Old Sins

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Julian, I am capable of making a judgement. I can tell when people don’t like me. And Roz doesn’t. Well, she more than doesn’t like me. Like I said, she hates me. She won’t speak to me unless she has to. She won’t even look at me. I’ve suggested lunch, I’ve asked if I can come to see her in the office, I’ve really tried. She won’t meet me even a quarter of the way. And I find it very difficult.’

  ‘She came to dinner with C. J.’

  ‘That was to please you.’

  He picked up her hand and kissed her fingertips. ‘I think you’re merely not having quite the success with Roz you’ve had with most other people. Which is natural really, in a way. She has a rather – intense attitude towards me, and she’s bound to be a little wary. Now look, my mother adores you, Richard and Freddy are both dying of love for you, all the staff in Hanover Terrace dote on you, even Eliza wants to be your best friend. I haven’t been on such good terms with Eliza for years. Can’t you be content with that, and let Roz come round in her own time? She will. She likes you very much, she told me so.’

  ‘Did she?’ said Phaedria. ‘How nice. Julian, please stop patronizing me. I am not a child, even if I seem like one to you.’

  ‘Phaedria,’ said Julian, dropping her hand and drawing slightly away from her. ‘I think this is a little absurd.’

  ‘Really? You call my objecting to a total animosity from Roz absurd? I’m disappointed in you, Julian.’

  ‘I think,’ he said, and she could hear the ice in his voice, ‘we have enough real problems to confront without you manufacturing one over a non-existent hostility from my daughter.’

  ‘It is not non-existent.’

  ‘I happen to believe it is.’

  ‘Then you should open your eyes a little wider. And perhaps you would like to tell me what real problems we have?’

  ‘A great many. I’m amazed you have to have them spelt out. We have an age difference of nearly forty years. However much we may both deny it, there are awkwardnesses in that. I have a very large company to run which, if I may say so, you have not made much of an attempt to acquaint yourself with. I also have several households to maintain, and there are serious practical problems in that. You need to understand each one and its own particular system, you need to know the staff and to win their trust. You’ve made very little effort in that direction. You haven’t bothered to buy yourself many decent clothes. You haven’t suggested we do any entertaining. Your main concerns seem to be whether or not you can get a job on Vogue, and being reunited with your horse.’

  Phaedria was silent for a while; then she got out of the bed.

  ‘You bastard,’ she said, ‘you lousy bastard. I’ve known you just over three weeks and you throw that pile of garbage at me. How dare you?’

  She walked over to the door, pulling her robe on.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Back to London.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’

  She slammed the door.

  She had no clothes to put on; she wasn’t going to go back into the bedroom. She went into one of the spare rooms and found some jodhpurs – presumably belonging to Roz, she thought, dragging them on with vicious rage, or one of Julian’s other unfortunate mistresses. She couldn’t find a sweater, but downstairs she took one of the Barbours hanging on the utility room door, and a pair of Hunter wellington boots. She let herself out of the door. She was too excited now, too amused by her own adventure to feel upset.

  They had driven down in the Corniche; the keys to that were on the table next to Julian. She walked over to the garage where he kept the cars; it was unlocked. There were five inside; three very early models: an open 1903 Fiat, a first edition Chevrolet, its name written elegantly right along its bonnet, and a Cunard-bodied Napier. Even in her rage, she did not quite dare to consider taking one of them. But nearest the door was the Bugatti; ravishingly elegant and low slung, with its sloping running board and majestically curved mudguards. That would do. Unbelievably, it had the keys in it; Julian had been playing with it that morning. Thank God it did have a key: the only model that did, he had told her.

  Phaedria got in and, trembling slightly, tried to start it; it roared obligingly at the second attempt.

  She smiled triumphantly, and eased it forward; it was deliciously easy to drive. Safely out of the garage, she let in the throttle and cautiously put her foot down; clear of the house, and halfway along the drive, she increased her speed. This was fun . . .

