Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_01 Read Online Free PDF Page A

to join the others.” I favored him with a steely glance and marched ahead of him up the steps and into the main hall.
    Burton wasn’t happy about it, but he pointed me in the right direction for the living room and started up the stairs with my luggage, pausing; every step or so in the vain hope, I suppose, that I might change my mind. Worthier men than he have tried to deflect me from a chosen course. Without, I might add, the slightest bit of success.
    In the cool, shadowy entrance hall I paused to look in the magnificent ormolu mirror that reflected a Ming vase, a Rodin sculpture, a William Merritt Chase seascape, and the staircase. I smoothed back a strand of hair, straightened my travel-crumpled aquamarine smooth-weave cotton dress, and watched until Burton’s pants cuffs and shiny brown cordovans finally disappeared from the mirror. Then I set out in search of my hostess.
    I favor comfortable shoes. These were crepe-soled and silent. I reached the open double doorway and had an uninterrupted moment to survey the scene and those who had arrived on this island before me.
    That’s when I got my first surprise. Burton had indicated that Chase’s wife presided over tea. I dredged a name from my memory. Miranda Prescott.But this must be a granddaughter, a slim girl in a watercolor-pastel dress as delicate and shimmering as sunlight on water. The round shawl collar with an organdy bow recalled the elegance of long-ago fetes or canoes gliding on moonlit canals. Raven-black hair curled softly to frame a heart-shaped face. She sat behind the magnificent George III tea service, pouring with the care and precision of a little girl playing house, her face absorbed, her gestures—
    Light from the chandeliers caught the fire and brilliance of the rings on her slender left hand.
    Wedding rings.
    I felt a surge of dismay. She was so young. Too young. Dismay and disappointment. In Chase. I would not have expected this of him.
    I scanned the others in the opulent room: a hard-faced woman with too much makeup but an aristocratic air; an extraordinarily handsome young man with sullen, downturned lips; a chunky mid-fortyish fellow with cherubic cheeks and a genial smile; a tightly coiled, bold-featured redhead who had A-type stamped all over him; and an exquisitely groomed blond man my mother would have tartly deemed too smooth by half.
    I stepped inside, calling out a cheery hello. Everyone looked my way, and the men hurriedly got to their feet.
    Reporters are accustomed to evoking odd responses. It comes with the territory. Even so, Miranda Prescott’s reaction was outside the norm.
    My young hostess became absolutely immobile, her face rigid, her slender body taut. She looked steeled to confront enormous challenge. But whenshe saw me, her eyes widened and her mouth curved into a soundless O of surprise.
    That she had expected someone entirely different was abundantly clear.
    “Mrs. Collins?” Her girlish voice rose in disbelief.
    “Yes. But, please, call me Henrie O. Everyone does. And do sit down, gentlemen.”
    But the men, even the sulky, bored youth, waited politely until I’d taken a seat next to my hostess. An interesting social custom, and one that can provide endless diversion upon discussion. Should women be treated with deference? Or, in fact, is this actually a show of respect or is it more truly a subtle indicator that men are all-powerful, choosing to honor the “weaker” sex?
    Miranda struggled for words. “Mrs. Collins … Mrs. Collins, you are … How nice you’ve arrived in time for tea.”
    “I’m glad, too.” I accepted a cup and glanced around. This was an enormously comfortable room, the kind of comfort easily secured when cost is no question. As a young reporter, I spent some time doing “house” features. I would have described this living room as “perfect for entertaining in a casual, relaxed manner.”
    But there was nothing relaxed about our hostess this afternoon. As everyone resettled,