‘Well, this is a surprise,’ said Bridie, sinking into an armchair. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ But the wariness in her gaze told Elaine that she already knew.
Beaumont remained standing by the window. He turned and smiled and one could have been forgiven for thinking that this visit was simply a social one. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve been here, Mrs Lockwood. I must say, you have a very elegant home.’
‘Indeed I do, Mr Williams,’ she replied. ‘Can I offer you a cup of coffee or tea? Imelda will bring it.’
‘No, I’m fine, thank you. Perhaps Elaine would like something.’
Elaine was perching nervously on the sofa, playing with her fingers. ‘Coffee would be swell.’ She didn’t dare catch eyes with her friend, in case she saw the betrayal in them.
‘And I’ll have a cup of tea,’ said Bridie.
While Imelda made the tea and coffee Beaumont chatted easily with Bridie, and Bridie, hoping that she could fool him into believing her in the very best of health, was hopeful of delaying, or even perhaps avoiding, the inevitable questions, for she knew why they had both come. After a while, which seemed interminable to Elaine, Imelda brought her a cup of coffee and her mistress a pot of tea. At that point Beaumont pulled up a chair and sat close to Bridie. As she poured from the pot her hand shook so that the top rattled noisily on the porcelain. With that simple action her poise fell apart and exposed her as surely as a mask swiped off the face of a thief. Her bottom lip trembled as she fought hard to steady her grip. Without a word Beaumont slowly and deliberately placed his hand on hers and they locked eyes. Bridie’s were wild, like a cornered rabbit’s, but Beaumont’s were calm and full of compassion. ‘Allow me, Mrs Lockwood,’ he said gently, and Bridie blinked at him, a child again suddenly, staring wide-eyed at a father who loved and understood her. It was that small but significant gesture that caused the tears to well. Beaumont took the pot and poured the tea and Bridie was afraid to lift the cup in case she spilt it.
‘Mrs Lockwood,’ he began. ‘Do you remember our very first meeting?’ Bridie nodded. ‘It was in Mrs Grimsby’s parlour, was it not? You were a frightened girl, fresh off the boat from Ireland, without anyone in New York to look out for you.’ Two tears trickled down her cheeks, leaving wet trails in her make-up. ‘You’ve come so far from that moment and been so full of courage that if I were your father, I would burst at the seams with pride.’ Bridie swallowed at the mention of her dear, dead father Tomas, killed by a tinker’s knife. ‘You have come too far to throw it all away now.’ Bridie dropped her gaze into her teacup. She felt uncomfortably sober. With shaking hands she lifted the cup and saucer and took a large swig of tea. ‘The remedy for your heartbreak is not to be found in the bottom of a gin bottle, Mrs Lockwood, or in any other bottle, I might add. The remedy for your loss is within you. It is your choice to let this young man destroy you or make you stronger. You can drown your sorrow and yourself in the process or take life by the collar again, as you have done before. You are wealthy, young and beautiful. Any man would give his right arm to marry you.’
‘But I don’t want anyone—’
Beaumont stopped her mid-sentence. ‘Do you remember that you once said to me that a woman without a husband has no standing in society and no protection?’ Bridie nodded slowly. ‘You were right, but you forgot one important thing. A woman without a husband is obliged to walk life’s long and often difficult road alone, and that can be a very lonely experience. We humans are not solitary creatures. We require the company of others for comfort. What you need is a husband.’ Bridie thought of Mr Lockwood and for a fleeting moment she recalled the sense of security he had given her. ‘You have to put this Irishman out of your mind as you have so successfully done with Ireland. Heed not the voice that calls you home, but the voice that calls you forward. He’s out there somewhere and we’re going to find him.’ He gave her a reassuring smile and she put down her teacup. Elaine was so tense her shoulders ached. She sat sipping her coffee, deeply proud of her wise and articulate husband – and deeply ashamed of her unwise and foolish infidelity.
‘Now, we’re going to do this in simple steps. The first step being your commitment to giving up the booze.’ A shadow of anxiety passed across Bridie’s face. She had been prepared to deny it, but there was no point now. Mr Williams knew the truth. She couldn’t conceal who she really was from him. ‘I want you to take me around your apartment and show me where it’s all hidden,’ he said kindly. ‘Then we will dispose of it, bottle by bottle. It will signify the beginning of a new chapter.’
