The Flower Garden

by Margaret Pemberton

  Nancy smiled. ‘I hate formality. Please call me Nancy. Goodnight, Tessa. Goodnight, Ramon.’

  Still she averted her eyes from his. She could feel his sharp intake of breath. Could feel the barely controlled tenseness of his body. It occurred to her that Hildegarde knew nothing about acting in comparison to herself. Even Garbo could have learned a few lessons from her performance that evening. Charles took her arm; they were leaving the room. Ramon had not spoken, not even to wish her goodnight. The lights from the chandeliers dazzled her; she felt dizzy and then a rushing blackness drowned her as she stumbled and fell.

  Charles was too taken by surprise to catch hold of her. She crumpled at his feet, her face ashen, her dark hair fanning glossily on the pale beige of the carpet.

  ‘Nancy, my dear girl!’ He dropped to his knees, raising her head and shoulders in his arms. He had known that she was suffering but had not imagined the intensity of it. She had been publicly humiliated and now he was left with her, limp and unconscious, in his arms. He would rather have been left facing the enemy fleet single-handed. A maid ran towards them and Charles greeted her with relief.

  ‘Can you carry madame?’ the little maid asked him.

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  He lifted her in his arms and knew why Vere and Vasileyev had fallen under her spell. Her skin was satin-smooth, her mouth as soft and vulnerable as a child’s. She smelt deliciously of the wild white roses that grew in such profusion in Sanfords’garden. She stirred slightly and his arms tightened his hold on her as Ramon burst from the ballroom, his face anguished.

  He moved to take her from Charles Montcalm, but the earl’s patience had worn thin. ‘You’ve done enough damage for one night, Sanford! You’re the cause of this with your disgraceful disregard for other people’s feelings. I suggest you remove yourself and go back to Miss Rossman.’

  ‘Don’t be a bloody fool!’

  The little maid waited nervously while they glared at each other.

  Nancy’s eyes fluttered open and Ramon said hoarsely:

  ‘Nancy?’

  She turned her head away, her voice muffled by Charles Montcalm’s chest as she said, ‘Please take me to my room, Charles.’

  ‘Certainly, Nancy,’ and then coldly to Ramon, ‘goodnight Sanford,’ and he strode down the corridor, Nancy’s head against his shoulder, her arms around his neck.

  Ramon’s eyes were brilliant with pain and fury. With a snap of his fingers he summoned a bellboy and said curtly, ‘Doctor Oliveira has arrived. Please send him immediately to Mrs Cameron in the Garden Suite.’

  ‘Yes, sir. At once, sir.’ He scurried to do as he was bid and Ramon turned once more to the ballroom, the abrasively masculine lines of his face grim and harsh, hiding his pain.

  Maria thanked the earl profusely and speedily undressed Nancy, slipping a silk nightdress over her head. As she turned down the lace-edged sheet, there was an authoritative knock on the door. Nancy’s heart began to beat wildly, torn between hope and dread. When Maria opened the door to a dark-suited stranger carrying a doctor’s bag, she sat down weakly on the edge of the bed, near to tears. It was Dr Oliveira. The man Ramon had summoned from Oporto in his anxiety for her health.

  He was short and stocky with a beaming smile and glossily slicked dark hair. A white carnation was sported jauntily in his lapel.

  ‘I intended to see you tomorrow, Mrs Cameron,’ he said, crossing to the bed, ‘but I understand that you have just had another attack of faintness. Allow me.’

  He was gently pulling down her eyelids, examining her nails, feeling her pulse.

  ‘Dr Oliveira, please. There’s no need.’

  ‘There is every need, Mrs Cameron. Healthy young women should not faint for no just cause.’

  His bright black eyes were shrewd. ‘Certainly you are anaemic and, I think, a little more. Tomorrow I would like to give you a detailed examination.’

  His voice brooked no argument. She said wearily. ‘There’s no need to examine me, Doctor.’

  ‘Nevertheless …’

  ‘I know what is wrong with me, Doctor.’ Her voice was flat and tired. ‘I have aplastic anaemia. It was diagnosed some while ago by Dr Henry Lorrimer of New York.’

