The Chameleon (31 page)

These lazy afternoons at Lake Como had taken on the dream quality of a wall fresco, soft colors ombred into earth tones, tugging on their imaginations and taking them out of real time. If the beautiful still water outside their second-floor suite was their lake, then the bed—a four-poster antique hung with bronze brocade drapery puddling onto the pale-green-and-salmon terrazzo floor—was their island.

Their days fell into an idle pattern, beginning ambitiously enough with a swim before breakfast. Claire would speedily breaststroke her way across the bottom of the pool, emerging out of the slapping cold water a few inches from Harrison, who'd be doing some sort of steady WASP crawl. Invigorated, their laps completed, they made plans for the day over breakfast. A tour of the Isola Bella's gardens, a hilltop climb above Cernobbio—it didn't matter where. Plans always fell away when, coming out of the shower tying his robe, he would step into her embrace. The smells of unwashed salty perspiration and sun oil on her skin retired his urges and pulled them back into the eddy of their lovemaking. As they spun and twirled around one another like bedridden dancers, lunch was missed, dinner delayed. Room-service trays went untouched and telephone bells unanswered as they took their nourishment from each other and from naps in the rumpled sheets and the softness of each other's arms.

Claire knew the difference between holding a lanky man in her arms with his youthful self-doubts and dreams and an-other with seasoned ambitions. She had stroked the stubborn lock of a young man's hair back into place and known zesty lust with him, but it paled with the feelings that had been newly aroused in her by the man who had stroked her heart with his intellect, and although his body was less firm, his embrace was stronger.

It made her feel special to know that this accomplished man who could have spent his time with anyone on earth had selected to be with her. Finally she had found the very man she had searched for as a girl on the men's floor at Marshall Field's, in every catalog, and around every corner. She felt loved, secure, and, for the first time in her young life, chosen.

All too soon, it was time to return to business. London couldn't be delayed. They had skipped Switzerland, Harrison sending a substitute and his regrets, but now commission efforts reasserted their claim on their time. Bidding
ciao
to Lake Como and Isola Bella they boarded the train for Calais, and from there, ferried their way to England.

London was all meetings and deadlines. The devastation seemed far worse to Claire than she had heard. From the height of St Paul's Cathedral, she could easily see where houses and shops had once stood and could take in at a glance the destruction of an entire block. Her room at the Savoy near Tom's faced the Strand, while Harrison's suite overlooked the Thames, his windows framing a broad view of the heavily trafficked river. She realized how much she missed the water when they all attended a Wednesday morning staff meeting in his parlor.

Before they broke for lunch, as a parade of room-service carts rumbled in, Harrison pulled Claire aside to tell her they'd been invited to Markenfield Park, Lord Dashwood's country house in Buckinghamshire, for the weekend and he hoped she'd want to go. The pleading in his eyes made her jump for joy, although in a roomful of people she wisely kept her eyes averted to the foxes leaping across the burgundy silk of his tie.

“Who's sitting next to Pamela Churchill?”

Emerald Cunard stood behind the heavy dining room chair, a scotch in her hand, and peered over her lorgnette at the crested place card held aloft by two silver hoofs of a jumping horse. There were twenty-four of these polished equine place-card holders arranged on her long mahogany table.

“An extra man.” Lady Dashwood exclaimed proudly.

“What luck!”

“Quite a remarkable feat in these times.”

“And what does the extra man do?”

“Binky says he's some sort of pirate.”

“How glam. Does he have a peg leg and eye patch?”

“No, some sort of financial privateer. Made a bundle in rubber during the war.” Wissie Wolfington whistled through her teeth.

“Oh, rubber. As in tank tires and those plasma tubes. Just like a pirate to profit from our war.”

“Now he's going for gold. Been sucking up to Will Harrison for the big construction jobs. Shipping, too. Duccio's so vulgar you can practically smell his olive-and-vinegar breath before he enters.”

“Oh,
that
Duccio! I think he's rather cute. A little short, perhaps, too dark with too much hair on his arms.”

“If he was a horse, I wouldn't have him in my stable.” Wissie sniffed.

“Well, I've heard he's hung like a stud.” Emerald Cunard flashed her famous witty eyes. “But is he Pam's type? Poor Pami. Edward R. Murrow's gone back to his wife and America, and Averell Harriman gone to mother Russia and eventually back to his Marie.”

