this final strident statement Estelle flounced out and slammed the door so ferociously behind her, Francesca flinched. She leaned against the door and closed her eyes. Her head was swimming and a sick feeling of dismay lingered. Vaguely she heard Val’s step in the corridor and with some effort she pulled herself together, moving towards the staircase.
‘My goodness, whatever was that?’ Val asked.
‘Miss Morgan. Leaving in a huff,’ said Francesca, turning around on the stairs.
‘I thought the roof was falling in,’ Val exclaimed, glancing about, suspecting damage to the more fragile art treasures. She shook her head, and her tightened lips signalled her immense disapproval of such undignified goings on. ‘Dear, dear, all that yelling and screaming like a fishwife. So common, M’lady.’ Val, who was the youngest sister of Melly, Francesca’s old nanny, and had known her since she was a child, was motherly and protective. Now she peered closely at Francesca and said, ‘I hope she hasn’t upset you unduly, M’lady. You look a bit peaked.’
‘No, Val, she hasn’t. I’m all right, really I am. I’m also late for Mr Nelson’s dinner party.’ She smiled weakly. ‘I’d better go upstairs and get ready.’
‘I’ll come and help you, M’lady.’
‘No, you don’t have to, Val,’ Francesca murmured, desperately wanting to be by herself. ‘Thank you, but I can manage.’ She smiled again and retreated up the stairs.
The bedroom of the Avery duplex overlooked Fifth Avenue and the park. It was large, airy and light, an oasis of pale green highlighted with white. Cool and restful, the room was accented with touches of yellow, pink and blue, all fresh bright colours that might have been plucked from a bouquet of English flowers.
Apple-green watered silk covered the walls, and framed the two windows with long tied-back draperies and handsome matching valances. There were several Louis XVI bergères and a small Louis XVI sofa grouped in a semi-circle in front of the white marble fireplace.
It was a cheerful, happy room, one that reflected Francesca’s naturally sunny, outgoing personality and her serene disposition, as well as her good taste. But her demeanour was less tranquil than normal as she closed the door firmly behind her and hurried across the floor. She sank gratefully into one of the chairs near the fireplace and leaned back, waiting for the trembling of her limbs to subside. She was unaccustomed to such flagrant displays of emotion, whether by herself or others, had an abhorrence of turbulent scenes, which she found uncivilized and distressing. She was not only horrified by Estelle’s duplicity and her virulent tirade, but aghast at her own loss of control, finding this to be immature, and also demeaning. She closed her eyes, attempting to gather her disordered senses, to restore her equilibrium and calm herself in readiness for the evening. No sooner had she begun to relax when the telephone on the bedside table began to ring, making her start. Reluctantly, she roused herself from her reverie, and went to answer it. ‘Hello?’
‘Francesca darling, Nelson here. It’s a very bad night. Snowing like the devil. I’ve sent a car for you. Dayson just left.’
‘Oh, Nelson, that’s so thoughtful of you.’ Her hand flew to her pearls and she played with them nervously. ‘I’m afraid I’m running terribly late. I haven’t changed yet. I was awfully delayed by an appointment. I’m so sorry. I’ll be as quick as I can – ‘
‘What’s wrong, Francesca?’ he interrupted. They had been friends for a number of years before she had married his elder brother, and he knew and understood her with a precision and insight that was rare.
‘Nothing. Truly, Nelson. Just a rather troublesome afternoon with a difficult journalist who came to interview me.’ She sat down on the bed and kicked off her shoes, flexing her toes.
‘Oh! From which publication?’
‘Now Magazine. She was a little hostile, but I’m sure there is nothing to worry about. Honestly, it’s all right.’
‘That’s owned by Everett Communications. Tommy Everett is one of my oldest friends. Spent all of our summers together in Bar Harbor when we were boys. Tommy is also a client of the bank. And it just so happens I’m a major stockholder of Everett Communications.’ He chuckled and, taking control in his usual masterful manner, continued: ‘So you see, there’s no problem. I’ll talk to Tommy right now. Call him at home, in fact. I’ll have the story killed and the journalist fired immediately. I’m not going to have you hounded by that particular magazine and disturbed in this way. It’s perfectly outrageous. What’s the name of the journalist?’
Francesca hesitated and, ignoring the question, said, ‘No, don’t do anything, Nelson. Please. At least not at the moment. I’m not really worried about the story. I’ll discuss it with you this evening, and then we can decide.’
Nelson sighed, knowing better than to press the point with her. ‘Just as you wish, darling. But I don’t like you to be so perturbed. And don’t deny it either, because I can tell from your voice that you are.’
‘Nelson, there’s something else – ‘ She took a deep breath and said, ‘Katharine Tempest wants to see me.’ As she spoke Francesca acknowledged to herself that this was the real reason for her distress.
A prolonged silence at the other end of the telephone. And then, ‘I knew she would turn up again one day, like the damned bad penny she is. She’s a troublemaker, Francesca. I sincerely hope you are not going to see her.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘The right decision, darling. Now, if you hurry, you’ll arrive before the other guests and we can have a quiet chat about all this. Dayson should be there in about twenty minutes to half an hour, depending on the traffic. It was bad earlier, when I came up from Wall Street. See you shortly.’ As an afterthought, he added quietìy, ‘And don’t dwell on Katharine Tempest. She’s not worth it. Dismiss her from your mind.’
‘Yes, I will. Thank you, Nelson.’
There was no time to waste if she was to be ready when the car arrived and Francesca did as Nelson suggested, turning her thoughts away from Katharine Tempest as she went into her dressing room. She undressed quickly, supped into a towelling robe and sat down at the dressing table to attend to her face and hair, working with concentration on her appearance.
At one moment she did pause to think about Estelle, and discovered, much to her amazement, that her anger had abated considerably. Her mind strayed back to the interview, and she ruminated on the outcome. Estelle had protested her innocence of any deviousness, arguing that she fully intended to write the story. But Francesca was not entirely convinced of the veracity of this statement, still believing the journalist had connived, and had entered her home under false pretences. On the other hand, she might be genuinely sincere about doing the piece. It struck Francesca then, and with an uneasy jolt, that it would be relatively easy for Estelle to do a vicious hatchet job on her, simply by making her appear to be the spoiled, pampered and indolent wife of a very rich and powerful man, who took up charities out of perpetual boredom. Estelle could make her look ridiculous, and there was no more devastating weapon than ridicule, especially in print. All those questions about her clothes, her home, her servants and her life in general, apparently so meaningless on the surface, now gained greater significance.
Worry clouded Francesca’s
