Chapter 3 - The Lead off
Isobel and Violet spent the afternoon on the hotel terrace under a big sunblind. Violet found it was the perfect spot to watch other people passing by while one could escape the heat of the glorious French sun. Isobel on the other hand wasn't so sure she enjoyed the view the place offered. Some time ago Larry and Amelia had walked by and once Dickie's son had spotted Isobel he had lost control over his sharp features. His expression was one of a man who had just seen a ghost.
Isobel knew he hated her with passion, though she didn't really know why. Since the feeling was mutual she had given up on exploring it, but when he recognized her and Violet, it almost looked as he was about to panic. For a second he had locked eyes with Isobel, before he had quickly looked away and pretended not to notice her. Amelia, stone faced and aloof as always, hadn't paid her one single look, but Isobel was sure she was just as aware of her presence as her husband.
Before Dickie had left her room shortly after dawn he had told her about the rocky start of Amelia and Larry's marriage. His new daughter-in-law wasn't too happy with the prospect of losing Cavenham, before she really had the opportunity to get her hands on the estate. Isobel found it highly ironic that someone as greedy and calculated as Amelia was about to lose her well-planned future as a rich lady just after she had sealed the deal and got married to a nasty chap like Larry. Isobel knew love could have many facettes and forms, but she wondered if Larry and Amelia really loved one another or if their union was simply one of convenience.
She had been among the Crawleys for long enough to know stories about unhappy marriages, contracted for money, prestige, power or to save an estate. These bonds were made over drinks and cigars in the dining room and lived in hell. Intellectually she understood the motive to marry someone for the greater good of the family and the estate, but now that the man she loved faced such an ordeal, she saw it less objective.
She remembered Dickie's desperation when he told her about his fear of being the one to lose it all. Titles, money, estates…. Her life as a Doctor's wife hadn't always been easy, but she never had to worry about losing Reginald over money or prestige.
"Ah, there she is!" Violet gave Isobel's lower arm a light pinch and Isobel spilled a bit of her tea over her shoes.
"What are you talking about?" she snapped.
"Mrs DeWinter and her admirer seem to be headed this way," Violet informed her eagerly. "Perhaps he wants to introduce the two of you."
"Don't be ridiculous!" The idea was insane, but she couldn't put it past Dickie to think it was a good idea for them to meet. He was this naive.
Isobel eyed Dickie and his young companion closely as they strolled down the terrace. Just as Isobel Mrs DeWinter wore a white dress with a magnificent hat. In the broad daylight Isobel noticed that Mrs DeWinter wore her dark hair formed to an elegant knot in her neck. Unlike many other young women she hadn't cut her hair short. Dickie liked long hair and didn't like Mary's daring haircut as he had told Isobel once in private. It was just another asset that added to her favour, as if her wealth wasn't enough already. Even in the harsh and unforgiving French heat the younger woman looked vibrant and beautiful. She doubted anyone would consider marrying a beauty like her a sacrifice. Last night Dickie had told her how much he loved her, but seeing them together awoke her doubts anew. She was too old and too poor to compete with Mrs DeWinter. She had nothing to offer to Dickie. She couldn't safe his estate and she couldn't give him more children…
Just like Larry, Dickie locked eyes with Isobel when he and Mrs DeWinter passed their table, but he didn't stop to greet them. Isobel was relieved to have more time to prepare herself for a meeting. For the time being she was spared the embarrassment to be introduced.
"Pity," Violet remarked dryly.
"What do you mean?" Isobel asked.
"Wouldn't you have loved to meet her?"
"No."
"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer," Violet reminded her. "If you wish to put up a fight for him, you'll have to sharpen your claws better sooner than later."
Isobel ignored Violet's advice and asked, "When will you talk to Prince Kuragin?"
"When the time has come," Violet answered. "And before you ask, I'll be the judge of time."
Dickie and Natasha DeWinter slowly strolled along the terrace where the view across the shore and the sea was breathtaking, but Dickie found himself unable to enjoy the beauty of the ivory blue sea. His mind was occupied with Isobel. She was everywhere he went and everywhere he looked he saw her beautiful face. It had been ages since a woman held this kind of power over him. How much easier his life would be, if the woman who was walking next to him awoke the same kind of love in him as Isobel had when she had first entered his life.
Natasha DeWinter was everything a man could want. She was young, enchanting, and vibrant. She reminded him of Mary, though she was less opaque, but just as straight forward and intelligent.
Amelia couldn't stand the sight of her and Larry avoided talking to her whenever it was possible. Natasha seemed to enjoy the uneasiness she created among them; it amused her and Dickie had to admit that it made him smile as well. Amelia and Larry certainly it had coming.
"A penny for your thoughts," Natasha said.
"They are not worth that much," he admitted with a wry smile.
