White Christmas in Saigon

by Margaret Pemberton

  ‘Oh, Christ, Serry, I need you!’ He was crying now, his tears damp against her skin. Relief surged through her. It had come to an end. She knew by the agonized defeat in his voice that he had come to his senses, that he would not take her by force.

  ‘I love you, Serry. I’ve always loved you,’ he said thickly, his arms still around her, his mouth hot against her naked flesh.

  ‘And I love you,’ Serena said softly. ‘I shall never feel as close to anyone else. Not ever.’ And she stroked his hair gently, knowing that in a moment he would release her, and that in another few seconds they would be laughing shakily at the Greek drama of their passions.

  It never occurred to Kyle that he should knock at the nursery door before entering. It wasn’t a bedroom, for God’s sake. Annoyed by the length of her absence, not wishing to continue standing alone in the yellow drawing room, receiving guests on her behalf, he had excused himself and had asked Herricot where the hell she was. The butler, not accustomed to being spoken to in such a direct manner, had frigidly replied that Lady Serena was in the old nursery and had reluctantly given him the directions so that he could join her there.

  As he strode along the upper corridor he heard Serena’s voice cry out loudly, ‘Lance! Please!‘ and then, as he approached the nursery door, he heard, quite unmistakably, Lance Blyth-Templeton saying in an agonized voice, ‘I love you, Serry! I’ve always loved you!’

  He froze, one hand on the doorknob, pausing just long enough to hear Serena’s reply, and then, without a second’s hesitation, he flung open the door, striding into the room, horrified at the scene that met his eyes.

  Serena was half naked, her dress lying in a white pool around her feet, her veil still billowing around her Blyth-Templeton was on his knees before her, clasping her toward him, his face pressed ardently against the white lace of her brief panties. Serena was cradling his head, looking down at him with an expression of unmistakable love, tears of anguish streaking her face.

  Not for one fraction of a second did Kyle believe that her tears were those of distress for Lance’s obvious sexual advances toward her. He had heard no words of protest, had heard only their mutual confessions of love for each other. And one glance at the wanton intimacy of their embrace left him in no doubt as to the context in which the words had been spoken.

  The depth of his revulsion stunned him. He had thought himself way out, liberated, wild. Now, faced with a wife who really was way out and wild, his reaction was one of traditional moral outrage.

  ‘Jesus!’ he said, his nostrils flaring, the colour draining from his face. ‘Jesus God!’

  Serena turned her head swiftly toward him, her eyes flying wide with alarm. ‘Kyle! Please! You don’t understand!’

  Lance was still on his knees, his arms holding her tight, uncaring of Kyle’s presence.

  ‘I sure as hell do understand! If I’d had any brains I would have understood a damned lot sooner! I knew there was something wrong about the relationship between you two! I heard it in your voice every time you spoke his name!’ White lines etched his mouth, and a nerve jumped convulsively at the corner of his jaw. ‘But I never imagined …’ His hands had balled into fists. He wanted to kill the bastard, and he wanted to kill Serena too. The marriage service in Bedingham’s village church had affected him more deeply than he had ever thought possible. Hell, he had been happy to be marrying her again! He had meant the vows he had exchanged with her! But she hadn’t meant them. For Serena it had been just another joke, another outrageous experience to add to her long list of outrageous experiences.

  ‘You’re being ridiculous!’ Serena snapped, her voice edged with panic. She tried to pull herself free of Lance’s grasp, but Lance was laughing now, clinging to her as if he never, ever, meant to let her go.

  ‘No! I’m through being ridiculous,’ he said savagely, knowing that he couldn’t physically assault Blyth-Templeton, that he couldn’t bear to have any physical contact with him, not even a blow. ‘I’ll tell my lawyers to start divorce proceedings immediately!’ Unable to bear the sight of Serena’s nakedness and Lance’s hands on her flesh a moment longer, Kyle slammed the door.

  ‘Kyle!’ Serena’s voice was an anguished shriek. She seized Lance’s hands, struggling to break their hold, but Lance was laughing uproariously, hugging her to him, saying jubilantly, ‘Let him go! You’re free, Serry! Your marriage was a practical joke. Nothing more.’

