The Flower Garden

by Margaret Pemberton

  Vere saw the stricken expression in her eyes and his well-shaped mouth tightened. She was suffering and she was not yet prepared to make a confidant of him. He wondered if her distress was caused by Verity’s marriage. He said casually:

  ‘A friend of mine in the Foreign Office has asked me to accompany him on a trip to Germany in May. He wants to visit the Saar. A plebiscite to decide its future is to take place later this year. We thought we’d like to have a look around generally; see what things are like for ourselves. Why don’t you come with us?’

  ‘No.’ Involuntarily she shivered and pulled her cardigan closer around her shoulders. If she visited Germany she might find it hard to hang on to her optimism for Verity’s happiness in her adopted home.

  Vere watched her closely and realized that though her daughter’s German marriage was causing her disquiet, it was not the source of the pain that had clouded her eyes only moments previously. Which meant that it was a man. He had been a fool to have imagined that it could be anything else.

  His hands clenched the arms of his chair and he forcibly relaxed and kept his voice light and amused as he recounted past stories of stays in Germany.

  She had been the first woman he had suffered over. He had been eighteen and unbelievably gauche. She had been seventeen and had lit Molesworth with her radiance and gaiety. Even now he could remember the hatred he had felt for the smug, self-satisfied American who had been her husband. She had rendered him tongue-tied. Only in his imagination could he say the things to her that he wanted to say, and only in his imagination would she respond. He faltered in his anecdote about the Hotel Adlon in Berlin. The memory of his early imaginings were still vivid enough to send desire licking through him like a flame. He had been a fool then; inept and inarticulate. He was neither now.

  He continued to recount stories of the Berlin of the ’ 20s and marvelled at how little she had changed. Her soft, velvet-deep voice still had the same effect on his spinal cord. The fullness of her wide, mobile mouth still drew his eyes like a magnet. Her hair was no longer long; it was fashionably short, curling around her face and emphasizing the beauty of her eyes and cheekbones.

  Clouds were beginning to scud across the sky and he rose to his feet. ‘It’s getting too chilly out here. Let’s go inside for a brandy.’

  As they descended the companionway his hand brushed hers. ‘Nancy …’ His voice caught in the back of his throat.

  Not understanding, she turned towards him, giving him a swift, half-smiling glance, her light elusive perfume filling the air between them.

  He circled her wrist with his hand restrainingly, and moved towards her, gathering her into his arms. Her smile faded and bewilderment and then panic chased through her eyes.

  ‘No,’ she whispered, and then his mouth was on hers and he was kissing her with such tenderness that her initial protest died. His mouth was soft and warm and comforting. His body was solid and reassuring and the solace of being held was almost unbelievable.

  As he raised his head from hers she said reluctantly, ‘I’m sorry, Vere. It’s no good.’

  His arms remained around her. ‘Why not?’ he asked gently. ‘Because of Jack?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Because of someone else?’

  She nodded.

  He was silent for a minute, his finger tracing the line of her cheek and the sensuous curve of her mouth.

  ‘Does he love you?’

  She gave a crooked smile. ‘No. I don’t think he knows what the word love means.’

  The Rosslyn rocked gently beneath them.

  ‘Then forget him and learn to love someone who does.’

  Her smile was tremulous. ‘I wish I could, Vere. But I can’t.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ he said, and taking her arm he led her into the Rosslyn’s gold and Lalique glass bar.

  Later that evening, as they ate lobster cardinale in a dining room large enough for a passenger liner, Vere said musingly:

  ‘Why Madeira?’

  ‘Because it’s far enough away from America and England. Because it’s familiar and because Zia Sanford is there.’

  It was nearly the whole truth.

  He poured another glass of Veuve Cliquot and said, ‘I was there nearly a year ago. Last April. It’s my favourite press lord’s favourite place.’

  Nancy giggled. ‘Are you quite sure he shouldn’t be aboard the Rosslyn now and on his way to the Canaries?’

  ‘Not a chance. He’s too busy bullying the government. Coalitions are pesky things.’

  Nancy had no desire to discuss politics. It always led back to Verity. ‘How long will you stay in Madeira?’ she asked.

