Princess Daisy

by Judith Krantz

  Their only masterpiece was their daughter Anabel, whom they brought up on a diet of crusts and caviar. Anabel’s earliest memories combined, in a confusing mixture of place, delicious, improvised meals in a shabby Paris studio where there was always enough wine for the multitude of guests, even if the food ran out, and Christmas visits to a grand English country house. There the little girl was allowed up for Boxing Day dinner, and looked with wonder at the grownups wearing evening gowns and funny paper hats, pulling snapping crackers and blowing horns at each other as if they were as young as she. As she grew older she decided, very quickly, that she liked the ease of her parents’ bohemian life but didn’t like being poor: that she liked the wealth of her grandparents, but didn’t like doing what was expected of her.

  Her only marriage, at sixteen, was a mistake. No amount of money could compensate for being as bored as she had been, Anabel decided. After her divorce at nineteen, she had been discovered by the first of the men who would be able to afford the enormous private extravagance of keeping Anabel. He was a member of the House of Lords, a friend of her grandfather’s, a distinguished man in his sixties to whom she remained faithful for the last ten years of his life, years that were the best he’d ever known. It was he who introduced her to the succulent details of her true career, he who patiently educated her in the complex expertise of wine and food and cigars, he who hired a clever Frenchwoman to “maid” her, he who took her to Phillips of Bond Street and trained her to recognize and use only the best Georgian silver, he who explained why the banked fires of old, rose-cut diamonds were so much more becoming to her than anything from Cartier no matter how sumptuous. It was during those years with him that she learned that old money, aristocratic money, was the kind of money she understood. She hated all that was flashy and modern and obvious. The ambience she created always had, lingering in its perfumed leisure, the honeyed graciousness of some other better time than the present.

  Anabel was not a daytime woman. She slept very late, lunched alone and spent much of every afternoon regulating the perfect functioning of her household and arranging large bunches of flowers in great, seemingly careless bouquets which gave all her rooms the feeling of being inside a Renoir. To her cook’s jealous dismay, she particularly enjoyed marketing, personally picking out the ripest fruit, the best meat, the most aromatic cheeses. The merchants who enjoyed her custom saved their finest produce for her because Anabel de Fourment not only paid for quality but she made the transaction a pleasure in itself. She entertained frequently; small dinner parties of an interesting composition. The men were always invited by her protector, the women by Anabel. These women were wellborn—or at least always seemed to be—but either they were not English or they were not members of London society. They were a worldly, raffish, reckless, amusing lot and they set Anabel off as a collection of costume jewelry would set off one perfect gem Her dinner parties became a delightful club to which only a few important men belonged, a club whose very existence was a secret. When Anabel needed a woman friend for woman talk, which wasn’t often, she could always count on the members of her loyal, if unconventional coterie.

  Somehow Anabel never looked chic or even elegant in her expensive day clothes. She knew it and didn’t care in the slightest. She was at her best at twilight, in her own house. There she was superb. She spent a fortune on what her lingerie maker called “at-home garments,” long robes of velvet, silk, chiffon and lace, of no particular period or style, brilliantly designed to expose the wonderful skin of her bosom with a flattery so subtle that it was never recognized. Her underclothes and nightgowns were custom-made for her with equal skills from a treasury of fabrics. Her bed linens were those of a queen and on them occurred an astounding number of what Anabel called, but only to herself, “nice, comfy fucks.” She didn’t much care about sex. She was a courtesan, not a full-blown grande amoureuse, a type who could be so showy and drearily full of troublesome passion, always getting involved and making messes. The worst thing that could happen to her, she knew, would be to fall profoundly in love. That was not at all her line of country. Young, ardent men were as schoolchildren to her, schoolchildren on whom she had no time to waste. Oh, she loved the sensuality of being made love to, but sexuality was another story—hardly worth the trouble it took. She purred and sighed and moaned softly and thought that really it was rather nice.

