seen.
“I’m sure I offended you, and I’m sorry, Anna. You’re a proud woman. I recognize how you must have felt. Please forgive me.”
“Of course,” she said.
“I have something for you,” he said.
“Some work?” she asked.
He laughed. “No. Not work.” He opened up his desk drawer and drew out a velvet box and set it before her on the desk.
“What is it?”
“Open it,” he said impatiently.
Even the luminous blue velvet of the box was magnificent. She picked it up gingerly and unlatched the tiny case. Nestled against white satin was a beautiful gold locket on a thick chain adorned with a white enameled dove holding a letter in its beak. The letter was sealed with a tiny perfect ruby. Anna gasped.
“Mr. Wharton, I couldn’t take this.”
“Why not?”
“Surely it was meant for Mrs. Wharton.”
“I think it suits you. Please understand, this is a gift to say I’m sorry. That’s all.”
A bribe. The gift was a bribe. It couldn’t be a love token. . . .
“I don’t think I could . . . take it.”
“Of course you can. If you don’t, my feelings will be hurt. Plain and simple. You type Puss’s letters every day and make our lives so pleasant with your quiet and constant companionship. It’s just a gift of friendship.”
He got up and came around the desk. Taking the box from her, he opened it, released the pendant, worked its clasp and hung it around Anna’s neck. She felt the weight of the heavy, twisted chain, the cool solidity of the pendant even through her dress. She touched it with her hand. She had never owned anything so valuable.
“That’s a good girl,” he said. He handed her the box. “Now, not another word about it. All right? Go see to closing up this house.” He turned back to his desk with a grin. “There’s so much to do and hardly any time.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Since that morning in his study, when his kind fingers brushed her neck as they fastened the heavy clasp, not a day has passed that Anna Bahlmann hasn’t worn that beautiful pendant beneath her clothes. She hasn’t slept a single night without its comforting weight nestled between her breasts. It’s grown as smooth as a river stone, stays as warm as her heart that beats against it. So many years have passed, the pendant no longer makes her feel miserable or embarrassed or ashamed. It makes her feel beloved. And sometimes when she sees Teddy Wharton smile at her at dinner or in the hallway, she knows that all these years later, he remembers that they share a secret.
THREE
EARLY SPRING 1907
D elighted by an invitation from Anna de Noailles for tea, Edith rings the bell and a gypsy-eyed
bonne
ushers her into an entrance hall draped in striped silk like a Bedouin tent and redolent of cinnamon. Edith feels as though she’s visiting another country. The neighborhood is nothing like the Faubourg. No musty eighteenth-century courtyards or high, forbidding walls (which she, in truth, has cherished). Just a sunny front stoop and window boxes adorned for the winter with fir boughs.
She follows the
bonne
into a drawing room where a roaring fire licks the walls of a seven-foot fireplace. Anna de Noailles leans over her desk, pen in hand. Wrapped in a turquoise silk shawl, displaying bare feet, she seems completely unaware that anyone has joined her.
“Madame,” the
bonne
says after a moment.
The Comtesse looks up with a start.
“I’ve interrupted your writing. I’m sorry,” Edith offers.
“Don’t be silly.” She stretches like a cat. “I invited you to interrupt me. Come sit down, Madame Wharton.”
The rumpled sofa is dressed in the same Caribbean turquoise as the Comtesse’s shawl, and is strewn with pillows of brilliant yellow. Like fields of Maine sunflowers opening to summer skies, Edith thinks. The lacquered coffee-bean-colored walls reflect the flicker from the hearth. It’s a dazzling room. Edith could live here, she thinks—though it is nothing like any place
“I’m sure I offended you, and I’m sorry, Anna. You’re a proud woman. I recognize how you must have felt. Please forgive me.”
“Of course,” she said.
“I have something for you,” he said.
“Some work?” she asked.
He laughed. “No. Not work.” He opened up his desk drawer and drew out a velvet box and set it before her on the desk.
“What is it?”
“Open it,” he said impatiently.
Even the luminous blue velvet of the box was magnificent. She picked it up gingerly and unlatched the tiny case. Nestled against white satin was a beautiful gold locket on a thick chain adorned with a white enameled dove holding a letter in its beak. The letter was sealed with a tiny perfect ruby. Anna gasped.
“Mr. Wharton, I couldn’t take this.”
“Why not?”
“Surely it was meant for Mrs. Wharton.”
“I think it suits you. Please understand, this is a gift to say I’m sorry. That’s all.”
A bribe. The gift was a bribe. It couldn’t be a love token. . . .
“I don’t think I could . . . take it.”
“Of course you can. If you don’t, my feelings will be hurt. Plain and simple. You type Puss’s letters every day and make our lives so pleasant with your quiet and constant companionship. It’s just a gift of friendship.”
He got up and came around the desk. Taking the box from her, he opened it, released the pendant, worked its clasp and hung it around Anna’s neck. She felt the weight of the heavy, twisted chain, the cool solidity of the pendant even through her dress. She touched it with her hand. She had never owned anything so valuable.
“That’s a good girl,” he said. He handed her the box. “Now, not another word about it. All right? Go see to closing up this house.” He turned back to his desk with a grin. “There’s so much to do and hardly any time.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Since that morning in his study, when his kind fingers brushed her neck as they fastened the heavy clasp, not a day has passed that Anna Bahlmann hasn’t worn that beautiful pendant beneath her clothes. She hasn’t slept a single night without its comforting weight nestled between her breasts. It’s grown as smooth as a river stone, stays as warm as her heart that beats against it. So many years have passed, the pendant no longer makes her feel miserable or embarrassed or ashamed. It makes her feel beloved. And sometimes when she sees Teddy Wharton smile at her at dinner or in the hallway, she knows that all these years later, he remembers that they share a secret.
THREE
EARLY SPRING 1907
D elighted by an invitation from Anna de Noailles for tea, Edith rings the bell and a gypsy-eyed
bonne
ushers her into an entrance hall draped in striped silk like a Bedouin tent and redolent of cinnamon. Edith feels as though she’s visiting another country. The neighborhood is nothing like the Faubourg. No musty eighteenth-century courtyards or high, forbidding walls (which she, in truth, has cherished). Just a sunny front stoop and window boxes adorned for the winter with fir boughs.
She follows the
bonne
into a drawing room where a roaring fire licks the walls of a seven-foot fireplace. Anna de Noailles leans over her desk, pen in hand. Wrapped in a turquoise silk shawl, displaying bare feet, she seems completely unaware that anyone has joined her.
“Madame,” the
bonne
says after a moment.
The Comtesse looks up with a start.
“I’ve interrupted your writing. I’m sorry,” Edith offers.
“Don’t be silly.” She stretches like a cat. “I invited you to interrupt me. Come sit down, Madame Wharton.”
The rumpled sofa is dressed in the same Caribbean turquoise as the Comtesse’s shawl, and is strewn with pillows of brilliant yellow. Like fields of Maine sunflowers opening to summer skies, Edith thinks. The lacquered coffee-bean-colored walls reflect the flicker from the hearth. It’s a dazzling room. Edith could live here, she thinks—though it is nothing like any place
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