Libby used the River mainly to fend off impositions in a nice way. When acquaintances she didn't want to entirely ignore came to the city, she counterbalanced whatever excuse she invented for not being able to see them with arranging for them to be put up at the River. She also used the River for business tete-a-tetes with Wintersgill, such as the one she was having now.
A table had been set up for tea in the bay window of the library, a sofa pushed out of the way to accommodate it. Libby's own linens and silver were used. Also her own early eighteenth-century Meissen tea service, a brocaded Imari pattern with an elaborate floral border and cartouches of gold phoenix birds. Libby had acquired the tea service from Baroness Eugene de Rothschild. The tea caddy alone had cost seven thousand. When not in use it was kept there at the River, locked in its own special box.
The tea had steeped enough.
Libby poured, filling Wintersgill's cup before her own. As a courtesy in return, Wintersgill waited for her to take first sip. The tea tasted a bit off, Libby thought. She was as fussy about her tea as she was about anything. It had to be Oolong Extra Fancy from Formosa. The sort known as a "handkerchief tea" because the precious little that was grown was picked with great care and carried from bush to plantation in a silk handkerchief.
Lifting the lid from the Meissen tea caddy, Libby reached in for a pinch. The large white-tipped leaves were definitely her Oolong Extra Fancy.
"Also make a note to replace what's here with some fresh oolong," she instructed Wintersgill.
Again he pretended to scribble.
Libby gazed out the bay window to the small but conscientiously manicured terrace four stories below. In the days before the F.D.R. Drive was constructed, members had been able to bring their yachts right up to where that terrace was. It had been a pleasant convenience. There should be more attention given to the preservation of pleasant conveniences, Libby thought, as she watched the cars, many of them dreadful rattletraps, going up and down the drive.
"Do you have any opinion about selling the Penobscot house?" she asked Wintersgill.
"Is that what you want to do?"
"I ask for an opinion, I get a question. What the hell is going on with you, Thomas?"
Wintersgill apologized. He didn't care if the Penobscot house sunk into the bay. "Large summer places such as that are not in demand. They require too much heat and help."
"No matter. I suggest we list it with Sotheby's. Let them worry about getting a price." Libby broke the comer from a fan of Fortnum & Mason shortbread. Eating it made her mouth want another cigarette. "That about does it from my end of the court," she said. "What do you have for me?"
Wintersgill transferred the cup and saucer from his thigh to the table. Went into his business case. "We had a bit of unfortunate timing. Those twelve Russian diamonds you had me give to Townsend were lost in his burglary." Wintersgill showed Libby his copy of Townsend's computer printout and Townsend's receipt. "As you can see, I gave him the twelve stones a week ago Monday, as you requested. They were stolen the following day."
Libby let that bother her for a few seconds. "Oh, well." She sighed. "Tant pis. I suppose we can use the write-off."
Wintersgill nodded. He knew her, knew those twelve diamonds were now out of her mind, as if they'd been washed from a slate. She'd never give them another thought. He was over that hump. Now for the next. "As you surely recall," he said, "a week ago today after speaking to you on the phone and getting your permission, I made a payment on account to Townsend. I thought you might want to see the receipt of transfer."
Wintersgill handed it to Libby. It was, indeed, an official bank receipt indicating that twenty million dollars had been transferred from one of Libby's accounts in Zurich to account number 3083Wl820 at the private bank of Starzenegger et Cie in Vaduz, Liechtenstein.
Libby read the transfer carefully. It seemed to be in order. "I wasn't aware that Townsend had an account in Liechtenstein," she commented. "I thought he always relied on Zurich and Geneva."
"You know how Gilbert was. Whenever anyone even mentioned that the Swiss were being pressured to end their secrecy, he was ready to take his funds elsewhere."
"That's true." Libby pursed her lips and exhaled a funnel of white. "How do you feel about this loss?" she asked.
"Fate could have been a day or two kinder to us," Wintersgill replied.
