‘I don’t want anything except to please my aunt for the next few weeks. After that …’ She shrugged, ‘After that, perhaps I’ll please myself ‒ only I don’t know what it is I want to be pleased by.’
‘Shall I do one thing that will please you?’ Richard said. ‘Shall I take you home early and let you get one night’s real sleep?’
She smiled at him widely and realized how little in these weeks she had been really smiling. ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in an age.’
‘I should be offended, but I’ll take it as a compliment. I’m a fool, but you might say “greater love than this” …’
He kissed her in the taxi, and she lay for a time tiredly, contentedly in his arms. ‘If I thought there was even a chance you’d fall in love with me, Nicole … Shall I try my luck?’
She sighed. ‘I like the way you kiss me, Rick. Let’s leave it at that for a while. Let’s leave it until all this nonsense is over. How is anyone supposed to know anything about love when what you’re really worrying about is your dress and your hair, and if you’ve been invited to the right party? It can all wait, can’t it? Surely it’s possible to learn about falling in love in winter? It doesn’t have to be at a ball on a summer’s night.’
‘Wise, cool little creature. If only you would fall in love, I bet it would be a thunderclap. And you’d be in love for ever. If I can do anything about it, I’ll make certain I’m around when the thunderclap happens. Why shouldn’t the lightning strike for me?’
Why … and why not? she thought. Except that no one could arrange for the thunderclap, or even know if it was going to happen. Iris didn’t believe in it, nor it seemed, did many other people. They believed in people being ‘suitable’ for each other. Possibly they were right, most times. She felt a sudden ache of loneliness, and settled more firmly in Richard’s arms. He had made a kind of reality of something unspoken in her heart, the promise that it might happen, the hope. She suddenly knew she wanted it to happen, that she could only commit herself because a passion swept her, not because it seemed a suitable thing to do. But it was, she thought, unlikely that Richard, the one who had instructed her in this, would be the one to cause the thunderclap. There would be no thunderclap with someone who was so familiar. And yet as she looked sideways at that almost too-handsome face, she knew that if the lightning should strike with Richard, if his energies could be channelled to the seriousness he affected to despise, he could be a splendid man. But she had no reforming zeal in her. She had spent the whole of her short life making herself over into the image which Anna had desired of her, and now what Iris willed on her. She had no desire, no will, no strength to start to change anyone else. Richard would remain, so far as she was concerned, as he was, frittering away his time and his talents, getting dangerously close to the age where he must change course or remain the complete dilettante, gifted, intelligent, but never really serious. The words of Professor Lermanov came back, ‘You are that worst of all things, a dilettante.’
With Richard’s arms about her, comfortingly, she shivered. ‘Cold?’ he said.
‘No ‒ perhaps someone just walked over my grave.’
‘If I had the gift of a wish just now, a fairy-godmother wish, you’d never die.’
She looked at him. ‘Nor will you ever die, Rick. You’ll always be the same. You’ll never grow old. You’ll live for ever.’
Afterwards she remembered that they were young enough then, both of them, to believe that this could be true.
It was at Ascot that Richard introduced her to Gerry Agar. Later she learned from Iris that he was Sir Gerald Agar, a baronet, unmarried, and very rich. He had with him a man, almost as poetically good-looking as Richard, but younger and with the appeal of a lingering shyness about him. ‘My young cousin, Brendan de Courcey,’ Gerry Agar said. ‘He’s Irish, and if you don’t want to lose your money on horses, listen to him.’
‘I wasn’t intending to bet,’ Nicole said. ‘I thought one came to Ascot just for the hats and the strawberries.’
‘Dear girl,’ Gerry Agar said, ‘you can see my cousin turning white. Horses are the most sacred thing on earth to him, next to women. He can recite their blood lines back to Methuselah. He knows their form bang on. If you don’t come to a race meeting to bet, you’re just cluttering up the ground.’
‘Believe me, Miss Rainard, I’ve never seen … seen …’ Nicole thought he actually blushed. ‘I’ve never seen prettier lines in my life. And I’d love to help you make a fistful of money so you can buy more delectable hats like the one you’ve got on.’
