Fern entered the little Danish coffee-house where she and Diana often lunched on open sandwiches and pastries. She ordered a cup of coffee. "No cream today, Helge," she told the blond young waiter.
He stood beside her table after he brought her cup of coffee, talking to her in his attractive broken English. There were never many customers in the coffee-house during the somnolent afternoon period between three o'clock and five and the waiter was always friendly towards Fern. Especially so since the morning he had run a viciously long splinter down a fingernail and Fern, lunching here with Diana at the time, had extracted the splinter for him.
He told Fern that very soon his girl friend was coming to the States from Denmark. He opened his pocket-book and extracted his girl's photograph. "So happy-faced, is she not?" He ran a fond thumb over the snapshot, dog-eared from his constant handling of it. "She is to work as a seamstress at the San Francisco Opera House."
Fern sipped her dark, aromatic coffee and listened to the young Dane with a desperate, smiling attention. Yes, she agreed, it would be marvellous for him having his girl in the States.
"I have missed her until I have sometimes wept," Helge confided.
Fern thought of that remark, sitting in the home-going bus. She remembered her early days in America; the tears she had shed because the Atlantic ocean separated her from Ken. Now tears seemed frozen within her ... feeling, too.
Ross chose a white-painted, rose-covered chapel up in the Cap Flamingo hills for his marriage to Fern. A wildly romantic place to which a couple deeply in love might have come to make their vows of eternal allegiance to one another. Fern wore a misty-lavender suit trimmed with ranch mink; a gift which Edwina Kingdom had made her accept. Dr. Lands gave her away. The old-fashioned doctor knew of the far from romantic compulsion behind this marriage, and just before they entered the chapel he pressed Fern's small cold hand resting on his arm. He gazed into her eyes as if to say that even at this stage it wasn't too late for her to retract, but she shook her head, just slightly, then they stepped through the arched doorway and organ music swept down the central aisle, gathering Fern upon its portentous waves and carrying her relentlessly towards Ross.
He turned his bronze head to watch her progress towards him, a tall, rather forbidding stranger in his impeccable steel-grey suit. Sunshine slanted through a window on to his hair, making it burn; his gold-flecked eyes held Fern's and she told herself, with crazy irrelevance : "He's like a tiger in my path, and I'm walking straight to him."
Fern had almost reached his side when the intent gaze of someone in the congregation compelled her attention. She found herself looking at Ken. Her heart jolted, for it hadn't occurred to her that he would come to see her married. Mamie Austin and her husband were with
him. Mamie beamed in her friendly way and lifted a hand as if to say: "Good luck, my dear, and lots of happiness."
Throughout the marriage service Ross looked rather forbidding, but at the small reception held at the Kingdom house he unbent and was so attentive towards his bride that even the most sceptical among the guests were shaken in their cynical belief that this was a hurriedly arranged marriage, designed to snuff the leaping flame of gossip that was running around Cap Flamingo about these two being caught together as lovers in the girl's bedroom. Whatever the circumstances it had to be admitted that Ross seemed enchanted by her, and they certainly made a nice-looking couple, he so tall and bold and somehow arrogant in that well-bred way you couldn't resent, and she so fair and fragile ... so almost demure.
The Austins attended the reception and Ross was standing only a few paces from Fern when Mamie said to her: "Dear Kenneth rushed away after the marriage ceremony. He's still so fond of you, honey." Fern saw Ross half turn to look at her. She noticed that he frowned, thoughtfully, as though he wondered just how fond of Ken she still was.
Fern found the reception more harrowing than anything else. Laraine Davies didn't show up (which didn't surprise Fern in the least), but her absence was commented upon by several women present. Fern couldn't help overhearing some of their remarks as she circulated among her guests and her look of outward composure began to leave her towards the end of this trying hour. Ross must have noticed, for he suddenly caught hold of her left hand, on which his gold wedding ring now gleamed, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "We'll make our escape in a few more minutes," he murmured.
