Piers Cunningham was good-looking in a flashy, shallow sort of way, his hair slicked and brilliantined, his clothes indicating him to be a gentleman – his manner belying it.
The duke’s sister was Nancy’s own age, exquisitely coiffured, with small features that had once held a rosebud prettiness and now held very little of either beauty, personality or character.
Her indignation had been loud and shrill. It had abated abruptly when Nancy had coolly informed her that unless she agreed to leave Sanfords quietly and immediately, the Duke and Duchess of Dentley would be informed that she had not only countenanced the meeting of their daughter with a man they wished to separate her from, but that she herself had become the same man’s mistress and that consequently their dearly-loved, only daughter had attempted a near-successful suicide.
Neither Piers nor his companion seemed distressed at the news of Helen’s attempted suicide. Certainly neither showed enough curiosity to ask after her condition.
When they returned to their rooms, it was to find their cases already packed. Dressed in the clothes they stood up in they were escorted by one of Sanfords’chauffeurs to the harbour and seen safely aboard the Aquitania.
Their departure was made relatively unnoticeable by the hysterical exit of the Countess Zmitsky. Sobs, tears, accusations were long and loud as the countess, followed by her retinue, made her way to her waiting Bentley. She was so heavily veiled it was impossible to see her face. Startled guests assumed that the Czech countess had been informed of a bereavement and that this accounted for both her hysteria and her garb. They were wrong. The outlandish black hat with its funereal drapes was to hide her face, but not from grief.
Mysteriously, magically, the countess’false teeth had been spirited away in the middle of the night. No amount of searching or bribery had brought them to light. Sanfords provided many services but not those of a dentist, at least not one capable of replacing a full set of dentures at a moment’s notice. The countess had screamed, lain semi-comotose on her bed, rallied herself, beat her breast, beat her maids, all to no avail. The teeth, so essential to a lady of her years, were gone. It would take weeks for her to reach Vienna and her dentist. Weeks before she could emerge in public. Weeks of being hidden behind heavy crèpe veiling. Weeks of celibacy. Half-conscious with grief and rage, the countess was propelled into the back of the Bentley. Her anguished cries could be heard even after the car had disappeared from sight on its speedy way to the docks.
Maria grinned and patted the distasteful bulge in her pocket. She would drop the monstrous objects in the sea. Now only Viscountess Lothermere remained to be taken care of. The viscountess’ perfect teeth were her own. Maria was undeterred. God had not blessed her with imagination for nothing.
‘Where the devil have you been?’ Ramon asked impatiently, kissing her so fiercely it was minutes before she could extricate herself and tell him.
‘I’ve made quite sure none of our guests have duplicated their costumes for the fancy dress ball. I’ve come up with a theme for the following ball and discussed it with Senora Henriques, who approves. I’ve greeted one Russian prince and horse, and two ladies of inexhaustible energy.’
‘Miss Watertight and Mrs Murphy have arrived then?’
‘They have, and how!’
Ramon laughed and bent his head, intent on kissing her again. She averted her head teasingly and said, ‘I’ve despatched two guests who didn’t wish to be despatched and comforted an eighteen-year-old girl who thought her life was over and slashed her wrists to prove it.’
His eyes scrutinized her face carefully. ‘It’s not been too much for you, has it?’
‘Not a bit. I’ve enjoyed myself hugely.’
‘Then as Sanfords would seem to be running with accustomed smoothness, let’s abandon it and spend the afternoon in the mountains.’
‘But I haven’t had lunch yet.’
‘That’s because it’s in a hamper in the rear of the Daimler.’
The sun was hot, the car unchauffered. In a bliss of contentment Nancy sat beside Ramon as they swept through Funchal’s steep alleys and streets full of flowers and trees. In the hot sunlight the mosaic pavements glistened like gold and then they were out on the coast road, Ramon’s strong hands manipulating the wheel skilfully around hairpin bends, with breathtaking drops to distant rocks and pounding surf. Judas trees and angel’s trumpets flourished thickly, giving way to mountain pines as they climbed higher inland up tracks fit only for mules. Higher and higher amidst rich, dense foliage.