  His hair shone silver in the lamplight. The grey eyes were sincere; the well-shaped mouth and chin were those of a man who could be trusted. They shared the same family background; the same grandmother. He was remarkably good-looking, a peer of the realm, and if her mother had been financially impoverished and obliged to marry an American, Vere Winterton had not been similarly embarrassed. There were very few men in the world who ran an ocean-going yacht of the size and luxury of the Rosslyn. He was perfectly cast for the role of a lover and Nancy felt a slow-burning rage at her inability to respond to him. Ramon, faithless and feckless, had bound her to him with bands of steel.

  ‘Until you leave,’ he said quietly.

  She felt a sweeping desolation. Would it be Vere’s task to bring her body back to England? She had made no stipulation as to where she was to be buried. She hadn’t cared. When she had made her will it hadn’t seemed to affect anybody but herself. Now Vere was threatening to stay with her until the end and she had an obscene image of her coffin lying in state in the dining room in which they were eating.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, as she shivered. ‘Is someone walking on your grave?’

  ‘That’s a silly expression,’ she said sharply and then forced a smile as he rose to his feet and fetched her evening stole.

  As he draped it around her shoulders he kissed the nape of her neck. She raised her hand to his, covering it, filled with an almost inexpressible sadness.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and when she turned to kiss him goodnight it was a fraternal kiss on the cheek. ‘Goodnight, Vere.’

  For a second she thought that he was going to seize hold of her and kiss her mouth against her will, and knew that if he had a small part of her would have been glad. But Vere was not Ramon. Instead he brushed the back of her hand with his mouth and Nancy, remembering the hot imprint of Ramon’s lips on her palm, blinked back tears as she closed the door of her cabin behind her and faced the darkness alone.

  When Maria woke her with fresh fruit juice, the sun was streaming through the portholes.

  ‘We’re nearly there, madame,’ Maria said happily. ‘You can see the island already.’

  Half an hour later Nancy stood on the bridge with the Rosslyn’s captain and Vere and watched as they drew nearer and nearer to Madeira. First came the blue of the mountains as they rose sheer from the sea, and then the green of tropical vegetation and trees and the brilliance of bougainvillaea and mimosa and hibiscus. Even before the honeygold buildings of Funchal had taken shape, Nancy glimpsed the rose-red roofs of Sanfords standing high on the cliffs above the harbour.

  ‘Lord Clanmar says it’s the garden of Eden,’ Vere said, smiling down at her, ‘which proves newspapermen do have some romance in their hearts.’

  As the Rosslyn drew into the harbour the breeze was heavy with the scent of tamarisk, the hillsides above the town almost buried in African daisies and strelitzia.

  ‘The Michaeljohns are here,’ Vere said, nodding in the direction of a gleaming seventy-foot sloop. ‘And the Carringtons. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer the Canaries? It would be quieter. Half of London spends February here.’

  Nancy did not reply. From the moment Madeira had taken shape on the horizon her spirits had lifted. She knew now beyond any doubt that she had been right to follow her instincts. The docks were
a bustle of colourfully dressed local men, immaculately uniformed crewmen and flower girls with giant baskets of blossom. Bullock carts piled high with fruit and vegetables creaked ponderously over the cobbles of the quayside. A crowd had collected as the Rosslyn berthed impressively, and petals were thrown as Nancy and Vere stepped ashore and into a gleaming open-topped Hispania-Suiza.

  Maria, Vere’s valet and the more personal items of luggage were deposited in a carriage drawn by a team of oxen, while straw-hatted men supervized the loading of Vere’s innumerable calfskin suitcases into a fleet of bullock carts that had all too recently carried a load of bananas.

  ‘You look happier already,’ Vere said, as they cruised up the steep hill to where Sanfords stood in imposing grandeur amidst a vast garden of flowers and palms.

  ‘I am.’

  Ramon’s name greeted her everywhere. It surmounted the bank; the shipping offices; the wine cellars. Only on the hotel was it absent and unnecessary. Sanfords was Sanfords. It had no need and was too exclusive to publish the fact.

