Page 97 of The Gathering Storm (Morland Dynasty #36)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Rose’s wedding took place in Lennie’s home, Bel Air, in Whitley Heights.

A flower-entwined arch was built at one end of the lawned terrace, under which the minister would perform the ceremony.

Chairs stood in two ranks facing the arch for the most important guests, and the stone terrace above at the back of the house formed a grandstand for everyone else.

Afterwards a lavish buffet lunch was served, people could wander between levels as they wished, a small orchestra played, and the pool on the bottom terrace was available for the younger people and children.

Five hundred guests were invited, and an auction had been held among the newspapers and magazines for a select band of journalists and photographers to record the event, the money raised given to charity.

With a final flurry of photographs and an incontinent throwing of rice, the couple set off for their honeymoon at Palm Springs, and Lennie was left alone to pack and carry out his final preparations.

The problem of Wilma and the other staff was elegantly solved by giving Bel Air to Rose and Van Kerk as a wedding present: the staff would stay on and serve them.

Van’s modest downtown apartment was to be retained as a pied à terre , and Rose had only to move her personal things from the guest bungalow into the main house; and, when she returned from honeymoon, completely redecorate and refurnish the entire place, with an interview and photographs afterwards in a chosen leading magazine.

Wilma had dreaded being asked to go to England, but equally dreaded refusing and being put out of work and home.

She scolded Lennie every time they met for abandoning them all, but she was so glad to have the decision taken from her she sang about her work when she thought no-one was listening; and in her room at nights she worked on a silk waistcoat as a present for him, appliquéd with California poppies – the state flower – which she embroidered round the edges in gold thread.

Lennie paid a farewell visit to ABO, where Al Feinstein treated him to a private viewing of the first cut of Robin Hood.

Lennie thought it impressive. In particular, Morland Place looked much more substantial and convincing than the fake back-lot castles that were usually seen in movies.

He said as much to Al, who preened himself.

‘Yeah, worth every penny,’ he said. ‘And we got great publicity. Box office over there is going to be huge.’

‘I’ll make sure everyone I know goes to see it,’ Lennie promised.

Al gave him a thoughtful look. ‘You gonna stick over there? I hear it’s a primitive place. Terrible plumbing.’

‘It varies,’ Lennie said. ‘But I’m marrying the love of my life, so of course I’m going to stick.’ Al harrumphed, and he added, ‘I’m not quitting ABO. I’ll still be in touch by cable. I’m interested in this new vehicle you’ve got for Rose – Anastasia ?’

Al brightened. ‘Yeah, we gotta keep the momentum going. If they like her as Lady Marian, they’re gonna love her as the Tsar’s daughter. Reznik says they’re not called princesses, that right?’

‘Grand duchesses,’ Lennie confirmed.

‘Don’t like it. Sounds fruity, like some old dame with a blue rinse. Princess is better.’

‘They had princesses, but grand duchess was a higher rank,’ Lennie said, but he saw resistance in every line of Al’s face. Well, that was a battle for another day – and Reznik could fight it. He patted Al’s arm affectionately. ‘I’m going to miss you, you know.’

Feinstein’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Get outta here!’ he said, in outrage.

Basil had been to interview a Russian émigré who claimed that the last Tsar of Russia was alive and living under an assumed name in Ireland.

These stories surfaced from time to time and were popular with the readers.

Mr Comstock did not approve of courting popularity, but the proprietor had said sometimes you had to give the readers what they wanted rather than what you thought was good for them.

The man, who called himself Ivan, was working backstage at a theatre in Charing Cross Road.

Basil met him on a corner, huddled into his coat with the collar turned up, looking as nervous as a horse in a field full of pigs.

He took him to a little café and bought him tea and a bun to lubricate his story.

Ivan said that he had been a footman to the imperial family when they were exiled in Tobolsk, and had had to flee because of his loyalty to them. He claimed that the whole family had been extracted by agents of the British government and replaced with doubles during the move to Ekaterinburg.

Despite the story, Basil was quite impressed with him.

He both looked and sounded like a Russian, and when Basil tried to confuse him with questions, his story remained the same.

He appeared scared, constantly looking over his shoulder, and insisting on speaking in a low voice with his mouth close to Basil’s ear – disagreeably close, since his breath smelt strongly of onions.

