The Age Of Desire: A Novel Part 34

And then Anna sees that Teddy is sinking again. His mouth is drooping beneath his mustache. His eyes take on that dead look once more. He chooses a favorite chair by the fire in the Crillon suite, and even Nannie can't budge him out of it. But Anna no longer wishes to be his guardian, though now he has begun to call for her again.

"Come sit with me, my friend," he says to her one afternoon. "You are the only one who understands me.

"I'm sorry," Anna says. "Edith and I have an appointment with the drapier at the apartment."

"I do think you're avoiding me," he says wearily, asking her no more questions.

When Edith invites Teddy and Nannie to see the changes they are making in the apartment-to-be, they say they will visit on Wednesday. But they demur at the last moment.

"We can't count on either of them," Edith whispers to Anna. "Thank heavens we can count on each other."

Teddy and Nannie finally plan a trip to the Pyrenees together, with Cook at the wheel. As Edith and Anna watch the car disappear around the Place de la Concorde, Edith doesn't even attempt to hide her satisfaction.

"We could just stay in Paris and work away this time without the Whartons pulling us down . . . but I've been thinking . . . come with me to Germany, Anna. Let's have ourselves a whirl. You can show me all the things you know. I'll be your student again. We'll take the train."

Anna is dizzy with the thought of a trip for just the two of them.

"Just you and I?" she asks. "Now?"

"And why not? Don't we deserve it?" Together, they map it all out: Munich and Wurzburg, Bruchsal and Karlsruhe. And the trip itself is better than Anna imagines. Armed with guidebooks and Goethe poetry, they track their favorite poet, reading quotes, touching old walls, breathing in the scent of a time long gone, staying at exquisite hotels, sharing a suite like sisters.

And except for thoughts of Thomas (should she call him, go see him?), Anna doesn't think she's ever been happier. Finding herself back in Edith's good graces is a gift. A prize. It soothes the brittle edges of her disappointment over Teddy. They travel as equals. There is so much to share. So much to laugh about. And despite their exquisite accommodations, they aren't too self-important to drink beer in beer halls.

"Imagine my British friends seeing me here!" Edith laughs as a loud band with a tuba plays music that makes even Anna long to get up and dance.

What a fine time Edith is having, steeping herself in German romanticism. Taking in the intricate beauty of towers and gables and frescoed walls. And all without having to worry about Teddy and Nannie, who annoy her so. Anna is enjoying the trip as well. Edith can see the joy in her eyes. And it is good to share it with her.

But Anna is a mostly silent partner. Nodding in agreement. Happy when Edith is happy. Edith can't help but long for Morton by her side, in her bed.

Unable to suppress her constant longing for him, she starts a postcard for him from Augsburg and ends up with a full letter. She has never been able to hide her feelings from him. She has never learned to dissemble.

How I've wanted you today in this absurdly picturesque place, which we have seen under a balmy blue sky, and the brightest suns.h.i.+ne. At every turn, I thought how we should feel it together, or how, for us, the sensation would be deepened and illuminated by your share in it-as a reflection is often infinitely more beautiful than the object it reflects.

She describes the beauty of their trip, the thrill, the charm of everything they've seen. When she posts it, she allows Anna's eyes to gaze at the address. Why not be open with Anna? She knows.

"I miss him terribly," she tells her.

"I wish he could be here with you instead of me," Anna says. "I know it would be more for you with him."

Edith squeezes her arm. She doesn't want to lie. And how generous Anna can be.

"It's been splendid with you," she says, at ease with the truth.

One evening, in an elegant restaurant in Munich, Edith glances up and says, "I've been meaning to ask you forever, Tonni . . . with whom did you travel in Greece?"

"Oh . . ."

"I've often wondered. A yacht. So suddenly leaving Italy like that. I can't believe I've never asked."

Anna can't help but smile when she thinks of the Parthenon s.h.i.+mmering in the heat, the parched fields of the Peloponnese.

"With a man named Thomas Schultze."

"A man!" Edith shakes her head with wonder. "What sort of man? You just took off with a man, Tonni? You do astonish me!"

