The Proprietor's Daughter

by Lewis Orde

  In his office overlooking St. James’s Square, John Saxon decided that the long pause was indecision on Katherine’s part. She was weakening, and he was ready to take advantage of it. From the moment he’d first seen Katherine in his office, Saxon had been charmed by her freshness. Then, when he’d learned her true identity — had seen the other, businesslike, side of her — his interest had increased. The large husband and two small children did not concern him. When he wanted something, he viewed obstacles only as hindrances to be overcome. “What harm can there possibly be in a short business lunch?” he asked Katherine. “I’m sure you have them all the time.”

  “All right, Mr. Saxon. A business lunch. Let’s make it for today, my diary’s empty.” Katherine heard her own voice and felt shocked by the words. She had never meant to accept Saxon’s offer. She had intended to push him off as she had done the last time. But some inner control had taken over her tongue. Curiosity — and, perhaps, a way to get back at Franz? — had superseded caution.

  At one o’clock, Katherine stood outside the Eagle building, eyes seeking the distinctive maroon Rolls Royce. Instead, a black taxi drew up. The rear door swung open. Inside, sitting so deeply in the shadow that he was almost unrecognizable, was John Saxon. Katherine climbed in.

  “I was expecting your Rolls.”

  “The Roller’s too noticeable. I thought you’d prefer to be seen getting into something of a more anonymous nature.”

  The taxi driver moved away before Katherine was fully settled, and she slid across the seat into Saxon’s arms. “No need to throw yourself at me,” he cautioned.

  Katherine felt her face reddening. Suddenly, she was wishing that she were back in her office, or having lunch with Erica. “Don’t worry, it won’t happen again.”

  She barely spoke a word during the journey across the Thames to the Anchor, an eighteenth-century riverside public house and restaurant that enjoyed historic ties with the old Globe Theatre and Samuel Johnson. Once inside, though, gazing at ancient oak beams and the minstrels’ gallery, Katherine began to relax. Drinks came. They ordered food, specialties of the house — roast ribs for Saxon, lamb chops for Katherine.

  “I have a sudden urge to start quoting Dr. Johnson,” she said, staring past Saxon’s head to a picture of the famous writer. “What was it now? ‘When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life —’”

  “‘For London has all that life can afford.’” Saxon nodded and smiled. “My own favorite is . . . ‘When a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.’”

  “That’s a little too morbid for my taste. I much prefer” — Katherine immersed herself fully into the game — “‘It is better to live rich than to die rich.’”

  “‘Too few people do,” Saxon said in agreement. “There’s also one the good doctor wrote especially for you.”

  “What was that?”

  “‘No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money.’”

  Katherine repeated the sentence, thought it over carefully. “It’s sexist as all hell, but I’ll accept it.”

  Once the meal was served, Katherine guided the conversation down a more serious path. “My father told me you used to move property around as though you were playing Monopoly.”

  “Did he now? When did he tell you this?”

  “When I began working on the Cadmus Court story. He also warned me to be very careful about linking your name with tenant harassment. Most specifically” — she suddenly wanted to pass on the compliment — “he said you were not the kind of man to be involved in something so reprehensible.”

  Saxon sat back, his face reflecting pleasure. “Thank him for me. You know, your father was once a big hero of mine.”

  “Oh? How was that?”

  “When he eloped with your mother. That Argentine girl, she was your mother, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes. Catarina Menéndez.”

  “The ambassador’s daughter. I was thirteen then. Your father and mother were front-page news. The whole country was being turned upside down to find them.”

  “You have the advantage of me,” Katherine admitted. “I don’t remember any of it.”

  “No, but if you had been there, you’d have been as thrilled as the rest of us.”

  “The rest of us?”

  “Britain’s fed-up, disgruntled youth. It was nineteen fifty. All we knew was bomb sites and ration books. And then along came your father and that wonderful elopement. Something else was on the front page for a change. Something bright and happy and cheerful. All of us, we hated that Argentine Ambassador Menéndez for trying to put a stop to it. He was one of the older generation, the world-wreckers who had given us those bomb sites and ration books.”

