A ruling passion : a novel (43 page)

Chad slid down in bed, his thoughts churning. "If you decide anything, wake me up and tell me."

But Sybille was already out of the room, and on her way to the sitting room that joined Chad's room and Nick's. "He's so grown-up," she said, settling into an armchair. "Could I have a drink, Nick.> I'd like to talk for awhile; God knows when we'll see each other again."

"Whenever you want," he said. "It's an easy plane trip from Washington to San Jose. Cognac?"

"Yes. Are you relieved to be out of Omega?"

"It wasn't a burden. It was just time for me to look for something else to do." He handed her a drink and sat in a nearby chair with his own. "What about you? Have you sold the network?"

"No. I would have told you if I had." She paused to let it sink in. "Ifs very strange. I have some new programs; my ratings are going up; I've even gotten some columnists to write about me. And there's been a lot of interest: phone calls, accountants coming to look at the books; you know all about that. But no one's come up with the money They're such frightened little boys; there isn't a man among them! My lawyer says they don't want to take risks with cable, but that's crazy; look what CNN has done; look at the possibilities! Of course there are risks in television; no one should go into it unless he's ready to put all his energy and creativity into it—and a hell of a lot of money—and even then he could fall on his face. It isn't a place for

timid men, or men who don't have absolute confidence in themselves." She sipped her cognac, and sighed. "Well, I suppose I'll find someone. The trouble is, there aren't many men who have confidence in themselves, and the money to back it up, and I'm so anxious to sell..."

Nick grinned. "That's very good. It's almost as if you had someone in mind to buy it."

"Damn you, Nick, don't play games. You know I do. I want you to buy it. Why shouldn't you? You want something new and you've never cared whether something was hard or not; why don't you do it?" She paused, looking at the deep-amber liquid in her glass. "Chad says he'd love it."

"What does that mean?"

"He says he'd love living here because then we could see each other whenever we wanted."

"Chad said that?"

"Just now, when we were saying good night."

"What the hell did you tell him?"

"Not much. When he said that, I felt so sorry for him—he looked so unhappy because you're leaving tomorrow—and I said maybe you'd buy a television station in Washington, or start one yourself I didn't say anything you hadn't already said yourself! And his face lit up; it was amazing."

Nick frowned. "You shouldn't have said anything."

"Why not? He's my son! Why shouldn't I have him living near me if thaf s what we both want?"

"Is it what you want?"

"I've always wanted it. There were just too many other things going on; I couldn't put my life together and do what I really knew was best for me... I always had to think of other people first. Nick..." She rose and went to sit on the arm of his chair. "We could do so much together. I think of you all the time, you know; what an idiot I was to let you send me away without a fight; what a fool I was to marry Quentin when all the time I loved you, you were the only one, and I've never stopped wanting you and needing you—"

Nick left the chair and strode across the room. "I thought we'd gotten past that," he said, his voice hard and flat. "There is nothing between us, Sybille, there hasn't been for years, and you know it as well as I do. You don't love me any more than I love you. We aren't even friends; we don't have enough in common for that, and since we don't really like each other, there isn't the remotest chance that that will ever change." He contemplated the rigid anger in her face. "For

God's sake, don't act as if I've insulted you; I only told you what we both already knew. Now we can go on to something else. You've made two pitches tonight; you failed with one, but we can talk about the other if you still want to."

Slowly, the words sank in, and Sybille sat up straight on the arm of the chair. "You mean the network."

"That's what I mean. Why don't you have another drink; I have some questions I'd like answered."

Sterling Farms covered nearly six hundred acres of Virginia pasture-land that ebbed and flowed in rolling hills of close-cropped grass. A dusting of snow covered the land and clung to the branches of trees; weathered, unpainted fences followed the contours of the hills, stretching to the horizon; stone walls topped with rails bordered gravel roads. A painted rail fence bounded six acres near the center of the spread, and in their center was Carlton Sterling's house, twenty-five rooms sprawling over two floors beneath a steeply pitched gray shingle roof with eight chimneys and gabled second-floor windows. Stands of trees shielded the house from anyone who might wander onto the main road half a mile from the front door; behind the house, where no road intruded, were nestled two guest houses, the terrace, tennis courts and swimming pool. Sybille's room overlooked the terrace and the fields beyond and, beyond them, in the distance, the purple haze of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She had studied the house as Valerie led her through it. It was furnished in a hodgepodge of country pine and oak, overstuffed couches, worn antique rugs on hardwood floors, and floor lamps with fringed shades. It might have been chaotic, but instead it was harmonious: warm, inviting, lived-in. And it had the look of very deep, very old money.

