The Flower Garden

by Margaret Pemberton

  One blasphemy followed another. If he married a firebrand like Maria there would be no more Czech countesses and their boundless wealth. That, with sons instead to compensate, he could accept. There would also be no more adventures with the likes of the blonde and titled Englishwoman. That would be a little harder to forgo. He swore again. Viscountesses would not give him sons. Maria’s sons would be dark and strong and full of spirit. If they were girls they would grow up like their mother, and his life would not be worth living. He wandered despondently back to the hotel and ignored his promise to visit Mrs Peckwyn-Peake from one-thirty to two. Mrs Peckwyn-Peake could go to sleep alone. For a woman of fifty she was very agile but wearing. For once Luis wanted to be the one to call the tune. He was beginning to feel like an organ-grinder’s monkey. ‘Do this, Luis. Do that, Luis’. A carelessly tossed trinket as a reward. After Maria’s kiss he could not bring himself to run through his usual faultless performance. He returned to his own room and his own bed and slept in monastic celibacy.

  This season would be his last. He would marry Maria, but they would need all the money possible if they were to start married life with none of the handsome perks he had grown accustomed to. In the next few weeks he would take all that he could from Countess Zmitsky and Mrs Peckwyn-Peake.

  With a ring on her finger and a promise of marriage, Maria would be more tractable. He would cease to attempt her seduction. It was unthinkable that any bride of Luis Chavez should be anything but a virgin when she stood at the foot of the altar.

  Satisfied with his plans for the future, Luis pummelled his pillow and slept.

  Maria did not sleep. She returned to her own room and lay awake until the dawn broke. She felt no laughter now: that had all been for Luis’benefit – to show him that she did not care. To refuse to give him the pleasure of knowing the intensity of jealousy she felt when she thought of the foolish women who gazed on his sun-gold body with lusting eyes.

  The Czech was the worst; old and fat and unutterably obscene. Maria stared steadfastly at the ceiling. She would put an end to Luis Chavez’ escapades and she would start with the Czech. A slow smile turned her mouth. Countess Zmitsky would not be at Sanfords long enough to tempt Luis, even if she offered him the jewels of the crown of England. Instead of closing her eyes and sleeping, Maria dressed and prepared to put her plan into action.

  The sky was lightening to a pale grey, the garden deserted except for a lone figure that sat on one of the garden seats with bowed shoulders, tears falling silently down her cheeks. Madeira’s dawns were cold and the little Countess Szapary was wearing only a thin dressing robe over her silk nightdress. She cried and cried and the cold that she felt was nothing to the ice that lay in her heart and refused to thaw.

  Vere had left the ball early and slept badly, his mind full of Clarissa and the future that stretched so barrenly ahead of him. He had tried reading books, but tossed Mr Hemingway away in despair. He couldn’t concentrate on the pages of print. All he could think of were Nancy’s words and the commonsense behind them. He rose restlessly and lit a cigarette, opening the shuttered doors of his balcony.

  The Kezia and the Aquitania gleamed white in the darkness as they rode at anchor. The Aquitania’s sleek lines looked even lovelier in the stillness of the receding night. The gardens were dew wet; birds were beginning, cautiously, to sing. Another ten minutes and the pearl would change to a dull gold as the sun edged over the horizon. He halted in the process of raising his cigarette to his lips.

  She was alone and the coffee-coloured chiffon with the black velvet ribbons had been replaced by a pale lemon wrap that was surely insufficient for such cold morning air.

  He hesitated. Obviously, if she had sought the sanctuary of the garden at such an hour, it was because she wanted solitude.

  Dejection was in every line of her slim body. He felt like a voyeur at the spectacle of some private grief. The honourable thing to do would be to return to his room and forget he had ever been witness to such inner despair. He turned, but not to forget. He dressed quickly and pulled on a white V-neck sweater over his shirt and flannels. He snatched another one from the shelf. The countess would be freezing. It was an unromantic but typically practical British gesture.

  ‘Oh,’ she gazed at him like a startled deer.

  He smiled reassuringly. ‘A bit chilly,’ he said, and gently wrapped the cashmere sweater around her shoulders.

  ‘I … Thank you.’

