An Embarrassment of Riches (58 page)

As lonely week followed on lonely week she tried hard not to think of Tarna and of Alexander putting Stasha on his first pony and doing all the things with him that it now seemed they would never do, together, with Felix and Natalie. Her main source of comfort was Isabel and Kieron. Without them she could not possibly have borne the stultifying grandeur of the Fifth Avenue mansion.

‘I have a surprise for you, sweetheart,' Kieron said to her on one of their afternoon walks. ‘Mr Schermerhorn says now the stud is up and running, he wants me to spend more time with him as a personal adviser. As that is going to mean my being in New York more often, especially during the winter, and as Mr Schermerhorn pays grand wages, I've rented two nicely furnished rooms off Fourth Avenue.'

Maura's eyes shone. She had known Henry would come to rely more and more upon Kieron.

‘What kind of personal adviser?' she asked teasingly. ‘Don't you mean that Henry simply relishes your company and wants you around as an available poker player?'

It was so near to the truth that Kieron had the grace to redden slightly.

‘Sure, and if himself is partial to a mean hand of poker, who am I to deny him it?'

Maura had laughed with him, making a mental note to hug Henry next time they met. Henry had always had a penchant for slightly raffish characters and it was typical of him that, finding Kieron congenial company, he had conveniently overlooked the difference in their social positions in order that he could enjoy that company.

By the first week of October Alexander was back in town. He reoccupied his suite at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, visited Felix and Natalie and, to Maura's crushing disappointment, made no attempt to put things right between them.

‘What do you want me to do with the invitations that are beginning to arrive, addressed to both of us?' she asked with a coolness she was very far from feeling.

‘Invitations? Are there many?' he asked with genuine surprise.

A year ago, when the season had started, there had been none.

Maura indifferently indicated his almost overflowing desk. ‘The Roosevelts have invited us to Mrs Roosevelt's birthday ball, the Delafields have invited us to supper, the Stuyvesants have invited us to their annual ball as have the Van Cortlandts. The Beekmans have invited us to their daughter's coming-out ball and the Astors have invited us to …'

He crossed the desk and rifled through the pile of engraved cards.

‘Tell Stephen to accept on our behalf,' he said abruptly.

She raised an eyebrow. ‘For both of us? Won't people think that a little strange when you're still resident in a hotel?'

‘Damn it all, of course they won't find it strange! Conrad Beekman hasn't lived at home for twenty years, but the Beekmans still appear together socially. Such behaviour is society manners.'

He was still frowning down at the mountain of cards and Maura was aware of a not very admirable flare of satisfaction. Well might he stare. In the months that he had been at Tarna the hesitant social acceptance extended towards her in the weeks after Isabel's arrival had grown into an avalanche. The social ostracism she had once suffered from, and which had been the rock upon which their marriage had once nearly foundered, no longer existed. Word had passed quickly from hostess to hostess that the extraordinary and beguilingly beautiful Mrs Karolyis was a relative of the late Lord Clanmar, friend of Presidents and Kings and Tsars. Word had also gone round that she was extremely intelligent, witty and entertaining and that if Lady Isabel Dalziel was to be snared as a daughter-in-law, Mrs Karolyis was to be assiduously cultivated.

Alexander had left the house, still frowning. Things were taking a turn he had never anticipated. If he wished his own social life to continue then it was obvious he and Maura were going to have to attend functions together as man and wife.

He strode out into the courtyard, waving the waiting coachman away irritably. It wasn't that he didn't
want
to escort Maura to balls and parties, there was nothing he would enjoy more, but he was furious at the fact that her social acceptance had come by her own efforts, not via himself, and was even more furious that her active proselytizing on behalf of the poor had not socially rebounded on her.

He was also in deep dudgeon over his affair with Ariadne. Enough of New York society now knew of the affair for it to have become highly necessary to Ariadne's pride that their relationship culminate in marriage. It was also very obvious to him that such a marriage would be tedious and stultifying.

Despite her enthusiasm for bed, Ariadne was not the most entertaining of companions. She had inherited more than an acceptable share of unimaginative Dutch rationalism, and had absolutely no sense of the ridiculous. Neither did she have the remotest interest in horses and would no more have mounted one than fly to the moon. They neither laughed together nor rode together.

