Bloody Royal Prints (6 page)

Just beyond the park, they arrived at a sizeable white-painted building, identified by a large black-and-gold sign as the Swan Inn. Rhododendrons not yet in bloom softened the rather stark outline of the building, and, in the background, waves crashed against a stone seawall.

Frances Forester, a tall, slender woman with straight snowy white hair cut in a style Coleman's grandmother called a “bowl” cut—about the same length all the way around, as if someone had put a bowl over her head and trimmed around it—greeted them at the door of the inn, and invited them in. She was nicely dressed in a gray wool skirt and a blue cashmere sweater set. She wore a pearl necklace and matching pearl earrings. Coleman was glad she and Bethany had decided to dress up for the trip. They might have arrived in jeans, which, seeing Mrs. Forester, would have been a faux pas.

Bethany was wearing a beige wool pantsuit, with a brown pullover, brown suede boots, and a gorgeous topaz brooch on her jacket lapel. Coleman had chosen a yellow wool dress, and its matching jacket with big black shiny buttons and black patent leather boots. Her black leather cap mostly covered her blonde curls. Dinah had sent it to her from London, with a note that it was the rage. Coleman was trying it out. If she liked it, she might buy more caps and hats. She was looking in all directions for change.

The inn was handsomely furnished, with polished wooden antique pieces among soft-looking sofas in blue and gray and white. Scattered on the sofas were pillows covered with needlepoint, featuring swans—flying, swimming, nesting, in couples, with cygnets, alone, against colored backgrounds. Paintings and prints of swans decorated the walls.

Coleman and Bethany exchanged smiles. They recognized some of the works. Dinah and Bethany had put together a swan print exhibition at the Greene Gallery last year.

Mrs. Forester didn't invite them to sit down. They were still standing in the foyer when she asked, “How can I help you? I know you want to see the inn—and here it is. Do you want to make reservations? Or entertain here? I believe you are also interested in the cottages?”

Her words were pleasant, but her voice and manner were decidedly chilly. Coleman remembered that Debbi had called her the Cranky Yankee. They'd have to tread carefully.

Coleman explained that she owned the magazine
First Home
and wanted to write an article or a series of articles about the inn and cottages. “We want to point out the wonderful ideas you have here—like the swan art in the inn. This is Bethany Byrd. She works with my cousin Dinah Greene Hathaway at the Greene Gallery. They exhibited some of the prints you have here in a swan show.”

Mrs. Forester smiled. “So you're that Greene! Yes, I bought two swans by Margaret Patterson from Dinah, and the Botke. I loved that show, and Dinah is lovely. How is she? Why didn't she come with you?” she said. “Would you like a tour of the inn?”

Coleman explained that Dinah was in England, and that they'd very much like a tour.

The chill vanished. The connection with Dinah and the Greene Gallery had broken the ice: Mrs. Forester was welcoming, warm, and friendly as she showed them the house. Swans decorated all the rooms—on painted furniture, quilts, wallpaper, shower curtains, rugs, everywhere.

Back downstairs, Mrs. Forester led them to a small sitting room where only one work of art, featuring one large swan, hung. Coleman recognized it as a color lithograph by Louis Rhead. She suspected Dinah was the source. A little clutter—a newspaper, opened mail on the desk—suggested this was Mrs. Forester's private space.

“Tell me about the cottages,” Coleman asked. “How many do you own?”

“Four: Flag Cottage, Flower Cottage, Shell Cottage, and Butterfly Cottage. From the outside they are all pretty much alike—gray-shingled like the houses in the village. Each has a little sign over the door with its name on it, and an emblem—a flag or a butterfly, whatever.”

“Can we see them?” Coleman asked.

Mrs. Forester shook her head. “I rent them from Memorial Day through Labor Day, and close them the rest of the year. They are still sealed for winter, but I can show you pictures. You'll see some more Greene Gallery art in them—I always turn to Dinah when I'm doing up a cottage—but Butterfly is the last one I decorated. I could rent more, but I haven't been able to buy more cottages,” Mrs. Forester said.

Coleman longed to see the interiors of a couple of the cottages, but she could tell Mrs. Forester wasn't about to open one. Fortunately, the photographs she showed them were of high quality.

