Well Bred and Dead

by Catherine O'Connell

  “Pauline, did you see the look on the poor crone’s face, the woman was brokenhearted. I wanted to give her something to live on, especially seeing how we’d just gone and churned up the waters. I feel terribly lousy about it. I believe I’ll send her some money.”

  “I don’t think money is going to make any difference to her. She wants to know about her son.”

  “Well, if you don’t want to find the answer, maybe I’ll find it for her.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was serious, but decided there was no reason to pursue the issue any further. “My God, we’ve seen a lot of lonely old people today. It’s frightening, isn’t it?”

  “Getting old? More frightening if you don’t.” He turned onto the main road and pressed the Bentley into action. The countryside flew past in an emerald blur. “What are you thinking about your friend now?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know what to think except that I know one thing for certain. He wasn’t this Ethan Campbell. Which begs the question, what was he doing with this Ethan’s birth certificate?”

  “Maybe they met at some time,” he suggested. “Maybe there was some foul play.”

  “If you knew my Ethan, you would never say that,” I heard myself sigh. “I was hoping to go home with some answer, but I guess I’ll have to look for it in the States.”

  We came to a roundabout. The signs indicating the route to London or back to Bury St. Edmunds pointed in opposite directions. Terrance slowed the car and turned to me. “It’s nearly half-seven, Pauline, and I’m famished. We never had lunch you know. What do you say we go into town, find the finest restaurant they have to offer, and have a leisurely dinner. We can stay here overnight and head back to London in the morning. I know that David won’t mind about the car. He has plenty of them at his disposal.”

  I wanted to say no, not because I wasn’t attracted to the man, but because I was, and it was making me squeamish. I didn’t know how I felt about staying in a hotel with him. He must have sensed my indecision, because his next words were, “Separate rooms, of course.”

  Maybe spending the night wasn’t such a bad idea after all. It would give me the opportunity to spend more time with him out from under the keen ears of David and the hungry eyes of Charmian.

  “Well, I could eat,” I said.

  10

  Two No Luggage

  We checked into the Angel Hotel, a small hotel across from the abbey gate nearly as old as the abbey itself. The innkeeper handed us the keys to two rooms, regretting that he couldn’t give either of us Charles Dickens’s former room as it was occupied this evening. I carried my small overnight bag up to my claustrophobically small quarters and freshened up for dinner. By the time Terrance and I met in the lobby, I was truly famished, and his idea to stay in Bury St. Edmunds looked better and better.

  We had booked into the restaurant recommended by the innkeeper as the finest in town. The food turned out to be atrociously bad, a poor attempt at nouvelle French, a chewy rack of lamb and vegetables cooked to a mush. Evidently the tremendous improvements the British had made in their cuisine had not made their way up to Bury St. Edmunds yet. But a bottle of ’78 Chateau Palmer did much to compensate for the tasteless food, and the cellar-like room was charming and cozy, not to mention lit with soft flattering candlelight. Just the sort of lighting a middle-aged women knows shows her to her best advantage.

  Over dinner, Terrance talked about the grand plans he had for some major real estate developments in Ireland. Ireland was ready for growth, he said, having the highest literacy rate in Europe as well as a high flow of returning expatriates. As he ate, I couldn’t help but notice his unpolished table manners. He left his napkin on the table until the first course was served, used the wrong fork several times, and cut all his food on his plate at once instead of in bites. One’s behavior at the table tells more about a person’s background than anything else. His indicated a less than upper-crust background.

  But these days people of pedigree are in short supply, and one must learn not to be too fussy. Any concerns I had over his lack of etiquette evaporated completely as I looked into his eyes over the glow of the candle’s flame. They had turned the same transparent aquamarine as the water in the Seychelles. He rested his square chin on his marvelously crafted hands and drew his face to within inches of mine. A shiver passed through me as though a cold draft had blown into the room. Though he was only telling me the story of how he and Lord Grace had met, I found it nearly impossible to concentrate. I could only envision my body going limp in his grasp as I stared into those eyes.

