The Honeymoon by Dinitia Smith Page A

but by not going she would be bringing out into the open what had happened.
    On Saturday, she walked slowly through the summer evening to Rosehill. She walked along the canal, across the bridge, the night sounds of frogs and crickets vivid around her. She could see the house ahead of her all lit up. From the open windows came voices and music and the tinkling of glass. As she entered the drawing room amidst the other arriving guests, Cara caught sight of her and looked at her for a long moment. Then she smiled and moved to greet her. Standing before Marian, she looked into her face. Cara’s eyes were the warmest, deepest blue, so full of wisdom and kindness. In them was a look of reassurance and acceptance, a pledge not to censure her, a promise communicated that their own love couldn’t be broken.
    Perhaps Cara countenanced her new ties to Charles because it gave her permission to love Edward Noel. Now that Cara knew about herself and Charles, she could continue with Edward without doubt, without guilt.
    Cara reached out her arms, embraced Marian, and held her. She could feel Cara’s tiny body warm against her, her curls brushing her face.
    And so the darkened study with its soft privacy, the green velvet divan, the door quietly latched against the servants, became the place where she and Charles met, discreetly, when Cara was out, as if to observe the formalities, the appearances, so as not to challenge too obviously the rules of others. And Cara was still her beloved “sister,” and Charles was now her lover, and she and Cara never spoke of it.
    Charles was tender and kind, but afterward the guilt and shame overwhelmed her. Still, she always came back. No matter how often she resolved not to, she couldn’t give him up, the affection that came from him, this new pleasure that expanded and grew each time.
    And Charles, though loving toward her, was still the husband of Cara. He loved Cara, he said, with all his heart, though he loved her, Marian, as well. And, she wondered again, did he have others? And who could they be? Was he still intimate with Cara? As these questions arose in her mind, she banished them.
    She knew that he could never be hers alone. No man would ever give himself entirely to her, neither Charles Bray nor Charles Hennell, who had been so sweetly grateful to her for her appreciation of his book, but who loved only Rufa Brabant. She must take what was given.

    In July Charles and Cara invited her to go on holiday with them to Tenby in Wales. Charles Hennell and Rufa Brabant were to come. Rufa’s father, Dr. Brabant, no longer opposed their marriage. Rufa had inherited a small sum and Charles Hennell had found a job as manager of an iron company. Perhaps Dr. Brabant realized he couldn’t stop them. Marian asked her father’s permission to go with them; she would be carefully chaperoned, she pointed out. He grumpily assented.
    In Tenby, they took long walks to Moonstone Point and bathed in the bathing machines, wooden carts with canvas awnings that rolled into the sea and enabled ladies, especially, to change and bathe modestly in the water without being seen. At low tide in the evening, they walked out to St. Catherine’s Island and explored the caves, stirring the tidal pools into phosphorescence with pieces of driftwood. Charles and Cara had separate bedrooms, and Charles came to Marian’s room at night. No one spoke of it. It was as if no one knew about it, or, if they did, they accepted the arrangement. She tried not to think about it, the possibility that Charles and Cara might still be together too. Charles belonged to everyone, in his warmth, his outgoingness, but she had no sense that he was with anyone but her, Marian.
    As they played and laughed together, she came to like the vivacious Rufa Brabant. Pale, ethereal Charles Hennell loved Rufa, but Marian had her own lover to hold her now at night.
    The party traveled on to Swansea. Rufa’s father, Dr. Brabant, joined them. He was a small,