The Proprietor's Daughter

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The Proprietor's Daughter Page 16

by Lewis Orde


  Without turning around, Katherine responded, “Found a new job as a hotel clerk, Mr. Saxon?”

  “If you had bothered to look inside the press kit,” John Saxon said, “you would have learned that Chiltern Towers is owned by Saxon Holdings.”

  Katherine turned to face him. “But I didn’t bother.”

  “Why did you even come?”

  “In case someone dropped dead.” Saxon’s eyebrows lifted in puzzlement. “That’s the only reason journalists attend these boring little happenings, Mr. Saxon, on the off chance that something unusual might happen. Sorry if that’s an affront to your vanity, but it’s the truth.”

  Saxon frowned for a moment, as though offended. “I’m still surprised to see you here. Surely a hotel opening — even one where something unusual might happen — is of little interest to your windmill-tilting brand of journalism.”

  “I don’t tilt at windmills anymore, Mr. Saxon.” She said his name with the utmost formality, as if to keep distance between them. “I work on the Eagle’s news desk now.”

  Saxon followed Katherine as she walked toward the front lobby of the Chiltern Towers. A man in the burgundy uniform of the hotel stepped forward to hand the property developer a dark blue cashmere coat. Saxon carried it over his arm. “Writing news must be vastly different from what you were doing,” Saxon said. “How difficult is such a switch?”

  “A competent journalist can write any kind of story, Mr. Saxon.” She passed through a revolving door into the cold outside air. Saxon came through immediately after her.

  “Taxi, miss?” asked a doorman in a cape and high hat.

  “Yes, please.”

  The doorman waved an arm. Instead of a taxi, a maroon Rolls Royce Silver Shadow glided silently to a halt in front of the hotel entrance. “My car seems to have arrived before your taxi,” Saxon said. “May I give you a ride somewhere?”

  “I have to get to Chalk Farm,” Katherine answered, confident that destination was far enough out of the way to negate Saxon’s offer. “I leave my car at the station every morning.”

  “William, we’re taking Mrs. Kassler to Chalk Farm first,” Saxon said to the chauffeur. He stepped back to allow Katherine to enter ahead of him. She sat in the corner, the armrest down to form a barrier between herself and Saxon. He noticed it, and gave the mischievous grin she remembered so well from their one lunch date. “I swear that my only intention in offering you a lift was to save you from the perils of riding in a London taxi.”

  “I didn’t realize that riding in a taxi involved any perils, Mr. Saxon.”

  “Of course it does. The driver could be a homicidal maniac. He might be high on drugs or drink. He could even be a procurer for some white-slave market in Tangier.”

  Katherine stifled a laugh.

  “Would you mind doing me one small favor?” Saxon asked.

  “What?”

  “My parents saw fit to christen me John, because they wanted people to call me by that name. In their memory, would you?”

  “He wasn’t one of our more illustrious monarchs, was he?”

  “I would have preferred Richard, but I had to be named after some long-gone family member. Perhaps I’ll put a bit of a shine back on the name.”

  Katherine looked out of the window, surprised to see they were well clear of the hotel, and joining the stream of traffic from Heathrow Airport. There had been no sensation of movement.

  “Whatever happened to ‘Satisfaction Guaranteed!’?” Saxon asked above the roar of a 747 overhead. “I haven’t seen it in the Eagle for a month or so. Not since that retraction about the car company.”

  Aside from annoyance at being reminded of the Skrone Motors fiasco, Katherine felt flattered that Saxon had followed her column so closely. “Let’s just say it was a thing whose time had come — and gone.”

  “Yes, it did seem to go downhill. Shame, actually, because I quite enjoyed some of your exposés.”

  “You read it regularly?”

  “Wouldn’t have missed it. That column was the only reason I included the Eagle in my daily newspaper diet.” He sent a warm smile Katherine’s way. “I always wanted to see who you were gunning for.”

  “Just to make sure it wasn’t you?” Despite the smile, Katherine thought, Saxon’s face never completely lost the look of arrogance. It overrode every expression with steely pride.

