Serena Page 22

  “Chambord transported to the hinterlands,” Serena said derisively as Pemberton braked, the Packard taking its place in line behind other cars.

  At the mansion’s main entrance, an attendant in black tails and top hat opened Serena’s door and took the car keys. The Pembertons joined other guests walking up the wide steps. As they passed the marble lions, Serena placed her hand on Pemberton’s forearm, held it firmly as she leaned closer and kissed him softly on the cheek. As she did, Pemberton felt some of his disquiet begin to lift.

  They waited for three couples ahead of them to enter. Pemberton placed his hand on the small of Serena’s back and moved his hand downward. Pemberton felt the silk cool against his fingers and palm as he caressed the flank of her upper hip. An image came back to him with such vividness that it might have been framed before him in glass—Serena in the dawn light of her Revere Street apartment, laying her Ram’s Head overcoat on a chaise lounge as Pemberton entered the room behind her. She hadn’t offered him something to drink or a place to sit, or even offered to take his coat. She’d only offered him herself, turning with her left hand already on the dress’s green strap, pulling it off her shoulder and letting it fall, exposing the pale globe of her breast, the ruddy nipple beaded by the cold. The line shifted forward, bringing Pemberton out of his reverie.

  In the entrance hall, a tuxedoed butler stepped forth and offered champagne flutes from a silver tray. Pemberton handed Serena one and took one for himself before they stepped forward to greet their hosts.

  “Welcome to our domicile,” John Cecil said, bowing after an exchange of names.

  The host’s left arm opened outward to the expansiveness behind him. Cecil’s hand clasped Pemberton’s as he kissed Serena demurely on the cheek. Cornelia Cecil stepped closer, let her lips brush Pemberton’s cheek, then turned to Serena and embraced her.

  “I’m so sorry, dear. Lydia Calhoun told me of your recent misfortune. To carry a child that long and lose it, such a terrible thing.”

  Mrs. Cecil broke the embrace but rested her hand on Serena’s wrist.

  “But you are here, and looking so well. That’s something to be thankful for.”

  Serena’s shoulders tensed as several other women came forth to offer condolences. Pemberton quickly took Serena’s arm and told the women he needed his wife’s presence for a few minutes. They walked to the far end of the room. As soon as they were alone, Serena took a long swallow from the crystal flute.

  “I’ll need another of these,” she said as they made their way toward the music room.

  In the music room a jazz band played “Saint Louis Blues.” Several couples danced but most stood on the periphery with drinks in hand. Serena and Pemberton lingered by the doorway.

  “My partners,” Harris said loudly as he came up behind them.

  Accompanying Harris was a man in a tuxedo who looked to be in his fifties. Both men moved in unsteadily gaits, whiskey in hand. Harris clasped Pemberton’s shoulder with his free hand.

  “Bradley Calhoun,” Harris said, nodding at the man beside him. “I’ll go get Lowenstein.”

  As Harris walked off, Pemberton offered his hand. Calhoun’s handshake was firm and confident, but it could not hide the palm’s plump softness. Calhoun took Serena’s hand and bestowed a kiss upon it, his drink sloshing as he did so. After he let go her hand, Calhoun brushed back a lock of long yellow-gray hair with a flourish.

  “The woman who tames eagles,” Calhoun said in a cultivated Southern accent. “Your reputation precedes you, Mrs. Pemberton.”

  “I hope as a business partner as well,” Serena replied.

  Harris returned with Lowenstein, a man younger than Pemberton had expected. The New Yorker wore a dark-blue gabardine suit, which Pemberton assumed had been made in one of Lowenstein’s own garment shops. Unlike the boisterous Calhoun, Lowenstein possessed the watchful reticence of a self-made man. Harris, his face already flushed by alcohol, raised his glass and the others did as well.

  “To fortunes made in these mountains,” Harris said, and they all drank.

  “But why limit ourselves to just what’s here,” Serena added, still holding her champagne flute aloft. “Especially when there’s so much more to be gained elsewhere.”

  “And where would that be, Mrs. Pemberton?” Lowenstein asked, his words precisely enunciated, perhaps to counter the vestiges of a European inflection.

