by John Jakes
On the east side of the hall, directly opposite the front entrance, six glass doors with ornate bronze fittings opened on a wide loggia. This overlooked a well-tended lawn and provided a breathtaking view of the sea. As Will faced the loggia, a sweeping main staircase was on his left. On his right he saw four closed doors behind a splashing fountain recessed into the floor. Like the walls, the floor was marble quarried in Europe.
Mrs. Pennel next led him to the morning room, but he could no longer absorb or appreciate most of what she said. His mind was already numbed by the size and extravagance of the so-called cottage. Still, in room after room he was forced to murmur compliments about wall facings of Campan marble, inlays of green Spanish leather stamped in gold, panels of Circassian walnut, mosaics painstakingly created in Rome. He spent ten minutes studying a hooded fireplace. It took that long just to discover all the tiny, exceedingly realistic human figures in medieval costume which ornamented the stone chimneypiece.
His hostess was relentless. She showed him gilt furniture, intricate metalwork, Flemish tapestries, porphyry vases, grisaille. She said Richard Hunt had personally supervised every detail, right down to selection of the furnishings. “And we still don’t know the total cost of the house. It will be somewhere above ten million.”
Will felt like a guest at a banquet, sick from too many courses. He could only smile in a bleary way and murmur, “It’s very beautiful, Mrs. Pennel.” Laura’s mother nodded happily to acknowledge the remark—as if it was exactly what she’d expected to hear.
To his relief, the hostess’s tour didn’t extend beyond the first floor. Marcus accompanied him upstairs. The second floor, in contrast, was comfortable, and much less ostentatious. Obviously the largest amount of money had been spent where the results would show. Now that Will’s astonishment was passing, he decided he didn’t like the house much. It had all the warmth of a museum.
Marcus seemed quite at home, however. He threw himself down on the bed in Will’s quarters—a bedroom with adjoining tiled bath. A servant was already waiting when they walked in. The man stood motionless in a corner.
Marcus pointed through the bathroom door to a gigantic, claw-footed marble tub with four faucets of fluted silver. “Two are plain water collected from the cisterns. The others give you salt water, hot or cold, in case you’d like a romp in the ocean without leaving your room.”
Will couldn’t help laughing. “Good Lord—what other wonders do you have in store?”
“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m the main decoration in here—” He indicated a marble statue on a freestanding Ionic column. The statue, two feet high, represented a small boy. He had a lot of curly hair, wore a classic toga, and was pensively gazing at a bunch of grapes in his hand.
“They had that done for my fifth birthday,” Marcus added.
“That’s you?”
“Of course.” He rose and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, his smile faintly condescending. “If you mean to be part of the Pennel family, old chap, you must get used to this sort of thing. Take it in stride without letting your jaw drop. One favor, though—”
He changed position so that his back was toward the waiting servant. The man’s gaze was fixed on the ceiling frescoes, which featured plump female personifications of the four seasons.
“Don’t say anything about”—he mouthed the rest—“the shacker. Eh?” Another brotherly squeeze, and he started out. “This gentleman standing so still is named Ridgely. He will gladly draw a bath or lay out new linen. Just tell him what you want. We’ll expect you downstairs in a little while.”
After Marcus strolled out, Will studied the bedroom more closely. It had no closets, but there was a large and elaborate armoire. He said to the servant, “Unpack my things and put them in there, if you please.”
Instantly, he was ashamed of the arrogance that had crept into his voice. The man called Ridgely didn’t seem to mind. He evidently expected the owners of the marble cottage as well as their guests to behave as if they were superior to everyone else on earth.
ii
Twenty minutes later, Will went downstairs carrying his camera. Another servant informed him that luncheon would be served at two. Meantime, a light appetizer was available: local whitefish, lobster in wine, freshly roasted corn. He politely turned it down and joined Marcus outside in the formal garden.
