The Jane Austen Marriage Manual (11 page)

Jennifer had ensured I would look the part and had booked me into The Breakers in Palm Beach. A hotel dripping in history, it looked like a museum with giant stone columns and ancient tapestries brought over from Europe at the beginning of the twentieth century. It was gorgeous and regal, but the owners wanted to change its stuffy image to appeal to hipsters. That’s where I came in and why I was given a free room for a week so I could write a story and blog for
Haute
. To be honest, it was my kind of place. I loved the old-world opulence, the architecture, and the fussy decor; it made me feel like I was in Europe. In particular, I loved their homemade strawberry daiquiri. What would Florida be without a pink cocktail in a curvy glass complete with straw? As I strolled the grounds sipping away, I stopped dead in my tracks beside a hotel shop window. On a mannequin was a white
halter dress with an eyelet overlay and a full skirt, very 1950s, and very sexy. It was perfect for polo watching. Within minutes, I was standing in front of the dressing room mirror in the dress. It was perfect. I didn’t even look at the price tag. Before I left home I had cashed in all my investments, which were now sitting prettily in my bank account for just such an emergency. I only hoped that my new dress would pay better dividends than my stocks had.

“What an adorable dress!” Orietta exclaimed when she arrived to pick me up. “The men won’t be able to take their eyes off you.”

That was the idea.

I smiled innocently. “I’m not exactly twenty,” I pointed out, though not daring to divulge my actual age. Orietta brushed my worries aside.

“You’re gorgeous, that’s all men will notice,” she grinned.

We walked to the circular driveway of The Breakers where Orietta’s husband, Anthony, was idling his Bentley. It was the color of vanilla and that made me want to lick it. The valet opened the rear door for me and I slid gracefully, I hoped, inside the ivory leather backseat.

“Hi, Anthony,” I said cheerfully.

Anthony caught my eye in the rearview mirror and nodded. He was obviously the strong, silent type. Orietta got in beside him and we were off.

When we arrived at the IPC we left the car with the valet and walked along a brick path to the clubhouse. The brunch buffet was enormous; table after table was laden with platters of oysters, shrimp, bacon and eggs, you name it, even custom-made ice-cream sundaes. The clubhouse had a bar and a swimming pool, but we were led through the clubhouse and outside to a giant shaded patio overlooking the playing field. The field was such a bright green it looked like it had been painted. Maintenance crews were busy dashing up and down the
field, putting on finishing touches. There were no signs of horses yet, but I took deep breaths to calm myself in anticipation. It was ridiculous. I was at a polo match—of course there were horses. And there was no need that I would ever have to get within touching distance.

Let me explain. I have had exactly one firsthand experience with a horse and it didn’t go well. I was twelve years old and at a friend’s birthday party, a party that included trail riding. I envied the birthday girl’s pretty pinto pony. In fact, all the girls were given ponies except me. When it was my turn I was given a giant to ride, because even at twelve I was at least five foot eight and leggy. I’m not sure why, but Pebbles, that was his name, took an instant dislike to me. I hauled myself up onto the saddle and the first thing he did was whip his head around to take a bite out of my foot. The handler yanked the reins down and Pebbles threw his head up in the air and snorted. Not a good start.

We meandered through meadows and forests with Pebbles and me bringing up the rear but I don’t think he liked being last in line for he kept crowding the pony in front. I yanked on the reins as I’d been instructed but that seemed to piss Pebbles off even more because when we rode onto an open field he yanked the reins from my hands and took off at a gallop. I heard the trail guide scream to pull back on the reins but I no longer had the reins. I clung on to his neck for dear life until he’d have no choice but to pull up. When we reached the edge of a thick forest I was proven right. Within inches of hitting the tree line Pebbles slammed the brakes so hard that I flew over his head and landed face-first in a thorny bush. I lay there for I don’t know how long, unsure if I should move. I don’t even remember the guide lifting me out, bruised and scratched, but otherwise okay. My fall had terrorized the rest of the girls who had all begun to cry and were begging to dismount their ponies. The birthday girl whined that I had ruined her party and I went home in a huff and without cake. I’ve been terrified of horses ever since.

