Then there was the upstairs-five bedrooms, all with large windows and shining wooden floors covered by rugs in stripes or florals. The room I'd had as a girl, done in roses, opened onto a small terrace; the room that had been Papa's and now was mine and William's fronted the beach and led onto a huge balcony covered with an awning. In the past, we'd often taken our morning coffee there.

I went up to the third floor, where the rooms, tucked under the eaves, were hot even in the early summer and would be sweltering later. Those in the back of the house were the servants' quarters; the front rooms were used for storage and sometimes as extra guest rooms. There were fishing rods and nets and baskets for gathering sh.e.l.ls, and wardrobes filled with bathing costumes and boots and old summer hats and gloves for gardening.

I stood in the most forward of these and shoved open the window-a hard pound at each corner, because it had shrunk into the frame during the winter-and leaned out and breathed in the fresh air and watched David unload the trunks, and William as he walked out onto the lawn, examining it for flaws, pausing halfway across, putting his hands on his hips to stare out at the ocean and the rocks that jutted from a promontory. He seemed a stranger to me, a man wearing a dark coat and hat where they were so unsuited. I thought of Victor, of when he would come, and I felt both elated and nervous, because I had not yet told William that Victor was coming to stay as a guest for a time-we had not yet determined how long. In my mind I had outlined already the entire summer with him at my side, and though I did not think my husband would protest-many guests had stayed for so long-I did not think he had quite put aside his reservations about Victor's treatment. I was unsure what his reaction would be.

Better not to give him notice at all, I had determined. Better to bring Victor out to play the available bachelor during the summer, the way Lester Hines had done last year with Minnie Stevens, and that writer fellow with Alva Brooks. The ladies loved it. Men to play escort during the week, when husbands were away. Yes, that was what I would pretend.

William glanced up at the window where I stood, and I felt caught by my thoughts. When he waved at me, I could barely lift my fingers in answer. Instead I shut the window and hurried downstairs to the bedroom and began to fumble with the trunks David had brought up, unpacking feverishly. I could not wait to be ensconced, to be permanent.

That night the two of us had supper on the veranda. It was a beautiful night, with the sunset gold and pink and purple and the water deepest blue, with dark, foamy crests, and a breeze that pushed away the heat of the day. Sadie had set an intimate table, with candles that called moths to flitter about the flames. William seemed preoccupied, and I wanted nothing more than for the next day to fly by, to reach Monday again, so we ate in silence. When Sadie took our plates away and brought a final course of pretty strawberry ices, my appet.i.te was gone. I slipped my spoon into the molded pinkness and stirred it into a melted puddle.

"Is something wrong?" William asked.

I glanced up, startled by the sound of his voice. "No, of course not."

"You seem especially quiet tonight," he said. He pointed with his spoon to the mess on my plate. "And you haven't eaten any of your ice cream."

"I'm quite full."

"I see," he said. He took another spoonful of his own. When he'd swallowed, he said, "You could have stayed in town, you know, Lucy."

"Why would I do that?"

"You could keep your appointments."

"My appointments?"

"With Victor."

I was conscious suddenly of making a great mistake. I tried to smooth over it; I laughed lightly and said, "Oh, that. Yes, well, you see, William, we've talked quite a bit about that, and we decided it would be much better if I didn't stop seeing him over the summer. He believes I'm not quite ready to be on my own for so long."

"Does he?" William spoke wryly. "Yes, that doesn't surprise me. He's said as much to me before. How long does he expect this to go on?"

I began to feel nervous. "I don't know. He's never said."

"A year? Longer than that?"

"I . . . I don't know."

"Perhaps it would be best if you did take the summer off. We could see then how well you do without him."

"But you see, he thinks it's too soon to try."

"Really, Lucy, you can't expect to take the steamer into the city twice a week. You might as well stay at home."

I fingered the lace edging of the napkin in my lap. "Of course you're right."

He was quiet. When I glanced up again, it was to find him staring at me. "Why do I have the idea that you're not telling me something?"

"It's just that I hadn't the opportunity," I said, rushing on. "I meant to tell you, but there was so much to do to get ready, and I thought you'd disagree-"

"Disagree about what?"

I tried to smile. "Why, that Victor should come here. It's truly the best plan all around. He doesn't think it's a good idea to end my treatment for the summer, and I had no wish to stay in town, and many of his patients will be summering elsewhere, and so it seemed best for him to come to Newport."

