Well Bred and Dead

by Catherine O'Connell

  “About an hour.”

  I gave the driver the Mayfair address and sat back in the cab for the fourteen-mile drive into London. England has such a civilized feeling. For one, riding in a taxi is a pleasure. The vehicles themselves are large and immaculate, and the drivers, who are seated in a separate compartment, always know where they are going. Light-years away from the abominable service in Chicago, where not only must a passenger be prepared to direct the driver to any destination other than the airport or Lake Shore Drive, but the taxis are nearly always filthy. The one small consolation in the scheme of things is that at least Chicago cabs are superior to those of New York.

  A sense of relaxation crept over me as we drove the well-maintained roads through the dewey green countryside, driving on the left, of course. Passing tidy cottages and large fields of tilled land, I was happily aware of the absence of strip malls and neon signs. As we neared the city large billboard ads started to appear and the traffic began to slow. We left the motorway and the driver worked his way through town, past the ubiquitous pubs, quaint shops, and Victorian houses of one of my favorite cities in the world. It occurred to me how I would miss the quiet elegance of the Connaught and its pampering, but oh so discreet, staff. Henry and I always stayed there on our London visits. But one pays dearly for such pleasures and the Connaught’s rates are astronomical in a city known for sky-high tariffs. I had fully known the hotel would be full; it always is. My ploy of mentioning it to Charmian had brought the desired results of saving face as well as saving the expense.

  After a complex series of one-way streets I would never even dare to undertake, we emerged in tony Mayfair, its elegant streets lined with proper Georgian homes. The driver pulled up in front of Charmian’s townhouse as if he had been stopping there his entire life.

  Lady Grace greeted me at the door. As always she looked sublime. Her peaches and cream English complexion was fresh and glowing and she was wearing her reddish hair, à la Fergie, long and onto her shoulders. It was hard for me to believe we were the same age, she looked so vital and young. I made a mental footnote to find out who had done her face, if the opportunity presented itself. One must be very cautious in broaching such subjects at risk of offending.

  “Chimps,” I greeted her with a laugh, using a nickname her brothers had bestowed upon her as a child when her long arms and legs had been out of proportion to her growing body.

  “Pauline. You look fabulous. Oh, how I envy your height. It keeps you so slim.”

  We hugged and exchanged the obligatory kiss to either cheek. Maxwell, the butler, spirited my bags away, and Lady Grace led me into her salon where a tray was piled high with croissants and French pastries. Over cream tea, we caught up on old times and new. It seemed centuries ago since the party in Klosters where we first met. Her husband, Lord David Grace, and Henry had struck up as fast a friendship as Charmian and I. Though I hadn’t seen her in years, it felt like only yesterday. We gossiped, or shared information rather, and I brought her up to snuff on our mutual acquaintances state-side. Likewise, she filled me in on our mutual friends overseas. Her information turned out to be far steamier than mine. As much as the English like to portray themselves as bastions of class, they are the greatest lovers of scandal of any people I know. And the largest perpetrators of it.

  An hour had passed before I came around to telling her the true reason for my visit, the strange circumstances surrounding Ethan’s death, and my quest to get to the bottom of who he really was. As I drew near to the end of my story, I could tell she was marking the time. Her eyes kept flicking toward the clock that ticked on the marble mantle above the gas fireplace.

  “Quite curious about your friend,” she said, resting her cup back in the saucer with a little flourish. “Pauline, I’m terribly sorry but I must desert you. I’ve got the very devil of a day. Had I known you were coming, I would have made other arrangements, but as it is I have to run off. A fitting for my Ascot wear followed by a terrifically boring luncheon engagement I’m afraid. But I’ve gone and planned for a splendid dinner tonight. Lord G. will be here as well as a few others. We can finish catching up then. Please make yourself at home and if you need anything at all ask Maxwell or Christina for help.”

  “Thank you, Charmian, I’m sure I can look after myself. I’ll probably take a nap and then do a little sightseeing. I want to head up to Bury St. Edmunds first thing in the morning.”