There was no mention of Jack. No talk of divorce. The afternoon was theirs, unsullied by any thoughts but those of each other. They picnicked on the banks of a rushing mountain stream and Nancy slipped off her sandals and squealed girlishly as she paddled in the ice-cold water. Ramon watched indulgently and then, finishing his wine, leapt to his feet and chased her, hopping dexterously from stone to stone until at last his hands caught hold of her and he dragged her laughing on to the bank, her feet and legs sparkling with water, her skirt damp.
His body pinned her down in the grass thick with wild flowers and the hum of bees.
‘I love you,’ he said and his lovemaking left her in no doubt of it.
Hours later, as they walked back to the car, arms circling each other’s waists, Nancy asked, ‘What is the name of this stream, Ramon?’
‘The Ribeira da Janela,’ he said, his hand sliding up to cup her breast.
‘Janela. It’s a pretty name.’ Long afterwards, she wondered why she had asked. Why the pretty name had been filed away in her memory. Perhaps, subconsciously, she had known even then. Consciously, she only knew that it was now dusk, that the Aquitania sailed at dawn and that Jack had no intention of going aboard without her.
She half expected him to be waiting to see her when she returned to the Garden Suite. He was not there. Maria informed her that Miss Geeson had called much earlier in the day to offer apologies and had been taken ill. Maria’s tone indicated that the illness was not to be taken seriously. Nevertheless, Nancy rang Jack’s room.
‘Is Syrie all right? Maria tells me she was ill this morning.’
‘She’s fine.’ Jack’s voice sounded confident and firm and bore no traces of the loss of control that had bedevilled it for the last forty-eight hours. ‘I guess your tête-à-tête upset her, but she’s over that now.’
‘I’m glad.’ Nancy’s voice was dry. It would take more than a few idle words to upset a lady of Syrie Geeson’s temperament.
‘I’m sailing tomorrow. I still wish you’d come with me, Nancy. It would make things much easier. We could come to some arrangement, as long as you were discreet …’
‘No, Jack.’ Her relief at his change of attitude was so intense she had to sit down. ‘I’m staying with Ramon, but I give you my word that I’ll do nothing to jeopardize your future.’
There was a pause as Jack checked himself. How she could do one thing without the other was a mystery to him. He was beginning to doubt her sanity. It didn’t matter. In a few hours’time she would be unconscious and tucked up safe and secure in his state room aboard the Aquitania.
‘We’ll give it a month,’ he said charitably. ‘We should be able to keep things out of the press until then.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry, Jack.’
‘Yes.’
The line went dead. They hadn’t even said goodbye.
The evening was a gay one. Nicki appeared with a sparkling-eyed Fleur Molière on his arm. His eyes, when they met Nancy’s, were amused and reproachful. Later, dancing with her while Ramon glared furiously at them, watching their every move, and ignoring the coterie of guests surrounding him, Nicki said, ‘I hear I have been supplanted by our host.’
‘Not supplanted, Nicki.’
‘So I was nothing but an interlude?’ he asked, trying to look injured, and failing.
She laughed. ‘A pleasant interlude.’
Ramon’s glower was taking on demonic proportions.
‘Whoever nicknam
ed him the Panther was most astute,’ Nicki said, whirling her around in a far corner of the ballroom. ‘I would far more willingly face a horde of wild Cossacks than your outraged lover. The sooner I return you to him the better – for my safety at least.’
Vere was dancing with the little Countess Szapary and whenever his eyes met Nancy’s the expression in them was warm. There was no ill feeling there and Nancy was relieved.
‘Do you have to dance so close to that damnable Russian?’ Ramon was demanding as they took to the floor.
Nancy stifled an impish grin and said demurely, ‘I was only doing as you asked, darling. You said I was to circulate and play Zia’s part as hostess and Zia always dances with the guests …’
‘My mother’s guests weren’t all in love with her,’ Ramon said darkly and when Prince Felix appeared later with every intention of executing an admirable foxtrot with his delightful hostess, Ramon’s glare froze him on the spot.
