Chapter 33

Mrs. Archer smiled as she spoke to Mrs. Welland. A young couple's first grand dinner was a great event.

Newland and May often received friends in a simple way. Archer liked bringing three or four people home for dinner. May always welcomed them with a bright smile.

Her mother taught her to serve her husband that way. Archer sometimes wondered about May's own wishes. Without her training, would she invite anyone?

He no longer tried to find the private May. Family custom shaped every part of her. He could not pull the woman away from that shape.

Rich young couples in New York had to receive many guests. A Welland married to an Archer carried twice that duty.

But a grand dinner was different. It required a hired cook and two borrowed footmen. There must be roses from Henderson's shop.

Each guest must find a menu on a gold-edged card. A menu was a written list of dinner dishes. Roman punch must appear between the main dishes.

Mrs. Archer said the Roman punch changed everything. Its presence promised many other costly details.

There might be canvas-back. Or there might be terrapin, a small water animal with a hard shell. Two soups must begin the dinner.

Guests expected both hot and cold sweets. Women wore low dresses with short sleeves. Every invited name needed equal importance.

A young couple's first formal invitation always interested New York. It used the third person and asked guests in careful words. Even busy, important people rarely refused it.

May won a special success. At her request, the van der Luydens stayed in town. They would attend her farewell dinner for Countess Olenska.

On the great afternoon, both mothers sat in May's drawing room. Mrs. Archer wrote each menu on Tiffany's thickest gold-edged card. Mrs. Welland directed the room.

She decided where the tall green palms and lamps should stand. Archer came home late and found them still working.

Mrs. Archer now wrote name cards for the table. Mrs. Welland studied the great gold sofa. Moving it could make a new sitting corner by the piano.

May was in the dining room. She inspected a hill of deep red roses and fine green leaves. It filled the center of the long table.

Small French sweets rested in open silver baskets. Tall candle holders rose between them. Henry van der Luyden sent a great basket of orchids from Skuytercliff.

Orchids were rare flowers with strange, fine shapes. The basket stood on the piano. Every detail promised a proper grand event.

Mrs. Archer checked each name with her sharp gold pen.

"Henry van der Luyden and Louisa. The Lovell Mingotts. Reggie Chivers and his wife. Lawrence Lefferts and Gertrude."

She stopped at the Leffertses. May was probably right to invite them. Then she continued.

"Mr. and Mrs. Selfridge Merry. Sillerton Jackson. Van Newland and his wife. Time moves so quickly, Newland. He was your best man only yesterday."

Her pen reached the final name. "Countess Olenska. Yes, that is everyone."

Mrs. Welland looked warmly at Archer. "No one can deny that you and May honor Ellen's departure."

Mrs. Archer understood May's purpose. Ellen must tell Europe that New Yorkers were not wild people.

"I am sure Ellen will value it," Mrs. Welland said. "She arrives this morning. This will leave a lovely final memory."

The night before a sea journey was usually sad and empty. Mrs. Welland said this in her happiest voice.

Archer turned toward the door.

"Please look at the table," Mrs. Welland called. "And do not let May tire herself."

He pretended not to hear. He hurried upstairs to the library.

The library looked back like the false face of a stranger. Servants cleaned away every sign of his usual life. They placed ash trays and sweet-smelling wood boxes for the men's cigars.

The room now wore a polite smile. It was ready for guests.

"This will not last long," Archer thought. Then he went to dress.

Ten days passed since Ellen left New York. During that time, Archer received one sign from her. She returned his key.

The key came to his office in a closed envelope. Ellen wrote his name on it. Inside, thin paper covered the key.

Another man might read this as a final answer. It also looked like a well-known move in a secret game. Archer chose a different meaning.

Ellen still fought against her fate. She would go to Europe, but not to her husband. Nothing could stop Archer from following her.

He would take a step that could never be undone. Ellen would see that he truly left everything. Then she would not send him away.

This trust in the future helped him act normally. He did not write to Ellen. No word or look showed his pain or shame.

Their silent game felt deadly. Still, Archer believed he held the strongest cards. He waited.

