by Mulry, Megan
He went into the next examination room and gave a quick look at a patient who was in for a regular checkup. All good. Next.
And so his day progressed, with the occasional emergency that made him use his brain for perhaps seventeen seconds instead of the requisite four seconds, and on and on it went. He got home that night and made himself one of those organic pasta and vegetable microwave dinners and watched the Knicks game. Maybe something would happen eventually. Or not.
“This is the dumbest idea in history.” Claire stood in front of the mirror in Bronte’s New York City apartment, Claire’s new temporary home. She was wearing a navy blue skirt and matching jacket, and her long, wavy blond hair had been whipped into ramrod-straight submission by Bronte’s favorite hairstylist. Bronte stood behind Claire and patted her shoulders and smoothed the skirt along her hips.
“You look amazing. You’re going on a job interview. This is what you’re supposed to look like.”
“I feel like such a fraud. What do I possibly have to offer one of the top interior designers in the world?” Claire turned to face Bronte, unable to stand another second of that imposter in the mirror.
“Stop it. Seriously. You’re the Marchioness of Wick—”
“Actually, I’ve been thinking about it and I want to go back to Lady Claire Heyworth.” She looked down at her clasped hands thoughtfully. “I can’t bear to be associated with Freddy, even if we aren’t technically divorced.”
“You will be soon enough.”
Claire looked up hopefully. “You don’t think it’s duplicitous or dishonest, do you?”
“Of course not. You’re still Lady Claire, the daughter of a duke. There’s nothing dishonest about that. It’s a technicality.”
Claire had a momentary worry that her sister-in-law’s moral compass didn’t always point to true north, but Bronte was right in any case. Claire’s name at birth had always been hers to use, no matter her marital status or what the British courts ruled.
“And Lady Claire’s even better!” Bronte exclaimed. “Who’s ever heard of a marchioness in Manhattan anyway? Everyone loves all that lady-this and lady-that.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Bronte.”
“I’m not kidding. The plummy accent. The highbrow contacts. The accent!”
Claire frowned. “I get it, I get it. But I don’t have any highbrow contacts. I’ve been holed up in Scotland for nearly twenty years, remember?”
“Oh, that’s just untrue. You’re related to the queen, for fuck’s sake. Enough with the self-deprecating silliness. Or…” Bronte’s eyes lit up. “Better yet, keep it up. Boppy Matthews is going to love all that!”
“All what?”
“All that hesitant Oh, Viscount Linley, you mean David? that you’re so good at.”
“Bronte. You’re awful.”
“I know. I’m the worst. But it’s all true, and you know it. If you saw David at a party, you wouldn’t turn in the other direction, now would you?”
“Well, I suppose not. But I wouldn’t offer him a swatch of Scalamandré silk fabric either!”
Bronte burst out laughing. “Bull’s-eye! Don’t you see? Only you know Viscount Linley, and you know that he would know Scalamandré fabric to begin with. And all of that is what it’s all about. It’s just all too good. Now off we go.”
Claire sighed and gave herself over to the ongoing pushing and prodding of her relentless sister-in-law. Bronte had offered her old apartment as a temporary stopgap until Claire got on her feet. For some reason, her brothers—who had always dismissed Claire as a doll-like version of their mother—had taken up her cause now that her wretched husband was no longer in the picture and their overpowering mother had moved to France with her new husband.
When Bronte had first suggested giving over her New York apartment, Claire tried to argue that taking charity from her sister-in-law was no better than taking charity from her mother, but Bronte had howled, “Claire! Living in a Georgian mansion in Mayfair and pretending you need a job is preposterous! Living in a modest one-bedroom apartment in Gramercy Park is something else altogether. Plus, New York City is all about new beginnings. How could you ever have a fresh start in London, for Christ’s sake? Every maître d’ in Mayfair knows your bank details!”
