But she was sure that Iris was someone special. Louisa had friends with daughters, marvelous-looking young women with a Manhattan panache and private school manners. But Iris, with her abundance of honey-colored hair, soft brown eyes, straight little nose, short upper lip and full lower one, could have been painted by Sargent if their times had coincided.
Yet since the debacle of the broken engagement, Iris had become cautious, distrustful and distressingly independent. Louisa was beginning to despair.
“You were saying?” her niece prompted.
“I don’t remember what I was saying,” Louisa confessed.
“Something about my not being cut out for a career woman.”
“Do you want a career?”
There was a trace of impatience. “How do I know?” Then, reflectively, “How does anyone know?”
“I imagine people like Gloria Steinem knew. Or Betty Friedan. Or some woman politician, like Shirley Chisholm.”
“Maybe.”
“Anyway, somehow I’ve gone off the track. Let’s get back to my having quite a bit of money and wanting to take you abroad. Everything I have, Iris, will go to you. No, don’t shake your head in that irritating way! To whom else would I leave it? To you and Edith, of course. So why shouldn’t you share in it now, instead of everything later? Have some present joy of it. What I’d really like is — ”
She considered and then went ahead. “What I’d really like is for you to quit your job and travel with me indefinitely. This year, next year, and …”
She saw that the answer would be a regretful no. Smoothly, she continued. “If not that, then for your vacation this year. You said you could manage three weeks. We’ll go anywhere you like. I mentioned France, but it could be anywhere. Italy, Spain … whatever. You’ve never been to Europe, though Henry and I so much wanted to take you. It didn’t happen because I just didn’t think it would be fair to …”
She felt a little self-conscious. “Well, to offer you something your own parents would have liked to but just couldn’t afford. Your mother is so damned difficult to do things for!”
“She’s proud … like you,” Iris pointed out. “I know they had some hard times, but they put me through Barnard and are pleased as punch that they did it without any help. Oh, I waitressed, and took other odd jobs, but that was only a drop in the bucket.”
She gave her aunt a fond look. “If I were someone different,” she said, “I’d fall in line with your first suggestion. Quit my job and be … say, your companion. Only, I can’t. You knew that right away, I saw it in your face. We’re very close, you and I, and it’s a great joy to me. I’ve told you things I’ve never even told my parents. We have a very special kind of relationship. I love the Cinderella story you outlined for me … the idea of my giving up a not very interesting job and being …”
She grinned. “Beautiful People, traveling the world with a glamorous aunt. If I were five years older, I might take you up on it. Right now, though …”
She lit an unaccustomed cigarette and went on. “But as for three weeks in Europe, why not? I have a little over fifteen hundred in my savings account, and that ought to cover expenses. When did you plan to leave?”
Her aunt’s face tightened. “I thought I had made it clear,” she said shortly. “Either I take you and pay for your trip or it’s no go. I’m sorry, Iris, but that’s a condition.”
“But I have the money!”
“Forgive me for being just a little bit angry, but on no account will I stand for it. I will not impoverish you. Either I have you as my guest or the deal’s off.”
She raised her hand peremptorily before her niece had a chance to answer. “I have nothing,” she said quietly. “Nothing at all now, except for a lot of money. If I can’t use some of it for someone else’s benefit, then it’s a hateful thing.”
She sat back. “It’s up to you, love.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“No,” Louisa said vehemently. “I’m about to make my plans. I have to know now. Yes or no. As I said, it’s up to you.”
Iris got up and went to the window. It was true her aunt was a very rich woman. Whatever cost Iris would be to her on this little junket would be peanuts, considering the size of Louisa’s inheritance. Why was it that she felt obligated, why did she hesitate? She loved this woman, who was like a second mother to her.
I guess I’m proud too, she thought.
She looked back at her aunt.
Louisa, who only a short while back was so bereft, so frozen with grief, was once again the old Louisa, the unwavering, decisive person Iris had known from babyhood. She seemed to have come into her own again, was once more the calm, decision-making individual that was the real, familiar Aunt Louisa.
Was she to hamper her aunt’s recovery by refusing to allow her this small indulgence?
“The answer is yes,” she said finally.
“On my conditions?”
Iris nodded.
“Talk about pulling teeth,” Louisa said, her face breaking into a broad smile. “Well, that’s more like it. Come give me a kiss.”
“And thank you,” Iris said, as they each sat down again. “It’s a lovely treat you’re offering me.”
“My treat, my pleasure,” her aunt corrected, glowing. “Now I thought we’d leave around the beginning of September. Europe is at its best then, after most of the tiresome tourists have gone home. Iris, where shall we go?”
“You said France.”
“Would you rather it be somewhere else?”
“France suits me fine,” Iris said fervently. “There are many places I would like to go before I die, but of them all, France heads the list.”
“Then we’ll fly to Paris, and after that play it by ear.” She hugged herself. “What a joy it will be to have you with me!”
“And I’m glad you’re … better.”
“I have to be better. Life, as they say, must go on. It’s just that I’ve at last been able to reconcile to that.”
