Devon choked on her words, but she nodded her head against Francesca’s, and the girl had her answer.
Francesca was stunned. She remembered the heartbreak of her grandfather’s death. Now her heart was breaking all over again. Willy, whom she had seen almost every day of her life—more than her grandfather even—would no longer occupy a place in her world. It seemed cruel that she had not even had a chance to say good-bye. A giant sob escaped Francesca once more. “I want to see him one more time. I want to say good-bye!”
Devon studied her daughter’s face and saw the determination there. Yes, Devon thought, she’s old enough for this. Devon and Laurel had thought her too young to attend her grandfather’s funeral. But for Willy, she should be there, Devon decided. She needs to be there.
“Very well,” Devon said, “I’ll ring for Ettie to help you pack. Don’t take a lot. We need to go.”
Francesca and Devon hugged one more time, then Francesca slid out of the bed and walked out of the room, her back erect. Devon was surprised to feel comforted by the fact that Francesca would accompany her to Willowbrook. Devon had been her own source of strength for so long that she thought she had grown accustomed to it. But now, she found she welcomed the support of her daughter. It was a new, somewhat bittersweet sensation.
Dear Devon,
I guess I don’t have much to get rid of. Give my clothes to whoever wants them. If you don’t mind, I’d like to be buried at Willowbrook. Somewhere that looks over the stables. I know I’m not family, so if that’s not okay, cremate me and throw my ashes on Willowbrook’s track. Don’t matter too much which you choose, but I think I’d rather be buried. You’ll find $25,000 under my mattress. Buy me a tombstone and give the rest to a good cause.
You’ve been a good boss, and that’s something I never thought I’d say. You’ve also been a good friend. Thanks.
Willy O’Neill
As his letter requested, Willy was buried at Willowbrook. There was a family graveyard there, but none of Devon’s family was buried in it, only members of the Hartwick family, Willowbrook’s former owners. The Richmond family grave site was at Evergreen. So Devon created a small graveyard just for Willy. It was under a stand of oak trees not far from the big white barn. It was a beautiful site on a hill overlooking all of Willowbrook’s acreage. She was gratified that he had wanted to be buried at Willowbrook.
But now, as she stood gazing over the rolling meadows, brown from the winter cold, she felt only desolation. She looked at the dozens of people around her, their heads bowed as they listened to the priest recite prayers for the dead. Some of the faces she saw were family—Grace and Philip had driven from Washington, where they now lived; Laurel had accompanied her from New York. Some of the faces belonged to friends. But not one among them had been as constant a companion as Willy. Devon and he had achieved a deep friendship that required no words. More important, there had been tremendous mutual respect between them, hard won on both sides. She felt almost as though a part of her was gone.
Devon looked at Francesca’s bowed head. The youngster was trying hard to stifle her sobs, but her body shook with the effort. Devon put an arm on her shoulder, then shivered herself as a cold wind rustled through the bare branches overhead. She felt Mason Wilder’s strong arm draw her closer. It was a comfort to have him there, Devon thought, leaning against him gratefully.
As the priest closed his prayer book, Devon walked toward the grave and picked up a small shovel. She dug into the heavy red clay that stood in a pile beside the gaping hole and threw the contents of the shovel on top of the long, shiny box below. The dull thud of the dense clay hitting the coffin sent another shiver through Devon. She laid the shovel down and turned toward the crowd, wanting only to return to the warmth of her home.
Then, in the back of the crowd, like a ghost from the past, she saw a familiar face.
CHAPTER 53
“WORLD-FAMOUS Horse Trainer Dead at 79,” said the headline of the obituary in the New York Times. The headline drew John Alexander’s attention, for he was acquainted with most of the country’s top trainers. Putting down his piece of toast, he drew the newspaper toward him with both hands.
“Oh my God!” he exclaimed, throwing his white linen napkin down on the table and rising to his feet.
“What?” asked the redhead, surprised by the sudden movement. She put down the romance novel she was reading and stared at her lover with a look of inquiry.
“Someone who once worked for me just died. A good man.”
“Oh. Just someone who worked for you,” said the redhead, picking up her book in one hand and taking a sip of coffee with the other.
John looked with exasperation at the beautiful creature in the white satin peignoir. There was no use explaining to her the impact on him of Willy’s death. Ignoring her, John rang for his valet.
“Prepare an overnight bag for me with clothes appropriate for a funeral,” he commanded when the man arrived.
“You’re going to that man’s funeral?” the redhead asked in shock, rising as well.
“Yes,” John said brusquely, “I’m going to my room to change.”
“I’ll come with you!” the redhead announced, already envisioning how fetching she would look in a well-cut black dress and a coquettish black hat.
“No, you won’t,” John replied. He turned and exited into the foyer of the Park Avenue penthouse. He crossed the black marble floor and proceeded down a long hallway leading to the master suite, the redhead trailing him like a puppy.
“Why can’t I come?” Her pretty pout was wasted on the back of John’s head.
John did not reply. He entered the bedroom—clearly a man’s room, with its hunter green walls and tufted leather chairs—and began to dress as his valet packed his bag. He hastily chose a tweed jacket and gray flannel slacks for the drive down. In an instant he was dressed and ready to go.
