The Proprietor's Daughter

by Lewis Orde

  “It was. Do you know my father?” She introduced Barnhill to Roland. “Raymond works for IPA’s London desk.”

  “Really?” Roland appeared interested. “Perhaps I should poach you for Eagle Newspapers.”

  While the two men talked, the final person in the line approached Katherine. It was John Saxon. “I’m sorry I was so late, Katherine.”

  “It’s all right, John. You’ve done more than enough.” He had telephoned her the instant he’d read about the fire. She had been too distressed to see him, but he had called every day to learn how she was, and to offer any help he could.

  She interrupted the conversation between her father and Raymond Barnhill to introduce John Saxon. Roland already knew the property developer, but Barnhill had never met him. “John, this is Raymond Barnhill, a good friend of mine from America. Raymond, this is John Saxon, a good friend of mine from London.”

  “What brings you to England, Raymond?” Saxon asked.

  “I’m with the IPA. What keeps you in England?”

  “I’m chairman of Saxon Holdings, property developers.”

  Barnhill’s eyes swept over Saxon, from the shining handmade shoes to the white silk handkerchief in the breast pocket of his Huntsman suit. “What kind of property do you develop?”

  “Luxury residential. Luxury hotels. Office buildings in prime locations.”

  “Why not some unluxury residential, for the people who really need it? Or isn’t there enough of a return in that kind of development to satisfy your stockholders?”

  Saxon gave the American a cold smile. “You’re just what the doctor ordered, another bleeding-heart liberal reporter.”

  Seeing Barnhill stiffen, Katherine stepped in quickly. “Don’t listen to him, Raymond. John’s company does cater to the residential needs of working-class people. That was how we met.”

  As the two men shook hands, Katherine swore she saw sparks leap between them. Had Barnhill guessed what place Saxon held in her life? In turn, did Saxon regard Barnhill as competition? She pushed the questions from her mind; this was neither the time nor the place to worry about such things.

  Late that evening, after the last of the visitors had left the house in Stanmore, Katherine sat with her father on a sofa in the drawing room. On the mantelpiece, next to the photograph of Roland and Catarina at the nightclub, the clock chimed eleven.

  “Thought about what you’re going to do, Kathy?”

  “I’m going to do what you did when you lost my mother — throw myself so hard back into life that I won’t have time to grieve.”

  “And work?”

  “After I’m sure Henry and Joanne are all right, I’ll go back to the Eagle.”

  “What about a house?”

  “Do you want my menagerie of children and family retainers out of here already?”

  “You know better than that. But the children will need stability in their lives. A new home will help to provide it.”

  Katherine nodded in agreement. She already had the staff to run a house. Edna had said that she wanted to continue working for Katherine, and she had asked if there would be room for her new husband. Katherine had answered yes. The large house she envisioned buying would need two people to run it, a husband-and-wife team, just like her father had. Besides, the familiar faces of Edna and Phillips would help to create the permanence needed by Henry and Joanne. And by herself!

  She yawned. “I think it’s bedtime. Good night, Daddy.” She kissed her father on the cheek, and made her way up the stairs to her old room.

  She undressed and slipped into a pale blue silk nightdress. As she was about to turn off the bedside lamp, she noticed a tiny photograph clipped to one of the mirrors of the dressing table. She climbed out of bed, walked across to the vanity, and removed the photograph. It was of Franz, a black-and-white passport photograph he’d given her eleven years earlier, when he had been a student in Germany. She’d put it on the dressing table then and had never removed it, not even when she’d left this house to marry Franz. Had she known that one day she would return to this room? And that this minute photograph would be one of the few pictorial memories of Franz not to be destroyed by fire?

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, she held the picture under the light. He was so young, his hair so white, his eyes so full of idealism. In his most vivid nightmare, he could never have imagined the cruel fate that awaited him.

  Something Franz had once said came to mind. He had accused her of trying to prove herself, of fighting to get out of her father’s shadow, and she’d told him that only sons were faced with that problem, not daughters.

