One of the men hesitated, and Alex cornered him. ‘Would it be possible for me to look at the pieces I am interested in?’
The man pointed towards the room he had just left, and said that Alex should talk to their head man, Mr Dean.
They were taken aback by the appalling taste of the vast lounge. Although the place was cluttered with boxes, and various pieces of furniture had been dragged to the centre of the room, the awful decor was obvious. The room was dominated by a painting of a man with white hair, wearing a linen suit that even in the painting looked crumpled.
‘That’s the old man himself, impressive, isn’t he?’
Alex made a point of charming Mr Dean, and was given a brief rundown on the family. Mr Dean was the head man from Sotheby’s – pleasant, open-faced and balding, sweating even with the air conditioning and constantly wiping his head.
‘The old boy seems to have had various families, no one can quite work out the intricacies of the family feuds. But after he died there were three women and three families grabbing . . . he lost his sons in a plane crash, perhaps you read about it? The fortune’s been divided up and this place left to a granddaughter. Have you met Mrs Taverner? Well, she wants this place sold as fast as possible – hates it, and hated him from what I’ve heard. But it means we are working night and day to get everything catalogued and ready for the auction.’
Alex chose his words carefully. First, he asked about Hunter Hardyman’s china collection, and Dean told him they had not even started assessing that yet. The porcelain experts were flying in next day, and in the meantime the men were just listing the articles. The pricing would be done by the experts. Alex mentioned the lists he had already seen.
‘Yes, but they’re incomplete – there’s fifty times more than that. We had no idea the job would take so long. You know the ranch itself is up for sale? Are you interested?’
Alex was not interested, and there was nothing worth looking at in this room. Somehow he had to steer the conversation around to the seventeenth-century furniture. ‘I’m wanting to have a look at a couple of pieces – not of immense value, but I’m just starting my collection . . . You think I could take a look at items 500 and 600?’
Dean was no fool. He smiled at Alex. ‘They’re in the dining hall, but I have to tell you, they’ve not even been valued yet.’
Alex said he would still like just a quick look at them, and eventually Dean led him from the room.
Alex followed him through the double doors at the far end of the room and down a long corridor. When they reached the far end, Mr Dean looked over his shoulder, then unlocked the door. ‘I would have liked to have been at his funeral, rumour has it a couple of the old boy’s ex-wives turned up, and all hell broke loose.’ He lowered his voice to a confidential tone, ‘He was a real money-grubbing old buzzard – made his fortune from scrap, bought land, and the rest is history, but I’ve never met anyone who has a good word to say for him. And he was paranoid, believed everyone was trying to kidnap him. That’s why the place is wired up like a fortress. There are more bells and wires around this place than Fort Knox . . . Freezing in here.’
The room was dark, shuttered, and there was the icy blast of air conditioning. ‘Old man kept the place ice cold, at least he knew that much. The pieces in here are in excellent condition, and some of it he never even used. There’s a Queen Anne desk over there – in all my life I have never seen one in such condition. Look, would you mind if I leave you, come back in a few minutes? I still have a lot to do.’
The door closed behind him, and Alex stared around the cold, draped room. Just one look told him that Dean was right. Even to Alex’s untrained eye some of the furniture was indeed special. He searched around for the seventeenth-century pieces, lifting cover after cover away from highly polished Queen Anne, Tudor, Victorian chairs, desks and card tables, but he could not find the treasures he had travelled so far to see. Frustrated, he was about to give up when he saw a chair in a corner, piled high with old newspapers. Removing the papers, he stood back.
The yoke-back armchair, Huang-Hua-Li hardwood with a perfect matted seat, was in superb condition. Alex got down on his knees to touch the smooth wood. Then he spotted the legs of a bench seat, horseshoe-shaped, and he knew it was the same period. Excitedly, he uncovered three more pieces, and began to think he might be right, somewhere here there might just be the most sought-after article for any collector, a bed.
The door opened behind him, and a cold voice, almost as chilly as the room, said, ‘Mr Dean, the servants have laid out lunch in the breakfast room. I would be most obliged if you would ask permission to use the swimming pool – one of your men is in there right now, and I must ask you to have them refrain in future.’
