The Proprietor's Daughter

by Lewis Orde

  “It’s best that I don’t. Henry missed a week’s school at the beginning of the year when I took him and Joanne to Tenerife. He can’t afford to be absent again.” Besides, Katherine added silently, this time I want to be alone.

  “Where will you go?”

  “Lake District, then across the border country to Edinburgh. It’s very pretty this time of year.”

  She left the house early the following morning. The roof of the Porsche was folded down, and she wore a Hermès scarf to protect herself against the wind, which whipped through the open car. In the Porsche’s trunk was a Louis Vuitton suitcase that she’d bought years earlier in Paris. She had packed it hastily the previous night, with the emphasis on comfort: cashmere sweaters, woolen trousers, stout walking boots, a couple of warm, loose-fitting jackets.

  It was midafternoon when Katherine reached the Lake District. She spent the night in the town of Grasmere, where the poet William Wordsworth had lived. Before sitting down for dinner, she telephoned home to speak to Henry and Joanne. She was missing them already, and regretting having left them at home. Although God alone knew there was little here for young children to do, other than admire some of the most magnificent mountain scenery in all of England.

  The following morning, she visited the national park center at Brockhole on Windermere, a wisteria-covered mansion in grounds that led down to Lake Windermere. She bought postcards, mailing one to her father, one to Sally Roberts, and one to Franz and the children. Afterward, she walked for two hours along the lake bank. On the way back to the car, she bought one more postcard, which she mailed to the International Press Agency, attention Raymond Barnhill. The message read: “Sorry for biting your head off, but I really did need to get away.” As she mailed the card, she decided that breathing the crisp, clean northern air was doing for her what attending church did for true believers: it was instilling in her a sense of peace and forgiveness.

  She spent one more day in the Lake District before continuing north. Each night, she telephoned home to check on the children, and from each picturesque town she passed through, she sent them another postcard. At last, she reached Edinburgh, where her own parents had been married at the beginning of 1950, less than six months before her birth. She registered for two nights at the North British, the railroad hotel situated at the east end of Princes Street, in the shadow of Edinburgh Castle. In her first afternoon in Scotland’s capital city, she walked the length of Princes Street, stopping to gaze into the windows of both the dignified older shops and the newer chain stores. She strolled past the Adler’s department store belonging to her father, but never ventured inside.

  That night, absolutely exhausted, she fell asleep the instant her head touched the pillow, and slept for eight uninterrupted hours. The following morning, thoroughly refreshed, she walked along the Royal Mile, joining Edinburgh Castle to the palace of Holyrood House. Afterward, she tagged onto a party of American tourists, curious to see what their guide would show them. The party made the long climb up Calton Hill to the Old Calton Burying Ground. Katherine wondered why this would be on any tour group’s itinerary until she saw the monument to the memories of Abraham Lincoln and the Scottish-American soldiers who had died during the American Civil War.

  She sought a souvenir shop that sold postcards depicting the monument, and mailed one to Raymond Barnhill. That made two postcards she’d sent to the wire-service reporter; that would show him that no ill-feeling lingered. She studied another postcard, this one showing the King Edward VII Memorial at the western end of the Royal Mile. She knew who would appreciate this little piece of British history. John Saxon, that was who.

  That night, despite being as exhausted as she had been the previous night, she found it difficult to sleep. Her muscles were tired, but her brain remained alert. One message kept being repeated: she had lied to herself about John Saxon. She’d told herself that she never wanted to see him again, but she damned well did! He was arrogant, conceited, and he could be damned well rude when he felt like it. And with all that, Katherine knew that she could not just walk out on him.

  God . . .! Lying on her back, she thrust a fist into her mouth, suddenly quite appalled. What if he had found someone else during her absence? One of those dozen other young women he’d mentioned so casually? What if she went back to him, only to learn that she was no longer wanted?

  Rolling over, she lifted the receiver from the bedside telephone, and gave the switchboard operator John Saxon’s unlisted London number. It was past midnight. He’d be in bed. Asleep. Alone? She heard the double ring of the telephone, then Saxon’s voice, sharp and alert.