Then at last they were alone in his car, speeding towards the Hollywood airport where they were to catch their plane for New York. There were a couple of newspaper reporters awaiting them at the airport. One of them asked for a real wedding day picture for the readers
of his paper and suggested that the bridegroom give his very lovely bride a kiss. Ross hesitated for a brief moment, then before Fern could catch her breath he swept her into his arms and kissed her startled, half-parted lips, caressing them with a dizzying warmth. The reporter's camera aimed, snapped, and he had on record what appeared to be the kiss of a man who couldn't wait to be alone with the girl in his arms.
They crossed the tarmac to the long, streamlined plane and Fern's knees felt rather wobbly, both from the unexpected fire of Ross's kiss and the fact that this would be her first flight. In the plane Ross fastened her seat belt. "Can you spot any rice in my hair?" he laughingly murmured. "That little devil of a Diana aimed a whacking great handful at me as we were getting into the car."
Fern did spot a couple of giveaway grains hiding in his bronze curls and she brushed them out, feeling the crispness of his hair against the palm of her hand. "There," she smiled, "now you can pretend to be a blase, well-married husband instead of a brand new bridegroom."
He caught her fingers in his hand as she brought them down from his hair. "Your colour has come back," he said. "You were looking awfully pale and big-eyed at the reception. I guess you found it a bit of an ordeal, didn't you?"
"I'm afraid so," she admitted. "People were thinking all sorts of things—wondering about us, you know."
"Darn people!" Quite unselfconsciously, and with a tenderness that somehow meant much more to her than the mink stole which had been his wedding present to her, he ran his warm lips along her fingertips, then touched them to the pink ovals of her fingernails. Wings fluttered inside Fern and suddenly she had to turn away from him and look out of the window beside her. The coastline had fallen away behind the plane and the ocean glittered like steel far below them.
She knew Ross was being sweet and attentive to ease a difficult situation for her, but all the same it was nice
to pretend he meant all these romantic attentions. And she couldn't help feeling proud that he was her husband. Other women on the plane looked at him with such admiring eyes, and he surely had the warmest, nicest voice in the world as, beside her, he asked the stewardess to bring them a couple of sherries. Dry for himself, sweet for her, because he remembered she liked a sweet sherry.
"Cigarette, honey?" Fern turned to him with a smile and accepted a cigarette from his open case. When it trembled slightly in her fingers a twinkle appeared in Ross's eyes and he took the cigarette, lit it between his own lips, then gently inserted it between hers. "Your drinks, sir." He turned to take them from the stewardess, who reflected that his wife had every reason to look wrapped in dreams.
The flight was a smooth one and Fern, who had been too strung up to eat anything at the wedding reception, welcomed the meal of duckling, green peas and potatoes which was served up by their charming stewardess. There was fruit and ice-cream for dessert, followed by coffee with a liqueur. The stewardess seemed particularly interested in Fern and her husband, and upon going to the ladies' room to freshen up Fern discovered two grains of rice in the mesh of her tiny hat of clustered violets. She realized at once that the other girl had noticed them and tumbled to the fact that she had a honeymoon couple on board.
An evening sky, purple and lush, lay over La Guardia airport when their plane touched down. They took a cab to the hotel where Ross had booked a suite in advance, and Fern gaz
ed with interest from the windows of their cab and thought that New York, with its tall buildings thrusting into the sky, had a strange, fierce beauty that should be put on tapestry like the Gothic cities of old.
"I've seen this place in movies," she said to Ross, "but I didn't dream it was this breathtaking."
"The glow of its own gigantic starlight adds a certain amount of glamour," he laughed. "By daylight it's a steel and concrete jungle."
"Will you show me around?" she asked. "I have a rather nice camera and I'd love to send some snaps home to my sisters."
"Sure I'll show you around, sweetheart. I've got to call on my publisher in the morning, then we'll be free as a breeze to take in most everything. Tiffany's. Central Park. The antique shops on Third Avenue. Manhattan Island..."