So Claire had spent the rest of the summer closing up the majority of the castle in Scotland, leaving only a few areas open and accessible to the public, and put the staff on notice. Freddy had already moved permanently to his rooms at the Albany many months before, and they’d both agreed to communicate solely through their attorneys. Despite years of lies and disdain, Freddy was still refusing to agree to the divorce, forcing Claire into the very unfamiliar position of aggressor.
Her brother Max had insisted on helping her hire the best attorney, and she’d reluctantly agreed. She hated having to depend on everyone, but Max convinced her that there was no way she could have burned through all her assets, and he was just as interested in ferreting out the truth about Freddy and their shared finances as she was.
She had felt mildly guilty about closing up the castle and effectively leaving her daughter homeless, but the twenty-year-old Lydia hadn’t visited Scotland in nearly a year. As she’d driven away from Wick Castle for the last time, Claire had realized it was much easier to shut down twenty years of one’s life than it had been to build it. The thought was far less depressing than she’d anticipated.
On that final trip to Scotland, she’d packed up two large suitcases of clothes, half of which Bronte and Sarah had summarily removed from the luggage during her stopover in London. The three of them had been at Northrop House in Mayfair, trying to sort out what Claire would need for her new life in New York.
“That’s hideous,” Sarah said about her favorite brown jumper.
“You’ll never wear that in New York,” Bronte said about her much-loved yellow mackintosh.
“Those are the color of puke,” Sarah said about her dearest wellies.
“What the hell is that?” Bronte cried.
The item in question was one of her great-grandmother’s bed coats. It was a pale blue lacy thing, of no sartorial use whatsoever. It was just old and pretty…and had been worn by the Queen Consort, Mary of Teck. And Claire loved it.
“Give me that!” Claire demanded.
“It looks like a spider got wasted on blue gin fizz and wove it in a drunken frenzy,” Bronte said.
Claire held it close to her chest, then gently refolded it. “This stays.”
“Okay,” Bronte laughed. “It’s nice to see a touch of defiance, but you might want to reserve your stubbornness for one of your mother’s Worth gowns.”
Sarah squeezed Claire’s shoulder and whispered, “It’s lovely, Claire.”
That had been two weeks ago. Now Claire was wishing she was Mary of Teck, sitting in an enormous tester bed eighty years ago at Sandringham Castle, ringing for hot chocolate in her pale blue bed coat. Alas.
She took a deep breath of Manhattan air and got into the taxi alongside Bronte.
“Okay. So, obviously, I can’t go in with you,” Bronte began her pep talk. “But Boppy is totally expecting you, and you should basically just throw yourself at her feet.”
Claire looked mortified.
“Not literally!” Bronte laughed and grabbed Claire’s hand. “Just offer to do whatever needs doing. You have such perfect taste. I mean, look at you. You’re always so perfect.”
Claire cringed at the sound of the dreaded word. Perfect. Her mother was perfect. Her mother had demanded perfection. All that proper posture. Proper forms of address. “I am so far from perfect. I’m a wreck.”
Bronte switched gears. “Look. Shake it off. You’re going in for your first job interview…of your entire life. I get it. It’s huge. But you’re also a grown woman. You have had parties for hundreds of people in your home. You have raised hundreds of thousands of dollars for charities. You obviously know how to deal with difficult people, between your soon-to-be-ex-husband and yo
ur mother—” Bronte caught herself. “Sorry!” She swore quietly under her breath. “I’m trying so hard not to snipe.”
It was Claire’s turn to play the comforter. “Oh it’s fine, Bron. I know Mother has given you a horrible time of it. She’s better now, since she’s with Jack, but she is just…rigid.”
“She is that. I think she’s wonderful with Wolf though,” said Bronte, referring to her beloved sixteen-month-old son.
“She is. She’s spoiling him. Watch out. Can you imagine what she’ll be like with twin girls? The clothes!”
“That’s what grandmothers are for, I think.”
“I think so too.” The taxi stopped at a red light a few blocks from their final destination. “So, just talk to Boppy. You know her style. You’ve read her books. She’s a classicist like you.”
