The Flower Garden

by Margaret Pemberton

  ‘In those days masts and spars were a permanent part of the horizon. I’ve always loved the sea. I love to sit in my garden now and see the yachts leave and enter harbour. The Cunarders especially. The Aquitania is due here within the week. She is the most beautiful ship imaginable.’ She did not mention that it was the vessel Jack Cameron would be arriving on.

  ‘I always remember the summer in Boston: hot humid summers without a vestige of air. The winters are completely erased from my memory. I remember the squirrels on the common and the linden trees and the elms and walking past the pond, hand in hand.’

  Nancy had no need to ask whose hand she had been holding in those far off years of her youth.

  ‘I was born in Hanover Street, only yards from your grandparents’ home. To me it was the most exciting place in the world. There were oyster bars and fish stalls, barber shops and the nickelodeon when we had enough money.’ She laughed.

  ‘We used to creep into St Leonard’s Church just to be on our own and hold hands.’ Her smile faded. Nancy remembered that St Stephen’s Church was also in Hanover Street.

  ‘Sometimes we went to the music hall in Tremont Street. Once, we went to the Central Square Theatre.’ She sat at the open window of Nancy’s room, her chin resting in her hands, her eyes seeing another world.

  ‘We used to swim in the Charles River and on Sunday afternoons we strolled through Franklin Park and Chips would tell me of his dreams and how he was going to be mayor or governor.’ She laughed again. ‘President, though even he never dared to put that into words. My mother used to make us griddle cakes and quahog chowder. Chips loved it. By then, of course, he was monied and the cooks in the O’Shaughnessy home did not present quahog chowder or grapenut custard and ice cream. I used to bake them.’ She looked down at her lily-white, beautifully manicured hands with something like surprise. ‘I haven’t prepared so much as a sandwich for myself for decades. In those days I used to make Indian pudding and blueberry pie and muffins.’ A deep, long-drawn-out sigh escaped. ‘So long ago. I thought my life would be baking pies and griddle cakes for hungry children. I was always determined never to hand them over to governesses or nannies or desert my kitchen. My mother used to tell me that the kitchen was the heart of the home.’ Her laugh was hollow.

  ‘I never saw a kitchen after I married Duarte. I hardly saw my son.’

  There was a long silence that Nancy did not break. Zia had never before mentioned her husband’s name. It was as if doing so had clouded all her happy reflections.

  She rose to her feet. ‘I’m planning a fancy dress ball for the tenth. The theme will be Eastern royalty. I know you haven’t brought your own dressmaker with you, darling, but there’s no need to worry. I have a first-rate team of seamstresses for such occasions. I myself am going as Catherine the Great of Russia. Not a particularly pleasant lady but at least she was in command.’ She kissed Nancy warmly on her cheek. ‘What about Queen Christina of Sweden for yourself? I know she wasn’t Eastern, but I’ll allow a little poetic licence and since Garbo’s film has only just been released, it would be very topical. Anyhow, I’ll leave it up to you. I just insist you appear and desert this shaded room. Life is for living and enjoying.’

  Vere gasped that evening when he saw her. Her evening gown was by Chanel. A diaphanous creation of pale orange, yellow and pink flowers carelessly scattered on a white background. The neck was high in front, low at the back. The skirt fitted sleekly over her hips and then foamed in a dozen lavish flounces from her knees to the floor.

  ‘You look magnificent,’ he said and reverently placed a gold-embossed box into her hands.

  The chandelier earrings were of diamonds. As he clasped them on to her ears, so many hung in the sparkling, breathtaking fall that they were beyond counting.

  ‘A family heirloom,’ he lied. ‘A gift you can’t refuse.’ He kissed her and with her hand resting lightly on his arm led her towards the glittering ballroom.

  Nancy’s expert eye for fashion told her the tall and stately Lady Michaeljohn had rightly chosen to be gowned by Vionnet. Samantha Hedley’s golden beauty was set off to perfection in a superb black dress by Lanvin, a flame chiffon scarf draped carelessly across her neck and shoulders. Bobo was entrancing in a dress of crushed raspberry crèpe and Venetia Bessbrook was breathtaking. Her dress was of silver lamé, clinging over every sensual curve. Her fur was silver fox, her nails silver lacquered. Her hair and her eyelids were silvered, as were her unseen nipples. Venetia never did anything by halves.