With reluctance at first, then with growing enthusiasm, Bridie showed Mr Williams the places where she had secreted her gin. Both Elaine and Beaumont were surprised by Bridie’s ingenuity but neither let that show. The gin was disposed of with solemn ritual, as if they were performing an exorcism. Once again Bridie felt a sense of renewal and embraced it with both arms. Mr Williams had thrown her a rope and she told herself that she would be foolish, suicidal even, not to take it.
Slowly and with immense effort Bridie pulled herself out of her pit. She forced herself to forget about Jack, to swallow her disappointment and regret and to focus her eyes on the future. There was a certain familiarity in her determination to leave the past behind and move forward. She had done it countless times, but it didn’t get any easier; she just recognized the path for it was so well-trodden. Elaine was a constant support and companion and on the various occasions that Bridie fell back, Elaine was there to encourage her without judgement.
Eventually Bridie began to take pride in herself again. She derived enjoyment from shopping and dancing, going to movie theatres and parties as she had done before, although now she was a little more subdued and a lot more cautious. She allowed a few men to court her. Her heart was still fragmented, the tears still tender, the memory of Jack still vivid. But as the months passed and the summer of 1929 blossomed into bright flowers and warm breezes, that memory dimmed and the edges of her pain were blunted. Count Cesare di Marcantonio saw her, ripe for love as a golden peach on a tree, from across the crowded garden at the Reynoldses’ annual summer party in Southampton and decided to pluck.
‘Who is that beautiful woman?’ he asked his friend, Max Arkwright, who had brought him to the party.
‘Why, that’s the infamous Mrs Lockwood,’ Max replied, sweeping a hand through his thick flaxen hair. ‘Everyone knows about her.’
‘She is married?’ the Count’s disappointment was palpable.
‘No, widowed.’ This pleased the Count and Max proceeded to tell him the story, as he had read it in the newspapers and heard it in the grand dining rooms on Fifth Avenue. The Count listened intently, an eyebrow arched, his interest fanned with every enthralling detail.
Aware that she was being watched by the mysterious stranger at the other side of the garden, Bridie asked Elaine who he was. Elaine squinted in the evening sunshine and frowned. ‘I don’t know,’ she confessed; she knew who most people were. ‘But I know the man he is with. That’s Max Arkwright, a notorious womanizer. He’s from a wealthy Boston family, spends most of his time in Argentina and Europe playing polo and seducing women. Unmarried scoundrel and charmer, too. Birds of a feather flock together. You have been warned.’
‘Oh, I’m not interested in either,’ said Bridie dismissively, concealing her interest in one. ‘Only curious. His friend is staring at me. I can almost feel his eyes beneath my dress.’
‘Then you’d better move away, Bridget, before you get burned.’ And the two women escaped through the crowd to the wide steps that swept up to the terrace and the magnificent Italianate mansion behind. When Bridie chanced to look back over her shoulder she saw that the man was still watching her and she felt the long-forgotten frisson of excitement ripple across her skin.
Once on the terrace Bridie wandered among the vast pots of blue and white hydrangeas and mingled with friends and new acquaintances. She smiled and chatted with grace acquired over years through practice and persisten
ce, while her dark eyes darted here and there in search of the handsome man who had caught her eye across the garden. The sun sank slowly in the western sky, bathing the lawn in a warm amber light, and the loud twittering of roosting birds died down as they settled on their positions in the branches and watched the activity below with a passive interest.
Just when she was beginning to suspect that the man had gone, she felt a light touch on her bare shoulder and turned round to see him standing before her, with an apologetic, almost sheepish look on his irresistibly attractive face. ‘I am sorry to interrupt,’ he said and his accent was so foreign that Bridie had to take a moment to understand what he was saying. ‘Count Cesare di Marcantonio,’ he said and he pronounced Cesare as ‘Chesaray’ and the rest so smoothly that she failed to catch a single syllable. His name ran over her like warm honey and her spirits soared on the sweetness of it. ‘I saw you in the garden and had to come and introduce myself. It is probably not what a man should do in polite American society, but in Argentina, where I was raised, or in Italy, where I spent the first ten years of my life, it is rude not to pay homage to a beautiful woman.’
