Vanished

2

Patrick, the driver, took Marielle home, driving north up Fifth Avenue, but she didn't see Charles there. And finally, they drove east on Sixty-fourth Street, to the house where she had lived for six years with Malcolm. The house was between Madison and Fifth, just around the corner from the park, and it was a beautiful home, but it had never been hers. It was Malcolm's. She had felt ill at ease there from the first. It was an awesome establishment, with a huge staff, and it had once belonged to Malcolm's parents. He had maintained it almost as a memorial to them, with priceless collections everywhere, added to only by the rare objects he collected on his travels, or sometimes by curators of museums. Sometimes Marielle felt like a precious object there, something to be displayed, but never played with. A doll to be admired on a shelf and never handled. His servants treated her politely, for the most part, but they had always made it clear that they worked not for her, but for her husband. Many of them had been there for years, and after six years, she still felt she scarcely knew them. Malcolm always urged her to keep her distance. She had, and so had they. There was no warmth in their exchanges with her. And from the first, Malcolm had let her make no changes. It was still his home, everything was done his way, and if her orders differed from his at all, they were politely ignored, and the matter never mentioned. He hired the staff himself, and most of them were Irish or English or German. Malcolm had an enormous fondness for all things German. He had gone to Heidelberg University in his youth, and he spoke the language to perfection.

Marielle wondered sometimes if the reason the staff resented her, albeit secretly, was because she had worked for Malcolm. It had been impossible for her to get a job when she came back from Europe in 1932. The Depression was in full swing, even men with college degrees were unemployed, and she had absolutely no training. She had never worked for anyone before, and her parents had left her nothing. Her father lost everything in the crash of '29, which basically had killed him. He'd been too old to survive the strain, to start over again. In the end, his heart had given out, but before it, his spirit. And there was nothing left but a few hundred dollars when his wife died six months later. Marielle had still been in Europe then, and Charles had arranged for their house to be sold in order to pay their debts. She'd been too ill to take care of it herself, and when she went back to New York eventually, she was left with nothing and had no home to go to. She stayed in a hotel on the East Side, and started looking for a job the week she'd arrived. She had two thousand dollars she'd borrowed from Charles. It was all she'd let him give her. She was totally alone. And in many ways, Malcolm had saved her. She was grateful to him for that still, and she always would be.

She had appeared in his office on a wintry February day, and the face that smiled at her across the desk was like a ray of sunshine. She had gone to him because she knew he was one of her father's friends, and she hoped that somehow he might know of a job, or someone who needed a companion who spoke French. It was all she knew other than her graceful drawings, but she hadn't drawn now in years. She had no secretarial skills at all, but after speaking to her for an hour, he hired her, and until she found a place of her own, he even paid for her hotel bill. She had tried to repay him afterward, but he wouldn't hear of it. He knew what dire straits she was in, and he was happy to help her.

She learned quickly and she worked well, as an assistant to his senior secretary, an Englishwoman who clearly did not approve of Marielle, but was al ways civil. And it came as no surprise to anyone when Malcolm started inviting her, first to quiet lunches, and then to romantic dinners. Eventually, he started taking her to important social events with him, always discreetly suggesting that she buy a new dress for the occasion, at a store where they knew him. It troubled her at first. She didn't want to take advantage of him, didn't want to put herself in an awkward position. Yet, he was always so kind to her, so intelligent, so amusing, so understanding. He never pressed her about what her previous life had been, why she had lived in Europe for six years, or why she had finally returned. They kept their conversations strictly to the present. She was surprised that she was always comfortable with him. He was so polite, and so kind, and so easy to be with. All her earlier resistance to him disappeared, and she was particularly surprised that he never made improper advances. He just seemed to like her company, being seen with a beautiful young woman in the expensive clothes he paid for. She was painfully shy then, and sometimes she still felt a little shaky. But he never seemed to notice it, and when she was with him, she always felt more confident, and surprisingly stronger than she had in a long time. She wasn't her old self anymore, but at least she was a new one she could live with.

With Malcolm, no one asked her anything. People wanted to know who she was, of course, but beyond her name, they never wanted to know where she'd been or why she wore such a serious expression. They were impressed with her because of whom she was with, and how she looked, and sometimes she even found it amusing. She felt so safe with him, he protected her from everything, and that was precisely what he offered her, when he asked her to marry him at Thanksgiving. He offered to protect and take care of her for as long as he lived, which wouldn't be as long as she lived, because he was so much older. He made no pretense of loving her, and yet in some ways, she felt that he did, because he was always so considerate and kind, so thoughtful, and so decent. In fact, she wanted nothing more from him. She couldn't have taken the risk, or been able to stand the pain, if anything went wrong, or something happened. Even the memories of Charles were still exquisitely painful, and the rest was something she still couldn't talk about, even to Malcolm. She had tried to be honest with him, to tell him that there were things in her past that had caused her great pain, but he didn't want to hear it.