  ‘Let me go, Lance!’ she shouted desperately. ‘For God’s sake …’ She struck out at him with a white-booted foot and he fell sideways, a look of astonishment on his face. Free of his hands, she snatched at her wedding dress, lifting it up and around her hips, struggling to slip her arms into the sleeves of the tattered bodice as she ran for the door. The corridor was empty. Hysteria rose up inside her. He would go. He had meant every word he had said. He would go, and this time he would not return. ‘Oh shit, oh fuck, oh hell!’ she sobbed, racing for the stairs.

  As she reached them, the chatter and laughter of the wedding guests rose to meet her. There were photographers. Journalists. To race down there, her dress savagely torn and half off her shoulders, would cause a sensation that she, and Bedingham, would never live down. She hesitated only a second.

  In another few seconds Kyle would be driving away from her at a criminal hundred miles an hour. There wasn’t time for her to go to her room and change her dress; to put on a wrap; to make herself decent. ‘Oh, damn you, Lance!’ she sobbed, beginning to run down the stairs.

  It was her father-in-law who averted a further scandal. Aware that both the bride and groom had deserted their guests, he had walked angrily out of the yellow drawing room in search of them. As he paused in the marble-floored entrance hall to speak to Herricot and to ask if the butler knew where they were, Kyle came leaping down the grand staircase, taking the steps two at a time, his eyes blazing like live coals, his face ashen.

  ‘What the hell …’ his father began as Kyle forced his way through the wedding guests milling in the entrance, sprinting for the doors and the flight of stone steps leading down to the drive.

  Herricot closed his eyes, rallying his strength. There would be worse to come, he was sure of it.

  Royd Anderson was just about to set off in pursuit of his son when he heard the sound of Serena’s running feet. He turned his head swiftly back in the direction of the staircase and sucked in his breath on a gasp of horror. The bride was hurtling down the stairs towards him, the bodice of her wedding gown ripped, her breasts, in their delicate white lace, half-cup brassiere, exposed.

  He heard a cry of incredulity from first one guest and then another, and before every head was turned upward, he sprang for the stairs, racing up them, shielding her from view.

  ‘Let me pass!’ Serena shrieked, beginning to push him desperately out of her way.

  There was no time for reason. No time for anything but swift restraining action. His fist shot out so swiftly that even Herricot wasn’t sure if he had seen right. What he did see, and what the vast majority of guests with a view of the proceedings saw, was the bride crumple and her father-in-law sweep her up into his arms.

  ‘Mrs Anderson has fainted!’ he shouted back over his shoulder to the reluctantly admiring Herricot. ‘Ask if there is a doctor among the guests, and if not, please telephone for one.’

  Herricot’s position at the foot of the stairs hadn’t been quite as advantageous as Mr Anderson’s had been, but he had received the distinct impression, before, Mr Anderson had shielded her so masterfully from view, that the bride’s clothing had been in a state of alarming disorder. He had also received the impression that Air Anderson would prefer it if a doctor were not found too speedily. Not, in fact, until the bride could be made presentable.

  Kyle never returned to Bedingham. He did exactly what Serena had known he would do. He vaulted into his father’s car and drove like a maniac back to London. Four hours later, still glittery eyed and ashen-faced, he was aboard a plane bound for Boston, Massachusetts.<
br />
  Lance was only a half hour later in following him down the London-Cambridge road. Serena’s demented dash in pursuit of Kyle had brought him numbly to his senses. Both his parents and Anderson’s would demand an explanation for the abrupt collapse of the marriage, and the disappearance of the groom. There would also be Serry’s torn and bloodstained gown to explain away, and the weals on her face and the bruises on her shoulders and breasts.

  He didn’t for one moment imagine that Serry would tell them the truth, but he was damned sure that Anderson would. He would telephone his father, or his lawyers would make contact. Whichever method he used, Lance knew that he and Serry would be accused of having an incestuous relationship, and that there was a more than likely chance that the accusation would be believed. He had tried to speak to Serena and had failed. A doctor was with her, their parents and Royd Anderson were with her. In a very short while old Herricot would be questioned, and when he was, it would be quickly discovered that Serena had left the yellow drawing room to meet him. Lance had no intention of still being at Bedingham when that moment arrived.