"He's closing his practice for the summer so he can attend to you?"

"No, that's not it at all."

"I don't pay him enough to do that."

"That's not what he's doing. He won't be dancing attendance on me constantly. He'll go into the city occasionally, I'm sure."

"Occasionally?"

I squirmed. "Or perhaps more often than that."

"This is beyond absurd. Who ever heard of a doctor doing such a thing?"

"I've told you, he believes there's still so much work to do."

"I see. And where will Victor be staying while he attends to you? At the Ocean House?"

"The hotel is falling apart, William, you know it is. Hardly anyone who's anyone goes there anymore, and we've so much room here."

"You've invited him to Seaward."

His voice was flat. I said as brightly as I could, "Why shouldn't I? We have guests here all the time. Last summer you brought James Willard to stay the entire month of July, and left it to me to entertain him."

William looked thoughtfully at me. "I suppose you're right," he said at last, reaching for his gla.s.s. "I suppose there can be no harm, especially now that Seth is linked to Julia."

I blinked. "What?"

"I said: You're right. There's no harm in it, certainly."

"No, what did you say about Julia? Julia . . . Breckenwood?"

"Didn't you know?" he asked rather smugly. "I would have thought you'd heard the gossip."

"No, of course not," I snapped. "I'm not about all day, listening to stock messengers and standing at lunch counters."

"I'm too busy to come home at noon, Lucy, you know that. And I thought you preferred it this way."

"What gossip have you heard?"

He shrugged. "John Bradley said he saw them together at Daisy Hadden's country house. I believe Victor was there for the weekend, and Julia had come down the day before."

It took all my will to adopt a nonchalant tone, to say, "Perhaps she's become his patient."

"If she has, she'd never say, though I've heard nothing of her health failing. No, Steven was out of town last month. No doubt Julia was just lonely."

"No doubt."

"Steven says she'll be coming to By-the-Bay next week."

"How nice," I managed.

"So Victor will have someplace else to go, should he grow tired of playing doctor."

He was watching me, measuring. I smiled, though it felt a tremendous effort, and said, "Yes. I would hate for him to be bored."

William reached into his pocket for a cigar and bit off the end, spitting it into the hydrangeas. Then he lit it in the candle flame, puffing so the flame grew high and bright. A nearby moth nearly singed its wings.

He sat back in his chair, puffing contentedly. The smell settled in a cloud around my nose, so I thought of Victor and his cigars, and the sickness rose in my stomach. I could barely sit there companionably with my husband.

"Victor should like Seaward," he said. "But don't feel the need to show him around too much, Lucy. You leave that to Julia, and to . . . whoever else might take a fancy to him."

"I'll be sure to do that," I said quietly.

William's gaze went hard. "Just remember, my dear," he said, "I expect you to remember who you are."

Chapter 20.

When William at last kissed me good-bye and had David drive him to the steamer, I was so relieved I sagged into one of the wicker chairs on the veranda and watched him drive away.

When he was gone, I could not be still. Victor planned to arrive in the afternoon, after wrapping up his morning appointments. I paced the gardens and wondered jealously if Julia was one of them; if he dismissed Irene to run errands when she came, as he did with me; if the blinds were lowered and dark, so the phrenology head gleamed bone white and ghostly in sunlight filtering past the edges.

The thought of it made me so irritable I snapped at Sadie and watched her mouth go tight and drawn and realized that that was the expression that was familiar to me, that her pleasant smile these last days had been odd. I felt a niggling guilt and walked down to the edge of the lawn to stare out over the sea.

It seemed to call to me, the way it always did, and in other years I'd ignored the call until eleven, the fashionable hour to go to Bailey's Beach, when I would swim among all the others. Not since I was a child had I clambered down these rocks, and then only when Papa was not there to see and my nanny had turned her back.

I had not forgotten how. Huge rocks bolstered the six feet or so to the beach. I lifted my skirts and climbed down them, my inadequate boots slipping on the smooth edges, my petticoats catching. I tore my stocking and sc.r.a.ped my shin, but at last I stumbled to the sand. The tide was coming in, so I had only a short distance to go, and little time, but I decided to walk, as difficult as it was on sand that slipped and gave beneath my heels. I went down the beach, past the cottages like Seaward and the marble chateaus beyond that were growing more prevalent every year, with their staffs of gardeners and butlers and servants, their fountains and paG.o.das and ballrooms.

