Summer's Awakening

by Anne Weale

  'Unlike her tutor,' he said mockingly. 'You don't like me or trust me, do you, Miss Roberts?'

  She ignored that. 'Thank you for driving me home,' she said, with frigid politeness. 'Goodnight, Mr Gardiner.'

  After he had gone, she made herself a pot of tea and sat by the fire, wondering about the influences which had transformed the seventeen-year-old Etonian, Lord James Lancaster, into Mr James Gardiner, a naturalised American computer tycoon.

  She couldn't understand his indifference to his ancestral home. If he only occasionally visited the house in Florida, where did he live? And who was the woman in his life?

  There had to be one. He might think she was well-suited to a convent, but no one would ever suspect him of monastic leanings—not with that sensual mouth.

  What kind of woman would be James Gardiner's girl-friend, she wondered. A beauty: that went without saying. Would she have brains as well? Or was he one of those men who didn't require his woman to be intelligent as long as she had a lovely face and an alluring body?

  It would do him a great deal of good, thought Summer, sipping her tea, if one day he were to encounter the female equivalent of himself; a girl with good looks, brains, panache, a successful career—and an impregnable indifference to the charms of Mr James Gardiner.

  Her eyes on the play of the flames, all thought of supper forgotten, she began to visualise the scene at an elegant black tie dinner party. It was taking place in a luxurious apartment on the fashionable East Side of Manhattan. The host and hostess and seven, or possibly nine, guests, one of them him, were drinking cocktails and waiting for the last to arrive: the most sought-after girl in New York; talented, beautiful, always exquisitely dressed and—no one knew why—still single.

  As if from the front row of the stalls, her mind's eye surveyed the details of the mise en scène.

  A spacious, softly lit, split-level living room with large windows, the curtains still open to show the glittering lights of the city by night.

  Everywhere there were beautiful flowers. The women were expensively coiffed and dressed by America's top designers, their jewels catching the light as they turned their heads and moved their hands.

  On the upper level, reached by three or four wide shallow steps, was a parquet-floored lobby and the entrance to the apartment.

  When the sound of the buzzer penetrated the hum of witty conversation, a manservant moved swiftly to answer it, and the hostess detached herself from a group by the window in order to greet the last-comer.

  As the door opened and she crossed the threshold, the murmur of voices died away. Everyone turned to look at the willowy blonde in the black silk taffeta evening coat.

  There was a hush as the manservant helped her to remove it; revealing a skirt of matt black silk, a blouse of white crêpe de Chine and, at her throat, a pearl choker with an antique emerald centrepiece.

  Suddenly all the other women were conscious of being overdressed, over-made-up and over-jewelled.

  The hostess mounted the steps, hands outstretched, smiling a welcome.

  'My dear... how lovely to see you again. It's been much too long since the last time, but I know how busy you are.'

  Together they moved to the steps, the rest of those present still watching, entranced, the graceful carriage and radiant looks of someone they had all read or heard about.

  The hostess began the introductions, and to each person there the girl gave her slender hand and her lovely smile.

  Finally, the hostess presented a tall man whose white tuxedo emphasised the deep tan of his skin.

  'And this, my dear, is James Gardiner, who is an American now but was born in England.'

  As she gave him her hand, he turned it palm downwards and bowed, his lips brushing her knuckles.

  'I've been wanting to meet you for months, Miss Roberts.' The look in his eyes told her she was everything he had expected, and more; the most captivating woman he had ever met.

  She had heard about him, and most of what she had heard she hadn't liked. She had no time for arrogant men. His admiration meant nothing to her. She was waiting for the man to whom her essential being, her soul, would be more important than her beauty.

  When, for politeness' sake, she had let James Gardiner engage her in small-talk for a minute or two, she was able to catch the eye of another man and send him a mute appeal for rescue. He was a distinguished professor whom she had met before and liked; a middle-aged widower, neither good-looking nor rich, but kind and with a great sense of humour. As, with alacrity, he joined them and she started to ask about his latest research project, she was aware of vibrations of annoyance from the other man. He wasn't accustomed to being gently cold-shouldered.

