The Goldsmiths occupied Cedar Hill's "best guest room"—Nina Fairey's term—a large north-facing room on the second floor. Despite its size and period furnishings, it was by no means luxurious. Rather, Dina thought to herself with mental lip-pursing as Mrs. Pruitt, having lit a fire in the fireplace, now marched briskly back out, heels clacking sharply on bare floorboards, it was decidedly awfr'-luxury: puritanical, prudish, and penitential as only authentic Colonial can be.
Dina, huddled in her ranch mink, glanced around with growing despair. Everywhere, her luxury-seeking eyes met nothing but relentless sobriety.
It was evident in the rectitude of the four-poster, skeletal, without bedhangings, and covered with a patchwork quilt. In the no-nonsense, three-paneled oak chest at the foot of the bed. In the primness of the unadorned, free-standing wardrobe. In the kneehole bureau which, thanks to a plain, mahogany-framed mirror, doubled as a dressing table. Even in the two very early Early American armchairs which flanked a chest of drawers.
The only concession to decoration was on the wall: a dour pair of naive portraits—husband and wife—both of whom projected silent disapproval, she in a stiff lace bonnet and holding a prayer book, he in what appeared to be clerical garb.
Turning her back on them, Dina drew close to the fire and stood, hands extended, soaking up whatever warmth it gave off while waiting— she prayed not in vain!—for the heat to come on, but not daring to go so far as to tempt fate by actually looking around for evidence of radiators or heating vents. Since none had caught her eye thus far, she was afraid that—
She squashed the thought.
Surely the Faireys could not be such radical purists that their passion for authenticity precluded them from having installed central heating.
Could it?
Mr. Pruitt trod in and set down the last two of Dina's six Vuitton cases. "That's it, then," he said, leaving before she could pluck up her courage to inquire about the heat.
Crossing her arms, she tucked her hands into the armpits of her fur sleeves and glanced through the arch to the adjoining sitting room.
Robert, who couldn't give a damn about his surroundings so long as he had a roof over his head, was right at home. Seated on a stiff camel- back sofa, cellular phone in hand, the Pembroke table in front of him littered with the usual detritus—ashtray, cigars, pens, calculator, laptop computer, and the inevitable sheafs of reports and printouts. No doubt making money in some far-off time zone where the business day was just beginning.
Dina tightened her lips in annoyance. Obviously, no sympathy would be offered from that quarter. Not that she'd expected any. In truth, she had never understood how her husband could go through life oblivious to everything but business and sex. And not necessarily in that order.
Abruptly disgusted with him, she paced the bedroom. She had to find something to do to keep her mind off the cold. If she didn't, she would go stark raving mad.
But what?
She eyed her suitcases malevolently.
No, keeping herself occupied did not extend to unpacking, especially considering that she had brought at least six times as many clothes as that single dreary wardrobe could hold.
"What did I do to deserve this?" she wailed. "Oh, why can't I be back home? Or at least someplace nice and warm?"
But of course, she knew why.
How could she forget how quickly she'd jumped at the chance to play matchmaker. Now here she was, regretting it already!
Talk about learning the hard way, she thought. This will teach me. From now on, I'll find out exactly what I'm getting into before I commit to something!
She became aware of knuckles rapping on the door.
Now what! she wanted to scream. I'm miserable enough! Can't I be left in peace?
The knocks continued.
Narrowing her eyes, she scraped her chair around. "What?" she shouted.
The door opened just enough for an inappropriately cheerful face to peer around the jamb. "Getting settled, are you?" Zandra asked brightly.
And suddenly the door burst wide open. The two huge dogs, tails wagging furiously, forced their way past and headed straight for Dina— nearly knocking her over as they leaped up on her and bestowed ecstatic licks.
"Help! Help! Ugh!" Dina covered her face with mink-sheathed arms to avoid the slobbering tongues. "Sweetie!" she cried desperately. "Get these brutes off me! I'm going to get bitten!"
"Oh, honestly," Zandra drawled. "Don't you know anything? They're retrievers. Absolute marvels. Don't make good watchdogs, though ... would hold a flashlight for a burglar."
