"Lucy-"

"No." I backed away from him, holding up my hands as if I could keep him from me. Beyond him I saw the gatekeeper start from his post, heading toward us as if he thought I was in danger. I waved at him and shook my head, stopping him before he could come too close. "I thought you no longer cared for me. I was . . . To be truthful, I was not sure you ever had. You've never said a word to me. . . . I've had no idea of your feelings. . . ."

"Of course you had," William said gently, and he kept moving toward me, closer and closer, until I realized I'd been standing still, no longer backing away. He captured me neatly with his hands before I could rally myself to move. "You're no fool, Lucy. Don't act like one. You've known exactly how I felt. I thought you felt the same."

"You never asked me-"

"Should I have, when it was so clear to me? I've treasured your smiles, darling. I've thought of nothing but you all summer long."

"But you didn't write. You didn't visit-"

"I've had no chance. I wanted to make sure everything was right, that I was secure enough to come to your father, to be a viable suitor."

"There was no need. He anointed you from the first," I said bitterly.

"I've made him a fortune," William said, without pride or arrogance; it was simply truth.

"And I'm your reward."

He released me and stepped back. "Only if you want to be, Lucy."

I saw the hurt in his eyes and felt ashamed for having put it there when the truth was as he'd said it. I did love him, and I knew that I was merely punishing him for his inattention, for the hurt he'd caused me. But something in me would not let me stop-it was a flaw, one that I'd fought often over the years. Now I did not even try to calm myself.

"I don't know if I want to marry you," I told him, feeling a dim satisfaction when he flinched. "How can I believe you truly care for me? This summer I've seen no evidence of it."

"Because you haven't seen me-"

"Why is that, William?"

"I told you-"

"You said you'd been busy. Is this how it's to be when we're married? When you're busy, I just won't see you at home? You'll begin taking your dinners at the Knickerbocker or Union League-"

"Good G.o.d," he said. He lurched forward, grabbing my arms and pulling me hard so I fell against his chest. "Do you really think I could? Do you really think that I could keep from you a single moment longer than I must? Lucy, don't you know me at all?"

He held me away, and before I could answer, he kissed me.

I was twenty-five, and though I'd had suitors before, I'd never been kissed quite this way, so hard, with such need. I felt ravaged there on the sh.o.r.e, breathless as he pulled away and stared at me in a way that brought heat into my face. It was then that I first felt it: this sense that there was something hovering just beyond my knowledge, some vast landscape that I could not recognize, could not begin to know.

The tide had crept up higher so we were both standing in the weak surf. It lapped against the leather of our shoes. Above us, the gull keened and dipped; beyond us, the watchman turned discreetly away.

"We should . . . we should go," I managed, pushing away from William. I was shaky, the hem of my skirt wet and dragging against me as I tried to move. William took my elbow, steadying me until we had stepped onto firmer sand. I felt the press of his fingers on my skin. I was too tender; it felt like a bruise.

"Marry me," he whispered, and his voice called to some yearning deep within me, something untried, that had only just been summoned. When I looked at him, I knew that whatever this feeling was, it was not mine alone.

"Yes," I said.

That feeling did not go away. In the years since, it had grown stronger, until that odd yearning left me restless and weary. I had a.s.sumed children would silence it, and when there were none, I thought I should put my energies into filling the world with beauty. But William only laughed at my efforts: I was not a good pianist, and he was the much better singer. My father told him that as a girl, I had become unhealthily obsessed with art, so William brought me embroidery silks and gave me carte blanche to shop. Make my world more beautiful, Lucy. I should like to come home to a palace of peace and contentment.

Foolishly, I had agreed with him; I had thought being the queen of his castle might be enough. But that strange longing began to create its own place within me. Only the laudanum helped ease it.

William did not think the morphia was healthy, and I deferred to him; I did not take it as often as I wanted. Not in the morning, nor before a ball. Never-like tonight-before the opera, though my anxiety was such that I could barely fasten the diamond earrings William had given me. I glanced at the dark bottle on my dressing table, and Moira paused in brushing out my cape and said, "Should I bring it to you tonight, ma'am?" My throat constricted in want of it.

But William would know, and he would be angry, and I was tired of seeing that desperate concern in his eyes, so I shook my head and turned back to the mirror, finishing my toilette before I went downstairs to find William pacing the hall. He stopped when he heard me and grinned as if he could not contain himself.

"What?" I asked. "What is it?"

"Only that you're so beautiful," he said.

"That is certainly not why you're smirking like a fool."

"No. I've a surprise for you."

"A surprise?" I could not help my dismay.

"I know you dislike surprises. But not this one, I think."

"What is it?"

He clucked at me. "Not yet. Not yet."

I could not explain, but I felt anxious again, and afraid. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Moira coming down the stairs with my cape, and I grabbed hold of the newel post and said in a quiet voice, "Moira, will you bring me my cordial, please?"