  “Well, have a good lie-in then dear, and I’ll see you later. Ta.”

  She was out the door in a flurry. I finished the last of the tea and rang for Maxwell to show me to my quarters. He led me up the stairs to a large airy room filled with Victorian antiques and decorated in flowered chintz. A vase of fresh spring flowers graced the bureau. My luggage had already found its way there and was set upon a rack.

  “Will there be anything else?” he queried, standing unobtrusively in the open doorway.

  “No, Maxwell, that will be fine,” I said. He pointed out a buzzer for my convenience and then he closed the door ever so gently, as if I were already asleep and he didn’t want to disturb me. Such service simply does not exist in the States.

  After unpacking my bags, I found myself wide awake. Seems my Halcion-induced sleep on the plane had fulfilled my body’s sleep requirements for the time being. I decided to put off my travel nap until the afternoon. I freshened up and headed out in search of a train ticket to Bury St. Edmunds in the morning.

  8

  Window Shopping

  The skies were spritzing sporadically, hardly unusual for London in the spring, or any time of year for that matter. Toting the ever-indispensable umbrella, I left Chimps’s townhouse and headed to Grosvenor Square, one of the oldest and largest squares in Mayfair. At the far end of the green expanse loomed the dreary but imposing American Embassy. Seeing it brought back memories of the lively reception Henry and I attended right after the Falklands War, when everyone was feeling bright and imperialistic again. For a melancholy moment I was swept up in feelings of loss, but I quickly brushed them aside. There were far more important things to do than wallow in self-pity.

  Since it was a Sunday, all the travel agencies were closed, so I took a taxi to Victoria Station to buy my ticket. There, at the British Rail information window, an efficient young woman informed me that the train I wanted left the Liverpool Street station at eight thirty-five in the morning and arrived in Bury St. Edmunds just prior to eleven. I purchased a seat in first class.

  My legs were still feeling somewhat cramped from the long flight in a short seat, so I decided to stretch them by taking a walk. London is truly a city to be enjoyed on foot. Each block holds its own fascination. I strolled past centuries-old pubs filled to capacity with local workers enjoying their day off and window shopped at galleries selling Turner watercolors and spiral-legged Louis XIV armchairs, feeling myself unwind with every step. Turning onto the side streets, I wandered the residential mews where flower boxes in every window spilled out riotous arrays of fuchsia and violet and peach. From there, I strolled on to Green Park where the yellow daffodils bloomed alongside the feet of Sunday joggers. The colors of spring were painted everywhere.

  On a whim, I decided to pay nearby Buckingham Palace a visit. If I were to name three things I specifically admired about the British it would be their taxis, their gardens, and their appreciation for history and tradition. Having already tasted the first two, no place better represented the third than the home of every British monarch since Queen Victoria. As I drew near the gated grounds, I could see the Royal Standard flying which meant that the present queen was in residence. I stopped in front of the palace and peered between the heads of the tourists pressed against the iron gates. There stood two of the queen’s guard in gold-braided scarlet jackets, their tall bear-skin busbies perched high upon their heads. I watched a couple of small children make silly faces in an attempt to get the stone-faced guards to smile and remembered once doing the same thing with Henry years ago.

  It w
as drizzling steadily now. Beneath the protection of my umbrella, I strolled back toward Mayfair, stopping on Brook Street to linger in front of the Courtenay window. The purveyors of the finest lingerie money can buy, there were times in the past I flew to London simply to shop there. Thankfully, British shopkeepers are civilized enough to shutter their stores on Sundays, or my already stressed credit cards would have suffered more damage.

  As exhaustion finally began to creep in, I hailed a taxi and took it to the Connaught. The concierge recognized me immediately and addressed me by name, even after so many years’ absence. For nostalgic reasons, I took a relaxing cup of tea in the understated lobby, and then walked the last few blocks to Charmian’s townhouse.

  By the time my tired feet climbed the stairs to my bedroom, I was more than ready to have a lie-in before dinner.