  “You’re talking about my grandfather.”

  “What is he to you? After your mother died, he wanted to take you away from your father and bring you up in Argentina. I followed the court case in the newspapers, how your grandfather tried to brand your father as being unfit to care for a child.” Saxon’s voice dropped when he added: “I’m very glad he failed.”

  “Why?” Katherine recalled her first opinions of Saxon. “Were you happy to see an Argentine lose to an Englishman?”

  “Partly that. But mostly because if your grandfather had won his case, you’d be having lunch on the River Plate right now with some dark and handsome hidalgo. Instead, you’re having lunch on the Thames with me.”

  While Katherine smiled at the comment, she wondered whether Saxon knew that the rift between her father and his Argentine father-in-law had lasted right up to the moment of her wedding with Franz. Although there had been no communication for twenty years, Roland, as a courtesy, had sent Menéndez an invitation. The former ambassador had turned it down, only to arrive unexpectedly at Claridge’s toward the end of the wedding ball. At the very last, he had given Katherine an envelope containing a check for a million dollars. When she’d protested that she could not possibly accept such a gift, her father had insisted that she take it. The sheer size of the gift, he’d explained, was her Argentine grandfather’s way of squaring accounts, of making peace with himself for having neglected his granddaughter all these years. Her father had been right, of course. . . .

  “You really do know a lot about my father, my family,” she told Saxon. “Tell me something about yourself.”

  “Why?” A grin accompanied the challenge. Katherine had noticed that the expression appeared often on his face. It was an attractive grin, full of cheer and just a hint of mischief.

  “Old newspaper habit, getting background information about prominent people in case something important happens to them. They might be included in the New Year’s Honours List —”

  “Or they might die.” The grin came again, with devilment as its main ingredient. “All right, background. I’m forty years old. I grew up in Streatham, South London. Grammar school education, no fancy public school. Left when I was sixteen, and went to work for an estate agent — learning a reputable business. Two years later, the army grabbed me. I was twenty when I finished my national service and went back to the estate agent, but after a while I wanted bigger things. The estate agent was on the ground floor of a four-story office building. Above was an office-machine repair shop that had been there for donkey’s years. It was for sale. I borrowed the money to buy it, not because I wanted to fix typewriters, but because I happened to know that the inventory included the lease of the building. I paid rent for the entire building, which wasn’t much, but it enabled me to charge everyone else as much as I could.”

  Katherine did not want to hear how millions were made. Perhaps it was because she’d been born into wealth, but she had never found the accumulation of it very interesting. “Tell me about your personal life. Where do you live?”

  “I have a house in town, Marble Arch. That’s where I spend my weeks.”

  “And your weekends?”

  “Oxfordshire. Fifteen of the most beautiful acres you’ve ever seen near
Henley-on-Thames, with four hundred feet of river frontage. As for my marital status —”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “But you were about to. I’m divorced. For six years now, the same length of time I was married.”

  Katherine knew it was none of her business, but some instinct prompted her to ask, “What went wrong?”

  “I’ve never seen that kind of information included in any knighthood story or obituary.”

  “There has to be a first sometime.”

  “To be honest, I was giving too much time to work, and not enough to Deidre — that was my wife. I kept telling her that I was building a business, that she had to be patient. Deidre told me I should be building a marriage. I guess I never realized you had to keep working on a marriage once the honeymoon was over.”

  Saxon’s admission of failure touched a chord within Katherine. He was a self-made man with a streak of arrogance, to which, she supposed, he was entitled. But the touch of regret at things he had missed made him extremely human.

  She glanced down at the gold Patek Philippe on her wrist, shocked to see it was already two-thirty. “I have to get back to my office.”

  “The owner’s daughter has to punch a clock?”

  “I never think of myself in that capacity.”