  “Brazil.”

  “Brazil?” Lowenstein said, giving Harris a puzzled look. “I’d assumed your plans were for local land investments.”

  “My husband and I are more ambitious than that,” Serena said. “I think you will be also, once you learn of the possibilities.”

  Lowenstein shook his head.

  “My hopes were something here, not Brazil.”

  “As was I,” Calhoun said.

  “Gentlemen, local purchases are certainly a possibility as well,” Pemberton said, and was about to say more but Serena interrupted.

  “Eight dollars on each dollar invested in Brazil, as opposed to two to one on your investment here.”

  “Eight dollars to one,” Lowenstein said. “I find that hard to believe, Mrs. Pemberton.”

  “What if I can convince you otherwise by showing you land prices and costs of machinery and workers’ pay,” Serena replied. “I have the documents to prove everything. I’ll bring them to Asheville tomorrow and let you peruse them for yourselves.”

  “Good Lord, Mrs. Pemberton,” Harris sputtered, his tone balanced between amusement and annoyance. “You’ve barely allowed these gentlemen to sip their drinks before trying to hector them into some South America venture.”

  Calhoun raised his hand to halt Harris’ protestations.

  “I’d listen to such a proposal, tomorrow or any day for that matter, just for the pleasure of Mrs. Pemberton’s presence.”

  “What about you, Mr. Lowenstein?” Serena said.

  “I can’t see myself investing in Brazil,” he replied, “under any circumstances.”

  “Let’s hear Mrs. Pemberton out, Lowenstein,” Calhoun said. “Harris here claims she knows more about timber than any man he’s ever met. Right, Harris?”

  “No doubt about that,” Harris said.

  “But what about the new camp in Jackson County?” Lowenstein asked. “Won’t that keep you in North Carolina for quite a while?”

  “We’re ready to begin cutting timber,” Serena replied. “We’ll be through there in a year at most.”

  “Brazil,” Lowenstein mused. “What about you, Harris? Are you interested in Brazil, Inca gold perhaps?”

  “No,” Harris said. “As persuasive as Mrs. Pemberton can be, I think I’ll stay in North Carolina.”

  “Too bad,” Calhoun said. “How you and the Pembertons have profited by mining and logging the same land strikes me as rather brilliant.”

  “Yes,” Harris said, signaling a waiter for another drink. “The Pembertons take what’s above the ground and I take what’s below.”

  “And what have you found below?” Lowenstein asked. “I’m not familiar with what is mined in this region.”

  “Mr. Harris has been rather reticent on that matter,” Serena said.

  “True,” Harris admitted, “but since I’ve now bought the adjacent hundred acres and own the creek all the way to its source, I can be more forthcoming.”

  “Surely you don’t mean gold?” Calhoun said.

  Harris drained his glass and smiled widely.

  “Better than gold. Near Franklin they’ve found rubies you measure by the ounce. I’ve seen one myself big as an apple. Sapphires and amethysts as well. All found within forty miles of our Jackson County site.”

  “So your tract looks promising for similar finds?” Lowenstein asked.

  “Actually,” Harris said, reaching into his pocket, “more than promising.”

  Harris opened his hand in the manner of a magician showing a vanished coin, revealing instead a small silver snuff tin. Harris unscrewed the lid
and poured the contents into his palm.

  “What are they?” Lowenstein asked, peering at a dozen stones shaped and sized like teardrops, all the color of dried blood.

  “Rubies,” Harris said. “These are too small to be worth more than a few dollars, but you can bet there are more, especially since I found these in and around the creek.”

  “Washed downstream from a whole cache of them, you mean?” Calhoun asked.

  “Exactly, and it’s often only the smaller ones that do get washed down.”

  Harris poured the stones back into the snuff tin, then reached into his pocket again and took out another stone the same size as the others, though this one was violet.

  “Amethyst,” Harris said. “The damn thing was right by the farmhouse, if you can believe that. Rhodolite garnets all over the yard as well, a sure sign you’re in the right place to find more of what I just showed you.”

  “Sapphires and rubies,” Calhoun exclaimed. “It sounds like a veritable El Dorado.”