“We each have a past, my dear.” He had smiled gently at her, as they dined at the Plaza. “But at twenty-four, I suspect that yours is still a little more wholesome.” He was so tolerant of her, so accepting. She could come to him with her past and her pain and her wounds and find solace there, and protection. It was that that she wanted from him, not his house, or his jewels or his money. He had been married twice before, and she knew from those who talked too much, that his generosity had been legend. But all she wanted from him was a port in the storm, a place to hide for the rest of her life, and that was what he promised. He sensed easily how frightened she was, although even he did not suspect how battered. And all he required of her was that she be willing to bear his children. Neither of his previous wives had, and at forty-nine, it was something he wanted very much, an heir for the Patterson empire. His money had been made in steel, and several generations earlier it had been far less genteel, but by the time Malcolm was born, the name was highly respected. And in his lifetime, Malcolm had made it even more so.

She'd been stunned by his proposal at first, and for a brief moment, she even thought he was joking. They had certainly been out together many times, and he had been unspeakably generous with her, but until then, he had never even kissed her.

“I… I don't know what to say…are you serious?” He smiled coolly at her, and took her hand in his, amused by her astonishment. She still looked like a child to him, and he gently raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers.

“Of course I'm serious, Marielle.” His eyes met hers, and in some ways he seemed more like a father. But that was part of what she liked about him, and more than that, it was what she so desperately needed. She had been back in the States by then for less than a year, and she had no one in the world, except Malcolm. “I want you to be my wife. I will take very good care of you, my dear. I promise you that. And if we're lucky enough to have children, I will be grateful to you for the remainder of my lifetime.” It was an odd offer, as she listened to him, and in some ways it almost sounded more like a business arrangement than a marriage. He wanted children from her, and she wanted and needed his protection. He hadn't told her he loved her, or looked at her adoringly, she wasn't head over heels in love with him. It was totally different from what she had had with Charles, but that was precisely what she wanted. Only the idea of having children frightened her now. She wasn't sure she wanted to take that risk again, but she didn't dare explain that to him.

“And if there are no children?” Her eyes searched his with a worried expression, as he wondered if there was something he didn't know. He had thought he knew everything about her.

“Then we will be friends.” He looked peaceful as he said it, and that reassured her, but she still couldn't understand why he wanted her, with so many other women who would have died to have him. And in fact, he scarcely knew her.

“But why me? There are… so many other…more suitable…” She blushed as she said the words. She had no money, no social status anymore. Her parents had been respectable certainly, but not in his league, and they had left her without a penny. But all of that was part of what appealed to him. She was a girl with no ties, no family, no obligations. She was “his” in a way, or she would be if she married him, and he liked that. Malcolm Patterson was a man who was obsessed by possessions, his houses, his cars, his paintings, his Faberge collection, his “things.” Marielle was something more for him to possess…a very important possession if she could give him children. Besides which, she was a very quiet, undemanding girl, and he liked that. She would be a dignified, attractive wife and perhaps, with luck, one day, a very good mother.

“Perhaps I should say I love you,” he said very gently, but they both knew he didn't. “But I'm not sure that's important to either of us.” He knew her well, better than she had realized. “Perhaps that doesn't matter at all. Perhaps it will be better like this, and we will come to love each other in time, won't we?” She nodded, still awed by what he was saying. And then he looked down at her expectantly, as though she knew what she was expected to say, and he was waiting for her to say it. “Do you have an answer for me?”

She hesitated, but only for an instant. “I…” She looked at him worriedly… “Are you sure?…” She was afraid for him, more than for herself. What if she was a disappointment to him? What if…what if she fell apart again? The past year hadn't been easy. The Lindbergh child had been kidnapped two weeks after her return, and the horror of it had mesmerized her at first, and in May when the world heard that he was dead, she felt a pain in her heart for them that she knew she would always remember. For days she had stayed in bed, claiming to have the flu. But in truth, she had been unable to function. Finally, in a wave of terror, she had called her doctor in Switzerland, and he had been able to reassure her. But what if that happened again? What if Malcolm knew… “I'm not sure it's fair to you.” Marielle lowered her eyes, and tears clustered on her lashes. Suddenly he wanted to pull her into his arms and make love to her. It was the first time she had actually inspired him with any kind of passion, and for an instant he wondered if he really might come to love her.

“Darling…please…marry me… I'll do everything for you…” It was the only language he knew, but she looked up at him with a sad smile, and shook her head.

“You don't have to do that. All you have to do is be kind to me, and you always have been. Too kind. I don't deserve it.”

