Summer's Awakening

by Anne Weale

  It was his turn to stare. This is your work?' with a gesture at the bracelet.

  She nodded, her cheeks pink with pleasure.

  'But what a marvellous piece of luck to find myself next to you tonight,' he exclaimed. 'Do you believe in destiny, Miss Roberts?'

  Before she could answer it became apparent that the lecture was about to begin.

  Raoul Santerre leaned closer. 'We must talk afterwards.'

  As she nodded and settled back to give her attention to Madame Bernier, she became aware of Emily watching her. Turning to give a quick smile to her pupil, she encountered a glance from James which sent a thrust of irritation through her. Obviously he thought that Raoul Santerre didn't realise she was with them and had been trying to pick her up.

  Trust him always to take the cynical view, she thought vexedly.

  The lecture—mainly about Catherine the Great of Russia's art collection, but also about her as a woman—was riveting.

  As befitted a former Vogue editor, Rosamund Bernier came onstage in a dress which Summer recognised as a Mary McFadden. She had one of those rare speaking voices which, once heard, is forever recognisable; and the even rarer ability to make each member of her audience feel that she was talking to them alone. Illustrating her talk with slides shown by not one but two projectors, she made Catherine II, Empress of Russia for almost thirty-five years, come alive with extraordinary vividness.

  By the time the lecture was over, Summer had forgotten her new acquaintance on her left, and her annoyance with James. As the applause died away, she leaned towards him, saying warmly, 'That was unforgettable! Thank you for bringing us. What fascinating women—Catherine and Madame Bernier.'

  'I'm glad you enjoyed it. I hope you'll meet her later on—although everyone here wants to do that.'

  But later they were introduced to her and, in close conversation, she was as warm, witty and delightful as she had seemed during her virtuoso performance in the auditorium. Glancing at James while Rosamund Bernier was talking to them, Summer had a feeling it would take a woman of this quality to capture his heart, and in spite of the transformation she had achieved since leaving England she knew she wasn't in Madame Bernier's class.

  Probably no young woman could compete with the vivacious lecturer any more than a man in his twenties could vie with a man like James, still physically magnificent but with the suavity and humour which younger men lacked.

  Wishing she had the wit to contribute an amusing remark which would make him look as warmly at her as at the ravishing Rosamund, she listened and smiled and longed to be five years older with a broader experience of life and some of the relaxed charm of this entrancing older woman.

  Summer hadn't spoken to Raoul Santerre after the lecture because someone in the row behind had touched him on the shoulder and engaged him in conversation. He had had his back to James's party as they left their seats. She wondered if he would seek her out during the reception, and what he had meant by the remark about destiny.

  James knew many of the people there and he introduced his niece and her tutor to some of them. As she had in the presence of the lecturer, Summer played a minor part in the conversation which followed these introductions.

  It was while she was standing quietly on the fringe of an animated discussion of the lecture that a voice said, 'If we can find a mutual friend to introduce us, I can ask you to have lunch with me tomorrow.'

  She turned to find Raoul Santerre standing beside her.

  'Or, better yet, if you haven't already dined this evening, to eat with me tonight after the reception,' he added.

  She smiled at him. 'You don't need an introduction, Mr Santerre.' Because he spoke perfect English with only the faintest trace of Frenchness underlying his American accent, she decided not to continue addressing him as a Frenchman.

  'Everyone in New York who is at all interested in jewels must have pressed their noses to the windows of Santerre et Cie.

  'Are you interested in jewels, Miss Roberts?'

  She laughed. 'Isn't every woman?'

  'Yes, but for many different reasons. To some women jewels are status symbols. To others they are fashion accents. They may also be collectors' pieces, or even investments.'

  'I suppose I see them just as beautiful objects... feasts for the eye. I can't say I long to possess them—or not the very valuable jewels which you show in your windows. I'd be frightened of losing them, or having them stolen. This is my kind of jewellery.'

