‘Georgina and Charles,’ Georgina said, taking Tessa’s hand and immediately sensing her shyness.
Nancy could feel the blood pounding in her temples. A happy Zia was introducing her to Tessa. They were shaking hands. Ramon was beside her. Tessa’s eyes were shining as Nancy forced herself to smile and speak. Nancy was a heroine of hers. The kind of sophisticated beauty she so desperately wanted to emulate. Nancy was barely aware of her. Ramon’s hawk-like face was sardonic, the sparkling eyes as hard as agates. It seemed impossible that they had looked at her with laughter and desire and burning love.
‘Of course, you two haven’t met since childhood, have you?’ Zia was saying.
Tessa was laughing as Georgina put her at her ease.
‘We have,’ Ramon said, his eyes never flinching from hers. ‘Briefly.’
The physical impact of his words was even worse than the physical blow he had inflicted earlier. If she could have killed him she would have done so.
‘I barely remember,’ she said coolly and was rewarded by a flash of unconcealed fury.
Vere and Ramon had exchanged only the briefest of nods, and now, to Nancy’s intense gratitude, Vere excused himself and firmly walked her back on to the dance floor.
‘Insolent devil,’ he said beneath his breath. Ramon Sanford was the only man he had ever met who could make him feel as if he was walking a tightrope.
Nancy said nothing. She couldn’t trust herself to speak.
Lord Michaeljohn was back with his lady. Costas had reappeared and was exerting his charm on Samantha Hedly. Madeleine Mancini was dancing with Hassan. Bobo was sparkling overmuch and in the arms of Lord Carrington. Venetia and Luke Golding were once again gazing deep into each other’s eyes. Sonny had his arm proprietorially around Hildegarde. Viscountess Lothermere had re-emerged with a stray curl descending in the nape of her neck and a secretive smile on her face. Her viscount had been coerced into dancing and was performing very badly. Beatrice Carrington was held tightly to the chest of the royal Mr Blenheim. Madame Molière was flirting delicately with Charles Montcalm. Reggie Minter was whirling a sparkling-eyed Countess Szapary around the ballroom, while her husband glowered from beside a six-foot statue of a naked Venus. The Sultan of Mohore and Nicky were talking, heads close together. As she circled past them in Vere’s arms, Nicky raised his head. His eyes lit up at the sight of her. He had not been seen with Samantha for the whole of the evening. Tomorrow she knew he would intimate to Vere that they were more than close friends and that he was de trop. She had to decide whether to allow him to do so or whether to ask him to remain silent. Decisions, decisions. Her head ached.
Ramon passed within inches, Tessa held lovingly and protectively in his arms.
‘My sweet love,’ he was saying to her in an amused voice, the expression on his face one of tender indulgence.
She felt cold and sick and involuntarily stumbled.
‘I’m tired, Vere,’ she said apologetically as his grasp tightened.
‘Of course, your silly fall.’ He was concerned and at that moment she wanted to respond to him more than anything else in the world.
They weaved their way through the dancers and off the dance floor. As they made their exit Nicky’s eyes met hers, his brows raised slightly. No expression flitted across her face. She had no need to make any gestures. Nicky would be with her within the hour. Lovemaking would replace lonely sleeplessness.
Afterwards they lay in the vast bed amidst its tent of white chiffon looped with golden braid, and drank vermouth and Nicky told her something of his life as a prince of Mother Russia.
‘On my father’s side the Vasileyevs can trace their origins back to AD 850.’
‘On my mother’s side to AD 700,’ Nancy said, not to be outdone.
Nicky laughed, ‘Unfortunately my mother’s pedigree is not quite so unimpeachable. Her seize quartiers were non-existent. It was rumoured that she was born on the wrong side of one of the royal blankets and given to a Russian nobleman to rear. The rumour was strong enough to allow my father to marry her without social stigma. As a child I spent most of my time in Paris; my mother far preferred the French way of life to that of her own country. I did not share her preference. I lived only for the times we were in St Petersburg or on our family estate in the Crimea.’