“That's nonsense. You deserve more than I can give you. You deserve a handsome young husband who is so mad about you he's half insane, and takes you dancing every night. Not an old man you'll have to push around in a wheelchair when you're forty.” She laughed at the picture he painted, it was difficult to imagine Malcolm ever being anything but vital and youthful. He was a powerful, vibrant man who, despite his mane of prematurely white hair, looked ten years younger than he was. The white hair only made him look more important. “So, now that I've told you what the future holds, will you accept my offer?” Her eyes met his, and almost imperceptibly, she nodded. She felt her breath catch as she looked at him, and he pulled her into his arms and crushed her against him. She felt tears fill her eyes as she looked at him. She wanted to be as good to him as he was to her, she wanted to promise him everything, and she swore to herself she would never disappoint him.

The wedding was tiny and discreet. They were married on New Year's Day by a judge who was a close friend of his, at Malcolm's home, with fewer than a dozen of his friends present. She knew no one to invite anyway, except the women she had met when she was working in his office. But they resented her now anyway. Her Cinderella story did not fill them with happiness for her. She had walked off with what they had always wanted, but they had wanted him for very different reasons than she did. They wanted his money, and all Marielle wanted was his protection.

She wore a beige satin suit that he bought for her from Mainbocher, with a matching hat that had been made by Sally Victor. And she had never looked lovelier than she did that day, with her dark auburn hair in an elegant chignon, and her deep blue eyes filled with emotion. She had cried when the judge declared them man and wife, and she stood very close to him all day, as though she was afraid that if she didn't, some evil spirit might come between them.

They honeymooned in the Caribbean, on a private island near Antigua. It belonged to a friend, and there was a fabulous house, a yacht, and an army of discreet, extremely well trained British servants. It had been perfect in every way, and she found that her affection for him was rapidly growing deeper. His thoughtful, gentle ways touched her more often than she was able to tell him. And he approached their physical life together with wisdom, kindness, and enormous caution. He was anxious for a child, but not so much so that he was ever rough or hasty with her, and he spent most of their honeymoon learning the ways that brought her pleasure. He was an experienced man, and she enjoyed the time she spent in bed with him, but there was no hiding from the fact that there was something missing between them. But they enjoyed each other's company, and when they returned to New York three weeks later, they were good friends, and she walked into his house with a confident air, and a bounce in her step that hadn't been there in years. But once home again, the reality of their life together had hit her. They lived in his house, saw his friends, day and night, she was surrounded by his servants and Marielle had to do everything he wanted. For the most part, the servants considered her a fortune hunter, and treated her like an intruder. Knowing she had previously worked for him, jealousy stoked the fires of their hatred. Her orders were ignored, her requests were secretly ridiculed, her belongings either disappeared or were “accidentally” destroyed, and when she finally tried to mention it to Malcolm, he treated her complaints with amusement, which upset her even more. He told her to give “his people” time to get used to her, and in time they would come to love her as much as he did.

Once back in New York, he was busy at the office again. He kept to himself much of the time, and led his own life, and Marielle became very lonely. He still enjoyed being seen with her, and he was always kind to her, but it was clear that she was not going to share his entire life, or even his bedroom. He explained that he stayed up very late at night, reading documents, or making overseas calls, and it was important to him to have privacy while he did that, and he didn't want to disturb her. She had suggested that they shift their rooms around, and that he have an office next to their bedroom, where he could work at night, but he was adamant that he didn't want to change anything. And in the end, he didn't. Not one single thing changed in Malcolm's life after he married Marielle, except that they went out together a little more often. But more than once, in spite of his kindness, she felt as though she was still one of his employees.

She got an allowance now, which was discreetly shifted into an account on the first of every month, and he encouraged her to shop anywhere and buy anything she wanted. But the servants were still his, the house still looked exactly as it had before, the people they saw were all his friends, and he still traveled without her when he went on business. In fact, Marielle had traveled more with him before, when she was only an undersecretary to him. She would have been angry at the new secretary who did travel with him, except that Marielle liked her. Brigitte was a pretty German girl from Berlin. Her behavior and reputation were impeccable, and she treated Marielle with enormous deference. She had pale blond hair, and bright red fingernails. She carried herself well, and was highly efficient. More than that, she was always kind to Marielle, to the point of being friendly. As they had been of Marielle, the older secretaries were jealous of her, and Marielle felt sorry for her more than once when she noticed the raised eyebrows of Brigitte's colleagues. Brigitte was always very respectful to her, and very helpful whenever Marielle called the office. And she was particularly nice to Marielle when she got pregnant, sending small but thoughtful gifts for the baby. She even knitted him a blanket, and several sweaters, which also deeply touched Malcolm. The rest of the time, he seemed to scarcely notice her existence. But he had other things on his mind, important business deals, and his wife, and eventually, the son he had wanted so badly.

