Taking a deep breath, I said in a rush, "It's you, isn't it, Diana? Just as Andrew and I have suspected for months now."
My mother-in-law looked as if she'd been struck in the face, stared at me in absolute amazement, and then she burst out laughing. She continued to laugh so much tears came into her eyes. Only by exercising enormous control did she manage to finally stop. Reaching for her bag, she took out a lacy handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.
"Oh, do excuse me, Mal darling," she said after a moment, still gasping slightly. "I'm sorry to behave this way, but that's the funniest thing I've heard in a long time. Your father and I? Good Lord, no. I'm much too practical and down-to-earth, far too sane for Edward. He needs someone a lot more helpless and sweeter than I. He needs a woman who is romantic, idealistic, and fey. Yes, fey is a very good word with which to describe Gwenny."
"Gwenny! Who's Gwenny?"
"Gwendolyn Reece-Jones. She's a great friend of mine, a theatrical designer, and when she's not up here in London designing sets and scenery and all that sort of thing for plays and shows in the West End, she lives in a sixteenth-century manor house in the Welsh Marshes. She's imaginative and charming and funny and dear, and yes, very, very fey."
"And she's Daddy's girlfriend?"
"Correct. She's been good for him, too." Diana cleared her throat and after a pause added, "And I'm afraid I introduced them, for my sins."
"Is it serious?"
"Gwenny is serious, I know that for a fact. She's positively dotty over him. Very much in love." Diana sat back, her head held on one side; a thoughtful look spread itself across her face. "I think Edward's serious about her, but I couldn't say definitely. That's why I wondered aloud if he would marry. Perhaps. Hard to say, really."
"Has he known her long?"
"Oh, about four years, thereabouts."
"I see."
After a moment, Diana asked, "Tell me something. What on earth made you and Andrew think I was involved with your father? That's a most preposterous idea, and in many ways, I might add."
I told her then about Andrew finding the letter in the summer. I explained how the two of us had speculated about them, had analyzed the way they behaved when they were together, concluded how different they were when in each other's company. And in consequence of all this had assumed they were having an affair.
Diana had the good grace to chuckle. "If you think I act differently when I'm around Edward, you're perfectly correct. I do. I suppose I'm more of a woman, my own woman, less of a mother, less of a grandmother. I'm more myself in certain ways. What I mean by this is that I'm like I am when I'm alone, when I'm not with you and Andrew and the twins. I behave in a very natural way with him. You see, there's something in your father's personality that makes every woman feel… good, and-"
"Except for Mom," I cut in.
"Touché, darling," she said. "And as I was saying, he has that knack, that ability, to make a woman feel her best-attractive, feminine, and desirable. Edward can, make a woman believe she's special, wanted, when he's around her, even if he's not particularly interested in her for himself. And he's very flirtatious, says flattering things. It's hard to explain, really. I will say this: Your father's very much a woman's man, not a man's man at all. He adores women, admires them, respects them, and I guess that is part of it." She leaned across the table and finished, "It's all about attitude, Mal. His attitude."
"Will he marry… Gwenny? What's your opinion, Diana?"
"I told you, I don't know." She pursed her lips, looking thoughtful again, but only for a fraction of a second. "If he's smart, he will. She's made him happy, that I do know."
"I wonder if he'll bring her out in the open, now that Mom's divorced him and married someone else?"
Diana threw me an odd look. "He's not made much of a secret about Gwenny in the past. In fact, no secret at all. At least, not here in London. He probably didn't mention Gwenny to you because he didn't want to hurt your feelings."
"Maybe."
"I'm sure that's the case," Diana said in her firmest tone.
It occurred to me that she was suddenly out to defend my father. He didn't need any defense, as far as I was concerned. I had always loved him, and I still did. After all, his marital battles with my mother were old hat. I had grown up with them. Besides which, I was the one who had always thought they should have divorced years ago. I had never understood their behavior.
Clearing my throat, I asked, "Did he ever bring Gwenny to the States? To New York?"