“Don't pity Pam Churchill.”

“So does the pirate have a wife?”

“Single.”

“Oh my.” Emerald lightly dusted the single pirate's chair with the hem of her chiffon evening dress.

Claire cleared her throat in the doorway so as not to appear to be eavesdropping.

“Ah, the lovely Miss Harrison. Join us, dear.”

“Is your room all right? I put you right next to your father-in-law. Lord Dashwood says Harrison's the one to know but that you're the one with his appointment book.”

“Sort of like the gatekeeper. Frightfully good to keep it in the family.”

“Yes. Would you care for a drink, dear?”

“No, thank you. And the rooms are so lovely. Will I have time for a tour of the gardens before dinner?”

“Hardly. You'll be in quite a haste to slip into your dinner clothes as it is.” Both Lady Dashwood, longtime wife of Britain's press lord and hostess of one of England's great country estates, and Emerald were dressed in slim gowns that skirted their ankles.

Claire looked down at her well-cut suit. Here her reliable war uniform didn't seem quite up to snuff.

“Oh, I'm truly sorry, Lady Dashwood.” Claire's cheeks turned the prettiest shade of pink, like peonies. “I'm afraid I didn't think to bring black-tie clothes along.” Or jewelry, she thought, stealing a look at the enormous sapphires and diamonds encircling the neck wattles of the two older ladies. “I'm not sure Harrison has a tuxedo with him, either.”

“Oh, he's always kept a suit of dinner clothes here. Even during the worst of the bombings, we dressed for dinner. One can't let the Nazis spoil a good dinner party, Binky's always said. Bad for morale.” Her hair was crimped in a stiff tidal wave of curls.

“Come with me, dear.” Emerald Cunard, whose family had launched a thousand ships and who loved a good makeover almost as much as she enjoyed a juicy society scandal, took Claire under her chiffon wing. “We'll find something for you. You have such a lovely figure. So slim.” She raised her lorgnette to inspect the young girl's well-rounded bosom. “See you at half past, Wissie.” Emerald's mind was on her wardrobe in the Vuitton steamer trunk she had packed for the weekend.

“Please do. One hour of highballs and then dinner is promptly at half past eight.” A frown crossed the hostess's high brow. Why couldn't the Americans, with their casual ways, understand the importance of keeping up a good show?

Standing in her slip in front of the Victorian mirror, Claire was reminded of Aunties Slim and Wren and, of course, of her mother's antics in gussying her up for the Pettibone debut. There she had allowed the overzealous ladies to deck her out like a Cecil Beaton Christmas tree. Now, more sure of herself and her own style, she would not be misled.

“That one's the ticket.”

“What, that old thing? It's what I wear when I have to dress up after somebody's died.”

“It's simple and if it's a little large I can easily belt it. See.” Claire held up the black crepe to her bare shoulders.

“Fine then. Well, at least it's got good cleavage. On you the front will be scandalously slit to the waist. Perhaps we'll seat you next to the pirate and stir up the dinner talk.” Her mischievous eyes brightened at the prospect. “But you'll be needing a piece of jewelry.”

“But…”

“I insist. Dressed all in black and no jewelry, someone will ask you to draw a bath. Ha-ha!”

Claire beamed back at her as Emerald fluttered out of the room like a lady butterfly.

She spun around as Emerald Cunard's apricot poodle darted into the room to hide a precious hambone. Food. That was the crack in this incomparable British courtesy. Food was so short that the government issued free cartridges to anyone wanting to snoot gray squirrels. The minister of food even hawked tasty recipes for squirrel pies. And while the table downstairs in the great dining hall would be elaborately set with Meissen platters, George II silver gravy bowls, Minton china soup tureens, and tortoiseshell candy boxes, the sugar bowls, butter tubs, eggcups, and sweetmeat dishes would be bare.

Claire looked away from the mirror to the window and out to the perfectly manicured turf behind the house, which was set up for croquet and lawn tennis. Beyond that the ground was stepped, descending to the grand parterre's vast expanse of lawns and hedges arranged in the Italianate manner. However, the grove of ilex trees was now home to a dozen or so sheep, and Claire knew that part of Lady Dash-wood's prize rose garden had been sacrificed for beds of cauliflower and turnips. She also knew from Wissie's fingernails that the lady of the house tended the precious vegetable garden herself.