She got up briskly. “I’ve some travel folders for you saved from previous trips. You must take them home and browse over them. You should be traveling with someone your own age, of course, but we’ll have our own fun. I can’t wait to show you … oh, everything.”
She went to the beautiful old escritoire that was a piece from the eighteenth century, opened it, and drew out a thick sheaf of brochures. Putting them into a large manila envelope she handed them to Iris. “There’s a marvelous walking map of Paris here,” she said. “If you really study it carefully, you’ll find that when you get there you’ll know where the main points of interest are.”
“I’ll certainly do that.”
“And, Iris, I know so many people there who would have sons about your age. You’ll be able to go dancing, or to the films, and — ”
Iris’s face changed quickly, became wary. She looked away and then swiftly back. “Auntie, you’re not going to try to matchmake, are you?”
She really seemed distressed, Louisa thought, and her own reactions were both compassionate and exasperated. Really, this girl did try her patience sometimes. What normal young woman could object to being introduced to men who were the sons of family friends, for heaven’s sake? What girl wouldn’t jump at the chance to be taken to Parisian discos and boites?
Was her niece ever going to rise above that sordid business with Mark Pawling, and begin the business of living again? Just be a happy, eager young girl …
She was a little short with Iris. “No,” she said. “I’ve no intention of doing anything like that. A little Paris night life wouldn’t hurt you, but it’s up to you. Don’t worry, I won’t twist your arm, Iris.”
Contrition showed in her niece’s face. “Forgive me, but it’s just that I must go at my own pace. For the moment, I’m content to drift with the tide. Laissez faire, you understand. Anyway, it’s you I want to be with.”
“Whatever yo
u say. I just want you to enjoy your trip.”
“You are an understanding dear,” Iris said gratefully.
And when she left her aunt’s apartment, she was in a blissful daze. Europe this early fall … France … Paris …
“And how is your dear aunt today?” Mike asked her on her way out.
“Oh, so much better.”
“I was a bit worried about her,” he confided, “seeing as how I haven’t laid eyes on her in several days.”
“She’s … passed the crisis, as they say, Mike. Much improved. And thanks for worrying about her.”
“I like her you know. She’s a lady, a real lady.”
Yes, she was, Iris thought, as she walked on home. Her Aunt Louisa was truly to the manor born.
Two
If Virginia Easton had ever envied her sister Louisa her good luck in snagging a husband who had made an early fortune in plastics, it had been only in periods of stress in her own household. There had been such periods, and at times she had despaired of providing the kind of college education she considered Iris’s due. Tears had been shed and hands had been wrung, but things had “come out all right,” and although Virginia had a host of friends and acquaintances, the person who meant the most to her (aside from her husband and daughter) was her sister Louisa.
What had prevented her from ever taking a penny from Louisa, or even borrowing, was the fact that the balance, she felt, must be kept even. Louisa had the money — and a great deal of it — while she, Virginia, had the child, the daughter fate had denied her sister. Louisa, after a second miscarriage, was unable to have children and it had been a great sorrow to her. One reason, perhaps, why she had so cherished and loved what she did have … her husband, who was twenty years older than herself.
And now, with Henry dead, the balance was uneven. In spite of her wealth, Louisa had, substantially, nothing while Virginia had everything … husband, daughter and for the first time in her life, some financial comfort. Virginia’s own world seemed suddenly blighted. With Louisa’s life shattered, her own was in chaos as well.
So when Iris came home that Saturday afternoon to announce that Aunt Louisa was immeasurably improved, and “picking up the pieces,” it was like a kind of rebirth. Suddenly the sun had its full strength again, the faces of her loved ones, husband George and daughter Iris, swam into her consciousness to dazzle and enchant her, and the new living room sofa that had seemed much too costly when it had been bought filled her with a joy and pleasure that set her to straightening its cushions about a dozen times.
“Beautiful thing,” she murmured to it. “You are worth every penny and I love you dearly.”
“And we’re to leave in September,” Iris told her.
“Isn’t that wonderful!”
Dad said, as they were having their supper, “I’m not disapproving, Iris. You’re in a way, like a child of her own. Perfectly proper for her to underwrite your vacation … at this particular sad time, anyway.”
“Iris wouldn’t do anything you’d disapprove of, George, so no need to take that ensouffrance tone.”
“Am I being taken down a peg or two?” he asked mildly.
His wife beamed at him. “Say anything you have a mind to. I feel very happy tonight.”
“I’m enormously fond of Louisa Collinge myself, and if I hadn’t been guarded carefully from a glimpse of her while we were courting, I might very well have married her myself.”
“She wouldn’t have had you.”
“Why?” he asked reasonably.
“Because it would have been over my dead body, and then you’d have gone to prison.”
“I was that fascinating?”
“Very likely just to me, and I would have slain to keep you.”
“In that case you’d have gone to prison,” Iris pointed out.
“And gladly so.”
“You’re really quite a pair,” Iris commented.
Her mother caught the wistfulness in her daughter’s voice, and thought, damn Mark Pawling for what he did to my child.
