The Jane Austen Marriage Manual (18 page)

“I think I know who you mean,” I admitted sourly. There was little doubt that Penwick Manor was the very same B and B that Griff managed. I wish he’d been friendlier in Palm Beach as I’m sure he could get me a few free nights in exchange for a travel story. It was the perfect place to finish writing the article. I stared at the photo of Penwick Manor once again. I had to admit it was glorious, the kind of place I fantasized about as a girl, and still did, come to think of it.

“It’s hard to imagine the owners would rent out rooms,” I said casually. “I wouldn’t want strangers touring about.”

“Well, as you would know, being a landowner yourself,” Fawn said, peering at me above her eyeglass frames, “large estates get run down
in the blink of an eye and the upkeep is crazy. Many of these aristocratic families open up their houses a few times a year to allow the rest of us to get a taste of their upper crust. And they charge a fortune and people pay it, for the privilege of a room with a draft and no central heat, just to say they stayed in a castle or whatever they call them. We Americans are suckers for it.”

I nodded. “Of course.”

“What about yours?” she asked flatly.

“My what?” I answered, forgetting for a moment that I supposedly owned an estate. “Oh, you mean my land in Scotland? The house is barely habitable anymore. As a matter of fact, while I’m in Europe, I plan to go antiquing. I have the entire library to redo.” Good save, I congratulated myself. It seemed to satisfy Fawn.

“Then you know how it is.”

“Absolutely. But I love this Penwick Manor,” I repeated and thumbed through the brochure some more.

“Prepare for landing,” the pilot announced over the intercom.

I cinched up my seat belt. I had barely touched my martini, but Fawn had downed both of hers.

As we stepped down the metal staircase onto the tarmac I felt a shiver. It wasn’t just the crisp winter air; it was the sudden reality check that I had spent nearly all my money and I had three nights,
only
three nights, before I would be penniless and stranded in Switzerland without a place to stay.

“I’m glad you got a room at Badrutt’s Palace.” Fawn smiled, swaying on her four-inch high-heel boots. “It’s the best joint in town.”

And the only one who’d give me a complimentary room, I thought. As we started to walk toward the small terminal, I glimpsed an eerily familiar-looking couple descending the steps from a much smaller aircraft. It was Scott, all right, puffing on one of his cigars, but he wasn’t alone;
she
was still on his arm. I stopped dead and grabbed Fawn’s furry elbow so hard that she nearly toppled over backward.

“There’s Scott.” I gasped. “And Tatiana.”

She removed her sunglasses and pulling her eyeglasses out of her bag, stole a peek. “Damn it,” she said. “Never you mind, you’ll steal him away.” Then she tossed her eyeglasses into the bottomless pit that was
her handbag and, shoving the sunglasses on her head, continued on. She gestured for me to keep up and I trotted along beside her as she whispered in my ear. “Did you see how they got here?”

“A plane?” I answered stupidly.

“It was a Citation,” she explained with a look of mild shock. “It only seats eight.”

“So?” I asked, thinking that an eight-seat private jet was no reason to give up on a man. “Maybe he likes smaller planes.”

“It’s not just that,” she breathed. “It’s a
charter
. He used to
own
a Gulfstream.”

“Maybe it’s in the garage, or hangar, or whatever you call it,” I suggested.

“Perhaps,” Fawn smiled unconvincingly.

“Or maybe he doesn’t care about planes if all he wants to do is ski.”

“Ski? Scott Madewell? Don’t be absurd! That’s not why he came. Isn’t it obvious why he’s here?”

“Not to me,” I answered, feeling annoyed.

“Polo,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

I felt my jaw drop. “In January?” I asked as if I hadn’t heard correctly.

“Yes, silly,” she continued. “Every January in St. Moritz they hold the World Cup Polo Tournament on Snow. It’s a huge event. People come from all over the world to see it.”

Just my luck, more horses. As I continued to walk toward the terminal, surrounded by majestic snow-peaked mountains and tall evergreens that spread across the steep inclines like a shag rug, I took a long gulp of frosty air. It was a cool and clean breath of oxygen and I desperately needed the energy it provided. After all, I only had three days to change Scott’s reason for being in St. Moritz.

B
adrutt’s Palace sprouted out of the mountainside like a castle in a Grimm’s fairy tale or EuroDisney. I half expected to find yodelers in the lobby. It looked ancient to me, but considering it opened in 1896, it was modern by European standards. When you’re on a press trip the hotel tends to make a fuss, but not in a subtle way; Badrutt’s was no exception.

