Closing and latching his riding-gear case, he returned to the big steamer trunk and started filling its lower drawers with underwear and socks. Since dressing for the Château was a much more formal proposition than dressing for the White Party (one does not wear shorts or jeans at the Château de Seguemont, much less flimsy linen capris and Daisy Duke cutoffs), he didn't have to pay much attention to the choices of undergarment: a dozen or so pair of white boxer briefs and an equal number of jockstraps would suffice. Another dozen pair of white athletic socks went into the drawers, and then black clocked formal stockings, some Argyles in various neutral shades, and several plain beige and grey socks on top.
Next came a selection of blazers, several pairs of khakis, several more of slacks, and three lightweight spring suits, packed in the wardrobe half with sheets of tissue hanging in between. He knew it didn't matter what order or how neatly he packed his clothes, since the Château servants would unpack it all into closets and drawers before he even arrived, and throughout his stay would give his clothes an airing and a touch-up with an iron before laying them out for him; but Danny has what he calls a "tidy soul" (though others would call it a nascent obsessive-compulsive disorder) and was incapable of performing a task sloppily.
Some skimpy nylon shorts went in next, since he liked to run in the mornings, along with some equally skimpy scoop-neck tanks, some relatively modest Speedos for the pool, and a few pairs of white shorts with white polos for tennis. Then came a dozen vee-neck cashmere sweaters in a spectrum of pastels; a dozen dress shirts, professionally laundered and starched, folded with blue ribbons around them; a dozen sport shirts, as precisely pressed and folded as the dress-shirts; two dozen neckties that were briefly compared to the shirts and jackets before being folded into the trunk; a pile of brilliant white Irish linen handkerchiefs; and finally a sheaf of beautifully patterned silk scarves to wear as ascots or instead of ties.
A separate specially-compartmented case held ten pairs of shoes, ranging from running shoes and tennis sneakers to loafers and wingtips, all meticulously cleaned or polished and packed with wooden shoe-trees inside. His toiletries case didn't need to be repacked, but his jewelry case did--he'd have a lot more opportunities for jewelry at the Château than he would in Palm Springs. A dozen jeweled cufflinks (Danny loved the number twelve and habitually did things in dozens), tie pins and stock pins, wristwatches and bracelets filled up the larger locking jewelry case that matched the rest of his Hermès luggage.
Having packed up more clothing for ten days than he would ordinarily wear in twenty, he closed the trunk and wrestled it down the hall to stand by the front door, placed the other cases in a pyramid beside it, and collapsed on the couch with a satisfying sense of accomplishment.
"I'm hungry," he said to himself after a few moments of laying back on the couch and studying the living-room furniture, taking immense pleasure in the elegant lines of the eclectic collection of neoclassical and Art Deco pieces he'd chosen. He glanced over at the Empire malachite-and-ormolu mantel clock and was surprised that so much time had passed since Valerien's visit: it was almost five o'clock, well after tea-time but nowhere near time for dinner. He tried to keep his eating times as routine as possible, so that his digestion would be as predictable as possible... a full colon is very inconvenient during certain favorite activities, and Danny didn't like those kinds of surprises.
Since he didn't want to wait another three hours for dinner, though, he decided a small snack wouldn't disarrange his peristalsis, so headed into his long steel-and-granite kitchen, as narrow as a ship's galley but fitted out with more equipment and conveniences than were necessary for the very little light cooking he did in it. Rummaging in a refrigerator full of restaurant leftovers and fresh produce, Danny decided on a small plate of sliced Fuji apples and sharp white cheddar cheese.
While nibbling on his snack in his small square dining room (Biedermeier birch chairs around a circular Moderne bronze table, overhung by a chandelier of bronze tree-branches dripping with mismatched crystals), he realized that he was going to be gone for ten days instead of the planned three, and that his refrigerator would have to be emptied of any near-to-perishing items before he left the following day. He also remembered a handful of appointments he'd have to call and cancel, and three dates he'd have to reschedule.
Those preparations took him well into the evening, when his bowels moved at their accustomed hour and Danny went into the bathroom to begin his evening rituals.
Since he spent a great deal of time in his bathroom, bathing and grooming himself frequently (or obsessively), it had been made as beautiful and luxurious as possible within the bounds of the space available in a 1920s townhouse flat. All of the fixtures were made of creamy rose-veined marble, or painted to resemble it; the walls and cabinets were French provincial paneling painted a soothing ivory, and the hardware was light silver with a warm patina. The entire ceiling was a skylight fitted with milk-glass panes hand-painted with rose-colored veins to match the marble, fitted with warm halogen floodlights above it that imitated the sun when it was dark out.
He set the bath to fill and added a generous scoop of bergamot-scented Dead Sea bath salts, turned on the stereo to play a series of beautifully structured Baroque string concerti, and made himself comfortable on the toilet with the morning's New York Times crossword puzzle. Once finished evacuating, then thoroughly flushing out his rectal cavity on the neighboring bidet, he abandoned the half-finished puzzle and sank into the deep fragrant bath, turning the air-jets to a gentle churn and letting his mind wander while his body floated.
He wondered, while he lay soaking, what the three women the Comtesse had chosen for her grandson would be like. He was sure they'd all be titled Europeans, and Western Europeans at that, and that their titles would be at least two or three hundred years old; he assumed they'd be at least nominally but by no means devoutly Catholic, rich but not noticeably richer than the Seguemonts, and of course very beautiful... this was Seguemont tradition, visible in every ancestral portrait they owned.
Danny's social circles were made up mostly of men; though he did know quite a few Society dames through the arts events and benefits he frequently attended, as well as clients from his brief stint as assistant to the City's most sought-after interior designer, Theo Ermengratz, he was not very close to any of them. And aside from Valerien and the occasional visiting dignitary, Danny's address book was generally devoid of titles; he knew a Russian princess, but she was a third-generation New Yorker and didn't often use her title, so hardly counted. He didn't have enough experience of the species to make a guess as to the three women's personalities.
He also wondered what it would be like for one of these women, married to a man like Valerien. He was unapologetically homosexual, and had never been with a woman before; as staunchly traditionalist as the young Baron was, Danny didn't think he would consent to anything as crassly modern as artificial insemination, but didn't know if he'd be able to perform his marital functions in the old-fashioned way. It suddenly occurred to him that this was probably the genesis of his panic over this marriage-mart house party: not that it was sprung on him as a surprise, but that he might not be able to pull it off. Valerien was not inured to failure, and the thought of it must have terrified him.
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