  He packed a suitcase swiftly and hurried out of the house, amused to realize that the guests were still apparently unaware of the bride and groom’s absence. The giant marquee was still packed with laughing, chattering relations, a band was playing, champagne-laden waitresses were circulating among the groups strolling the lawns, and every inch of carefully maintained grass was covered in a pastel-pink drift of confetti.

  Lance gave the scene one last, hate-filled look and then hoisted his suitcase into the rear of his MG. He drove off without a backward glance.

  When the doctor arrived, Royd Anderson had persuaded him to sedate Serena heavily. He didn’t know what the hell had happened between her and Kyle, but he was determined to try to find out a few hard facts before she gave out any story that would discredit his son or his family. As it was, when she regained consciousness, she steadfastly refused to say anything. Her mother pleaded with her, certain that Kyle Anderson had raped and beaten her. Her father tried to reason with her. Royd, when he finally managed to speak to her alone, flagrantly threatened her. All to no avail. Whatever had happened between her and Kyle remained a mystery, a mystery that wasn’t cleared up when, three days later, Kyle telephoned his father from the States.

  ‘I’m at Fort Dix,’ he said blandly.

  ‘You’re where?’

  ‘Fort Dix, New Jersey. It’s an army base.’

  ‘I know what the fuck it is!’ his father shouted. ‘What I want to know is what the fuck are you doing there?’

  ‘I’ve applied to be a pilot candidate in the army. I’m here for basic training, then I go to Fort Polk for a month of advanced infantry training …’

  ‘Like hell you do!’ Royd thundered. ‘What about Princeton? What about your marriage? What about …’

  ‘After Fort Polk I’ll be sent to Fort Wolters for four months of primary flight training,’ Kyle continued, unperturbed.

  ‘No you won’t!’ The veins in Royd’s neck stood out in knots. ‘If you want to go into the army, you go in the right way!’

  ‘Which is?’ Kyle sounded amused.

  ‘Christ, you’re an Anderson! You know damn well which way you go into the army. You go through West Point!’

  ‘No. I’m going in the fastest, easiest way I can, and that means the warrant officer aviation programme.’

  Royd felt sick. There were beads of sweat on his forehead and his heart was pumping crazily. ‘You can’t,’ he repeated helplessly. ‘That programme is nothing more than a conveyor belt for Vietnam!’

  ‘By the time my training is finished, ’Nam will be old hat.’

  ‘No, it won’t be, and you know it!’ In his anger and terror Royd had almost forgotten Serena and the fiasco of the marriage. Now he said suddenly, ‘What the hell happened here, Kyle? That crazy wife of yours isn’t talking. Her brother has taken off again, no one knows the hell where. Her mother’s distraught, and old Blyth-Templeton is even more vague and confused than ever.’

  There was a slight pause at the other end of the telephone, and then Kyle said tightly, ‘She’ll be served with divorce papers. That’s all anyone needs to know.’

  ‘Like hell it is!’ Royd bellowed, dollar signs spiralling crazily through his head. ‘I want to know exactly what happened, exactly what I’m—’

  ‘Bye, Dad,’ Kyle said, a rare note of affection in his voice. Then the line went dead.

  Royd looked at Serena with loathing. From the moment she had woken from her sedated sleep, she had shown no visible sign of distress, only an icy calm. She faced him now, pale gold hair hanging waterfall straight down her back, the skirt of her minidress barely skimming her buttocks, her fashionable thigh-high boots giving her the appearance of a female Gulliver.

  ‘He joined the army, goddamn you! He’s at Fort Dix.’

  For a second he had the pleasure of seeing utter horror flash through her eyes and then she was utterly composed again, saying coolly, ‘I can imagine Kyle as a lot of things, but not as a run-of-the-mill soldier.’

  ‘He won’t be a run-of-the-mill soldier,’ Royd snarled. ‘He’s training to be a helicopter pilot.’

  Serena returned his glare with composure, tilting her head slightly to one side. ‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘it’s easier to imagine him as a pilot. He’ll enjoy it.’