  “So seeing’s how I was going to be in London to work on some financing, I looked up Lord David on the advice of Melton Bedford.”

  “Melton Bedford?” I returned to reality. Melton was an acquaintance from my college days. Scion of an old New England textile family, he had grown tired of stuffy Eastern ways and relocated to California shortly after graduation. He was an avid, no let me make that fanatic, sportsman whose passion was deep-sea fishing. In fact, in recent years it seemed he only set foot on land for weddings, funerals, and to close business deals. “I haven’t seen Melton in ages. How is he, anyway?”

  “Doing fine, I’m sure. He’s somewhere off the coast of Mexico looking for swordfish as we speak. Where else would you be finding him in April?”

  “That would be Melton.”

  “So anyway, I wasn’t even looking for any partners, just some friendly advice, but now it looks like Lord David and I might be doing some business together. Funny how that works, isn’t it?”

  The mention of Lord David and partnership brought an unwelcome picture to my mind, that of Charmian and Terrance and their body language the night before. I leaned away from him and picked up my wineglass, staring through the garnet colored liquid at the candle flame. “Speaking of partners, what is the relationship between you and Lady Grace?”

  He smiled an open smile. Great teeth. “It’s that obvious, then?”

  “It certainly was last night,” I replied.

  Now he laughed. “Well, it shouldn’t be. There is nothing going on between me and Lady Grace, though I might say left up to her there’d be something. My God, I want the woman’s husband as my partner in a venture that makes Canary Wharf look small. There’s far too much money involved to jeopardize it for a minute of sweat and lather. But it’s a sticky situation for me. I can’t insult the woman, because I know she has her husband’s ear.”

  “She always has,” I agreed, thinking how ill-pleased she would be with Terrance and me when we failed to return to Mayfair this evening. Charmian could be very vindictive. Perhaps she would never welcome me in her home again. Oh well, I had other friends in London. Secure in knowing the Irishman wasn’t doing the deed with Charmian after all, I mused on how the night might end between us and wondered if the bed in his room was as narrow as mine.

  We stopped at a pub for a brandy on the way back to the hotel. There was no more talk of business or Lord and Lady Grace. We spoke of lighthearted things and I forgot all about the dreariness of Mrs. Doney and the state home and even about Ethan. When we got back to the Angel he walked me to my room, which was practically unavoidable since all the rooms in the small hotel were only doors from each other. I put my key into the lock, wondering quietly what might happen next. I opened the door and turned to say good night. He was looking at me in the same way that had put me so off balance when I first met him. Heat rose in me. So did fear.

  While my affair with Sean was satisfying, I recognized it for what it was. One day Sean would tire of being with an older woman and move on. I might miss him, but the mourning period would not be long. There was no place in my future for a bartender nearly half my age. Nor had I grieved over the end of any other dalliances I had engaged in since Henry died. They were mostly with older, very wealthy men who had lavished all kinds of money and attention on me. But those affairs held no threat because, although I was genuinely fond of many of the men, with no strong emotional attachment, they
were safe.

  Now, standing in the ancient narrow hallway of the Angel Hotel, inches away from Terrance Sullivan with my derriere pressed against the wall, panic set in. Here was a real possibility. I was facing a man of my own age who was nearly everything I wanted: successful, good-looking, masculine. He reminded me of my deceased husband in so many ways, it was eerie. He made me feel unduly self-conscious about myself and my appearance. My attraction toward him was dangerous.

  He slipped an arm behind me and clasped my buttocks, his large shoulders encompassing mine as he leaned down and brushed my lips lightly before kissing me. I sighed with internal delight. His kisses were dewey and moist, not the sloppy dog drooling of so many young men nor the sandpaper dry of the occasional senior I spent time with. The smooth taste of brandy was still in his mouth, serving to make me more drunken in my passion. My knees trembled and I kissed him back with a ferocity I didn’t know existed in me. I caressed his head and felt the coarse texture of his hair in my palm. He took my hand and turned it palm up, kissing it again and again. The way he pressed himself against me made me wish I was wearing a skirt so I could hike it up about my waist and let him take me then and there in the hallway. I raised his left hand to my mouth and tasted his fingers one by one.