"I doubt you mean that."
"I'm quite sure though." He was still trying to figure out her accent. She had a rather deep, almost smokey voice and it was undeniable that she spent some time in Paris, but there was a strange sound coming from the depths of her throat when she spoke. It was a trace of soft harshness in her pronunciation that left him wondering, if she, as her first name suggested, had a Russian heritage.
"So, who is this woman?" she asked. "And don't say you don't know whom I am talking about. You've been looking at her for a bit too long to deny knowing her."
"You are very observant."
"It's female gift."
He smiled. "I'm sure it is. Men are more unaware of these things. Her name is Mrs Crawley." He didn't wish to add anything more, but he had the feeling he wouldn't get away with his sparse explanation.
"So, since she doesn't seem to be a relative or a simple acquaintance, she must be someone… special to you."
"We were engaged until last Christmas."
His honesty didn't seem to impress or surprise her. "You left her?" she asked more fascinated by the idea than truly curious. As always when he thought about the breakup he felt pain, anger, and frustration upon his helplessness when she had told him she would always think of him 'with great affection'. It was a wound that never closed, but widened when he thought about the two nights they had spent together recently.
He didn't understand her actions or her motivation. It bewildered him that she made love to him, but refused to become his wife and be his lover instead. He was old fashioned enough to believe that two people who were in love with each other should get married and spent their lives together.
"No, she left me."
"The way you say it, suggests it's complicated."
He chuckled bitterly, "That's an understatement."
"I'm reading this book," she said after a few moments of silence. "The title is 'Harriet and the Piper'. Do you know it?"
"I'm afraid not," he said. He had no idea why she was changing the subject to literature, but he was grateful for it. With books he felt more comfortable than with heartache.
"Perhaps you should. I would like to hear your opinion about the main character. I'm not sure whether she is a ruined woman, a gold-digger or someone entirely else."
"Maybe she's everything you think she is," he suggested.
Natasha chuckled, "Spoken like a true romantic. Are you a romantic, Lord Merton?"
"My late wife used to call me a romantic, but I doubt she meant it as a compliment."
"Well, perhaps your wife was a fool."
"I've called her many things, but never that," he admitted.
"So, what was your wife? A ruined woman? A gold-digger?"
Dickie contemplated the question and answered, "A mixture of both and a lot more."
"And what is she? Your Mrs Crawley?"
He didn't have to think about the answer. "She's… someone entirely else," he said. "How about some tea?"
After a very silent and uncomfortable dinner Dickie, Larry, and Amelia went into the bar where the band had already started playing and the guests enjoyed themselves over champagne, cigarettes, and fancy cocktails. With relief Dickie noticed that Isobel and Violet were not there yet, which gave him time to brace himself for the evening.
When he had spotted them at their table in the dining room the night before he thought he was dreaming. Isobel had worn the same dress as three years ago at Rose's ball when he had asked her to dance the very first time. Seeing her again wearing the same dress in this very unenglish scenery had felt like a deja vu placed in a strange dream. How was he supposed to do what he had to do when Isobel was staying under the same roof? How should he refuse the temptation of visiting her room night after night? She had made it very clear that she would welcome him, without a doubt to convince him to give up his pursuit of Natasha - and he wasn't sure Isobel wouldn't succeed.
"Father, we have to talk." Larry murmured the words into his ear. Then he nodded to Amelia and excused them both. "We'll have a cigar on the terrace, Darling."
"Of course, you will." Amelia gave her husband a cold look, but didn't object. "I'll get myself a drink," she said and rose to go to the bar.
Outside Larry pulled Dickie to the balustrade and said fervidly, "Listen, this has been going on long enough. It's time you went home. I can take care of everything myself."
"And how will you do that? Did you find the money you lost in the streets?" Dickie asked.
"No, but the man who's behind the real estate deal will arrive here tomorrow. I'm sure I can work out a deal with him!"
"You had your chance and you missed it," Dickie reminded him. "There's nothing you have to offer to this man- unless…" he looked into the bar and watched Amelia talking to a stranger at the bar. "Your wife convinces her father to give you the money."
"She hasn't," Larry admitted. "But there's no need for you to marry Mrs DeWinter or anyone else."
"I think I can decide for myself what to do and where to go."
"Father, it is really not necessary. It's unpleasant and the presence of Mrs Crawley is not helpful…"
Furious that Larry dared to say Isobel's name, Dickie shut his son off, "Enough. You've proven that you're not up to the task of taking care of the estate - yet. You can do whatever you want with it when I'm dead, but I doubt your wife will thank you for it when you lose it all even before I meet my maker!"
"I… we won't lose it." Larry clenched his jaws, but Dickie could read it in his son's eyes that he had hit a nerve. Larry's ego was always easily bruised, but this went deeper than superficial shame. He registered with satisfaction that Larry seemed hurt by his brutal honesty.
