Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (124 page)

“One of the Maryland Viscounts? Or the Grosse Pointe Viscounts?”

“Silly. Remind me to look it up in the encyclopedia.”

“Maryland? Or Grosse Pointe?”

“No, idiot. Viscount. I think it’s between an earl and a baron, though I’m not sure. Or is it a baronet? Anyway.”

“Call up the
Times
. They’re used to pointless questions. But you, with your reference books; surely you must have a copy of Burke’s Peerage?”

When we left the cottage and started up the flagstoned path we saw at once that someone in the house opposite Caroline’s was hosting a house party. There were people strolling about, a drink cart had been set up, and lawn chairs were placed at intervals. They all seemed to be young people, dressed in a variety of ways, and then I saw a man and a girl, in beach wear and dripping wet, come around the side of the house. I was aware, then, of some splashing sounds, and I remembered that Tom had told me there was a swimming pool on the grounds.

It all looked very festive, very country weekendish.

As we neared Caroline’s, some of them glanced our way, and a kind of hiatus occurred in the talk and laughter. A friendly nod seemed indicated, so I nodded, at which several people waved, and someone said, “Hi.”

The setter I’d seen earlier, and who had been lying full length on the grass, took all this as an invitation, leaping up and bounding across to circle madly around us in an excess of affability. He tried to hurtle up to lick my face, but I deftly fielded his advances, as his paws looked definitely muddy. Eric was not so fortunate: the dog almost felled him, but he regained his balance, wryly murmuring, “Good boy, good boy … that’s a good boy.”

The dog was called back then by one of the party across the way. “Ranger, get your butt over here,” and we went on to ring Caroline’s doorbell.

Emily let us in, with only bare civility, though Eric gave her one of his most engaging smiles and said he was happy to see her again. She led us, wordlessly, through the house and out to the patio at the rear. There were some enticing cooking smells wafting through the air, and, once on the patio, the salt smell of the sea.

It was a beautiful day, dry and clear, with a soft breeze that lifted my hair and caressed my face. Again I had that keen feeling of euphoria, and I thought that this — the coming summer, the sun, the fragrant odors and breezes and the long, golden days ahead of me — were all that anyone could ask from life.

It was at that moment that I got a good look at the man who had been standing with his back to us, looking out toward the water and gesturing as he spoke. He was saying something typically British, “It
is
a super dry day,” or words to that effect, in one of those English voices that are so appealing.

He swiveled around when he heard Caroline’s hello to us, and on his face was a tentative, almost inquisitive smile. I imagine she’d been singing our praises.

Caroline made brief introductions, forgetting Eric’s last name, and calling me Jennie as usual “And this is Anthony Cavendish, my dears.” She waved an airy hand prettily. “What
is
your last name, Eric … you must forgive me, but then I was never very good at surnames.”

“Sloane,” Eric said easily. He bent over her outstretched hand and kissed it with flair. She burst out laughing, gave him a whack on the rump and said sit down everyone.

Apparently the newcomer was in charge of the drink orders; he poured our martinis for us. “Olive, twist or onion?” he inquired, raising an eyebrow.

“Onion for us both,” Eric said. “Thanks much.”

“Here you go,” the Briton said, handing out glasses to us with a quick swipe of a damask napkin at their stems. He raised his own glass and, still standing, added, “Chin chin.” Then he slid into one of Caroline’s Deauville chairs with his long and elegant legs straddled. He would have looked well in a uniform … a Hussar’s, perhaps, with those long, lean legs and those fine, square shoulders.

We sat sipping and nibbling on hors d’oeuvres, with Caroline, as usual, doing most of the talking. As for the Viscount, he was quite an addition to the scenery. He was loaded with charm all right: he looked like the young Prince Philip, exceedingly tall, attenuated, really, as if he had been somehow forcibly lengthened by a sculptor. I decided he must be in his mid-thirties. His hair, very fair and looking like struck gold, was thick and glossy, and worn to the tips of his ears.

And of course that
speech
, the flawless Mayfair accent; Oxford or Cambridge, and clear as a bell, not strangulated, as Brahmin English speech often is.

A most bravura young man. I had been to Florence, and seen the paintings in the Uffizzi: young men of great beauty, immortalized by masters. This was just such a man. I caught myself looking back at him several times almost as soon as I looked away.

