On their way back to the chateau, Nigel stopped in a clearing and pulled her towards him. 'Hélène. . .'
She looked up at him, her eyes wide and frightened. 'Nigel. . .'
As he looked down at her, he noticed the sadness in her eyes. For a long moment he held her close without speaking. He knew how she felt. He could never forget the numbness that had come over him after Blanche Benois told him that Hélène had fled the yacht. It was the kind of pain that was difficult to work out of your system.
'I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed this past week,' he said softly.
Enjoyed it? She had loved it. Every last minute of it, but most of all the hours they had spent in bed. 'I. . . enjoyed it also,' she said under her breath.
He smiled sheepishly. 'I'm afraid I don't want to leave without you.'
'We'll see each other again,' she said.
'I'm counting on that.' He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a cubelike velvet case. For a moment he hesitated and looked down at it. 'The messenger brought this,' he said, holding it out to her.
She looked at him, took the case, and lifted the lid carefully.
She caught her breath. Glittering on a tiny cushion of velvet was a round diamond. It was the most enormous, most uniformly yellow stone she had ever seen.
'It's canary yellow!' she whispered, holding it up in the sunlight. She stared at it incredulously. It must weigh thirty carats.
He seemed to read her mind. 'Twenty-eight.'
She shook her head adamantly. 'Really, Nigel. I. . .I can't possibly accept this,' she protested. 'It's. . .it's far too valuable.' Quickly she shoved it back in the case, snapped it shut, and pushed it into his hands.
He opened the case ceremoniously, fished the ring back out, and carefully slipped it on her finger. 'Yes, it's very valuable,' he said slowly. 'It's been in my family for centuries. It's called the Somerset Sun.'
'Yes, but—'
He placed a finger on her lips. 'Let me try to explain. There are certain traditions in my family. The Somerset Sun happens to be one of them.' He paused and then continued. 'For three centuries now, it has graced the finger of every woman in line to be the Duchess of Farquharshire.'
As if paralyzed, she stared at him.
Suddenly he threw his arms around her and gave a joyous laugh. The gold flecks in his brown eyes shone brightly. 'Don't you see? Darling, I'm proposing to you! When I'm duke, you'll be my duchess!'
She dared not believe her ears. She had hungered to hear these very words for so long. They soared and sang and she could find no words to reply.
'I love you,' Nigel said. 'I've loved you ever since that night in Monte Carlo. I've loved you. . .Say yes, my darling!' His voice was anguished. 'Please say yes. God knows, I don't deserve you. Not after letting you down the way I have. I know I've hurt you, but I promise I'll spend a lifetime making it up to you.'
This time it was she who placed a finger on his lips. 'Yes!' she whispered. 'Oh, Nigel, yes!'
They embraced again. Her heart beat wildly against her chest. They would be together. Eternally together.
It seemed too good to be true.
6
The de Havilland Comet belonging to Somerset Holdings, Ltd., flew them from Paris to England. The interior of the jet was like a house. There were a living room, two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a bath.
'I've never seen anything like it,' Hélène marveled as she boarded at Orly. The living room was subdued in its luxury, with thick carpeting, polished tables, and crimson-upholstered easy chairs, even a desk.
They drank champagne, and the chef served a superb lunch which they ate over the English Channel.
'It was delicious,' Hélène told the chef when she had finished.
Then they moved to one of the curtained windows as the engines changed pitch and the jet started its descent. Nigel pointed out the sights. 'As far as your eye can see, up to the horizon, is Farquharshire.'
She stared out at the endless fields and forests and toylike villages. She glanced at him. 'You mean your family owns it all?'
He grinned. 'I'm afraid not. We do own a lot of property, though. Coal and zinc mines, textile mills, farms, dairies, real estate, electrical-machinery plants, six newspapers—'
'Six!'
He nodded. 'Three in England, two in Australia, and one in New York.'
'So you're in publishing too.'