“Welcome to Badrutt’s Palace,” the manager, a tall, blond, angular woman greeted me enthusiastically. Her name was Helga. “I can give you a complete tour in the morning if you’d like,” she explained as a bellboy followed us to my room. It wasn’t a suite but a deluxe room overlooking St. Moritz and the Engadine Mountains. As long as it had a minibar I was happy. “Let me know if you need anything,” she said and left me in peace. I flopped on the bed and had nearly fallen asleep when Fawn came calling, dressed to hit the slopes.

“Is this all they had?” Fawn stood at my window, outraged that my room wasn’t as fabulous as hers. “You should write a nasty article on them now.”

“Really, Fawn,” I said trying to be persuasive. “It’s fine.” I had admitted that my hotel was paid for in exchange for a travel series I was writing for
Haute
, and of course she found that exciting. I wasn’t sure I should trust her with the truth about the Austen article; the timing wasn’t right.

“You should see my suite,” she went on. “It’s enormous! Two bedrooms miles from each other, and the fireplace!”

“I’m glad you’re happy,” I said as I changed into my full ski suit complete with slim-cut pants. I loved it because it was fitted; none of that puffy Michelin Man aesthetic for me. I wanted to look glamorous, not fat. And better yet, with everyone wearing a getup like this, no one could tell how old anyone was; unlike Florida with its beaches and bikinis, skiwear was age camouflage. Take that, Tatiana.

“I’m ready,” I announced and swanned out of the dressing room, ready to make my St. Moritz debut.

“Very nice,” Fawn said faintly and plopped on my bed, looking like she would burst into tears at any moment. “Next to you I look like a buttered crumpet.”

Her outfit was in fact pale yellow and puffy. “You do not,” I lied. I headed for the door but was stopped short by Fawn’s outburst of tears.

“I’ve … I’ve,” she cried. “I’ve lost it …”

I wasn’t sure what she’d lost because she was crying so hard. I had no choice but to sit there and wait it out.

“What have you lost?” I asked softly when her tears had subsided.

“May I have a tissue?” she asked like a little girl. I quickly ran to the bathroom and brought back the entire box. She blew her nose and forced a smile.

“That’s better.”

“I’m glad. Can I help somehow?”

“No one can. What I lost I can never get back—my youth.”

I removed my ski jacket and sat down. Lost youth was no five-minute chat; this could take a while.

“When I saw how sexy you looked in your little black ski suit, I was jealous. I feel ugly and old in this buttery mess of a thing. No wonder my husband left me for a younger model. Who’d want this?” She held out her arms encased in yellow marshmallow sleeves. “But look at you, Kate. You’re exciting, glamorous, sexy, smart, and younger than me. With you zipping around in that ski suit, what chance does an old woman like me have? I’m no longer desirable. I’ve come to the end of my beauty.”

I didn’t like her berating herself like this. I looked at her, sitting on the bed, vulnerable and sad; the sultry and confident woman I’d met in Palm Beach just weeks before had vanished. When I had met her she had been the picture of rich wife glamour, but now she reminded me of a broken champagne flute, jagged, fragile, and discarded. I felt sorry for her and that made me angry. I cleared my throat and spoke honestly. “You are one of the most elegant and beautiful women I’ve ever met,” I said, which made her smile. “We are going to go out there and you’re going to have dozens of eligible men fall head over heels in love with you! And better, they’ll all be rich.”

I got up and pointed to the door. She smiled weakly.

“Ha! Or is it LOL?” She laughed artificially. “It’s not money I’m after.”

“What do you mean?”

She looked at me as though I had three heads.

“I don’t want to grow old alone,” she growled. “I want a man who loves me. Money doesn’t keep you warm at night or hold your hand when you’re sick.”

“But you always act like money is all that matters,” I explained. “I for one would rather be rich and alone than poor and alone.”

“That may be,” she said, examining me through her bleary eyes. “But neither of us are poor. Just alone.”

I felt her eyes focusing on mine as she spoke, scrutinizing me. Or at least it felt that way.

I wanted to tell her the truth and not just to make her feel better; it would be a relief to drop the act.

“I’m poor,” I admitted at last and waited for the fallout.

“Well, I assumed you weren’t rolling in it, but poor? Define poor.”

“Empty bank account and maxed-out credit cards. No house. No job.”

“Just your land in Scotland?” she asked sympathetically. I could tell she didn’t believe me.

