Evan Hunter - Lizzie

And now came Moira, dressed quite differently here in the south of France than she had been in London, wearing a full white skirt and petticoats, a lace-edged blouse and an apron embroidered in reds and blues and yellows that echoed the blooms everywhere in the courtyard.

“Miz Newbury, mum,” she said, beaming, “welcome! We’ve missed you,” and curtsied, and shouted “George! Come see to the luggage! Welcome, Miss Borden,” she said, and curtsied again, and then picked up her skirts and went clattering over the tiled floor, disappearing through an arched doorway, shouting “George!” as she went.

“Come,” Alison said proudly. “Let me show you.”

More arched doorways at the far end of the courtyard opened onto a terrace floored with orange tiles, and beyond that was the most luxuriant garden Lizzie had ever seen, blooming with jasmine and sunflowers, fuchsias and nasturtiums, chrysanthemums and dahlias, zinnias, asters and other flowers that were entirely strange to her but that spread a fragrant scent on the air. The garden sloped off onto a vast grassy lawn which the Newbury gardener, wearing a French workman’s blue smock, was watering down with a hose. Beyond the garden and the lawn, far below, was the pristine sea. The sky above it was a paler cloudless blue. The air was balmy; it kissed her face and caused a smile to appear on her mouth.

“Ah, there’s my husband,” Alison said, and called, “Albert! No welcome? After all your fussing, I should have expected a band, at least.”

He was sitting in a wicker chair in the sun, reading an English-language newspaper, wearing white trousers and shirt, white shoes and a straw hat with an overly large brim. “Well, well,” he said, putting down the newspaper and rising. “Better late than never, eh?”

“Never might have been more appropriate as regards George,” Alison said. “Where was he? Didn’t you receive my telegram?”

“George has sprained his ankle,” Albert said, coming to where they were standing. “More than likely in pursuit of these comely Cannois virgins. You’ll be fortunate if he can struggle your luggage into the house.” He kissed his wife perfunctorily on the cheek, took Lizzie’s hand, lowered his lips to it and said, “Was your journey a pleasant one?” Without waiting for a reply, he said, “You look terribly pale, Lizzie, we shall have to set you out in the sun. Cook has been gone all morning,” he said to Alison, “haggling with these French brigands over tonight’s meal. Her French leaves something to be desired, to say the least. You must inform her that there is no such thing as a neuter article in this beastly language, and that the locals take offense at her casual intermingling of the ‘le’ and ‘la’. So then, have you had lunch? I know cook has prepared a cold tray, and I’m famished myself, having spent an energetic morning reading this sorry excuse for a newspaper. Shall I ask Moira to set it out while you both change into something more suitable to the climate? You shall suffocate in those heavy garments. Breathe in deeply of the sea air, Lizzie. I’m told it does wonders for all the cripples and invalids who make their permanent residence here. Will you show Lizzie to her room? I know Moira spent all morning tidying it. There should be fresh lemonade in a carafe on the bedstand, though I fear ice is a virtual impossibility here — as it is in England as well. I know how terribly fond of ice you Americans are. Well, do get hopping, both of you, or I shall die of starvation.”

“Oh, how forceful you are!” Alison said, rolling her eyes. “Come, Lizzie, before he gets truly cross. He’s a bear when he’s hungry.”

They came through the courtyard again — she noticed for the first time that several of the tubbed trees were lemon trees — and climbed a curving flight of tiled steps to the gallery above. There were orchids hanging in clay pots everywhere, and Alison stopped at several of them, examining the blooms, nodding in apparent approval of the gardener’s care. On the western end of the gallery, overlooking the gardens and the lawn and the sea far below, she led Lizzie first into the master bedroom and then opened a connecting door in an archway, and showed Lizzie the room she would be occupying.

As promised, a carafe of lemonade stood on the bedstand, its pale yellow echoing the color of the spread on the bed and the cushions on the chairs. The windows were wide open to the air outside. A tiny spider tirelessly spun a glistening web in the branches of the orange tree just outside the window. There was the overpowering scent of the oranges themselves and the muskier fragrance of the flowers in the garden, and saturating all, the omnipresent aroma of the sea.

“We shall be right next door to each other,” Alison said, “should you need anything. Please feel free to wander wherever you choose. The house isn’t quite so cavernous as the one in London, and you won’t get lost, I’m certain. The idea, of course, was to keep it spacious and airy, and I think Geoffrey has succeeded admirably, don’t you?”

“Did he design it?” Lizzie asked, surprised.

“Down to the last nail,” Alison said.

“And the furnishings and decorations?”

“I take full responsibility for those. Had I left it to Albert, we should have had a replica of our London mausoleum, as so many people here do. I took the matter into my own...”

“I thought the London house was beautiful,” Lizzie said.

“Well, thank you, you must be sure to tell Albert. I wanted something more fanciful here though — bright and cheerful and gay. Why does one come to the Riviera, after all, if not for the sun and the sense of freedom it allows? On Sundays, when the lot of them are gone, you’ll find me lying shamelessly naked on the lawn. We’re quite protected from prying eyes here, and with the servants away, who is there to comment on the pagan manners of the mistress? You must feel free to dress however casually you wish during your stay here. I myself favor white with a touch of embroidery here and there — you saw Moira’s apron? Undoubtedly purchased from a shrewd French peasant who charged the sky for it. You need not worry about petticoats or frills or even shoes, for that matter. I wander about barefoot more often than not — but do be careful of bees in the clover! And you must be careful as well to wear something long sleeved at dusk, lest the mosquitoes devour you alive. They’re dreadful here, the size of falcons and as bloodthirsty as vampires. In town, of course, we shall have to appear the proper ladies, but here at the villa we may set aside any notions of convention or formality or custom or even time. I’m inviting you, in short, to abandon yourself completely to the sun and the sea and the fragrant air and to feel, dear Lizzie, as perfectly at home here as I myself am.”

“Thank you,” Lizzie said softly. “I don’t think I’ve gone about barefoot since I was a little girl.”

“Exactly the point, my dear. Barefooted, bare-arsed, however you wish — and please don’t blush.”

“I’m long past blushing at anything you say,” Lizzie said, and smiled.

“Good. Let’s change our clothes and hurry down to lunch before Albert eats the tablecloth. If you haven’t packed anything suitably hedonistic, just give a shout, and I shall try to fit you out. You won’t have time for a proper bath, but there should be hot water in the basin there, if Moira’s properly prepared the room. We shall have good French wine with our lunch, so I’d ignore the tepid lemonade, were I you. You can find your way down to the terrace, can’t you? I shall meet you there. Lizzie,” she said, and hesitated. “I’m so happy you’re here.”