Marielle had expected to get pregnant easily. She had before, and she was surprised when it hadn't happened after the first few months of their marriage. And after six months, Malcolm insisted that she go to a specialist in Boston. He had taken her there himself, and he had left her at the hospital for the afternoon, while a team of specialists checked her over. In the end, they found nothing wrong with her, and they encouraged her and Malcolm to continue trying. They felt that it was just a matter of time, and they made some suggestions which embarrassed her, but Malcolm was more than willing to try them. But six months later, their suggestions still hadn't worked, and both of them were deeply worried. It was then that she spent a quiet afternoon with her own doctor. He had no new explanations to offer her, and he very gently said that some women just weren't made to have babies. He had seen it happen before, healthy young women who had nothing wrong with them, but simply never conceived. It was no one's fault, but “Sometimes,” he said quietly, “God just doesn't want it to happen.” She was beginning to get hysterical every month when she saw that she was not pregnant again, and the strain of it had started her migraines.

“It has happened before,” she said softly, almost afraid to look at him. It was something she still hadn't told Malcolm, particularly now since she'd been unable to have his baby.

“You've been pregnant?” The doctor looked intrigued. He had wondered once when he examined her, but he hadn't been certain and hadn't asked her. And she had never said anything to him. They had asked her in Boston several times, but she had denied it. But she felt more confidence in this man to keep her secrets to himself. She had found him herself, and he was one of the few people in her life who did not owe any special allegiance to Malcolm.

“Yes,” she nodded.

“Did you have an abortion?” That really worried him. In his experience, women who had the kind of abortions that were available in dark alleys and back streets, were seldom able to have other children. They went to butchers and were lucky if they lived, let alone were still able to have babies.

“No, I didn't.”

“I see…” He looked suddenly more sympathetic. “You lost it.”

“No,” she started to say, and then winced as though he had caused her physical pain. “I mean, yes… I had him…and he died…later…”

“I'm so sorry.” She told him about it then, and she cried endlessly, but she felt relieved two hours later when she left his office. And in some ways it was like a weight being lifted from her shoulders. He reassured her by saying that he felt certain she would get pregnant again eventually. There was absolutely no reason for her not to.

And he was right. Two months later, with amazement and delight she discovered that she was pregnant. She had just begun to think that it was never going to happen at all, and she had even begun morosely wondering if she should offer Malcolm a divorce, if that was what he wanted, since she had been unable to bear his children. But suddenly, the light had shined, and Malcolm was beside himself with gratitude and excitement. He showered jewelry and gifts on her, came home at lunch to check on her, treated her like the rarest jewel, and seemed to spend every hour making plans for their baby. It was obvious that he wanted a son from her, and yet he was even prepared to be pleased with a daughter. “We'll just have to have more, if it's a girl,” he said happily, and Marielle laughed. By then, she could no longer see her feet and hadn't slept decently in weeks. The prospect of more was a little daunting. On the other hand, she had blossomed in pregnancy, and the pain of the last several years seemed dimmer now with the excitement of life inside her. She sat for hours feeling the baby move, and waiting for the hour when she could hold it. It would fill a void that had been aching for years, and she knew that nothing would fill that void again except another baby. She had to tell herself again and again that it would not be Andre this time, it would be another child… he would never return, and still, no matter who this child was, she knew she would welcome him or her with her whole heart, and so would Malcolm.

He ordered everyone in the house to take care of her, to cater to her every whim, to feed her practically every hour on the hour, and make sure she didn't fall or trip or get tired, but his staff was far less enthusiastic about her pregnancy than he was. They seemed to see it as an opportunity to be even more disagreeable to her, particularly the housekeeper who had been there for twenty years, through both previous wives, and continued to view Marielle as a very temporary intruder. The prospect of the baby made her a greater threat, so instead of being pleased, the most malevolent of them were actually angry. The housekeeper, the maids, the driver, Patrick, an Irishman Marielle had disliked since they'd first met, and even the cook and her staff of underlings were all annoyed at having to cater to Marielle's few whims, or even making special tea for her when she had one of her migraine headaches. They seemed to consider her headaches a sign of weakness in her, and they were often rude about her indisposition. Even the baby nurse Malcolm hired for her seemed to view Marielle as something of a lesser being. She was an Englishwoman Malcolm had hired on one of his trips abroad, and she had a face like a stone wall and a heart to match it. It was difficult to imagine her giving any kind of warmth or tenderness to a newborn baby. And when she arrived a month before the baby was due, Marielle was horrified when she saw her.

“She looks like a prison warden, Malcolm. How can we let her take care of our child?” The real issue for Marielle was, why did they need her? She had taken care of Andre herself, but then the memory of that was too painful to endure, and there was no way now that she could discuss that with Malcolm. “I can take care of the baby myself.” But he only laughed at her and told her she was being silly. He wanted her to let everyone spoil her.