  “Hello?”

  Sitting up in bed, she pressed the receiver to her ear and listened.

  “Hello? Anyone there?”

  Before Saxon could lose his patience and hang up, Katherine broke the connection. She continued to sit up in bed, tightly clasping her tucked-up knees with her arms, as if that simple action could dull the ache she felt. She missed him! She really did. And she knew that if she wanted him, she would have to go crawling back.

  She looked at the telephone again, debating whether to repeat the call. No. Crawl back she might, but she’d be damned if she’d crawl all the way from Scotland.

  Eyes red from lack of sleep, she left Edinburgh late the next morning, reaching London by nightfall. She had brought back presents for the children — a miniature set of bagpipes for Henry, and a Scottish doll for Joanne. Instead of going straight home, though, she drove to Marble Arch. The maroon Rolls Royce sat outside John Saxon’s London home. She parked the new Porsche behind it, and knocked on the door of the house.

  Saxon’s chauffeur opened the door. “Good evening, William. Is Mr. Saxon home?”

  “He’s just preparing to go out for the evening, miss.”

  Had her fear been a premonition? Had Saxon already found someone else? “May I see him?”

  “If you’d care to wait, I’m sure he’ll be down shortly.” William escorted Katherine into the front reception room, with its high white ceiling and pale gold walls. She sat on one of the Chippendale sofas, feeling scruffy in her boots, trousers, and baggy jacket. Her eyes drifted from the paintings of Nelson and Wellington to the Aubusson rug on the floor. Was it already leaving a rash on some other woman’s back?

  The door opened. Saxon entered, adjusting the sleeves of his dinner jacket to show exactly the right amount of shirt cuff. His cuff links, Katherine noticed, were simple yet stylish gold ovals, the kind her father preferred. “When I tried to reach you at the Eagle,” he said, “I was informed that you had gone away.”

  “I was touring, from the Lake District up to Edinburgh.”

  “Rather sudden, wasn’t it?”

  “I needed time alone to make some decisions.”

  “Oh? And what did you decide?”

  “I . . .” Her mouth froze as William came into the room. He carried a clothes brush, which he used briskly on Saxon’s dinner jacket. “Where are you going?”

  “Opera.” He moved slightly so that William could brush the front of the jacket. “Do you like opera, Katherine?”

  “I have to be in the mood for it.”

  “You’re ahead of me. I never seem to be in the mood.”

  “Then why do you go?”

  “Noblesse oblige. Saxon Holdings has supported the arts by taking a box for the past few years, so I’m expected to show my face occasionally.”

  William completed his grooming, and Saxon made a gesture of dismissal. The chauffeur left the room and closed the door. “I asked what you had decided, Katherine.”

  “I don’t want to lose what we have, John, but so help me God, if you ever come around to my home again like you did last week, and present yourself to my husband . . .”

  “I told you then, I don’t like being stood up.”

  “You deserved to be stood up that night. I have never been so insulted in my life.”

  He gripped her arms and drew her close. “A damned fool, that’
s what I called you. And I was right, wasn’t I?”

  “How do you reach that conclusion?”

  “Look what’s been happening this past week, ever since you broke that story about the British Patriotic League recruiting soccer thugs as their storm troopers.”

  Katherine stared blankly at Saxon. “I’ve been away. I haven’t seen a newspaper for a week.”

  Saxon walked to the door and called out instructions to the chauffeur. Moments later, William carried in an armful of newspapers. “These hadn’t been collected yet, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Saxon sorted through the newspapers. “Here, read this. And this.” He handed pages to Katherine. She saw pictures of Alan Venables, the chairman of the British Patriotic League, news stories and features on the right-wing organization. “Wasn’t just Fleet Street,” Saxon said. “Venables and his two henchmen —”

  “Trevor Burns and Neville Sharpe?”

  “That’s them. They’ve all been interviewed on radio and television. They’re stressing that they’re a legitimate political party with a legitimate platform. They claim that their membership is increasing dramatically, and they’re going to be heard from in the next general election.”

