’ he said, not moving an inch. ‘I could arrange—’

My self-control deserted me. In fury I lashed out at him but he caught my wrist before the blow reached his face and gave my arm such a tug that I tumbled against him. In shock I tried to speak but he forestalled me. His arms tightened around my waist, my breasts were pushed hard against him and his hot dry tense mouth closed on mine.

I jerked back my head to escape, but his tongue was already sliding past my lips. I went limp. It was not just because it was useless to fight anyone so intent on having what he wanted. It was because it was my only way of dissociating myself from such violence. I felt unspeakably humiliated, and in a second tears were scorching my cheeks. At once his kisses stopped but he did not release me, and when I could see through my tears to his hard set face I saw it naked for the first time, not closed to all emotion but wide open and passionately alive.

‘I love you,’ he said.

‘Oh, I …’ But speech was quite beyond me. I still made no attempt to struggle but for different reasons.

He started to kiss away my tears.

‘I’ve loved you for a long time … always really … but I knew I’d have to wait until you became disillusioned with him and he was so clever, never putting a foot wrong, but oh God, it’s been hard to endure, knowing how he treated you, seeing him with all the other women, I …’ He stopped as if it were too painful for him to say more. His fingers pushed themselves into my hair in hard quick distracted movements. At last he said: ‘I couldn’t give you a life in a Fifth Avenue mansion, but I have a lot of money saved and we certainly wouldn’t starve. And I could give you everything he could never give you – I’d never look at another woman, never …’