The Flower Garden

by Margaret Pemberton

  She shivered convulsively. First and foremost she needed her husband. It was 6:45 and by 7:00 he would have left his Washington apartment for the evening round of cocktails and parties and endless government gossip. She reached for the speaking tube and asked Collins to hurry.

  What would Jack do? Motor up? Catch the late train? Fly? Anything as long as he reached her quickly. The thought of the evening stretching out into lonely darkness was suddenly terrifying. She didn’t want it to be dark and she didn’t want to be alone.

  The Rolls slid to a halt outside the brownstone mansion that had been the Camerorr home for three generations. Nancy didn’t wait for Collins to emerge and open the door. She flung it open herself and broke into a run.

  Ramon Sanford tapped a black Sobraine impatiently on his cigarette case. He wasn’t accustomed to being kept waiting and Nancy Leigh Cameron was nearly an hour late. Only the fascination of the photographs had detained him. They scattered the room in oval silver frames, Camerons and O’Shaughnessys, past and present. Ramon ignored the Camerons with their jutting chins and firm-set mouths. Several times he came back to a photograph of Nancy taken aboard the Cameron yacht. She leaned against the rail, her dark hair blowing in the wind, a long chiffon scarf fluttering against her throat, her head tilted back slightly as she laughed. It was an unusual photograph, sharply different to the stylized poses affected by her husband. Ramon wondered if the senator ever laughed with the spontaneity and naturalness so obviously displayed by his wife. He doubted it. Everything Jack Cameron did had a purpose. If he ever laughed it would only be if it was advantageous for him to do so.

  Two photographs stood side by side on a rosewood secretaire. Ramon studied them with interest. One of them was an aged sepia portrait of an elderly man. The other the familiar face of Boston’s mayor. Ramon had never met Patrick O’Shaughnessy, Nancy’s grandfather, the dominating, still-straight figure with the mane of white hair eyeing the camera with pride. Yet he knew the face. An identical portrait had graced his grandfather’s desk for over forty years. Sanford and O’Shaughnessy. A slight smile touched Ramon’s lips. Friends and enemies. It was an old story and past history. He wondered if Nancy was as well acquainted with it as he was. Leo Sanford had been a great talker and reminiscer. As a child Ramon had sat on his knee on the terrace of their Oporto quinta and heard time and time again of how his grandfather’s great friend, Patrick O’Shaughnessy, had saved his stepson from drowning. Of how, with only a little help from the grateful Leo, he had turned a small grocery store in Boston’s North End into a multi-million dollar business empire. With his grandfather’s death the photograph had disappeared. His father, the child Patrick O’Shaughnessy had saved from the grim waters of the Atlantic, had no love for his rescuer. Or, more precisely, none for his descendants. He hated Chips O’Shaughnessy so implacably that, out of respect for him, Ramon had never made the mayor’s acquaintance. Only now, with Duarte dead and at his mother’s request, was he renewing the ties that existed between them. And in a way his father would have approved. His rare smile deepened as he looked in vain for a photograph of the mayor’s second wife. None was on view. Gloria was conspicuous only by her absence.

  His eyes flicked to his watch. It was 6:55. He stubbed out his cigarette and moved towards the doors. As he did so they were flung open and a dark-haired woman hurtled into the elegant room, stopping short in stupefaction when she saw it was not empty. Ramon’s dark eyebrows rose. Her hat was clutched in her hands, her disarrayed curls filmed with snow. Her face was white; her eyes blue-rimmed. Her lavish sable was wet, the hem muddied and coated in slush, her delicate crocodile shoes were cracked and on the point of disintegration.

  ‘Ramon Sanford,’ he said. Whatever he had expected, it was not this. Intrigued, he moved towards her and held out his hand.

  She stared at him, blinking as if she had just come in from intense sunlight.

  ‘I’m sorry. I …’

  He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. It was icy cold, the fingers frozen together. He kept hold of it, warming it between his own. Dazed, she made no effort to remove it. He could see her visibly striving to gather her scattered wits and reassume her social poise.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’d forgotten …’

  ‘There’s no need to apologize. I amused myself by studying your family portraits. The one of your grandfather is very familiar. Leo Sanford had a likeness to it on his desk until the day he died.’

