Too Damn Rich

by Gould, Judith

  "Not ... really."

  Becky's smile faded. This was hardly the kind of reply she found encouraging. Nor did Dina's reticence bode well, either. She said carefully, "Chere amie. You sound distressed. What is the matter?"

  There was a silence.

  "Ah. Je comprends: you cannot speak freely. Someone might overhear."

  "Yes."

  "I take it you are at the Faireys'." It was a statement, not a question.

  Dina's sigh spoke volumes. "Am I ever!"

  "Alors. Let us play a little game. Could you tell me, using one key word, what this problem relates to? That way, I can possibly infer what it might be."

  There was a moment's silence, during which Becky could picture Dina glancing over both shoulders. Then Dina whispered: "Cold."

  "Naturellement!" Becky laughed lightly. "Cherie, it is winter."

  "Inside?"

  "Oh. You mean their furnace or boiler has broken down?"

  "Worse."

  "Non!" A look of utter amazement came into Becky's face. "Pas possible. You cannot mean ... they still have no central heating?"

  "I don't believe so. No."

  "Incroyable! Ma pauvre petite, I had no idea. Truly. I see now that we must do something."

  "I'd really appreciate it."

  "It is nothing. I have plenty of spare rooms with—I assure you— plenty of heat. Alors. We shall work things out so that you will stay here. However, we must also be cautious."

  Dina waited.

  "Have you unpacked your luggage and such?"

  "Barely. I can always stop—"

  "Non! You must do no such thing. It is imperative that neither Zandra nor the Faireys get wind of anything. Simply carry on as usual. As if nothing was out of the ordinary. You can do that?"

  "Yes."

  "Then have no fear, chere amie. I shall take care of everything."

  And Becky punched the off button and put the telephone down.

  "Did I hear you correctly, or have my ears finally deceived me?" Lord Rosenkrantz asked. "You've invited them here?"

  "Oui."

  "My dear, do you think that's wise?"

  She shrugged. "Perhaps not. But what other choice do I have? Cher ami, the poor thing is overwrought. Not that I can blame her. A vrai dire! This compulsion the Faireys have for authenticity really has gone too far. Aren't the nineties plagued with enough ills? Or must one experience the genuine mals of the eighteenth century as well? Quelle horreur!"

  "You don't imagine they do without medication or antibiotics, do you?" Karl-Heinz asked.

  "Only in the country, and only if Nina Fairey is not having another facelift," Lord Rosenkrantz said archly.

  "Cela suffit," Becky said, and rang for the butler.

  Mumford appeared forthwith. "Madam?"

  "Mumford, could you please see to it that two guest suites are prepared?"

  "Of course, madam. Do you have any particular ones in mind?"

  "Yes. For the double, the Toile de Jouy suite, I think. It has two bedrooms, a sitting room, and two baths."

  And is perfect for the Goldsmiths, she thought, since it's the farthest from my own.

  "As for the single," she decided, "make it the Tree Poppy suite."

  Which is perfect for Zandra, since it's close to Karl-Heinz's, but not so close as to be obvious. Also, it's appropriate for her, being the most English of all the rooms, with its stately four-poster, George II furnishings, British paintings, and Tree Poppy chintz.

  Mumford said: "I shall see to it at once, madam."

  Dina's chauffeur had long since returned to the city with her Town Car, so there was no choice but to pile into the Faireys' station wagon for the short hop over to Becky V's.

  They were all turned out as differently as night and day.

  Sheldon in a classic, single-breasted blue blazer with brass buttons, tan flannel trousers, and black wool turtleneck.

  Nina Fairey in a high-necked black jacket, tartan kilt, black stockings,

  and black ghillies. The jacket was nipped in at the waist and had frog closures, and the kilt had a big decorative safety pin on the front.

  Robert in one of his thousand-and-one identically tailored business suits, this one in charcoal pinstripe.

  Zandra in loose, anthracite tweed slacks, Fair Isle sweater with horizontal zigzags in black, white, and gray, and short black granny boots. Wearing no jewelry and looking great.

  Dina a rhapsody in blue sapphires. The real thing at neck, wrist, and ears; faux on the sapphire tulle minidress she wore over sapphire velvet stretch pants. She had on a dyed, sheared beaver cape and blue suede shoes.

