Rafe frowned, glancing back from Pres's flamboyant figure to John. "He can't mean to marry that girl?"
John rolled his eyes expressively. "You'd already been divorced once by the time you were twenty-one." "Christ! I'll have a talk with him." "Don't bother. Wendy's ringing a peal over him right now that ought to suffice."
We couldn't hear what was being said, but there was no doubt that the conversation was unpleasant for Pres. He seemed to be contracting, and so did poor Sara. Suddenly Louis Marchmount raised a feeble hand, and Wendy turned back to him, allowing Pres and Sara to escape to the bar.
I felt John Milanesi's hand on my arm, his fingers stroking the skin.
"He hasn't accepted the AGM offer?" Rafe asked.
"Obviously not," John replied, indicating Pres's costume. "I must say, you could watch your timing, Rafael. She's not going to make life easy for anyone." His hand tightened on my arm, but I couldn't figure out any way of breaking that hold without appearing rude. "Not to offend you, my dear sister-in-law, for Rafael's no longer easily seduced; it's simply that our dear mother cannot abide marriages that aren't hers."
"D'you think she's got bells in mind for Marchmount?" "Hardly!" John was openly contemptuous. "Although I'd've thought she'd've sent him packing long since."
"If Mrs. Madison is so possessive, why this farce of a reception?" I wanted to know, and got my arm free of John Milanesi's clutch to gesture at the terrace.
The two brothers locked glances, shrugged, and laughed. "Our fair mother's private judgments never affect her notions of social duty," John Milanesi replied, his cynical gaze falling on his mother. I was scarcely in any position to cast stones, but his look was unhealthy. "You know, Marchmount's debility has a morbid fascination for our mother. I'd better make my duty and see what I can overhear."
"You need a fresh drink, Nialla," Rafe said, and guided me toward the bar. "I meant what I said yesterday, dear heart. The Dower House is separate from this establishment, by my choice and order."
"Then why…"
My rebellion waned at the warning pressure on my elbow.
"Why, because! I'm not ashamed of you as my wife, Nialla, and in the course of dealing with the woman who bores me, I've discovered that it is a far, far better thing to obey her few social demands. That's all this is-Mother's reluctant bow to convention. It's to our advantage, actually."
"Ralph dear!" The clear voice caught us just two feet from the bar. "Ralph, would you and the bride step over here a moment?"
"See?" Rafe pointed to the man following Sam onto the terrace. "The court photographer will proceed to record the event; there'll be a nice spread in the paper, describing the reception Mrs. Wendy Madison gave for her son, Rafael Clery, on the event of his marriage to Miss Nialla Donnelly, and the Goddess, Convention, will be appeased. Let's go smile for the birdie."
"So good of you to come, Mr. Arnold," Wendy Madison was saying to the photographer, who accepted her greeting with a nod and a mumble, and became very busy with his light meter.
Wendy Madison pulled John in on one side of her, glared Pres away, gestured Rafe to her other side, leaving Rafe to collect me groomily. She arranged the proper expression on her face and then smiled significantly at the photographer. He took several shots.
"I want one of the bride and groom together," he said.
This was no more to my liking than to Wendy Madison's. I turned to Rafe to protest, when I heard the click-shosh of the camera and the frame being advanced.
"How about a smile this time, Mrs. Clery? This isn't a funeral." He meant to be funny, I know.
Rafe pressed my hand encouragingly and angled me toward the camera. His mother urged me in a sharp brittle voice to smile, and I know she wished it was my funeral.
"Rafe," I whispered, as Wendy Madison, bubbling with social graces, bustled the photographer off for a drink, "does the photo have to go into the papers?"
"There's nothing wrong with that, dear heart. In fact, now is absolutely the best time for it to appear."
I wasn't quite sure why he should feel so, but as he signaled Sam to bring his tray of drinks over, I didn't have the chance to ask. And then Faith came up to us, obviously trying to shake Bobby Wellesley, who trailed after her. She wasn't much taller than Rafe, and kissed him with a resounding smack that made Bobby Wellesley wince.
"There!" She grinned mischievously at me. "I've been wanting an excuse to do that for years, so thanks for providing me with the opportunity. Rafe's one of my favorite people, and I really do sincerely wish you both the very best." She held out her hand to me with a forthrightness (and a firm grip) that was refreshingly candid. "Did you really tame Juggernaut? And was he the horse you rescued from the Sunbury barn fire? Is he all right?"
"That's right, Faith, show more interest in some goddamn horse than you do in a human. Talk horses with Rafe and his new wife," Bobby Wellesley said in a wild voice, pulling her roughly around to face him. "Flirt with the bar boy, do anything but talk with me. You're the only reason I came to this…"
"Cool it, Bob," Rafe said, and before either Faith or I could react, he had taken the agitated young man to one side of the terrace. What was said was inaudible, but there was a visible change in the boy's posture, from arrant aggression to chagrin.
"I'm sorry he's acting this way, Mrs. Clery. I like Bobby, but I don't like the company he keeps or his form of amusement," Faith said quietly. "I also don't like being forced into his company every place I go. It's… it's positively medieval." She glanced over her shoulder toward the Iona woman and her David-Nivenesque companion. "Mother's not a bit of help."
I was amazed. "She's your mother?"
"Remarkable, isn't it?" Faith suddenly sounded very old, very cynical, and very sad. "I'm Faith Farnham, you see."
I didn't, though.
"You mean," Faith went on, with a laugh of surprise, 'you haven't grown up on Farnham's Farina, good for chick or child?"
I shook my head.
"Your poor disadvantaged darling," she said with mock concern. "You're a relief. And Rafe's such a doll. Oh, don't mistake me. I've cherished an infatuation for that man for years, but I don't fancy him as a husband. Not," she added hurriedly, "that I don't think he'd be a good one for the right sort of girl. Oh, I'm really putting my foot in it today, aren't I? Let's erase that scene. Okay? I must say, you are a relief. And Rafe's a doll…" Her eyes were so full of droll humor that I couldn't help but laugh with her. "He's coming down is his problem. Bobby, I mean. And I simply cannot cope with him in that condition."
"You mean, he's using drugs?"
Faith started to say something, probably caustic, from the set of her mouth, but instead she just looked at me, sort of wistfully.
"Yes, he's been using drugs… to expand his consciousness, because he finds himself unable to relate to present-day values and artificial standards!" She was obviously:quoting something Bobby Wellesley had prated at her. He's not the only one here, either. Look at Lou Marchmount."
"I thought Mrs. Madison said he had a bad heart."
"Yeah." And Faith's eyes were very cynical now. "From drug abuse. He's had a couple of real bummers since he's been here. I wonder how he smuggled it past his bodyguard."
"His bodyguard?"
"Steve Urscoll, of course," Faith replied, as if the man were wearing a label or something. "She must really be gone on Lou if she'd introduce a bodyguard as a house guest."
"What's this, what's this?" Rafe asked, joining us so suddenly that I almost squeaked in surprise.
"Faith says that Mr. Urscoll is a bodyguard."
"Please, Rafe, I let that slip. It can't be broadcast. Mother told me when she thought I was getting too friendly. I prefer him to Bobby. He's got his feet planted on terra firma, not some psychedelic cloud."