The Flower Garden

by Margaret Pemberton

  She wore a simple tailored grey skirt and white silk blouse. To hide her eyes, still puffed and red from weeping, she put on a pair of large, dark sun spectacles.

  They were beneath the jacaranda tree. She could see them break off their conversation in mid-sentence at the sight of her; could see the look of fear that flitted across Zia’s fine-boned features; the tortured anxiety on her father’s face. She was unsympathetic. They could teach her nothing about suffering.

  ‘My dear …’ Zia’s hand faltered as it stretched towards her.

  ‘Nancy …’ Her father’s voice was unsteady.

  She said unemotionally, ‘Champagne and orange juice and petits fours for the doves. Nothing changes at Sanfords, does it, Zia?’

  ‘My dear. I’m so sorry. Truly I am.’

  Nancy shrugged her slender shoulders. She had come nearer to loving Zia Sanford than she had her own mother and she had been destroyed by her. She would not allow her to see how deep her hurt had been. How deep her hurt was. That, at least, could remain private.

  She said to her father, ‘When do we leave?’

  ‘I … It’s not that easy, Nancy.’

  He looked an old man. She felt pity and crushed it. She could not afford to pity him yet. She could afford no emotion whatsoever if she was to survive the next hours and days.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Her voice was curt, rigidly under control.

  They gazed at each other helplessly and then Chips said with difficulty: ‘I meant to tell you yesterday, Nancy. Only it wasn’t possible. Not with … Not with the other things that had to be said.’

  She could feel her heart beat wildly and irregularly. ‘Then tell me now.’

  Dear God, what other hideous secrets of the past were to be sprung on her? Rape? Incest?

  ‘Verity and Dieter are on their way here.’

  She felt the breath escape from her body and afterwards wondered how she’d remained standing.

  ‘A family party,’ she said at last. ‘How nice. How very thoughtful of you to invite my daughter to witness my humiliation and misery. Is it to serve as a lesson to her for the future? Do not commit adultery or you may end up like your mother?’

  ‘Nancy, Nancy.’ His eyes were blinded by tears as he groped to hold her.

  She stepped backwards. ‘Not yet, Daddy. There’s a long way to go before I fall back into the old pattern of seeking to please you at any cost.’

  ‘I never knew you had.’

  ‘That makes it all the more terrible.’

  They faced each other like two protagonists.

  Zia said faintly, ‘The Mezriczkys made their booking before your father arrived.’

  Pastel-petalled franciscea bloomed thickly at their feet. A lizard darted quickly into the undergrowth.

  ‘How long?’ she asked bleakly. ‘How long till they arrive?’

  ‘One week, perhaps two. They were not definite in their dates.’

  Her iron control began to crack at the seams. ‘Two weeks! After all that has happened you expect me to stay on here for another two weeks? Seeing him every day! Seeing the contempt in his eyes! The loathing! Have you any idea what I had to say to him to convince him that our affaire was at an end? Have either of you any idea of anything but the need to protect yourselves?’

  ‘Nancy, darling …’

  Nancy’s eyes flashed as she rounded on Zia. ‘You couldn’t have lived seeing yourself diminished in his eyes, could you? Why do you think that it’s any different for me? If you had to have a sacrificial lamb, don’t make a feast out of it. I’ve broken off our relationship. I’ve told him I won’t marry him. No one will ever know you were both responsible for Duarte’s death.’

  ‘Zia had no part in it,’ her father began agitatedly.

  ‘She knew,’ Nancy said starkly. ‘Isn’t that being an accessory? I’m afraid Portuguese law isn’t my strongest point.’

  ‘We know the sacrifice you have made for us,’ Zia said, and her words were a mere whisper. ‘We’re truly grateful, Nancy. Ramon worshipped his father. If he ever knew. Even suspected …’

  She looked ghastly. Nancy fought down the impulse to comfort her. She said instead, her voice flat and empty, ‘Ramon will never know.’

  Zia began to cry. Her father put his arms around her. Nancy turned away. They were old and they were frightened and she was not making things easy for them. After a little while she said, ‘You must see that I can’t possibly stay here. Not even for Verity.’