His hand ruffled her hair, his voice was inexpressively sad. Not the vibrant, confident voice she was used to. She did not ask, but sensed that he rarely, if ever, spoke of his life before the Revolution or his exile. She lay in the crook of his arm, her bruised heart solaced by the intimacies he was revealing to her, bringing to the surface memories too painful to be spoken of lightly: memories of a way of life erased for ever.
‘The Vasileyev palace at Kuchersko was set in wooded foothills high above the sea. As a child I could stand at the highest window and as far as I could see the land was Vasileyev land: my land. The Tartars had their villages high in the hills. It was there that I learned to ride and infuriate my father by escaping my tutor and running wild. Lesser nobility had their summer dachas nearer the coast, so there was always congenial company. 1917 was the last summer we all spent there. Incredibly it was a gay and carefree one, for we expected the rebellion in the north to be dispersed within months. It wasn’t. Things grew worse. I was fourteen … too young to fight. My father was with the White Army defending Yalta. He died there. My lush, rose-clouded Crimea was transformed first by the Soviets and then, later by the Germans. When the British sent cruisers and destroyers in to rescue their own countrymen and the dowager empress, we went along with them. We and a hundred others. I did not want to go. I fought and struggled and tried to run away but a British officer despatched me aboard the HMS Marlborough as though I were no more than an inconvenient parcel – much to my mother’s weeping gratitude.’
He stared up at the ceiling where the first light of dawn was beginning to cast vague shadows. ‘I have never set foot on my native land again. But I will. We all will’
‘Poor Nicky,’ Her arms encircled him. ‘Will nowhere else ever be home?’
‘No. Only Russia is home.’
They remained in each other’s arms, silent and finally sleeping.
Ramon had known she would be there. He was practised in the art of meeting old and cast-off lovers. He did so smoothly and impertubedly and with a coolness that immediately quelled any vain hopes that the affaire might once more flare into life. When a woman went out of Ramon’s life she did so for ever.
His eyes had flickered across the plumes and feathers, jewels and decorations of the dancers with careless nonchalance. She was with her Englishman. He was gazing at her like a devoted puppy dog and she was smiling. He could feel every nerve, every muscle in his body tighten. Her smile was dazzling, generous, effortlessly sensuous, her mouth soft, ready to be kissed.
Their eyes met and held: velvet dark eyes that a man could drown in. He turned away and smiled down at Tessa who was gazing around with the disarming enjoyment of a child. His mother was talking animatedly and Charles was reflecting that if he hadn’t more sense, girls like Tessa Rossman could seriously disturb his peace of mind. Ramon was conscious only of Nancy.
She was dancing with Nicky now and Nicky had a familiar expression on his too handsome face. He took Tessa in his arms and danced nearer to them. Nearer and nearer. He could not see her but he could smell her perfume, hear the unmistakable tone of Nicky’s caressing voice.
‘My sweet love,’ he said to Tessa and waltzed her away, not having heard a word that she had been saying to him.
Zia did not see Nicky and Nancy’s discreet exit. Nor did the Montcalms or the Szaparys or anyone else with whom they had been laughing and talking. Ramon saw. He felt a blaze of anger rush through him, a blaze he had thought he had quenched. There was a word for women like her: an ugly word. He should feel sorry for her. He could feel nothing but the kind of fury that causes a man to kill.
They were with the sultan now. His mother was introducing Tessa. From somew
here in the background Costas was laughing loudly. He would marry Tessa. He would speak to the Rossmans tomorrow: his mother tonight. It never occurred to him to speak to Tessa first. Her consent was taken for granted. Every woman he had ever wanted had been his for the asking: remaining his until he had tired of them. Apart from one.
The effort of continued courtesy was too much. It was well after midnight, Tessa was still barely out of the schoolroom. It was reason enough to curtail the evening. He did so with smooth politeness and when he kissed her goodnight Tessa’s response was warm and loving and totally unfulfilling. When he returned to the still blazing lights of Sanfords, he strode into the ballroom and danced with the first woman he saw. It was Samantha Hedley. He also went to bed with her. It was physically satisfying and emotionally chilling. He was only glad the woman nearest the Grand Entrance had not been Lavinia Meade. In that case, satisfaction at any level would have been an impossibility.
