Later that same day, Tuesday, the tenth of December, Jardine and Company closed earlier than the usual time of six o’clock.
Once the main doors, which opened onto Fifth Avenue, were locked, the White Empress was put on display in an illuminated showcase in the center of the main salon. This was a medium-sized room with a high ceiling from which dropped several antique crystal chandeliers; showcases in which jewels were displayed were built in on several walls, and were cleverly and effectively illuminated. Underfoot, a luxuriously thick silver-gray wool carpet stretched the length of the floor; an antique Louis XV bureau plat and two antique French desks were strategically placed in different areas of the room. Normally used by the sales executives, tonight they were decorated with beautiful arrangements of flowers.
At six-thirty promptly, members of the staff gathered together in the salon to toast Stevie on her birthday, as well as celebrate her acquisition of the great diamond. Champagne and hors d’oeuvres were served to her employees and the few guests she had invited. Miles and Chloe were present, along with Matt Wilson and André Birron. André, delayed in his return to Paris, was giving a small dinner for her birthday later that evening.
The four of them surrounded her like a phalanx, wishing her a happy birthday, singing her praises. And all were impressed by the pear-shaped diamond, stood there staring at it mesmerized, bedazzled by its beauty, unable to tear their eyes away from the display case.
André finally turned to Stevie and said, “I am glad I was delayed here on business, and that I could be present tonight, ma chérie. To see this incomparable diamond again and to celebrate your birthday, Stephanie, that is wonderful.”
“I am happy you’re here, André, and I want to thank you again for being so supportive the other evening at the auction. I really was full of anxiety.”
“It was nothing at all. And as for your nervousness, you did not show it.”
Moving forward, Chloe clutched her mother’s arm, exclaimed, “Mom, it’s just awesome! Awesome. And it was so neat, the way you beat everybody out at the auction. Cool. You’re the greatest, Mom.”
“Thank you, Chloe,” Stevie murmured, pleased that her daughter was so enthusiastic and filled with her usual natural warmth. For the first few days after Thanksgiving she had been sulky and mute, acting up in the way teenagers could, making everyone else feel uncomfortable and miserable. This recalcitrant mood had slowly diminished, and completely vanished tonight.
André said, “It is indeed awesome, Chloe. And so is your mother, ma petite.”
“There’s nobody like her, Uncle André.”
“I am glad to hear that you appreciate her. She deserves it. Shall we go over to the far side of the salon and look at the other jewels? Your mother just told me that she is showing the latest collection of new designs for the first time tonight.”
“Okay,” she agreed, and tucked her arm through his.
“I’ll join you,” Matt said, following André and Chloe across the salon.
Stevie now stood alone with Miles in front of the glass showcase where the White Empress reposed, and she was intrigued by the look on her son’s face. “It does knock the breath out of you, doesn’t it, Miles?”
“It sure does. I’m blown away by it, actually, Ma.” Miles turned to his mother and went on. “I’ve never seen a stone like this one. But I guess you have.”
“Yes, I’ve seen some which were just as big, and others which were even bigger. There is something about this particular stone that is…unique. Actually, all stones are unique because no two are ever exactly alike. There is just something so extraordinary about this one, something that is hard to describe.”
Miles nodded, turned to the display case again. “What fire and beauty there is under its icy exterior.”
“It’s the cut. Harry Winston had this one cleaved from a large piece of rough, but he studied it for months and months on end first before he let a lapidary get anywhere near it. He had an unerring instinct about stones, Miles, and he could look at a piece of rough and see what others couldn’t see.”
“I’m glad you got it, Mother; you wanted it so much. Congratulations again. And happy birthday again. By the way, your present is being delivered to the apartment later. I hope you like it.”
“I’m sure I will, darling.”
“André’s diamond feather is beautiful, Ma.”
“Isn’t it just? He’s so pleased he can be here tonight after all, and so am I.”
