The Rose Garden Page 8

  “Marie Laurencin!” he shouted gleefully that day when the miracle was accomplished and Leona sat transformed in her Early American living room. “But a sly, malicious Marie Laurencin. What fun, darling.”

  And they had both shrieked with laughter, Charles because he knew that Leona’s near stupidity had no slyness in it and that her malice would always be, at its sharpest, a vapid reflection of his own, and Leona because she was pleased and excited.

  “But your clothes, darling,” he said severely when the little paroxysm of mirth had evaporated. “Your clothes are frightful. Now, let me see. No velvet, Leona—not even in a skirt. You are definitely not a velvet girl. I, on the other hand, am absolutely velvet—in moderation, of course. Velvet is immoderate stuff, Leona, and must be strictly disciplined. Always remember that, my dear. No, don’t remember it. Forget it. Forget velvet altogether. Tweed, yes, but only in its thinnest, most gossamer interpretations. That thing you’re wearing looks like tree-trunk bark. Thin, soft tweeds in divine colors: mauve, of course; periwinkle, of course; olive, apricot, cerise, maybe. And do bear in mind, my love, that a suit or a dress—anything you wear—is meant to illuminate you. You look positively surrounded in that thing you have on. That suit has conquered you, Leona. See the brazen independence of those grisly tweed shoulders. Why, they must be several inches above your own dear little shoulders. Clothes may be impertinent, Leona, and delightfully so, but they must never be domineering. Do run upstairs and take that thing off at once, Leona. It affronts me.”

  When Leona returned, in a dress that Charles also disapproved of, although not so violently, he smiled at her and said, “What an exciting day we’ve spent, Leona. We’ve turned you into a beauty. We’ll spend this weekend deep in plans, and by next Friday you’ll have at least two or three really splendid things. To begin with, a tremendous fireside skirt with a hem that measures at least a mile around. Now, let’s see. For the skirt? Let me think.”

  “Taffeta?” Leona said timidly, for in those early days she was still unguarded enough to express her uninvited opinion.

  Charles covered his face with his hands for a moment, and when he spoke, it was with mighty patience. “Taffeta,” he whispered. “Taffeta. Taffeta? The first refuge of the fat young wallflower, who hopes vainly that the crisp rustle of the electric-blue skirt—it’s always electric blue at that age, Leona—will drive the bepimpled stag line mad with desire. And the last refuge of the thin and fading wallflower, who depends on the vulgar shimmer of this execrable fabric—baby blue in the later stages, Leona—to avert the attention of prospective partners from her worried and disappointed countenance and to encourage them to perambulate her at least once around the badly waxed surface of the country-club floor. Tafetta? Leona, how could you?”

  “I’m very sorry, Charles,” Leona said breathlessly. “I just didn’t know. You see, I just don’t know anything. I won’t make a single other suggestion. You’ll see.”

  “Leona,” Charles said seriously, “I’m beginning to think I came into your life just in time to save it. Do you realize the sort of woman you were about to turn into? Taffeta! And that sinister tweed. Two years—no, a year—from now, it would have been too late. I could have done nothing for you. I’ll unswaddle your personality, Leona, and I’ll dress you as it deserves to be dressed. Oh, you may not always like what I do, my dear, but I can promise you one thing. We’ll have an awful lot of fun.”

  “Oh, I’ll love it, Charles. I’ll love it!” Leona said fervently.

  “You are a creature of flame and smoke, Leona. I see it all now. I won’t have to think anymore. Flame red, flame yellow, flame orange, and all the magical blues and grays you see in smoke. Oh, Leona, my mind is brimming with ideas. Do fetch some paper, lots of paper, and boxes and boxes of pencils. We must start our list, beginning with the fireside skirt, which will, I think, be made of awning canvas, striped in mauve and the very clearest yellow, and quilted, and lined with thin black cotton. You’re going to look divine, darling. Do you know that?”

  Two weeks later, when Leona, wearing the fireside skirt for the first time, confronted Charles as he arrived from the city, he was already an indispensable part of her life.

  So long ago all that was, Leona thought affectionately now, gazing at Charles’s bent, musing head. Eight whole years ago. Poor Tommy—how furious it used to make him, having to drive Charles out every Friday. And George gets just as furious now, although he’s not as quick to show it as poor Tommy was. George is such a fool.

