Lucy (7 page)

Just when she had decided that MacGregor had returned to his old habit of finding dreams in the bottom of a whiskey bottle, she saw a little cloud of dust in the distance which slowly resolved itself into a four-wheeler. She ran to the door and waited as MacGregor argued in his impeccable French over the price of the fare.

At last he burst into the kitchen, his face hidden behind a mountain of boxes and parcels.

“Run upstairs and get into these,” he panted. “I’ve told the cabby to wait.”

When Lucy was finally left alone in her bedroom, she began to unwrap the various packages with trembling fingers. The ex-butler had surpassed himself.

A gown which seemed a miracle of gossamer-pink tulle was hurriedly donned over a sea of frothy petticoats. She deftly piled her hair on top of her head in one of the styles she had used on Lady Angela. Then a huge frivolous tulle hat shaded from lightest pink to deepest rose was perched on top and she drew on a long pair of pink kid gloves.

Lucy pushed open the kitchen door and stood timidly on the threshold. MacGregor’s eyes misted with tears. “You’re a picture! A daughter any man would be proud of. Now come along before you lose your courage!”

The terrace of the Palace Hotel was already crowded. White lace tea gowns seemed to be the order of the day for the ladies, and white blazers and flannels for the men. MacGregor gave a sigh of aesthetic pleasure. What a fitting background for his protégée.

They took their places at a small white cane table and MacGregor leaned forward and whispered, “The Blair girls are at the next table. Now look and listen.”

The Blair girls—Lisbeth and Amy—were surrounded by a small court of admirers. Their dresses of priceless lace clung to their exquisite hourglass figures. Both were almost identical in appearance with soft brown hair, wide brown eyes and little, straight noses.

Elaborate hats piled with lace and fruit and flowers and birds balanced on their little heads giving them the precocious appeal of child brides. Both had little babyish voices which they almost always remembered to use, and only rarely did the high, commanding, arrogant tone that was natural to them show through. They were the daughters of a wealthy brewer. Brewers, as Lucy knew, were mysteriously not considered to be “in trade,” whereas whiskey distillers most definitely were.

The attention of the party was concentrated on a blushing youth, who, it appeared, had been guilty of deserting the Blair circle the evening before to pay court to a French mademoiselle, and who was being heavily baited over his defection.

“Honestly, Albert,” drawled a thin, pallid young man with a receding chin. “How could you neglect our divine Misses Blair for some froggie?”

Albert blushed again and looked miserably into his teacup for inspiration.

“Well, y’know,” said a chubby young man who rejoiced in the nickname of Waffles, “Frenchies is supposed to be hot stuff, what? Bags of ooh la-la, eh, Albert?”

Lisbeth Blair poured more tea with a graceful, swanlike motion. “Pwease don’t tease poor Albert,” she said, in her childlike speech. “The most correct young men do have these wittle wapses with foreigners. Take my cousin Freddie. Absolutely dottie over our Fräulein, he was.”

“Don’t know how you tewwible men can look at foreigners,” said Amy with a bewildered air. “After all, I mean, it’s not
Bwittish.
The Germans are all dumplings and sausages and the French are all frog’s legs.”

“Hey, what!” roared Waffles. “Did your mam’selle have frog’s legs, Albert? Hey, good that. Frog’s legs.” He laughed so inordinately at his own wit, that he turned purple in the face and had to be slapped on the back by his friends. “Anyway,” he added when he had recovered, “none of us has a look in when Andrew Harvey’s around.”

An unlovely flush rose up Amy’s slender neck. “You know, Waffles,” she remarked in a high, strident voice, “you really are a common type of boor.”

There was a sudden silence while everyone else looked uncomfortable and wondered what to say.

The thin young man’s pale eyes wandered around the room in search of a change of topic. His eyes lighted appreciatively on Lucy who sat demurely beside MacGregor at the next table. “That’s a damned pretty girl,” he remarked in an undertone which rang around the terrace. The pansy-brown eyes of the Blair sisters rested momentarily on Lucy, who returned their stares coolly, and then gracefully turned her head to ask MacGregor if he would like more tea. “Beautifully done,” hissed the butler and then sat back to watch the repercussions. Lucy’s instinctive arrogance of manner had flustered the sisters. Only someone with wealth and power could afford to look at
them
like that.