  Franz had been right, but she’d been too stubborn to admit it at the time. At the Eagle, she’d had to fight constantly to prove that she was there on ability, not because of nepotism. She’d struggled to show that she was her own person, a distinct individual completely removed from her father. Yet at the same time, she was so much like him that it was uncanny. Roland had been a young widower with a child to bring up. She was a young widow, with a son and daughter to raise.

  She remembered two years earlier, on her twenty-sixth birthday, looking at her reflection and seeking facial similarities between herself and Roland. She’d found them: the color of her eyes, the tough squareness of her chin.

  Tough . . . that was what she had to be. Toughness tempered with compassion, just like her father. If there was ever a moment when she needed to be her father’s daughter, it was now.

  She got up from the bed again, walked to the dressing table, and clipped the tiny picture back to the mirror.

  “Auf wiedersehen, Franz. Until we meet again.”

  *

  Within four days of Franz’s burial, Katherine took the first step back. She went out with Jimmy Phillips to purchase a metallic gold Jaguar sedan to replace the car destroyed in the fire. She used it to drive the children to and from school during the last couple of weeks before the summer break. She welcomed the trips for the opportunity to get out of the crowded house and be alone with Henry and Joanne. She thought they were accepting the situation surprisingly well, living in their grandfather’s home, being surrounded by people who constantly spoiled them. They barely had time to sit around and reflect, and when they did, it was only, as children are wont to do, to think of the future.

  “Will you ever marry again?” Henry asked his mother on the way home one day.

  Katherine glanced in the mirror at her son sharing the back seat of the new Jaguar with his younger sister. “Why do you ask that, Henry?”

  “We learned at school today about King Henry the Eighth. He was married six times, did you know that?”

  “Yes, I was aware of King Henry’s six marriages. And as for your question, it’s not something I’ve thought about.”

  Henry refused to let go. “But if you did think about it, Mummy — would you get married again?”

  Katherine gave the question a moment of serious thought. John Saxon popped into her mind. Although he telephoned every day, she had not seen him since the funeral. She wanted to see him, but there was so much else to be accomplished first, so many other threads of her life to be knitted back together. Saxon, despite her feelings for him, would be one of the final threads. She had told him that over the telephone, and he had claimed to understand. She hoped he really did.

  “Well, Mummy?” Henry pressured. “Would you?”

  “If I loved someone enough, I might consider it.”

  Joanne piped up. “Will we have to call him daddy?”

  “No.” Katherine’s answer was quite emphatic. “Only one person ever deserved that title. If I married a thousand more times, you’d never call anyone daddy again.”

  “A thousand more times . . .” Henry’s voice dissolved in a fit of giggles as he and his sister curled up helplessly on the back seat of the Jaguar. Katherine smiled to herself; their laughter was a healthy sign.

  She related the story of the thousand marriages that night while sitting at the long table in the dining roo
m with her father and Sally Roberts, who had joined them for dinner. Since the funeral, Sally had become a frequent dinner guest. Katherine could never make up her mind whether the increased visits were her father’s idea — that Katherine would appreciate the regular company of the woman who was the closest thing in her life to a mother — or Sally’s own notion. Either way she welcomed them.

  “Sounds like the children are recovering very well,” Sally said. “How about yourself?”

  “I’ll go back to work in a few weeks. Start looking for somewhere to live as well, before my current landlord evicts me.”

  Through the dining-room door came the ringing of the telephone. Moments later, Arthur Parsons entered the room. “For you, Miss Katherine. The American gentleman.”

  “Mr. Barnhill? Thank you, Mr. Parsons.” When Saxon made his daily call, Parsons always used the full name, ringing it out like a toastmaster introducing guests to a receiving line. “Mr. . . . John . . . Saxon!” But when Raymond Barnhill telephoned every few days, Parsons referred to him, in a gently disapproving tone, as “the American gentleman.” God, so much snobbery still existed in Britain . . .!