Gerry Agar patted him on the shoulder. ‘Spoken like a true Irishman, Brendan. Go to it, man. Do help Miss Rainard with her racing form. When you’re thirsty, you’ll know where to find Rick and me.’
There were four days of Ascot, four days of summer weather and big hats, of champagne and heeding Brendan de Courcey’s racing tips and winning money. In that short time Nicole became a part of a foursome made up of herself, Richard, Gerry Agar and Brendan de Courcey. She found herself as strongly attracted to Gerry Agar as she was to Richard. He was older than any of them, about thirty, and had a faintly cultivated air of world-weariness that made the others seem even younger. The angle at which he wore his grey topper indicated that he had not much respect for the convention of wearing it at all. When he raised his racing binoculars at inappropriate times, it always appeared that he was taking a closer look at a woman rather than a horse. He was very blond and tall and good-looking in an English fashion; he made an absolute contrast to his dark, rather more stockily-built Irish cousin. Brendan wore impeccably tailored morning dress which he somehow contrived to make appear as if it belonged to someone else. Nicole watched him often tugging at the collar of his shirt, which was not too tight, but seemed to bother him. ‘Tell you the truth, Nicole,’ he said on the third day, ‘I’m not mad about English racing. Oh, the racing’s fine, and one can’t miss the Derby. But all this dressing-up. I’d like to take you to some of the country meets in Ireland. Great fun. People are there for the people as well as the horses.’
Nicole looked about her carefully, beyond the well-dressed crowd in the Royal Enclosure, down to the Paddock, beyond to the downs where the thousands had come to bask in the sun, where the gypsy caravans were camped and touts sold the names of the winners. ‘I thought people came here for the people. After all, one can hardly see the horses.’
Brendan shrugged. ‘It’s entirely different. In Ireland everyone knows everyone else.’ Suddenly he touched her arm, ‘You know, Nicole, it would be grand if you came over and stayed with us during the Horse Show in August. We’re not far from Dublin ‒ in Kildare. We’ve a few nice horses … The Horse Show is fun.’ He made an apologetic gesture. ‘Perhaps a little dressed up on Ladies’ Day, but really just like one big house party. The horses …’
‘Brendan,’ Gerry drawled, ‘is being modest. His father is reckoned to have the best stud in Ireland. And, I have to concede his point. Until you’ve been to a genuine country race meeting in Ireland you’ve never seen racing.’ He still managed to leave it in doubt as to how he regarded country race meetings. ‘And don’t be deceived by the modesty. Clonkilty, Brendan’s father’s stud, has produced a Derby winner.’
‘Promise you’ll come,’ Brendan said.
‘August is a long time off,’ Nicole countered.
‘I’ll have my mother write you,’ Brendan said firmly.
‘Nothing’s so exciting as the Dublin Horse Show,’ Richard said, ‘but Fenton Field is very relaxing in August. You just watch the crops ripen and the beef fatten, and I’ll be there to amuse you …’
‘Don’t you ever do any work, Fenton?’ Gerry Agar said. ‘What’s all this nonsense about reading for the Bar? Everywhere I go, there you are, idling around.’
‘Gerry, it’s the Long Vacation. And I’ve never worked so hard as I am now, escorting Nicole around. I have to carry a big stick to beat off the other men.’
‘I would th
ink,’ Gerry said with his drawl exaggerated, ‘that Nicole was very well able to take care of herself …’
‘… Rainard. I think she’s being piggish,’ Nicole heard said of herself one night as she entered the crowded ladies’ cloakroom at a dance. ‘Three to one is a bit much, and all the other odd ones who go trailing around her because she seems to be so popular. Well, I can tell you, none of the girls like her ‒ and none of the mothers, either. And if she thinks she’s going to get Gerry Agar, she’s mistaken. He’s been around every season for the last ten years, and someone’s always expected to announce an engagement, but somehow he always managed to wriggle out. You’ll see, by next season she’ll be a has-been … After all, no one really knows anything about her …’
Nicole closed the door of the ladies’ cloakroom and went back to the dance floor, where she was immediately asked to dance by the son of the duke who had attended her coming-out party. She smiled at him, laughed at his jokes, and went into supper for the third time that evening with him. If she was going to be talked about, she might as well be talked about in the best company. Her cheeks burned, and she kept her head very high, and the duke’s son said, ‘You’re not just p … pretty, Nicole. In these last few weeks you’ve become p … positively beautiful. I sw … swear it.’
