"William has his own ideas for the house," I said. "My opinion hardly matters."

"Really?" Millie stepped away from the marble samples. "But you went to Goupil's so often this spring."

I had to turn away as a burst of bitterness came upon me. "He didn't like my choices. He particularly disliked the Gerome."

"Oh? Well, you knew he would. He did say landscapes, Lucy."

I saw Victor's shoulders tense. I wondered what he thought Millie was saying, why it mattered to him. When I looked back to Millicent, I saw she had followed my glance, and her own expression was a.s.sessing, faintly worried.

"In any case, Charles says he drove by your new house the other day, and it looks nearly complete."

I thought of the walls looming against the sunset, the dark stone, William's enthusiasm, and I nodded, fingering a swatch of multicolored tapestry. "I've invitations to send out for the opening. William wants a grand ball."

"How wonderful. Alma Fister was saying the other day that jewels would make such an elegant supper theme. Can you imagine? A pearl supper or an emerald one. Which would you choose?"

I felt the dull start of a headache. "William's planned something already. I have no idea what it will be."

"William?"

"He's much more dedicated to the house than Lucy is," Victor said. His interjection was so out of turn that both Millie and I went silent.

"It's true, you know, Millie," I said. "Victor is only saying what we already know. I prefer the Row."

"I know that was so once. But I'd thought-"

"I'd rather be here at Newport."

"Perhaps you won't feel that way once the house is finished."

"I cannot imagine."

"Lucy," she said. She bent close, as if she did not want Victor to hear. "You should at least feign interest. No one will understand why you care nothing for it. And William has been so good to build it for you."

I stepped away from her. "He's built it for himself, Millie."

She frowned. "But I thought-" She glanced again at Victor. "You said your doctor had worked miracles."

I worked to keep from looking at Victor. "He's quite brilliant."

"Yes." She said the word slowly, as if by lingering she could make herself believe it.

Victor straightened from the rolls of wallpaper and came over to us. "You seem skeptical, Millie," he said.

Millicent fingered the small gold dragonfly at her collar. "You must forgive me if I speak bluntly. It's just that I've known Lucy for so very long, and these last years have been so difficult for her. There have been so many doctors, and none has effected a cure. I'm happy that she feels so much better, but it seems so closely tied to you, Victor, that it gives one pause."

He smiled his charming smile. "I'm simply Lucy's guest for the summer. It also happens that I'm a doctor, so I'm available to help her should she require it."

"Victor specializes in nervous disorders," I said. "He won't say it, but I know you're already aware that Victor is more than my guest. He's the doctor I've been seeing-the one I told you about-and he's been most kind to stay here with me this summer." As I spoke, I touched Victor's arm.

Millie's gaze went to my hand. "Your doctor," she said softly. The doubt did not leave her expression as she looked at Victor. "You must truly be a genius, then. No other doctor has been able to help her."

"No other doctor has bothered to understand her," Victor said. "None of the others have been trained in neurology."

"Neurology?"

"The study of the mind."

"Ah. You're an alienist, then?"

"I'm a scientist," Victor said. "Unlike most alienists, I'm not concerned with asylum problems but with the true understanding of the brain and nervous system."

Millicent did not look enlightened. She seemed impatient, even angry. She said, "Would you mind, Victor, if I had a word with Lucy alone?"

"Certainly not," he said, but he was slow to leave.

Millicent waited until he was gone, then drew me to a corner of the room, next to a potted fern, as far from the doorway as we could be.

"I know what you say, Lucy, but there's something more here," she whispered urgently. "It's only a matter of time until everyone else sees it too."

I frowned. "What are you talking about? He's my guest for the summer. It's not at all unusual. Look at Leonard Ames-he spent all of last summer with Alma. No one questioned it."

She shook her head. "This is not the same as Leonard Ames with Alma Fister. Victor is no charming, harmless bachelor, Lucy, and you are too attached to him. You've hosted dinners together; he hovers around you as if he can't bear to leave you alone, and you're no better. You watch him constantly. People have noticed."

"You're being ridiculous, Millie." I backed away from her, loosing her hand.

"I'm not, and you know it," she said. "I remember when you were a child, Lucy. You've always been so pa.s.sionate about everything. Too much so. Once you found something to engage you, you grew too involved. Nothing else mattered. I see it happening with him. You must send him away before everyone else sees it. They'll destroy you, Lucy. You've already caught their attention. You've changed, and they'll blame him when they see-don't you understand?"

"He's my doctor, Millie. Nothing more," I insisted-a little too desperately, I thought, and she noticed that too.

"Perhaps not yet," she said thoughtfully. "But I know you, Lucy, and I see what's happening, if it hasn't happened already. Send him away. Please. Don't ruin yourself or William."

"But I'm so much better."

"There are other doctors. It's unhealthy the way he controls you. It's as if he has you under his spell."

Her words shook me: They mirrored my own thoughts. "That's absurd," I said, though I heard my lack of conviction.

"I've seen what kind of power he holds," she said. "I've seen what he does."

"That's simply medicine."

"No it's not." Millicent grabbed my arm again, pushing me into the fern so its fronds brushed my shoulder. "Give him up."

The very thought made me ill. "I won't. I've found my life again. He's shown it to me. I'm happy for the first time in years."

"Happiness is not the most important thing. If we all did as we pleased, where would the world be?"

"I'm done caring about the world. It's time I started caring for myself."

"And it's you who will pay the price when this turns into what I suspect it will," Millicent said. "Or perhaps I'm too late. Perhaps he's already your-"

"My what?"

Her face hardened. "Don't be a fool, Lucy. You're my friend, I don't want to see you hurt."

