The Colonel closed his eyes fully as he touched her, dreaming of an earlier time in his life, a less complicated time. I will love this girl; I will. The sound of her quickening breath encouraged his fingers, making him forget who he was with and what he was.
When he judged the moment to be right, he freed himself and, bending her over the chair, took her roughly and swiftly. His mind full of another scenario, he made love to a spectre of his own imaginings, but to his astonishment Lavinia cried out in ecstasy—an uninhibited sound of delight that triggered his own orgasm.
Afterwards, with the eagerness of a child, she covered him with kisses, murmuring over and over how she loved him. The earrings he had purchased as a gift remained hidden in his trouser pocket—three gold hoops strung with pearls.
Mama, we have been back in Ireland for six months now, in Dublin. I seem to remember Father telling me of relatives of yours in this fair city. I wish I could make their acquaintance now. But still, it has not been too lonely and you should see this place—I have my very own town house. To be sure, it’s a rented accommodation but James has given me permission to decorate it how I desire, allowing his foolish wife much expenditure. And what a folly I have made of it! It is full of feminine indulgence, with all manner of flowers and lace. More importantly, he has sanctioned a room for my own use, where I have erected a small desk for my note-taking. It is an indulgence I have only dreamed of!
In the evenings, when he has returned from the university, James often shares his lecture papers with me and allows me to contribute. What more could a wife desire? I am most deeply in love with my husband. Oh, I know he can be a formal and cold sort of creature, but this I believe is the legacy of his intelligence. It cannot be easy carrying the experiences and weight of such a life, and I am determined to support him in whatever manner I can.
Daily my womb grows. If only you were here to see the woman I have become and now to become a mother myself! I shall have to learn by example and look to the women around me. James is so joyful over this event and is ridiculously solicitous; he must think me made of porcelain!
Lavinia paused, the plain wooden lid smooth against her fingertips. Since the age of five she had whispered daily into the undistinguished container, the only object she had inherited from her mother. Despite its humble appearance, Lavinia had never doubted the alchemy of the whispering box. Even now there was part of her that believed that the benign spirit of her mother was sitting beside her, watching and listening, as she whispered against the sandalwood.
Lavinia stood on a chair, hooking curtains onto a rail. The newly sewn drapes were painted with small red peonies, and she had placed a vase with the same flowers on the side table that stood against the wall of the drawing room.
She paused for a moment to rub the small of her back, her pregnancy, almost full term, weighing against her frame. She had a strong sense it was a male child; she had dreamt of a small boy standing on a jetty in front of a steamer ship—an isolated and strangely poignant figure. If it was a boy she had decided to call him Aidan.
‘Are you all right, ma’am? I really think it should be me up on that chair, what with you so big.’ Rosie, the maid the Colonel had insisted on hiring, held the tin of curtain hooks up to her mistress.
‘I shall live. Besides, they have to be hung exactly so.’
Lavinia attached the last hook and, with Rosie’s assistance, clambered down from the chair then pulled the curtains open, letting in the sunlight and the view of the walled rose garden. Positioned on a secluded bank of the Liffey, the dwelling was small but had its own orchard and land that ran down to the water’s edge.
Their sojourn in Dublin was an indulgence, but the Colonel had wanted his wife’s confinement to take place where she would have the support of both her father and his housekeeper, who in many ways was Lavinia’s de facto mother. The Colonel had passed the time with a short guest lectureship at the university, having several colleagues on the staff there.
Lavinia rested against the chair and examined her handiwork. Fabric matching the curtains covered the legs of the small upright piano in the corner and was also used in the tablecloth. A photographic wedding portrait hung on the wall, as well as a small picture of the young Queen Victoria. Apart from a walnut console table with gilded legs, which Lavinia had purchased herself from an auction house, there was little else in the drawing room. But Lavinia was comfortable; here she was mistress of her own existence and already she had managed to establish a small salon composed of some elderly scholars—peers of the Colonel—and one minor painter, a Darcy Quinn, whom the Colonel had commissioned to paint Lavinia as soon as the baby was born. They all visited once a month, attracted by the outspoken views of the charismatic young wife and the possible patronage of her husband.
I have come into my own, Lavinia concluded, experiencing a happiness that stemmed from both a contented domesticity and the inspiration she found in assisting the Colonel with his study. I am a fortunate woman: my husband is both affectionate and indulgent. At last I have achieved the social status that allows me the freedom of conversation and a social mobility that is truly stimulating. And now, on top of all this serendipity, I am to have a child!
The sound of the front door opening broke her reverie. Lavinia pulled herself to her feet.
The Colonel entered, still dressed in his herringbone cape and hat. Lavinia watched as he removed them and handed them to the maid, fighting the desire to rush over and embrace him. It was still a source of wonder to her that she was married at all, especially to a man she had desired for so long. Sometimes she felt as if she were living in a delightful daydream of her own construction—a thought that disturbed her greatly, as she was of a questioning and doubtful disposition.
‘Lavinia, there are more peonies in here than on a flower seller’s cart.’
‘Do you not like my decorations?’
The Colonel manoeuvred past the console table, appalled by the over ornateness of the décor. It was hard not to feel claustrophobic, particularly as his own aesthetic was of a more ordered nature. ‘It is both refreshing and delightful,’ he lied.
She is so young, so gauche—will she survive the demands and protocol of Mayfair, he wondered. It was such a bohemian existence, this idyllic retreat of theirs, a fool’s sanctuary. Initially, the chaotic nature of the days had been a liberation, but now the Colonel found himself longing for the order of London society.
‘Lavinia, I beg you, do not become too attached to this place. As soon as the babe is strong enough to travel we shall return to London. By my reckoning, that should be late October—if all goes to plan.’
‘As you wish.’
Hiding her disappointment at his lack of enthusiasm, Lavinia stood to rearrange the flowers in the large crystal vase in the middle of the table. As she did, a flood of dampness ran down her thighs, followed by a sharp cramping across her midriff. Smiling, she turned.
‘My love, I believe my confinement has begun.’
9
Los Angeles, 2002
THE FIVE OF THEM SAT AROUND the circular lacquered table, a paper lantern hanging low over the polished surface in silence as a Japanese waitress placed a platter of sushi on the table’s revolving centre.
An unknowing observer might imagine them to be two couples and a single, free-floating female—attractive, middle-class Americans, affluently dressed in an understated way, in the prime of their lives. Klaus, in jeans and a cashmere sweater, his arm casually thrown around Julia’s shoulders, was the embodiment of the happy husband. The younger man sitting opposite, thickly muscular, dressed in an expensive suit as if he had just come from the office, could be taken as partner to the middle-aged woman next to him. Naomi was not his wife, however, nor even his lover, but an old friend of Julia’s from San Francisco. A frustrated potter, Naomi had outraged her conservative Jewish parents by marrying one of her fellow art students, an intense Latino sculptor, but the marriage hadn’t lasted and, when they were finally divorced, Naomi had been left with the custody of their son, Gabriel. The man, Andrew, was a homosexual colleague of Julia’s, also a geneticist, who liked to imagine he belonged to the corporate world and dressed accordingly.
The fifth of the group, Carla, seemed distanced from the others; she sat on the edge of her seat, methodically shredding her paper napkin. She had already drunk most of the hot sake in front of her and emanated an alcohol-induced air of confrontation—a fact the others were trying to ignore.