Читать книгу An Innocent In Paris - Barbara Cartland - Страница 3

“So this is where you have moved to,” Bertram Cunningham commented as he entered the large sunny room in the British Embassy where, at the far end, Lord Hartcourt was seated at a desk writing.

“I forgot to tell you I have been promoted,” Lord Hartcourt answered.

The Honourable Bertram Cunningham seated himself on the edge of the desk and tapped his shiny black riding boots with the tip of the leather switch he held in his gloved hands.

“You will have to be careful, my boy,” he said in a jovial tone. You were always a bit of a swot at Eton. If you don’t look out they will be making you an Ambassador or something.”

“There is no fear of that,” Lord Hartcourt replied, “Charles Lavington went off ill and decided to chuck in his hand so I have taken his place.”

“If you want my opinion,” Bertram Cunningham said, “his illness was entirely due to too much Maxim’s and the expenses of that little ladybird he was always taking to Cartier the morning after.”

“I should not be surprised,” Lord Hartcourt replied to him in a somewhat bored tone.

He disliked conversation that verged on gossip and it had never interested him.

“Incidentally,” Bertram Cunningham chatted on, while we are talking of ladybirds, what is this story André de Grenelle has been telling me? I met him riding in the Bois de Boulogne. He was full of a sensational denouement at Lily de Mabillon’s last night.”

“Never, never listen to anything the Comte has to say,” Lord Hartcourt said coldly. “It is inevitably inaccurate if not entirely invented.”

“Oh, don’t be stuffy, Vane,” Bertram Cunningham said. “There must be something in the story. Why, de Grenelle told me that the Duchesse had imported a new turn from the Moulin Rouge, who looked like a nun or even a schoolgirl. But before she could appear upstairs she collapsed into your arms and you carried her away into another room and locked the door!”

Lord Hartcourt laughed briefly, but the sound had no humour in it.

“Well, is it true?” Bertram Cunningham persisted. “I just cannot credit de Grenelle with having made all that up.”

“It has a slight element of truth somewhere, lavishly ornamented with the Comte’s very vivid imagination,” Lord Hartcourt said drily. “Mind you, I do like de Grenelle up to a certain point. He is amusing when a trifle foxed. But the morning after he is a dead bore. Personally I avoid him and I advise you to do the same.”

“Now stop evading the question,” Bertram said, slapping his whip down on the polished desk. “I want to know what happened and by Jove, Vane, you are going to tell me!”

And if I don’t?” Lord Hartcourt enquired.

“Then I shall go straight round and demand to see Her Grace and find out what really went on.”

Lord Hartcourt laughed again.

“You will get very short shrift at this hour of the morning. Besides I can imagine nothing more depressing than to see the debris after one of the more spirited parties chez Mabillon!”

“Then who was the charmer? André was extremely flowery in his description of her. Fair hair, grey eyes and heart-shaped face combined with an air of real or assumed innocence. It sounds most intriguing to me.”

“De Grenelle was drunk!” Lord Hartcourt pointed out.

“I should not imagine any of you were very sober,” Bertram Cunningham chaffed, “but it is just my luck to have to escort the Ambassadress to a party when all those excitements were going on. Very dull it was too. Would you believe it, we sat on gilt chairs for over two hours listening to some long-haired Pole playing the piano and afterwards we danced. There was not a woman in the room under fifty!”

This time Lord Hartcourt laughed without reservation.

Then he rose from the desk and put his hand on his cousin’s shoulder.

“Poor Bertie. You really do earn your salary at times like that.”

“I don’t mind telling you now,” Bertram said hotly, “if there are many more of them I am going to send in my resignation. I am becoming fed up with the whole thing. If it was not for you being here and one or two other chaps, I would then go straight back to London. After all it will be Royal Ascot in a few weeks.”

Lord Hartcourt sauntered over to the window and looked out over the Embassy garden. The lilacs and magnolias were in full bloom and tulips made a glorious patch of red beneath a tree of golden laburnum.

