The Talisman (48 page)

The following morning Edward met with his PR company. There were now some extra names he wished to add to his guest list for the party at the château, ones he knew would not be able to refuse, thanks to Dora. However, they would be dependent on very high society names accepting the Barkleys’ invitation in order to swing them into the upper echelons on both sides of the Atlantic. If the Windsors agreed to be present, the floodgates would open.

The Duke and Duchess of Windsor now resided in the south of France with a hard core of both English and French society surrounding them like an army. It was known that the royals were not above being paid to make an appearance, and Edward suggested a possible approach on those lines. He was told, however, that Mr Barkley did not even warrant that.

Edward refused to take no for an answer, knowing that with the Duke and Duchess making a social appearance his and Alex’s names would be placed on society lists throughout the world. He persisted, never actually negotiating appearance fees, but offering vast amounts to charities the royal couple were known to lend their names to, and eventually he received a short cryptic note of acceptance. It was now ensured that the party would be one of the biggest and most aristocratic of the season. With the royal couple as bait, acceptances would be assured.

The preparations reached fever pitch. Teams of waiters and caterers flocked over the lawns, blooms were shipped in from all over the world for the ornate floral displays. The society columns had a field day, quoting the names of the guests, and soon there was a scramble for invitations to the opening of the château.

One hundred waiters and eighteen chefs had been inspected, and everything was ready. Edward admired himself in his dressing-table mirror, then went to see Alex.

‘Oh, you’re wearing a white tux, well . . .’

Alex looked far more sophisticated in the new, fashionable white tuxedo. Edward fingered the collar, stepped back to get a better look. ‘Excellent fit, who’s your tailor?’

Alex laughed, and told him that was rather a dated expression, his designer was a young Frenchman. Edward immediately took another look at himself. ‘Do I look all right, then?’

Alex nodded. He was more worried about his greetings to the royals, going over his carefully rehearsed instructions yet again.

‘Right, this is it, Alex. Let’s get it over with – we walk down together, okay, side by side.’

The two brothers moved to the head of the staircase and began to walk down to greet their guests.

Alex wondered how on earth he had arrived at this point in his life. He felt strange, ill at ease, and part of him knew that this was a turning point in his life. He didn’t want to let Edward down in front of their three hundred guests, but he felt like an actor about to open in his first play, shaking with first-night nerves. He wished he had someone he could at least feel close to, someone he could associate with, but there was no one. Did he want this charade? He didn’t know, couldn’t fathom how he felt, and suddenly it was too late for doubts.

He stood at his brother’s side, shaking hands and welcoming everyone, knowing no one. Time and time again Edward gestured for Alex to join him in a throng of people, and he smiled shyly, shaking hands, his face stiff from smiling and bowing and thanking everyone for their congratulations. He felt exhausted.

The party was going without a hitch, but there was tension as the guests waited for the Windsors to make their appearance. They murmured to each other, constantly watching the brothers, but were polite and cordial at the same time as they consumed vast quantities of champagne and the delicious food.

The Duke and Duchess of Windsor arrived two hours later, and set the château buzzing as everyone took sneaky looks at the couple standing talking to Edward Barkley. Alex was brought over to meet them, and was so desperately shy he could say nothing. The Duchess asked to be given a tour of the château, and Edward, about to lead them into the lounge, froze. ‘Please excuse me, Your Grace . . . Alex, please . . .’

Alex gestured for the couple to walk ahead of him, glancing at Edward for a moment, afraid to be left alone with them. ‘Edward, you all right?’

‘I’m fine, I’ll join you. Go on, don’t keep them waiting.’

Edward’s heart was pounding. He was sure, sure he had seen Harriet. He threaded his way among the guests, shaking hands automatically and smiling his thanks at their compliments. He reached the far end of the marquee, stared around. He told himself he must be mistaken, why would she be here? But he couldn’t stop searching every face. Memories flooded through him, swept over him. He had once read her name in a society magazine, and had even thought about trying to contact her, but decided against it. He straightened his bow tie, and was about to hurry back to Alex when he heard her laugh.