  After the death of her first protector, Anabel found herself, at twenty-nine, in possession of a private income which, though generous, was not quite enough for her needs. The way she lived, unostentatious as it seemed to her, cost an astonishing amount of money. She also owned the leasehold, good for another eighty years, of a good-sized house in Eaton Square which presented to its neighbors a columned façade precisely like those of all the others in that grandest part of Belgravia, but, on the inside, was decorated with a concentration of comfort that few of them could boast. Although Anabel’s quintessentially feminine presence was central to it the house was, for all its greens and grays and taupe tones, for all its flowers and silver, profoundly a man’s house.

  She made plans for her future. She had no desire to ever marry again because marriage had been so excessively boring. She would have rather enjoyed a child or two, she thought, but babies were even more boring, if such a thing were possible, than marriage. She knew the limitations of her looks, just as well as any of the women who lunched together and picked her to pieces in irritation at not being able to understand why all their husbands and lovers found her so attractive. But she knew that simple truth that they could never comprehend: she could give the most complicated men simple happiness. A great courtesan in a day when courtesans were no longer in style? Bosh, thought Anabel. I’m a classic type—good forever. She had not the slightest doubt that the day when her kind of women went out of fashion would be the last day of civilization as she knew it. And after that who cared?

  Placidly, enjoying the privilege of selection, she waited for her next protector to identify himself, rejecting any homage which didn’t please her fastidious tastes. In the following ten years she belonged to three men, one following the other, each in his own right as worthy as the lucky old lord who had formed her. Her private income did not grow, for none of them died, and the only gifts she ever accepted were of jewels or pictures, but she continued, in a time of inflation and rising taxation, to live as well as ever in utter disregard of money. In the late fall of 1955, she was thirty-nine and, for the moment, without anyone who could say she belonged to him.

  “Anabel?”

  “Sally, sweet Sally—how are you?” Anabel recognized the anxious American voice immediately. Sally Sands, scatty, droll Sally, was the London editor of an American fashion magazine and she was usually anxious, frequently over the nasty necessity of breaking a solemn engagement to be married. She had been engaged six times in the past two years.

  “Anabel, would you do me an enormous favor?”

  “If I can, but first tell me what it is.… Oh, well, all right, why not, after all?”

  “Thank God. Then you’ll be my maid of honor.”

  “Now, Sally, you’ve gone too far—that’s utterly ridiculous.” Anabel laughed her valuable laugh.

  “Be serious … I need you, Anabel. Please. He’s terribly British and I adore him and his family’ll be there, but mine won’t be, so you’ll lend me class, darling—there’s nobody else I know who would do at all.”

  “It’s most unsuitable—maid of honor, indeed, when the bride’s a mere twenty-six! But every year I do go to some sort of wedding just to reaffirm my belief that holy wedlock isn’t for me—and your wedding will do as well—in fact, probably better—than any.”

  “Oh, but Anabel, this is the real thing.” Sally reproached her.

  “Of course, poppet, for you, but I just don’t believe in the drill myself. It’s not going to be big do, is it? I don’t have to carry your train or something?”

  “Just a Registry Office for now. We’ll have a church wedding back hom
e. He’s a viscount and I couldn’t cheat mother of that. Afterward, I’m planning a little, simple reception at the Savoy.”

  “Oh, no, Sally, I don’t think a hotel is ever really much good. The walls reek of too many other parties. I’ll give the reception here—it’ll be my wedding present to you.”

  “Oh, I was hoping you’d say that! Anabel, thank you!”

  “I know you were.” Anabel laughed again. She liked to be generous in anticipation of being asked a favor.

  “Just don’t change your mind again, Sally. I’ve never given a wedding reception before and I don’t want to have to cancel it at the last minute and drink all the champagne myself.”

  “I promise, Anabel, honestly. Oh, you’re an angel!”

  “Sally, one thing …”

  “Yes?”

  “Relax.”

  “Relax? My God, you’re amazing. How can I relax at a time like this?” Sally’s voice scaled new peaks of anxiety.