"Not to New York, as far as I know. However, I believe she was with him when he gave those archaeological lectures at U.C.L.A. last year."
"How old is she?"
"About fifty-three or fifty-four, not much more than that."
"Has she ever been married? Tell me something about her, Diana."
Diana nodded. "Of course. It's not at all unnatural for you to be curious. But there's not much to tell. She was married. To Laurence Wilton, the actor. As you probably know, he died about twelve years ago. No children. She's a rather nice woman, and she's very interested in archaeology, anthropology, art, and architecture. She shares many common bonds with your father. I think you'd approve of Gwenny."
"I wish he'd trusted me enough to tell me about her," I muttered, dropping my eyes. I ate the rest of my oysters in silence.
Diana dipped her spoon into the soup and took a few mouthfuls. "I'm afraid I've let this grow cold," she murmured.
"Let's get you some more," I suggested, and swiveling in my chair, I endeavored to catch the waiter's eye.
"No, no," Diana demurred. "This is fine, really. It hasn't lost its taste. It's like… vichyssoise now, and it's still very good."
I nodded and took a long swallow of the white wine.
My mother-in-law's eyes rested on me, and she studied me for a while. Eventually, she said in a low, concerned voice, "You know, your father has always been a very discreet man, from all that I've heard, and from everything I know about him personally. He's never flaunted his… lady friends. And you must always remember that old habits die hard. With everyone. Edward is a gentleman, and so he's discreet. He doesn't know any other way to be. I am quite certain that he thought he was doing the right thing in not telling you about Gwenny. Or introducing you to her. And there's something else. I'm sure he didn't want to upset you."
"I guess so," I agreed, but I was a bit miffed with my father all of a sudden.
I turned my head and looked out the window, staring at the hazy gray sky but not really seeing it. I was disappointed he had not understood that I could handle it, had not understood that I would have understood everything, understood about Gwendolyn Recce-Jones and his need at this time in his life to have a bit of happiness. I was thirty-three years old, married and a mother, for God's sake. I was a mature, adult young woman, not a little girl anymore.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The suite at Claridge's was not all that large, but it was very comfortable, and the sitting room was one of the most charming I've ever seen, redolent of the Victorian period.
What made it so unusual and special was the fireplace that really worked and the baby grand that stood regally in a corner near the tall, soaring windows. These were dressed with plum-colored velvet draperies, handsomely swagged and tasseled, and they punctuated the soft, dove-gray brocade walls, while an oriental carpet spread rich, jewel-toned colors underfoot.
A big, squashy sofa covered in plum silk and matching armchairs, along with an antique coffee table, were arranged in from of the white marble fireplace; here, an eye-catching chinoiserie mirror hung over the mantel and made a glittering backdrop for a gilt-and-marble French chiming clock with cupids reclining on each side of its face.
Adding to the turn-of-the-century mood created by the elegant background were such things as a Victorian desk, a china cabinet filled with antique porcelain plates, and various small occasional tables made of mahogany. In fact, so authentic was the decorative scheme I felt as if I had been whisk
ed back into another era.
Vases of flowers, a bowl of fruit, a tray of drinks, newspapers and magazines all helped to make the room seem even more homey and inviting. It was especially cozy this November night, with the fire burning merrily in the grate and the pink silk-shaded lamps turned on.
A television set stood in a corner on one side of the fireplace; I turned it on and sat down on the sofa to watch the evening news. But it was the tail end of it, with sports coming up, and within a few minutes I became bored and restless.
Turning it off, I wandered through into the bedroom, asking myself when Andrew would manage to get away from the office. We had spoken earlier, in the late afternoon just after I had returned from a visit to the Tate, and he had told me that he had booked a table at Harry's Bar for dinner. But he had not indicated what time the reservation was for, nor had he said when he would return to the hotel.
To while away a little time, I read several chapters of my Colette, and then, realizing it was almost eight, I undressed, put on a robe, and went into the bathroom. After cleaning off my makeup, I redid my face and brushed my hair. I had just finished coiling it up into a French twist on the back of my head when I heard a key in the door. I rushed into the sitting room, a happy and expectant look on my face.