Orietta ordered a bottle of champagne, but after our glasses had been filled Anthony abandoned us and disappeared into the crowd. I was
beginning to think Anthony didn’t like me and wondered if, as a rich man himself, he could sniff out my ulterior motive. Orietta didn’t seem to notice he was gone; she was busy scanning the room.

“When does the polo start?” I asked.

“At three o’clock,” she said, finishing off her second helping of eggs Benedict with a side of steamed mussels.

“That long?” I wondered what we were to do since it was only one o’clock.

“Don’t worry,” she said as though reading my mind. “I’ll make sure you meet people.”

But I wasn’t sure how I was going to meet anyone with us sitting at the table like two wallflowers. The only people who popped by were septuagenarian couples and the waitstaff. I watched as the grandstand adjacent to the clubhouse filled with spectators and across the polo field private tailgate parties were in full swing. Everyone was having a grand time but me. I kept myself busy by eating too much from the buffet. My excuse was I needed to soak up all the champagne; the truth was I hadn’t eaten much since I’d been here. The hotel didn’t comp my food and I didn’t want to spend more than I had to unless I was out with people I needed to impress, so I’d made do with granola bars and apples. If I filled up now I wouldn’t need dinner.

When eventually the polo began, it proved to be more exciting than I expected. Watching as men on galloping horses swung mallets and smashed into each other to score a goal was thrilling and I found myself cheering on the local team. Orietta explained that a polo game consisted of six chukkas of seven minutes and thirty seconds. But like in football, the referee would call timeouts so the first three chukkas took more than an hour to finish. When the clock ran out signaling halftime, Orietta stood up at last.

“Lady Kate,” she said with a slight burp, “this is our chance to mingle.”

I stood up and followed her to the edge of the patio. “Where shall we go?” I asked, scanning the grandstand. I was surprised to see a mass exodus as the crowd made their way down the steps.

“We go get a glass of champagne,” Orietta said with a smile as she teetered on the edge of the patio for a moment before stepping onto
the field, her heels sinking into the grass with each step. I followed, determined to make a show of it. But as we progressed toward the champagne truck, I realized that Orietta was in her element. She introduced me to everyone and anyone. “Please just call me Kate; so nice to meet you,” I found myself repeating over and over.

There must have been over a hundred people on the field, all vying for a glass of free champagne. Eventually we made it to the source and I was shocked to see a pickup truck full of crates of Moët, with a man standing on its flatbed, free pouring the champagne as dozens of men and women swarmed him, holding their plastic flutes aloft to catch the drippings.

“It’s like a UN relief truck for the rich,” I said to no one in particular. But someone heard me and laughed. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a fine-boned blond woman wearing a dove gray cocktail dress and a matching gray fascinator with feathers that swirled around her head. Her eyes were hidden under oversize sunglasses, her full lips painted a brilliant red. She raised her glass to me and swanned off. She had to be at least fifty, older even, but she was one of those mature women who seemed ageless, the kind of older woman I wanted to grow into, the kind who could age gracefully and still be hot.

“Who is that?” I asked Orietta. She followed my gaze and smiled. “That’s Fawn Chamberlain. She was a beauty queen when she was a teenager, from the South, Tennessee, I believe. Never had a penny growing up. Now she’s fabulously wealthy and has been married three times. Would you like to meet her?”

I nodded. Fawn Chamberlain looked like a former beauty queen, all right. I had the gut instinct that Fawn knew all too well how to snag a rich man. As we made our way through the crowd Orietta halted abruptly and whispered in my ear.

“Oh, look,” she breathed. “It’s that English friend of yours, Griffith Saunderson.”

“Griff,” I corrected her.

Sure enough, Griff stood not five feet from us with an empty champagne flute in his hand. When he looked in my direction, I smiled and took a step toward him, but instead of acknowledging me he turned away. Was that a snub? Giving him the benefit of the doubt—maybe he
hadn’t seen me—I walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around and with what seemed a disappointed half smile, muttered, “Oh, it’s you.”

“Didn’t you recognize me?” I asked, ignoring his rudeness.

He looked perplexed. “Yes, of course,” he said in a tone that implied I was an idiot.

I didn’t know what to say next. Luckily Orietta jumped in.