“So you’ll be going abroad, Iris,” George Easton said, and looked across at his wife. “You and I will have our turn one of these days,” he told her. “We had a rather hard row to hoe, but things are looking up.”
He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “You’ve been a good and patient wife, and I love you very much.”
Iris, touched, thought that to have a man say something like that to you would be better than all the riches in the world, better than anything life could ever offer.
They left for Paris on the first week in September. Iris’s current beau drove them all out to the airport. His name was Jeffrey Hamm and Mother — who was as eager to see her daughter go to the altar and “settle down” as was Aunt Louisa — had said once, “If you and Jeff married, Iris, you’ll never be able to name your first-born after me, should it be a girl.”
“Why not?”
“Would you name a child Virginia Hamm?”
But she knew her daughter was no more serious about Jeff than she was about any of the men she dated nowadays.
Jeffrey was disturbed because Iris was to be away for such a chunk of time. “How about hurrying back?” he suggested, looking quite dejected.
“I haven’t even gone yet,” Iris said.
She liked him. He was decent, intelligent and quite a bit of fun. There had been others she had liked. But only one who had lit the flame in her.
Mark Pawling …
Was there to be only one in a lifetime?
“It won’t be all that long,” she said. “And I will miss you, Jeff.”
“Take care of yourself,” he said huskily.
Then their flight was called. Final good-byes were hastily exchanged, Mother saying, “You’ve got the Lomotil? Be sure to take it if there’s the slightest sign of an upset stomach.”
It was eight o’clock of a bright, still summery evening, with the sky still showing traces of a faint pink. Iris, boarding the plane, looked quickly back and, as she did, a burst of rosy brilliance flushed the heavens and then, just as swiftly, died down.
Like a salute, she thought, and then walked through the doors.
• • •
They arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport at seven in the morning.
First there was, upon awakening from a restful slumber which, in first class, was a little easier to come by than in second, an orange dawn. A strange, eerie glory that was unlike anything Iris had ever seen before. She gazed at it, fascinated and bemused, until the bizarre color faded and gave way to a pearly, early morning.
Her aunt was still asleep, her legs tucked up in her chair. Iris rose quietly and made her way to the washroom. She had taken her cosmetic case and was able to brush her teeth, wash her face and comb out her tousled hair.
When she went back down the aisle, some of the passengers were beginning to come alive, rousing themselves from their night’s doze, shifting stiffly in their seats. One woman groaned audibly, muttered something to her companion, a man, and struggled up. She walked down the aisle and disappeared into a washroom.
With a slight sigh, Louisa opened her eyes.
“Good morning,” Iris said.
“Good morning, dear. Did you sleep?”
“Yes, quite decently.”
“So did I. My word, you look refreshed. You’ve been to the washroom, haven’t you? Perfectly groomed and combed. And I, all sags and wrinkled panty hose.”
She got up. “I’ll go make some repairs of my own. I smell breakfast preparations, so I’d better be quick about it.”
While she was gone, Iris busied herself with her money converter. One franc was equal roughly to twenty cents. Therefore five francs was equal to a dollar, depending, of course, on the condition of the American dollar. She was starting out with a Quick Pack of forty dollars, which should give her a small start. For additional, there were two hundred dollars in traveler’s checks.
“Counting your wealth?” Louisa asked
, returning to her seat.
“Like a miser. Look at all that loot.”
Her aunt laughed. “That wouldn’t get you very far.”
Breakfast came shortly after that, and shortly after that the loudspeaker crackled.
“This is your captain speaking. Landing will be in one half hour. The sky is clear above Paris, the temperature is 78 degrees. We hope you have enjoyed your flight. Thank you.”
Then it was repeated in French. “Mesdames et Messieurs …”
Fifteen minutes later the overhead lights flashed for seatbelts to be fastened and cigarettes doused.
Then the plane started its slow descent. In no time at all the plains and valleys of France swam into view below them — neat rows of wheat and grain on the farmlands, miniature trees, squares of varying colors — and then the Seine, like a silver ribbon winding its way across the broad expanse.
They touched down with a velvety little bump and whooshed across the runway.
“Well,” Louisa said, “here we are.”
The sun, blazing in through the windows, was dazzling.
“Thank God for small favors,” Louisa said, unzipping her seat belt. “It’s a lovely, warm day. One’s first glimpse of Paris should always be on a lovely, warm day.”
She got up, smoothed her skirt, and stretched luxuriously. “We’re getting off to a good start,” she said and, with Iris following, made her way to the exit door.
Three
That they were not staying at the Ritz was a welcome surprise to Iris. The Ritz, of course, would be gorged with American and English personalities of ancient vintage and horrid, rich Germans who would snap their fingers at waiters.
“Oh no,” Louisa said when Iris commented on it. “We never put up at the Ritz. Not the Paris Ritz, at any rate. We used to stay at the Bristol, but decided it had too much side, and one day we found a tiny little hotel just around the corner from the Ritz and have made it our Paris home ever since.”
Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances Page 33