Then her smile faded. She gazed back out at the checkerboard fields, the precisely surveyed property boundaries marked with hairline walls, and the thin gray ribbons of roads that seemed to float past below them. So she knew even less about him than she had thought. She wondered at the trifling things she did know, the things she'd read about him and the things she'd learned while they'd been on the Skouri yacht and during the past week they'd spent together. The thought suddenly crossed her mind that perhaps she should have waited awhile instead of accepting his proposal so quickly. After all, it was only by spending a lot of time together that people really got to know each other. And what did she know about him, anyway? That he was rich, that she loved him, that he was titled? A man like Nigel was very complex. Now she knew that it would take a lifetime to get to know him completely.
Yet he wasn't like any man she had ever met. He made her and everything around him seem to come alive. And he seemed to know so much about everything. Business, international politics, many languages, the arts. There wasn't a thing that seemed to baffle him. In a way, he overpowered her. But that was one of the things she loved about him. And yet she couldn't help feeling that perhaps she wasn't quite right for him. After all, she was a power within her own field. Perhaps a man like Nigel needed someone who had no responsibilities to anything except him. Who could be at his beck and call at any hour of the day or night. Someone dedicated to his political ambitions. A wife who had the time to entertain constantly and graciously, who could put people at ease, who could campaign for him, who knew just how to run the staggering array of residences he'd reeled off to her: Fallsworth in the autumn; the house in Mayfair when they were in London; Winthrow Abbey, the castle in Ireland, during spring; Craigmore, the lodge in Scotland; and on Mustique, the pink gingerbread house. . .Was she the kind of woman who could handle all that? Would she be a credit to him or an embarrassment?
These misgivings weighed heavily on her mind. After all, they had never even discussed how they would run both the Somerset businesses and Les Editions Hélène Junot. Well, they had plenty of time to discuss that, she told herself. They weren't even married yet. No, not yet. But soon would be. And they would have to come to some decision regarding the businesses before then.
She glanced down at the Somerset Sun. It felt heavy and demanding, a prophecy of a thousand responsibilities that were to come. For the first time in many years she felt a real terror. Did all women who were about to be introduced to their future parents-in-law and yearned for their blessings—did they all feel this panic-stricken? Or was the fact that Nigel's parents were the Duke and Duchess of Farquharshire, and she a commoner, only reinforcing her dread? Would the fact that she was a foreigner be a black mark against her?
Worst of all, she knew so little about the English aristocracy. She wondered if she was dressed right for the noble society she was about to mingle with. The classically demure Odile Joly suit, the high-necked silk blouse buttoned to the collar with a big bow under her chin, the wide-brimmed felt hat, and the low-heeled slippers—were they the right, understated look? She had called Luba in a panic, not trusting her own instincts for this important meeting.
'Look fashionably staid,' the Czarina had specified. 'And very, very modest. You know, don't you, that those kinds of people lead the most boring type of life?'
Hélène had followed Luba's instructions to the letter. Her only jewelry was gold earrings, a thin gold watch, and the Somerset Sun.
Nigel interrupted her gloomy thoughts. 'We're almost there.'
She turned to him and forced a smile.
'Are
you nervous?'
She nodded.
'Don't be. They won't eat you alive, you know.'
She wasn't so sure. The misgivings were brewing like somber dark storm clouds. She didn't know what would happen if for some reason the Somersets should reject her. She had already been through so much anguish during Nigel's long absence. How much pain would she feel if something went wrong now?
She scolded herself angrily: Get a hold on yourself!
But it was difficult. The last time she had felt this way was long ago at Hautecloque, when Hubert had proposed to her. She had felt a boundless social gulf then. Now she felt it again.
The jet made a smooth three-point landing on a long private airstrip. Hélène was surprised. She had expected that they would put down at some commercial airport.
As soon as the plane rolled to a halt, an old-fashioned boxy-looking Rolls-Royce pulled up alongside. 'Good day, Master Nigel,' the ancient chauffeur said, respectfully touching the visor of his cap.
'Good day, Stirling.'
'Did you have a nice trip, sir?'
'Yes, thank you, Stirling.'