"I won't be hurt," I said.

She stepped back and sighed. "Lucy, I have heard you say such things a hundred times before. What has it ever brought you but grief?"

I felt cold. "This is not the same thing as painting or poetry."

"No," she said. "But I remember William's courtship, if you don't. You expected him to create happiness for you, and as a result you've been miserable for the last four years. Look at yourself, Lucy-you've never been able to find satisfaction in the things that were possible. You're always reaching for something that isn't there. Don't doom yourself to unhappiness again."

"I appreciate your concern, Millie," I said coldly. "But you've misspoken."

Her lips pursed. She adjusted her hat, reached for her shawl. "Very well. I've done what I can."

Her resignation caught at me, and my annoyance over her words dissipated. I touched her arm as she went to gather up her things. "Please don't worry. I know what I'm doing."

She looked up at me and sighed. "For your sake, Lucy, I hope you do."

I tried not to think of Millie's words past the time she left. When Victor came back, he gave me a searching look, but I only shook my head and said, "Millie's worried about me," and laughed it off as gaily as I could manage.

The late afternoon grew hot; I could barely feel the slight breeze coming off the sea. Victor and I had accepted an invitation to a party tonight at By-the-Bay; Julia Breckenwood's husband, Steven, had at last come to spend the weekend with his wife. But there were hours until I had to start preparing. I stared out at the water and thought of how good it would feel to bathe in it. I had not done so since Victor had arrived. When I said as much to him, he motioned to the waves lapping against the beach below the rocks and said, "Get your bathing costume. We'll go now."

"Oh, not here," I told him. "The currents are too unreliable."

"Then where?"

"Bailey's Beach. But it's long past eleven."

"What does time have to do with it?"

I thought of the crush of the fashionable eleven o'clock hour, the crowds of people, the women delicately dipping a toe and then stepping back. I turned to Victor with a smile. "Nothing at all."

It was not far to the beach. The guard was too well trained to show surprise at the lateness of the hour. He opened the gate for us, and I hurried off to the pavilion and changed into my bathing costume of heavy dark flannel.

When I came out, Victor was nowhere to be found. He was no doubt changing still. The beach was empty; of course it would be now. The waves beat steadily but limply against the sh.o.r.e. I spread the blanket I'd brought. I went to the edge of the water, which was deliciously cool as it wet my slippers, as it wicked up my stockings. I moved farther and farther out, until the water was at my waist and the flannel grew heavy and wet, and then I set into an easy lap along the sh.o.r.eline, never so deep that I could not put a foot down.

The water was cool and luxurious. I felt strong and good, buoyed by salt. I didn't know how long I swam, only that I tired and stopped and walked back to the beach while the water surged and pulled against me. I broke from its grasp to the sh.o.r.e. The sand drew away beneath my feet with the tide. The flannel weighed on me now that it was no longer borne by water.

Along the sh.o.r.e walked a man wearing trousers with no shoes, and no hat, and no coat over his boiled shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled to his elbows. I watched him idly before I realized it was Victor.

"Where's your bathing costume?" I asked as he drew near, and I saw the fine veil of sweat on his forehead.

"I haven't one," he said.

"You haven't?"

"They weren't necessary where I come from," he said with a wry smile. "We wore our union suits when we jumped into the East River. Or nothing at all. I didn't think that would be approved of here."

"Oh." The image momentarily distracted me. Together we walked to the blanket and sank down onto it. "You should have said something. There's one of William's in the attic. I'm sure it would fit."

"No," he said, and there was a harshness to his voice that made me pause.

"It's only a bit of flannel," I said.

"And you're only his wife."

I was surprised by the quiet force of his words, by the jealousy I heard behind them, and pleased too. "Because you want me to be. If you said the word, I would leave him."

He stared out at the water. His toes dug into the sand.

I couldn't help thinking of William. This was where he'd proposed to me. Until this summer I had never spent a moment on this beach when I didn't remember that day and yearn for his touch, just that way-again. Now it seemed so ridiculously civilized, so unreal, such a little pa.s.sion. I'd experienced so much since then that it was hard for me to recall how much I'd wanted him, how frustrated I'd been.

Victor looked out toward the tangle of seaweed at the mouth of the bay. I laid my hand on his arm, which was hot from the sun, darkening, it seemed, even as I watched it.

"I don't want you to leave him," he said without looking at me. "Not yet."

"Not ever?" I asked.

He closed his eyes. "Not . . . yet," he repeated. "I must think. This has gone so much further than I intended."

"Than you intended?" I asked, afraid. "Don't you love me, Victor? Tell me you do. Tell me you don't want me to stay William's wife forever."

"No," he said violently. He twisted, reaching for me. His hand tangled in my hair, which I'd plaited for the swim, and which was rough and stiff with drying salt. "You are not William's but mine. I created you."

He held me close, so tightly I could barely breathe. He ravaged me with his mouth, and I let him. I went weak for him. I would have let him take me there on the beach, for anyone to see. And when he released me, his gaze went beyond me, freezing to some point over my shoulder. I turned to follow it.

There was William standing just beyond, booted and jacketed, as he'd been the day he proposed to me on this very beach. William, arrived two days early and come to look for me here, where he knew I could always be found.

Chapter 23.

I pulled away from Victor, and he let me go; his hand dropped from my hair as if he had lost sensation. We sat there like statues as William came toward us. His face was expressionless. It was only when he came near that I felt the shuddering chill of his fury.

"I came early," he said quietly. "I thought you would be glad."

I didn't know what to say; I could only stare at him.

Victor said, "William-"