Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances

by Dorothy Fletcher

  Her smile was ravishing followed by an apologetic little grimace. “Forgive me?” she said. “I won’t keep you. I’m Bobo. Bobo Lestrange, Tom’s mother. It’s about Tom. Is he bothering you?”

  “No, of course not,” I said. “Not at all, he’s darling.”

  “I just wouldn’t want him to be a trouble.”

  “No no. Not at all. Don’t think that.”

  She shrugged. “Of course it will wear off in a day or two. Children are like animals, interested one moment and the next … they forget.”

  “But won’t you come in, Mrs. Lestrange?”

  She looked tempted. “I did say I wouldn’t keep you.”

  “It’s all right, do come in. Let me give you some coffee.”

  “All right,” she said, and walked through the door. I saw her look around curiously, but she didn’t say anything about what she might think of my cottage, just stood there with her eyes wandering over the furniture, lamps and general decor.

  I asked her to sit down, and went for coffee. I put some cookies and some brownies on the tray and returned to the living room.

  But she wasn’t there.

  “Mrs. Lestrange?” I called, and she appeared in the doorway of my bedroom.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I just wanted to see your view.”

  There was no particular view from the bedroom. The view was off the kitchen, but I made no comment. I decided that she had simply wanted to see what kind of clothes were hanging in my closet, and if so, who cared?

  Yet it was a bit odd, her wandering into the bedroom.

  We had our coffee seated together on a sofa, and she inserted a cigarette into a long ivory holder.

  Virtually the only person I can think of who didn’t look outré with a cigarette holder was Franklin Roosevelt, and if he hadn’t come from a patrician family and been such a noble Roman senatorial sort he might have seemed to be overdoing it, too. Furthermore, her speech was careful but … too careful. Her beauty, as well, was a shade too lush, a little too blatant. She didn’t seem to me your genteel, Christmas cotillion, post debutante, understated and refined. I could almost picture her in a chorus line, or a Copacabana revue.

  Ordinarily, the name Bobo would have had nothing to do with my overall impression. Society’s darlings are often called Honey this, or Bubbles that; one of the most impeccably-lineaged women of my professional acquaintance is also nicknamed Bobo. Yet on this woman even this was wrong. It only added to the aspects that jarred about her. Of all people, she should have eschewed such a coy tag, should have insisted on Susan, Nancy, Jane …

  This was a woman who should never wear flashy furs, or too much perfume, or … use cigarette holders.

  Well, I thought, she had done one thing right. She had produced a most appealing son.

  I said as much. “Your son’s really a dear.”

  “He’s a nice boy,” she said blandly. “All the boys are nice, and we get along fairly well. None of them have ever treated me badly.”

  And then, of course, it dawned on me. This woman was only in her early thirties, and couldn’t possibly be the mother of the older sons, at any rate. She was their stepmother.

  Bobo offered information freely about the first Mrs. Lestrange. “Lucille married again too,” she confided. “The children’s mother. There are no hard feelings, thank God.”

  “That’s comforting, isn’t it? It can be a problem, I know.”

  “We’re going sailing,” she said. “You care to come?”

  “That’s very nice of you, but I’m expecting my fiancé. Thanks, though. Eric and I work pretty hard and are just glad to take it easy while we’re here.”

  “That doesn’t sound very exciting.”

  “But restful, which is what we need. I’m terribly grateful to Caroline for letting me the cottage.”

  She gave me a startled look, and the words came out, I felt, unbidden. “You call her Caroline?” she said quickly, and then, as she drew in her breath, I knew she could have bitten off her tongue.

  She didn’t stay long after that, and took her leave quite gracefully: she had learned a lot, this woman, from the family she had married into. She was all poise again.

  I went with her to the door, and as I opened it, caught sight of a man just nearing it. He saw me, gave me a quick, comprehensive glance, and smiled.

  “Good morning,” he said, and looked past me at my visitor. “I thought you might be here,” he said to Bobo, and then to me, “I’m Garrison Lestrange, and a warm welcome to you, Miss Stewart. Are you enjoying the cottage?”

