Read Online The Age of Desire by Jennie Fields - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jennie Fields
Ads: Link
New York.”
“A very good idea. But the
Revue de Paris
is the better choice. It’s a natural fit for your work. I could speak to the chief editor there, Rivoire. I know him well.”
“Could you?” She races on lest she lose her nerve. “And let me ask you, Mr. Fullerton: when Charlie is done with the translation, would you look at it? I am a disastrous proofreader even in English. My brain supplies all the missing words and I don’t see the gap. But in French . . .” She makes a moue and a poofing sound, as the French do to express complete hopelessness. “I imagine you are much better at it.”
He smiles very slowly, and his eyes meet hers. “Nothing would give me more pleasure,” he says.
“I’ll write as soon as the manuscript arrives,” she tells him.
When Fullerton is gone, Henry grips Edith’s hand with childish passion. “He’s an extraordinary fellow, isn’t he? A beautiful, extraordinary fellow.” Edith cannot help but agree.
Edith hasn’t been sleeping well. Her nights are filled with dreams that wind around her so tightly she wakes in the dark, aching and imprinted by the sheets. What was the dream she just had? That she and the Comtesse de Noailles were going bathing together in the sea. Edith can’t remember the last time she really stepped into the ocean. Sometime in her twenties in Newport. The unpredictability of the waves frightened her. Walter once said, “You’d control the Atlantic if you could, wouldn’t you, Edith? That’s why you’re afraid of it, you know. Because it pays you no heed.” But in this dream, she and de Noailles were going to swim. And de Noailles started removing her own clothes right at the shoreline, encouraging Edith to do the same.
“There’s no one here. Don’t be shy.”
She helped Edith untie her corset.
“Evil thing,” she called it, tossing it down onto the sand.
De Noailles wanted them to swim naked. Completely naked. The sea wasn’t cold like it is in Newport. It was warm like bathwater, bright turquoise like the Mediterranean. Undressed, Anna’s skin was dusky and glowing, her nipples as richly colored as autumn apples.
“Come in! Come in,” she called out to Edith, stepping in deeper and deeper, until the water reached her neck and she was swept into the bright waves. Laughing and luxuriating in the broth-warm ocean, she waved and smiled. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders. She was a water nymph, a siren, calling Edith forth. But Edith stood shivering on the edge of the surf. If only she could make herself go into the water, it would be warmer. Far warmer. Gooseflesh sprouted on her arms, her exposed thighs. Why couldn’t she make herself go in? It should have been so easy. So enticing. But she couldn’t step in beyond her knees. What did it matter that the warm waves were so inviting when she couldn’t sally forth?
She shivers now in her bed. Alone and awake, she wishes she could close her eyes and swim.
The motorcar is packed. With Charles Cook, the chauffeur, at the wheel, Teddy, Henry and Edith set off to explore France. Nicette climbs right into Henry’s lap and he declares by lunch that he has fallen in love with her. If she were a woman, he says, he would throw all caution to the wind and give up his bachelorhood immediately. The weather is lovely and a breeze whooshes in through the open windows. The car flies on its big India rubber tires. They all exclaim that they can barely feel the road.
It’s late April when they return to Paris, a jolly crew. Henry says he’s practically had the time of his life. Edith is tickled by the disclaimer of the word “practically,” but she feels closer to him than she imagined possible. As persnickety and full of irony as he can be—and often is—he experiences everything with a childlike pleasure that she deems the essential element of a good traveler, and in this case, a charming companion. By the time they return to Paris, even Teddy is calling him “good old
“A very good idea. But the
Revue de Paris
is the better choice. It’s a natural fit for your work. I could speak to the chief editor there, Rivoire. I know him well.”
“Could you?” She races on lest she lose her nerve. “And let me ask you, Mr. Fullerton: when Charlie is done with the translation, would you look at it? I am a disastrous proofreader even in English. My brain supplies all the missing words and I don’t see the gap. But in French . . .” She makes a moue and a poofing sound, as the French do to express complete hopelessness. “I imagine you are much better at it.”
He smiles very slowly, and his eyes meet hers. “Nothing would give me more pleasure,” he says.
“I’ll write as soon as the manuscript arrives,” she tells him.
When Fullerton is gone, Henry grips Edith’s hand with childish passion. “He’s an extraordinary fellow, isn’t he? A beautiful, extraordinary fellow.” Edith cannot help but agree.
Edith hasn’t been sleeping well. Her nights are filled with dreams that wind around her so tightly she wakes in the dark, aching and imprinted by the sheets. What was the dream she just had? That she and the Comtesse de Noailles were going bathing together in the sea. Edith can’t remember the last time she really stepped into the ocean. Sometime in her twenties in Newport. The unpredictability of the waves frightened her. Walter once said, “You’d control the Atlantic if you could, wouldn’t you, Edith? That’s why you’re afraid of it, you know. Because it pays you no heed.” But in this dream, she and de Noailles were going to swim. And de Noailles started removing her own clothes right at the shoreline, encouraging Edith to do the same.
“There’s no one here. Don’t be shy.”
She helped Edith untie her corset.
“Evil thing,” she called it, tossing it down onto the sand.
De Noailles wanted them to swim naked. Completely naked. The sea wasn’t cold like it is in Newport. It was warm like bathwater, bright turquoise like the Mediterranean. Undressed, Anna’s skin was dusky and glowing, her nipples as richly colored as autumn apples.
“Come in! Come in,” she called out to Edith, stepping in deeper and deeper, until the water reached her neck and she was swept into the bright waves. Laughing and luxuriating in the broth-warm ocean, she waved and smiled. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders. She was a water nymph, a siren, calling Edith forth. But Edith stood shivering on the edge of the surf. If only she could make herself go into the water, it would be warmer. Far warmer. Gooseflesh sprouted on her arms, her exposed thighs. Why couldn’t she make herself go in? It should have been so easy. So enticing. But she couldn’t step in beyond her knees. What did it matter that the warm waves were so inviting when she couldn’t sally forth?
She shivers now in her bed. Alone and awake, she wishes she could close her eyes and swim.
The motorcar is packed. With Charles Cook, the chauffeur, at the wheel, Teddy, Henry and Edith set off to explore France. Nicette climbs right into Henry’s lap and he declares by lunch that he has fallen in love with her. If she were a woman, he says, he would throw all caution to the wind and give up his bachelorhood immediately. The weather is lovely and a breeze whooshes in through the open windows. The car flies on its big India rubber tires. They all exclaim that they can barely feel the road.
It’s late April when they return to Paris, a jolly crew. Henry says he’s practically had the time of his life. Edith is tickled by the disclaimer of the word “practically,” but she feels closer to him than she imagined possible. As persnickety and full of irony as he can be—and often is—he experiences everything with a childlike pleasure that she deems the essential element of a good traveler, and in this case, a charming companion. By the time they return to Paris, even Teddy is calling him “good old
Similar Books
