Sex and Vanity(46)

“You didn’t cry, Mama. I thought you’d be bawling your eyes out.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly a Mr.-Darcy-getting-down-on-his-knees-in-a-muddy-field kind of moment,” Marian remarked, although she was rather moved by the whole spectacle. Who would have imagined that her Lucie would be proposed to in such a grand manner by the man that Vulture, BuzzFeed, and The Skimm had proclaimed “The Most Eligible Gentleman on the Planet.” She almost teared up at the thought. If only Reggie could have been here to witness this day—maybe now her mother-in-law and all those Churchills would finally stop judging her parenting choices.

“Mom! Freddie! Were you here the whole time?” Lucie shrieked excitedly as she hugged her mother and brother.

“Of course they were. I arranged everything so that they wouldn’t miss a second of our special moment,” Cecil said, beaming proudly.

“Is your mom here too?” Lucie asked, looking around.

“Very funny, Lucie. You know she’s at her couture fittings in Paris.”

“Yes, how could I forget?” Lucie said apologetically.

Breaking the awkward silence, Marian announced, “I promised Freddie his favorite apfelstrudel at Café Sabarsky. Won’t you both join us?”

“I have another idea … why don’t we all celebrate with champagne and scones at the Carlyle? It’s Lucie’s favorite,” Cecil suggested.

“Sure!” Marian and Freddie gamely agreed.

The four of them strolled over to Madison Avenue together, and before long they were seated at what Cecil insisted was the “prime table” in the jewel-box-like gallery of the Carlyle Hotel.

“My bride deserves the best seat in the house! We can see absolutely everyone entering and exiting from here, and more importantly, they can see us. Are you comfortable, Mrs. Churchill?” Cecil said as he tried to fluff up the silk pillow behind Marian with a series of needless karate chops.

“Very comfortable, thank you. You can stop hitting the pillow, Cecil,” Marian replied.

“Don’t you love this room and its superb stenciled walls? You know it’s all inspired by the sultan’s dining room at Topkapi Palace in Constantinople. Mongiardino at his best. You know my mother tried to get him to design the interiors of our first plane, but then he died. I’m so glad those Chinese owners knew well enough to leave the gallery alone when they bought the place …”

Cecil paused for a split second, as if it had just dawned on him that his future mother-in-law was Chinese and his bride half Chinese, and maybe his statement could be perceived as a tad offensive. If the notion momentarily disturbed him, it was forgotten as soon as the waiter arrived and Cecil held court over the table, ordering afternoon tea with a multitude of finger sandwiches, scones, and petits fours for everyone, selecting the right vintage of champagne from the wine list, and, most important, making sure everything was served on his approved china. “Please take away these dishes with the blue-and-gold pattern you use for regular guests. Talk to Stephanie—she knows where the hand-painted Limoges that have been put on reserve for me is kept.”

“Cecil has his own set of teacups stored here,” Lucie explained to her brother.

“Seriously? What’s wrong with the ones they have?” Freddie probed.

“Freddie, tea always tastes much better served in Second Empire French porcelain,” Cecil began to lecture. “But more importantly, look at your sister’s ravishing lips! They’re like a hybrid between Andie MacDowell’s and Charlotte Gainsbourg’s. I simply cannot allow these precious lips to touch a teacup unless it has a rim thinner than 1.3 millimeters!”

“What would happen if they did?” Freddie stared at his sister’s lips wide-eyed.

“It would simply never happen. I wouldn’t permit it! From now on, Freddie, your sister is going to be treated like the divine empress she was born to be,” Cecil declared.

“Got that, Freddie?” Lucie said with a little giggle.

Cecil turned to Marian. “Mrs. Churchill, you deserve a special prize for your patience today!”

“What do you mean?” Marian asked.

“I know you’re only being polite, but I cannot believe that you haven’t asked to see the engagement ring yet!”

“Oh, yeah, let’s see the ring, Lucie,” Marian remembered, trying to summon up enough enthusiasm to impress her future son-in-law. Lucie shyly extended her hand across the table and caught her mother recoiling almost imperceptibly. “Oh, wow, Lucie. Oh, wow,” was all Marian could muster up.

Freddie whistled. “Look at the size of that thing! It looks like a tumor on her finger. Where’s Dr. Pimple Popper when you need her?”

“Very funny, Freddie,” Cecil said a little crossly. He looked up and suddenly his frown transformed into a look that a penitent might reserve for the apparition of the Virgin Mary, as a trio of exceedingly chic women entered the room with a cute young girl dressed in riding breeches.

“Why, it’s Jackie, Martha, Alicia, and Helena! Hot damn, everyone’s here today!” Cecil sprang up from his seat to give double-cheeked air-kisses to the ladies, before patting little Helena on her head as if he were dribbling a basketball. “Ladies, may I present my new fiancée, Lucie Churchill? You know, her father was Reggie Churchill, and she’s the granddaughter of Consuelo Barclay Churchill.”