They had telegraphed ahead from Paris, but the Newbury coachman was not waiting at the Cannes railroad station for them and Alison was beside herself with anger. She engaged a porter to carry their luggage to a waiting carriage, snapping her fingers imperiously, shouting instructions in rapid French, and then settling back beside Lizzie and sighing deeply as the carriage got under way.
“I can never stay agitated for long in this delightful spot,” she said. “The telegram must have gone astray, wouldn’t you say? I shouldn’t put it past the French. Either that, or there was some sort of domestic crisis which that financial wizard was unable to resolve.” She was referring, of course, to Albert. Lizzie wondered, suddenly, if she spoke of him in this fashion to all her other friends.
“You shall find the town utterly deserted,” Alison said. “Even the cheaper hotels and pensions here near the railway station are abandoned during the summertime.” The carriage was passing a garden-enclosed establishment with a sign advising that it was the Pension Mon Plaisir. “ ‘My Pleasure,’ indeed,” Alison said. “It’s probably crawling with vermin and lice. You’ll find your better hotels fronting the beach east and west of the town center, although some visitors prefer the ones inland, which are less conducive to wakefulness — did you sleep well last night, Lizzie?”
“Restlessly,” Lizzie said.
“Ah, yes, the compartment was close, wasn’t it? Beachfront or hillside, you shall find them all moribund at this time of year. The moment there are lilacs in England, don’t you know, it’s simply time to go home. Never mind the fact that London often has snow in May. And the instant the British depart, of course, the links and the tennis courts and the casino and most of the restaurants shut down tighter than crypts. Which is exactly how I prefer them. I love it here during the summertime!”
The air was indeed balmy at this late hour of the morning, and the scent of oranges wafted in through the open carriage windows as they made their way slowly through the town center and then began moving steadily inland on a gradually sloping road, leaving the broad blue stripe of the Mediterranean behind them. Higher and higher they climbed. “Their villas are scattered all about town,” Alison said. “The Duke of Albany’s, who died six years ago, the Villa Edelweiss, owned by Mr. Saville and visited by the queen — when was it? 1887? Well, quite recently at any rate. The Rothschild villa, and Lord Brougham’s — we passed his statue on the Allées de la Liberté, did you notice it? Between the Hôtel de Ville and the Splendide? He died two years ago, but he’s the acknowledged founder of modern-day Cannes. Before him the place was an insignificant little fishing village — oh, would that it were again! That was back in 1834, dear Lizzie, long before either you or I were born. We’re almost there, be patient, I know the ride is bumpy.”
It seemed at first that they were only moving further inland, yet more distant from the sea. The woods through which the road wound were white with myrtle, scattered here and there with the vibrant red of geraniums. They passed through a stand of pines, and then a copse of tropical growth that ended abruptly against an escarpment of vine-covered rock. The carriage turned a bend around the boulders, and Lizzie caught a glimpse of the cobalt sea again, glistening with pinpoint pricks of sunlight, framed with a dense and fragrant white floral growth that began again on the southern side of the rock formation. The carriage rounded another turn in the road, the horse struggling with the steep incline, and suddenly she saw the house.
Where Alison’s home in London had seemed a pile of structured gray granite softened only somewhat by the Grecian-style columns supporting the entrance portico, Lizzie saw now a low and sprawling array of interconnected stucco buildings, painted a white that blindingly reflected the rays of the sun. Tropical plants grew low against the walls, vines climbed toward the sun, the exotic fragrance of alien blooms wafted through the open carriage windows and mingled with the aroma of dust to create an oddly heady scent.
“Kensington is Albert’s,” Alison murmured beside her. “This is mine.”
The cabman stepped down and opened the carriage doors on either side for them. The thick entrance doors to the villa were set back in a shadowed arch and fashioned of a pale wood diagonally joined, studded with great black iron bolts and strapped with massive black hinges. The doors were wide open, and through them Lizzie could see a tiled interior court with a tiled center fountain and surrounding beds of flowers, small blooming trees in tubs and tiled columns supporting a gallery that ran clear around the upper story. A vagrant breeze idled through the courtyard as they entered, carrying on it the unmistakably salty aroma of the sea.
And now came Moira, dressed quite differently here in the south of France than she had been in London, wearing a full white skirt and petticoats, a lace-edged blouse and an apron embroidered in reds and blues and yellows that echoed the blooms everywhere in the courtyard.
“Miz Newbury, mum,” she said, beaming, “welcome! We’ve missed you,” and curtsied, and shouted “George! Come see to the luggage! Welcome, Miss Borden,” she said, and curtsied again, and then picked up her skirts and went clattering over the tiled floor, disappearing through an arched doorway, shouting “George!” as she went.
“Come,” Alison said proudly. “Let me show you.”
More arched doorways at the far end of the courtyard opened onto a terrace floored with orange tiles, and beyond that was the most luxuriant garden Lizzie had ever seen, blooming with jasmine and sunflowers, fuchsias and nasturtiums, chrysanthemums and dahlias, zinnias, asters and other flowers that were entirely strange to her but that spread a fragrant scent on the air. The garden sloped off onto a vast grassy lawn which the Newbury gardener, wearing a French workman’s blue smock, was watering down with a hose. Beyond the garden and the lawn, far below, was the pristine sea. The sky above it was a paler cloudless blue. The air was balmy; it kissed her face and caused a smile to appear on her mouth.
“Ah, there’s my husband,” Alison said, and called, “Albert! No welcome? After all your fussing, I should have expected a band, at least.”
He was sitting in a wicker chair in the sun, reading an English-language newspaper, wearing white trousers and shirt, white shoes and a straw hat with an overly large brim. “Well, well,” he said, putting down the newspaper and rising. “Better late than never, eh?”
“Never might have been more appropriate as regards George,” Alison said. “Where was he? Didn’t you receive my telegram?”
“George has sprained his ankle,” Albert said, coming to where they were standing. “More than likely in pursuit of these comely Cannois virgins. You’ll be fortunate if he can struggle your luggage into the house.” He kissed his wife perfunctorily on the cheek, took Lizzie’s hand, lowered his lips to it and said, “Was your journey a pleasant one?” Without waiting for a reply, he said, “You look terribly pale, Lizzie, we shall have to set you out in the sun. Cook has been gone all morning,” he said to Alison, “haggling with these French brigands over tonight’s meal. Her French leaves something to be desired, to say the least. You must inform her that there is no such thing as a neuter article in this beastly language, and that the locals take offense at her casual intermingling of the ‘le’ and ‘la’. So then, have you had lunch? I know cook has prepared a cold tray, and I’m famished myself, having spent an energetic morning reading this sorry excuse for a newspaper. Shall I ask Moira to set it out while you both change into something more suitable to the climate? You shall suffocate in those heavy garments. Breathe in deeply of the sea air, Lizzie. I’m told it does wonders for all the cripples and invalids who make their permanent residence here. Will you show Lizzie to her room? I know Moira spent all morning tidying it. There should be fresh lemonade in a carafe on the bedstand, though I fear ice is a virtual impossibility here — as it is in England as well. I know how terribly fond of ice you Americans are. Well, do get hopping, both of you, or I shall die of starvation.”