“England is always beautiful at this time of the year,” he said quietly. “Perhaps we are fools to waste our time and our money in any foreign country, even Paris.”

“Henriette being difficult?” Bertram asked with a sudden sympathy in his voice.

“Oh no!” he replied. “She is as entrancing as ever. It is just occasionally, Bertie, I find the whole thing so damned artificial. Too many parties, too much drink, too many people like the Comte making a drama about nothing.”

“You still have not told me what ‘nothing’ was,” Bertram Cunningham said pointedly.

Lord Hartcourt turned from the window to walk back to his desk.

“It is of little significance. As the Comte and I were leaving, we found a girl sitting in the hall. She was English, shabby, travel-stained and obviously very out of her element and when De Grenelle tried to kiss her she protested. And I obviously had to go to her rescue. Then she fainted from lack of food, not from fear of the Comte’s Latin attentions.”

“So he was telling the truth,” Bertram Cunningham exclaimed. “Was she outstandingly pretty? André has gone into eulogies over her.”

“I really did not notice,” Lord Hartcourt relied in a bored voice. “I told the servants to bring some food, gave her my advice, which she had no intention of taking, and came away.”

“You left her after all that excitement?” Bertram Cunningham asked.

“It really was not very exciting,” Lord Hartcourt said with a twist of his lips. “The girl was exhausted. She had been travelling since early morning and, I fancy, the wooden coaches of a French train are none too comfortable.”

“But who is she? Did you find out?” Bertram Cunningham enquired.

“She said she was the Duchesse’s niece.”

“Her niece!” Bertram exclaimed. “In that case André is most likely right. She is a chip off the old block! You undoubtedly spoiled her grand entrance. According to André she was going to get into her trunk in her dress and get out with little on save a few spangles!”

“De Grenelle talks the most utter nonsense,” Lord Hartcourt said. “I don’t think for one moment that she was anything but a genuine traveller. As for being a niece of the Duchesse, who knows?”

He shrugged his shoulders and started to tidy the papers on his desk.

“What are you doing, Bertie?” he asked. “Let’s go and have lunch at the Traveller’s Club. They have hired a new chef who can produce the best roast beef I have tasted outside Piccadilly.”

“All right,” Bertram agreed. “And I tell you what, Vane, we will drop in on the way and see what this new protégée of Lily’s is like. She is worth a look over. It will be amusing to get in before André and the other boys. He is swearing that nothing will keep him away from Lily’s tonight, but his Mama is holding a Reception which all the Diplomatic Corps are going to, so I don’t know how he is going to get out of it.”

“I never have been able to face the Duchesse or her like in the daytime,” Lord Hartcourt confessed stiffly.

“Oh, Vane, really! The old girl’s not quite as bad as all that. My father says that thirty-five years ago she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. And I can assure you that my Papa was an experienced judge in his day!”

“Really?” Lord Hartcourt observed and it seemed just for a moment as if he was slightly interested. Who is she by the way? I always thought that her title was entirely bogus.”

“Oh no. You are wrong there,” Bertram Cunningham replied. “The Duc actually existed. I saw him myself many years ago when I was only a boy. I remember it well. I came over to Paris in the holidays. My father was First Secretary then and he took me to lunch at the Ritz.”

“You had better see the elite of the Capital now, my boy,” he told me. “It will stand you in good stead when you are in the Foreign Office yourself.”

Bertram was silent as if his memory had gone back to the first sight of what was always to be to him an enchanted City.

“Well, go on,” Lord Hartcourt said. “You were telling me about the Duc de Mabillon.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Bertram said. “He was sitting by a table near the door and looked exactly like a tortoise, his neck choked by his collar, his face deeply lined and he had hardly any hair on his head. My father pointed him out to me. ‘That’s the Duc de Mabillon,’ he said and as I stared a woman came into the restaurant and all heads turned round to look at her. It must have been Lily, of course, but I was looking at the Duc and thinking that he was not in the least my idea of what a French Duc ought to look like.”