  “Yes, very much, thanks.”

  “Good, fine. Are you coming, Bobo?”

  She went past me and joined him. “Thanks for the coffee,” she said.

  “Thanks for the visit.”

  I watched them walk away, and wondered about them. They were heading for the house almost directly across from the cottage; they left the flagstoned path for the grass, and in a short time Garrison Lestrange was walking a pace or two in front of his wife. They were soon separated by a couple of paces from each other. Nor was there any conversation between the two.

  I closed the door. I had to admit that Garrison Lestrange was a most impressive figure of a man. Tall, handsome, tanned, and clearly to the manor born. The kind of man who belonged to the best clubs, played squash every day for his waistline and was a benevolent despot with his office staff.

  And he was at least thirty years older than his wife.

  I was, in spite of myself, fascinated by Tom, that nice, gentle boy whose father was certainly nearing sixty, and whose stepmother called to mind a courtesan.

  Well, I thought, like it or not, I was becoming slowly involved in the lives of the Lestranges. That woman hadn’t come over to my cottage to apologize for her stepson. She had showed up, I was almost certain, out of curiosity.

  Why? I was only a paying guest on the grounds.

  And Garrison Lestrange. Why had he made it a point to make an appearance?

  I had the distinct feeling that it was to make an assessment of me, that he was none too pleased about an outsider sharing the family compound and that he wanted to take the measure of Caroline’s “protégée.”

  I didn’t have much time for reflection, however. Only a scant half hour later, Eric’s car churned up the gravel in front of my cottage, and he came in bearing gifts. “Steaks,” he said. “Shell steaks for the grill. Country corn, fruit, beefsteak tomatoes. Take a look.”

  “Bless you,” I said, hugging him. “You must be exhausted. What time did you start out?”

  “Pretty early, but I went to bed with the chickens.”

  “I’ll feed you, and then you can have a nap.”

  “Sounds nice, I could use a little shut-eye.”

  • • •

  Caroline rang up as we lay slumbering in our naps. When I got my eyes open, Eric was picking up the receiver. I could hear the staccato voice at the other end, that now-familiar, high-bred, high-pitched voice that was uniquely Caroline Lestrange’s.

  Eric didn’t hand over the receiver for quite some time: clearly my friend Caroline was not averse to a young man’s charms, and was having a nice little chat with my man. I waited with no impatience; I felt delightfully rested and unwound, and it was so nice to lie there in comfort on this balmy spring day with nothing much to do.

  There was birdsong, and the occasional barking of the dog I had seen earlier, and now and then a murmur of voices from, probably, the domestics on the property. There was, as well, the throb of the surf on the beach, contrapuntal and hypnotic. I felt fulfilled and happy, euphoric.

  “It’s Caroline,” Eric said, handing me the phone.

  “No kidding.”

  I said hello.

  “I’ve just had a nice talk with your young man,” she told me. “He’s got a good voice, hasn’t he?”

  “And other charms too,” I said. “How are you today?”

  “Very well indeed, and I want you for lunch, y
ou and your beau.”

  It wasn’t so much an invitation as a command. I stifled a laugh and accepted. “About what time, Caroline?”

  “Oneish or so.”

  “Oneish will be splendid. Do you want us to dress up or anything?”

  “Good heavens, wear anything, come in your skin if you’ve a mind to. I’ve a visitor, but I daresay your skin would do nicely for him.”

  “Oh, you have another guest?”

  “A house guest, yes. He’s a Viscount, but don’t let that distress you. He’s almost totally indigent and no catch at all, though he’ll make a great effort to charm you.”

  “That sounds lovely. I don’t mind a little attention. Well, see you quite soon, then. And thanks very much.”

  She never said good-bye, and she didn’t now. The phone was plumped down smartly and my own good-bye uttered to dead air. “Lunch with Her Grace,” I told Eric “You don’t mind?”

  “A little, but nothing’s perfect.” He squished up his pillow. “Oneish, I gathered.”

  “Yes, so get up, you slug, and shower. We don’t have all that much time.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “Certainly, sir. Very good, sir.”