“You'll be exhausted when the baby comes. You'll need to rest. Miss Griffin will be perfect. She has excellent references, is hospital trained. She's just what you need, and you don't even know it. You'll see, babies aren't as easy as you think.” She knew for a fact they were easier than he thought, but she couldn't tell him. At eighteen, she had taken care of her own baby, with no assistance from the likes of Miss Griffin.

Miss Griffin announced early on that Marielle's migraines were bad for the child, and probably a sign of some very dangerous weakness in the mother. It was as though she wanted to shame Marielle out of them, but they were too severe for anything except a dark room and bed rest. A thousand things brought them on. Tension, worry, an argument with Malcolm, a cruel remark from a maid, a head cold, a virus, a late night, too much rich food, even a glass of wine. They were torture for Marielle, and she was always apologizing for them, as though they were a serious character disorder, just as Miss Griffin had suggested.

Only Haverford, the English butler, was ever kind to her. He had never shown any undue interest in her, but he was unfailingly polite and always pleasant. Unlike Miss Griffin, who was intent on allying herself with Malcolm, who had hired her in the first place. And like everyone else in the house, she rapidly began treating Marielle like an intruder. She treated Marielle like the unpleasant but necessary vehicle they had to put up with in order to get the baby. Eventually, it began to make Marielle feel frightened.

She wanted to be with people who loved her now, and she longed for her happy days with Charles before their baby. Sometimes she just lay on her bed and cried, and on more than one occasion, Malcolm was shocked when he found her.

“You're just sensitive right now. Try not to take it all so much to heart,” he tried to tell her. But after talking to Miss Griffin, he did think she was being a little foolish. She seemed to cry all the time. She even got upset when she came to the office and saw Brigitte. Marielle felt so fat and ugly in comparison to her that for three days she refused to go anywhere with Malcolm. But he was always patient with her, and tried to be understanding. But it was obvious even to him that Marielle was desperately overwrought at the end of her pregnancy. It was as though she was terrified, and barely able to cope, but he did all he could to help her. Miss Griffin explained that some women are so afraid of delivery that they go crazy in anticipation of the pain. It seemed to support her general theory that Marielle was weak, and worse yet, a coward.

She wanted to have the baby at home, she had insisted on it early on, but Malcolm was equally insistent that the baby be born at Doctors' Hospital, with every possible modern development near at hand in case there was a problem. Marielle felt it would be more peaceful to have the baby at home, and she was worried about kidnapping, as she confessed to Malcolm. Bruno Richard Hauptmann had been arrested in September for kidnapping the Lindbergh child and she became obsessed with the Lindbergh kidnapping again, but Malcolm decided she was just unduly nervous because she was six and a half months pregnant. It was a difficult time for her, in ways no one else knew. Only her doctor realized what she was going through, and whenever she saw him, he tried to soothe her and reassure her that this time everything would be different.

They were at home the night the baby came, she was reading in her room, and Malcolm was working on some papers in his bedroom when the first pains came. She waited for a while, and then she went to tell him, and he rushed to her side the moment he saw her. Patrick drove them to the hospital and Malcolm stayed with her as long as the doctor would let him, and then they wheeled her away to have their baby. She was groggy from the medication they'd given her by then, and she was telling Malcolm something about how different it had been in Paris. The doctor smiled at him, and the two men exchanged looks of understanding, she was in a dream world.

“It should go easily for her,” the doctor said softly as the nurses took her away. “I'll come back to you very quickly.” He smiled and Malcolm settled into a chair to wait in the huge private suite of rooms they'd reserved for her. It was midnight by then, and Theodore Whitman Patterson was born at four twenty-three that morning.

Marielle saw him first through a kind of haze, and the doctor held him out to her swaddled in a blanket. He had a round pink face and a shock of blondish hair, and he looked at her with surprise as though he'd been expecting someone else, and then he gave a long loud wail, and everyone in the delivery room smiled while tears coursed down Marielle's cheeks. She had thought he was gone…she remembered him so well…the same round cheeks, those surprised eyes…but his hair had been black, like Charles's…shiny black hair like a raven…this wasn't him and yet it looked so like him. She nuzzled her cheek next to his, feeling a primeval ache in her soul, and at the same time a rush of joy and tenderness and completion. They took him away to clean him up and introduce him to his father, while Marielle dozed, and the doctors did some minor repair work.

It was morning when they brought her back to her room again, and Malcolm was dozing peacefully there, waiting for her return, and there was champagne cooling in a silver bucket near her bedside. He woke as soon as the gurney entered the room, and she was more awake than she had been the last time she saw him. Awake, and sore, and happier than she'd been in years…and proud…she had finally fulfilled Malcolm's dreams, and their agreement.

“Did you see him?” she asked as Malcolm bent and kissed her cheek, her eyes tired but content as he watched her.

