Palace Circle (16 page)

“Her father was U.S. consul in Buenos Aires,” Jerome said. “Her mother is Irish American and
her
mother was Chilean and reportedly a descendant of Spain's royal house of Navarre. Which is why Thelma is pronounced the Spanish way: Tel-ma.”

Petra sighed. From her rare visits she knew how fascinated Virginians were with family trees. If she wasn't very careful the conversation was going to veer off onto Spanish royalty and she would be left no wiser about the Prince of Wales's current love life.

“The King and Queen, Uncle Jerome,” she said, prompting him in a way she could never have if her father had been present. “Do Their Majesties know about Lady Furness?”

Jerome smiled. “The answer is that I don't think they do.
Not yet. And now that you're sixteen, Petra, I think you're old enough to drop the honorary ‘uncle’ title. If your mother agrees, of course.”

He looked across at Delia whose eyes held his for so long, Petra actually thought she was going to object.

“Of course not,” Delia's voice was filled with warmth. “So silly to use it when you are most definitely not her uncle.”

“No, indeed.”

Petra wasn't sure, but she thought her mother blushed. As this was patently ridiculous, she wondered if her mother had been wise to serve hot spicy chicken when the temperature was in the nineties.

“And what is the gossip about Margot?” Delia asked. “How is she coping with widowhood?”

“She spends most days at the House of Commons, in the Ladies' Gallery.”

“And the Churchills?”

“I haven't seen Clemmie for a while. Winston is very hangdog. To be honest, I quite understand his depression. Unemployment is escalating—George Curzon's son-in-law, Oswald Mosley, was recently asked to solve the problem, but the cabinet has blocked every scheme he's put forward. I suspect that by the time I get back to London he will have resigned. In Germany, unemployment is even worse. Winston actually thinks it will bring that ruffian Hitler to power.”

Petra stopped listening. London gossip about the Prince of Wales was riveting. London gossip about politics wasn't. Jerome, however, was a Liberal member of Parliament and politics was one of his favorite topics of conversation.

From the other side of the table Jack gave her a wink. It was a common joke between them that when her father wasn't there, the atmosphere often bordered on the risqué.

“It's because Mama is an American,” she had once said a little apologetically. “And not just an American, but a Virginian.
She seems to think she can say whatever she pleases to whomsoever she pleases—and she's embarrassingly affectionate to the servants. Bellingham and Parkinson were always treated as members of the family—and she's no different with Adjo. He speaks to her as if she's an equal, not an employer, much to my father's fury.”

“However free and easy she is, it works,” Jack had said. “All the homes you've lived in have had the most welcoming atmosphere I've ever experienced. And there are never any staff problems. No one who's worked for your mother ever wants to leave her.”

Petra was brought back to the present moment by her mother saying in a voice that brooked no argument: “I'm not surprised the Denbys are divorcing. He's an awful screw.”

“Screw?” Davina said.

“Mean with money, pet. Never marry a man who is mean with his money, because he'll be mean with his affection as well.” And deeming it an appropriate note on which to end lunch, Delia rose to her feet.

It was customary for everyone to retire to their rooms after the meal, to sleep until it was cooler.

Petra had far too much on her mind to rest. Staring up at her ceiling fan, she replayed the scene by the tennis court when Jack said he didn't like the idea of her mooning over Darius. Had he meant he would far prefer her to be mooning over him? And if he had, how did she feel about that?

Though everyone referred to Fawzia as being her closest friend, Jack was really her best friend and had been so for as long as she could remember. Could they ever become romantically involved? And would she even want to?

She thought of the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck, of his finely chiseled mouth and the slight cleft in his chin. She loved his perpetual good humor and the way he always made her laugh.

And then she thought of Darius.

She didn't
like
Darius, but he certainly had an effect on her. Just what the nature of that effect was, though, she couldn't decide. It certainly wasn't romantic in the way she envisioned romance. How could being intimidated be romantic? She thought of the narrow slanting eyes set above high cheekbones, of the intensity of his lean, dark face. Her mother had once said that Darius reminded her of Rudolph Valentino. There was the same panther-like grace about him, the same sense of barely controlled power.

She would much rather be with Jack than with Darius.

But it was Darius she couldn't get out of her head.

The Gezira Sporting Club had four polo grounds and Jack and Darius were to play on number one.

“Though on opposing sides,” Petra heard Davina say to Jerome. “Jack will be playing on the visitors' team. They usually lose against the home teams.”

“They may very well win today,” Jerome said drily. “Jack is a barbarian on the polo field.”

Davina giggled, but Petra didn't. She was sure that if any rider proved to be a barbarian it would be Darius and she didn't want to see Jack unhorsed.

The stands were crowded with Cairo's crème de la crème. Delia was in her element. “Don't you just wish you were goin' to play today?” she said to Jerome. “I know I do. The minute we have a women's polo team I'll be first on the field!”

Happy at having her girls at either side of her, she acknowledged a nod from the British high commissioner and then shot a dazzling smile in the direction of Zubair Pasha who, with Fawzia, was walking toward them.

“Seeing Jack and Darius on opposing teams is quite an event, isn't it?” Delia said as he and Fawzia seated themselves.

“It is indeed, Lady Conisborough.” Zubair Pasha beamed broadly. “And making it even more special is that Fawzia is to present the winning trophy.”

Petra leaned forward and looked at her friend who grinned, her self-satisfaction so evident she was positively purring. Petra smiled back, happy for her. No one loved being the center of attention more than Fawzia.

When the eight riders trotted onto the field Petra saw that Jack was assigned the Number Two place on his team, a position that required a keen eye and high maneuverability. Darius was Number Three on the opposing team, a position always given to the best player.

