miss,” said Janet, looking at her with new respect.
Inside the package was a small sculpture of a ballerina, her hands clasped behind her back, her chin tilted upward. Her hair was in a chignon at the base of her neck.
“It’s Degas,” said Lady Anne later, looking through her reading glasses at the little sculpture she turned in her hands.
“I thought it was,” Valerie said. “Isn’t she beautiful? It’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Ummmm,” murmured Lady Anne, turning it again. “It’s museum quality. It would be, of course.” The look she gave Valerie was searching, contemplative. After a moment of silence, she added, “You must have had a very pleasant day in the country.”
“He was a perfect gentleman,” Valerie protested, shifting uncomfortably in her chair.
“I’m sure he was,” said Lady Anne, setting the little sculpture on the table next to her chair. Flames from the fire in the fireplace danced on its burnished surface. “Of course you can’t accept it.” Her gaze was steadfast as she met Valerie’s eyes. “You do realize that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” Valerie sighed.
“Well, Bernard can run it back,” Lady Anne pronounced. “Still, it can wait until tomorrow, I think. At least we can have the pleasure of its company for a few hours.”
They smiled at each other over the tea things in the pretty drawing room, made cheerful on the gray winter day by the lamps on each table and by the brilliance from the huge crystal chandelier in the dome in the middle of the room.
“Victor Penn has invited us to a little dinner party,” said Lady Anne a few days later. “His secretary just telephoned.”
“Oh, where is it going to be?” asked Valerie, feeling a pleasurable little shudder.
“At his home,” said Lady Anne. “I’m quite thrilled, actually. The house is supposed to be a masterpiece. And there will be bridge after dinner. Two tables, the secretary said.”
“My bridge isn’t very good,” said Valerie doubtfully.
“I don’t think that’s the point,” Lady Anne mused, looking at Valerie sitting next to her at the dining room table. “And you know, dear, I do think it’s time we did something about your hair and your clothes. You’re growing up, you know.”
As the big Daimler coursed its way through the heavy traffic on Friday night, Valerie, in the back seat next to Lady Anne, wore a new gown in sea-foam green chiffon. Her pale gold hair had been cut into a cap that followed the shape of her head. When she had looked at herself in the full-length mirror in her dressing room, she felt as though she had made a great leap into adulthood. She looked twenty at least, and very poised. She pirouetted in front of the mirror, loving the way she looked, loving the way she felt about herself.
After the security guard buzzed open the gates, it seemed to Valerie they must have driven for more than a mile on the wide, winding road flanked by ancient oak trees before Victor Penn’s Regent’s Park mansion loomed into view, silhouetted against the full moon. A butler opened the massive arched doors; a footman was there to take their wraps as the two of them looked around. The entry hall was as large as the drawing room in the Green Street house, its gleaming dark floor partially covered by a massive oriental rug in reds, greens, and blues. The framed tapestries on the walls reminded Valerie of those she had seen in the British Museum. The bas-reliefs on the ceiling depicted Greek gods, goddesses.
“Oh, there you are,” said Victor Penn, coming forward to take Lady Anne’s hand and nodding to Valerie. “We’re all having a cocktail in the drawing room.”
A hundred people could have been assembled with comfort in the huge room. Instead, there were only six, the men, like Victor, in dinner jackets, the women in long gowns. They sat chatting in chairs gathered around a crackling fire.
Valerie noted how the gold of the pilasters and ceiling brought together the richness of green brocade on the walls and the deep crimson and gold of the carpet. A massive giltframed mirror over the fireplace reflected some of the masterpieces in the room. Paintings by Rembrandt, Van Dyck, Tiepolo.
“What a beautiful room,” Valerie exclaimed.
“Do you like it?” asked Victor. “I’m so pleased.”
The men pulled themselves to their feet, the women looked up expectantly, as Victor led the two new arrivals to the cozy little group.
“Here is Lady Anne Hallowell,” he said, “and her niece, Valerie Hemion.” Turning to the group, he added, “This is Roscoe Danforth, and his wife, Caroline. Sir Edward Winston, Lady Winston.” The women were handsome, aristocratic in pale satins, jewels; the men lean, emanating power, money. “And this is my brother,” Victor continued, “Raymond Penn.”
Everybody was shaking hands, murmuring, “How do you do,”
“So nice, finally, to meet you,” when Valerie’s hand was briefly touched by that of Raymond Penn, and he, too, was uttering appropriate pleasantries.
So, this is the mysterious Raymond Penn, Valerie thought, as she looked up into his face, which was very much like Victor’s. “How do you do, Mr. Penn,” smiled Valerie, her hand clasping his. Her smile froze as she saw the contempt etched on his face, the expression of utter loathing in his pale, cold eyes. He pulled his hand away from hers as if the mere touch of it made him ill. She stood bewildered, startled by the hatred flowing toward her. Shaken, she averted her eyes from Raymond Penn, trying instead to concentrate on the conversation.
Dinner in the magnificent dining room, with its two dramatic chandeliers illuminating paintings on the walls, was superb, and later Valerie was Victor’s partner, Raymond was Lady Anne’s, as they played bridge for several hours in the library over coffee and brandy. Valerie, watching Victor’s face, played fairly well. Every time their eyes met he seemed to be asking her something. For approval, she decided, when it was finally time to leave. Victor Penn was asking for her approval. Was that the reason for the disdain on his brother’s face?
By the time Valerie and Lady Anne were in the back seat of the Daimler, plans had been made for a weekend at Victor Penn’s country estate.
“Well, what did you think? What did you think?” Valerie asked excitedly, her eyes shining.
With an imperceptible motion of her head toward Bernard in the front seat, Lady Anne put one gloved finger to her lips.
“What a delightful evening,” Lady Anne said. “And the mansion, well, it’s quite beyond belief.”
“What about Raymond Penn?” said Valerie. “He’s—”
“What a marvelous bridge player,” said Lady Anne, cutting her off. “Quite the best I’ve ever played with, really.”
“I can’t wait to go to the country,” Valerie said. “Imagine, Victor said Arthur Rubinstein will be there.”
“Yes, dear,” said Lady Anne, absently patting her hand. “It should be a divine weekend. I’m looking forward to it, too.”
Valerie lay on the blue and white chaise longue in her bedroom, a blanket over her legs, gazing at the picture of herself and Victor Penn in the latest issue of Country Life. It had been taken during the weekend Lady Anne and Valerie had spent at Victor’s country estate. Their heads were together, smiling into the camera. Victor wore a corduroy jacket over a crewneck