“I did.” There were tears in Malcolm's eyes now too. This was all he had ever wanted. “He's so beautiful, and he looks just like you.'

“No, he doesn't.” She shook her head, wanting to say the forbidden words… he looks like Andre… “He's so sweet…where is he?” She looked at the nurse, suddenly terrified…what if he was gone?… if something happened to him… if someone took him…

“He'll be back in a little while. He's sleeping in the nursery.”

“I want him here, in my room.” Marielle looked nervously at Malcolm and he took her hand in his own.

“He'll be all right.”

“I know…but I want to see him…” She was never going to take her eyes from him, never going to let him go, never going to let it happen again…never…she began to feel frantic as she looked around the room for him, and for an instant she was afraid she was getting a headache. But the moment passed and Malcolm poured her a glass of champagne, which she only pretended to sip at. After all she'd been through and the medication they'd given her, even the Cristal he'd brought wasn't too appealing.

They brought the baby back to her after that, and she held him close to her while he slept, and when he woke, she unbuttoned her nightgown and nursed him. It all came back so easily, as though nothing had happened since, no grief, no loss, no tragedy…nothing…the eternity of motherhood was hers, and she was lost in love at the hands of this tiny baby.

Malcolm watched in fascination as she nursed, and he held the baby afterward, watching his son in adoring silence. And later that morning, Malcolm went home, and slept peacefully in his own bedroom, knowing that his life was full, complete, and almost perfect. And despite any doubts he may have had in the past two years, he was glad now that he had married Marielle. The child had made it all worth it.

The heavy oak door swung open somberly, as Marielle stepped into the house on silent feet. She was still serious, from having seen Charles after so many years. It had been a shock, but it had also touched her.

“Good afternoon, Madam.” The butler took her coat from her, as one of the maids stood by to help her. And Marielle sighed as she saw them. It had been a difficult afternoon, a difficult day. She could still feel the chill of the church in her bones as she took off her gloves and laid them beside her black suede handbag.

“Good afternoon, Haverford.” She spoke to the old butler. “Is Mr. Patterson at home?”

“I don't believe so.”

She nodded, and walked up the stairs, torn as to whether she should go to her own room, or the third floor. Often, when she wanted to visit him, she de-tided not to. At first, much to her own surprise, she had had mixed reactions to Malcolm's child. She had a passion and a love for him she had never expected…more even than the first time…more than she'd been capable of at eighteen…more than she had known she could ever love another human being. And yet at the same time, outwardly she held back from him, and often the love she felt for him was a well-kept secret. It was too dangerous to allow herself to fall that much in love with him. She knew that, this time, if something happened, it would kill her. So she forced herself to stay away from him, or even appear to be a little indifferent. But there were times when she couldn't feign the pose, times when she had to be with him, times when she crept upstairs at night on bare feet, and just looked at him while he was sleeping. He was more beautiful than any child she had ever seen, warmer, rounder, sweeter, lovelier, more perfect… he was the reward for all her pain, the gift from God for all she'd lost. He was everything she lived for.

Of course Malcolm adored him as well, particularly his bright mind and easy ways. He had none of her tension or fears or anxieties about Teddy's safety. He was just an easy, happy child who brought joy to all who knew him.

He had made Malcolm greedy for more for a time, and for the first year after Teddy's birth, Malcolm had hoped to get Marielle pregnant. But once again, their efforts had been in vain, and now with Teddy, Malcolm was less anxious to pursue it. His efforts were abandoned before success was gained, and now he and Marielle kept to their own rooms discreetly. She didn't seem to mind and both of them were content with the lives they led. At thirty, Marielle had a child she adored, a husband who treated her well, it was more than most women had these days, and Malcolm had the heir he had longed for. It was enough for both of them.

And Marielle seemed calmer now in some ways, except on the subject of Teddy's safety. There she was leonine in her defenses. The Lindbergh kidnapper had been put to death more than two years before, but she still acted as though there was a potential kidnapper on every corner.

Malcolm was grateful to her, she took excellent care of his child, she was a fine mother, a good wife, and she had given him the perfect, beautiful, bright, blond baby of his dreams. It was all he had ever wanted.