"I don't care! They're smelly and disgusting! I hate animals! I—"
"Nonsense. Never met anyone could hate a retriever. They're the absolute greatest. Aw, will you look at that? Darling, they adore you!"
As if to prove it, the male tightened his forelegs around Dina's knees and started humping her legs.
"Zandra!" Dina screamed. "Do something! I'm being raped by a dog!"
"But, darling, you really can't blame him. I mean, look at yourself. You're one big frightfully furry thing. Teach you to stop wearing poor slaughtered little minks!"
"Zandra! If you don't get these monsters off me right this very minute, so help me God, I'm ... I'm going to call the ASPCA!"
"No reason to get your nose out of joint. I'm getting them off you. Might take me a minute."
Zandra grabbed hold of both dogs' collars and tugged.
"George!" She tried for an assertive tone. "Get down. Down, I say. Martha. Sit. Sit!"
"Zandra?" Dina peeked out from between her arms. "Did I hear you call them ... George? And Martha?"
"As in Washington. Yes. Aren't they splendid, though? How ever could you not like them?"
Easily, Dina thought. Now that the dogs were obediently seated, tails thumping on pegged pine, drooly jaws panting like bellows, she cautiously lowered her arms.
"Oh, no!" she wailed in distress.
"Darling, what is it now?"
Dina gestured at herself. "Just look at me! I have dog hair ... and ... what's this? Slime! Slime—all over me! And this is my very best Maximilian natural Red Glow mink—"
"God's sake, darling. It's hardly the end of the world. Chill out."
"Chill out?" Dina, quivering with rage, stared at Zandra incredulously. "Chill out, did you say? What do you think I've been doing? Sitting in a sauna? Enjoying this blistering heat?"
"Granted, it's rather on the cool side. So? Doesn't mean you can't wash up and change."
"Wash up?" Dina's voice dripped sarcasm. "Am I being led to understand that there's running water in this house? Hot running water?"
"As a matter of fact, yes."
"Well, forget it. I'm not about to get undressed in this cold. Do you have any idea what the temperature must be?"
"Higher, I suspect, than in most stately homes in England. Anyway, why do you think I advised you to buy sweaters?"
"There." Dina pointed an offending finger at the row of Vuittons. "In whichever one Darlene packed them."
"Darling, you mean ... you haven't even begun to unpack?"
"How could I? There aren't any closets."
Zandra took a quick visual inventory. "There's this chest ..." She pointed at the foot of the bed. "... that dresser ... and that's surely a wardrobe ..."
"I know," Dina gloomed. "I just can't bring myself to do it!"
"Tell you what, darling." Zandra grabbed the nearest Vuitton case, swung it effortlessly up on the bed, and sprang the brass latches. "You see about getting cleaned up, and I'll do your unpacking. How's that for a deal."
Dina looked at her blearily. "Sweetie?" she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "You'd really do that? For me?"
"Especially for you, pain in the arse though you may be!"
"You're too wonderful, sweetie. Too, too!" For the first time since setting foot in the house, Dina glowed with radiance. "Yes. I think I will get cleaned up after all. Mmmm ..."
She tapped her lips with a peppermint-nailed finger.
"But first I have to use the phone." She glanced through the connecting arch. "And Robert's glued to the cellular."
"So? What's wrong with this one?" Zandra gestured at an old black rotary phone on one of the nightstands.
"No," Dina said quickly. She was terrified that Zandra, overhearing the conversation, would put two and two together. And that had to be avoided. Zandra must never discover the scheme Becky and I hatched, Dina thought. If she finds out about it, she might well be furious.
It could also, she realized, put a severe strain on their friendship, something which hadn't even occurred to her before.
Although it's a little late to get cold feet now. I should have thought of the consequences earlier.
"I'm going downstairs," Dina said. "Perhaps there's a phone in the kitchen. Chances are, it'll be the warmest room in the house."
And she darted guiltily out. Glad to make her escape, however brief it might be.
Suddenly she wished she'd never gotten involved in this plot.
Callas was in rare form. Becky, posing gracefully on the couch, was engaged in deep conversation with Karl-Heinz. From the leather club chair, Lord Rosenkrantz was conducting the La Scala orchestra with the CD remote.