  ‘Welcome to Sanfords, Your Grace,’ the head porter said deferentially as a bevy of bellboys ran from the entrance to await the bullock carts and the baggage.

  Nancy stepped into the chandeliered foyer and experienced an odd, almost ethereal sensation of having finally reached her spiritual home. Strange that it had never called to her before. When she had stayed with Jack it had simply been a beautiful and inimitable hotel. She had loved every minute she had spent in it but she had never craved to return. It was only since her meeting with Ramon and the complete destruction of her settled existence that she had yearned increasingly to be back.

  ‘Sanfords’ was emblazoned in gold on the bellboys’ maroon uniforms, on the embossed stationery that graced marble-topped tables, and even engraved on the silver knobs of the doors. She wondered if she was the first person to have it engraved on her heart. Perhaps Zia did – for different reasons.

  ‘Our suites of rooms are adjoining,’ Vere said, as they were escorted by a posse of staff into a caged lift. ‘We can wave to each other as we breakfast on our respective terraces. It will be more pleasant than my last stay. Lord Clanmar looks decidedly disagreeable before lunch.’

  ‘You don’t,’ Nancy said, and meant it. In his superbly cut white silk suit with white fedora at a rakish angle over one eye, he looked exceedingly dashing. The grey of his eyes warmed and Nancy felt the colour rise in her cheeks. She had been unintentionally provocative and should have known better. Yet he did look handsome and she knew that the senses Ramon had stirred would never lie dormant again.

  Her room was a vision that could only have been decorated by Oliver Messel. The bedroom was tented in white muslin and from the open windows she could see the whole sweep of the bay and the Rosslyn lying sleekly at anchor.

  Maria, grateful to set foot on dry land again, ran a deeply-scented bath for her and was silently impressed at the solid gold taps and fittings. Her own room, instead of being secreted miles away along a draughty corridor, was adjoining Mrs Cameron’s and nearly as luxurious, with its personal rose-tinted bathroom en suite. Maria was more than happy with Mrs Cameron’s choice of destination. It made the travelling by sea almost worthwhile.

  While Nancy bathed there was a discreet knock at the door and Maria answered it to a bellboy with an envelope resting on a silver salver. She thanked him politely and widened her eyes as he gave her a cheeky grin. The Duke of Meldon’s valet had been even more forward and the exact position of his room from hers was very much in Maria’s mind. She didn’t want to have to complain to Mrs Cameron, but neither did she want to continue the games of hide-and-seek that had taken place aboard the Rosslyn.

  Nancy opened the envelope while still in her bath. It was from Zia and said simply: Darling, meet me in my suite for before-lunch cocktails. There was no mention of Vere. She rather hoped that he had not received a similar invitation. She wanted her reunion with Zia to be private.

  She dressed in a pale pink dress by Vionnet, the neck gently cowled, the back plunging. She slipped on matching dyed sling-back shoes, rang for a bellboy and, as Maria sprayed her with perfume, mentally prepared herself to meet the woman who was both the love of her father’s life and the mother of the man she loved.

  Zia’s mirrored rooms opened wide on to a lawn massed with fluttering white doves. It was not yet noon but the gown she wore was long and flowing; a cloud of silver-grey chiffon embroidered with an enormous sequinned butterfly. Her glorious hair was still a deep, burnished red and she wore it as she had always done, swept thickly upwards and dressed in a simple knot on top of her head. A choker of pearls centred with an enormous emerald clasped a still-lovely throat, and as she rose to greet Nancy she moved like a young girl, her head held high, her spine still supple. A light breeze caught her gown and the butterfly shimmered and danced as she opened her arms wide and said in a soft, warm voice:

  ‘Nancy, how lovely to see you again.’

  She still smelt the same; heady and exotic like some jungle flower. They sat in a corner of the garden, beneath a jacaranda tree, on wicker chairs with enormous fanning backs that emphasized Zia’s regality. There was champagne and orange juice and petits-fours for the birds.

  ‘It’s taken you a long time to come back,’ Zia said, holding out a narrow slender hand for a bird to perch upon. ‘Most people come back every year, like the handsome Duke of Meldon.’