  He sat beside her and she made a move as if to go. He laid a hand restrainingly on hers.

  ‘Please, don’t go on my account.’

  Beneath his hand, hers was like that of a child. He felt a great wave of protection. She glanced around her fearfully.

  ‘We can’t be seen,’ he said easily. ‘The only rooms to look this way are mine. No one will invade your privacy for hours yet. Not even me, if you don’t want me to.’

  ‘Oh, but I do want you to.’ She blushed. ‘I mean, it’s very kind of you to have brought me the sweater.’

  She relaxed again, seeming unaware that her hand still lay imprisoned beneath Vere’s. For a long time they did not speak. The pearl dissolved into the first flush of dawn. Birds chirrupped and fluttered in the trees above their heads.

  At last Vere said, still staring out to where the rising sun was beginning to warm the distant mountains, ‘Marriages are damnable things, aren’t they?’

  The little countess nodded, her eyes lowered to her lap.

  Overcoming British diffidence with difficulty, he continued, ‘Sometimes, the more you try to please, the worse it gets.’

  She raised a solemn face to his. ‘Yes,’ she said wonderingly. ‘Yes. It is like you say. How do you know so much about marriage?’

  Vere laughed ruefully. ‘I married ten years ago.’

  ‘And your marriage, too, is unhappy?’

  ‘My marriage is over,’ Vere said, and it was his first public admission of the fact.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I, but sometimes one faces a situation in which nothing can ever change. Not unless one changes it oneself.’

  ‘You will … divorce?’ The word was hard for the little countess to say.

  ‘I will divorce,’ Vere said firmly. ‘It will be the first divorce in a family going back to the Conqueror, but not the first broken marriage. Those happen by the handful in every generation.’

  ‘But the scandal?’

  ‘The scandal will keep the public happy for a few days and then will be forgotten.’

  Countess Szapary smiled wanly. ‘It is easy for you. You are a man.’

  In the long silence that followed as the sun rose above the horizon, warming the sea to tints of jade and aquamarine, many things went through Vere Winterton’s head.

  Until his rash declaration of love to Nancy he had never acted impulsively. He was cool, level-headed and practical. With the clarity of hindsight he saw his infatuation with Nancy for what it was – the leftover longings of a boyhood dream. Nancy had known and she had pointed it out to him herself: as she had pointed other things out. All through his sleepless night he had thought of Clarissa. His only concern, ever since the sunlit afternoon at Molesworth when she had told him that she could no longer fulfil her duties as a wife, had been to protect her. First out of the love he still felt for her, and then out of loyalty as the love, without anything to nourish it, stultified and died.

  He, too, had stultified and died inside. He was too fastidious to indulge in light, meaningless liaisons, and as the Duke of Meldon he could not afford to indulge in any other kind. Then Nancy had come and given him some of the inner strength that she possessed and seemed so unaware of.

  She had been right about Clarissa. She would be relieved by a divorce. She would suffer no financial hardships and would no longer have to endure putting in obligatory appearances once or twice a year at Molesworth and accompanying him publicly to Ascot and Cowes.

  Nancy had aroused the part of himself that he had so carefully smo
thered. As he sat with the little countess by his side, he experienced emotions that he had not experienced for a decade: tenderness and protectiveness. He had yearned after Nancy and had suffered appallingly when she had refused him as a lover. He was aware that he was no longer suffering. He was no longer yearning after Nancy. He was experiencing another emotion: richer and stronger and deeper.

  ‘Are you very unhappy?’ he asked, and as tear-filled eyes met his, Vere Winterton knew that his future was determined. Szapary had broken two other child-brides before his present one. The first had committed suicide: the second had died an untimely death, hastened by drink and drugs. The third was going to be Duchess of Meldon.

  ‘Come along,’ he said tenderly, and as he drew her to her feet his arms slipped quite naturally around her shoulders.

  It would not do to hurry her. It was enough for the moment that she had not drawn away from him. He had heard rumours that Szapary was already tiring of his young wife. If that was so, maybe the affair could be arranged amicably, man to man. Szapary’s blood was blue enough, but Vere doubted if his wealth was as vast as the count would have liked. A sizeable increment might tempt him to release his third wife as he had so mercilessly relinquished those before her.