The butler entered and made his way woodenly across the room toBecky, a cordless phone on his sterling salver. With a flourish of the makeshift baton, Lord Rosenkrantz silenced Verdi.
The butler cleared his throat. "Excuse me, madam."
Becky looked up. "Yes, Mumford?"
"Mrs. Goldsmith is on the telephone."
Lord Rosenkrantz glanced over at Becky, raising his exophthalmic eyes above the level of his reading glasses without actually lifting his head. "Sooooo," he observed deliriously. "The plot thickens!"
"Would you like to take it, madam? Or are you indisposed?"
"Mais oui," Becky said, lifting the phone from the proffered salver. "I will take it. Merci, Mumford. That shall be all."
Becky extended the telephone's plastic-coated antenna and dabbed the talk button. "Allo? Dina?"
"Yes." Dina's voice was guarded.
"Alors. You are well, j'espere bien?"
"Not ... really."
Becky's smile faded. This was hardly the kind of reply she found encouraging. Nor did Dina's reticence bode well, either. She said carefully, "Chere amie. You sound distressed. What is the matter?"
There was a silence.
"Ah. Je comprends: you cannot speak freely. Someone might overhear."
"Yes."
"I take it you are at the Faireys'." It was a statement, not a question.
Dina's sigh spoke volumes. "Am I ever!"
"Alors. Let us play a little game. Could you tell me, using one key word, what this problem relates to? That way, I can possibly infer what it might be."
There was a moment's silence, during which Becky could picture Dina glancing over both shoulders. Then Dina whispered: "Cold."
"Naturellement!" Becky laughed lightly. "Cherie, it is winter."
"Inside?"
"Oh. You mean their furnace or boiler has broken down?"
"Worse."
"Non!" A look of utter amazement came into Becky's face. "Pas possible. You cannot mean ... they still have no central heating?"
"I don't believe so. No."
"Incroyable! Ma pauvre petite, I had no idea. Truly. I see now that we must do something."
"I'd really appreciate it."
"It is nothing. I have plenty of spare rooms with—I assure you— plenty of heat. Alors. We shall work things out so that you will stay here. However, we must also be cautious."
Dina waited.
"Have you unpacked your luggage and such?"
"Barely. I can always stop—"
"Non! You must do no such thing. It is imperative that neither Zandra nor the Faireys get wind of anything. Simply carry on as usual. As if nothing was out of the ordinary. You can do that?"
"Yes."
"Then have no fear, chere amie. I shall take care of everything."
And Becky punched the off button and put the telephone down.
"Did I hear you correctly, or have my ears finally deceived me?" Lord Rosenkrantz asked. "You've invited them here?"
"Oui."
"My dear, do you think that's wise?"
She shrugged. "Perhaps not. But what other choice do I have? Cher ami, the poor thing is overwrought. Not that I can blame her. A vrai dire! This compulsion the Faireys have for authenticity really has gone too far. Aren't the nineties plagued with enough ills? Or must one experience the genuine mals of the eighteenth century as well? Quelle horreur!"
"You don't imagine they do without medication or antibiotics, do you?" Karl-Heinz asked.
"Only in the country, and only if Nina Fairey is not having another facelift," Lord Rosenkrantz said archly.
"Cela suffit," Becky said, and rang for the butler.
Mumford appeared forthwith. "Madam?"
"Mumford, could you please see to it that two guest suites are prepared?"
"Of course, madam. Do you have any particular ones in mind?"
"Yes. For the double, the Toile de Jouy suite, I think. It has two bedrooms, a sitting room, and two baths."
And is perfect for the Goldsmiths, she thought, since it's the farthest from my own.
"As for the single," she decided, "make it the Tree Poppy suite."
Which is perfect for Zandra, since it's close to Karl-Heinz's, but not so close as to be obvious. Also, it's appropriate for her, being the most English of all the rooms, with its stately four-poster, George II furnishings, British paintings, and Tree Poppy chintz.
Mumford said: "I shall see to it at once, madam."
Dina's chauffeur had long since returned to the city with her Town Car, so there was no choice but to pile into the Faireys' station wagon for the short hop over to Becky V's.
They were all turned out as differently as night and day.