‘Darling, it would be perfect, but are you sure?’ It was early morning and they were breakfasting on Zia’s terrace. ‘Are you only doing it because it was my suggestion?’
Ramon’s smile was fleeting. ‘Have I ever done anything at anyone else’s suggestion?’
‘No darling, which is what makes this most strange. You hardly know her. You’ve only escorted her twice.’
‘Twice can be long enough to fall in love,’ his voice was bitter. Zia’s sea-green eyes darkened with anxiety.
‘The other day, after the escapade in the bay, you said it was caused by anger over a woman. Don’t marry Tessa Rossman in order to put the memory of another woman behind you. To do so would bring nothing but unhappiness for both of you. It would be cruelty of an unimaginable degree.’
Her face paled. Her husband had been capable of great cruelty and in the harsh light of the morning sun Ramon’s mouth wore the same relentless lines that his father’s so often had.
He didn’t reply. Far below them thickly wooded terraces shelved to the sea. Lord and Lady Michaeljohn were strolling arm in arm. Out of their sight and down on another level, half hidden behind hibiscus and strelitza, Countess Szapary sat alone, her head bowed as she listlessly shredded a rose’s petals. Sea bathing was not as popular as the safer waters of the pool. Costas and Sonny Zakar were frolicking in the treacherously deep water like a couple of ageing sea lions. Bobo’s Egyptian was smoking a cigarette and watching them from the shade of a dragon tree. A woman stepped up behind him and slid caressing hands around his neck. It was Madeleine Mancini.
On the lowest level, as the last of the garden walks ended and the rocks began, Ramon could see a figure deep in concentration, painting. Giovanni Ferranzi, Picasso’s contemporary, worked feverishly. In front of him was the surging sea, the mountains at the far side of the bay and great expanses of cloudless sky. Ramon wondered what would show on Giovanni’s canvas. Certainly nothing that any other eye regarding the same scene would see.
His eyes sharpened as she emerged from the deep cover of the trees. Her dress was white and simple, a silver rouleau belt circling her waist. Her sandals were high-heeled and thin strapped. Giovanni detested an audience. Sanfords’vast grounds and the tiny villages strung along the coastline gave him the privacy he needed. He never participated in the evenings’ frivolities or joined the pleasure-seekers at the side of the pool. He came to paint. Single-mindedly and uninterruptedly. For a long time she did not speak: simply stood, perfectly still, watching.
Ramon waited for the Italian to signal her away brusquely. He could tell by the inclination of her head that she was speaking to him. The master paused, brush in hand, the conversation lengthened. Then to his complete stupefaction, the Italian motioned for her to sit and laid his brush down.
Nicky had been gone when she had awoken. She hadn’t wanted Vere’s company or anyone else’s. She avoided the pool and lounger-filled terraces and walked unhurriedly and without purpose down one of the winding paths overhung with heavy blossom. The day was not yet hot, a cool breeze blew refreshingly against her face as she neared the crags that jutted out into the surging sea. She had not known Giovanni Ferranzi was staying at the hotel. In the past his paintings had intrigued, confused and often astounded her. Now she watched with rapt attention as the brush worked ceaselessly, filling the canvas with light and colour and shape and form.
She opened her mouth to say ‘hello’and found herself saying instead:
‘Might I paint with you?’
Immediately the words were out of her mouth the audacity of her request stunned her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in confusion as he turned and stared at her. ‘I didn’t mean … I was thinking aloud … I’m most dreadfully sorry.’
His bright black eyes held hers and then dropped to the long narrow hands with the beautiful, almond-shaped nails.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘if you do exactly as I say.’
He rose to his feet and from the array of canvasses and paint behind him he extracted a stool, an easel and a canvas. Glorious colour was squeezed from tubes into thick whirls on to the palette.
‘What do I do?’ she asked weakly as he positioned her at the easel, handing her the palette and brush, knife and cloth.
‘What you want,’ he said simply. He had placed her opposite to himself. When he returned to his seat she could no longer see him. Only the awesome black canvas in front of her and above it the riotous tropical gardens climbing up to the hotel.
‘What you do not do is watch me … Or copy.’