“So he really existed,” Lord Hartcourt murmured in quiet surprise.

“Oh, very much so,” Bertram answered. “Years later when I came back to Paris I heard the whole story from my father. It appears that Lily was married to another Frenchman, a rather unsavoury chap, a hanger-on of the Nobility, who had just enough decent blood in him to be accepted on the outer fringe of their stuffy and stuck-up Society. Anyway, he married Lily in England, brought her over to live here and somehow or other they met the Duc. The old man, twice widowed, had one look at Madame Reinbard and took them both under his wing, so to speak.”

“A dirty old man in fact!” Lord Hartcourt exclaimed.

“But, as my father used to say, a magnificent connoisseur where beautiful things were concerned and Lily was undoubtedly the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The three of them became inseparable. Of course the Duc paid Reinbard’s debts, set him up in a better apartment than he could afford and made life very easy for him and, naturally, particularly easy where his wife was concerned.”

“You tell the story well, Bertie,” Lord Hartcourt smiled. “If you are not careful, you will find yourself writing a novel about the redoubtable Lily.”

Bertram laughed.

“I had it all from my father and, I assure you, if anyone ever knew the truth about Lily de Mabillon, it was he. Apparently he was rather besotted himself by her at one time.”

“So I understand that it could be said of half the men in Paris,” Lord Hartcourt remarked drily. “The nineties must have been very gay indeed.”

“By Jove they were,” Bertram agreed, “and apparently Lily had rather a soft spot for my old boy. Anyway she used to tell him all about herself, that she came from a decent English family and that she would never have married Reinbard if she had not been so terribly poor. And, of course, the idea of living in Paris had seemed so attractive.”

“It certainly paid a dividend where she was concerned,” Lord Hartcourt said cynically.

“It did when Reinbard died. He was drinking far too much and got pneumonia one cold winter. Lily’s enemies, of course, always say that she was too busy entertaining the Duc to send for the doctor. Whatever the reason he died and the bets were a hundred to one against the Duc ever marrying her.”

“But he did,” Lord Hartcourt said, sitting back in his writing chair, a twinkle in his eyes as he listened to his friend’s story.

There was, however, a cynical twist to his mouth, as if he was not prepared to believe the whole story, even while he was ready to give it his attention.

“Oh, Lily saw to it that he married her all right,” Bertram observed. “One of the Russian Grand Dukes came along at that time, I have forgotten which one it was, but, just like Boris and that other chap who are here now, he was splashing his money about, snaffling all the best women and giving parties and presents that no ordinary fellow could compete with. My father always said that Lily gave the Duc exactly twenty-four hours to make up his mind.”

“As to whether he was going to marry her?” Lord Hartcourt asked.

“Exactly,” Bertram agreed. “It was a gold ring or the Russian roubles. The Grand Duke had offered her a Château on the outskirts of Paris. She already had a rope of fine pearls from him, which she had the impudence to wear with her Wedding dress.”

“So that was how Lily became a Duchesse,” Lord Hartcourt chuckled.

He rose to his feet again and walked to the door.

“A salutary lesson for all young ladies who aspire to succeed in life. Come on, Bertie, I am hungry.”

“Damn you, if you are not ungrateful!” Bertram Cunningham replied, getting down from the desk. “I kill myself entertaining you with one of the most intriguing histoires that Paris has ever produced and all you can think about is your stomach.”

“I am really thinking about my head. The champagne last night was a good vintage, but there was too much of it.”

“It sounds like a tip-top party. I just cannot understand why you left so early.”

“I will tell you why,” Lord Hartcourt said as they walked down the marble staircase into the Embassy hall. “They were starting their usual wild horseplay. Terence was squirting the girls with soda syphons and Madelaine, what is her name, was screaming so loudly that it got on my nerves.”

“The Archduke Boris seems rather interested in her.”

“As far as I am concerned, he can have her.”