  A lump of smokeless fuel fell into the hearth, making Summer start and bringing her back to reality.

  When she started to pour a second cup of tea, she found it had gone cold while she was lost in her day-dream of giving James Gardiner his comeuppance.

  Not physically, but in other ways, he had changed since his father threw him out. Was it possible, if she really put her mind to it, that she could one day become the alter ego of her day-dream?

  Could she lose weight and keep it off? Could she learn to dress well and, with make-up, create an illusion of beauty? Was there, lurking inside her, as yet undiscovered, a talent she could build into a career?

  Teaching Emily was enjoyable because the child was unusually bright and their personalities meshed. But she had no vocation for training the minds of other children. It didn't appeal to her at all; it had been her aunt's career choice for her. When her time with Emily was over, she wanted to do something different. But as yet she didn't know what.

  Perhaps in Florida there would be evening classes where she could try her hand at pottery, or woodwork, or some other craft which would satisfy her urge to use her hands as well as her brain.

  However, the personal excitement she felt at the prospect of going there was overshadowed by her deep concern for Emily's welfare.

  By next morning the rain had cleared. Half an hour earlier than usual, Summer set out on foot. She wasn't accustomed to walking and it seemed a long, tiring way.

  Entering the house by the main door, she met Conway coming down the staircase.

  'Lady Emily was up early this morning,' he told her. 'You'll find her in the library with his Lordship.'

  She wondered if the butler knew the house would soon be for sale.

  Evidently he did, and knew she did, because he said, 'It's a sad business... a sad business, Miss Roberts. His Lordship has asked me to assemble the staff at eleven. He's going to make an announcement.

  In the library, James Gardiner was on the telephone while, at the far end of the room, Emily was seated at a table, a large volume open in front of her.

  She waved and beckoned. When Summer came near, she said, 'Good morning. I'm studying Florida. Shall I show you where James has his house?'

  Summer moved round the table and looked over her shoulder at the atlas, open at a map of the southeastern corner of the United States.

  'Just about there,' said Emily, indicating a spot some way south of a large inlet marked Tampa Bay. 'James says there are two ways we can get there from Miami. We can drive across the Everglades, by this road called Alligator Alley, and have lunch with some friends of his at Naples. Or we can drive up the Atlantic side and cross over further north by this big lake, Lake Okeechobee. But you can't see much of it, he says. I think Alligator Alley sounds more fun.'

  'As long as we aren't likely to see too much of the alligators.

  The child's cheerful manner and her giggle at the joke made Summer suspect that she couldn't yet know the worst.

  However, it seemed that she did. Her next remark was, 'After he's explained about everything to the others, James is going to take us to have our passport photographs taken. Aren't you excited? I am. He says he has pelicans in his garden instead of peacocks, and there are beaches close by where the sand is like talcum powder, with all sorts
of interesting shells we can collect. How long do you think it will take me to learn to swim?'

  Before Summer could answer, James joined them. 'Good morning,' he said to her. 'No lessons today. There are too many other things to be done.' He rumpled Emily's red curls. 'You can start the Christmas vacation earlier than usual this year. No more school until January—in Florida.'

  At eleven they listened to him addressing the indoor and outdoor staffs whom Conway had marshalled in the Great Hall. Not everyone who worked at Cranmere was there. Nowadays many of the female staff were part-timers; women from the village who came in to dust and vacuum, working for half a day instead of the long, hard hours worked by housemaids in former times.

  James stood a short way up the staircase, relaxed and wholly at ease, explaining the situation to them with the easy fluency of an experienced public speaker.

  Today he was wearing a navy blue blazer with grey flannel trousers and a candy-striped shirt, grey on white, with a plain navy tie. Perhaps it had to do with being brown, but he looked much cleaner than most people. His skin had a slight healthy sheen in contrast to the dulled winter pallor of his audience, several of whom had the reddened nostrils of people suffering from colds.

