A Perfect Heritage

by Penny Vincenzi

  And Florence, mildly relieved, was left to remember all those evenings, all those migraines . . .

  The first time had surprised her; Athina had seemed the opposite of fragile.

  But the voice was faint, clearly pain-filled.

  ‘Florence, dear, I wonder if you’d like to take my place tonight? We were going to a concert at the Wigmore Hall, with friends, but I simply cannot face it. I would have thought Cornelius could go on his own, but he says he’d be miserable and suggested we asked you. Well, to be frank, dear, it’s such short notice, it would seem rude to ask most people, and we thought you’d be free and would enjoy a treat.’

  ‘Well, that would be lovely,’ said Florence, swallowing the insult. ‘And, yes, I am free.’

  ‘As we thought. I told Cornelius he should ask you himself, but he said he was too shy. Ridiculous of course, but we have to humour him.’

  A little surprised at being considered suitable – the acutely sociable Farrells must surely have countless far grander friends – Florence said she would be delighted to attend the concert and went to review her puny wardrobe. She thought, as she rifled through, it was time the Farrells began to pay her a little more money. The Berkeley Arcade shop was doing extremely well.

  She picked a black cocktail dress, a copy of the one worn by Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina Fair, the year before. It was still extremely fashionable: black taffeta, full skirted, very waisted and fastened on the shoulders with indisputably daring bows.

  It suited her, she knew; black emphasised her white skin, and the shape accentuated her tiny waist. She put her hair up in a French pleat, made up her eyes in the rather bold manner of the season – which the House of Farrell was featuring strongly – sprayed herself liberally with Diorling, which her friend at Marshall & Snelgrove had provided at cost price, and went out to the waiting car when summoned by her doorbell with a black mohair stole draped round her shoulders and the highest heels she possessed.

  Cornelius had been waiting by her front door; he clearly, and flatteringly, did a double take before ushering her into the back seat beside him.

  ‘You look wonderful,’ he said, taking her hand and kissing it, ‘really quite marvellous.’

  ‘Thank you, Cornelius. It’s very kind of you to take me.’

  ‘No, no, kind of you to come. I’m sure you had much better things to do.’

  ‘Not really,’ she said and laughed, ‘unless of course you count listening to a Paul Temple mystery on the wireless?’ She took the cigarette he offered from his silver case. ‘Tell me about your friends. I don’t want to arrive unbriefed.’

  ‘Ah yes. Jennifer and Geoffrey Millard. Geoffrey and I were at Malvern together. Became friends over a shared dislike of rugger. He went into the City, runs a big stockbroking firm. He’s been very successful. I think you’ll like him.’

  ‘I’m sure I will. And Mrs Millard?’

  ‘Jennifer’s very nice indeed. Salt of the earth. Does a lot of charity work.’

  Florence could already imagine Mrs Millard. She thought she was probably overweight . . .

  As it turned out both the Millards were overweight. They were pleasantly polite – and very dull.

  The concert, Handel, was lovely, and mercifully short. They were outside again by eight forty-five. It transpired that a supper had been planned afterwards, but Jennifer disappeared into a telephone box in the foyer and came back, asking if they might be excused.

  ‘Sylvia, you know, our youngest, has chickenpox, not at all well. I think, Geoffrey, we should go back. If Cornelius and – er – Florence don’t mind.’ Her hesitation over Florence’s name clearly emphasised her below stairs status.

  ‘Of course, of course. I do hope she’ll be all right, poor little thing.’

  ‘She’s just very fretful, apparently. Nanny says she’s been asking for us.’

  Florence would not have wished illness on any child, but given that poor Sylvia was already suffering, she sent up a silent prayer of gratitude.

  They parted from the Millards and Cornelius looked at his watch.

  ‘I say, it’s jolly early. Do you know, there’s something else I’d like to do this evening, if you didn’t mind?’

  Florence said she was sure she wouldn’t mind.

  ‘Friend of mine, Leonard Trentham, he’s a painter, got a private view tonight. I said I couldn’t go because of the concert, but I bet it’s still going. Would you mind if we popped down to Cork Street?’

  Florence said again she wouldn’t mind. She hoped Leonard Trentham would be more interesting than the Millards. She asked what sort of paintings he did.