  The doctor was no longer beaming. ‘I see. Was Mr Sanford hoping for a second opinion?’

  She shook her head. ‘Mr Sanford is unaware of my condition.’ She pushed her hair away from her face. ‘I do not wish him to be told of it. Mr Sanford is not my husband, nor is he family.’

  ‘Mr Sanford is very concerned about you.’

  Her smile was bleak. ‘No longer, Dr Oliveira. I think you will find Mr Sanford will be quite happy to hear I have anaemia and will not pursue the matter further. I am sorry you have had to travel so far unnecessarily.’

  ‘I do not think my visit has been unnecessary, Mrs Cameron. With your permission I would still like to conduct an examination.’

  ‘No, Doctor. I’m sorry. I came here to be away from doctors and reminders of my illness. There is nothing to be done. I’m sure you understand.’

  He nodded, his eyes thoughtful.

  ‘And you’ll honour my request that Mr Sanford is not told the truth?’

  ‘I will tell Mr Sanford that you have anaemia. I will not tell him to what degree. I will also speak to you again. Goodnight, Mrs Cameron.’

  The door closed quietly behind him and Nancy sank back against the pillows. Her one desire was to leave at first light, yet she could not. She could not leave until she had seen Verity. She was again on the treadmill that she thought she had broken free of. She was living for Verity: staying and suffering because Verity would expect her to be here on her arrival, and would be hurt and uncomprehending if she was not. The Nancy Leigh Cameron who had been a woman in her own right had been nothing but a chimera. She was once again Nancy Leigh Cameron: mother. Her daughter’s happiness coming before her own.

  Tomorrow she would be Nancy Leigh Cameron: daughter. She would go to her father and lyingly tell him that he had not destroyed her happiness. More truthfully, that she still loved him and that she was sorry for the cruelty of her words.

  She closed her eyes. One thing she would never revert to was Nancy Leigh Cameron: wife. Jack had sailed out of her life for ever.

  Her eyes remained closed but sleep did not come. Against her lids she saw only images of Tessa Rossman in Ramon’s arms. For the first time she realized what a truly terrible gift imagination could be.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The next morning she was sick again. She retched till only bile remained and even then her stomach heaved and her throat gagged.

  Maria, so seriously disturbed at the train of events between her mistress and Ramon Sanford, had informed Luis that she could not leave Mrs Cameron’s employ until her mistress was once again happy and well. Luis failed to see why Mrs Cameron’s happiness should have any bearing on theirs. Maria had been adamant. Senator Cameron’s arrival and abrupt departure had unnerved her. The mayor’s arrival had astounded her. Mrs Cameron needed her. Therefore Maria would stay with her. Later, when Mrs Cameron’s complicated private life righted itself, she would hand over to a replacement and join Luis at the altar of Igreja de Santa Isabel in Lisbon. The wedding had to take place in Lisbon because Luis’ parents and numerous brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, lived there. Maria was indifferent to where they married. She had no family. Her only allegiance was to Nancy.

  Nancy shakily left the bathroom and shuddered at the sight of her breakfast tray. At Maria’s insistence, she once again ate half a slice of dry toast and drank a small quantity of Perrier water. She dressed in a pair of pearl-grey trousers, her white silk blouse with her monogram discreetly embroidered on the breast pocket, slung a black cardigan over her shoulders and, equipped with the dark glasses that had become standard equipment, went to meet Senora Henriques.

  The ball had been a success. The gypsy band had played with vigour and by three in the morning Prince Felix Zaronsky and Prince Nicholas
Vasileyev had taken to the floor with a display of Russian dancing that had drawn cheers which carried as far away as Funchal. At four o’clock Kate Murphy and Polly Watertight had taken to the floor. The two octogenarians had executed an energetic can-can that had surpassed even the Russians’performance. Kate Murphy’s ribald and unexpurgated version of ‘Eskimo Nell’had reduced even the strait-laced Princess Louise to tears of scandalized laughter. At five o’clock Hildegarde had decided that a belly-dancer should dance and had done so with an eroticism that had aroused envy in the breast of every woman present and lust in the more private parts of their companions. At six, when the other ladies fortunately had retired exhausted to their beds, Madeleine had decided that it was her turn for the limelight and had executed a striptease that the conoisseur of the art, the Sultan of Mahore, had declared superlative.