"She'll do no such thing," William said. He held out his hand for my cape, and Moira, that stupid girl, hesitated between us, until she gave it to him and curtsied and slid past me. William draped my cape over my shoulders and handed me my bag. "Come along, Lucy. Don't spoil it."

He propelled me to the door, out into the cold evening. The air was clear and frozen, with small, dry flakes of frosted snow swirling in the streetlights, blown by the wind. The black iron frets and anthemion of the front fence glittered with ice, and beyond, Washington Square was silent, imprisoned by snow.

The carriage waited on the street; our driver, Jimson, was rubbing his hands together madly, trying to stay warm. Once we were inside the carriage, William sat heavily beside me, taking my gloved hand in his as if he wanted to anchor me there, as if he were afraid I would fly out the window and into the world. In truth, had I been able to do that, I would have been gone into that frigid air, breathing it so deep it stung my lungs.

Instead I looked out my window, watching the lights of Fifth Avenue flash by, until we jolted to a stop before the storied citrus-yellow facade of the Metropolitan Opera House, and I was both relieved and anxious again. It was William's way to deliver surprises before crowds, to shower largesse and distinction before those who still did not quite respect his background. He knew, too, that I would never challenge him before my friends, that I would feign the pleasure he wanted me to feel.

The door to the carriage opened, and William stepped down and waited as I came out. I took his elbow. His arm was like an iron bar beneath my fingers. The doormen ushered us inside, into globe-lit brilliance that played off marble and gold and elaborate chandeliers. The opera had already started as we went to our box, which was, as William was wont to say, one of the finest in the house, near the middle of the first tier of boxes-the Diamond Horseshoe. My father's name-or mine-would have brought us such positioning, but William had made sure of it by doing some business for the Vanderbilts and had procured this box well before the building was finished.

The talk and laughter were loud even above the music. William pushed aside the heavy plush curtains and stood back for me to go inside. We arrived well into the performance, but it was early yet, and many of the boxes were empty, as they would stay until near the second intermission.

William tapped my arm, and I reached into my bag for the opera gla.s.ses and handed them to him. I heard the little catch as he opened them up, then the quiet clicking of his tongue as he surveyed the boxes.

"Julia Breckenwood is here sans Steven," he leaned forward to whisper to me. "Ah, look at those diamonds at Daisy Hadden's throat. No doubt old Moreton is paying for last week's indiscretion." He handed me the gla.s.ses. "Look for yourself."

I took them, but not to look at Daisy Hadden's diamonds. I searched for Millicent, though I was not sure why. The intimacy of the other night was an embarra.s.sment to me. When I did see her, sitting in her upper box with her husband, looking back at me with her own jeweled gla.s.ses, I glanced away, hoping she thought my attention had been elsewhere. Still, I sat until the first intermission in a gloom of antic.i.p.ation; she would search me out, I knew.

But it was not Millicent who arrived first at our box. It was Charles McKim.

He was an architect who was developing a reputation for designing homes, and though I knew of him, I had never met him. Nor, I thought, had William. But when McKim entered our box, my husband nearly jumped in delight.

"Charles!" he said, shaking the man's hand and patting him on the back. "How good of you to come."

McKim nodded. "It was good of you to invite me. I confess I've been too busy this year to make many performances." He looked past William to where I sat and said, "This must be the lovely Mrs. Carelton."

"My wife, Lucy," William said. Then, to me, "My dear, this is Charles McKim. He's an architect with McKim, Mead and White."

"Yes, I'm familiar with your reputation, Mr. McKim." I held out my hand, which he shook limply, his eyes lingering-as they were meant to-on my diamond bracelet.

"I'm delighted to be working for you, Mrs. Carelton. I cannot tell you how pleased I am to be of service."

"Working for me?"

"Your husband has graciously hired me to design your new home."

"Our new home?" I looked beyond him to where William stood beaming with pride, and I realized that this was his surprise.

"What do you think, Lucy?" William asked. He seemed hardly able to stay still. "I've been planning it for months."

"Planning . . . what?"

"That property on Fifth Avenue. I've decided to build. It's time, don't you think, that we leave the Row?"

I stared at him in shocked disbelief. Finally I said, "But . . . I grew up in that house."

"It was fine twenty years ago, Lucy, but things have changed. Why shouldn't we have a fine house? Everyone else has. Mansions are going up daily. Certainly we should be among them. There's electricity now. Electricity. Think of it-no more dim gaslight."

"No doubt Mrs. Carelton would be ecstatic about the chance to decorate such a home," McKim put in.

William came close to me and whispered, "What woman wouldn't love the chance? You can shop all day if you like. It will take your mind off-it will . . . ah, just think of it, Lucy." He turned to McKim and said silkily, "As you can see, my wife is quite overcome with excitement."

Just then, as if she'd planned the moment, the curtains swept aside and Millicent hurried in.