  ‘Oh, pretty conventional, landscapes, seascapes, things like that. But he sells pretty well. This exhibition is paintings he’s done in France. Quite a few of Paris apparently.’

  ‘How lovely,’ said Florence.

  ‘Indeed. Have you been to Paris?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘but I would so love to.’

  ‘Now that is a small tragedy. If not a large one. Everyone should go to Paris. It should be compulsory.’

  ‘Sadly, not everyone can,’ said Florence briskly. ‘Money and even time will not allow.’

  He looked at her rather directly, and said, ‘Of course. Stupid remark. I’m sorry. What I meant was that it should somehow be part of everyone’s education. A school trip.’

  ‘The sort of school I went to didn’t go on trips,’ said Florence.

  ‘What sort of school was it?’

  ‘A convent.’

  ‘Ah. So you’re a convent girl? Quite a reputation you all have.’

  ‘I know,’ said Florence, ‘but undeserved for the most part. Most of my friends were too frightened of hellfire to do more than hold hands with a boy. And all were very innocent when they married.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Cornelius easily.

  Florence said, ‘But of course you’re right and I would love to go to Paris. Perhaps one day.’

  ‘I hope so, for your sake. Well, perhaps we can find a small painting at the exhibition which will serve in lieu for now. Until you can go for real of course.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said thinking that it would be most unlikely that she would be able to afford so much as the corner of a frame of one of Mr Trentham’s pictures.

  ‘It’s at the Medici – in Cork Street,’ said Cornelius, as the car wove its way down Bond Street. ‘Very nice gallery. Athina and I go there quite a lot. Do you know it?’

  ‘Not well,’ said Florence carefully. She was beginning to feel increasingly unsuited to the role she had been called upon to play this evening.

  ‘Ah. Anyway, you’ll like Leonard, he’s a very good egg. And he’ll like you, I can assure you of that. He’s got an eye for a pretty woman. I don’t know why he doesn’t paint them. I would if I were a painter.’

  ‘Well, I suppose you do in a way,’ said Florence. ‘You enable us to paint our own faces.’

  He smiled. ‘I like that thought, Florence. Thank you. In fact, it’s given me an idea.’

  The party was still in very full swing, and was occupying a large part of the pavement as well as the gallery itself. Florence had been afraid that Cornelius would be caught up in a crowd of friends when they arrived, leaving her to fend for herself, but to her surprise he was most solicitous, steering her towards a waiter bearing a tray of drinks. She took a glass of champagne and sipped it cautiously.

  ‘Isn’t this nice?’ he whispered in her ear.

  ‘It’s lovely, yes. But I have a weak head for alcohol. I have to drink it with great caution.’

  She expected him to laugh, but he looked at her rather seriously and said, ‘How self-aware you are, Florence. It’s a very charming characteristic. Between you and me, it is not one that Athina possesses.’

  She didn’t know how to respond to this; it seemed a little disloyal to her.

  ‘There’s Leonard. Leonard, congratulations old chap. Fantastic show, incredible turnout. Critics here?’

 
‘Oh, a few,’ said Leonard Trentham. ‘Thanks for coming, Cornelius.’

  He was tall and very thin, and looked a caricature of an artist, wearing a linen suit with a floppy cravat.

  He took Florence’s hand in his and smiled at her. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Ah yes, let me introduce you,’ said Cornelius. ‘Florence, Leonard Trentham, artist. Leonard, Florence Hamilton. Florence works with us, in the company.’

  ‘Well, how fortunate for the company. And you,’ said Leonard Trentham. He smiled at her, a wide, childlike smile. His eyelashes were very long and looked suspiciously as if they had mascara on them. She supposed he must be queer.

  ‘I’m so glad you could come Miss Hamilton,’ he said. ‘You grace our gathering. And where is the fair goddess this evening?’

  ‘Oh, not well. That’s Leonard’s nickname for Athina,’ he said to Florence, ‘after Pallas Athena, of course. The goddess of wisdom.’

  ‘Yes, I did know,’ said Florence, slightly cool, ‘and the patron goddess of Athens. But of course she spelt her name differently, didn’t she?’

