No. That sort of thing happened only in maudlin plays. Not even the good ones. Willie was of that older generation of men who loathed to reveal a weakness; he’d have to be on his deathbed before he uttered the words forgive me, so my expectations on that score were low.
But even with well-managed expectations, I was still caught unawares when I pushed open the door to find my supine husband with a young lady, her hands stroking his cheeks.
I froze. The young lady had Gibson girl hair and an hourglass figure perfectly suited to her ridiculously impractical hobble skirt, which forced her to take dainty, mincing steps of retreat. Meanwhile, Willie wore a bashful flush of scarlet upon his neck, obviously trying not to glance at the open doorway, where the young lady lingered far too long before finding the grace to flee.
It might be serious, then, I thought.
A harlot would’ve made herself instantly scarce. Harlots, like actresses, plied a trade. I might’ve understood a harlot. I might’ve forgiven a harlot. A mistress was an altogether different sort. Torn between wanting to stab my husband with my lace parasol and bursting into tears, I did neither. I was, after all, not a na?f. I knew how the world worked. Women of society did not cause scenes over infidelity. That would be considered quite lowborn. And because my husband was quite highborn, he could make my life a misery if he wished to.
I knew the rules of the game. In high society, a husband could keep a mistress while the wife kept his name. And his money too. I should be glad of that, even if it wounded me to think that after being pursued by so many men, I should now be rejected by the only man I ever really wanted. What I did next—what I said next—might ruin everything if I wasn’t careful, so I couldn’t allow a crack to show. Fortunately, I was still an excellent actress. “How did it happen, darling? I’d like to know how bad it really is.”
Willie didn’t seem to know if I was asking about the young lady or his elevated leg. Deciding he’d rather talk about the latter, he thumped his thigh just above his knee with the kind of bravado for which he’d earned his fame. “Which story would you like better, Beatrice? An old injury from the Spanish-American War? Maybe a bear trap. Perhaps a mysterious flare-up of a disease I picked up years ago exploring Zanzibar?”
“The unadorned truth will suit me.”
“Since when?” Given the twinkle in his dark eyes, I didn’t know if he was flirting, trying to bait me into a quarrel, or both. That sort of game used to make for an intoxicating cocktail when we were younger and our tempers sizzled with passion. In the early days of our courtship, we amused each other with the seemingly infinite variety of shapes we could take on at a whim—actress, sculptress, patriot, writer, adventurer, soldier, politician. Oh, the outrageous tales we spun! Both a little reckless and wild, we used to quote from Much Ado About Nothing.
Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me . . .
But of course children alter everything. And now, after ten years of marriage, he was using our old game to put a barrier between us.
You left me to gad off on adventures, I wanted to say. You left me alone with two small children and a flotilla of judgmental in-laws, and now you might’ve taken a mistress. Surely I have some right to know what the devil you’ve done to your leg . . .
I advanced on him, ready to open fire, but then I noticed how shockingly thin he’d become. He had the pasty pallor of morphine—eyes bloodshot with pain—and I began to fear. “Tell me how dangerous this surgery is.”
He shrugged. “They hoped to mend the shattered bone, but the doctor today discovered a blood clot, and if they don’t take it out, it’ll stop my heart.”
I sank down onto the chair at his bedside, nearly upending the candlestick telephone there. I was still angry, but this man was the father of my sons. That trumped my jealousy of the Gibson girl, who had hopefully minced off to put the final nail in the coffin of someone else’s marriage. “You should’ve told me how serious your injury was. Thank goodness I took the first steamer.”
“There was no point worrying you. You shouldn’t have made the trip.”
Oh, that stung. “I know you like your independence, Willie, but doesn’t a man need his family when he’s in poor health? The boys would like to see you.”
We exchanged several minutes of conversation about the children, during which he showed a more genuine interest than expected. I sometimes had to remind myself that Willie and his siblings had been orphaned young and left to raise themselves at the family estate, rather like a pack of very rich and spoiled wolf pups. He hadn’t any example of parenthood after which to model his fathering. And now he said, “You shouldn’t have taken them out of school.”