Harriet was standing with her back to Edward, wearing a simple white cotton dress. Edward could see the freckles on her back, even though she was tanned to a wonderful golden colour. She had a glass of champagne in one hand and a small white clutch bag in the other. Pierre Rochal was at her side and he, too, was laughing. One of their party turned and saw Edward.

‘Oh, you must let me introduce you . . . this is Edward Barkley, our esteemed host – Edward, come and meet some dear friends of mine.’

Harriet turned. As she was introduced, she tossed her champagne glass over her shoulder. It was an unconscious gesture as she held her hand out. Everyone thought it was very amusing, except for an elderly gentleman who looked on in stunned amazement.

‘We are gatecrashers, you don’t mind, do you?’ said Harriet brazenly. ‘Only, we couldn’t resist Jasper when he said we could tag along. Do you know Dr Pierre Rochal? And this is Daisy Millingford . . . and, oh, I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten your name?’

A blonde woman introduced herself, nudging Harriet in irritation as they had been at school together. The moment of forgetfulness was the only indication Harriet gave that she was shocked at seeing Edward again. She showed no interest in him, and soon made her way to the buffet. Edward excused himself and followed. He stood behind her as she surveyed the vast spread of food and one of the staff stood poised to serve her. Harriet picked up a chicken leg and bit into it.

Edward’s voice was husky with emotion. ‘You’ve cut your hair.’

‘You’ve changed your name.’

‘Can I see you?’

‘What on earth is this slimy stuff all over the chicken, it’s awful.’

‘Where are you staying?’

Pierre joined them at that moment, and smiled apologetically at Edward’s discomfort.

‘Pierre, don’t touch the chicken, it’s dreadful . . . Did you meet my fiancé, er . . . Edward? Do you mind, Mr Barkley, if I call you Edward?’

Pierre smiled again at Edward, then told Harriet they were leaving. He appeared rather embarrassed by her rudeness, and thanked Edward for his hospitality. As they turned to go, Edward caught her by the hand. ‘Where can I find you?’

She withdrew her hand, and her brilliant, sparkling eyes glittered. She tossed her head and walked away without a backward glance.

Alex sat with the Duke of Windsor, Her Grace having departed to talk with other guests. They were discussing seventeenth-century furniture, and the Duke was fascinated. Alex leafed through his book and showed a Chinese painting table, Huang-Hua-Li wood with a carved bamboo motif.

‘So what price would a piece like that fetch?’

Alex told His Grace it would be in the region of seventy-five thousand dollars. Together they inspected the few pieces Alex had already purchased, the small lute table in hardwood, and they walked into the master bedroom to stand side by side looking at a Chinese rectangular side table, again made of Huang-Hua-Li, but sixteenth century.

‘They are very good investments, sir. You see, there are nineteenth-century copies that are fetching extremely high prices. These will always rise in value because of their rarity . . . the most rare piece would be a seventeenth-century bed, no one has ever found one.’

They got down on their hands and knees to feel the highly polished wood and examine the joints. The Duke was absolutely intrigued . . .

Sitting at a small garden table in deep discussion with Edward was Count Frédérique Rothschild, who offered to purchase the château, with all its contents, outright. He wanted to spread his vineyards right across the valley, and the château was perfectly placed for the champagne-growing region. They shook hands and agreed to meet within the next day or so to arrange the price.

Edward was beginning to get irritated. The party was clearly a hit, but his brother was nowhere to be seen. Guests were leaving without Alex there to bid them farewell.

He looked around for his prize guests to get them to pose for photographers and wondered if they had left after only a few moments, as was their wont.

Moving from table to table, his computer-like brain stored names and faces for future reference, and still there was no sign of Alex. A butler moved unobtrusively to his side and whispered that the Duke and Duchess of Windsor’s car was being brought round to the main entrance. Edward posed with some of the other guests for the photographers, then weaved his way towards the main entrance where a chauffeur waited with the white Rolls-Royce, engine ticking over. Edward hurried back into the hall and through the group of people who stood there chatting, and was just about to go in search of Alex when he stopped, open-mouthed.

Down the staircase came the Duke, his arm resting loosely on Alex’s, their heads close, in deep conversation. Edward watched in amazement as the Duke reached the bottom of the stairs and a waiter appeared, carrying a small wooden box.

