The Echo of Old Books(29)

“Love poems?”

I toss my head with a little laugh, dimly aware that the gesture might be mistaken for a flirtation. “What did I know about love? I was a child. No. I wrote nonsense. Rubbish about a caged bird who dreamed of leaving her bars behind, of soaring high above the city and flying far, far away. And there was one about being lost in one of those hedge mazes. The hedges kept growing taller and taller and I couldn’t find my way out.”

“Sounds deep.”

“It was tosh, as they say on your side of the pond. But I was a fanatic about poetry back then. I read everything I could get my hands on, some of it unacceptable for a girl my age. I was convinced I was going to be Elizabeth Barrett Browning when I grew up.”

You study me strangely, as if searching for something. “When were you going to tell me this?”

The question feels odd, the kind of thing you ask someone you’ve known for years. “Tell you how? When? We’ve only just met.”

Your mouth curls in a way that’s vaguely sensual. “I keep forgetting.”

I don’t know how you’ve managed it, but you seem to be sitting closer now, as if the world has suddenly shrunk to just this doorway, to just you and me and our words, mingling with the falling rain. And yet, when I blink, I see that your stool is exactly where you first placed it. I drop my eyes, stare at my boots.

“The night we met,” you say, then add, “at the St. Regis”—as if I need reminding—“we talked about books, about Hemingway and Dickens and the Bront?s, and you never once let on that you wrote.”

“Because I don’t.” My tone is too emphatic, too defensive. I soften it. “It was just one of those childish fantasies you grow out of. You know how it is. You’re suddenly passionate about something, so passionate that for a while it consumes you; then something happens and it’s over.”

“What happened?”

I squirm a little, uncomfortable with the memory. But you’re watching me so carefully, so completely. “Mrs. Cavanaugh,” I answer finally. “She confiscated one of my notebooks and showed it to my father. It was . . . I was in my Sappho phase at the time. The blushing apple, ungotten, ungathered. I had no idea what any of it meant, and I didn’t care. It was about the words, the rhythm of them, the ache they conveyed. I longed to re-create them somehow, in my own words, so I began experimenting, trying to emulate that beautiful lyricism. My father was appalled by what I’d written. Smut, he called it. He made me hand over all my notebooks, then made me watch as he ripped out the pages and tore them to shreds. I was forbidden to even read poetry. For a while, I kept a journal under my bed and continued to scribble, but my sister found it and squealed. That was the end of my poetry career.”

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen. Fifteen, maybe.”

“And you haven’t written since?”

“No.”

“But you could. Now, I mean.”

I shrug, shift my eyes from yours. “There’s no point.”

“Beyond having something to say, you mean?”

“But I don’t.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I’m not like you,” I say flatly, because you might as well know it now, before this strange unraveling of my inner self goes too far. “I have no depth. No . . . substance, I guess you’d call it. Unless you count a trust fund as substance. I’m not the sort to sail around the world and chase dreams or thumb my nose at convention like your friend Goldie. I thought I was once, but I was quickly disabused of the notion. I’m exactly what you thought me when you asked me about the horses—the spoiled daughter of a very rich man who’s used to getting everything she wants.”

“And the price of everything is obedience?”

I hold your gaze, braving those eyes that seem to see through me. “Don’t feel sorry for me.”

“I don’t. We all make our choices. Business. Politics. Marriage to someone we’ll never be happy with. It’s called compromise.”

“Is that what you’re doing with Goldie?” I say, wanting desperately to turn the tables. “Compromising?”

You sigh. “Goldie again. All right. What do you want to know?”

“Are the two of you . . .”

“Lovers?” you supply. “No need to be shy. I’m happy to share all the juicy details, only brace yourself. It’s rather lurid.”

I sit very still, determined not to let you shock me.

“The truth is, my relationship with Goldie is . . .” You pause, scrubbing a hand across your chin. “How do I put this delicately? Financial in nature.”

My eyes widen despite myself. “You’re taking money from her? For . . . No.” I hold up a hand. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

“My, my, my. You do have a naughty mind, don’t you?”

“Me? You’re the one—”

You grin, as if I’ve said something terribly funny. “She’s adding a magazine to her list of publications and she’s offered me a spot as a writer. Slice-of-life stuff. The odd social piece. Not exactly Hemingway but it’ll pay the bills until something better comes along. And I’ll get to rub elbows with American toffs like you. Who knows, I might even get a paid trip or two out of it.”