The Flower Garden

by Margaret Pemberton

  ‘Two hundred thousand pounds,’ Vere said agreeably, and the count nodded.

  Vere knew he could have dropped the price by fifty thousand, and Szapary would still have been grateful. He hadn’t done it. It was bad enough that he was prepared to sell her like a chattel without knowing for how little, if pushed, he would sell her for.

  He had not yet asked Alexia to marry him. He had had no need for he knew what her answer would be. Even now, he would not ask. He would simply tell her. Alexia was physically unable to make a decision of her own, however simple. To another man, this childlike quality and utter dependence would have been an irritant. Vere welcomed it. He could spoil her, indulge her, and whenever she looked at him her glowing eyes showed only absolute adoration. After the years of emasculation he had suffered at Clarissa’s hands, Alexia was like an angel from heaven. She made him feel masterful and dominant and resolute. They were qualities he would need when first facing Clarissa. Already he had written to his lawyers in London and within the next few weeks his letter to Clarissa should catch her up somewhere between Hyderbad and Nagpur. She had no reason even to return for the divorce and Vere doubted if she would want to. A convenient weekend in Brighton with a lady recommended by his lawyer and, given sufficient time, he would be free to marry again … to marry Alexia.

  The gowns had all been carried off by their appropriate owners’ maids. The Russian gypsy band looked magnificent in high-necked silk shirts, their breeches tucked into gleaming boots; the flower arrangements were breathtaking and even the chef declared he had never been so pleased with a buffet table. Nancy sighed with relief and prepared to return to the Garden Suite to bathe and to change into her own costume.

  Senora Henriques coughed discreetly. ‘There is just one tiny alteration to tonight’s arrangements, madame.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Senora Henriques disliked inflicting pain. She said as indifferently as possible. ‘Mr Sanford has informed me that there will be an extra guest. Miss Rossman.’

  ‘I see. Yes. Of course. Has Miss Rossman a costume? If not, perhaps I should have a word with Salli?’

  ‘I understand Miss Rossman is to attend as an English rose.’

  Nancy even managed a smile. ‘How apt. I’m sure she will look charming. Excuse me now, Senora Henriques. I never realized before how complicated Tudor costumes are. It’s going to take me twice as long to dress as usual.’ She smiled again and hurried from the room. Senora Henriques watched her with admiration. She had seen the split second of utter devastation when she had heard Tessa Rossman’s name and yet Nancy’s innate social skills had carried her through the crippling moment unfalteringly. She was glad she would not be in attendance at the ball. Although she had seen previous ladies treated so casually by Ramon Sanford that it amounted to callousness, she had never before felt pity for them. She felt intense pity for Nancy Leigh Cameron. She liked and respected her. She sighed and went back to her account books, glad that she no longer involved herself in affaires of the heart.

  She had chosen to go the grand ball as Anne Boleyn. She liked the costume of the period and felt a certain amount of sympathy for the girl unlucky enough to have caught the eye of a king. They had the same colouring – dark hair and creamy skin – and like Ann Boleyn, she was destined for an early death. The choice, as far as Nancy was concerned, was perfect.

  The dress Salli had made for her was of heavy crimson velvet with a low-cut, square décolletage that showed off her smooth shoulders and perfect, high-rounded breasts even more alluringly than the plunging-fronted dresses of Patou and Schiaparelli. The full, heavy sleeves were slashed to reveal cloth of gold and the skirt fell open to reveal matching material underneath. The bodice and neckline were trimmed with pearls, as was the crimson velvet coif that framed her face and transformed her into a queen.

  ‘Madame, it is magnificent,’ Maria said rapturously.

  It was, but Nancy could take little joy in her appearance. She had only minutes left before walking alone to the head of the great staircase to join the waiting and forbidding figure of Ramon.

  She lingered at her dressing table, dreading the commitment of the walk down the sumptuously decorated corridor.

  ‘Is anything the matter, madame?’ Maria asked.

  Nancy’s eyes met hers in the mirror.

  ‘No,’ she said, and rose to her feet, feeling rather like Anne Boleyn must have felt when she rose to face the long walk to the axe. ‘Nothing.’

