An Embarrassment of Riches (16 page)

Genevre stood at the deck-rails, holding on to them tightly with her kid-gloved hands to prevent herself from falling. It was all over. She would never see Alexander again. Never be his wife. Never live with him at Tarna. But she would have his baby. Her hands tightened on the freezing rails. No matter what plans her father was making to the contrary, she would have Alexander's baby and she would keep it.

‘No-one will ever take you away from me,' she whispered fiercely to her unborn child as the snow-covered spires of New York's many churches began to recede into the distance. ‘No matter what happens we are never going to be separated. Not ever!'

Alexander struggled to consciousness against an almost unbearable barrier of pain. There were things he had to do. Letters he had to write.

‘Must write to Charlie,' he said thickly to the tall, dark-clad, distinguished figure standing by his bedside.

‘You're not in a condition to write to anyone,' his host said practically. ‘I've written fully to your father and a letter has already arrived for you from him. Shall I read it to you?'

Alexander tried to shake his head and pain screamed down into his nerve-ends. ‘No,' he gasped, not remotely interested in anything his father had to say. ‘Must write to Charlie.' Now, more than ever, he needed to be in touch with Genevre. There was something funny going on in New York. Something he was being too dumb to work out. But Charlie would sort it for him. Charlie would discover why Genevre was unable to write. Charlie would tell her about his accident and of how he was longing for her every minute of every day.

‘I'll have my secretary sit with you for a while and you can dictate whatever letters are necessary,' Lord Powerscourt said, not wishing Alexander to distress or over-excite himself. ‘Your father has arranged for Sir Ralph Fiennes-Bourton to be in permanent attendance and he is expected to arrive early tomorrow morning. He is a London specialist and his reputation is formidable. You can have every confidence in him.'

Alexander was glad to hear it. The Dublin doctors, who had been frantically summoned in the hours following his fall, had all expressed the opinion that with proper care there would be no permanent paralysis. But they were not specialists. Any specialist engaged by his father would be a world-renowned figure whose word could be implicitly trusted. He refused to think of what his reactions would be if the specialist's prognosis differed from that already given. It would be unspeakable. Unthinkable. But he would have Genevre. Whatever happened to him, he would always have Genevre. Focusing his thoughts fiercely on her, he said to Powerscourt, ‘Could your secretary sit with me now, sir? This letter to Charlie Schermerhorn really is most powerfully urgent.'

…
as far as my fall is concerned, there should be no permanent damage (unless Pa's specialist says differently), but I'm going to have to remain in Ireland for the next few months and certainly won't now be continuing on to the rest of Europe. You must contact Ginnie for me. I've had no letters from her at all. Find out if she's ill, or if William Hudson has had a change of heart and is now opposed to our marrying and is refusing to let her write. Tell her I'll be returning to New York just as soon as I can. Tell her I love her, and tell her to
write.
If she's having difficulties doing so direct, tell her to write via yourself. It really is most desperately urgent that I hear from her. Thanks a million. Alex.

Lord Powerscourt's gentleman secretary handed it to him to sign with a rather dazed expression. In all his years of employment he had never been called upon to pen such an extraordinary letter. He wondered if the young lady in question would respond via Charlie Schermerhorn IV and if so, if he would soon find himself in the extraordinary position of penning love-letters at Mr Karolyis's dictation.

Sir Ralph Fiennes-Bourton was not accustomed to devoting himself solely to one patient, unless the patient in question was royalty. The fee he had been offered, however, was royal in the extreme and Powerscourt's estate offered excellent fishing. His time there would serve as a sabbatical and give him the opportunity to write a long intended monograph. Highly pleased by the convenience of the arrangement he stood by the side of Alexander's bed, his portly physique and trim white beard giving him a remarkable resemblance to the Prince of Wales.

‘Complete immobility is needed to allow the nerves and tendons to heal,' he said, wondering whether to fish that afternoon on the Suir or the Blackwater. ‘Recovery will be a slow process …'

Alexander's eyes glittered. He already knew that. What he wanted to know was if he would ever walk again.

‘Will I regain the use of my legs?' he asked tautly.

