The Rose Garden Page 9

  All during the familiar, laughing flurry of the Maitlands’ and the Fryes’ arrival, and during the decorous, excited interval that marked Lady Ailesbury-Rhode’s descent into the company, and while poor George, who came downstairs very late, was fumbling at the bar for one of the warm, sweet Manhattans he loved, Leona’s thoughts were with her titled guest. Even while her head seethed with distress over her predicament with Charles, she was judging the effect on the old lady of the room, the service, and the other guests. Charles was doing splendidly. Suave, humorous, attentive, he was showing quite plainly that he and Lady Ailesbury-Rhode belonged to the same world and that they were at home together. Lewis Maitland, tall, blond, and with a heavy, conventional handsomeness, spoke very little. Dolly, his thirty-year-old baby-girl wife, bubbled mutely, holding her cocktail glass carefully and casting inquisitive, delighted glances in all directions. Willowy Liza Frye was silent, too, her graceful, high-held head immobile in a halo of conscious poise. Tom Frye’s plump face swelled with diffidence as he recounted some affectionate anecdotes of days spent in London as a schoolboy and as a young man. Lady Ailesbury-Rhode’s clear, clipped voice dominated the cocktail hour and the dinner table, and after dinner she invited Charles to sit next to her on the sofa, where they engaged in a companionable, witty exchange of views on the deterioration of polite society since the beginning of the First World War.

  Before meeting Leona, Charles had been the prey of any woman with a guest room for an extra man who would pay for his weekend in smiles and talk. Now he told a few reminiscences of those days, transfiguring the women, the houses, and the occasions until Leona was sick with the thought that she might lose him. Lady Ailesbury-Rhode’s descriptions of the old, leisurely days in England entranced her hearers, and they all murmured protestingly when, at ten-thirty sharp, she stood up to go to bed. Leona offered to see her to her room, but the offer was refused, and after walking with her pleased, flushed guest to the foot of the stairs she slipped out to the kitchen, where Bridie, bathed in a blinding white light from the ceiling, was sitting on a chair that was all but invisible under her great, starched bulk. A cup of tea steamed on the table beside her. At her back, the window was uncurtained against the night. She was holding her spectacles against her eyes with one hard red hand, and reading the morning obituaries. Seeing Leona, she lowered the spectacles.

  “The dinner was perfect, Bridie,” Leona said. “The other maids went home, I suppose. You must be very tired.”

  “Ah, I’m used to that, Mrs. Harkey. You have to get used to being tired when you’re in service. I was wanting to ask you—I put Her Ladyship’s hot-water bottle in her bed at a quarter past ten, just like she said. Now, which hot-water bottle do you want me to leave up for Mr. Runyon? Or maybe he won’t want one at all now, since the one he likes is in use.”

  Bridie had been waiting for this interview since the afternoon. You’re on the spot now, Ma’am, she thought, watching Leona’s distress. Let’s see you wriggle out of this.

  Leona said nothing, and Bridie continued, “He never had one before, Ma’am. Before you got him the stone one, I mean. Maybe he won’t miss it.”

  Leona looked at her helplessly. “Frankly, Bridie,” she said, laughing in the way she knew a maid would understand—not being too friendly but showing that she understood perfectly well that Bridie was human, too, and that this domestic emergency must involve them both—“Frankly, I don’t know what to do. Lady Ailesbury-Rhode would have thought it odd if we’d given her an ordinary hot-water bottle tonight. You heard what she said about the velvet one this afternoon.”

  Bridie emitted a short, barking laugh. “If you’ll excuse me for saying so, Ma’am, I think we’d all have heard about it if she hadn’t found that same bottle in her bed when she went up tonight. All over it, she was, when I took the tea up in the afternoon. She had it hanging on the bedpost right beside her head. ‘Where did Mrs. Harkey find it?’ she asked me when I was fixing the bed tray. Well, I told her about how you had the little cover made for it and all, but sure she knew all that. You told her yourself this afternoon. She just wanted to talk about it. It’s the sort of thing an old lady would fancy, you know, Mrs. Harkey. She took a fancy to it, right enough.”

