‘I can’t understand how it can have happened, madame. I’ve looked everywhere. I’ve asked the laundry maids and the room maids. Nobody admits to having seen or taken them.’
‘Taking what?’ For a second anxiety clutched at Minnie’s heart. She could handle practical jokes but not the theft of any of her valuables.
‘Your brassières, madame.’
‘Brassières!’ Minnie Peckwyn-Peake sat on the edge of her majestic four-poster and began to laugh. Her maid failed to find anything amusing in the situation and was near to tears.
‘But there’s not one, madame, and you’re dining tonight with Mrs Cameron and Mr Sanford and Prince Zaronski and Lady Bessbrook and the Earl and Countess of Montcalm …’
The fashion might be for topless, backless, thigh-splitting evening gowns but Minnie’s proportions were large. Those that were unkind said that they were titanic. It took a good half-hour for her maid to lace her tightly into her boned corsets and her mammoth brassières looked more like weapons of war than articles of underclothing. Without them Mrs Peckwyn-Peake would not be able to appear in public. Instead of being reduced to hysteria Mrs Peckwyn-Peake seemed positively amused.
‘That girl certainly knows where to find the Achilles heel,’ she said, divesting herself of the tent-like apparel she wore for sunbathing.
‘It is brassières that are missing,’ the maid repeated, wondering if perhaps her mistress had been out in the sun too long. ‘Not shoes.’
Minnie waved her away. The girl was obedient but witless. She wondered where Mrs Cameron had found her enterprising Puerto Rican and envied her the acquisition.
Her bath run, she lowered her enormous bulk into the blissfully hot depths. When Countess Zimitzky had left amid hysteria and yards of heavy veiling, the culprit had watched from a safe distance. When Viscountess Lothermere had been led, glazed-eyed, to the Carringtons’motor car the same culprit had watched in smiling satisfaction. Minnie wallowed in the foam-filled water. This time the little minx was in for a disappointment. A lack of brassières was not enough to disconcert a Peckwyn-Peake of Minnesota.
‘But, madame,’ her maid was aghast at her mistress’intention of still attending the dinner.
The lavishly sequined dress, worn with its normal foundation garments, was low-necked enough to reveal a magnificent chest on which a cascading necklace of diamonds lay as if on a shelf. Without restraint from beneath, Mrs Peckwyn-Peake’s breasts spread far and wide, the corsetry of her massive hips only emphasizing the eruption that was taking place above.
‘Madame, you can’t possibly …’
‘I can,’ Minnie said, pinning a plume in her hair with a giant sized diamond and picking up her feather boa.
‘Madame, please …’
Minnie’s torso swayed magnificently as she rose to her feet. It was as if the upper part of her anatomy had a life of its own.
‘Oh, madame,’ her maid wailed, but her employer was unconcerned. Head held high, unbridled flesh undulating, she walked as majestically as a Roman empress through the sumptuous drawing rooms and towards Mr Ramon Sanford’s private dining suite.
The footman looked, closed his eyes, looked again and in a voice that was little more than a whisper announced: ‘Mrs Minnie Peckwyn-Peake.’
Minnie smiled graciously at him, narrowly avoiding doing him an injury with her right breast which had developed a rhythm of its own, and entered the gold and white dining room to be greeted by Nancy and Ramon.
Charles Montcalm paled and demanded a brandy instead of the aperitif offered. Georgina blinked and with enormous effort raised her eyes to those of a bland and unconcerned Minnie.
Prince Felix murmured a word not usually associated with the aristocracy and Venetia was reduced to stunned silence.
Only Nancy seemed capable of speech. Drinks were served. Mrs Peckwyn-Peake was introduced; conversation rallied manfully. Ramon murmured in an aside that their new guest made Lavinia Meade positively flat-chested in comparison and was rewarded by a sharp dig in the ribs from Nancy.
White-gloved footmen pulled back Sanford-monogrammed chairs for the guests to sit upon and even Nancy’s well-bred eyes were rivetted as Mrs Peckwyn-Peake’s bosom descended amply on to gleaming white napery.