Bridie blushed the colour of fuchsia as his gaze swept across her face, caressing her skin. ‘Bridget Lockwood,’ she replied. ‘It doesn’t sound as exotic as your name.’
‘But I’m not as beautiful as you, so there, you see, we are equal.’ He smiled and the lines around his mouth creased like a lion’s, his big white teeth shining brightly against his brown and weathered skin. The crow’s feet were long and deep at his temples, his eyes the colour of green agate, shining with mischief that at once appealed to Bridie’s own sense of fun. His hair was seal-black and shone with a gloss that looked almost waxy, but the sun had caught the top of his head and bleached the hair there to a light sugar-brown and Bridie would have liked to run her fingers through it. Instead she held on to her glass of lemonade and tried not to let her nervousness show.
‘So, what are you doing in Southampton?’ she asked, aware that it was an inane question and wishing she could think of something better to say.
‘Playing polo,’ he replied. ‘I confess, Mrs Lockwood, I am a man of leisure.’ Bridie smiled, noticing how he had called her ‘Mrs’ Lockwood when she hadn’t volunteered that information. She was thrilled that he had been asking about her. ‘My family owns a large and highly profitable farm in Argentina so I take my pleasure where I find it. I have decided to spend the summer here, playing polo and seeing friends – one day I will take over from my father so, why not have fun before I have to take on responsibility, no?’
‘Do you live in Argentina?’
He shrugged non-committally. ‘I am a man of the world. I live a little in Argentina, a little in Rome, sometimes in Monte Carlo, sometimes in Paris . . . now here, in New York. Perhaps I will buy a house in Southampton; the people are certainly very charming, no?’ With that he gave her a long and lingering look that made her stomach flip over like a pancake.
Impressed by his obviously moneyed and carefree existence, which was also apparent in his expensive clothes, the gleaming gold bee cufflinks and matching tie pin, and in the general air of luxury and privilege that surrounded him, Bridie felt her excitement grow. She had never before met a man who exuded such mystery or had such a delightfully exotic flavour. As the conversation rattled on with ease she found herself liking him more and more. Since she had lost Jack she hadn’t even tried to put back together the broken pieces of her heart, but now, suddenly, she wanted to. She wanted this stranger to have it, to hold it in his large hands and to keep it for always. Bridie allowed his gaze to consume her, and for once she didn’t even think about the road home.
Curious to see that her friend had been talking to Max Arkwright’s mysterious friend for longer than was decent Elaine decided to interrupt. Bridie smiled when she approached and quickly introduced her, admitting with a flirtatious smile, which Elaine hadn’t seen in months, that she couldn’t pronounce his name. ‘Cesare di Marcantonio,’ he repeated with a grin. ‘Now you say it.’
‘Cesare di Marc . . .’ Bridie began slowly.
‘Marcantonio,’ he repeated.
‘Marcantonio,’ she said, then smiled triumphantly. Elaine watched with mounting unease. She might very well not have been there for these two people had eyes only for each other.
‘This is my dear friend, Elaine Williams,’ Bridie said, putting her arm around her. ‘When I was new in Manhattan and had not a single friend, Elaine came to my rescue and has been by my side ever since. I don’t know what I would have done without her.’
Elaine looked him over coolly. ‘Yes, and I’m by your side right now,’ she said firmly. ‘Let’s go get something to eat, Bridget. The buffet looks delicious.’
‘I will accompany you both,’ volunteered the Count to Elaine’s dismay. ‘It will be my greatest pleasure to dine with two such charming ladies.’
They made their way across the terrace and down the steps to where the tables of food were lined up on the grass. ‘He’s certainly dishy, Bridget, but I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him,’ Elaine hissed, as they descended the steps together.
‘God save me, I think I’m in love,’ Bridie hissed back, ignoring her friend’s warning.
‘Just be careful,’ Elaine said. ‘We know nothing about him.’
‘I know everything I want to know,’ said Bridie haughtily. ‘He’s good enough for me.’