"This discussion is over and you leave Mrs Crawley alone. Understood?" He didn't wait for his son to answer and turned away. Natasha DeWinter, dressed in a dream of silk in black and emerald green was coming straight towards him. He wasn't sure whether he was actually happy to see her. He felt like some pathetic skirt chaser when he thought about the reason he got acquainted to her in the first place.
"Lord Merton," she greeted him with a smile. She completely ignored Larry who stood behind his father and didn't seem to know what to do or say. Larry had never been shy - the only girl who could make him shut his mouth had been Sybil Crawley, God rest her soul, but every time he saw Natasha he looked like a fish out of water.
"I've been looking for you. I am in need of a dancing partner."
"Well, here I am at your service." Dickie offered her his arm and she took it.
"Your son looked pretty crestfallen for someone who just enjoyed a good dinner," Natasha remarked dryly after they had turned their backs on Larry.
"Larry is not someone who enjoys food," Dickie said as he led Natasha inside the bar. "He never has. He's got it from his mother."
"How sad. I always pity people who can't enjoy the good things in life. Food, love, wine. What would we be without it?"
"How true! Speaking about the good things in life? How about some champagne?" he asked.
"What a lovely idea."
He offered her a seat at one of the free tables near the window front. The spot offered the perfect view at the door. The room filled steadily with new guests, Isobel and Violet being among them. This time he managed to avoid Isobel's eyes, which he considered a small victory. The biggest challenge of the day lay ahead of him though: he had to walk past Isobel's room tonight without knocking.
"I think I'm going upstairs," Isobel said only five minutes after she and Violet had taken their seats in the other corner of the room.
"But why?" Violet asked flabbergasted. "You haven't even finished your drink… whatever it is." She eyed the glass with the almost clear liquid and a leaf of mint that was pierced on the small stick with a mix of fascination and disgust.
"It's called Gin Rickey," Isobel said. "And it's not my cup of tea."
"Perhaps it's the view that's to blame rather than the drink," Violet suggested. "Lord Merton and his young company seem to enjoy themselves while Mrs Grey looks like someone who's ready to kill with her bare hands."
Isobel had already noticed that Amelia eyed her father in law and Mrs DeWinter with cruel disdain while Larry seemed particularly uneasy with the situation. Isobel liked to think that Larry had finally learned something from his mistakes, but knowing him that was almost unbelievable, if not downright impossible.
"It doesn't make any sense, though, does it?" Isobel asked after she had gulped down half of her drink. "If Amelia wants to own Cavenham one day, she should be glad if Dickie can rustle up the needed amount of money to keep it."
Violet shrugged. "I think she's greedy enough to think her husband will get the money from somewhere else, so she can play the lady of the manor even before Dickie's dead. I doubt another Lady Merton, especially a young one who isn't intimidated by her, is part of her well-wrought plans."
Isobel had to admit that it was the only explanation that made sense. Again she felt sorry for Dickie who had to endure them day and after day and felt responsible for saving their inheritance.
"I think I'll call it a night anyway," she said and rose. She was sick of watching him drinking champagne with Mrs DeWinter. She also had the vain hope, if he saw her leaving he would make up his mind and follow her soon after.
Violet sighed exasperated. "I'll go up too then," she decided and grabbed for her cane. Someone approached them, casting a shadow across the table. Irritated Violet looked up and gasped when it was Igor Kuragin. Isobel was stunned and sank back into her seat. Apparently the former prince hadn't lost his ability to show up when was least expecting him. He smiled at them and made a gallant bow.
"What on earth…." Violet snapped, but Kuragin established eye contact with Isobel and said, "May I have this dance?"
Unsure how to react Isobel looked from Violet to Kuragin and back. "I promise your toes will be safe with me," he added. "You can ask Lady Grantham, if you wish for a reference."
The remark earned him an ugly glare from Violet, while it asmused Isobel. Violet wasn't used to be challenged like this and Isobel knew she wouldn't stomach it well.
"The question is, if your toes are safe with me. I'm not much of a dancer."
"Let's take our chance then." He offered her his hand and after another quick look at Violet who just shrugged her shoulders Isobel took it.
"You know you will regret this, do you?" Isobel asked when they started to move across the filled dance floor.
"You mean Lady Grantham will make me regret this?" he asked amused. "I'm sure she will and I'm prepared to deal with her merciless scorn."
"How have you been?" she asked. She had noticed how impeccably dressed he was compared to the last time she saw him. His white tie attire wasn't borrowed this time. It had been tailored for him, that much she could see. "It's a long way from St. Petersburgh to York, Paris and now the French Riviera."
"I've fallen on my feet," he answered vaguely. "I was lucky."