I asked him how long he would be staying with Caroline.

“Until my welcome wears out,” he replied, at which Caroline said instantly, “Which, as you know, will be never.”

“If you say so.”

“I do so say,” she assured him.

We were to have lunch outdoors. Emily was fussy about the flowers on the table, rearranging them to her satisfaction and then, still not happy, thrusting out a hand to give them another fixing.

Until Caroline finally cried, “Enough, Emily, for pity’s sake you’ll wear the poor things out. Let them be!”

“They’re stuck in without any artistry.”

“Pish tush. Do try to be civilized.”

“I just don’t see why everything must be hit or miss. You pay your staff enough wages.”

“And you too,” Caroline retorted.

Emily fell silent, looking grim and angry. “Can’t we have a lighter touch?” Caroline demanded, and Anthony Cavendish grinned.

“Tell your guests about our life together,” he suggested.

“All right, I shall,” Caroline said and, taking a swig of her Pouilly Fouissé, looked at Eric and me. “Our life together, as Tony puts it, is of some long duration. Apparently he feels some affection for me still, as he visits me on occasional summers to keep me company in my old age. Then, of course, he leaves me lonely as ever when he goes off. Also quite impoverished. Tony has expensive tastes. My caviar bills alone …”

“Darling, if I don’t spend your money someone else will.”

“Of that I’m sure. Still, you do a good job of it.”

“Oh, do shut up,” he said good-naturedly. “You wouldn’t know what to do without me.”

“I suppose I wouldn’t,” she admitted. “I am fond of him,” she told us. “We always did get along. You see, my dears, Tony’s the great-nephew of one of my husbands. The only thing left of
that
little debacle.”

“Worth it, wouldn’t you say?”

She gave him an inscrutable smile. “Perhaps.”

When Caroline’s pretty, immaculate-looking cook, Claire, came out to say that lunch would be served, Eric helped clear the drinks off the table, and then John — that all-purpose domestic, did the serving. Gone was the chauffeur’s livery: he wore a spanking clean morning coat and a starched shirt.

Apparently Caroline’s Viscount rated sumptuous meals, for the lunch was superb. Asparagus vinaigrette, Coquille St. Jacques, filet mignons, a Salade Niçoise, and for dessert a velvety flan, girdled with whipped cream. You couldn’t do better at Lutèce, and I told her so. “You must thank Claire,” she said, and then smiled impishly. “When Tony’s here she outdoes herself. For some reason she’s quite keen on him.”

I couldn’t blame her. The lunch had been very good indeed, but the
pièce de résistance
was Anthony Cavendish. I felt it was fatuous of me to admire his marvelous looks as I did, but I couldn’t help myself. I found myself thinking, he’s beautiful, and I certainly had never thought that about a man before. It was a word generally reserved for women. But he
was
beautiful, like a young god, with golden hair and perfect body.

He was wearing a Basque shirt, with a round neck that hit the shoulder bones, and his skin was a golden-tan. He had dark-gold hair springing, thick and virile, on his chest, and his long, tightly-muscled arms were stroked with the same gilded brush. He wore white ducks, so clean that they seemed to glitter.

“You remind me of the Queen’s husband,” I said, and my voice sounded odd to me.

Caroline threw me a triumphant look. “You’re very observant,” she said. “I might have known you’d see the resemblance.”

“I was wondering if Anthony had Greek blood too.”

“Yes,” he said. “My mother. She’s dead now, but she was very lovely.”

“I’m sure she must have been.”

“Still, Father’s not bad-looking,” he said. “Though he’s a bit under the weather these days from drink.”

He saw my discomfiture. “Oh, it happens in the best of families,” he said, smiling, and Emily gave Caroline a long, hard look.

“As
I’ve
found,” she said tersely, and Caroline laughed, throwing back her head.

“She thinks I’m a drunk,” she cried. “But then I suppose I am! What else is left but booze and memories?”

“And friends,” Anthony said, reaching for her hand. “And friends,” Caroline agreed, letting her hand lie in his. “A few still remain; thank God for it.”

We took our leave an hour or so later. “See you again,” Anthony Cavendish said, rising, and Caroline waved to us as we stood in the doorway.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she called. “It gives me such a
secure
feeling.”

Emily passed, not even glancing up.

