The Proprietor's Daughter

by Lewis Orde

  “Hey, you remembered our date after all!” Before Katherine could move, he grabbed hold of her and kissed her. Even then, it took Katherine a few seconds to comprehend the obvious: Raymond Barnhill, the American wire-service reporter, whom she had never seen take a drink, was as drunk as a lord.

  She struggled free and stepped back, caught between two desires. To run, and cast Barnhill forever from her mind. Or, as a true friend, to stay and help him, and make sure he caught his plane tomorrow.

  “Aren’t you coming in then?”

  “I will. But only if you promise to act decently.”

  Barnhill looked puzzled. “Decently? Sure.”

  Katherine entered the apartment and walked into the living room. A radio was playing at full volume. The room was a shambles. Sheets of white paper covered furniture and carpet like some gigantic snowfall. The telephone was on its side, the receiver dangling from its cord.

  On a coffee table in front of the couch stood two one-liter bottles of Stolichnaya. One was unopened; the other was almost empty. Barnhill tumbled down onto the couch and reached for the open bottle. Katherine waited for him to find a glass. He didn’t. He just raised the bottle to his mouth. His Adam’s apple bobbed only once before Katherine ripped the bottle from his grasp. Vodka ran from his mouth, down his chin, and onto his bare chest, matting the light brown hair that covered it. He blinked at her, uncomprehending. “What the hell did you want to do that for?”

  “You’ve drunk all you’re going to drink tonight.”

  “I have, have I?” The words were slurred, the tone belligerent. “Says who?” He started to get up off the couch. Katherine shoved him back. He yelled in pain as his head cracked against the wall. Katherine did not turn around. Carrying both bottles, she marched to the toilet, where she flushed the vodka down the commode. When she returned to the living room, Barnhill was walking unsteadily toward the front door.

  “Just where do you think you’re going?” It was the tone she might have used to her children when they misbehaved.

  “Buy some more vodka.”

  “Not like that, you won’t. Apart from freezing to death, the police won’t take kindly to half-naked drunks staggering around London in the middle of the night.”

  “Then I’ll put on a damned coat and shoes.”

  “That won’t help either. You’re in Britain, not America. We have licensing laws here. Everything’s closed now.”

  “Licensing laws!” Barnhill slammed his hands against the wall, then buried his face in his arms. “Jesus Christ, you need a license to breathe in this damned country!”

  “That may very well be true, but it’s still reasonably safe to walk the streets here.”

  Barnhill turned toward Katherine and grinned feebly. When he spoke, the words were still slurred, but the anger had gone from his voice. “I must look like a great big jerk to you, eh?”

  “I’ve seen bigger, but not too many. Why don’t you clean yourself up, and I’ll make you some coffee.”

  Katherine watched him walk to the bathroom. Once she heard the water running, she was confident that the worst was over. She busied herself in the kitchen. When Barnhill returned, hair soaking, fully dressed, and reeking of toothpaste and aftershave, Katherine was cleaning up the living room.

  “Coffee’s on the table.”

  “I don’t want coffee,” he said, slipping an arm around her waist. “I want you.”

  “Settle for the coffee.” She tried to wriggle free, but he held her tightly. When he lowered his face toward her, she said, “You promised me you’d act decently.”

  “And you promised me that we’d have dinner tonight. How could you stand me up tonight of all nights? Surely you know how I feel about you.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Sure you’re here. To give me coffee and a lecture.”

  “I haven’t lectured you.”

  “You will. I can see it in your eyes.” He let go of her and sat down on the couch, looking around the living room. “What have you been doing in here?”

  “I’ve been bringing some semblance of order to this chaos.” She held up a handful of paper she’d collected. “What’s this?”

  “Book.”

  “What book? The sequel, the one you’re writing?”

  Barnhill shook his head. “The old book. The one I sold. I was reading through it. It’s crap. Christ alone knows why Knight and Robbins are putting up fifteen grand. It’s garbage.”