“How lovely to see you, Griff,” she said, beaming. “I didn’t know you were interested in polo.”

“Always like the horse sports,” he said and turning his gaze to me, he stared intensely—was he sizing me up or did I detect derision? I felt the need to cover up, only I didn’t have anything to cover up with.

“So how’s it going with the B and B?” I asked. Despite my discomfort, I was determined to make conversation. After all, he was a familiar face and we had mutual friends, why shouldn’t we hang out together?

“Fine,” he answered brusquely and raised his eyebrow. Clearly, he didn’t feel the same about me. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to find someone.”

And with that, he disappeared into the champagne-mad crowd. I felt my face turn red, which only added to the embarrassment. I shouldn’t let him get to me; what did I care if Griff was rude? I gulped my Moët so quickly I felt ill. Not that it stopped me from fighting my way back to the truck for a second glass. As I stood with Orietta in the crush of people, the alcohol soothing my anxiety, I couldn’t help noticing how young everyone was. Many were in their twenties, including quite a few very tanned, coltish girls squeezed into tiny dresses. These were the very girls my article was aimed at, and more importantly, they were also my competition. It was disheartening. There was no mistaking the allure of young skin, a carefree disposition, and a body that was perky everywhere. I felt the anxiety rise again. What was I doing here? I should be in New York writing this article from the safety and sanity of my life, such as it was, on Ann’s sofa. I needed a third flute of champagne to give me courage. I stepped toward the truck and that’s when I saw Griff, smiling and flirting with a pretty blonde half his age. At least I had my answer as to why he had no time for me. What little remained of my confidence sank as quickly as my third champagne
flute emptied. Then I spotted Fawn in the distance, laughing in a small group of men—the unchallenged center of attention. She didn’t seem to mind being the older woman.

“I know what you’d enjoy,” squeaked Orietta, snapping me out of my self-pity. “I’ll introduce you to a friend of mine who owns one of the teams. He’s very fetching.” She led me off the field and I followed rather unsteadily from both the grassy terrain and my bubbly binge, but instead of returning to the clubhouse we went in the direction of the sand rings where a couple of teams seemed to be practicing. I froze. This was what I’d been dreading—being up close and personal with horses.

“I’m not so sure,” I said, trying to think of an excuse fast. “Won’t we get dirty?”

“Don’t be silly.” She laughed. “We’re not going to
ride
the horses. Besides, the owner is handsome, freshly divorced, and
well-to-do
.”

I sighed. This was what I was here to accomplish, meeting rich men, yet I felt as enthusiastic as I would about getting a root canal.

We walked past rows of horse vans with polo ponies hitched up to them as grooms darted about with buckets and tack. Orietta stopped abruptly when we came to a trailer that had “Team Madewell” painted on its side.

“Hello! Hello! Is Scott in there?” she called out.

We could hear rustling from inside the dark trailer and within moments, one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen stepped out into the sunlight. He was tall and lithe and wore a navy polo shirt with a crest over his heart; his biceps bulged as he held a bridle in one hand and a large bucket full of soapy water in another. He was swarthy with wavy black hair and equally dark eyes. He smiled at us. His teeth were bright white but naturally so; there was nothing fake about him. “Manly” was the only word I could think of to describe him. I was beginning to understand why there were so many young women around this sport.

“Scott is in the warm-up ring.” He spoke in a thick but entirely discernable Portuguese accent. I felt his eyes on me and blushed.

“Okay, we’ll find him.” Orietta turned and led me away.

“Who is he?” I demanded.

“Bernardo?” she asked as though she couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to know. “He’s Scott’s pony manager. Such a cutie pie.”

“I like pie,” I teased.

“Careful,” she warned me. “He’s just a boy, only twenty-five years old.”

I shrugged and followed her to the sand ring. I tried to hang back, not wanting to approach the fence, worried that a sudden breeze would coat my white dress in dust, but Orietta wouldn’t hear of it. Instead, she grabbed my arm and marched me up to the gate where four horsemen were careening around the ring, practicing their swing and defensive maneuvers. We were so close to the horses that I could smell them.

“Is one of these riders your friend?” I asked fretfully. I was desperate to be back at the clubhouse with the champagne and smoked salmon instead of standing here with the flies and manure piles.