Summer's Awakening (35 page)

One evening, the following week, James took them to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to hear a lecture by an Anglo-American woman who was widely known as Madame Bernier because, at one time, she had been married to a Frenchman.

She was no longer a young woman, but her elegance, her charm, her erudition and her brilliance as a speaker made her lectures notable events which were sold out months in advance and attracted very distinguished audiences.

At one time she had been features editor in Europe for
Vogue
and, in that capacity, had met many world-renowned artists including Picasso, Matisse, Braque and Miró.

One of her most famous friends was Jacqueline Onassis, and she was known and admired by art lovers throughout America. She was also a dealer from whom James had recently bought a painting, and he and Summer had been invited to the reception after the lecture.

This took place in the museum's Grace Rainey Rogers Auditorium. Emily sat between them and, shortly after their arrival, the seat on Summer's left was taken by a man on his own.

He was in his early thirties with wheat-blond hair like Skip Newman's. As he took his place beside her, Summer felt sure he wasn't an American. He struck her as somewhat Slavic-looking, if only facially. He was tall, although not as tall as James, and she had the idea that Slavs were inclined to be stocky.

There were still some minutes to wait before the lecture began, and Emily was having a murmured conversation with her uncle. Summer looked at the heads of the three rows of people in front of them and wondered who they were. She had no doubt that everyone in the audience, with the exception of herself, had some claim to distinction. Even Emily was the grandchild of a marquess and the niece of a millionaire.

Perhaps in a few years' time I shall be a well-known designer.

The thought made her glance at her wrist on which she was wearing a bracelet of turkey wing shells attached to a cuff of very fine
petit point
canvas and surrounded by beads and embroidery.

'Do you mind if I ask you if that delightful ornament you're wearing is by a designer called Summer Roberts?' the man sitting next to her asked.

She raised startled eyes to his face.

'Yes... it is. But how did you know?'

'A few days ago my sister bought one of her belts. I could see the resemblance between them... the combination of shells, beads and needlework, and also the subtlety of the colouring. A good designer, like a good artist, has a recognisable style... an unwritten signature. I'm a designer myself so I have an eye for these things.'

'Oh, really? What do you design?'

'Jewels. My name is Santerre... Raoul Santerre.'

She was momentarily dumbfounded. Santerre was a name as well known to New Yorkers as Tiffany, Van Cleef & Arpels, Bulgari, David Webb or Harry Winston. That one of her belts should have been bought by a member of the Santerre family, and another should recognise her style and compliment her on it, sent her spirits soaring.

Suddenly radiant, she said, 'How do you do, Monsieur Santerre. My name is Roberts... Summer Roberts.'

It was his turn to stare. This is
your
work?' with a gesture at the bracelet.

She nodded, her cheeks pink with pleasure.

'But what a marvellous piece of luck to find myself next to you tonight,' he exclaimed. 'Do you believe in destiny, Miss Roberts?'

Before she could answer it became apparent that the lecture was about to begin.

Raoul Santerre leaned closer. 'We must talk afterwards.'

As she nodded and settled back to give her attention to Madame Bernier, she became aware of Emily watching her. Turning to give a quick smile to her pupil, she encountered a glance from James which sent a thrust of irritation through her. Obviously he thought that Raoul Santerre didn't realise she was with them and had been trying to pick her up.

Trust him always to take the cynical view, she thought vexedly.

The lecture—mainly about Catherine the Great of Russia's art collection, but also about her as a woman—was riveting.

As befitted a former
Vogue
editor, Rosamund Bernier came onstage in a dress which Summer recognised as a Mary McFadden. She had one of those rare speaking voices which, once heard, is forever recognisable; and the even rarer ability to make each member of her audience feel that she was talking to them alone. Illustrating her talk with slides shown by not one but two projectors, she made Catherine II, Empress of Russia for almost thirty-five years, come alive with extraordinary vividness.

By the time the lecture was over, Summer had forgotten her new acquaintance on her left, and her annoyance with James. As the applause died away, she leaned towards him, saying warmly, 'That was unforgettable! Thank you for bringing us. What fascinating women—Catherine
and
Madame Bernier.'

'I'm glad you enjoyed it. I hope you'll meet her later on—although everyone here wants to do that.'

But later they were introduced to her and, in close conversation, she was as warm, witty and delightful as she had seemed during her virtuoso performance in the auditorium. Glancing at James while Rosamund Bernier was talking to them, Summer had a feeling it would take a woman of this quality to capture his heart, and in spite of the transformation she had achieved since leaving England she knew she wasn't in Madame Bernier's class.

Probably no young woman could compete with the vivacious lecturer any more than a man in his twenties could vie with a man like James, still physically magnificent but with the suavity and humour which younger men lacked.

Wishing she had the wit to contribute an amusing remark which would make him look as warmly at her as at the ravishing Rosamund, she listened and smiled and longed to be five years older with a broader experience of life and some of the relaxed charm of this entrancing older woman.

Summer hadn't spoken to Raoul Santerre after the lecture because someone in the row behind had touched him on the shoulder and engaged him in conversation. He had had his back to James's party as they left their seats. She wondered if he would seek her out during the reception, and what he had meant by the remark about destiny.

