Tears were coursing unrestrainedly down Nancy’s cheeks.
‘He had his revenge, though. He told me if I ever stood for mayor again he would let the city know the truth about my birth. He had gone to the trouble of obtaining copies of Killaree parish records. He had the proof of my father’s marriage to Maura’s sister. There was nothing I could do.’
‘Not even when they were dead?’ Nancy whispered.
There was none of the usual bluff and bluster that was so much a part of his personality. Instead, he had a quiet dignity. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Their memory was alive. It still is.’
She rose unsteadily to her feet and crossed to the window. After a while she returned to the bed and said, ‘It’s a horrible story. I wish I hadn’t forced you to tell me. But it doesn’t make any difference to the way Ramon and I feel about each other. Ramon isn’t his father. If you met him, you would realize that.’
‘It’s my turn to be sorry, Nancy. I don’t believe I’ve ever hurt you in my life, but I’m going to now.’
He struggled to reach his personal possessions, scattered on the locker top. There was very little there: only the contents of his pockets.
‘Let me get it,’ she said as he knocked his watch on to the floor. ‘What is it you want?’
‘The envelope,’ he said with a gasp, falling back against the pillows. ‘Read that and then tell me that you’re still going away with Ramon Sanford.’
It was a cheap envelope. Charlie didn’t go in for fancy stationery. The paper inside bore no letter-heading and no address. The date was scrawled large. January 18th. The day after she had left New York. There was no usual ‘Dear Sir’or ‘Dear Chips’, simply a bald statement reading:
Mrs O’Shaughnessy spent the night of the 15th and 16th at the apartment. Prior to that she stayed on unspecified dates in November. Your New York chauffeur [and I’d get rid of him if I were you] says the affair began some time in the summer.
‘I don’t think I should read any more,’ Nancy said. She had never liked Gloria but it was distasteful being privy to her private life.
‘Read it,’ her father commanded, his eyes like gimlets.
Uncomfortably Nancy read on.
Mrs O’Shaughnessy arrived at the apartment at 11 am this morning. They left together five hours later and it was then that the photograph was taken. Considering the identity of the gentleman in question, I’m not coming straight back to Boston, but will stay around for a couple of days. There was no signature.
She handed the letter back to him. He made no move to take it. ‘The photograph,’ he said, implacably.
It lay shiny and stiff in the envelope. Reluctantly, she drew it out. It had been taken at dusk and was grainy and slightly out of focus.
His hand was cupping Gloria’s fur-coated arm and she was looking up at him, her lips slightly parted as if she was speaking. Behind them the glass façade of the apartment block glittered like a Christmas toy. Even the doorman could be seen clearly, his hand raised deferentially to his peaked cup. She gazed at the print stupidly, not understanding.
‘They make a nice couple, don’t they?’ Chips’voice was distorted by pain.
‘But I was with him,’ she said, not understanding, staring blankly from the letter to the photograph.
‘I doubt if he’s a once-a-day man,’ her father said cruelly.
‘No!’ She shook her head, backing away from the bed. ‘No! It isn’t possible. There’s some mistake …’
‘There’s no mistake. Ask Gloria. I did.’ He blanched at the memory.
‘No!’ Her hands groped blindly behind her, seeking something solid to hold on to. Feeling was returning: a cold flood of ice; ice and snow; snow and death. She was shaking. She felt as if she had been hit by a cyclone, yet the room around her remained unchanged. The clinically-white walls and pristine coverlet on the bed, the oxygen mask and cylinders were all in the same place they had been moments ago. Her father remained propped up against the pillows as if nothing had happened.
‘Nancy!’
There was a clatter as she backed into a metal trolley, instruments flying.
‘Nancy!’ He was half out of the bed as the door was flung open and a regiment of nurses rushed in.
‘No!’ She was at the door, clinging to it for support.
‘Call Dr Trevors.’
‘I really must ask you to get back into bed, Mayor.’
‘Nurse Smith, help sister with the mayor. Is Dr Trevors here yet?’
‘Disgraceful behaviour.’