The garden was sunken, laid out in parterre on the south side of the mansion. Will counted nine gardeners at work on the Pennel property. Some were planting new pin oaks out near the avenue, some were trimming the Japanese maples and Chinese ginkgoes and African blue cedars closer to the house. Two were weeding around a row of copper beeches which partially hid the lot to the south. There, about a hundred bare-chested workmen sweated with picks and shovels, digging the foundation of another cottage. A dozen horse-drawn tip carts carried off the excavated dirt. Dust billowed, and almost continuous swearing counterpointed the crash of the waves below the Cliff Walk.
Will concentrated on composing a snapshot. “A little to the left, Marcus. By that bench. I want to get a picture of you while the light is—”
Feminine laughter mingled with the sound of hooves and iron wheel rims in the driveway. Will turned, drawing a quick breath as Laura jumped down from a carriage crowded with six other girls. Laura was the only one who hadn’t changed her bathing costume before coming home.
The carriage turned around and rattled back toward the gate. Laura barely waved at her departing friends; she was looking at him.
Her hair streamed out above her shoulders as she ran barefoot into the garden. She carried sandals and an embroidered bag. True to his expectations, the sight of her bathing costume was almost unbearably erotic; demure as it was, it revealed far more of her figure than did her everyday clothes.
It was serge, dark blue, and trimmed with white pique. It consisted of a snug-fitting, high-necked dress whose hem reached to midthigh, and matching drawers gathered below the knee. Of course the bathing costume wasn’t damp. Proper young ladies didn’t go to the beach to swim or get a sunburn. They went to meet their friends and gossip— and always under a sunshade.
Even taking that into consideration, Laura’s skin was abnormally white. Her lack of color disturbed him. Was she ill?
She rushed straight to him, her breasts bouncing in the serge bodice. “Oh, Will. How delicious to see you!”
She flung her arm around his neck, pressed her cheek against his. Will’s hand strayed to her waist, plump and uncorseted. She let him hold her a moment, then stepped back, depositing her sandals and bag on the bench.
She sat down, her hair blown in the wind that made a hissing sound in nearby clumps of junipers. “I’ve been anticipating this moment for days and days. I couldn’t sleep last night just thinking of it.”
“It’s grand to be here, Laura. This place is breathtaking.”
She jumped up again, taking his arm and leaning in close enough for him to feel her breast against his forearm. For a moment her gray eyes seemed to convey frank sexual desire. The reaction of his body was instantaneous. He didn’t dare glance down to see whether it was noticeable.
“I’m so happy you like it, my dear.” She led him toward the arches of the small south porch. Marcus followed. “You must learn every nook and cranny of the cottage. All of us hope you’ll spend your summers here for a long, long time.”
Behind them, Marcus laughed. “Damned if that doesn’t sound like a proposal.”
Her voice was airy. “Does it?” She concentrated on a cloud. “Interpret it any way you wish, gentlemen.”
Elated, Will said, “I’m supposed to do any proposing that’s necessary.”
She squeezed his arm. “Ah, but you’re such a shy one, I’m forced to be bold.”
“It really must be love,” Marcus said with good-humored sarcasm. “Look here, you two.”
They turned. He was holding Will’s camera in his left hand, Laura’s bag and sandals in the other. “Have you forgotten
your own names, too?”
Will laughed. “Nearly.” His father certainly thought so.
They strolled into the house, talking about the beautiful weather, his trip, her outing at Easton’s Beach. Marcus continued to amble along behind the young couple, eyeing Will in a thoughtful way. A satisfied, almost smug expression settled on his face, exactly as if some prearranged plan was working to perfection.
iii
What Mrs. Pennel termed “a simple midday meal” consisted of six courses including poached salmon, rack of lamb, and filets de boeuf aux truffes et champignons— “Mr. McAllister’s recipe.” There were numerous side dishes as well, the whole served by half a dozen footmen in Pennel livery.
The dining room was another of those caverns whose size and opulence elevated an ordinary human function to something of a rite. Its ceiling, too, was two stories high, decorated with murals of dawn and dusk. From the ceiling hung a pair of mammoth crystal chandeliers equipped for gas and also wired for the less dependable electricity. Columns of red Numidian marble with gilt capitals were ranged all around the walls. An intricately carved fireplace trimmed in silver leaf dominated one end of the room. At the other was a large window overlooking the Atlantic.
