Lady Rample Sits In Page 2

  “And I’m Helen,” Mrs. Geisel offered.

  “I prefer to be called ‘Dr. Seuss,’” Mr. Geisel said.

  Aunt Butty frowned. “Zeus? Like the Greek god? Oh, I love Greece. When I was in my twenties I met this gorgeous Greek man—”

  “No, Aunt Butty,” I interrupted whatever inappropriate story she was about to launch into. “It’s ‘Sousa’ — like the American composer.”

  Dr. Seuss grimaced. “No, no... just Seuss.”

  Aunt Butty laughed. “Oh, we must seem like children who need you to spell that out for with pictures.”

  “Funny you should say that,” Helen said. “Theodor is quite the artist. I’ve been telling him he should write a children’s book.”

  “I draw cartoons, dear,” he said dryly.

  “Still, that’s very artistic,” Aunt Butty said generously. “I couldn’t draw a straight line to save my life!”

  “Are you travelling to France?” I asked Helen.

  “Of course, they’re travelling to France, Ophelia,” Aunt Butty laughed. “We’re all travelling to France.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I mean, what is your final stop?”

  Helen grinned. “We’re going to travel all over France. That’s the plan, isn’t it, Theodor? We adore exploring new countries.”

  “Yes, dear,” Dr. Seuss agreed. “We’ve been to, what? A dozen so far?”

  “I’d have to count, but something like that,” Helen agreed. “I can’t wait to drink real French wine in a real French vineyard!”

  Just then Chaz arrived, looking dapper in a black tux, his dark hair sleeked back. The Captain introduced him around as our final diner, which came as a pleasant surprise. He hadn’t told me he’d be dining at the Captain’s table with us. He gave me a little wave from where he was seated down between the Comtesse and Mrs. Jones.

  It came to me then that Mrs. Jones was a somewhat well-known actress, though slightly past her prime. I’d seen her in a Noel Coward play not long before leaving London for America. I guess I’d been wrong. We were seated with some interesting people.

  While Aunt Butty and Helen espoused the virtues of French wine versus Italian wine, I took a moment to address Mr. Alexander Brightwell, who was seated on my left. He was a reasonably handsome young man in a bland, pasty sort of way, as if the colorfulness of the father had been leached right out of the son, leaving behind a shadow. A pale imitation.

  “So you’re from Texas?” I asked.

  “Yes. My father has a small ranch there.”

  My guess was that as he was sailing on the Ile de France and seated at the Captain’s table, it was more than a small ranch. “Do you work there also? On the ranch, I mean?”

  He didn’t look the sort. His skin was too pale, his suit too neat, and his hands too soft. Unlike his father who was hearty, tanned, and rough around the edges.

  “Oh, no, my father wanted me to do something more with my life than herd cattle. I just finished my law degree. And before I sit for the bar exam, my father decided I needed a little reward. Hence this trip to Europe.” He didn’t seem excited.

  Frankly, I’d have given my eyeteeth for a chance to tour Europe, but my father wasn’t the sort to do such a thing, even if he’d had the money. And even though Aunt Butty had and would have gladly taken me wherever I wished to go, by the time she’d rescued me from a life of drudgery at the vicarage, it wasn’t long before we were at war and travel was no longer an option.

  Since I doubted the younger Mr. Brightwell would appreciate a lecture from me on thankfulness, I murmured something vague and then turned my attention elsewhere. People-watching was a favored pastime of mine. I find them so fascinating. What makes them tick? Why does one person end up with another? My mother used to say I had an overactive imagination. I don’t think there’s any such thing.

  From where I sat, I couldn’t see Sir Eustace or his wife. The fountain stood in the way. Too bad. It would have been interesting to see how the angry little man got on with his wife as supper progressed. She’d looked frightfully out of place in her too-young gown. Not at all the sort I’d expect to be married to a knight. Perhaps he gained his knighthood late in life and came from a common background. That would explain her lack of taste. Then again, he’d sounded posh enough. Perhaps a third son of a third son or the like.

  Curiosity or no, I didn’t want my trip spoiled by Sir Eustace’s unpleasantness, so I determined to avoid the man at all costs and put him promptly out of my head. I planned not to think about him again for the entirety of the voyage. Although I might have done differently if I’d known what was to come.

