Had I been blind? Perhaps even willfully so? And if so, for how long? For years he’d declined to accompany me when I’d take my brief trips away to Saratoga or Newport for spa weekends, but he rarely gave me much detail when I returned and asked him about his time. Then he’d started slipping away for fishing excursions with more frequency, trips with the gentlemen only, long weekends to Montreal or Atlantic City, never inviting me. And of course, when we were at sea, there’d been many a night when I’d returned to the yacht for bedtime with Deenie but my husband had chosen to stay ashore. “One more drink,” he’d say, all innocent smiles as he leaned on a beachside bar, only to return many hours—or sometimes even days—later.
I’d noticed the way Mrs. Tytler blanched when he entered a room, averting her eyes and finding some excuse to quickly leave. Many of the maids did the same, especially Renée. Was it so bad that even my servants pitied me and reviled my husband? Even my maid knew what I had yet to admit to myself?
But because I had never been confronted with anything amounting to cold and hard evidence, I’d stanched that nagging and perfidious voice of suspicion, stuffing it deep within my belly, willing my mind to scrub it out of my thoughts. When the doubts had refused to relent, I’d leaned on my faith, begging God that my husband might prove me wrong. Or, at the very least, that he’d change. And then I’d waited; I’d given him chance after chance in the hopes that these were just passing moments of weakness—perhaps even elicited, in part, by my combative behavior—rather than part of a perennial pattern. I’d redoubled my efforts to be the loving and lovable wife, hoping that if we could only turn the corner in our marriage, Ned would no longer see a reason to stray from it.
The fact of the matter was that I just loved Ned Hutton. I loved the man desperately. I longed with every beat of my heart to keep our marriage intact because I simply did not want to imagine life without Ned Hutton as my husband. I longed to keep him with me and Deenie, the daughter to whom he was such a loving father. Those desperate, indelible desires had allowed me to delude myself for months, and then years. The only alternative would have been to leave him—and that, I was unwilling to do.
* * *
—
So I didn’t leave.
And I didn’t confront him.
Until, finally, it became so brazen that I began to wonder if perhaps Ned wanted me to see it.
* * *
It was a mild, overcast day in early spring. We were at Hillwood for the weekend, and I thought it would be nice to take a walk with Ned down to the beach. Deenie was out for a riding lesson, so I went alone to my husband’s bedroom. There, to my surprise, I found the door to his suite locked. I knocked gently. No answer from within. I pressed my ear to the heavy oak door but could not hear anything other than the clamor of my own heartbeat. I turned to leave, angry with myself for the silly jealousy that had pricked upon my discovery of the locked door. Such foolishness, I thought. What good would such suspicions serve anyone?
But then, just as I was turning to walk away from my husband’s bedroom, I heard it. A laugh, Ned’s. And then another noise—faint rustling—followed by soft steps on the wooden floor. Someone rising from the bed. And then laughter again—not Ned’s. The low but unmistakable sound of a lady’s laughter.
The world went blank before me, and I thought I might faint. Wobbly, leaning against the wall of the corridor, I made my way back to my room. Once there, I knew that only some frantic and busy activity might keep me upright, so I threw open the lid of one of my traveling trunks. Without any awareness of what I was doing, I began to toss my personal items into it—gloves, stockings, shirtwaists, undergarments.
I rang the bell for Renée. I would leave. I’d go back to New York City. I’d take Deenie and we would leave without telling him. I’d have the locks on the door changed, and I’d keep him out. I needed to get out of there, fast.
I rang again for Renée, this time more insistently. I was too addled, too dizzy with rage and anguish to pack, and I needed her help. But she didn’t come. I rang a third time, pressing down on the bell’s button angrily. But still no sign of Renée. For three quarters of an hour, she did not come. Finally, as my trunks were bursting with rumpled and unmatched clothing items, she appeared at the door to my suite.
I turned to face her, seeing the surprise on her features as she noticed my trunk. “Where were you?” I snapped, venting the anger I felt toward my husband on my poor, unsuspecting lady’s maid.