“Oh, very pretty if you wike chocolate-box gowns,” whispered Amy, smoothing her own lace dress. The thin young man who appeared to be called Boo by his friends continued to rake Lucy with his pale eyes.

“You, sir,” said MacGregor suddenly in an imperious, high-clipped voice, fixing Boo with a cold stare. “I find your looks impertinent, fellow. Kindly restrict your attentions to your own party.” Boo rose to his unlovely feet, for once dithering and unsure.

“My sincere apologies, sir. But the beauty of your … er … daughter made me forget myself.”

“Then remember yourself in future,” drawled MacGregor, turning an indifferent shoulder.

The Blair party were now desperate to be introduced to the newcomers. Arrogance and rudeness, they knew, were only ever directed toward them by members of a higher caste.

But MacGregor was rising to his feet and holding out his arm to Lucy. “Come, my dear. I find the atmosphere of this place oppressive.”

They made a magnificent exit followed by the avid stares of the Blair party. “She must be some sort of foweign woyalty,” whispered Lisbeth. “Find out who she is, Boo!”

But despite a generous tip, the waiter could not supply them with any information and they watched in silence as the mysterious couple made their way along the promenade.

“Very good for a start,” MacGregor was saying. “Now the one called Boo is Lord David Sythe, and a bad lot. Sort that pinches the housemaids’ bottoms. Young Albert is the Honorable Albert Wemsworth; pots of money, nice lad. Waffles is Jeremy Wafflington; parents in tea, rich, stupid. What did you think?”

“They’re
horrible,”
gasped Lucy, clutching her hat as an errant breeze whipped along the promenade, sending the striped awnings and flags cracking merrily. “Do you mean I have to behave like
them
… sneering and spiteful and cruel?”

“They’re not all like that,” said MacGregor soothingly. “Think of Andrew Harvey.”

“He can’t like them much either,” said Lucy, “or he would have been married before this.”

“Oh, Viscount Harvey’s been too much of a man of action to settle down. Been in the army for a long time. Major when he retired last year. Could have been made colonel had he stayed on.” He looked at her slyly. “Of course it’s said that he plans to settle down now….”

“He may be married already,” said Lucy, shivering, as a black cloud appeared to materialize out of nowhere and hide the sun.

“Not yet. I check the court circular regularly. Perhaps we had better go back. It looks like a storm is coming.”

They both turned. The increasing wind whipped Lucy’s pink, still-open parasol from her hand and sent it flying.

“Don’t worry,” said MacGregor with a grin. “There goes your first gallant.”

A slim blond man in a striped blazer suddenly appeared and was off in full pursuit of the parasol. He finally caught it with one magnificent leap as it was about to commit suicide in the depths of the Mediterranean, and turned toward them, waving his trophy triumphantly.

Lucy stood still, leaning lightly on MacGregor’s arm and watching him walk toward them. The gaudy colors of Monte Carlo fled before her eyes. For a split second she was back on a Highland road, watching a fair-haired man and his horse standing in a blaze of autumn colors. Then she blinked and the scene fled. She found herself looking up into the gray eyes of a very tall young man. He had a square tanned face and a riot of golden curls. His clothes were simple and elegant and slightly worn. He gave Lucy an enchanting smile as he handed back her parasol.

“Let me introduce myself,” he said. “Jeremy Brent, at your service.”

“We are much obliged to you, young man. I am Mr. Balfour-MacGregor and this is my daughter. We both thank you for a very gallant rescue.”

“Oh, we are acquainted already in a way,” said Mr. Brent cheerfully. “I saw you at the casino last night with … er … another daughter, I presume.”

The pair in front of him went suddenly very still. The sky above had turned black and a jagged flash of lightning lit up the pallor of Lucy’s face.

“Just so,” said MacGregor heavily. “Now if you will excuse us, we must be on our way….”

Heavy drops of rain began to thud down on the promenade and black-clad waiters dashed out to gather in chairs, tables, and umbrellas.

“You’ll be drowned if you leave now,” said Mr. Brent cheerfully, leading the unwilling couple to a nearby café. “Come … let me offer you a glass of wine.”

To run away through the rain would have seemed eccentric to say the least so the unwilling couple followed him into the café.

These cafés were only meant for the sun, thought Lucy. Bereft of its gay striped umbrellas, it seemed a dismal affair inside with flyblown mirrors, a sanded floor, and rickety wooden tables and chairs. A small brown-and-white dog of indeterminate breed urinated with Gallic indifference against the doorway.