Flag Cottage was decorated with American flag images in many different media, and the interior walls were shades of blue. The walls of Flower Cottage were painted pale green, and several rooms were papered in green and white stripes. Flower paintings and prints adorned all the walls. They recognized some of Dinah's favorites.

“Yes, I was thrilled when I asked Dinah about flower prints,” Mrs. Forester said. “She had everything I needed—Edna Boies Hopkins, William Seltzer Rice. I was able to buy all the prints you see from Dinah.”

The photographs of Shell Cottage and Butterfly Cottage were as attractive as the others. Coleman was beginning to get the glimmer of an idea about how she could adapt Mrs. Forester's concept for
First Home
readers when she saw Mrs. Forester glance at her watch and realized it was probably past their hostess's lunchtime.

Coleman stood up, as did Bethany. Coleman thanked Mrs. Forester and apologized for staying so long. Mrs. Forester brushed off the apology and escorted them to the door. “If I can be of further help, let me know,” she said. “Please give my regards to Dinah.”

Half an hour later, they were eating delectable clam chowder, and the best grilled swordfish they'd ever tasted. Stuffed after lunch, and longing for a nap in the car on the way back to New York, Bethany decided to forget about the clothes shopping.

“If you decide to come back up here, count me in,” she said.

“I'll be back,” Coleman said. “I want to stay in touch with Mrs. Forester. I've decided one aspect of our decorating department will be ‘My Dream House Is a Theme House.' I'd like to persuade her to become a consultant to
First Home
. We'll show our readers how to change a simple little house into a flag cottage, a flower cottage, a butterfly, shell, and more. I think it will be a huge success.”

Bethany woke up, and they discussed the possibilities, both for
First Home
and the Greene Gallery, all the way back to New York, bubbling with enthusiasm.

•••

Back in her office, Coleman was absorbed in the report Lyn and Mrs. Anderson had put together about the new design department when Heyward called on her private line.

“I need you to come to London for a couple of weeks. Before you start telling me all the reasons you can't come, you should know there are important business reasons for you to be here,” he said.

Coleman hated leaving New York. When anyone suggested she should go out of town, her answer was always the same. “I'm too busy,” she said.

“Nothing you are doing is as important as what's going on here. We have some great business opportunities, and you need to meet with Rachel Ransome to discuss the strategy for the art book publishing business.”

“I'd like to get to know Rachel,” Coleman said. “Maybe she could come here?”

“No, Rachel
can't
come to New York. Her gallery keeps her tied to London. She doesn't have a Bethany or a Zeke to take over while she's away. Anyway, I told you: I have business opportunities I want you to look at.”

“Like what?”

“The most interesting is
Cottage & Castle
, an English magazine I think we should buy. The castle part is too grand for us, but you could change that to a kind of ‘my home is my castle' feeling. And the cottage part would work well with
First Home
.”

Coleman perked up. “Is
Cottage & Castle
anything like
Country Life
? I
love Country Life
.”

“They have qualities in common, but
Cottage & Castle
is a monthly, not a weekly, and it doesn't include articles about animals.”

“Oh, too bad. I read every word in
Country Life
about badgers and hedgehogs—I just read a great letter in
Country Life
: ‘Hedgehog Breaches Contract.'”

“You don't own a magazine about animals. Stop changing the subject. I need you to come to London. I want your help.”

“What about Dolly? I'm not leaving her here, and I'm not putting her in quarantine and she's not flying in the baggage compartment. Bigger dogs than Dolly have died back there,” Coleman said.

“No, of course not. You'll fly to Paris with Dolly in her carrier at your feet. I'll meet the two of you at Charles de Gaulle Airport, and we'll fly to England together. Don't worry about anything—I'll take care of it all. She'll never leave your side. Lots of dogs like Dolly have flown the way she will, comfortably and safely.”

Coleman frowned. “What do you mean, ‘dogs like Dolly?' There
are
no dogs like Dolly.”

Heyward took a deep breath, meant for her to hear. He wanted her to know he was struggling to be patient. “Small, well-behaved dogs that can travel in carriers, that are used to being out and about, that are quiet when necessary.”

