Too Much Too Soon (2 page)

After the roiling, windswept brilliance of the afternoon, the gloom and stillness in the house seemed eerie, and the girls stood mute and immobilized. They had never entered a private house this large. Crystal peered around, familiarizing herself with the stamping grounds of the wealthy. Honora clasped her shaking hands. The entry, with its opulent paneling and grandiose, three-story stairwell from which hung a massive ormolu chandelier, had been designed for this exact purpose, to unnerve visitors.

The servant returned, “Mr. Talbott will see you,” he said. He took their coats, folding them over his arm in a purposeful manner to show the long, embarrassing frays in the worn blue rayon lining before leading them into the interior of one of the turrets. The room’s circular shape, pierced metalwork and the enormous fringed hassock placed in the center gave it the look of a Turkish alcove.

Crystal went directly to the brass mirror, standing on tiptoe to adjust her hat and smooth
her yellow hair. Almost immediately, the sound of heavy footsteps rang on the parquet.

The Sylvanders’ photographic portrait of their American relations, taken many years before, showed that Gideon Talbott’s sternly aggressive jaw was balanced by a full head of dark hair. Judging from his thick neck and burly shoulders, the girls had deduced him to be tall. Seeing him in the flesh, standing on his stumpy legs, they realized that the picture had misled them. He was under 5′5″. His youthful thatch had deserted him and the last few faithful strands had been combed across his flattish head to meet his virile, bushy brown sideburns.

Gideon’s broad features were knotted into an expression of stern righteousness that added to his aura of masculine command.
The grand Napoleon
, thought Honora.

Closing the door with a sharp bang, Gideon moved briskly to the Moorish fireplace, where he continued his examination of his late wife’s nieces.

“Good afternoon, Uncle Gideon,” Honora murmured, flushing.

“I’m surprised your father’s not with you.” His voice had a peculiar grittiness, distinctive and compelling.

“D-Daddy’s resting . . .” Honora’s soft little stammer trapped her tongue. “He’s ill . . . .”

“Sylvander was at work yesterday,” retorted Gideon. “And which one are you?”

“I’m—” Honora started.

Gideon cut in. “Besides, aren’t there three of you?”

“Yes, Joss—Joscelyn—is only n-nine, nearly ten. We didn’t bring her along. Uncle Gideon, I’m Honora, and this is Crystal. We came to tell you how sorry we are about Aunt M-Matilda . . .” Honora floundered on. “We never met her, but she was always most awfully kind to us.”

“Your aunt was in poor health for many years. For the last year and a half she was bedridden and in constant pain.”

Honora swallowed miserably.

Crystal took a step toward her sister. Her lashes had descended over the angry blue glint in her eyes, yet her voice was rich with sympathy as she said, “It must have been a terrible time for her, Uncle Gideon—and for you, too.”

Gideon’s gaze lingered a moment on the lovely downcast face with its windwhipped, crimson cheeks. “I have other callers,” he said, assuming a kindlier tone. “Come on in and have some coffee with us.”

The sliding doors were open between the three elaborately paneled, high-ceilinged rooms, and fires burned in all three of the massive black marble fireplaces. The prune-colored velvet drapes were drawn in the rear room, blocking what was a magnificent panorama of San Francisco and the Bay. Yet other than the dun
light cast by the wall sconces and the black clothing of the twenty or so people gathered, there was no sign of bereavement, not a red-tinged eye, no discreet blowing of a nose.

Propelling the two sisters in front of him, Gideon stamped up to three matrons who were engaged in affable conversation while deftly balancing Imari cups and plates.

“Matilda’s nieces, just arrived from England,” he introduced. “Mrs. Indge, Mrs. Carstairs, Mrs. Burdetts, may I present Carol and Monica Sylvander.”

Having performed his obligation as host, albeit with the wrong names for his nieces, he marched off to join a group of middle-aged men who were talking loudly.

After a momentary pause, the stoutest lady—she was Mrs. Burdetts—offered condolences and inquired about their dear aunt’s private services, which had been held the previous day.

Honora’s slender shoulders hunched. “We weren’t at the funeral.”

“But, dear, surely Gideon had the family?”

“I . . . uhh, we . . . never met Aunt Matilda,” Honora whispered.

