Lovers and Liars Trilogy (14 page)

“That’s a nice surprise, darling. What brought that on?”

“Nothing. I’m very fond of you. Just occasionally, I guess it’s time to remind you of that.”

“And a very good thing too. Now, you take this tray. We’ll eat by the fire, would that be nice? No, Dog, you damn well can’t have a sandwich.”

She bent and gave Dog, an ancient and malodorous Labrador, a shove. Dog, who had a winning disposition, did not budge. Once trained to the gun, and Sir Richard’s favorite gun dog, he had in latter years grown soft. Since the demise of his sister—known equally succinctly as Bitch—he had lorded it over Mary’s heart and house. He continued, now, to sit under her feet, his eyes fixed on hers with liquid adoration. Mary sniffed.

“Cupboard love,” she said to him sternly, then—as Gini could have predicted—relented at once.

“Oh, very well.” She sighed. “One digestive biscuit—and that’s it.”

Gini smiled, and carried the tray back into the studio. Mary followed, Dog paddling behind her. Pacified by the biscuit, Dog lowered himself with arthritic care onto the hearth rug, closed his eyes, and pretended to go to sleep.

Mary curled up on the sofa opposite Gini. She gave Dog a fond look. “Poor old thing. I shouldn’t weaken—he’s like me, getting old and fat.”

“Plump,” Gini corrected her, passing the sandwiches across. “And that’s good. It suits you.”

“Maybe. I’m not sure. You know, after Richard died, I said to myself—right, now I’m going to give in to all my worst tendencies. I’m going to go to bed late, stay in bed all morning, read novels, eat chocolates, stop tinting my hair, and get fat if I feel like it—” Mary paused. “Oh, and stop entertaining endless strangers, that too. Forget I was ever a diplomat’s daughter or a diplomat’s wife. From now on, I said to myself, I shall never have more than four people to dinner, and they won’t get in the door unless they’re people I really like….”

“I see.” Gini smiled. “So what went wrong?”

“Training.” Mary gave a comfortable sigh. “Habit. I found I couldn’t give it all up. And then it’s good to keep busy—and people were very kind. They kept asking me out, so I had to ask them back…. Still.” She grinned. “I kept some of my resolutions. Just look at me. White hair. A whole stone heavier. A perfect fright…”

Gini glanced across at her stepmother. The description was incorrect. True, Mary’s hair was now an uncompromising white, and she was undeniably plumper, but to Gini’s eyes Mary had, and had always had, the best and most lasting kind of beauty. Her skin was clear, her blue eyes astute, and her kindness could be read in her face.

“Not true,” Gini said dryly. “And I hope you know that.”

“Good of you to say so.” Mary reached unrepentently for another sandwich. “I lack self-discipline. Always did. I saw Lise this afternoon—I took her a box of those wonderful Belgian chocolates to cheer her up. And what happened? Lise nibbled at one, the way she does, and I scoffed five of them. Five! The shame of it! And after a huge tea, at that.”

“I expect she forgave you.” Gini poured herself some coffee. There was her opening, she thought—as easily as that. “Cheer her up?” she went on, in a casual tone. “Why was that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, darling. Lise takes these dips occasionally. She was feeling pretty low, I think. She just got back today from their country place. They’d been down there over Christmas and New Year, and apparently Lise had some bug. Flu or a vile cold. Something like that. Actually, she seemed fine. By the time I left, she’d perked up. I think the truth is, she worries about John much more than she’ll admit.”

“Worries about John?”

“Oh, you know, darling. Security. With all this current Middle Eastern business—threats to embassies and so on. She sees terrorists behind every bush. I’ve told her a thousand times, John’s perfectly safe. Everywhere he goes, he’s surrounded by these terrifying thugs…. Well, maybe I shouldn’t call them that. But they are ex-marines, most of them, average height six foot six, so they give a thuggish impression, though actually when you talk to them, they’re really very nice….”

Mary’s voice tailed away vaguely. One of Mary’s weaknesses as a witness, Gini thought, was her inherent good nature. Although no fool, Mary erred on the side of charity; in her book, most people—until conclusively proved otherwise—were “nice.”

“I’ve been reading about the Hawthornes,” Gini said, still in a casual tone. “Tonight—a huge feature on them at home. In
Hello!
magazine.”

