by Helen Wells
He was a New Yorker, an economist, on the staff of a magazine in that field, he said briefly. “But my private enthusiasm is art and art history. Particularly those of England. You can imagine, Mrs. Logan, how much enjoyment your distinguished books give me.”
Mr. Hazard seemed rather distinguished himself, Cherry thought, as the other two conversed. Mr. Hazard also seemed to possess an impressive knowledge of art, judging from Martha’s interest in what he said. Yes, he had often been abroad; yes, sometimes collecting a few works of art, he admitted, “but chiefly for study and the refreshment of travel and to see my friends.
“Tell me, Mrs. Logan,” he asked, “what do you think of the historical portraits in the Queen’s Gallery at Buckingham Palace?”
Martha Logan said she admired the Rembrandt and Holbein portraits very much, then asked his opinion about other paintings in the collection. Cherry noticed that Mr. Hazard quickly, deftly changed the subject. Martha did not seem to mind, but Cherry wondered. Was he pretending to know more than he actually did?
They were deep in conversation, agreeing, disagreeing, comparing notes. In the seat ahead the young man’s head was cocked out in the aisle as if he were listening—until a stewardess came by carrying lunch trays. The stewardess wanted to serve the injured passenger first. Mr. Hazard seemed to be annoyed at the interruption, thanked Martha Logan, and excused himself.
“He’s an interesting man,” Martha said, as Cherry cut up her meat for her. “It’s fun finding an art enthusiast on the plane!”
“Well, cheers,” Cherry said, “and now please try to eat something.” Her patient, still remarking on the conversation, had to be coaxed, all but fed. After lunch Cherry opened the small canvas flight bag she had packed with a few comforts for her patient, took out soft knitted slippers, and helped Martha put them on.
“How you spoil me,” her patient said. “I feel like an overgrown infant. Don’t be surprised if I give forth with baby talk.”
“You’ll be self-reliant soon,” Cherry said. “Try to sleep now,” she advised, offering her dark glasses. The light up here above the clouds was brilliant, though less bright than before. In fact, although Cherry’s wristwatch—on New York time, Eastern Daylight Saving Time—read one o’clock, actually noon, outside it looked like midafternoon.
Her patient napped for only about twenty minutes. Then Cherry slipped Martha’s shoes on for her, and they started for a shaky walk again. This time, the young man in the seat ahead gave Martha a hand as the plane swayed. In his quick movement, he dropped his book, and Martha noticed it was a mystery story.
“I love these,” she said to the young man. Cherry looked surprised. “Oh, yes, I put two mysteries into my big suitcase when you weren’t looking. You know, tracking down historical facts that are half lost is a kind of detective work.”
“I’ve read your historical novels, Mrs. Logan,” the young man said. “In fact, I assign them to my classes for background reading. I’m Peter Holt. I teach English literature at—” He named a state university in the Northwest.
“What—not American literature?” Cherry asked teasingly.
“That’s a point,” Martha Logan said, laughing. “This is Cherry Ames, Mr. Holt. She bullies me into walking. Come and talk to us after our parade.”
They moved off. Most of the passengers were dozing after lunch. Cherry noticed that Mr. Hazard was asleep. A stewardess came and asked if Mrs. Logan or her nurse needed anything, but Cherry answered, “No, thanks.” On their return to their seats, Martha seemed ready to rest. Cherry settled her comfortably, and in a few minutes she closed her eyes.
Someone whispered, “Can you come out and talk to me?” It was Peter Holt. Cherry decided her patient might sleep for a while, so she crawled past her and followed the young man. They went to stand in an open area at the end of the cabin. She could watch Martha from there.
“I was surprised to hear you’re a professor,” Cherry said. “Aren’t professors supposed to be old and solemn?”
“I’ll be old eventually,” he assured her. “In the meantime, I’m only an assistant professor.”
“Are you terribly learned?”
“Well, I have a Ph.D., but I ask my students not to call me ‘doctor.’ Plain ‘mister’ is good enough. I’m on my way to meet a dozen of my students now,” he volunteered. “We’re taking a student tour through England. They went ahead on a charter plane, with the Kimball kids’ parents as chaperones temporarily—I was delayed, I had to take care of some business for my mother. I’ll meet the students in London and take over.”