"And how is the Princess?"
"Irina has died last year. She had lost the wish to live a long time ago and one night she went to bed and didn't wake up again. It was a merciful death."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"I doubt she would feel touched the sentiment." Kuragin gave her a wry smile and Isobel agreed.
"So, why are you asking me to dance and not Lady Grantham?"
"Oh, I have my reasons, Mrs Crawley. One is watching us from the table near the windows."
"I can't follow you…"
"Mrs DeWinter," he said as if the name would explain everything. "Do not overvalue her presence in Lord Merton's life."
Isobel wasn't willing to make any comment on Mrs DeWinter or Dickie. She was too confused by what Kuragin could know about them to say anything. He didn't seem to expect an answer, because he added. "And then I want you to give a message to Lady Grantham from me. I could write to her, of course, but some things are better delivered by someone one can trust."
"What message?"
"Tell her I want to see her for luncheon tomorrow. It's important she attends."
"I doubt she will be pleased to be summoned like this."
"If anyone can convince her to join me, it is you."
Isobel chuckled. "You flatter me. Cousin Violet has never done anything just because I asked her to."
"You are underestimating your skill set," he said. "She values your opinion more than she values anyone else's."
Isobel was astonished about his statement. "How do you know that?"
"She told me so."
Isobel looked over her shoulder to see if Violet was still at the table, but her chair was empty.
"She left," Kuragin said. "Does she really need that cane or does she only use it to keep away people she doesn't like?"
Isobel laughed. "There are times when I ask myself the same questions. I think I should follow her, before her maid pays the price for our little indiscretion." The music faded away and Kuragin led Isobel back to her table.
"That's what I mean," Kuragin said. "You know how to deal with her. That's the reason I asked her to bring you along."
"Maybe, but I still don't understand any of it."
"You will, my dear Mrs Crawley, and very soon you will know what this is all about. And now I have to leave. I'm expected by a friend in half an hour. Good night, Mrs Crawley."
"Good night."
Again he made a small bow before he left. Isobel saw that her drink was still on the table. She finished it and against her initial dislike of the gin in it, she started to like the taste of it.
Isobel showed up in Violet's suite just as Denker was about to leave. The maid's lips were thinner than Isobel had never ever them, which was never a good sign. Denker was always full of mischief and Isobel hoped she wouldn't hand in her notice in this trip. The last thing she wanted to face on this trip was having to endure Violet without a ladies maid around.
"Is Lady Grantham still up?" Isobel asked.
"She is, Ma'am. I think she's waiting for you."
According to Denker's sour mine, Isobel suspected that Violet hadn't indeed been the easiest to deal with this evening.
"I'll go in then. Good night, Denker."
"Good night, Mrs Crawley."
The door fell boisterously shut behind Denker. Isobel rolled her eyes and went to the open bedroom door. Violet was sitting behind her dressing table. Her hair was down and she wore her dressing down. Isobel knocked at the door frame and waited, but Violet didn't ask her in and so she simply went inside. Isobel noticed the nail file near the brush and asked, "Are you sharpening your claws?"
"I didn't expect you to show up before the witching hour."
"I'm afraid the prince had another appointment to keep," Isobel said. "But he sends his… best wishes."
"How kind of him. Did you enjoy your dance?"
Isobel ignored her question."He's asked me to deliver a message from him."
For the first time Violet looked up. Reluctant curiosity was written all over her face.
"What did he say?" she asked, holding her breath.
"He wants to invite you for luncheon tomorrow. He says it's vital you attend."
"How peculiar." Violet shook her head.
"I think you should go."
"Do you?"
"Yes, because I will have other plans. The concierge gave me this when I asked downstairs if there were any messages for me."
She gave Violet a letter who hesitated to take it. "All right, I'll read it for you. It's from Mrs DeWinter."
"Dear Mrs Crawley, I hope you will do me the compliment of having lunch with me tomorrow at the Hotel Provencial at one o'clock."
Yours Natasha DeWinter"
"And that's even more peculiar," Violet said. All of the sudden she had given up her sulky act. She found her reading glasses in the drawer and took the letter to read it for herself. "So, Dickie must have told her about you."
"Seems like it," Isobel shrugged.
"And you want to go?"
"Of course! Remember? You were the one who told me to sharpen my claws. And will you go to see the Prince?"
Violet looked at her reflection in the mirror. "I guess I have to. God knows what ideas he comes up with next, if I refuse his invitation."
Satisfied with her accomplishment, Isobel exhaled deeply. "Fine then. I'll go to bed then. Good night."
"Good night."
Isobel stopped in the door frame, turned around and said, "By the way. When it comes to dancing I prefer Dickie over the Prince. I think I've always preferred them… taller."
****tbc****
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