“Mr. Rafe!” Her eyes went wide, but there was nothing but surprise and pleasure in her broad smile. Or was she used to Rafe introducing new wives? “And no One telling me you got yourself married while you were away! You could have left me a note for the morning, you bad boy,” she said in a good-natured scold. “Then I could at least have set two places and made Mrs. Clery feel to home here in her own house!” She was quickly remedying this negligence as she spoke.
Rafe, however, handed me into the place originally set for him, giving Mrs. Garrison an affectionate kiss on the cheek as she arranged silver for him.
“Oh, get on with you, Mr. Rafe. What will Mrs. Clery think?”
“That I’m smart to keep on good terms with the best cook in Nassau County.”
“Oh, Mr. Rafe!” She poured coffee for both of us, smiling warmly at me as she filled mine. “Just wait till I see that Jerry. I’ll tell him a thing or two, not tipping me off. Do you favor a big breakfast like Mr. Rafe, ma’am?” And her scrutiny was a little close.
“Yes, she does,” Rafe answered for me. “She likes a big breakfast, and she needs feeding up. Look at her, Garry. No better than a rail. We’ve got to get her back in form. She’s a rider, Garry, and she’s going to ride with me.” I’d never heard that particular ring in his voice, and evidently, neither had Garry, for she looked at him with surprise. “You remember when I was jockeying…”
Her expression turned to one of disapproval, although I sensed it was not the occupation she disapproved.
“I used to ride for Agnes du Maurier, and Russ Donnelly was her trainer. Well, Nialla’s his daughter. I’ve been waiting for her to grow up.”
His hand tightened on mine, and I wondered why he felt obliged to perpetuate that fiction with Mrs. Garrison, who so obviously adored him.
“Well, I never! Though I expect it’s a good thing around here that you do ride, Mrs. Clery. Never hear anything else except horses, horses, horses. Would you prefer grapefruit instead of orange juice, Mrs. Clery? Someone”-and her tone underscored the pronoun in which that meant she knew the culprit-”ate all the strawberries last night.”
“We did,” I said, like a penitent child. Then we grinned at each other. “Grapefruit will be just fine.”
“Two eggs? Ham or bacon? Toast or muffins?”
She was sectioning the grapefruit as she queried me, and in a remarkably short time, I thought, had prepared and served beautifully cooked platters of eggs and bacon, with a pile of buttered toast.
“Where’s your cup, Garry?” Rafe demanded as she started to leave. “Well, I…”
“Nonsense, sit down. Got to catch up on my gossip.” And Rafe leaned over, pulling out the chair opposite me and giving her no alternative.
Still reluctant, for she nodded apologetically at me, she picked up an outsize mug from the sideboard.
“Garry always has her ninetieth cup of coffee with me,” Rafe explained. I could only nod to indicate I had no wish to change the custom.
She settled herself then; she wasn’t a heavy woman, but old enough to be deliberate in her movements. She gave me a second apologetic glance as she filled her cup.
“Well, now,” she said, clearing her throat as she spooned sugar into her cup and stirred vigorously, shedding the last of her scruples, “there’s been some to-dos in the big house with Madam back way ahead of when she told staff. Does she know you’re here, or do I…”
“She knows I’m here.” I’d hate to have that flat tone directed at me.
“Does she have this place wired for sound?” Mrs. Garrison asked. “Well, there’s been quite a bit of partying -I’ve been helping Mrs. Palchi, of course-but no publicity!” She pursed her lips and nodded her head to indicate the novelty of that. “You know how she likes to have her picture in the paper, Mrs. Wendy Madison entertaining the chairman of the board of this and the so and so of that, and how many of the jet set came. First I thought maybe she’s ashamed of this new man of hers, but no, he’s society. And horses, too, come to think of it. Then I understood he wasn’t feeling well, but all those parties? Mrs. Palchi says he hails from the West Coast. Maybe you know him? Fella by the name of Marchmount.” Her recital broke off as she saw the sudden stillness of Rafe’s face.
“Is he at the house now?”
“Well, no, come to think of it, he isn’t. Though they all went off together this past weekend to see the Marshalls upstate. Took the Hammonds with them, Mrs. Palchi said.”
“Is he expected back?”
“I can’t rightly say, but do you want I should find out?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You don’t like him none either, do you, Mr. Rafe?”
“You don’t miss much, do you, Garry?”
“Not much,” she assured him cheerfully, and I wondered if she’d noticed my reaction to the mention of Marchmount. “He’s no gentleman, either, for all his pleases and thank-yous. You’d think a man his age would know how to behave in someone’s house. Pinched that nice Marrone girl on the you-know-where, and she didn’t know what to do about him. So Mrs. Palchi’s been keeping her in the kitchen and lets Sam do the upstairs work. By the way, Albert did not want to let him into the stables, but Madam was along, and Albert didn’t dare refuse with her staring at him that way.”
“How long was Marchmount here?”
“Now, let’s see. You’ve been gone since two weeks Tuesday, and Madam came back unexpected from the Laurentians then with him and that friend of his in tow. And then not near as much entertaining as you’d expect.”
“And no photographers? Maybe her last face job is weakening,” Rafe said, and his laugh was nasty.
Mrs. Garrison shook her head slowly. “I don’t know, Mr. Rafe.”
“What don’t you know, Garry?”
“Can’t say. A feeling I have. A trouble feeling. My right hand has been so itchy, I’d swear I’d touched poison ivy.”
Rafe laughed tolerantly and turned to me.
“Garry’s often troubled by ‘feelings.’“ And he patted my hand encouragingly.
“ ‘Feelings’ are what you trust when logic isn’t worth a hoot,” I said glumly, because I could feel “trouble” too. Just knowing Marchmount had been here depressed me. Because Galvano was usually his shadow.
Mrs. Garrison gave me a sharp approving nod and rose to clear away our empty dishes. “More coffee?” And she filled our cups without waiting for an answer. “If you could spare me a few minutes this morning, Mrs. Clery, I’d appreciate going over household matters.” I looked at her, startled. “I…”
Rafe leaned toward me, grinning. “All you have to do is listen, nod your head, and agree completely. Garry will do what she’s always done anyhow.”
“Now, Mr. Rafe, I’ll do no such thing. I just want to know what Mrs. Clery prefers.”
“Like no broccoli or French dressing, and starch in your shirts, and untucked bed sheets.”
I nodded dumbly, feeling horribly inadequate, until I remembered Agnes du Maurier and snatches of conversations overheard.
“First let me go along with your routine, Mrs. Garrison, before I make any suggestions.”
“Well, I don’t know as what a few sensible ones wouldn’t be welcome, Mrs. Clery,” the housekeeper said, glaring at Rafe before she rose. “I’ll just see to the beds while you finish your coffee.”
“Madam entertaining Marchmount on the quiet, huh?” Rafe murmured as the door swung after her. His tone was pure distilled hatred. “What a pair!” I couldn’t look at him, not when he sounded that way.