  Excusing herself to Sally and Roland, Katherine went into the drawing room to take the call. “Raymond?”

  “Didn’t interrupt dinner, did I? The old boy sounded even frostier than usual.”

  “We were just finishing, and I do wish you’d stop referring to Mr. Parsons as ‘the old boy’. He’s a very sweet gentleman, who feels protective because he’s known me since I was fourteen.”

  “I just called to see how you were bearing up.”

  “I’m spending a lot of time with my children, and being with them makes me feel better every day. In fact, I just decided that I’m going back to work in a couple of weeks.”

  “Can I have dibs on your first free lunchtime?”

  “Dibs?”

  “A claim. Don’t you know any American slang?”

  “No wonder Mr. Parsons disapproves of you.”

  She spent a couple of minutes on the telephone with Barnhill, talking about everything and nothing. When she said goodbye and returned to the dining room, she was smiling. The American had not lost his ability to make her laugh.

  Chapter Fifteen

  AT THE BEGINNING of August, little more than a month after the tragic fire, Katherine returned to the Daily Eagle. The children seemed to have weathered the loss of their father, and she felt confident enough to leave them while she went back to work. They were in the middle of their long summer vacation, and were kept busy by constant outings with Edna and Jimmy Phillips.

  Nothing had happened concerning her special assignment during the time she’d been away. The British Patriotic League had been extraordinarily quiet. Brian Waters said that he had not heard anything in his position as group commander of the British Brigade, and Gerald Waller informed Katherine that the police had drawn a complete blank in their investigation of the booby-trapped posters. The secret of the British Brigade’s pedigree still belonged to Katherine.

  She spent the week by catching up with people she had not seen for more than a month. On her first day back, she lunched with Erica Bentley, who brought her up to date with Eagle gossip. The following day, she had lunch with Raymond Barnhill. For once, the American did not amuse her. His own news was disappointing — the first two publishers to see his book had rejected it — and Katherine did her best to cheer him up. On Wednesday, she lunched with John Saxon.

  “God, it’s wonderful to see you again,” Saxon greeted her. “How do you feel?”

  “A little bit numb still, a little empty.”

  “Katherine, I know this has been the most miserable time of your life,” Saxon said, his voice full of sympathy. “It’s also been the loneliest, longest few weeks of mine.”

  “I missed you, too, but I couldn’t bring myself to see anyone. I just wanted to be with my children.”

  He held her hand. “There’s no need to explain. I understand perfectly. How are Henry and Joanne?”

  Saxon’s interest in the children he’d never seen warmed Katherine, and she leaned across the restaurant table to kiss him. “They’re just fine. And so am I.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “There is. I want to start looking for a new house, and I can’t think of a nicer, more knowledgeable escort than you.”

  “I’d be delighted to help,” Saxon said. “We’ll begin this weekend. Instead of going to Henley, I’ll stay in town, contact a few estate agents. How does ten o’clock on Saturday sound?”

  “Fine. And perhaps, if you’re not busy, we could have dinner together afterward.”

  “I’d like that very much.”

  That evening, Katherine told her father of her decision to begin house-hunting. His interest sharpened when she mentioned that Saxon would be accompanying her.

  “Kathy, I never did ask you why John Saxon attended the funeral. Nor did I ask why he’s been telephoning so regularly since then. If it’s none of my business, feel free to tell me, but does something exist between the pair of you?”

  Katherine nodded. “It started soon after Franz came home.” When she started to relate how she had met Saxon at the hotel opening, Roland raised a hand.

  “I’m only concerned about one thing, Kathy — what do you feel for him?”

  “I don’t know. Every other feeling has been so shaken up, that I’m not sure what any emotion means anymore.”

  “Kathy, you’re still a very young woman. You’ve got all the time in the world. Don’t rush into anything.”

  She kissed her father. “Don’t worry; I won’t.”