Andrew was hanging up his trenchcoat in the small vestibule of the suite. Turning around, he saw me. "Hi," he said. He lifted his briefcase off the floor and took a step forward.
I found myself staring at him intently. I saw at once that he was totally exhausted. I was appalled. The dark smudges under his eyes seemed more pronounced than ever tonight, and his face was drawn, much paler than usual.
Hurrying to him, I hugged him tightly, then taking hold of his arm, I led him into the room. But he paused by the fireplace, stepped away from me, and put the briefcase on a nearby chair. After leaning toward the fire and warming his hands, he straightened and propped himself against the mantelpiece.
Looking at him closely, I asked, "Don't you feel well?"
"Tired. Bone bloody tired."
"We don't have to go out to dinner," I volunteered. "We could have room service."
He gave me a peculiar, rather cold look. "I don't care whether we go out to dinner or not. What I do care about, though, is dragging myself up to Yorkshire. What I should say is that I'm certainly not going to trail up there to my mother's." He said this in a snappish tone that was most unlike him. "I've just had her on the phone, railing on about my working too hard, and insisting we go up there tomorrow. So that I can have a rest, she said. Is that what the two of you were concocting at lunch today?"
"We hardly spoke about it!" I exclaimed a bit heatedly. "In fact, Diana only mentioned it to me in passing."
"Well, she didn't to me!" he snorted, glaring. "She gave me a bloody lecture. She also said you wanted to go, that I was not being fair, making you stay in town for the weekend-"
"Andrew," I interjected sharply, "I don't care whether we go or not!" I could tell he was not only tired but angry, and I had an awful sinking feeling it was with me, as well as with his mother.
"I'm glad to hear you feel that way, because we can't go. It's out of the question altogether. I have to work tomorrow, and Sunday as well, most probably."
"Oh," I said, at a loss.
"And what does that mean?"
"Nothing, just oh. However, if you have to work this weekend, why did you ask me to fly over here? Just to sit in this suite waiting for you? I might as well have stayed in New York with the twins, or taken them out to Indian Meadows."
Instead of answering me, he ran his hand through his hair somewhat distractedly, then rubbed his eyes. "It's been one hellish day," he grumbled in the same belligerent voice. "Malcolm Stainley's been behaving like an idiot. Which he is, of course… goes without saying. He's also a bastard, the worst. And full of himself, has an ego the size of a house. Ego." Andrew compressed his lips. "Ego always gets in the way, and it gets more people into trouble than I care to think about," he muttered in a voice so quiet now it was barely audible.
I said nothing.
Suddenly straightening his shoulders, he glanced across at me. "I stumbled on yet another of Stainley's messes this afternoon, and it may take a bit of time to clear up. There's a possibility I'll have to stay in London for an extra week."
"I thought Jack Underwood was coming over on Wednesday," I said. "To take over from you."
"He may need help. My help."
I opened my mouth to protest and promptly closed it. I sat down heavily on the sofa, and after a moment I said, "Why don't I call Harry's Bar and cancel our reservation? Obviously you're in no mood to go out to dinner."
"And you are. So we'll go."
"Andrew, please. You're being so argumentative, and I don't know why." I bit my lip, feeling unexpected tears pricking the back of my eyes. Impatiently, I pushed them away, swallowed hard, and said, as steadily as possible, "I just want to do what you want. I only want to please you."
"I need a drink," he mumbled and marched over to the console table that stood between two of the high, graceful windows.
I watched him as he poured himself a neat scotch, noticing the taut set of his shoulders, the way he held himself. He gulped it down in two swallows and poured another one for himself, this time adding ice and a drop of water from the glass jug. Then without a word to me of any kind, he walked across the room and went into the bedroom, carrying his drink.
I stared after him speechless.
It had been a long time since I'd seen him in such a contrary and difficult mood. Because my feelings were hurt, because I felt he had been terribly unjust, I jumped up and ran after him. I was furious.