Sheldon in a classic, single-breasted blue blazer with brass buttons, tan flannel trousers, and black wool turtleneck.
Nina Fairey in a high-necked black jacket, tartan kilt, black stockings,
and black ghillies. The jacket was nipped in at the waist and had frog closures, and the kilt had a big decorative safety pin on the front.
Robert in one of his thousand-and-one identically tailored business suits, this one in charcoal pinstripe.
Zandra in loose, anthracite tweed slacks, Fair Isle sweater with horizontal zigzags in black, white, and gray, and short black granny boots. Wearing no jewelry and looking great.
Dina a rhapsody in blue sapphires. The real thing at neck, wrist, and ears; faux on the sapphire tulle minidress she wore over sapphire velvet stretch pants. She had on a dyed, sheared beaver cape and blue suede shoes.
The drive took all of eighteen minutes, the night pitch black as only moonless nights out in the country can be.
But at Becky V's, lights blazed from every window, and Zandra had the impression of approaching a festively lit cruise ship, with the surrounding hilly terrain its watery troughs.
The moment Sheldon pulled up at the mansion, Dina was out of the car. Charging up the front steps to the door. It opened before she could reach it, and bright yellow light, Brahms, and distant laughter tumbled out into the night.
Dina turned to look down at the car. She waved impatiently, urging the others to hurry, and started to cross the threshold—
—when a Secret Service agent materialized, blocking her way.
"Oh!" Hand fluttering on her breast, Dina took a startled step backward.
Then she heard a masculine voice boom: "For God's sake, man! Let the poor lady in before she freezes to death!"
And Lord Rosenkrantz welcomed her inside.
"Remember." He wagged a finger at the bodyguard. "There's to be none of that dreadful frisking nonsense."
Not that Dina would have objected. She was too curious, busily craning her neck and looking around the oval, pilastered foyer with its portrait-hung staircase and massive tarnished Dutch chandelier directly overhead.
"Madam, can I help you with your coat?" It was the butler.
Dina obliged by gyrating out of her cape. The butler took it, folded it carefully, and handed it to a petite maid.
Nina, Zandra, Sheldon, and Robert came in. One by one, the butler helped them out of their wraps, which joined the growing stack in the maid's arms. She hurried off to hang them up.
"Thank you, Mumford," Lord Rosenkrantz said. "If you don't mind, I'll personally show our guests into the sitting room."
"Very well, m'lord."
Lord Rosenkrantz spread his arms wide, shepherding them toward the sitting room like a benevolent schoolteacher.
Dina walked in first, her eyes everywhere at once, breathlessly taking inventory.
Candles, music, fires going in both grates: props for the graciousness of rural living. So perfectly composed was the scene, and so cozily comfortable, that Dina had the impression she'd blundered onto a stage set, with the actors frozen in position, waiting for the curtain to rise. Becky, perched sideways on a couch, legs tucked under her. Prince Karl-Heinz standing by the marble fireplace, elbow on the mantel, drink in hand—
—and a curtain must have risen, for the tableau suddenly sprang to life.
Karl-Heinz, looking across the room, made eye contact with Dina, and said something to Becky.
Becky, turning around with an expression of astonished delight, quickly uncoiled herself and rose from the couch. Still barefoot and casual in Garbo slacks and turtleneck, she hurried across the room, arms extended in welcome.
"Cherie!"
She and Dina almost, but not quite, made contact; blew kisses past each other's cheeks.
"I'm so glad you could come!" Becky said brightly. "Ca va?"
But before Dina could reply, Becky looked past her, eyes going round as saucers with surprised artifice.
"Zandra!" she exclaimed. "Don't tell me! You're also staying with the Faireys? Quelle surprise! But how wonderful!"
And Zandra found herself being pulled into the room, where she was suddenly face-to-face with—
—him!
Dear God. Her cousin. Prince Karl-Heinz von und zu Engelwiesen, who was looking at her so intently that a warm flush shot from the very tips of her toes straight to the top of her face.
"Zandra," he said softly. Then he reached out and gave her a warm hug.
It was a chaste greeting, but nonetheless so electric that she felt her nipples beginning to tingle and harden. Swiftly she pulled away and drew a deep breath.