“Oh, I saw that!” Mary’s face brightened. “Didn’t the children look sweet? So like John. I can remember him, you know, when he was their age. In fact, that was when I first met him—when my father was posted to Washington. Old S. S. rather courted Daddy for a bit—I forget why, but he must have thought Daddy could be useful to him, I expect. Anyway, we went to stay at their country place, you remember, I told you, overlooking the Hudson. I was about twenty and terribly impressed….” She hesitated. “No, not impressed, that’s the wrong word. Awed. It was so fearfully grand, quite terrifying. Millions of flunkeys and maids, and these tremendous formal feasts. I hadn’t been in America very long then, and back in England, well, there was still this gray postwar make-do sort of world. So I couldn’t quite believe people still lived like that. And S. S. was such a grandee, such a martinet.”

“Did you like him?”

“What, old S. S.?” Mary wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. “No. I didn’t. And neither did my father, I can remember that. He thought he wasn’t to be trusted—but then, everyone knew that. I thought he was a bully—much too used to getting his own way. And rather crude, in an odd way. I mean, he had perfect manners when he wanted, and the kind of charm that turns on and off like a tap. But he thought everyone had his price. He thought he could buy anyone and anything. Unfortunately, he was usually right. But I didn’t like that.”

“Interesting…And a martinet too?”

“Darling—and how!” Mary reached for the chocolate mousse. “The whole house was run by a stopwatch. Drinks at seven-thirty, dinner at eight everyone in place, to the second, and woe betide anyone who was late. And those poor children! So regimented, private classes in this, that, and everything. They never had a second’s peace. And then, of course, they had to excel at absolutely everything, they could never be second best…. Mmmm. This mousse is absolutely delicious. Are you sure you won’t have some?”

Gini shook her head. She leaned forward to give the now-somnolent Dog a stroke. Dog made appreciative whiffling noises. Gini straightened. She knew that Mary, once launched on the past, would need only a small prompt

“All the children?” she said. “Boys as well as girls? John too?”

“Oh,
yes.
” Mary frowned. “Maybe, when John’s mother was still alive, she managed to intervene—though I doubt it. But when I went there that time, she was quite recently dead. Maybe that made S. S. harsher with the children for some reason, I don’t know. But it could be very ugly. He’d cross-examine them, in front of guests, and put them down in this terrible biting way he had. The second boy, Prescott, was absolutely terrified of him. He had a very bad stammer then, and his father would make fun of him—and the poor boy, you could see he was utterly crushed. He’d stand there, scarlet in the face, physically shaking…. It was really horrible. It made me feel sick.”

“Didn’t any of them stand up to him?”

“Well, darling, they were so young—John was the eldest, of course, but he was only about ten. There was one time—” Mary broke off.

“Yes?” Gini said.

Mary’s face became troubled. “I’ll tell you, darling, but you have to promise, it’s between us. I’d never mention it to John, I expect he thinks I’ve forgotten, and if he knew I’d told anyone, he’d be terribly upset.”

“Of course. Between us…”

“Well.” Mary leaned forward and lowered her voice. “It was quite extraordinary, really. It was the third day of our visit, and old S. S. knew I rode. I think he wanted to show off a bit—he had some fine horses, very grand stables, that sort of thing. Anyway, we went out for a ride, my father and I, S. S. Hawthorne, and the two boys, Prescott and John. I knew straight away that poor Prescott hated horses. He was afraid of them—you can always tell. When we arrived at the stables, one of the grooms brought out a pony for Prescott, a sweet little mare, very quiet, and just as he was helping the boy into the saddle, S. S. Hawthorne stopped him. He told him to change the boy’s mount….” Mary frowned. “I think Prescott knew what was happening, straight away. He went white as a sheet. John said something, the groom said something, but S. S. just started shouting and blustering the way he always did, and in the end, they gave in. They saddled up this other horse—it was far too big for a six-year-old boy, and it was even giving the stable hands problems, jerking and kicking, and rolling its eyes…. Anyway, to cut a long story short, poor Prescott had to ride it, and half a mile from the house, the horse threw him. He wasn’t hurt, but he was badly shaken. He was crying, and he had a cut on his face. John had dismounted, and he was helping his brother up—and then this extraordinary thing happened, well, two extraordinary things, really. S. S. Hawthorne had dismounted by then as well. He strode across to the two boys, and I thought he was going to comfort Prescott, take him back to the house. But he didn’t. He just stood there, looking down at them, and then in this horrible voice, this really icy voice, he told Prescott to remount.”

“A six-year-old boy?”