He was standing near the bed, where he had thrown his jacket, and was loosening his tie. Hearing me come into the room, he pivoted swiftly, stood glaring at me.
I said, "I realize you've had a bad day, and I'm sorry for that. God knows, you of all people don't deserve it. But you're not going to take it out on me! I won't let you! I haven't done anything wrong!"
"It's a bad couple of weeks I've had, not merely a bad day," he shot back, adding with ill grace, "I'm going to take a bath," and so saying began to unbutton his shirt.
"And stick your head under the water and keep it there! For several hours!" I shouted, my temper flying to the surface. I turned on my heels abruptly and flounced out, banging the door after me with a resounding crash. The crystal chandelier in the sitting room rattled and swayed slightly, but I didn't care. I had had such a wonderful day, and he had just ruined it, in the space of only a few seconds. I was trembling inside and angrier than I had been in a very long time.
A split second later the bedroom door was wrenched open, almost violently, and Andrew strode over to me, where I was standing by the piano.
Grabbing hold of me by the shoulders, he held me tightly and looked into my eyes. "I'm sorry, so very sorry, Mal. I did take it out on you, and that was wrong of me, very unfair. There's no excuse for it, really there isn't. The problem is, my mother got my goat tonight. Railing on about going up to spend the weekend with her, complaining she's seen nothing of me whilst I've been in London. That's true, of course, and she means well, but-" He shook his head. "I guess my nerves are pretty raw tonight."
He searched my face.
When I said not one kindly word nor showed a glimmer of friendliness, he murmured in a low, weary voice, "Forgive me, Puss?"
His tiredness was a most palpable thing; all of my anger dissipated as rapidly as it had erupted. "There's nothing to forgive, silly."
Smiling now, his eyes as soft and loving as they usually were, he kissed the tip of my nose. "Oh, Puss, whatever would I do without you?"
"And me you?" I asked.
Lifting my hand, I touched his cheek gently. "Listen, tough guy, let me cancel the dinner reservation, order a good bottle of wine and your favorite soul food, and we can stay here, have supper in front of the fire. Just the two of us. All cozy and warm and loving. So, what do you
say?"
"I say okay, you've got a date."
"Good. Now, come on," I bustled. "Let's get you into a nice hot tub. You can soak for a while in some of my bubbly stuff. It's got pine oil in it, and it'll relax your muscles."
"Join me?" he asked, lifting a brow, giving me a suggestive look.
"No!"
He laughed for the first time since he had come in, and so did I.
"No hanky-panky tonight, Andrew Keswick. You're far too tired."
"Afraid so, even for you, Puss."
The dinner was perfect. And so was the evening, as it turned out.
Whilst Andrew soaked his weary bones in a tub filled to the brim with the hottest water and a generous portion of my pine bubble bath, I ordered supper from room service.
Wanting to pamper and spoil him, make him feel better, I chose all of his favorite things: Morecombe Bay potted shrimps, baby chops from a rack of lamb with mint sauce, mashed potatoes, haricots verts, and carrots. I selected a wonderful red wine, Chateau Lafite-Rothschild, and to hell with the price. For dessert I picked bread pudding. I wasn't particularly fond of this, but Andrew loved it; it was a favorite of his from boarding school days, and I knew he would enjoy it tonight.
Refreshed, relaxed, and replete with food and wine, my husband was in a much mellower mood by eleven o'clock. Nevertheless, he still took me by surprise when he said suddenly, "Okay! We're going to Yorkshire tomorrow after all, Puss-Puss."
I was lolling against him on the sofa, vaguely watching the television news, and I sat up with a jerk and stared at him.
"But I thought you had to go to the office tomorrow!" I exclaimed. "I thought you had another mess to sort out."
"That's true, yes. But I don't think I can really sort it out by myself. I need Jack as a sounding board. It's financial, which is where his expertise lies. And look, I can take some paperwork with me, clear some of it up on the way to Ma's."
"Are you sure, darling?"
"I'm positive."
"You're not doing it for me, are you? Because you don't want me sitting around the hotel waiting for you? That's not it, is it?"
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