Stirling looked at Hélène impassively. 'Let me help you with that, mum.'
She surrendered her cosmetics case.
As soon as their luggage was transferred, they were driven north on a winding country road to Fallsworth, the Somersets' ancestral home. It was a pleasant-enough drive, but the closer they got to Fallsworth, the more agitated Hélène became. Everything went past in a blur. The charming villages, the neat fields, the sudden forests. Everything looked civilized and well-tended.
'It's beautiful,' she said.
'Not as beautiful as you, darling.' Nigel took her hand. 'Now, relax.'
She was trying to.
Half an hour later they approached the gates of Fallsworth. The car came to a stop and they had to wait for the old gatekeeper to come out from the gatehouse. He bowed effusively and pushed the big iron gates open.
'That's Mackie,' Nigel said. 'He's a little slow, and although we'd gladly pension him, he loves his job. He's been in the family's service for over sixty years now, and he won't hear of retirement. That's why we don't mind waiting for him.'
Hélène nodded. Hearing that, she felt a little better. At least the Duke and Duchess sounded human.
The Rolls began to move again. Hélène stared out at the tree-lined drive as they picked up speed. The road was asphalt and narrow, just wide enough for one car. The trees were big and ancient, with massive trunks and thick, powerful branches. It must look beautiful in the spring, she thought, when the leaves would be thick. Now they were all dried up, a layer of brown mulch raked high around the trunks.
'Here we are,' Nigel said.
The road made a curve, they crested a hill, and the Silver Lady hood ornament dipped. Below them was Fallsworth. Any courage Hélène had left evaporated completely. Fallsworth was a sprawling stately home. By comparison, her own pitifully small chateau seemed to be nothing more than an inconsequential farmhouse. Fallsworth was big and elegant, but not haughty like Hautecloque. It seemed to belong on the estate, imposing and solid, its buttery sandstone walls fortified by powerful pilasters, its copper roofs green and aged, its elegant windows tall and slim. Like a colossus the house rose up from the formal gardens of clipped golden yews, the temple-style pediment ornamented with the Somerset coat of arms.
'Do you like it?'
Hélène looked at Nigel. 'It's. . .impressive,' she said in a shaky voice.
He shrugged. 'A house is a house.' Then, as if he could read her mind, he quickly added, 'I much prefer your chateau.'
She turned and stared doubtfully out at Fallsworth.
7
'Another cup of tea, my dear?'
Hélène looked at the thin, regal woman. The Duchess of Farquharshire was the kind of dignified, flawless-skinned woman the British aristocracy had been churning out for centuries. Other people in other countries changed with time, but the upper-crust British had withstood the test of wars, disease, and democracy. Hélène thought the Duchess would have looked perfectly at home on the walls lined with ancestral portraits. Someday hers would indeed hang there for posterity, looking unsmilingly down at anyone who chanced to look up into her hooded liquid brown eyes.
Fallsworth was the perfect setting for the Duchess. The gilded, high-ceilinged rooms contrasted with the comfortable no-nonsense floral slipcovers, the red-draped tables, and the ancient carpets and turned what could have been a sterile, palatial interior into understated luxury at its best.
'Please,' Hélène said politely. 'It's delicious tea.' She handed the Duchess her cup.
The Duchess nodded and with her small, smooth hands picked up the sterling Georgian teapot. She smiled as she handed the replenished cup back to Hélène. 'I subscribe to Les Modes,' she said, smiling. 'I prefer it even to Vogue.'
'You're very kind,' Hélène said. She looked over at Nigel, who smiled encouragingly. Hélène had to stifle a laugh. Beside Nigel, the frail old Duke, seated in a big armchair, looked as if the cabbage-rose upholstery had swallowed him up. He was snoring gently.
'I think you should start an English version of Les Modes next,' Nigel said. 'After all, Vogue is here. And there's a ready market waiting.'
The Duchess nodded. 'That is a good idea,' she said.
Hélène felt her hopes rising. Unconsciously her eyes strayed down to the Somerset Sun on her finger.