Some moments were difficult. The day after Ellen left, Mr. Letterblair called him. Catherine wanted to create a trust for Ellen.

A trust was money held under legal rules for another person. Archer and his older partner studied every detail for two hours.

Archer felt that Letterblair wanted more than legal help. Perhaps he called Archer because they were family. Yet Archer expected another reason to appear.

"The lady cannot deny that this is a fine plan," Letterblair said. He read the final page under his breath. "Everyone has treated her very well."

"Everyone?" Archer asked with a hard little laugh. "Do you mean her husband's offer? He kindly offered to return her own money."

Letterblair's thick brows rose a little. "My dear sir, the law is the law. Your wife's cousin married under French law. She must have known its meaning."

"Even so, we know what happened later." Archer stopped.

Letterblair rested his pen against his large, rough nose. His look carried a quiet lesson. Good older men could understand bad acts without doing them.

"I do not defend the Count's behavior," he said. "But perhaps the wrong was not all on one side."

He would not promise that Ellen gave no answer to Olenski's wrongs. There were stories about her young foreign friend.

Letterblair opened a locked drawer. He pushed a folded paper toward Archer.

"This report came from careful private questions," he said.

Archer did not touch the paper. He did not deny the idea either.

Letterblair's voice became less certain. The report proved nothing, he said. Still, small facts could point in one direction.

"This calm answer is best for everyone," he finished.

"Of course," Archer said. He pushed the report back.

One or two days later, Catherine called Archer to her. That visit tried him even more. He found the old lady sad and cross.

"You know Ellen left me," she began. She did not wait for an answer. "Do not ask why. She gave so many reasons that I forgot them."

Catherine privately believed Ellen could not face the dull life. Augusta and Catherine's daughters-in-law agreed.

"I cannot fully blame her," Catherine said. "Olenski is a complete bad man. But life with him must be livelier than Fifth Avenue."

The family would never admit that. They thought Fifth Avenue was heaven. They also wanted the finest Paris street added to it.

Ellen still firmly refused to return to Olenski. Instead, she would live in Paris with foolish Medora.

"Well, Paris is Paris," Catherine said. "A carriage costs almost nothing there. Ellen was as happy as a bird. I will miss her."

Two dry tears rolled down Catherine's full cheeks. They disappeared into the deep folds of her chest.

"I only ask them to stop troubling me," she finished. "They must let me eat my thin meal in peace."

Her eyes gave Archer a small, sad light.

That evening, Archer returned home. May announced her farewell dinner for Ellen.

They did not speak Ellen's name since her sudden return to Washington. Archer looked at May with surprise.

"A dinner? Why?"

May's face became red. "But you like Ellen. I thought this would please you."

"It is very kind to put it that way. But I do not understand."

"I mean to do it, Newland." May rose quietly and went to her desk. "The invitations are already written. Mother helped me. She agrees that we must."

May stopped with a shy smile. At that moment, Archer saw the Family standing before him. It seemed to have taken his wife's body.

"Very well," he said.

She placed the guest list in his hand. He looked at it but saw nothing.

Before the dinner, Archer entered the drawing room. May bent over the fire. She tried to make the new wood burn.

The fireplace was almost never used. Its bright clean wall stones fought her efforts.

Every tall lamp burned. Henry's orchids stood openly around the room. May placed them in modern white dishes and heavy silver bowls.

People generally praised Mrs. Newland Archer's drawing room. A gold bamboo plant holder blocked the great window. Fresh pink and purple flowers always filled it.

Older people might place a small metal Venus there. May's room followed newer taste.

Pale cloth covered the sofas and chairs. Small soft tables carried many silver toys. White animals and bright photograph frames crowded their tops.

Pink lamps rose among the palms like flowers from a hot country.

"I do not think Ellen ever saw this room fully lighted," May said. She rose from the fire with red cheeks. Pride moved through her eyes.

The metal fire tools stood against the side wall. They suddenly fell with a great crash. Archer's answer disappeared under the noise.

Before he lifted them, a servant announced Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden.