  Nancy forced herself to think. Sanford. The grandson of her family’s benefactor. A man she had never met but with whom she had promised to have cocktails at six. Was it his father who had just died, or his mother? Her head was pounding. She only knew she had to be rid of him.

  ‘I’m sorry. As you see, I had completely forgotten we were to have drinks together and I’m afraid it’s terribly inconvenient …’

  She was breathing rapidly and he could feel the race of her pulse as her hand remained firmly trapped in his. Her eyes darted around the room as if looking for a way of escape. They focused on the telephone and then on the drinks tray.

  ‘Excuse me …’ She withdrew her hand and Ramon was sure that she wasn’t even aware that it had been held. As she crossed to the gleaming cut-glass decanters of whisky and brandy she knocked a cushion off the arm of a chair, her hands were shaking visibly as she reached out for a glass.

  Ramon watched her, all thoughts of the waiting Gloria forgotten. Nancy Leigh Cameron’s social circle was centred mainly around Boston and Palm Beach. She avoided Washington whenever she could, was seldom in New York and only in Europe for the Paris Collections. On his own well-worn playboy circuit of Cannes, Deauville, St Moritz, New York and London, they never met. Their last meeting had been in 1909, with their respective parents, aboard King Edward’s yacht at Cowes. He wondered if she remembered it.

  ‘A shame our fathers hated each other so intensely,’ he was saying. ‘The feud broke my grandfather’s heart and he and my father were irreconcilable for years.’

  Nancy felt the room spin. My good Christ. Another few months and if her mother’s belief in the after-life was proved correct, she’d be able to hear the Sanford/ O’Shaughnessy story from the original participants! Her hand shook so violently as she lifted the decanter to pour a drink that it cracked sharply against the rim of her glass, sending golden droplets scattering on to the tray and carpet.

  Ramon moved quickly across to her and took the decanter from her grasp, pouring two stiff drinks and handing her one. He understood now the reason for her dishevelled appearance and disorientation. He was well acquainted with the habits of alcoholics. Most of his rich and famous friends belonged to that particular club. For the first time he felt a grudging respect for Jack Cameron. He would have to be more of a man than he had thought him to have the audacity to proclaim himself a future candidate for the presidency when he had an alcoholic wife.

  ‘I’m really sorry that I have no time to spare you …’ Nancy began again, trying to regain her composure, ‘but I have a personal telephone call to make. If you will excuse me …’

  ‘I’ll excuse you to make your call,’ Ramon said easily, ‘but not from our dinner date.’

  They didn’t have a dinner date but Nancy didn’t protest. She didn’t hear him. She was already dialling Washington.

  Ramon crossed the room, noticed two Vermeers that were worthy of closer attention, heard Nancy ask for her husband and closed the panelled doors behind him. A little maid in a dusky pink uniform moved forward to enter. Ramon shook his head.

  ‘Mrs Cameron is making a personal call.’

  Maria hesitated. She never listened in to private conversations. Mrs Cameron knew that, and according to the butler she was cold and wet. Although she had not been summoned she would surely be needed. She opened her mouth to protest and then thought better of it. Mrs Cameron’s guest was not a gentleman who would appreciate impertinence from staff – or anyone else for that matter. She had seen his photograph in papers and glossy magazines bu
t couldn’t remember his name. She would ask the butler. She wondered what his connection was with Mrs Cameron. He had never visited before and didn’t fall into the usual category of Cameron guests.

  He wasn’t a politician: he wasn’t even American. A little shiver ran down her spine. He was very handsome. Very male.

  She put back the high-necked evening dress that she had laid out on Nancy Leigh’s bed and replaced it with a stunning Schiaparelli that plunged back and front and clung silkily over the hips. In Maria’s eyes it was a more suitable dress for an evening out with such a man.

  ‘This is Mrs Cameron speaking,’ Nancy said, as the familiar voice of Jack’s personal assistant answered the telephone.

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Cameron is in conference with Mr Rogers of the State Department,’ Syrie Geeson said smoothly.