‘I hope you are enjoying your stay,’ Nancy managed, a trifle hoarsely.
‘I am,’ Minnie said, a wayward breast toppling a George III salt cellar.
A waiter repositioned it nervously. There seemed no way of telling in which direction Mrs Peckwyn-Peake’s upper half would next venture.
‘Despite my loss.’
‘Your loss?’ A frown creased Ramon’s brow. Villiers’detailed biography of Mrs Peckwyn-Peake had not mentioned any recent bereavement. Mr Peckwyn-Peake had departed this world for the next a good ten years previously.
‘Brassières,’ Minnie said as Charles Montcalm spilled soup on to his trousers and Venetia Bessbrook choked on a crouton.
A hypnotist could not have commanded a more mesmerized audience.
Minnie raised her soup spoon to her mouth, swallowed and smiled benignly. ‘With the countess it was false teeth. With the viscountess, hair dye. For myself it was brassières.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ Nancy said feebly.
Minnie continued with her soup. She was the only one capable of doing so. Prince Zaronski’s spoon was held motionless in mid-air. Even Ramon was transfixed.
‘A certain young lady is so much in love that she has very enterprisingly removed all opposition, except for myself.’
Ramon vainly tried to think of a man capable of being the lover of the elderly Czech countess, the coolly beautiful viscountess, and the awe-inspiring Mrs Peckwyn-Peake. He failed.
‘But who …?’ Nancy began.
Minnie smiled benevolently. ‘I’m sure you would not want me to be so indiscreet,’ she said. ‘I shall speak to the young lady myself and I assure you there will be no further unpleasantness. In fact, I can quite confidently say that by midnight all my undergarments will be safely returned,’ and with both hands she unself-consciously hoisted her bosom away from the dish of Espada that the waiter placed in front of her.
Chapter Eighteen
‘Why the look of utter desolation?’ Ramon asked the next morning as Nancy sat on her terrace toying with her breakfast.
She smiled up at him and caught his hand in hers, holding it closely against her cheek before he sat down beside her and poured himself a black, sugarless coffee.
‘Maria is leaving me.’
Ramon raised his eyebrows quizzically. He was naked except for a towelling robe of dark navy, salt water from his early morning swim glistening in his dark curls.
‘She’s getting married. To Luis Chavez.’
Coffee slopped over into his saucer. ‘Good God!’
‘Is it so bad?’
‘It’s surprising,’ Ramon said drily as a clean coffee cup and saucer were placed before him. ‘I’ve never regarded Luis as a domestic animal.’
‘Then do you think I should try and dissuade her?’
‘Could you?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Maria doesn’t act on impulse. If she says she’s going to marry Luis, then she means it.’
‘Then let her. It’s about time Luis married. He’s been skirting deep trouble these last few seasons.’
Nancy’s anxious expression made him grin. ‘Nothing criminal, my love. Only slightly dishonourable.’
‘But then surely I should tell Maria …’
Ramon’s grin widened. ‘Your demure little maid has more cards up her sleeve than an ace poker player. She knows all about her beloved Luis’little failings. What is more, she seems to be curtailing them in an exceptionally talented manner.’
‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘I know, and it doesn’t matter. Is that the magnificent Mrs Peckwyn-Peake strolling in the garden with London’s literary lion?’
Nancy put down her coffee cup and stare
d in the direction Ramon was pointing.
Luke was slouching, his hands desultorily rammed in his pockets. Without his broad-brimmed black hat and silk-lined cloak, he looked like any other young man out for a pre-breakfast walk.
‘His flamboyance seems to have deserted him.’
‘It did that when he was faced with his hotel bill. I have a feeling that the inimitable Minnie is Mr Golding’s last chance.’
‘He shouldn’t have treated Venetia so underhandedly,’ Nancy said without sympathy.
Venetia, after considering a reconciliation with Reggie, had turned instead to the more exotic Prince Zaronski. Her zest and sparkle had returned but Nancy knew that Luke Golding had hurt her intensely.
