Summer's Awakening

by Anne Weale

  'And what's the price of that privilege, Cordelia?' James asked her.

  'The price is that, if she chooses a career which demands a great deal of time and energy, she'll either have to forget marriage and motherhood or accept the strain of leading two lives,' Mrs Rathbone replied. 'Up to now men with exacting occupations have had wives to look after them and let them concentrate their energy. Some husbands are beginning to accept a share of the domestic responsibilities. But there's a long way to go before those burdens fall equally on a husband and wife. I don't know that they ever will.'

  'What would you have liked to be if you had been born when I was, Mrs Rathbone?' Emily asked her.

  'Strangely enough, after my marriage to your grandfather, which wasn't a success, I was content to be a wife. I always enjoyed doing up the many houses I've lived in, and I liked entertaining and bringing together people whom I felt would enrich each other's lives. You mustn't suppose that all my generation were frustrated career-women. That isn't so. To make a house comfortable and beautiful is an art, and a very satisfying one.'

  She turned to Summer. 'James tells me that those delightful trompe-l'oeil paintings in the Octagon Room as Baile de Sol were your father's work. You may be interested to know that I have friends in Virginia who commissioned him to create the illusion that their dining room is a pavilion on an island in the centre of a lake. I'm sure if you'd like to see it they'd be delighted to have you stay with them.'

  'I'd love to see it. I once had the idea of trying to trace all his murals and writing a monograph on them,' Summer replied.

  To her surprise, James said, 'That's an interesting idea. If you expanded it to embrace other painters of murals, you might have enough material to make a book. I know a publisher who specialises in books on art. If you like, I'll ask him if modern murals are a genre which hasn't been documented, and if he'd be interested in publishing a work on the subject.'

  She guessed the publisher was someone he had met through Loretta Fox.

  'It's good of you to suggest it, but I have no qualifications for doing a book of that kind, nor have I the time to research it,' she answered. 'It would involve a lot of travelling.'

  'In the later stages—yes. Not initially. Anyway, I'll call my publishing contact and ask what he thinks of the project.'

  'I could help you, Summer. With me as your secretary, you could write the book on Oz,' said Emily.

  They had dinner in the hotel's Café Pierre restaurant. Summer had eaten sparingly the day before and had had only fruit and yogurt for her lunch in order to eat freely tonight.

  Her precautions proved to have been well-advised because Cordelia had decided in advance what they would eat and her choice of menu was definitely not what Weight Watchers called legal. The first course on its own—chicken liver timbales served with a red wine sauce—was as much as Summer would normally eat in the evening.

  After the timbales came a very special kind of seafood chowder called marmite dieppoise which Cordelia said she had first eaten at Prunier's, the famous fish restaurant in Paris. As well as prawns and mussels, it contained fillet of sole and sea bass baked with leeks and cream and black truffle.

  Finally they had a wonderfully light coffee soufflé flavoured with rum.

  While all these delicious things were being consumed, accompanied by a fine French white burgundy for the adults and Perrier for Emily, Cordelia displayed a talented hostess's flair for drawing out her guests. From time to time she contributed an amusing anecdote from a life which had clearly been full of interesting experiences and personalities.

  She had beautiful hands adorned with several unusual rings which Summer longed to look at more closely. Cordelia must have noticed her interest in them, because when they returned to the suite, she slipped one ring off and handed it to her, saying, 'As you're designing jewels, this may interest you. I found it in an old-fashioned jeweller's shop in a small town in England. At that time the stones were in a brooch, not a very pretty one.'

  Summer studied the ring which consisted of a cloudy bluish stone polished to the dome shape called cabochon and surrounded by a nimbus of diamonds.

  Cordelia said, 'There are some matches on the table, James. Would you light one and hold it directly above the stone for Summer, please.'

  He did as she asked and, as the tip of the match flamed, something came to life in the depths of the cabochon.

