Elements of Chance - Barbara Wilkins

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Ladyship,” she began in a strange voice she hardly recognized.

      “It’s that boy, of course,” said Lady Anne, her tone mournful. “You’ve been leaving the house to meet him. Julian, isn’t it? Julian Unwin?”

      Valerie nodded miserably, feeling the heat in her face, the racing of her heart.

      “Has it been going on for long?” she asked.

      “A few weeks,” Valerie mumbled. “I went to his concert. And, a few times after that.”

      “I should have taken you to his concert,” Lady Anne mused. “That was terribly insensitive of me. I should have realized how important it was to you to be there with all your friends.”

      Valerie sat in silence, waiting for her punishment to be pronounced.

      “Where else did you go?” she asked.

      “To the movies once. To Carnaby Street. Last night, we just drove around.”

      “He has an automobile?”

      “It’s his father’s.”

      “Dear, I have a terribly important question to ask you,” Lady Anne said, her tone suddenly urgent. “And it’s imperative that you tell me the truth. Do you understand?”

      “Yes, Your Ladyship,” Valerie whispered.

      “Did he do anything to you?”

      “I don’t know what you mean,” Valerie said.

      “I think you do, young lady.”

      Valerie shook her head, wishing she were dead.

      “All right,” said Lady Anne. “I want to know if you had sexual intercourse with him. I don’t know how much more plainly I can say it.”

      “Oh, no,” Valerie said. “I didn’t let him.”

      “Is that the truth?” she asked.

      “Yes, Your Ladyship. I swear it. I swear it’s the truth.”

      “But you kissed him,” she continued. “You let him fondle you. Did he touch your breasts? Did he put his hand between your legs?”

      “He tried, Your Ladyship,” Valerie said, shaking her head. “I wouldn’t let him do that. I wouldn’t even open my mouth when he kissed me.” It wouldn’t matter to Lady Anne, she thought wildly, that the reason was because she was embarrassed about her braces. All that metal all over her teeth.

      “When do you want me to leave?” Valerie whispered, realizing she couldn’t take another moment of the conversation.

      “When I told you this was our home, Valerie,” said Lady Anne, looking surprised, “I didn’t mean conditionally. If you were my own niece, I wouldn’t ask you to leave, no matter what the circumstances. As I’ve told you from the beginning, I do think of you as my niece.” She paused for a moment and smiled warmly at Valerie, who was trying to absorb the words. “But I certainly don’t countenance your behavior,” she added. “You obviously can’t go sneaking around the moment my back is turned.”

      “Oh, I won’t, Your Ladyship,” Valerie promised, close to tears.

      “I feel I’m to blame,” Lady Anne said reflectively. “I’ve concentrated so thoroughly on educating you so you’ll be comfortable on the highest social level, I just didn’t think you might need guidance in other areas as well, or that you need to socialize with friends your own age.” She took a sip of her tea, and then she gave a start. “My dear,” she said brightly. “You haven’t had your tea.”

      Valerie took the cup of tea, realizing that not only was she to stay, but Lady Anne was going to take her even more firmly in hand. Valerie felt so drained by relief that all she wanted to do was crawl up the stairs and sleep.

      Valerie was humiliated when Lady Anne dragged her off to a gynecologist in Harley Street several days later. Valerie didn’t understand why Lady Anne needed the reassurance that she was a virgin, but it seemed to clear the air.

      Julian stopped speaking to her, ignored her whenever they happened to pass in the hall, looked away whenever her eyes caught his in class. Why had he changed? All she could remember was what Vicki had once told her about men. They would say anything to get the one thing they wanted, which was sex.

      “Now, you mustn’t let Maria frighten you,” said Monsieur Vilgran to Valerie as they sat in the back seat of his Rolls-Royce limousine. Lady Anne, on his other side, was looking very smart in a gray wool suit and a creamy satin blouse. An olive green hat covered her dark hair; pearls adorned her blouse, her ears. “She’s a Czech, as you may know. A volatile people, the Czechs.” When he patted Valerie’s arm, it was all she could do not to pull it away.

      Sitting in the back of the Rolls-Royce with Monsieur Vilgran and Lady Anne, on her way to play for Maria Obolensko, seemed strangely right to Valerie. Inevitable, in fact. Talk of it had begun so long ago on that night in the Hollywood Bowl.

      “I don’t know how Weyburn puts up with her, actually,” Monsieur Vilgran said, almost to himself. “Why, the woman actually throws things at him. She’s tried to kill him.”

      “The duke of Weyburn?” asked Lady Anne, looking out the window.

      “Yes, Weyburn,” Monsieur Vilgran acknowledged. “Her lover, you know. Her patron. It isn’t a state secret that there isn’t a fortune in classical music. Every classical artist needs a patron. Weyburn underwrites her concerts, and her recordings. And, of course, the jewels he has given her are legendary. The diamonds, the sapphires. There is a ruby and diamond necklace, with earrings to match, that is the finest I have ever seen. Oh, those diamonds. Their clarity, their perfection.” Monsieur Vilgran seemed lost in thought for an instant, savoring his memory of their magnificence. “She has wonderful art, too, if you like the Impressionists,” he continued. “And with all of it, she treats Weyburn like a dog. She humiliates him in public.”

      “And he’s so attractive,” Lady Anne murmured.

      “So many people are,” observed Monsieur Vilgran. “It doesn’t save one, unfortunately, from obsession.” Picking up the speaking tube, he said, “Allen, my good man, it’s a miracle. There is a parking space right in front of Madame Obolensko’s house.”

      Claude’s knock on Maria Obolensko’s front door elicited a cacophony of hoarse, frantic barking and then silence.

      The butler who opened the door was in gray striped trousers and a black coat. Panting as they sat on either side of him were two large black Doberman pinschers. The entry hall and all of the rooms that could be glimpsed from it were in black, white, and blazing red. In the distance, Valerie heard a woman’s voice shrieking what sounded like obscenities in Italian.

      “Madame is on the telephone,” said the butler. “She asked me to tell you that she will join you shortly in the drawing room.”

      Its floor was a geometric sea of black and white marble, the walls upholstered in red silk, matching the curtains on the tall windows that faced Eaton Square. The sofas, the chairs were all in white. There was only one painting in the room, of Christ dying on the cross, a crown of thorns on his head, his palms bloodied.

      “Have you ever seen such a magnificent El Greco?” sighed Monsieur Vilgran reverently. “It was stolen, of course, from the Prado. I’ve told Maria a thousand times that she’s a fool to have it hanging on a wall in her drawing room where everybody can see it. Some public-spirited soul is going to call the police one of these days. I’ve advised her to announce that it has come into her possession and give it back. She would be a heroine. The publicity would be marvelous, and the Spanish people would love her. But she won’t do it. She is the most selfish, greedy

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