  ‘You must.’ Chips’desperation was naked. ‘You wrote to her, telling her that you were leaving her father after eighteen years of marriage. She must be nearly out of her mind. You can’t allow her to travel all this way and find you gone.’

  She was trapped. ‘Ramon,’ she said helplessly. ‘I can’t live still seeing him.’

  ‘Ramon will leave,’ Zia said, with a shadow of her old confidence. ‘He only stayed here for you. Because you were happy here.’

  ‘We were both happy here,’ Nancy corrected and, unable to bear looking at them any longer, turned on her heel and walked quickly over the sweet-smelling grass to the open doors of the hotel.

  ‘Unpack everything,’ she said wearily to Maria. ‘We shan’t be leaving for another two weeks. My daughter and her husband are on their way here.’

  ‘Yes, madame.’

  Maria had always enjoyed being employed by Mrs Cameron. Now she was beginning to think that the relative orderliness of her own house would be a welcome blessing.

  ‘Senora Henriques has asked to see you, madame.’

  It was the night of the grand fancy dress ball. There were final arrangements to make. Hildegarde had announced her intention of dressing as the late Tsarina and the grand duchess had sworn blood and a public assassination if she did so.

  ‘Thank you, Maria.’ She had forgotten all about her regular, mid-morning rendezvous with Senora Henriques. The housekeeper’s irritation at being kept waiting vanished when she saw Nancy’s pallor and the way the sun glasses remained in place, even though they were in the shadows of her study.

  ‘I’ll speak to Hildegarde myself,’ she said as they sat at the giant-size desk. ‘Salli has an oriental costume that Hildegarde will not be able to resist. Unfortunately, it’s more apt for a belly dancer than our theme of historic royalty, but anything is better than the grand duchess’ wrath. Is that the list of music?’ She scanned it quickly and nodded. ‘Good. José has done as I suggested and included plenty of Viennese waltzes. Is the gypsy band here?’

  ‘Yes, madame. They arrived last night from Lisbon.’

  ‘Lovely. Genuine gypsy music will please our large Russian contingent. Has chef done as I asked and provided a light dinner for this evening?’

  ‘Yes, madame. There is also the supper menu, and he has done as you asked, and arranged that hot soup, cutlets, quail and cold dishes are available all through the evening. He likes the English idea of serving devilled kidneys, eggs and bacon, and other savouries in the supper room from two o’clock onwards. Yourself and Mr Sanford will receive …’

  The slim gold pen fell from Nancy’s hand and rolled across the polished surface of the desk.

  ‘I think perhaps the head of the stairs instead of the door of the ballroom.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Carlota.’ Without being aware of it, Nancy had used the housekeeper’s Christian name. ‘I shall not be receiving this evening with Mr Sanford. Or in the future.’

  ‘But Mrs Sanford is far too weak. The doctor has seen her this morning and her condition seems to be deteriorating, not improving.’

  ‘Mr Sanford will receive the guests on his own.’

  Senora Henriques was aghast. ‘That is simply not possible. There must be a hostess.’

  ‘Of course there must,’ Ramon said from the doorway and his voice had a silky, almost bored note. ‘As Mrs Cameron has performed her duties as hostess with such accomplishment in the past, I see no reason why she should not continue for the duration of her visit. Her … services …
are inestimable.’

  He lingered over the word, taunting her with his eyes. She felt bright spots of colour flare in her cheeks.

  ‘My services have terminated,’ she said icily and was grateful to God that there was no throb of passion or pain in her cool, perfectly controlled voice.

  She saw his eyes flame with momentary anger. His white shirt was open at the neck. He looked as if he had just come in from a game of tennis. The anger was immediately quenched. He said lazily:

  ‘Until my mother has recovered you will continue to act as hostess. Good day, Mrs Cameron. Good day, Senora Henriques.’

  His eyes flicked over her with insolent indifference and then he was gone. Her hands shook as she retrieved her pen. ‘I would like to add the following to the supper menu,’ she said unsteadily. ‘Mousse of chicken, mayonnaise of turbot, lobster patties, turban of chicken and tongue, tomatoes à la tartare, quenelles of pheasant, baba au rhum, viscotins of pears and apricot choux. Please make sure there is plenty of iced coffee as well as champagne and hock and spirits. Perhaps you would also remind the waiter that Lady Bessbrook drinks only pink champagne.’