‘Your father is a very sick man.’
The bubble of voices rose and swelled.
‘Are you all right, Mrs Cameron?’
‘Fetch Mrs Cameron a chair.’
‘Thank goodness you’re here, Doctor.’
‘Nancy!’
‘A new needle, Sister. Thank you.’
‘Nancy!’ Her father’s voice was a bellow over the cacophony around her.
‘Please sit down, Mrs Cameron. You look most unwell.’
Her face was immobile. Her lips were white. She was frozen and she knew she would never be warm again.
‘NANCY!’ His roar was curtailed sharply as Dr Trevors pushed the needle home.
‘Goddamn it to hell! NANCY!’ His voice followed her as she stumbled down the corridor. January 18th. Gloria had been at his apartment only hours after she had left. He had been laughing at her: laughing at her father. Playing a sick, crazy game that was beyond her understanding.
‘Where to, Mrs Cameron?’ her father’s chauffeur asked.
‘Home.’ Home, where she could lick her wounds in private.
The chauffeur was about to ask after the mayor and decided not to. By the expression on Mrs Cameron’s face, the mayor was dead. He sped down Tremont Street. The news-stands already had headlines of the mayor’s collapse. The domed roof of the State House glowed a dull bronze as they accelerated towards it. On his left-hand side the common was bleak, the branches of the trees stark against the winter sky. The cobbles of Beacon Street slowed him down as he climbed towards Louisberg Square.
She went straight to the room that had been hers when a child and which was always kept ready for her. She locked the door, pulled the heavy velvet drapes and, still wrapped in her furs, lay down on the bed. She was shivering uncontrollably.
Gloria and Ramon: Ramon and Gloria. Not Lady Linderdowne or Princess Marinsky, but her father’s wife. Her stepmother. She wanted to cry but could not. Her pain was too deep to be assuaged by tears. She wanted to think but could think no further than that she was utterly alone. No husband: no Verity: no Ramon. When she slept it was her body’s sub-conscious self-defence mechanism going into action. The only way she could survive was by rendering herself unconscious. Hours later, when she awoke and pulled back the drapes, the square was in darkness. For the next three days she remained in the room, deaf to pleas to open the door and allow food to be brought in. Her father’s doctor was summoned and left unseen by Nancy. Seamus stood outside the door and told her that her father was recovering and only remained in hospital under brute force. Everyone thought that her behaviour was due to guilt. It had been the row between father and daughter that had brought on the heart attack, and it was to be expected that a lady as sensitive as Mrs Cameron would feel the responsibility heavily. Even so, her reaction was thought to be decidedly extreme and gave cause for concern.
She emerged only hours before the mayor returned with a bevy of private nurses from the hospital. His swagger was a little lacking, but his chin jutted determinedly and his manner was as snappy and brusque as when he was in the best of health. It was Mrs Cameron who looked as if she had just had a brush with death. There were hollows beneath her cheeks and the thick sweep of her lashes emphasized her unnatural pallor. Her eyes were wide and tragic and hauntingly beautiful.
‘Garbo,’ the cook said to the rest of the interested staff, ‘she looks just like Garbo.’
Her father felt strangely ill-at-ease with her. She was n
o longer his Nancy. She had become detached and there was an inner stillness about her that unnerved him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said awkwardly, when they were alone together.
‘There’s no need to be.’ She ignored the Martini he had mixed and picked sparingly at the food on her plate.
‘What are you going to do? Go back to the Cape?’
She looked surprised. ‘No. I’ve left there for good.’
Chips wasn’t accustomed to feeling out of his depth. ‘What about Jack? He’s on his way here.’
She gave a small smile. ‘He hardly dropped everything in the rush, did he? His wife tells him she is leaving him, his father-in-law has a heart attack, and three days later when his convention has drawn to a satisfactory close, he graces us with his presence.’
‘Chicago was important.’
‘Of course,’ Nancy said dispassionately. ‘It was politics.’
Chips downed his Martini and poured himself a sensible brandy. ‘Where will you go then?’
‘To Zia.’
Chips spluttered into his glass.
