A Prologue To Love (35 page)

What was he taking from the pocket of his long coat? It was a flat parcel. He said almost humbly, “You must understand, Cynthia, that John was — fond of you. A few days before he died he bought this gift; I was with him. He told me that you liked jewelry; he said something about your birthday. He left the gift in the shop to be lengthened and paid for it. Then he died. I went to the shop, where I am well known, and took the gift, and so I have brought it to you. It is little enough to do for poor old Johnny.”

Tears came into Cynthia’s eyes, and she was more beautiful than ever. Her hands trembled as she opened the package. On a bed of rose velvet lay a brilliant diamond necklace garnished with fine rubies — a slender necklace all intricacy and fire and light. “Oh,” said Cynthia with a sob, “dear, dear John.” She bowed her head and cried. Her bright long curls fell over her face, which she had partly covered with her hands. She was like a young girl, weeping.

Neither ever knew how it had happened so quickly, but Montague’s chair was now beside Cynthia’s, and her head was on his shoulder, and he was wiping her wet eyes and face with the first tenderness he had ever known in his life, and he was smoothing her hair lovingly, and he was murmuring the most idiotic things. He knew they were idiotic; he knew that he had been expertly lured and that he had followed, like an absolute maundering fool. He also knew that he loved Cynthia, that she was the first woman he had ever loved, and that he would never let her go. He kissed her flushed, moist cheek almost reverently. “Hush, my love,” he said. “Hush.”

Some part of himself, objective and cynical, laughed at him. He smiled back at it. He kissed Cynthia again. And then she timidly lifted her full red lips and returned the kiss, and she was all joy, even though she continued to cry sincerely, and the necklace slipped from the smooth silk of her lap and fell into the grass.

Less than an hour and a half had passed since Lord Halnes had stepped into this enchanted garden. He kissed Cynthia and dried her tears. He could not have enough of her kisses.

When Timothy Winslow left the train on this hot day in Boston he was surprised to find not only the family victoria waiting for him, as usual, but his mother also. This was unprecedented; Cynthia had not done this since he had been a child returning home from Groton. She waved a scented handkerchief to him gaily as she sat in the carriage, and he was freshly surprised and intrigued. With the engine hissing and steaming behind him, he came across the boards of the platform, carrying his own light luggage, being a prudent young man and a Bostonian who did not believe in unnecessary tips to porters.

When he had last seen Cynthia she had been very pale and drawn and dressed in deep black and looking all of her forty-five years and even more. Now she appeared hardly more than thirty, and she wore a light blue silk dress, all ruffles and jeweled buttons from breast to ankle, and a few choice gems and blue satin slippers. Even more frivolous was the pretty rose hat perched on her blond head, a hat in the new small ‘hunting’ fashion, with an impudent dip of the brim over one eye, a high crown heaped with bluebells and a single blue plume fluttering in the heated breeze. A wisp of blue veiling hung over her eyes, increasing their gray bright sparkle, and Timothy, after one quick, expert inspection, decided that exuberant nature, rather than paint, was responsible for the color on his mother’s fair cheeks and lips.

She reached over the side of the victoria and embraced him with sincere affection and said fervently, “Dear Timothy! How glad I am to see you! Do get in; I have so many wonderful things to tell you!”

He did not doubt it and was highly curious. A demi-widow had been miraculously transformed into a joyous and gracefully ebullient young woman, and, knowing Cynthia, he thought that could only mean that she had a new liaison. Or, at the very least, that some rich old widower had unaccountably left her a fortune, to the scandal of Boston. His mother, he reflected, was a very scandalous woman at heart, in spite of her impeccable reputation and discretion.

The horses, as if infected in their elderly age by Cynthia’s obviously high spirits, trotted off briskly through the steaming streets. Cynthia had removed her gloves; her discerning son saw the huge glare of an awe-inspiring diamond on the ring finger of her left hand. He had never seen such a fine gem in all his life. He mentally calculated the cost. He glanced at his mother’s radiant profile, as neat and purely cut as a young girl’s. There was not a single wrinkle visible about the eyes or the mouth. Aha, he thought, more and more curious.