Iris didn’t like her association with Gerry Agar. ‘He has a certain reputation, Nicole. His name has been linked with a number of girls, and nothing comes of it. He has a way of disappearing just when everyone expects an announcement of an engagement. They say he has a flat in Paris.’
‘A number of people have flats in Paris,’ Nicole pointed out. ‘Gerry’s rather fond of art, and perhaps having a flat in Paris is like having a shooting box in Scotland for those who enjoy shooting.’
‘I don’t like you defending him. I would like you not to see him again. He’s very rich, but he’s not considered eligible …’
‘I don’t see how I can avoid seeing him,’ Nicole countered, ‘unless you want me to send regrets for all the things I’ve been invited to for the rest of the season. Gerry’s rather omnipresent.’
Iris tapped her fingers together speculatively. ‘Don’t encourage him. It will do you no good. There was a girl a couple of seasons ago who … well, she ended up being packed off to visit relations in India. Gerald Agar was the cause of it.’
Nicole continued to see Gerry whenever she felt like it. He seemed to have no work to do. He had an estate in Wiltshire, which didn’t appear to occupy his time. ‘I’ve a very good steward,’ he once said. ‘Why should I interfere and start messing up his work?’
‘You accused Rick of being idle.’
‘Rick’s got something in him if he’d only work.’ Gerry gave a slow, self-deprecating laugh. ‘Now me, I’m past it. I’m over the edge. No use trying to save me. I shall reap the harvest of all rakes. But Rick’s still got a chance. If I prod him enough, if someone prodded him enough, he might really settle down to some work. I’ll bet he’d be a howling success if he ever did make it to the Bar. The courtroom personality. He could make a jury believe black was white. But even Rick with his brains would have to buckle down a bit. They don’t let you into those sort of things because they like the cut of your jaw.’
Nicole spent many afternoons with Gerry. He took her to the galleries up and down Bond Street and in St James’s, where he was known. The dealers always listened with interest to whatever comments he had to make; he had bought from many of them in the past. His particular pleasure was Oriental ceramics. ‘I’ve a nice little collection down in Wiltshire,’ he said to Nicole. ‘I’d like to show it to you. But I don’t suppose your aunt would let you come …’
‘I don’t suppose so, either.’
‘Come and have tea at my flat. No, don’t look like that. I’ve another guest coming. Antoine Tourney. An interesting type. You might enjoy him. We have a little business to do, so you can have tea and leave. All very respectable.’
The sitting-room in Gerry’s flat was dominated by a Picasso and a Matisse. ‘A lucky buy,’ he said. ‘I really must take your education in hand, Nicole. You seem to think art stopped around 1900. But there, I’m being very severe, aren’t I? You’re so young yet, for all you look as if you have all the wisdom in the world. Come, play something for me.’ He was drawing her towards the grand piano. ‘I keep hearing you’re not a bad musician. If you are, then I’ll forgive you for being an ignoramus about art …’
She played, suddenly glad that the bright smiling mask of the débutante could be dropped. She played Bach, played seriously, for a serious audience. When she stopped she turned around and found that another man had entered the room and had stood silently, listening to her.
‘I congratulate you, M’selle. An excellent musician. Is it only prejudice which makes me surprised that you also are beautiful?’
‘Nicole,’ Gerry said, ‘may I present Comte Antoine Tourney. Miss Nicole Rainard.’