At this admission, the triumvirate eyed the carefully ironed pastel frocks and new bargain-basement hats, gave the girls vague smiles and returned to their criticism of the previous night’s symphony.

The girls listened and when the subject changed to the windy weather, Crystal joined in politely.

Honora smiled until her mouth felt stiff.
After a few minutes she drifted away, pretending interest in the bric-a-brac that sprang from every flat surface. Self-conscious about being the only person unattached to a grouping, she wandered through the central drawing room into an empty room whose velvet draperies were open. It was furnished with a gilded harp and a full-size Steinway—Honora suspected the piano’s purpose was not musical, but to hold bric-a-brac. Above the open keyboard was a miniature copy of the Michelangelo
Pietà.
She ran a tentative fingertip over the cool, smooth marble.

“Hideous, isn’t it?” asked a nearby masculine voice.

Jumping, Honora looked up. Her first confused thought about the man who had addressed her was:
So that’s what they mean, leonine.
His powerfully built body managed to appear both relaxed and alert. His cheekbones were broad and high, his hair thick and tawny. The eyebrows were very fair at the outer edges, darkening toward the bridge of his nose like markings. As Californians went, he wasn’t tall, but he had the requisite deep tan. Honora knew that he had just arrived, for she certainly would have noticed him in the lugubriously clad gathering. Not only was he the youngest man present—Honora placed him in his mid-twenties—but he was dressed in a pearl gray suit with a handsome maroon tie.

The statuette teetered under her touch and with a gasp she saved it from toppling over.

“Why look so worried? Don’t you know that
sort of junk is indestructible?” The man’s lopsided, very white grin managed to be attractive and unpleasant at the same time. “Haven’t you heard? It’s the survival of the ugliest.”

The stranger’s casual snideness had somehow released Honora from the constraint that she normally experienced with strangers, especially the overattractive male ones, and her confidence surged. “I never heard of that particular law.
I
happen to think the carving’s rather nicely done.” A smile showed at the corner of her soft, full mouth. “But then I’ve never seen the original, so maybe you have the advantage?”

“Never been near Rome,” he replied.

“Then how do you know that the artist wasn’t successful?”

“Never in a million years. Anything worthwhile is original.”

“Another of your laws?” she parried.

“Come on, you know as well as I do that any halfway good sculptor would refuse to make copies,” he said. “I’m an engineer, but I’d give it up in a minute if I had to mimic other people’s projects.”

“Then you’re original.”

“Creative is the word we use here. And I am.
Very.
”

“Lucky me, talking to you.” Her body had taken on a peculiar will of its own. Without any consciousness on her part, her neck had tilted to better display the shining dark hair, and her shoulders had pulled back to show her small, pretty breasts.

“You English underplay everything, but I can’t see any reason to downgrade my good points.”

“Modesty isn’t among them, I see.”

Honora’s repartee came as a surprise to her, and she could feel her heart beating. In the past her nonthreatening gentleness had drawn the awkward boys and humorless swots—grinds they were called in America. It seemed that all one needed to be witty was a lively partner. She wondered whether the hair on his chest was the same flaxen shade of his outer eyebrows or the darker shade of his hair. Her eyelashes fluttered and she flushed at thinking of his nakedness.

Smiling, he was giving her the once-over, a leisurely examination that made her skin tingle and the blood rise up to her face. He looked again into her eyes, which were the warm, dark shade of good sherry. (“My Portuguese,” her father had fancifully nicknamed her.)

“Tell me,” he asked, “since you don’t consider originality part of success, how do you define it?” He glanced down the long vista to the somberly dressed group in the rear drawing room. “Of course they’d all deny it to the death, but their yardstick is cold cash.”

“I dare say that’s a jolly good ingredient, being comfortably off,” she retorted.

“Bull. You don’t have an avaricious bone in your body.”

“Oh don’t I just! How lovely it would be not to have to go out looking for work.”

He gave her a quick glance. “Looking for
work? You hardly seem the career girl type.”

“I’m trying.” Her low, soft voice wavered. Never in a life not overly abundant in self-confidence had she felt more inadequate than when facing across the desk of the Golden Gate Job Placement Agency.

“What’s your field?”

She recovered. “Woolgathering.”

“Try putting that on an application,” he chuckled. “Anyway, you can’t convince me you’re interested in money, not with those dark, nonacquisitive eyes, Monica Sylvander.”

