“But where is your de Lamballe diamond?” he asked Pauline, even before he inquired about the state of Jules’s health, as he bent over to kiss her hand on arriving in her house and saw that it was missing from her finger. She was wearing diamonds at her neck and diamonds on her wrists, but she had put away forever her magnificent engagement diamond. No one cared more about jewelry than Friedrich of Hesse-Darmstadt, and there were few stones he admired as much as the de Lamballe diamond that Pauline Mendelson had worn for twenty-two years as a symbol of her brilliant marriage. He did not need to peer through a jeweler’s eye to tell exactly how many carats a great stone had, and he could hold a prospective buyer enthralled as he recounted the provenance
of an important piece, who had worn it, owner by owner, and what had become of each.
Pauline looked down at her bare finger. She could not bring herself to tell Friedrich what she had told Sims Lord, that the ring seemed to her to be as false as her marriage. “Oh,” she said. “I must have forgotten it.”
There were only fourteen guests that night, which, for a Mendelson party, was quite small, but every detail was planned to perfection, as only Pauline could plan such details, and each guest remarked on that perfection. It was a warm night, and there was to be a full moon. Pauline’s flower gardens had never looked more beautiful, and Jules’s sculpture garden had never been shown to better advantage. There were drinks in the pavilion by the pool, and the air was filled with the scent of orange blossoms from the orangerie. There was Rose Cliveden, drinking far too much, but amusing, everyone thought, at least before dinner. And Faye Converse. And Camilla Ebury, with her boyfriend, Philip Quennell. And Madge and Ralph White. And Freddie and Betty-Ann Galavant. And Sandy and Eve Pond. Except for Philip Quennell and Faye Converse, there were none of Pauline’s usual arty crowd, just the group that Hector Paradiso used to say were “old Los Angeles.”
Everyone asked for Jules. “He’s so much improved. The doctors are thrilled,” Pauline said over and over, or a variation on that statement, even though she had seen him when Olaf brought him home from his CAT scan at three-thirty that afternoon, in an alarming state. All the servants in the house were watching out the windows. Dudley had rushed into the courtyard with a wheelchair to assist, but Olaf had pushed it aside and simply picked up Jules, as if he were a child, and carried him in his arms into the house and up the stairway. It had occurred to Pauline then, as Jules passed her at the top of the stairs, unable even to speak to her, to cancel her party that evening, but later, after he seemed to revive somewhat in his bed, he insisted she go ahead with it.
Miss Toomey, the nurse in charge of his case, said over and over again that she could not understand why they had been gone for such a long time. “It’s not as if Mr. Mendelson has to wait at the hospital,” she said. “He did give the wing, after all. His name is on it. They should have given him priority.” Miss Toomey had started to adopt a bit of the grandiosity
of the family with whom she had come to live. Olaf, busy with his orderly duties, did not respond to Miss Toomey.
“Jules is simply furious that Dr. Petrie is keeping him upstairs tonight, but he sends you all his love,” said Pauline.
“His sculpture garden is breathtaking,” said Prince Friedrich. “I would love to run upstairs and peek in and tell him. I’ve never seen it lit up at night before.”
“Perhaps later,” said Pauline quickly. “Look, Dudley’s calling us up to dinner.” She put her arm in his, and they walked across the lawns to the terrace of the house.
“I was sorry you didn’t like the yellow diamond earrings, Pauline,” said the prince. “I thought they were exactly what you were looking for.”
The image of the earrings on Flo March’s ears in Jules’s hospital room on the night of his heart attack flashed through Pauline’s mind again. She suppressed the anger she still felt at the thought that Jules had given them to his mistress.
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
“Jules’s secretary called to say he was returning them. He wanted them put up for auction again.”
“He did?”
“You didn’t know that?”
“When was that, Friedrich?” She tried to keep a conversational tone in her voice.
“On the very day of his heart attack. Miss Maple called me to say they would be returned, and that same night I heard from Yvonne Bulbenkian that Jules had had his heart attack.”
“I see,” said Pauline evenly. She stared in front of her as she continued to walk toward her house. Flo March, she thought, must have stolen the earrings after Jules collapsed in her house. She shuddered. In her mind, Flo March had become an evil woman.
“Have I said something to upset you, Pauline?” asked the prince.