  They rode a cab back to Fleet Street. Instead of having the driver stop right outside the Eagle building, Saxon instructed the man to park fifty yards away. Katherine stepped out and looked back into the cab.

  “Thank you for lunch. I enjoyed exchanging Dr. Johnson quotes with you.”

  “Lunch was rushed. We could enjoy a leisurely dinner more.”

  Katherine knew she should close the door gently but firmly in Saxon’s face and walk away. Instead, she stood there, saying, “I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

  “A dinner date,” Saxon continued, as though Katherine had not spoken. His eyes fixed themselves on her customary suit, charcoal gray today, with an ice-blue silk blouse. “A dinner date where you can exchange those business outfits you always wear for something glamorous. Then we can behave like two adults who aren’t ashamed to admit being attracted to each other.”

  “Am I attracted to you?”

  “If you weren’t, you’d never have met me for lunch.”

  The confidence in his voice annoyed Katherine. “Good afternoon, Mr. Saxon.” Very formally, she held out her hand to be shaken before walking away.

  For a dozen steps, she felt his eyes burning into her back like twin laser beams. She willed herself to continue walking steadily toward the Eagle building, where she would feel so much safer. But, damn it, she was attracted to him! Even if she wasn’t too certain why. Was it his strength of personality, or was it because he was so different from Franz? So English, while Franz was so cosmopolitan.

  At the very last moment, as she stepped into the shadow of the Eagle building entrance, her determination wilted. She could not stop from looking back. No supernatural force transformed her into a pillar of salt, but she caught a glimpse of John Saxon sitting in the taxi, gazing at her with a self-assured smile.

  Katherine returned to her office wishing she could turn back the clock to that morning. She would never acknowledge the roses. She would let him call her to see if she had received them. Then she would have the advantage. He would not be able to lead so naturally into asking her to lunch, and she would have been spared the confusion she felt now.

  By the time Franz returned from Chicago, two days later, Katherine had managed to rationalize the entire episode. It was flirting, nothing more. Everyone flirted. Men and women working together in an office, passengers on a train, total strangers. Eye contact, a couple of words. There was nothing harmful in it. Besides, if Franz had not been away during this particular week, it would never have happened!

  “Do you ever flirt with your secretary?” she asked Franz in bed on the night he had returned from Chicago.

  “Katherine, you have seen my secretary. She is fifty years old and formidable. Why do you ask?”

  Katherine lied. “It’s just that most of the men at the paper seem to flirt with most of the women, and I was worried whether I could trust you.”

  Franz gave a doleful sigh. “Trust me. The last time I flirted with anyone was in Monte Carlo ten years ago. I am still paying for that flirtation.”

  “You rotten devil! But I trust you anyway.” Rolling over to snuggle closer to Franz, Katherine pushed John Saxon clean out of her mind.

  Chapter Five

  FROM THE MOMENT of its launch, “Satisfaction Guaranteed!” was one of the hottest items on Fleet Street. There was no shortage of subjects for Katherine and her two assistants to cover. The column featured everything from the quality of care at a nursing home — after the family of an elderly resident had taken its case to the Daily Eagle as a last resort — to helping a young couple through a jungle of bureaucratic nonsense when they wanted to adopt an orphaned Lebanese child. The final strip of red tape was removed from that case the week before Christmas, and the Eagle’s December 24 front page showed the joyous couple with their newly adopted child. “Our Christmas Present,” declared the headline. Damp eyes and lumps in throats were not confined to the Eagle’s readers; there were several cases among its staff.

  In those first three months, Katherine was featured in three women’s magazines, asked to speak at two conferences, and invited to take part in a weekly television series on consumer rights. If nothing else, the television appearances made her alter her style of dress. “Seventy percent of the country is still watching black and white,” Erica Bentley told her. “You wear those suits, and only the thirty percent with color sets will realize you’ve got different clothes on each time you appear. The other seventy percent, well, they’re going to think you’ve only got one item in your entire wardrobe.”