  The drive took all of eighteen minutes, the night pitch black as only moonless nights out in the country can be.

  But at Becky V's, lights blazed from every window, and Zandra had the impression of approaching a festively lit cruise ship, with the surrounding hilly terrain its watery troughs.

  The moment Sheldon pulled up at the mansion, Dina was out of the car. Charging up the front steps to the door. It opened before she could reach it, and bright yellow light, Brahms, and distant laughter tumbled out into the night.

  Dina turned to look down at the car. She waved impatiently, urging the others to hurry, and started to cross the threshold—

  —when a Secret Service agent materialized, blocking her way.

  "Oh!" Hand fluttering on her breast, Dina took a startled step backward.

  Then she heard a masculine voice boom: "For God's sake, man! Let the poor lady in before she freezes to death!"

  And Lord Rosenkrantz welcomed her inside.

  "Remember." He wagged a finger at the bodyguard. "There's to be none of that dreadful frisking nonsense."

  Not that Dina would have objected. She was too curious, busily craning her neck and looking around the oval, pilastered foyer with its portrait-hung staircase and massive tarnished Dutch chandelier directly overhead.

  "Madam, can I help you with your coat?" It was the butler.

  Dina obliged by gyrating out of her cape. The butler took it, folded it carefully, and handed it to a petite maid.

  Nina, Zandra, Sheldon, and Robert came in. One by one, the butler helped them out of their wraps, which joined the growing stack in the maid's arms. She hurried off to hang them up.

  "Thank you, Mumford," Lord Rosenkrantz said. "If you don't mind, I'll personally show our guests into the sitting room."

  "Very well, m'lord."

  Lord Rosenkrantz spread his arms wide, shepherding them toward the sitting room like a benevolent schoolteacher.

  Dina walked in first, her eyes everywhere at once, breathlessly taking inventory.

  Candles, music, fires going in both grates: props for the graciousness of rural living. So perfectly composed was the scene, and so cozily comfortable, that Dina had the impression she'd blundered onto a stage set, with the actors frozen in position, waiting for the curtain to rise. Becky, perched sideways on a couch, legs tucked under her. Prince Karl-Heinz standing by the marble fireplace, elbow on the mantel, drink in hand—

  —and a curtain must have risen, for the tableau suddenly sprang to life.

  Karl-Heinz, looking across the room, made eye contact with Dina, and said something to Becky.

  Becky, turning around with an expression of astonished delight, quickly uncoiled herself and rose from the couch. Still barefoot and casual in Garbo slacks and turtleneck, she hurried across the room, arms extended in welcome.

  "Cherie!"

  She and Dina almost, but not quite, made contact; blew kisses past each other's cheeks.

  "I'm so glad you could come!" Becky said brightly. "Ca va?"

  But before Dina could reply, Becky looked past her, eyes going round as saucers with surprised artifice.

  "Zandra!" she exclaimed. "Don't tell me! You're also staying with the Faireys? Quelle surprise! But how wonderful!"

  And Zandra found herself being pulled into the room, where she was suddenly face-to-face with—

 
—him!

  Dear God. Her cousin. Prince Karl-Heinz von und zu Engelwiesen, who was looking at her so intently that a warm flush shot from the very tips of her toes straight to the top of her face.

  "Zandra," he said softly. Then he reached out and gave her a warm hug.

  It was a chaste greeting, but nonetheless so electric that she felt her nipples beginning to tingle and harden. Swiftly she pulled away and drew a deep breath.

  "Heinzie," she whispered, barely trusting herself to speak.

  He smiled. "We seem to keep running into each other."

  "Yes. It does seem that way. Gosh. Heinzie. I had no idea you'd be here." She half turned to Dina, expressly to break his gaze. "Did you, darling?"

  But Dina was smiling at Karl-Heinz. "Your Serene Highness," she purred.

  With an effort, Karl-Heinz tore his eyes from Zandra, lifted Dina's hand, bowed over it, and gave it a kiss. "Mrs. Goldsmith."

  "Why so formal? Please, call me Dina. Everyone else does."

  "Only if you," he said gallantly in return, "stop calling me 'Your Serene Highness.' " He smiled. "You don't know how wearisome it can get. Besides, Heinzie is much less of a mouthful."

  Dina all but swooned.

  "I'll go turn down the music," Lord Rosenkrantz was saying.