The other guests followed quickly. Everyone knew Henry wanted dinner on time. Soon the room was almost full.

Archer showed Mrs. Selfridge Merry a small shining painting of sheep. Mr. Welland gave it to May for Christmas. A painter named Verbeckhoven made it.

Then Archer found Ellen beside him.

She looked extremely pale. Her dark hair seemed heavier beside her white face. Several lines of amber beads circled her neck.

Amber was a clear yellow-brown stone made from ancient tree material. The beads suddenly recalled the child Ellen Mingott. Archer danced with her at children's parties.

Medora first brought her to New York then.

The yellow-brown beads made Ellen's skin look tired. Perhaps her dress was also wrong for her. Her face held no light and seemed almost ugly.

Archer never loved it more.

Their hands met. Through the noise, he thought Ellen spoke.

"Yes, we sail tomorrow on the Russia."

Doors opened, and every voice became one empty sound. Then May called across the room.

"Newland, dinner is ready. Will you please take Ellen in?"

Ellen placed her hand on Archer's arm. It wore no glove.

He remembered another night in her small Twenty-third Street room. He watched that hand while sitting beside her. Now all her lost beauty seemed to live there.

Its long pale fingers lay on his dark sleeve. Small soft lines crossed each finger joint.

Archer told himself he must follow her. Seeing that hand once more would be reason enough.

Ellen was the special foreign guest. Therefore, she sat on Archer's right. Louisa van der Luyden accepted the lower place on his left.

Only a foreign visitor could make Louisa accept it. The honor also marked Ellen as someone from outside.

Louisa accepted her place with perfect kindness. She clearly approved of the whole dinner. Certain duties had to be done fully or not at all.

Old New York always gathered around a woman from its family before sending her away. Nothing was too much after Ellen booked her passage.

The Wellands and Mingotts now showed their endless love. Everyone forgot old complaints. They accepted her past and filled her present with family light.

Louisa gave Ellen her softest form of kindness. Across the table, Henry sent warm looks. They seemed to defend every flower he sent Ellen before.

Archer sat at the head of the table. He felt light and unreal. It seemed that he floated between the great ceiling lights and the roof.

He looked from one calm, well-fed face to another. Everyone quietly ate the costly canvas-back. They looked harmless.

Yet Archer suddenly saw a group of silent plotters. He and the pale woman beside him stood at the center.

Then many small signs joined in one great flash. Everyone believed that Archer and Ellen were lovers. They believed it in the strongest foreign sense.

For months, quiet eyes watched him. Patient ears listened. Somehow these people arranged his separation from Ellen.

Now the whole family gathered around May. All pretended that nobody knew or imagined anything. May simply wished to say goodbye to a loved cousin.

This was old New York's way. It stopped trouble without spilling blood.

These people feared public shame more than sickness. They valued good public behavior above courage. Nothing was worse than a loud emotional scene.

Only the behavior that caused such a scene was worse.

Archer felt like a prisoner inside an armed camp. Over green asparagus from Florida, the guests judged Beaufort and Regina. Asparagus was a long green spring vegetable.

Their voices showed the hard will of Archer's guards.

"They are showing me what will happen to me," he thought.

No one threatened him openly. Hints were stronger than action. Silence could defeat dangerous words.

The doors of the family tomb seemed to close around him.

Archer laughed. Louisa looked at him in surprise.

"Do you find it funny?" she asked with a tight smile. "Poor Regina's plan to remain here does seem foolish."

"Of course," Archer said quietly.

Ellen's other dinner partner was talking to the woman beyond him. May looked quickly down the table. Archer understood her message.

A host could not ignore the woman on his right. He turned toward Ellen. Her pale smile met him.

The smile seemed to say, "Let us finish this together."

"Was the journey tiring?" Archer asked. His voice sounded surprisingly natural.

Ellen said she rarely traveled with so little trouble. Then she remembered the terrible heat inside the train.

Archer said that heat would not trouble her in France.

"I almost froze one April," he said. "The train ran between Calais and Paris."

Ellen believed him. A traveler could always bring another warm blanket. Every kind of travel had its own troubles.