"I'll keep this for a while," Libby said as she folded the bank transfer receipt and tucked it into the zippered pocket of her handbag.
Wintersgill didn't like that. He had expected she would dismiss this matter as easily as she had the other, and all the others previous. He wasn't alarmed, but it did make him uneasy. She had no way, at least not that he could think of offhand, of finding out that the Liechtenstein account was his, a shell that he'd had and activated last Wednesday with the twenty-million deposit.
"Don't you have any good news?" Libby asked.
"I assume you still don't want to see any annual reports of Hull corporations?"
"Hell, no. A forty-page annual report is like a man taking an hour to open his fly."
Wintersgill laughed a bit too heartily.
Libby merely grinned at her remark, as though she had uncountable others.
"As usual I've prepared a summary of quarterly earnings and dividends for you." He handed her several legal-sized pages. "They're quite healthy."
Libby scanned the figures on the pages. For those few moments her eyes were serious calculators. Bottom line, she was most satisfied with her income. "Is there anything else?" she asked.
"Might I have more tea?"
A waiter was summoned. He hurried off with the pot and the caddy to brew some fresh.
Wintersgill closed and snapped shut his business case. He smoothed back the parted side of his hair with the heel of his hand. Stretched his neck to reset it within the circumference of his shirt collar. Gently squeezed the soft silk knot of his tie. These were all hyphenating actions, premeditated to set apart the personal from the business.
Wintersgill smiled at Libby, the sort of smile that asked for one in return. "What I wish very much to discuss," he said, "is the matter of us."
"Oh, shit, Thomas, let's not get into that again."
"I haven't mentioned it in nearly a year . . ."
"Seems like last week."
". . . and at that time you left me hanging on the rather promising note that you would think about it."
"I always say that. I can't believe that you're so dense you don't realize by now that it means no —no and no again."
"May I suggest that perhaps you've merely gotten into the habit of saying no? What you might do, for the sake of objectivity, is take a step back, consider what an advantageous arrangement our marriage would be."
"You're a persistent bastard, I'll say that for you."
The tea was brought.
Libby poured.
"I enjoy having you pour for me," Wintersgill remarked romantically.
For some reason the tea was now as it should be: a high amber color with a distinctive delicate taste. "Now that's my Oolong Extra!" Libby exclaimed after her first sip.
Wintersgill got right back onto the subject. "Don't you want me, Libby?"
"I already have you," she said matter-of-factly.
Wintersgill didn't rise to that. "I see beyond your defensive exterior," he said.
A dubious smirk from Libby. She had to admit, however, it was nice to know that someone was looking that deep, albeit a Wintersgill.
"You need love," he said.
"Like I need another hysterectomy." She punctuated that with an arched brow and a sip of oolong. "As a matter of fact, it just occurred to me that love between us would be rather like surgery. One of us would make incisions while the other pleaded for anesthesia."
"You're playing with me."
"I'm not." She grinned.
"You're behaving badly."
"Then I'm taking a respite from my usual self." She laughed and shifted about i
n her chair, enjoying, through her silk Givenchy dress, the slicking sensation of her thighs on the leather seat. "Tell you what, Thomas," she said, "let's put an end to this once and for all. You give me the single most convincing reason why I should marry you . . . and I'll tell you one why I shouldn't."
"Libby, damn it, I'm serious and you're making a game of it."
"Winner take all," she said enticingly.
She'd never before allowed the proposal to be taken this far. Wintersgill was encouraged, believed she'd at last shown a chink in her wall. What he chose to say next would be vitally important, he thought. Why she should marry him? His attractive appearance? His sexual prowess and endowment? His correctly educated mind? His stalwart attitude, tolerant nature, sense of humor? The strong comfort he would forever be? All those attributes went into the making up of his splendid personal portfolio; however, there was one thing, in his estimation above all else, that made him most worthy, that would, when she was reminded of it, sway her.
Confidently he told her, "You should marry me because of who I am. A Wintersgill." It was as plain as that, obvious to him and therefore certainly to her—the unquestionable breeding, the impeccable line of descent he was offering her.