“Well, actually none of them measure up to Henriette,” Bertram said convivially. “I must say one thing about you, Vane, your taste in horses and women is impeccable.”

“It is exactly what I have always thought myself, but I am gratified that you agree with me.”

“Damn it all, I always do agree with you, don’t I?” Bertram asked. “That is the whole trouble. If I had seen Henriette before you I should certainly have offered her my protection.”

Lord Hartcourt smiled.

“Poor Bertie, I pipped you at the post, did I? To console you, let me say that you are not rich enough, you are just not rich enough for Henriette.”

“I am prepared to agree over that one too,” Bertram said in a resigned tone. “But I can tell you, if I don’t find a ladybird soon, I shall be getting myself an odd reputation in Paris. All the toffs like you seem to have themselves fixed up. I am just unlucky. Do you remember that blasted German Prince who enticed Lulu away from me? I just could not compete with a Villa at Monte Carlo and a yacht. As it was it nearly broke me buying her a motor car. A rotten machine it was too. It was always breaking down.”

“They all do. Give me a decent piece of horseflesh every time.”

They passed through the Embassy door into the courtyard.

“That reminds me,” Bertram continued. “I am thinking about buying a new racehorse. I would like your opinion on it. It is from the Labrisé stables.”

“Don’t say any more,” Lord Hartcourt replied. “The answer is ‘no’. Labrisé is one of the biggest crooks on the French turf. I would not touch anything he offered me, even if it was a donkey.”

Bertram’s face fell.

“Damn it all, Vane, you do damp a fellow down,” he grumbled.

“Where you are concerned,” Lord Hartcourt said. “You can lose your money much more easily and more pleasantly on women.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Bertram said brightening. “Let’s go and look at André’s little nun. She might well suit me, who knows?”

Lord Hartcourt did not answer and it appeared to his friend as though he had lost interest in the subject.

*

Gardenia all morning had been waiting a little apprehensively for her first meeting with her aunt.

She had slept late, far later than she had intended and, when she awoke, it was to find the sunshine struggling through the heavy curtains.

Getting out of bed, she drew them back and had her first glimpse of the grey hotch-potch of French roofs that seemed to stretch almost interminably away into the distance. There were pigeons flying across the blue sky and a kind of magic in the air, which made Gardenia throw the window open and lean out, breathing in the fragrance and freshness of the Paris spring.

The doubts and apprehensions and fears that she had known the night before had gone. It was morning, it was sunny and already she was falling in love with Paris!

She turned away from the window, not knowing what to do. Should she ring and ask for breakfast? Should she go in search of it? While she was still hesitating, there came a tentative knock on the door.

Quickly Gardenia wrapped her old flannel dressing gown round her before she turned the key to see who was outside.

“Votre petit dejeuner, mamselle,” a young voice told her as she peeped into the passage and opened the door wider to admit a somewhat saucy-looking French maid with a white cap awry and dark eyes that seemed to hint at mischief.

She set down the tray on a table by the bed.

“The housekeeper said I was to unpack for you, mamselle,” she announced. “She also said that you were to move your room this mornin’ so it doesn’t really seem worth startin’, does it?”

“No, indeed, it does not,” Gardenia answered in her rather careful French.

She found the swiftness of the maid’s words a little difficult to follow. It was one thing to speak almost perfect French in England, but quite another to follow the patois of a French girl speaking at double the pace of anyone she had ever listened to before.

“No,” she said after a moment. “You are right. I will get dressed, then perhaps my trunk can be taken to the other room and then I will be most grateful if you would unpack for me.”

“Very good, mamselle.”

The maid left the room with a sidelong glance of her eyes that Gardenia found somewhat disconcerting. What was there about the servants in this house, she wondered, that made them seem so strange?

Then the aroma of fresh coffee and crisp warm croissants told her that, despite what she had eaten the night before, she was extremely hungry.

The croissants were delicious, although the butter had a strange taste. It was very unlike the Jersey butter she had enjoyed in the village where she had lived since a child. But the coffee was better than any coffee she had tasted before.

