Death of a Cozy Writer

George sat snaked across one of the Queen Anne sofas, which Natasha stood behind, both of them managing to look disheveled, but in an interesting, expensive way, like an advertisement for Ralph Lauren bed linens. Natasha wore a silk poet’s blouse with long sleeves ending in ruffles at her wrists; George, a velvet coat that recalled Lord Byron about the time England was asking him never again to darken its shores.

Ruthven and Lillian stood apart, looking like the same advertisement aimed at a somewhat older demographic.

Violet, rising to the occasion, was sheathed in gray silk falling to mid-calf, flapper style, with a long string of pearls knotted at her navel. (Lillian spent part of the evening trying to tell if the pearls were real, decided that they were, and the rest of the evening calculating their retail value.) She stood alone beneath the traceried ceiling-high windows, her graceful form framed by French doors. It seemed a deliberate choice; the discreetly lighted formal garden outside provided a dramatic backdrop that drew the eye to her slender, solitary silhouette.

Only Albert and Sarah had been latish in arriving. Albert to all appearances was sober, to the surprise of his family. Albert sober was a rare event, somewhat like a comet sighting. He also appeared to be feeling rather chipper, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Both George and Ruthven eyed him with suspicion.

“Won’t Jeffrey be joining us?” Sarah asked, her voice so studiedly casual it immediately raised eyebrows among the women in the group, with their special radar for love in bloom. For the occasion Sarah wore an embroidered caftan of African origin, unaware that the design included fertility symbols of a particularly explicit and ribald nature.

Her father raked her with a wintry stare, all traces of good humor vanished.

“No. Nor will Watters nor any of the other servants. Good heaven, what an idea.”

Sarah, still smarting from her earlier adventure in the kitchen, said: “I don’t see why not. After all, according to the Bible we are all brothers.”

“Surely that didn’t include Americans,” said George.

Ruthven smiled appreciatively at this witticism over the top of his sherry glass.

“Nor the French,” he said. “Really, Sarah. Lighten, as they say, up. You really can be such a prat.”

“I think you’re just being horrid,” said Sarah sulkily. “He’s quite nice, actually.”

George seemed to twig the situation for the first time.

“Oh, I see.” He chanted the sing-song of the playground: “Sarah fancies Jeffrey. ”

“Stop it. I feel sorry for him, that’s all. Being so far from home and-”

Sir Adrian cut in: “You can all stop it. I get enough of the man during the day. All that perkiness: it’s like having Meg Ryan scampering about the house.” He cast eyes upward, beseeching an indifferent heaven, then glared at each of his offspring in turn. “Whatever did I do to deserve this quarrelsome family?”

“It rather begs the nature versus nurture question, doesn’t-” began Albert.

“That’s enough!” Sir Adrian could bellow, when he wanted to, loud enough to shatter glass. “This is a joyous family gathering and you are all, for once, going to behave yourselves. What must Violet be thinking of us?” He gave her a little hug; her narrow form seemed to disappear somewhere into the folds of the cummerbund.

“It’s just that it’s nearly the holidays, and he’s far from home, that’s all,” repeated Sarah.

Now even Sir Adrian began to twig. He turned on her-or rather, maneuvered twenty degrees more in her direction, like a submarine.

“Don’t even think it,” he said. “No daughter of mine is going to get involved with an American secretary.” From his tone, he might have been contemplating her elopement with a Bedouin tribesman.

For perhaps the first time in her life, real defiance welled up in Sarah. She drew herself up in what she hoped Jeffrey would think of as a queenly posture.

“You think to tell me with whom I may or may not get involved? Under these circumstances?” She cocked her head in Violet’s direction. “Are you forgetting why we’re all here?”

It was the first time any of them had referred even indirectly to the happy occasion which had brought them together. Her siblings stirred uneasily.

“At least he’s not a mur-”

“Not a what?” Violet could match Sir Adrian’s frosty tone, icicle for icicle, thought Lillian. Bravo.

Having come to the edge of the cliff, Sarah found she couldn’t leap.

“Under these circumstances?” Sir Adrian repeated slowly. “Yes. Under these or any other circumstances I will tell you exactly what to do. You’re my daughter and if you expect to ever see a penny from me you’ll drop the whole subject right now.”

“I don’t want-”

Ruthven, seeing an opportunity to ingratiate himself with his father at Sarah’s expense, cut in. “He’s only after your money, Sarah. Don’t be such an ass.”

The fear that what Ruthven said might be true made her lash out. With a nod in Lillian’s direction, she said:

“You should know all about that.”

Albert, who had only been half-listening to the conversation up to this point, said, “I say. That is rather rich, coming from you, Ruthven. I doubt you’ve ever done a deed in your life that wasn’t motivated by money. Same goes for you, George. Just leave Sarah alone for once.”

“Coming from me? Me?” said George. “As if you hadn’t spent all your life sucking up to Father over money.”

“I?

”

Sir Adrian roared: “I said that’s enough.”

He looked at each member of his rancorous brood in turn with steely eyed displeasure, his face contorted like a gargoyle’s on a Gothic cathedral. It had the hoped-for, withering effect.

“Not another word or I’ll see you all regret it.”

To Violet’s amazement, they all-including Natasha-exchanged quicksilver glances, as if relaying some pre- arranged signal. In unison, they clapped their mouths shut, like a perfectly orchestrated firing squad having used up its round.

Paulo, who had been lurking in the hall outside, admiring his long, dark hair in the Louis Quinze mirror while eavesdropping on the conversation, judged it a good moment to step inside and announce, in perfect imitation of the perfect servant, “Dinner is served.”

Sir Adrian offered his arm to Violet and without a word began heaving his slow way in the direction of their meal.

***

“I don’t know what you mean,” shouted Sarah to Albert.

They sat across from one another in the trompe l’oeil dining salon reserved for formal occasions. Reminiscent of the wedding invitations, and probably serving as the inspiration for same, the decorative panels lining the walls featured cherubs, scantily diapered in clouds, sitting atop Roman columns, the whole in a style that somehow managed to marry the worst of Gothic and Renaissance excesses.

Paulo had by this point brought in the fish with its accompanying wine. The volume of conversation seemed to have increased exponentially with each course.

“What are you saying? You’ll soon have the real story?”

Albert noticed for the first time that Lillian, to his right, had torn her attention away from Violet to tune into his conversation.

“We’ll talk later,” he shouted back. By this time, he had had more than his share of wine, although his eyelids hadn’t yet started dropping to half-mast as they normally would have done by this point. Instead, he seemed animated by whatever news he was hugging to himself.

That sleepy look of his could sometimes be deceptive, Sarah knew. Albert was becoming well-known for