Claire examined herself critically in front of the mirror. The dress was too large and cut too low. She shook her head. Harrison wouldn't approve, she was sure, and this was the perfect opportunity to make herself desirable for him. So Claire used her shop-girl ingenuity to do like the Brits and make do with what was.

As the clock bells chimed seven-thirty she moved as quickly as if she had been inspired by the Aunties’ fashion wand. The lustrous hair was swept up into a French roll so that the special place on the back of her neck could be visible to him from any angle. She pinched a crocodile belt from his drawer to make the size ten fit her size six and, still wondering how to conceal her full breasts, suddenly spun the sheath around, fiddling with the opening so that from the front she was demurely covered from her collarbone to her wrists but her strong back and tapered waist were entirely naked from behind. Quite satisfied with herself, she heard a soft rapping on the door.

“Come in,” she called out.

Emerald Cunard's personal maid made a short curtsy as she handed over the red box.

“These are for you, ma'am.”

“Oh, how lovely.” Claire held the luminous, perfectly matched string of round South Sea pearls up to the fringed lamp shade just for a second before she fastened them around her neck. The diamond baguette clasp rested at
that
spot on her neck.

“Oh, thank Mrs. Cunard for me. Please tell her I'll be sure to return them first thing in the morning.” Claire's skin glowed with the same luster as the pearls at her throat.

“Oh, no, ma'am.” The maid curtsied again as she hurried away. “These are from the gentleman.”

Claire smiled with her gleaming American teeth and, glancing over her shoulder at her reflection, wondered if she could just
back
into the drawing room.

As Claire swept down the inlaid satinwood staircase, her coltish legs supporting her regal posture, she had only one ongoing hope. If, if, and if Harrison would return to Lake Como with her forever. Could he be content surrounded by books and his papers, writing political histories and his memoirs of the war? Who better to assist him than she, the woman who truly loved her great man? Wouldn't it be wonderful if the impossible could happen? If it could happen anywhere, it would be on their idyllic lake. Mornings spent in quiet research, he writing, she preparing the next day's text; then lunch on the veranda; and after the afternoon's work was done, a walk in the garden, a cappuccino, and long evenings entangled in one another's arms, their passion free to soar in the bed they'd share without the charade of separate rooms. If only he could lose his senses, as she had lost hers, they could return to Italy. She wouldn't even have to change the initials on her luggage—or her last name.

“Dance with me, darling,” Harrison daringly whispered into her ear in the moonlit darkness. Claire and Harrison rose to join the other couples fox-trotting on the flagstone terrace overlooking the vast acreage of pleasure grounds and forests and ultimately the Thames, which snaked its way around Lord Dashwood's private park.

Harrison slipped his fingers into the deep V of Claire's dress, his hand on her bare back. She closed her eyes and hummed along with the melody. They were locked like that in a private trance until the smell of Italy penetrated Claire's nostrils. But this was not the smell of their Lake Como, she thought, as the pungent odors of sandalwood cologne and garlic shook her out of her English primrose garden. Her eyes blinked open to the little man with the slicked-back hair and unctuous smile.

“May I borrow this dance, Miss Harrison?”

“Thank you, but…”

Pamela Churchill was looking desperately anxious to switch partners too.

“Oh please, Claire, do. Dance with Duccio. It'll give me a chance to ask Harrison a dozen questions.”

Reluctantly Claire changed partners. Fulco Duccio boldly introduced himself as Claire lowered her arms to dance with him. He was a whole foot shorter than Harrison. She looked longingly over her shoulder at Harrison, always the gentleman, stiffly squiring a very gay Pam.

Beneath a brow that concealed a wind tunnel of dark thoughts, Duccio studied her.

“I have never met a girl with purple eyes before.” His words rolled out as smoothly as if they had been soaked in olive oil.

Claire turned to this man holding a thick hand against the bare small of her back and shivered. He watched her intently through eyes the color of a pitched sea.

“I am in the debt of your—how do you call it in English—father-in-law.” He smiled. “He is making it possible for us to steady our feet again. We are busy making business together.”