  Madeleine Mancini, in a black Bagota crèpe dress designed by Adrian who dressed such stars as Dietrich and Garbo, fumed. The dramatic accents of ermine and the exquisite drapery of the material paled into insignificance beside Venetia’s glory.

  Lavinia Meade looked like a magnificent Rubens. Her massive arms and shoulders were bare, the heavy expanse of her bosom exposed daringly to the public gaze. Her gown was of red velvet, a colour that seared the eye when seen in such close contrast to her hair.

  ‘Do you think that she’s colour blind?’ Georgina asked Nancy interestedly. She herself was wearing an evening dress of coffee-coloured faille, the stiff material ideally suited to the ruffles at the bottom of the arrow-like sheathed skirt.

  Zia, in her wide-sleeved, floating gown of emerald shot silk, weaved among her guests, her cloud of shining, waving hair a vibrant burnished auburn that looked as though it belonged to a girl of seventeen.

  Countess Szapary, still favouring the white chiffon that made her look like a shy debutante, said gently, ‘I think perhaps Lady Meade is not very interested in clothes. Her interests are elsewhere.’

  ‘Are they indeed?’ Georgina asked with a quirk of her brow. ‘I’d never have guessed it.’

  Nancy, on her second glass of champagne, smiled. Countess Szapary, not understanding, said, ‘Yes, she is helping me enormously with my French. When Leopold was in Russia, of course, French was spoken in his home all the time.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘I was born an exile and did not have all the advantages that a wife of Leopold should have, so Lady Meade helps me by coaching me every afternoon.’

  Georgina Montcalm’s eyes softened. She had an overwhelming urge to put her arm around the child. ‘Then I shall make no more unkind remarks about Lavinia. She can dress like a Turk and I’ll silence the least word of criticism.’

  Countess Szapary’s smile was grateful. Her husband, excusing himself from Prince Vasileyev, was approaching them. The little countess saw him and stiffened, her smile fading. When the punctilious count had borne her away Nancy and Georgina’s eyes met silently. The little countess was not happy, which was a great pity.

  ‘My dear, of course it’s a Chanel,’ Lady Carrington was heard to whisper, sotto voce behind a potted plant. ‘Do you know, she’s dressing Ina Clare, Lady Henrietta Davis and the Marquise de Paris now? If Nancy Cameron is going to her as well, perhaps we should alter our allegiance …’

  The voice of the elderly Princess Louise carried clearly. ‘I couldn’t possibly, Beatrice. She mixes with such extraordinary people. Picasso and Stravinsky and Cocteau.’

  ‘Who? Nancy Cameron?’ Beatrice Carrington asked in perplexity.

  ‘No dear. The dressmaker woman. It wouldn’t surprise me if she didn’t take lovers as well.’

  Nancy and Georgina giggled. Vere was dancing with Bobo, his eyes continuously on Nancy. Bobo’s eyes were continuously on her Egyptian. Madeleine Mancini had him firmly ensconced behind a Grecian pillar, and though Bobo could only see the back of Hassan’s head, she could quite well see the predatory look in Madeleine Mancini’s cat-like eyes.

  Sonny Zakar’s girlfriend, Hildegarde Gaynor, was informing the unimpressed Costas that she had unfortunately had to turn down an invitation aboard the Vanderbilts’ yacht Alva due to the scheduling of her last film. It would place her on box-office par with Jean Harlow and Norma Shearer when it was released.

  Costas listened and looked down the revealing cleavage of her dress. Whatever her acting
ability was like – and it was a matter of complete indifference to Costas – she would probably be a good lay. Sonny didn’t waste his time on amateurs.

  ‘I see my interpretation of the part as an in-depth study …’ Hildegarde was saying.

  ‘Let’s fuck,’ Costas said, not bothering to remove his cigar from his mouth.

  Hildegarde remembered the Costas millions, decided simulated shock was out of place, and disappeared speedily with him before he could change his mind.

  Prince Nicholas Vasileyev escorted Venetia Bessbrook back to her literary lion after a foxtrot rendered virtually impossible by the limitations of Venetia’s dress.

  Vere was already walking quickly in Nancy’s direction. The prince bowed low over her hand, and clicked his heels together.