  She was well prepared for the evening ahead of her. After all she had endured a rehearsal, and survived. The evening when Ramon had entered with Tessa on his arm seemed light years away. Because of the undisguised nature of their subsequent reunion with him, she knew she would be the focus of all eyes when, after dutifully greeting the guests, she was left unescorted and Ramon would once more lavish his attention on Tessa.

  He was dressed in a glittering military uniform, white breeches tucked into gleaming knee-high black boots, a gold-braided, fur-edged cape swinging negligently from one shoulder. He looked magnificent.

  She smiled stiffly and took her place at his side. There was no answering smile. His face was grim and uncompromising.

  The liveried footmen and toastmaster took up their posts, the great doors at the end of the long salon were thrown open and, in order of precedence, their guests approached. Mr Blenheim, much to the grand duchess’ disgust, had chosen to abandon his nom de plume and resplendently and majestically appeared as himself. The Grand Duchess Nadejda Livada had attempted no disguise. The theme was royalty and she was royal. There the matter ended. Nicki looked almost as devastating as Ramon and instead of merely brushing the back of her hand with his lips his mouth was hot and ardent on her skin.

  Prince Felix had donned Russian military dress and was ablaze with medals and decorations and loops of gold braid.

  As an English duke, Vere had dressed as if for court, his sobriety a startling contrast to the Russians’splendour. He wore his full complement of orders and decorations and even in Madeleine’s eyes looked splendid.

  Costas had abandoned Greek nationalism and transformed himself into Henry VIII. His doublet was of royal purple embroidered with gold, and to scandalized and admiring applause, he revealed a magnificent codpiece that glazed even Madeleine’s eyes. His wide-shouldered jacket fell in ample folds, lavishly edged with fur and, as he strutted and postured, it was possible to believe that the outrageous Greek had a generous dash of Tudor blood in his veins.

  Lavinia Meade had forsaken her Chinese empress costume and replaced Zia as an awesome Catherine the Great. Luke Golding, revived by the paying of his hotel bill by Minnie Peckwyn-Peake, exchanged bets with Reggie Minter as to whether Sonny Zakar would carry out his promise and inform her of her heroine’s sexual proclivities.

  Polly Watertight descended on the amazed throng as the most unlikely Pocahontas in history.

  Marisa wore the skin-tight trousers of a matador and, dressed like a man, looked more womanly than ever.

  Petite Madama Molière made an enchanting Mary, Queen of Scots, and refused to believe Charles Montcalm when he told her that the lady in question had been nearly six foot tall.

  Hildegarde sported the jewel in her navel that the erstwhile Mr Blenheim had intended for Marisa. Sonny had found comfort elsewhere. An ex-king was too stiff competition for a law-abiding American film producer.

  As a Venetian court lady, Venetia Bessbrook looked exquisite. In flowing robes and headdress, Hassan looked like a desert sheikh.

  Lady Michaeljohn had chosen to represent Queen Victoria, but sadly did not have the chest for it. Georgina Montcalm had simply worn one of her usual loosely flowing creations and encircled her throat with a five-stringed pearl choker to indicate that she was Queen Mary.

  Princess Louise had made a pathetic attempt to pass as the dazzling Empress Elizabeth of Austria, and Mr Chetwynd had defiantly worn knee chaps and a stetson and pronounced that an American cowboy was royal enough for him.

  Je
wels sparkled and shone from ears, throats, chests, arms, wrists and even, in the case of the maharani, toes.

  Everyone had raided their safety boxes in an effort to outbid each other in royal, or pseudo-royal grandeur.

  As before, when Tessa Rossman entered, she stole the show by wearing only the simplest of white organdie dresses, her only only adornment a wreath of red roses encircling her golden hair.

  Nancy wondered if the stunning simplicity was her own idea or Ramon’s. When they had shaken hands, Tessa had smiled at her with such sweetness that it was impossible for Nancy to feel any of the emotions she would have liked to feel. It would have been so much easier if she could have disliked her heartily, but it was impossible to dislike Tessa Rossman. Her initial shyness gone, she was gay and charming, her unsophisticated manner a welcome change after the conversation of some of the more pretentious guests.