  “And you believe I’m to blame for that?”

  “You gave them aid and comfort. Before your story, barely anyone had heard of them. I certainly hadn’t. Now they’re front-page news.”

  “You think that if I pursue this special investigation, I’ll help their cause even more?”

  Saxon nodded. “They’ve already organized another rally.”

  “When?”

  “Three weeks’ time, on Spring Bank Holiday.”

  “We’ll just have to wait and see how many marchers they attract this time, won’t we?” Katherine said.

  “I guess we will. By the way . . .” Saxon trapped Katherine in a candid gaze. “Where were you telephoning from last night? The Lake District, or Edinburgh?”

  “I didn’t speak to you last night.”

  “I never said you did. You telephoned me, then hung up.” He smiled at the expression of innocence on her face. “My number is ex-directory, Katherine. No one who knows it would have any reason to call me so late.”

  “I was in Edinburgh. I missed you, and I wanted to hear your voice. But when you answered, I felt embarrassed and angry, so I put the receiver down.”

  “What we have, Katherine, I don’t want it to end either. I was only partly honest before, when I said I came to your house because I was angry at being stood up. There’s more to it. I’ve built up a large property business, and I’ve had to fight for it, building by building. Nothing ever came easy. Before I ever enter into a fight, I try to find out everything I can about the competition. That’s what I was doing at your home last week.”

  “Franz asked if I was seeing you. He said he wouldn’t be angry; he’d understand. I don’t know whether he was being truthful, or just being brave. John . . .” She took Saxon’s hand and gazed into his brown eyes. “As much as I don’t want to lose you, I want to avoid hurting Franz even more. Life has played him a lousy trick, and I don’t want to add to his suffering. Promise me you’ll do nothing to hurt him.”

  “Katherine, I’m in love with you. I don’t want to spend my life being the other man.”

  “I love you, too, but I also care deeply for Franz. He’s the father of my children. He’s the first man I ever loved, the first man who ever made love to me. Make me that promise, John, or I’ll walk out of here right now.”

  He stared at her. Her face had gone like stone. Her eyes were glassy, her jaw set rigidly. He knew that she meant every word of the threat.

  “I promise. But remember, Katherine, should you ever need help, you turn to me.”

  Katherine’s face relaxed. Her skin softened, and her eyes glowed with a moist warmth. “What opera are you seeing tonight?”

  Saxon gave her a wide grin. “Cavalleria Rusticana and Pagliacci, a brace of operas about the mortal perils of the eternal triangle.”

  As she left the house, Katherine could not help thinking that no double bill could be more fitting.

  *

  Franz was still awake when Katherine returned home. He wanted a detailed account of her trip. She gave him a chronological summary. Several times he interrupted, asking questions about something she had mentioned earlier, as though trying to trap her in a lie. She went to bed certain that Franz did not believe her motoring trip had been nothing more than an innocent vacation.

  Katherine gave the children their gifts over breakfast early the next morning. Joanne set the doll on the chair next to her and continued eating her cereal. Henry was not so patient. He left the table and began to play the miniature set of bagpipes. A flesh-tingling, tuneless wail echoed through the house. While Katherine covered her ears with her hands, Edna Griffiths gently, but firmly, removed the bagpipes from Henry’s hands.

  “There are two gifts adults never give to children, Mrs. Kassler,” Edna said as Katherine left the breakfast room to go upstairs. “One is a pet. The other is any kind of musical instrument.”

  Forty minutes later, Katherine returned downstairs, ready to go to work. As she prepared to leave the house, she was confronted by Edna and Jimmy Phillips. “Is something wrong?” Katherine asked.

  Edna answered. “I’m afraid we’re going to be handing in our notice, Mrs. Kassler.”

  “Both of you?” The prospect horrified Katherine. Without these two, where would her own family be? Aside from caring for Franz, hadn’t Phillips saved Henry’s life when the boy had chased the model aircraft? And hadn’t Edna always been there for Katherine to fall back on? All Katherine could think of to say was “Surely you’re not leaving because of those bagpipes?”