  He concluded his short speech by saying, 'Those of you who have served Lady Emily's family for many years may be sure that your loyalty won't go unregarded. For those close to retirement, the usual provisions will be made; and younger members of the staff will receive all possible help in finding suitable employment elsewhere. That's all I have to tell you at present. I'll talk to you all, individually, during the next week or so.'

  They began to disperse, discussing the news he had broken to them in subdued voices.

  As he left his place on the staircase, the cook approached him. 'Is there nothing to be done, Lord James... your Lordship, I should say.'

  Summer heard him reply, 'I'm afraid there isn't, Mrs Briars.'

  'But if you were to come home, your Lordship, and open the house to the public—'

  'I can't shelve my responsibility to the people who work for me in America, Mrs Briars. A much larger work force than here.' He patted her shoulder. 'I understand how you feel, but—'

  Summer moved away, out of earshot. He might understand the cook's feelings, but he didn't share them.

  I made my money the hard way, and I'm not going to use it to shore up a tottering tradition which means nothing to me.

  Less than an hour later she was sitting in a cubicle in Woolworth's having passport photographs taken by a coin-operated camera. Emily had gone in first and when the machine had ejected four almost identical photographs of her, they did justice to her thin little face with its straight nose and broad, clever forehead.

  Summer's photographs were not nearly as flattering.

  'They look like mug shots,' she said, torn between laughter and despair at the hideousness of them.

  Emily peered over her arm. 'What are mug shots?'

  'The photographs they take of criminals when they're being admitted to prison.'

  'They're not a bit like you,' said Emily comfortingly. 'Why don't you have some more taken? Smiley ones.'

  'There isn't time. We have to meet your uncle at one.'

  They had parted from him in the car park of the town's best hotel, once a coaching inn. He had gone off to consult a travel agent about flights to Florida, leaving them to organise the photographs. On the way to Woolworth's Emily had wanted to look in shop windows and to browse in a book shop. Window-shopping was a rare treat for her. Now, unless they went straight back to the hotel, they would be late for their rendezvous with him, and Summer suspected that unpunctuality was another thing he wouldn't tolerate.

  They found him in the lounge bar, drinking lager. He had already ordered a glass of dry sherry for Summer and an orange juice for his niece.

  'I've booked you on a flight next Wednesday,' he told them.

  'Wednesday!' she exclaimed. That was only eight days away. It didn't seem very much time for all the arrangements which had to be made. 'Will our passports be ready by then?' she asked doubtfully.

  'No problem. I have some strings I can pull—have already pulled on the telephone this morning. It's surprising how quickly these things can be organised if they have to be. After lunch we'll see a realtor about your cottage. An estate agent,' he translated for his niece's benefit.

  As usual, Summer had had no breakfast that morning. It was the one time of day when she never felt hungry. They had missed elevenses because of his speech to the staff, and in any case she would have only had black coffee.

  By the time she had drunk half the sherry, she could feel it going to her head, and she decided to leave the remainder.

  When the others had finished their drinks and they rose to go to the restaurant, James Gardiner noticed the pale golden liquid still in her glass.

  'Too dry for you?' Without waiting for her answer, he added, 'I'm sorry; it should have occurred to me that you'd probably prefer an oloroso sherry.' He stood back for her to precede him.

  Flushing, she walked out of the lounge, resenting the jibe at her sweet tooth and its visible effect on her body.

  In the restaurant, they were shown to a corner table. Was it deliberate unkindness which made him offer the chair in the corner to her? A slim person could have slipped into it without the table being moved. For her, the head waiter and another waiter had to move two chairs and pull the table out of position to make room for her to seat herself. It was done with swift, practised skill, but nevertheless it made her acutely conscious of her bulk. She knew her face was scarlet as she sat down and the table was pushed back, but not as far as before. Her fingers were trembling with mortification as she unfolded the starched damask napkin.

  'Madame.' The head waiter, a foreigner, handed her a red leather folder.