“Please do not tell me,” he said with his chill and knowing smile. “I can guess. You are going to be married, Mama.” And he took her long white hand and stared at the ring. “May I ask who is to be my stepfather?”

Cynthia had one deep narrow dimple near her lips, and it deepened as she withdrew her hand. “You’d never guess in all the world,” she said. “How clever of you to know, though, dear Timothy, that I am engaged to be married.”

“Only a blind man could miss it,” said Timothy. Cynthia candidly lifted her hand and pressed the ring to her cheek, and her eyes glowed humidly. “I suppose so,” she sighed with a contented smile. She leaned back against the velvet cushions and gave herself up to a brief dream of delight. She was in no hurry to speak; her mouth curved blissfully.

“Who? Where? When?” asked Timothy, thinking over the few eligible men his mother knew.

Cynthia actually giggled. She clasped her hands together tightly and looked at her son with such happiness that he was startled. But she spoke with deceptive demureness. “Who? Ah! You never met him, dear boy, but I’m sure that you must have heard of him. He was one of John’s friends.”

“Another pirate?” asked Timothy disagreeably, but wondering how large the scoundrel’s fortune was and whether he was utterly impossible socially.

“In a way,” laughed Cynthia, not at all offended. “But such a distinguished one!” Her voice dropped dramatically. “On September tenth, darling, I will become Lady Halnes!”

“Who?” cried Timothy, actually stunned out of his customary poise.

Cynthia was delighted at his reaction. “Lady Halnes,” she repeated, uttering each word deliciously, as though it were completely and totally sweet. “I will be the wife of Montague Lord Halnes, the most adorable man in the world!” And she cried just a little and smiled.

“I don’t believe it,” murmured Timothy. He took off his straw hat and wiped his face.

“I hardly believe it myself,” Cynthia almost whispered.

Timothy felt that he was dreaming. It was only a week ago that this man’s name had been mentioned by Caroline Ames with loathing. What had she said? That once her father had wished her to marry him. Timothy, from his close and secret inspection of John Ames’ affairs and papers in the safe at Tandy, Harkness and Swift, knew all about Lord Halnes.

“How did you manage it? And where did you meet him? And how long have you known him?” asked Timothy incredulously.

“Is it really less than two weeks ago?” mused Cynthia dreamily. “Why, I seem to have known him all my life. He came to see me in Boston. We were engaged almost immediately. I am having a little dinner tonight, dear Timothy, for just a few friends who are actually coming in from Newport to attend. I wrote them such intriguing letters, they couldn’t resist returning to find out! Then you will announce our engagement.”

“Good God,” said Timothy in a hushed voice.

“Of course,” said Cynthia, “my friends must not know how short a time I have known dear Montague. I am going to hint that it has been for many, many years.”

“Good God,” repeated Timothy.

“You aren’t annoyed?” asked Cynthia with sudden concern.

“Annoyed? No. Just stunned. What a remarkable woman you are, dear Mama. To manage this. He must be very susceptible, or something.”

“I’m not sure I like that remark,” said Cynthia, turning fully to him and regarding him coldly. “He is not in the least susceptible. He hadn’t the slightest idea of becoming engaged to me until two hours after we met.”

Timothy could not help it. He was not a young man who laughed easily, but now he burst out laughing, and after a moment Cynthia joined him. Cynthia could not remember that her son had ever kissed her spontaneously, but now he leaned toward her and kissed her smartly on her perfumed cheek. She was deeply moved and put her sparkling hand on his shoulder briefly. “Dear Timothy,” she murmured.

She said in a more sprightly voice, “Of course I have deducted two or three years from my age, dearest. I was hardly more than eighteen when you were born.”