“Is that what I am?” Claire wondered.
“Yes!” Bronte laughed again. “Get your story straight. Everybody needs a little mission statement. Yours is all about the bones. You’ve got history. You’ve got structure.”
“You make me sound like one of the properties in the National Trust.”
“You’re worse than Eeyore! Cut it out with all this sad sack nonsense. I’m trying to elaborate on your strengths, and all you can do is be mopey!”
“Okay, okay,” Claire laughed it off. She probably was like an old pile of a castle anyway. She might as well admit it.
The taxi slowed to a stop in front of a five-story townhouse on a quiet side street in the sixties. A uniformed doorman waited just inside the glass door at the top of the eight or so steps that led up from the street.
“Here we are,” Bronte said. “Go get ’em, Tiger. I mean, Tigress!”
“Meow,” Claire said quietly.
“Roar!” Bronte cried, and they both started laughing again. The taxi driver was beginning to fidget in the front seat. “All right. Off you go. Knock ’em dead and all that. Call me as soon as you get out of the meeting. I’ll be at my office for a few hours then at the Mowbray apartment with Wolf and Max, but you can reach me on my cell either way.” Bronte practically had to push Claire out onto the sidewalk.
Claire leaned back into the car before shutting the door. “Thanks, Bron.”
“Sarah made the introductory call, but you’re welcome. Now go!”
“Okay!” She smiled, shut the door, and took a deep breath before looking up at the stately townhouse. “Here goes nothing,” she whispered to herself, then took the first step toward her possible future.
Chapter 4
A middle-aged doorman opened the tall, narrow door and gestured toward the small front hall. “May I help you?”
“Yes, I am Claire—” Twenty years of introducing herself as Claire, Marchioness of Wick, caused her to stumble. She smiled at the nice-looking gentleman. “I’m Claire Heyworth. I have an appointment to see Ms. Matthews.”
“Please wait in the sitting room.” He showed her into a small front parlor that was—predictably—beautifully decorated.
Boppy Matthews had been a protégé of Sister Parish and then struck out on her own in the 1980s. She favored traditional European styles, with particular hints of American whimsy. Claire had spent the past two weeks reading up on everything she could find about her work. Matthews had published seven books, mostly picture books showing her clients’ homes, and one that read like a country diary about her renovation and preservation work at a large farm in Pennsylvania where she and her husband spent their weekends and holidays. Claire had been particularly taken with the diary, finding much in common with the way Matthews had created a long-term plan for the home and surrounding gardens. The way she planned certain projects that would take decades to complete—trellised fruit trees, allées of original American specimen trees—reminded Claire of what she had been trying to accomplish with the castle in Wick. She suppressed a sigh.
Claire sat with her hands clasped lightly in her lap. She made no move to pick up one of the many magazines that were piled neatly on the coffee table (definitely Georgian by the look of it) next to a cluster of hothouse peonies in a black-and-white creamware vase (Creil, Claire noted). She tilted her head slightly and resisted the temptation to lift up the pottery and check the maker’s mark on the bottom.
“It’s Creil, but I’m sure you can tell.” The deep voice was almost mannish. The large woman walked into the sitting room, and Claire quickly stood up. “I am Boppy Matthews.”
“Claire Heyworth. It’s such a pleasure to meet you. Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with me.”
“Well, when Sarah called, I couldn’t resist.” Boppy smiled, but it was a little sad. “Her mother was one of my dearest friends, as I’m sure she told you.”
“Yes, but thank you just the same.”
“Let’s go out to the back garden. It’s one of the last sunny days for many weeks, I think.” Boppy started to lead them down the hall, then stopped briefly to speak to the doorman, who it seemed was really an all-round everything-man. “James, please have Hilary bring us—” She turned to look at Claire again. “Do you prefer tea or coffee?”
“Oh, coffee please. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Two coffees, please, James.” The man nodded and walked quietly up the stairs to the upper floor.