  I thought, as Eric went to have his shower, that very likely Garrison Lestrange and his Bobo had once had such a loving and companionable relationship, teasing each other and laughing. And now they walked several steps apart, and no longer seemed friends.

  I couldn’t imagine what I would do if Eric stopped loving me.

  5.

  In spite of what Caroline had said I took some pains with my appearance. Ordinarily I would have gone over in tattered jeans cut off at the buttocks and a sloppy shirt, but instead I slithered into a striped samsong skirt cut to the thigh on one side, and a Riviera blouse. I added the gold chain Eric had given me last Christmas.

  After all, Caroline had a visitor. “I forgot to tell you,” I called to Eric, who was buttoning his shirt. “She has a visitor, and he’s a Viscount.”

  “One of the Maryland Viscounts? Or the Grosse Pointe Viscounts?”

  “Silly. Remind me to look it up in the encyclopedia.”

  “Maryland? Or Grosse Pointe?”

  “No, idiot. Viscount. I think it’s between an earl and a baron, though I’m not sure. Or is it a baronet? Anyway.”

  “Call up the Times. They’re used to pointless questions. But you, with your reference books; surely you must have a copy of Burke’s Peerage?”

  When we left the cottage and started up the flagstoned path we saw at once that someone in the house opposite Caroline’s was hosting a house party. There were people strolling about, a drink cart had been set up, and lawn chairs were placed at intervals. They all seemed to be young people, dressed in a variety of ways, and then I saw a man and a girl, in beach wear and dripping wet, come around the side of the house. I was aware, then, of some splashing sounds, and I remembered that Tom had told me there was a swimming pool on the grounds.

  It all looked very festive, very country weekendish.

  As we neared Caroline’s, some of them glanced our way, and a kind of hiatus occurred in the talk and laughter. A friendly nod seemed indicated, so I nodded, at which several people waved, and someone said, “Hi.”

  The setter I’d seen earlier, and who had been lying full length on the grass, took all this as an invitation, leaping up and bounding across to circle madly around us in an excess of affability. He tried to hurtle up to lick my face, but I deftly fielded his advances, as his paws looked definitely muddy. Eric was not so fortunate: the dog almost felled him, but he regained his balance, wryly murmuring, “Good boy, good boy … that’s a good boy.”

  The dog was called back then by one of the party across the way. “Ranger, get your butt over here,” and we went on to ring Caroline’s doorbell.

  Emily let us in, with only bare civility, though Eric gave her one of his most engaging smiles and said he was happy to see her again. She led us, wordlessly, through the house and out to the patio at the rear. There were some enticing cooking smells wafting through the air, and, once on the patio, the salt smell of the sea.

  It was a beautiful day, dry and clear, with a soft breeze that lifted my hair and caressed my face. Again I had that keen feeling of euphoria, and I thought that this — the coming summer, the sun, the fragrant odors and breezes and the long, golden days ahead of me — were all that anyone could ask from life.

  It was at that moment that I got a good look at the man who had been standing with his back to us, looking out toward the water and gesturing as he spoke. He was saying something typically British, “It is a super dry day,” or words to that effect, in one of those English voices that are so appealing.

  He swiveled around when he heard Caroline’s hello to us, and on his face was a tentative, almost inquisitive smile. I imagine she’d been singing our praises.

  Caroline made brief introductions, forgetting Eric’s last name, and calling me Jennie as usual “And this is Anthony Cavendish, my dears.” She waved an airy hand prettily. “What is your last name, Eric … you must forgive me, but then I was never very good at surnames.”

  “Sloane,” Eric said easily. He bent over her outstretched hand and kissed it with flair. She burst out laughing, gave him a whack on the rump and said sit down everyone.

  Apparently the newcomer was in charge of the drink orders; he poured our martinis for us. “Olive, twist or onion?” he inquired, raising an eyebrow.

  “Onion for us both,” Eric said. “Thanks much.”

  “Here you go,” the Briton said, handing out glasses to us with a quick swipe of a damask napkin at their stems. He raised his own glass and, still standing, added, “Chin chin.” Then he slid into one of Caroline’s Deauville chairs with his long and elegant legs straddled. He would have looked well in a uniform … a Hussar’s, perhaps, with those long, lean legs and those fine, square shoulders.