  Helen Bingham Smythe was radiant as a not-very-convincing Lady Jane Grey and Nancy was pleased to see that Reggie Minter was still in attendance. She was focussing her attention anywhere and everywhere but on Ramon and Tessa Rossman. Her duties were over. She had stood with him and greeted the guests. Then, as eyes swivelled incredulously, he had turned his back on her and taken Tessa Rossman by the arm and led her out on to the dance floor for the first waltz.

  The waltz ended and Ramon did not relinquish his hold on Tessa. Nancy would have had to be deaf and blind to be unaware of the sensation they were causing. She stood talking to the Montcalms, a fixed half-smile on her face as she pretended to listen to Georgina, the words flowing over her unheard. Before, when she had seen him with Tessa, the agony had been bad enough. Tonight, it was unspeakable. Now everyone knew and she could feel a hundred pairs of speculative eyes on her. And it was all of her own doing. Tessa could still have been immured at Carmara de Lobos. She could still have been in Ramon’s arms. If … If …

  Nicki was at her side. She allowed him to sweep her on to the dance floor. She felt like a puppet. Georgina spoke to her and she responded. Nicki asked her to dance and she accepted.

  ‘I love you,’ he said, whirling her round effortlessly.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered automatically. Ramon and Tessa were now with Prince Felix and Bobo. Ramon’s hand still lingered around Tessa’s waist. She was laughing. He was smiling. In the deep tan of his neck his black curls clustered, damp with light perspiration. She saw him unhook his short, fur-trimmed cloak and toss it lightly over one of the gilt chairs.

  ‘Will you marry me?’

  ‘Yes … I beg your pardon?’

  Nicki laughed. ‘I knew you weren’t listening to a word I was saying.’

  ‘I’m sorry. My thoughts were elsewhere.’

  ‘On Sanford?’

  ‘No.’ Her eyes told him she was lying.

  ‘I said I loved you and I want you to marry me.’ His honeyed eyes held hers. ‘Why else do you think I lavished every single one of my family heirlooms on you?’

  ‘As a gesture,’ she said and smiled.

  Nicki saw the sadness behind the smile and continued, undeterred.

  ‘As you know and I know, I would have been appalled if you had scooped them into your handbag and high-tailed it for the nearest liner.’

  This time her smile was a genuine. She had wondered what would have happened if she had not returned his king’s ransom.

  ‘I intended to both give them to you and to retain them. The devious Romanov blood runs deep.’

  ‘Just how would you have managed to do both?’ She could feel the heat of his hand through the velvet of her dress. The French windows that ran wall-length on the south side of the ballroom had been flung open in respect for the unusually heavy materials and furs being worn.

  ‘By marrying you.’

  She faltered and lost her step. ‘Are you serious?’

  He raised his warm brown eyes heavenwards. ‘Ma chère amie, I do not go around lavishing my worldly wealth on ladies for whom a single jewel would be sufficient. I love you. You are entrancing, mysterious, delightful, sophisticated, cultivated and so sensual that you disturb my days as well as my nights.’

  ‘And Madame Molière?’

  ‘Was a very welcome and imaginative gift. She is also very firmly married to her wealthy American and intends to stay that way. Flirtations and affaires are a way of life for Fleur. They are a pleasure, like eating and drinking and gambling. They are not to be taken seriously and neither is she. She would bore me to tears within a month. You, ma chère amie, would not bore a man in a lifetime.’

  Across the throng of dancers Ramon’s eyes met hers. They glittered with pain and fury. Nancy felt the knife in her heart twist so savagely that it was all she could do to prevent herself from crying out loud. He loved her. He still loved her. He was suffering just as she was.

  ‘I am also married,’ she heard herself say to Nicki, when a mass of waltzing dancers blocked Ramon from her view. ‘And I do not intend to divorce and marry again.’

  ‘That was not what I understood, ma petite.’ He looked pointedly in Ramon’s direction. Nancy could not trust herself to follow his gaze.

  ‘It is the truth,’ she said simply. The music ended. He retained his hold on her.

  ‘I will not give up so easily, Nancy.’

  ‘And I will not change my mind.’

  They were still in the centre of the ballroom when Vere strolled across to them, exchanged pleasantries with Nicki and, when the music struck up again, whisked her away with expertize but not the panache of the Russian.

  ‘I’m beginning to feel like an elder brother must, extricating a too beautiful sister from unwelcome attentions.’