  I awoke refreshed and looking forward to the evening. Since Lord and Lady Grace moved only in the best circles, there was no doubt it would be interesting. I drew a bath in the ornate marble bathroom adjoining my room and had a relaxing soak as I thought about what to wear. Though I had brought several demure suits with me, I decided the simple black cocktail dress with the deeply plunging neckline would do perfectly. Best to show off the decolletage while it’s still presentable. Charmian had called for cocktails at seven-thirty, so at a quarter of eight I took a last satisfying look in the mirror and headed downstairs.

  On the first floor, there were men’s voices coming from the salon. I took a moment outside the door to compose myself, giving my bosom a final adjustment, before making my entrance. Two men were seated in deep leather chairs in front of the gas fire. The industrial tones of their voices told me they were conducting business. The first man was my host, Lord David Grace, his elongated face set in a deadly serious expression. Judging from his Irish brogue, the second man was the other houseguest Charmian had referred to this morning. His head of unruly copper hair topped a mildly freckled face with a square jaw. Though his skin was lined and weathered, he appeared to be somewhere in his mid-forties. They both looked up as I entered the room, the Irishman giving me the once-over in a way that made me wish I’d picked up something new at Courtenay.

  Lord David’s gray eyes lit up in a way that let one know one was welcome.

  “Pauline,” he said, standing to greet me. “How good to see you.” Since I was wearing two-inch heels, I had to stoop slightly to receive his dry peck on the cheek. “You look wonderful. Let me introduce you to Terrance Sullivan.”

  By now, the Irishman had risen also. Even with my shoes, he was taller than I, his shoulders broad beneath the supple wool of his Saville Row suit. His eyes reflected the deep French blue of the shirt he wore, and he regarded me in an intimate, familiar manner that I found alarming yet flattering. His extended hand virtually encompassed mine in a firm but gentle grip—that lasted just a bit longer than it should have. He smiled, exposing exceptional teeth for an Irishman. I suddenly found myself feeling like a gangly ingenue at her first dance. My right kneecap began quivering involuntarily, and despite my exposed decolletage, I was flushed and overheated.

  “How do you do?” I asked, trying to appear cool.

  “How do you do?” he asked in reply. Our eyes locked for an inappropriate time before I managed to break away and turn to Lord Grace.

  “Well, David,” I said, fighting desperately for equilibrium. “How go things with you?”

  “Exceedingly well, I must say,” he replied, coming to the rescue. “Mr. Sullivan and I were just in discussion about a development he’s proposing outside Dublin. We could be entering into quite an interesting venture together.”

  “Is that so? Where outside Dublin would the—” I started to ask, turning once again toward Terrance Sullivan. He was staring at me with such an untamed glint in his eye that my words lost themselves in midair. Thankfully, Charmian chose that moment to float into the room with two newly arrived dinner guests, an elegantly dressed elderly couple named Lord and Lady Pierce. I never got their forenames, they weren’t even mentioned. Maxwell appeared on the scene with a tray of champagne glasses, and I quickly snatched one up, nearly draining it in one fell swoop to calm my palpitating heart. The next guests arrived, he related to the Rolls Royce fortune, she weighty with jewels. The last to join us were theater people. A producer and his wife.

  The ensuing conversation was lively and witty, not at all stuffy as one might imagine a gathering of proper English to be. Naturally, Camilla’s name came up and there was agreement all around that while she certainly wasn’t Princess Diana, the princess really hadn’t behaved as a princess ought to while she was alive. The Royals had practiced adultery from time immemorial, and Diana should have been a sport about it. Thankful the dalliances of the prince were no longer the primary fodder for the press, half thought Camilla received dreadful treatment in the papers while the other half felt she deserved it. Everyone hoped to be spared headlines such as those proclaiming the prince’s proclivity for female hygiene products from now on.

  Maxwell rang that dinner was served. On our way into the dining room, Charmian pulled me aside. “So what do you think of the Irishman. Isn’t he ghastly?” she whispered. “I don’t know why David puts so much stock in him. I believe they’re thinking of forming some kind of a partnership. I think it’s dreadful.”