She poured herself out a second cupful and then eagerly started to wash and dress.

Whatever else she did, she must make a good impression on her aunt.

“First impressions are always very important,” she could hear her mother saying and just for a moment tears gathered in her eyes before she hastily wiped them away.

All her endeavours did nothing to improve her coat or the skirt and finally in despair she dressed and busied herself with making her hair as neat and tidy as possible.

She looked very young and, if she had known, very lovely, as she turned away dejectedly from her own reflection in the mirror and walked tentatively towards the door. She was not very tall and was too thin to be fashionable but she held her head proudly.

Her fair hair which persisted in curling, however hard she brushed it, clustered on her white oval forehead and made a frame for her tiny pointed face with its dark grey eyes and full sensitive mouth.

Gardenia felt her heart give a little leap as she walked from the room, which had seemed like a sanctuary the previous night, and down the passage towards the main staircase.

The house was still after all the turmoil and noise. There was, however, a left-over smell from the night before that she could not help recognising.

As she reached the end of the stairs, it grew stronger, the fragrance of cigar smoke, of the flowers that were dying, of exotic perfume and, although at first she had not recognised it, of alcohol.

She came to the first floor and after a few steps across the broad beautifully furnished landing she stood looking through big double doors that opened into what she imagined must be the main salon.

She stared in astonishment.

It was a huge room running the length of the house and, as Gardenia realised, decorated in the most extravagant manner. The curtains surmounted by carved gilt pelmets were of pink brocade interspersed with gold thread and matched the silk panels let into the white and gold walls. There were exquisitely carved gilt mirrors and inlaid marble-topped furniture.

But what held Gardenia’s attention after a quick glance were the tables dotted around the salon. They were green-baize tables that, though she had never seen one, she recognised them instantly. So it had been a gaming party last night, she thought! But why then so much noise?

Amid the debris on the floor were broken champagne glasses, a great vase of hothouse flowers that had been turned over and a Dresden china ornament with broken cupids.

It was the sort of party that Gardenia could not envisage or even imagine. She could see the platform in the anteroom where the musicians had sat and played so exquisitely. But why had there been music if people wanted to sit on these gilt tapestry-covered chairs and lose their money at the tables?

Then she remembered that she was in France. She had heard people talk of the gambling at Monte Carlo and at Ostend where people crossed the Channel especially for a flutter. She had not imagined that she would find it in Paris and least of all in her aunt’s home!

What would her darling mother have thought, she wondered, knowing that her mother disapproved of gambling in any form and protested vehemently when her father had wanted to bet on a horse.

Despite these beautiful furnishings and the ceiling exquisitely painted by what Gardenia recognised as a Master hand, the room had somehow an unpleasant atmosphere. It was not the smell or the debris, it was something deeper and more fundamental. Embarrassed by her own impressions, Gardenia walked swiftly down the stairs to the hall and into the room off it where Lord Hartcourt had carried her the night before.

The room was just as she had left it. Someone had indeed pulled back the curtains, but the food on the big silver tray stood beside the sofa and the sofa cushions that she had lain on still bore the imprint of her head.

The room was, as Gardenia saw now, expensively and artistically furnished. Yet there were no homely touches, nothing comforting or even welcoming. She felt herself shiver. She did not know why, except that she knew, without even expressing the words to herself, that this was not the sort of house that she could ever think of as home.

And that was what she had come to find!

She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece, which had stopped, and wondered why there was no one to see to such matters in such a luxurious house. Ink in the inkwell, pens ready for writing, clocks that were wound up and drinking water by the beds, these were the small details in which her mother had so often instructed her.

“That is a woman’s job, dear, to see to the little things,” she used to say. “For it is the little things that make comfort and comfort is something that every man wants, whether he is rich or poor, old or young.”

‘Perhaps I can help Aunt Lily with the little things,’ Gardenia told herself and then as an excuse she remembered that her aunt was a widow.

“Bonjour, mamselle,” a voice behind her made her jump.