He knew who she was! Her blinding sense of betrayal must have shown.

“I should have introduced myself first,” he said with a small, mocking bow. “I’m Curt Ivory.” He ran his finger on the keyboard, a rippling of sound. “Ivory, like these.”

“It’s Honora,” she murmured.

“What?”

“It’s not Monica, it’s Honora.”

“Honora, I work for Mr. Talbott. He asked me to let you know that his car’ll be around in a few minutes to take you and your sister home.”

Filled with shame at her mistaken assumption of his interest, she replied in a clipped tone, “That’s most unnecessary.”

“You’re angry.”

“I didn’t mean to chatter on.”

He was peering at her. “No, you’re not mad. You’re embarrassed.”

She guessed her face was crimson. “It’s most kind of Uncle Gideon, but my sister and I
planned to walk home.”

“There’s no point arguing. He wants you driven home. And what Mr. Talbott wants, Mr. Talbott gets.” There was irony in Curt’s tone, and also deep affection. He touched a harp string, drawing a long, plangent note. “I figured Langley was laying it on a bit thick about his daughters, but now I see he wasn’t.”

“You know Dad—you know my father?”

“I told you I’m an engineer.”

“I’m sorry. How silly of me. Naturally you know him.”

“He’s a peacock about his girls, calls you his three graces—”

“Curt,” interrupted a female drawl. “Oh, Curt.”

An exceptionally thin young woman was leaning against the jamb of the sliding door. Her long-sleeved gray silk dress fitted her narrow, near breastless torso, flaring out in a gored skirt that reached to just above her sharply boned ankles. Her brown hair was swept back into a severe knot and she held a cigarette between two long fingers. She wasn’t pretty at all—indeed, with her hollow cheeks and visible jawbones, she resembled a young Duchess of Windsor. And like the Duchess, she possessed a unique chic.

“Well, well,” Curt drawled. “So you finally made it.”

“I had a tea, darling,
another
tea. What a bore. But Mother informs me
you
only put in an appearance a few minutes ago.” Her voice was magically American, especially when she
emphasized certain words. Honora felt herself dwindle.

“I was at the Oakland field office,” Curt said. “Imogene, this is Mrs. Talbott’s niece. Honora Sylvander, Imogene Burdetts.”

“I’m so
terribly
sorry about your aunt,” Imogene Burdetts said rapidly.

“Thank you.”

“Honora just arrived from jolly old England,” Curt said.

“Yes, I can tell by the accent.” Imogene didn’t look at Honora. “Curt, Mother wants to talk to you. It’s an invitation, so don’t say I didn’t
warn
you.”

“Duty calls, then,” he said. He turned toward Honora with one of his satirical grins. “The odds are we’ll be bumping into each other.”

Honora watched the couple cross the length of the rooms to the couch where the three ladies still sat, then move to stand alone by the prune-colored drapes. Curt’s back was to Honora, but she could see by the expression on Imogene’s face that he was engaged in the same kind of insulting banter that she had found exhilarating.

She was bleakly staring at them when a gray-haired maid clumped in to tell her that the car was waiting.

As the limousine eased from under the glass-encased porte cochere, Crystal rubbed a hand across the luxurious seat. “Oh, lovely, lovely, the leather’s like silk. Honora, how good of Uncle Gideon to send us home in style—though I must say I don’t see generosity as his line.”

“Crystal!” Honora murmured, staring meaningfully at the opened glass between them and the elderly Filipino, who had donned a peaked cap for his role as chauffeur.

“He’s all business.” Crystal refused to be silenced, but she did lower her voice. “Talk about being overcome by grief! I found out that Aunt Matilda was housebound for ages. I’m positive Uncle Gideon has a mistress.”

Honora, praying that the hum of the motor covered their voices, pinched Crystal’s wrist.

Crystal rubbed at the skin, too pleased with herself to pinch back. “He was married to an invalid,” she continued. “And everybody knows rich men need ‘it’ more. The drive.”

“He’s not the type at all.” Honora whispered her defense of her uncle.

“He does have a poker up his bottom, doesn’t he?” Crystal stroked the seat again, her beautiful mouth smug. “If he was angry that we showed up, he’s obviously forgiven us.”

“He just doesn’t want his friends to see us
tramping about San Francisco. Mr. Ivory as much as said so.”