Marquesa and Danny made their way down to the first floor, then took a turn through the long dining room and then the octagonal morning-room, through a little gallery and then into the vast tropical lushness of the glass-house, a hangar-sized conservatory with a vine-drenched stone back wall, an interminable row of tall arched French windows opening onto a broad square terrace, and an elaborately vaulted glass ceiling.
They were the first to arrive, and the major-domo was standing at the door to announce their names as they made their way through the dense foliage to the rotunda that was the centerpiece of the glass-house; the Comtesse rose from her great wicker throne beside a big round stone table covered with flowers and tea-things, raining kisses and apologies on them.
"I cannot tell you how sorry I am about your accommodations," the Comtesse cried out theatrically, clutching her tiny jeweled hands to her ample pearl-draped bosom, her pretty Fragonard face a caricature of regret; the old lady was dressed in a long flowing chiffon tea-gown hand-painted with watercolor roses, her snow-white hair piled up high and teased and sculpted into an impressive coiffure, "I don't think I've ever had the house so full!"
"Please don't concern yourself, Madame," Danny bowed and kissed the lady's hand gallantly, "I absolutely adore my room. The view is incredible, it's like being up in a hot-air balloon...but much more comfortable."
Marquesa didn't say anything on the subject, irked by having to give up his usual rooms but perfectly understanding the Comtesse's need to observe precedence: ancient aristocracy always trumped American lineage, and he had resigned himself to being seated much further down the table than usual with so many titled guests in the place.
"Lord Edward Fairbourne," the major-domo's voice boomed from the door, "Lady Emily Fairbourne."
Danny turned to see the new arrivals: a very attractive man, not especially handsome but somehow correct-looking with his smooth chestnut hair and elegant oval face, neither young nor old but with an extraordinary air of sophistication, dressed in perfect country tweeds of heathered brown but exuding the cosmopolitan glamour of Mayfair as if he were wearing a tuxedo. The young lady on his arm was exquisitely beautiful with the same glossy auburn hair worn in a wavy pageboy around her oval face, but with a much more dramatic bone-structure and a blooming English complexion; she was dressed as an Edwardian schoolboy in a glen plaid waistcoat and knickers, a white shirt with a burgundy ascot, long argyle socks and polished brown brogues.
Introductions were made and the newcomers served tea and sandwiches, and the next booming announcement came out of the foliage, "Monsieur le Vicomte de Saint-Neve."
This was quite clearly the Comtesse's brother, as he looked exactly like her but thinner and with slightly less elaborately waved hair; he was foppishly dressed in a natty gray suit with a pink pinstripe, a plump pink tie with a matching pocket-square spilling out of his top pocket, small glittering rings on both hands, and sharply pointed gray kid shoes. His step was mincing, his wrists limp, his face tightly tucked and lifted, and his mouth pursed, a classic stereotypical old queen. The only way you could tell the man was straight was that he didn't give Danny a second glance but practically drooled on Lady Emily, waggling his plucked eyebrows at her roguishly.
By this time everyone was chattering, mostly in French though Marquesa only spoke English (he understood French but could not bring himself to say anything in that language for fear of mangling the accent).
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592 Words
12,949 Total Word Count
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