In the Shadow of Lakecrest(24)
“There’s something else,” I said. As if I already knew.
Matthew released a breath with a drawn-out shudder. “Sometimes I see Aunt Cecily,” he whispered. “Bleeding.”
He sounded like a terrified child confessing a mortal sin that would damn him to hell.
“Mum mustn’t know. She thinks I’m doing so much better.”
“I won’t say a thing. I promise.”
My assurances seemed to soothe Matthew, though his eyes were still agitated, his muscles tense. I had to do something—anything—to distract him from his guilt-ridden thoughts. I slipped my nightdress up over my shoulders and head. It was the first time Matthew had seen me naked, in the light. I took hold of his hand and placed the palm flat across my bare chest.
“Do you feel it?” I asked. “My heart?”
Eyes fixed on mine, he nodded. How beautiful he was. How fragile.
“They’re gone,” I whispered. “Cecily and those poor boys. But I’m alive. I’m here.”
Matthew’s other hand reached out and caressed the curve of my breast.
“I’m here.”
Matthew wrapped his arms around me, pressing his face into my neck. His stubble grated against my skin as he kissed me roughly. Desperately. His hands clutched at my waist and back, and I twisted and arched to accommodate him, responding in kind as his movements became more frantic. His teeth cut against my lips; his fingers dug into my hair as I squeezed his thighs and backside. For once, I didn’t worry what Matthew was thinking or whether I was doing the right thing. I simply matched him push for push, moan for moan. Physical sensation silenced our troubled minds, and our bodies pounded together in a matching rhythm that left me gasping. My arms ached from the effort of holding him so tight.
At last, Matthew collapsed on top of me, sweaty and spent. I whispered that I loved him, and he whispered it back. I saw how tired he was, yet how unwilling to surrender to sleep, and I told him it would be all right. That I wasn’t afraid.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he mumbled. “When work settles down, I’ll take you on a proper honeymoon. Anywhere you want.”
If Matthew was soothed by planning an imaginary vacation, I’d play along. “I’ve always wanted to see palm trees,” I said. “What about Florida?”
“We can do better than that. Money’s no object.” Fatigue was making him slur his words. “Let’s go far away. To the other side of the world.”
“Africa.” I don’t know what made me say it. Heaven knows I’d never pictured myself as a safari type of girl, and the last thing Lakecrest needed was more stuffed animal heads.
“Africa,” Matthew breathed. He entwined his fingers with mine and pressed his lips against my knuckles. Then, holding my hand like a talisman against his chest, he drifted into sleep. I lay beside him, disconcertingly awake, and stared at the thick pillars of our bed, the lumpy horsehair sofa, the heavy velvet drapes. We were surrounded by an old man’s vision of grandeur. Was it any wonder Matthew felt tormented by the past?
I had a sudden, striking vision of Matthew and me lying in a field, staring up at the vast African sky. Sharing sights and smells and tastes that would be immortalized in shared memories. I held on to the thought like a beacon in the dark. Beside me, Matthew snored gently. At peace.
As the newest Mrs. Lemont, I was the star attraction on the North Shore social circuit that fall. Through a whirl of dinners, card parties, and tea dances, I played the part of Poor Girl Made Good: grateful for my unexpected fortune, gushingly adoring of my perfect husband. Matthew’s mother, seemingly resigned to the marriage, sorted through all my invitations, telling me which to accept and which to politely decline. I was also subjected to regular lectures on topics such as managing the help and where to summer. Following Hannah’s orders was an easy way to maintain peace, especially since I couldn’t keep all the people I’d met straight and didn’t yet think of any of them as friends. Hannah could be bossy and high-handed, but she and I shared a common goal: Matthew’s happiness.
My days arranged themselves into a predictable routine: A hurried early-morning good-bye to Matthew, followed by breakfast on a tray in my room. A morning walk around the estate, which I’d drag out by sitting on the rocks along the lakefront or watching the gardeners at work. A midday meal in the dining room with Hannah, during which she’d drone on about dull housekeeping matters, followed by an afternoon of reading or writing letters. Matthew usually caught the train that arrived in East Ridge at six o’clock, and his homecoming was the highlight of my day. After supper, we’d gather in the sitting room to play cards or checkers while Hannah went on about the “appalling manners of today’s youth” or “that terrible noise that passes for music these days.” I became quite expert at nodding while stifling a yawn.
Marjorie was rarely at home. I’d see her occasionally in the upstairs hall or front entry, trailing cigarette smoke, and we’d exchange polite but distant chitchat. She didn’t discuss how she spent her days, and I didn’t ask. Most evenings, she was out with friends. Hannah and Matthew didn’t seem concerned by her frequent absences, but I wondered what she was up to on all those late nights out in the city. Was she really a dope fiend? Some evenings, when I heard the squeal of tires on the front drive and rowdy, slurred shouts as Marjorie was dropped off, I couldn’t help feeling jealous. The weeks I’d spent with Matthew in Chicago had already taken on the heart-tugging weight of nostalgia, and I wondered if I’d settled for marriage too soon. On the nights Marjorie stayed in, the sitting room seemed brighter, and Matthew’s laughter was easy and free. Marjorie brought a spark of life to those monotonous hours.