Clearing my throat, I asked, "Did he ever bring Gwenny to the States? To New York?"
"Not to New York, as far as I know. However, I believe she was with him when he gave those archaeological lectures at U.C.L.A. last year."
"How old is she?"
"About fifty-three or fifty-four, not much more than that."
"Has she ever been married? Tell me something about her, Diana."
Diana nodded. "Of course. It's not at all unnatural for you to be curious. But there's not much to tell. She was married. To Laurence Wilton, the actor. As you probably know, he died about twelve years ago. No children. She's a rather nice woman, and she's very interested in archaeology, anthropology, art, and architecture. She shares many common bonds with your father. I think you'd approve of Gwenny."
"I wish he'd trusted me enough to tell me about her," I muttered, dropping my eyes. I ate the rest of my oysters in silence.
Diana dipped her spoon into the soup and took a few mouthfuls. "I'm afraid I've let this grow cold," she murmured.
"Let's get you some more," I suggested, and swiveling in my chair, I endeavored to catch the waiter's eye.
"No, no," Diana demurred. "This is fine, really. It hasn't lost its taste. It's like… vichyssoise now, and it's still very good."
I nodded and took a long swallow of the white wine.
My mother-in-law's eyes rested on me, and she studied me for a while. Eventually, she said in a low, concerned voice, "You know, your father has always been a very discreet man, from all that I've heard, and from everything I know about him personally. He's never flaunted his… lady friends. And you must always remember that old habits die hard. With everyone. Edward is a gentleman, and so he's discreet. He doesn't know any other way to be. I am quite certain that he thought he was doing the right thing in not telling you about Gwenny. Or introducing you to her. And there's something else. I'm sure he didn't want to upset you."
"I guess so," I agreed, but I was a bit miffed with my father all of a sudden.
I turned my head and looked out the window, staring at the hazy gray sky but not really seeing it. I was disappointed he had not understood that I could handle it, had not understood that I would have understood everything, understood about Gwendolyn Recce-Jones and his need at this time in his life to have a bit of happiness. I was thirty-three years old, married and a mother, for God's sake. I was a mature, adult young woman, not a little girl anymore.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The suite at Claridge's was not all that large, but it was very comfortable, and the sitting room was one of the most charming I've ever seen, redolent of the Victorian period.
What made it so unusual and special was the fireplace that really worked and the baby grand that stood regally in a corner near the tall, soaring windows. These were dressed with plum-colored velvet draperies, handsomely swagged and tasseled, and they punctuated the soft, dove-gray brocade walls, while an oriental carpet spread rich, jewel-toned colors underfoot.
A big, squashy sofa covered in plum silk and matching armchairs, along with an antique coffee table, were arranged in from of the white marble fireplace; here, an eye-catching chinoiserie mirror hung over the mantel and made a glittering backdrop for a gilt-and-marble French chiming clock with cupids reclining on each side of its face.
Adding to the turn-of-the-century mood created by the elegant background were such things as a Victorian desk, a china cabinet filled with antique porcelain plates, and various small occasional tables made of mahogany. In fact, so authentic was the decorative scheme I felt as if I had been whisked back into another era.
Vases of flowers, a bowl of fruit, a tray of drinks, newspapers and magazines all helped to make the room seem even more homey and inviting. It was especially cozy this November night, with the fire burning merrily in the grate and the pink silk-shaded lamps turned on.
A television set stood in a corner on one side of the fireplace; I turned it on and sat down on the sofa to watch the evening news. But it was the tail end of it, with sports coming up, and within a few minutes I became bored and restless.
Turning it off, I wandered through into the bedroom, asking myself when Andrew would manage to get away from the office. We had spoken earlier, in the late afternoon just after I had returned from a visit to the Tate, and he had told me that he had booked a table at Harry's Bar for dinner. But he had not indicated what time the reservation was for, nor had he said when he would return to the hotel.
To while away a little time, I read several chapters of my Colette, and then, realizing it was almost eight, I undressed, put on a robe, and went into the bathroom. After cleaning off my makeup, I redid my face and brushed my hair. I had just finished coiling it up into a French twist on the back of my head when I heard a key in the door. I rushed into the sitting room, a happy and expectant look on my face.
Andrew was hanging up his trenchcoat in the small vestibule of the suite. Turning around, he saw me. "Hi," he said. He lifted his briefcase off the floor and took a step forward.
I found myself staring at him intently. I saw at once that he was totally exhausted. I was appalled. The dark smudges under his eyes seemed more pronounced than ever tonight, and his face was drawn, much paler than usual.
Hurrying to him, I hugged him tightly, then taking hold of his arm, I led him into the room. But he paused by the fireplace, stepped away from me, and put the briefcase on a nearby chair. After leaning toward the fire and warming his hands, he straightened and propped himself against the mantelpiece.
Looking at him closely, I asked, "Don't you feel well?"
"Tired. Bone bloody tired."
"We don't have to go out to dinner," I volunteered. "We could have room service."
He gave me a peculiar, rather cold look. "I don't care whether we go out to dinner or not. What I do care about, though, is dragging myself up to Yorkshire. What I should say is that I'm certainly not going to trail up there to my mother's." He said this in a snappish tone that was most unlike him. "I've just had her on the phone, railing on about my working too hard, and insisting we go up there tomorrow. So that I can have a rest, she said. Is that what the two of you were concocting at lunch today?"
"We hardly spoke about it!" I exclaimed a bit heatedly. "In fact, Diana only mentioned it to me in passing."
"Well, she didn't to me!" he snorted, glaring. "She gave me a bloody lecture. She also said you wanted to go, that I was not being fair, making you stay in town for the weekend-"
"Andrew," I interjected sharply, "I don't care whether we go or not!" I could tell he was not only tired but angry, and I had an awful sinking feeling it was with me, as well as with his mother.
"I'm glad to hear you feel that way, because we can't go. It's out of the question altogether. I have to work tomorrow, and Sunday as well, most probably."
"Oh," I said, at a loss.
"And what does that mean?"
"Nothing, just oh. However, if you have to work this weekend, why did you ask me to fly over here? Just to sit in this suite waiting for you? I might as well have stayed in New York with the twins, or taken them out to Indian Meadows."
Instead of answering me, he ran his hand through his hair somewhat distractedly, then rubbed his eyes. "It's been one hellish day," he grumbled in the same belligerent voice. "Malcolm Stainley's been behaving like an idiot. Which he is, of course… goes without saying. He's also a bastard, the worst. And full of himself, has an ego the size of a house. Ego." Andrew compressed his lips. "Ego always gets in the way, and it gets more people into trouble than I care to think about," he muttered in a voice so quiet now it was barely audible.