Gardenia turned to see a very elegant, sharp-featured young female in a black dress with a tiny ridiculously small lace apron.

“Oh, good morning,” Gardenia said, somehow flustered by the woman’s sharp eyes that seemed to take in every detail of her shabby appearance.

“I am Her Grace’s personal maid,” the woman said. “Her Grace is now awake and I have informed her of your arrival. She wishes to see you.”

There was something in the hard words that made Gardenia feel apprehensive. Perhaps she was being unduly sensitive, but she had the impression that her aunt was not particularly pleased with the information she had received of her presence.

However there was no time for introspective thoughts.

“I am very eager to see my aunt,” she responded.

The personal maid’s expression of aloof disdain did not alter.

“Kindly follow me, mamselle,” she said sharply and led the way through the hall and up the stairs.

With a sinking heart Gardenia then followed her. Perhaps this would not be the pleasant reunion that she had expected. In the back of her mind she could not help feeling that Lord Hartcourt had been right, it would have been much worse if she had climbed these stairs last night to confront her aunt amid a welter of green tables in the ornate salon.

The maid led the way to the second floor, knocked perfunctorily at the mahogany door of a room, opened it and ushered Gardenia inside.

For a moment it was difficult for her to see, for the windows were shaded by sunblinds and though the curtains had been drawn very little light seemed to illuminate either the room or the big bed set in an alcove and surmounted by a huge shell carved out of mother of pearl.

Then a voice from the bed, hoarse and rather weak, called out,

“Who is it? Can it possibly be you, Gardenia?”

Gardenia’s embarrassment and apprehensiveness fell away at the sound of the voice.

“Oh, Aunt Lily, dear Aunt Lily! It is I, Gardenia. I arrived last night. I do hope you are not angry. There was nothing else I could do, absolutely nothing, except come to you.”

There was a movement amongst the pillows, then a hand came out towards Gardenia, which she clasped thankfully.

“Gardenia, my dear child, I have never been so surprised in my life. I thought Yvonne must have got it wrong when she told me that my niece was here. I tried to think who else it could possibly be, but you are my only niece. Why did you not write to me?”

“I could not, Aunt Lily. I had to come at once. You see, Mama is dead.”

“Dead?”

The Duchesse sat up and, even in the dim dusk of the shrouded room, Gardenia could see the expression on her face.

“But it cannot be true! Your mother dead! Poor darling Emily. The last time she wrote to me, after your father’s accident, she sounded so brave, so full of fortitude, determined to look after you and to keep her home going.”

“She did try to do all those things,” Gardenia said. “But it was just too much for her.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute, child!” the Duchesse exclaimed. “I have to hear all this. Oh, my poor head! It feels as if it is going to crack open. Yvonne, bring me my cachet faivre, and pull back the curtains just a little, I want to see what my niece looks like. It is years, yes years, since I have seen her.”

“Seven years at least, Aunt Lily. But then I have not forgotten how beautiful you looked when you came down to see us and brought us all those wonderful hampers, boxes of little plums, and the pâté de foie gras for Papa and that lovely lace negligée for my mother. You seemed to me like a Fairy Godmother.”

“Dear child. Fancy remembering all that,” the Duchesse said. She put out her hand as if to pat Gardenia’s shoulder and groaned again. “My head, it is just agony to move. Be quick, Yvonne.”

She spoke to her maid in French and to Gardenia in English and could not help being impressed with the ease that her aunt switched from one language to another.

But when Yvonne raised the sunblind a little so that more light came flooding into the room, Gardenia could hardly restrain a start of astonishment as she saw her aunt’s face.

She remembered her being breathtakingly lovely, a blonde Junoesque figure of a woman with an exquisite pink and white complexion, golden fair hair and blue eyes, which had made everyone describe her as ‘a perfect English rose’.

“You were wrongly Christened,” Gardenia could remember her father saying gallantly. “Lily is a pale, reserved, rather cold flower. You are warm and glowing and as beautiful as my Gloire de Dijon on the porch outside.”