“Where would we stay? Most London hotels don't take dogs, do they? And don't say I can stay with Dinah and Jonathan. I'd like to stay with Dinah, but Jonathan and I don't get along all that well when we see too much of each other.”

“You and Dolly will stay with me. I designed a suite for you in my house. You'll like it, I promise.”

“I hear they kidnap dogs for ransom in London. I can't risk losing Dolly,” she said.

“Coleman, she's never out of your sight—how would anyone kidnap her?”

She sighed. She wasn't going to be able to avoid this trip, much as she disliked the thought of it. Still, it had bright spots. She'd see Dinah, and she'd meet the legendary Rachel Ransome. There were places in London she wanted to visit. She'd make a list, and insist on doing a few things no one else would think important, like going to Liberty, the classic department store, to look at fabrics.

“How long do I have to stay?” she asked.

“I told you: two weeks. I've already made your and Dolly's reservations—she has to go to the vet tomorrow afternoon at five for a special shot, and he'll fill out her papers, her shot record, and everything she needs. Start packing. You're leaving Thursday night.”

“I can't possibly go that soon,” Coleman argued.

“It's a done deal,” Heyward said. “I've made appointments for you in London. See you Friday morning in Paris.” He hung up.

Coleman put her elbows on her desk, and her head in her hands. Double damn. She dreaded the trip. She'd flown very little, and she didn't like it; she had a problem with heights. But she owed it to Heyward.

Her private line rang again. This time it was Dinah.

“Coleman? I've got a huge mess here. Could you come over? I need your help. I start work next week and—”

“Calm down. I'm all but on the way. I'm flying over Thursday night. Heyward's meeting Dolly and me in Paris. We'll be in London Friday morning. What's the problem?”

“I'm so glad you're coming. I hate this horrible house, and the cook and the housekeeper are monsters. I'm furious with Jonathan, and I don't know what to do. I start work at the museum next week, and I feel terrible. I simply cannot cope.”

“Don't worry. We'll sort it out. I'll see you Friday. Do you want to tell me about it now?” Coleman asked.

“No. Just come.”

“Is there anything you need?”

“No, no. Just come.”

Coleman hung up and pondered Dinah's call. Dinah was rarely angry. She was typically calmness itself, unless she was crying over a dead bird or a stray dog. Her problems sounded like a tornado in a teacup. She'd had several conversations with Dinah about the obnoxious servants of the rented London house. Dinah should have been able to bring them into line. Or she or Jonathan should have fired them. Why was the situation upsetting Dinah so much? And why wasn't Jonathan helping her? And why in the world would servants behave the way Dinah described?

Maybe they thought they could force Jonathan and Dinah to vacate the house. Could that be what they wanted? If so, why? Dinah was sweet-tempered and agreeable to a fault. Jonathan was demanding, but willing to pay well over the market to get what he wanted, and very generous. It all sounded very odd, but easy to deal with. Before she could turn to Heyward's projects, she would deal with Dinah's problems.

Monday, May, London

The black Mercedes with the uniformed driver behind the wheel was waiting for Dinah when she left Rachel's gallery. Dinah sighed when she saw it. The sun was shining and the sky was blue. On a day like this, she would rather walk than be shut up in a car. When it wasn't pouring rain, London was a wonderful walking city, with its beautiful parks, buildings, elegant shops—but Jonathan wouldn't hear of her walking anywhere. An English business associate and his wife had recently moved to New York after being violently mugged twice near their Kensington home, and they had impressed Jonathan with their stories.

After the Hathaways's arrival in London, Jonathan, over-protective since their wedding the previous June, became obsessed with Dinah's safety. He insisted she take all sorts of inconvenient precautions. She might have found it easier to tolerate the outdoor rules he established had their living conditions been satisfactory, but they were unbearable. She felt claustrophobic in the car, and miserable in the house.

Her husband's preoccupation with the dangers of London had led him to rent, sight unseen, a house in Culross Place, near the U.S. Embassy, where the security was formidable. Large uniformed men carrying submachine guns strolled up and down the block, and Dinah had to show her passport at a checkpoint when she returned to the house, no matter how often she came and went in a single day, even after the guards knew her, her driver, and the car by sight.