Authors: Rhys Bowen
Naughty In Nice (9 page)
I went back out to the corridor and located the Pullman attendant.
“Did you see anyone going into my compartment?” I asked him.
He shook his head vehemently, but then added, “But I have been making up all the beds. Someone could have come past while I was occupied, my lady. But your maid is present, no? She guards your possessions.”
He obviously didn’t know Queenie. I walked back, perplexed and feeling rather unsafe. Had Queenie surprised someone just when he’d started going through my things, before he’d located my jewel case? I put it behind my pillow before I fell asleep.
Chapter 8
January 22, 1933
Lovely fine day. On the Blue Train going through France.
Things are looking up!
Lovely fine day. On the Blue Train going through France.
Things are looking up!
I woke to brilliant sunlight seeping in past the blinds and lay feeling the gentle swaying of the carriage for a while before I remembered where I was. I had slept brilliantly, thanks to the comfortable berth and the generous amount of champagne I had drunk the night before. I looked at my watch. Eight fifteen. No sign of Queenie. I supposed that I couldn’t expect her to find her way to a dining car on a foreign train and come back with a tea tray. I sat up and leaned across to open the blind. It shot upward and there was sparkling blue sea beside us. Umbrella pines clung to rocky headlands. We passed small clusters of houses, pastel painted with dark green shutters and dusty courtyards. It was all so foreign and terribly exciting.
I got up and washed at the pint-sized basin in my compartment, then when I went to find a summer dress, I remembered my strange suspicion of the night before. By daylight it seemed silly to think that someone had rummaged through my suitcase and left my jewels untouched. Now I’d never know. I took out one of my summer dresses. By the time I was dressed, there was still no sign of Queenie. I slid open the connecting door and saw she was still lying there, snoring and mouth open. Not a pretty sight.
“Queenie, wake up. We’ll be arriving soon,” I called, then shut the door and went in search of breakfast. The dining car was empty apart from two women, with similar sleek caps of black hair. They were a little older than I and certainly more smartly dressed. I was seated at a table across from them. When I asked for croissants the waiter shook his head. “On this train they always demand the breakfast Anglais,” he said. “They are wishing the bacon and the eggs.”
I settled for a poached egg. I was just pouring myself a second cup of coffee when I heard one of them say, “Shall we be seeing anything of Darcy, do you think?”
I paused, the coffeepot frozen in my hand. I tried not to listen, but one can’t help oneself in such circumstances.
“I expect so,” the other woman said, pausing to light up a cigarette. “We know she’s going to be there and he’s so good about visiting the child.”
“I suppose he feels responsible.”
“More than that. He adores that child. Absolutely dotes on the little chap.”
“Well, he’s the only heir at the moment, isn’t he?”
“Hardly the heir, darling.” The woman took a long drag on her cigarette, then smiled.
“Well, you know what I mean. Anyway, it will be fun to catch up with old Darcy again. I’ve hardly seen anything of him for months. I don’t know what he’s been doing with himself.”
“I heard there was a new love in his life.”
“Another one? I can’t keep up.” And she laughed.
I managed to put down the coffeepot without spilling the contents and got to my feet.
“You are finished, my lady?” The waiter appeared at my side. “I cannot bring you some fresh fruit? Some more toast?”
“No, thank you.” I hurried out of the dining car, wrenched open my compartment door and stumbled in, nearly falling over Queenie, who was cramming items into one of my suitcases.
“Careful with that,” I snapped. “You’ll crease everything.”
She looked up, surprised and hurt. “Don’t vex yourself, my lady. It shall be done according to your wishes,” she said.
“What did you say?”
“I read one of them magazines last night—
The Lady
, it’s called. Ever so posh, and a servant said that in one of the stories. ‘It shall be done according to your wishes.’ That’s what she said. I was thinking about what you said, see. About me sounding dead common and that I should learn to speak proper like what you do. So I thought I’d start improving meself right away.” She grinned, then peered at me. “Are you all right, miss? You look as white as a sheet. It’s all this swaying around. You’d better sit down.”
The Lady
, it’s called. Ever so posh, and a servant said that in one of the stories. ‘It shall be done according to your wishes.’ That’s what she said. I was thinking about what you said, see. About me sounding dead common and that I should learn to speak proper like what you do. So I thought I’d start improving meself right away.” She grinned, then peered at me. “Are you all right, miss? You look as white as a sheet. It’s all this swaying around. You’d better sit down.”
I noticed for the first time that the attendant had been in and turned the beds back into seats. I sat. Queenie went on with her packing, chatting as she did so. “They had lots of pictures of posh folks in that there magazine, but I didn’t see yours. You should get out more, miss. Mingle in society—that’s what they call it, don’t they?”
I wanted to shout at her to shut up. Instead I turned and stared out the window. It didn’t have to be the same Darcy, did it? There was more than one Darcy in the world, although it wasn’t a common name. And how many Darcys were heir to a title? I knew in my heart that it was he and a great weight of doom came over me. He had a child he’d been hiding from me. He had another woman in his life. I was just one of a string of girlfriends. I didn’t matter at all.
“It’s time to stop this stupid nonsense,” I said to myself. “Clinging to a false hope that one day we can marry. Well, I can’t afford to wind up an old maid. I’m going to do what I was supposed to and find myself a suitable husband and forget that Darcy O’Mara ever existed.”
I pressed my lips together hard, worried for an awful moment that I might cry. The attendant tapped on my door. “We shall be arriving in Nice shortly, my lady.”