  “If it was garbage, they wouldn’t have bought it.” She collected the rest of the pages, shuffled them into a neat pile, and set the manuscript on the table. “I’ll leave putting them back in the right order for you. How’s the coffee?”

  “Vodka would taste better.”

  “When did you start drinking?”

  “Couple of hours ago. I began reading the manuscript, preparing for when I meet my publisher next week. It stank so much that I needed help.”

  “So you went out and bought two bottles worth? Why didn’t you talk to a friend instead?”

  “I tried to. She was busy.”

  Katherine felt her cheeks burning. Maybe it was the vodka telling Barnhill to blame her; perhaps it was his genuine belief. In a way, she could understand it. He was a lonely person living in a country that was not his own; the languages were almost identical, but the similarities ended there. The one friend he’d found had let him down. And in doing so, she had started a chain reaction. Barnhill had begun to question his ability, the work that meant so much to him; from there, it was only a short trip to buying a couple of bottles of vodka and locking himself away, drinking, while his life passed out of reach.

  “What did you call yourself before?” she asked. “A jerk?”

  “That’s the word. A very descriptive piece of American slang, that.”

  “You’re perfectly right. You are a jerk. An idiot. A bona fide, solid-gold, diamond-studded moron.”

  The string of insults did more to clear Barnhill’s head than the coffee. “Where the hell do you come off telling me that?”

  “Do you know how many aspiring writers would give ten years of their life to be able to claim they were published authors?” Katherine snapped. She was genuinely angry now. The American had a God-given talent, and he was squandering it. “Do you know how many people work themselves into the ground, deprive themselves of everything in the hope of seeing their blood, sweat, and tears in print? And look at you, who’s been blessed with the natural ability to write. All you can do is drink yourself numb and say that your publisher’s bought a pile of junk. For Christ’s sake, Raymond, you had enough faith in yourself to write the blasted book! Now have enough faith to believe you deserve whatever success you get from it!”

  Fury turned Barnhill’s eyes a smoky brown. “What the hell would someone like you know about blood, sweat, and tears? About people depriving themselves of happiness to pursue a dream? You were born with a silver spoon sticking out of your mouth. No . . . a whole damned silver tea service! You don’t know a damned thing about deserving success. All you’ve ever had to do is ask your daddy for it!”

  Katherine had attacked Barnhill because she was angry at his waste of talent. Countering, he had rammed her privileged background down her throat. In doing so, he had virtually denied that she had achieved anything on her own. It was the one accusation Katherine could never accept.

  “Good night, Raymond. Personally, I couldn’t give a damn if you drink yourself into such a stupor that you miss your flight tomorrow.” She swung around and walked out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her.

  On the way home, she remembered wondering whether it was vodka or genuine conviction telling Barnhill to blame her. Now she asked the same question about his feelings for her. Was it vodka telling him that he loved her, or did he really believe it?

  Either way, Katherine told herself, she didn’t care. Tonight, Raymond Barnhill had drunk and misbehaved his way right out of her life.

  *

&
nbsp; Katherine arrived at John Saxon’s country home at four o’clock on Saturday afternoon, three hours before the dinner guests. She wore tweed slacks and a loose-fitting plaid jacket over a silk shirt. In the garment bag she took from the Porsche was a backless ruched taffeta evening gown, in a vivid blue that matched her eyes.

  After handing the dress and a small overnight case to a maid, Katherine was taken on a tour of the house by Saxon. “Aside from the master and guest bedroom suites, the Saxon residence has another seven bedrooms and three bathrooms. Social events of even the largest order can be handled quite adequately in the four reception rooms, while the staff have the privacy of their own flat.”

  “Enough, John. Enough. You sound like an estate agent making a sale. This is probably the most magnificent house I’ve ever seen, and I’m duly impressed.”

  “Katherine, I’ve been rehearsing this speech for ages. Please don’t deny me.” Saxon coughed into his hand in a theatrical clearing of his throat. “For relaxation, the house offers you an indoor heated swimming pool. There is also a games room. Now, if you’ll come this way.” He led her around the back of the house, across a beautifully maintained lawn that rolled on forever. At the bottom of the lawn was a boathouse and slipway, and four hundred feet of river frontage. While they stood on the dock, a yacht glided by under full sail. The scene was one of the most picturesque and peaceful that Katherine had ever beheld.