‘In due time. There is no reason to fear permanent paralysis …'

‘And ride?'

Sir Ralph was not accustomed to being so summarily interrupted. He remembered his fee and the fishing and rose above the inconvenience. ‘And ride,' he said magnanimously, wondering why on earth anyone so injured from riding should ever wish to mount a horse again.

Alexander exhaled deeply. It was going to be all right. He wasn't going to return to Genevre a cripple. All he had to do now was to find out what was happening to her in New York. To reassure her as to his own circumstances. And to tell her that he loved her with all his heart.

Charlie looked down at Alexander's letter in complete bewilderment. What the devil was Alex rambling on about? Why was he so anxious about Genevre when he was engaged to marry a member of the Anglo-Irish nobility? It didn't make any sense. Brains were not Charlie's strong point but even he managed to work out that something was very wrong. Even worse was the news of Alex's accident. Being rolled on by a horse was no laughing matter. He wondered what injuries the horse had sustained and hoped it hadn't been shot. Then he wondered about Genevre again.

‘Everyone knows Alexander is engaged to the daughter of some Anglo-Irish earl,' his Uncle Henry said to him testily when he showed him the letter. ‘Karolyis has been spreading the news all over town. Especially in William Hudson's hearing.'

They were in the centre of a snow-bound Fifth Avenue. Henry was muffled to the chin in an astrakhan coat with a heavy beaver collar, his top hat crammed as low on his head as he could possibly get it. Charlie was half-buried in an ankle-length wolf coat that lent him a rather flamboyant air. He stamped his booted feet to keep his circulation moving. ‘Which would explain why Ginnie isn't writing to him now, but not why she wasn't writing to him before,' he said, struggling for understanding.

Henry shrugged. He had never understood Alexander's desire to marry before he was scarcely out of the schoolroom. He personally hoped both marriages were off. But not if they were off because of Victor's machinations. He clapped his gloved hands together in an effort to keep them warm, frowning deeply. Victor wouldn't have wanted Alexander's marital plans with the daughter of an earl to have gone awry, but he would certainly have wanted to see an end to Alexander's plans to marry Genevre. That being so, he might very well have taken advantage of Alexander's enforced absence to arrange matters to his satisfaction.

His freezing hands refused to warm and he had no intention of catching pneumonia by prolonging the conversation. ‘Speak to Miss Hudson,' he said, inclining his head and beginning to walk away. He had only gone a couple of yards when he paused, shouting back over his shoulder, ‘And if she's been writing to Alexander all along, speak to Victor!'

Having a word with Genevre was sensible advice and Charlie pulled his coat collar up around his ears and climbed into his waiting, snugly closed carriage. ‘The corner of West 24th Street,' he instructed his exposed and perished coachman.

Ten minutes later he was staring at the Hudson's maid in bewilderment. ‘Gone?' he said uncomprehendingly. ‘What do you mean, gone? Gone where?'

‘To England, sir,' the maid said respectfully, recognizing quality when she saw it, however surprising its disguise.

Charlie's bafflement grew. ‘Is Mr Hudson's secretary at home? Could I speak to him please?'

‘There is no-one at home. No-one is living here any longer. Mr Hudson and Miss Hudson have gone to England.'

‘Then I need to have their English address …'

‘There is no forwarding address, sir.'

‘But there must be!'

‘I'm sorry, sir, but there isn't,' the maid said emphatically, and closed the door.

Charlie shook his head in an attempt to clear it, and slowly descended the massive flight of snow-covered steps leading from the front door to the courtyard. No-one in residence. No forwarding address. Alexander might be under the impression that his cavortings with his Irish host's daughter were of no consequence, but clearly Genevre and her father felt very differently. He stood in the courtyard and gazed up at the house. Beneath its snow-blanketed, turreted roof blinds were drawn at every window. It was almost as if there had been a death. Glumly he climbed back into his carriage. What was he to do now? Simply write back to Alex telling him that Genevre had flown the coop? Speak to Victor and if so, what about? Henry's remarks about letters Genevre may, or may not, have written, made no sense.

