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The Mermaid Garden(62)

By:Santa Montefiore


Now in her eighties, Pat’s life ran on a more predictable track. She had handed her torch to her youngest grandson, who was now in his thirties and halfway up Kilimanjaro. She walked over to the window and admired the view. The sea always stirred in her a deep longing to set sail.

Marina had left the best for last and showed Mrs. Delennor to the duchess’s suite at the other end of the corridor. Grace was suitably enchanted to find herself upgraded. Now, not only did she have a view of the garden and the sea, but a hand-carved four-poster bed—the duchess’s very own bed—crafted in 1814 and handed down the generations, until it was eventually sold along with the house and its memories. Marina knew how difficult Mrs. Delennor could be and had made a special effort to please her. On reflection, Mrs. Meister should have had it because of what she’d been through, but Mrs. Delennor was the most likely to complain and Marina wanted to avoid that at all costs. “Très jolie,” said Grace without even trying to put on a French accent. “I shall enjoy staying in here very much.”

“I’m so pleased you like it. It’s very special.”

Grace draped her cashmere coat over the back of the chair. “The others are going to be wildly jealous. Except Pat, of course, who doesn’t have a jealous bone in her body—only the strong bones of a very sturdy animal.” She laughed at the mental picture. “It’s a mighty fine room. Thank you.”


It wasn’t long before the women appeared on the lawn to meet the artist. The brigadier had been enjoying the peace and the progress of his painting, and was unamused at the invasion. He watched the old women flap about the Argentine like moths, and grumbled as he was forced to stand and greet them out of politeness. He had a vague recollection of seeing them at breakfast the year before, which had been perfectly fine as they had kept their distance. Now they were mounting an assault, he was none too pleased.

Rafa was charming, turning his smile and laughing eyes onto each woman as if she were young and beautiful. The women sparkled with pleasure, even Pat, who considered it very silly to be seduced by flattery.

“Sue McCain would appreciate him,” she hissed to Veronica.

“He’s very attractive,” Veronica agreed. “He makes me want to be twenty again. Really, at times like this my old body feels very alien, as if I shouldn’t have put it on. It doesn’t go with how I feel inside. Do you know what I mean, Pat?”

“Oh, I do, Veronica. My head tells me I can still do all the things I used to do, but then I get out of breath climbing the stairs. Still, one mustn’t complain. I’ve had my fun and there’s still a lot I can do, like a good route march along the cliff. Yes, I shall enjoy that very much.”

“I can’t wait to put my brush onto paper again. I haven’t painted a stroke since last year.”

“And you’re very talented.”

“There’s always something else to do, don’t you find? It’s hard to get down to it.”

“One has to make time. It’s all about prioritizing.”

“Well, we have seven whole glorious days here without any distractions.” She grinned at the artist. “Apart from our teacher.”

Jane Meister always felt on the periphery of things. She hovered a little away from the rest of the group, listening to their conversations but not really taking part. She was happier like that, letting the other women take center stage. Veronica was a born performer, used to being watched and applauded, and even though she was old she still retained the enthusiasm and light steps of her youth. Pat thought she was head girl and captain of the lacrosse team even now. She had the confidence of her class, years of Pony Club camp, and debutante parties, which she professed to have found very silly. Nothing fazed her—neither a bucking horse nor a roomful of people. Pat took everything in her stride and confronted every challenge with a vigorous snort.

Grace expected everyone to admire her, and if they didn’t she just brushed them aside with a dismissive wave of her elegant hand. She had grown up in the highest echelons of American East Coast society, and what she hadn’t been able to acquire by way of her charm, she had simply bought with her vast wealth. It was hard to tell by which means she had won her three husbands.

Jane was an officer’s daughter. She had grown up in a close-knit army community in Germany, met Henrik, and married at eighteen. If it hadn’t been for a random painting class her daughter had encouraged her to join in Knightsbridge eight years before, their paths would never have crossed.

Jane observed the artist. He was indeed very handsome and pleasant. She watched him laugh at Grace’s jokes and knew that they would all have an enjoyable time in his company. She wasn’t so sure about the brigadier. He looked rather gruff. It wasn’t that he lacked politeness—on the contrary, he was the very epitome of politeness—it was just that behind his good manners he didn’t look very happy to meet them. Unlike the artist, whose smile was broad and genuine, the brigadier didn’t smile at all. Jane decided she would make sure that she was sitting as far away from him as possible.