  Saxon was as punctual as a fine Swiss watch. At precisely ten on Saturday morning, he arrived in the maroon Rolls Royce at Roland Eagles’s home. William, the dark-skinned chauffeur, remained at the wheel while Saxon rang the bell.

  “I’ll get it!” Katherine called out before Arthur Parsons could answer the summons. She wanted to be the one to greet Saxon, to welcome him into her father’s home. This was a big day for Katherine, and starting the search for a new home was just a part of it. She wanted to see how Saxon and her father got on together. They had met before, through business, and at Franz’s funeral. Today was different. They were meeting, for the first time, on a social level. And, quite possibly, on the level of a concerned father confronting his daughter’s next husband . . .! It was important for Katherine that they hit it off.

  She opened the door. Saxon’s fawn herringbone sportcoat and brown trousers were as exquisitely tailored as any of his suits. Katherine, in cords and a silk blouse, felt shabby by comparison.

  “Good morning, madam. I have some properties in which I trust you’ll be interested.”

  “And good morning to you. Come in and make yourself at home while I finish getting ready.” She pulled him into the house, guiding him toward the drawing room. “Daddy, we have a visitor.”

  Roland was sitting by the bay window, reading the newspaper. He stood up as his daughter brought Saxon into the room. The two men shook hands. Katherine waited just long enough to hear Saxon say that he had learned of half a dozen properties he thought were suitable for Katherine and her family, then she left the drawing room and went upstairs to finish dressing. Ten minutes later, hair in a youthful ponytail, and an Irish fisherman’s sweater covering the silk blouse, she was back in the drawing room. The scene had changed completely. Saxon was sitting down, a steaming cup of tea on the table next to his chair. A briefcase he had brought in from the Rolls Royce while Katherine was upstairs was now open on the floor. Brochures for half a dozen choice properties close to Hampstead Heath were spread out across one of the floral-print sofas. Roland, squeezed into one corner of the sofa, was examining them.

  “Anything you like, Daddy?”

  “I like them all.”

  “Thank God you’re not coming with us. I’ll be indecisive enough without any help from you.”

  “I don’t think John will allow you to be indecisive.
”

  Katherine glanced at Saxon, who gave her a slow wink. Obviously, he had used the ten minutes of Katherine’s absence to charm away any doubts her father harbored.

  “Shall we go?” Katherine asked.

  “What about your children? Surely they’re coming to look as well,” Saxon said. “As they’re going to be living in whatever house you choose, shouldn’t their opinion also be heard?”

  “Of course.” Katherine tried to bite back a huge smile. She had been waiting . . . hoping that Saxon would make the suggestion. She wanted him and the children to get to know each other, but she had not felt comfortable about pushing the idea. Despite her effort to suppress it, the smile burst out. She turned it in her father’s direction, and Roland nodded in understanding. “They’re playing in the back garden. Come and meet them.”

  Katherine led Saxon through the house. Henry and Joanne were riding bicycles across the flagstone patio. Where the lawn abutted the patio, the carefully manicured grass was gouged with a criss-cross of tire marks. “As much as my father loves his grandchildren,” Katherine said, “I think he will be very grateful when we all pack up and leave.”

  The cycles stopped as the children saw the strange man with their mother. “Henry, Joanne, come here. I want you to meet a very dear friend of mine. He’s going to take us all out today to look at houses. Would you like that?”

  “Hello . . .” Saxon took a step toward Henry. “I’m John Saxon. You must be Henry. And you” — he turned toward the little blond girl — “have to be Joanne. I’m very pleased to meet you both.”

  The children shook his hand. As they stared at him, still uncertain, Saxon dipped a hand into his pocket. It came out, holding two brightly colored novelty watches. One, with a pink band, he presented to Joanne; the other, with a blue band, he gave to Henry. Hearing her children gush out their thanks, Katherine knew that Saxon had won them over as surely as he had won over her father. As the children put away their bicycles, Katherine asked Saxon how he had broken the ice with Roland.