“A student tour sounds like a wonderful way to study,” Cherry said. “Where are you going?”
Peter described their three-week itinerary—a stay in London, on to Shakespeare’s Stratford-upon-Avon, north through the Lake Country of Wordsworth, and finally into Scotland to Edinburgh.
“We’ll go on bicycles part of the way. I’ve done that before,” he said, his face bright with the memory. “We’ll fly home just in time for the opening of the fall semester.”
“Your itinerary is much the same as Mrs. Logan’s and mine,” Cherry said.
“I hope we’ll see each other along the way.”
They compared the timing of their routes. It seemed possible they would meet. “At least perhaps in London, these next few days,” Peter Holt said. Cherry told him the name of their hotel, sure her employer would not mind. He said, “You know, I’d like a chance to get to know Martha Logan a little. Her work is—”
“Oh-ho, so it’s not me you’d like to see again,” Cherry teased.
Peter simply grinned and shook his head. “Mrs. Logan is charming, but she’s not my reason.” He looked squarely at Cherry. “By the way, have you noticed the honeymoon couple sitting next to me? Their clothes are brand new; she’s wearing orchids or something; and they’re so absorbed in each other they don’t know the other passengers exist. Ah, well, I’m for romance.”
Cherry smiled and said nothing. Their conversation hung there, unfinished. She peered down the aisle. “Excuse me, but I think Mrs. Logan is awake now.”
They started to their seats. Martha looked refreshed, and remarked on how rapidly the afternoon was fading. The clouds below them glowed with sunset reflections as the plane flew ahead into a dusk-darkened sky. It was two o’clock by Cherry’s wristwatch. Martha had already set her watch five hours forward to London time.
They took another slow, unsteady walk. Mr. Hazard rose to ask if he might come back to continue their chat. On returning to their seats, they found Mr. Hazard persuading the brisk young businessman across the aisle to trade seats with him for a while.
This time Peter Holt joined in the conversation, perched on the arm of his seat. Martha introduced the young man to Archibald Hazard, who half ignored him. Perhaps Mr. Hazard felt entitled to a monopoly on Martha Logan’s attention, Cherry thought, and did not want Peter’s competition. For Peter more than held his own in their far-ranging conversation. Peter outshone the older man, who cut him short by saying:
“Do you plan to be in London long, Mrs. Logan?”
“For about a week,” she replied.
“So shall I. Then possibly to Paris. You, too?”
“No, a leisurely trip through central England—Oxford, Stratford-upon-Avon, the Midlands, up to Lake Windermere to the Carewe Museum—”
“The Carewe Museum!” Mr. Hazard interrupted her. “What a privilege! How I envy your having entree there! Such a jealously guarded collection. I’ve never even tried to get in.”
“Well, I suppose they’d never have let me in, either,” Martha said, “except that I need to see those famous old portraits for my next book.”
“I’ve heard,” Mr. Hazard said, “that John Carewe is an eccentric and one must write far in advance for a card of admission, and then, there’s a tremendous, long-winded fuss about references. Did that character give you a specific date for your visit?”
“Oh, very specific.” At this, Mr. Hazard raise
d his eyebrows. He looked so amused and interested that Martha Logan said, “We are to visit on Monday, September twenty-third, at exactly ten o’clock in the morning, and we are allowed to stay no more than two hours. Oh, yes, I was required to give references. I still don’t know whether they’ll let my nurse come in with me.”
Archibald Hazard laughed so hard that his potbelly shook.
“Yes, I’ve heard other stories like that about the legendary John Carewe,” Peter said. He and Cherry had been left out of the conversation. Martha turned to include them.
“Have you, Mr. Holt? Well, possibly Mr. Carewe is eccentric,” Martha Logan said, “or perhaps he’s just taking no chances of being robbed.”
“I believe he was robbed once, about ten years ago,” Archibald Hazard put in. “Fortunately, the thieves were caught very quickly, and the paintings recovered. Undamaged.”