  Chapter 2

  Gare de Nice-Ville, the main train station in Nice, was a marvel of Arles stone sculptures and grand chandeliers, with a roof of forged steel. It was elegant and typically French, to my mind, with all the hustle and bustle one expected, but at a more leisurely pace than I was used to in London.

  Inside echoed with the shriek of train whistles and the hum of hundreds of voices as passengers embarked and disembarked, headed to locations across France. A porter trotted behind us with our luggage piled on a cart while Aunt Butty strode ahead, parting the way through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea. I wasn’t entirely sure if this feat was accomplished by the force of her personality, or because everyone was too busy staring at her hat.

  Today’s epic headgear was an oversized bicorn in plum and white striped silk moiré taffeta. The upturned front brim was pinned in place with a massive flower of the same fabric. I was fairly certain the thing had been in her closet since 1915. When I asked her about it, she claimed her hat maker, Marcel, had copied it from a famous French firm, Tore.

  “So it’s new then?” I’d asked cautiously.

  “But, of course, dear. Isn’t it fabulous?”

  I could never understand why Marcel insisted on replicating hats from decades ago. Or why my aunt insisted on wearing them.

  In any case, we made it to the front of the station quickly and found Mr. Singh—Aunt Butty’s Sikh butler—waiting with the car. Once everything was loaded in and Aunt Butty, Chaz, and I were settled in the back with Maddie up front next to Mr. Singh, we zoomed off into the city.

  My villa was in the little village of Auron-sur-mer, just on the other side of Nice. Mr. Singh wound carefully through the narrow cobblestone streets, bound on either side by stunning Belle Epoch buildings. At last we came to the Promenade des Anglais, the wide avenue lined with soaring palm trees and a breathtaking view of the sea, sparkling under the midday sun.

  Eventually, we left the city behind, the buildings giving way to vistas of evergreen shrubs, stone pine, and arbutus, and the more tropical palms, eucalyptus, and citrus trees.

  The road here wound so close to the sea, it was almost as if I could reach out the window and scoop up the warm water in my hand. I smiled at such a fanciful notion.

  At last we began to climb ever so slightly up a rocky promontory before winding down and inland a bit. And then there was the drive which split halfway. We took the right fork.

  And there, glistening in the sun, was the Villa de la Belle Mer—House of the Beautiful Sea. Felix, my late husband, had been rather prone to hyperbole on occasion. It huddled on the rocky cliffside, pale pink with a tile roof and numerous archways supporting the roof which shaded the veranda.

  The veranda, partially shaded by a large pine and surrounded by a stone balustrade, looked out over the sea, providing a view almost to the heart of Nice itself. To one side was a small pool, perfect for taking a dip on overly warm days.

  To the left were our nearest neighbors in a classic French villa with warm, yellow walls and a thriving garden. I’d no idea who lived there, but they shared the drive partway. A low stone wall separated our properties, but only just. One could easily step over and push one's way through the greenery.

  The neighbor to the right was a bit further away and almost completely hidden from view by thick vegetation. I could only just see the tip of the roof peekin
g over the citrus trees.

  Mr. Singh pulled up to my front door and turned off the engine. “Welcome home, Lady Rample, Lady Lucas, Mr. Raynott. Flora will have refreshments waiting for you on the veranda while Maddie and I take your luggage to your rooms.” His tone implied that if Flora didn’t have refreshments waiting, there’d be hell to pay.

  We did, indeed, find Flora out on the veranda. Her round cheeks were flushed crimson from the heat and her ample form strained at her summer uniform—a simple cotton dress in dove-gray with a white apron over it—which was at least a dozen years out of date.

  “Oh, dear, we’re going to need to get that girl a uniform that fits properly,” Aunt Butty murmured. “I think she must have filched that one from your servant’s quarters.”

  “Didn’t you get her a summer uniform before she left London?” I asked. Aunt Butty had sent her maid down to France while we were in America.

  “Of course I did. She probably forgot it. You know how she is.”

  I did. Flora was possibly the worst maid in the whole of England. She was one of Aunt Butty’s orphans. Not a literal orphan, but one of those interesting people she collected. Like Mr. Singh, or Cyril Brumble, the poor man who’d died in America.