  Then, with the abruptness of a sharp slap in the face, he pulled away. I looked up into those ever so blue eyes, my face a vast question mark.

  “What’s wrong?” I regretted my words the moment I spoke them, not wanting to sound needy. That was the last impression I wanted him to have, despite my extreme neediness at the moment.

  “Nothing,” he said, softly cupping my face in one of his strong hands. “You are a wonderful, beautiful girl, though a little too serious sometimes,” he scolded. He kissed me gently on the lips and touched my nose with the tip of his finger. “I had a lovely day. Good night.”

  I watched him walk down the hall, my mind whirling in disbelief, wondering at what had just happened. I felt embarrassed, like I had just thrown myself at him and had been rejected. Pauline Cook threw herself at no man. I went into my room and closed the door behind me sharply. Anger began to take the place of confusion. He had made the first advances. Was he a tease? I tore off my clothes and proceeded to brush my hair with frenzied strokes for five minutes.

  I climbed into bed and waited for sleep to take me. Despite my frustration, I was exhausted and soon slipped into the state where one’s mind becomes a mixed-up jumble of what might have happened today and what might happen tomorrow. Just before making that soft landing in a peaceful place, the sound of steps in the creaky hall brought me back to clear consciousness. They stopped in front of my door. Lying in silent anticipation, barely breathing, I was certain that finding he couldn’t sleep, he had come back to take me after all.

  There was no further sound. I began to wonder if if was just the night playing tricks on me in the dark and cramped quarters of a strange hotel room. And then I heard steps again. This time they were retreating, heading back up the hall in the direction from which they had come.

  More than anything else in the world I wanted to jump out of bed, tear the door open and call out his name. Of course I didn’t. Now completely awake, I lay there feeling more frustrated than ever, damning him and all his male brethren to hell while at the same time thanking heaven for their very existence.

  11

  Don’t Touch My Bag if You Please

  Terrance was already in the breakfast room when I came down, eating an artery clogging banquet of sausage, bacon, and eggs with such relish that he didn’t even notice me until I pulled out the chair across from him. He looked up and quickly wiped his mouth, flashing me his beguiling smile. It was like handing a cat burglar jewels, stealing away my anger and embarrassment from his rejection the night before. He stood and waited until I was seated before taking up his chair again.

  “Did you sleep well?” he asked with extraordinary nonchalance.

  “I was a bit restless,” I replied, wanting to add, no thanks to you. “And yourself?”

  “Like a rock.” He craned his neck and signaled to the innkeeper who was serving another table in the small room. “You’ll be wanting some breakfast before we go?”

  “Yes, but certainly not what you’re having.” I surveyed his half-eaten meal. “You might think about watching that cholesterol. That is, if you want to see old age.”

  “You Americans. You needn’t worry about me. Good genes. My grandfather ate a hearty breakfast like this every day of his life. And when he finished you’ll never believe what he would do next. He’d call for my grandmother to ‘bring the sausage pan,’ and he would drink down the warm grease like it was milk.”

  “What an unappetizing thought. Why on earth would he do that?”

  “Oh, the Irish mindset I suppose. Carryover from the famine years, you know. Don’t waste a bite and store as much energy as you can in the eventuality you might need it one day to survive.”

  “Well, all that fat certainly couldn’t have done him any good. How old was he when he died?”

  “Ninety-eight,” he replied, putting an end to that conversation.

  The innkeeper appeared and I ordered my usual breakfast of dry toast and coffee. Terrance quickly polished off the rest of his meal and waited patiently while I ate mine, making polite conversation the entire time. The moment I finished my last bite of toast, he looked at his watch and stood up.

