“Is he married?” M wondered out loud, giving Geo a questioning look.
“He’s never been married. Well, so he said.” She put down her paintbrush and sighed. Rising, she walked over to the sofa near the window, lowered herself onto it, sighed again, and looked across at M, still loitering in the doorway.
“What is it, Geo?” M was aware of the long, contemplative stare her friend was giving her.
“Do you have a few minutes to spare? I want to tell you something.”
“Of course. What is it?” M asked again, joining Geo on the sofa, puzzled by her friend’s sudden change in mood.
“There’s a problem I’d like to discuss with you,” Geo murmured.
Staring at her intently, M said, “You look very serious all of a sudden. Is there something the matter?”
Geo did not answer for a few moments, and when she did she spoke slowly, her voice low. “I like James . . . like him a lot, and I must admit I’d forgotten how nice he is. Anyway, the point is this, I’d like to see him again. Want to very much. I believe I made a big mistake with him last night, though. In fact, I’m sure I did.”
“What do you mean?” M leaned closer. “It can’t have been all that bad, surely.”
“Look, I had a lot to drink at the party, and later. More than usual, and I got far too garrulous. I told him too much about myself, and it might have put him off.”
M was taken aback by this statement. Geo was not a particularly talkative person, nor was she very confiding. For a split second M was silent; then she asked, “What on earth could you tell him about yourself that would turn him off?” Her puzzlement was apparent. When Geo did not answer, she asked, “You haven’t murdered somebody, have you?”
M said this in such a droll manner, Geo couldn’t help laughing. “No, I haven’t. But I have been married twice, and stupidly I told him this, and I think he was really shocked.”
“I doubt that! He’s not the shockable type, if I know my Englishmen. He runs that security and investigation company, so I’m positive he doesn’t shock easily. Besides which, I think he might well have been a cop or something like that. He would certainly have been in some sort of law enforcement agency before in order to start that kind of company.”
“I think he might have been a spy. . . . I vaguely remember someone telling me that ages ago. Still, he did look shocked, I promise you.”
It struck M that Geo might have simply misunderstood James’s reaction, and she said this to her friend, adding, “I’m sure it was only surprise. You don’t look old enough to have been married twice.”
“I’m twenty-eight, didn’t I tell you that?” Geo asked and sat back on the sofa, closing her eyes for a moment and looking pained.
“Are you all right?” M asked swiftly.
“Yes, I’m okay.” Opening her eyes, Geo sat up straighter and continued, “I can’t imagine why I told him. I think it was because he reminded me of my first husband, Andy, who had that same wiry look as James. Oh, God, there’s not much I can do about it. I told him, and that’s that. Let’s face it, I’ve probably blown it.”
“I’m sure it’s not a problem,” M ventured and frowned as Geo closed her eyes once again, leaning back against the sofa. Her face was pale, and she trembled slightly.
After a moment, M took hold of her hand. “What is it, Georgiana? You can talk to me about private things if you want to. You know I’d never break a confidence.”
Opening her eyes, Geo said, “I know you wouldn’t. It’s just that . . . well, I usually get a terrible ache inside when I think of the way Andy died. I was heartbroken. I almost died myself when he had that fatal accident, and our baby certainly died. . . . I had a miscarriage within days of Andy’s fall.”
“Oh, darling, I’m so terribly sorry, how very, very tragic. And your grief must have been enormous . . .” M’s voice trailed off; she was at a loss for words. Anyway, weren’t words meaningless in such a situation? Although her mother constantly said that loving words did help a person to cope with sorrow and grief, with most things, in fact.
“I don’t think I’m overstating when I say it was overwhelming,” Geo murmured. “It did take me a long time to recover. I was only eighteen . . . when Andy fell . . . and my life fell apart.”
Clearing her throat, M hesitated before quietly saying, “Perhaps it would help if you told me about it, as you told James last night.”