  “I don’t find him ‘ghastly’ at all, Chimps. I actually find him intriguing.”

  “You do?” She looked thoughtful.

  “Yes. Is he married?”

  “Confirmed bachelor according to Lord G.”

  Which made him all the more interesting to me. Unfortunately, Charmian had seated us at opposite ends of the table. Though he, Lord Grace, and the Rolls Royce heir were locked in a political discussion for most of the meal, every time I looked in his direction it seemed he was staring at me. Dinner was delightful, cornish hens and bread puddings followed by stilton and port, but I had little appetite and hardly touched a bite. It wasn’t until we went into the drawing room for coffee that he managed to peel himself from Lord Grace and the automobile heir to have a word with me.

  “We haven’t really had a chance to talk,” he said. “Let me reintroduce myself. My name is Terrance Sullivan.”

  “And I am Pauline Cook.”

  He was smoking a cigar and sucked upon it deeply, slowly releasing the aromatic smoke in an even stream. “Did you ever study mythology, Pauline?”

  “Of course I did. In both high school and college. My favorite myth is that of Daphne and Apollo.”

  “Is that when Daphne turns into a tree rather than submit to Apollo’s advances?”

  “Exactly.”

  He laughed aloud, a gutsy laugh that caused a few heads in the room to turn. He quieted and asked, “So you believe in fate, then?”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. My heart caught in my throat making it hard to take a breath much less form words. I’m fairly certain my mouth hung open. When I didn’t answer, he continued, “I only say that because when I saw you walk into the room this evening, I had this sense I knew you even though we’ve never met. I wonder if you felt it too?”

  I was unnerved. I was feeling something, but I wasn’t quite sure what. It took several seconds before I found enough voice to answer him. “Perhaps,” was the best I could do.

  He looked at me oddly and lowered his voice. “Maybe I’m not doing this right. Let’s start over a second time. What brings you to England, Pauline?”

  Which brought me back to the sad reason for my visit. “I’m hoping to find the roots of a friend who died.”

  “Must have been a very good friend if you’ve come all the way to London to do it.”

  “Yes, he was a very good friend. My best friend. And actually, my search is taking me farther than London. I head to Bury St. Edmunds in the morning.”

  “Was this friend your lover?”

  I laughed. “No, I’m afraid he was more like a girlfriend.”

  “Ah, a puff then.”

  “Yes,
a puff.”

  He furrowed his brow in thought and then said, “Tell you what. Why don’t I come along? David and I have finished up our business for now. I’d welcome the opportunity to spend some time with you. Maybe we can get to know each other a little better.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but to be perfectly honest, it might prove to be rather boring. I’m not quite sure what I’m looking for there.”

  At that point our conversation was interrupted by Charmian. In a gesture quite unlike her normal self she wedged in between us. “So how are my visitors doing?” she asked. It wasn’t until I saw the googoo eyes she directed at Mr. Sullivan that it dawned on me she didn’t find him nearly as ghastly as she claimed. Rather, she was coming on to him in a way that suggested there had already been some physical contact between them. Not in any sort of mood to get into a competition with my hostess, I stood to excuse myself.

  “Oh, Pauline, you can’t turn in yet,” she said with transparent insincerity.

  “I’m afraid I’m just exhausted, Chimps. And I’ve got an early wakeup. Thank you for a lovely evening.” I said a polite good-night to Terrance Sullivan and the others and went up to my room.

  I lay in bed unable to stop thinking about Terrance Sullivan. I told myself I was glad that the magic between us had been ruined. I had no need for the complication of becoming attached to someone. Things were just fine for me the way they were. I had enough escorts to fill the social end of my life, and I had Sean to fill the sexual end.

  I had no illusions about Sean. There was no doubt he was using me for the money he thought I had. He assumed that I was wealthy beyond his wildest dreams, and what had I to gain by informing him otherwise? In fact, I fueled his assumption with perks like designer clothes and Gucci wallets, not to mention occasional “loans” I really couldn’t afford, knowing that not a cent of the money he borrowed would ever find its way back to my brokerage account.