"Heinzie," she whispered, barely trusting herself to speak.
He smiled. "We seem to keep running into each other."
"Yes. It does seem that way. Gosh. Heinzie. I had no idea you'd be here." She half turned to Dina, expressly to break his gaze. "Did you, darling?"
But Dina was smiling at Karl-Heinz. "Your Serene Highness," she purred.
With an effort, Karl-Heinz tore his eyes from Zandra, lifted Dina's hand, bowed over it, and gave it a kiss. "Mrs. Goldsmith."
"Why so formal? Please, call me Dina. Everyone else does."
"Only if you," he said gallantly in return, "stop calling me 'Your Serene Highness.' " He smiled. "You don't know how wearisome it can get. Besides, Heinzie is much less of a mouthful."
Dina all but swooned.
"I'll go turn down the music," Lord Rosenkrantz was saying.
The others had come in, and the conversation grew animated.
"Sheldon," Nina Fairey said, "look! A Stubbs. Over there ... there—"
"Sorry, darling, artist's name's Marshall. Ben Marshall. Did magnificent horses."
"Yes, it's awfully well done."
"Mumford? Alors. Why don't you find out what everyone is drinking. Oui?"
"Very well, madam."
Robert asked, "Aw right to light up a cigar in here?" already in the process of doing just that.
"Sweetie, isn't it nice and warm in here?" Dina said happily, leaving things to gestate between Zandra and Karl-Heinz, and heading for the even toastier environs of the nearest fireplace, where she checked herself out in the elaborate Regence mirror over the mantel.
"There," Lord Rosenkrantz said as the Brahms became muted background music. "That's better, eh?"
Robert rasped: "Bourbon, neat. Older the better. An' make it a double."
"A white wine for me," said Nina, "and a scotch rocks for my husband."
"Alors. And Mumford. Don't forget the champagne. There's Veuve Clicquot on ice, n'est-ce pas?"
"Of course, madam."
"Hmmm. Exquisite terra cotta," Sheldon said, bending down to admire a small divinity, part of an artfully arranged tablescape. "Syro-Hittite."
"Looks like Marty Feldman, you ask me," Robert guffawed, blowing rich smoke.
"Or Estelle Winwood," Nina Fairey added.
"Huh?" Robert stared at her and blinked. "Who?"
"British actress," Lord Rosenkrantz explained. "Did mainly stage, but a few memorable movies as well. Character actress. You know."
"Yeah? Good-lookin' broad?"
"Only if your tastes run to Marty Feldman," chuckled Lord Rosenkrantz, who could run intellectual circles around almost anybody.
There was a burst of laughter.
And all this time, Zandra and Karl-Heinz were silent, inhabiting an isolated little world of their own.
Dammit! Zandra cursed herself silently. What is it with me? Why am I acting like a teen on a first date?
"Alors. Here comes Mumford with the drinks. Why don't we all sit down and get comfortable?" Becky suggested, gesturing to where she'd been sitting in front of the fire. "Jacinta shall be bringing the hors d'oeuvres shortly."
Everyone began heading to the end of the room she'd indicated— everyone, that is, except Zandra and Karl-Heinz, who seemed not to have heard.
"Allons!" Becky said, touching each of them on the arms.
Zandra and Karl-Heinz both gave guilty starts.
Becky smiled. "Mes cheres, we are going to sit down. You will join us, j'espere bien? Come ..."
And hooking an arm through each of theirs, she led them over to the fireplace.
The formal dining room shimmered. Logs blazed in the fireplace and candles glowed in the gleaming silver candelabra. They brought to life the villages, pagodas, and rocky islands on the eighteenth-century Chinese wallpaper, infused the mahogany breakfront and Federal sideboard with a rich luminescence, and reflected off the Paul Revere silver.
The long Chippendale table was like a dark, reflective lake set with Chinese export porcelain, Federal flatware, linen napery, and bowls of hothouse roses. Rioja glowed, bloodlike, in cut-glass decanters and goblets.
Becky was in her element. The head of the table was just right for her. From it she presided with a quiet, regal presence, and did what she did best—orchestrating the serving and keeping the conversation flowing:
"The secret to this wine—" she lifted her glass of Duque de la Vila 1988— "is we age it entirely in barrels of French oak. That is what gives it its muted, Bordeaux-like flavor."