  ‘He won’t damned well enjoy it when he’s flying under fire in ’Nam! If he’s killed, you’ll be responsible! If he comes back with two stumps for legs, you’ll be the one to blame!’ He saw her flinch and continued viciously. ‘He wouldn’t be there if you hadn’t driven him away! He’d be on his honeymoon, for Christ’s sake! He’s done this because of you! What the hell happened between the two of you? It was all lovey-dovey when you were receiving the guests. I know when the shit hit the fan! I just want to know why.’

  ‘The shit hit the fan, as you so graphically put it, when your dumb-brained son put two and two together and came up with a hundred and five.’ Despite her outwardly cool appearance, her voice was unsteady and Royd looked at her in astonishment. She looked as if she were about to burst into tears.

  ‘You mean there was a misunderstanding? You mean the whole thing could blow over?’ His voice was incredulous.

  ‘Yes, there was a misunderstanding, and no it won’t blow over,’ she said, her voice once again under tight control.

  ‘What about the divorce?’ he asked bluntly. ‘Are you going to contest it?’

  He saw her eyes widen fractionally, their smoked-crystal depths darkening. ‘No,’ she said after a slight pause. ‘No, I don’t suppose so.’

  The fleeting compassion he had felt for her when her voice had trembled vanished. ‘You can forget any ideas of a huge settlement,’ he said savagely.

  She held his gaze steadily, looking vaguely surprised. ‘I hadn’t thought about the money,’ she said truthfully, ‘but you’ve no need to worry. I don’t want any.’

  Royd sucked in his breath and then turned on his heel, striding away from her. He had no intention of ever seeing her again. He was leaving Bedingham, leaving England. He could not communicate with a woman who said she didn’t want any money. Especially one who obviously meant what she said.

  Serena was deeply relieved when the Andersons finally left Bedingham. The day after they did, her mother flew down to join friends at Cowes, and her father took off for Scotland, a mound of fishing gear in the rear of his Land-Rover. At long last she had Bedingham to herself, and it offered her a measure of comfort.

  That she needed comfort came as a surprise. Their elopement had, after all, been nothing more than a ridiculous joke. But the wedding at Bedingham hadn’t been a joke. It had been a profoundly moving experience. And she was sure that she was not alone in that feeling. Though he hadn’t said so, she was almost certain that Kyle had been as deeply affected by it as she had been. And now, thanks to Lance’s idiocy, it was all over.

  She stayed at Bedingham until the e
nd of August and then, when her mother returned from Cowes and her father returned from Scotland, she drove with uncharacteristic soberness back to London. There seemed no fun left in her life now that Kyle had gone. Toby and her host of other friends no longer amused her. By the end of September she had come to the startling conclusion that she was so bored there was nothing to do but look for a job.

  ‘Rupert Carrington is looking for someone to manage his antique shop in Kensington,’ Toby said to her helpfully. ‘Why not give him a call?’

  ‘I don’t know the first thing about antiques.’

  ‘Rubbish, darling,’ Toby said, amused. ‘You live among antiques at Bedingham. A knowledge of them must be in your blood and in your bones.’

  Serena nodded thoughtfully. He was probably right. She certainly didn’t know much about anything else, and her only other option would be a boutique.

  ‘Right,’ she said purposefully, ‘selling antiques has to be a more intelligent proposition than selling clothes. I’ll give him a call.’

  Her call was successful. Rupert’s only stipulations were that she should be known by her maiden name and title. As Lady Serena BIyth-Templeton she would, he explained, have decidely more clout where clients were concerned than she would have as plain Mrs Anderson.

  By Christmas Serena’s life had settled into a moderately satisfactory pattern. She worked three, sometimes four days a week in Rupert’s exclusive antique shop, her newfound interest in what she was doing prompting her to enrol in a Sotheby’s ‘Works of Art’ course. She lived her private life as though she were still single, dining with well-born escorts at the Ritz and the Savoy, and dancing until the small hours at Regine’s and Annabel’s.

  Annabel’s was her favourite nightspot, and she began to go there with Rupert, sharing late suppers with him, never much before midnight, and always ending with a dish of the club’s famous marmalade icecream and a glass of exquisitely sweet Cháteau d’Yquem.