Taken aback, Alex stood up and straightened his tie. She was very tall, wearing a simple white dress, but a dress that would set any woman back a few thousand dollars. Her skin was a pale golden colour, and her blonde hair was swept up in a Grace Kelly chignon. She wore a gold necklace and many bangles on her slender arms.
Alex moved towards her. ‘I really must apologize for my presence here. We haven’t been introduced – my name is Alex Barkley, I cabled from New York. Are you Mrs Taverner?’ He looked into steely, penetrating eyes the colour of turquoises. There was not a scrap of make-up on the flawless skin.
‘I am Mrs Taverner – I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’
‘Alex Barkley.’
She did not take his outstretched hand for a moment, and he was about to withdraw it when she suddenly slipped her cool fingers into his grasp. It was a fleeting gesture, and he felt foolish. Mrs Taverner turned back to the door, paused a moment. ‘Barkley, you said? And English, from your voice?’
Feeling exceedingly uncomfortable, Alex nodded. He felt she was scrutinizing him from head to toe. ‘I think I should tell you that I am a private collector, I am not connected with the auctioneers.’
She twisted the diamond ring on her wedding finger, held her head slightly to one side. ‘You spoke to my secretary? Well, I’m sure if you have permission then it’s all right. Don’t let me detain you.’
He could smell her perfume in the cold air, a fresh, clean smell. He remained standing as the click, click, click of her heels receded down the corridor. Then there was silence. He returned to examining the furniture, putting Barbara Taverner out of his mind.
But Alex was in Mrs Taverner’s mind. She walked into her study where Miss Fry, her secretary, was typing at a large desk. ‘Miss Fry, who is Alex Barkley? And why is he here?’
Miss Fry blushed and gestured to Mrs Taverner that she had someone waiting. Ming rose to meet her, hand outstretched, smiling. ‘Mrs Taverner, I am delighted to meet you, I am Imura Takeda.’
Ignoring Ming’s hand, Mrs Taverner turned to her secretary. ‘Miss Takeda is the designer you were interested in for your New York apartment.’
Ming smiled again, although tempted to walk out, she was given such a thorough once-over.
‘Is Mr Barkley your client?’
Ming unzipped her portfolio and began to lay out the large colour photographs of Alex’s château, together with the press cuttings of the other houses she had done, and Mrs Taverner glanced through them, showing perfunctory interest. ‘Well, this is interesting, really fine . . . does Mr Barkley live in New York?’
Ming gave Mrs Taverner details of Alex’s background, embroidering everything, while she displayed more photographs and brochures. She did it so cleverly no one would have guessed it was a ‘hard sell’. Throughout Ming’s presentation Mrs Taverner’s long, blood-red fingernails tapped on the edge of her desk, then she held out a languid hand for the press cuttings and sat down. ‘Miss Fry, why don’t you see to some coffee . . . I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?’
Ming repeated her name, and received a dazzling smile.
Mrs Taverner turned on the charm while Ming sipped her coffee. ‘Your client, Mr Barkley – perhaps he is interested in buying the ranch?’
Ming informed her that Alex had come to look at some seventeenth-century furniture.
‘Oh, yes, you said . . . Well, I am impressed, this château is splendid . . . Would you like to look over the plans for my apartment in New York? You’ll be able to get some idea of the size of the place . . . Miss Fry, would you see about a little lunch for Miss Takeda . . .’
She followed Miss Fry out of the room, closing the door behind her, and sent her off to invite Alex to a private luncheon, one Ming was not invited to.
Half an hour later, Barbara Taverner knew virtually every corner of the château, Ming giving her a highly professional sales pitch. She now knew that the Duke and Duchess of Windsor were personal friends of Alex’s, and she surmised that Alex was one hell of a catch, rich enough himself not to be after her fortune. Not that his money amounted to anything approaching Barbara’s inheritance, only another oil baron could match her vast income.
Alex was led into a small lounge on the first floor. Bright, deep-seated sofas in yellows and greens with orange scatter cushions offended Alex’s sense of colour, but the glass-topped table on the verandah, set with chilled champagne, looked inviting.