  She could remember the way – just; the night was clear, which made things easier. Down the lane for two miles, then right at the turning to Steyning and then it was signposted to the A24. She had a bit of trouble making the lights work, and she had to stop twice and wipe the windscreen with her hand, but otherwise it was easy. She hoped the petrol would last; she wasn’t going to find a garage open here in the middle of the night. Her mind was blank now, except for rage; pain, she supposed, would come later. She found it almost impossible to believe that a man as charming, as gentle, as civilized, as loving as Julian had been to her, could convert so swiftly into an arrogant, manipulative monster. All at a breath of criticism of his daughter. She shuddered; she felt outraged, blindly, furiously angry. She put her foot down harder.

  Suddenly in the rear view mirror she saw headlights. It might be someone else, anyone, but it was certainly a great deal more likely to be Julian. The lights flashed; she drove on. It was Julian, in the Corniche; the lane was so narrow he couldn’t overtake her. He was driving quite hard behind her now, hooting and flashing; Phaedria suddenly started to laugh. This was revenge, however brief, and it was extremely sweet. There was nothing he could do, just for a short heady while; he was impotent, he couldn’t touch her. She hoped the sensation was painful. It would almost certainly be novel.

  At the end of the lane, her triumph swiftly ended; the road widened, she tried to go faster, but the Bugatti suddenly began to slow down; its petrol had gone. The Corniche swung wide of her then pulled in tight in front of her; she had to stop. Julian leapt out, dragged her out of the driving seat and slapped her hard across the face.

  ‘How dare you! How dare you take that car? Have you any idea how valuable it is?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Phaedria coolly, ‘I have. C. J. was telling me about it at dinner. Well, Julian, you seem to want me to become more familiar with all the precious and important things in your life; I thought I’d start with the cars. Now if you could just give me a lift to the next garage, I can get a can of petrol and carry on.’

  She was breathing heavily, her eyes huge and brilliant with anger; as she stood there, confronting him, contemptuous, unafraid, the Barbour swung slowly open and revealed her bare breasts. Julian looked at her, and slowly his expression totally altered; rage became hunger, hostility tenderness, and he reached out and tried to take her in his arms.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ said Phaedria, pulling the coat angrily round her. ‘Just don’t. I want nothing more to do with you. Ever. Just leave me alone.’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I can’t do that,’ and he half pushed her, half dragged her into the back seat of the Corniche, slamming the door behind them.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, pushing the coat down off her shoulders, kissing her frantically on her lips, her neck, her breasts. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, and I love you so much. Please, Phaedria, please forgive me.’

  And she, stunned by the swift conversion from anger to desire that she felt in her own body as well, kissed him back, fiercely, greedily, reaching for him, tearing at his clothes, ripping open his trousers, pushing down her jodhpurs, and flung herself back on to the seat, pulling him on to her, thrusting herself desperately against him, frantic for the feel of him inside her, filling her, moving her, leading her into her sweet, hot explosion of pleasure. It was over in minutes; they lay, breathing heavily, silent, looking at each other warily. Then Phaedria suddenly smiled. ‘You bastard,’ she said, and kissed him very tenderly on the mouth.

 
They spent Christmas alone at Marriotts; Julian invited Roz and C. J. and the baby, but Roz said, sickly sweet, that this was their first Christmas as a family and they wanted to spend it together, just the three of them. She was sure he would understand.

  They also invited Letitia, but she said Eliza and Peveril had asked her up to Garrylaig, and she couldn’t resist a Scottish Christmas and Hogmanay; and they asked Augustus Blenheim, but he said he would be better in the company of Charles Maturin, who was claiming most of his attention; so in the end there were just the two of them.

  Phaedria didn’t mind; she had always experienced Christmas as a fairly solitary, peaceful time, and besides she was still sufficiently newly in love with Julian not to want to share him. She insisted he got rid of all the staff, and after they had been to church in the village (also at her instigation) and tramped over the downs, cooked Christmas dinner herself; moules marinières she served up, and duck in cognac, and a marvellous cherry bombe; they drank two bottles of sancerre and a great deal of armagnac, and sank exhausted and bloated on to the rug in front of the fire.

  ‘I’d like to make love to you,’ said Julian, ‘but I think I might be sick if I did. You’ll make some man a wonderful wife, you know.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘What I suggest is that we have a little nap, and then I want to give you your presents.’

