SEVENTY-THREE

I had been wrong about another thing as well—in addition to society’s views on me as a widow—wrong to believe winter had come back into my life with a force that would never leave. Winter was not here to stay; spring could come again, and with it a riot of color, joy upon joy, a vivid happiness like none I had ever imagined. Previously, I had only danced on the edge of happy. Now I was it. And it was as though God, or some other divine creator, had taken big splashes of oil paint, resmearing a previously drab canvas of beiges, blacks, and grays with every color of the rainbow, with passionate reds, stimulating purples, and, best of all, greens: the color of life.

Yes, to steal a line from Brontë: Reader, I married him.

At the shocking insistence of nearly everyone we knew, positively encouraging us, Chance and I were married in a very public ceremony in June of the year following John’s death; the lone dissenter was my father, who was still missing my first husband, the son of his heart. The bride even wore white, a wreath of flowers replacing a veil. A sumptuous feast followed, plus a quantity of fine wine: I do not believe we either of us stopped laughing or smiling for more than a single moment that day; we were that giddy.

As I looked around me at all of my family, all of our friends, I thought that if only my beloved Katherine could be with us, if only my dearest Weston were still alive, the day would be complete.

There was only one moment that gave me pause. It was when I saw Charles Biltmore, standing there alone. Unbidden, a picture came to my mind of Constance, standing beside him, pointing an accusing finger at us. As quickly as the picture came at me, I shoved it back down.

When the last guest had gone, Chance and I retired as man and wife for the first time to the bedroom I had previously shared with John. Before, he had always had to sneak in; now he was the legitimate master of the house.

I had changed much in the bedroom in preparation of his moving in. The heavy furniture had been replaced with lighter pieces, the dark draperies with something filmy in white. I had even chosen mirrors that were less ornate, the gold trimming the glass untouched by any black.

White: I wanted the color of innocence to surround me now as much as possible.

My escritoire I kept just as it had always been.

I had also ordered a new bed for us. Even though we had slept a few times in the one that had been there before, it seemed it would be wrong somehow, an ill omen, to begin my new marriage by sleeping in the same bed I had primarily shared with the old husband. And so, in place of the four-poster bed that had been there before, there was now a great big brass bed with massive posts and sheer white drapes, their sashes tied to the posts on all sides. Entering that bed, untying the sashes so the drapes surrounded us, I felt as though I were entering a sultan’s harem in which I was the only woman who might please.

Making love with Chance that night was like a new experience for both of us. Even though we had now lain together such a quantity of times I could no longer count them—any chance we could get, really—there was a freshness in the air as we slowly undressed each other, a confidence with each other’s bodies that stood in marked contrast to what I had had with John, but also an awe-filled tender newness as though we had never done anything quite like what we were now doing. I wondered, as he slowly entered me, as I wrapped my legs around his hips the better to hold him closer: How many other women ever get to be a virgin a second time?

“I love you, Emma.” He looked into my eyes, pushing deeper. “I believe I will always love you.”

“I love you.” I opened myself wider still to him. “You are my entire life.”

In contrast to the dank honeymoon I had spent with John in Scotland, Chance and I chose to tour the Continent instead: France, Spain, even Italy, where we got to see the country where Chance had supposedly made his fortune.

After the noise of Rome, the splendor of Florence, I asked Chance if we mightn’t proceed to Venice, there to seek out news of Katherine, who was weighing on my mind. He proved in that, as in all things, agreeable.

And so we found ourselves in the city of canals, which were equal parts pretty and smelly. Venice seemed such a small place, when taken in comparison with London, that I commenced my search at the center of the Venetian world: St. Mark’s Square. But the pigeon droppings there gave no more answers than could Josephine Bonaparte’s long-deceased fortune-tellers. Growing increasingly anxious to find Katherine, I took to haunting the shops surrounding the square. It was finally there, in a place specializing in pretty stationery and writing instruments made out of Murano glass, that I at last achieved success. Despite her indifference to fashion while growing up, Katherine had always loved to look at pretty things. “Ah, yes,” said the shopkeeper, his thick moustache twitching. “She always looks but almost never buys.” Then he gave me directions, involving a number of narrow canal alleys, to where I might find “the young Englishwoman with the flame of hair.” He also said something about a “bambino.”

It turned out Katherine was living in a rather mean pensione, with noisy neighbors above and below, but that did not matter: My darling Katherine was alive!

As was the “bambino,” a boy, clinging to her skirts.

“Aunt Emma!” she exclaimed in shock, upon opening the door, as though I were the ghost risen from a grave, not she.

She was still beautiful, if a little faded, her clothes not as grand as they once had been. And she was older, only by a few years on the calendar, but really in so many ways, than the last time I had seen her, a few early lines of struggle added to her face.

She introduced me to the boy, Antonio. “Hugh insisted we call him that,” she said. “Hugh said if we are to live here, then our son should have a name like the children he will be growing up with. Plus,” she added, “if I ever see my father again, hopefully he will be pleased I sort of named his grandson after him.”

Hugh was not at home, would not be back for hours. Katherine seemed to be grateful for this, as was I, although I suspect for different sides of the same reason. She, I would guess, did not want me to judge him harshly as the man who had brought her down so low in the world; for the circumstances of her day-to-day life were clearly far removed from the opportunities I would have chosen for her. And I did not want to judge him harshly, because she obviously still loved him so well.

She asked after John and I realized how little she knew of what had gone on since her disappearance. Determined not to let her see the crying I still experienced every day on the inside, I told her about the loss of Weston. Then, clearing my throat, I told her of John’s murder. And, of course, I told her of my remarriage to Chance, whom I had not brought with me to see her; perhaps I, for my own part, had not wanted him to be judged by her and found wanting in any way.

“This…life,” I could not stop myself from asking, thinking on how little I would like to live where she lived, unless of course I had the money to buy my comfort, “do you like it? Are you happy here?”

“No,” she said with a strained smile, “I do not like much about my life here.” And then her smile grew both more serene and vehement, all at the same time. “But I am happy. As long as Hugh and Antonio are here, I shall always be happy.”

I looked at Antonio playing and thought of Weston. I was sure Antonio would grow up to be smart, like his mother.

“And what of you?” Her chin jutted out. “Are you happy, with your new Chance?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling the truth of it, “I am.”

And so there we were. It appeared we both had what we wanted; that we were indeed happy with the worlds we had chosen for ourselves.

I opened my reticule, gave her everything but my return fare back to Chance. She resisted, but I pressed it upon her. It was the least I could do.

As I was leaving an hour later, longing to return to Chance, Katherine stopped me at the door. “Please,” she said, “when you get back home, don’t tell any of the family about seeing me or what it is like here.” She glanced at the meanness of the room around her, sniffed the bad air. “I do not think any of them would understand.”

Through it all, through the entire extended trip, Chance and I never once argued, were always of one mind in everything.

It seemed there was nothing missing to make our lives together complete.