She put down her coffee cup and stared into the distant harbour. The Carringtons’yacht was not the only one absent.
‘Where’s the Kezia?’ she asked with surprise.
‘Nearing Oporto, where it will pick up my lawyer and Dr Oliveira and bring them straight back to Funchal.’
She stared.
‘Your lawyers are in America. Not very convenient for arranging a rapid divorce.’ His lean, strong hands encircled her wrists. His face had a hard, uncompromising look that she had learned not to argue with.
‘The doctor?’ she said helplessly. ‘Why have you sent for a doctor?’
‘Serrado isn’t happy with your health and neither am I. Dr Oliveira will soon be able to tell if there is anything wrong with you. I don’t want any more protests of physical fitness, I don’t trust them. You’d tell me you were perfectly healthy if you were dying on your feet.’
‘Syrie,’ she said weakly, unable to look him in the eyes. ‘Where is she now?’
‘With Charles Montcalm.’
‘Charles!’
Ramon laughed, his hold on her wrists becoming gentle. ‘That most English of Englishmen is behaving most virtuously, I assure you. He is dictating long letters to Ramsay MacDonald and Baldwin. He has a far more knowledgeable grasp of the political situation in Europe than they appear to have. With the exception of Churchill, and no one appears to be paying too much attention to him at the moment. What Charles is trying to do is set things out in plain black and white for them. He wants to rouse them from their stupor before it’s too late. He’s a naval man and war is far more of a reality to him than it is to the civil servants and government ministers sitting behind their comfortable desks in Whitehall.’
‘War?’ The blood had drained from Nancy’s face. ‘Surely that sort of talk is irresponsible.’
Fresh coffee was served. When they were once again alone Ramon said carefully, ‘It’s no use turning your back on what is happening in Germany and Austria. I know your daughter’s marriage makes the whole subject difficult for you, but you have to face facts. In Vienna there have been massive Nazi demonstrations and they have said publicly that they intend to gain control of the country this year. If they do, it won’t be without bloodshed. Felix tells me that when the curtain went up at the Burgtheater for the opening performance of George Bernard Shaw’s The Apple Cart it revealed a huge swastika banner placed by Nazis who had neatly managed to upset the apple cart of the backstage management.
Nancy’s hands twisted in her lap. She wondered if Ramon knew her son-in-law was a fanatical follower of the German Chancellor. If he knew that Dieter was a committed Nazi.
‘While America is besotted by such fripperies as Will Rogers, Janet Gaynor and Eddie Cantor, Hitler is calmly trebling his army.’
‘But Austria’s Chancellor approved a new campaign for the suppression of Nazi propaganda only a few weeks ago,’ Nancy protested.
‘Then it is failing or the rallies and the Vienna theatre performance caper could never have taken place.’
It was suddenly still on the sunlit terrace. On the horizon the Ile de France edged into sight. Nancy’s thoughts were so full of Austria and Germany and Verity and Dieter that she did not even register its imminent arrival.
‘Austria is in chaos, Nancy. Ask Felix. He has a house there but will not be returning to it. In his opinion the fascists will take over the Dollfuss government within months or even weeks and Dollfuss and his ministers will be assassinated.’
‘Stop it!’ She covered her ears with her hands.
Gently but firmly he removed them. His strong-boned face was grave. ‘I’m telling you all this, Nancy, because I love you and if you have a daughter in Germany you should be aware of what the future might hold. There is already civil war in Austria.’
‘But Germany is stable!’
‘It is Germany that is causing the chaos.’ In the distance Costas could be heard laughing loudly at the poolside. Countess Szapary was running down a mimosa-clouded path, her face as radiant as if she was meeting a lover. A waiter was carrying a tray of iced daiquiris. Their conversation amongst such surroundings seemed bizarre and unreal.
Princess Louise emerged into the early morning sunlight, Mr Blenheim escorting her regally. The princess was in black. A black armband encircled the exiled king’s arm.
