kennel door).
Charles was contemplating his booty, the single black pearl, when he sat down and picked up the receiver.
Without so much as saying hello, Pia's thin, petulant voice began, "But I don't even see how you had time to court this girl."
"I didn't. Her father courted me." He rolled the pearl in his fingers, held it up to the light. It was small as pearls went, but he remembered a pirate's ransom of them draped down the front of Louise Vandermeer, the curve of her bosom as solid as beaded armor.
His response on the phone was met with staticky silence. Then. "And you thought this was a good idea, marrying a girl you'd never met?"
He leaned back in his chair and set the pearl down, deciding he'd better keep his wits about him. "No,"
he said, "I thought it was silly. But they kept writing. I was afraid of offending them."
"You told me some of this. These are the people who wined and dined you from New York to Miami in their private railway car?"
"Yes."
Pia sniffed. "But when? How?" she asked. "When you and I were in New York together, you weren't"—she avoided the word as if by not pronouncing it she could keep it from being true—"
affiliated with her then, were you?"
"No, not until Roland came back and you went off with him for three days to see the sights of New York." He waited for her to say something. Static. Air. He heaved a huge sigh. "Picture this," he said:
"After being offered the world by the Vandermeers for almost two weeks—the world, all save you—and turning it down, then still being treated as if I were a king by these people, I arrive back in New York.
You and I are all cozy for a few days, while Roland is in Washington. Then he comes back to New York early. For his sake, we've pretended to all our friends that I've gone back to France the week before, so I am suddenly stuck in a hotel without so much as my own name to keep me company, hoping no one recognizes me, while you are off for three 'surprise' days we didn't plan on—he even buys you a damn necklace at Tiffany's. While I sit in a hotel room, alone, bored and angry—and with a pretty amazing alternative staring me in the face.
"So I tested my options. I wired home that I wished a telegram sent in my name, inviting the Vandermeers to visit me again and reinitiate negotiations. My response through Nice was another telegram that leaped to the question of my cousin Gaspard in New York being given proxy to sign a marriage contract in my name. The suggested contract itself, short and sweet, was also wired—twice, to Nice and back across. Vandermeer said he had been thinking of retiring and that as his son-in-law he would give me everything, that he would step down and be 'pensioned off,' so to speak, though he requires a pretty big 'pension.' Still, it was a marvelous offer. Gaspard signed the agreement two days ago. And there you have it."
After a long pause, her voice said quietly, "You spent a small fortune on telegrams and engaged in a lot of complicated posturing, so you could sell yourself into a marriage to a girl you had never seen?"
Charles grew quiet. "Not exactly." He admitted. "I saw a painting of her at their house that first night I went there." Defensively he added, "It was stupid, really. I assumed it was one of those paintings that rich parents have done to flatter their offspring. You know the sort: idealized, much more comely than the subject is in reality. Never for a moment did I think she would be more stunning, more beautiful."
" More beautiful? She's a child, Charles."
His fingers had absently found the pearl again. He said, "Louise Vandermeer will be beautiful when she's eighty. It's in her bones, the way her eyes are set into her skull, the texture of her hair."
"You really find her that appealing?"
"Aesthetically."
She huffed a little breath. "As a man, a mature man, Charles, do you honestly find a smart-mouthed, eighteen-year-old brat physically appealing?"
Perhaps he should have lied. He might
Charles was contemplating his booty, the single black pearl, when he sat down and picked up the receiver.
Without so much as saying hello, Pia's thin, petulant voice began, "But I don't even see how you had time to court this girl."
"I didn't. Her father courted me." He rolled the pearl in his fingers, held it up to the light. It was small as pearls went, but he remembered a pirate's ransom of them draped down the front of Louise Vandermeer, the curve of her bosom as solid as beaded armor.
His response on the phone was met with staticky silence. Then. "And you thought this was a good idea, marrying a girl you'd never met?"
He leaned back in his chair and set the pearl down, deciding he'd better keep his wits about him. "No,"
he said, "I thought it was silly. But they kept writing. I was afraid of offending them."
"You told me some of this. These are the people who wined and dined you from New York to Miami in their private railway car?"
"Yes."
Pia sniffed. "But when? How?" she asked. "When you and I were in New York together, you weren't"—she avoided the word as if by not pronouncing it she could keep it from being true—"
affiliated with her then, were you?"
"No, not until Roland came back and you went off with him for three days to see the sights of New York." He waited for her to say something. Static. Air. He heaved a huge sigh. "Picture this," he said:
"After being offered the world by the Vandermeers for almost two weeks—the world, all save you—and turning it down, then still being treated as if I were a king by these people, I arrive back in New York.
You and I are all cozy for a few days, while Roland is in Washington. Then he comes back to New York early. For his sake, we've pretended to all our friends that I've gone back to France the week before, so I am suddenly stuck in a hotel without so much as my own name to keep me company, hoping no one recognizes me, while you are off for three 'surprise' days we didn't plan on—he even buys you a damn necklace at Tiffany's. While I sit in a hotel room, alone, bored and angry—and with a pretty amazing alternative staring me in the face.
"So I tested my options. I wired home that I wished a telegram sent in my name, inviting the Vandermeers to visit me again and reinitiate negotiations. My response through Nice was another telegram that leaped to the question of my cousin Gaspard in New York being given proxy to sign a marriage contract in my name. The suggested contract itself, short and sweet, was also wired—twice, to Nice and back across. Vandermeer said he had been thinking of retiring and that as his son-in-law he would give me everything, that he would step down and be 'pensioned off,' so to speak, though he requires a pretty big 'pension.' Still, it was a marvelous offer. Gaspard signed the agreement two days ago. And there you have it."
After a long pause, her voice said quietly, "You spent a small fortune on telegrams and engaged in a lot of complicated posturing, so you could sell yourself into a marriage to a girl you had never seen?"
Charles grew quiet. "Not exactly." He admitted. "I saw a painting of her at their house that first night I went there." Defensively he added, "It was stupid, really. I assumed it was one of those paintings that rich parents have done to flatter their offspring. You know the sort: idealized, much more comely than the subject is in reality. Never for a moment did I think she would be more stunning, more beautiful."
" More beautiful? She's a child, Charles."
His fingers had absently found the pearl again. He said, "Louise Vandermeer will be beautiful when she's eighty. It's in her bones, the way her eyes are set into her skull, the texture of her hair."
"You really find her that appealing?"
"Aesthetically."
She huffed a little breath. "As a man, a mature man, Charles, do you honestly find a smart-mouthed, eighteen-year-old brat physically appealing?"
Perhaps he should have lied. He might
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