  We sat sipping and nibbling on hors d’oeuvres, with Caroline, as usual, doing most of the talking. As for the Viscount, he was quite an addition to the scenery. He was loaded with charm all right: he looked like the young Prince Philip, exceedingly tall, attenuated, really, as if he had been somehow forcibly lengthened by a sculptor. I decided he must be in his mid-thirties. His hair, very fair and looking like struck gold, was thick and glossy, and worn to the tips of his ears.

  And of course that speech, the flawless Mayfair accent; Oxford or Cambridge, and clear as a bell, not strangulated, as Brahmin English speech often is.

  A most bravura young man. I had been to Florence, and seen the paintings in the Uffizzi: young men of great beauty, immortalized by masters. This was just such a man. I caught myself looking back at him several times almost as soon as I looked away.

  I asked him how long he would be staying with Caroline.

  “Until my welcome wears out,” he replied, at which Caroline said instantly, “Which, as you know, will be never.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do so say,” she assured him.

  We were to have lunch outdoors. Emily was fussy about the flowers on the table, rearranging them to her satisfaction and then, still not happy, thrusting out a hand to give them another fixing.

  Until Caroline finally cried, “Enough, Emily, for pity’s sake you’ll wear the poor things out. Let them be!”

  “They’re stuck in without any artistry.”

  “Pish tush. Do try to be civilized.”

  “I just don’t see why everything must be hit or miss. You pay your staff enough wages.”

  “And you too,” Caroline retorted.

  Emily fell silent, looking grim and angry. “Can’t we have a lighter touch?” Caroline demanded, and Anthony Cavendish grinned.

  “Tell your guests about our life together,” he suggested.

  “All right, I shall,” Caroline said and, taking a swig of her Pouilly Fouissé, looked at Eric and me. “Our life together, as Tony puts it, is of some long duration. Apparently he feels some affection for
me still, as he visits me on occasional summers to keep me company in my old age. Then, of course, he leaves me lonely as ever when he goes off. Also quite impoverished. Tony has expensive tastes. My caviar bills alone …”

  “Darling, if I don’t spend your money someone else will.”

  “Of that I’m sure. Still, you do a good job of it.”

  “Oh, do shut up,” he said good-naturedly. “You wouldn’t know what to do without me.”

  “I suppose I wouldn’t,” she admitted. “I am fond of him,” she told us. “We always did get along. You see, my dears, Tony’s the great-nephew of one of my husbands. The only thing left of that little debacle.”

  “Worth it, wouldn’t you say?”

  She gave him an inscrutable smile. “Perhaps.”

  When Caroline’s pretty, immaculate-looking cook, Claire, came out to say that lunch would be served, Eric helped clear the drinks off the table, and then John — that all-purpose domestic, did the serving. Gone was the chauffeur’s livery: he wore a spanking clean morning coat and a starched shirt.

  Apparently Caroline’s Viscount rated sumptuous meals, for the lunch was superb. Asparagus vinaigrette, Coquille St. Jacques, filet mignons, a Salade Niçoise, and for dessert a velvety flan, girdled with whipped cream. You couldn’t do better at Lutèce, and I told her so. “You must thank Claire,” she said, and then smiled impishly. “When Tony’s here she outdoes herself. For some reason she’s quite keen on him.”

  I couldn’t blame her. The lunch had been very good indeed, but the pièce de résistance was Anthony Cavendish. I felt it was fatuous of me to admire his marvelous looks as I did, but I couldn’t help myself. I found myself thinking, he’s beautiful, and I certainly had never thought that about a man before. It was a word generally reserved for women. But he was beautiful, like a young god, with golden hair and perfect body.

  He was wearing a Basque shirt, with a round neck that hit the shoulder bones, and his skin was a golden-tan. He had dark-gold hair springing, thick and virile, on his chest, and his long, tightly-muscled arms were stroked with the same gilded brush. He wore white ducks, so clean that they seemed to glitter.