“Oh, no, no,” said Pauline.
Because of the warm night, Pauline had arranged for dinner in the atrium instead of the dining room. Jarvis, her head gardener, had filled the atrium with pot after pot of her yellow phalaenopsis. “It’s too beautiful, Pauline,” said one guest after another as they stood by the long table and admired the sight.
“You’re next to me, Friedrich,” said Pauline. “I’ve put Faye Converse on your other side.”
“All my favorites,” said the prince, clapping his hands.
“You must tell us about the party in Tangier.”
“A nightmare. An absolute nightmare. Tangier in August! You wouldn’t believe the heat. All those people. And the
smells
! And no air-conditioning. And long lines for everything. And long faces everywhere. And the
placement
was a disaster. People like us seated next to people they never heard of and didn’t want to hear of. If you could have seen the look on Lil Altemus’s face when she saw the hotel where Cyrus put us. It was worth the whole trip.” He made a face of haughty disdain, and everyone laughed. “And then she moved out and stayed on Reza Bulbenkian’s yacht. Frightfully amusing, really. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
Philip Quennell, seated on the other side of Faye Converse, watched Pauline. He had no interest in the party in Tangier, as he did not know any of the people they were talking about, and he had ceased to listen. Instead, he noticed how elegantly Pauline sat at the head of her table, her elbow on the table, her hand cupping her chin in the most graceful fashion, paying her utmost attention to her guest of honor as he recounted anecdote after anecdote about a society party, which seemed of great interest to them all. It occurred to Philip that Pauline was going through the motions of listening, but that her thoughts were elsewhere.
Dudley also watched Pauline, as he went about his duties. He noticed the tenseness beneath her calm exterior. When she charmingly excused herself from the table to attend to a hostess duty, she entered the kitchen and complained to Dudley because one of the maids was chewing gum while serving her guests.
“I wasn’t chewing it, Dudley,” said the maid when Pauline returned to the table. “It was in my mouth, yes, but I wasn’t chewing. How in hell did she know?”
Miss Mae Toomey, the nurse in charge of Jules Mendelson’s welfare, walked into the kitchen in a stormy fashion. “I am at a loss as to understand how there could be a party going on in this house on one floor while a man is dying upstairs,” she said.
Dudley, ever loyal to the household he had served for so many years, had no wish to engage in a subversive conversation with the efficient nurse, and he had no authority over her to request her silence in front of the other servants working in the kitchen. He looked up and exchanged a glance with Blondell, who was helping Gertie, the cook, arrange green mints
on silver dishes for the drawing room after dinner. With Blondell, who had been with the Mendelsons nearly as long as he had, he could engage in such a conversation, but he would not with Miss Toomey. Instead, he moved to the pantry, out of their earshot, and she followed him. Although he did not disagree with what she had said, he went about his chores without as much as a nod to indicate his own feelings.
When he had finished arranging demitasse cups and spoons on a tray, he looked at Miss Toomey and said, “Is Mr. Mendelson worse?”
“He will not live through the night,” she said. “The man belongs in a hospital. I want to call Dr. Petrie and have him readmitted.”
Sounds of laughter came from the atrium, at the completion of one of the prince’s anecdotes, followed by the ringing of the table bell.
“She’s calling me,” Dudley said, excusing himself from the angry woman.
“More seconds for the fat prince, no doubt,” said Miss Toomey. She followed Dudley toward the door. “Tell her I must speak to her. Tell her it is urgent.”
As Dudley opened the door to return to the atrium, another great burst of laughter could be heard. During dessert, Dudley tried to interrupt Pauline to whisper that the nurse had to speak to her on the intercom, but she held up her hand for him not to speak until the prince had arrived at his punch line. Then, after more laughter and appreciative comments, she turned to Dudley to hear his message.
“Miss Toomey,” he whispered in her ear.
“I’ll call her after dessert,” said Pauline. “Tell Gertie the grapefruit sorbet is divine. Perhaps you should pass it around again, and the blueberries also. Such a good combination. I don’t know why we haven’t tried that before.”
Dudley persisted in his mission. He mouthed but did not speak the word, “Urgent.”