And: "Cheri—" this to Robert— "do tell us how you created all those thousands upon thousands of superstores out of a single petit storefront in ... where was it?... St. Louis?"
And: "We have among us a most superb equestrienne. Now cherie, don't be so timide—" she smiled at Nina Fairey— "we are all dying to hear how you became a female jockey."
And finally: "Pity, how little use the facilities here get. Truly, it is almost criminal. When you consider the horses and the indoor everything— pool, tennis courts, riding arena ... And this white elephant of a house! Imagine rattling around in it. Sometimes I am actually tempted to sell it."
"Sell it!" Nina Fairey exclaimed. "But it's so beautiful!"
"Peut-etre que oui." Becky smiled. "Of course, the reason I don't is because I've become so sentimentally attached to it. Every corner is filled with memories. Even so, it does get lonesome at times."
"But, sweetie! I thought you cultivated privacy," Dina pointed out.
"Naturellement! Sometimes I seek solitude. Who does not? But you must remember: I spent much of my adult life as a married woman."
No one knew what to say; clearly, this conversation was headed toward a patch of delicate ice.
"I suppose everything would be different if I'd had children," Becky mused. "Oui. That is what this house needs. Children. Perhaps then it would truly come to life."
Mumford, circumnavigating the table, was discreetly refilling goblets with wine.
"Do you know what else I miss?"
A distant look came into Becky's eyes and she raised her chin, her Nefertiti-like profile flickering in the candlelight as she looked around the table.
"Those old-fashioned weekend house parties," she said. "Zandra. You and Heinzie know the kind I mean."
"Gosh, Becky. But, darling, last real one of those was at Chatsworth. That was yonks ago."
"Oui. Oui." Becky nodded. "I remember: we were invited, but then my poor dear Joaquin died so tragically ..."
Mumford poured her some more wine.
"Merci, Mumford."
Becky lifted the goblet by the stem, and then suddenly her eyes grew huge. She set the goblet back down. "I know!" she breathed, as though she'd only thought of it that very instant. She leaned forward in excitement. "Cheries! Why don't you all stay here this weekend?"
Dina pounced. "Here? You mean ... in this house, sweetie?"
"Oui."
The Faireys exchanged hopeful looks, and Karl-Heinz flicked a glance at Zandra, who looked a bit startled.
Becky was positively radiant. "It shall be like an old-fashioned house party! Why not? This house is certainly large enough. I have lost count of exactly how many rooms there are. Only ... " She bit her lip.
"Sweetie! What is it?"
"Mon dieu! In my excitement, I have completely lost my manners. Nina, cherie. How thoughtless of me. You will forgive me? I did not mean to steal your guests—"
"No apologies are necessary," Nina assured her.
"Absolutely not!" Sheldon added.
"Alors. It goes without saying that the invitation includes the both of you."
"How amusing," Nina cried. "A spur-of-the-moment house party!"
Dina clapped her hands. "It sounds wonderful!"
"But what about our things?" said Zandra, eliciting a kick and a glare from Dina.
"Rien de plus facile." Becky waved a hand dismissively. "Mumford and someone else can go over to pack everything up and bring it back here. Well, mes amies?"
She looked around the table.
Robert was frowning, but there were no vocal objections. Lord Rosenkrantz caught her eye and sketched a sardonic toast with his goblet.
"Alors," Becky decreed. "It is settled. A house party it is." She raised her goblet. "Let us salute old friends and new."
Goblets were raised and everyone chorused: "To old friends and new."
"Both of which are very precious," added Lord Rosenkrantz who, arching a bristly eyebrow, smiled thinly. "In the words of Lord Lyttelton: 'Women, like princes, find few real friends.' "
"And was it not Pindar," retorted Becky, no intellectual slouch herself, "who said, 'Often silence is the wisest thing for a man to heed'?"
"Touche, my dear," Lord Rosenkrantz smiled, "touche."
Not, she knew, for the part of the quote she'd spoken aloud, but rather, for the part she'd left unsaid:
"Not every truth is the better for showing its face."