The two women walked in silence toward the back of the house. The hallway was lined with photographs of different projects, some of them yellowed with age and looking a bit dated, but the styles were enduring. Claire was tempted to slow down and take a closer look. The hall ended at a matching pair of tall, glass-paned Victorian doors like the ones at the front of the townhouse. Boppy pushed open the right-hand door and held it for Claire. A set of narrow, black wrought-iron stairs led down the side of a tiny, perfect secret garden.
Claire gasped with pleasure. “What a lovely spot.”
“Thank you,” Boppy said. “I love it. It was my husband’s gift to me. I am terrible with growing, living things.” She looked momentarily perplexed, like it might have been a more meaningful statement than she had initially intended, then she shrugged her shoulders and smiled at Claire. “It’s funny how statements like that seem so ominous as we get older. Have you noticed that?” Boppy gestured to two large wicker chairs with chintz cushions and waited for Claire to sit first.
Claire sighed, deciding she was just going to talk to this woman and hope that would suffice for an interview. When she thought of it as a proper interview, she got too nervous to speak normally. “I know exactly what you mean. Lately, I feel like everyone is being particularly careful about everything they say to me. It’s tiresome.”
Boppy laughed a full-blown, deep, throaty laugh. “Oh, you are so right.”
They both looked up when a pretty woman in her twenties came down the stairs with a silver, oval-shaped tray holding two mugs of coffee and a small Limoges plate of madeleines.
“Thank you, Hilary.”
“You’re welcome.” The assistant clasped her hands in front of her. “Do you need anything else?”
“No, I think we’re all set. Please come back in thirty minutes, will you?”
“Of course.” Hilary nodded.
“Oh, forgive me. Hilary Rattner, this is Claire…Heyworth.”
“Nice to meet you, Hilary,” Claire said.
“Oh, so nice to meet you,” Hilary beamed.
“Thirty minutes, Hilary,” Boppy said, in a more impatient voice.
Hilary’s face went back to a professional mask. She nodded, and quickly left the garden.
Claire reached for one of the coffee cups and tried not to be a part of whatever little scuffle she had just witnessed.
“They’re all gaga over your brothers,” Boppy said.
Claire almost choked on her coffee. “Excuse me?”
Boppy smiled. “You must know Max and Devon are the stuff of dreams here in the beating hearts of New York City’s pretty young things.”
“I guess I just think of them as my annoying younger brothers.
”
“Good. That answers my first question. I don’t have a lot of time for that nonsense. I know it appears that we’re all lounging around here, but it’s not at all the case. I mean—” Boppy took a sip of her coffee and looked up at the back of the townhouse, then continued. “I have obviously tried to create a feeling of ease and luxury for when my clients come to meetings here, but the real work is happening up on the second and third floors, where my nine assistants are fighting with fabric wholesalers, Turkish carpet manufacturers, a terribly ill truck driver in Palm Beach, an angry client in Santa Monica, and seventeen million other things that require immediate attention.”
Claire nodded again. “I can understand that.”
“What? The facade?”
“Well…” Claire said, holding her mug in both hands. The October sun was bright, but the air was cool, and she had always suffered from freezing fingers. “I didn’t think of it as a facade when I did it. I don’t know if Sarah told you about my place in Scotland?”
“Yes, a bit. I know it of course, from the National Register, but I’ve never been.”
Claire smiled. “It’s really an incredible place.” Her face clouded. “I mean, I’m not saying I made it incredible. That probably sounded horribly arrogant—”
Boppy reached across the space between them, holding up one hand, but not touching Claire. “Relax. Tell me about Wick Castle.”
“Oh, okay.” Claire took a deep breath and tried to relax. She liked this woman already and she wanted to impress her. But she got the feeling that if she actually made an effort to impress her, that would very much not impress her. “So, when we moved there twenty years ago…” Claire shook her head. She didn’t even feel the press of tears anymore, just the press of time…of all that time. “Sorry, let me begin again. It’s all very new to me, speaking so boldly about myself. It feels very odd.”