Regret Not a Moment (19 page)

“Indeed,” Devon said, an amused gleam in her eye. “Please don’t let me hold you up. Continue your rounds. I’ll just follow a few paces behind you.” She had won her victory. Now it was time to let him reestablish his dominion over the stables. Continuing with his routine would help him do that, Devon knew.

Willy turned and signaled impatiently for Winning Spurs to be put back into his stall. Then, without looking again at Devon, he walked to the next stall, Jeremiah behind him. As Willy turned toward the next horse, the black youth gave Devon a small nod of encouragement. Congratulations! it seemed to say.

“THE first thing we must do is have a telephone installed. I won’t go along with this ridiculously old-fashioned opposition to an instrument that is so convenient,” John declared, placing his napkin on the long mahogany dining table and pushing back his chair.

“I’ve never minded not having one,” Devon said, not really protesting. She took a last sip of her morning coffee and rose from the table. In her blue-and-white-striped cotton dress she looked as fresh as the unseasonably cool morning. Through the open doors, the scent of roses wafted in.

“Well, I need to keep in touch with my office. And what about when we’re in New York? Won’t you want to check on things here?”

Devon waited until they had found their way into the sunlit conservatory before replying. She did not speak until she had closed the set of glass doors that separated the green and white room from the rest of the house. “I trust the staff to look after Willowbrook,” Devon said mildly, “but I imagine that a telephone will come in handy when you’re in New York without me. We’ll enjoy being able to speak to each other.”

“In New York without you?” John looked puzzled, stopping in the middle of the checkerboard-patterned, white-and-black-marble-tiled floor. “That doesn’t sound very appealing.”

“Nor to me, darling,” Devon said, sitting on a nearby love seat, “but with your business there and my interests here, it does seem that some days of separation are inevitable.”

“Why? Why can’t we divide our time between the two places? Why can’t you accompany me wherever I go?”

“Well, I’m trying to learn the Thoroughbred business. There will be times when I won’t be able to leave. Like when an important race is coming up.”

“But that’s why you have O’Neill, isn’t it?” said John impatiently, pacing back and forth before Devon.

“I want to be more involved, though. I don’t want to just turn over every decision to O’Neill. I’d like to help him train a couple of horses. Learn from him.”

“He said he wanted no interference. I won t risk losing him.” John’s voice sounded a warning. “This is, after all, a business.”

“I’ve been exercising the horses for two weeks now and he hasn’t left yet,” Devon said defensively. “Do you think that I’m so offensive that he won’t be able to endure my presence?”

“It has nothing to do with you, per se! And I know it seems foolish that a trainer should dictate to his employers, but these men are a breed apart. Good ones are hard to come by. You know that,” said John, trying to assume a tone that would appeal to Devon’s reason.

“Well, if I learn enough from him, maybe he won’t be able to dictate to us. Maybe I won’t need him at all!” Devon said in a show of bravado.

“Don’t be absurd!” John retorted, his voice growing heated. “Even the most knowledgeable owners have trainers.”

Devon’s eyebrows shot up at the rebuke. She struggled for a moment to suppress her rising anger. Then, in a quiet but unsteady voice, she said, “I do not propose to fire Mr. O’Neill. I recognize his value. On the other hand, I don’t enjoy being dictated to by anyone. I am extremely careful not to get in his way. But I insist on undertaking tasks of which I am capable. And I’ve done very well so far. Why, yesterday I clocked the best time ever on Firefly. She’s ready for Saratoga!”

“Does O’Neill say that?” John stood still before Devon, curiosity overtaking his anger.

“He does,” Devon replied, with a lift to her chin. “And I’m going with her!”

“We’ll both go!” John said excitedly, cheered by Devon’s news. “I can’t wait to see how she does.”

“We’ll be taking Winning Spurs, too. And Home Run!” Devon said, caught up in John’s excitement and relieved that the tension between them had disappeared.

“Why, that’s wonderful news!” John reached for Devon’s hands and pulled her up beside him, wrapping his arms about her in a bear hug.

“You see? Everything is fine!” Devon exclaimed.

“Better than fine,” John murmured, giving her a lingering kiss.

Devon returned his embrace, but then pulled back. “Come down to the barn with me,” she invited. “I’m due there in half an hour.”