"William! Lucy!" She held out her arms as if we hadn't seen one another for a year. "Are you enjoying the performance?"

"I think LaBlache is in fine voice tonight," William said.

"Ah yes, but such a gloomy part! I own I can hardly wait until she dies at the end." Millicent smiled. "How lovely you look this evening, Lucy. I knew that green would be delicious against your pale skin. But where is your father? I haven't seen him for the longest time."

"He dislikes the German," William said. He looked at McKim. "DeLancey insists that he won't come here until they bring back the French or Italian opera. I'm afraid he misses the Academy-he kept a box there until the very end."

"Or perhaps it's only the Patti he misses," Millie said with a smile.

"I think we all miss Adelina Patti," William said. "But Millicent, you've come at the perfect time. I've just given Lucy the surprise of her life."

"A surprise?" Millicent's eyes went wide, but there was worry in them as she looked at me.

I tried to smile. "Yes. It was quite delightful. It seems all William's dreams are coming true. We're to build on that plat on Fifth Avenue."

Millicent clasped her gloved hands before her, smiling. "Oh, so he's told you, then."

"You knew?"

"Everyone knew. He's been keeping the secret for weeks. How glad you must be. I shall take you to the Art a.s.sociation for the auctions. They have the most wonderful things. You'll need more Louis the Sixteenth, of course. Perhaps the Duveens will set aside an old master or two for you-"

My head began to ache. I put my fingers to my temples.

"Shall I bring you some punch, darling?" William asked me. I nodded, and he and McKim left.

Millie settled herself into the chair beside me. Her diamond tiara sparkled in the light, as did her earrings, so stars seemed to twinkle in her dark hair. She was wearing deep red velvet, and she looked young and pretty and alive, with her flashing dark eyes. I felt used up beside her.

"Je m'etouffe," I whispered, then regretted it; I had not meant to reveal how sick I felt.

Millicent grabbed my arm. "Come. Let's go outside, where the air is so much cooler."

I found myself rising, stumbling amid the chairs, pushing past the heavy curtains into the hallway, where the air was less close, less heavy. I could bring it into my lungs. I leaned against the wall, and my friend stood in front of me, shielding me from curious eyes, for which I was grateful.

"I thought you would be happy," Millie said. "We all thought you would be happy. The house he's planning-why, it's so beautiful. And it would be all your own. . . ."

"Papa has taken up residence at the Union," I said quietly. "He's there nearly every moment."

"But the Row house is so cramped and small. And really, Lucy, it's Fifth Avenue. I cannot understand you. Why aren't you happy?"

She sounded so plaintive and confused that it startled me. Then I saw Daisy Hadden just behind her, watching us, and I struggled to find solid ground, to soothe myself. "Why, of course I'm happy, Millicent," I said, wishing that simply saying the words could make it so. "Of course I am. It's just that I've a terrible headache."

Millicent looked relieved. "Oh, it's no wonder. I've nearly one myself. This terrible music."

"Yes," I said, relieved myself at our mutual deception. "I find I agree with Papa; I've a longing for the French or the Italian."

Millicent agreed: "The German is so hard on the ears."

We lapsed into silence. Once I would have said Millicent was my closest friend. She had been, and not so long ago, but these silences had begun to come more and more often, and I was not sure who to blame for them. She looked uncomfortable, and I felt nothing but a supreme weariness.

I had to force myself to turn around and go back to the box, to sit down. When Millicent left, saying, "Are you going to the Baldwins' after?" I could only nod numbly and stare at the stage before me, drowning in the dragging hours, wishing for my medicated darkness.

"I wish you had told me your plans before we went," I said to William as we made our way to the Baldwins' home on Madison Square Park. The bright arc lights streaked into the carriage windows, blinding for a moment before lapsing again into darkness, and I shielded my eyes with my hand.

"Really, Lucy," he said. "You had to know already what I planned. You knew when I bought that plat; I've held on to it for nearly a year. What else did you think I would do with it?"

"Sell it, perhaps," I snapped. "As ill-gotten gains."

He laughed at that. "How melodramatic. Don't tell me you've forgotten how your father made his money. You've lived for years on ill-gotten gains. I merely took advantage of an opportunity. Villiard wasn't the only one ruined by Marine Bank's collapse. We could have been there too, if I hadn't seen it coming-"

"Yes. Thank goodness you're so clever."

He leaned over me with a puzzled and slightly angry expression. "What makes you so particular of a sudden?"

I waved him away. "I like the Row."

He sat back against the seat with a heavy sigh. "It's your father's house."

"He's never there."

"But it's his nonetheless. It's been four years since we married. You're my wife. I can afford to keep you. I've been able to for some time. I haven't asked you to move before because I knew it would upset you. But it's time. There's no need to be depen-dent on your father, and I think . . . I think it's not good for you."