Part 3 (1/2)

She swung her head and stared at Paul's photograph standing on one corner of the dressing table, and she began to speak to him in her mind. This was an old habit of hers and one which had become something of a ritual.

I wonder what you would think of me if you could see me now? Would you recognize your glorious Emma, as you used to call me? Would you think that I have grown old gracefully, as I believe I have?

Picking up the photograph, she sat holding it with both hands, gazing down into his face. After all these years she still remembered every facet of him and with a poignant vividness, as if she had seen him only yesterday. She blew a mote of dust off the gla.s.s. How handsome he looked in his white tie and tails. This was the last picture taken of him. In New York on February the third of 1939. She recalled the date so easily. It had been his fifty-ninth birthday, and she had invited a group of their friends for drinks at their lavish Fifth Avenue apartment, and then they had gone to the Metropolitan Opera to hear Rise Stevens and Ezio Pinza sing Mignon. Afterward Paul had taken them to Delmonico's for his birthday dinner, and it had been a wonderful evening, marred only at its outset by Daniel Nelson's talk of impending war, and Paul's equally bleak a.s.sessment of the world situation. Paul's mood had been gay later at dinner. But it was the last carefree evening they ever spent together.

She touched the white wings of his hair with a fingertip, and half smiled to herself. The twins who were being baptized tomorrow were his first great-grandchildren too, a continuation of his bloodline. Upon his death, the McGill dynasty had pa.s.sed into her hands for safekeeping, and she had guarded it well and faithfully, just as she had preserved and multiplied his great fortune, which she had solemnly vowed she would.

Sixteen years, she thought. We only had sixteen years together. Not very much time really, in the span of a life . . . particularly a long life like mine.

Without thinking, she spoke aloud, ”If only you had lived longer. If only we could have shared our later years, grown old together. How wonderful that would have been.” Unexpectedly her eyes misted over and she felt a tightening in her throat. Why you foolish, foolish old woman, she admonished herself silently. Weeping now for something gone so far beyond tears. With a swift and darting movement she returned the photograph to its given place.

”Grandma ... are you alone?” Emily asked in a tentative voice from the doorway.

Startled, Emma jumped and turned in the chair. Her face lit up. ”Oh h.e.l.lo, Emily dear. I didn't hear you come through the parlor. And of course I'm alone.”

Emily ran to her, gave her a resounding kiss, and then looked down at her curiously. She said, with a funny little smile, ”I could have sworn I heard you talking to someone, Gran.”

”I was. I was talking to him.” She inclined her head at the photograph and added dryly, ”And if you think I'm getting senile, you can forget it. I've talked to that photograph for thirty years.”

”Gosh, Grancly, you're the last person I'd ever think of as being senile!” Emily was quick to rea.s.sure, meaning every word. ”Mummy maybe, but never you.”

Emma fixed her coolly probing eyes on her granddaughter. ”Where is your mother, Emily? Do you know?”

”Haiti. Basking in the sun. At least I think that's where she's gone.”

”Haiti,” Emma sat up in the'chair, surprise registering, and then she let out a small whoop of a laugh. ”Isn't that the place they practice voodoo. 1 hope she isn't having a wax doll made called Emma Harte, into which she can stick pins and wish me ill as she does.”

Emily also laughed, shaking her head. ”Honestly, Gran, you are a card. Mummy wouldn't think of anything like that. 1 doubt she's ever heard of voodoo. Besides, I'm sure she's far too preoccupied. With the Frenchman.”

”Oh. So, she's done another bolt, has she? And with a Frenchman this time. Well, I must say, your mother is getting to be a regular United Nations.”

”Yes, she does seem to have developed a fondness for foreign gentlemen, Grandy.” Emily's green eyes brimmed with laughter as she stood rocking on her heels, regarding her grandmother with delight, enjoying their bit of repartee. There was no one like her Gran when it came to the caustic jab which got right to the heart of the matter.