Archer said no trouble mattered beside the joy of escape. Color changed in Ellen's face.

"I plan to travel a great deal soon," he added. His voice suddenly rose.

Ellen's face shook slightly. Archer leaned toward Reggie Chivers.

"Reggie, what about a journey around the world? We could leave next month. I will go if you will."

Mrs. Reggie answered before her husband. Reggie could not leave before her Martha Washington Ball. She planned it for a home for blind people during Easter week.

Reggie added another problem. By then, he must practice for the international polo match. Polo was a game played on horses with long sticks.

Selfridge Merry heard the words "around the world." He once traveled around it in his steam boat. Now he sent facts down the table.

Many Mediterranean ports were not deep enough for great boats. But perhaps that did not matter. After Athens, Smyrna, and Constantinople, what remained?

Mrs. Merry thanked Dr. Bencomb for one wise order. He made them promise to avoid Naples because of a dangerous fever.

"Still, India needs three full weeks," Mr. Merry said. He wanted everyone to respect him as a serious traveler.

At that point, the ladies returned to the drawing room.

The men gathered in the library. Lawrence Lefferts soon controlled the talk, though older and greater men were present.

Henry van der Luyden and Selfridge Merry sat in the best chairs. Everyone silently saved those chairs for them. Still, they stopped to hear Lawrence.

Again the talk turned to the Beauforts. Lawrence spoke fiercely about good Christian men and the holy family home. Anger made his words sharp and powerful.

If everyone followed his example, society would be safe. It would never receive a foreign outsider like Beaufort. His marriage should not change that.

Beaufort married a Dallas. Lawrence said even a van der Luyden wife should not open doors for him.

How did Beaufort enter the Dallas family? First, he pushed into important houses. Mrs. Lemuel Struthers and women like her followed his path.

Society could perhaps accept women with common manners. It gained little, but the harm stayed small. Men with unknown families and dirty money were different.

Accepting them would break society apart, Lawrence warned.

"If this continues, our children will fight for invitations from men who steal," he cried. "They will marry Beaufort's children born outside marriage."

Reggie Chivers and young Van Newland told him to speak more carefully.

Selfridge Merry looked truly worried. Pain and dislike crossed Henry's fine face.

"Does Beaufort have such children?" Sillerton Jackson asked with sudden interest.

Lawrence tried to turn the question away with a laugh. Jackson moved close to Archer's ear.

"Men who always correct the world are strange," he said. "People with the worst cooks fear poison at every dinner."

Jackson heard that Lawrence had a private reason for his loud speech. This time, it involved a typist. A typist was a woman hired to type office papers.

The talk passed Archer like a mindless river. It ran because it did not know how to stop. Faces showed interest, pleasure, and laughter.

The younger men joked. Henry and Selfridge carefully praised the Archer Madeira.

Everyone treated Archer with special warmth. They acted like guards trying to make prison comfortable. Their kindness only made his need for freedom stronger.

Soon the men joined the women. Archer met May's victorious eyes. She believed every part of the dinner succeeded.

May rose from Ellen's side. Louisa called Ellen to the gold sofa where she sat like a queen. Mrs. Selfridge Merry crossed the room to join them.

The same quiet plan continued here. Society now publicly cleaned Ellen's name. It also erased every sign of trouble.

These friendly, hard people acted as if Ellen never behaved badly. They also acted as if Archer's marriage held complete happiness.

Each person pretended never to hear or imagine anything else. Their shared false act told Archer the truth again.

New York believed he was Ellen's lover.

Victory shone in May's eyes. For the first time, Archer knew that May believed it too.

Dark laughter rang inside him. Still, he discussed the Martha Washington Ball with Mrs. Reggie and Mrs. Van Newland.

The evening ran onward like the same mindless river.

At last, Ellen stood to say goodbye. In one moment, she would be gone. Archer tried to remember their dinner talk.

He could not remember one exchanged word.

Ellen walked toward May. All the guests formed a circle around them. The two young women held hands.

Then May leaned forward and kissed her cousin.