  Later that morning, as Nancy began her first full day as Sanfords’ directrice and met for half an hour of discussion with Senora Henriques and then a longer and more formal discussion with first the head chef and then Villiers, Ramon took the opportunity he had long been waiting for. He strolled with deceptive indolence towards the suite harbouring Senator Jack Cameron.

  Jack’s night had been nearly as sleepless as Maria’s. He had been correct in his assumption that Syrie would have brought all that was necessary to reduce Nancy to a semi-comotose condition in order to remove her quietly from Sanfords. They had discussed tactics down to the minutest detail. If Nancy ever suspected that her husband and his mistress had drugged and kidnapped her, then whether Sanford found a new lover or not would be immaterial. She would never remain his wife. It was of the utmost importance that Nancy believed herself to be ill. That on recovering consciousness she would have no recollection of having been forcibly injected. Their plan of action was relatively simple. It was Nancy’s habit to have an Irish coffee every night as a nightcap. Maria prepared it and Nancy’s routine at Hyannis or Washington was to drink it in bed while she read until she finally felt tired enough to sleep. The fresh cream required for this was always kept in an icebox along with champagne and chilled orange juice. Syrie would visit the Garden Suite and apologize to Nancy. She would feel faint and help herself to a glass of water. She would then inject the soluble morphine-sulphate into the daily quota of fresh cream. That night Nancy would not need to read to lull herself to sleep. She would be deeply unconscious within minutes.

  There would be no difficulty in Jack gaining entrance to her suite in the late hours of the night, as Nancy had a fear of hotel fires and the only time her suite was locked was when both she and Maria were absent at the same time. He and Syrie would wear white overalls that Syrie had removed from the staff linen room, and two medical face masks that formed part of Jack’s travelling medical kit. If the injection awoke her, as it was bound to do, if only for a few shattering moments, all that Nancy would see and remember would be the masked faces and gowned figures of a nurse and a doctor. Jack’s valet had been instructed to revert to chauffeur and be waiting to motor the ill Mrs Cameron down to the docks and the Aquitania. The Aquitania would sail only hours later, and Jack was gambling that it would sail before Sanford was aware of Nancy’s absence.

  ‘What makes it even better,’ he said to Syrie with grim satisfaction, ‘is that Nancy’s health isn’t all that it should be. Do you remember that fainting fiit at the Met and her fatigue these last few months?’

  ‘She doesn’t seem fatigued now,’ Syrie said drily.

  Jack wasn’t listening. ‘I wish to God I’d spoken to Lorrimer myself. It might have been useful to know what his diagnosis was. He’s tried hard enough over the last few weeks to get in touch with me.’

  ‘I thought you’d spoken to him? No wonder he’s been jamming the switchboard and inundating us with mail.’

  ‘I’ve more important things to do than waste my time discussing Nancy’s health. It’s time you ran along and did your party piece.’

  He held her tightly in his arms, admiring the pretty, feminine face and the brilliant mind that hid behind the wide-set, ice-cool eyes. Her eyebrows were in the Dietrich style, one eye partially obscured by a fall of thickly gleaming hair. He had been very clever to find Syrie Geeson. Syrie knew what he was thinking and a smile haunted her mouth. Jack Cameron had not found her; she had found him. She had used him and would continue to use him. She extricated herself from his arms, smoothed down her severely styled and expensively cut skirt, and with the prepared morphine-sulphate in her clutch bag went in search of her victim.

  ‘Mrs Cameron is not available,’ Maria said icily. She had never liked the senator’s secretary. That she had always referred to her as a secretary made Syrie Geeson long to smack her across the face.

  ‘I think if you tell her that I am alone she will see me,’ Syrie said composedly.

  ‘She will not see you,’ Maria said, ‘because she is not here. She is with Senora Henriques.’

  Syrie had no idea who Senora Henriques was, and cared even less. The stillness in the room behind Maria indicated that the maid was speaking the truth. She gasped and clutched at her throat, leaning weakly against the side of the open door. ‘Oh goodness. I feel so dizzy.’

