The Diplomat's Wife(39)
“If you could just open the gate…” The man does not respond but shuffles forward down the steps with great effort. As he emerges from the shadows, I can see that he is bald except for a fine ring of silver hair. He wears a dark pressed suit and ascot that seem formal, given the late hour. I try to recall if Rose ever mentioned an uncle.
The man reaches the gate but does not open it. “Yes?” I feel myself shrink under his sweeping glance.
I take a deep breath, choosing my English words with care. “I—I’m here to see Mrs. LeMay.” I raise my hand. “I know it’s late. I should have called first. I’m sorry. But I’ve traveled a great distance and I must speak with her. It’s about her niece, Rose.”
A look of recognition flashes across his face. “Rose?” he repeats. “What is it?”
I hesitate. Part of me wants to give the news and Rose’s belongings to this man and be done with it. “Are you family?”
“No, I’m the butler, Charles,” he replies. “But I will pass your message on to Mrs. LeMay.”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but I must speak with Mrs. LeMay directly.”
The man studies my face for several seconds, not speaking. Then he opens the gate. “Come in, and we’ll see if Mrs. LeMay will receive you.”
As I follow him up the porch steps, the thick perfume of honeysuckle rushes up to greet me. Suddenly I see Rose, playing in the garden as a child. Sadness wells up in me. She should be here now, too.
Forcing down my sorrow, I follow the butler through the door. Inside, there is a large foyer, its floor checkered with black-and-white square tiles. Straight ahead, a staircase leads up into darkness. “Wait here,” Charles instructs firmly before disappearing through the doorway to the left. I stand in the middle of the foyer uneasily. Through a doorway to the right, a clock ticks, breaking the silence.
A moment later, I hear footsteps above me. A light goes on at the top of the stairs and an elderly woman appears. “Good evening,” she says as she descends the staircase. “I’m Delia LeMay.” Rose’s aunt looks nothing like I expected. Barely reaching my shoulder, she seems nearly as wide as she is tall. Her round face, dominated by full cheeks, is topped with an enormous shock of white hair that has been corralled into a bun that seems ready to burst from its trappings at any second. But her violet eyes are unmistakably Rose’s. She eyes me warily. “Charles tells me you are here about my niece.”
“Yes. My name is Marta Nedermann. I—”
“Marta!” Delia exclaims. Her face breaks into a wide smile, lifting her cheeks until they threaten to eclipse her eyes. “I had no idea it was you.” She waddles across the foyer more quickly than her girth would seem to permit, then reaches up and kisses me on both cheeks, her flowery perfume tickling my nose. “Rose wrote me all about you. I sent in the paperwork to extend her visa, and get you one, too.” So Dava was right. Rose had wanted me to come to England with her. “But I wasn’t expecting you girls for a few months yet. What are you doing here?”
I hesitate. “Do you suppose we could sit down?”
“Of course, how rude of me! You must be exhausted from your trip.” She ushers me through the door on the right into a parlor. The furniture, a couch and two chairs, is covered in matching pink-flowered silk slipcovers. Framed photographs cover the coffee table, windowsill and mantel. “Charles,” Delia calls loudly. The butler appears once more. “Two cups of tea, quickly, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
After he leaves, Delia gestures to the sofa. I hesitate, not wanting to dirty the fine fabric. “Come sit,” she urges. “I’m sorry if Charles was rude. We’ve had so many people coming to the gate these recent months, beggars mostly. It’s a shame what this war has done to people’s lives. We try to help when we can, of course, but there have been some unsavory types, too. Hooligans who would just as soon cause trouble. We have to be careful.” As she sits down at one end of the sofa, a large gray cat appears and leaps into her lap. “This is Ruff,” she says, scratching behind the cat’s ears. “He’s nearly fifteen years old. Rosie named him. I tried telling her that the name was better suited to a dog, but she was quite a stubborn child.”
I try to imagine quiet, gentle Rose as stubborn. The war must have changed her so. Then I notice a painting above the mantel of a young girl with a delicate face and strawberry-blond hair. “Is that Rose?”
Delia smiles. “Yes. In the summers when Rose didn’t come here, we would meet at the family villa on the coast near Trieste. We had a local artist paint her portrait when she was nine. It’s always been my favorite.” Watching her eyes dance as she studies the painting, dread rises in me.
Charles reappears with the tea and pours two cups for us before leaving again. Delia hands one of the cups to me. “No sugar, I’m afraid. We’re all out of ration cards until next week and there doesn’t seem to be any to be had on the market.” She means the black market, I realize with surprise. It was hard to imagine a woman such as Delia procuring things illicitly, but her tone is matter-of-fact, as if doing so is a routine part of life since the war. “So how is my dear Rose? And what brings you here?” She stirs her tea. “I mean, Rose wrote that you were going to be coming with her. Is she not well enough to travel yet?”