Regret Not a Moment (45 page)

Devon answered her daughter. “I don’t know if he got what he wanted out of life because I don’t really know him anymore.”

“Do you hate him?”

“Of course not!” Devon cried, appalled at the idea. Her thoughts of John were always affectionate, her memories happy. She had pushed the unhappy ones to the back of her mind.

“Do you still love him then?”

Francesca asked the question in a normal conversational tone rather than in the hushed voice reserved for museums, and Devon quickly looked around to ensure that they were alone. When she saw that they were, she replied in a vehement whisper, “I don’t even know him, Francesca, how could I love him?”

“And he stopped loving you, too?” Francesca asked with the tactlessness of childhood.

“He and I agreed to go our separate ways,” Devon replied with dignity.

“But why?”

“Francesca, you’re truly exasperating me. This is an unfortunate subject and I’d like to drop it,” Devon declared, turning back to the display case and feigning absorption with the photographs inside. But after a moment, Devon felt ashamed at her own peevishness. After all, the girl was naturally curious to know more about her father and John.

Francesca, however, had already forgotten her mother’s irritation in her excitement at what she saw next. “Look, Mother! It says here that you are, “the foremost woman horse trainer in the racing world and among the most highly regarded trainers of either sex. Devon Somerset-Smith, widow of the late Earl of Abersham, was a groundbreaker of the 1930s who transformed Willowbrook Farm from a state of decline to one of the world’s most highly respected racing and breeding operations.’ And look! There’s a picture of Willy, and one of Jeremiah!” Francesca cried. “And one day, I want to be there, too.”

Devon laughed. “You will be. You’ll own Willowbrook.”

“I don’t mean that!” Francesca said scornfully. “I mean as a jockey.”

Devon wheeled on Francesca and gripped her shoulder. “No!”

Francesca stared into her mother’s face, shocked by the sudden paleness of it. “Why?” was all she could utter.

Devon, seeing the expression of bewilderment on her daughter’s face, released her. Making an attempt to calm herself, she replied quietly, “Being a jockey is very dangerous. Pleasure riding is one thing, but jockeys engage in cutthroat competition. They don’t care who gets hurt.”

“I know that!” Francesca said, in the tone typical of an adolescent who is insulted by the condescension of a parent.

“I… I don’t want you to ride like that. I know you’re a good rider, but there’s a big difference. And, by the way, just because I’m involved in racing doesn’t mean you have to be. You could be anything—an artist, a doctor, a model—anything!” Devon said.

“I want to be a jockey,” Francesca said, raising her chin stubbornly and meeting Devon’s eyes with a determined gaze of her own.

Devon decided not to argue the point further, pushing thoughts of Morgan out of her mind. There were few similarities between the two girls. Morgan had been the most dainty of creatures; Francesca was a tough tomboy. Morgan had been afraid to ride; to Francesca, it was second nature. And, after all, Francesca was only thirteen. Thirteen-year-olds were dreamers. She would grow up, fall in love, forget about racing, Devon reassured herself. To oppose her would only cause her to cling more firmly to the dream.

DEVON was chairwoman of the ball to benefit the racing museum, so she was up before dawn to go over her checklist of arrangements, Francesca unwillingly at her side.

“I don’t see why I have to go!” Francesca complained as they made their way down the quaint street lined with gingerbread-style Victorian houses. Devon had for the last ten years rented the same cozy white house for the month of August. With its wraparound porch and candy-apple-red shutters, it looked like a childhood fantasy of a house, and Francesca loved it. What she didn’t like, however, was getting up at dawn each day to accompany her mother to the vast array of events that filled her schedule. She would have preferred to stay at the little house with her grandmother.

“Mother is too old to look after you all day,” Devon insisted, “she gets tired.”

“I’m tired,” Francesca declared, rubbing her eyes, “and I hate balls!”

Devon sighed. She had been warned that thirteen was the age that would usher in adolescent rebellion. She and Francesca had always been so close that it had seemed impossible, but here she was grumbling about the fact that she was forced to accompany her mother.