  At seven o’clock the recumbent figure of Sir Maxwell Meade had been carried to his suite. Sonny and Costas had gone for a naked swim in a freezing sea and Mr Chetwynd, still wearing his stetson, had been found in flagrante with the insatiable Hildegarde.

  Nancy went through the list of requested reservations and deleted the unsuitable. The suitable included an English marquis, single and chased by husband-hunters the length and breadth of Europe; a Knight Commander of the Indian Empire; Lance St John Colbert, a playboy only a little below Ramon on that particular Richter scale; Yolande Yale, recuperating from the disastrous finale of her sixth marriage and Joseph Fenway, a long-time political opponent of her father. Joseph, despite his name, had a Protestant background going back to the Pilgrim Fathers. He was the patrician of all Back Bay Bostonians, the class who most bitterly opposed their roistering, Irish Catholic mayor. If he arrived while Chips was still in residence, it would give a bite to the conversation and be just the tonic her father needed. Joseph Fenway was a man with all the advantages that had been denied to Chips. His religion was uncontroversial – his background flawless. He could count three ex-United States Presidents in his family tree and no doubt, with a little effort, could have come up with a handful of Secretaries of State as well.

  Lady Bessbrook’s request that Mr Golding be removed from her adjoining suite was duly sanctioned, and a simultaneous request from Mrs Peckwyn-Peake that Mr Golding be installed on her floor, granted.

  The menus were approved. The repairs for the damage caused by the gypsy band when they had returned to their quarters and consumed awesome quantities of vodka, were put in hand. Mrs Honey-Smith’s complaint that her maid was being annoyed by one of Sanfords’footmen was also dealt with.

  Business concluded, Nancy avoided the pool and by her usual route began to make her way down to the rocks and the sea, and Giovanni.

  Costas met her at the door. It was still only ten o’clock. If he had been swimming in the sea at six o’clock, it was impossible that he had been to bed. He looked as exuberant as ever. His open shirt revealed a mass of tightly curling grey hair that would have done credit to a yak. A gold chain with an ornate St Christopher medallion hung around his strongly muscled neck. Both his wrists were encircled by heavy-linked gold bracelets. On Luke Golding or Reggie Minter they would have caused raised eyebrows and murmurs as to whether their owner was quite, one hundred per cent, pukka. On Costas no such conclusions could be drawn. His heterosexuality was unquestionable and would be so even if he took to wearing perfume.

  In the shade of the hotel a card table had been set up by party-goers who had still not slept. The poker-playing foursome included an Old Etonian, a self-made millionaire from Wapping, a Detroit financier and an East European royal. Money, Nancy observed to herself as she continued through gardens purple with the haze of early flowering jacarandas, was a great leveller of class. Only members of the old school, like the grand duchess, and Princess Louise, remained aloof from people of unequal birth. If a man had several million pounds then he was as welcome at a card table as the most blue-blooded of aristocrats.

  Giovanni welcomed her with a blank canvas. She sat before it for a long time and then made her first bold stroke. There would be no joy in this painting. Only darkness and confinement and unutterable dread.

  ‘How many are there?’ Chips asked Zia when her maids had solicitously installed her in her peacock-feathered throne.

  ‘Ten. On average, I’m receiving three a day.’

  Chips clenched his jaw. His white hair sprang thickly back from his forehead, giving him the appearance of an ageing lion. The lines from nose to mouth were deeply etched, but in Zia’s eyes he was still a handsome man. And in Gloria’s too, apparently.

  ‘Burn them.’

  ‘No. Anyone who sends cablegrams with this frequency and frenzy deserves to have them read.’

  The first had arrived even before Chips. It had been addressed to herself. The contents had shaken her.

  ‘I love him stop please send him back stop’.

  The second said: ‘Tell him I am sorry and will never do it again stop’.

  The third: ‘Please please tell him I love him stop It isn’t the money I want stop It is him stop’.

  The fourth: ‘I know he loves you stop Don’t ask him to divorce me stop Gloria stop’.

  The fifth: ‘If he doesn’t come back I’ll die stop No one invites me anywhere now or speaks to me stop Please tell him I’m lonely stop’.