  On returning from the river, Katherine and Saxon were served tea with scones and jam on an enclosed patio overlooking the lawn. Afterward, Katherine went up to the guest bedroom suite, where she found her overnight case unpacked, her evening gown lying across the bed.

  At six o’clock, as she finished dressing, there was a knock on the door. “Come in.”

  Saxon entered, ready for the party in a beautifully tailored tuxedo. His eyes traveled from Katherine’s face to her bare shoulders, then down the length of her taffeta gown. The only jewelry she wore was a simple pearl necklace. “You look very beautiful. Every other woman will be jealous of you. And every man will be jealous of me.”

  “Thank you.”

  Saxon stepped closer. “Do you remember that dreadful night of the riot?”

  “It’s etched forever in my mind.”

  He handed her a slim package. “Please wear this tonight.” Katherine opened it to find a pear-shaped diamond pendant, identical to the one she’d had snatched from her throat that night. “Just don’t wear it in the middle of any football riots.”

  “I won’t.” She removed the pearl necklace and slipped on the pendant, then raised her face to kiss Saxon. “Thank you, it’s magnificent.”

  Twenty couples were expected for dinner. The staff Saxon kept at his country home — a butler, cook, maid, and gardener — had been busy. Two long tables, arranged in a T, were set with sparkling silverware, Royal Doulton, and Waterford. Each table was decorated with exquisite floral displays. A bar had been set up, better stocked with wines and spirits than many public houses. Katherine looked at the dark-skinned middle-aged man who stood behind the bar, dressed like a guest in a tuxedo.

  “Isn’t that your chauffeur?”

  Saxon nodded. “William is a man of diverse talents.”

  “Good evening, ma’am,” William said. “May I get something for you?”

  Saxon answered for her. “Mrs. Kassler will have a champagne cocktail, thank you.”

  Precisely at seven o’clock, the guests began to arrive. Cars halted along the wide circular drive in front of the house. Men and women in evening dress were announced by the butler. By seven-twenty, everyone except Jeffrey Dillard and his wife were present. Saxon introduced Katherine to each guest in turn, describing her as “our guest of honor’s colleague, and my very special friend.”

  At seven thirty-five, Jeffrey Dillard arrived with his wife, Shirley. Seeing all the cars parked outside the house, he knew what had been planned. “Damned surprise parties!” he muttered as he entered the room where the bar had been installed. “Knew there was something odd when Shirley here kept insisting I wear this dinner jacket. Who wears a dinner jacket to go out to a restaurant, eh?” He shook hands and kissed cheeks, obviously happy, despite the protests, to have this party in his honor.

  At last, he stood in front of Katherine. “You were in on this all along, weren’t you? Asking what all the cards and telegrams were about. You’re a damned good actress!” He gave her such a tight hug that Katherine feared she would burst out of the blue taffeta dress.

  Despite the purpose of the party, the main topic of conversation was the fall that very week of the Labour government, and the upcoming general election that would, in all probability, give the country its first woman prime minister. The two Conservative MPs who’d been invited to the party — Daniel Cooper, from a mixed farming and industrial district in the Midlands, and Edwin Johnson, who represented a middle-class area in Northwest London — had to leave immediately after dinner. Bidding good night to Daniel Cooper, Katherine played the perfect hostess by asking why he could not stay longer.

  “I have to start knocking on doors,” the MP replied. “There is little point in doing that here. Firstly, this is not my constituency. And secondly, canvassing here would be like taking coals to Newcastle. I guarantee you that there is not a single Labour or Liberal vote in this magnificent house.”

  Katherine gave the perfect-hostess smile. “I was once asked to run as a Labour candidate in a local election.”

  “You were? Did you accept?”

  “No.” She swore that an expression of relief flashed across Cooper’s face. “I didn’t have the time.”