“Well, you won’t be going to the ball, Francesca,” Devon said patiently, “so you needn’t worry about that.”

With typical adolescent contrariness, Francesca said, “Why can’t I go to the ball?”

Devon stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and turned to face her daughter. “What are you thinking? You’re thirteen years old. Of course you can’t go to a ball!”

“When can I?” Francesca asked.

Devon studied her daughter, astounded that she should. Francesca kept her eyes on the sidewalk. “When you’re sixteen.”

“Elise Whitney told me that her mother lets her go now, and she’s only fifteen.”

“Her mother lets her go to the afternoon cotillion. That’s not the same thing and you know it. You may certainly go to the afternoon cotillion if you like, but you’ve always said that you hated that sort of thing.”

“I do hate it! I don’t want to go to the stupid cotillion!”

Exasperated, Devon shrugged and turned to continue their walk. “Well, then…”

“But Elise—”

Devon interrupted Francesca. “My dear, there is one way to ensure that you will never get what you want, and that’s by comparing my standards to others. I don’t care what anyone else’s mother does. I make the rules for our household.”

“That’s because I don’t have a father!” cried Francesca. “If I had a father maybe things would be more fair. You’re always telling me what I can’t do! Everyone else’s mother tells them to ask their father!”

If Devon hadn’t been so annoyed, she would have laughed at such a simplistic view of the way families worked. She knew that many of her friends were completely uninvolved in the upbringing of their children. Most of them, at any rate, only rarely consulted their husbands on questions of child-rearing, but Devon knew there was no convincing Francesca of that.

Devon said quietly, “I can’t help that you don’t have a father. I wish it weren’t so.”

Francesca was suddenly near tears. She had hurt her mother’s feelings. She hadn’t intended to, but sometimes her emotions were so jumbled up that she just struck out.

“Mother, I… I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s all right,” Devon said, putting her arm around the girl and drawing her near. Lately, such gestures seemed to mortify Francesca, but now she snuggled closer to her mother, matching her footsteps to Devon’s.

“Mother?”

“Yes,” Devon said in a soothing voice.

“Do you ever think about getting married again? Everyone else’s—” Francesca cut herself off abruptly, remembering her mother’s warning.

“Not really. I haven’t met anyone I care for in that way.”

“What about Mr. Wilder? He’s so nice.” Francesca looked up at her with teary green eyes.

Devon smiled down at her daughter. “He’s just a good friend, dear.”

“He acts like more than that,” Francesca said with assurance.

Devon thought for a moment. Mason Wilder, publisher of the
Washington Telegraph,
had been her regular escort for the past four years. She was not in love with him, but he had on two occasions proposed to Devon, emphasizing their compatibility, common interests, and mutual friends. He had not mentioned love, but rather respect and friendship. And that suited Devon. She felt affection for Mason, not passion. Sex with him was pleasant. It was good to feel desired and cherished by a man, and she knew that many women her age were not so lucky. But she had neither the wish nor the need to remarry.

“Mr. Wilder is a very nice man, but I don’t want to marry him,” Devon explained.

“Do you think you’ll ever meet someone you want to marry?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I hope so,” Francesca whispered.

Mason Wilder stood at the bottom of the wide wooden staircase, waiting for Devon to descend. Dressed in white tie and tails, the newspaper publisher was an imposing figure. A huge barrel-chested man, he seemed to cause objects and people around him to shrink by the sheer impact of his stature. And when Mason Wilder laughed, it seemed as though the room shook.

Despite the power of his presence, Wilder was a refined man. A scholar himself, he approached newspaper publishing as though it were an academic exercise requiring all the substantiation and accuracy of a doctoral dissertation. His newspaper was the leading journal in Washington because he insisted on thorough, painstaking research of every story. Wilder, whose newspaper was the realization of a lifelong dream, had invested part of his personal fortune in tripling the personnel of the newspaper he had acquired two decades before. As a result, his reporters each had staff available to check quotes, verify facts, and perform the other journalistic duties usually left to the harried writers. Wilder’s newspaper broke the hot stories, and when it did readers did not doubt the facts—no matter how sensational.

