Rare Objects (42 page)

He handed me a glass, raised his. “Cheers!”

“Cheers,” I echoed, watching as he took a swallow. It looked good. Maybe I would drink when James arrived, when we were together. But until then I wanted to be at my best.

“I don't suppose you've seen James anywhere?” I asked, putting the glass to one side.

“James?” He turned, peering through the crowd as if he expected him to manifest at the mere mention of his name. “Why, no.”

“I thought he'd be here.”

“Oh, well, Jim's not often in town these days. Spends his time on the Dark Continent.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Were you meant to meet him? Always been a great favorite with the girls.”

I laughed, a bleating, slightly desperate sound. “No! Just surprised that the whole family isn't here, that's all. I've been playing lady-in-waiting to Diana all day. I just wondered.”

His face fell. “Yes, Diana.” Clearly he'd not recovered from the
blow of her engagement. “I don't know why she'd go for a broomstick like that. As dry as a piece of toast, if you ask me.”

“He's not that bad!”

“Compared to some of her other prospects . . .” He drained his glass.

I didn't want him to leave; I put my hand on his arm. “There are more lobsters in the sea, Nicky.”

He face widened into a grin. “Too true, Mary!”

“May.”

“Yes, well, I'm only saying, too true!”

“Well, if it isn't Tricky Nicky Howerd! Slippery as an eel!” A young man was pushing his way toward us, hand outstretched. “Haven't seen you in years!” He grasped Nicky's palm, pumping it vigorously. “Is this your girl? Aren't you going to introduce us?”

Nicky looked at me as if he'd only just realized I was female. Then, chest swelling, he took my arm. “Mavis, this is Richard Cranley Saunders, or Soft Spot, as he was known back in Princeton. Could always touch him up for cash, isn't that right?”

“Perfectly true! Perfectly true,” Richard assured me, delighted.

“I'm May Fanning.”

“Well, May!” Richard jerked his head toward Nicky. “You've got a strange catch in this one!”

“Aw, come off it, Richard! You're going to scare her away!”

Richard screwed his eyes closed and made a strangulated gasping noise that must've been a laugh. “Wouldn't want to do that, now would we?”

From then on I found myself being escorted by Nicky Howerd, who was only too pleased to pretend that I was his date for the evening. And while he wasn't thrilling company, at least everyone seemed to know him. We went out on the veranda, where Diana's mother raised a curious eyebrow in greeting, and I en
joyed the dubious pleasure of having Diana's earlier lie seemingly confirmed. Nicky introduced me to a long line of people who accepted me without question or, indeed, curiosity, people who spoke in flat languid tones about polo matches, trips to Europe, and yachting races.

“I'm having a devil of a time finding a good groom to replace Dawes. No one knows how to handle Dancing Joe the way he did.”

“That's because he's an Arabian. You need a Spaniard. Or a Moor. I have a Moor. Speaks to Shalimar in some ridiculous babble, but his coat has never looked better.”

“Has anyone else noticed how expensive the rooms at the Waldorf Astoria have become?”

“The service is abysmal!”

“It's too hot in the City. We're leaving for Bar Harbor on Tuesday.”

Occasionally a vague political opinion was tossed into the arena; it fell like a cigarette butt onto the ground, smoldering only a little before being crushed out. It was clear that some of the men had political futures ahead of them, but it was a legacy, passed from generation to generation by the same discreet forces and unquestioned private alliances that had been formed centuries earlier. They had been born into a tide of cleaner, clearer water, sweeping them in a single, inevitable direction. None of them would ever know what it was like to swim upstream.

No one asked me who I was or where I'd come from; on Nicky's arm I blended into the fabric of their world seamlessly. Instead they simply picked up where'd they'd last left off on a continual twenty-year conversation on the exhausting prospect of being wealthy: on the many responsibilities, changes of clothing, and superhuman reserves of patience it required.