  The others had come in, and the conversation grew animated.

  "Sheldon," Nina Fairey said, "look! A Stubbs. Over there ... there—"

  "Sorry, darling, artist's name's Marshall. Ben Marshall. Did magnificent horses."

  "Yes, it's awfully well done."

  "Mumford? Alors. Why don't you find out what everyone is drinking. Oui?"

  "Very well, madam."

  Robert asked, "Aw right to light up a cigar in here?" already in the process of doing just that.

  "Sweetie, isn't it nice and warm in here?" Dina said happily, leaving things to gestate between Zandra and Karl-Heinz, and heading for the even toastier environs of the nearest fireplace, where she checked herself out in the elaborate Regence mirror over the mantel.

  "There," Lord Rosenkrantz said as the Brahms became muted background music. "That's better, eh?"

  Robert rasped: "Bourbon, neat. Older the better. An' make it a double."

  "A white wine for me," said Nina, "and a scotch rocks for my husband."

  "Alors. And Mumford. Don't forget the champagne. There's Veuve Clicquot on ice, n'est-ce pas?"

  "Of course, madam."

  "Hmmm. Exquisite terra cotta," Sheldon said, bending down to admire a small divinity, part of an artfully arranged tablescape. "Syro-Hittite."

  "Looks like Marty Feldman, you ask me," Robert guffawed, blowing rich smoke.

  "Or Estelle Winwood," Nina Fairey added.

  "Huh?" Robert stared at her and blinked. "Who?"

  "British actress," Lord Rosenkrantz explained. "Did mainly stage, but a few memorable movies as well. Character actress. You know."

  "Yeah? Good-lookin' broad?"

  "Only if your tastes run to Marty Feldman," chuckled Lord Rosenkrantz, who could run intellectual circles around almost anybody.

  There was a burst of laughter.

  And all this time, Zandra and Karl-Heinz were silent, inhabiting an isolated little world of their own.

  Dammit! Zandra cursed herself silently. What is it with me? Why am I acting like a teen on a first date?

  "Alors. Here comes Mumford with the drinks. Why don't we all sit down and get comfortable?" Becky suggested, gesturing to where she'd been sitting in front of the fire. "Jacinta shall be bringing the hors d'oeuvres shortly."

  Everyone began heading to the end of the room she'd indicated— everyone, that is, except Zandra and Karl-Heinz, who seemed not to have heard.

  "Allons!" Becky said, touching each of them on the arms.

  Zandra and Karl-Heinz both gave guilty starts.

  Becky smiled. "Mes cheres, we are going to sit down. You will join us, j'espere bien? Come ..."

  And hooking an arm through each of theirs, she led them over to the fireplace.

  The formal dining room shimmered. Logs blazed in the fireplace and candles glowed in the gleaming silver candelabra. They brought to life the villages, pagodas, and rocky islands on the eighteenth-century Chinese wallpaper, infused the mahogany breakfront and Federal sideboard with a rich luminescence, and reflected off the Paul Revere silver.

  The long Chippendale table was like a dark, reflective lake set with Chinese export porcelain, Federal flatware, linen napery, and bowls of hothouse roses. Rioja glowed, bloodlike, in cut-glass decanters and goblets.

  Becky was in her element. The head of the table was just right for her. From it she presided with a quiet, regal presence, and did what she did best—orchestrating the serving and keeping the conversation flowing:

  "The secret to this wine—" she lifted her glass of Duque de la Vila 1988— "is we age it entirely in barrels of French oak. That is what gives it its muted, Bordeaux-like flavor."

  And: "Cheri—" this to Robert— "do tell us how you created all those thousands upon thousands of superstores out of a single petit storefront in ... where was it?... St. Louis?"

  And: "We have among us a most superb equestrienne. Now cherie, don't be so timide—" she smiled at Nina Fairey— "we are all dying to hear how you became a female jockey."

  And finally: "Pity, how little use the facilities here get. Truly, it is almost criminal. When you consider the horses and the indoor everything— pool, tennis courts, riding arena ... And this white elephant of a house! Imagine rattling around in it. Sometimes I am actually tempted to sell it."

  "Sell it!" Nina Fairey exclaimed. "But it's so beautiful!"