The train began to slow. Then it glided to a halt at Nice Station. Porters swarmed on board. Two of them grabbed my bags. I commanded Queenie to follow them and not let them out of her sight. I descended to find the bags already on a trolley and off we went at a great rate to find a taxi.
“The Villa Gloriosa,” I said to the taxicab driver.
“Comment?”
he asked, meaning “What was that?”
he asked, meaning “What was that?”
I repeated the name. “You know your way around Nice, do you?”
“
Oui, Madame.
But I am not sure of the location of Villa Gloriosa. On what street is it to be found?”
Oui, Madame.
But I am not sure of the location of Villa Gloriosa. On what street is it to be found?”
I fished for the address and gave it to him. He pursed his lips as if he was not impressed.
“Is it far from here?” I asked.
“Not far.”
We set off—through small backstreets with balconies and peeling shutters and then out to that magnificent thoroughfare, the Promenade des Anglais. It was just as fine as it had looked in the poster—lined with palm trees, with elegant couples strolling and the sea beyond—sparkling in unbelievable shades of turquoise and azure. In spite of everything my spirits rose. Soon I’d be sitting on a terrace above that glittering sea, or strolling like those people on the Promenade, and I’d meet fascinating, witty new men, and I wouldn’t have to be with Fig every minute of every day. . . .
After a little way we turned off the boulevard and went inland again, and the atmosphere quickly deteriorated. We turned up a small street with a repair shop on the corner.
Get your punctures repaired here
, was the slogan painted on a white wall. The road began to climb a little, with nondescript buildings on either side, then it turned into a lane.
Get your punctures repaired here
, was the slogan painted on a white wall. The road began to climb a little, with nondescript buildings on either side, then it turned into a lane.
“Are you sure this is right?” I asked.
“
Oui, Madame.
This is undoubtedly the address you have given me.”
Oui, Madame.
This is undoubtedly the address you have given me.”
“Then it’s nowhere near the sea?”
“Apparently no,
Madame
.”
Madame
.”
The lane narrowed until it was just wide enough for the taxi, with a high rough stone wall on either side. Then it stopped at high wrought-iron gates. The driver got out and opened the gates with difficulty. I found myself looking at a wild garden of dark, overgrown shrubs and beyond that a tall, plain house, its green shutters closed so that it gave a hostile, unfriendly impression.
“This is Villa Gloriosa?” I repeated to the taxi driver.
“
Oui, Madame.
See, it says so, on the plaque on the wall.”
Oui, Madame.
See, it says so, on the plaque on the wall.”
Whoever had named it had strange delusions of grandeur, or was nearsighted. I got out and walked down a narrow path between overgrown Italian cypresses, which reached out to scratch me in unfriendly fashion as I passed, then knocked at the front door. The paint was peeling and the big oak door did not have an air of being opened frequently. I heard footsteps and then the door creaked open.
A large woman stood there, dressed head to toe in black. She stared at me.
“Bonjour,”
I said, giving her a pleasant smile. “I am Lady Georgiana Rannoch. I am expected.”
I said, giving her a pleasant smile. “I am Lady Georgiana Rannoch. I am expected.”
“No, you are not,” she said, eyeing me coldly.
“But yes,” I insisted. “I have come to stay. I sent a telegram.”
“I know of no telegram.”
“I am the sister of the duke.”
“I know of no duke,” she replied, and as if to emphasize this she folded her arms across her enormous chest.
Light was beginning to dawn. Obviously the fool of a taxi driver had got the wrong address. “This is the Villa Gloriosa ?” I asked.
It was.
“And it is currently rented by a Monsieur and Madame Farquar?”
“Farquar?
Oui
,” she said.
Oui
,” she said.
“Then I am in the right place. My brother and sister-in-law are staying with Monsieur and Madame Farquar and I am to join them.”
“I was given no instruction that another guest was expected.”
“Then please go and fetch your master or mistress and they will explain to you.”
The arms remained folded. “They are out,” she said.
“When will they return?”
“I don’t know. They took a picnic.”
“What happens here?” I heard the cabdriver asking behind me as he arrived with Queenie and the baggage.
“This person doesn’t want to admit me,” I told him.
“Who gives you authority not to admit the English milady ?” the cabdriver demanded. “This is an English milady.”
“This house is rented to Mr. Farquar. Until he says yes, I do not admit strangers.”
“Well, I’m not going to sit on the doorstep,” I said. My temper was wearing thin and I decided that I had been polite long enough. “Do you think I would come all this way, with my maid and my bags, if I was not invited to stay here? This is no way to behave to an English milady.” I turned to the taxi driver. “Bring the bags inside.”
The woman in black looked as if she was considering whether to stand in his way or not. He was a burly man and in the end she sniffed and stood aside. “There is nowhere for her to sleep. She can wait in the salon, until Monsieur and Madame Farquar return,” she said, moving ahead to block the staircase as if I might decide to sprint up it any second.
The salon was gloomy in the extreme. It smelled musty, almost damp, as if it had been neglected for a long time. In fact, I suspected that mushrooms were growing in the darker corners. It was cold but there was no fire in a tall marble fireplace. The shutters were closed and the furniture was dark and heavy—and uncomfortable too. I sat on a sofa that had the most surprising lumps and bumps and waited. Queenie perched on my trunk in the foyer. To begin with I had been angry. Now I began to feel more and more uneasy. I had sent a telegram. They knew I was coming. So perhaps I wasn’t welcome after all.
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