  “Sorry to be rushing you, but I’ve got to get back to London. I’ve got a meeting.”

  “What about the rooms?” I asked, stubbornly drinking the last drop of my coffee.

  “They’re taken care of,” he replied. Though I wouldn’t have thought he would do otherwise, I was still pleased to see at least he picked up the tab for my night of tortured sleep.

  The drive back to London was a lot quieter than the drive up had been. As I tried making conversation along the way, I found myself behaving in a manner very unlike me. I was acting in an overly pleasant manner, like a lover who senses a breakup coming and is doing her best to forestall it.

  “How long will you be staying in England?” I asked, trying my best to sound blasé.

  “Actually, I plan on going to the airport directly from my meeting this afternoon. Hopefully, I can peel out of Lady Grace’s grasp without unsettling herself. I think it’s a good thing I’m not spending another night in her house, don’t you know?”

  I don’t know if I was more jarred by the thought that he was leaving or the newfound revelation that perhaps his motivation for joining me on this trip wasn’t to spend more time in my company, but rather to distance himself from Charmian so as to avoid any risk of complications with Lord Grace. If that was the case I felt used, though in reality I hadn’t been used at all, at least on a physical level. Maybe that’s why he didn’t sleep with me. He didn’t want to add insult to injury. I fought to keep the growing resentment from my voice as I asked, “So the reason you came up to Bury St. Edmunds with me was to get away from Charmian?”

  He took his eyes off the road and stared at me directly. “No, it isn’t.”

  He didn’t offer any further explanation and I didn’t ask. The rest of the drive was quiet.

  When we arrived back at the Graceses’ Mayfair townhouse, Charmian was eating a lunch of cold meats and salad alone in the dining room. Her demeanor was exceedingly cool—as I had suspected it would be. “My peripatetic guests return,” she said with forced politeness, her eyes daggers plunging into my chest. “How was your adventure?”

  “Well, we learned that Ethan Campbell of Bury St. Edmunds was definitely not my friend Ethan, but not without breaking the heart of an old woman I’m afraid,” I babbled, pulling out a chair and sitting, even though I had not been invited to do so. Terrance remained standing in the doorway. I suspected he feared that if he drew too close to Lady Charmian, she might coil and strike him.

  “I’ll leave you two women to catch up. I’ve just got to see to my things and I’m off.” He stepped from t
he safety of the doorway and graced us each with a peck on the cheek. I would have been crushed at receiving the same treatment as Charmian, except that as he was leaving he hesitated behind her back and caught my eye. I’ll call you, he mouthed and he held an imaginary phone to his ear. The gesture sent me soaring.

  “Would you like some lunch, Pauline?” Charmian offered in an icy tone. Her skin was decidedly white and her lips were drawn tightly across her teeth. The way she acted made me think it would be unwise to accept food from her without a taster. I decided to clear the air right away.

  “Charmian, absolutely nothing happened between myself and Terrance Sullivan if that’s what’s concerning you.”

  “Me. Concerned about you and that ghastly Irishman? The thought hadn’t crossed my mind for a minute.” She started to butter a roll and stopped midway through, pointing at me with the butter knife. Some of the peaches were finding their way back to her cheeks, and her pale blue eyes regained their impetuous sparkle. “Nothing at all?” she queried.

  “Nothing,” I assured her, omitting my own disappointment over the dreary fact.

  “Do you suppose the man is a homosexual?” She bit off a piece of her roll.

  I thought about the scene in the hall, about the heat of his kisses. They had more steam in them than I would think a man interested in other men could generate. Then again, he had stopped short…way short.

  “I couldn’t say. From outside appearances he doesn’t seem to be.”

  “Was it that obvious I was trying to make him?”

  “I could tell, but that’s just me. I don’t think any of the others would have noticed,” I lied.

  “I know you must think I’m terrible, but here I am in my forties and my body is just screaming out for passion, and David, well, he’s basically done with it. It’s been ages. I love him dearly, always will, but…well, you know how these things are.”