At the bottom of the steps Beaumont appeared with two plates of dinner. ‘There you are, Elaine,’ he said. ‘Will you join me?’
Elaine was surprised to see her husband but she took the plate and gave Bridie a disappointed look. ‘You’ll be okay?’ she asked.
‘I’m just grand,’ Bridie replied and set off across the lawn with the Count.
‘What’s up?’ Elaine asked her husband as they sat down at one of the small round tables positioned in clusters beneath lines of twinkling lights that encircled the garden.
‘Bridget has found a man at last,’ he said with a grin.
‘But is he suitable? We know nothing about him.’
‘Highly unsuitable, I suspect,’ said Beaumont. ‘I doubt it will amount to much, but I think a romance is just what she needs to raise her morale.’
‘Is he really a count?’
‘Counts are a dime a dozen in Italy,’ he added dismissively. ‘Still, he’s lit her fire so we must be grateful for that. I doubt we’re looking at the future Countess Cesare di Marcantonio!’
But Beaumont Williams, who was usually right about everything, was not right about this. The kiss that the Count stole beneath the cherry tree in the Reynoldses’ garden was one of many that she would treasure. ‘May I see you again?’ Cesare asked Bridie, taking her hand and looking into her chocolate-brown eyes as if he had discovered something precious there.
‘I would like that,’ she replied, barely daring to believe that this beautiful man found her to his liking. ‘I would like that very much.’
In the weeks that followed, Cesare took Bridie to watch the polo at the Meadowbrook polo club in Long Island and then to a match of his own where she sat in the stands in her summer dress and watched with her heart in her mouth as he thundered up and down the field, mallet raised. He was strong and athletic, fearless and bold, and her attraction to him intensified. She saw him as a foreign prince and her respect and admiration for him was beyond question. He told her tales of growing up in Italian palaces and then moving with his family to Argentina where his family owned grand houses in the most elegant parts of Buenos Aires. His farm on the pampa was so large that he could travel by pony from sunrise to sunset without leaving his own land. ‘One day I’ll take you there and show you how beautiful it is at sunset, when the plains turn red and the sky is indigo blue. You will fall in love with it.’
Count Cesare seemed to relish having the infamous Mrs Lockwood on his arm. He showed her off at fundraisers, private parties, in the dance halls of Manhattan and in the jazz clubs and sp
eakeasies of Harlem. Wherever the fashionable people were the Count was sure to be, dressed in the most dapper suits and silk scarves with elaborate gold bees adorning the buttonholes of his shirts and jackets, stamped into the leather of his wallet and moulded into the silver of his money clip. The bee emblem was everywhere. Count Cesare looked glossy and shiny with his jet-black hair as highly polished as his two-tone brogues and his dazzling white teeth matching the bright whites of his eyes. Rumour simmered and then rose in great bubbles of excitement as everyone began to predict another wedding. Flashbulbs welcomed their arrivals and journalists clamoured to comment on their every move: The ubiquitous Count Cesare di Marcantonio was once again escorting his new lady friend the socialite Mrs Lockwood to a fundraising dinner at the Metropolitan Museum . . . She wore a gown by Jean Patou . . . Those who despised her as an insatiable social-climber sniffed their disapproval and dismissed the Count as a ‘common adventurer’, but those who enjoyed the colourful maid who had fulfilled the American dream and risen to be one of the richest women in the city celebrated this new chapter of her story.
Bridie let him kiss her again. And again. His kisses were sensual and teasing, ardent and long-lasting. He brushed his lips against hers, murmured to her in Spanish, traced his fingers beneath her blouse and dipped his tongue into the little well at her throat. He drove her to the point of madness and it was all she could do to restrain herself. And then, only a month after they’d met, he asked her to marry him.
‘I love you with all my heart,’ he told her, bending onto one knee on the grass in Central Park where he had taken her for a picnic. ‘Will you do me the honour of agreeing to be my wife?’
Bridie’s eyes filled with tears. She knelt in front of him and threw her arms around his neck. ‘I will,’ she replied and as he placed his lips upon hers she realized that happiness was perhaps not something that could be bought but something that grew out of love.
Daughters of Castle Deverill Page 21