The cocktail hour progressed. I held off drinking by throwing myself headlong into a conversation with a great hulk of a girl named Becky Flint, a creature as wide as she was tall, who'd heroically crammed herself into a layered gown of sea-green tulle for the occasion. She sat miserably on a divan, legs slightly splayed, eyeing the trays of canapés as they went by—caviar toast, smoked salmon and crème fraiche, fois gras tarts, truffled quail's eggs, lobster mayonnaise, fresh crab puffs . . .

“I'm not to eat any,” she said. “Mother says once I start, I can't stop, so it's best not to start in the first place. But honestly, what's the point in going out if I can't eat anything?”

“I know what you mean. It's maddening.”

“It's torture,” Becky confirmed sourly. “The girls who can eat them don't want them, and I want them and can't eat them. Something's wrong in this world, don't you think?”

“Terribly wrong. Come on. Let's wander round and count how many men look as if they're wearing toupees.”

Becky hauled herself up. “We can start with my father, if we can find him.”

In the drawing room, somewhere around the ninth undisputed toupee spotting, we ran into Diana and Charlie. Diana caught my eye over the sea of heads with a quizzical, slightly panicked look. We went over.

“Congratulations, Diana,” Becky offered. “Gosh, your dress is nice!”

“Thank you.” Diana took my arm; she seemed drawn tight as a tripwire. “Do you think you could help me with something? I need to fix my hair.”

Ferrying me into an empty corridor, she leaned back against the wall and pressed her eyes closed. “I feel like my head is going to explode! Why can't it just all be over?”

I put a hand on her shoulder. “It will be over soon enough. You're doing so well,” I assured her. “So very well.”

“I
loathe
people, loathe chitchat!” She twisted her pearls between her fingers. “I especially loathe these people. Not a single one of them cares about me in the slightest! Or has the slightest idea of who I really am!”

“This isn't your real life, Diana. Remember that. Think of Max. None of this really matters.”

“But it does matter!” she insisted. “It matters too much.”

“Pardon me, ma'am.”

A steward in a uniform stood behind us, a concerned look on his face. “Something's happened, ma'am. We were just getting ready to call for dinner when . . . oh, dear . . . How to put this?”

Diana sighed. “Now what?”

“I think it best perhaps if you come this way.”

We followed him through closed doors into the dining hall, where long tables were laid out for supper. Crisp white linens sparkled in the golden rays of the setting sun. It was odd how they shone. Suddenly I realized why—the carefully set places were covered in shattered glass, glistening shards everywhere. “What's happened?”

“Someone has broken each and every glass!” the steward explained, his voice rising in panic. “We don't know what to do—it will take hours to clean!”

Diana's eyes widened in disbelief. “But who . . .”

Suddenly, in the far corner, there was a movement; two small, swinging legs. Hands folded on his lap, sitting very calmly on a dining chair, was Andrew.

“I don't know what to do! What to say to the kitchen!” the steward continued, wringing his hands.

“What's wrong?” Elsa walked in. “What's holding up dinner?”

Diana stared at her but seemed frozen, unable to speak.

“There's been an accident.” I explained finally.

Elsa saw Andrew sitting in the corner. “You're meant to be with Mrs. Riggs upstairs. What are you doing here?”

Then slowly she caught sight of the shattered glass, and her face changed.

Flying across the room, she yanked Andrew up by the arm, her face white with rage. “Did you do this? Have you broken all these glasses?”

He winced in pain. “You're hurting me!”

“Please, Elsa!” Diana pleaded. “Don't!”

But she ignored her. “Answer me!” She shook him, hard. “Why would you do such a malicious thing?
Why?
”

“Elsa, please don't hurt him!” Diana begged.

Elsa turned on her. “He's mine, remember? I'm the one who looks after him day after day—I'll handle this!” Her hand landed hard across his cheek. Diana gasped. A red welt appeared on the soft pink skin. “Don't you understand what will happen?” Her voice continued to rise. “What is
bound
to happen if you continue to behave like this? Are you
trying
to get in trouble?”

Andrew blinked up at her through tears. “But Mrs. Riggs says that drinking is illegal. That you should all be arrested! And I don't want you to be arrested. I don't!”

Elsa let go of his arm. She teetered backward, stunned, like a person thrown off balance.

