Change of Heart (16 page)

The crowd burst into loud applause as Cecelia and Fairhaven came into the ring. They wanted to see her make the jump. Cecelia’s face looked calm as she put Fairhaven into a canter and circled him before heading at the wall. “Seven feet,
niña,”
muttered Ricardo. “Seven feet should be your takeoff. No more.”

Fairhaven was approaching the wall now. It looked impossibly high, impossibly dangerous. Cecelia leaned forward and the big gray started to drive. Gil closed his eyes.

A tremendous roar went up from the crowd, Gil opened his eyes and looked. Cecelia was still in the saddle and heading for the spread. The wall was intact. “She did it,” he said numbly.

“She did it,” answered Ricardo. “With no experience, purely on instinct, she did it. She is a marvel. Bravo,
niña!”
he called as Fairhaven cleared the spread. The crowd rose to its feet in thunderous approval, and Cecelia turned and looked up at her husband and her father. She grinned and Ricardo raised his hand in a victory sign. Gil mimed huge relief and collapse and she laughed. From that moment on, Cecelia Archer was the darling of the Madison Square Garden audience. For the two days that remained of the show, she could do no wrong.

On Sunday evening the National Horse Show closed with the presentation of the Leading Open Jumper Rider Challenge Trophy. The winner was Cecelia Archer. Her husband, her father, and her stepdaughter were in the audience to watch her receive it.

At the party they attended after the show Cecelia was besieged by well-wishers. Gil withdrew a little from the press of the crowd and watched her. She was wearing her riding clothes and in them her long-legged figure still looked almost boyishly slim. She had taken her hat off and tied her hair neatly at the nape of her neck with a black velvet ribbon. Gil drank champagne and watched the clear-cut shape of Cecelia’s small head as she moved from group to group under the chandelier lights.

After about an hour she sought him out and found him talking to Colonel Carbone, the coach of the Italian team. Gil smiled when he saw her and asked, “Ready to go?”

“Yes.” She gave a bewitchingly sleepy smile to Colonel Carbone. “All the excitement has worn me out, I’m afraid,” she apologized charmingly.

“You were magnificent, Mrs. Archer,” the colonel responded gallantly. “Your father—he is bursting with pride.”

“He should be. He taught me everything I know.”

The colonel kissed her hand. He turned to Gil. “And you, Mr. Archer, you are a lucky man.”

“Yes,” returned Gil pleasantly. “I am. Good evening, Colonel Carbone.”

“Good evening,” said the colonel. He bowed and moved away from them, and Gil and Cecelia turned together and walked to the door. They were staying once again in the apartment; Frank was coming in tomorrow with the van for the horses. Ricardo had spent the week with them but tonight he remained at the party after they left; he was having a splendid time, Cecelia was pleased to note. As Jenny had gone back to Connecticut with Frank, there was no one in the apartment when Gil and Cecelia arrived back at about one-thirty. Gil took Cecelia’s coat and hung it in the closet for her.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked.

“I’d love some orange juice,” she answered and they both went into the kitchen. Cecelia poured her juice while Gil fixed himself a scotch.

She went to sit down at the kitchen table and he said, “Why don’t you get those boots off first? They look terribly uncomfortable. Where’s your bootjack?”

“In the bedroom.” He went to get it and then helped her off with the high black dress boots. “Ah.” Cecelia wiggled her toes. “That feels great.”

She drank some of her juice. “Maisie told me tonight she was going to loan Fairhaven to the USET. Isn’t that marvelous? I’ll bet he wins an Olympic gold for them.”

“Yet he’s not as good a horse as Czar.”

“He’s a different kind of horse from Czar,” she explained. “I think he’ll come into his own in Europe. Their courses are very big and that’s what he likes.” She frowned a little and finished her juice. “Actually, I was wondering if I ought to lend Czar to the USET. I won’t be riding for a while.”

“No,” he said definitely. She looked at him, startled by his peremptory tone. “I don’t want you to loan Czar to anyone,” he explained. “He’s your horse and you did splendidly on him. He won for you this year and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t win for you again. The baby is due in May—you’ll be riding by the summer.”