  “She hung it on the bedpost, Bridie?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Where she could see it. Now, about Mr. Runyon—”

  “Wait a minute, Bridie. Let me think.”

  Trembling, Leona sat down and patted her face nervously until her glance caught her own dim, ghostly reflection in the dark glass of the window. Then she put her hands in her lap and turned to Bridie and said, “I want you to help me. No, wait a minute, this is going to be difficult. You’re going to have to be very, very careful.”

  This is the best yet, Bridie thought as she listened to Leona’s instructions. Wait till I tell the girls about this. Oh, Lord above, this is the best yet!

  When Leona returned to her living room, she was greeted with a flurry of excited cries from Dolly, who was evidently determined to make up for her evening of silence. Charles was back in his own chair by the fire, and a glass of brandy stood at his elbow. He winked at Leona. Oh, how wonderful he is, Leona thought. I must not let this terrible thing come between us. In spite of their pleasure in Lady Ailesbury-Rhode, her presence had been a strain on all of them, and now they subsided easily into the comfortable, companionable idle chat that was familiar to them. Even Charles seemed less guarded than usual. Leona’s mouth was dry, and she sipped her brandy, waiting till Bridie should judge the time had come to go upstairs. After half an hour, Leona heard her slow, heavy tread, and the pause as she reached the landing. Then there was no sound from upstairs. Bridie must be waiting for the chance to get into Lady Ailesbury-Rhode’s room. Leona threw Charles a glance of tremulous appeal, which he misinterpreted.

  He stood up and clapped his hands gaily. “All right, boys and girls. Leona is much too polite and much too fond of you all to tell you so, but she has a big day tomorrow. And I want to go to bed.”

  A minute later, she stood in the doorway with him, waving goodbye and nodding with frantic enthusiasm at Dolly’s repeated promises to see her tomorrow, to call her up first thing, to run right around if she needed anything at all.

  Charles closed the door and leaned against it, making a comical face. “My God,” he said, “I thought they’d never go. You don’t think I was too abrupt with them? I don’t think so.”

  “Of course you weren’t abrupt, Charles, darling.”

  “Dear child, you’re positively tottering,” Charles said. “Come and sit down, and we’ll have one little nightcap before we go up. I’ll get it, darling; you look all in.”

  Leona wondered what in the name of heaven was keeping Bridie upstairs so long. Surely the old lady was asleep by now. All Bridie had to do was walk to the bedpost, take the hot-water bottle, take it to the kitchen, refill it, and have it in Charles’s bed by the time he got upstairs. I’d better keep him here a few minutes longer, she thought.

  George said good night and went upstairs to bed. Charles stood on the hearthrug, gazing into the mirror that hung over Leona’s mantelpiece. He swirled his brandy gently in his glass and stared at his reflection.

  “Your Aunt Amelia was quite taken with me,” he said. “In fact, we flirted a little, there toward the end of the evening. She must have been quite a belle in her day. What is it you women see in me, Leona?” He turned his head and glanced sidewise at her, teasing her. “Tell me, Leona, darling, what do you see in me? Let’s talk about it. . . . Oh, well, if you won’t talk— No, you’ve had your chance. I’ll puzzle it out myself. Mirror, mirror— No, that’s too boring. But they do say the eyes are the windows of the soul.” He leaned forward, smiling into his own eyes.

  A dreadful squawk reached them from upstairs.

  Charles leaped back from the mirror. “What was that?” he cried.

  But Leona was already halfway up the stairs. She switched the landing light on as she reached the top, and saw Br
idie, hair in disarray, eyes glittering, come out of Lady Ailesbury-Rhode’s bedroom with the velvet hot-water bottle hugged to her bosom. Then Lady Ailesbury-Rhode appeared, wearing a camel’s hair dressing gown, slippers of maroon leather, and a hair net.

  “Leona, what is the meaning of this?” she asked. “I awoke from a sound sleep to find this woman clutching my foot.”