"We were s.h.i.+pmates coming over from New York. He's a very wealthy steel magnate, it seems."

"Really! And he asked you to travel with him?"

"You needn't be shocked. There were others on board."

"Did he have . . . feelings for you?"

Anna pauses for a long time before she answers, looking into Edith's green eyes, wondering what they're antic.i.p.ating. And then she simply nods.

"He asked me to marry him."

"What!" Edith can't help but let her mouth fall open. "I'm stunned! And did you not like Mr. Schultze?"

"I liked him very much."

"But you did not love him."

"I might have loved him . . ."

Anna can't press back the wave of feeling that comes over her when she reflects on Thomas and their days together. Hamburg. Venice. Athens.

Edith is taking the news rather comically, pressing her hand over her mouth as though suppressing her amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Well, I'm not one to pry, but do tell, Tonni. Why on earth did you turn him down?"

"I told myself it was because he had a grown child who needed special care . . . and I feared he was only wooing me because he thought I was the one who might give it to her. I didn't want to marry to be an unpaid governess. . . ."

"But that wasn't the reason?"

"The reason, I guess . . . is so that I wouldn't miss . . . this," she gestures to the restaurant, to Germany, to the trip that has pleased her so. "So I wouldn't miss you, Edith. The fact is: I like our life."

Edith's eyes cloud over as though she's read a complex pa.s.sage she doesn't quite comprehend. She doesn't say anything for a long time.

"Our life? Really?" she says. Anna is uneasy. Edith probably never thinks in terms of "our life." Edith's life is hers. And Anna, most of the time, is just a facilitator. Someone to help Edith's days grind along more smoothly. But Anna's words are released, pigeons sent to take wing where they may. She can't beckon them back.

"You turned him down because of me?" Edith whispers. "Dear Tonni." And suddenly Anna knows that Edith hasn't rejected the thought that they have an interlocked life. She's touched. "Do you know, my own mother wouldn't have turned down any gratification for my sake. I don't think she ever did." Edith's eyes are s.h.i.+mmering with tears.

"Maybe that's why, dear friend," Anna says, resting her eyes on Edith's oh-so-familiar face. "Maybe that's why I do it with pleasure."

The very night they return from Germany, Teddy, weepy, miserable, drunk, confesses to Edith that he has done something terrible. That she will never be able to forgive him. And that he's contemplating suicide.

"Can it be so dreadful?" she asks him drily. After such a lovely, floating trip, she is dismayed to have to entertain this tiresome man. She sits down wearily in the velvet bergere, crosses her arms and waits for him to enlighten her.

He nods, doesn't meet her eye.

She is annoyed. Will he make her drag it out of him?

"Just tell me, Teddy," she says. "What odious thing have you done?"

"I've pinched some of the money from your trust fund." He says it so softly, she wonders if she heard him right.

"Pinched it? Pinched my money? What do you mean?"

"I bought an apartment house in Boston."

"Without even discussing it?" Edith asks. "What on earth for? An investment? Do you wish to live in Boston?" She tingles at the thought. Maybe Teddy will go back to Boston, and she'll be free in Paris to do as she pleases!

"I've made some bad choices, Puss."

"Such as . . . ?"

"Such as taking up with someone you might not approve of. . . ."

"I . . . I don't understand."

"Her name . . . her name is Maisie."

Edith doesn't say anything for a long while, and when she does speak, it comes out crackling, her voice as deep as Teddy's, and far more thoughtful. "I see . . . ," she says.

"She's a pretty thing. I set her up in an apartment-in the house I bought. I wasn't myself this summer. . . ."

Edith tries not to gasp, or scream, both of which she would like to do. Does everyone in New York know what she doesn't know? Information flies so easily from Boston to New York. Does Nannie know? Edith shudders.

"And do you wish to marry this . . . Maisie?" Edith asks, trying to sound equanimous. But she is rocked. She always knew that Teddy must take his pleasures elsewhere, but she's rested for years and years on the notion that he is wise enough not to make a spectacle of himself. No one has ever found Teddy Wharton interesting enough to gossip about.