  Katherine took the hint. She went out and bought a new image for her television appearances: high-fashion clothing in colorful, patterned fabrics. Daily Eagle editor Gerald Waller’s conservative sensibilities were appalled the first time he saw Katherine on television; he sent her a tongue-in-cheek memo which proclaimed that if she ever turned up for work at the Eagle dressed like that, he would instruct the doorman to refuse her entrance. There was no way, though, that Waller could argue, even jokingly, with the sharp jump in circulation, most of which was directly attributable to “Satisfaction Guaranteed!” On Christmas Eve, he sent out another memo, thanking the column’s staff for their efforts; to Katherine, he presented a gold-plated etching of her first column.

  On Christmas Day, the entire Kassler household rose early. A Christmas tree stood in the library, with much of the space beneath it taken up by two gifts — a bicycle with training wheels for Henry and a tricycle for Joanne. Dressed warmly, the children wheeled the gifts into the front garden, where they rode around the gravel driveway, while Katherine watched and Franz took photographs with the Leica hanging from his neck.

  After locking the gate to make sure the children did not ride out into the street, Franz and Katherine returned to the library. The Christmas tree seemed barren with the removal of the two largest presents. Katherine handed Franz a small, square box containing a pair of gold cuff links from Asprey in New Bond Street. In return, he have her a three-rope pearl choker with a sapphire clasp. As they kissed and wished each other a merry Christmas, they could hear the children’s laughter from outside.

  Shortly before noon, the family left for Roland Eagles’s home on Stanmore Common. In the back of Franz’s Jaguar, between the two children, sat Edna Griffiths, as much a part of the family as if she were tied by blood. Christmas, traditionally hosted by Roland, was a very close affair. No friends, just a family gathering which also included Sally Roberts, who drove out from her apartment in Mayfair’s Curzon Street.

  Sally was there when the Kasslers arrived, her red Fiat sports car parked in front of the house. Shoulders were hugged, cheeks and lips kissed, more gifts exchanged.

  “For you.” K
atherine offered her father a large package.

  Roland opened it to find a mahogany and boxwood chest containing fifty Davidoff cigars. “Thank you, darling. And in return . . .” He lifted a flat shape from beneath the tree and presented it to Katherine.

  “Painting?” she asked. Roland nodded. Katherine untied string, peeled back corrugated paper. She sucked in her breath when she saw the hunt scene painted by Augustus John. “It’s wonderful.” She passed the painting to Franz before throwing her arms around Roland’s neck.

  “You’re going hunting with Erica and Cliff Bentley next week, aren’t you?” Sally asked.

  “Not hunting exactly,” Franz answered. “Just the New Year’s Day meet. A ceremonial parade, nothing more.”

  “That must be like getting all dressed up and having nowhere to go,” Sally said. “Still, I suppose it’s better than chasing some poor fox all over the countryside.”

  Arthur Parsons appeared, black jacket and gray striped trousers immaculately pressed, to offer drinks on a silver tray. Twenty minutes later, he asked everyone to take their places in the dining room.

  “Mrs. Parsons has outdone herself this year,” Roland announced as Parsons poured champagne into Waterford flutes.

  “Something’s been smelling absolutely fantastic ever since I arrived,” Sally added. “What is it?”

  Parsons’s face wore a smile of quiet pride. “A French Christmas meal, Miss Roberts. Pâté de foie gras, followed by soured cream oysters, then truffled young turkey with mushroom and Madeira sauce. And for dessert, a chestnut and chocolate Christmas cake.” Parsons set down the champagne bottle and stood surveying the table for a moment. “The French call it Le Reveillon, eaten on Christmas Eve, after they return from church. Mrs. Parsons decided to make it for Christmas Day because, quite frankly, whatever the French do, the British can always improve upon.” He bowed slightly, turned around, and walked out of the dining room to an enthusiastic round of applause.