“Chloe seems on top of the world,” Miles remarked, then grinned. “I wouldn’t want to be a teenager again. It’s a bumpy ride.”
Stevie agreed, and then, turning away from the showcase, she took hold of Miles’s arm, led him to a corner of the salon. “Nigel came into the store today.”
“Nigel! What the hell’s he doing in New York?” Miles stared at his mother, flabbergasted.
“He flew in to see the Sultan of Kandrea, who is apparently looking for some stones.”
“I thought the sultan was your client?”
“So did I until this morning. Apparently he prefers to deal with Nigel now.”
“Who says?”
“Nigel.”
“I don’t believe that!”
“Nigel made a great point of it in our brief conversation.”
“He’s lying. He was always full of it. I bet he’s trying to worm his way into the sultan’s good graces. Maybe he told Kandrea it was your idea, that you don’t want to handle his business anymore. I wouldn’t put it past Nigel.”
“I don’t know….” She shook her head, took a sip of champagne.
“If you phoned the sultan I bet he’d tell you exactly that, Mother. Tell you what’s what.”
“I really couldn’t do that; it would seem a little…strange. And I certainly wouldn’t want the sultan to think there was something—”
“Rotten in the state of Denmark?” he cut in, giving her a pointed look and raising a dark brow.
“That’s one way of putting it, I suppose. But we must show a united front; I’ve always told you that. Anything else is bad for business.”
“Nigel’s definitely up to something, Ma.”
She nodded. “He baffles me, Miles.”
“I get the feeling he wants to be top dog at Jardine’s. But is he capable of running the company by himself?”
“He will be eventually. He has a lot to learn yet, of course. Still, to give the devil his due, he’s a good businessman. Not at all creative though, not in the way that Gideon is creative. And he doesn’t know a lot about stones. On the other hand, there are a lot of experts on stones at Jardine’s, both here and in London, so that’s not so important. Not at the moment anyway.” Stevie paused, her expression regretful. “And I tend to agree with you; he’d like me to disappear.”
“You’re too young to retire. What on earth would you do if you didn’t work?”
“God knows, Miles. I’d be at a loss. Totally bored out of my mind. However, I’m not planning to retire, not for a long time, I can assure you of that. Whatever Nigel wants, Nigel won’t get.”
Miles laughed, then gave her an intent look. “You’re forty-seven today.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything, darling.”
“You’re a young woman, and yet you’ve…you’ve never married again. Why?”
“For a perfectly good reason.”
“Us, Ma?”
“Partially. But I’ve never met anyone I wanted to marry.” She threw him an amused smile. “It takes two to tango, you know. Now that all my children are grown up, perhaps I’ll start looking around for a husband.” She chuckled, then, wishing to change the subject, she said, “Nigel was very churlish today; he didn’t even wish me a happy birthday.”
“Rotten sod,” Miles muttered. “But then, he hasn’t changed much. He was always a bit of a bugger even when he was a kid.”
Stevie stared at her son, startled by the animosity
in his voice. “I didn’t know you so actively disliked your brother,” she murmured, her eyes searching his face. “You never told me this before.”
“Oh, Ma, why would I mention it? Anyway, I don’t dislike him all the time. Only part of it. Nigel’s a chameleon. One minute he’s the basilisk, totally inscrutable and hard to read, the next he’s turned into a romping puppy dog, licking your hand and bowling you over with his winsome personality and adorable charm.”
“That’s an apt way of putting it. But I must admit, I haven’t seen much of Nigel’s charm of late.”
“He couldn’t possibly have forgotten your birthday, Mother. He always made such a fuss about it when we were kids. He actually got to be a bit of a bore—” Miles cut himself off and his expression was chagrined as he added swiftly, “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“I know you didn’t.”
“I’m certainly glad you didn’t invite Nigel to Uncle André’s dinner for you tonight.”
“I wouldn’t do a thing like that!”