  ‘At the apartment?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Cameron. Mr Cameron and Mr Rogers are dining later with the attorney general and …’

  ‘Please put me through to my husband.’

  There was a fractional pause. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Cameron, Mr Cameron expressly asked that …’

  ‘Immediately!’

  There was a long silence, then Jack’s voice said brusquely, ‘Nancy?’

  ‘Oh Jack! Thank goodness I caught you before you left …’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Nancy. I’ve got Rogers in the next room. What the hell is it?’

  ‘I’ve just come from the clinic and …’

  ‘I can’t talk about that now, Nancy. It’s important that I make Rogers see my point of view. The son of a bitch has been queering everything these last few weeks …’

  ‘This is important! More important than Rogers or Roosevelt or the New Deal or …’

  ‘Have you been drinking? You sound hysterical. I’ll give your love to Mrs Rogers and …’

  ‘To hell with Mrs Rogers! Don’t you want to know what Dr Lorrimer said? Don’t you care? Has it ever crossed your mind that he wanted to see me urgently and that you should have been with me when he did?’

  In the background Syrie Geeson’s voice could be heard. ‘It’s seven-fifteen …’ Another word followed faintly.

  ‘And don’t you even have the decency to talk to me in private?’

  ‘Look, Nancy. I don’t know what the hell’s got into you but I’ve got a heavy evening ahead of me. I’ll phone you later tonight and you can tell me what Lorrimer prescribed.’

  Nancy’s anger suddenly evaporated. Her voice was dangerously quiet.

  ‘I telephoned because I needed you. Are you telling me you haven’t time to listen?’

  ‘I’m telling you I’ll listen to you later. This meeting with Rogers and the attorney general is crucial. Hell, if you knew some of the stunts he’s tried to pull …’

  ‘It’s seven-twenty. Mr Rogers is getting edgy.’

  ‘Take him down to the limousine, Syrie. I’ll be right with you.’

  There was no goodbye, only a purring sound as the line was disconnected.

  Nancy slowly replaced the receiver and stood motionless. She hoped FDR appreciated Jack’s devotion to duty. And that Syrie Geeson enjoyed his company at the high-powered dinner table. He would telephone her later: when it was convenient.

  She eased her throbbing feet from the remnants of her shoes and stared with surprise at the pool of water she was standing in. She wouldn’t tell him. The moment, if there ever had been one, had gone. Snow fell from her coat on to the Aubusson carpet and rapidly melted. They had talked together once, a long time ago. Before Verity’s birth and before Jack’s absorption in government. She remembered Dr Lorrimer’s surprise when she had attended the surgery alone. He had expected Jack to be with her. He had specifically and privately asked Jack that he should be. Jack had been too busy. Too busy even to telephone Dr Lorrimer and say that he would not be accompanying her. If he had done so the doctor would surely have emphasized to him the seriousness of her condition. Nancy was glad he had not done so. For the first time since she had left the surgery she was thinking clearly. If Jack knew she was going to die he would feel obliged to spend the next few months with her and he would resent it. The grim-faced attorney general had done her a favour. She would keep her secret to herself. There was nothing to be gained by sharing it.

  She picked up the receiver again and re-dialled Jack’s number. There was just enough time to catch him before he left and tell him not to ring the New York apartment. She had already made up her mind what to do. She was going back to their home at the Cape.

  The number rang unanswered for a long time and Nancy was just about to replace the receiver when an unfamiliar voice answered.

  ‘Mr Cameron, please. Mrs Cameron speaking.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Cameron. The senator has just left for a dinner engagement.’

  ‘Then may I speak to Miss Geeson?’

  There was the slightest of pauses. ‘Miss Geeson has accompanied the senator, Mrs Cameron.’

  ‘I see. Thank you.’

  She replaced the receiver slowly, knowing now what the whispered word had been that Syrie Geeson had spoken to her husband. ‘Darling. It’s seven-fifteen, darling.’ So now it was the smoothly efficient Syrie Geeson who was keeping his bed warm on his long absences from home. And because of her position as his personal assistant, Jack could afford to be less discreet than usual. No one would think it odd that the bright Miss Geeson accompanied him occasionally to dinners or luncheons. She stared out through the windows at the glittering panorama of the New York skyline and shivered. If Jack sought sexual comfort elsewhere, she had only herself to blame. At least the nature that had so disappointed him had protected them from disaster. One after another of her friends had hurtled into passionately torrid love affairs. She had been immune. Her tragedy was not that she was dying. It was that she had never lived. She picked up the half-full whisky tumbler and flung it violently against the darkened window that mocked her reflection.