‘Oh, this is really most kind of you, most kind, I shall treasure this, and I assure you I will take an avid interest from now on. This is really an exceptional gift.’

The Duchess joined her husband and he displayed his precious gift, the small seventeenth-century box. Rather casually, she waved her hand for the waiter to take it to the car. The Duke jumped to attention at her side, while Edward stood at the door to see the most important guests to their car. They barely looked at him, but gave Alex a firm handshake before they drove away.

It was late evening when the last hangers-on departed, and the debris of the day was cleared away. At last Alex was able to take a long, soapy, relaxing bath. He felt exhausted. He didn’t even know if the event had gone well or not, he was too tired.

‘Well, well, old chap, you surpassed yourself, and what was that thing you handed over to your new pal? Couldn’t believe my eyes! What on earth did you give the Duke?’

Alex explained that the Duke had been taken with the small Chinese box, and Edward laughed. Perhaps they should get a collection of them to hand out if they were so popular. Alex soaped his hair, too tired to go into details.

‘Got some news – place is sold, lock, stock and barrel, doing the deal first thing in the morning . . . We did very well, buddy boy.’

‘Why sell, in God’s name, why? After the months I’ve put into it, and just like that you’re selling, it’s madness.’

Edward toasted his brother, and said that four and a half million did not sound like madness to him. ‘Alex, you can buy yourself another place, do it up, but the chap wants it, with all the contents.’

Alex climbed out of the bath, saying there were a few things he would like to keep.

‘Take ’em, ship ’em back, no problem.’

Alex wanted his Chinese furniture. He knew and loved each piece, so he gave in without a murmur. Edward raised his glass.

‘To London, to your return . . . Mr Barkley.’

Alex couldn’t sleep. He was returning to London. It had been a long time, and his nerves were on edge. It was after three in the morning, and he was surprised to find a light still on in the kitchen.

Edward was sitting, staring into space, a bottle of Scotch at his elbow. He turned bleary eyes to Alex – he was drunk. His words were slurred, ‘Ehhhhh, I wake you up? Did I wake you?’

‘No, couldn’t sleep. Do you think it went well?’

‘Yeah, yeah, went well . . . want a drink?’

Alex got a glass and sat down. Edward poured most of the whisky over the table. ‘I’m thinking of getting married.’

Alex fetched a cloth to wipe the table. He laughed. ‘You joking? Getting married – who to, in God’s name?’

‘Girl I know.’

‘Well, I didn’t think it’d be a bloke! Who is it?’

‘I want a son, four . . . four boys . . . yes, cheers.’

Edward lurched to his feet and raised his glass in a grand toast, knocking his chair over. In the end Alex had to help him to bed. He tried to undress him, but Edward was so drunk it was virtually impossible.

‘I’m getting married.’

‘Yes, you said . . .’

Edward passed out. Alex stared at him for a moment, then went out and closed the door quietly. He wondered if Edward would still be getting married when he sobered up.

In the press the following day there were many pictures of Edward, and a few of Alex, always in the background. But the most important thing was that they were on the inside track – at least, it was important to Edward. Alex looked at his brother – hung-over, propped up in bed with all the newspapers littered around him, reading all the relevant articles aloud to Alex. He made no reference to his forthcoming marriage. As he read, he was downing ‘the hair of the dog’ from a tumbler. His shirt was stained, and he had tossed his trousers on the floor. He was brash, loud, and Alex was thinking how uncouth he was. With a big Havana cigar clamped between his teeth, he was struggling to translate the French papers. Suddenly, Alex started to laugh.

‘What’s so funny?’

Alex didn’t say, he couldn’t explain, but he had made good use of his years in France. If anything he was more of the gent than his brother. The one who had looked like, and been, a thug had overtaken the other and he knew it. Alex found it exceedingly humorous.

‘So when’s the date? Last night you were getting married – still on, is it?’

‘Yep – just got to straighten a few things out – like her fiancé for starters.’

‘So you’ve not actually asked her, and she’s engaged to someone else? Well, I wish you luck. Who is she?’