“Yes, you would, Ma! You’ve always been a bit of a softie when it comes to your family,” he contradicted Stevie.
“It never crossed my mind to invite him, Miles. He was too unpleasant. Besides, he seemed hell-bent on catching the evening flight to London.”
“I wonder how Tamara puts up with him?”
“Nigel can be very winning. You just said so. And Tamara is an exceptional young woman. She understands Nigel, has his number. Not only that, she’s wise for her age, and she really knows how to handle him.”
“I suppose she does. Is Uncle André taking us to La Grenouille?”
“Of course, it’s his favorite restaurant in New York, and I like it too. But now we’d better circulate, don’t you think, mingle with the other people here, otherwise they’ll think we’re being rude.”
“Lead the way, Mother,” he said, taking her arm affectionately, his pride in her much in evidence on his glowing face and in his wide smile.
PART TWO
Christmas
14
STEVIE HAD LIVED IN LONDON HALF HER LIFE, AND she was always happy when she returned.
It was not that she did not like New York, because she did. That city meant entirely different things to her, commanded another place in her heart. New York was the city of her birth, her early childhood, and teen years until she was fourteen, when her mother had married Derek and they had moved to London. New York also signified the last eight years of her life, of raising Chloe, buying and remodeling Romany Hall, starting and operating Jardine’s on Fifth Avenue. She constantly thought of it as a city of new challenges and, in a certain way, of rebirth.
London represented the years of her marriage to Ralph, the birth and upbringing of her children, his untimely death, and, finally, her emergence as a businesswoman. It was the place she had spent her most formative years and where she had become a woman. And so, in a sense, London was a city of old challenges.
It was also a city rich in a multitude of memories and talismans of the past for her. Whenever she thought of it, she did so with enormous affection and nostalgia. Her mind would focus on those places that were special to her, meaningful because of their past associations, and she would be carried back in time.
As she sat at her desk in her office above the Jardine showrooms in Bond Street, she found herself suddenly thinking of those earlier days in London and her favorite spots…Whitestone Pond in Hampstead on a spring day bright with sunlight, where she and Ralph had so often taken the boys to sail their toy boats and then taken them to tea at Briar Lodge.
This was the big old stone house on Hampstead Heath where her mother and Derek had spent half their married life, and where she had lived for two years until she had married Ralph at age sixteen.
Stevie sat gazing into the distance for a moment, remembering Briar Lodge. It had been an oasis of love overflowing with welcoming warmth and hospitality, and she had been very attached to it, loved every nook and cranny of it.
Her mother had decorated the house with charming fabrics and antiques, old faded carpets and lovely paintings. Derek’s books—thousands of them—reigned supreme, filling endless shelves in the library. His acting awards and the carefully collected, much-cherished theatrical memorabilia were given pride of place in his study. Stevie always thought of Briar Lodge as a house that had known only laughter and happiness.
The boys had loved to play hide-and-seek in the attics when they were young. Just by closing her eyes she was instantly transported back to those days. She saw them as they had been then, her three sons, and their rambunctious shrieks and bloodcurdling yells reverberated in her head, carrying her back into her memories even more deeply.
The garden of the house on the Heath had been another oasis for her, particularly in the spring and summer months. In spring it was a bower of leafy trees, green and restful; in summer the herbaceous borders and many rosebushes were riotous rafts of bright color against the smooth green lawn, and they filled the air with fragrance.
Several old apple trees created a canopy of shade on sunny days, and it was there that they had so frequently picnicked. Recalling those picnics now, her mouth suddenly began to water at the thought of the delicious tiny tea sandwiches filled with smoked salmon, egg salad, sliced cucumber, and watercress and cheddar. And there were always homemade scones slathered with Devonshire cream and strawberry jam, all washed down with scalding hot tea laced with lemon and poured from the big brown teapot Derek swore by.