  ‘My pleasure,’ he murmured.

  There was more in his words than a request for a dance. His eyes were suggestive, his admiration for her blatant. He had a strong face, high Slavic cheekbones and, beneath the dark moustache and meticulously trimmed beard, a mouth both sensuous and determined. He aroused a response in her that Vere, with all his kindness and consideration, failed to do.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said and slid into his arms as the music changed to the slow rhythm of a waltz.

  ‘Better luck next time,’ Georgina Montcalm said as Vere glared after them. ‘You’ll have to make do with me, Vere darling. Or Clarissa.’ Their eyes met. Vere’s face was impassive. He should have known that if anyone knew, or guessed, it would be the perceptive Georgina Montcalm.

  ‘Let’s not talk about Clarissa,’ he said as he spun her round and passed the pillar concealing Madeleine and Hassan.

  ‘You’ll have to sometime, darling. For Nancy’s sake.’

  The prince was holding her very close. She could feel the whole length of his body against hers. ‘I find you a very desirable woman, Nancy Leigh Cameron,’ he said and his voice was deep, the voice of a man used to being obeyed.

  She thought of her lonely room and the long empty hours of the night. She thought of her fury at how little she had lived. She thought of how little time she had left.

  ‘I know,’ she said, a tantalizing smile on her lips – and knew something else: that the lover she took would be Nicky, not Vere.

  His arms tightened around her and above the music Zia’s voice could be heard saying delightedly, ‘Tessa, how lovely to see you.’

  Above Nicky’s shoulder Nancy saw Ramon, tall and straight, brashly handsome. With indolent self-assurance his eyes swept the room carelessly until they fastened on her. There was a sardonic twist to his lean mouth as he held her long in the grasp of his eyes, and then dropped her and let his glance move away to the girl at his side.

  She was radiant, looking up at him with worshipping adoration. She was dressed simply, her only jewellery a rose pinned in her hair. She was unutterably lovely and she was no older than Verity.

  ‘I think I’d like a drink,’ Nancy said, the room swimming round her in a dizzying vortex.

  ‘Perhaps in my suite?’ the prince suggested, his voice low, desire flaming through him.

  As blackness receded, Nancy could see Ramon take his pretty escort into his strong arms, holding her close, whispering intimately into her ear. She saw the girl’s response, the blush on her cheeks, the glow in her eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ she said bleakly. ‘Why not?’

  Chapter Ten

  The prince’s lovemaking was a revelation to Nancy. She had participated out of a sense of defiance; a need not to be alone and unloved while Ramon flaunted his latest conquest. She had not expected pleasure. She had believed that could only come with love: that it was instantaneous all-consuming passion for Ramon that had led her to physical bliss. She had been wrong. Ramon had broken an emotional barrier and it was one that was broken for all time. Nicky was a skilled lover and Nancy, in Ramon’s arms, had proved a willing pupil. Together they reached a physical joy that was a delight to the prince and an overwhelming relief to Nancy. There could be other men. As well as giving pleasure, she could receive it. She would not think of Ramon: she could not bear to.

  There had been a moment, a hairsbreadth of time when, in the final throes of their lovemaking, she had been so out of control that the name she had cried out had been his. Nicky, reaching his own unbearable summit, had heard only her cry and drowned it with his own.

  Afterwards he stroked her body in rapturous conquest. Samantha had been a pretty girl, nothing more. Nancy Leigh Cameron had been a challenge and one well worth laying siege to.

  ‘Do you think it’s time we returned?’

  Nancy stared at him. ‘You can’t mean it? What will everybody think?’

  He laughed, his gold wristwatch gleaming on his naked arm as he sat up in the bed and reached for his shirt. ‘What will they think if we do not return? Your attentive English duke will be hammering on the door and demanding an explanation if we are absent for much longer. As it is, we appear in the ballroom cool and unperturbed. A little walk in the garden for some air … A waltz beside the pool. A quiet corner in which to enjoy Zia’s glorious food. I believe she enticed her cook from the Paris Ritz. Whatever explanation we give, it will be one that will be accepted. Your Englishman does not have a devious mind.‘

  Nancy hadn’t either. As Nicky zipped her into her evening gown, she wondered how she was going to handle a situation so alien and bizarre. It proved remarkably easy.