  'Oh, it's a star sapphire,' Summer exclaimed. 'I've read about them but never seen one before. Did the jeweller know what it was?'

  'Yes, but he told me there's less interest in them in England than here.' She slid off another of her rings. 'This, which is one of my favourites, was originally a ruby button from the achkan of an Indian prince.'

  'What's an achkan?' asked Emily.

  'That slim-fitting, high-buttoned coat which Indian men wear,' said Cordelia. 'You'll have some beautiful things to wear when you're older, Emily. There are several exquisite pieces among the Lancaster jewels. I remember a magnificent emerald necklace which I never wore myself but which will be perfect with your colouring. But I must say that, although I've had the chance to wear some wonderful jewels in my life, I've never liked grande toilette jewels as much as unusual stones like these rings... and your intaglio ring, Summer. May I see it?'

  When she had examined the rose quarz in Raoul's setting, she said, 'Next time you go to Switzerland, James, you should take these two with you and let Summer visit Marina B's atelier in Geneva. Marina B's full name is Marina Bulgari Spaccarelli. The Bulgaris are jewellers in Rome with branches in Monte Carlo, Pans and Geneva. The New York branch is in this hotel. I've always admired their designs and some time ago James gave me a beautiful old silver coin in a Bulgari setting. I don't have it with me or I'd show it to you.'

  So Cordelia, not one of his mistresses, had been the recipient of that lavish gift, thought Summer, remembering how she had read about it during their first winter in Florida.

  'As a matter of fact I'm thinking of sending them to Switzerland for the summer,' said James. 'I've been offered a chalet at Wengen for them for the hot weather. They could fly to Geneva and go the rest of the way by car.'

  That night, before she went to bed, Summer wrote a note to thank Mrs Rathbone for including her in the dinner party. Next morning, knowing that James would be seeing her again that evening when he and Emily went to the theatre with her, she asked him to deliver it.

  'Certainly. What did you think of her?' he asked.

  'I don't think she's the tremendous snob you described her as being. Or the bigoted person I imagined. I think she's a delightful person. I hope she will sponsor Emily—if her health allows it. Although she doesn't look ill and she has a good appetite,' said Summer.

  'Her generation were brought up to hide their afflictions,' he answered. 'When I called her a snob I didn't mean she would ever be anything but courteous to people she considers her inferiors. But don't let her considerable charm blind you to the fact that, as did my mother, she married a man she didn't love, or even like, for the dubious éclat of being a marchioness and mistress of Cranmere.'

  'Perhaps they were pushed into it by their parents. Mrs Rathbone admitted last night that she wasn't strong-minded as a girl.'

  'I doubt that either her parents or my maternal grandparents would have forced their daughters into the marriages if they'd shown any serious resistance. I like Cordelia. She's an interesting, amusing woman. But although she was fond of her second and third husbands, there was never any question of the world well lost for love,' he said sardonically. 'She would think that a ridiculous concept. It's my sex who tend to lose their heads over a pretty face. Not many women lose sight of the practicalities of life.'

  'I don't think that's true. I'm sure most women marry for love and don't give a thought to the man's position or his income.'

  He didn't argue but the cynical lift of his eyebrow expressed his opinion.

  'Think of all the girls who have supported their husbands or boy-frien
ds while they trained to be doctors or lawyers,' she persisted.

  'A tiny minority outnumbered by the thousands who, having divorced a man, have lived comfortably on his alimony,' was his caustic reply.

  'If you feel like that about women, I think you'd do better to forget marriage and stay a bachelor,' she said shortly. 'Is it worth having heirs if it means spending the rest of your life with a member of the sex whom, in general, you despise?'

  She made this retort without pausing to consider the unwisdom of touching on the subject of marriage. The moment the hasty words were out she regretted them.

  Fortunately, at this point they were joined by Emily, which put an end to a conversation which might have got out of hand.