  Tommy Finch, Leona’s first husband, who had brought her as a bride into his family’s pleasant old home at Herbert’s Retreat, was dead, having run his car into a tree one night. George Harkey, to whom Leona was now married, was a stolid young man who spent his days at Clancyhanger’s, one of the less celebrated New York department stores, where he was credit manager. Leona had married George chiefly for the sake of the tiny riverside cottage he owned, which cut her house off from the view, so highly prized by all Retreat dwellers, of the broad waters of the Hudson. Now Leona had her view, the cottage having been demolished without delay after her marriage to George. Unfortunately, she also had George. But a husband—even a dull, embarrassing husband like George—was better for Leona’s purposes than no husband at all. She ignored George as completely as possible, and, so powerful was her pride in her house and in her position at Herbert’s Retreat, she had almost forgotten that George’s cottage ever existed. Her living room was no longer Early American. Charles had seen to that. Now it was a witty, sophisticated, and dashing mélange of bright linens and chintzes, and reflected, as Charles said, the marriage of an informed eye with a wayward and original fancy. A wonderful room for a party, people always said when they saw it for the first time.

  Leona loved to entertain, and her parties, which were always expertly planned and very successful, owed a good deal not only to Charles’s advice but also to his presence. He was the only celebrated representative of the world of arts and letters who was familiar to the residents of the Retreat, and since most of them commuted daily to the comparatively unexciting circles of business and finance, they respected him immediately for his reputation, and learned to respect even more keenly his talent for withering with a look or drawing blood with a word. Charles treasured Leona’s house for its comfort and for the verve with which he had endowed it. He treasured Leona for her subservience and for her appearance. “I invented you, my darling,” he liked to say.

  “I know, Charles. I know you did. Oh, I remember,” Leona always answered, and at such times she would gaze anxiously into his eyes, as though she feared that by closing them he would dismiss her back into the nothingness from which he had rescued her.

  Tired of musing, Charles suddenly sat straight up in the pale-blue armchair and laughed impishly at Leona’s startled face. Leona, whose expression was not entirely spontaneous, was glad to be able to talk again.

  “Charles,” she said, “I have wonderful news. I just can’t keep it to myself any longer. The most wonderful surprise. You’ll never guess what it is. All right, Charles, I know you hate to guess. I’ll tell you.” She drew a deep breath and smiled tremulously. This was really too good. “Aunt Amelia is coming next weekend,” she said. “Lady Ailesbury-Rhode, Charles. Can you believe it?”

  “Tommy’s aunt, wasn’t she?”

  “And my aunt by marriage. I always call her Aunt Amelia.”

  “Always? You only met her once, didn’t you, when you dragged Tommy to visit her in Ottawa during your honeymoon?”

  “Oh, Charles, you sound so cross. I can’t help showing off just a little. She’s going back to London to live, and she’ll be in New York for two weeks, staying with friends. She called me this morning and said she’d like to come here next weekend. Well, I feel quite deflated. I thought you’d be pleased. I’m planning a marvelous party, Charles. Don’t you want to hear about it?”

  “Of course I want to hear about it. I’m always interested in your little do’s, Leona. I simpl
y wanted to say that titles are not so uncommon as you seem to imagine, my dear. I don’t think you should permit yourself to be quite so fluttery about this Lady Ailesbury-Rhode. You’re being quite girlish, my love. You’re flapping. It isn’t altogether becoming, Leona.”

  “Oh, Charles, I’m sorry. Don’t scold me. I’m afraid I got carried away. I’m such a fool. But do let’s talk about the party. Imagine how jealous Dolly and Laura—and, oh, all of them—are going to be. Why, if you think I’m bad, you should hear them. I mean they’re simply slavish about titles. Of course, I don’t care a bit, one way or another, but it is fun to have the only titled relative at the Retreat. Don’t you see, Charles?”

  “Of course I see, Leona. Rather, I understand your excitement, although I deplore it. I rather hoped you had matured beyond that kind of behavior. But the other girls will indeed be green with envy. Pea green. You say the old lady—she is quite old, isn’t she?—telephoned you this morning. Had she written you from Ottawa?”

  “Well, no, Charles. Why should she?”