‘King Albert,’ Nancy said, glad to be diverted from the subject. ‘I’d almost forgotten about him. The Meades have gone into mourning as well. Sir Maxwell was quite close to the Belgian court at one time.’
‘That’s the trouble – and the blessing – of Madeira,’ Ramon said, watching them as they made their way sedately to a seat that gave a magnificent view of the harbour and mountains. ‘The happenings in the outside world seem unreal. The King of Belgium is killed in a mountaineering accident at fifty-nine. If half of our guests were in their own countries, they would have immediately assumed mourning. Here, the event seems so distant that only the old brigade behave appropriately. I don’t envy the heir to the throne and his beautiful princess. Now is not the choicest time to ascend a European throne.’
Georgina Montcalm stepped out on to the terrace.
‘You’re right about people’s priorities,’ she said, joining them with no fear of disapproval. ‘Poolside conversation is revolving around Carole Lombard and George Raft’s performances in Bolero. The insufferable Count Szapary has informed us all that the Earl of Athlone and his family have been vacationing in the United States for some time and intend visiting Miami en route to the Bahamas. Reggie tells us that Boston has been cut off from New York by a blizzard and both Madeleine Mancini and Bobo are finally agreed on one point: that Roosevelt has more sex appeal than any previous American president. Prince Leopold and Princess Astrid’s future is taking a very definite back seat. Presumably because talk of Belgium would lead inevitably to talk of Germany and then to Austria. According to Charles, war clouds are massing over Western and Central Europe and the more they mass, the more merry and carefree we foolishly become. He says he’s a lone wolf crying in the wilderness. Venetia thinks he’s completely ga-ga but he’s not. If I were you, Nancy, I’d haul that daughter of yours out of Germany and back to America. Anywhere in the world would be a better place of residence right now.
‘My daughter’s husband is German,’ Nancy said quietly.
‘Then haul him out as well. He can’t approve of what is going on, can he?’
Nancy rose unsteadily to her feet. ‘My son-in-law fully supports the new German Chancellor,’ she said and walked into the shadow of her bedroom.
Ramon’s face was grim: Georgina’s horrified.
‘I’ll go after her,’ she said hastily. ‘How thoughtless of me … It never occurred to me …’
Nancy was sitting at her dressing table, carefully applying face powder and lipstick.
‘I’m sorry, darling. Was I disastrously tactless?’
Nancy put down her powder puff, her hand trembling. ‘My son-in-law is a Nazi. I can’t believe he would be so unless Hitler was a responsible man.’
‘Then let’s hope Charles is wrong,’ Georgina said, unconvinced.
‘You don’t believe he is, do you?’ Nancy’s violet dark eyes were troubled.
‘No,’ Georgina said truthfully and changed
the subject. ‘The Ile de France is about to dock and I’m dying to see aboard. Bobo sailed on her maiden voyage and says the decor is very futuristic and very, very French. All blond wood and concealed lighting.’
‘Oh God,’ Nancy said. ‘My father’s aboard.’
‘I thought your relationship with your father was so close as to border on the incestuous. Why the lack of enthusiasm?’
‘My relationship with my father has always been that of the good little girl to genial parent,’ Nancy said drily. ‘When the good little girl stopped being good the parent stopped being quite so genial.’
Georgina raised her eyes skywards at the folly of people who didn’t manage their private lives with her efficiency and said, ‘I’m just going to collect Charles. That poor Geeson girl has been taking notes since eight-thirty this morning. I’ll meet you in reception in ten minutes.’
Ramon stood at the French windows, his legs apart, his hands on his hips. The sun was behind him and she could not see his face clearly, only the muscled outline of his body and the unruly darkness of his hair.
‘I don’t want to go,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to see him. Let’s leave together, now.’
It was a faint echo of his pleas to her at Hyannis.
‘We can’t, my love. The Kezia is on its way to Oporto.’
‘We could if you really wanted to!’
He caught hold of her and she clung to him. ‘Promise me that you won’t let anything spoil things for us?’
His laugh was low and husky. ‘It’s I that should be asking you for that promise. Kiss me.’
The Flower Garden Page 34