“Since you were a member of a crack cavalry regiment, you must be an excellent player also,” Zubair Pasha said to Jerome.

“I carry a nine-goal handicap.”

Zubair Pasha was impressed. “Then I should like to see you play. Though not for the visitors,” he added with a chuckle. “With Darius.”

As one of the mounted umpires prepared to start the match by bowling the ball between the two teams, all chatter ceased.

Moments later Darius made a long powerful hit, feeding the ball to his Number Two and a roar of applause went up.

From then on, play continued at terrific speed. The visitors' Number Four player made a backhanded stroke, shooting the ball away from their goal and toward his own teammates. Despite Darius riding hard against him, Jack scored a goal.

Petra rose to her feet, cheering till she was hoarse. Only when she sat down did she realize that Fawzia, too, had been on her feet.

“I think she has a crush on Jack,” Davina said to Delia under the cover of applause. “Have you seen her expression? Her eyes are on him the entire time.”

As one chukker followed another, with both Jack and Darius changing their exhausted ponies, Petra realized that Davina was right and that Fawzia was most certainly not rooting for her brother's team. Despite the presence of her father, she was rooting for Jack.

In the sixth and final chukker, with the home team ahead on goals, both sides played more and more aggressively.

“Land's sakes!” Delia said anxiously. “I hope Jack doesn't unseat Darius. Darius would never forgive him.”

“They're both going to fall if they aren't careful,” Jerome said tautly and then, barely before he'd finished speaking, Darius broke into a full gallop, bearing down on Jack who was in possession of the ball.

The crowd rose to its feet.

Jack tried to twist his pony away to avoid being hit, but was a split second too late. The impact was enormous. Both Jack and Darius were sent flying to the ground. Fawzia screamed. Umpires raced to the scene. Zubair Pasha and Jerome hurried from the stands.

“Oh God!” Delia said devoutly. “Oh
dear
God!” Her face was ashen.

As first-aiders ran to join the umpire and as the other players slid from their saddles, the air was filled with dread. Fatal polo accidents were not unknown and, as neither Jack nor Darius showed any signs of movement, everyone was gripped by the worst possible fear.

Fawzia had her hands to her mouth, but Petra remained motionless. In a moment of blinding clarity she knew that if Jack was dead, her life would have lost all meaning.

“You can't die,” she whispered fiercely. “Move, Jack! For God's sake,
move!”

He did—and she gave a sob of relief that came from the profoundest depth of her being.

An ambulance drew up and men with stretchers ran across
the field. As Jack was helped into a sitting position, Darius opened his eyes and Jerome turned toward the stands and gave a thumbs-up.

Petra watched as Jack was helped to his feet and Darius, now conscious and with what appeared to be a broken leg, was placed on one of the stretchers.

The relief in the crowd was palpable.

“Thank God,” Delia was saying over and over again. “Thank
God
.”

Petra was thanking God too, but she was also aware that during the entire drama her total concern had been for Jack. Darius had barely entered her thoughts.

Within weeks of the polo match Delia announced that she had arranged for Petra to spend the next two years at an international school for girls in Montreux.

“It's all arranged, honey.” On this issue, if on no other, Delia was determined to brook no argument. “And before you kick up a fuss, let me tell you that it's either Montreux or a finishing school in New England.”

Unaccustomed to such implacability from her usually indulgent mother, Petra was appalled.

“Don't be,” Jack had written back after she had poured out her woes in a letter.

Knowing that Jack wouldn't let her down and that he would visit his father's chalet every opportunity he could, she allowed herself to be shipped off to Montreux.

It was far more fun than she had anticipated.

Only when she found herself surrounded by a dozen girls
all her own age and from similarly privileged backgrounds did she realize just how circumscribed her life had been in Cairo. There, she'd had only Davina and Fawzia to gossip and laugh with—but Davina had barely left childhood behind her and outside of school Fawzia was allowed very little freedom. It was a situation that didn't give the three of them much racy subject matter. Within days of settling in at the Institut Mont-Fleuri she discovered that the conversation was hardly ever
not
racy.

Petra was in a class of ten split up into two dormitories. Inevitably, lights-out talks ensured that she and the other four girls became very close.

She wrote to Jack.

She had paused there, wondering whether to mention that Suzi had celebrated her seventeenth birthday by losing her virginity with the Mont-Fleuri ski instructor. On reflection, it was information she decided not to share. She didn't want him thinking she would do the same.

Life at school was far from dull. Though the headmistress kept an eagle eye on the girls, they often managed to escape— as Suzi's adventure with their ski instructor proved. One of the most exclusive boys’ schools in the world, Le Rosey, was at nearby Rolle and, despite all the teachers’ efforts, a great deal of fraternization took place.

“Which is exactly what my mother hoped when she sent me here,” Annabel said when the five of them had set off for an illicit assignation. “Every pupil at Le Rosey is either royal or rich as Croesus. Snaring one of them as a future husband would reassure my mother that my fees here had been worthwhile.”

They all talked about boys nonstop, but Petra never mentioned Jack. That a family friend had a chalet at Nyon was known both to her friends and to the staff. What was also known was that her mother visited Nyon three or four times a year and that there was absolutely nothing extraordinary about Petra making occasional visits.

These visits only ever occurred when Jerome was also at Nyon. “It just isn't on, now that you're seventeen and I feel about you as I do, for the two of us to meet at the chalet when there is no one else there but the staff,” Jack said when, with Suzi's seduction of the ski instructor in mind, she had suggested they do so. “Your father would regard it as a gross breach of trust and I have too much affection and respect for him to want that to happen. What we can do, though, is meet up in Montreux or Rolle.”