As he bumped and swayed once more into Fifth Avenue his dilemma was solved for him. Standing outside the marble splendour of the Fifth Avenue Hotel was a carriage bearing the distinctive blue and grey coat of arms affected by Victor Karolyis.

‘Pull over,' he called to his freezing coachman. If Victor was wining and dining in public it would be relatively easy to have a few casual words with him. The meeting would seem to be by accident. He could ask after Alexander and the young lady it was alleged Alexander was to marry. He stepped down from his carriage, wondering if Alex would have gone to as much trouble on his behalf, and, stamping the snow from his boots, strode beneath the columned portico and into the grand entrance hall.

Despite the harsh weather the hotel was thronged. All the entrance hall's deep, plumply upholstered sofas were occupied, but none of them held Victor. He made his way towards the downstairs sitting-room where leading Republicans were often to be found, discussing the war and the strategy that needed to be taken in order to bring it to a satisfactory conclusion. Ever since it had become obvious that Lincoln was the man of the moment and that there was a fortune to be made out of the war, Victor had affected Republican sympathies. Today a Republican senator was holding the floor, but Victor was not one of the clique saying, ‘Amen', to every one of his pronouncements.

Leaving the politicians to their deliberations he took the elevator to the dining-room. Victor was seated at a corner table, dining alone. He looked like a man who had no wish to be disturbed. Charlie took a deep breath and crossed the thickly carpeted room towards him. He had never been able to fathom his exact family relationship to Victor, but as Alexander was his second cousin he assumed that Victor must be an uncle of sorts. Uncle seemed, anyway, to be the most respectful way of greeting him. ‘Good afternoon, Uncle Victor,' he said with forced bonhomie. ‘Haven't seen you in an age. How are you keeping?'

Victor didn't regard himself as being anyone's uncle and didn't relish being addressed as such. Especially by a bonehead like Charlie. He raised his eyes from his plate, gave Charlie a freezing look and did not ask him to sit down.

Charlie sat. ‘I received a letter from Alex yesterday. Awful bad news about his fall, isn't it? Have you heard anything from the specialist yet?'

Victor laid his fork down on his plate. If Alexander had written to Charlie, then he would have asked Charlie to make contact with Genevre. This he had, in all likelihood, already tried to do. And now he had waylaid him, bewildered by Alexander's continuing concern for Genevre when he was reported to be engaged elsewhere. Bewildered by Alexander's silence on the subject of his engagement.

‘Alexander will suffer no permanent injuries,' he said, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin.

Charlie was so relieved to hear it he almost forgot what it was he was trying to find out. As Victor moved his chair away from the table, he blurted, ‘And the wedding? The gossip at the Union Club was that he was to marry in Ireland. Will the wedding still be going ahead or will there be a delay now?'

With the Hudsons safely out of the country Victor had been wondering when he should scotch the rumour he had so carefully circulated. Looking across at Charlie, not knowing who else Charlie was in contact with, he decided that now was not the time. For all he knew, Genevre Hudson may also have written to Charlie. The same means as had been taken in the Hudson household with regard to the post would also have to be taken in the Schermerhorn mansion. But one letter could be allowed from Charlie to Genevre. A letter confirming beyond all doubt that Alexander was to marry.

‘The wedding, of course, will be delayed a little, but it will still take place,' he said, rising to his feet.

‘Are you sure?' Charlie asked, feeling an idiot. ‘I mean, perhaps there's been a mistake. Perhaps there isn't going to be a wedding. Perhaps there was
never
going to be a wedding.'

The merest hint of a smile touched the corners of Victor's thin-lipped mouth. ‘There is absolutely no mistake. Alexander is to marry Lord Powerscourt's eldest daughter. Good-day to you, Charles.'

Charlie remained sitting at the table, more bewildered than ever. Perhaps Alex had assumed that he could have his cake and eat it, that he could contract a suitable marriage for dynastic purposes and still maintain his relationship with Genevre. Well, he'd been wrong. Genevre and her father were eccentrically free and easy, but they were not
that
free and easy. Alex had severely miscalculated. He summoned a waiter, asked for pen and paper and proceeded to write and tell him so.