I 've Heard That Song Before

31

I know that dinner relaxed Peter somewhat. As soon as it was over, and we’d had coffee in his library, the others got up to leave. Sometimes Richard stayed over at Elaine’s house, but he told us that he was on his way to Manhattan for an after-theatre drink at the Carlyle with a young artist. “She’s very gifted I think,” Richard told us, “and very pretty, I might add. It so seldom goes together.”

“Just don’t fall in love, Richard,” Elaine said tartly. “And if you decide to have a party for her at the gallery, let her pay for the champagne.”

When she said that, Vincent raised his eyebrows to Peter and he responded with a trace of a smile. Peter and I walked with the three of them to the door. Both Richard’s and Vincent’s cars were parked directly in front of the mansion. The men opened umbrellas, and Elaine held on to her son’s arm as they dashed down the steps to the cars.

Peter locked the door behind them, then, as we turned to the staircase, Gary Barr appeared. “Mrs. Carrington, we’re leaving now. I had to tell you again how sorry I am about your blouse. I can’t believe I was so clumsy. I don’t think I’ve ever had an accident like that in all the years I’ve been serving.”

Of course, when the wine spilled on me, I had accepted his apologies, gone upstairs, and quickly changed to another blouse. I think Peter had had enough of the apologizing, because before I could once again reassure Gary, he said brusquely, “I think Mrs. Carrington has made it clear that she understands it was an unfortunate accident. I don’t really care to hear any more about it. Good night, Gary.”

I had only seen glimpses so far of the formal-make that formidable-side of Peter, and in a way I was glad to witness it. These next months, until the trial, were going to be so humiliating and frightening for him. He had exposed his vulnerability to me because he trusted me. But in that moment I realized that the role I was assuming, less wife than protector, was unworthy of the essence of the man.

As we walked up the stairs, for some incongruous reason, I thought about an evening, maybe ten years ago, when I was home from college. Maggie and I had watched the old movie To Catch a Thief, starring Grace Kelly and Cary Grant, on television. During one of the commercials, she told me that Grace Kelly met Prince Rainier when she was making that movie in Monaco.

“Kay, I read about the time the prince came to visit her at her parents’ home in Philadelphia. That was when he asked her father for her hand in marriage. The next day her mother told a reporter what a very nice person Rainier was and how easy it was to forget that he was a prince. A society reporter sniffed, “Doesn’t Mrs. Kelly understand that marrying a reigning monarch is not like marrying someone who’s just another prince?”

Today I had seen the hounded Peter in court, followed by the frightened Peter standing over a suitcase that he could not remember having begun to pack. Just now, I had seen an imperial Peter who had heard enough of an employee’s explanations. Who is the complete Peter? I asked myself when we were getting ready for bed.

I realized I did not have an answer.