  ‘Clever as well as beautiful, I see,’ said Leonard Trentham. ‘And you have replaced Athina with an “I”?’

  ‘Only for the evening,’ said Florence.

  ‘Well, you’re a lucky man, Cornelius,’ said Leonard, ‘one lovely woman after another. Poor Athina. Well, now go and have a look at the pictures. I hope you like them.’

  ‘I know we will,’ said Cornelius, ‘Florence is specially interested in any you’ve done of Paris. Come along, Florence, let’s see what we can find for you.’

  They wandered round the gallery; the pictures were lovely, representational but with a dash of impressionism. Trentham had a supreme talent for capturing light: you could tell at a glance, Florence thought, what time of day each one had been painted.

  ‘They’re lovely,’ she said, ‘really beautiful.’

  ‘Aren’t they? Now here is your Paris.’

  Florence stood smiling at the collection, a view of the Sacré Coeur, painted from below, shining in the dawn; a streak of gold that was the Seine at dusk; a group of clearly chattering tables at midday on the pavement outside La Closerie des Lilas, her catalogue told her; and then some smaller ones, tiny streets, a flower market, a doorway half-open, leading into a paved courtyard, filled with trees and flowers at late afternoon.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘that is so, so lovely.’

  ‘Which? Let me see. Oh, yes, I agree. Perfect. That’s in – ah, off the rue de Buci, St Germain, my very favourite area of all.’

  ‘I feel I could open that door,’ said Florence, smiling, ‘and walk in.’

  ‘Indeed. So – is that your favourite?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Florence. ‘It makes me feel warm, with that sunshine, and really really happy.’ And then, seeing him examining the catalogue for prices, said anxiously, ‘Oh Cornelius, I couldn’t possibly possibly afford to buy it.’

  ‘I didn’t think you could,’ said Cornelius. And then, smiling, ‘If you could we would clearly be paying you far too much. But it is very lovely. And not sold. No red dot.’

  ‘No indeed.’

  He looked at the picture and then at her, very intently, his dark blue eyes moving from one to the other and then back again.

  ‘Yes,’ he said finally, ‘you suit one another very well, you and the picture. You should be together.’

  ‘I . . .’ She found her gaze, caught up in his, hard to pull away. He was standing quite close to her and she was very aware of him suddenly, as a man, an attractive, amusing, charming man, not a colleague, not the husband of her boss. She felt the moment freeze in time, as if the camera had clicked, holding them there together, staring at one another – a long, oddly dangerous moment. She stepped back, collided with someone, said, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ It was Leonard Trentham.

  ‘Perfectly all right,’ he said, ‘I just wanted to make sure you had found the Paris collection.’

  ‘We have, thank you. They’re wonderful.’

  She smiled at him, and then up at Cornelius, hoping he would approve of this; he was staring at her as if he had hardly seen her before.

  ‘Florence particularly likes the courtyard. In St Germain,’ he said into the odd silence that had formed. He seemed tense suddenly, his usual easy charm briefly deserting him.

  ‘She does?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, equally tense, flustered. ‘Yes, it’s perfectly beautiful. It – it transports you.’

  ‘Yes, you both look a little transported,’ said Leonard Trentham. ‘Another painting, in fact. If I painted figures I would paint you looking at my painting.’

  ‘Why don’t you?’ asked Florence. ‘Paint portraits, I mean.’

  ‘Mostly because, you know, if you paint someone, you are alone with them for many, many hours, and you have to talk to them. I am dreadfully shy, I couldn’t possibly cope with that.’

  Cornelius burst into laughter and moved further back into the room, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Shy! Leonard, you don’t know the meaning of the word.’

  ‘That’s what you think,’ said Leonard Trentham. ‘Now – how about supper? A crowd are coming back to my place.’

  Cornelius looked at Florence. ‘Florence, what do you think? Do you need to get home?’

  There was a long silence; she stared at him, and felt suddenly that she was nearing some dangerous place . . .

  ‘I think I should go home,’ she said finally, reluctantly. ‘Cornelius, you stay.’

  ‘Oh, no, no,’ he said and she could hear the disappointment in his voice. ‘No, I should be going home. Duty calls. Poor Athina will be wondering where I am.’