“Henri, you are a poet,” her aunt had answered, flashing her eyes at him and curling her lips in a way that, young as she was, Gardenia had recognised as being irresistibly attractive.

The woman she saw now against the pillows was a very pale shadow of the English rose that had burst on them unexpectedly one day in their tiny village, causing a sensation among the inhabitants by arriving in something that most of them had never seen before, a horseless carriage, the much discussed and much feared motor car.

“I have persuaded my husband to come to England to buy a Rolls-Royce,” Lily had told them. “French cars are not nearly as smart or as distinguished. I was determined to see you while I was here, so I drove all this way just to have a glimpse of you.”

“Darling Lily. It is like you not to let us know but to drop out of the skies unexpectedly?” Gardenia’s mother had laughed.

The two sisters had kissed again, clinging to each other for a moment as if they would somehow bridge the great gulf that lay between them. A gulf of money, position and, though Gardenia was too young to realise it at the time, an entirely different way of life.

She had often dreamt of Aunt Lily’s beauty, her exquisite face framed by a long chiffon motor-veil that fell from her motoring hat and flowed over the pale dustcoat that protected her elegant dress.

It was difficult to recognise that radiant loveliness in the tired-eyed, heavily lined face, with puffy eyes half-closed against the light that she saw now.

Aunt Lily’s hair was still golden, but it had a tinny almost garish look instead of being the pale yellow of ripening corn. Her skin seemed grey and listless and, even while she was covered in the bedclothes, Gardenia could see that she had grown rather fat.

“Gardenia, you are grown up!” Aunt Lily exclaimed.

“I am afraid so,” Gardenia said. “You see, I am now twenty.”

“Twenty!” Aunt Lily seemed to gasp the words and, closing her eyes for a moment, she said, “Where is it, Yvonne? Where is my cachet faivre? The pain in my head is intolerable.”

“They are here, Your Grace.”

Yvonne was standing beside the bed with a small silver salver in her hand. On it rested a glass filled with water and a small black and white cardboard box on which reposed a row of white cachets.

“Give me two,” the Duchesse ordered, putting out her hand for the water.

“You well know, Your Grace, the doctor said – ” Yvonne began, but she was silenced sharply by the Duchesse.

“Never mind what the doctor said. When I have had a night such as I had last night and my only niece comes to tell me that my sister is dead, I need something. Bring me a brandy and soda. I don’t want any coffee. The mere idea of it makes me feel sick.”

“Very good, Your Grace,” Yvonne said in a resigned way that expressed her disapproval far better than words.

“And be quick about it. I don’t want to wait all day. I want a drink now.”

“Immediately, Your Grace,” Yvonne said seeming to flounce across the room.

“Twenty!” the Duchesse repeated, looking at Gardenia, “It cannot be true. It cannot be possible.”

“One grows older, Aunt Lily,” Gardenia pointed out.

Her aunt put her hand up to her forehead.

“Alas, that is indisputable. God! How old I feel,”

“I did not like to disturb you last night,” Gardenia said apologetically, “but I felt it was rather rude to creep up to bed without telling you that I was here.”

“You did entirely the right thing,” the Duchesse approved. “I should not have been able to attend to you. Besides I don’t suppose you had the right clothes for a party.”

Gardenia could almost see the cynical smile on Lord Hartcourt’s lips.

“No,” she said humbly. “I am afraid that my clothes would not have been right ‒ at the party.”

“You are in mourning now, of course, but the dress you are wearing, dear, is very old-fashioned if you will forgive my saying so.”

“It was Mama’s,” Gardenia explained, “and I am afraid it is all I have.”

“Well, I don’t suppose it matters,” the Duchesse said limply, “because you will not be staying, will you?”

There was a moment’s silence, a moment in which the two women stared at each other.

Then, with a little break in her voice, Gardenia said,

“But, Aunt Lily, I don’t know what to do. I have nowhere, nowhere else to go!”