Leon Uris (34 page)

Despite the unwelcome appearance of Lieutenant Zachary O’Hara in Newport, the summer of Horace and Daisy Kerr had gone well. After a few indigestions, Horace felt that the compact he’d made on the train with Amanda had gained roots. Amanda had proven she intended to purge herself of that Marine. His name was not mentioned and there was not so much as a hint that they had seen each other.

If there was a void in Amanda’s life, the Kerrs felt that Dixie Jane Constable filled it. Amanda had many friends, particularly in the arty circles, but she rarely made an intimate friend. An exception had been Willow Fancy. Willow was married now, having a child, and they had drifted out of the center stream of each other’s life.

With Dixie Jane, it was like true love. Amanda could have this child as her own as sister, teacher, and the wife of Dixie Jane’s father.

Amanda moved about Tobermory with a lightness, got to know her cousins and uncles better, and was a most charming co-hostess with her mother.

How magnificently Amanda eased into the woman’s role. Well done, Horace! Horace had passed the summer with waning suspicion and scarcely uttered a harsh word.

For Daisy Kerr, nirvana! The slightest hint that Amanda and Glen might announce during the coming season filled her head with sugarplum parties. Daisy and Horace watched their daughter create the perfect Newport portrait of herself and Glen with Dixie Jane between them and a candy-striped party tent behind them. By Jesus, what a picture. Queen Amanda taking on the empire with Glen Constable as consort. That’s the way they had entered the Constitution Ball and Amanda’s moment of realization.

Horace Kerr knew that when one is on the right course, one picks up allies. The strongest notion that had ever gripped his daughter was to found a women’s college. It would be her giant step into becoming one of the great women of the century.

The second ally was Dixie Jane. Horace and Daisy loved the child no less than if they had been her own grandparents. There were genuine virtues in the child, her fine manners and response to affection and, mostly, how kind and gentle she was with Emily.

The third ally was Baroness Lilly Villiard, who had appeared in Newport socially with O’Hara. Seemed proper enough—old girl, young military escort.

George Barjac and Horace were fellow Marylanders, both Republicans who’d freed their slaves early. They were occasionally at odds about who was dumping the most waste into the Chesapeake, Dutchman’s Hook or Barjac’s tobacco plantation.

Horace prayed regularly that Lilly Villiard was atop O’Hara . . . or under him . . . five nights a week. There could be no doubt that if and when Amanda got a wisp of Lilly, she’d wish O’Hara dead.

The trees began to doff their summer’s wear as the sun rose lower and cast longer shadows. Dixie Jane saw them from her win
dow as icy fingers crawling toward her. Nini Constable would be fetching her daughter soon.

Amanda instructed Dixie Jane to muster maturity and to open her heart to create a special attitude for the situation.

“We have to make do with the mother and father given us. Nini needs her girl and Dixie Jane will need her mother. Your mom and Mr. Dorfman want to make you happy and you have to do your part.”

Dixie Jane had been thoroughly lectured on the sadness of divorce and of her duty not to make things more difficult. Nothing, she was told, can take the place of blood.

Dixie Jane wanted to know only one thing from Amanda.

“Are you and my daddy going to get married?”

“We certainly seem to be heading that way,” Amanda said in a non-Amanda answer.

“Can you promise?”

“I promise I love you and I’ll always love you.”

Nini arrived with lovely news, or so she thought. Dixie Jane was invited to join her and Mr. Dorfman on a buying trip to New York. Afterward, they would take a “get acquainted” vacation at Saratoga Springs and the girl could bring a cousin or companion.

Dixie Jane imitated Amanda’s great composure at a farewell picnic and went off with her mother, quietly hiding her despair.

Amanda knew Dixie Jane was treating her mother with the same indifference she herself had shown Horace and Daisy. The breach could take years to mend, and oh, the vengeance of a ten-year-old girl certain she had been rejected and was about to be abandoned.

