beloved Harry.
Of course, like me, he was the sort of person who would be shunned
by English society if he were ever to stand in the light of truth. In Paris,
his inclinations were not looked upon with nearly the same horror that is felt
for such things in England. In Paris, his passion for Harry had not been
entirely clandestine; within the small, tightly knit circle of our closest
friends, it had been as casually accepted as his friendship with me.
How I missed him!
To him alone I might even have been able to confide every
agonizing nuance of the tangle in which I now found myself ensnared.
What a relief it would have been to pour all my troubles into his
discreet and sympathetic ear. I had always been able to tell Guy things I could
barely discuss with anyone else—not with Marguerite, not even with Frederick.
Frederick, although he had known virtually every salient fact about my life,
had never cared to know how I felt about anything that made me less than
joyful.
He had been the same with Guy. Although Guy and I had become the
closest of confidantes, Frederick had held back; he'd made it his business to
avoid knowing anything about the anguish Guy had suffered for months before
he'd found the courage to reveal the dangerous secret in his heart, only to
find that his love for Harry was returned.
To Guy alone had I ever admitted that I still bore the scars of
having been a virtual outcast in the village where I had been raised, and that
it was this that had made me so determined to present one face to Paris even as
I showed another one altogether to my husband. To Frederick, I was his fleur
du mal. To Paris, I was only his devoted and angelic wife.
I'd had few secrets from Guy. But Guy had faded out of my life,
through no fault of his own. I had not seen him since the night of my
miscarriage, when we'd dined at the Coq d'Or.
Afterward Guy had written to me several times from London, but I
had never been able to answer his cheerful letters. How easily I might have
talked to him about the devastation of losing my child. But the painful task of
trying to put it on paper proved far beyond my power. Eventually his own
letters had stopped. When at last I broke my silence to write to him of
Frederick's death, it turned out that he had moved long ago from the West End
flat which was the only address I had for him.
It was entirely possible, however, that I would run into him again
in England. I hoped I would. At least it was one thing I could still
anticipate with real pleasure.
But suppose that some day the scandalous secret about his own
private life came to light?
I knew that I would never turn my back on him; never could
I close my door against a beloved friend.
But the doors behind which I must live in England would not be mine
to open or to close. Certainly I could never assume that my future husband
would unlock his gates to every pariah I might choose to claim as a friend.
And I knew that if he proved to be as rigid and intolerant as I
feared he might, I would turn away from him with a heart of stone. What were those "responsibilities" of his, after all, if not some feeling
of obligation to uphold the standards and morals of the narrow and ungenerous
society which had spawned him?
As I considered all the difficulties, real and imaginary, that lay
in wait for me, my sense of hopelessness became almost unendurable. I began to
feel as if I were under a lifetime sentence of transportation and bondage.
I loved Paris and hated England. I didn't want to live there, and
certainly not in the antiquated luxury of some baronial manor, where my every
breath would be drawn under the frigid eyes of a huge staff of disapproving
servants whose lineage would almost certainly compare favorably with my own and
who would probably discern this pretty quickly.
As for my future husband, I hardly knew Sir Anthony— and he knew
me not at all. But shallow as my knowledge of him might be, one thing I did know:
I knew exactly the
Of course, like me, he was the sort of person who would be shunned
by English society if he were ever to stand in the light of truth. In Paris,
his inclinations were not looked upon with nearly the same horror that is felt
for such things in England. In Paris, his passion for Harry had not been
entirely clandestine; within the small, tightly knit circle of our closest
friends, it had been as casually accepted as his friendship with me.
How I missed him!
To him alone I might even have been able to confide every
agonizing nuance of the tangle in which I now found myself ensnared.
What a relief it would have been to pour all my troubles into his
discreet and sympathetic ear. I had always been able to tell Guy things I could
barely discuss with anyone else—not with Marguerite, not even with Frederick.
Frederick, although he had known virtually every salient fact about my life,
had never cared to know how I felt about anything that made me less than
joyful.
He had been the same with Guy. Although Guy and I had become the
closest of confidantes, Frederick had held back; he'd made it his business to
avoid knowing anything about the anguish Guy had suffered for months before
he'd found the courage to reveal the dangerous secret in his heart, only to
find that his love for Harry was returned.
To Guy alone had I ever admitted that I still bore the scars of
having been a virtual outcast in the village where I had been raised, and that
it was this that had made me so determined to present one face to Paris even as
I showed another one altogether to my husband. To Frederick, I was his fleur
du mal. To Paris, I was only his devoted and angelic wife.
I'd had few secrets from Guy. But Guy had faded out of my life,
through no fault of his own. I had not seen him since the night of my
miscarriage, when we'd dined at the Coq d'Or.
Afterward Guy had written to me several times from London, but I
had never been able to answer his cheerful letters. How easily I might have
talked to him about the devastation of losing my child. But the painful task of
trying to put it on paper proved far beyond my power. Eventually his own
letters had stopped. When at last I broke my silence to write to him of
Frederick's death, it turned out that he had moved long ago from the West End
flat which was the only address I had for him.
It was entirely possible, however, that I would run into him again
in England. I hoped I would. At least it was one thing I could still
anticipate with real pleasure.
But suppose that some day the scandalous secret about his own
private life came to light?
I knew that I would never turn my back on him; never could
I close my door against a beloved friend.
But the doors behind which I must live in England would not be mine
to open or to close. Certainly I could never assume that my future husband
would unlock his gates to every pariah I might choose to claim as a friend.
And I knew that if he proved to be as rigid and intolerant as I
feared he might, I would turn away from him with a heart of stone. What were those "responsibilities" of his, after all, if not some feeling
of obligation to uphold the standards and morals of the narrow and ungenerous
society which had spawned him?
As I considered all the difficulties, real and imaginary, that lay
in wait for me, my sense of hopelessness became almost unendurable. I began to
feel as if I were under a lifetime sentence of transportation and bondage.
I loved Paris and hated England. I didn't want to live there, and
certainly not in the antiquated luxury of some baronial manor, where my every
breath would be drawn under the frigid eyes of a huge staff of disapproving
servants whose lineage would almost certainly compare favorably with my own and
who would probably discern this pretty quickly.
As for my future husband, I hardly knew Sir Anthony— and he knew
me not at all. But shallow as my knowledge of him might be, one thing I did know:
I knew exactly the
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