Kate left Consuelo, went to the morning room, and rang for Mrs. Raleigh. When the housekeeper arrived, she told her that the Duchess had cancelled the picnic lunch and that they would be eating, instead, in the family dining room. Then she went back upstairs and down the hall toward Gladys Deacon’s room.
Kate had left Consuelo lying on her bed with a cool compress over her eyes. She could not help feeling a deep pity for the Duchess, whose wealth and title had brought her nothing but unhappiness. If Consuelo had been a woman of ordinary means instead of a Vanderbilt, she wouldn’t have been compelled to marry a man she didn’t love-a man who ridiculed her in front of their guests-and live in a house that felt to her like a prison. And even worse, live with the fear that her husband was courting public scandal and disgrace in an affair with a very foolish young woman. A woman who had unaccountably disappeared, dressed in her evening finery and-perhaps this was also important-wearing a valuable piece of jewelry. Where was she? What had happened to her?
Kate stopped in front of Gladys’s door and rapped twice, just in case she had turned up while they were looking for the Duke. Hearing nothing within, she inserted the key in the lock, turned it, and went in, locking the door behind her so that she would not have to worry about being disturbed.
Or being accused of snooping, Beryl Bardwell whispered cattily in her ear. Of looking for material for your novel about Fair Rosamund.
Kate lifted her chin. She was not snooping. Gladys had disappeared and she was assisting her husband in his inquiries into what was obviously a very serious matter. And whatever resemblance Gladys Deacon might bear to the young mistress of Henry II lay mostly in Gladys’s imagination, although Kate had to admit there were certain intriguing parallels among the relationships. Henry, Rosamund, Eleanor, Roger of Salisbury. Marlborough, Gladys, Consuelo, Northcote. Enough parallels, no doubt, to satisfy Gladys that she was acting her part in the unfolding drama that was her life.
Kate stood with her back to the door for a few moments, looking around the room, wondering where she should begin and what she should look for. Something that might explain what had happened to Gladys? Some clue to her whereabouts?
But Kate was not optimistic that she would find anything bearing directly on this situation. The best she could do, she thought, was to develop a more complete picture of Gladys, which in turn might offer Charles some sort of guidance. This was not Gladys’s personal room, however; it was only a Blenheim guest room. Although Gladys might stay here frequently, the room would bear few traces of her personality.
But Kate had been commissioned to search, and search she would. She went to the wardrobe and opened it, noticing that the gowns were elaborate and expensive, several rather flamboyantly exotic. The clothing was that of a wealthy young woman who spent a great deal of money on personal finery, some of it in questionable taste, or at least so it would be perceived by the more conservative ladies of Society. The garments bore Gladys’s favorite scent, musky and provocative. Closing the wardrobe, Kate made a mental note to ask Bess, the Blenheim maid who had the task of looking after Gladys, whether any garments were missing. (Gladys’s own maid would not be with her until the following week; she was in Naples, with Gladys’s mother.) She wasn’t sure Bess would know very much about the clothing, but it was worth an inquiry.
A chest of drawers stood against one wall, and Kate went to it next. On the marble top was displayed a jewelled Cartier clock, a blue porcelain bowl, a jade ash tray, and a Faberge cigarette box filled with cigarettes bearing the gold Marlborough crest. Several seemed to be missing, and Kate remembered that she had seen Gladys smoking after dinner. There were also two silver-framed photographs of handsome young men, one in cricket whites, the other in a yachting jacket and jaunty cap, both photos inscribed to their darling Gladys in terms of such effusive endearment that Kate had to smile, thinking that Gladys seemed to win men’s hearts wherever she went.
There was another, larger photograph in a gold frame-a mustachioed man with eyeglasses, signed “To little Gladys, from her loving Papa.” Edward Deacon, Kate thought, the jealous husband who had shot his wife’s French lover. The story had been in all the newspapers while she was still living in New York. Gladys’s mother was reputed to be a foolish woman with an endless string of European lovers, playing one of them against another in a dangerous game. Like mother, like daughter? Kate wondered, her glance lighting on a tiny snapshot of Botsy Northcote, stuck crookedly in a corner of one of the frames-not an indication of a very great affection.