John was disappointed. The embrace had kindled in him the desire to return to their bedroom. “Can’t I divert you for just an hour?” he asked with a winsome grin.

“Well…” Devon was reluctant to refuse him. She had never before done so, and did not believe that it was a good thing to do. On the other hand, Firefly each day surpassed her own time. And today was the day that she would actually race against some of the colts in the stable to see how she responded to the competition after her weeks of intense training.

John could see the conflict on Devon’s face. “Go on, I can tell you’re dying to get down there,” he said with a good-natured smile.

“You’re the most understanding husband in the world, darling. And I’d like a rain check,” said Devon, standing on tiptoe to kiss him once again.

WHO’S that beautiful woman over there?” Devon whispered to Sydney Howell-Jones. Sydney’s husband, Bart, was a close friend of John, and the two women found themselves equally drawn to each other. Both couples had horses running at Saratoga that day, as did their other friends the Whitneys, the Vanderbilts, the Astors, and the Dukes.

They were sitting in the rarified section reserved for owners, each woman smartly decked out in crisp linen and a flirty hat. But even among the sleek, well-cared-for women of America’s elite, the young blonde whom Devon had indicated stood out.

“You’ve never met her?” Sydney chuckled knowingly, her husky voice rich with innuendo. “That’s Marion Davies.”

There was no need to explain who the film star was. Her fame in the movies had several years ago been eclipsed by her notoriety as the mistress of William Randolph Hearst. “Of course… I thought she looked familiar. And that must be Mr. Hearst beside her. I haven’t seen him in years. He and Father did some business together and he visited us at Evergreen, but that was at least ten years ago. I didn’t immediately recognize him, though I must say he doesn’t look much older.”

“Well… having a young girlfriend helps, I’m sure.” Sydney laughed. “But you know, he’s close to seventy.”

“And she’s only about thirty, isn’t she?”

“That’s right,” Sydney said with a wicked smile. Sydney had no malice in her, but she adored scandalous gossip and could resist neither listening to it nor repeating it. A stunning strawberry blonde with lush cupid’s-bow lips, Sydney exuded an aura of cynical sexuality that acted as an irresistible lure to the opposite sex. In reality, she was steadfastly faithful to her husband, Bart, who seemed not to notice the harmless flirtations she enjoyed so much.

Devon looked again at the blonde woman, Marion Davies, who was discreetly dressed in a white linen suit with navy blue piping, white gloves, and a navy blue straw hat that set off remarkable blue eyes.

“She doesn’t look at all like someone’s mistress,” Devon noted.

Sydney raised one eyebrow, smirked, and said, “Take my word for it.”

Devon broke into peals of laughter at her friend’s expression. “Oh, I know it’s true. It’s just that she looks so sweet and… I don’t know… clean-cut, I guess.” Devon, somewhat naively, expected mistresses to proclaim themselves by wearing too much makeup, too much jewelry, and loud colors.

“Well, they’re more faithful to each other than a lot of married couples I know,” Sydney said thoughtfully. “I suppose you’ve seen the photographs of that place he built in California.” Sydney was referring to La Cuesta Encantada—or Enchanted Hill—known commonly as Hearst Castle.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Devon, like all of her group, was accustomed to the estates of the wealthy, but no one had ever seen anything like Hearst Castle, or the Ranch, as the newspaper magnate called it.

“The place has the most incredible swimming pools,” said Sydney. “One indoors and one outdoors. The outdoor one is surrounded by columns and looks like a Roman temple. He calls it the Neptune Pool. In fact, he has part of a Roman temple right there by the side of the water. It must be at least fifteen hundred years old.”

Devon shook her head in wonder at the extravagance. Her parents were wealthy, but they were not extravagant.

Sydney continued, “The indoor one is made of tiny glass mosaic tiles from Venice. They’re partly filled with eighteen-carat gold, so the whole room glitters.”

“Sounds breathtaking!” said Devon, looking again at the world-famous newspaper tycoon.

“The whole place is,” Sydney assured her. “But you’ll probably visit it yourself. He and John know each other. You know, John used to be a very active investor in motion pictures—and not just in those produced by Mr. Hearst’s studio either.”

Devon stared at Sydney, surprised by this news about her husband. “Motion pictures? He’s never mentioned any interest in those.”