When Nini and Dixie Jane left Tobermory, Amanda could hear dizzying cycles of Daisy’s voice, uncommonly shrill . . . “Well, I hear that the Dorfmans own half of Richmond, but isn’t it cheeky of him to go off with Nini Constable and Dixie Jane to Saratoga Springs . . . Nini said nothing about a chaperon . . . but they are probably not going to have a proper announcement . . . There is a strong rumor that Dorfman is half Jewish or his late wife was Jew
ish or half Jewish or some such, never mind, Dixie Jane will come flying back to your arms, Amanda. Amanda. Amanda? Are you all right, dear?”

“I’ll miss her so.”

The elephant train, that march of the moguls, went into reverse as the seasonal visitors to Newport closed down their summer cottages and headed home for the winter.

Horace Kerr stuck to his promise to hold a family reunion at Tobermory over Thanksgiving, though he made that promise before he learned Zachary O’Hara had been stationed in Newport.

The summer had given Horace no cause for alarm. Daisy was already in motion for the Thanksgiving event. In addition to Horace’s immediate family in Newport, there was a Scottish branch of the clan, some of Daisy’s relatives and leftovers strewn about America.

Daisy would have to find accommodations for those they could not fit at Tobermory. There would be a hundred people in all.

The logistics of number of servants and tons of food were staggering, but when Daisy had a gala to oversee, she was renewed.

Horace had a telephone line and switchboard direct to Dutchman’s Hook so he could keep an hourly control of the yard, and he sure as hell enjoyed being able to holler from Rhode Island all the way down to Maryland.

Narragansett Bay was emptying of those pissy little day sailboats. Wind and weather gave bite to his sails on
Lochinvar
and a real chance to test out the Butterfly. So far, the results were tepid.

As it headed into a stiff wind and through riptides, races, and fluky currents, the weight shifts had enabled
Lochinvar
to pick up a quarter-knot speed. If one were running a fifty-mile course, that would be enough to whip anyone. However, the Butterfly kicked in and out and often mysteriously, with no rationale.

Horace decided that at the right moment, he’d sail
Lochinvar
on
the cruel course to Immigrant Reef, a three- to four-day test of seamanship.

When he was at the helm, his mind drifted to making the ultimate gesture of inviting Upton over from London for Thanksgiving.

Horace had a growing begrudging pride in his strange boy who now headed one of the top syndicates at Lloyd’s and was a member of the governing board.

These times saw an astonishing development of direct communications between America and London by telegraph and telephone cable. Horace gleaned enough information to know that Upton had his finger in the pie and made and covered his bets beautifully.

Of equal interest was that Upton was accepted in “normal” social circles in London. In fact, he had an impressive standing with some royalty. Horace assumed Upton did his queer thing away from observation.

It was difficult for Horace to feel
he
should be the one to break the ice. One touchy problem about Thanksgiving was that Upton might feel free to bring one of his pansy friends over with him.

Would an invitation to Upton show that I have the magnanimity of a great patriarch or would it cause me unbearable embarrassment?

He wouldn’t go near Daisy on that matter. Better not push it. Things were going too well. With the Constable merger just on the horizon, the Kerr name would have the strike of a rattler in that rarefied air that Vanderbilt and Harriman breathed.

Emily had done nicely during the summer. Thanks to the tenderness of her mother, sister, and Dixie Jane, she had moments of smiling and lucidity.

Upton? Don’t have to make a decision this instant. By God, with direct communication to London he could do it in a day.

Folks came to Newport to play. Two centuries after the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock, lawn tennis landed in Newport, which
became its American capital. The medieval game of court tennis had been modernized and formalized by the All England Lawn and Cricket Club in Wimbledon.

For centuries it had been played in the interior courtyards of palatial mansions and châteaus of England and France.

If the paintings were correct, one could make out Henry VIII prancing about a court, racket in hand, though that might be stretching it, given His Majesty’s obesity and gout.

When the game was moved outdoors, it remained an elitist sport played on lawns clipped to near velvet. Wealthy vacationers took to the new sport and formed clubs near their own winter mansions in Brookline and Forest Hills.

As with golf and yachting, tennis socialized into private venues which protected its exclusivity. The American palace of lawn tennis, indeed, was the Newport Casino.

The massive clubhouse was proclaimed a Victorian marvel, shingled, gabled and clock-towered, bulky, asymmetrical, and rambling, enclosing a center court as though inside a horseshoe. Covered stands of boxes and preferred seating were on the shady side; open stands, opposite, where ordinary folks could be spectators.