“Oh, really?” Martha said. “That might explain his being so careful about whom he admits. I hear Mr. Carewe will not honor every application. He’s very selective, or choosy, or whatever else you want to call it.”
“He’s frankly a snob,” Mr. Hazard declared. “He wants only distinguished visitors. I heard an art dealer quote Carewe as saying he ‘won’t waste his time on commonplace visitors who fail to appreciate works of art.’ You, Miss Cherry, had better wear ermine and emeralds instead of your nurse’s uniform, or the old man may not admit you.”
Cherry and Peter began to laugh. The conversation was interrupted by the stewardesses serving light refreshments. Peter had to take his seat. It was evening now, and in London it was half past eight. But it was half past three by Cherry’s wristwatch and by her stomach. She and Martha declined the refreshments, and when the aisle was clear, went for their hourly walk.
“Our walk is late,” Martha said, “we talked so much. Mr. Hazard certainly is interesting company.”
“I suppose so,” Cherry said, “but don’t let him tire you. I wish he wouldn’t lead you to talk so much.”
“His interest is perfectly natural in an art lover,” Martha defended him. “I’m enjoying talking with him.”
Resuming their places, they found Mr. Hazard had stayed in his borrowed seat, across the aisle. His tray was barely touched.
“Vile food,” he complained, “invariably awful on every airline.” Martha remarked that she thought the food quite good, and what better did he expect six miles up? “I suppose I am spoiled,” he conceded. “Our family always had a first-rate chef in the kitchen, so I am a stickler about food.”
They talked about the fine restaurants in London, and then about London’s art collections. Peter Holt tried to join the conversation, but Mr. Hazard snubbed him and managed to monopolize both ladies. In embarrassment Cherry smiled at the young man, and Martha made a point of giving Peter her undivided attention. Cherry turned to Mr. Hazard and asked him about something interesting she’d read of late in the newspapers—a controversy going on among art historians, as to whether certain Michelangelo drawings were not actually done by other artists. Mr. Hazard just looked blank. Then he remarked that such discussions bored him, and glanced away.
“Hmm,” Cherry thought. “This is the second time Mr. Hazard has avoided answering a direct question. He doesn’t know nearly as much as he’d like us to believe. The old faker, posing as an art connoisseur!”
She wondered whether Martha Logan had noticed, but she was absorbed in talking with Peter. Mr. Hazard made a fresh bid for her attention, by naming modern painters whose work was currently being displayed for sale by London art dealers.
Mrs. Logan was immediately interested. “You do keep up with the art news, don’t you, Mr. Hazard?”
“I’m acquainted with several art dealers in New York,” Archibald Hazard said, “and, well, in many parts of the world. And I subscribe to the London newspapers to keep informed about art news there.”
“I happen to know an art dealer in London,” Martha Logan responded. “Pierre Selsam, who owns the Selsam Gallery in Mayfair.”
“Oh, really? Possibly you know,” Mr. Hazard said, “that he’s showing a million dollars’ worth of French Impressionists—ten Renoirs, several Cézannes, as well as Picassos and other important works. Be sure to see Selsam’s exhibit.”
“I shall, thanks. In fact, I hope to see Pierre Selsam during the week we’ll be in London,” Martha Logan replied.
“And don’t miss the show of young painters at the Bonney Gallery, the best young hopefuls in many seasons, according to the critics and the way private collectors are buying—”
Cherry grew restless. Around her, the other passengers were collecting their belongings and filling out the landing cards that the stewardesses had distributed. Cherry filled out her patient’s and her own cards. She whispered to Mrs. Logan:
“Would you like me to walk you to the washroom, to freshen up for our arrival?”
“Yes, Cherry. Please excuse us, Mr. Hazard.”
As they came back, the plane was gradually losing altitude. Ahead and below in the dark lay a few tiny, scattered lights—the coast of England. The pilot announced over the P.A. system, “Ladies and gentlemen, we will be landing at London Airport in twenty minutes.” The young steward advised Cherry that a wheelchair would be brought for her patient. Peter Holt, clutching his books, turned around to say:
“I’d like to be of service to you ladies, if I may—starting right now.”