  The band was playing a tango and the prince swung her out on to the floor, murmuring appreciation of her sexual talents that brought high colour to her cheeks. With a new awareness Nancy realized that several couples were also absent. There was no sign of Costas, though Madeleine was laughing gaily in the arms of Sonny Zakar. Venetia Bessbrook was looking most unhappy and Luke Golding was absent; as was Hildegarde. Vere was dancing with Countess Szapary and the little countess was smiling again. His eyes, when they met hers, were anguished and querying. She smiled at him and danced on.

  Georgina and Charles were steadfastly together. HM’s influence was obviously far-reaching. Viscount Lothermere was in deep conversation with Sir Maxwell and Nancy failed to see any sign of his lovely viscountess. Samantha Hedley was laughing too loudly, picking up glass after glass of champagne from the trays the waiters neverendingly circulated. Her companion was Lord Michaeljohn, who had an expression in his eyes that had never been there when in the company of his stately wife.

  The Carringtons, Princess Louise and the unsmiling Mr Blenheim held a royal court of their own and it was obvious from the expressions on their faces that criticism was the main stream of their conversation.

  There were other familiar faces from cocktail parties, embassy balls and first nights at the opera. Madame Molière was as resplendent as always: the French wife of a Detroit car manufacturer, she clung desperately to her maiden name rather than be known by the name of a world-famous motor car. She crossed the Atlantic twice a year and enjoyed the kind of social life that Detroit did not provide. Her American husband did not accompany her. As Madame Molière so charmingly explained: ‘Someone had to earn the money.’ Her audience laughed at such Gallic frankness, dazzled by her chic and knowing, long-lashed eyes.

  She was accompanied everywhere not only by her hairdresser, beautician endlessly-changing streams of lovers, but also by a violinist. It was Madame Molière’s whim that she be woken every morning by the sweet tone of her favourite instrument. Fellow guests, remembering a Scottish lord who had insisted on being woken at 6 am by a rousing blast on the bagpipes, indulged her.

  Villiers appeared discreetly at Zia’s elbow and Nancy saw her leave the room. Nicky laughed.

  ‘The arrival of a fellow emigre, the Grand Duchess Livada. She never travels with fewer than a hundred trunks, valises or jewel cases and her arrival always necessitates Zia’s personal supervision. Her suite is the Royal Suite, a pretty affectation of Zia’s. It used to be simply the Rose Suite, but Nadejda has never reconciled herself to exile. To occupy the Royal Suite is more in
keeping for a Russian grand duchess than a mere rose one.’

  ‘Who is the dignified-looking gentleman talking to Bobo?’ Nancy asked, surveying the vast range of her fellow guests with interest.

  ‘The Sultan of Mohore. He was engaged to Venetia Bessbrook in the late twenties. I wonder if we will witness a reconciliation?’

  ‘She’s too much in love with her literary lion.’

  ‘Venetia has never been in love in her life,’ Nicky replied smoothly. ‘Did you know Reggie Minter is here? He’s over there, dancing with Lavinia. He’s a bit difficult to see, clutched so tightly against that magnificent chest. I wonder if she lets him come up for air or if he’s just suffocating soundlessly? He’s the son of the American tin-plate magnate and all last season at Cap d’Antibes Venetia was swearing undying love to him and announcing their engagement at every lunch, dinner and supper. It never came to anything of course. Venetia’s intended engagements never do.’

  The dance ended and Nicky escorted her back to Vere and the Montcalms. ‘I shall have to leave you, ma petite, otherwise your Englishman will grow aggressive. Tomorrow will be soon enough to let him know that he is the loser in this particular game of love.’ His fingertips slid against the nakedness of her arm and then he was exchanging civilities with the Montcalms and excusing himself to renew his friendship with the sultan.

  ‘I missed you,’ Vere said, half turning his head so that the Montcalms should not hear. ‘Where were you?’

  Nancy was not a liar and did not want to become one. ‘With Nicky,’ she said.

  Vere was about to say more but was stalled by Zia sweeping down on them, her arms outstretched, her hair like a flame in the light of the hundreds of chandeliers.

  ‘Darlings. Do let me introduce Tessa Rossman. She only left finishing school in September and since then her mother has been keeping her hidden, which is a sin and a shame. Tessa, the Earl and Countess of Montcalm.’