Libby was astonished. A throwback, she thought, that's what he is. At least in this regard. Doesn't he know that these days a lordship or even an earldom that predates the Norman conquest can be bought in England for less than fifteen thousand dollars? That by merely purchasing a run-down estate in Italy one can become an instant marquesa?
She told him so.
He huffed a bit. "That's a far cry from being an authentic Wintersgill," he said. "Besides—"
"You've had your say, now allow me to have mine."
He politely gave way with a nod. Whatever her argument, he felt he would be able to parry it.
"The reason I won't marry you is—you're dishonest."
Wintersgill drew himself up indignantly.
"Exceedingly dishonest," Libby said.
"That's absurd. Where did you ever get that impression?"
"The First Industrial Bank of Philadelphia," she said, as though it were the title of something she was about to recite.
Wintersgill appeared perplexed.
"In nineteen seventy-eight, in cahoots with the chairman of that bank, who happens to be one of your old school chums with a name as old and above reproach as Wintersgill, you arranged for the purchase of one hundred million dollars in stolen securities. You paid the thief two and a half cents on the dollar, only that much because those stocks and bonds were on the hot list, the computerized roster of stolen securities maintained by the Securities and Exchange Commission. You sold the securities to your chum, the banker, for twenty-five cents on the dollar, netting yourself a tidy twenty-two and a half million. The bank was not concerned with the hot list because it had no intention of ever cashing those securities. The question of whether or not they were stolen would never come up. The bank would hold them and year after year include them in its assets, increasing its financial ability to borrow from the Federal Reserve and giving it that much more money to make money with. Such a safe, neat deal. The bonds won't mature until the year two thousand and something. By then everyone concerned will be dead or too feeble to fuck with. I'll bet anything at this very moment those stolen securities are wrapped in plain brown paper and sitting in some corner of the First Industrial's vault. Probably stacked alongside other securities equally stolen, wouldn't you say?"
Wintersgill didn't comment, didn't even blink. Silence, he believed, was his best defense. It was also an admission. Inside he was churning, wondering how she could have gotten her information, dates, and figures so accurate.
"Then," Libby went on, "there's the skimming you've been doing at the Foundation. Like a damn squirrel salting away acorns."
Wintersgill's eyes wavered.
Libby advised herself not to carry this too far. Wintersgill had been of advantageous use and would continue to be. She altered her tone from accusing to condescending. "What I resent most about the skimming is it indicates your estimation of me, as though I'm so lah-dee-dah I wouldn't notice. Hell, Thomas, as long as you don't get overly greedy I don't mind your helping yourself to a bit of the cream."
Her smile was like a suture intended to close his wound.
He'd forgotten that he was still holding his teacup and saucer. He set them down on the table so roughly they rattled.
"Careful with my Meissen!" Libby reproached.
The next thing Wintersgill knew, her chair was vacant and she was outside getting into the limousine. Wintersgill stood, close up to the tall library windows that were right there, level with the street. When the chauffeur, Groat, closed the car door after her and walked around to get behind the steering wheel, his eyes momentarily clicked with Wintersgill's. Then the car was gone and Wintersgill was left in the wake of the unpleasant episode. There were so many angry, humiliated voices in him he didn't know which to heed.
Taking up a silver teaspoon he struck a large chip from one of her Meissen saucers.
He had scheduled appointments with his tailor and to have his hair trimmed by Gio at the Pierre. He didn't even bother to call and cancel, was driven straight home to his apartment on East 68th Street.
It was more of a relief than usual to be there, to take sanctuary in air he felt was his own. He switched on the lights in the wide entrance hallway that served also as a gallery for the portraits of his forebears. They were hung side by side in identical frames, each receiving his share of illumination. They bore such a resemblance to one another that anyone scanning them might think they were the same man in stages of modernization.
