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“Watch…” he was whispering, or did I only imagine it? “Watch, Rowena! See how beautiful you are? All this loveliness—mine.”
I felt myself begin to shiver. Lucas… Lucas… oh, God, where are you? Roughness of his hands, hardness of his mouth… hardness… I closed my eyes against the memory, feeling my head spin as I leaned back passively against Mark.
Even my thoughts had become disjointed now. Too much champagne… I was dreaming all this…
“I think I forgot to mention one other thing I searched for in the perfect woman,” Mark said softly, his hands moving lower. “She must be the perfect lady in public, ice-cold and reserved. But in our bedroom… my mistress and my whore…”
Forty
I cannot, like some popular novelists of my day, draw a discreet veil over all that is unpleasant to recall. I write in these journals for myself, only my eyes and the eyes of my children will read what I have written. And it has become a c
ompulsion with me to write everything down exactly as it happened. I have learned that nothing can be gained from running away from the truth. And so I will be exact, and detailed in my account of all the events that have taken place.
I am full of good intentions, and what is past is past. But even now I feel a certain reluctance to remember certain things. And that morning in Socorro, when I woke up with a headache that was like a thousand hammer blows in my temples, threatening to split my skull open, is one of these.
At first I could not even remember where I was, could hardly recall who I was. There was the pain in my head that seemed almost to blind me—and then, surge after surge of sickness so acute that I must have cried out weakly. I say I must have, because I was suddenly aware that someone was supporting my head, holding a basin for me while I gasped and retched and was disgusted with myself all the while for being subject to such weakness.
A strange voice spoke soothingly to me—in French of all things.
“Pauvre petite! There, there, it is just one of these things that all women must bear, hein? So—you will be all right soon, no need to feel ashamed. It is that husband of yours who needs a talking to, yes?” I was lying against the pillows, limp and exhausted, too drained of strength to open my eyes. And I felt my lips and forehead sponged gently with water so cold it made me gasp.
“You feel better now?”
Something—I did not yet understand what—made me imagine for a moment that I was still in London, lying in my bedroom at Cardon House.
“Martine?” I could not manage more than a faint whisper, but I heard a gurgle of amused laughter underlying the voice that answered me.
“Non, non! You are thinking of someone else, pauvre cherie. I am Monique, and we have not yet met… formally. But that is all right, for I had already heard so much about you.”
I forced my eyes open at last, and saw a smiling yet sympathetic face bent over me. Strange how much I noticed, even in my semi stupor. She was attractive, with a piquant face and masses of auburn hair that contrasted sharply with her milky white skin. Her eyes were green—large, and slightly slanted, and she wore a pale green gown that formed a pleasing contrast to her vivid coloring. Everything about Monique Kingman, I was to discover later, was vivid, exciting. Some might even have called her flamboyant. Certainly she seemed out of place here, in the dull red hotel room.
Seeing me open my eyes, she waved a hand at me, as if to tell me not to make the effort of speaking again.
“Don’t exert yourself yet. I will send your husband to you, and after that, when you feel well enough, we will let him perform the proper introductions, oui?”
She was gone, with a rustling of her long skirts, before I could protest, and then Mark was bending over me, his face concerned.
“Rowena! I had no idea… why, my poor girl, how you must be suffering. Lie still. Are you sure you will be all right now?”
I tried to sit up, and he put his hand on my shoulder, gently, but firmly.
I was frowning with the effort of trying to remember. “What happened to me? I’ve had more champagne than I had last night, and never felt so unwell. Mark—I cannot remember…”
But I did—it was beginning to come back in snatches. The mirror… Mark undressing me, caressing me… the dizzy feeling that had made everything whirl around me and seem unreal…
“It was not a very good champagne, I’m afraid, and I should have remembered your delicate condition.” Mark laughed suddenly and boyishly, “I’m afraid you were quite drunk, my love! And it’s a pity you cannot remember, for I can—every detail, I must confess.” He leaned close to me and whispered, “Never have I known a woman so passionate, so abandoned! My darling, you were everything I imagined you would be.”
Was it possible? How was it I could not remember? But then, the whole evening seemed rather vague to me. There was only a slight soreness between my thighs to remind me that I was now Mark’s wife in every way. I told myself that it would all come back later, but I must have seemed unusually quiet for the rest of the afternoon, while we journeyed to the Kingman Ranch, which was some thirty or forty miles distant from Socorro.
My silence was put down to the fact that I had been so ill this morning. They were all very patient with me, and from time to time Mark would give my hand a reassuring squeeze. He seemed so confident, so sure of himself! I watched him, and listened to him talk, and wondered how it was possible that I had once accused him of being nothing more than his uncle’s lackey.
We were riding in the Kingmans’ own light carriage—custom-made by Abbot & Downing, I had noticed. John Kingman was a still-handsome, graying man of about forty-five or so. Monique, his wife, must have been at least ten years younger. And yet, there was an air of easy comradeship and affection between them. She spoke vivaciously, gesturing with her hands; I could not help noticing that she had long and slender fingers that were accentuated by the rings she wore.
Later that day, soon after the lamps had been lit, I was to hear Monique play on the grand piano that her husband had ordered snipped from Europe, especially for her. To this day, I cannot hear a piece by Chopin without remembering Monique, her auburn hair catching the light as she bent her head over the keyboard.
She wore black that first evening. Stark and unaccentuated, and her skin seemed to take on a pearly sheen under the lights. She was beautiful, and she played like an angel. No wonder John Kingman seemed so proud of her!
The ranch house was large and rambling, built Texas-style, Mr. Kineman explained. It was by no means a palace, such as Todd had built for himself, but far larger than my own small house, although it was built of stone and adobe, with a shingle roof.