A quarter of an hour later, Nigel rose to his feet. He looked at his mother. 'I'd like to show Hélène around before it gets dark.'
The Duchess nodded. 'Don't forget the aviary.' She smiled at Hélène.
Hélène rose also. 'I'll make sure that Nigel shows it to me. Thank you for the tea. It was lovely.'
Nigel led her from the Green Salon through the quiet, lofty marble corridors to the front entrance. They passed the great Francesco Guardi paintings, which rivaled those in the world's greatest museums and made anyone who gazed upon them feel like an inconsequential midget. Hélène realized that Fallsworth housed collections worth fortunes. Not just the fortunes of one lifetime, but the accumulation of centuries.
Nigel looked at Hélène and smiled. 'Well, they didn't eat you alive, did they?'
She shook her head. 'They're very kind.'
'But formal.' He grinned good-naturedly. 'That's civilized British blood. In time you'll get used to it. Come.'
He took her hand and gave her the grand tour of the gardens. In the back of the house, a wide gravel path split up the park. This path came to an end at a large oval fountain where glistening bronze figures frolicked under thin arcs of water. He showed her the topiary garden, where the trees and shrubbery had been clipped to look like figures, and then to the aviary. It was a long glass-roofed building, a series of wrought-iron pavilions linked by elaborate corridors alive with the shifting colors of rainbow plumage and the cries of exotic birds.
Hélène was very impressed. 'Fallsworth is like a country in itself,' she said when they finished the tour.
He laughed. 'Not a country. City, maybe. You haven't seen a fraction of it yet. We have an indoor staff of thirty-nine servants and an outdoor staff of fifteen gardeners and twenty handymen. Let's see if I can remember everything correctly.' He pretended to have to frown thoughtfully. 'The house has almost eight thousand panes of glass, twenty-two bathrooms, three acres of copper on the roofs, seventy-nine clocks, all of which have to be wound—'
'You're joking!'
He shook his head. 'I'm dead serious.' And he told her the long, complex history of Fallsworth. The story was one of restlessness and constant achievements. It began in the early sixteenth century when Sir Arthur Somerset took over the estate which was to become the ancestral home of the Somersets. He began building a small Elizabethan manor, which was now consolidated into the far wing. His firstborn son was made Earl of Farquharshire in 1573. In 1693 the fifth Earl began rebuilding the house and sheathed it with a new exterior. His son became the first Duke. Slowly Fal
lsworth as it looked now began to take shape, each subsequent duke and duchess building onto the original house. Gardens were uprooted and planted anew, and whole forests were imported. Even the nearby riverbed was changed and a new channel built so that it passed by in front of the house. By the time the ninth Duke came along, all the various wings were consolidated into one solid classical building. Then came even more alterations, more great wings. Famous gardeners were called in, and the greatest architects of each century found work at Fallsworth.
But each duke and duchess did more than just add onto Fallsworth. If much care was taken with the exterior, then even more love went into the interior. The notable art collections were continuously added to and upgraded: Gainsboroughs, Bouchers, Fragonards, and Reynoldses; royal Savonnerie and Aubusson rugs; Meissen and Sevres porcelains; Limoges enamels; Beauvais tapestries, fine French cabinets. All these treasures were cared for in the most befitting manner. Blinds shielded the rooms from the harsh sunlight. The canvases were regularly cleaned and restored. Daily, the precious porcelains received light dustings only. To date, not one single item had ever been broken.
Charlotte Somerset, the fourteenth Duchess, suffered ill health and had to spend winters in the South of France. During this time, each treasure was wrapped in made-to-measure chamois pouches and packed in specially constructed boxes and crates and stored. Each spring, when the Duchess returned from France, every item was unpacked again and put in its proper place. During World War II, Fallsworth had housed three hundred children so that they might avoid the bombs falling on London. The present Duke and Duchess saw to it that Charlotte Somerset's chamois pouches, boxes, and crates were again put to use. For the first time in nearly sixty years, the treasures were once again packed and stored in the vast cellars of Fallsworth. Not one item was damaged.
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