  Charles smiled disagreeably. “I hope you won’t find her difficult. Bridie is a very precious servant, you know. You don’t want Bridie flouncing out in a rage because some titled Englishwoman steps on her toes. You’d better be on guard, my dear. House guests are a very touchy proposition, especially when they happen to be people you don’t know awfully well.”

  “Oh, Charles,” Leona said reproachfully.

  There was a nervous silence.

  “After all, this was Tommy’s house,” Leona went on, “and it’s only right that his aunt should come out here for a visit, probably the only visit she’ll ever have a chance to make here. And think how she’ll enjoy you, Charles! She’s no doubt expecting to meet a lot of dull little husbands and wives. You’ll be a revelation to her.”

  “All right. But don’t say you weren’t warned. Let’s talk about the party. Whom did you think of asking?”

  “Everyone!” Leona cried. “Just everyone in the Retreat, Charles, darling. Cocktails, a buffet supper, the works. We’ll probably go on all night. It’s going to be the best party. It’ll be the last really big party before Christmas.”

  Aloof, even frigid, frowning a little to show he still harbored misgivings, Charles began to plan the party for Lady Ailesbury-Rhode.

  The gratitude Leona felt toward Charles blinded her to the possibility that he might be jealous, and ordinarily she would have taken his disparaging remarks about her relative as an indication that he was in a bad mood; that is to say, annoyed with her. For Leona, a consistent worshiper, could imagine and could perceive only two moods in her god. Either Charles was mercifully disposed to her or he was not. Out of favor with him, she felt painfully bewildered and could hardly endure herself while she waited for him to approve of her again, and then, when the change came and he smiled on her and called her darling caressingly instead of with sarcasm, the pain went out of her bewilderment, and she found its absence pleasant and called herself happy. Charles’s pronouncements on Lady Ailesbury-Rhode shocked her, but only for a moment. Her anticipation of her coming social triumph had already swelled into an airy, lightheaded satisfaction that could be punctured by no one—not even Charles.

  On the following Friday afternoon at three o’clock, Lady Ailesbury-Rhode had not yet arrived, and Leona ran upstairs to take another last look at her guest’s bedroom. There was nothing there that she could improve, and she descended nervously into her large, square center hall just as the doorbell rang. It seemed to Leona later that the uniformed chauffeur was already in the hall, and had deposited Lady Ailesbury-Rhode’s suitcase there, before Bridie answered the door, but that, she knew, was only because she had become so confused. Lady Ailesbury-Rhode advanced on Leona, shook her hand briskly, and demanded, in clear, high-pitched tones, to be taken to her room. She was a short, round woman with a complacent, bad-tempered face and discolored blue eyes, and at the sight of her Leona felt so great an awe that she almost curtsied. Instead, she led the way upstairs. Bridie followed with the suitcase.

  “I’m going to take a nap,” Lady Ailesbury-Rhode announced. Then, to Bridie, “I’ll have my tea in here. You can bring it up at four-thirty—and, mind you, I’ll know instantly if the water is not boiling. You don’t use those disgusting tea bags, I presume.”

  Before Bridie could answer, Leona spoke for her: “Of course not, Aunt Amelia. Why, Bridie would no more consider using a tea bag than—than I would. Would you like some toast with your tea?”

  “One slice of very thin bread, lightly buttered, please. Nothing else. Well, this all looks very nice, Leona. Charming house—I was out here once or twice when poor Tommy’s mother was alive. We must have a long chat after I’ve had my nap. Now, there’s just one thing, my dear. I see you’ve put no hot-water bottle in my bed. Perhaps you forgot. But I really would like it. Would you have your maid bring it here as soon as possible? I shudder to think of those icy sheets.”

  There were several hot-water bottles in Leona’s house, but her thoughts flew naturally in the direction of only one.

  “Bridie will fill it at once, Aunt Amelia,” she said penitently. “How thoughtless of me. Bridie, fill the olive-green velvet bottle. Aunt Amelia, Bridie will have it here in just a minute. How careless of me to forget it.”

  “An olive-green velvet bottle? My dear girl, haven’t you anything else? It sounds unsafe.”

  “It’s a rather special hot-water bottle, Aunt Amelia. I’m sure you’ll approve of it when you see it.”

  The old lady’s words of pleased surprise when she saw and felt the pretty object sent Leona into a daze of pleasure that still possessed her when Charles arrived at the house at five-thirty. Leona met him at the door. George was putting the car away.