As Marielle walked slowly up the stairs, she debated whether or not to go on, she wasn't really in the mood to endure the nurse, and she didn't want to disturb Teddy with Miss Griffin. But suddenly, she heard him. There was a chortle of laughter far away down an upstairs hall, and as she heard it, she smiled. She had already seen him that morning, and sometimes she tried to ration herself. She had to, or he would become an all-consuming passion. It was a game she constantly played with herself, never al-lowing herself quite enough, never being with him as often as she wanted, because she knew that if she did, she would go mad if anything ever happened. But in truth, the child was already woven into the very fiber of her soul in such a way that she couldn't have torn herself from him. But if she rationed her time with him, she could allow herself to think that she had kept some distance and freedom. Unfortunately, as a result, he spent the rest of the time in the constant care of the indomitable Miss Griffin. Malcolm had insisted she stay with them, and after four years Marielle still disliked her. And Miss Griffin still treated her like a somewhat deficient being. Her migraines, her nerves, her fear of kidnappers, her barely concealed, and obviously unhealthy, passion for the child, alternating with periods of restraint, Miss Griffin felt it was all symptomatic of a truly unworthy person, a view she was not embarrassed to share with any and all who would listen whenever she visited the kitchen. It was Malcolm whom the governess adored, Malcolm she respected, and secretly dreamed of. He was her senior by a mere four years, and had fate been kinder to her, it was Miss Griffin who would have stood in Marielle's shoes, not that pathetic, nervous weakling, as she sometimes called her. She still talked about the Lindbergh child, about how traumatic it had been, and where she'd been when she heard the news. Of course it had been an unpleasant business, but it had happened six years before, and after all, the Lindberghs had had two sons since then.

Marielle stood for a long moment in the hall, listening to the child, smiling to herself, and then, as though pulled by unseen forces, she walked slowly up the marble stairs to the third floor, her elegant suede shoes resounding down the long hallway as she walked toward him. The door of the nursery was closed, and as she reached it, she could hear him giggle. She should have knocked, she knew, Miss Griffin would be shocked by it, but she preferred the element of surprise, and slowly she pressed down the brass handle of the door and it swung slowly open. As it did, a small child turned, with golden curls and huge blue eyes, and his face exploded into smiles when he saw her.

“Mommy!” He flew across the room and into her arms, as her own face melted into a smile and she held him. She picked him up and held him close to her as he nuzzled her neck and breathed deep of her perfume. “You smell so good.” He always noticed things like that, the way she smelled and looked, and she loved it when he thought she looked really pretty. The rest of the women around him were so plain, except Brigitte, Daddy's secretary, who sometimes came to visit him and brought him German storybooks and German candies. She said everything was better in Germany, but Miss Griffin said that wasn't true. Miss Griffin said everything was really better in England.

“How are you today, my handsome prince?” She kissed his cheek and set him down again, as the governess looked at her with disapproval.

“We're very well thank you, Mrs. Patterson. We were about to have tea before you interrupted.” Marielle never thought that he should drink any of it, but Miss Griffin felt it was a sacred ritual, and Malcolm had long since given their afternoon tea parties his official stamp of approval. As usual, Marielle was overruled, she thought milk and cookies would have been healthier, and in truth Teddy preferred them.

“Good afternoon, Nanny.” Marielle smiled uncertainly at her, she was never quite sure of how she would be received, and it made her feel awkward to be around her. But explaining that to Malcolm had been impossible over the years, and sometimes it seemed as though Miss Griffin would stay forever. And at four, it was too soon to say that Teddy didn't need her.

The nurserymaid served tea to the three of them. She was an unpleasant Irish girl Marielle had never liked, but the housekeeper had hired her, and Miss Griffin adored her. She and the driver were also fast friends, and her name was Edith. She had dyed red hair and familiar ways, but she did Teddy's and Miss Griffin's laundry to perfection. And she always kept an interested eye on Marielle's wardrobe.

“And what did you do today?” Marielle asked Teddy conspiratorially over their tea. He looked very serious as he answered.

“I played with Alexander Wilson. He has a train,”he said with enormous importance, and went on to explain to her how it worked, how there were little bridges set up and villages and stations, and how he wished he'd gotten one for his birthday. His birthday had been two weeks before. December was a strange month for her, so much to rejoice over, so much to mourn.

“Maybe Santa Claus will bring you a train.” In fact, she knew that Malcolm had already bought one, and there had been men working in the basement for weeks, to set up a special train room, with mountains and hills and lakes and exactly the kind of villages he had just described seeing at the Wilsons'.

“I hope so.” He looked pensive, and then he smiled up at her again, moving imperceptibly closer. He loved being close to her, smelling her perfume, feeling the silk of her hair, and letting her kiss him the way she had when she first saw him. She was the most exciting person he knew, and he loved her more than anything…even trains…”Did you do something nice today?” He always asked, as though he really cared, just as he asked Malcolm and Brigitte how things were at the office. It made Malcolm smile. And he always said Brigitte was very beautiful, almost as beautiful as his mommy, which pleased the girl from Berlin. She thought him an adorable child, and Marielle had allowed her to take him to the zoo on several occasions, and once she had taken him to the Empire State Building, which he said was the most exciting thing he'd ever done. When he came home that day he'd been so emphatic, he even told Brigitte he loved her.

“I went to church today,” Marielle said quietly, as Miss Griffin watched her. Teddy looked surprised, usually, he went with her, but today he hadn't.

“Is today Sunday?”