  “She had it in the bed with her, Ma’am,” Bridie said.

  “I’m dreadfully sorry, Aunt Amelia,” Leona said, and started to cry.

  Lady Ailesbury-Rhode blinked with embarrassment. “Oh, don’t take on so, child. I appreciate your thoughtfulness, although I don’t usually need the hot-water bottle refilled in the night. Oh, Mr. Runyon, there you are. What a pickle you find us in.”

  Leona realized that Charles had run upstairs after her, and was standing behind her. She moved to lean against the wall.

  George’s bedroom door opened, and he came out, knotting his dressing gown and blinking. “Anything wrong?” he asked. “I thought I heard voices.”

  “A little misunderstanding, George,” Lady Ailesbury-Rhode said. “Leona, dear, if your maid will take the hot-water bottle to the kitchen and refill it now, I shall be delighted. So kind of you. Good night, my dear.”

  She withdrew into her room and closed the door. George disappeared into his room. Bridie rustled past Leona and Charles, and went downstairs. She tried to catch Leona’s eye as she went past, but Leona no longer cared for plots or signals. She felt Charles standing near her, and longed for him to speak to her, but he walked down the hall to his own room and went in, shutting the door. Leona ran after him, and, receiving no response to her knock, she opened the door and stepped into the room. Charles was sitting in his great easy chair by the window, smoking. He looked coolly at her.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Oh, Charles,” Leona sobbed, “what can I say? How can you ever forgive me? But I was so confused when she arrived, and I wanted everything to be just right. And then I was frightened and I didn’t know what to do. Please try to understand, Charles! Here we’re going to have this lovely party tomorrow night, and don’t let’s spoil everything. I’ll make it up to you, Charles, I promise I will. I promise, Charles!”

  “Sorry, my dear. I won’t be at your party tomorrow,” Charles said.

  Leona stopped crying and stared at him. “Not be at the party, Charles?”

  “I shall be leaving first thing in the morning, Leona. I can call a taxi from the village to take me to the station, I presume.”

  Leona watched him take a puff of his cigarette. She thought of Lady Ailesbury-Rhode’s domineering voice, and of Bridie’s imperfectly hidden derision, and of Dolly’s inane laughter, and of the olive-green velvet hot-water bottle, and of the eternity she had spent this evening, alone and frightened, trying to make everything go right for everybody.

  “All right, Charles,” she said wretchedly. “Bridie will call your taxi whenever you want it.”

  She closed the door and walked, weeping, down the hall to her own room, where she threw her clothes on the nearest chair and fell into bed, and, strangely enough, dropped off at once into a deep sleep.

  When she awoke, it was ten o’clock. She had meant to be up at eight, because of the party. There was so much still to be done. And then she remembered that although Lady Ailesbury-Rhode was still under her roof, Charles had gone. Forever, Leona thought. Tears rolled down her face. I can’t go through with this day, she thought. Not without him.

  There was a tap at the door, and Bridie came in, bearing a tray of coffee and toast.

  “When you didn’t come down for breakfast, Ma’am, I thought I’d let you sleep. You looked that tired last night.” She gazed avidly at Leona, who sat up and reached for her robe, which was not in its accustomed place beside her bed. “I’ll get it, Ma’am,” Bridie said, and took it from the closet.

  Leona ignored her glance at the untidy heap of clothes on the chair. She had no more favors to ask of Bridie, and she wasn’t going to stand any nonsense from her.

  “Has Lady Ailesbury-Rhode had her breakfast, Bridie?” she asked, lighting a cigarette.

  “She had tea in her room at eight, Mrs. Harkey. And she came down to breakfast at nine. And now she’s out walking with Mr. Runyon. He’s showing her around the place.”

  “Mr. Runyon?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. He gave me a note to give you. He was all worried for fear I’d wake you up with it. Here it is. He gave it to me when I brought him up his coffee, but I promised him I wouldn’t give it to you till I thought you were ready to get up.”

  “All right, Bridie,” Leona said. “Never mind those clothes. You can pick them up later. I’ll be down in an hour.”