  ‘Goddamn it to hell!’ she shouted. ‘It isn’t fair! It isn’t bloody fair!’

  Chapter Two

  Ramon heard the raised voice, the shattering glass, judged that the ill-timed telephone call was at an end and entered the room. Nancy swung round furiously.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? I told you to leave!’

  Ramon’s eyes flashed. ‘I’m a Sanford, not a servant. If I make a dinner date the lady keeps it.’

  ‘This lady does as she pleases and we didn’t have a dinner date. My secretary booked you for cocktails at six.’

  ‘An appointment you didn’t keep! Take that fur off before you catch pneumonia.’

  ‘I’ll take it off when I choose and I’d be obliged if you would see yourself out!’

  ‘You’ll take it off now and I’ll leave when I choose!’

  Nancy marched across the room with all the dignity her stockinged feet could afford, and pressed the bell by the fireplace, hard and long.

  ‘The gentleman is leaving, Morris.’

  Ramon did not even bother to turn his head in the butler’s direction.

  ‘The gentleman is staying. You’re dismissed.’

  Nancy gasped, angry colour stinging her cheeks. ‘How dare you override my orders to my staff. Morris, escort this … this … gentleman to the street.’

  ‘I wouldn’t advise it, Morris,’ Ramon said pleasantly.

  The butler gazed from one to the other despairingly. In all his years of service he had never been faced with such a situation. The eviction of gatecrashers and underlings, yes. But not a gentleman of Mr Sanford’s stature – or physique.

  ‘Madame, I …’

  ‘Thank you, Morris,’ Ramon said with deadly finality, smiling suddenly at Nancy and moving towards her.

  He was tall, much taller than Jack, and there was something powerful and dangerous in the way he moved. Beneath the exquisitely-cut suit his body was hard-muscled with broad shoulders and narrow hips. His hair was thick and black and tightly curled. It tumbled low over strong brow
s and clung decadently to the nape of his neck. His hawklike nose and jutting chin were those of a man to be reckoned with, and there was a sparkling ‘damn you’ insolence in the dark eyes that Nancy found profoundly disturbing.

  The butler, taking hurried advantage of Nancy’s momentary silence, hastily retreated and closed the door behind him. It would take a Gene Tunney to tangle with the likes of Mrs Cameron’s unwelcome guest and he was no Gene Tunney. Neither were Collins nor the footman. He doubted if the whole lot of them combined could have removed him against his will.

  ‘You’re mad,’ Nancy said, unable to move any further as she came into contact with glass-fronted bookshelves.

  Ramon grinned. ‘Maybe, but I don’t walk snow-covered streets in shoes suitable only for a palm court or bury myself in sodden fur.’

  With cool deliberation he reached out towards her, grasped the sable by the collar and threw it back from her shoulders so that it slid down her arms on to the floor.

  ‘Now your stockings.’

  Nancy found that her breathing was coming hard and sharp. ‘Get out! Get out this minute or I’ll call the police.’

  ‘Rape and murder are all they’re interested in and I have neither in mind. Your stockings, if you care to look, are saturated.’

  He rang the bell and, as a nervous Morris entered, said curtly, ‘Send Mrs Cameron’s maid along with warm towels, please.’

  Morris was beyond surprise. If Mr Sanford wanted warm towels he would get warm towels. What his mistress was doing shivering and in her stockinged feet was a mystery he had no intention of trying to unravel.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ For Nancy the whole proceedings had taken on an air of unreality.

  ‘Look after you, though God knows why. You’re the most ill-mannered woman I’ve ever met.’

  ‘I’m ill-mannered?’ Nancy found herself rallying. ‘I’m ill-mannered! You burst in here when you’ve been asked to leave. You’re rude to my staff! Rude to me! You … you … manhandle me.’