Gladys Deacon was a beautiful girl endowed with a brilliant intellect. Possessed of exceptional powers of conversation, she could enlarge on any subject in an interesting and amusing manner. I was soon subjugated by the charm of her companionship and we began a friendship which only ended years later.
Seated at the round dining table which was always used when there were only a few guests, Winston bestowed an approving glance at his fish souffle-pale gold, dressed with a frill of parsley and decorated with prawns. For him, dinners at Blenheim were the most enjoyable part of the day, for the French chef in the Marlborough kitchen was outstanding, the wines in the Marlborough cellar were the best that Vanderbilt money could buy, and the Saloon-the state dining room, used when the Marlboroughs entertained-was a glorious room, with its red marble dadoes and trompe l’oeil wall frescoes rising some thirty feet to a frieze of military scenes and then another ten feet to the frescoed ceiling.
The effect was martial, and although some felt it overwhelming, Winston always found it inspiring.
The first Duke, Winston’s own forebear, was indisputably one of the nation’s greatest military heroes. Winston felt that he himself had made no little contribution to the family’s reputation by offering his own efforts in that regard, including his participation in the splendid cavalry charge at Omdurman in the Sudan and his daring escape from the Boers during the war in South Africa, and he would count himself fortunate if fate gave him other opportunities to bring military glory to the Churchill name.
The Marlboroughs were always the consummate host and hostess, but Winston enjoyed the other guests as well: Kate Sheridan, with her easy, unpretentious American charm, so like that of his own American mother; and Charles Sheridan, with his wide range of intellectual and scientific interests and his willingness to talk liberal politics and the need for social reform. He even rather liked Botsy Northcote, a tall, good-looking fellow with a military moustache. Botsy was a lively conversationalist with a wide acquaintance of people and ideas, when he was not off his head with love and despair-as he seemed to be now, no doubt because Miss Deacon was not paying him the kind of attention he deserved, in view of the fact that she was wearing the diamond necklace he had given her. And of course, there was Consuelo, gracious and elegant, whose first care was to make her guests comfortable and happy and see that each one had everything his or her heart could desire.
But therein lay a dilemma, for Miss Deacon was the heart’s desire of at least two men at the table-the Duke and his friend Botsy. Tonight, seated across from Botsy and between Winston and Marlborough, she was wearing a low-cut silk gown of an unusual shade of burnished gold that highlighted her red-gold hair and displayed a perfect curve of breast and shoulder, as well as that splendid diamond necklace. Perhaps it was the danger she posed to Blenheim and the Marlboroughs that made it difficult for Winston to keep his eyes off her, or perhaps it was her outrageously flirtatious glance, her exotic conversation (one could never predict what she might say next), or even the heightened color of her cheeks and lips. She certainly seemed to be flirting with him-although he suspected that she was only doing so to make Botsy even more jealous than he already was, poor chap.
Making men jealous seemed to run in the Deacon family. Winston knew, of course, that Gladys’s father had shot and killed his wife’s lover. Everyone knew, and Gladys herself seemed to take a mischievous delight in the scandal.
“Simply imagine my feelings!” she had whispered to him at teatime. “I was there when it happened, Winston, although I was only twelve at the time.” She opened her beautiful eyes wide. “My mother in hysterics, my father with the gun, still smoking, in his hand. I saw it all!”
Winston could never be sure whether Gladys was telling the truth, for she dramatized everything. But the murder itself was all too real. Gladys’s mother was a great beauty, notorious for a string of adulterous relationships that drove her husband so mad with jealousy that he had fatally shot one of her French lovers. Alexandre Dumas had called Deacon an assassin, and the Paris newspapers were outraged at the notion that an American would kill a Frenchman who was merely engaged in the national pastime. Deacon went to prison and later died in an insane asylum. The scandal, which reverberated throughout Europe and America, inevitably tainted Gladys and her sisters. There were many in England who still regarded her as the daughter of a mad murderer and a woman who trapped unsuspecting men with her deadly beauty and wit.
At that moment, Winston saw Sunny put a finger on Gladys’s wrist-a light touch and quickly withdrawn, but accompanied by a glance that spoke openly of intimacy and intrigue, even a kind of possessiveness. Winston felt himself flush.
This sort of public display is taking things much too far, he thought, the apprehension pumping through him. What can Sunny be thinking?
Winston was not the only guest who had noticed the Duke’s possessive gesture, as he realized when he glanced up and saw Botsy Northcote’s eyes narrow, his mouth tighten, and his handsome face go purple. So far, Botsy had managed to control himself, but he was not a man who handled his temper or his alcohol well, and he had already drunk several glasses of wine.
Winston gave an internal sigh. They would be lucky if they got through the evening without an explosion of some sort. He cast a surreptitious glance at Consuelo, who was seated to his left, to see if she had noticed the Duke’s hand on Gladys’s wrist, or Botsy’s reaction to it. But the Duchess was chatting gaily with Sheridan, and seemed to take no notice of what was happening on the other side of the table. For that, at least, Winston was thankful. Perhaps it was time he had a talk with Consuelo about the situation and warned her against taking any ill-considered action. In one way or another, they all lived their lives in the public eye, and none of them could afford any sort of scandal.