  Edna looked at Phillips. “It’s like this, Mrs. Kassler,” the attendant began. “Edna and me, we’ve taken quite a liking to each other. We want to get married and set up on our own.”

  Katherine was touched by Phillips’s quiet confession of the love he shared with Edna. It was wonderful when two people in their middle years, who must have once resigned themselves to being alone, found happiness. “That’s marvelous news, Jimmy, but why should it necessitate you and Edna leaving this house?”

  Phillips turned crimson. Katherine saw that Edna, too, was blushing. “Mrs. Kassler, as man and wife” — the attendant spoke with a deliberate slowness that made his cockney accent even more noticeable — “it wouldn’t be the right and proper thing for us to be sleeping on different floors, would it?”

  “Jimmy, Edna, you can sleep wherever you like. You can take over the top floor. I’ll get builders to put in a small kitchen; it’ll be like a self-contained flat up there. If you think I’m going to let you go just because you want to get married, you’ve got another think coming.”

  “Bless you.” Edna smothered Katherine with a hug. “We didn’t really want to leave you, either.”

  “When will this happy occasion take place?”

  “We were thinking about sometime next month,” Phillips answered. With pride in his voice, he added, “Our Edna, she wants to be a June bride.”

  Katherine went to work in a bright mood. Edna’s and Phillips’s news had put the icing on her week’s vacation.

  “Good morning, Miss Eagles.” Archie Waters touched the peak of his cap as Katherine neared his elevator. “Good holiday?”

  “Excellent. Have you been well?”

  “Touch of rheumatism, but I can live with that.”

  Katherine got out at the third floor and walked to her desk. A fully stuffed, large brown envelope rested on top of her typewriter. She opened the flap and shook the contents onto her desk — clippings from other newspapers about the British Patriotic League, similar to those John Saxon had shown her.

  “Mr. Waller had those collected for you.”

  Katherine turned around to see the tall, thin figure of Derek Simon. “Was there a reason?

  “He wanted you to see the storm you created. If you look, I thi
nk you’ll find a memo included.”

  Katherine sorted through the clippings to find the memo. She read it aloud. “Everyone else has jumped on our bandwagon. How do we regain the impetus? See me when you return.”

  She met with Gerald Waller that afternoon. “I read what the other papers wrote on the League, Gerry.”

  “What do you think?”

  “They shadowboxed with them, that’s all. Accepted whatever the League said. In all those interviews with Alan Venables, I doubt if one tough question was asked. Even when Venables denied that they’ve been recruiting a bunch of young thugs at football games, the rest of the street reported it as fact. Because by doing so, they can imply that the Eagle is talking nonsense. Which, of course, we’re not.”

  “Do you want to ask Alan Venables the tough questions?”

  “Interview him?” Katherine shook her head. “I’ve got a much better idea for getting the lowdown on the League.”

  *

  Katherine met Brian Waters that evening as he left Mercury Messengers on his moped. “How would you like to make some extra money and do a good deed at the same time?” she asked.

  “How?”

  “Join the British Patriotic League.”

  Brian blanched. “My grandpa would kill me if I got myself mixed up with that lot. Nazis, he calls them.”

  “We’ll take care of your grandfather,” Katherine assured the young man. “We want you to attend the next League rally. Make friends there. Find out everything you can about the League, and report back to us.”

  “Be a spy?”

  “That’s right, be a spy.”

  Brian’s eyes gleamed with excitement. He could already see on his chest decorations to equal those of his grandfather.

  *

  For its second rally, the British Patriotic League chose to protest immigration in the racial tinderbox of Notting Hill, the West London scene of earlier race riots. Three thousand marchers turned up. A large contingent of opponents staged an anti-League demonstration only four hundred yards away. With the Brixton riot still fresh in the country’s memory, the authorities were prepared. A line of mounted police kept rival groups apart. Another three hundred police officers, including dog handlers with German shepherds, stood by.