  “A drink and news before you go up to change or afterward, Charles?” she asked.

  “Afterward, if you don’t mind,” Charles said crisply. “Did Lady Ailesbury-Rhode arrive?”

  “She’s in her room, taking a nap. She had tea at four-thirty, so she should be down quite soon now. Do hurry, Charles, darling, so that we can have a little moment together before she comes. I’ve so much to tell you, darling.”

  Half an hour later, Charles came downstairs and joined Leona, who was sitting in front of the living-room fire, waiting to pour the first martinis of the evening. The martinis were in a tall crystal shaker, and on the tray beside them stood two tiny glasses, frosted from their sojourn in the refrigerator. Leona’s air of anxiety as she poured the martinis was genuine. Charles had been known to make an ugly scene over an inferior martini. He sat down and sipped his drink before he spoke.

  “Leona,” he said suddenly, setting his glass on the table beside him, “where is my hot-water bottle?”

  The shock, the violent realization of what she had done, cleared Leona’s brain miraculously, and in one instant she saw her dreadful mistake and began, almost calmly, to think of a way to recover herself.

  “Why, it’s in the kitchen, Charles,” she said. “Bridie noticed a loose thread in the quilting yesterday, and she actually offered to repair it herself. Now, there’s proof that she really adores you. She never offered to mend anything for me. Quite the opposite.”

  Charles sighed, smiled, lay back in his chair, and took his glass in his hand. “Wonderful Bridie,” he said. “And wonderful Leona. This martini is perfection, darling.”

  “The Maitlands are coming for dinner,” Leona said. “And Tom and Liza. I didn’t ask anyone to come in afterward. I thought we’d better have an early night tonight. I don’t want to wear Aunt Amelia out. After all, she’s not so terribly young.”

  “Stop worrying about this evening. I’ll shoo them all home myself, if I have to. Now, tell me about your aunt. What was she wearing? I want to hear all about her.”

  Leona wondered how she could go on talking so calmly. She was horrified at what she had done, and more horrified because of the stupid, useless lie. Why could she not have said honestly that she had lent the hot-
water bottle, knowing he would understand? But he would never understand. And now I’m going to have to tell him before he goes to bed tonight, she said to herself, and how am I going to do that? Watching Charles’s familiar gestures, seeing his mocking moves, his narrow, malicious smile, and his sharp eyes, which she knew could turn in an instant from tolerance to a destructive rage, she was terrified. How am I going to tell him, she wondered. How in God’s name am I going to tell him?

  But it never occurred to her not to give the velvet-covered hot-water bottle to Lady Ailesbury-Rhode again at bedtime.

  Leona had been working as a secretary in a bank when she met Tommy Finch, and she had never really recovered from the incredulous elation she felt when he married her. Secretly, she was still as impressed by Herbert’s Retreat now as she had been the day he brought her out to show her the house, just before their wedding. She had never forgotten her first sight of the Retreat, when Tommy turned in to the narrow private road that meandered from the highway in toward the river. The thirty-nine beautiful houses it connected had been built here and there at random, two hundred years ago, in a fine, thickly wooded glade that remained wild and green except for the smooth grass lawns and rims of grass that the householders claimed for themselves. Leona had never even heard of Herbert’s Retreat until she met Tommy, but from the first she became fiercely attached to it. She loved the fact that it was a restricted, protected, rigidly exclusive community. During her first days there, she was timorously happy that Tommy’s neighbors so easily accepted her. As she settled down, her pride stiffened. She began to take her own presence in the Retreat for granted and to feel she belonged naturally, not just by acceptance. Still, at the bottom of her heart, deeper even than her dependence on Charles, lay an irresponsible, unreasonable fear, carefully smothered most of the time, that someday some distant relative of Tommy’s would turn up and take the house from her. It couldn’t happen, she knew; she had her rights. But the rights, as she held and counted them, seemed slippery in her hands. She was not really very sure of herself, and Lady Ailesbury-Rhode’s title only intensified her desire to get down on both knees and say to the old lady, “See? I’m the same sort of person, really, that you are. I belong here. See how naturally I fit in? See what a good job I do? Isn’t the house charming? And beautifully appointed? No one else could do things so well. There can’t possibly be any question that I belong here. Please say that you approve of me.”