  ‘Nicki’s intentions are at least honourable,’ Nancy said, glad of his comforting presence.

  Vere raised his brows. ‘A marriage to Sanford would have been explosive enough. Marriage to a Russian revolutionary would be even more disastrous. The old order will never be restored in Russia. Stalin’s grip is like a vice.’

  ‘Thank goodness for democracy and Roosevelt,’ Nancy said drily.

  ‘According to Charles, democracy and Roosevelt may not be enough. He seems to think this German-Austria fracas will spread.’

  ‘Charles’trouble is that he simply can’t wait to put his destroyer to sea and use it for the purpose it was built for,’ Nancy said, with a lightness she was far from feeling. ‘I’m sure when Dieter arrives he’ll be able to put Charles’mind at rest. Lady Michaeljohn was only saying yesterday that Hitler was to be applauded for making Germany such a bulwark against Bolshevism.’

  ‘He may be rejuvenating his country, but I prefer a little British understatement myself. His frenzied speeches leave me cold.’

  Vere’s eyes met Alexia’s and Germany and Hitler were forgotten.

  Nancy’s back was to Ramon but she could tell his eyes were on her, watching, seeing who she danced with – who she would leave with.

  She danced next with Charles and then Luke Golding. She entered the supper room on Sonny Zakar’s muscled arm and was glad of his wit as a raconteur. It was impossible not to laugh at Sonny’s outrageous anecdotes of the Hollywood stars. She drank twice as much champagne as usual and was unaffected by it.

  She overheard Lavinia Meade, Bobo, Venetia Bessbrook and even Madeleine Mancini say that Tessa Rossman was as sweet-natured as she was sweet-looking. Time had given her perception. She had endured and survived the first moments when the world at large had been aware that her affaire with Ramon was at an end. She had managed to remain composed as she greeted Tessa, and behave as normal, despite her inner agony, as he danced, laughed and talked with her.

  Even without her father’s and Zia’s dreadful revelation, they could only have had a few brief months of happiness together, and then Ramon would have needed someone else. Better that it was a Tessa Rossman than the promiscuous Princess Marinsky or the avaricious Lady Linderdowne. Tessa would make Ramon a good, loving and faithful wife. What sort of husband he would make for Tessa, she had no idea. Ramon as a hu
sband seemed so unlikely as to be unbelievable. Yet he had wanted to marry her. Had demanded that he marry her. She blinked away weary tears. To leave the ballroom alone would only call attention to herself. To leave with another man would only confirm Ramon’s suspicions. She turned to Charles. Even Ramon could not imagine that there was anything but friendship between her and Charles Montcalm.

  ‘I have a blinding headache, Charles. Would you be an angel and escort me to my room?’

  ‘Of course.’ Charles drained his glass and took her arm. Both he and Georgina had been watching her anxiously all evening. Her manner had been superb. If she was a publicly cast-off mistress, she had not behaved like one. She had conducted herself with utter assurance; laughing softly and not too often, with the hint of huskiness that even he found arousing. He could not imagine the effort it had cost her to appear so relaxed and carefree.

  ‘Never let your guard down,’ her father had said once. She never had. Not in public. Her years of social training had stood her in good stead. It would have been blatantly rude to leave without wishing Tessa ‘goodnight’.

  Tessa blushed prettily and said nervously, ‘I was wondering if perhaps you would visit us at Camara dos Lobos, Mrs Cameron? Mummy and daddy would love to meet you. We don’t have a very large pool and the tennis courts aren’t as good as Sanfords’of course, but …’

  Nancy could see the heroine worship in the girl’s eyes and knew the crushing disappointment that would follow if she refused.

  ‘I would love to,’ she said and wondered how the words ever passed her lips. ‘Perhaps we could visit when my daughter, Verity, arrives on Madeira. She is the same age as yourself and will be arriving within the next week or so.’

  If she moved the merest fraction of an inch, she would be in physical contact with Ramon. Her eyes were fixed firmly on Tessa’s heart-shaped face. She must not look at Ramon. Whatever she did, she must not allow his burning gaze to draw her eyes.

  ‘That would be marvellous.’ Tessa’s cornflower-blue eyes glowed. ‘It’s been such a privilege meeting you, Mrs Cameron.’