“I have another idea…why don’t we all celebrate with champagne and scones at the Carlyle? It’s Lucie’s favorite,” Cecil suggested.
“Sure!” Marian and Freddie gamely agreed.
The four of them strolled over to Madison Avenue together, and before long they were seated at what Cecil insisted was the “prime table” in the jewel-box-like gallery of the Carlyle Hotel.
“My bride deserves the best seat in the house! We can see absolutely everyone entering and exiting from here, and, more importantly, they can see us. Are you comfortable, Mrs. Churchill?” Cecil said as he tried to fluff up the silk pillow behind Marian with a series of needless karate chops.
“Very comfortable, thank you. You can stop hitting the pillow, Cecil,” Marian replied.
“Don’t you love this room and its superb stenciled walls? You know it’s all inspired by the sultan’s dining room at Topkapi Palace in Constantinople. Mongiardino at his best. You know my mother tried to get him to design the interiors of our first plane, but then he died. I’m so glad those Chinese owners knew well enough to leave the gallery alone when they bought the place…”
Cecil paused for a split second, as if it had just dawned on him that his future mother-in-law was Chinese and his bride half Chinese, and maybe his statement could be perceived as a tad offensive. If the notion momentarily disturbed him, it was forgotten as soon as the waiter arrived and Cecil held court over the table, ordering afternoon tea with a smorgasbord of finger sandwiches, scones, and petits fours for everyone, selecting the right vintage of champagne from the wine list, and, most important, making sure everything was served on his approved china. “Please take away these dishes with the blue-and-gold pattern you use for regular guests. Talk to Stephanie—she knows where the hand-painted Limoges that have been put on reserve for me is kept.”
“Cecil has his own set of teacups stored here,” Lucie explained to her brother.
“Seriously? What’s wrong with the ones they have?” Freddie probed.
“Freddie, tea always tastes much better served in Second Empire French porcelain,” Cecil began to lecture. “But more importantly, look at your sister’s ravishing lips! They’re like a hybrid between Andie MacDowell’s and Charlotte Gainsbourg’s. I simply cannot allow these precious lips to touch a teacup unless it has a rim thinner than 1.3 millimeters!”
“What would happen if they did?” Freddie stared at his sister’s lips, wide-eyed.
“It would simply never happen. I wouldn’t permit it! From now on, Freddie, your sister is going to be treated like the divine empress she was born to be,” Cecil declared.
“Got that, Freddie?” Lucie said with a little giggle.
Cecil turned to Marian. “Mrs. Churchill, you deserve a special prize for your patience today!”
“What do you mean?” Marian asked.
“I know you’re only being polite, but I cannot believe that you haven’t asked to see the engagement ring yet!”
“Oh, yeah, let’s see the ring, Lucie,” Marian remembered, trying to summon up enough enthusiasm to impress her future son-in-law. Lucie shyly extended her hand across the table and caught her mother recoiling almost imperceptibly. “Oh, wow, Lucie. Oh, wow,” was all Marian could muster up.
Freddie whistled. “Look at the size of that thing! It looks like a tumor on her finger. Where’s Dr. Pimple Popper when you need her?”
“Very funny, Freddie,” Cecil said a little crossly. He looked up and suddenly his frown transformed into a look that a penitent might reserve for the apparition of the Virgin Mary, as a trio of exceedingly chic women entered the room with a cute young girl dressed in riding breeches.
“Why, it’s Jackie, Martha, Alicia, and Helena! Hot damn, everyone’s here today!” Cecil sprang up from his seat to give double-cheeked air-kisses to the lad
ies, before patting little Helena on her head as if he were dribbling a basketball. “Ladies, may I present my new fiancée, Lucy Churchill? You know, her father was Reggie Churchill, and she’s the granddaughter of Consuelo Barclay Churchill.”
“Yes, Cecil, we know. And don’t forget she’s also the daughter of one of our country’s pioneering geneticists, Dr. Marian Tang Churchill,” Jackie said graciously, giving Marian a wink.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Cecil stammered, realizing his faux pas. He hadn’t realized Marian would know this particularly glamorous set of ladies.
“It’s hard to believe our town’s most eligible playboy is now officially off the market,” Martha wryly remarked.
“He sure is. And here’s the proof!” Cecil grabbed Lucie’s wrist and thrust it at the ladies, who gasped in unison.
“Stunning! Is it Verdura?” Martha asked.
“What a compliment, Martha. No, it is an original Cecil Pike! The cabochon emerald is forty-nine carats and belonged to the Nizam of Hyderabad. The accent rubies are from my mother, bought from the Patiño auction many years ago, and then I had Laurence Graff personally select these twelve brilliant-cut diamonds to go around the band. All D flawless, of course.”
“It looks like something one of the infantas might have worn in a Velázquez,” Alicia, an art historian, observed.
“You know, that’s precisely what I was going for! I was channeling the Duchess of Alba when I designed the piece, if you really want to know,” Cecil said, his eyes misting a little.
“You did good, Cecil! I’m sure Cayetana would have approved!” Jackie declared.*3