  ‘Jack was never very European. He preferred Bar Harbor to the Riviera.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I preferred my home at the Cape.’

  ‘And I prefer Madeira,’ Zia said with a smile. ‘I never leave. Dressmakers, designers, they all have to visit me here. Friends too, if they want to see me.’

  The birds fluttered away. ‘How is your father?’ she asked, and in the thickly-lashed green eyes Nancy saw a reflection of her own longing.

  ‘He wasn’t very well when I left. He had a mild heart attack.’

  Zia sat very still.

  ‘He returned home the day I sailed. I’m not worried about him. He has the constitution of an ox.’

  A smile hovered around Zia’s mouth. ‘Yes. He is a very strong man.’

  ‘He asked me to give you his love.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  It was said with gratitude. In the light of the sun the web of tiny lines around her eyes and mouth were clear. She was no longer young, no longer even middle-aged, but her superb carriage had preserved the lines of her neck and throat and the bones of her face would be just as beautiful when she was ninety. Nancy suddenly felt sorry for her father – chasing after youth by marrying Gloria, when the love of his life retained a bloom and magic that Gloria could never hope to emulate.

  She said, ‘You love him very much, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ It was said simply. ‘And what of you, Nancy? Do you love?’

  Coming from Zia it was a perfectly natural question.

  ‘I have loved.’

  ‘But not the ambitious senator?’

  ‘No. Not for a long time.’

  Zia did not waste words on sympathy. She had met many men like Jack Cameron. Smooth-talking, charming, ambitious men who loved easily and never deeply. Jack Cameron had never been worthy of the kind of love Zia instinctively knew Nancy capable of. A long time ago she had recognized in Nancy something of herself. Now, looking across at her, she felt a twinge of foreboding. If Nancy was capable of great love, she was also capable of great recklessness. Her Bostonian upbringing had disguised this facet of her personality, perhaps even to Nancy herself. Even Zia had wondered if her usually unerring instinct had been wrong as, from a distance, she had followed Nancy’s marriage, the birth of Verity, the well-ordered trips to Paris and London, the flowering of a political hostess, always tactful, always discreet. The recklessness, if it existed, had been well-hidden. She hoped that when it showed itself it would not bring the same tragic consequences that her own behaviour had brought.

  She said gently, �
��Is that why you have come to Madeira? To forget?’

  Nancy shook her head of close-cropped glossy curls. ‘No. Forgetting isn’t possible. But what I can do is learn to live for myself a little. He showed me that much at least.’

  Zia took a deep drink of her champagne. ‘Will living for yourself affect your position as a senator’s wife?’

  Nancy grinned impishly, her sloe-black eyes tilting at the corners. ‘I should imagine it will affect it quite a lot. I don’t care. I’ve done everything I can for Jack for the last seventeen years. This year is for myself.’

  ‘Reliable sources tell me Jack has a very good chance of being nominated in the 1936 elections.’

  ‘Only if Roosevelt’s New Deal policy collapses in ashes, and I don’t think it’s going to. I’m sure he will be elected for another term.’

  ‘But will that make any difference? Jack’s ambitions will remain the same.’

  ‘Then he can pursue them, but I’m not going to sacrifice my life in order to help him.’ She rested her chin on her hand thoughtfully. ‘If I really felt that Jack would make a good president, then I might. But I’m his wife. I know him even better than his colleagues and advisers. I don’t think Jack will make a good president. He isn’t an original thinker like Roosevelt. He uses other people: their brains, their ideas. He’s very competent and gives the impression of being brilliant. But he isn’t. He’s merely clever and I don’t think that cleverness is enough of a qualification for the White House. So I don’t feel any guilt if my leaving him destroys his chances. In fact, I feel quite patriotic.’

  ‘What about Chips?’ Zia asked with amusement. ‘He’s hardly likely to share your opinion.’

  ‘He doesn’t.’ Nancy’s eyes clouded at the memory of their hideous interview in the hospital room. She gave herself a physical shake. ‘But much as I love him, I can’t live my life simply to please him. I’ve done that for too long.’