I did not look to them but out at the sea, at the change of the light upon the water, the shifting colors, the tangles of seaweed that swayed with the waves yet amazingly did not move at all. I lifted my face to the salty breeze. Before I knew it, the water was to my feet, wetting my hem, and the sand I walked upon was only a narrow strip that would soon disappear. I had no choice but to turn around.

When I reached the rocks of Seaward again, the tide was in so far I had to walk through inlets of water that came to my ankles. My boots were ruined. It was more of an effort to climb the rocks back to the lawn, and my stockings squished in my boots. I sat down on the lawn, silk gown and all, and grappled with my boots, but even had the water not swollen the leather tight, I could not have begun to loosen them without a b.u.t.tonhook. I got up again and trudged the expanse of lawn, holding my hat in my hand, bedraggled and dirty, sweating. I felt alive; the walk had soothed me; the wet flap of my gown about my ankles was a sound I had not heard since I was a girl.

I was halfway across the lawn when I heard a call. Victor was coming down the steps of the porch, striding toward me.

I felt ensnared again, jerked to him without will or sense, suddenly so dizzy and desirous that I was both material-a body only, simply visceral sensation-and without substance at the same time.

All I could think was that I loved him, and that he might be lying to me.

"Lucy," he said. He started to reach for me, and I jerked away.

He frowned. "Isn't William gone?"

"He left this morning. He'll be back again on Friday."

"So we've a week to ourselves."

I could not contain myself. The words came bursting from my lips. "William told me you were at Daisy Hadden's that weekend-that weekend I did not go-with Julia Breckenwood."

He looked surprised, and then angry, and then his expression settled into a careful mask. "Ah," he said.

"Is she your patient? Does she require your a.s.sistance day and night? Do you 'take care' of her the way you take care of me?"

"Julia Breckenwood is a lonely woman who's donated money for my research."

"Is she a patient?"

"Come, Lucy, you know I can't tell you that. My career depends on my discretion."

"Her husband would ruin you if he found out, you know this, don't you? He would ruin you. All you've worked for-"

"It's not what you think, Lucy."

"Has she formed an 'attachment' to you too? Does she tell you she loves you?"

"Lucy, hush." He took hold of my arm, pulling me closer. His thumb stroked the silk of my sleeve. He bent to whisper in my ear, "I haven't laid a hand on her."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because Julia Breckenwood is not you," he said, tracing down my arm, winding his fingers about my wrist. "I would not risk losing you, Lucy. You must believe me. I would not risk it."

His breath sent a shudder along my skin, and I could not bear it. To be so close and not to touch. I looked up at him. "Perhaps I could show you to your room."

"Yes," he breathed.

With effort, I stepped away from him and turned to the porch, where I saw Sadie, standing near the table, darting quick glances at us.

That first week, there were still so few people that it was as if we had Newport to ourselves. Outwardly Victor was the perfect guest. He was entertaining over supper, kind to the servants, and he kept me in high spirits. We spent every day in idle pursuits: long, leisurely breakfasts on the porch, walks along the beach from which we returned damp and sandy and laughing, and early afternoons when I sat on the lawn and Victor wrote furiously beside me. The servants had been told that Victor was my doctor; it explained too well why he must attend to me constantly.

There were no stolen hours here, they were full of him already, and there were too many risks to be taken in the daylight, so we would wait until nightfall for our trysts. The day would be one long aching stretch of need and antic.i.p.ation, so when he came to my room, my need of him was so intense I did not waste a moment. It was luxurious and fine, to make love on a bed instead of an office floor or a settee, and it always seemed that exhaustion came far too quickly, that the night should stretch on longer, that I should take every minute until the early hour before the servants woke, when he would disentangle himself from me and return to the rose room, the room that had once been mine.

I spent those hours in a daze of happiness and contentment. When he touched me, I forgot everything: who I was, William, the world. I was under a spell, with Victor the magician keeping me bound and I a willing victim.

When Friday came and William drove up in the late afternoon, looking tired and anxious, I felt his presence like a gash in the landscape. I was angry at his interruption of these rainbow-hued days.

"h.e.l.lo, darling," William said as he came walking around the side of the house. I was lounging on a blanket laid upon the gra.s.s, staring up at the sky. Victor sat beside me, the sleeves of his boiled shirt rolled up over his arms as he scribbled away in a ledger.