  She lifted her lightly clenched hand to show him the ring she was wearing on her little finger. It was an intaglio, the design hollowed out of the stone so that, if it were applied to a soft material such as sealing wax, it would leave an impression in relief. The design was the crest of a coat of arms; a mailed arm emerging from a coronet.

  He took hold of her wrist to look closely at the carving. 'Rose quartz, but not in its original setting. Is this your family's crest?'

  She shook her head. 'I found the stone in a box of cheap beads from a thrift shop in Florida.'

  'The setting isn't worthy of the stone.'

  'I know. It should be gold, not silver. But at the time—'

  'Won't you introduce us, Summer?'

  Intent on the ring, she hadn't noticed that the group beside them had broken up and now only Emily and James were standing near them. Until his sardonic voice interrupted her explanation of why she had economised on the setting, Raoul Santerre's hold on her wrist hadn't seemed an undue familiarity. But now, with James's attention turned on them, she felt like snatching her hand away. At the same moment the jeweller released it and smiled at the others.

  'I recognise you, Mr Gardiner. I am Raoul Santerre. How do you do?'

  When the two men had shaken hands, Summer said, 'This is Mr Gardiner's niece, Emily Lancaster. I am her tutor.'

  'A pleasure to meet you, Miss Lancaster.' As he took her thin hand in a gentler clasp, he gave a slight, courtly bow. Then he turned back to James.

  'I'm impressed by Miss Roberts' talent as a designer. As I told her before the lecture, my sister has a belt embroidered in the same style as this ornament she is wearing tonight. In recent years a number of women have demonstrated a talent for designing jewels. Picasso's daughter, Paloma, designs for Tiffany, and many of their most beautiful pieces are the work of Angela Cummings whose husband is their gem buyer. For some time we've been looking for a woman designer, but it's difficult to discover a truly original talent. I'd like to find out if Miss Roberts' originality with her needle can be applied to precious stones. May I take her away and discuss this with her?'

  James looked at him thoughtfully for some seconds before he said, 'Why not come back to our apartment where you can see other examples of her work?'

  'That would be even better.'

  Raoul had come to the lecture by taxi. When they left the reception he joined them in the hired Lincoln Continental which James used when in New York. He sat beside the driver and Raoul sat next to Emily and talked mainly to her about other lectures by Madame Bernier which he had attended.

  His irises were the same deep blue as Hal Cochran's, but his eyes held more shrewdness and intelligence. Summer hadn't seen Hal again after that first winter in Florida, and she wondered if he had managed to keep his weight down. Sometimes it was harder for men if their wives or whoever cooked for them wouldn't co-operate.

  She herself now had no trouble in maintaining her weight at its present level. Not only was she much more active than in her fat days but, although it had taken a long time, the Weight Watchers programme had re-educated her palate as the lecturer had promised them it would. Now she genuinely preferred a carton of natural yogurt to a couple of chocolate-chip cookies, French beans to French fries, and a tangerine to a sugary, creamy dessert.

  She knew that, if she had still been fat, this moment in her life would never have arisen. Probably James would not have included her in tonight's outing. Even if he had, she wouldn't have been dressed as she was in a shirt-dress of cream c
rêpe de Chine with the eye-catching band round her wrist. Raoul Santerre wouldn't have noticed her except for her obesity.

  When they reached the apartment, James said, 'Help Summer to carry her embroidery frame to the living room, will you, Emily?'

  'Wouldn't it be easier for Mr Santerre to come to my room?' Summer suggested.

  'As you wish.' He had used his key to open the front door, but now he touched a bell to summon José.

  The weather in New York was still cold and both men were wearing chesterfields over their suits. Emily had on her camel-hair coat, and Summer was wrapped in a black wool cloak with arm-slits. She had a small silver fox muff to keep her hands warm. She had bought it at a shop on 57th Street where rich women sold last year's furs. Even there it had been quite expensive. But now she had some private means as well as her salary. The cottage had been sold and James had advised her how best to invest the purchase price. The income from this capital wasn't enough to support her—in Manhattan it would barely pay the rent on a one-room, walk-up apartment in a seedy district—but it meant that if she lost her present job, she wouldn't be destitute.