  ‘Yes, madame.’

  Senora Henriques now knew why Mrs Cameron was so unlike her usual self. Mr Sanford’s soft spoken words had been like the lashes of a whip. She was sorry. If it hadn’t been for the inconvenience of her being a married woman, Mrs Cameron would have made a perfect mistress for Sanfords. She picked up the extended supper menu. ‘I will take it to chef now. The flower arrangements are already being attended to and an extra quantity of vodka for the gypsy band has been ordered from the cellars.’

  ‘Thank you, Carlota.’ She sat behind the giant desk for five minutes and then rose resolutely and made her way down through the terraced gardens and the wilderness beyond to the rocks and the sea and the soothing, undemanding company of Giovanni Ferranzi.

  Her first picture was complete. Giovanni eyed it and felt rising excitement. It was strong and passionate. Primitive art at its best.

  ‘I go to Rome at the end of the week,’ he said as he cleaned his brushes and put away his palette and his knives. ‘I would like to take your painting with me.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘To show to a friend of mine – a dealer.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to sell it,’ she said, amazed at the prospect.

  ‘Then I will not sell it. But still I will take it and return it.’

  This time they walked back up the steeply winding pathway together.

  ‘I have an exhibition in Rome and must be there for the opening. But I will be back.’

  ‘If I am not here when you return, would you see that my daughter receives the painting?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He knew what she meant. That it was possible she would be dead. Looking at her in the harsh light of the sun, Giovanni could well believe it. She looked truly ill.

  Vere was sitting on his terrace. With blessed relief she saw he was alone. Unbeknown to her, he had been waiting for her return for hours.

  ‘May a neighbour come calling?’ he asked cheerfully as she stepped out on to her adjoining balcony.

  ‘With the utmost pleasure.’

  He picked up his bottle of Scotch and his glass and joined her. She sat at the glass-topped table while he retrieved a second glass from her room and then silently half-filled them both with neat whisky.

  ‘I’m both friend and family,’ he said at last. ‘Surely I should rate as a confidant?’

  ‘Is it so obvious that I’m in need of one?’

  ‘Blatantly.’

  ‘Some things are too terrible to tell anyone.’

  She remembered Clarissa. He knew about such things but he had kept his secret and she must keep hers.

  ‘Is it Sanford?’ he asked sympathetically.

  ‘Yes, our affaire – our relationship – is over.’ She drank the whisky and shuddered. She had never drunk it before without soda. ‘God, how I hate those words, Vere. They’re so flippant and trite. They don’t conjure up love at all.’

  ‘Most people involved in them don’t feel love,’ Vere said drily.

  She managed a laugh, thinking of Bobo and Venetia and Nicki and Luke Golding.

  ‘No. They seem to be entered into rather as a matter of course, don’t they? A new Daimler a year, a new mink, a new lover.’

  ‘Sanford’s a fool.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head of dark hair, her eyes tragic. ‘It wasn’t his fault, Vere. It wasn’t even mine. If I said it was fate, it would sound melodramatic and idiotic, but I’m beginning to have a quite healthy respect for fate.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Leave. I’d go tomorrow if I could. Even if it meant leaving on a tramp steamer or a rowing boat, but my daughter is on her way here. I must stay until she arrives.’

  ‘An uncomfortable position to be in,’ Vere said with English understatement.

  ‘Especially as Ramon still insists I carry out my duties as hostess.’

  ‘Refuse.’

  ‘I can’t. I can’t refuse him anything it’s possible to still give him.’

  Vere was out of his depth. He felt that someone should beat some sense into Sanford, or else knock the stuffing out of him. Unfortunately, he knew that he was not the man to do it. He was not a coward but he knew that he would only come out the loser in such an encounter, and so gain nothing, not even satisfaction.

  ‘What about you, Vere? I haven’t seen you to talk to for so long. When do you return to England?’