  “I would never have believed such riches could be in these hinterlands,” Lowenstein said.

  “It was evidently so hard to believe there was no use mentioning it before we signed the papers,” Serena said. “Right, Harris?”

  Harris laughed. “You’ve found me out, Mrs. Pemberton.”

  Serena turned to Pemberton.

  “I’m sure Mr. Harris realizes that our contract does not allow him to begin his mining operations until the timber is cut.”

  “Indeed,” Pemberton said. “We may decide certain sites should remain uncut a whole decade.”

  Harris’ face sagged a moment, then reset into a craggy grimace.

  “Damn if I shouldn’t put a clamp on my tongue whenever I drink,” Harris muttered. “I won’t go more than ten percent.”

  Calhoun shook his head admiringly.

  “Not many could outfox this old fox. I’d hold out for twenty percent, Mrs. Pemberton, really make him pay for his skullduggery.”

  “I doubt it matters,” Serena replied. “These rubies, Harris, how far upstream did you find them?”

  “Not far at all,” Harris replied. “I’d barely got to the creek when I saw the first one.”

  “How far did you go that first day?” Serena said. “Up the creek I mean.”

  “A third of a mile, but I’ve been all the way to the springhead since. That’s nearly a whole mile.”

  “But how far upstream did you find the rubies?”

  “What are you getting at, Mrs. Pemberton?” Lowenstein asked.

  “Not far,” Harris said, and raised his nose slightly as if detecting the first whiff of an unpleasant odor.

  “I would suspect within fifty yards of the farmhouse,” Serena said.

  You don’t think,” Harris stammered. “But the stones weren’t cut or cleaned off. Most people wouldn’t even have known they were rubies. There weren’t any footprints, not even around the waterfall.”

  Harris didn’t speak for a few moments. His blue eyes widened in understanding even as his head swayed back and forth, as if part of his body hoped yet to dissuade him of the truth.

  “That son-of-a-bitch Kephart waded up that creek,” Harris said, and raised the crystal tumbler in his hand, seemingly ready to fling it against the wall. “God damn them.”

  Harris swore his oath again, this time loud enough that several nearby couples looked his way. Serena’s face remained placid, except for her eyes. Pemberton thought of Buchanan and Cheney, who’d received similar looks. Then, as if a shutter had fallen, Serena’s self-control reasserted itself.

  “I saw Webb in the billiard room,” Harris said, his face coloring. “I’ll have a few words with him this evening. I’ll catch up with Kephart later.”

  Pemberton looked over at Calhoun, who appeared amused, and Lowenstein, who seemed unsure if he should be listening or easing away.

  “Let’s not dwell on old matters,” Serena said, “especially when we have such promising new ventures before us.”

  Harris finished his drink, wiped a drop of the amber-colored whiskey from his moustache. He looked at Serena with unconcealed admiration.

  “Would I have married a woman like you, Mrs. Pemberton, I’d be richer than J.P. Morgan now,” Harris said, and turned to Lowenstein and Calhoun. “I haven’t heard a word about this Brazil business, but if Mrs. Pemberton thinks it can be successful I’ll buy in, and you’ll do well to do likewise.”

  “We’ll all talk tomorrow in Asheville,” Calhoun said.

  Lowenstein nodded in agreement.

  “Good,” Serena said.

  The band began playing “The Love Nest,” and several couples strolled hand in hand onto the dance floor. Harris’ face suddenly soured when he saw Webb standing in the lobby.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I’ll have a word with that man.”

  “No fisticuffs, Harris,” Calhoun said.

  Harris nodded, not entirely convincingly, then left the room.

  As the song ended, Cecil stepped onto the jazz band’s podium and announced it was almost time for dinner.

  “But first to the Chippendale Room to show you the Renoir,” the host said, “newly reframed to better show its colours.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Cecil led the guests up the marble stairs and into the second floor’s living hall. They passed a life-sized portrait of Cornelia, and Serena paused to examine the painting more closely. She shook her head slightly and turned to Pemberton, who lingered beside her as the others walked on.

  “I cannot understand how she endured it.”

  “What?” Pemberton asked.

  “So many hours of stillness.”