Seemingly oblivious of his new friends’ stony faces, Jeremy Brent ordered champagne and then settled back comfortably in his chair.

“Well, sir, I must admit I was very impressed by the play of your daughter at the casino. Extraordinary luck. Yes. Wouldn’t think she was your sister, Miss Balfour-MacGregor. You aren’t very alike, you know.”

“Quite,” said Lucy.

The rain lashed down on the promenade as if trying to prove that winter could be just as nasty in Monte Carlo as anywhere else.

“Does she usually have that kind of luck, Mr. Balfour-MacGregor?”

“Beginner’s luck, that’s all. She is a very retiring sort of girl. Going into a convent next week,” said MacGregor, improvising wildly.

“Oh, I say, that is a shame. You don’t happen to share her luck, miss . . ?”

“No.”

“Oh, well, wish I had luck like that. But baccarat’s the very devil.”

“I’m afraid baccarat—in fact any kind of gambling—bores me,” said Lucy with a delicate yawn.

“I say, I
am
sorry. Are you staying in Monte for a while?”

“We are leaving tomorrow,” said MacGregor. “It seems as though the rain will never stop.”

“And then where do you plan to go?”

“To London eventually. My daughter is coming out next Season.”

“By George! I’m glad I met her first,” said Mr. Brent enthusiastically. “All the chaps will be at your feet, Miss Balfour-MacGregor. They’ll be lying outside your house in droves.”

Lucy smiled at his nonsense, liking his square tanned face.

“I shall be staying
with
a friend of mine in Stanhope Gate—Lady Hester Blendish? Perhaps you are acquainted with her. Friend of my mother.”

“I know her slightly,” said MacGregor who had once had the honor of serving Lady Hester tea.

“If I remember rightly, she detests foreigners.”

Jeremy Brent raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Then you do indeed know her better than most. That is a dislike which she is slightly ashamed of and only imparts to her closest friends. I say, it is jolly meeting you like this. May I leave my card with you when you are in London?”

“I am not quite sure where we shall be staying—” began MacGregor but Lucy interrupted with, “Oh, we shall let you know our address when we find a place.”

She ignored a glare from MacGregor. Lucy had taken a liking to this large, pleasant young man, especially since he had dropped the touchy subject of gambling.

A weak ray of watery sunlight crept into the dingy café and MacGregor almost leapt to his feet. “Come along, Lucy, we’ll be late for our next appointment.”

“Perhaps I may escort you—” began Mr. Brent but his offer was almost rudely brushed aside by MacGregor. “No, no,” he fussed. “No need for that.”

Lucy turned at the entrance to the café and bestowed her warmest smile on her new admirer. “Thank you for the champagne, Mr. Brent. I shall certainly look forward to seeing you in London.”

“Forward! You’re the one that’s forward!” muttered MacGregor a few minutes later. “You should not encourage any young man so boldly.”

“I thought he was rather nice,” said Lucy as they walked slowly along the rain-washed promenade.

“He reminded me a bit too much of myself,” said MacGregor obscurely, and would say no more.

“Why did you say we would leave tomorrow?” persisted Lucy, who was just beginning to enjoy the novelty of wearing a pretty dress and looking like herself.

“Well, well. I thought we might travel on. The weathers going to turn bad and we don’t want to be trapped here. There’s a small place in Germany that’s just become fashionable. Let me see … what’s it called? Ah, Herrenbad! That’s it! We’ll go to Herrenbad.”

They walked slowly off to look for a fiacre, their figures silhouetted against a primrose-yellow sunset.

Jeremy Brent eased himself out from his hiding place behind a clump of palms.

“I might just travel to Herrenbad myself,” he murmured, and stood watching the two retreating figures until they were out of sight.

Lucy looked around the table at the players and prayed she was not going to faint.

The casino rooms were stifling, a hell of red Turkey carpets, red plush, and green baize. She wanted more than anything to leave. She seemed to have won an incredible sum of money but there was no sound of MacGregor’s cough from behind her—the signal to leave. The masklike faces of the other gamblers at the table had not betrayed, by so much as a flicker, their surprise at her extraordinary luck. But the atmosphere was heavy with suppressed excitement. Her wig was making her head ache and the pillows down her dress were making her sweat in a very unladylike way.