She did not know how to mix colours: she knew nothing. She took a deep breath and stroked a brushful of searing red across the canvas. They worked opposite each other for four hours and did not speak. A waiter came down with the master’s lunch: bread, cheese and a rough red wine served to no one else but the Italian who demanded it. They ate and drank and continued to paint. At last, when the light began to fade he put down his brush and rose to his feet, standing silently behind her.
There were no flowers; no trees; no depiction of the scene in front of her. It was rough and crude and full of frightening force. A Dante’s inferno of dark and light: a chasm of blood reds and blacks seared by brilliant white and a dove rising as if from a bottomless pit.
He nodded slowly. He had been right. His instinct was infallible. ‘Tell me,’ he said.
‘I’m dying,’ she said simply, ‘of a wretched disease I’m barely aware of.’
‘And so you abandon your former life and come to Madeira to take lovers like the English duke and the Russian prince?’
‘I abandoned my former life because it was a sham. I’d lived it for thirty-five years and decided that if I was dying I was going to die being me and no one else.’
He looked at the painting. It was a tangible creation of the rending apart of body and spirit.
‘We will paint tomorrow,’ he said and drank his wine from the neck of the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
She walked dazedly back to the hotel. Something new had been born within her. Something new and wonderful. Something akin to the revelation she had first experienced in Ramon’s arms. Only this wonder was within her control. The days stretching ahead suddenly had a purpose. She would paint, create. She was so totally engrossed in her own thoughts that she was unaware of the Aquitania pulling smoothly into Funchal harbour.
Senator Jack Cameron disembarked tight-lipped and ashen-faced. He had not enjoyed his enforced voyage across the Atlantic. Behind him Syrie Geeson descended, bright-eyed and alert. Europe was a new experience and Syrie valued new experiences. Only smooth-talking and tenacity had secured her a place on the trip. Jack had intended travelling to see his wife alone. Syrie knew Nancy Leigh Cameron as well as any woman knows her boss’s wife and perhaps a little better. She had made it her business to do so. It was, after all, in her own interests to know exactly what made Nancy Leigh Cameron tick. What her strengths and weaknesses were. Syrie Geeson had long since determined to become the second Mrs Cameron but Nancy had proved impossible to usurp. Until now.
Syrie had the definite feeling that, handled correctly, her moment of glory had come.
The path was steep and crooked, winding up through thick foliage. It skirted the rocks and the sea for a little way and then meandered up and round thickets of myrtle and pastel-petalled fransciscea. Occasionally there was a rose-red glint of one of Sanfords’shelving roofs high above, and then nothing. Only greenery and sweet fragrance and the sound of the birds singing in the trees. She rounded the huge glossy leaves of a giant shrub and halted abruptly. The peace and tranquillity fled.
He stood full square in the path before her, his legs astride. He showed not the least intention of moving. Her heart began to pound painfully. There was barely five yards of dust-blown track between them. Their eyes locked, their bodies as tense as those of two wild animals in sudden confrontation.
She felt herself colouring beneath his gaze, painfully aware of his closeness, of the hardness of his muscles, of the restlessness that so aroused her.
‘Please let me pass,’ she said through parched lips, her nerves throbbing.
He stared down at her, grim-faced.
‘I came to apologize.’ His black eyes would not let her go.
‘I …’ The words would not come. How did one accept an apology from a man who had struck you across the face so hard that he had drawn blood? A man who loved and lied with equal expertise, leaving one bed for another with the ease of an indolent tom cat. There were no words. She could only say again, stiffly and foolishly.
‘Please let me pass.’
The expression in his eyes changed. He, Ramon Sanford, had come to her, drawn by God knows what force. Had actually apologized and she stood before him, cool and collected, totally disregarding his apology.
This time there was studied carelessness in his voice as he said:
‘Believe it or not, I’ve never struck a woman before.’
She wanted to cry out ‘why me then? Why me?’ but she could not. His sun-bronzed face had taken on a look of frightening indifference. She could not expose her feelings to him – her hurt and her pain. To do so would be to feed his ego and male vanity. Her nails dug deep into the palms of her hands.
The Flower Garden Page 19