Gloria twisted her hands around the strap of her handbag. “The doctors told you not to smoke,” she said, “Did you—”
“Quite all right—stuffy inside, that’s all. I got a bit light-headed.” Gloria looked unconvinced; Reggie laughed and kissed the crown of her head. “I’m right as rain, my dear. Now, we’re being rude—Furness is in there alone.” He settled Gloria’s hand in the crook of his right arm and offered his left to Thelma.
The restaurant was alive with sound, a five-piece band leading dancers, packed elbow to elbow on the dance floor, in a waltz. Couples nearly bumped into each other as they sought to avoid the tables closest to the dance floor, where unlucky diners snatched their cocktails out of the way of fringed hems and the tips of tailcoats. Reggie was right: it was stuffy, sweat and cigarette smoke overpowering the smell of roast beef as waiters laden with dinner plates weaved past. Surveying the room, Thelma was grateful for Gloria’s insistence on wearing a new dress: the women dripped with jewels and beading, feathered headpieces and filigreed bangles, cocktail rings with stones the size of thumbs.
Reggie led them into a smaller, quieter dining room with a long oak bar and Thelma’s pulse quickened as she caught sight of Duke Furness at a corner table: she enjoyed the momentary, all-too-familiar look of confusion on his face as he tried to decipher which twin was which. She gave a short flutter of her fingers and Duke smiled, rising to his feet.
She broke away from Reggie and Duke kissed her on the cheek; she rested her hands on his arms, feeling the weave of his tuxedo beneath her fingers. He wore a different, no less extravagantly cut, suit from the one he’d worn the night before, abandoning swallowtails for a single-breasted dinner jacket with peaked lapels. He looked handsome—dashing, even—in his finery.
The same, however, could not be said for Reggie. Though Gloria had told Thelma that Reggie had had several new suits made before they left Newport two months ago, Reggie looked overstuffed, his solid belly straining at his silk waistcoat. He called for the waiter, who came with four glasses of champagne on a tray.
“Delighted to see you again, Miss Morgan,” said Duke, pulling out Thelma’s chair. “How are the roses?”
Thelma lowered her voice and Duke leaned in to hear her. “Truly, Lord Furness—they’re too much. Far too much.”
Duke beamed. “Nonsense.” He tucked a hand in the pocket of his waistcoat and reached for his drink. “A girl like you ought to have flowers, and a fellow like me ought to give them.”
Reggie motioned for the waiter, holding up his empty glass.
Perhaps she’d chosen not to see it before, but after her conversation with Gloria it was clear that Reggie drank two cocktails for each one of Duke’s. As dinner progressed, he was gregarious to a fault, calling the waiter over whenever their drinks fell past the halfway mark, leaving a bottle of champagne reserved on ice. Despite the noise of the other diners, Reggie’s voice boomed over the rest, his barking laugh a constant punctuation to the music. When the waiter removed the remains of their main courses from the table, Reggie knocked over his water glass; Gloria rescued her napkin from the deluge, her face twisted in polite anguish.
Thelma touched Duke on the arm. “Tell me, how is London at this time of year?” she asked as Reggie dabbed water from his front. “I’d so love to go for the season. I’ve never been.”
“Haven’t you?” said Duke. “I’ll not lie—this is a dull month for London. Everyone’s off at their country homes—it’s why I spend so much time in Paris. But Ascot’s coming up—good fun, that. Reggie would enjoy it, eh, Vanderbilt?” said Duke, casting across the table. His voice faltered slightly as he saw Reggie and Gloria in the midst of a terse, whispered conversation.
Reggie dropped the soaked napkin on the table. “What’s that, Furness? Ascot? Yes, well—could be a laugh. We could bring a string of ponies from Newport. Host a polo match with Nada and George, if I get my act together. Yes, why not?” He shifted in his chair to look at Duke head-on, planting his arm on the table as he leaned forward. “But that’s not for a month—plenty of time to waste on the continent until then. Could go to Longchamp, watch the races there? Horsepower rather than horses, eh?”
Duke gave Thelma a sidelong glance. “I rather thought I’d stay through to June, if I found an excuse—hunting’s rubbish this early in the year, and Dickie and Averill won’t thank me hanging about London while they throw their parties. Longchamp sounds like a damned good time. Damned good.”
“Excellent,” said Reggie, shifting to his feet. “That calls for—a toast, I think—”
A fresh tray of drinks appeared as if by magic, and Reggie lifted his glass to shoulder height. Beside him, Gloria made an involuntary noise: a choked sort of cough.
“To friendships, old and new,” he said. He drained his glass in one and wiped his mouth on a napkin, then lowered himself back into his seat and circled his hand in the air for another round.
“A bottle of White Rock, if you’d be so kind,” Gloria murmured as the waiter picked up Reggie’s empty glass.
Reggie glared at her when the waiter returned with the mineral water and covered his glass with a beefy hand. “Scotch,” he said, meeting his wife’s eyes with a level stare.
Thelma and Duke sat in silence. From the other room, the music swelled louder.
Beneath the table, Duke took Thelma’s hand, stroking the back of her palm with his thumb.
“Tell me, Gloria, how do you find Paris compares to Newport?” he said.
Gloria turned away from Reggie and smiled at Duke, her voice unsteady as she launched into a comparison of American and European society.
Thelma turned her hand under Duke’s so that they were facing palm to palm and squeezed.
Five
The Gare du Nord was wrapped in a thick fog of steam that mingled with the crisp air carried in by the trains as they rolled into the station. Though it was still mid-August, the day held the promise of autumn to come.
Reggie and Gloria’s train stood at the farthest platform, belching exhaust in a periodic wheeze that made it look as though it was bound to depart earlier than scheduled on its own impulsive whim. The platform was packed with people: shouts echoed as families caught sight of each other for one final goodbye; porters, lugging heavy carts and trunks, shouldered their way toward the carriages, faces stern beneath trim caps.
After their night at Ciro’s, Duke had sent Reggie, Gloria and Thelma tickets to a show in Montmartre; two weeks later, he invited them to a villa he’d rented in a seaside town. The foursome rang in Bastille Day at the Deauville Casino, Reggie losing thousands of francs at the baccarat table, Duke quietly making up the difference; in August, they went to the racetrack and bet on the horses that Reggie, with his years of authority in the sport, had picked as the likely winners. As the summer progressed, Thelma was surprised—and pleased—to find that her affection for Duke continued to grow: so much so that, when Duke asked Thelma to come with her to his Scottish hunting lodge at the end of the season, Thelma had accepted.