‘Mrs Taverner will join you shortly, Mr Barkley.’
A Spanish maid attended him, offering him champagne, then stood quietly in the shadows.
Barbara Taverner was used to making entrances. She had changed, and was now wearing another simple, wildly expensive dress. Alex rose from the sofa, and she waved her hand for him to join her at the table. She spoke in fluent Spanish to the maid, who served them cold poached salmon and salad.
‘This is really most kind of you, Mrs Taverner.’
‘Please call me Barbara . . . Alex, isn’t it? I just adore your designer, and I desperately want her to begin work on my New York penthouse. She’s looking over the drawings right now . . . more champagne?’ She rang a small gold bell beside her plate, and the maid refilled Alex’s glass. Barbara made polite conversation, charming him, and he could smell her lovely fresh perfume. He also noticed that she hardly touched her food, waiting politely for him to finish, then placing her knife and fork together and ringing the tiny bell. Alex made a point of being very attentive, smiling at her remarks, but if asked, he could not really have recalled one thing she said to him. She fascinated him with her coolness, her precise gestures, her softly drawling voice and husky laugh. For her part, Barbara noticed everything about the Englishman. His perfectly tailored suit, his gold cufflinks, his shoes, his tie – his well-manicured hands and broad shoulders. She was making a list in her head and he was getting tick after tick . . . She could tell his body was firm beneath the starched shirt. ‘Are you staying locally, Alex?’
He told her which hotel he was booked into, and that he would be leaving within the week.
‘Oh no – I see I will have to persuade you to stay a little longer. You have to see Dallas, meet everyone, I insist you at least promise to have dinner with me. Have you met my daughters? I married very young, and I’m divorced now, but that is too long a story to go into at our first meeting. Would you like me to show you over the ranch, the rooms they won’t be pawing over?’
Stealing a quick glance at his watch, Alex smiled and gave a formal little bow. She took his arm and they toured the house. Alex was charm itself, giving all the right responses, but wondering all the time how long it would take to get to the point – how much Barbara Taverner would accept for the pieces. And he had still not unearthed the prized bed.
As she led him from room to room, she divulged little bits of her background, her relationship to Hunter Hardyman. ‘He was my mother’s father, and I think she loathed him almost as much as I did . . . He was a dreadful man, domineering, and the most ruthless man I ever met in my life. I was left this, and all I want is to get rid of everything he ever touched. He destroyed my mother’s life – and even mine. My marriage was over before it really began. I was sixteen, and HH arranged it, as he arranged the life of every member of his family. I don’t know if you have heard the gossip, but Grandpa had numerous families, and none of us really get along.’
She was open and at ease with Alex, and he began to enjoy her company. Of course, Barbara was making sure he knew she was divorced, unattached. Finally Alex looked at his Rolex and said he really had to watch the time as he intended to return to his hotel before nightfall. Barbara wasn’t about to let this catch out of her hands – she smiled sweetly and told him it would be madness to return to the hotel. He must stay to dinner.
‘That really is most kind, but I’m afraid I really do have to go back to London as soon as possible. Perhaps if you would be willing to come to some arrangements regarding the pieces of furniture I’m interested in, I am willing to settle a price for them now, if it’s agreeable. I will match any other offers, and then have them shipped over to England.’
Ming appeared with her portfolio, talking intently to Miss Fry about schedules and estimates. Barbara excused herself and went off with Miss Fry, leaving Alex and Ming together.
‘Well, I not only have the commission for the New York apartment, but she wants me to find a suitable one for her daughters.’
Alex congratulated her, then looked at his watch, he said they should thinking be about leaving. Ming stood close to him and whispered, ‘I will have to leave straightaway, she wants these estimates by the end of the week – but you stay. I think she’s enamoured, maybe you’ll get the furniture at a good price . . .’
Barbara made an entrance. She was smiling. ‘Mr Barkley, I have arranged for the pieces you want to be shipped out to you at the first opportunity. I am told it won’t take too long.’
Alex looked nonplussed, and she laughed. ‘Please accept them as a gift, on condition that you stay for dinner, and give me just two days of your time to show you the sights.’