“Interesting,” said Timothy. “And you didn’t marry my father until you were twenty.”

She struck him coquettishly on the arm. “Don’t be tiresome, dear. I am merely exercising a woman’s prerogative; I am deducting only two or three years. I am telling you this so you won’t commit a faux pas when you meet my darling Montague.”

“I see,” said Timothy, still more than slightly dazed. Why, the man’s fortune was even greater than John Ames’. And what would that mean for Timothy Winslow? He would be the heir to at least a portion of that formidable fortune. Then he felt less exultant.

“I seem to recall that he was the youngest son of three and that he inherited the title and the estates very recently after his father died. But titles and estates descend to rightful heirs, don’t they? Such as living children, second cousins, and what not. That’s British law. And how can it be that a man like Lord Halnes would marry someone who can’t give him a rightful heir to hold onto the booty?”

Cynthia was shocked. “My dear boy, I’m not obsolete, even if I am your mother! Old Mrs. Brewster had her last child when she was almost fifty! Dear me!”

Timothy looked at her with admiration. The old girl was quite capable of presenting Lord Halnes with an heir, and no doubt a son at that. He was certain that she would not only try but would succeed superbly.

“I will forgive your crudely youthful remark,” said Cynthia graciously. “But then, I am realistic myself; that is why I agreed to an early marriage.”

“ ‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may’,” said Timothy, “ ‘for Father Time is flying’.”

“Lewd, but true,” said Cynthia placidly. “There is no time to be lost.”

Timothy wondered whether any experiments in that direction had already taken place. He would not put it past his mother, who was delightfully exigent and practical for all her apparent frivolity and irresponsible ways. Looking at her more sharply, he saw the bloom on her face and decided that in all probability the experiment had been embarked upon. He silently congratulated her. But he was still faintly puzzled. From what he knew of Lord Halnes, he could still not accept that such a man had been so expertly seduced into rapid marriage to a middle-aged woman almost immediately upon meeting her. It was vaguely out of character. Then his respect for his mother heightened. He had known, he told himself, that despite her apparent softness and lack of character she had a will that overcame everything and a charm that brought her everything she wished.

He studied her, not as a son, but as a man. He had always admitted his mother was beautiful. Now she appeared extraordinarily seductive and beguiling. He could well imagine how Lord Halnes, the terrible and the ruthless, had been easily and complaisantly led to this agreeable conclusion. Dear Mama! He hoped that any impending child would be a son. Then Mama would indeed be formidable in her influence over her husband and would not forget her first son and her adopted daughter, Melinda. Timothy quite loved his mother now. One had, after all, to bow to superior finesse and astounding genius.

“I love him so,” sighed Cynthia.

“Excellent,” said Timothy.

“And he adores me,” said Cynthia, blissful again.

“No doubt,” said Timothy. “I feel that way about you myself.”

The green and fretted trees threw their cool shadows on Cynthia’s lovely face. She tilted her parasol and breathed deeply. “In some way,” she said, “I have come to love Boston lately. But I’ll love England even more.”

Timothy had forgotten this.

“Dear Montague has a wonderful town house in London,” said Cynthia, dreaming again. “And the family seat in Devonshire and a home in Scotland. How marvelous it will be for darling Melinda.”

Timothy sat up. Cynthia went on: “We will keep our house in Boston, though. Montague comes at least once a year to America. And he does seem to like Boston, though why, I don’t really know. So dull. He is charmed by my house. He hasn’t met my dearest Melinda yet, but he will shortly. He has seen her portrait and has fallen in love with the little dear. Do you know, he may possibly adopt her! Wouldn’t that be fortunate?”

“You will be taking Melinda to England?” asked Timothy.

She stared at him with astonishment. “Dear Timothy! Where else? She is only thirteen. Did you think I could leave her here when we go to England? And with whom? Dear boy!”