Storm clouds were darkening the horizon out there, Will noticed. He was hot and a little dizzy from all the red and white wines served with the various courses. Still the dutiful guest, he’d taken a glass of each.
The dining table was a square of carved mahogany with inlays of satinwood. There were five chairs with red damask upholstery at each side. The table could be expanded to seat forty, Mrs. Pennel had informed him. But even in its normal configuration, it dwarfed the four diners. Marcus was opposite his mother, Will across from Laura.
She had changed to a fluffy summer organdy and tied her hair with a lavender ribbon. Despite her odd pallor, she looked beautiful. But he began to notice that she occasionally darted worried or questioning glances at. her mother. She was clearly under some strain. Could it have anything to do with that shacker’s remark about—?
No. He wouldn’t even entertain such a thought.
During the meal conversation ranged over a variety of innocuous topics. Mrs. Pennel asked about Will’s studies, but her attention to his answers struck him as perfunctory at best. She preferred speaking to listening. Will concluded that she was chiefly interested in herself and the impression she made as mistress of Maison du Soleil.
For that reason, anything pertaining to Society claimed her full attention. This was brought home while the dessert ices were being served.
Laura abruptly clapped her hands and said, “Will—did Marcus remember to tell you about Mrs. Astor’s ball?”
“That I might get an invitation? Yes, indeed.”
Mrs. Pennel beamed. “That’s wonderful news, don’t you think?”
He did his best to show enthusiasm. “Wonderful.”
Mrs. Pennel leaned forward, her eyes bright. “Perhaps Mrs. Astor will even invite the two of you to her divan for a chat. Every year she favors a few of her ball guests that way. Should you and Laura be chosen for that honor, your position would be secure for life.”
How seriously she made the statement. As if such a thing truly mattered—
Then he wondered what was wrong with his own attitude. Here he was, on the threshold of gaining everything he wanted in the way of prestige and position, and he found himself being cynical about the whole business.
A cigar in his mouth, Marcus leaned back in his chair and waited for one of the footmen to rush forward with a match. When he had the cigar going, he blew out a puff of smoke and asked in a slurred voice, “What are you children planning to do the rest of the day?”
Mrs. Pennel coughed and waved her hand in front of her face. “The afternoon is occupied, Marcus. You know that.”
He grimaced. “I thought that in view of Will’s arrival, we could skip the dreary business of exchanging visiting cards.” To Will: “You drive up and down the Avenue. The footmen carry the cards inside. No one else ever leaves the carriage. Believe me, it’s two hours of absolute torture.”
“Nevertheless,” said Mrs. Pennel, “it is one of the Newport proprieties, and we observe it.”
Will didn’t intend to argue. But Marcus had put away a large amount of wine, and he didn’t hesitate. “Good God, Mama—I’m sure Will would rather take Laura driving. He’s a first-class whip, you know.”
Uninterested in the accomplishments of her guest, Mrs. Pennel gave her son a withering look. Will tried to keep the conversation going on a note of modesty. “Well, I do enjoy coaching—”
“Have you always liked horses?” Laura asked.
“Yes, as long as I can remember. I got some fine experience with wild mustangs when I was out west on Mr. Roosevelt’s ranch.”
Mrs. Pennel reacted as if he’d uttered a filthy word. “I believe you mentioned something about that once before. You’re speaking of Mr. Theodore Roosevelt, are you not?”
“That’s correct.”
“He’s become quite a champion of the unwashed. Most of us who summer here consider him a traitor to his class. There is no more serious crime.” She pressed heavily beringed hands on the polished wood. “Are you still friendly with Roosevelt?”
At first he evaded. “I haven’t seen him in a year or so. He’s in Washington, you know.”
Out on the Atlantic, thunder boomed in the depths of massing clouds. Will was disgusted with himself. Politeness was one thing, cowardice quite another. His love for Laura was threatening to turn him into a gutless sycophant.