John gave the redhead a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and headed for the door. “I’ll see you when I get back,” he tossed over his shoulder.
“When will that be?” she asked, hands on hips in annoyance.
John paused. “I don t know. A few days probably.”
“I’ll wait here,” the redhead said, sinking onto the four-poster bed behind her.
“No, don’t,” John said sharply.
“Why not?” she demanded.
For the second time that morning John ignored her. He hurried from the room, leaving her on the bed.
“Williams,” John addressed his butler as the man helped him on with his coat, “I should return in three or four days. Please make certain that the lady is gone by then.”
“Yes sir,” said the butler impassively.
He had never expected that she would still be so beautiful. Francesca had told him that she was, but Francesca had not known her in her youth. Photographs he had seen of Devon had told him she was still lovely. They showed that she had retained her slender figure, that her fine eyes were still full of vitality. But he was unprepared for the attraction that hit him when he spotted her leaning on the arm of the huge white-haired man. Even in the black coat and veil, even with her features rigid with grief, John Alexander found Devon alluring.
She came toward him, mouth slightly open in surprise, eyes wide, brushing past the other bystanders.
“John.” Her cultured voice washed over him, deeper now than in her youth. “How kind of you to come.”
An electric shock ran through him as he touched her black-gloved hand, enfolding it in his two hands. He was suddenly taken back to the day he had first seen her, in the Magraths’ ballroom. It seemed as though the years were fading away, like a dream, and he was meeting her for the first time. He remembered his fascination. She was still fascinating. More fascinating now, with that regal bearing that had grown more pronounced with maturity. He wondered whether she was feeling the same emotions.
Then he noticed the manner in which the white-haired man hurried up beside her and took her elbow. His man
ner was solicitous, and very proprietary. John released Devon’s hand. He saw that the man was studying him, waiting for him to speak.
“I thought so highly of Willy,” said John. “I’m so sorry.”
Devon bowed her head for a moment, then raised tear-filled eyes to his. “I feel lost without him. You know, we became the best of friends.”
John stared into the distance, remembering. “You were at each other’s throats in the beginning. I never thought you’d work out your differences.”
Devon’s voice drew John’s eyes back to hers. “Our differences seem so insignificant now, after all our years together. I suppose circumstances forced us to stay together in the beginning. Afterward, I’m sure neither one of us could have imagined a parting of the ways.” Devon looked down as her emotions threatened to overwhelm her.
Seeing her distress, Devon’s white-haired companion began gently to urge her forward. The brick path leading from the grave site was only wide enough for two people, so John dropped behind. The party moved toward the gravel-covered drive, where black limousines were waiting to take them the short distance to the main house.
Devon turned to look over her shoulder and saw Francesca walking with John, his arm draped comfortably over her shoulder. Puzzled, Devon frowned at the apparent familiarity. Did they know each other?
“Francesca,” she called softly, stopping to wait for her daughter, “come along, dear.”
Francesca came to her mother’s side, but then she turned to John and asked, “Can you stay awhile? Everyone else will be coming back to the house.”
John looked questioningly at Devon, who, though confused by the apparent relationship, would never publicly countermand an invitation issued by a member of her family. “You are certainly welcome,” Devon said, a little stiffly. She found John’s presence disturbing and was annoyed at herself for feeling that way.
“Thank you. I’d like that,” he replied with a smile at Francesca.
Devon looked from one to the other, then turned and got into the long black car in which Laurel was already seated. Francesca and Mason followed her in.
Devon held her tongue during the ride to the house, not wishing to question her daughter about John in front of Mason. Nor did she have a chance to speak to her alone during the afternoon, since the room was crowded with those who had attended the funeral. But despite the crowd, Devon was always aware of John’s presence. Her eyes were drawn unwillingly to him. She found herself furtively studying him. He had aged well. Though he was almost sixty years old, his shoulders were still broad, and he did not have the middle-aged paunch that characterized most men of her acquaintance. His appearance was distinguished—yet still disturbingly animal, as it had been years before.
Later that evening, when finally the house was empty except for the family and Mason, Devon knocked on her daughters door. She found Francesca reading in bed; a book about horses, of course. The pure white walls of the girl’s room were covered in drawings and photographs of horses, and her cherry bookshelf lined with horse figurines. Devon suddenly remembered that her daughter’s birthday was only days away. The funeral arrangements had made her lose track of time.
“How are you feeling this evening, sweetheart?” Devon asked, perching on the edge of the blue-and-white-gingham-covered bed. The material had been Francesca’s choice. She had wanted something that reminded her of the dungarees she always wore when she went horseback riding.
“Okay, I guess,” Francesca said, putting her book facedown on her lap.
Devon took the child’s hand in hers. “I think were both going to miss Willy a lot.”
Francesca nodded and squeezed her mother’s hand.
“Francesca, I’d like to ask you about something that happened today.”
Francesca tilted her head, signaling for Devon to continue.
“Have you met Mr. Alexander before?”