“Andy was a construction worker here in Manhattan,” Geo began, “like his father and two brothers. He loved it, loved being up there, ‘hitting the sky’ he used to call it. Still, it was frightening at times to most of the guys. In fact, Andy often said that no one knows what fear really is unless they’ve dangled high in the sky with nothing between them and the ground but a narrow edge of metal and empty air. There’s another thing; the men worry about getting ‘the freeze.’ That usually occurs when a guy has seen one of his buddies fall, which happened to Andy one day. He saw a friend slip and was never the same again. The freeze took hold of him. Naturally, he understood that he couldn’t keep going indefinitely, and he became apprehensive about hitting the sky because he might fall off a girder. If they’re going to keep their jobs, the guys do have to keep on going up, because the building keeps going up and up and up. I begged Andy to quit, and he promised he would as soon as they reached the next floor of the skyscraper. Unfortunately, he never made it to that floor. . . . He slipped off a girder, fell and broke his neck, smashed his head on the pavement. . . . At least he died instantly.”
Geo stopped speaking, sat very still, and M held her hand for a long time, not knowing how else to comfort her.
At last Geo spoke once more. “I eventually pulled myself together and kept going as best as I could. After Andy’s awful accident, my mother died. She’d had a long fight with cancer, had been in pain for years. In one way it was a blessing for her, she was no longer suffering. I had gone to live with her after Andy’s death and inherited this house from her, where I’ve been living ever since.”
“I’m so sorry about Andy and the baby, and your mother. How you coped I’ll never know,” M murmured, her heart going out to Georgiana.
Geo nodded. “I suppose I coped by getting married again. When I was twenty-two, and it lasted a big two months. One day Ken packed his bags and left, without even saying good-bye. We eventually got a divorce, thank God.” Now Geo glanced at M and finished, in a sad, low voice, “I’m known as a person who never talks much about the past, but I certainly talked last night . . . to a man I liked, and in a way I never spoke to Dax. You go and figure that one. And I’ll never hear from James again.”
“I understand what you’re saying, but I don’t believe James Cardigan was shocked, or put off. How could he have been? And if he’s the man I think he is, then I’m sure he felt tremendous sympathy for you. I certainly do.”
“You’re a woman, you would be sympathetic. Men sometimes aren’t at all empathetic, certainly about the kinds of things I’ve just told you . . . death, illness, and all that. It’s too much for them to handle.”
“Oh, I do think you’re wrong! There are any number of men who are sympathetic, compassionate, and very caring. At least I know a few.”
“Introduce me to one. I’d like to meet a sympathetic man,” Geo muttered.
“Actually, I believe you were with one last night. Give James a chance. I think he’s worth it. And you know what? I bet you he calls today.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?” Geo answered, but she did not sound very convinced.
Later, in her room, as she got ready to go out, M discovered that her mind remained focused on Georgiana. She had been touched and moved by the conversation they had just had, their most intimate to date. And now she realized yet again how little they knew about each other really. Yet they had become closer in the last few weeks, had quickly discovered they liked the same things: going to the theater and the movies, reading good books, especially biographies, listening to their favorite music. And art.
That was the one great link between them, their love of beautiful paintings. And there was something else. Geo was endeavoring to make it on her own without cashing in on her mother’s name.
A week ago, Geo had confided that her mother had been Constance Redonzo, a well-known artist in the seventies, eighties, and into the nineties. M was familiar with her work and knew that she was from the school of Marie Laurencin and Mary Cassatt, specializing in paintings of children and women in the Impressionist style. Geo had explained that soon after her mother’s death, she and her sister began to understand there was a very viable market for their mother’s work. Many of her fans, reading of her death, had been in touch with the gallery which represented her, suddenly wanting to buy paintings. “Joanne and I had an unexpected but wonderful windfall. We made a lot of money, and that’s why I am able to paint in peace. For now,” Geo had explained.