During his months at Tarna he had missed Maura almost unbearably. More than anything else in the world he wanted them to be reconciled, but he knew that before he made any attempt at a reconciliation he would first have to tell her that he had bequeathed Tarna to Stasha. He strode out into the avenue, his hands deep in his pockets. If Maura had made the slightest gesture of affection towards him then perhaps he would have somehow found the courage to do so, but she had been frigidly cool and his courage had failed him.

A horse-drawn bus clattered past him. He had been lonely at Tarna and it looked as though he was going to be just as lonely in New York. He couldn't call on either Henry or Charlie, because ever since he had moved back into the Fifth Avenue Hotel neither Henry nor Charlie would give him the time of day. It seemed as if the only person who was going to be pleased to see him again was going to be Ariadne. With a heavy-hearted sigh he began to head joylessly towards the Brevoort mansion.

From one of the Chinese drawing-room windows Maura watched him cross the courtyard and turn into the avenue. She loved to watch him from a distance, his blue-black hair gleaming in the sunlight and curling low on his high-starched collar, his tall, slim-hipped figure moving with athletic grace and confidence.

Her heart hurt physically in her chest as he disappeared from sight. Where was he going? To the Fifth Avenue Hotel? To the Brevoort mansion? It had been over three months since they had last seen each other and instead of his telling her that he had been a complete fool, that he had never meant his crass remarks about Stasha and Felix, that of course he was going to join the Citizens' Association or at the very least not object to her remaining on the association's committee, he had greeted her and talked to her as coolly and indifferently as if she were a stranger and they were as far from a reconciliation as ever.

She dug her nails deep into her palms. She would not cry. She would
not.
She was his wife and she loved him and she wanted their estrangement to end, but their estrangement wasn't
her
fault.
She
wasn't favouring an illegitimate child over her legitimate children.
She
wasn't conducting an adulterous liaison. With welcome relief she felt anger lick along her veins, subduing grief. No doubt Ariadne would also be a guest at the coming season's balls, and no doubt it had not occurred to Ariadne that invitations would also be extended to herself.

A small, bleak smile touched her mouth. She wasn't going to allow herself to be discomfited by Ariadne's presence. It was Ariadne who was going to be discomfited. And Alexander.

The season began in earnest in the middle of the month. Mansions that had been closed for the summer were again inhabited. Shutters were opened, red carpets unrolled and triple layers of window-drapes hung.

Alexander escorted herself and Isabel to an opera at the Royal Academy and then on to the first ball of the season, Mrs Roosevelt's birthday ball.

Isabel, as befitted her single state, wore a gown of white tulle with a spray of lilies of the valley pinned to her bodice. Maura wore an ice-coloured blue dress which emphasized her pale creamy skin and cloud of dark hair. Daringly
décolleté
, it exposed her shoulders and the rise of her firm, high breasts, fitting tightly over her hips before sweeping back into a bustle and half-train.

As she was being greeted by Mrs Roosevelt, Alexander couldn't help but stare at her. How was it that the first time he had seen her, aboard the
Scotia
, he had not realized how very beautiful and socially assured she was? She was smiling at Mrs Roosevelt, her wide-set and thick-lashed eyes sparkling in genuine delight and interest. Her bone structure was almost identical to Isabel's, but she possessed a luminous vivacity that paled Isabel's blond prettiness into insignificance. As she tilted her head slightly he noted with pleasure the purity of her jawline and with wryness, the unmistakable hint of wilfulness about her chin.

Mrs Roosevelt was turning to greet him and he dragged his attention away from Maura and towards his hostess.

‘So very kind of you to attend a ball given so early in the season,' she was saying to him. ‘I am always surprised at the number of people who return from Europe before November. The Beekmans are here and the Van Rensselaers – and Mrs Ariadne Brevoort.'

There was no mistaking the barely veiled prurient curiosity in her voice and eyes as she uttered Ariadne's name. Alexander smiled blandly, uttered a polite and meaningless inanity, and escorted Maura and Isabel into the Roosevelt ballroom.