  ‘Presents? Plural?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘I only have a singular present for you.’

  ‘That’s all right. I have more money than you.’

  ‘That’s true. I love you.’

  ‘Not my money?’

  ‘No,’ she said, surprised, ‘of course not your money. It’s the last thing about you I love.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, ‘then I love you too.’

  Phaedria fell asleep wondering at his question, and how much and how often he had wanted to ask it before.

  It was seven o’clock and quite dark before she woke up; Julian was standing in front of her with a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

  ‘Only cure for a nasty hangover.’

  She sat up. ‘Ugh! I hope it works. I feel vile.’

  ‘It will.’

  She tried it; he was right.

  ‘Let me give you your present first.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I thought and thought,’ she said, ‘about what you could give to the man who has everything. Very difficult. In the end, I thought it should be something that would mean a lot to both of us, and I thought of horses, and I ended up with this.’

  She hauled a package out of the darkness behind one of the sofas where she had hidden it before lunch. He opened it slowly. It was a very early edition of Stubbs’ The Anatomy of the Horse; he looked through it in silence, clearly enchanted.

  ‘What a marvellous present. I’ve always wanted this book. He did the engravings himself, you know, actually engraved the plates.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How on earth did you get it?’

  ‘The book department at Sotheby’s helped me. They sent me off to a little old man in the Charing Cross Road. He got it for me from some contact of his. I’m so glad you like it.’

  ‘I love it.’ He kissed her. ‘But you didn’t have to get me anything. You’re all I want these days.’

  ‘That’s a lie.’

  ‘Well, let’s not argue today. It’s a lovely present. My turn . . . Now then, this is the most important.’

  He handed her a small box. Phaedria opened it slowly.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she said, ‘oh, Julian, they’re glorious.’

  They were a pair of matching diamond and emerald rings: the emeralds cut into oblongs, the diamonds set neatly, geometrically round them.

  ‘One for the left hand, your engagement ring. I’m sorry it’s been so long, but I couldn’t find what I wanted. One for the right hand, because I love you. Put them on.’

  She put them on. They fitted perfectly.

  ‘How did you manage that?’

  ‘Took that little gold thing of yours and measured it. Had them sized.’

  ‘I like that little gold thing. But oh, Julian, these are so lovely. I can’t wear them. They’ll get lost.’

  ‘Nonsense. They’re safer on your hands than off them. I want you to wear them all the time. I got them from Cartier and they are making you a necklace to go with them for your wedding day. That will be fake, I’m afraid, well that is to say, modern, but these are genuine twenties deco.’

  ‘Oh, I love them so much. Thank you.’

  ‘Right. Now I have some more things for you. Come into the hall.’

  In the hall, under the tree was a pile of parcels; Phaedria looked at it in awe. ‘Are those all for me?’

  ‘They certainly are.’

  ‘Oh, Julian. I – well, I was going to say I don’t deserve them, but I expect I do.’

  ‘I think you do. Go ahead. Open them.’

  She went ahead. There was a very big parcel which turned out to be a long grey blond wolf coat (‘I remembered you warned me never to buy you mink, but I thought this would be all right’); there was a smaller one which was a red silk dress from St Laurent (‘Now you must promise me never to wear anything underneath it, at all, because it’s very clingy indeed.’ ‘Not even knickers?’ ‘Least of all knickers’); there was a big heavy square one which was bound copies of Vogue from the twenties and thirties; there was a very big bottle of Jicky (‘It must be half a pint’ ‘I forced them to sell me the showroom sample bottle, but it’s the genuine stuff inside, I promise’); there was a painting by James Lavery of a horse show; and there was a tiny box, with a key in it.

  She looked at it. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s the key of the Bugatti. I want you to have it. I think you earned it that night. In several ways.’

  ‘Oh, Julian. Now that is love.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is. Especially as I know you won’t really appreciate it. But you look marvellous driving it.’

  ‘I feel marvellous driving it.’

  ‘Good. Now come outside.’

  ‘Outside?’

  ‘Yes. Put a coat on. And don’t take your sweater off.’