Alex murmured his thanks and said that he really could not accept her invitation as he had to return to New York with Ming.
‘Oh, I simply won’t take no for an answer – I have my own plane, why don’t you let Miss Takeda go and I’ll arrange for your luggage to be brought back here? You simply can’t refuse.’
Alex looked at Ming for help, but she insisted on returning alone. Alex walked her to the helicopter, and she laughed at his confusion. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Alex, stay. You’ll enjoy yourself and you said you needed a holiday. Besides, with all this extra work I won’t have much time to spare. I’ll see you when you return to New York.’
Alex gave way, and watched the helicopter as it took off. Ming waved once, then turned to talk to the pilot.
Alex was like putty in Barbara Taverner’s hands, and she swept him along in her wake. He was flattered by her attentions, and she never ceased to amaze him. Flying her own plane she managed, in the two days, to take Alex to cocktail parties, lunches, teas, and a charity ball.
There were envious looks from the Texan society ladies as Barbara led the elegant and charming Englishman around on her arm like a champion. To Alex’s blushing embarrassment she never failed to bring up the fact that he knew the Duke and Duchess of Windsor intimately . . . However, Alex began to enjoy his ‘star status’, the flattery and the fawning, and Barbara was a stunning-looking woman. Alex was falling in love, and it took little persuasion for him to agree to stay another week.
Edward arrived home from the office even later than usual. He was greeted by his rather frazzled cook-housekeeper, who told him that there was a Mr Dewint waiting to see him, he had been waiting for two hours.
‘Who? Dewint? Never heard of him . . . and Agnes, would you get something fancy for tomorrow evening, dinner for six – but it could be eight. De what, did you say?’
Agnes disappeared into the hall and returned to say that Dewint had been sent by the Kensington Staff Agency. She passed Edward a small, strange, handwritten card. ‘ “Norman Dewint, butler” . . . ingenious chap, it appears! Show him in. Oh, Agnes, is my wife about?’
‘Well, she was, sir, but then she said someth
ing about going to her pottery classes. She’s left a shocking mess in the upstairs bathroom, sir.’
‘Thank you, Agnes . . . show De what’s-his-name in, will you?’
‘Sit down, Norman, help yourself to a drink.’
Dewint sat at the far end of the eighteen-foot refectory table and thanked Mr Barkley, but he did not partake of alcoholic beverages.
‘Right then, Norman, tell me about yourself.’
Dewint coughed, straightened the razor-sharp creases in his black and grey striped butler’s trousers, and in his rather high-pitched voice, paying close attention to his aitches, began to detail his past employments. ‘I ’ave, sah, worked in the Queen Mother’s establishment at Balmoral. Hi think you will find, sah, that they was, if I may say so, pleased with my services. I have detailed hall the ’ouses I have subsequently had the honour to be in service with, and I am a qualified valet stroke butler.’
His plummy, high-pitched voice with its strange aitches and his small pale face made Edward laugh. Dewint was like a pixie – pointed nose, pointed chin – and he had large, pointed ears. His flat, Brylcreemed hair shone, as highly polished as his shoes.
Edward sent the neatly stapled references spinning back down the table. ‘Thing is, Dewint, I am not a man of, shall we say, habit, or consistent movements. My wife is not domesticated, quite the reverse, but we do entertain a lot. When I am away, I like the house to be kept running in some sort of order – won’t be easy, not with my wife and her hobbies . . .’
Dewint launched into an involved history of the time he worked for Churchill, but Edward cut him short. ‘Can you start first thing in the morning?’
Dewint beamed, his pixie ears twitched. ‘Hi can, sah, and may I say it will be a pleasure, sah. I’ve read about you in the society columns, I like to keep abreast of things.’
Dewint gave a hop and a skip as he departed down the drive. He had been desperate, and he knew he would be able to get along with Mr Barkley. He had seen the house could do with a thorough clean, and he would be ready, with his green pinny on, first thing tomorrow. He checked out of the hostel and was back at the manor by seven-thirty the next morning.
The Talisman Page 44