Martha thanked him, but Mr. Hazard insisted in his lordly way that he be allowed to see them off the plane, through Customs, and safely into a taxi. Peter looked disappointed.
By the time they went through Immigration Service, Peter Holt was being carried off by his students, anyway, Cherry noticed. Mr. Hazard, who was being a great help, found them a taxi, saw to their luggage, and helped them in. He said he was staying at the other side of London from them, at the Ritz, but he escorted them to their hotel. When Martha tried to thank him for being so attentive, he would not hear of it.
“Call me at the Ritz if I can be of further service,” he said. “I hope you and Miss Ames will have lunch with me soon.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Martha said warmly, and Cherry smiled her best. She’d rather have lunch or just a walk with Peter Holt—but maybe that would happen, too.
CHAPTER IV
An Eventful Week
“MAKE HASTE SLOWLY,” CHERRY CAUTIONED HER PATIENT on their first day in London. Martha Logan, eager to see her British publisher and friends, was exasperated that she must move slowly. The most Cherry thought it wise for her to do was to make telephone calls. Cherry also telephoned for an appointment for her to see the doctor later in their stay. Cherry unpacked for her and unpacked her own clothes. She would wear street clothes, not her white uniform, during the trip. She put on a white apron, scrubbed her hands, and changed the dressings on her patient’s legs.
Then they ventured out on London’s stately, historic streets to go to a restaurant for lunch, but the crowds tired Martha. On their return Cherry insisted they remain quietly in their adjoining rooms for the rest of the day.
Martha Logan was restless until an unexpectedly entertaining program turned up on the television set that she had rented to use in her room. She and Cherry watched a half-hour interview with Shah Liddy, a flamboyant, white-bearded plump little man who had just arrived in England with his wife for a visit of three or possibly four weeks. The title “Shah” was honorary. Basil Liddy was an Englishman who had lived most of his life in the Near East and had amassed a great fortune there. He was famous as an avid art patron and collector. He sported—besides his luxuriant white beard, a mustache, and bristling white eyebrows—a flower in his buttonhole, a pipe, and he spoke with an Oxford accent. A bon vivant, he talked enthusiastically of fine foods and wines, as well as of paintings. Lady Liddy was a pretty blond young Englishwoman, much younger than the Shah, who quietly let her theatrical husband do most of the talking.
“Isn’t he a character!” Martha exclaimed, when the
telecast was over. “His collection sounds fabulous—but that beard! Speaking of interviews, I wonder why that reporter never showed up at Idlewild to interview me. Probably because I don’t wear a white beard.”
On Saturday they were still careful not to overdo, but did go outdoors for a short time on this fine day. Cherry had deep, special feelings about London. Here in this ancient city, founded by the Romans, were so many of the things she had read and heard about—London Bridge of the nursery rhyme, the Magna Carta, the first document to declare the principles for democratic government and a free citizenry, and along the River Thames the place where Shakespeare had rehearsed his Globe Theater players. Here stood Westminster Abbey where centuries of England’s kings and poets reposed in stone vaults; here was Keats’s nightingale still singing in her memory up on Hampstead Heath hill, and here were the houses on crowded lanes where Dickens’s characters lived. Martha Logan said she felt the same way, no matter how often she came to London.
Yet this was a thoroughly modern, fast-paced city, not startlingly different from American cities, except for the double-decker red buses. Cherry found British accents and currency a little foreign to her, as they shopped for presents to send home. Cherry chose Liberty silk scarfs for her mother and some of her Spencer Club friends.
She was careful to establish a routine for her patient whose legs were still sore—so much walking, and so much rest. She found places in shops and parks for Mrs. Logan to sit down frequently.
They walked along Park Lane back to their hotel, and found mail and messages waiting for them. Cherry’s mother had sent a second letter—the first was already there for her on the night of her arrival. Here was a letter from the Carewe Museum, saying stiffly that in view of Mrs. Logan’s injury, her nurse would be admitted with her, as a very special exception. Peter Holt had telephoned and would try again. Archibald Hazard had telephoned inviting Mrs. Logan and Miss Ames to lunch the next day. Martha telephoned back and accepted. Then Cherry insisted on a long rest period.