  Sometimes she had the feeling that, some day, she and James might have a difference of opinion which even their mutual concern for Emily's feelings wouldn't restrain from becoming a volcanic row.

  While they were taking off their outer garments, the manservant appeared from the staff quarters and took charge of the two men's coats.

  'My room is this way, Mr Santerre.' With her cloak folded over her arm, she led him along the hall, leaving James speaking to José.

  However, a few moments later, he followed them. Evidently it was all right for him to visit her bedroom, but not for another man—however innocuous his purpose—to spend any time there alone with her.

  Rather amused by James's sudden regard for the proprieties, she laid her cloak on the bed and removed the muslin dust-cover from the frame.

  'This is an evening bag I'm making, and I've one or two other things in a drawer. A spectacle case... two small trinket boxes...'

  He looked carefully at all her work, making no comments and showing no reaction.

  'Where were you trained?' he asked her.

  'I've never had any training... well, apart from an embroidery seminar in Nantucket given by Erica Wilson. But it's not very difficult to learn embroidery techniques from books.'

  'You've never been to art school?'

  She shook her head.

  'Summer is the daughter of a professional artist, Thomas Roberts,' said James who, by this time, knew that the trompe-l'oeil paintings at Baile del Sol had been done by her father.

  'Ah, and he taught you about line and colour?' said the other man, looking at her.

  'No, he died when I was a child. But although I can't draw at all well, I think I've inherited something from him.'

  'A great deal, Miss Roberts. This isn't the work of an enthusiastic amateur. I can't pretend to be an expert on embroidery, but I take an interest in all the applied arts including the world of fashion. I think you're a natural innovator like the English dress designer, Zandra Rhodes or, here in New York, Norma Kamali. I'd like to find out if you can be equally innovative with diamonds and sapphires.'

  Emily was hovering in the doorway. James said, 'Let's go and have a drink, shall we?'

  Before he left it, the other man glanced round the bedroom and his eye was caught by the spray of white lilac.

  'That looks like a flower from Trousselier.'

  'It is,' said Summer.

  'I thought so. The silk flowers imported from Hong Kong are attractive, but they aren't minor works of art. Have you spent much time in Paris, Miss Roberts?'

  'Only a few days, but I loved it. Do you spend much time there?'

  'I was born there and lived in Paris until I was twenty. Now I'm a New Yorker and only go back for vacations. I like the American way of life, and I find Manhattan a very stimulating place to live. Like Mr Gardiner I have an apartment not far from here, although my pied-au-ciel is smaller than this,' he added, as they reached the large living room with its spectacular views of the city by night.

  'You say pied-au-ciel... does that mean you commute to the country at weekends?' James asked him.

  'Not often at this time of year, but in summer—yes, most weekends. I've a house at Old Lyme near the mouth of the Connecticut River. For a hundred miles upstream, the river valley is one of the most beautiful and historic parts of New England. Perhaps you know it.'

  'I do, but Emily and Summer have only been in America for just over two years and most of their time has been spent in Florida and Nantucket. They're only here at the moment because my niece needed some urgent dental treatment. Normally they stay in Florida until the weather in the north is warmer. But now that they're here, they'll probably stay until they can go to Nantucket.'

  While James was speaking, José had been uncorking a bottle of champagne and filling three glasses. There was a fourth glass on the tray but before he filled it he murmured something in Spanish to which James replied in the same language.

  Summer guessed what José had been asking when he poured champagne into the fourth glass, although not to the level in the other glasses.

  He presented the tray to her first. She smiled and thanked him, taking the smallest glass, and waited for the others to take theirs. It didn't surprise her that James had asked for champagne because he often drank it.

  But she was surprised when he raised his glass to her, and said, 'It's a memorable occasion when a creative artist receives his or her first recognition. I think tonight is that occasion in your life, Summer. We'll drink to your success as a designer. But I must make it plain to you, Santerre, that for some time to come she is committed to her present career as Emily's tutor.' His keen gaze swung back to her. 'Success!'