Emma said, ”Knowing your mother, he undoubtedly has an uncertain character, not to mention a dubious t.i.tle. What's this one's name?”

”Marc Deboyne. You might have read about him. He's always in the gossip columns. And you're right on target regarding his character. But he doesn't have a t.i.tle, dubious or otherwise.”

”That's a relief. I'm sick to death of all these counts and princes and barons with unp.r.o.nounceable names, grandiose ideas, and empty wallets, whom your mother unfailingly collects. And invariably marries. Deboyne is a playboy though, isn't he?”

”I'd categorize him as IWT, Gran.”

”What on earth does that mean, dear?” Emma asked, her brows lifting, expressing her puzzlement.

”International White Trash.”

Emma guffawed. ”That's a new one on me. And whilst I get the implication, explain further, please, Emily.”

”It's a term for men with murky backgrounds, even questionable backgrounds, who have social aspirations which they can only hope to fulfill in another country. I mean a country not their own. You know, where inconsistencies won't be spotted. It could be an Englishman in Paris, a Russian in New York, or, as in this instance, a frog in London.” Emily made a disagreeable face. ”Marc Deboyne has been flitting around Mayfair's fas.h.i.+onable drawing rooms for years, and I'm surprised Mummy got involved with him. He's so transparent. He must have managed to dupe her somehow. Personally, I think he stinks, Gran.”

Emma frowned. ”Have you met him then?”

”Yes and before Mummy too.” She stopped short, deciding not to mention that Deboyne had made a pa.s.s at her first; That would really be inflammatory to her Gran. She finished, ”He's quite ghastly.”

Emma sighed and wondered how much this one was going to cost her daughter. For cost her he would. That type of man always came expensive-frequently emotionally, but always financially. Dismally she thought of the million pounds she had given Elizabeth last year. Cold cash too. Most of it had probably been frittered away by now. Still, what that foolish woman did with the money was no concern of-hers. She had only been interested in buying Elizabeth off, and in so doing, protecting Alexander, Emily, and the fifteen-year-old twin girls. Emma said with some asperity, ”Your mother is impossible. Impossible. Where are her brains, for G.o.d's sake? Don't bother to answer that, Emily. In the meantime, out of curiosity, whatever happened to the current husband? That lovely Italian.”

Emily stared at her in disbelief. ”Grandy!” she shrieked. ”What a switch! You always said you thought he was a gigolo. In fact you were usually quite unkind about him, and I was certain you detested him.”

”I changed my mind,” Emma replied loftily. ”As it turned out he wasn't a fortune hunter, and he was nice to the twins.” She stood up. ”Let's go into the parlor and have a drink before lunch.” She tucked her arm through Emily's compan-ionably and steered her across the floor. She asked again, ”So where is Gianni what's-his-name?”

”He's around. He's moved out of Mummy's flat, of course.

But he's still in London. He's got himself a job with some Italian importing company-antiques, I believe. He often telephones me to ask about Amanda and Francesca. He's rather attached to them, I think.”

”I see.” Emma disentangled her arm and lowered herself onto one of the sofas. ”I'd like a gin and tonic, Emily, instead of the usual sherry. Do the honors, please dear.”

”Yes, Grandy. I think I'll have one myself.” Always in a tearing hurry, Emily dashed across the room to the Georgian table which held a silver tray of bottles and Baccarat crystal gla.s.ses. Emma's eyes followed her. In the red wool suit and frilly lilac blouse, Emily reminded her of an iridescent hummingbird, so small, so swift, so brilliantly plumed, and so full of life. She's a good girl, Emma thought. -Thank G.o.d she hasn't turned out like her mother.

Mixing the drinks deftly, Emily said, over her shoulder, ”Talking of my baby half-sisters, Gran, are you going to let them stay at Harrogate College?”