‘I shall never see Ramon again, but I want to feel close to him. For a little while. I’m going to Madeira and Sanfords.’
Chips wondered if the shock of Charlie Daubenay’s letter had unhinged his daughter’s mind.
‘Goddamn it to hell! If you go there you’re bound to meet him!’
‘No I’m not,’ she replied calmly. ‘Zia has barred him until he marries a nice girl. Madeira is the last place on earth that I am likely to meet Ramon.’
‘But Sanfords! After all they’ve done to us.’
‘Zia,’ Nancy corrected.
He stared at her helplessly and she could see the longing creep into his eyes. For a second she thought he was going to abandon Boston and join her.
‘It’s a long time since you saw her,’ he said.
‘Not since my honeymoon.’
Chips had forgotten that Nancy and Jack had honeymooned at Sanfords. He felt as if he were walking in a swamp.
‘Then why of all places …?’
‘Zia has always been kind to me,’ Nancy said, rising to her feet. ‘Ever since I was a little girl. Right now I could do with a little of Zia’s kindness.’
She put on her coat. ‘I can’t stay here. Gloria may return at any moment and even if she doesn’t, she’s only in Jamaica Plain. I can hardly forget her existence. I’ve no desire to see Jack and become involved in endless arguments. I simply haven’t the strength. My bags are packed and the Mauretania sails at midnight. Your secretary managed to get me a state room. It was a last minute cancellation by Teddy Stuyvesant. It seems he’s going to marry Consuelo at last.’ She gave a tiny smile. The world that held Teddy Stuyvesant and Consuelo seemed light years away. ‘I’m taking Maria with me. Morris and Collins will return to the Cape.’
She slipped her arms around his neck and he hugged her tightly.
‘It won’t be for long,’ he said gruffly.
‘No,’ she said, knowing it would be forever. ‘Goodbye, Daddy.’ She fought back her tears, kissed his cheek and left the room.
Five minutes later she was travelling south, her Rolls suffused in garish light as the setting sun sank bloodily behind the city’s skyline.
Chapter Seven
‘Only another day’s sailing and we’ll be there.’
Nancy raised her eyes from the letter she was writing and smiled across at her cousin, Vere Winterton.
‘And then what will you do? Continue on to the Canaries?’
He grinned. ‘The Canaries, dear Nancy, were nothing but a ruse to get you on board.’
‘You mean you never intended sailing there at all?’
He grinned again, his short blond hair ruffled by the Atlantic breeze.
‘No.’
‘You never intended sailing anywhere?’
‘No.’
Nancy tried to look indignant and failed. Vere laughed and crossed the deck to where she sat. ‘Dearest Nancy, would you have come if I had said I was putting the Rosslyn under sail just for you?’
‘Of course I wouldn’t. I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous.’
He took her hand and kissed it, and the smile on his face was tender.
‘Exactly. So subterfuge was necessary if I wanted your company for a little longer.’
‘There was a time when you couldn’t bear my company,’ Nancy said with an answering smile. ‘The last time I was at Molesworth you avoided me like the plague.’
‘The last time you were at Molesworth you had an insufferable American husband in tow,’ Vere replied drily.
‘My grandmother liked him. She said we could stay at Molesworth whenever we wanted.’
‘Grandmother was simply vastly relieved that her American grandson-in-law was an improvement on her American son-in-law.’
‘My mother’s side of the family are snobs,’ Nancy said, sliding the unfinished letter into her writing case.
‘Of course we are,’ Vere replied affably. ‘We’re English.’
Nancy laughed. ‘It was a pity grandmother died so soon after my marriage. Jack was very impressed with Molesworth. He would have liked to visit again.’
‘But not with the new incumbent as host?’
‘Not when the new incumbent never invited him.’
‘I never invite anybody. I’m a recluse.’
‘You’re a tease,’ Nancy said, laughing again. ‘I wish I understood you better.’
‘Dear Nancy, I’m an open book.’
‘You’re not and you know it. Why did you attempt to renounce your peerage?’