  “Sit down in a chair and say ‘viscountess’ over and over for a half-hour … that should be very relaxing indeed.”

  The Registry Office had been as unromantic a place as you could find for a wedding, Anabel thought, surveying with satisfaction the success of the reception she had arranged. The groom’s entire entourage had brightened visibly as they had entered her flower-filled house and now, hours later, stuffed with caviar and pâté and an elaborate cold buffet, they were making a real party out of it. The bride and groom as well as the tall, grand parade of the groom’s relatives had long since left, but the remaining guests had passed into the stage of singing old songs.

  Apparently, the men had all served in the war together, Anabel decided, since her drawing room now was filled with musical sounds from an airforce film of the late 1940s. Fortunately, she didn’t have the kind of breakable objects around with which many women filled their homes.

  She had been too busy being a maid of honor, a duty which had finally boiled down, as she had fully expected, into forcing a recalcitrant, hysterical Sally to show up for the wedding, to pay much attention to the other members of the wedding party. She kept a stern eye on Sally until the final vows were said and then raced home to change and be ready to greet the reception guests. The small, simple reception Sally had spoken of had ballooned, once she knew that Anabel was giving it, to a party of over a hundred guests, and now Anabel patiently waited until the last song had been sung and the last bottle drained, to usher her guests out.

  Finally, after midnight, she went upstairs to her bedroom. As usual, her maid had taken off the heavy, yellow damask bedspread and turned back the lace-trimmed sheets, made of linen so smooth that it felt like silk. As usual, her chiffon nightgown was spread on the bed and her embroidered slippers were on the carpet. But, not as usual, there was a man asleep in her bed, face down on the mattress, his naked shoulders burrowed snugly under her white wool blankets.

  The next time Sally gets married she can jolly well have her reception at the Savoy, Anabel thought. Helplessly she looked at the morning coat, one sleeve inside out, the striped trousers, the shirt, the four-in-hand, the shiny black shoes, even socks, and God save us, undershorts, all strewn on her carpet. She started to ring for the maid and decided against it. No point in waking the butler either. He and the cook had had a busy day, even with the caterers doing most of the work. She went to the bed and inspected the usurper. From the color of his hair she realized it was the best man. Their only exchange had been one vivid flash, an ironic look they had exchanged during the ceremony which conveyed that they both shared an equally dim view of the entire performance.

  Well, she thought, he had seemed a gentleman, and she was damned if she was going to make up a bed in one of the guest rooms at this hour. She undressed in the bathroom, put on her nightgown and slipped into the other side of the big bed. At least he doesn’t snore, she thought, and went to sleep.

  Sometime during the night Stash woke and realized he was in bed with a sleeping woman whose identity was unclear … in fact, unknown. Since this was no novelty he went back to sleep.

  Both Stash and Anabel woke late, within a few seconds of each other. She leaned on her elbow, her dark red hair spread loose on her shoulders, and said, “Shall I ring for breakfast, Prince Valensky, or don’t you feel up to anything but an Alka-Seltzer?”

  “Breakfast, please, Miss de Fourment.”

  “Eggs? Coddled in cream? Freshly-baked croissants? Irish ham? And honey? In the comb?”

  “Please.”

  “Tea or coffee?”

  “Tea, please.”

  “You’re very polite this morning. I’ll say that for you.”

  Anabel spoke on the bedside phone which was connected to the kitchen and ordered.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a bathrobe handy … a man’s robe?”

  “Certainly not. I live alone.”

  Stash got out of bed, stalked naked to the bathroom, and closed the door behind him. Anabel rocked with laughter in the bed. The test would be what he wore when he came back. She had huge towels piled in heaps by the tub. The bathroom door opened and he returned to bed, as naked as before. He’d passed one test, at least, and very, very handsomely indeed, she thought.

  “Good morning, Marie,” she said to the maid who entered with one tray. Landon, the butler, stood behind her carrying the other.