She looked very surprised. “You wouldn’t mind if I rode again next year?” she asked.

“Of course not.” He spoke abruptly.

“Oh.” She looked at him doubtfully. She had always received the distinct impression that he rather resented her riding, that he thought it took her away from other, more important, things.

“I was very proud of you this week,” he said.

Her face began to glow. “Were you, Gil? I’m so glad. It meant so much to me to have you there.”

She had opened the collar of her blouse and it fell away from her lovely slim neck. He looked at the pearly hollow at the base of her throat. It made him want ... “Go to bed,” he said harshly.

“You must be exhausted. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Aren’t you coming in?”

“In a little while,” he answered.

She gave him a troubled look but said, “All right.” She came around to the side of the table where he sat with a half-full glass of scotch in front of him. He didn’t look up at her, and after a moment’s hesitation, she kissed his thick silvery hair. “Good night, Gil,” she said.

“Good night, baby,” he returned evenly. She went inside and he finished his scotch, then went to pour himself another. He took the glass into the living room, where he sat down heavily in a cushiony chair and stretched his legs out before him. He had left the kitchen lights on, and the dim glow from down the hall was the only light in the room. Gil sipped his scotch and stared into the darkness and thought.

He thought of what Ricardo had said to him Thursday night as they watched the puissance class together. Cecelia didn’t try to keep him from his work, Ricardo had said, so he shouldn’t try to keep her from hers.

Ricardo had been right. He had always looked upon Cecelia’s riding as a pastime, essentially trivial, completely expendable. He had never once thought of the years and years of sheer bloody hard work that had gone into it. When she talked about Czar he had listened politely, not really interested, not really thinking it important. He had been annoyed that she wanted to ride even though she was pregnant. If it had been at all a reasonable stand for him to take, he would have forbidden her to enter the show.

For the first time in his life the full extent of his own selfishness was being brought home to Gil. He had married Cecelia because he saw in her something very beautiful and very rare and he had wanted her. He had not once asked himself what she might want. He had married her and then expected her to mold her life to his. It had never even occurred to him that he might change his style of life to accommodate hers.

“Would you like more children?” she had asked him and he had said, “Yes.” Never had he asked her what her thoughts were on the subject. Never had it concerned him that having a baby would force her to retire from the one activity she loved best in the world.

He had always lived his life as if the world revolved around Gilbert Archer. It was a bitter realization. What he had wanted he had taken. And if it didn’t conform to his demands, he had smashed it. As he had almost tried to smash Cecelia on the terrible night he had first seen her with Tim Curran. As he had smashed Barbara. For the first time he realized his own responsibility for his first wife’s reckless and unhappy career. She had loved him. And he had not cared.

He knew now a little of what she must have felt. He loved Cecelia. And Cecelia did not love him. After the way he had treated her, how could she?

He was luckier than Barbara had been, however, for Cecelia was kind. Her spirit was as lovely as her face and she would never willingly do anything to hurt him. She might love Tim Curran but she would hold to her marriage. Cecelia was not one to welch on her promises.

Which left him—where? In an impossible situation, he thought bleakly. She was his wife and he possessed her in every way, except in the only way he had finally come to learn mattered. He wanted her love—without that nothing else really mattered a damn. And her love was the one thing he did not have.

There was only one thing left that he could decently do and that was to leave her alone. He must refrain from pushing himself, his life, his friends or his job on her. He must allow her the freedom to do as she pleased. Oddly enough, he had no fears that she would fly into the arms of Tim Curran—or of anyone else for that matter, He had learned many things since he married Cecelia. Before he met her he had not thought very highly of women. All that had changed, he thought wryly, changed utterly. The future looked bleak indeed. How the hell was he going to leave her alone when he felt about her as he did?

* * * *

In the weeks following the National Horse Show Gil tried scrupulously to adhere to the standard of conduct he had prescribed for himself. The result was to convince Cecelia that he had lost whatever interest in her he once had. Until now she had always had the dubious comfort of knowing that if he didn’t love her properly, at least he found her sexually arousing. Now he didn’t even make love to her anymore. She supposed it was because she was having a baby. He was very solicitous of her welfare, getting angry when he saw her lifting a heavy package, performing a hundred small services for her that would have warmed her heart if she thought they were prompted by his love and tenderness, not his sense of duty.