“No,” she smiled, wondering if she would ever tell him. Perhaps when he was a man, she suspected even now that one day he would be the kind of person you could talk to. “But I went anyway.”

“Was it nice?” She nodded. It had been “nice”…and sad…and she had seen Charles, after all these years. She hadn't had the courage to tell him about Teddy. It seemed unfair. He was fighting wars in Spain, risking his life, perhaps hoping to die, as she had. But now she had this wonderful child, this ray of hope and sunshine to fill her days and life. On this particular day of the year, she couldn't bring herself to tell Charles that she'd had another baby. All she had told him was about Malcolm. And she knew she wouldn't call him again. She couldn't… it wasn't right… he was part of another lifetime.

“I went to Saint Patrick's Cathedral. You know, the big, big church. We went there last year, at Easter.”

He nodded, like a small, wise man. “I remember. Can we go again?” He liked watching the ice skaters across the street, at Rockefeller Center.

She stayed with him for a long time, talking to him, holding him, and reading him a story, until Miss Griffin said it was time for his bath, and Teddy turned imploringly to look at his mother.

“Can't you stay? Please…” She wanted to, more than anything, but she knew that disrupting Miss Griffin's routine was a breach of conduct the nurse would not easily forgive her.

“I can give him his bath,” she said hesitantly, knowing full well what was going to be the reaction. Miss Griffin hated interference.

“There's no need, thank you, Mrs. Patterson.” She stood up crisply. “Kiss your mother good night, please, Theodore, and tell her you'll see her in the morning.” It was a hint of sorts. And Marielle understood it.

“But I don't want to see her in the morning. I want to see her now…” And I want to see you now too, she wanted to tell him… I want to give you your bath, and make dinner for you, and put you in my bed and hold you till you fall asleep, and kiss your little eyes and cheeks and nose while you're sleeping. But they wouldn't let her do things like that. She had to visit the nursery, and have tea with him, and say good night to him hours before bedtime.

“We'll go to the park tomorrow, sweetheart. Maybe to the boat pond.”

“There's a birthday party at the Oldenfields' tomorrow afternoon, Mrs. Patterson.” Marielle was clearly interfering with their more important social engagements.

“Then I'll take him in the morning.” She looked at Miss Griffin defiantly, but to no avail, the older woman always won, and she had Malcolm's support and knew it. Marielle always felt so powerless here, so out of control, as though she didn't exist and had never existed. “We'll go tomorrow morning.” She looked at Teddy reassuringly but there were tears running down his little round cheeks anyway. Tomorrow was too far away, for both of them, and he knew it.

“Can't you stay?” She shook her head sadly in answer, and held him close to her for a moment. And then she stood up, trying to look lighthearted, as he was led away, crying, to his bathroom. As she left, Marielle closed the door softly behind her. She always felt so cruel leaving him, he was being brought up by strangers, not even friends, and Marielle herself didn't dare defy them. She had been brought into this house to have this child, and once she had, she no longer seemed to serve any purpose whatsoever. It was hard to live with that, hard to feel useless and unwelcome. And yet her life with Malcolm was something she was grateful for, and she had the child…but that was all she had, and why he was so infinitely, desperately precious to her.

She went to her own dressing room then, thinking of him, and changed into a long, pink satin dressing gown, and looked at herself long and hard in the mirror. In some ways, the years had been kind to her. Her figure had stayed the same, despite two children, but her face seemed older now, more sharply etched, more defined and wiser. The eyes were what gave her away, they said she had lived several lifetimes. And as she sat there, she found herself thinking of Charles again, only a few blocks away, and for an insane moment, she wanted to call him, but she knew she couldn't. There was nothing left to say to him except recriminations and apologies and regrets. There were no answers to their questions and now they both knew there never would be.

Malcolm came home shortly after that, and told her he had a business dinner scheduled for that evening. It had come up unexpectedly, and he apologized, as he kissed the top of her head and disappeared hastily to his own bedroom. She ordered a tray in her room that night, and tried to read the same page of the same book over and over, but she found she couldn't make sense of it, no matter how hard she tried. Her mind was elsewhere.

All through the evening, memories of Charles kept intruding on her…Charles in Paris when he was so brave, so wild, so young… in Venice… in Rome on their honeymoon… of Charles laughing…teasing her…swimming in a lake…running through a field…and then the last time…in Switzerland…and now, today… She laid her head down, and cried finally, unable to bear the memories a moment longer. And finally, late that night, as the house lay still, she tiptoed silently upstairs and looked at the sleeping child. She knelt on the floor next to his bed and kissed the velvet of his forehead, and then tiptoed back downstairs to the room where she slept alone. She was aching to call Charles, but she owed Malcolm too much. He had done too much for her. She could not call Charles, no matter what… no matter what she still felt, or what he had said…she knew her days with Charles Delauney were over forever.