"Our hostess is clearly the prettier woman," Reggie quietly told Mrs. Van Newland.

His words recalled an old cruel remark from Beaufort. Beaufort once said May's beauty had no power.

A moment later, Archer stood in the hall. He placed Ellen's cloak around her shoulders.

Through his troubled thoughts, he held to one rule. He would say nothing that might frighten her. No power could change his plan now.

He could let the evening move as it wished. Still, he suddenly hungered for one private moment. Perhaps they could stand alone beside her carriage.

"Is your carriage here?" he asked.

At that moment, servants wrapped Louisa in her dark fur.

"We are driving dear Ellen home," Louisa said gently.

Archer's heart made a hard movement. Ellen held her cloak and fan in one hand. She offered him the other.

"Goodbye," Ellen said.

"Goodbye. But I will see you soon in Paris."

Archer seemed to shout the words, though he spoke them normally.

"Oh," Ellen said softly. "If only you and May could come."

Henry stepped forward and offered his arm. Archer turned to help Louisa.

For one moment, he saw inside the great dark carriage. The pale shape of Ellen's face floated there. Her eyes shone with a steady light.

Then she was gone.

Archer climbed the steps again. Lawrence Lefferts came down with Gertrude. He caught Archer's sleeve and waited while his wife passed.

"Old friend, please let people understand something," Lawrence said. "Tomorrow night, I am dining with you at the club. Thank you. Good night."

Lawrence wanted Archer to cover his secret meeting.

"The dinner went beautifully, did it not?" May asked.

She stood at the library door. Archer started at the sound.

After the last carriage left, he shut himself inside. He hoped May would go straight to bed. Instead, she stood before him.

May looked pale and worn. Yet false energy still shone from her. She seemed too tired to feel tired.

"May I come in and discuss the dinner?" she asked.

"Of course, but you must need sleep."

"I am not sleepy. I want to sit with you."

Archer moved her chair close to the fire. May sat, and he returned to his seat.

For a long time, neither spoke.

Then Archer began suddenly. "Since you want to talk, I must tell you something. I tried to tell you the other night."

May looked at him quickly. "Yes, dear. Something about yourself?"

"About myself. You say that you are not tired. But I am terribly tired."

May filled at once with loving concern. She saw this illness coming, she said. The office worked him much too hard.

"Perhaps that is the reason," Archer said. "In any case, I need a break."

"A break? Do you want to leave the law?"

"I want to go away at once. I want a long journey, very far from everything."

Archer stopped. He tried to sound like a tired man needing change. But his voice shook with hope.

"Away from everything," he repeated.

"How far? Where would you go?" May asked.

"I do not know. India or Japan."

May stood. Archer sat with his head down and his chin on his hands. He felt her warm body close above him.

Her familiar sweet smell surrounded him.

"As far as that? I fear you cannot go, dear." May's voice was not steady. "Not unless you take me."

Archer did not speak.

"The doctors may not let me travel," she continued. Each clear word struck his mind like a small hammer.

"You see, Newland, this morning I became sure. I am going to have a baby. I have wanted this so much."

Archer looked up with sick eyes. May dropped beside him, full of fresh color and tears. She hid her face against his knee.

"Oh, my dear," Archer said.

He held her close. His cold hand moved over her hair.

They remained that way for a long time. Inside Archer, dark voices laughed loudly.

At last, May freed herself and stood.

"You did not guess?"

"Yes. No. I mean, of course I hoped."

They looked at each other. Silence returned.

Then Archer turned his eyes away. "Did you tell anyone else?"

"Only Mamma and your mother." May stopped, then spoke quickly. Red color climbed to her forehead.

"And Ellen. I told you about our long talk. You know how dear she was to me."

Archer's heart seemed to stop. "Oh," he said.

May watched him carefully.

"Did you mind that I told Ellen first?"

"Mind? Why should I?" Archer gathered his last strength. "But that happened two weeks ago. You said you became sure today."

May's face burned more deeply. She did not look away.

"No, I was not sure then. But I told her that I was. You see, I was right."

Her blue eyes filled with tears. Victory shone through them.