“What did you think of him?” I asked Eric as we walked down the flagstoned path.

“The noble peer? A little competition there, I’m afraid.”

“Never.”

“Hypocrite. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from him.”

“Purely aesthetic.”

“Sez you.”

I put my arms around him. “I’m so glad we’re by ourselves again. Nothing means anything without you.”

“A propos of what? I haven’t threatened to cast you aside.”

“I just wanted to say it.”

“Glad you did. I wonder where they all are?” He looked about.

“The Maidstone, I suppose. I don’t know. Having lunch. I don’t know. I don’t care.”

And then, as if on cue, someone came out of the house nearest my cottage. A girl … a woman, rather. She was slim and trim and dressed very understatedly in a little daytime dress, for wear in the country, or in the city for lunch at, say, La Caravelle. Her hair was shining and clean and natural-looking. Her face was fresh and scrubbed to a shine and there was appealing color in her petite face. She had candid hazel eyes and a faint, very faint aura of something plain and inoffensive, like Bond Street or Yardley’s.

She had probably gone to Chapin, and then Foxcroft, and had a carefully unpretentious debut somewhere in between. This was no Bobo Lestrange. This was a fortyish woman who looked twenty-odd, except for the fine lines at the corners of the eyes. She was snub-nosed and strong-chinned. She probably traveled, too, with her own Porthault sheets, and was an honored guest at all the Ritz hotels on the Continent.

She held out a friendly hand and said hello. “Hello there,” she said. “I’m Kathy Lestrange, and you must be Miss Stewart.”

I said I was, and introduced Eric, at which she appeared with it and understanding, nodding to him vigorously and letting him have her hand too.

“You’re enjoying yourselves, I hope,” she went on, a constant, cheerful — even merry — smile on her girlish face. “We like being here in the summer, and don’t go anywhere else until September. My husband and I feel we need this rest.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “It’s wonderfully peaceful.”

“Oh,” she said, striking her forehead. “But I mustn’t forget! Tomorrow, which is the Fourth, we always have fireworks in the evening. It used to be for the kids, but the kids are adults now, except for Garry’s boy. Anyway, we still gather together on the lawn at around nine or so, when it’s gotten dark. Won’t you join us? Something to eat, and drinks. You
will
be part of it?”

“We
haven’t
made any particular plans …”

She put a friendly, girlish hand lightly on my arm. “It should be rather fun for you,” she said. “My cousin Peter’s got a houseful of guests, around your age, and … well, we’ll make our own excitement. All right?”

“By all means,” Eric said. “Thanks much. We’ll be there.”

“Oh, I
am
glad,” she said, and walked briskly in her little Ferragamo pumps to a buff-colored Mercedes; she got in, waved amiably, and purred away down the drive.

“Do you really want to go?” I asked Eric.

“I don’t see how we can avoid it. If we’re home they’ll know. They’ll see the lights. Unless we do something else that keeps us out until midnight or after. Let’s play it by ear. We agreed not to make any far-ranging plans on these week ends. Let’s just keep on doing whatever the spirit moves us to do.”

“You accepted.”

“Honey, it was a casual invitation and a casual acceptance.”

Yet perversely, lying on the beach later, he turned to me.

“Things are working out a little bit differently from what we expected, wouldn’t you say?”

“In what way?”

“I don’t know. We got off on the wrong foot, that’s the thing. Becoming friendly with Caroline and all.”

“But if it weren’t for Caroline we wouldn’t be here.”

“We’d be somewhere else.”

“Not so easy. It’s more difficult than ever to rent a summer place. Fewer people are traveling abroad. Summer rents have skyrocketed this year. Cal Morrison nearly fainted when I told him what I was paying. Do you realize people are paying for a week what I’m paying for the season? And most of them can’t get anything.”

“Okay,” he said peaceably. “Let’s get ourselves wet again and then go back and change to go somewhere.”

“Race you to the water.”

After our swim we climbed back up the hill, showered, and toweled ourselves dry. “Where do you want to go?” I asked Eric.

“Montauk, I thought. I haven’t been there for some time. I love that ghostly lighthouse. I love all lighthouses. Montauk’s so nice and wild. Fairly unspoiled even today. Get into something wild, darling.”

“I’ll only be a minute,” I said. “A sarong will do? It will have to, as my breechcloth needs laundering.”