He leaned back in his wicker chair, one leg across his knee, his face upturned to the sun, his eyes closed. ‘Because I wanted to sit in the Commons, not the Lords. I wanted to stand for Parliament, be elected and be a force to be reckoned with.’
‘And isn’t Vere Winterton, Seventh Duke of Meldon, a force to be reckoned with?’
‘No, merely a cipher.’
Nancy looked across at him, a slight frown furrowing her brow. She didn’t know her cousin well. The last few days was the longest she had ever spent in his company. When she and Jack had honeymooned in Europe and visited her mother’s ancestral home, Vere had been openly hostile. With her grandmother’s death there had been no further reason to visit Molesworth. On her subsequent trips to England she had always stayed at the Ritz and had never journeyed further than Cliveden. Vere had remained a mystery to her, which was a pity as she was finding him exceedingly likeable.
Sentimentality had seen to it that after her liner had berthed at Southampton and she had installed herself in her usual suite at the Ritz, she had made what almost felt like a pilgrimage, to Molesworth. Vere had asked her to stay, but Nancy had refused, explaining that she was only in England for a few days en route to Madeira. Vere had been delighted. It fell in perfectly with his plans. He was due to leave, at the end of the week, with a party aboard his sea-going yacht Rosslyn. Their destination was the Canaries. Madeira was literally on their way. In the short space of time between Nancy’s acceptance and the Rosslyn sailing, the large party which was to have contained the Falconers, the Cassells, Lord and Lady Dunledin, and Lord Clathmar diminished almost daily in size. The Cassells were indisposed; the Falconers detained by an impending lawsuit; the press lord had business elsewhere and Lord and Lady Dunledin simply failed to arrive. Vere had been unconcerned. The Rosslyn was crewed and the Rosslyn sailed.
Looking across to where he sat, face upturned to the sun, a slight smile on his lips, Nancy felt sure that the Rosslyn’s intended party had been nothing but a figment of Vere’s imagination. If she hadn’t been journeying on to Madeira, Vere would never have sailed anywhere. If she was correct in her assumptions, then he had moved with remarkable speed. The Rosslyn’s food equalled that of the Ritz; and there was nothing to indicate that she had sailed in a hurry.
The sun was warm after the snows of New York and the cold and damp of London. Nancy adjusted her card
igan and wondered whether she should finish her letter to Verity. It wasn’t a pleasurable task and she was quite relieved when Vere continued the conversation, saying idly:
‘What is it you’re running away from, Nancy?’
It was the first personal question he had asked her.
She said without any hesitation, ‘Nothing. I’ve spent the last few weeks facing up to things, not running away from them.’
His eyes were a warm grey as he looked across at her. ‘Sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘A pity. I was hoping for an exchange of confidences.’
She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. ‘What sort of confidences?’ she asked cautiously.
He shrugged. ‘Why you’re travelling alone. Why your eyes are sad when you think no one is looking at you. Why I have never mentioned Clarissa’s name.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because I can’t remember the last time I saw her.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. She’s in India at the moment. Before that it was Morocco.’
Despite the lightness of his voice, the lines around his mouth had hardened slightly. He was a year older than her; three years older than Ramon. He was tall and elegant, his sleek blond hair and immaculate moustache reminiscent of an aristocratic Douglas Fairbanks. He had the inbuilt confidence of a man who came from a certain social class. His self-assurance held none of the sensuality that Ramon’s did. At the thought of Ramon a knife turned in Nancy’s heart. She hadn’t looked at a newspaper since she had left Boston, in case it carried a picture of him. Imagining what he was doing, whom he was escorting, was torture enough: knowing for certain would be unendurable. She wondered for the hundredth time if going to Madeira was the right thing to do, and came up with the same answer. There was nowhere else for her to go: not Boston or Washington. Molesworth had never been a home to her and even Vere’s welcoming presence couldn’t turn it into one. The prospect of the Riviera chilled her. There would be too much false gaiety in the little enclaves at Cap Ferrat and at Cap d’Antibes. Too much Washington and New York gossip. She would not fit in. Her loneliness was too great.
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