  It was mid-afternoon when Raoul arrived in a taxi to take her to Grand Central Station to catch a train to Old Saybrook, on the opposite bank of the Connecticut River from Old Lyme.

  In the taxi, he took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles, smiling at her.

  She smiled back at him, relieved to have escaped for a few days.

  Escaped from what?

  From the cat-and-mouse feeling she had when James was around. She thought of the shell in its box in her dressing-table drawer. Lyropecten nodosus. The lion's paw. That was how it was under his aegis; like being a gazelle aware of a lion near at hand.

  As they drove downtown on Lexington, she pushed James to the back of her mind and began to tell Raoul about Cordelia Rathbone's rings.

  'What causes the star in a star sapphire?' she asked him.

  'Microscopic tubes as fine as hairs. Most stars have four or six points, but occasionally one sees a twelve-point star. A cat's eye is a similar effect, but with one ray of light crossing the stone. A yellowish green chrysoberyl with a good cat's eye effect is amazingly like a real cat's eye.'

  'Although I know it's fashionable, I've never been crazy about tiger's eye. Do you like it?' she asked him.

  'Not too much. There's a blue variety called hawk's eye which you might like better. As soon as we get on the train I want to see what you've got there.' He tapped the portfolio she had brought with her.

  'I hope you won't be disappointed. I'm not sure the kind of jewels I should like to wear are what other women would like. Also, I don't know nearly enough about the technical side. I've been reading about the "trembling" ornaments which were fashionable in the last century, and I've done two designs which should tremble. But they may not be workable.'

  It wasn't long before they were comfortably ensconced in the train and Raoul was studying her careful pen-and-wash drawings. She knew her ideas were completely different from the flower motifs of much conventional jewellery or the abstract shapes of more avant-garde designs.

  Much of her inspiration came from shapes she had admired at Cranmere, such as the broken pediment on an eighteenth-century bookcase which she had translated into a necklace and bracelet. Several designs were for pieces which had more than one function; a necklace which unclipped to form two slim bracelets or one thick one; ear-rings which doubled as clips; pearls which could be worn as a triple strand or a single long rope.

  She waited in silence while he went slowly through the folder. She wished she knew what he was thinking. Perhaps he was bracing himself for the unpleasant task of telling her the designs were no good.

  At last he looked up, a slow smile spreading from his eyes to his mouth.

  He said, 'Have you heard of the French sculptor, Auguste Rodin?'

  'Of course. He sculpted that lovely statue, The Kiss.'

  Raoul nodded. 'Rodin said, I invent nothing. I rediscover. This is what you've done. You've taken ideas from the architecture of ancient Greece and applied them in a new way. Also I think your multi-purpose designs are very good for the young career-women who want a few pieces of good jewellery to help project a successful image. Memorable jewels are fine for very rich women; the widows, wives or girl-friends of millionaires. But a career-girl needs jewels which can be worn many times like a classic silk shirt or a wool blazer.'

  As he had in the taxi, he reached out and took her hand in his.

  'It's a failing of most young designers to create for grand occasions only,' he told her. 'Everyday life doesn't inspire them. You've struck a balance between the exquisite flights of fancy and the more practical pieces. That's good. I'm pleased.'

  'I'm so glad.' She squeezed his hand in an unself-conscious expression of relief and elation. 'I was afraid you'd think them hopeless.'

  'Au contraire, they're better than I expected—and my expectations were high. It'll take a little time to set up a promotion, but by next fall we should be ready to launch you. Do you want to use your real name or a nom de guerre?'

  'I don't know. I haven't given it any thought.'

  'Why not use your first name on its own? It's sufficiently unusual to stick in people's minds. That way you won't have to change your name when you get married, or continue to use your maiden name. That can be a problem in Europe although here women often add their husband's name to their own... Summer Roberts Rockefeller, or whatever it might be.'

  Their hands were still linked but just then the guard came by to check their tickets and Raoul, who had insisted on buying her ticket for her, had to take out his billfold.