  “I felt reasonably secure. After all, I gave you your big break, didn’t I? Without me to pick on over Cadmus Court, you might never have had a column.”

  Katherine nodded in agreement. In some odd way, she supposed, Saxon had been responsible for her fleeting success.

  “How are your two small children and your large husband?”

  “The children, Henry and Joanne, they’re just fine. As for the large husband . . .” Katherine turned away for an instant. They were on the M4 now, speeding toward London at eighty miles an hour. “The large husband, well, he’s the reason the column went downhill. No!” She caught herself quickly. How could she blame Franz for what had been no one’s fault but her own? “I’m the reason it fell apart, but Franz is the reason for me being the reason . . .” Her mouth went dry. She looked across the car at Saxon, helpless, wanting his assistance.

  “Franz?”

  “My husband. He’s German.” Was that a flash of disapproval in Saxon’s dark brown eyes? She recalled the way he’d spoken so fondly of the English history contained in St. James’s Square.

  “Would you like to tell me about your husband?”

  “He had an accident a year ago. New Year’s Day. Thrown from a horse and broke his neck. He’s been paralyzed ever since. He has minimal use of his hands and arms, but that’s all.”

  Saxon reached across the armrest and took Katherine’s hand in his own. She did not try to resist. “I am sorry to hear that. It’s a miracle you even bothered continuing with your work under such tragic circumstances.”

  “My work kept me sane. Until Franz came home from the hospital, and that’s when everything began to fall apart.” When she looked into Saxon’s eyes again, she knew that she must have imagined disapproval. Only compassion was there now, and, God, she needed that more than anything else. Softly, she started to talk about the way her life had changed since Franz’s return to the house in Hampstead.

  “When Franz first came home, he thought the children were rejecting him. Then he blamed himself for Henry’s accident. Now he thinks the best thing he can do is stay out of our lives as much as he can, because that way it’s least uncomfortable for us. What it really boils down to —”

  “Is that he can’t cope mentally with being transformed from a fit, healthy man into a helpless cripple,” Saxon said. “Have you sought help for him?”

  “Psychiatric help? He wouldn’t hear of it.”

  The Rolls Royce slowed to a crawl. The chauffeur said over his shoulder, “We’re at Chalk Farm, Mr. Saxon. Where does the lady wish to be dropped?”

  It was the first time Katherine had taken any notice of the chauffeur. William, that was his name. Middle-aged, with dark, wrinkled skin, and a strong Manchester accent. William would fit in well at her home, right along with German, Welsh, and cockney accents. “Over there, William.” She pointed to a street lined with cars awaiting their owners’ return from work. “Halfway up the street on the right-hand side, the white Stag.”

  The Rolls edged up the street until it was abreast of the Triumph. The chauffeur got out and walked around to Katherine’s side of the car. She turned to Saxon. “Thank you for both the ride and the sympathetic audience. You just did a lot to put a shine back on the name of our former less-than-illustrious king.”

  The door opened, and a chill wind whipped through the Rolls. “What are you doing now?” Saxon asked.

  “Going home.”

  “To a house where you’re unhappy and confused?”

  “I never said that.”

  “You didn’t need to come right out and state it. Everything else you’ve told me says i
t for you.” Saxon’s brown eyes bored deeply into Katherine’s blue eyes. “The only pleasure you’ll get at home tonight is seeing Henry and Joanne.” He surprised her by remembering their names. “And how long will that last? Until they go to bed? Then what? You’ll mope around the house and think about how your career has taken a nosedive.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Have dinner with me instead. Telephone home and say you’ve got a late assignment. You do have them sometimes, don’t you?”

  Katherine nodded. “You know, beneath this coat, I’m wearing one of my business outfits, not something glamorous and sexy.”

  Saxon laughed at having his own words of fifteen months earlier parried back at him. “I’m quite willing to be seen with you dressed like that. All I ask is that you don’t interview me.” He made a tiny motion with his hand. William closed the passenger door, returned to the driver’s seat, and guided the Rolls back to the main road. From there, they headed toward Marble Arch.

  The Rolls finally stopped midway along a narrow street, in front of a white, three-story period house fronted by black railings. The chauffeur got out and opened Saxon’s door.