One portrait, that of an early eighteenth-century Wintersgill, was awry. The housekeeper, Mrs. Donnell, had again been too hasty with her dusting. Wintersgill had spoken to her about that, but finding that portrait out of place tonight was too trivial a thing to disturb him. He merely corrected it. Left his business case beneath the hall table, bypassed the large formal living room, and entered the study. Rather ritualistically, he made martinis in the Georgian silver pitcher he had long ago designated for that purpose. From a proper glass he drank most of the first martini while standing. He decided he wouldn't, for the time being, think of the problem of Libby. His ability to put things, no matter how bothersome, out of his mind at will was something that had always given him an advantage.
Mrs. Donnell had a roast on, he now realized from the wholesome fragrance that he could have smelled before. He topped his martini just short of the spilling point and, as a test of the steadiness of his hand, carried it into his dressing room.
He undressed.
He would shave. It was not a question of whether he would or not. He normally shaved twice each day, the second time at this hour.
His bathroom was a large area, tastefully designed, done in gray marble, beveled mirror, and polished brass fittings. The gray marble dominated and gave it a gentlemanly feeling. The bathtub was custom made, narrower and longer than standard to better accommodate Wintersgill's height and leanness. The tub was centered in the room, inset so that it was level with the
floor. An abundance of dark gray towels from Porthault were stacked beside it; farther off to the side, Regence chaises, a pair of them, were covered in a soft gray flannel.
To shave, Wintersgill used his grandfather's Sevres mug and badger bristled brush, his great-grandfather's straight razor. He'd heard his father claim thousands of times that no modern safety razor could match the shave this straight razor gave. What total length of Wintersgill whisker had this razor cut away over the generations? Miles of whisker, Wintersgill imagined. Such functional consistency was deserving of high regard, he reminded himself to believe each time he took up this razor. Its handle was yellowed and minutely crackled the way ivory gets with age, its gold inset monogram worn from being so often held, but its blade was untarnished, as gleaming as the day it had been bought in London three generations ago. It took to bein
g honed to a fine cutting edge, as though it presumed eternity.
Finished shaving, Wintersgill respectfully washed and dried the razor and put it back into its fitted red leather case. He showered and dressed, chose to wear beige summer-weight gabardine slacks, a matching cotton crew-neck pullover, and a pair of leather loafers so supple they could be doubled up by the mere pinch of a finger and thumb.
Dinner was ready. He ate very slowly, not consciously procrastinating. After dinner he settled in a chair in the study for his usual digestif reading. An 18K bookmark helped him cut to the place where he'd left off in the leatherbound Paris edition of The Memoirs of Madame de Montespan. Within moments he was caught up in the personal impressions of this mistress of Louis Quatorze, entertained by the obliquity of her phrases as she described, for example, the four-inch heels, heavy perfumes, and diamond-studded laces worn by the king's brother.
Mrs. Donnell came to let Wintersgill know that she was done for the day. He nodded almost imperceptibly, without even looking at her. However, when she was on her way out the service entrance he listened with his entire attention to her closing of the door, her keys double-locking it — and he nearly believed what he heard.
He sat there in the silence, the book lowered to his lap. The atmosphere seemed changed now that he was alone, the familiarity of it could not be taken for granted. Nonsense, he told himself, he was only sensing the absence of sound. He got up and put on a cassette of Bartok's Violin Concerto No. 2 in B Minor, adjusting the volume in case there might occur other sounds in the apartment that it would be prudent for him to hear.
He went back to Madame de Montespan and was in the third sentence of one of her paragraphs when . . .
Libby intruded.
She'd been tampering all the while with the seal of his mental gate that was supposed to keep her shut up until he was ready for her. It had been his decision that he wouldn't allow her out until tomorrow, not until after he'd had a good night's rest, was calmed, cleared, better able to settle upon what shape he should assume to fit what was now known of him. But here Libby was, sneaking out into his night. He wouldn't allow it. He poked her back where she belonged, prodded her with the pretense that the episode at the River Club had never happened. Hell, he hadn't even been at the River Club that afternoon.
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