Wilder, with his gleaming white hair and robust, tanned body, had about him the look of a man who had arrived. He was shrewd yet not crass, wise yet not pompous, a gentleman, but most certainly not weak. Except where Devon was concerned.

Wilder had been excruciatingly careful to transmit to Devon an air of fond companionship when, in fact, he was deeply in love with her. He knew that it he were to reveal his true feelings he would lose her, for Devon would consider it dishonorable to continue to see a man whose feelings she could not return. She would, in no uncertain terms, inform him that she was not in love with him and that she could not marry him. He could not bear to hear those words, still less to risk the end of their relationship. So he was careful to leave her on her own for weeks at a time lest he grow too comfortable—and thus careless with his feelings—around her.

Still, when he saw Devon appear at the top of the stairs, his heart beat faster. She was so lovely! People told him that he looked fifteen years younger than his true age of sixty-four—but Devon! Gliding down the stairs, her midnight blue chiffon dress floating behind her on the light summer breeze, she looked like a young goddess. It seemed impossible that she was fifty-one years old. Her black hair still shone like ebony in the evening light, save for the one streak of pure white that emphasized her widows peak. Exercise had kept her slender, while the wide hats she favored had kept her rosy complexion supple. She was as beautiful as any woman he had ever known.

His spell was broken by the boisterous arrival of Francesca. “Mother says I can’t go to a ball until I’m sixteen!” she cried without preamble, clattering down the stairs and throwing her arms around the big man.

He lifted her up and swung her around the room affectionately. “My God! You’re getting too big for that. I can’t lift you anymore!” He pretended to struggle with the girl’s weight, then set her gently on her feet in front of him.

“Mother says—” Francesca began breathlessly.

“How could I have failed to hear you the first time?” Mason joked, bending to plant a chaste kiss on Devon’s cheek. “And I think that’s perfectly correct. My daughters did not attend balls until they were sixteen either.” Mason had two daughters, both long since married. “Anyway, I thought you hated to dress up!”

“I do!” Francesca said.

“Then why are you complaining?”

“Well…” Francesca stared into space for a moment, trying to formulate words for her feelings. “I’d like to be grown up so I could do anything I wanted!”

Mason threw back his head and his laughter filled the room. Devon laughed along with him, but Francesca looked at them puzzled, not understanding the joke. Finally, Mason explained, “Very few adults are able to do exactly what they wish, and most spend their lives doing things they dislike.”

“Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up, dear.” Devon reached down in a cloud of perfume and gave her daughter a kiss. “It has its drawbacks.”

But Francesca, watching the glamorous, self-assured couple sweep out the door, could not believe that adulthood wasn’t a big improvement over adolescence.

CHRISTMAS TIME in New York always excited Francesca. The city that usually seemed covered in soot was transformed into a fairyland of lights, bells, and evergreen wreaths. Although Francesca loved the vast, quiet beauty of the Virginia countryside in the winter, she preferred Manhattan for the holidays.

On this particular morning, just three days before Christmas, Francesca rolled out of bed and impatiently pulled on the crumpled pair of corduroy slacks that lay on the floor where she had left them the night before. Heavy woolen socks, a sweater, mittens, galoshes, and she was ready for her mission. For the first time, she would go shopping for her mother’s Christmas present without an adult along to guide her. She could easily walk from their town house to Tiffany on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street, despite the snow. All year she had saved her allowance. And she had earned extra money after school by helping to muck out the stables at Willowbrook. Her grandmother had loaned her money until her birthday in January, so she had almost one hundred dollars to spend. She would spend it all on her mother, and make gifts for everyone else.

Quietly she descended the elegant marble staircase. She cringed as the closet that held her coat and hat squeaked, and left the door open to avoid further noise. She was almost to the front door when she heard Alice call, “Is that you, Francesca?”

Francesca hesitated, her hand on the knob. She thought about not answering—for she knew she would be forced to eat an unwanted breakfast—but did not have the nerve.

Slowly she walked through the drawing room into the sunny dining room. The long Hepplewhite table with its white linen placemats and napkins was set with cheerful strawberry-patterned breakfast china.