  ‘Not yet, not for a little while. I have some unfinished business to take care of.’ His blue eyes had livened, the well-bred features almost animated.

  ‘It wouldn’t have anything to do with Countess Szapary, would it?’

  ‘How did you guess?’ He was genuinely shocked. He had behaved with the utmost discretion. He abhorred tittle-tattle and had no intention of focusing gossip on his beloved Alexia.

  Nancy laughed. ‘Eyes across a crowded room can tell the observer an awful lot, Vere.’

  There was a slight flush of embarrassment on his cheeks. He was wearing white flannels and white shirt with a cashmere pullover. His blond hair looked as if it had never been disturbed by human hand and his immaculately clipped moustache glittered gold in the rays of the late afternoon sun. He looked very correct, very English. She couldn’t imagine Vere, in whatever situation, using violence on a woman. He would never have forced her to her knees, pulling back her head until she thought her neck would break, blaspheming and calling her a bitch. But then, she couldn’t imagine Vere making love, not with the passion and raw sexuality that was second nature to Ramon. She closed her eyes. She wanted him so much it was a physical pain.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Vere’s voice was concerned.

  She opened her eyes and forced a smile. ‘Yes. Just a little tired. It’s the grand fancy dress ball and there have been a few hitches. Both Helen and Fleur wanted to go as Mary, Queen of Scots. Helen because her family own more of Scotland than is decent, and Fleur because the queen was also dauphiness of France.’

  ‘I heard the uproar over Hildegarde’s intention of assuming the identity of the late Tsarina.’

  ‘If it had been Countess Szapary, then I’m sure no one would have objected. I imagine that Hildegarde’s avant garde approach would have inevitably caused offence. After all, a lot of our guests still remember her with deep affection.’

  ‘I remember her with awe,’ Vere said. ‘She was very beautiful, but totally without warmth. Except where her family were concerned.’

  The sun disappeared behind clouds and the terrace was plunged into shadow. For a few minutes they each thought of the terrible deaths of the close-knit family who had last ruled Russia, and then Nancy said:

  ‘I must make sure that all the costumes have been delivered to their rightful owners. Patriotism seems to be in full flood today. A French court costume inadvertently delivered to an Italian guest could well result in bloodshed.’ />
  Vere remained on the terrace. He had already approached Szapary and told him he wanted to marry his wife. The count’s lizard-like eyes had sharpened and he had refused adamantly. Alexia was his only treasure. He had no worldly wealth apart from her. Vere had interpreted his words as the count had intended and said that he was more advantageously placed. In fact, he was so advantageously placed that if the count would agree to a divorce and allow Alexia to sail back to England with him aboard the Rosslyn, one hundred thousand pounds in cash would be available to recompense him for his selflessness.

  Vere had never felt more acutely embarrassed in his life. He hadn’t the faintest idea how much money he should offer for Alexia. There was no precedent for such a transaction. When, a hundred years ago, the Americans had bought slaves, presumably they had known the going price. There could be no going price for a wife as perfect as Alexia.

  The count had scoffed, but Vere was shrewd enough to see that it was the amount he was derisive of, not the offer.

  ‘Two hundred thousand.’

  The count had stroked his jowelled chin thoughtfully, but still shook his head. No expression flitted over Vere’s face. He knew Szapary would hold out for ever if he thought more was forthcoming. It wasn’t that he only rated his darling Alexia at two hundred thousand pounds, but he was damned if he was going to line Szapary’s greasy paw with more of Molesworth’s money than was absolutely necessary. There was Clarissa to think of as well. He would have to provide handsomely for her, and the divorce itself would be costly.

  From where they stood they could see the flower-shrouded drive that led to Sanfords’grand entrance, and an Armstrong-Siddeley Atlanta saloon draw up.

  ‘Nice motor car,’ Vere said as if they had been discussing nothing more important than the weather. ‘I believe the Danish royal family favour them.’

  Hands in his pockets, he turned and began to stroll in the direction of the tennis courts.

  Szapary blinked, rapidly assessed the situation and hurried after him. ‘Alexia’s happiness was always my first consideration. If she loves you and you love her …’