Basil was interested that, rather than the Bolsheviks, it was the British Secret Service he was most afraid of – he hadn’t known there was such a thing.

When he asked why Ivan was telling the story now, he said he wanted money so he could leave his current job and go to Ireland to seek out the Little Father and offer his devotion.

Basil thought it would make an entertaining short piece – if Dickins would run it at all.

‘Get names and addresses,’ the boss had told Basil more than once.

It was the foundation stone of journalism.

But Ivan was adamant he could not do that – and, when Basil pressed, seemed even to be regretting he had said as much as he had.

On the whole, Basil thought it had been a waste of his time.

He had been authorised to give up to five pounds for a good story, but without names and addresses he told Ivan it was worth nothing – though he relented at the end and gave him a quid for his entertainment value.

A little bit of sunshine in February was not to be sniffed at, and after leaving Ivan, Basil walked down to Trafalgar Square and sat on a low wall to enjoy it, contemplating where he might go for refreshments.

He closed his eyes and basked, imagining the warmth on his face was the summer sun, until an uneasy feeling of being watched disturbed him.

He opened them to see someone a few feet away staring at him.

His heart skipped. ‘Gloria!’ he said. He stood up. ‘Where did you spring from?’

‘National Gallery,’ she said tersely. But she was still standing there, not taking the opportunity to hurry away. ‘What about you?’ she asked at last.

‘I’ve been on a story,’ he said. ‘I’m a journalist.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘You threw away the job I got for you, and now you’re working for some trashy rag.’

‘The Messenger . It’s well respected in certain circles.’

‘I know what circles.’

He didn’t want to waste time arguing about the newspaper. ‘You are looking wonderful,’ he said. ‘More beautiful than ever.’

She examined him. ‘You’ve grown up,’ she said at last.

He wasn’t sure if it was said in compliment or disappointment. ‘No bad thing,’ he said. ‘I was a callow boy when I first met you.’

‘You were very pretty.’

‘But any good qualities I have – and I know there are people who think I don’t have many – I owe to you.

’ She said nothing, seemed to be waiting for some development.

He didn’t know what. He dropped the lightness of tone and said seriously, ‘I’ve missed you so much.

’ Still she didn’t speak – but also didn’t move away. ‘Will you let me buy you lunch?’

She shifted her feet, and turned her head a fraction, as though buffeted by a cold wind. For some reason, it encouraged him. She didn’t want to march off, head in air, righteously offended. She wanted some way to continue talking to him, without losing face.

He moved a fraction closer. ‘Gloria,’ he said seriously, ‘I did a bad thing, and hurt you, and believe me, I’ve regretted it every day since. I was young and stupid and spoiled, but I’ve learned my lesson. I’ve grown up. I’ve been in Spain and seen people die.’

‘I know. I read the articles.’

‘Did you? Well, that sort of thing makes you realise what really matters. If I had the chance again, I would treat you in the way you should be treated.’

‘Why do you care?’ she questioned, watching his face.

What would be the right words? ‘You’re the only woman I’ve ever cared for,’ he said, and held his breath.

She gave a brisk little nod, as if agreeing the price of some not-very-important purchase. ‘Then you can take me to lunch,’ she said.

He suspected it was still a trial, so he hailed a taxi and told the driver to take them to the Criterion. It wasn’t very far, but it was cold and Gloria was not shod for walking.

It seemed to be the right choice because, once settled at a table, she thawed, and they were soon chatting with their previous freedom – except that he was no longer a boy, and had things to contribute.

It was with regret that he had to go back to work, but she said she would see him that evening.

He suggested the theatre, and she told him to call at her flat in Park Street, and they would decide then where to go.

He arrived, correctly togged in evening dress, with a taxi at the kerb, but she opened the door herself and told him to pay off the taxi. And they didn’t go out at all that evening.

Lennie stepped down from the train, and Polly was there, waiting, bundled up against the cold in a fur coat that he remembered from New York, before Alec was born: Ren must have bought it for her. It was a very American affair, a glossy dark mink, large and lavish and long, with a huge collar.

‘I bet no-one else in York has a coat like that,’ he said, putting his bags down to free his hands.

‘I’ve been mistaken for a film star, all due to the coat,’ she said.