However, there was another photograph, this one unframed and hidden. Kate found it, face-down, beneath a stack of lace underwear in the top drawer. It was a studio portrait of the Duke, inscribed “Ever only your own Marlborough.” Kate stared at it for a moment, at the hooded eyes, void of any expression, the arrogant mouth framed by a delicate mustache, the smooth boyish cheeks, the hair swept back from the brows. There was no hint of passion in that perfectly composed face, no hint of emotion, of desire, even of ordinary human tenderness. If she were choosing a lover or a husband, Kate thought, she would not choose this chilly, remote little man, who had only his title and the family estate to recommend him. Of course, Consuelo’s ambitious mother had chosen him for her-or so Kate had heard-but Gladys had chosen him freely. What did the choice say about her? With a shiver, Kate turned the photograph over and replaced it.
The other drawers seemed to contain nothing but untidy heaps of clothing: lingerie, nightgowns, filmy stockings, lace shawls, silk scarves, all of it very expensive. In the bottom drawer, however, she found something much more interesting. It looked to be a diary, bound in supple blue leather and fastened with a tab inserted into a small golden lock. Kate turned it over in her hands, intensely curious.
Go on, Kate, Beryl whispered urgently. What in the world are you waiting for? It’s a tiny lock, of no consequence at all. You can pick it with a bent pin. Just think of the secrets inside!
Kate held the diary for a moment, considering. If she opened and read it, she would be privy to Gladys’s secrets, all of them profoundly intimate, most of them embarrassing, and some of them childish and silly. How would she choose which ones to confide to Charles, and which to keep to herself? If Gladys had not safely returned by the time she had reported to Charles, she decided, she would tell him where to find it, and he could determine for himself whether it should be opened and read.
This plan did not satisfy Beryl, of course. Oh, pooh! she said disgustedly. Your heroines would not hesitate to read something like this, would they? So why not you?
But Kate stood firm against Beryl’s urging, and put the diary back in the drawer. As she did so, her fingers touched a pouch made of supple leather. She took it out and opened it, spilling small five tissue-wrapped bundles onto the marble-topped chest. She pulled the tissue off and saw five polished stones. The most intriguing was a blue-green piece she recognized as an Egyptian scarab, with marks carved into it. The other four-red, green, blue, and smoke-colored-also had engraved marks cut into various polished faces. Perhaps Gladys had collected them as a child and they had some sentimental value. She rewrapped them and replaced the pouch beside the diary.
Finding nothing more of interest in the chest of drawers, Kate turned her attention to the glass-topped dressing table, which was crowded with baskets of ribbons and silks and natural hairpieces, exactly the color of Gladys’s hair, and bottles and jars of lotions and cosmetics. Kate picked up a small pot of French rouge, recollecting the heightened color of Gladys’s lips and cheeks the night before. It was easy to conclude that she was a woman deeply concerned with her physical appearance, a conclusion borne out by something Consuelo had mentioned to Kate this morning: that Gladys had paraffin wax injected into her nose to enhance its Hellenic profile.
Kate put down the pot of rouge with a wry face. She was of the opinion that one took what one was given, although there was no special harm in making the best of it with rouge or powder or other cosmetics. However, paraffin injection-which had become popular over the past decade or so, especially among those who frequented Continental beauty salons-was not only foolish, it was dangerous, and Kate had seen photographs of the misshapen faces which proved it so.
The dressing table and jewel box, filled with elaborate, ornate jewelry, had nothing special to offer, and Kate turned her attention to a shelf of books beside the bed. It contained a somewhat surprising collection of titles, reminding Kate of something else that Consuelo had said: that Gladys was not only beautiful but genuinely brilliant, having learnt seven languages and studied art, literature, mathematics, and music. There were several books of poetry with Gladys’s name in them; a much-thumbed-through book of photographs of classical statuary with the text in Greek; books of German philosophy, with passages underlined; several rather risque French novels with playful notes in the margins, in French; and Edith Wharton’s just-published and much-discussed first novel, Valley of Decision. It was an eclectic collection, to say the least, Kate thought, and it forced her to modify her assessment of