Of course she was right. The carriage drew up before the house on Beacon Street. Timothy said as he helped his mother from the carriage, “I, too, have many things to tell you. And you won’t like some of them.” He could not keep a vicious note from his voice.

When Timothy left Cynthia alone in her little sitting room, where they had talked for a long time, Cynthia found it necessary after all to resort to the paint pot. She had dressed abstractedly and then had coiled up her hair in the new Grecian fashion. She looked searchingly into her pier mirror; she wore a magnificent Worth dress of pale ivory and gold brocade which revealed bare shoulders and slim white throat. The small train just touched the floor but was draped sufficiently to show golden slippers. She put on John’s necklace and her betrothal ring. But I look like a ghost, she thought, sighing, and dipped a slim finger into the paint pot and touched up her cheekbones and then her lips and blew a cloud of perfume upon herself with her atomizer. She had sent a maid for Lord Halnes, and after a soft knock he came in, dressed formally.

“Ah, my love,” he said, looking at her with intense pleasure. “You look like a shining bird.” And he kissed her lingeringly, just barely standing on his toes.

“Dear Montague,” she said, and blinked back her tears. “Do you know, Papa always called me that? And he called my sister a dove.”

“Is anything wrong, Cynthia?” he asked after they had seated themselves on a love seat that overlooked the garden.

“A great deal wrong, and a great deal very good,” she replied. “That is why I asked you to come here where we can talk in privacy before dinner. Do give me a glass of brandy, dearest. Thank you.” She was very serious, and Montague knew that when Cynthia was serious she was not to be taken lightly. She was not a trivial woman.

He listened in silence while she spoke of Caroline, her son, and Caroline’s prospective marriage. Then, when she had come to the end of her story, he asked her permission and lit a thin cheroot and smoked quietly for a considerable time, thinking. Cynthia waited anxiously and thought how marvelous it was that she was no longer alone and had such a man to protect and help her and share her worries. His mobile eyebrows moved up and down; various muted expressions drifted across his respectable face; a thin blue smoke rose above his solid round skull.

Then he said, “Well, old girl, there is nothing you can do, is there? Caroline is more than of age. She never struck me as a fool; on the contrary. Dull, but not a fool. She has shown considerable acumen in her choice of your son, who, from what you have already told me, I should judge to be an extraordinary young man.”

Cynthia smiled a little. “John always called him pernicious, which was really quite unfair.”

“I met him below after he left you,” said Lord Halnes. “We introduced ourselves.”

“Oh? Good,” said Cynthia with a faint question in her pretty voice.

“I think both his mother and his uncle to be good judges of character,” he said.

“How ambiguous, darling.”

He took her hand and kissed it. “I think not. I’m pernicious, myself. Well, then, I repeat, there is nothing you can do about this unfortunate marriage your niece is about to make.”

“I feel so responsible, Montague, for she is my sister’s child.”

“But she feels no responsibility toward you or to anyone but herself. I repeat, she is not a fool. The clodhopper she will marry may have redeeming qualities, seen through the girl’s obstinate eyes. She has known him from childhood; I thought very often that she had a most sensitive eye. Perhaps that is why she always shrank from me.”

“How ridiculous! Caroline shrinks from everybody. Unfortunate girl. I never did know why she hated me so. And now she has done all that for Timothy because she thinks it will put me out of countenance! Really! And you say she is no fool.”

“She has a single eye, though it is a very sharp one. She sees, in a large measure, what she wishes to see. You should console yourself with the thought that at least she has made an overt gesture to one member of her family. I doubt that she did it only to vex you. She isn’t a petty young woman. Clumsy, maladroit, but not petty. I haven’t the slightest doubt that she will increase poor old Johnny’s fortune. In a way, I pity the young man who is going to marry her. Who would not be wealthy? But, to paraphrase Lord Acton, money corrupts, but absolute money corrupts absolutely. The young man will be corrupted, for all he is a nobleman of the soil, as I think one of your poets put it.”