“What's going on in here? Why isn't dinner being served?” Mrs. Van der Laar and Charlie Peabody were hovering in the doorway. Then Mrs. Van der Laar noticed the glass. “Good God! What's happened?”

“There's been an accident,” Elsa said matter-of-factly, taking charge. “Couldn't be helped, I'm afraid. We'll have to make other arrangements.”

“I don't know what to tell the kitchen,” the steward kept repeating to no one in particular. “I don't know what to say. We're meant to begin service any moment!”

Elsa glared at him. “Tell them to put the food on trays and serve it on the lawn. We will have a picnic.”

“Are you
mad
?” Mrs. Van der Laar hissed, horrified. She looked to Charlie, who in turn stared at Diana in alarm.

“Oh, what fun!” Diana's voice was thinly edged with desperation. “Besides, it's a beautiful evening! Aren't we lucky? Open more champagne! We can throw rugs across the lawn! And light candelabras!”

“And for God's sake,” Elsa commanded, “send the band outside onto the terrace! If anyone asks, there's been a leak in the dining room. But”—she shot her older sister a stern look—“no one
will
ask. Now hurry!” She clapped her hands, and the steward lurched into action.

Diana made a move toward Andrew, but Elsa intervened. “He's my responsibility, have you forgotten? You have more important things to attend to right now.” She pointed her toward the door. “This is your party—deal with your guests.”

“Be gentle,” Diana pleaded.

Elsa's eyes narrowed. “I will do whatever I think is necessary. And now”—she nodded to Charlie—“so must you.”

Charlie took Diana's arm, and they went back to the party, putting on a brave face about the sudden shift in arrangements. And the room was suddenly filled with a dozen waiters, all executing Elsa's orders.

The impromptu picnic turned out to be an inspired solution. The party that before had labored under all the ponderous formality
of a state dinner was suddenly transformed into a gay carnival atmosphere. With the addition of extra champagne and dozens of flickering candelabras, the lawn took on a romantic bohemian air. Oriental carpets were brought out, strewn with piles of velvet and damask pillows where young and old alike lounged like sultans in a harem. Overstuffed armchairs and settees, transplanted from the drawing room to sheltered groves and beneath trees, made the scene look surreal and magical. Balmy breezes tossed through the silken folds of women's gowns as they waltzed on the grass in bare feet to the music floating from across the terrace. As twilight faded into darkness, stars appeared; long hedgerows and carefully cultivated gardens became convenient alcoves for secret assignations.

Mrs. Van der Laar, positioned in a leather wingback chair near a bank of white rhododendrons, continued to hold court over a coterie of aging friends and admirers. They were discussing travel across Europe and the difference in the railways from Germany to Italy.

“It's often impossible to get on a train at all!” lamented one woman. “We had to wedge ourselves into
third
class across Hungary. There was a
goat
in the carriage!”

“I should have waited for another train,” Mrs. Van der Laar asserted as I walked by. “I always tell my children, one only meets first-class people in first-class places. Traveling with goats will never get you anywhere in life!”

They all laughed.

I carried on walking, peering into clusters of sprawling bodies, searching through the crowded lawn for James but unable to make out faces clearly in the wavering candlelight. The band was playing “You Do Something to Me,” and the air of romantic intrigue struck a melancholy chord. Already the day had been exhausting; life in Diana's world was like being tossed into a pit with a bunch of very well-dressed, starving tigers. Holding one's
own was a matter of survival, each interaction another skirmish in a never-ending war.

I walked until I found a quiet spot on a bench near a high stone wall covered in roses. This far from the rest of the party, I could finally hear the sound of the surf breaking on the rocks. In one direction lay the sprawl of bodies, laughter, and music; in the other, the black void of the sea, drawing me into the darkness like an outstretched hand.

It reminded me of Ulysses stranded on his paradise island, sitting on the shore, staring out at the ocean day after day. Behind me was everything I'd thought I'd ever wanted—wealth, privilege, beauty—but here I was, longing for the music to stop, the dancing to end, seeking out the silence at the party.

“Where were you?”

“Relax! I only just got in. There was an accident on the road from New York.”