Later, Geo had shown M some of her mother’s paintings, and M had been impressed, by one in particular, longing to buy it on behalf of her father. But she did not dare. Such a move would expose her. She had too much to hide, she knew that, and then she wondered if James was aware of who she was. After all, he was in the business of . . . information. She doubted it, though.
And what about Laurence Vaughan? Did he suspect she was not who she said she was? Not at all, she was positive of that. Although she did have to admit that he was patently aware she came from a certain echelon of English society. Their backgrounds were almost identical in so many ways, and he couldn’t have failed to notice the telltale signs.
As she buttoned the white cotton shirt and tucked it into her navy blue trousers, M contemplated the combination of Geo and James. It seemed to her that they fit well together. She hoped he would call this morning because that would make Geo exceedingly happy.
Turning away from the mirror, M pulled on a three-quarter-length navy blue knitted coat, added her pearl earrings, snatched up a battered red Hermès Kelly, slung it over her arm, and left her room. She ran downstairs, strode down the corridor and waved to Geo, wished her well, and swiftly exited the house. She hailed a cab, excited and intent on her purpose—being with Larry.
Thirteen
Laurence Vaughan’s face was wreathed in smiles as he opened the door, greeted M, and added, “I just knew you’d be punctual, and thank God you are! I couldn’t wait to see you.”
She smiled back at him. “I know what you mean . . . and good morning, Larry.”
Taking hold of her hand, he brought her into the front hall swiftly, drew her into his arms, and closed the door with his foot, all of these movements executed with a smooth fluidity.
He held her close, kissing her on the cheek, taking in the perfume of her—lilies of the valley, he decided—and the fresh, lemony tang of her newly washed hair. She was wearing it loose today, and it fell around her face like a sleek black veil.
A crooked smile lurked at the edges of his mouth. “You are beautiful, M, simply perfect.” His eyes narrowed slightly, held a mischievous glint as he finished. “And just imagine, you’re not even half an Audrey today. You’re just M, and that’s good enough for me.”
“I’m glad you like me.”
“You bet I do.” Taking hold of her arm, he led her into the living room, walking her through to the library. “This is my favorite room,” he explained and immediately took her over to the bay window. “Just look at this view, isn’t it great?”
“It’s fantastic. I feel as if I’m on a ship,” M responded, looking up at him. She was wearing flat shoes today, which made her a couple of inches shorter than Larry, who was six feet tall. She was five-eight in her stocking feet. We’re a perfect fit, she thought, most probably in every way. I hope we are.
“You really ought to see the view at night, then you’ll realize how spectacular it actually is,” Larry told her. “How about staying for dinner?”
M couldn’t help laughing. “We haven’t even had lunch yet. But yes, you’re right, I shouldn’t miss this view at night. So of course I’ll stay for dinner. I’d love to.”
“That’s a big relief.” He grinned at her. “I thought you’d be fleeing after lunch, leaving me alone again.”
“Aren’t we going to the movies?”
“We’ll do whatever you want. In the meantime, how about a Bloody Mary?”
“Thank you, yes, that’d be nice.”
“Coming up in three shakes of a lamb’s tail.” He strode across the floor to a chest which held a silver tray filled with bottles of liquor, a jug of tomato juice, and various other important ingredients for drinks.
She smiled to herself, remembering a nanny she’d once had who constantly used that old and rather curious phrase: three shakes of a lamb’s tail.
Larry busied himself with the drinks, and M turned to look at the amazing collection of silver-framed photographs lined up on another chest, positioned to one side of the sofa.
Taking pride of place was an eight-by-ten of Larry’s father when he had been a much younger man. How devastatingly handsome Nicholas Vaughan was, truly glorious-looking in this particular picture by Patrick Lichfield. It hit her then. Larry, as he was today at thirty-five, was the spitting image of his father in this photograph. Except for the hair. Larry’s was as dark as a raven’s, like hers, while his father’s was a light brownish blond, almost nondescript. It’s the eyes, she thought, they’re exactly the same blue, the color of cornflowers, and they’re powerful, mesmerizing. And both men have the same classical features, the same straight nose.