  “I’m very glad to hear that. Good night.”

  Katherine tugged Saxon to one side. “How do you pick your friends — by personality, or by political belief?”

  “I’ve always found they go together, Katherine. People I like invariably vote Conservative.”

  They were joined by Jeffrey Dillard and Shirley, a tall, thin woman with rigid silver hair. “Super, super evening, John, old boy,” Dillard enthused. “Wonderful food, wonderful company. Katherine, did you meet Air Vice Marshal Sir Donald Leslie before? Big admirer of yours.”

  “Mine?”

  “That’s right. He used to watch ‘Fightback’ because of me, but now he watches it to see you. Doesn’t let his wife know that, of course.” Dillard waved an arm, and Sir Donald Leslie joined the group. Although he had retired from the Royal Air Force eight years earlier, Sir Donald still looked very much the military man. An erect posture, a slight upward curl to the ends of his trim white moustache. His handshake was a reflection of the man himself, crisp and dry.

  “Mrs. Kassler, as a woman” — the voice was clipped and upper-class; it was a voice accustomed to issuing orders, not asking questions — “as a woman, what do you think of this country having a woman prime minister?”

  “As a woman . . .” She stared at the wide, livid scar that disfigured the right side of Sir Donald’s face, unable to tear her eyes away. “. . . As a woman, I am interested only in whether a prime minister is capable of discharging the office to which he, or she, has been elected.”

  “Katherine’s fascinated by your scar, Don,” Dillard burst out. Katherine put a hand to her mouth in embarrassment, but dropped it when she saw that everyone else was laughing. “Tell her how you got it.”

  “Battle of Britain,” Sir Donald answered proudly. “Messerschmitt pumped a burst through the cockpit of my Spitfire. Bullets missed me, but the damned glass didn’t.”

  “Don was a squadron leader then,” Dillard said. “I was a part of the squadron.” He flung an affectionate arm around Sir Donald Leslie’s shoulders. “Saved Britain, didn’t we?”

  “Some of us did. I carried on saving it, while you pursued other endeavors.”

  “Do you know this is the first time in fifty-five years that a prime minister’s been forced out of office and into a general election?” Saxon said. “Last one was Ramsay MacDonald, back in 1924. We’re witnes
sing history.”

  “Damned woman had better win, that’s all I’ve got to say,” Sir Donald muttered. “Country’s rife with anarchy. Needs a firm hand. That Labour mob gave in to everyone and everything. Can’t have a country in that kind of turmoil. And once she does win, she’d better show how tough she is.”

  “Tough with what?” Katherine asked.

  “The unions, for one. Look at the winter we’ve just been through, for God’s sake! Absolute chaos. We can’t allow small groups to make life untenable for everyone else.”

  “Don’t you believe in the right to strike? The right for a man to withdraw his labor?”

  “Not when it adversely affects the welfare of the country,” Sir Donald replied hotly. “If a man doesn’t want his job, that’s his business. But if he wants to picket, if he wants to resort to violence to stop another man from doing his job, then that should be the government’s business!”

  “But if he’s only picketing to protect his job?”

  “Good God! You did a program just two days ago ridiculing the Socialists in this country — the lunatic left, you called them — and now you’re sounding like one of them!”

  “I did not ridicule Socialists. I made fun of —”

  Saxon stepped in between Katherine and Sir Donald. “As fascinating as I find this discussion, let’s stop it now. I’ve never been partial to seeing my dinner guests resort to pistols at twenty paces. Thank you.”

  At eleven-thirty, the guests began to leave. Sir Donald Leslie shook Katherine’s hand, and apologized. “Please excuse my earlier behavior. Sometimes I get a little irate when I consider what’s happened to this country of ours. How we’ve slipped in the world.” He touched the livid scar on his face. “I’ve got a personal stake in the place, you see.”

  “So has my father. He was evacuated from Dunkirk when he was sixteen. He won the Military Medal and the Military Cross. And he still manages to possess a liberal attitude.”