"Oh, stop, you're making me quite dizzy!" She leant against his chest, laughing, forgetting to be shy of him.
She felt his hands touch her waist. "You're sweet and plucky the way you're taking this marriage of ours, Fern," he spoke almost boyishly. "I was a bit worried in case you might be resenting me in your heart for compromising you and near enough carrying you to the altar."
"Of course I don't resent you, Ross. Scandal would have been much harder for me to take than an exciting trip to New York with a handsome husband."
She saw him flush, then he gave a small, inarticulate exclamation and pressed his cheek to hers. "Mm, you smell rather delicious," he murmured. "Like a hidden garden of violets and snowdrops."
"I'm wearing 'April Violets,' " she laughed gently, realizing, almost with surprise, that beneath his outward air of self-assurance there was a strange well of loneliness in this man she had married.
They arrived at their hotel and Fern excitedly explored their suite, which was very smart, with walk-in clothing closets that automatically lit up, french windows leading out to a small private terrace, and adjoining rooms obviously designed for occupation by a husband and wife. Ross's room was very masculine, but in Fern's room an apricot-coloured bedspread frothed and foamed to white lambskin rugs and her curtains were a lovely shade of apple-green.
The excitement of the wedding, combined with their journey, had tired both of them, so instead of dressing up for a glamorous restaurant Ross took Fern to dinner at Lindy's. Its pleasant informal air was relaxing and
several of his colourful writing friends sat at their table and talked of art, politics, literature.... The hours sped by, and though it was late when they left Lindy's the New York lights made everything bright and they strolled back to their hotel instead of taking a cab.
In the sitting-room of their suite Ross held Fern's hands and smiled down upon her.
"Well, we haven't done too badly for a start off, have we, Mrs. Kingdom? I guess I'll stay married if you will."
"I will." The words were an echo of those she had spoken earlier in the day, but now her voice was much less shaky. But tension had laid its smudgy finger beneath her lavender eyes and when she returned his smile her dark lashes slanted their shadows on to her cheekbones and her eyelids were heavy. He bent and kissed the place where her dimple peeped for a moment. "Goodnight, sweetheart," he said. "Don't feel lonely. I'm right next door."
"Goodnight, Ross."
She walked into her bedroom, quietly closing the door behind her. She drew off her tiny hat, slipped out of her suit and hung it in the clothes closet. She prepared for bed as though this were any other night of her life.
There beyond her bedroom windows, New York reared its towers into the sky, and Fern was suddenly and sharply homesick for England. She had received several cables and letters of congratulation, and now she sat on her bed reading the cables from her sisters. Both Bryony and Aster said they were longing to receive letters from her, and she smiled, guessing they were eager to be told all about her wedding. Whether she had worn white satin like themselves. And was her husband very much in love with her.
Her eyes dwelt on the door that communicated with Ross's room. She could hear him moving about, opening closets and whistling to himself, and quite suddenly she thought of what she had said to Curtis Wayne, that she would feel a cheat giving such lukewarm emotions as tolerance and fondness to the man she married. But Ross hadn't even asked for these ... he had asked for
nothing. Fern worriedly ruffled her hair and realizing that she had forgotten to braid it tidily, as was her habit, she slid off the bed and walked to the dressing-table, where she stood plaiting her fine, silky hair in front of the mirror. She was wearing a negligee of pastel chiffon, wide-sleeved but clinging to her figure, and as she tied off her silver braid with a piece of ribbon she gazed at her reflection. She saw a young, pretty woman with wistful eyes ... on her honeymoon and spending her wedding night alone.
She thought of Ross in the chapel that morning, fitting his gold ring on to her finger and looking so serious. Then she thought of him in the woods, wanting to kiss her. She was seized by a trembling feeling of confusion, then a sudden sweet tide of realization swept through her. She wanted Ross! She wanted to be in his arms right now, giving him far more than tolerance and fondness. She wanted to give him her love ... she had wanted to right from their first meeting, but she had been afraid of being hurt again. She had been running away from her own emotions and she had run straight into this strange marriage with him !