  “What have you got there, Flora?” Chaz asked, striding toward the dining table set up to take advantage of the magnificent view.

  “Hiya, Mr. Chaz,” she said, giving him one of those swoony looks he so often got from women. “Cook made some finger sandwiches and orange biscuits. Mr. Singh mixed the cocktails before he left and had me keep ‘em on ice. Ain’t nothing fancy. Just old fashioneds.”

  “I do love an old fashioned,” I declared, sinking into one of the chairs. “Get to pouring.” I selected an orange biscuit and finished it off in two bites. The sweet, buttery biscuit held just the slightest hint of citrus and was sprinkled rather neatly with large sugar crystals. “These are divine!”

  “I had Mr. Singh hire a local woman as we discussed,” Aunt Butty said. “I’m glad to see he didn’t steer us wrong.”

  “As if Mr. Singh would do that,” Chaz said, amused.

  Flora doled out the cocktails, topping each with a cherry. For a minute, I thought she’d finally got the whole serving thing down. Then she went and tripped over her own feet, dumping half an old-fashioned down Chaz’s front and into his lap.

  “Oh!” She stood there, clutching the remains of the cocktail to her ample bosom. The flame in her cheeks spread down her neck and up to her forehead. Then, as if without thinking, she gulped the rest of the cocktail.

  Chaz stared from her to his lap and back again. Then burst out laughing.

  “Good heavens, Flora,” Aunt Butty said, her tone outraged, “what have you done?”

  “I-I d-didn’t mean to.” Flora burst into tears and ran for the house.

  Aunt Butty shook her head. “That poor girl is just about worthless as a maid. Chaz, you better go change. Mr. Singh can see your clothes are cleaned. I’ll fix more cocktails.”

  “I’ll be back in a tick,” Chaz assured us. “Don’t drink all the booze.”

  While Aunt Butty mixed more cocktails, I enjoyed my surroundings. It was hard to believe this was mine: the view, the veranda, the house. Every inch of it mine and mine alone. As a girl, I would have never dreamed that I would one day visit the south of France, let alone own a home there.

  A car coming up the drive adjacent to mine drew my attention. A yellow and black 1928 Model A Citroën AC4 came zipping up to the front door of the yellow house and a round little man got out.

  “Aunt Butty!” I said with some surprise. “Isn’t that the odious little man from the ship? Sir something or other?”

  Aunt Butty squinted through the bushes. “Sir Eustace Scrubbs. Well, I never. I’d no idea he was staying next door. I wonder if he bought it or is just renting.”

  Sir Eustace waddled around to the passenger’s side and opened the door. Out stepped Lady Scrubbs wearing a white traveling suit with red buttons, collar, and cuffs. It was quite darling, but it didn’t suit her figure in the slightest. It was made for a much taller, thinner woman. Not to mention a younger one. However, Lady Scrubbs appeared as if she felt like a million pounds, so I supposed that if she liked it, anyone else’s opinion—including my own—didn’t much matter.

  Sir Eustace didn’t wait for his wife, but stomped off to the door and let himself in. She followed more slowly, taking in her surroundings. She caught us looking and waved. “Yoohoo!”

  We both waved back. I called out, “Hello! Aren’t you Lady Scrubbs? I believe I met your husband on the ship over from New York.” I figured stretching the truth a bit didn’t hurt anyone.

  She stepped closer to the property line and gave us a big smile. “Yes, yes. I remember seeing you. It’s Lady Scrubbs, yes, but you can call me Elenore.”

  “I’m Lady Rample—Ophelia—and this is my Aunt, Lady Lucas.”

  “Butty,” Aunt Butty corrected. “We’re neighbors, after all.”

  “I remember you from the Fenton’s party,” Elenore said cheerfully.

  “Yes, of course,” Aunt Butty said as if just remembering. “How long are you here?”

  “I’m not sure. This was Eustace’s idea, you see. A few weeks anyway.”

  “Would you like to join us?” I asked her. “We’re just having a few cocktails and some nibbles.”

  “Oh, I’d love to—”

  “Elenore!” Sir Eustace bellowed from inside the house.

  Lady Scrubbs’s face fell. “But I suppose we’d better do it another time. My husband needs me.”