She was adequate to be the mother of his children but in every other aspect of wifehood he evidently found her lacking. She was too young, too inexperienced, to be a part of his larger world. It was the only conclusion she could draw from the way he constantly left her out of things, constantly refrained from inviting his friends and colleagues home. He had always given a Christmas party for the
staff of News Report,
she learned. She asked him if he would like to have it at The Birches this year. “I think it would be a nice gesture to offer them the hospitality of your home,” she said hesitantly.

He looked at her, his mouth a little grim. How like Cecelia, he thought. Her thought for others never ceased to astonish him. “No,” he said. “It would be too much for you. I’ll have it at one of the New York hotels.”

She started to protest that she would love to have his party but the words died in her throat. He looked taut as a strung bow as he stood beside her chair. He had lost weight over the last weeks. He was too thin; she thought he looked like a man living on his nerves. She was afraid something was very wrong but she couldn’t ask him. She was afraid he was regretting his marriage. She was afraid he was seeing Liz Lewis in the city. He pulled out her chair and she stood up from the dinner table.

“All right,” she said quietly. “If that is what you would prefer.”

“It is,” he said quite firmly.

At the beginning of December Cecelia and Gil received an invitation to a party at Maisie Winter’s home in Greenwich. Cecelia showed it to her husband that evening and remarked, “It sounds like fun. Would you like to go?”

“Of course,” he answered, “if you think you would enjoy it.” They had taken to treating each other with a relentlessly courteous reserve that wore on both their spirits.

“I’ll have to break down and buy a gown in the maternity shop,” Cecelia said. So far she was still managing to squeeze into some of her own clothes but a gown, she knew, would defeat her.

“Why not buy a whole new wardrobe?” he returned. “I want you to be comfortable.”

She was pleasantly surprised by the attractiveness of the clothes she found in maternity styles. The gown she bought was quite elegant, she thought. It was a burgundy velvet with long sleeves, a plunging neckline that she filled out much better than she would have a few months ago, and an empire-style skirt. As they were getting dressed to leave for Maisie’s Gil presented her with an early Christmas present: a rope of pearls. They were beautiful and looked luminous against the scarcely less luminous tones of her own skin. Pregnancy was agreeing with her.

“Thank you, Gil,” she breathed, her eyes glowing.

“You’re welcome,” he replied. He did not smile. “Are you ready?”

She stood up from her dressing table. “Yes.”

In the hall they kissed Jenny good-bye, then went out to the car. Gil was driving tonight as they weren’t going very far. Neither of them spoke until the lights of Maisie’s house glittered before them. It seemed, Cecelia thought despairingly, that they had even run out of polite small talk.

The party was very large and Gil and Cecelia were soon separated. There were quite a few people Cecelia knew and ordinarily she would have enjoyed herself. But her spirit felt leaden. The weight of the pearls was heavy around her neck. How could she go on like this, she thought. If only she didn’t care so much! She pretended to listen to the conversation of Ben Carruthers and looked, automatically, for Gil. At last she found him. He was standing in a deep window recess and talking very seriously to Liz Lewis. Cecelia’s hand jerked and some of her ginger ale spilled. Ben was immediately all concern and she forced her attention back to him. “It’s fine,” she assured him as she brushed at her skirt. “It’s only ginger ale. I haven’t been drinking anything alcoholic because of the baby.”

“Let me get you some more,” said Ben, and smilingly she agreed.

“You don’t look well,” Liz was saying bluntly to Gil. “You don’t look as if you’ve been getting enough sleep.”

“I’m fine,” said Gil curtly. Automatically his eyes searched the crowd for Cecelia. He found her talking to Ben Carruthers. Liz followed his eyes.

“Cecelia looks beautiful tonight,” she remarked. “But then, she always looks beautiful.”

“Yes,” said Gil. A muscle flickered next to his mouth.

“Have you two had a fight?” asked Liz.