"Lunch in the small dining room at one," said Valerie as she checked on towels in the bathroom. "We'll only be five; everyone else should get here by dinnertime. I think you have everything, but if you get sudden urges, tell Sally. She's been here since Carl was a baby, and her mission is to make all of us happy. She's very good at it. Can I get you anything now?"

"No. Thank you; it's fine. How many will there be for dinner?"

"Twenty-five; Carl's off" hunting with friends and won't be here for a couple of days. You'll like all of them, I think; they talk horses more than I like, but everybody should be passionate about something, and that's what they're passionate about. Shall we go for a walk before lunch? I'll show you our horses." She broke off" in a laugh, her eyes

dancing. "Look who's complaining about people talking horses too much. We do have other attractions; the greenhouses are wonderful, and I like the pond this time of year: frozen at the edges, with bare trees and a gardener's hut against a low hill—it's like a black-and-white photograph. And of course there are the horses. Did you bring your riding things?"

"Tes. I'd like to see your horses."

"Good. Let's go. And we'll ride after lunch, if you'd like. Whatever you want, Sybille, just speak up. Ifs going to be a very loose three days."

Sybille nodded. She could not imagine an unstructured hour, much less three days, but this was Middleburg, and Middleburg society, and she had a lot to learn before she became part of it. It was the second time Valerie Sterling was initiating her into a new way of life. The best way to learn, Sybille thought; make use of someone who owes me everything, and doesn't even know she's being used.

Valerie pulled on a royal purple down jacket and a pair of high boots. "It gets muddy," she said. "If you don't have any, we can find you some."

"Only riding boots," Sybille replied.

"Well..." Valerie rummaged through a wooden box with a hinged lid. "Try these. They may be a little big, but that's better than too tight."

"Are they yours?" Sybille asked, sitting on a bench and removing her shoes. "They look new."

"They are. I bought them in the fall and never wore them. Will they do?"

Sybille stood up. "They're fine." She gazed at the leather and rubber sorrels, and smiled to herself. She had always wanted to be in Valerie's shoes. "Where do we go first?"

"The riding ring, the barns, the pond, the greenhouse. Is that all right with you? I don't much care; I just want to be outside. It seems I've been inside all week."

"Doing what?" They were walking through a passageway that led to an open area of vegetable and flower gardens criss-crossed with brick paths. Along one side, attached to the kitchen wing of the house, were the greenhouses.

"Board meetings," Valerie replied. She led Sybille through a break in a low hedge to a broad field with an outdoor riding ring. "And I filmed a television spot for a new exhibit at the Children's Museum in Washington—I produced that one, in fact; the first time I've done

anything like that. It's more your field than mine."

"Maybe you'll do more of it," said Sybille.

Valerie turned quickly, and Sybille thought her voice must have given her away, and shown her anger. "I mean," she said more smoothly, "maybe you'd rather do that than appear on camera."

"I don't know." Valerie turned back and they walked on, around the riding ring. "God knows I want something more, but I don't know what it is." She gave a ruefiil laugh. "It's hard to look as if you have everything; it seems so insatiable to ask for more."

"More what.^" Sybille asked. "There's nothing you don't have."

"You mean I have money. Well, you have money; do you have ever\iJiing?"

"Not enough. Anyway, I want more than money."