  “William’s just going off duty,” Saxon said to Katherine. “Join me in the front.”

  She did. Saxon waited until the chauffeur entered the house before pulling away from the curb. “This is where you spend your weeks, is it?” Katherine asked. “When you’re not spending your weekends, of course, on fifteen of the most beautiful acres you’ve ever seen near Henley-on-Thames, with four hundred feet of river frontage.”

  “You have a remarkable memory, Katherine. Also a remarkable knack for pinpointing every moment I let pomposity have its way.”

  “I’m sorry. It must be very picturesque on the river.”

  “It is. Perhaps one day you’ll visit me.”

  “I’d like to.” With the chauffeur gone, she felt far more at ease. Strange; she’d never believed she’d feel that way in John Saxon’s company. But then, who would have thought she’d ever be in his company again?

  Saxon drove the maroon Rolls Royce with a calm precision. Much, Katherine supposed, the way a Rolls Royce was supposed to be driven. They crossed through London, from the West End to the City, eventually coming to a stop in Farringdon Street. It was now seven o’clock, and the chaos of daytime traffic had yielded to a more gentle rhythm.

  “Am I getting another lesson in English history?” Katherine inquired lightly as she entered Farringdon’s restaurant, situated in the original brick vaults that ran beneath Holborn Viaduct. Candles supplied illumination, and Katherine felt she was taking a ride on a time machine into Dickens’s London.

  “I’ll keep it short,” Saxon answered, smiling. “As far as I know, no prime minister ever lived here.” As Katherine laughed, he added, “Don’t you think you should telephone your home, to tell them you’re going to be late?”

  A touch of anxiety flickered through Katherine’s stomach. She breathed in deeply, quelling it. There was no reason to be nervous. What was she doing that she should be ashamed of? Having dinner with someone? With a friend who had listened sympathetically to her tale of woe? No matter, when she lifted that telephone, she would be lying. Telling the truth went along with her other definitions of right and wrong: never using obscenity, and believing that divorce and desertion meant one and the same thing.

  She found a public telephone and dialed her own number. The housekeeper answered. “Edna, it’s me. I’ve run into a delay getting home, a late assignment, some rock singer giving a press conference on his latest brush with the police over drugs. Everything all right?”

  “Fine. The children are getting ready for bed.”

  “Give them a kiss for me. What about Mr. Kassler?”

  “He’s with Jimmy, watching the television. What time will you be home, Mrs. Kassler?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t bother waiting up.”

  Katherine replaced the receiver and joined Saxon at a table. She scanned the menu before setting it down and asking, “What do you recommend?”

  “The rabbit pie; that’s what I’m having.”

  Katherine gave a display of turning up her nose. “I’ve made it a point never to eat something I would like my children to have as a pet. That includes horses, cats, dogs, and rabbits.”

  “The fur’s removed.”

  “Stop, before you ruin my appetite.” When the waiter came, she ordered stuffed plaice.

  It was after nine when they left the candle-lit atmosphere of Farringdon’s and returned to the electric brightness of modern London. Katherine felt slightly tipsy; they had gone through two bottles of wine, and she’d drunk her share. It did not seem to bother Saxon, though. He was as steady on his feet as a mighty oak. He helped her into the car, climbed into the driver’s side, and switched on the engine.

  “God, it’s freezing,” Katherine suddenly complained. She flung her arms around herself and squeezed. “Don’t Rolls Royce install heaters in their cars?”

  “Give it a moment to warm up.” Saxon leaned across, and wrapped his arms around Katherine. “Is that better?”

  When was the last time she’d had a man’s arms around her? Her father’s hugs didn’t count. She lifted her face, felt Saxon’s lips brush her own. Her arms clung to his body and pulled him closer. Their lips met again, a bruising, crushing kiss that lasted for fifteen seconds. And then a third time. Katherine’s lips parted. Her tongue darted out and slipped between Saxon’s lips to touch the smooth enamel of his teeth. Open-mouthed, tongues touching, entwining, they held together until at last they broke apart, breathless.