  ‘Quel dommage,’ said Leonard. ‘How glad I am duty never calls me. But I understand.’

  He took Florence’s hand and kissed it.

  ‘It has been a great pleasure to have you grace my gallery,’ he said, ‘I hope I shall see you here again.’

  Cornelius drove Florence home in silence. She felt a little anxious, that he might think she was spoiling his evening, but every time she looked at him, he seemed to sense it and glanced at her, smiling.

  ‘I liked Leonard very much,’ she said finally.

  ‘Yes, he’s a wonderful chap. Queer as a nine bob note, of course, but I’m very fond of him.’

  ‘Yes, I thought he might be.’

  ‘You don’t mind that sort of thing?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘no of course not. Why should I?’

  ‘Unfortunately, many people do. Which is why, of course, it’s against the law.’

  ‘I know. So stupid.’

  ‘Well, it’s very good to know you think as you do. What a perfect person you are, Florence Hamilton.’

  She said nothing, just smiled out of the window.

  ‘It’s been such fun,’ he said, when they reached her flat. ‘Thank you so much for coming.’ He jumped out of the car, opened the door for her, bent to kiss her on the cheek. It lasted just a fraction of a moment too long.

  ‘It was entirely my pleasure,’ she said, and smiled up at him. ‘Thank you, Cornelius. I won’t – won’t ask you in,’ she added, and the words, for all their innocence, sounded faintly provocative to her.

  ‘No, indeed,’ he said, ‘you mustn’t.’

  And then he was gone.

  Ten days later, early in the morning, there was a knock at the door; a young man was holding a large flat brown paper parcel.

  ‘Miss Hamilton?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is for you. Personal delivery.’

  It was the painting. With a note attached. From Leonard Trentham.

  ‘I am bidden to send you this,’ it said, ‘a gift from a secret admirer. Who wishes to remain so. Please enjoy it. I am glad it is to be yours.’

  And then a flamboyant signature.

  She was sure, of course, who it was from. But she could not say so, could not thank him, for fear of compromising him. And, indeed, herself.

/>   Chapter 18

  ‘It was amazing!’ Milly’s great dark eyes glowed with excitement. ‘Their apartment was just so cool. You went into, like a courtyard, and then into the building and up in a lift and there it was, right on the top, with a sort of garden outside and a lovely view over the rooftops. Sooo nice.’

  ‘Where was it, exactly?’ asked Bianca.

  ‘In St Germain,’ said Milly. ‘In one of the streets off the Boulevard. I can’t remember the name.’

  ‘Oh, lovely! My favourite area of Paris. So you went to the Café de Flore I would guess?’

  ‘Yes, we did. For breakfast every day. And Les Deux Magots. And we had dinner at the Brasserie Lipp on Saturday night.’

  ‘Did you, indeed?’ said Bianca. ‘You can’t get a table for love nor money there usually, unless you’re a regular.’

  Milly looked rather complacent. She had come back just a little superior, slightly know-it-all. God, children were dangerous little creatures, Bianca thought. If three days with Carey had done that to her, what would a longer period do?

  ‘Well, jolly nice. And where else did you go? Up the Eiffel Tower?’

  ‘Nooo.’ The expression became more superior still. ‘Carey says that is so not cool, just what the tourists do.’

  ‘Right, I see. Silly me.’

  ‘But we went on that wheel, a bit like the Eye, only smaller, and that was fun; and we had cocktails at the Crillon.’ Her pronunciation, the French ‘r’, was perfect. ‘Carey says it’s one of the things you must do in Paris.’

  ‘I see. And they allowed you to drink them in the bar?’

  ‘No, but we went out into the garden, and Andrew brought them out to us.’

  ‘Andrew? Not Sir Andrew? You are well in.’ Patrick spoke for the first time.

  ‘Daddy, don’t be silly. I couldn’t have spent the whole time calling him Sir Andrew!’

  ‘Anyway, he brought you your cocktail. What was it?’

  ‘A Bellini.’

  ‘Milly!’ Bianca couldn’t help it. ‘Andrew Mapleton brought you a Bellini?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, he shouldn’t have done.’