  "Peut-etre que oui." Becky smiled. "Of course, the reason I don't is because I've become so sentimentally attached to it. Every corner is filled with memories. Even so, it does get lonesome at times."

  "But, sweetie! I thought you cultivated privacy," Dina pointed out.

  "Naturellement! Sometimes I seek solitude. Who does not? But you must remember: I spent much of my adult life as a married woman."

  No one knew what to say; clearly, this conversation was headed toward a patch of delicate ice.

  "I suppose everything would be different if I'd had children," Becky mused. "Oui. That is what this house needs. Children. Perhaps then it would truly come to life."

  Mumford, circumnavigating the table, was discreetly refilling goblets with wine.

  "Do you know what else I miss?"

  A distant look came into Becky's eyes and she raised her chin, her Nefertiti-like profile flickering in the candlelight as she looked around the table.

  "Those old-fashioned weekend house parties," she said. "Zandra. You and Heinzie know the kind I mean."

  "Gosh, Becky. But, darling, last real one of those was at Chatsworth. That was yonks ago."

  "Oui. Oui." Becky nodded. "I remember: we were invited, but then my poor dear Joaquin died so tragically ..."

  Mumford poured her some more wine.

  "Merci, Mumford."

  Becky lifted the goblet by the stem, and then suddenly her eyes grew huge. She set the goblet back down. "I know!" she breathed, as though she'd only thought of it that very instant. She leaned forward in excitement. "Cheries! Why don't you all stay here this weekend?"

  Dina pounced. "Here? You mean ... in this house, sweetie?"

  "Oui."

  The Faireys exchanged hopeful looks, and Karl-Heinz flicked a glance at Zandra, who looked a bit startled.

  Becky was positively radiant. "It shall be like an old-fashioned house party! Why not? This house is certainly large enough. I have lost count of exactly how many rooms there are. Only ... " She bit her lip.

  "Sweetie! What is it?"

  "Mon dieu! In my excitement, I have completely lost my manners. Nina, cherie. How thoughtless of me. You will forgive me? I did not mean to steal your guests—"

  "No apologies are necessary," Nina assured her.

  "Absolutely not!" Sheldon added.

  "Al
ors. It goes without saying that the invitation includes the both of you."

  "How amusing," Nina cried. "A spur-of-the-moment house party!"

  Dina clapped her hands. "It sounds wonderful!"

  "But what about our things?" said Zandra, eliciting a kick and a glare from Dina.

  "Rien de plus facile." Becky waved a hand dismissively. "Mumford and someone else can go over to pack everything up and bring it back here. Well, mes amies?"

  She looked around the table.

  Robert was frowning, but there were no vocal objections. Lord Rosenkrantz caught her eye and sketched a sardonic toast with his goblet.

  "Alors," Becky decreed. "It is settled. A house party it is." She raised her goblet. "Let us salute old friends and new."

  Goblets were raised and everyone chorused: "To old friends and new."

  "Both of which are very precious," added Lord Rosenkrantz who, arching a bristly eyebrow, smiled thinly. "In the words of Lord Lyttelton: 'Women, like princes, find few real friends.' "

  "And was it not Pindar," retorted Becky, no intellectual slouch herself, "who said, 'Often silence is the wisest thing for a man to heed'?"

  "Touche, my dear," Lord Rosenkrantz smiled, "touche."

  Not, she knew, for the part of the quote she'd spoken aloud, but rather, for the part she'd left unsaid:

  "Not every truth is the better for showing its face."

  Chapter 36

  Early afternoon the following day, Becky held court from a cushioned nineteenth-century wicker chaise in the light-filled garden room, where potted trees and winding lianas thrived.

  The three glass walls, an extension added to the back of the mansion, were a delicate gridwork of wrought iron, and had been designed so that each octagonal pane of clear glass had a diamond-shaped cabochon of blue Bohemian cut crystal at its corners. Blinding sunlight, bouncing off the white snow outside, made the blue insets glow like sapphires.

  Lord Rosenkrantz occupied the chaise beside Becky's. Between them, an ebonized table with bamboo-turned legs held the accoutrements of the idle rich: a sterling coffee and tea service, champagne in a sweating bucket, antique crystal, and linen napery.

  Dina was nearby, on a cushioned wicker armchair and ottoman which had been expressly angled so she could divide her attention equally between indoors and out.