The Short Forever(16)

“I suppose I am,” Stone said, but he was still feeling uncomfortable about it.

“I may as well tell you this, too.”

“What?”

“Dinner tomorrow night is to celebrate her engagement.”

“Swell,” Stone said. “Are you sure she said it was all right for me to come?”

“She did, said she’d be delighted. She’s marrying a man named James Cutler, who’s something big in the wine trade. Sweet man, very handsome.”

“Monica, if, when we arrive at the house, Sarah is surprised to see me, I’m going straight back to London.”

“Stone, you heard me speak to her. Please relax, it will be all right.” They had reached the Chiswick Roundabout, and she turned toward Southampton, flooring the Aston Martin and passing three cars that were going too slowly for her taste.

“How often do you get arrested?” Stone asked.

“Hardly ever.”

“Do you still have a driver’s license?”

“Of course I do.”

Soon they were on the M3 motorway, and Monica was doing a little over a hundred miles an hour.

“Beautiful country,” Stone said. “Why don’t we slow down and see it?”

“Oh, all right,” she said, taking an exit. “We’ll go the back roads; it’s more fun that way anyhow.” Shortly they were on a winding country road that was perfect for sports-car driving, and Monica was driving it very well.

Stone was happier at sixty than at a hundred.

“Do you like art?” Monica asked. “I mean, apart from Sarah’s pictures?”

“Yes, I do; my mother was a painter.”

“What was her name?”

“Matilda Stone.”

“You’re kidding! I know her work very well; she did those marvelous cityscapes of New York, especially Greenwich Village.”

“Yes, she did.”

“I sold one last year for a very nice price. Do you have any of her work?”

“I have four pictures,” he said. “And I think they are among her best.”

“I don’t suppose you want to sell them?”

“No. They’re in my house in New York—well, one is in the Connecticut house—and I like them there. I’ll never sell them.”

“I understand. Are you interested in buying more of her work, if I should come across some things?”

“Yes, of course, if I can afford them.”

“I’ll let you know.” She stopped talking and concentrated on her driving.

Stone was relieved.

An hour and a half later, after a confusion of back roads and odd turns, they drove through an impressive gate and followed a winding road planted with trees that formed a tunnel. They emerged in a large circle of gravel before a limestone Georgian mansion that had been cleaned to within an inch of its existence.

“Wow,” Stone said.

“Yes, it’s like that, isn’t it?”

He was barely out of the car before Sarah came bounding down the stairs to give him a hug and a kiss, holding the hug longer than Stone thought an engaged woman should. She held him at arm’s length and looked at him. “You look wonderful,” she said. “Hello, Monica.” This over her shoulder. Sarah took Stone’s arm and led him through the front door, leaving Monica to follow.





Chapter 10



THEY ENTERED A GRAND HALLWAY containing a broad staircase to the second floor. The walls all the way to the ceiling were hung with paintings, portraits—no doubt of ancestors—and English landscapes.

“This is glorious,” Stone said.

“Wait until you see the rest of the house,” Sarah said; “it’s taken years for Mummy and Daddy to restore it.”

A houseman appeared, loaded with luggage.

“Miss Burroughs is in Willow, and Mr. Barrington is in Oak,” she said to the man. She turned back to Stone. “The guest rooms are all named for trees; there are twelve of them. There had been fifteen, but we used three of them to make room for private baths for all the guests.” She led him to their right. “The drawing room is here.” She pushed open a door to reveal a huge room furnished with many sofas and chairs. “It’s perfect for entertaining.” She led him across the hall and opened another door. “This is the library,” she said. “We have the books of seven generations collected here, and most of them have been rebound.”

Stone stood and stared. The room was paneled in walnut, and a spiral staircase led to an upper level that bordered the huge room. It smelled of leather and old cigar smoke. “Very beautiful,” he said, and he meant it.

“Come, I’ll show you your rooms.” Sarah led the way upstairs and down a hallway to the end. “You have the corner room, overlooking the Solent,” she said. “Monica, you’re there,” she said, pointing to a door across the hall. She opened the door to Oak, and Stone stepped into a large bedroom furnished with a four-poster bed, a chesterfield sofa, and a couple of commodious reading chairs, all very masculine. She led him to the window. “There is the Solent, in all its glory,” she said, “and that land on the other side is the Isle of Wight. Well, I expect you’d like to freshen up. Drinks are in the drawing room at six, and dinner will be at eight. We’re not dressing tonight; a lounge suit will do.” She gave him a big kiss on the lips and disappeared.