Valerie laughed again. "There you are. There's always something more. And lately I've been feeling I've missed out on something; I don't know what, but I feel on edge, as if I'm waiting for something to happen, for something to show up that forces me to act, to be different in some way from the way I've always been It's a little unnerving, waiting for something when I have no idea what it is, or if there really is anything to wait for. I've never felt this before; it has a kind of urgency: if I don't do it now I'll never have a chance..." She stopped and leaned her arms on the top rail of the fence surrounding the ring, as if she were watching a horse go through its jumps. "I think about children a lot. I don't think thafs what I'm waiting for, but maybe it is. I have to make up my mind pretty soon, but I always stop short of deciding. What about you, Sybille? Do you want more children?"

"No." Sybille heard how abrupt she sounded, and tried to soften it, though she had not once thought of having more children. "I've thought about it, and I'd love to, but I don't see how I can. I'm not going to get married just so I can have a baby, and I have to earn a living, you know; that takes just about all the time I've got." She leaned against the fence next to Valerie and averted her face. "I messed up so badly, with Chad—letting Nick take him away from me, letting him talk me into not visiting very often because it upset Chad's schedule, letting him get all the ftm of Chad's growing up—I shouldn't have allowed any of it; I should have insisted on having my own son and then I wouldn't be so alone now..."

Valerie tried to see her face, but Sybille kept it turned away. "I didn't know Nick made it hard for you to visit them," she said, puzzled. "It doesn't sound like the kind of thing he'd do."

"You don't know what Nick would do! You haven't seen him for

eight years and you were never married—" Sybille bit off her words. "I'm sorry," she said miserably. "I get so upset about Chad, and then Quentin being gone, and there's so much to do at work and I don't have anyone to talk to or ask for advice... I'm sorry I was so rude."

"You weren't rude; it's not important." Valerie stared at the center of the ring, not seeing it. She was remembering the times Nick had talked about their having children.

"What about Carlton?" Sybille asked, her voice muffled as if she were forcing back tears. "He must want children."

"He wants to wait, but he isn't the one who has to worry about being almost thirty-one. He likes being an investment counselor and he's one of the best there is; he loves playing polo and he's one of the best at that. He's happiest working and playing; he doesn't seem happy at all about fatherhood."

"Or being a husband," Sybille said shrewdly.

"He doesn't know that." The two women looked at each other in a rare moment of understanding. "He thinks he loves being a husband, and sometimes he does. It depends on how easy I make it for him. If I'm like his polo team or his clients, and don't demand true intimacy—" She broke off, having said more, it seemed, than she allowed herself. "He's still a good friend, and I wouldn't ask more of him than that."

'Tou don't want any more than that?"

"I might, but I'll take what I've got. Weren't you and Quentin good friends?"

"Yes, and business partners. But I wouldn't have married him if I hadn't loved him." Valerie nodded and Sybille was not sure whether she believed her or not. "So you don't love Carl?" she asked.

There was a pause. 'Yes," Valerie said quiedy. "I love him. Well, now, you've seen the riding ring; the barns are next." She stood and strode off, leaving Sybille to follow on a tour of the bleached-wood barns in which were boarded twelve horses for friends and neighbors who spent most of their time traveling, and the eight owned by Valerie and Carlton, and the indoor winter riding arena with a glass wall that displayed the panorama of the snow-covered countryside and sunsets over the distant Blue Ridge. And for the rest of that day, and the three days that followed, Valerie never again talked about herself, or Carlton.

But Sybille did not care. She had learned a great deal that day, and while she was there she learned more. She watched and listened, she noted the clothes and jewelry of the guests who were, to her, Middle-

burg society, and she memorized the speech patterns and phrases of people whose comfortable lives were bounded by horses and wealth. She watched Valerie, who was the most perfect hostess she had ever seen: watchful, genuinely interested in her guests, helpful without being officious, gracefully bringing everyone into the life of Sterling Farms. She seemed to be everywhere at once, making sure no one was ignored, yet she never intruded on the authority of Sally, the head housekeeper, who really ran the house and kept the schedules moving smoothly. Reluctandy, Sybille admired her: as shallow and stupid as Valerie was, she did this one thing superbly.

And so Sybille watched and learned, and within two days she began to think of herself as one of them. All she needed was her own house and farms, and staff, and she would truly be part of Middleburg.