Her eyes moved on to the picture of Larry’s father and mother, standing together on a stage dressed in the costumes they wore as Antony and Cleopatra. Next to this was a portrait of Pandora Gallen alone, so blond, so beautiful, Larry’s exceptional mother, a talent beyond belief. And then came a collection of smaller photographs of Larry with his various siblings. My God, they were a good-looking bunch. Just like her lot were.
“Sorry the drinks took so long,” Larry said, walking across the room with two glasses. Handing one to her, he lifted his Bloody Mary. “Cheers!” he said.
“Cheers, and thanks.” M took a sip and exclaimed, “Wow, oh wow, that’s very strong! But great.”
Larry glanced at the photographs arranged on the chest and then at her, a brow raised quizzically. “Since you know so much about me, and you did claim that, you don’t need me to explain who all of these disreputable ruffians are.”
“You don’t have to do that, no, I can reel off their names to you. But I would like to know about them. I’m very curious about your siblings.”
“Take your pick, and I’ll give you the lowdown.”
“This is Horatio, isn’t it?” She pointed a finger at one of the men in the photograph.
“Yep. And my favorite brother. He’s a good guy, a good friend, always on my side, as I’m on his. You’ll like him a lot.”
“Named for Hamlet’s friend Horatio, correct?”
“Absolutely.”
“And Portia is named for another favorite Shakespearean character of mine . . . straight out of The Merchant of Venice.”
“On the nose, babe. And Portia’s a friendly sort. No agenda.”
“And you like her, I think, more than like, actually. You love her.”
“How did you guess?”
“It’s the expression on your face, Larry. Your eyes are warmer, and you smiled when I mentioned her name, and your face is relaxed.”
“My favorite sister. I certainly don’t like the other one, Miranda. A pain in the ass, that one. Don’t worry, you won’t have to meet her.”
M burst out laughing. “And Thomas? Tell me about him.”
“We’re not so close. He is the eldest, but you’re aware of that, if I know you. He’s serious, a little bit dull but hugely talented, and we’re friends, respectful of each other. But no, we’re not close.”
“And that leaves us with Edward.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Don’t you like him?”
&nb
sp; “He bloody well beat me up when we were kids, so I’m always wary of our crafty Edward, but we’re pals, at least to some extent, these days. And he’s aimed to please me for years. We have a sort of truce, I guess you’d call it. Edward’s okay, in small doses. But questionable.”
“He’s probably suffering from terrible guilt for smacking you around when you were little, don’t you think?”
“Possibly. One never knows with Edward. Cagey bugger, that he is, and a past master of the art of dissimulation.” He took a swallow of the Bloody Mary. “And he can be a real bastard with women.”
M said, “I love this photograph of your mother and father as Antony and Cleopatra. They became legends after that play, didn’t they?”
A huge smile lit up his face, and he nodded enthusiastically. “They sure as hell did! The greatest stars of the English theater, that was them in their heyday. And it’s a tough part, Cleopatra. Most actresses are scared to touch it; you need quite a range to play Cleo. My mother did it to perfection. It’s Shakespeare’s greatest play, at least in my opinion, and still very modern: politicians, politics, tragedies, failures, celebrities biting the dust.”
“Fallen heroes all,” M announced.
He gave her a swift look and frowned. “Someone else once said those exact words to me, but I can’t remember who.”
A feeling of sick dismay swept over her, and she chided herself, aware that this was one of her brother’s standard comments about the play. Changing the subject swiftly, she said, “I’m getting hungry, Larry. Why don’t we go to the kitchen and make lunch?”
“Brilliant,” he replied, walking back to the chest and the jug of tomato juice and vodka. “I’ll make us another, shall I? To help us through the cooking.”