  Thankfully she opened it and bent her head, pretending to pore over the menus; printed à la carte dishes on one side, the typed table d'hôte on the other. But the words were a meaningless jumble. The sherry had weakened her control and there were tears in her eyes as she stared unseeingly at the letters.

  Although physically undeveloped, in some ways Emily was mature for her age. She was not in the habit of making embarrassing gaffes. But nor was she used to eating in public places and perhaps she was nervous.

  She said, in an amused undertone, 'He called you Madame. He thinks you're James's wife.'

  'I doubt that,' Summer said shortly.

  She could guess what he must be thinking. Eliza Doolittle's comment—Not bloody likely.

  To her dismay, the child said, 'Why not? You could be.'

  'Miss Roberts is too young to be married to someone of my age,' her uncle said smoothly.

  'Summer is twenty-two. That's only thirteen years younger than you are.'

  'Would you want to marry someone who was born this year?' he asked her.

  Emily shook her head. 'No, because then I should be old when he was still young. But it's all right the other way round.'

  'Where did you pick up that piece of worldly wisdom?'

  'I heard Mummy talking to Lady Draycott about someone they know who is quite old but has a young husband. They said it couldn't possibly last. Lady Draycott said—'

  'I'm sure Lady Draycott didn't realise you were listening, Emily,' Summer cut in. 'She was talking to your mother in confidence and wouldn't like the conversation to be repeated.'

  She spoke more severely than usual and Emily looked hurt by the reproof.

  "They knew I was there. I wasn't eavesdropping,' she said defensively.

  The reminder of her own inadvertent eavesdropping, and how it had borne out the adage that listeners never hear good of themselves, renewed Summer's embarrassed flush.

  An uncontrollable glutton... she must weigh as much as I do and most of her weight is blubber...

  The shaming memory held her silent while Emily went on, 'Lady Draycott was only saying that her daughter and her son-in-law, who are both twenty-three
, are always having quarrels and treading on each other's toes, and she wished Arabella had married somebody older—like Prince Charles and the Princess of Wales.'

  She paused before adding, 'Then Mummy said that sometimes an age gap was the cause of the trouble, as it had been with Granpa and Granny. Did they have a lot of quarrels, James?

  He ignored the question. 'Have you decided what you'd like to eat? If not, I suggest you stop chattering and read the menu.'

  Quelled by this even sterner rebuke from her new idol, Emily hung her head and looked as if, like her tutor a few minutes earlier, she might be blinking back tears.

  The head waiter returned to take their orders.

  'Are you going to try one of our specialities, sir? The steak and kidney pudding is excellent, or you might like to try the jugged pigeons, an old Worcestershire recipe which the chef has revived. We are famous for our traditional English dishes.'

  'But you're not English?'

  'No, sir. I come from Italy. My wife is English. I've lived here for fifteen years, and I know English cooking, when it's well done, is as good as anything to be found on the Continent. We also have fish, if you prefer. The baked white fish with bacon is very good...'

  He went on suggesting alternatives till James Gardiner silenced him with, 'I'll have the steak and kidney pudding. What about you two?'

  While the head waiter was talking, Summer had been searching the menu for something which wasn't fattening. But there didn't seem to be anything. No doubt most people who lunched at the hotel were bent on feasting rather than fasting.

  She chose the baked fish, with chicken soup for her first course, while the others had cream of celery. For her main course Emily asked if she might have roast duck.

  There was already a roll on their bread and butter plates. To avoid drawing attention to herself, Summer broke hers when the others did.

  'This is always a promising sign in an unknown restaurant,' said James Gardiner, as he passed her a dish of butter curls. 'When the butter is in foil-wrapped portions I don't expect to eat well.'

  She took only one curl of butter and put it on the side of her plate. Then she spread a little on a small piece of bread. But she didn't put it in her mouth. Although she had eaten nothing since the night before—and then only eggs and oranges—in his presence her appetite deserted her. Even chocolate mousse or profiteroles wouldn't tempt her while he was beside her.