Francesca studied Devon. She wasn’t certain what her answer should be. She had intended to tell her mother after Christmas of her meeting with John, since to tell her before that would have revealed that she had purchased Devon’s gift at Tiffany. But Christmas had come and gone almost unnoticed in the days between Willy’s death and his funeral. In the family’s haste to leave New York, all the gifts had been left there. And it would have been unseemly, they decided, to decorate Willowbrook for Christmas and celebrate the holiday as usual.
“The truth,” Devon insisted.
“I was going to tell you…” Francesca’s voice faltered as she searched for an explanation.
“Where and when did you meet him?”
“At a store when I was shopping for your Christmas gift,” Francesca blurted out. “He was nice to me even though the lady with him called me a silly child. He made her go home and then we had lunch at the Palm Court.”
Devon raised her eyebrows, clearly signaling an infraction to Francesca.
“Oh, Mother,” Francesca sighed in exasperation. “I knew he wasn’t a kidnapper or something else awful. He seemed so… so… well, kind, if you know what I mean. But at the same time, very respectable. No different from anyone else we know.”
Devon rose from the soft mattress and began to pace quietly. It was obvious to Francesca that Devon was preparing to lecture her. Francesca burrowed into her pillows and waited for the admonition, philosophically resigned.
As predicted, Devon began, “Under no circumstances—no circumstances—are you ever to go anywhere with a stranger,” she said sternly. She turned to glare at her daughter from her standing position. “You are only thirteen years old—”
“Fourteen,” Francesca interjected, “this week.”
“Fourteen then. You are too young to make judgments about whether people mean to harm you. Believe me, some people who appear to be very nice can do tremendous harm to young girls like you.”
“I was just—”
“Don’t interrupt!” Devon commanded. “I have very few rules in this household, but those that I do have will be observed.”
“Are you going to punish me?”
“Yes. You are not to go horseback riding for one week.”
“But Mom!” moaned Francesca. “That’s the best part of being here.”
“I am perfectly aware of that,” Devon said, hands on her hips, “which is why I have chosen it as your punishment. And don’t assume that air of tragedy. You deserve this for doing something you knew was strictly prohibited.”
“All right,” Francesca said, eyes downcast. She knew the punishment was fair, albeit unwelcome.
That matter resolved, Devon let go of her anger and resumed her seat on the edge of Francesca’s bed. “On to more pleasant subjects,” she announced calmly. “For your birthday, I would suggest just a quiet family dinner this year, in view of Willy—”
Francesca interrupted, “Oh, that’s all I want. I couldn’t have a party so soon—” She cut herself off in midsentence, not wanting to utter the reference to Willy’s death. “But, Mother, there is one thing I would like for my birthday.”
Devon gave her daughter a half smile, expecting a request pertaining to horses. “What is it, darling?”
“Could… could Mr. Alexander be invited to my birthday dinner?”
The question caught Devon unawares and she flushed hotly, without quite knowing why. Confused, she looked around the room, avoiding Francesca’s eyes. “Well, I… I…” Devon hesitated, trying to think of a reason to avoid such a simple request. “He’s not really a close friend, and he’s certainly not a member of the family,” Devon offered.
“I know.” Francesca sighed.
Her daughter’s tone of wistfulness captured Devon’s full attention. “Why? Why should someone you only met twice make such an impression on you.”
Francesca looked down at her hands picking at the sheet. “I don’t know exactly.”
Devon considered a moment. The child had just lost one of the most important male figures in her life. There really was no one else for her, other than
Mason, who was not as constant or long-standing a presence as Willy. Why should she deny such a simple request of her daughter’s? And on her birthday.
“You know, Francesca,” Devon said gently, “you mustn’t invest too much emotion in your friendship with Mr. Alexander.”
“Why not?” Francesca asked.
Why not, indeed? Devon asked herself. What could she tell the child? That the man did not wish to be burdened by a family, liked his freedom too much to be encumbered by a relationship with a young girl? His act of friendship toward Francesca would make Devon look as though she were dreaming up feeble excuses. There was no way to impart to a fourteen-year-old the caution she had learned as the thirty-year-old wife of John Alexander.
Reluctantly, she decided to grant Francesca’s request. “All right, Francesca, you may invite Mr. Alexander. But please make clear to him that the invitation comes from you, not me.”
“Oh!” Francesca cried happily, clapping her hands. “I’ll do whatever you want. Thank you!”
“And, one more thing…”
“Yes, Mom?”
Looking at Francesca’s happy face, she decided to temper her words of warning. She did not want to spoil her child’s joy, but at the same time, she wanted to protect her from the hurt she herself had once known. “Well, just remember that Mr. Alexander is a very busy man. And if he should ever disappoint you… I mean, by not being available, or not paying you the attention you’d like, try to understand… it doesn’t mean he doesn’t like you.”
CHAPTER 54
“THAT’S the last straw, Pritchard,” Jeremiah said in a quietly menacing tone. “I’ve given you every chance to shuck that attitude of yours.”
“Well ain’t you high and mighty,” the little man said, his nose almost touching Jeremiah’s, his veins standing out above his open collar. “Willy’s only been dead six months and you already think you know everythin’ so’s you can boss me.”
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