A Woman of Quality

by Jan Westcott

 

Chapter 1

September 20, 1895

It had rained during the day. Now, at nine forty-five in the evening, the streets in front of Central Station in Amsterdam were wet and shiny and the wind blew gustily. A number of people were arriving for the ten o'clock train for the Hook of Holland and the Channel boat to England; there was a row of cabs outside the station and a forest of tilted umbrellas without the doors.

The driver jumped down from a private carriage in the middle of the line and pulled down the steps. A man climbed out, held out his hand for the lady still within the carriage. She put out first an elegant narrow-buttoned boot. And then another. The gentleman held the umbrella high to protect her gray traveling costume; her skirt was narrow, and the neat cape was trimmed in the silkiest of black Dutch moleskin. A gray hat was perched on her thick blond hair. She disappeared into the station waiting room on the arm of the gentleman; the driver tipped the steps back up, climbed up in his seat, cracked the whip, and the horse and carriage trotted off as quickly as possible in the misty night.

Within the station, the umbrellas were furled with relief, and drops flew all about. There were people of all nationalities and all sizes and shapes, all speaking a variety of languages; everyone was hurrying, as is common in stations. Yet the lady and gentleman didn't hurry. She had put her black-gloved hand on his arm, he carried the closed umbrella on the crook of his arm; they were unburdened by luggage, save for the elegant small jewel case he carried for her. Undoubtedly it was crammed full of sapphires, the color of her eyes, and pearls to set off that white, white skin. He was as different from her as night from day. He was very dark, with a closely trimmed black beard that emphasized the shape of the jaw and the wide expressive mouth. His eyes were almost black; he had stuffed one glove in his pocket, and the bare hand carrying the jewel case was powerful and the wrist thick and hairy. He was alien in Amsterdam. Born on the island of Odysseus, he had sailed before the mast, and he knew the stink of the engine room and picked up with ease the languages of the world.

They were now walking along the second coach of the boat train. A young Dutch girl, nose pressed to the window, was watching them pass under her eyes. The beautiful lady wore a single white rose, pinned with a pearl stickpin. The hawk and the dove, the girl thought. Fascinated, she peered down at them, and when they had passed, she asked her mother, sitting opposite, who they were, repeating it, "Who are they, mama?"

Her mother said, "Why, they are Anna Bakels and the Greek Consule Generale." Then she thought, startled, Why, after twenty years, all of twenty years, that is how I still describe them. Isn't it odd? Twenty years. "Yes," she repeated, "that was Anna Bakels and the Greek Consule Generale, Nicholas Theros. It was a great scandal twenty years ago when they were married, and there is an even greater scandal now. He is on trial for cheating the Dutch government. Imagine!" the mother cried excitedly. "Imagine! I wonder where they're going, and I wonder why! At this time!" She sank back into her seat, thinking, remembering the past, speculating. "Anna Bakels and the Greek Consule Generale."

 

Anna walked along evenly; taptap, taptap, went her heels. She had no notion that the woman in the other coach was wondering about the purpose of her trip; Anna would have told her right away that she was going to London to hear Il Trovatore, with the great star Patti. She also would have reminded her that it was their anniversary. That was, indeed, why her husband had allowed her to come, she thought. She also knew that he was troubled, and that this trip to London, for him, was a necessary trip, one that had to do with his upcoming trial. Perhaps she shouldn't have insisted on coming. Insisted? She had almost made a scene, collapsing in tears against his chest. He had held her off and laughed, saying, "No more histrionics! Against my better judgment, I will take you. I will take you! But what a silly scene!"

Wiping her eyes, she turned her back. "I fail to see anything silly about wanting to be with my husband on my anniversary!"

"You want to see Il Trovatore."

She was diverted by the way he pronounced the name of the opera. It was so correct, the Italian so perfect. "Il Trovatore," she mimicked, rolling the syllables and the r's. Anyway, that had been only last night. And she had hardly seen him since. She had packed and given all the orders and instructions to her mother, the cook, the children, the governess, and the children's nurse, Jane. She had had her hair washed, her luggage ready to go in the afternoon; she had even had a tea tray with her mother before she had left for the station as her husband had had to attend a court reception for the international traders who were meeting in Amsterdam. She hadn't seen him until ten, when he and Herman had arrived in the carriage to take her to the station.

In the gloom of the carriage, he had leaned his head back, closed his eyes. He is weary, she thought, perhaps I should not have insisted; she felt suddenly guilty. "Perhaps I should not have come, Nico," she said low, as if not to disturb his rest.

"No, no," he said. "I need you, Anna." More than she knew, he thought wryly. He laid his hand flat against her belly; his fingers pressed gently between her thighs.

"Nico," she whispered. Never had he done such a thing before, driving in a carriage. "Nico," she whispered again. "Nico, we are almost there."

"We have five minutes," he said. He had turned her head toward his with the tip of his thumb under her chin, and suddenly under his eyes, she dropped hers, the lids shut out the blue eyes, and he thought, Jesus Christ, here I am making love to my wife in a carriage, as though she were the most beautiful half-caste in Port Said. In his mind he pronounced it Saheed.

He expelled his breath close to her ear. "Are you shocked, my little love," he asked. He took his hand away from her soft thigh and said, "I do that with reluctance, but we are almost in the station."

He drew her skirt down evenly, for he had rumpled it over her lap, and he sat back in the carriage now, as a gentleman should, escorting his wife of twenty years. For God's sake, Nico, he said to himself, your worry has unhinged your mind. But it was not that, he knew; he was becoming, as he always did in time of danger, just what he had been born, what he had inherited from the very island whose shores he had swum to through the rushing water between Cephalonia and Ithaca. He was becoming Odysseus again, he couldn't help it; it was the blood of the ancients.

Anna opened her eyes, looking at him, so close, through the thick curling lashes. How beautiful she is, he thought. He whispered, "Your eyes. They are the blue of the sea, the real blue of the Sea of Io." He could not have paid her a greater compliment, Anna knew.

She laid her gloved hand against his bearded cheek. "I wanted to come because I am afraid you are going to leave me."

The carriage had stopped. He said, "Leave you, Anna?" Did the sudden glitter of his eyes mean that she had struck the mark? "We have been married for twenty years!" And there is still much we do not know about each other, he thought, but does Anna know that, too? She must.

"You are changing," Anna said. "Just like tonight. You are changing subtly, Nico."

He shook his head and leaned over to open the door of the carriage. "Nonsense, Anna, nonsense. Now come, we must go. I hope that you remembered to send my cane along with the luggage."

He had stepped out by now, and Anna descended in her turn. "Naturally, I sent your cane with your bags."

"Come," he said, holding out his arm, which Anna took with grace, but with a proprietary gesture. It should have been a warning of things to come, but he didn't heed it.

 

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