They sat over tea together, but Nicole felt that she was hardly part of the gathering. Antoine Tourney was very attentive, very flattering. A man close to sixty, his manner should have been flattering to Nicole, but she found herself rejecting it without understanding why. It was one of the times she felt very young and inexperienced, not able to put a finger on what disturbed her about this man. He talked to her about Paris and was not surprised to learn that she had been a student at the Conservatoire. ‘A pupil of Lermanov? Then you are indeed among the elite.’
As the tea was replaced by drinks, the Comte’s talk turned more towards Gerry. ‘It is happening, my friend. Violence everywhere. Spain must erupt. After Spain, what? Where? Roosevelt mouths his platitudes, our saintly politicians here and in France say what they must, believe what it pleases them to believe. But who is arming? Who is ready for the struggle? We know only one power who is actively preparing. If Churchill had his way, England already would be preparing. But she is not. There will be a great demand for arms close to the time. A demand that no one will be able to fulfil; but whoever has those arms to sell will be very, very powerful …’
Nicole was out of her depth. She could only vaguely sense what was being talked about. ‘The time? What time? What do you mean, Comte?’
He turned to her with a faint start, as if remembering that she was present. ‘The time? The time, my dear M’selle, of war. War will come, you know. Must come. The men who rule the world are making certain of that ‒ whether they mean it to happen or they are dedicated to preventing it. But while ambition and hunger remain unassuaged, the desire for a war to settle it all will remain. Those who make the instruments of war will prosper ‒’
Nicole clattered her cup into her saucer savagely. ‘Gerry, thank you for tea. Thank you for the afternoon’s instruction. I’ll try not to be so ignorant in future. I really will visit galleries and pay attention.’ She turned to Antoine Tourney. ‘How instructive it has been to meet you, Comte. How much I hope you are wrong. There can’t be another war. They all promised that there would never be another war …’
When she had gone, Antoine Tourney looked at Gerry closely. ‘Quite lovely, Agar. Very accomplished. A little young, perhaps, but intelligent enough to learn. Do I suspect, my friend, that you are at last falling just the least bit in love? Somehow I had never thought it would be a girl. I thought it would be a woman, a very experienced woman. But perhaps in this one you have found the perfect balance. Young enough to be quite entrancing; intelligent enough to learn very quickly. When she is thirty, she will be quite formidable. A very apt and able companion for you.’
Gerry crushed his cigarette into the ashtray. ‘Nicole Rainard is not for discussion, Comte. Shall we come to business …?’
The older man bowed his head. ‘My apologies. It is already beyond discussion, and therefore not my business. Now, let us come to our business. I have these latest figures from Krupp. Very reliable. Money invested here …’
They spent the next two hours discussing the figures on the sheets the Comte had brought with
him, arguing the possibilities. Both smoked considerably, but neither drank. The side of Gerry Agar which very few people knew came forward; the interests which he never declared were in evidence. Those who thought of him contemptuously as a man who did nothing except for enjoyment would have been astonished, astonished and shaken.
‘The demand will be incalculable, Agar. Whatever money is at your disposal, whatever influence you have, should be directed this way. There will be rivers of money, my friend, for those who know how to tap them. There will indeed be oceans of influence. Nothing will stop that man in Germany from his own madness, and like some madnesses, it may succeed. The ones, the only ones, who will gain, no matter what way it falls out, will be the ones who supply the armaments. Now, here I have a plan … There are people you should be in contact with. When do you next go to Paris? It should be as soon as possible …’
They ate a cold supper prepared by Gerry’s manservant. And they talked until late that night.
When Antoine Tourney was leaving, his thoughts slipped back to less pressing things. ‘That young woman. You might do worse. So young yet, but disciplined …’
‘I said before ‒ Nicole Rainard is not for discussion.’
The Comte bowed. ‘Good night, my friend.’
2
The time came when Nicole was in total revolt against what had become a numbing ritual. She went to dress for the dinner and dance to which she was invited; while Henson brushed her hair, and the clothes lay ready for her to step into, she suddenly knew that she could not go. ‘Henson, just put out some ordinary clothes, please. A light suit. I’m not going to the dinner.’
The Lynmara Legacy Page 17
