Marchent.
She lay under him in the bed, her tormented eyes pleading with him, her mouth quivering, her face streaked with tears.
He roared.
He shot up from the bed and slammed against the far wall. He was roaring, roaring in horror.
She sat up on the bed, grasping the sheet to her naked br**sts—his sheets, her br**sts—staring at him in panic. Her mouth opened but the words wouldn’t come. Her arm reached out. Her hair was tangled and wet.
He was choking, sobbing.
Someone beat on his door, and then the door was flung open.
He sat crying against the wall. The bed was empty. Stuart was standing there.
“Jeez, man, what is it?”
Up the stairs came pounding steps. Jean Pierre stood behind Stuart.
“Oh, Mother of God!” Reuben sobbed. He couldn’t stop the cries coming out of him. “Holy God.” He struggled to stand up, then fell back on the floor, banging his head hard against the wall.
“Stop it, Reuben,” cried Stuart. “Stop it! We’re here with you now, it’s okay.”
“Master, here,” said Jean Pierre, bringing his robe to him and covering his shoulders with it.
Lisa appeared in the door in a long plain white nightgown.
“I’m going to lose my mind,” Reuben stammered, the words catching, his throat constricted. “I’m going to lose my mind.” He shouted at the top of his voice, “Marchent!”
He put his face in his hands. “What do you want, what can I do, what do you want! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Marchent. Marchent, forgive me!”
He turned and clawed at the wall as if he could pass into it. He banged his head against it again.
Firm hands had ahold of him.
“Quiet, master, quiet,” said Lisa. “Jean Pierre, change those sheets! Here, Stuart, you help me.”
But Reuben lay crouched beside the wall, inconsolable. His body was clenched like a fist. His eyes were closed.
Moments passed.
Finally, he opened his eyes, and he let them help him to his feet. He hugged the robe to him as if he were freezing. Flashes of the dream returned: sun, smell of earth perfume of Laura; Marchent’s face, tears, her lips, her lips, her lips, it had always been her lips, not Laura’s. That had been Marchent’s unique kiss.
He was sitting at the table. How did he get here?
“Where is Felix?” he asked. He looked up at Lisa. “When will Felix be home? I have to reach him.”
“In a matter of hours, master,” said Lisa comforting him. “He will be here. I will call him. I will make sure of it.”
“I’m sorry,” Reuben whispered. He sat back dazed, watching Jean Pierre remake the bed. “I’m so sorry.”
“Incubus!” whispered Lisa.
“Don’t say that word!” Reuben said. “Don’t say that evil word. She doesn’t know what she’s doing! She doesn’t know, I tell you! She’s not a demon. She’s a ghost. She’s lost and she’s struggling and I can’t save her. Don’t you call her an incubus. Don’t use that demon language.”
“It’s okay, man,” said Stuart. “We’re all here now. You can’t see her anymore, can you?”
“She is not here now,” said Lisa shortly.
“She’s here,” said Reuben softly. “She’s always here. I know she’s here. I felt her last night. I knew she was here. She didn’t have the strength to come through. She wanted to. She’s here now and she’s crying.”
“Well, you must go back to bed and sleep.”
“I don’t want to,” Reuben said.
“Look, man, I’ll stay in here,” said Stuart. “I need a pillow and a blanket. I’ll be right back. I’ll lie right here by the fireplace.”
“Yeah, stay here, will you, Stuart?” said Reuben.
“Get the pillow and the blanket for him, Jean Pierre,” said Lisa. She stood behind Reuben holding his shoulders, massaging his shoulders, her fingers like iron. But it felt good to him.
Don’t let me go, he thought. Don’t let me go. He reached up and took her hand, her firm cold hand.
“Will you stay with me?”
“Of course, I will,” she said. “Now, you, Stuart, you lie down there by the fire, and you sleep there. And I will sit here in this chair and keep watch so that he can sleep.”
He lay down on his back in the freshly made bed. He was afraid that if he tried to sleep, he’d turn and see her lying right beside him.
But he was too tired, so tired.
Gradually he drifted off.
He could hear Stuart softly snoring.
And when he looked at Lisa, she sat composed and still, staring at the distant window. Her hair was loose and down over her shoulders. He had never seen it that way before. Her white nightgown was starched and pressed, with faded flowers embroidered at the neck. He could see clearly that she was a man, a thin, delicate-boned man with impeccable skin and sharp distant gray eyes. And she stared at the window without moving, still as a statue.
14
THEY WERE GATHERED at the dining room table, the place of meeting, the place for history, the place for decisions.
The fire in the grate and the pure-wax candles were the only illumination, with one candelabrum on the table and one each on the dark oak hunter’s boards.
Frank had gone off to be “with a friend” and wouldn’t be back until time for the Christmas gala on Sunday. Thibault had left early to be with Laura.
So it was Stuart, white-faced, and plainly fearfully fascinated by the whole proceeding; and Sergei, the giant looking surprisingly interested; Felix, sad and anxious, eager for the meeting to take place; Margon, obviously short-tempered and displeased; and Reuben, still frayed from this morning’s visitation. All were in casual clothes, sweaters, jeans of one sort or another.
They had had their supper, and the servants had “cleared away,” and now only Lisa in her usual black silk, with the cameo at her throat, stood with arms folded by the fireplace. The coffee had been served, the pots set about, and the gingerbread and cream passed, along with the fresh apples and plums, and the soft creamy French cheese.
Faint scent of the wax, like incense, and of course the fire, always the comforting oak fire, and the lingering fragrance of wine now mingled with coffee.
Felix sat with his back to the fire; Reuben sat opposite. Stuart sat beside Felix. And Margon was as always to Reuben’s left at the head of the table. Sergei was to the right of Reuben. It was the customary arrangement.