"No. I'm married to you! I'm in love with you. I was angry, I guess," he says.

"Angry at me?"

"You were always making me feel not up to your standards. And last year . . . when you took up with your . . . your friend," he says the word so distastefully, it raises the hair on Edith's arms, "Maisie made me feel . . . appreciated."

Edith tells herself to breathe, to wait, to sound solid even if she doesn't feel it.

"I'm sure she appreciated you if you bought her an apartment house."

"She makes her own money. She wasn't asking me to do it. She's a dancer in a show. She's practically famous. . . ."

"A famous dancer?"

"Well, not ballet or anything. The follies. I filled the rest of the house with her friends from the show. . . . Made a little money back." He looks momentarily proud, and then his shoulders inch up around his ears. "At least I did that. . . ."

Edith starts to laugh, can't help herself. Her throat opens and laughter coughs up like bile, no matter how she tries to suppress it.

"Couldn't you have been more original?" she says. Her voice is so icy it sends a claw up her own spine. "A chorus girl. Teddy . . . And did you parade little Miss Maisie all over Boston?"

"I wasn't myself, Puss. I didn't know what I was doing."

Edith puts her face in her hands for a moment, sick with the news.

"And how are you going to clean up this mess?"

"There's more," he says, his voice sepulchral. Edith thinks that there never were two more horrifying words.

"Yes?"

"I pinched . . . actually . . . I borrowed more of your money. . . . I invested . . . not as wisely as I thought. I was maybe a little too confident. I was, I guess, too confident about many things last summer."

Edith's mouth is now so dry she can't speak. She gets up and pours herself a gla.s.s of Teddy's brandy. She's never liked brandy. Can hardly stomach it. But if she ever needed it, she needs it now.

"How much money did you lose, Teddy?"

Teddy licks his lips before he speaks. Like a snake. He is a snake!

"On or about . . ."

"On or about?"

"Fifty thousand dollars . . ."

"Fifty thousand dollars!" Edith gulps the russet-colored fire, which burns all the way from her throat to her stomach.

"I wasn't myself, Puss. You know I wasn't. . . ." Teddy's voice is so small, he might be six years old.

"Please leave my room," she says.

"Maybe I should kill myself. I'm not fit to be married to you. I know it. I do know it."

"Please leave my room," she repeats.

"I . . . you can't know . . . I can't help it. I get these flights of fancy, these times when I think everything is going along swimmingly and then . . ." Tears are running down his red face and dripping off his mustache like rain off a roof.

"If you don't leave, I'll . . ." but Edith can't think of a thing with which to threaten him. What a fool she was to let him handle her money, even after she knew he wasn't acting himself! Kinnicut tried to warn her. Anna too. She knew if she took the responsibility for her money away from him, he'd be furious. And so she let him go on. Still, she should have cut him off months ago. It's her own fault. And that's the thing that aches inside her: she hasn't been paying attention. Hasn't wanted to believe that she was married to a madman. But could anyone but a madman have compiled such a list of outrageous actions at her expense?

This is her punishment for having loved Morton, she tells herself. For trying to live a fulfilled life at last.

Teddy lingers by the door, twisting anxiously like a homely debutante praying to be asked to dance. "Get out!" she yells at him. In all these years, she can't remember raising her voice to Teddy. "Get out!"

Without shutting the door, he skulks down the hotel hall. She slams it, then squeezes her eyes so tightly she sees pinp.r.i.c.ks of violet light. When she opens them, she drinks down every last drop of the terrible burning brandy like poison. What she's feeling is a noxious mix of grief, bewilderment and, worst of all, a sense that it was all inevitable. That she has finally-and oh so neatly-met her just rewards.

"Did you know?" Edith asks Anna. "Did you know he was keeping a woman in Boston?" Anna feels the color drain from her face. She has feared this moment ever since arriving from America. I was lucky to have that time in Germany, these months without Edith knowing, she tells herself. She stands glued to the spot, staring at the floor, speechless.

"Don't worry. I don't blame you, Tonni. Sit down. Tell me: what did you know?"