  Maria stared, disconcerted. She would have thought Miss Geeson incapable of weakness of any kind.

  Miss Geeson showed no signs of recovering. She was sinking gradually, her eyes glazed.

  Hastily Maria grabbed hold of her and supported her. There was no alternative but to help her into the Garden Suite and on to a chair.

  ‘Oh God! I think I’m going to be sick.’

  Maria flew into the bathroom for water.

  Syrie had located the wood-veneered refrigerator, but there was no way to reach it before Maria came back and she was forced to sip the proffered drink.

  ‘Could you telephone reception and ask for a doctor?’ Syrie asked weakly. ‘Or perhaps you could telephone Mr Cameron in Suite 17.’

  There were two telephones in the Garden Suite – one at Mrs Cameron’s bedside, the other in the green and lavender drawing room that opened out on to the terrace. Both were out of sight of where she was now sitting. Both were out of sight of the refrigerator and coffee percolator and the other essential bric-à-brac that comprised the tiny but well-fitted kitchen. It was typical of Maria that she should have deposited her in what was virtually the servants’ province. At any other time Syrie would have seethed at such an indignity. Now she gave grateful and silent thanks.

  Maria disappeared and rang reception. She had no desire to speak to Mr Cameron.

  Syrie moved swiftly. The bottle of cream was unopened. Without so much as a tremble of her hands she injected a third of a grain of morphine-sulphate into it, then she shook the bottle vigorously and returned to her chair. The hole in the metal lid was virtually unnoticeable. It would be discarded and never found.

  ‘The hotel doctor is on his way,’ Maria said without warmth.

  Syrie managed a shaky smile. ‘Thank you. I feel a little better now. Perhaps you could ask him to see me in my own room – Room 25.’

  Maria shrugged and Syrie took it for assent. Step one had been executed perfectly.

  There was only one disturbing doubt in Syrie’s mind and it was one she had not mentioned as yet to Jack. It was pointless to do so. If it proved valid and their plans failed, they would have to think of another one, that was all. Jack had been adamant that Nancy always, wherever she was, drank a night-cap of coffee, Irish whisky and cream. Syrie believed him, but would Nancy still be doing so if her bed was shared by a lover? She imagined that Ramon Sanford’s post-coital relaxation would be
accompanied by champagne or whisky on the rocks: not a warm, comforting, cream-laden coffee. They would have to wait and see.

  Her hand reached out for the ornate brass knob on the door leading to Suite 17, and stayed where it was. From within came voices: Jack’s and Ramon Sanford’s. Very slowly and quietly she opened the door and closed it behind her. They were in the main room and she tip-toed stealthily into Jack’s bedroom, sitting on the bed and listening to the conversation with interest.

  ‘That’s one of the advantages of being totally amoral,’ Ramon was saying in the lazy, self-assured drawl that drove Jack wild. ‘I have no scruples in affairs of this kind. I love your wife: you don’t and, as far as I can see, never have. Therefore she stays with me and divorces you. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘My wife is not going to be publicly ridiculed by you or anyone else,’ Jack said, breathing heavily, determined not to lose his temper in the face of Sanford’s insolent coolness. ‘She’s behaved recklessly and regretted it. She’s returning with me aboard the Aquitania and our lives will continue as before.’

  Ramon laughed. ‘I doubt it,’ he said, his voice holding a silky softness that sent a chill of fear down Syrie’s spine. ‘I doubt that Nancy will return to an empty house in Hyannis with nothing to occupy her but walks on the beach and endless rounds of lonely golf, while you continue to further your public career and seek sexual gratification where you can find it.’

  Syrie couldn’t see but she could sense the mocking smile on Ramon Sanford’s strong-boned face.

  ‘How difficult it must be, only able to choose mistresses amongst a group as vulnerable as yourself. Mistresses who can never discuss their affaires with girlfriends or even, heaven forbid, a wider public. I imagine the erotic little circle is composed entirely of the wives of fellow senators and visiting ambassadors.’ He paused. ‘And employees, too.’

  ‘Damn you to hell!’ Sanford was laughing at him and Jack could stand it no longer. ‘What right have you to come in here and criticize my morals, when yours are as loose as those of a tom cat?’