  “Oh, of course,” Aunt Butty said, as if she were used to catering to bossy husbands, “whenever you like. We’ll be here!”

  “Elenore!”

  She gave us a wilted smile. “I'd better go. Have a lovely afternoon.” And she hastened into the house. The front door banged shut behind her.

  “That poor woman,” Aunt Butty murmured. “If I were her, I think I’d kosh that husband of hers over the head.”

  “Aunt Butty!” I feigned shock.

  She snorted. “Well, it’s either that or drink.”

  I held up my nearly empty cocktail glass. “Here’s to drinking.”

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Chaz and I stood on the terrace enjoying the view. Aunt Butty had gone for an afternoon nap, though she called it a siesta. Through the lush greenery between my house and the next was a narrow gap, just wide enough one could catch glimpses of the veranda and pool. And there, in a lounge chair, sprawled Sir Eustace, his plump frame encased in an ancient bathing costume that covered him neck to knee. His pasty legs glared white in the sun and his arms were covered in a shocking amount of hair.

  “Didn’t exactly picture him as a sun worshipper,” Chaz said dryly as he blew smoke rings into the sky.

  “I wonder where his wife is?” Lady Scrubbs—Elenore—was nowhere to be seen.

  “Inside like a sensible person. It’s dashed hot out here and I could use a cold beverage. You?” He sauntered back into the house where Mr. Singh was taking inventory of the bar. “Mr. Singh, have you any recommendations for cocktails? Something with a French flair.” He turned to give me an aside, “When in Rome, love!”

  I joined him in the sitting room. It had a fabulous view of the water, little sailing boats bobbing gently on the waves. A lovely breeze lifted gauzy curtains and cooled the air to something manageable. Although, after Hollywood, the temperature hardly phased me.

  The furniture was all the height of Art Deco fashion. Lord Rample had seen to that. From the dark Ruhlmann cabinet with gold inlay to the lacquered shagreen chairs to the rosewood day bed, also Ruhlmann, upholstered in gold velvet. Every bit of the design had been carefully thought out to achieve maximum comfort and style.

  Mr. Singh was looking as immovable and majestic as ever. He stood close to six feet tall, broad shouldered and barrel chested. His lush beard was neatly trimmed, and his hair hidden under a dastar—or turban—of Pavo blue. Other than that, he was
dressed exactly as any English butler should be in a black tail coat, white shirt and gloves, and black tie. The only deviation was that his waistcoat was Pavo blue to match his dastar rather than the typical dove gray.

  “I would recommend a bijou. I understand it’s quite French,” he said in his measured voice with its musical accent.

  “Make it so, my good man.” Chaz waved his hand before plopping onto the sofa.

  Within moments, Mr. Singh delivered a silver serving tray upon which sat Chaz’s bijou—a mix of gin, vermouth, and chartreuse served in a martini glass—and a highball for me. In Hollywood, I’d taken to drinking Vieux Carrés, but I found myself pleased he’d remembered highballs were, at least at one time, my favorite. I’d never taken to bijous. Too medicinal in flavor for me.

  “Anything of interest in the post?” I asked.

  “Nothing in particular, my lady,” Mr. Singh said in his melodious voice. “However, a messenger delivered an invitation for your ladyship and Lady Lucas. I believe Mr. Raynott is invited as well.”

  I lifted a brow. “Oh?” Who would be sending Aunt Butty and me an invitation so soon after our arrival? We hadn’t even been here a full day. “Where is it?”

  “There was no note,” Mr. Singh explained. “It was given to me directly by a young boy from The Americana.”

  My heart rate kicked into high gear. The Americana was the club where Hale and his band were playing. I’d had a note sent ‘round as soon as we arrived, but I hadn’t expected to hear from him so soon.

  “Go on,” I urged.

  “Mr. Davis requests your presence, and that of Lady Lucas and Mr. Raynott, at the club tonight. He has reserved a table for you. No answer required.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Singh,” I said.

  “By the by, Mr. Singh, I was hoping to do some water skiing while I’m here. I understand its jolly good fun. Do you know of a place where I could rent whatever one needs for such things?” Chaz asked.

  “I believe there is such a place in Nice, sir. I could arrange it for you if you like.”