Fern had guessed that Ross was very highly paid in his profession, and during their three weeks in New York he proved himself a wonderfully generous person. He seemed to get an almost boyish pleasure out of buying pretty clothes for Fern, and when she protested against his extravagance he laughed and told her it was no use arguing with him. When he wanted to do a thing he did it, so she might as well save her breath. Besides, he added, she looked adorably pretty in the lemon organza that left her shoulders bare and snowy, and he particularly liked her in the little blue number the skirt of which, shaped like a bell, seemed to swing to invisible music when she walked across a room.
There was no arguing with such a man, Fern finally decided, and she relaxed and let herself enjoy all this spoiling. She especially liked the ring which he bought her at Tiffany's. It was an exquisite solitaire sapphire, blue ice on her hand one minute, then the soft velvety
blue of an evening sky. Fern longed to repay her husband's generosity with kisses and tenderness, but so far their relationship remained as it had been upon their first night in New York. They would return to their hotel after an enjoyable evening out and, after talking in the sitting-room of their suite for a while, Ross would kiss her cheek, wish her goodnight and go to his own room.
They always ate breakfast on their small private terrace, but Fern's late nights caused her to oversleep now and again. Then Ross would appear in her room, ungallantly jerk off her bedcovers, tickle her feet and make a nuisance of himself until she retaliated by aiming her pillows at him.
One morning they were romping together in this lighthearted fashion when Fern suddenly tripped over one of the lambskin rugs lying beside her bed. She would have fallen if Ross hadn't caught hold of her. She was wearing flimsy shortie pyjamas, and as he held her he felt the slender sweetness of her body close to him. His breath caught sharply in his throat, his face whitened and for a moment his lips burned against the side of Fern's neck. Then he put her out of his arms and strode into the sitting-room, closing her door decisively behind him. Fern crumpled to the silk spread of her bed, half frightened by the feelings he had aroused in her, yet so much in love that now she would have accepted passion from him and gloried in just being a woman in his arms. The pressure of his lips lingered to tell her of his need for affection, but the decisive way he had left her added that he didn't love her, therefore it would be cheating to just enjoy her body.
Later that same day they attended a cocktail party to celebrate the launching of Ross's book, and Fern was told by his publisher that he expected it to be a big success. "I've always felt that Ross should devote more of his time to writing," Lionel Leston said. "Perhaps now he has married he'll set
tle down and contribute regularly to our book list. You must persuade him to, Mrs. Kingdom."
Fern nibbled at the olive out of her dry martini. "I'd love him to stay at home and write books, Mr. Leston," she spoke wistfully, "but I daresay he'll go marching off round the globe again just as soon as he feels fit enough."
The man beside her followed her glance across the crowded room, to where her tall husband stood in conversation with a fellow writer. "Is Ross still feeling the effects of that head injury, Mrs. Kingdom?"
A slight frown contracted her slender eyebrows, for the publisher had hit upon a worrying subject. "He does get occasional headaches, but he doesn't talk a lot about his injury, not being a man to make a fuss."
Mr. Leston smiled and thought what a change it was, in this tensed-up, ambitious world, to meet a charming girl who just wanted to be a loving wife to her husband. It heartened a man, left him with a bit of hope that femininity wasn't dying out, just to see the soft glow in Fern Kingdom's eyes whenever she looked at Ross.
Going back to the hotel in a cab, Ross suddenly asked Fern if she was ready to go home to Cap Flamingo. Her heart gave a nervous jerk. "I—I suppose we have to go home some time," she said. "Shall we go on living at your aunt's?"
He shook his head. "A fellow at the party was telling me he has a friend in Cap Flamingo with a furnished bungalow to let. He wants to let it for six months, so it should just suit us, if we can get it."
For six months! Ross still intended their marriage to last no longer! Fern wanted to fall against his shoulder and weep, but instead, with admirable steadiness, she replied that the bungalow sounded ideal.
Cap Flamingo Page 9