It had been a rather sad day for her when Derek and her mother had sold Briar Lodge seventeen years ago and moved to the apartment overlooking Regent’s Park, where they still lived. She had understood the move. Even though the flat was very large with many large rooms, it was, nevertheless, easier to run than the big old house.
There were other corners of London that she treasured in her heart. Cavendish Square was one, because it was there that she had first stumbled, and quite by accident, on Jacob Epstein’s extraordinary sculpture, Madonna and Child. She hadn’t known its name then, nor had she known the name of the sculptor, but she had made a point of finding out later, and she had become a devotee of his.
She had first noticed the sculpture one spring afternoon not long after Ralph’s death, when she had been walking through the square, heading in the direction of Oxford Street. It had suddenly started to rain, and pausing, she had groped around in her handbag for her scarf. As she had tied it over her head she had happened to half turn around, and it was then that she had seen the sculpture; she had caught her breath, stunned by its beauty. It was set on the wall above an archway in Deans Mews, which opened off the square. Mounted in such a way that it stood slightly away from the wall, it appeared to be levitating, actually floating upward of its own accord.
The sculpture was life-size and towered toward the sky, and she had walked over to it fascinated, gazing up at it in the pale spring light.
Because of the manner in which it was sited on the wall of the arch, and its slight tilt forward, the rain struck the eyes of the sculpture. It seemed to her that the Madonna was crying real tears. They were trickling down her cheeks, dripping onto the head of the child Jesus, who stood immediately in front of the Virgin, also levitating.
Now Stevie saw the sculpture in her mind’s eye, the image of it crystal clear. She recalled how she had been quite oblivious to the rain that afternoon, had been awed by the sculpture, had stood transfixed in front of it for ages. Only her dripping head scarf and soaking wet coat had forced her finally to hurry away, looking for a taxi. Its poignancy had touched her deeply, and she had made a point of going back to Deans Mews for many years afterward, in order to look at Sir Jacob’s remarkable sculpture.
I’ll go and see it this trip, she thought, before I go back to New York in January. And then she suddenly wondered why it was that she was so deeply engrossed in the past that morning.
Perhaps it was because she did not want to deal with the present. With Ni
gel, to be precise. After all, it was Monday, December the twenty-third, just two days before Christmas, and the last thing she wanted was to cause family discord at this time.
In any case, he was noticeably absent from the Bond Street showrooms that day; his secretary Angela had told her he had gone to Amsterdam with Gilbert Drexel, who was one of the diamond experts at Jardine’s. She could not help wondering if they were off hunting stones for the Sultan of Kandrea.
After Christmas, Stevie thought, I’ll tackle Nigel after the holidays.
The antique French striking clock by Le Roy et Fils of Paris, which stood on the William and Mary inlaid chest at the other side of the room, suddenly struck the hour. Stevie glanced up, peered at it, saw that it was noon. She had a luncheon appointment with Derek in half an hour. Rising, she crossed the floor to her small bathroom to freshen up before leaving to meet him at Harry’s Bar.
When she first went downstairs, Stevie stood on the doorstep of Jardine’s for a moment or two, debating whether to walk or take a taxi. It was a very cold day, but the sky was blue and the sun was shining, so she decided, in the end, to brave the cold wind and walk to South Audley Street where Harry’s Bar, a private club, was located.
Wrapping her heavy red-wool cape closer around her, she set off at a brisk pace down Bond Street. Within minutes she was turning onto Grosvenor Street; she continued at the same rapid speed, heading up toward Grosvenor Square which would lead her into South Audley.
Stevie enjoyed walking in cities she liked, and because of the length of time she had lived in London, she knew it well, better than any other place. In particular, she enjoyed walking through Mayfair with its grand old mansions and stately hotels, cobbled mews with quaint little houses and tree-lined squares.
When she pushed open the door of Harry’s Bar some ten minutes later and went inside, she saw Derek leaning against the bar, drinking a glass of water. Instantly he put it down, came forward to greet her, and helped her off with her cape.