CHAPTER FIVE

Chap 5 - Pt 2 (BUT IN A PRINCELY HOME THERE SITS...)

Madam Chernetsov—Bubbi—a large bosomed, matronly woman, looked over the list for tomorrow night’s upcoming entertainment and shook her head slowly, asking herself how she could have ever agreed to letting her sons help organize this year’s upcoming costume Ball.

A juggler—and what is the sense in that? she thought, fighting back a feeling of distended disbelief. And a magician, as well? What is this, a children’s party? At least they still have the octet I asked for—but a Jazz band? An American Jazz band? she thought with disdain. Why would anyone think we needed an American Jazz band?

She nodded as she read further down the list, and then looked back up at Reynolds, her major-domo as she liked to refer to him. Tall, thin, and unassuming, he’d served the family since they first arrived in England thirteen years ago. Now in his mid-fifties, the man simply had not aged. His hair may have been a little thinner, but not noticeably so; it was something she’d never admit to despising about the man, because really, what was the point in that? Some people age prematurely, they lose their hair, gain weight, turn grey, and show their age with wrinkles and age spots; he simply happened to be one of those people who did not.

“And the guests?” she asked, almost afraid to hear what the answer might be.

“Forty, perhaps fifty,” he said softly—“but we’ll have enough food for more I should think.”

“Of course. And the wine? Have they raided my wine cellars and taken the best for themselves? This is turning out to be more of a college party than a Costume Ball. Perhaps we should order hot dogs and beer, rather than canapés?”

He smiled. “I made certain they did not go into the wine cellar unattended, Mum,” he said, now trying to hide the lingering smile she could see playing at the edge of his thin lips. She wondered if perhaps her three sons had predicted how she’d react once she saw the night’s itinerary.

“You did? Thank God for that!” she said, letting out a gentle sigh of relief.

“I felt thirty bottles of red and sixty bottles of white, should be more than enough.”

“Ninety bottles of wine? They cannot possibly drink that much! Is it this generation, or am I simply getting old?”

It wasn’t a question she expected him to answer, and she was happy when he simply looked at her in silence. She wished more men knew when to remain silent. It would make life so much more tolerable if she didn’t have to listen to their outlandish ideas of what was wrong in the world. It was those ideas that had brought about the Great War and the Revolution in Russia. She always shuddered when she thought of what may have happened to her family back home.

“You do not feel ninety bottles of wine is excessive?” she asked.

“Perhaps, but far better to have too much, than not enough,” he pointed out.

“I suppose you’re right, but still,” she said with a slow shake of her head.

“What would you like for me to do about the champagne?”

“There’s champagne, too?”

“Two dozen bottles.”

“Two dozen,” she said, shaking her head again. It seemed to her she was shaking her head a lot. Reynolds would report back to her sons and they’d all ridicule her for being a stick in the mud—is that what they’re saying these days? It’s hard keeping up with today’s slang. “Again, it would be so much more economical for us all, if they had a taste for beer,” she said, voicing another sigh.

“I’m sure they do when they go into London, Mum,” Reynolds said with another smile.

She looked at him and nodded, thinking he was probably right.

“And these Americans?” she asked, slapping the list as she did.

“Yes, Mum?”

“When are they supposed to play? I doubt most of the guests will have an appreciation for American Jazz.”

“I have them slated in for an hour. At ten o’clock.”

“An hour?”

“Your sons insisted.”

“My sons? All three of them?”


“Apparently one of them heard the man in London and asked him if he and his band would be interested in playing. They all seem to be familiar with the man’s music.”

“Is he supposed to be something of a celebrity?”

“That, I do not know.”

“Well then, you can tell my sons they are the ones paying him, or them. I did not budget in an American Jazz band. It’s either they pay, or the band does not play. And you can tell them I said that, as well—no, never mind. I’ll tell them myself. Where are you putting them? I trust they’ll not be mingling with the guests?”

“I’ll see to it they stay in the kitchen, Mum,” he said.

“I trust they will not be in the way? The last thing I want is for Greggson to be upset.”

“There’s little that does not bother Greggson,” Reynolds reminded her. “Would you prefer they remained outside in the Garden?”

“And have them say we were uncivil toward them? No. It will have to do. I will not have them waiting outside and saying we were uncivil toward them. Do I make myself clear? You know I do not like repeating myself.”

“I understand, Mum,” Reynolds said, bowing his head.

“It does not matter where they sit, to be honest. It will be a far cry better than what they are used to. Did I tell you my father once served as the Ambassador at Washington when I was a youth? I was no more than a child, but let me assure you, I remember how unkind the people were toward the Negroes there. That’s something you never forget. I’d never seen an American Negro before, and it was quite a shock to me seeing how they were treated. Plus, you’d hear stories. It was shameful, really. I will not have them treated any less because they are Negroes. Do tell the staff.”

“I will, Mum,” he said, bowing his head once more.

“Now, where is that man?”

“I’m sorry, Mum?”

“My husband? I needs must talk to him about the upcoming nuptials,” she said, handing over the list. Reynolds accepted it and put it in his breast pocket.

“I shall endeavour to seek him out, Mum.”

“No doubt he’s in that secret room of his, plotting and scheming,” she added.

“I will send for him directly, Mum. Where shall I say to find you?”

“Tell him I’ll be in the Garden,” she said, and paused before adding: “Perhaps you could be so kind as to set up a light lunch for us there? Be sure to invite my sons. Say for one o’clock? Maybe we can get everyone seated by 1:30?”

“Of course, Mum,” he said, bowing and leaving her to her thoughts.

Ninety bottles of wine! What was the man thinking?

Still, her boys are no longer boys, she reminded herself. Anatoly is twenty-seven now.

And when did that happen?

He was a father and a husband now, and though they had their issues, what married couple didn’t, she asked herself? She remembered her first years with Dimitri and how she’d been quick to put her foot down and demand that he put her needs first. And he’d complied. But he was different from most men, and she knew that. He was devoted to her, as well as their children; Anatoly, not so much. His business dealings with the firm had him in London two weeks out of four. She was almost convinced he kept a mistress, even though she had no real proof; it was just a feeling, a persistent nag she felt but couldn’t explain.

She didn’t dare confront him, for fear of driving a wedge between them that would be impossible to repair. Her own mother had done that with her brother and she vowed not to make the same mistake. Still, it was something she found difficult to accept.