  After the interruption, he said, 'I think Summer for Santerre would look good in our advertisements. How does it strike you?'

  'Like a pipe-dream which, by some miracle, seems to be coming true,' she answered, smiling. 'If, three years ago, a fortune-teller had predicted that today I'd be living in America and going away for the weekend with a top New York jeweller who was going to use my designs, I'd have dismissed it as nonsense.

  A man walking past overheard this and turned to look at them in a way which made her realise the ambiguity of her remark.

  'You realise he is putting the worst possible construction on that,' said Raoul, with a teasing glance. His expression changed. 'For my part, I'd be very happy if we were going to be à deux this weekend. But I think if I'd suggested that, you wouldn't have accepted the invitation.'

  She turned to glance out of the window for a few moments. Then she looked at him again, and said, 'No, you're right... I shouldn't. For several reasons. For one thing it would have involved either having to tell Emily lies, or not setting the kind of example I want to set her. You can't advise your pupil against something and then go ahead and do it yourself. It's like telling your children not to smoke with a cigarette in your mouth.'

  'And the other reasons?' he enquired.

  'I don't think people who have any kind of working relationship can be... more than friends. Do you?'

  'It can complicate life,' he agreed. 'You said "several" reasons. Is there another?

  She nodded, a little reluctant to admit to this one, yet confident that Raoul would never take pleasure in deriding her as James did.

  'I know it must seem strange, at my age, but there are reasons why... why I've never had a lover,' she told him. 'I guess the longer you postpone it, the more momentous it becomes. Now I'd just as soon wait for my husband. I know it's incredibly old-fashioned.'

  He said quietly, 'I don't think so. The permissive society is played out. It's had a long run and now the pendulum's swinging in the other direction, as it always has throughout history. Can I ask you why you've never had a lover? Any girl with your looks must have had to resist one hell of a lot of persuasion.'

  She debated telling him the truth, but instinct told her that no one ever liked to be disillusioned.

  She said. 'Not really. I'd no sooner started college than I had to go home and nurse my aunt. After she died I was cut off from the world by my job as Emily's tutor. It's not hard to resist temptation when it doesn't come your way.'

  He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. 'You haven't mentioned the basic reason for saying no if I'd asked you to spend the weekend alone with me.'

  'The basic reason?'

  'That you didn't like me well enough.'

  'I
like you very much, Raoul; and one of the reasons I like you is that you don't... rush your fences.'

  They smiled at each other. Then he turned back to the first drawing in the portfolio and began to discuss each design with her.

  His house on the outskirts of Old Lyme was an early eighteenth-century clapboard saltbox, simply, even sparsely furnished and in total contrast to the designer-decorated perfection of his apartment in the city.

  'The Sinclairs won't be here till later. Andrew flies everywhere in his own plane. They'll be landing at Groton-New London airport and picking up a rental car,' he explained.

  'What part of Canada are they coming from?'

  'Toronto. He's a vice-president of an international automobile corporation which might make him sound dull. He's not. Nancy used to be a model. Now she has a boutique in Yorkville which is Toronto's most sophisticated shopping area. When she hears about the belt and wrist-band you made for my sister, she'll want you to design for her. She specialises in unusual clothes and accessories, a lot of them imported from Europe.'

  It was around six o'clock when the Sinclairs arrived in a Hertz car. Within an hour Summer felt as if she had known them for years.

  Nancy, six feet tall, with the long bones and languid movements of a giraffe, made Summer feel almost petite by comparison. She had a cloud of dark hair with a white streak growing from her forehead. Whether this mèche blanche was natural or put in for dramatic effect, it was difficult to judge. She was probably in her late thirties and her husband was some years older, possibly forty-five. They were already casually dressed for a country weekend when they arrived, and Andrew looked more like a farmer or rancher than a top-level corporation man.

  Raoul had arranged for them to dine at one of the best restaurants in New England, the Copper Beech Inn at Ivoryton.