Horace Kerr was a founding member, and, in his more youthful years, played fairly well.

Though Horace believed that Amanda, with her grace and speed, would be a natural player, she refused, for women had to play in full-length skirts, cinched waists, and heeled shoes, an absolute regulation costume of the club. Moreover, the men smiled on the ladies condescendingly.

Bellevue Avenue was a chatty street during the summer where the new and expanding middle class could rub elbows with the elite. There were archery ranges, some theaters and eateries, and an open-to-the-public lawn-bowling pitch. The horse rink and shows were close by; the entire scene very American in texture.

One could shop in the casino store on Bellevue Avenue, but the club itself belonged to the mighty. The clubhouse was an extravaganza of high taste and on this day boasted a finery of ladies wear
ing boxy, bindy millinery creations, bustled and laced, with gentlemen in white ducks and boaters.

After Dixie Jane departed with her mother, Glen Constable came up to spend ten days, just the two together, to let natural impulses take over.

Yes, there was a buzz as Amanda Kerr entered the casino on the arm of Glen Constable. She nodded and blew a kiss and waved and winked as they were ushered to Kerr’s courtside box. Glen floated. Who could blame him if he was so smashingly pleased with himself?

First, a well-played match between the Newport men’s singles champion and the champion of the Marion Cricket Club of Philadelphia.

Glen had played doubles with them both and displayed non-chalant modesty as he leaned over and coached Amanda on some of the nuances of the match.

Great stuff, what!

They were served and sipped lemonade as attendants drew new white lines on the court after the first match. There was a rising air of anticipation when the next match was announced. The Newport mixed doubles team would play an exhibition with Lotte Dodd and Wilfred Baddley, the Wimbledon champions.

The covered stands were packed with over three hundred gaily festooned ladies and gentlemen wearing jackets bearing their club emblems. cavalier lawn tennis club, richmond, virginia, Glen’s insignia read.

Over the way another three hundred spectators sat in open stands. Many of the women held annoying parasols.

First game.

Lotte Dodd zipped her underhanded service with a spin that gave notice. Miss Dodd and Mr. Baddley won on four straight spinning serves that hopped wickedly off the grass.

As they changed sides, a massive groan erupted. The first sprinkling of rain was soon followed by a sudden swift shower. The open stands evacuated. A nasty wind slanted the rain and it pounced in under the covered stands.

Glen and Amanda jostled themselves into the foyer, laughing as everyone shook the water off themselves like spaniels coming out of the surf.

. . . and came face-to-face with Baroness Lilly Villiard and Lieutenant Zachary O’Hara, directly in their path. The foyer grew tight for space. They fought for their bearings.

“I’ll see you now.” Zach spoke first in a command to Amanda.

“I am Miss Kerr’s escort, sir, and that was rather rude.”

“I’ll see you now,” Zach repeated, raising his voice. All around, eyes went to them.

Amanda held Glen at bay.

“Kindly let us pass,” Glen said.

Zach was planted and radiated a sense of menace. Glen stepped in front of Amanda and Zach clutched his Cavalier Tennis Club jacket and froze him.

“I’ll see you now,” Zach repeated again, opening his hands and pushing Glen off balance.

The four were center stage in a room suddenly chilled.

“Glen Constable,” Lilly said. “I haven’t seen you in years. I was off to France and I believe you had entered Harvard.”

“Yale,” Glen corrected. “Let’s take this outside, sir.”

Seething, Amanda stepped between them.

“Glen, he’s making an ugly scene. I’ll speak with him.” She lashed at Zach. “All right. I’ve a booth reserved in the restaurant.”

Lilly swooped in and took Glen Constable’s arm. “See me to my carriage,” she said quickly.

“Please go, Glen,” Amanda said, “and wait for me at the yacht club. This won’t take long.”

He grunted, but Lilly had them moving toward the door.

Amanda’s cobalt-blue fire blazed into Zachary’s green fire. She nodded in the direction of the restaurant and Zach took her wrist hard enough to convey his determination, led her to the restaurant archway, and pushed his way through a waiting line. Miffed grumbles followed them.

“The nerve!”