“The truth is my estate in Scotland encompasses exactly one square foot of conservation land.”

“I don’t understand.”

Then I spilled the entire thing: my mother’s gambling, my house, the genesis of my aristocratic title, and, of course, my grandmother’s death. Fawn took it all in, nodding patiently and giving my shoulder a sympathetic pat during the parts about my grandmother. Then I knew the timing was impeccable. So I told her about the article.

“I’m trying to see if Austen’s approach to act like a lady and put yourself in the path of rich men will bag a billionaire,” I said with a sigh. “Though it’s gone far beyond research, after everything that happened I must do it for real. Making a good marriage is my only chance to have a decent life. Then I met Scott and I knew he was the right man for the job, so to speak. I know I could fall in love with him and he could fall for me if given half a chance. So you might say I’m a middle-aged woman trying to see if I can win the lottery, but instead of playing numbers I’m playing romance.”

“You know what this little adventure of yours reminds me of?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye. “One of my favorite movies of all time,
How to Marry a Millionaire
. Have you seen it?”

I had. It starred Lauren Bacall, Marilyn Monroe, and Betty Grable as three down-on-their-luck models who try to pass themselves off as society women in order to lure rich husbands. I hadn’t seen it in years. Fawn was right on target.

“You’re right, somewhere between Austen’s books and that film is my life,” I admitted.

“That movie was practically my instruction manual,” she confessed. “How else could a small-town beauty queen become somebody who everyone respects, who everyone wants to be friends with, and who has more money than most everyone?”

“So, you don’t think less of me?” I asked cautiously. “I mean Scott is a friend of yours.”

“Think less of you? How can I? Honey, I
was
you back in the day. I went after my husband exactly as you’re going after Scott. Who am I to judge? Now, does anyone else know your secret?” she asked. She had moved to my powder room to reapply her makeup and with a final stroke of red lipstick Fawn Chamberlain, the millionaire hunter, was back with a vengeance.

“You’re it,” I admitted reluctantly. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Why would I do that?” she asked innocently. She was smiling again as if we’d never had the conversation, but she kept looking at me as though she had something on her mind. At last, and with a dead serious expression she said, “I want to help you.”

“Help me?” I said, taken aback.

“What you need is a mentor.” She tapped my shoulder. “Otherwise you’ll be strutting around like a runner-up in a beauty pageant, sleeping with the judges, hoping they’ll vote for you next time. I can teach you how to win and first prize is a billionaire. Wait until you get a load of the tiara!”

This was either a really great or a really terrible idea. Then again, I had three days to advance my plan or I would be out on the streets. I decided it was really great. “Then consider me your pupil.”

She clapped her hands together gleefully. “I love having new projects!” she declared. “I always try to set up my daughter but she flatly refuses and is determined to never marry. I’m starting to think she’s a lesbian.”

I giggled. I was sure that Fawn’s daughter wasn’t gay, just independent, and besides, she was an heiress. What did she need a rich husband for?

“Let’s start by hitting the slopes,” Fawn suggested. “Men love an active woman.”

Big confession: I don’t know how to ski. Like tennis and equestrian events, skiing is a sport with an outfit I admire but will only wear to sip pinot grigio. Fawn was amused by my lack of skiing abilities but didn’t see any point in attempting a lesson on the bunny hill. Apparently the sort of men I needed to meet were strictly black diamond types. So instead of hitting the slopes, we hit the bar.

As it turned out, Badrutt’s Palace had a rather splendid one called the Davidoff Lounge, so there we sat by a large picture window with an unobstructed view of the lake, skipping the ski portion of après-ski and enjoying a lovely white wine, when three men sat down at the table beside us. They were boisterous, but we didn’t pay an iota of attention to them, which was made easier by the fact that they were speaking Russian, or so Fawn said. Our afternoon would have passed
pleasantly, if unremarkably, if it hadn’t been for one of the men lighting a cigar. Fawn was immediately indignant and began to sputter and shift in her chair. I did my best to ignore it but it was impossible. The smell was putrid, as was the thick layer of green smog that drifted to our table, encircled our heads, and crept into our nostrils as if it were on legs. I made a face. Fawn coughed and waved at the smoke. Scott smoked cigars but always outside, and with far more finesse than this lout. We waited, fully expecting him to head for the nearest exit, but he stayed put. “I can’t take it anymore,” I muttered to Fawn. “Let’s move to another table.”