Sydney gave Devon a sidelong glance that somehow conveyed to Devon that the topic pertained to sex. “Many men are investors in film or stage productions, you know,” Sydney remarked. “John apparently gave that up when he fell in love with you. And that’s good.” Sydney gazed directly into Devon’s eyes, trying to see if her friend understood her innuendo.

Devon blushed furiously at the import of Sydney’s words. “Oh, I see what you mean,” she murmured, avoiding her friend’s eyes.

Sydney was half amused, half disconcerted by her friend’s distress. “That’s all over with now, you know,” she reassured her.

“Of course,” Devon said, regaining her poise. She tilted her chin up and smiled what she hoped was a cool, woman-of-the-world sort of smile.

“In any event,” Sydney said, anxious to avoid delving further into the sensitive topic, “Mr. Hearst invites hordes of people to the ranch every weekend. I know John has been there before and I’m sure you’ll be invited soon.”

As if on cue, the formidable William Randolph Hearst tipped his hat to the occupants of their box and raised his champagne glass in salutation. John returned the greeting, then signaled for Devon to join him as he went over to pay his respects to the older man.

“How are you, John!” the big man boomed, trying to make his voice heard over the crowd surrounding them. “It’s been too long. You remember Marion, of course.”

“How could I forget the lovely Miss Davies.” John smiled, taking the young woman’s hand briefly before turning to Devon. “And you haven’t met my wife.” John beamed proudly at Devon as he made the introductions.

Devon and Marion Davies shook hands and smiled at each other, then Devon turned to Hearst, whose large hands swallowed her smaller one in their grasp. He studied Devon, obviously approving the sight she presented in her white-and-pink-sprigged organdy dress and matching picture hat. Hearst was a man who appreciated classical beauty and he recognized it in Devon.

“You’re a lucky man, John,” Hearst said, not taking his eyes off Devon. The tone of sincerity in his voice transformed the clichéd phrase into a genuine compliment. “Won’t you join us for a glass of champagne?” he continued.

“Oh please do,” Marion chimed in.

Devon took the seat Hearst vacated next to his mistress and greeted the others in the box. She was excited to meet Gloria Swanson, whom she found ravishing, and Clark Gable, who seemed to have enthralled every woman around him. In addition, she recognized two of her acquaintances from New York and the publisher of a Boston newspaper who was a former schoolmate of her father.

“I understand you have a horse running in the next race,” Marion commented to Devon.

Devon looked at her in surprise, suddenly realizing that she and John had been a topic of conversation. She wondered what had been said about them.

“I’ve been trying to learn more about horseracing,” Devon said, “and I have very high hopes for my filly Firefly. But, you know, fillies don’t usually do too well against colts.”

“Well, there’s always a first time. And I’ll root for you. I’ll even bet on you,” Marion said, laughing at nothing in particular.

Devon found the young woman’s laughter contagious and laughed with her, without knowing why. Marion Davies seemed to be the kind of person who had a perpetually sunny outlook on life. Devon liked her immediately.

Devon had never before met people in the movie industry and she discovered now that they were a wisecracking, pranksterish group. She felt a little reserved and stiff in comparison to them. They were all so vivid and glamorous.

Despite the joviality of the group, none of the pranks or wisecracks was actually directed at Hearst—whom Marion called W.R. The entire party seemed respectful and a bit afraid of him, as though he were a parent in a group of adolescents. Only Marion treated him with the same casual good cheer that she showed everyone.

There was great excitement in the box when it was Firefly’s turn to run. Devon was gratified by the support of the group, especially as the Whitneys, in an adjoining box, were running a colt in the same race. The Whitneys were truly the First Family of the American turf, highly regarded for their stables, their trainers, their jockeys, and their sportsmanship. Willowbrook Farm had just three years before rivaled the Whitney family’s Greentree Stables, and Devon intended to restore her farm to its former glory. Devon recalled that it was, in fact, a Whitney horse that had been the only filly to win the Kentucky Derby. Harry Payne Whitney’s Regret, run in 1915, had proven that a filly could indeed win the greatest of all American horse races.

As though reading Devon’s thoughts, Marion leaned toward her, put her daintily gloved hand over Devon’s, and said, “I’d like to see a filly win.”