Stone stood and stared. The room was paneled in walnut, and a spiral staircase led to an upper level that bordered the huge room. It smelled of leather and old cigar smoke. “Very beautiful,” he said, and he meant it.
“Come, I’ll show you your rooms.” Sarah led the way upstairs and down a hallway to the end. “You have the corner room, overlooking the Solent,” she said. “Monica, you’re there,” she said, pointing to a door across the hall. She opened the door to Oak, and Stone stepped into a large bedroom furnished with a four-poster bed, a chesterfield sofa, and a couple of commodious reading chairs, all very masculine. She led him to the window. “There is the Solent, in all its glory,” she said, “and that land on the other side is the Isle of Wight. Well, I expect you’d like to freshen up. Drinks are in the drawing room at six, and dinner will be at eight. We’re not dressing tonight; a lounge suit will do.” She gave him a big kiss on the lips and disappeared.
Stone watched her go, then stepped across the hall and knocked on the door of Willow.
“Come in.”
He opened the door and walked into a feminine counterpart of his own room, all chintz and lace. Monica was unpacking.
“We seem to have separate rooms,” he said.
“Oh, that’s how it’s done at English house parties,” she said. “They consider it more fun to tiptoe up and down the halls after lights out. Do you like your room?”
“Very much. You must see it.”
She came and put her arms around his neck. “I expect to, late tonight,” she said. “I’ll do the tiptoeing.” She kissed him.
When Stone got back to his room, his clothes had been upacked and put away by some invisible servant. He sat in an armchair by the window, picked up a copy of Pride and Prejudice on the table next to it, and began to read.
At a quarter past six, Stone rapped on Monica’s door and walked her down to the drawing room. There were at least twenty people in the room, ranging from their twenties to their fifties. He was surprised to see, among them, Erica and Lance, who waved from across the room. “You didn’t tell me they were coming,” he said to Monica.
“Didn’t I? I meant to, I think.”
Sarah came over, leading a tall man in the most severely cut English suit Stone had ever seen. “Stone, this is James Cutler,” she said. “James, I’ve told you about Stone.”
“Yes, you have,” James said through a clenched smile.
“I’m very glad to meet you, James,” Stone said.
Sarah’s parents appeared, her father portly, with a complexion that suggested the regular and copious imbibing of port, and her mother a faded blonde with what Stone thought was an exaggerated accent. They were both gracious and moved on when they had done their social duty.
A butler inquired of Stone’s and Monica’s wishes in drinks, then brought them. Stone had asked for Scotch, thinking they probably wouldn’t have bourbon, and he found it dark and smoky, obviously a single malt. Monica took him through the room, introducing him to everybody. Apparently, the Burroughs sisters, Lance, and Stone were the only Americans present.
At dinner, Stone was seated between Sarah and her mother, while Monica was relegated to the other end of the very long table. Stone counted thirty diners. The dining room had a high ceiling and much gilt. They had hardly sat down, when someone’s cellphone rang, and a brief hush fell over the table. Lance stood up, blushing, and left the room. A moment later Stone saw him outside the window on the back lawn, pacing up and down in the long English twilight, gesticulating. He wondered what had so upset Lance. When he returned to the table he looked unhappy for a moment, then managed a smile as he resumed his seat.
“I hate those damned things,” Lady Wight said, stabbing at something on her plate. “Only an American would bring one in to dinner.”
“Mother, not all Americans are so gauche,” Sarah said, nodding at Stone.
“Oh, of course not, Stone,” her mother said. “So very sorry.”
She didn’t sound sorry, Stone thought.
After dinner, the men left the women at the table and repaired to the library for port and cigars. Stone passed on the cigar but accepted the port with pleasure. He had not drunk enough vintage port in his life to suit him.
Lance wandered over. “How’s it going?” he asked.
“Very well,” Stone replied. “Business call at dinner?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Lance said, flushing, apparently still angry with whoever had called him. “You know about Wight, of course.”
“Not much.”
“He’s lucky not to be in prison. An office building he put up collapsed last year, fortunately in the middle of the night, so no one was killed. The incident prompted an inspection of a dozen of his buildings, and it was discovered that a lot of corners had been cut. Cost the old boy a packet of money and a bad bruise on his reputation. I think he was relieved when inheriting the title allowed him to change his name.”
“Mmmm,” Stone replied, not wanting to comment.
Half an hour later, the ladies joined them, and everyone talked until past eleven, when people began to drift upstairs to bed.
Stone had just switched off the light and was settling in when the door opened and someone entered. A moment later, she was in bed with him, her hands searching and finding what she wanted. Stone joined in enthusiastically, and after a few minutes they both came noisily, then collapsed. He was half asleep when she left the bed and went back to her room. Just as well, he thought, since he was exhausted and needed sleep.
He had just drifted off when she returned to his bed, snuggling up to him.
“What?” he said sleepily.
“Sorry I took so long,” Monica said, throwing a leg over his.
Stone sat straight up in bed. “How long has it been?” he asked.
“I don’t know; three-quarters of an hour, I suppose. I had a bath.”
Stone fell back onto the bed, realizing what had happened. “Monica,” he said, “you’re going to have to forgive me. I think I’ve had too much to drink.”