  Bridie left reluctantly. As soon as the door closed, Leona tore the note open. “Dear Leona,” it said, “I was joking, of course. I was punishing you a little. You have been a bad girl, you know. What a delicious day for our party. My big oak turned quite gold in the night, and threw two of his leaves right through my window and onto my table, where they are still resting, the darlings. See you at lunch. Or sooner?”

  Oh, Charles, Leona thought. Oh, thank you, Charles!

  Light with joy and anxious for a complete reconciliation, she dressed quickly. As she came from her bedroom into the hall, she saw that his door, at the far end, stood open. She peered in. The room was empty, and it had not yet been tidied. She walked to the writing desk and touched the oak leaves gently. Dear Charles . . . She looked at the chair in which he had sat last night, so hurt, so cruel, and so unforgiving. Dear Charles, she thought gratefully, I’ll make amends somehow. She glanced at his pier glass and saw herself wearing a dress of thin red wool, artfully fitted to her long figure. The clear, bright color made her skin glow and deepened the dark haze of her hair. A flame, she thought. Dear, dear Charles. She rested her elbow on his white mantelpiece and thought of him. Then, in surprise, she saw that his fireplace was scattered with ashes, although the logs had not been charred and the kindling under them was whole. She reached down. Charles had been burning paper, but not enough to start a blaze. A letter or something, she thought idly, and would have turned away, but her eye was caught by a tiny white ball that had rolled away from the grate and was caught by the floor boards. She picked it up and smoothed it out. “Dearest Leona,” she read. “Of course you have realized by now that I was jesting. I was, you know. I was hurt and I tried to hurt you. I’ll be here for the party. And I’ll be here next weekend and next weekend and next weekend. What times we are going to have together. And do you know, that splendid oak outside my window (the one I call my oak, darling) blazed” . . .

  The note was unfinished. Leona put it in her pocket and looked at the ashes in the grate. There must have been several notes. She grew thoughtful. Why, Charles was anxious to stay. He was just as anxious to stay as she was to have him here.

  Before leaving the room, she cast one last glance around it. It was, after all, a very nice room. It was an enchanting room. Any man would be glad to have such a room.

  That night, Leona gave the best party she had ever given. Everyone said so. Lady Ailesbury-Rhode was charming, and Charles Runyon was in top form. Leona looked radiant, in a clinging dress of woodsmoke-blue silk that left her sloping white shoulders bare. She was really a marvelous hostess. She seemed to be everywhere at once, and yet she never seemed worried or abstracted. Her confidence was superb, and as she wandered, smiling, from group to group, and from room to room, the eyes of her friends followed her with admiration and envy. Curiously enough, no one noticed that she did not exchange one word with Charles all evening. Only Charles noticed.

  This was a new game for Leona, and she loved it. She could feel Charles’s tension as she moved lightly through the rooms. She knew that he was watching her, however entertained and entertaining he might seem to the others. She knew it by the turn of his head as she came near his chair, which she passed quickly, laughing to someone at the far side of the room. She knew it by
the set of his back as he stood talking near the buffet table and heard her voice calling to someone at his side. She had first felt her power as they met in the living room before lunch, and she challenged his amused, ironical gaze with an amused, ironical gaze of her own, and saw his puzzled frown. How long, Leona thought, pushing open a window to let the cold night air into the loud, warm rooms—how long will I punish him? Will I forgive him tonight, when they’ve all gone home and he wants that last little nightcap by the fire? Or will I go straight to bed and let him spend the night wondering? I might forgive him before lunch tomorrow. Or wait until Aunt Amelia leaves. That might be best—to wait till she leaves. He’ll really be worried by then. But I would like to talk over the party tonight. Oh, well, I have hours yet before they go. And she closed the window (a little of that air was enough) and wandered idly toward the spot where Charles stood, the center of a delighted group, fascinating everyone, as always. Everyone but me, Leona thought, and ignored his hopeful eyes and passed casually by to watch for another opportunity to ignore him. Leona thought she had never had such fun in her life as she was having ignoring Charles.