Only with great reluctance did Ramon relinquish her to the chaste arms of Charles Montcalm, and even then he watched their every movement as if Charles was a menace to womankind and likely to ravish her on the dance floor.
Costas was once more in command of Madeleine Mancini. Now it was Madeleine who waited meekly at the Greek’s side while he recounted scandalous stories to the president of the Chetwynd Cork Company. Hassan had dispensed with her services. He liked passion but drew the line at ferocity. He was once more in Bobo’s arms and Bobo was blatantly happy.
Venetia Bessbrook was in the enviable position of being courted by both Reggie Minter and the dashing Prince Zaronski. Luke Golding sulked. His attempts to charm Viscountess Lothermere had failed miserably. Marisa was indifferent to him, as were all the other ladies now they knew he was no longer being sponsored by the generous Lady Bessbrook. Details of his expenses to date had been subtly delivered to his room in the afternoon. There was no way that Luke could pay, and every day he stayed made the sum more preposterous. He damned Hildegarde and his own foolishness to hell, and attempted to pry Venetia away from her admirers. He failed miserably. Venetia had made up her mind. Luke had arrived with her as her companion, and had neglected her. There could be no second chances. No one made a fool of Venetia Bessbrook. As the hours passed, Nancy became more and more aware of her husband’s imminent departure.
‘Darling, please don’t be angry with me, but I do think I should go and see Jack one last time.’
It was a waltz. She was held very close in his arms.
‘Of course, my love, if you feel you should.’
She looked up at him doubtfully. It was unlike Ramon to be so bland.
‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’
‘Why should I? You told me you were divorcing him. He seems to have accepted the situation. Saying goodbye to him would only be courteous.’
‘Ramon …’ There was something in his voice and his eyes that she had never seen before. She began to feel very unsure of the situation. Why was he suddenly so amenable? It wasn’t a side of his character she had ever come across before. Certainly not where Jack was concerned. The last notes of ‘The Viennese Waltz’died softly away. Lady Lovesy and her insignificant son were descending on them.
‘I’ll go now,’ she said reluctantly. Ramon raised her hands to his lips and kissed them. His smile was angelic. Seriously disturbed, Nancy quickly left the ballroom and made her way to Suite 17. Jack had not shown himself in public since his arrival. He had wanted as few people as possible to know he was in residence and not at the side of his wife who was carrying out duties as Sanfords’ hostess.
His goodbye was almost as puzzling as Ramon’s permission for it had been. There was no belligerence; no accusations. He was calm and controlled – his language once more that of a public figure. He hoped at the end of the month she would return to Washington. He would tell friends, family and colleagues that she was on vacation. She had a sudden overwhelming urge to tell him that she would never be returning to Washington. That she was dying. That this goodbye was their last. They had shared seventeen years; the whole of their adult lives. It seemed a mockery that it should end as distantly as two strangers parting after a fleeting acquaintance on a train or a ship.
‘Jack …’ she began, but he did not turn to her. He continued to pack his alligator suitcases. He was as remote from her as the moon.
‘Goodbye, Jack.’
‘Goodbye, Nancy.’
She stood for another few awkward moments, watching the immaculately dressed stranger pack hairbrush and comb, cufflinks and tie clips. There was nothing more she could say and nothing more Jack wanted to say. The goodbyes were over. She turned and left the room.
The warmth in Ramon’s eyes as she entered the ballroom erased any sadness. Quality of time was what was important – not quantity. She had had quantity enough with Jack and it had all been meaningless. With Ramon every second counted. She entered his arms like a homing pidgeon and stayed there until he said:
‘Time for bed, my love. I don’t want a repetition of last night’s exhaustion.’
‘I’m not in the least exhausted.’
‘It’s still time for bed.’
She felt her throat tighten with longing for him and did not protest further.
As Maria prepared to leave the Garden Suite, Ramon stayed her with a motion of his hand. ‘Mrs Cameron is tired, Maria. She is going to have an early night. Perhaps you would fix her coffee for her.’
Nancy stared at him in astonishment. ‘But I thought …’
He grinned. ‘I know very well what you thought, but I have business to attend to with Villiers.’
‘At this time of night?’