“That’s right. I couldn’t believe my eyes. By this time Prescott’s horse was frothing and sweating. S. S. could scarcely hold it, it was almost ready to bolt. But he just stood there, looking down at Prescott, and he said: ‘Get back on the horse.’”

“And did he?”

Mary gave a sigh. “Darling, I don’t think he could have done. He was terrified, paralyzed with fear. So he just stood there, I think he was trying to say something, but he couldn’t, no words would come out. And then John did this astonishing thing….”

“He intervened?”

“More than that. He moved, so he was standing right in front of his father, with Prescott cowering behind him, and he just looked at his father with this white set face, and then he said: ‘He’s not getting back on that horse. I won’t let him. It’s not safe….’ I’m not sure quite what happened next, it was very very fast, but his father started to say something, and made some move—to push John aside, something like that. And John hit him. He hit him really hard. He was tall for his age, and he just sort of reached up with his riding crop. And hit his father, across the face, with his whip.” There was a small silence. Mary gave a shiver.

“Aged ten?” Gini said.

“Aged ten. It was quite extraordinary. So very deliberate. It wasn’t as if John had lost his temper—nothing like that. He was absolutely calm, a bit pale maybe—but his expression was almost blank. And he hit S. S. hard—there was this red weal right across his cheek.”

“So what did S. S. Hawthorne do? Hit him back?”

“No. Not at all. He just stood there, looking down at John, not saying a word, and then he started to laugh—really laugh. There was this huge eruption of laughter. He threw his head back, his whole body shook, and you could see…He wasn’t angry, or embarrassed or shocked. He was delighted. Exultant. Then he threw his arms around John in a huge bear hug, lifted him off the ground, kissed his cheeks….”

“And that was it?”

“That was it. Drama over. Prescott was reprieved, John never said a word, Daddy and I rode back to the house. Daddy was terribly terribly angry. In fact, he cut short our visit. We left that afternoon. But S. S. Hawthorne didn’t give a damn. He just boasted about how one of his children had stood up to him for once. How at least one of his sons was a true man and not a milksop. It was ghastly—in front of all the children, all the house guests. It went on right through lunch.”

Mary’s gaze met Gini’s. Her kind face had set, and her eyes were anxious, as if something were troubling her. She sighed, and shook her head. “So, there you are. A little vignette.” She made an attempt at a smile. “The home life of the Hawthornes. It explains a lot about John, I think, that incident. It shows you how brave he was even then. And sometimes, now, when I look back…” She allowed the sentence to trail away.

“Yes?” Gini prompted, but for some reason Mary chose not to be drawn.

“Oh, nothing,” she said more briskly. “Just that John isn’t an easy person to know, that’s all, not even when you’ve been friends with him as long as I have. He…still, never mind that. You didn’t come here to reminisce about the Hawthornes. I must be boring you to death.”

Mary had risen. From a cigarette box she took the one cigarette she permitted herself per day, and lit it. Something was still troubling her, Gini could tell, and she watched Mary almost physically push the thought away. She gave herself a little shake, then turned back to Gini with a smile.

“Anyway, I’d love you to meet John properly. And Lise, of course. It’s so maddening. Every time I try and get you two together, you’re out of town, or he’s out of town. I don’t suppose you’re free this Saturday, are you?”

“This Saturday? Yes, I am.”

“Well, why don’t you come over, then? It’s a dinner party and it’s Lise’s birthday too.” Mary smiled. “I thought I’d have a birthday party, a sort of mixture of duty and fun. There’re a lot of rather boring people I owe invitations to, so the actual dinner will probably be a bit grim. You know what diplomats are like. Protocol and placements. But John and Lise will be coming….” She hesitated, then her face brightened. “I know. Why don’t you join us for drinks afterward? Much more fun. All the bores will leave by then.”

“Will the Hawthornes stay on?”

“Of course.” Mary laughed. “John always stays late. Hits form at midnight. Like me.”

She broke off. The front doorbell had just rung. Mary gave an exclamation of annoyance.

“What on earth? It’s way past ten—who the devil could that be?” From the hearth rag, Dog lifted his huge head. He turned his gaze toward the door, raised his hackles, and gave a faint growl. The bell rang again. Mary glanced at Gini.

“How absurd. You know I despise myself for this, but since Richard died, I get nervous sometimes, being alone at night in such a big house. Too stupid—but Dog’s perfectly useless. All bark and no bite…”