Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [165]
Brighton drew a gift box from his coat. Inside was a double-tiered diamond necklace matching the stickpin he had given her earlier.
“Oh, dear,” said Brighton, “it’s the choker. I meant to give you the gloves first. Never mind. May I?”
He clasped the necklace on Colette, who, wishing Mr. Brighton had spent the money on the Radium Fund instead, stammered out a thank-you, sensing to her dismay that if she didn’t accept his gifts, he would never make another contribution to the Fund. It was the first time Colette had ever worn diamonds; they felt cold against her neck. Perhaps she might sell it later and donate the money in his name?
Brighton handed her a second box. This one contained a pair of thin, long-sleeved gloves, the color of fresh cream and made of a leather suppler than any she had touched before. “Try them on,” he said.
“I can’t, Mr. Brighton. They’re much too—”
“Too long to put on without taking your coat off? Yes of course. Allow me.”
He removed her light overcoat. Not wanting to give offense, she pulled on the gloves, which came up past her elbows. “My coat, Mr. Brighton,” said Colette.
“Yes?”
“Would you please put it back on? I’m cold.”
“Cold—of course—how absurd,” said Brighton. “There you are. Do you like them?”
She looked at her elegant fingers, clad in ivory leather. “I don’t know what to say.”
“The pleasure is mine, I assure you. Now if I can speak frankly, Miss Rousseau, I know what you want most in the whole world. Mrs. Meloney told me. You want me to help buy radium for Madame Curie. Don’t you?”
“Yes, if you’re willing, Mr. Brighton.”
“I’m most willing!” he cried. “I’ll buy the entire gram myself.”
“You will?” she said excitedly.
“If you will,” he said.
“If I will what?” she asked, excitement giving way to consternation.
“Marry me,” replied Brighton.
Colette didn’t know whether to burst into laughter or tears.
“I know I’m not what girls consider handsome,” said Brighton. “But I’m very rich. I can give you everything you desire. Think about that. Everything is no little thing.”
“We don’t even know each other, Mr. Brighton.”
“That’s not true. I know you perfectly, because you are perfection itself. I don’t ask you to love me. That doesn’t matter at all. Let me worship you. Say yes, and I will wire one hundred thousand dollars to Mrs. Meloney’s account this minute.”
The staggering sum hung momentarily in the air. “But surely you will consider a donation even if I say no?” she asked.
“I will not,” declared Brighton forthrightly. “I’ve given twenty-five thousand dollars already, and I did that only to be present at your lecture. Why would I give money to a Frenchwoman I’ve never met? I have no reason to. But if you marry me, my dear Miss Rousseau, your wish will be my command. Say two grams if you like. Say ten.”
“Ten grams of radium?” she repeated, unable to believe what she had heard.
“From my own mines. Why not? The market value would be a million dollars, but for me the cost would be much less.” When Colette didn’t answer, Brighton added, “Oh my, is all this considered immoral? Am I acting immorally?”
Colette shook her head, her dark brows frowning severely.
“Thank goodness. I never know what’s going to be thought immoral. They say people should marry for love. I don’t know what they’re talking about. I want you to share my home, Miss Rousseau. To travel with me on my train. To be on my arm when I dine with the President. Is it unreasonable that I should want the most beautiful, intelligent, innocent creature on earth to be my wife—or that I should offer her whatever I can to induce her to consent? Here we are at my factory.” Samuels opened the door for them. “Come in, please. Ah, look at all the girls leaning into their work. What a beautiful sight. But what was I saying?