”For the moment. But I fully intend to pack them off to finis.h.i.+ng school in Switzerland this September. In the meantime they seem to be happy at the college. Of course I realize that's because of my proximity. I suppose I spoil them, letting them come home so much.” Emma paused, remembering the fuss and bother and upset the previous year, when her two youngest grandchildren had tearfully begged to come and live with her. Emma had finally succ.u.mbed tinder their constant pressuring, although her acquiescence had been conditional. For their part, they had had to agree to attend the nearby boarding school Emma had selected. The girls had been thrilled, their mother delighted to be rid of them, Emma relieved that she had averted a nasty family contretemps from developing further.

Leaning back against the cus.h.i.+ons, she let out a tiny sigh. ”Anyway, spoil them or not, I do feel those two need mothering and a chance to lead a normal family life. They've had little enough of either with your mother.'

”That's true,” Emily agreed, carrying the drinks over to the seating arrangement in front of the fire. ”I feel a bit sorry for them myself. I suppose Alexander and I got the best of Mummy-I mean, her better years. The girls have had a rough time of it ... all those husbands. It seems to me that ever since she left their father,' our mother has been on a downward slide. Oh well, what can you do? ...” Emily's young breathy voice petered out sadly. She shrugged in resignation, and her whole demeanor reflected her disenchantment. ”There's not much you or I can do about your daughter, my mother, Grandy. She's not likely to change.”

Emily now looked across at her grandmother, her blond brows meeting in a frown. She said in a fretful tone, ”The trouble with poor Mummy is that she suffers from the most terrible insecurity about herself, her looks, her figure, her personality . . . well, just about everything.”

”Oh, do you think so?” Emma exclaimed in astonishment at this remark. Her face changed, and there was a glint of malice in her flinty green eyes as she remarked, with immense coldness, ”I can't imagine why..” She lifted her gla.s.s. ”Cheers.”

”Cheers, Gran darling.”

Emma settled into a comer of the vast sofa, and, squinting in the sunlight, she focused on the attractive twenty-two-year-old Emily. The girl had a special place in her affections, for apart from being open and uncomplicated, she had a very lovable personality, one that was sunny, cheerful, and perennially optimistic, and she was a dynamic girl, filled with enthusiasm for life and her work. If Emily's pink-and-cream blond prettiness had the porcelain fragility of a Dresden shepherdess, it was nevertheless deceptive, belying an extraordinary drive that had the velocity and power of an express train running at full speed. Emma knew there were those in the family, specifically her sons, who thought Emily was scatterbrained and flippant. This secretly amused Emma, since she was fully aware that Emily purposely chose to give this fraudulent impression. In no way did it reflect her basic seriousness and diligence. Emma had long ago decided that her sons really disliked 'their niece because she was far too blunt and opinionated-and truthful-for their comfort. Emma had been witness to more than one scene when the intrepid Emily had made Kit and Robin squirm.

Emma looked into the clear green eyes, a reflection of her own as they had once been, saw the expectancy flickering in them, then noted the confident smile etched on Emily's mouth. Emily had obviously convinced herself she was going to get her own way. Oh dear. Taking a deep breath, Emma said with a faint laugh, ”For someone with a serious problem, you certainly don't look very troubled, dear. You're positively glowing this morning.”

Emily nodded and admitted, ”I don't think my problem's all that serious, Grandy. I mean, it doesn't seem to be today.”

”I'm glad to hear that. You sounded as if you had the burdens of the world on your shoulders, when you spoke to me on Tuesday morning.”

”Did I really?” Emily laughed. ”I suppose things seem so much brighter when I'm with you. Perhaps that's because I know you can always solve any problem, and I just know you'll-” She broke off when Emma held up a silencing hand.

Emma said, ”I've known for some time that you want to go back to Paris, to work in the store there. That is what you want to discuss, isn't it? That is your problem?”

”Yes, Gran,” Emily said, her eyes s.h.i.+ning with eagerness.

Emma put down her drink on the butler's tray table and leaned forward, her expression suddenly serious. She said carefully, ”I'm afraid I can't let you go to Paris. I'm very sorry to disappoint you, Emily, but you will have to stay here.”