Meeting Ariadne socially, when he was with Maura, was a disaster that had been bound to happen now that Maura was as welcome in society as Ariadne had always been.

His eyes flicked around the room. With luck Ariadne would keep her distance. She wouldn't want the embarrassment of such a public confrontation any more than he or Maura would.

The instant he set eyes on her he knew that his assumption was wrong. She was at the far side of the ballroom dressed in her favourite shade of royal purple and he inclined his head slightly towards her, making no move to close the vast space between them and not bringing her presence to Maura's attention. It was Isabel who did that.

‘Who is that woman over there, standing near to Augusta Astor? Why is she staring at you in such an intense manner?' she asked curiously.

Maura looked in the direction Isabel was indicating. Her eyes met Ariadne's. From the moment she had instructed Stephen Fassbinder to accept the shoal of invitations that had arrived for them she had known that such an encounter was inevitable. Even so, shock still stabbed through her, nearly robbing her of breath.

The elegant, silk-gowned, bejewelled woman so hostilely holding her gaze, went naked to bed with Alexander. It was a reality so incredible, so monstrous, that even after all these months she could scarcely believe it.

‘It is Ariadne Brevoort,' she said to Isabel, her knuckles white on her eagle-feathered fan.

She heard Isabel take in a swift breath. Augusta Astor began to talk to Ariadne. Ariadne turned her head towards her. The moment was over.

‘Don't forget I expect you to partner me in the quadrilles,' Alexander was saying, adjusting the cuff on one of his white dance gloves.

‘Yes.'

He had already told her that six quadrilles were the highlight of any Roosevelt ball and that it would look extremely odd if he were to partner anyone in them but his wife.

A cluster of eager young bachelors was already surrounding them, eager to further their acquaintance with Isabel. The musicians began to play and the light of the candlelit chandeliers glittered on highly glazed shirt-fronts and fresh glacé gloves and revolving tulle skirts. A stout, brocaded matron swept past sporting a diamond stomacher in the style of Marie Antoinette. A tiara that had once graced the head of a Romanov adorned the head of a Rhinelander.

Maura felt sick and giddy. How had she ever imagined she would be able to face Ariadne Brevoort socially and not be consumed by the most crippling, most devouring jealousy? When the ball was over it would be Ariadne Alexander would return to; Ariadne who would lay all night in his arms; Ariadne who would hear his honeyed words of love and passion.

Alexander tapped his foot frustratedly to the music. He didn't want to dance with any other woman in the room, not even Isabel. He had been lying when he had told Maura it would look extremely odd if he partnered anyone other than his wife in the quadrilles. It wouldn't have done so in the slightest. What would look odd, was if he were to dance with her, and her alone. Yet that was what he wanted to do. How the hell else was he ever going to have her in his arms again?

‘They're playing a waltz,' he said unnecessarily, sliding an arm around her narrow waist. ‘Let's dance.'

Maura found it both heaven and hell. She could smell the tang of his cologne, feel his heart beating next to hers, and she knew that somewhere in the room Ariadne Brevoort was watching them and that Alexander was no doubt watching Ariadne.

Later, courtesy insisted that he dance with Mrs Roosevelt; that he dance with Isabel.

Maura sat on a gilt chair, striving to make polite conversation with Gussie Schermerhorn and not think of Alexander and Ariadne laughing together; making love together.

William Backhouse Astor approached Gussie, reminding her that his name was on her card for the next dance.

Gussie rose to her feet. Ariadne Brevoort swept across to the vacated chair and sat down amid a slither of purple satin.

‘I think it very brave of you to venture into polite society in this way,' she said, flicking an ivory fan open.

Maura didn't deign to look at her. With her eyes on the dancers she merely said indifferently: ‘There is nothing brave about living as I am accustomed to live, Mrs Brevoort.'

Ariadne snapped her fan shut, her eyes scanning the dancers for a glimpse of Alexander. If he saw her in such close proximity to Maura he would leave the dance-floor and join them with the intention of separating them, no matter who his partner. The message she wished to impart was going to have to be given without any more malicious preliminaries.