  “Good morning, Madame.”

  “Marie, give that tray to the Prince. Landon, that’s for me. Yes, here, thank you. Is the sun out?”

  “Lovely day, Madame. Shall I open the curtains?”

  “No, thank you, Landon. I’ll ring if I need you.” She poured herself a cup of tea. Stash ate with concentration.

  “Wonderful eggs,” he said.

  “My dairy man keeps chickens and lets me have them the day they’re laid.”

  “Really.”

  “Really.”

  “Stop laughing at me,” he said fiercely.

  “You’re so terribly funny. Why shouldn’t I laugh?”

  “I’m not used to it. I don’t like it.”

  “Oh, God. You do take yourself seriously.” She laughed harder than ever.

  “Look, the morning after you’ve slept with a man, you don’t treat him as if he’s the new comic from the Palladium. It’s simply bad manners, if nothing else.”

  Now it looked as if her laughter was going to pitch over the tray, if not cause her to fall out of bed. Stash put their trays on the floor, grabbed her and shook her. Anabel subsided enough to gasp out three words.

  “But we didn’t …”

  “Well, that was a mistake. Set that right in no time.”

  “Damned if you will. You’re not my type.”

  “Try and stop me.”

  She couldn’t. In fact, she reflected, hours later, she probably, in all fairness, hadn’t tried as hard as she might have. Although he had made her miss breakfast—and lunch as well.

  Anabel de Fourment, Stash realized, was exactly, precisely, positively what he needed. And what he needed, he got.

  It wasn’t that easy. It took him another month of proper courtship before she would allow him more than a goodnight kiss. And still another month before she allowed him back in her bed. Anabel could be taken by surprise only once … after that the game was played on her terms. There were practicalities which had to be settled first … certain financial understandings which had to be reached, provisions made. Once all of her exceptionally stringent conditions had been met, and properly, she permitted herself to wonder if perhaps she would have taken him on for nothing. Just for fun. No, probably not—she couldn’t afford that sort of luxury. But there had been a moment of temptation, about which she’d never tell him. Stash didn’t want to be responsible for a woman’s emotions, and, from the very little he’d told her, she could understand why.

  With Stash came an occasional bonus; infrequent visits from his son, Ram, who was now eleven, and in school at Eton. There was something irreducibly stubborn and unreachable in his dar
k, slim face, that troubled Anabel’s kind heart.

  Ram’s mother, Stash’s wartime bride, had remarried and lived in a half-tumbled-down castle in Scotland. Occasionally the boy spent a rare school holiday with his father, whenever Stash was in London. The relationship between the boy and the man was as strained as such arrangements were bound to make them. Stash hadn’t seen Ram grow up, he hardly knew how to communicate with him. The boy already bore him animus because of the small, malicious remarks his mother had made for as long as he could remember; he felt neglected when, as often happened, his father was away playing polo during those times when he could have visited him; he felt cast off from his rightful heritage when he compared the way in which Stash lived with the shabby, faded, ramshackle Scottish life which he had to share with three half-sisters and a stepfather he didn’t like.

  And yet he had such towering pride in being a Prince Valensky! He had cultivated this pride as one cultivates an ultimate, only possession. During his three years at Eton, he had had the bad luck to fall in with a crowd where the choice was clearly to bully or be bullied. Of course he had become a bully, strong as he was, with his father’s soldier’s temper. He had lessened the disadvantage of a foreign name by stressing the fact that he was a prince, rubbing their noses in it, making up tales about his ancestors when the real ones would have been more than impressive enough, had he but known them.

  At eleven he was well grown, but with a tightness, a withheld quality in his approach to people which didn’t go with his age. A diffuse, generalized, but biting envy of happy people—all happy people—made him shy and guarded, quick to amass grudges and hoard bitterness. He knew, without articulating the exact words, that he had been cheated—cheated since he was born, and he chewed over that fact endlessly. It was a constant, dark rhythm which went with him everywhere.