And then Winston was distracted by Gladys, who bestowed an enchanting smile on him and asked him whether he had ever visited Rosamund’s Well, on the other side of the lake.
“Of course,” he said. “Used to go there often when I was a boy. Not much to see, though. Just a spring flowing out of a stone wall and into a square, shallow pool. Whatever else was there-Rosamund’s Bower, the famous labyrinth-they’ve all disappeared.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Gladys exclaimed with a wistful air. She appealed to the Duke. “Don’t you think, Your Grace, that it would be divinely romantic to build a rustic retreat there, like the house that Henry built for Rosamund? Or perhaps a sort of Gothic ruin, surrounded by a labyrinth, where people could go and pretend to be Rosamund and King Henry, and fall madly in love.” It happened that no one else was speaking at the moment, and her light words seemed to fall like bits of broken crystal in the silence.
“A folly, you mean?” Northcote asked with ironic emphasis. He leaned forward. “Not a romance with a happy end,” he added in a warning tone, his words slurring just slightly. “Rosamund and Henry didn’t get away with it, y’know.”
Gladys’s laugh tinkled up and down a full octave. “Why, of course!” she exclaimed, with a delicate shiver. “Didn’t Eleanor murder poor, sweet Rosamund, to keep Henry for herself? Poison, I’ve always heard. But Eleanor ended her life in prison, poor thing, repenting the whole while.” She seemed to glance toward Consuelo, then leaned toward the Duke and put her hand on his sleeve. “Oh, Sunny, I’ve just thought of the most glorious idea! Let’s all row across the lake tonight after dinner and spy out a place to build the Marlborough Folly. Doesn’t that sound like marvelous fun?”
The Marlborough Folly? Winston thought darkly. The Marlborough Folly was on exhibit before their eyes, at this very table. And God only knew where it would take them. Into disaster, if it went on the way it was going now.
“A folly might be rather nice,” the Duke said with an indulgent smile at Gladys. “In fact, I think that my grandfather had the same idea, and went so far as to commission an architect to draw up plans. But I think we should not go at night, Miss Deacon. If one is planning to build something, it is only prudent to scout out the site by daylight.”
Gladys pushed out her lower lip. “Oh, pooh,” she said in exaggerated disappointment. “And I was trying so hard to coax a little bit of nocturnal fun out of everyone. It’s so dull here.”
Northcote was watching her with a devouring look. “You and I could go, Gladys. We’re not required to be prudent, of course, since we’re not doing the building. We can scout out several sites and report our recommendations to His Grace.”
Carelessly, Gladys tossed her head. “Oh, thank you, Botsy. You’re terribly sweet, but I think the Duke is right. We can all go tomorrow, and take a picnic lunch.” She leaned forward, past Winston, and spoke to the Duchess. “What do you think, Consuelo, dear? Wouldn’t that be great fun?”
The corners of the Duchess’s mouth turned up slightly. But there was no smile in her eyes and her voice was strained as she said, “Why, yes, of course, Gladys. What a delightful plan.”
Charles Sheridan had not been so deeply engaged in his conversation with the Duchess that he failed to observe Marlborough’s possessive touch on Miss Deacon’s wrist, Winston’s uncomfortable expression, and the flush that rose quickly in Botsy Northcote’s face. Charles did not usually take much notice of the romantic affairs of his acquaintances, but this business was too obvious.
And hazardous, too, he thought. Quite apart from the morality of things, Miss Deacon struck him as a reckless young woman who scorned concealment and preferred open indiscretions. And from the bewitching glances she was casting in Winston’s direction, Charles suspected that she was capable of making serious trouble, not only between the Duke and the Duchess, but between Winston and the Duke. And then there was Botsy Northcote, with his flammable temper and combustible jealousies. Botsy had been known to make rather a fool of himself on occasion, especially when he had been drinking.
Charles could see, of course, what interested Marlborough and Northcote and seemed to fascinate Winston. Gladys Deacon was dazzling, both in appearance and in manner, although she was nervous and high-strung to an unusual degree and there was a certain forced and brittle quality in her gaiety. But Marlborough was obviously mesmerized by her, and his caressing touch on her wrist hinted at a physical intimacy between them. Charles was not an expert in such matters-he had never loved a woman before he loved Kate-but he guessed from the look on Northcote’s face that he was no less besotted than the Duke, and was intoxicated, to boot.
Charles turned his head a little to his left and caught his wife’s glance. Kate smiled at him in a way that never failed to warm his heart and make him feel that however inclined others might be to make romantic fools of themselves, their love for one another was unshakable. Exquisite in a green gown that set off the modest emeralds at her throat and ears, she was still the most beautiful woman in the world to him. Just now, Kate was leaning forward to say something to Sunny about the history of Blenheim Park, momentarily distracting him from the girl-intentionally, Charles thought. She, too, had seen the Duke’s hand on Miss Deacon’s wrist.