  The sixth: ‘Tell him I’ll divorce him if that’s what he wants stop’.

  The remainder were addressed to Chips. He held them unopened in his large hand.

  ‘What was it you had to forgive her for?’ Zia asked.

  ‘The usual. An affaire.’ Strangely enough it no longer seemed important that the offending party was Zia’s son.

  ‘Only one?’

  For the first time in his life Chips lost his temper in Zia’s presence. ‘Of course it was only one! What sort of a woman do you think my wife is?’

  Zia suppressed a smile. She had elicited the response she had needed to make her decision.

  He wished to God she had never given him the cablegrams. He didn’t trust himself to open them. Whatever they said was irrelevant. He was going back to Boston and he was taking Zia with him.

  ‘I’ve always enjoyed the Beacon Hill house, perhaps because Beacon Hill has always been so staunchly Republican that I gained pleasure simply from invading their private citadel. However, I don’t expect you to live in a house that two former wives have lived in. We’ll start afresh. Perhaps Dorchester. There’s some nice property there and it’s still within easy access of City Hall …’

  ‘I’m not going back with you, Chips.’

  ‘… I know you like the sun but there’s the house in Palm Beach …’

  ‘I’m not going, Chips.’

  He stared at her.

  She smiled gently and took his hand. ‘Time has passed us by. We’re nearly fifty years too late.’

  ‘It’s never too late! We’ve loved each other for the whole of our lives!’

  ‘But they’ve been separate lives, darling. We’ve never had to live together, sharing the daily irritations; growing bored by over-familiarity.’ She gave a soft laugh. ‘No wonder we remained in love. We only ever saw each other at our best, or dreamed of the other and attributed to the dream every quality we could possible desire.’

  ‘You have every quality I could possibly desire!’ he said, feeling a sudden desperation.

  ‘You think I have, darling. I certainly haven’t one, and it’s one you have overlooked. I’m not remotely political – not any longer. My interest in American or world politics is strictly on a dinner-table level. I have no hankering for Boston and the thought of Palm Beach fills me with horror. My home is here: in Madeira. Alone.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ His voice lacked conviction.

  Zia knew that he did and did not bother to protest. She said instead, ‘The Morrison-Whitneys were in Madeira last July. They said you were looking like a man of forty and that Gloria was exceptionally bright and unbelievably pretty.’

  Chips’
jaw clenched.

  ‘They said that though it was a surprising marriage, it seemed to be a very successful one.’ She paused, and then continued gently, ‘One affaire isn’t enough to end a marriage. If it was, no one in the country would ever celebrate a silver wedding.’

  Chips made a sound between a grunt and a snort.

  ‘She’s young, darling. It’s very easy to make mistakes when you are young. I, of all people, know that.’ She rose to her feet unaided. The early blossom had sprinkled her hair like confetti. ‘She loves you, Chips. Don’t turn your back on her.’

  Slowly she made her way across the grass to the open French windows of her boudoir.

  Chips remained beneath the jacaranda tree, the cablegrams in his hand. Only after several straight bourbons did he open them.

  ‘Please come home stop Gloria’.

  ‘I love you and I am sorry stop Gloria’.

  ‘I am lonely and I need you and it is horrible without you stop’.

  ‘Goodbye sweetheart stop Gloria’.

  For one insane moment he thought it was a suicide note. Frantically he checked the date it had been sent. If it had been a suicide note he would have known by now. Other cables would have followed: from Seamus, from the Police Department. He gave a trembling sigh of relief that was short-lived. Perhaps it was a suicide note but she had not yet committed the fatal act; or not been found. Perspiration broke out on his forehead. Gloria would not commit suicide. Gloria had guts and a love of life that infected all around her. The sweat rolled down the back of his neck. He remembered the tiny figure at the docks, waving frantically for him to return. Jesus Christ. Gloria couldn’t kill herself! She was only twenty-three. If she killed herself it would all be his fault. He would have nothing to return to. No one. He broke into a run.

  There had to be a liner returning to Southampton. From there he could cross to New York on the Manhattan or the Aquitania or the Mauritania. Anything, just as long as it floated.