  The Pembertons moved down the wide hallway, passing a portrait of Frederick Olmsted and then a Currier & Ives print. Beneath them a burgundy carpet softened their footsteps as the passageway veered left into another row of rooms. In the third, they rejoined the Cecils and the other guests, who huddled around the Renoir.

  “It is magnificent,” a woman in a blue evening dress and pearls declared. “The darker frame does free the colors more, especially the blue and yellow on the scarf.”

  Several guests respectfully stepped back to allow an elderly white-haired man to approach. His feet moved with short rigid steps, in the manner of some mechanical toy, a likeness enhanced by the metal band around his head, its dangle of wires connecting the metal to a rubber earpiece. He took a pince-nez from his coat pocket and examined the painting carefully. Someone behind the Pembertons whispered he was a former curator at the National Gallery of Art.

  “As pure an example of the French modernist style as we have in this country,” the man proclaimed loudly, then stepped back.

  Serena leaned close to Pemberton and spoke. Harris, who was close by, chuckled.

  “And you, Mrs. Pemberton,” Cecil said. “Do you also have an opinion on Renoir?”

  Serena gazed at the painting as she spoke.

  “He strikes me as a painter for those who know little about painting. I find him timid and sentimental, not unlike the Currier & Ives print in the other room.”

  Cecil’s face colored. He turned to the former curator as if soliciting a rebuttal, but the old man’s hearing device had evidently been unable to transmit the exchange.

  “I see,” Cecil said and clasped his hands before him. “Well, it’s time for dinner, so let’s make our way downstairs.”

  They proceeded to the banquet hall. Serena scanned the huge mahogany table and found Webb at the far end near the fireplace. She took Pemberton’s hand and led him to seats directly across from the newspaperman, who turned to his wife as the Pembertons sat down.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Pemberton,” Webb said. “The timber barons I’ve told you so much about.”

  Mrs. Webb smiled thinly but did not speak.

  The waiters brought lentil and celery soup for the meal’s first course, and the room quieted as guests lifted their spoons. When Pemberton finished his soup, he contemplated the Flemish tapestries, the three stone fireplaces
and two massive chandeliers, the organ loft in the balcony.

  “Envious, Pemberton?” Webb asked.

  Pemberton scanned the room a few more moments and shook his head.

  “Why would anyone be envious,” Serena said. “It’s merely a bunch of baubles. Expensive baubles, but of what use?”

  “I see it as a rather impressive way to leave one’s mark on the world,” Webb said, “not so different from the great pharaohs’ pyramids.”

  “There are better ways,” Serena said, lifting Pemberton’s hand in hers to rub the varnished mahogany. “Right, Pemberton.”

  Mrs. Webb spoke for the first time.

  “Yes, like helping make a national park possible.”

  “Yet you contradict your husband,” Serena said, “leaving something as it is makes no mark at all.”

  Waiters replaced the soup bowls and saucers with lemon sorbet garnished with mint. Next were filets of fresh-caught bass, the entrée served on bone china with burgundy circles, at the center GWV engraved in gold. Serena lifted a piece of the Bacarrat crystal, held it to the light to better display the initials cut in the glassware.

  “Another great mark left upon the world,” she said.

  An intensifying reverberation came up the hall, and a few moments later a grand piano rolled into view, two workers positioning it just outside the main door. The jazz orchestra’s pianist sat down on the bench as the singer stood attentively, waiting for a signal from Mrs. Cecil. The pianist began playing and the singer soon joined in.

  One thing’s sure and nothing’s surer

  The rich get richer and the poor get—children.

  In the meantime,

  In between time

  “This song,” Mrs. Webb said, “is it a favorite of yours, Mrs. Pemberton?”

  “Not really.”

  “I thought perhaps Mrs. Cecil had it played in your honor. A way of cheering you up after your recent misfortune.”

  “You show more wit than I’d have thought, Mrs. Webb,” Serena said. “I’d assumed you a dullard, like your husband.”

  “A dullard,” Webb said, musing over the word. “I wonder what that makes Harris? He accosted me in the lobby. It seems he bought a salted claim.”

  “If he’d been forthright with us, we’d have figured it out,” Serena said tersely.