“And you, Lord Charles?” the Duchess asked, and Charles turned with a start, realizing that he had been neglecting his hostess. “What do you think of Miss Deacon’s plan for taking a picnic to Rosamund’s Well tomorrow, with the idea of planning a folly there?”
“A picnic would be fun,” Charles agreed, “although I’m afraid I have no opinion about the wisdom of follies.” He had been thinking of driving to Oxford to see if he could find Ned Lawrence, Buttersworth’s helper, and take him off to see the Rollright Stones, but that could wait.
“The wisdom of follies,” the Duchess said, tossing her head with a laugh. Diamonds sparkled in her dark hair and in the bodice of her ivory satin gown, and Charles thought that she had an inborn, stylish elegance that Miss Deacon could never hope to achieve. Consuelo could be only four or five years older than the girl, but she carried herself with a dignified grace and cultured stateliness that added years to her age.
But even though the Duchess was smiling, Charles saw that her glance rested on her husband and Gladys Deacon, who seemed once again oblivious to the others at the table. The corners of her lips tightened and Charles thought that her eyes held the deepest sadness he had ever seen.
Or was it only sadness? Charles remembered what Buttersworth had told him about the gemstones that might have come from the famous Marlborough collection, about the appearance of the woman with Sappho’s nose, about the mention of the Duchess’s name. Well, the woman could not have been Consuelo herself, for her nose could never be said to be classical. That was an honor that would have to go to someone like Miss Deacon. But it was possible that the Duchess had decided on some strategem to embarrass her husband, or to exact some sort of revenge for his behavior. Or perhaps-incomprehensible as it might seem, since the Duchess was a Vanderbilt-she needed money, and fearing to pawn her personal jewels and refusing to ask her husband, had chosen something she thought might be sold without raising questions.
Charles sat back and allowed the footman to remove the remains of his fish souffle and empty wine glass. Whatever the business at the museum, he could not help feeling sorry for the Duchess, who was so obviously unhappy. But at the same moment, he heard Kate laugh, and felt himself buoyed by an enormous lightness of spirit. Thank God he did not have such troubles as the Duke and Northcote were in for, if they continued to fling themselves like a pair of mindless moths at Miss Deacon’s seductive flame. Thank God for Kate, for her great good humor, her good sense, and her steadfast love. He wouldn’t trade her for all the duchesses in the world.
At that moment, Kate leaned forward. “Charles,” she said, “did you happen to see a newspaper when you were in Oxford today? I wonder if you have any news of the American motorist who is attempting to drive across the continent.” The story was being followed by the British press, which seemed to be as astonished by the idea that some lunatic might make the attempt as by the possibility that he might actually succeed.
“Horatio Nelson Jackson and his bulldog, Bud.” Winston put in with a laugh. “What a wild, woolly adventure, and so out-and-out American! Almost as brash as Roosevelt’s scheme to dig a canal across the Isthmus of Panama.”
He sobered. “Although of course Roosevelt has exactly the right idea. If he has a canal, he won’t need two navies, one on the east coast and one on the west.”
“The canal, the motor car trip-it’s all the same idea, when you stop to think about it,” Charles replied. “A linkage between east and west. Except that Horatio Nelson Jackson-what a wonderful name! — is doing it on his own. The ultimate personal effort.”
“The ultimate folly, if you ask me,” Marlborough said, pulling his thin eyebrows together. “What idiot would want to drive a motor car where there aren’t any roads? And if Jackson wanted to get across the country, why didn’t the fool simply go by train?”
“Where’s your sense of adventure, Sunny?” asked Miss Deacon playfully. “I think it sounds like divine fun, and frightfully dangerous.” She shivered deliciously. “Why, the man might be captured by Indians, or murdered by robbers!”
“As a matter of fact,” Charles said, “I read that Jackson drove safely into Omaha, Nebraska, on Sunday. Must have been quite a celebration. But he still has a long way to go-some thirteen hundred miles.”
“Yes, but if he’s got as far as Omaha,” Kate said, “he’s more than halfway there. And he’s over the Rocky Mountains, which must have been the worst part. It’s all downhill from there, so to speak.”
“I’d give anything to be in New York when he arrives,” Consuelo said, her eyes sparkling. “Wouldn’t you, Kate? Such an amazing feat-I’m sure the whole city will turn out. There’ll be a parade on Fifth Avenue, and bands and bunting and flags flying everywhere, just like the Fourth of July. Glorious!”
“You Americans,” Marlborough said scornfully. “Always so childish. Any silly excuse for a parade.”
Consuelo, obviously wounded, lowered her eyes. Charles thought the remark offensively patronizing, and did not even smile, but Miss Deacon laughed and Northcote and Winston joined in.
And with that, dessert was served.