  “I think” — Katherine breathed in deeply, fighting to control the wild beating of her heart and the frantic pumping of her lungs — “that the heater’s started to work.”

  Saxon laughed. “Believe me, Rolls Royce was never this efficient.” Slowly, he settled back into his seat, arms rigid, hands clasping the steering wheel. His face was flushed, and Katherine’s lipstick was smeared across his lips and chin. She wiped the lipstick from his face with a lace handkerchief.

  “Since when do you build hotels?” Katherine asked. She giggled, the moment of passion combining with the wine to make her even giddier. “That question’s a non sequitur, by the way, but I can’t think of anything else to say.”

  “When it makes financial sense, we build them. You know, if I take you back to Chalk Farm, you’ll be in no shape to drive yourself home. The police would have you blowing into a plastic bag before you went a hundred yards.”

  “You’re a very considerate man, John. First you worry about me traveling alone in a taxi, and now you’re concerning yourself about me getting into trouble with the police.”

  “We’ll go back to Marble Arch for an hour or so, give you a chance to get your breath back.”

  Katherine did not disagree. She sat back as Saxon guided the car across the center of London to his weekday home. They arrived at nine-forty. Saxon parked outside the house and helped Katherine from the car. Pulling a gold key chain from his trouser pocket, he unlocked the front door and swung it back. Warmth spilled out of the house. Katherine stepped into a spacious entrance hall, carpeted in sound-deadening patterned Wilton. Directly ahead, a curving staircase ascended to the other two floors. To the right, through an open door, was a formal dining room; a crystal chandelier hung over the center of a twin-pedestal mahogany table set for six places.

  “How big is the house?”

  “There’s a two-bedroom, self-contained flat on the top floor. The housekeeper lives there. So does William, my chauffeur, when he’s in town with me. Which leaves me” — he faked depression — “with just three bedrooms, two bathrooms, two reception rooms, and the dining room.”

  “Poor thing. It’s lucky you don’t have claustrophobia.”

  “Come in here.” He led her into the front reception room. The walls were painted a pale gold, the high ceiling white, the floor was polished chestnut. Facing each other in front of
the fireplace were two Chippendale sofas, covered in yellow silk; between them was a brass-topped table. Next to the window stood a pair of upholstered mahogany chairs, and a drum table with a pedestal base. Hanging from the walls were vivid paintings of historical heroes. Katherine recognized Wellington and Nelson.

  “This” — Katherine spread her arms to take it all in — “is just the way I pictured you would live, everything a monument to British history, whether it’s a maker of fine British furniture, or a military commander. Except for this.” She indicated the long, narrow rug that covered the gleaming floor between the fireplace and the two sofas. “Where is it from?”

  “France. Aubusson, from the Louis Fourteenth period.”

  “Shouldn’t this be hanging from the wall? Surely it’s priceless.” Her mouth dropped as Saxon stepped onto the center of the Aubusson rug, then understanding gleamed in her eyes. “You ultranationalistic devil! Wellington and Nelson on the walls, and a French art treasure beneath your feet.”

  “Can you think of a better place?” He took her coat, and laid it across the back of a sofa. Walking around the room, he pulled heavy drapes across the windows. Then he locked the door. As Katherine watched, she felt an odd sensation, a fatalistic view of what was about to happen. It had been preordained, from the moment she’d first met John Saxon. Even before, from that instant when Archie Waters, the elevator operator in the Eagle building, had asked for her help.

  Saxon lit the candle in one of the two Georgian silver candlesticks on the mantelpiece. Finally, he turned off the main chandelier in the center of the ceiling, leaving the room a nest of flickering shadows. Katherine slipped out of the jacket of her suit and stood waiting for him in front of the fireplace.

  He slid easily into her arms. She felt his body pressing on hers, legs against legs, his chest against her breasts. Open mouths met, tongues caressed. Saxon tugged Katherine’s silk blouse free of her skirt, undid buttons one by one. The blouse floated free. His slim fingers unhooked the single fastening of her delicately laced brassiere. It fell away, and Katherine’s breasts dropped into Saxon’s hands. His thumbs massaged her swollen nipples.

 

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