  ‘I just might. For old time’s sake.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to wait a minute. Come on.’

  He took her hand, fetched a huge lamp and led her out to the stables.

  ‘Julian, now what have you done?’

  ‘Wait and see.’

  Grettisaga, happily ensconced in her new home, whinnied with pleasure at the sight of her mistress; Phaedria kissed her nose.

  ‘Happy Christmas, angel.’

  Julian walked to the end of the stableyard, and into the covered area where there were several more loose boxes. He switched on the light. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘I know this is dodgy. A bit like buying someone a dress when she hasn’t seen it. But you liked the dress. I hope you like this. Look in there.’

  Phaedria looked. A black head looked back at her. A calm brilliant pair of eyes. A long, silky mane. A delicate, gently arched neck.

  ‘Oh, Julian. Oh, God I can’t bear it.’

  ‘I hope you can. She’s three years old. A thoroughbred. But you can see that.’

  ‘I can, oh, I can. Oh, she’s beautiful. Can we bring her out?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll get a head collar. She has a very nice temperament. I think you’ll like her.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Spring Collection.’

  ‘How very suitable. Or did you christen her?’

  ‘No. I just found her. Well, Tony found her, and I approved her. Look, here’s the collar, lead her out.’

  Spring Collection stepped out into the yard quite willingly. She walked with a fluid grace; but she was relaxed, she did not dance or prance.

  ‘She is absolutely lovely,’ said Phaedria, running her hand wonderingly down the fine back, gazing at the delicate, long long legs. ‘I can’t believe anything so beautiful could be mine. I w
ant to ride her now.’

  ‘Well, you can’t. I think, even for you that would be reckless. But tomorrow you can. I know how much you love Grettisaga, but she is a hunter, after all, they can occupy different places in your life. And your heart.’

  Phaedria looked up at him. ‘I don’t think there’s much room left in my heart for anything but you, really.’

  ‘Nonsense. There’s always room in a heart for a horse. Now put her back and let’s go indoors. What was that you were saying earlier about taking your sweater off?’

  The wedding date had been set for the first of June. On the night of Phaedria’s flight in the Bugatti, after they had reached home (towing the Bugatti, to the accompaniment of much swearing from Julian, who refused to leave it in the lane), after they had gone back to bed and made love again, after Julian had begged her to forgive him again and again, after she had said (without believing it for a moment) perhaps she had been mistaken about Roz, after they had slept briefly and Phaedria had woken first to a still, cold day, she had decided, and told Julian, that she had decided that January was perhaps a little soon for the wedding. That maybe they should know each other a little better first. That it would do no harm to wait. And that besides, the weather would be nicer, they could have a marquee, the gardens would look beautiful. And Julian had been quite unable to change her mind.

  Towards the beginning of March Julian went to see his dentist. Sitting in the waiting room in Weymouth Street, leafing idly through copies of Country Life, he saw an advertisement for a house and his heart was as startlingly stopped as it had been when he had first seen Phaedria Blenheim four months earlier.

  The house was on the corner of Piccadilly and one of the small streets tipping down the hill towards St James’s, just east of Fortnum’s; it was tall and grey and beautifully proportioned, and it had been in use for the past few years (said the advertisement) as a hotel. The leasehold was for sale for three million pounds and it would easily (so went on the advertisement persuasively) convert into offices, or flats. Julian had other ideas for it.

  He cancelled his appointment, tore out of the building and got a taxi down to Piccadilly. He got out and walked down to the building, half afraid to confront it, to look at it, lest it was not as the advertisement said, lest once again he should be disappointed, robbed of his prize. But he wasn’t. It stood graceful and unspoilt, so far as he could see; five storeys tall, not unlike, not at all unlike the house on 57th Street, with a fine arched doorway, and beautiful stonework. Inside it was a nightmare; the staircase had been ripped out, lifts installed, most of the panelling stripped out, the ceilings lowered. The perfectly proportioned big rooms upstairs had been halved, quartered, the doors lined, the walls covered with fitted cupboards. What the hotel chose to call bathrooms had been crammed into corners; the decor was fifties kitsch, with a heavy slug of baroque glitz.