Mrs. Pennel responded to his last statement with a chilling smile. “No, I don’t know. I never keep track of people who prove themselves unworthy of the trust of their peers.”
It was said quietly, but it was scathing. She’d gone too far.
“I happen to admire Mr. Roosevelt, Mrs. Pennel.”
Marcus again leaned back in his chair, enjoying the confrontation. Laura looked upset. Her mother’s smile never wavered. But her hostility was evident. Will was sure she’d never forgive his remark.
Somehow, he didn’t care. He disliked the small, stiffnecked woman even more than he disliked her house. With amazement, he recalled how shy she’d seemed the first time they met. But Laura had warned him that her manner was deceptive, and he’d seen evidence the night she humiliated her husband because he’d told a dirty story. She continued to stare. Now Mrs. Pennel stared at Will as if she expected him to cave in too. He didn’t, which made her seethe.
“Young man, I’ve always believed one should be charitable, and overlook a few faults in others, provided those faults are not too obnoxious.” Her eyes flashed. “I regret to say I find your defense of Roosevelt very obnoxious indeed.”
“Mama, that’s rude!” Laura burst out.
“Is it? I’m so sorry.”
But she wasn’t. The dining room had grown dark. Storm clouds were racing in from the Atlantic. Outside, shrubs and trees began to bend, lashed by wind out of the northeast.
Mrs. Pennel continued. “I was only trying to be candid. If Will wishes an opportunity to become a part of this family, he should know what the family expects of him.” Abruptly, she fixed her gaze on him. “Unacceptable opinions or behavior will not be tolerated.”
Thunder boomed. The large window whined under the buffeting of the wind. Caps of white water had appeared on the ocean.
Having spoken her mind, Mrs. Pennel now changed the subject. “It will rain soon. I fear the afternoon drive is ruined.”
There was venom in Laura’s eyes as she said, “Along with other things!” She jumped up, overturning her chair. It fell with a crash before a servant could catch it. She ran from the room.
“Come back here!” Mrs. Pennel called. The hollow sound of footsteps on marble was all the answer she received.
Marcus scowled at the ash of his cigar. Will sat motionless. There were strange emotional currents swirling around him. Something was very wrong in the Pennel hous
e.
CHAPTER VI
WHISPERS
i
THE RAIN CAME POURING down then. For the next two hours, Marcus and Will shot billiards.
Even a room devoted solely to amusement had been planned and furnished with spendthrift magnificence. The billiard room had walls of gray-green Cippolino marble. Six-foot bronze candelabra stood in the four corners. The table was a Baumgarten, of Central American mahogany.
Marcus’ only reference to the tempers on display in the dining room was a nonchalant one. “You’ll have to excuse Mother and Laura. Both of them have been extremely upset lately.”
“Is it impolite to ask why?”
“Not at all. But I don’t think I should answer. It’s a family matter. I believe it’s your shot, old boy.”
Presently a servant brought word that both Mrs. Pennel and Laura were still indisposed. Will received the news in disappointed silence.
Marcus excused himself, pleading another engagement. Will roamed the first floor, hoping Laura would suddenly appear on the staircase. The rain continued to fall. Night came on and the gas fixtures were lit. Still no sign of her.
Will wandered to the gloomy, dark-paneled library. Servants looked in from time to time to see to his needs, but he wanted nothing to eat or drink. By eight-thirty it was already pitch-dark because of the storm. He gave up and went to his room.
Passing a closed door, he heard female voices raised. Though he knew he shouldn’t, he stopped to listen.
“—can handle the matter. But not if you’re rude to him!” That was Laura.
“I’m sorry. I lost my temper. You know how I feel about turncoats like Roosevelt.” Laura’s mother. Her next words were muffled. Then Will heard, “—has let me down. So many problems at the same time—”
“Well, you mustn’t allow nerves to ruin the solution we devised for mine. This is one case in which you can’t simply dictate the outcome, Mama. It must be carefully—”
A thunderclap shook the cottage. Beyond a massive marble railing to Will’s left, a grotesque shadow grew on the wall of the landing below. A servant must be coming upstairs.