A Fine Imitation Read Free Page B

accepted them with a nod of greeting.
    “Good afternoon, Mrs. Bellington.”
    “Hello, Evans. Has my husband phoned?”
    “No, madam.”
    She did not know why she had asked. Still, arrangements needed to be made in case he did come home. “Please let me know when you hear from him. I’ll need to be sure Gertrude times dinner for his arrival.”
    “Yes, madam. Would you like me to bring up some wine for you and Mr. Bellington?”
    “He’ll want a bottle of the cabernet, will you fetch that? Not the ’02, the ’07.” Vera brushed a hair from her forehead, then checked her chignon to make sure there were no other escapees. Everything in its place. “Oh, and please send Marguerite to my room,” she continued. “Tell her I want to change into the black silk with silver beading for dinner.”
    “Yes, madam.”
    “Thank you, Evans. That will be all for now.”
    Evans bowed slightly, then turned and went back through the door to Vera’s right, which led from the foyer to the servants’ rooms in the rear of the apartment. The three other huge oak doors on the semicircular foyer led to the library, the dining room, and the drawing room, and above them rose a dual staircase that led to the private areas of the home.
    Vera took the right-hand staircase up to the hall, her steps muted by the thick red rug that ran up to the second floor. The door to the bedroom she shared with her husband, when he was not out of town for business, was the fourth one on the left. There were six bedrooms in all, although Vera toyed with the idea of turning the conservatory into a seventh; they never used it, after all. But then they hardly used the other bedrooms, either. Though they entertained regularly, they did not have overnight guests often.
    The master bedroom held a huge brass bed, and one wall had a floor-to-ceiling window with a spectacular view. Off the main room were Vera’s dressing room, Arthur’s dressing room, and a black-and-white marble bath. Inside the bathroom was a claw-foot tub Vera had purchased in France before the war, an item she was especially proud to have found. She went into the dressing room and sat on the stool at the vanity. While waiting for her lady’s maid to bring her gown, she began removing her few items of day jewelry.
    In the moment of solitude, Vera’s conversation with her mother pushed its way back to the front of her mind. She wished she had not mentioned feeling lonely, but then
lonely
was not the most precise word. Her mother had been right; there were her so-called friends, there were charities. Though her mother failed to mention that most of Vera’s time spent on charitable causes was limited to writing checks. The constant stream of dinner parties, teas, and luncheons meant Vera rarely had any time not occupied by other people. Arthur’s work had kept him away from home throughout their marriage, so that was nothing new. Other women she knew had become mothers well before Vera’s age, but the time never seemed to be right for her marriage to transition naturally to a family, so she had waited. Still, she wanted more from her husband, and more in general, and lately the need tugged harder at her. So perhaps the word she wanted was not
lonely
, but
neglected
. Or isolated. She wondered what her mother would have thought of that.
    The maid, a slight girl with wispy blond hair, slipped into the room. She held the dress Vera had requested. “Good afternoon, madam.”
    “Ah, Marguerite,” Vera said. “Thank you.”
    Marguerite hung the dress from a bar on the wall, spreading the sleeves to avoid wrinkles. “How was lunch?”
    “You’ve met my mother.”
    The girl allowed herself a small smile. “Would you like me to arrange your hair for dinner?”
    Vera patted her dark bun and adjusted a white enamel comb. “No, thank you. It still looks lovely. I will ask you to look at my calendar, though. I need a few hours set aside tomorrow to run to a gallery for my mother. It may mean