  The other two echoed the toast and drank to it.

  'Thank you.' She sipped her champagne.

  'I seem to remember reading that your family have some connection with Carl Fabergé, the goldsmith to the Imperial Court of Russia until the Revolution,' James said to the Frenchman.

  'Yes, my maternal grandfather was one of Fabergé's workmasters. When the firm was closed down by the Bolsheviks in 1918, Fabergé escaped as a courier attached to the British Embassy. He was already an old man, and he died two years later in Switzerland. My grandfather was younger. His first wife had died, and after he settled in Paris, he married the daughter of a French jeweller whose fortunes he greatly enhanced. My father was their youngest son.'

  Raoul paused to drink some champagne before he continued, 'Having escaped being shot by the Bolsheviks, my grandfather didn't intend to be victimised by the Nazis, so a few years before the Second World War, he came to America. But my father felt himself to be a Frenchman and he joined the Free French forces, and after the war he married a French girl. He was a man of action, never a craftsman. But I took after my grandfather.'

  'I have a Fabergé elephant,' said Emily. 'He's red with tiny little diamond eyes. Daddy gave him to me for Christmas, a long time ago, but he isn't here. He's in Florida.'

  'You must come and see the collection of Fabergé animals which we have at our shop on Fifth Avenue,' Raoul said to her. 'Why don't you both come... tomorrow. You, too, Mr Gardiner, if it would interest you.'

  'Unfortunately I'm busy tomorrow, but I'm sure Summer and Emily would enjoy it,' said James.

  'Come at half past eleven. After I've shown you round, we'll have lunch,' Raoul suggested.

  A week later, when Summer was having dinner with him at Le Cirque, Raoul said, 'You know, it's crazy that you should have to waste time playing governess to Gardiner's niece. Every moment of your life should be devoted to developing your talent.

  'In that case, I shouldn't really be dining with you, Raoul. I should be at home, studying those books on jewellery you lent me,' she told him teasingly.

  It was strange how comfortable she felt with him. He was an attractive, sophisticated, worldly man; but he
didn't unnerve her as James did. Raoul was an open, outgoing personality. She felt that, behind a suave façade, her employer was a private person who never fully revealed himself to anyone. Not to Emily. Probably not to Loretta Fox.

  The day they had visited Santerre et Cie, Raoul had insisted she must take off her rose quartz ring and let him re-set it for her.

  'It offends my eye, that cheap setting. I'll make something more appropriate. I'm a qualified goldsmith, you know,' he had told her. 'Not that I have as much time for practical work as I should like.'

  Now, having ordered the wine to accompany the dishes they had chosen, he produced from an inside pocket a small chamois bag.

  'I hope you'll like what I've done to your ring.' He tipped it on to the damask cloth.

  The new gold shank gleamed in the lamplight. Yet somehow it didn't look new. When she picked up the ring she saw that the bezel surrounding the stone was delicately engraved.

  'It's perfect, Raoul. Is this an old setting which happened to be the right size for the stone?'

  'No, no—I made it for the stone. Nowadays most gold alloys are produced by large refining companies. But a few manufacturing jewellers still alloy and melt their own gold. Santerre are among them. For your ring, I used the slightly redder gold which is popular in Europe; although not in England where they like a yellower gold. I've tried to make the setting look the same age as the intaglio, but it's difficult to be sure how old it is.'

  He took the ring from her and slid it over her little finger. Then he placed her hand on his palm, fanning her fingers by sliding his own between them.

  'You have good hands for rings. I don't care for hands which are too small, with long sharp nails like cats' claws. In fact you have all the features a woman needs to wear jewels well,' he told her. 'A long neck, pretty ears, a fine skin. Unfortunately, most of my designs are destined to be worn by women whose skin has long lost the bloom of youth, or who, if they are young, have no elegance.'

  Had James held her hand on his and discussed her physical attributes, she would have found it disturbing. Raoul's touch and his compliments pleased her. Her only unease had to do with the setting he had made and how to deal gracefully with the question of payment.