‘Unfortunately, yes. I also have no intention of leaving you in the ballroom at the mercy of Vasileyev and Meldon and Costas and Zaronski!’
His kisses silenced her protests. Disappointedly she allowed him to leave her. She could not expect to dominate all his time. He had given her the whole of the afternoon and the evening. Presumably, while they had been in their own private heaven high in the mountains, Villiers had been kicking his heels with a mass of paperwork that needed Ramon’s critical eye and signature.
She bathed slowly, luxuriously, and then slipped into her five-foot wide bed, looking sadly at the empty pillow where a head of dark curling hair should have been.
Maria brought her in her coffee and the book she had been reading on the voyage out. It was Scott Fitzgerald’s This Side of Paradise. She smiled. It was an apt title but she did not open it. She drank the Irish coffee that Maria made so excellently, and lay back against her pillows, thinking of Ramon and of the strange, almost mystical, quality of their lovemaking on the banks of the steeply rushing Ribeira da Janela. Her eyelids were heavy. Ramon had been right. She was tired; unbelievably tired. When Maria came back into the bedroom she was soundly asleep.
Jack had already telephoned reception and informed them that his assistant, Miss Geeson, had been taken ill and that as they were returning aboard the Aquitania in the morning, he thought it best that she be removed there this evening and that the Aquitania’s doctor, and not Sanfords’, take care of her. Nancy, wrapped in blankets and unconscious, would be carried from Sanfords and reception would assume she was Miss Geeson. Syrie would leave less conspicuously by a back entrance.
A strategically placed Syrie had informed him that Sanford had left Nancy’s suite an hour ago and that Maria had left fifteen minutes ago.
Jack’s cases were already in the boot of his hired Bentley. Shelby was even now at the wheel, waiting to take the sick Miss Geeson down to the harbour.
Silently he and Syrie made their way to the Garden Suite. There was music and laughter from the ballroom and a cocktail bar. They passed the Bridge Room and the murmur of subdued conversation. They reached the Garden Suite without being seen – not that it would have mattered if they had been. A man approaching his wife’s rooms could hardly be held to be suspicious.
The Garden Suite was in darkness. In the entranc
e hall he and Syrie quickly donned white overalls and medical face masks. The stronger dose of morphine-sulphate was already in the syringe. They crossed the darkened drawing room and Syrie switched on a table lamp. The bedroom door was open. Beneath the crèpe de chine sheets Nancy’s breathing was deep and rhythmical.
‘Don’t forget she’ll regain consciousness, if only for a few minutes,’ Jack whispered to Syrie. ‘Whatever you do, don’t panic and speak my name.’
Slowly he pulled back the sheets. Slowly he lifted the silk of Nancy’s nightdress high, so that her right leg and thigh were exposed. Syrie had told him that the injection had to be given in the thigh. Jack had not argued with her. Syrie always knew what she was doing. Their only argument had been over her refusal to give the injection herself. Instead, Jack had bad-temperedly practised injecting oranges and now felt more than competent to render his wife senseless with the minimum of fuss.
He poised the needle over Nancy’s gleaming flesh. Syrie closed her eyes. He pushed the needle home and there was a simultaneous scream and then lights blazed and pandemonium broke out. It seemed to Jack that a wild beast had hurtled across the room and grabbed him by the throat. His windpipe was blocked, his eyes were starting from their sockets. He was struggling for air. Struggling for life.
‘It’s all right, madame! It’s all right, madame!’ Maria was saying urgently, holding tightly on to a hysterical Nancy.
Syrie simply stood, watching complacently as Ramon proceeded to choke the life out of Jack Cameron.
Villiers and two massively built footmen lunged at him, dragging him physically off the semi-conscious senator.
‘For Christ’s sake, what’s happening? Ramon!’ Nancy felt sick and dizzy and could not move from the bed because firm hands were restraining her. Ramon was struggling to free himself. His face was bleeding from the deep scratchmarks Jack Cameron had inflicted before passing into unconsciousness.
‘Mae de Deus!’
His eyes were glazed as he threw Villiers from him and sprang once more towards his victim.
The Flower Garden Page 31
