After Fernando and I served the ladies a lunch of seared red snapper with lemon and capers, baby asparagus with Hollandaise, and a chilled bottle of velvety Château Puligny Montrachet, Madam spent the afternoon resting in her cabin, while I did the same in mine, fighting off a slight fever. Oh Lord, deliver me from this boat. She rang for me at four-thirty, after her workout.
The dogs’ little black eyes twinkled at me from the deep pillows on her bed and their little tails batted the covers.
“Did you have a good workout?” I asked. She regularly did thirty minutes on the treadmill, fifteen more on the StairMaster, and then another quarter-hour of free weights.
“First rate. I’m going to miss the view from this gym. I was thinking, what if we moved my workout equipment into the sunroom?”
“Good idea.” I flipped the switch on the countertop espresso machine.
“Then I had a massage and a nap, and now I’m ready to rock and roll. So, you think I should wear the pewter lamé?” She held up the long-sleeved, feather-light dress in front of the mirror. Her face looked calmer this evening, as it always did when she’d finished a commission. As if she’d had a good night’s sleep. Hopefully, this meant smoother waters were headed our way. “I was thinking more along the lines of the short black silk.”
“Packed.” I poured two capfuls of citrus-scented bath gel under the raging spigot. According to the publicity brochure, the lemon-lime botanical aromas would give her “a luxurious, uncommon sense of well-being and energy.” “Besides, all the ladies will be wearing short black silk, or beaded jackets over short black silk. I was thinking what would look best in W, and I think you in the pewter in front of that salmon in the portrait will be stunning.”
I turned my back and poured the now-finished shots of espresso into a blender as she slid beneath the fragrant bubbles.
“You’re the boss,” Madam said. “I trust your taste much more than mine.” She unscrewed the top from a heavy glass jar that sat on the side of the tub and smeared a heavy mask of Italian mud on her face, then placed cucumber slices on her eyes. “I hate to admit it, but I’m nervous about tonight.”
“Nervous?”
She nodded her head. “I’m nervous about Armand. Of all the people they could have ordered me to spy on, they would pick Armand. He’s always turned me to jelly.”
“More than Mr. McCormick?” I tried to keep the hope out of my voice.
“It’s totally different. There’s something about Armand. He’s so settled and distinguished. And I’ve never heard him gossiped about at all, have you? But he must have a couple of mistresses stashed here and there.”
“Naturally, Madam, he’s a Frenchman.”
“You don’t think he’s gay, do you?” Madam turned on the hot water spigot and plumped up the bubbles.
“Most assuredly not.”
“Are you sorry we don’t live like this, Nigel?”
“Like what?” I measured out a heaping tablespoon of cocoa.
“You know. With a big yacht and our own plane. Cooks and maids. Houses everywhere.”
“Heavens, no. I am particularly thankful you do not have a big yacht.” Madam laughed. She knew how dreadfully ill I’d been since we left Spain.
“How long have you worked for me, Nigel?”
“Ten years, Madam.”
“Ten years?” She lifted one of the cucumber slices and looked at me with one of her cobra eyes. “Really? Good grief. Seems like ten days.”
How it happened was, I was fresh from prison and had just received my hard-earned diploma from Lady Atchley’s butler school when a friend of mine, a jewel thief, asked me to help rob a country house.
“I’ve had it from the cook’s cousin,” he’d told me, “that the lord and lady are occupied in the summer house for four hours every day, from ten-to-two, sitting for their portrait.”
The household staff was taking advantage of the time to lounge about, and basically left the main house unattended. “The safe is old. For someone of your talents, it’ll be like opening a jam jar.”
I went so far as to accompany him to the village to reconnoiter, and as it was, the next day an article appeared in the local paper about the artist who was doing the lord and lady’s portrait. She looked nice, a young woman just getting started in her career, and I made a snap decision at that moment to change my life. I put a letter in the mail to her at the manor house, making up my background, giving a number of false references, and saying I was looking for a new position, available immediately. And, I continued, since I didn’t want my current employer to know what I was doing, if she were interested to please contact me through the local pub.
She was probably only twenty-nine or thirty, naively trusting as only an artist can be, and she didn’t know a person could be so cheeky as to actually make up references. For my part, I was sincere in my desire to change. We were a match made in heaven. I was so grateful to her for taking me in that I hadn’t looked at another safe since.
So, I thought, as she stepped into the shower to scrub off the mask and wash her hair, and I dropped a scoop of vanilla ice cream into the cooled espresso and chocolate and turned on the motor, am I sorry we live the way we do? Only slightly. I would like an airplane, a nice little jet, and perhaps a house in Barbados, because I suspect I have the beginnings of arthritis from the rainy winters in Virginia. But between the loft in New York City and the studio in Paris, and Effie and Scully, the housekeeper and gardener I was already responsible for in Virginia, would I like more staff? More responsibility? Never.
“Are you all right, Nigel?” Steam billowed forth as Madam stepped from the shower and gathered a fluffy Pratesi bathsheet around her. “You seem awfully quiet.”
“I haven’t wanted to mention it, but could you just take a quick peek at this rash on my neck? I’m afraid I’ve picked up a spot of ringworm from the cats.”
“Ringworm? Let me see. Turn around in the light.”
“Don’t touch it, Madam.” I jumped away. “Ringworm can be terribly contagious.”
“Be still. Let me look.” She turned me toward the light and leaned down to examine my neck. Then she started to laugh. “You are such a case sometimes, Nigel. I can’t believe it. Ringworm! Your imagination is fantastic.”
Stung, I stepped away. “I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
“No, no. Don’t be hurt! You do have a rash, darling, and it’s a doozie. But I promise you, it’s not ringworm.”
“What then?”
“It’s the patches.”
Oh, Lord. I’d stuck on so many seasickness patches that I’d burned off almost all the skin behind my ears. I do admit I can be something of an alarmist, but better safe than sorry, I always say.
“Oh, thanks be to God.”
“Amen. Are you still planning to take the dogs and the luggage over now, before the party?”
I nodded.
“Why not just take it all when we leave? I hate for you to make an extra trip.”
“Everything’s already loaded on the launch. It gets too confusing with the dogs and the guests, and I want us to be able to leave cleanly whenever you’re ready.”
“I really appreciate it, Nigel. You take beautiful care of me.”
“It’s my pleasure, Madam. Well,” I tidied up the counter, “if that’s all, I’ll be on my way.”
“I’ll see you at the party.” Madam gulped down her espresso shake and slipped into her terry robe.