Pauline lifted her damask napkin to her lips and then pushed her chair out. “There’s a call I have to take,” she said to the prince, but she did not leave the table without first seeing to his welfare while she was gone. “Friedrich, have you read Philip Quennell’s book on Reza Bulbenkian? So marvelous. What’s the first line, Philip? Jules was always so amused by that.”
Philip, who did not enjoy being the center of attention,
said, “I can’t remember exactly. It goes something like this: ‘Reza Bulbenkian made one of the great American fortunes by knowing all the right wrong people.’ ”
“Frightfully funny,” said the prince, who then pulled the attention back to himself by starting on a long story about the social-climbing exploits of Yvonne Bulbenkian, and the fortune she was spending. With her guests in rapt attention, Pauline left the atrium and walked into the house and down the hallway to the library. She crossed to the telephone and pushed the intercom button.
“Yes, Miss Toomey. Forgive me for taking so long, but I assumed you knew I have guests. Is this something that can’t wait?” asked Pauline.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Mendelson, but I think you should come upstairs immediately,” replied Miss Toomey. The adoring tone that Miss Toomey had previously had in her voice whenever she spoke to Pauline was missing. She was serious and businesslike and made no attempt to underplay the urgency she was communicating.
Pauline heard and understood the nurse’s tone. “I’ll be right up,” she said. She hung up the telephone and walked out of the library. She was surprised to see that Dudley was standing outside the door in the hallway.
“Is everything all right, Mrs. Mendelson?” he asked. There was concern in his face.
“Yes, yes, of course. Go back to the party, Dudley,” she said. “Perhaps serve coffee at the table rather than inside, don’t you think? They all seem quite comfortable. It would be a shame to interrupt the mood.”
Dudley realized that Pauline was afraid to go up the stairs and was postponing what she had to do.
“Should I call Dr. Petrie?” Dudley asked.
“No. Miss Toomey should be the one to do that, and I’m sure that’s not necessary,” said Pauline.
“I could ask the guests to leave, Mrs. Mendelson. I’m sure they’d all understand.”
“Oh, no. Please don’t. You’re being an alarmist, Dudley. Mr. Mendelson is going to be fine. Now I must go up. Remember, coffee in the atrium.”
She walked up the stairway, holding on to the red velvet banister. On the way up, she noticed that the third Monet painting of the water lilies was crooked again, and she straightened it as she passed, without stopping. At the top of
the stairs she turned right and walked down the hall to Jules’s room. She stood outside his door for a second, breathed in deeply, and opened the door.
At first Pauline could not see Jules. Olaf was on the far side of the bed, leaning over him, and Miss Toomey was on the near side with her back to the door. Hearing the door, they both turned to her.
“He is very bad, Mrs. Mendelson,” said Miss Toomey. There was a censorious tone in her voice for the lateness of the arrival of the about-to-be widow. “I don’t think he has long.”
Pauline, frightened, stared at the nurse for a moment and then walked over to the bed. Jules lay with closed eyes. His head was turned to the side, and his mouth hung open. He was breathing in an erratic fashion, with gasping noises.
“I would like to be alone with my husband,” she said.
“I’ll call Dr. Petrie,” said Miss Toomey.
“Not yet,” said Pauline. “Not until you hear from me.”
“Would you like me to stay, Mrs. Mendelson?” asked Olaf.
“Come back in a bit. I would like to talk to my husband in privacy. Can he hear me, Miss Toomey?”
“Ask him,” said Miss Toomey.
“Jules. Can you hear me, Jules? It’s Pauline.”
Jules opened his eyes and looked at his wife. His hand moved feebly along the blanket cover, as if he were reaching for her. Pauline turned and looked as both Miss Toomey and Olaf left the room and closed the door behind them.
“Did you ever think you’d hear me say I’m scared, Pauline?” he asked. His grave illness had weakened the resonance of his voice.
“No, I didn’t,” she replied.
“You look very swell,” he whispered. “How’s your party going?”
“I should have canceled this damn party this afternoon when you came back from the hospital.”
“If they criticize you, tell them I insisted you go ahead with it.”
“Oh, Jules,” she said, looking at him. “I feel so helpless. If you were a religious man, I would call for a priest, or a rabbi, or even Rufus Browning from All Saints.”
“No, no. No last sacraments for me. I’m dying, Pauline.”
She looked at him but did not reply.