James knew many of the people there and he introduced his niece and her tutor to some of them. As she had in the presence of the lecturer, Summer played a minor part in the conversation which followed these introductions.

It was while she was standing quietly on the fringe of an animated discussion of the lecture that a voice said, 'If we can find a mutual friend to introduce us, I can ask you to have lunch with me tomorrow.'

She turned to find Raoul Santerre standing beside her.

'Or, better yet, if you haven't already dined this evening, to eat with me tonight after the reception,' he added.

She smiled at him. 'You don't need an introduction, Mr Santerre.' Because he spoke perfect English with only the faintest trace of Frenchness underlying his American accent, she decided not to continue addressing him as a Frenchman.

'Everyone in New York who is at all interested in jewels must have pressed their noses to the windows of Santerre et Cie.

'Are you interested in jewels, Miss Roberts?'

She laughed. 'Isn't every woman?'

'Yes, but for many different reasons. To some women jewels are status symbols. To others they are fashion accents. They may also be collectors' pieces, or even investments.'

'I suppose I see them just as beautiful objects... feasts for the eye. I can't say I long to possess them—or not the very valuable jewels which you show in your windows. I'd be frightened of losing them, or having them stolen. This is my kind of jewellery.'

She lifted her lightly clenched hand to show him the ring she was wearing on her little finger. It was an intaglio, the design hollowed out of the stone so that, if it were applied to a soft material such as sealing wax, it would leave an impression in relief. The design was the crest of a coat of arms; a mailed arm emerging from a coronet.

He took hold of her wrist to look closely at the carving. 'Rose quartz, but not in its original setting. Is this your family's crest?'

She shook her head. 'I found the stone in a box of cheap beads from a thrift shop in Florida.'

'The setting isn't worthy of the stone.'

'I know. It should be gold, not silver. But at the time—'

'Won't you introduce us, Summer?'

Intent on the ring, she hadn't noticed that the group beside them had broken up and now only Emily and James were standing near them. Until his sardonic voice interrupted her explanation of why she had economised on the setting, Raoul Santerre's hold on her wrist hadn't seemed an undue familiarity. But now, with James's attention turned on them, she felt like snatching her hand away. At the same moment the jeweller released it and smiled at the others.

'I recognise you, Mr Gardiner. I am Raoul Santerre. How do you do?'

When the two men had shaken hands, Summer said, 'This is Mr Gardiner's niece, Emily Lancaster. I am her tutor.'

'A pleasure to meet you, Miss Lancaster.' As he took her thin hand in a gentler clasp, he gave a slight, courtly bow. Then he turned back to James.

'I'm impressed by Miss Roberts' talent as a designer. As I told her before the lecture, my sister has a belt embroidered in the same style as this ornament she is wearing tonight. In recent years a number of women have demonstrated a talent for designing jewels. Picasso's daughter, Paloma, designs for Tiffany, and many of their most beautiful pieces are the work of Angela Cummings whose husband is their gem buyer. For some time we've been looking for a woman designer, but it's difficult to discover a truly original talent. I'd like to find out if Miss Roberts' originality with her needle can be applied to precious stones. May I take her away and discuss this with her?'

James looked at him thoughtfully for some seconds before he said, 'Why not come back to our apartment where you can see other examples of her work?'

'That would be even better.'

Raoul had come to the lecture by taxi. When they left the reception he joined them in the hired Lincoln Continental which James used when in New York. He sat beside the driver and Raoul sat next to Emily and talked mainly to her about other lectures by Madame Bernier which he had attended.

His irises were the same deep blue as Hal Cochran's, but his eyes held more shrewdness and intelligence. Summer hadn't seen Hal again after that first winter in Florida, and she wondered if he had managed to keep his weight down. Sometimes it was harder for men if their wives or whoever cooked for them wouldn't co-operate.

She herself now had no trouble in maintaining her weight at its present level. Not only was she much more active than in her fat days but, although it had taken a long time, the Weight Watchers programme
had
re-educated her palate as the lecturer had promised them it would. Now she genuinely preferred a carton of natural yogurt to a couple of chocolate-chip cookies, French beans to French fries, and a tangerine to a sugary, creamy dessert.

She knew that, if she had still been fat, this moment in her life would never have arisen. Probably James would not have included her in tonight's outing. Even if he had, she wouldn't have been dressed as she was in a shirt-dress of cream crêpe de Chine with the eye-catching band round her wrist. Raoul Santerre wouldn't have noticed her except for her obesity.

When they reached the apartment, James said, 'Help Summer to carry her embroidery frame to the living room, will you, Emily?'

'Wouldn't it be easier for Mr Santerre to come to my room?' Summer suggested.

'As you wish.' He had used his key to open the front door, but now he touched a bell to summon José.

The weather in New York was still cold and both men were wearing chesterfields over their suits. Emily had on her camel-hair coat, and Summer was wrapped in a black wool cloak with arm-slits. She had a small silver fox muff to keep her hands warm. She had bought it at a shop on 57th Street where rich women sold last year's furs. Even there it had been quite expensive. But now she had some private means as well as her salary. The cottage had been sold and James had advised her how best to invest the purchase price. The income from this capital wasn't enough to support her—in Manhattan it would barely pay the rent on a one-room, walk-up apartment in a seedy district—but it meant that if she lost her present job, she wouldn't be destitute.