Chapter 16
May sat within the sleek black coupe in a stupor. She stared out the small window as dusk dropped over Manhattan. There was a whirring in her ears from the rush of her own blood. She couldn't hear the horses’s hooves or the wooden wheels, not even when Park Avenue changed from dirt to paving stones. She didn't hear the driver wrapping at the coupe door. She didn't even hear the words that the happy stable boy spoke to her as he untied her bay-colored horse from the back of the coupe. She managed to say, “Bath. Bed,” to Mrs. Wharton, but nothing more.
May slid into the warm water. Her butt and mound both immediately reminded her of her morning’s activities. Whether it was the thrusts of Robert and Charlie, or the twenty miles of horseback riding was indistinguishable. She shimmied against the porcelain until she was fully immersed except for her knees and half her face. She stared at the clouds painted on the ceiling. The sand of Pelham Beach and the mud of the Bronx left her skin easily, while her feelings for Charlie sat, unmoving, in her heart, and Anne’s information about him was stuck firmly in the pit of her stomach.
May remained in that position until the water chilled to tepid and then cold. The whole time her mind spun with doubts and questions. Certain answers did not rush in, but resolve did. May pulled herself from the bath. She didn't call for a servant, but put herself to bed without bothering to put on a nightgown. She curled into a naked ball under the sheets and cried herself to sleep.
In the morning Mrs. Wharton and Edith both took great pleasure in dressing May. It had been some time since she had let them braid her hair, or wrap her in layer after layer of silk.
“Is my husband here?” May asked.
“No, Ma’am,” Mrs. Wharton said, avoiding May’s eyes. “Mr. Spencer sent a note last night that he would stay at the Club.”
May rolled her eyes. The Club existed, but it was more a euphemism than a place. A euphemism for dance halls, and whore houses, and opium dens, and a bad marriage. It was just as well, May thought. She was not yet ready for what she needed to do. But, she would be.
May left the house in a demure black dress, a rarity for her these days. Her first stop was St. Thomas church, an even greater rarity of late. She made a point to connect with all the right people. She had covered her rosy cheeks with powder to try to match the neurasthenia-ridden face the congregation had last seen, but there was nothing she could do to suppress the renewed sparkle in her eyes.
Spencer arrived late, slipping into a pew across the aisle from May. He was a bit haggard, whether it was from a hard night in a dance hall, or the mad rush to change from evening wear to morning coat, or a combination.
She looked at her husband as if he was a stranger. He was handsome, to be sure, but he did not look much like Charlie. Except for the eyes. They were the same deeply set, dark, dark eyes. Based on those eyes May did not doubt for a moment Anne’s astounding assertion that Charlie was Spencer’s bastard son. But, where Charlie’s eyes evoked warmth and tenderness, Spencer’s betrayed his cold selfishness. The eyes were the same; the soul was not. Charlie had the soul of a kind angel. Spencer had the soul of a man who would abandon a pregnant girl like young Anne with nary a word.
As the service ended the congregation gathered and spilled out of the medieval-looking church onto the the lawn. May ambled through the lingering crowd. There were covert smiles and winks among fellow Spa members. Mrs. Vanderbilt gave her a hug, giving a few of the sycophants in the crowd a shock.
Susanne was surrounded, as usual, the Belle of Manhattan. Though in black like all the rest, Susanne had threaded a royal blue ribbon through her tresses. She had to flirt with scandal, no matter the setting.
Jenny was there, entertaining and beguiling with her lilting accent and wry wit.
“I can barely walk, today!” she whispered to May as she passed.
“I’m not surprised,” May whispered back, as she recalled Jenny impaled between two huge men the previous morning.
“Jenny…Did you mention that the Hudson Bay Company freighters offer staterooms?” May inquired out of nowhere.
Jenny arched a brow over a sparking blue-green eye. “What are you up to?” Jenny asked with a curious smile.
May fawned over the octogenarian president of the Manhattan Bank and his wife. “I am planning a trip…for my health,” May said with a handkerchief clutched to her chin. “I will be going from spa to spa until I find a cure. I will need a way to access funds overseas.”
“Of course, my dear! Come by my office tomorrow. I will help you personally,” the president insisted. May made a mental note to wear something that would show a little cleavage.
She apologized to the Reverend John for her long absence from Church due to illness, indicating with a cough that she would be absent again as she sought a cure. “But I heard you were doing so well!” Father John protested.
“Cha-cha,” she coughed. “Relapse. I am considering taking a cure overseas.”
“I think you should, May.” The Reverend John said warmly.
May then approached her husband, who at that moment was lecherously chatting with the teen daughter of one of the lesser Astors. He broke away from his conversation with irritation and awkwardly embraced his wife. May stiffened as Spencer kissed her cheek. The acrid smell of day-old cigars and whiskey-sweat filled her nostrils. She smiled broadly, though, for the benefit of any onlookers. She didn't waste time.
