“Christ, I hate to go to him,” Clete said, and then thought of something else: “And if I do, he’ll know Peter and I—”
“Not necessarily,” Welner replied. “You heard of Alicia’s…problem…from your wife, her dear friend. And, as your father’s son, despite the natural animosity you feel toward an enemy officer, you feel obliged to help a young woman who is like a sister to you.”
“Jesus! You are devious, aren’t you?” He chuckled and added: “Thank God!”
“Ignoring the blasphemy, my son, I will accept that as a compliment. Or—what is it you say—‘a left-handed compliment’?”
“You think my Tío Juan will help?”
“I think he will if you can force yourself to say ‘Tío Juan’ with a shade less sarcasm.”
“When necessary, Father, I can—here’s another Americanism for you—charm the balls off a brass monkey.”
Welner laughed.
“And if Tío Juan can’t—or won’t—help, then what?” Clete asked.
“I’ll do what I can, of course.”
“And what do we do if…things have gone wrong with von Wachtstein and he won’t be coming back?”
“There are a number of young men of good family…a suitable marriage can be arranged. Not only is she an attractive young woman, but she will ultimately own half of Estancia Santo Catalina.”
“Jesus, that’s awful!”
“Yes, it is,” Welner agreed. “The best thing that can be said about a marriage like that is that it’s in the best interests of the child.”
Clete shook his head and reached for the bottle of Merlot.
[FIVE]
La Casa Grande
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo
Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province
1905 18 May 1943
With a glass of Merlot in his hand, Don Cletus Frade stood at the window of the cloakroom looking through the slats of the blind at the drive where the cars of his guests would arrive for the reception. The drill, as he thought of it, was that when a car pulled up before the house, one of the servants would approach it, open the door, and lead the guests into the house and into the small sitting, which was across the foyer hall from the cloakroom.
There they would be greeted by a reception line of women. At the head of the line would be Señora Dorotéa Mallín de Frade. Beside her would be Señora Claudia Carzino-Cormano: then Señora Pamela Holworth-Talley de Mallín; and then the Señoritas Carzino-Cormano, Alicia and Isabela.
Though Señora Beatrice Frade de Duarte naturally felt entitled to a prominent place in the reception line—she had been born and raised in the Casa Grande—it was the unspoken hope of everyone concerned that her arrival would be delayed (either inadvertently, or intentionally by her husband) until the guests had passed through the reception line and gathered in the large sitting for cocktails and Champagne.
That was not to happen. The very first car to arrive was the black Rolls-Royce of Señor Humberto Duarte, and Beatrice was out of the backseat before the chauffeur could open his door.
“Shit,” Clete muttered, and put his glass on the windowsill. Then he had a second thought. Beatrice’s early arrival might disturb the women—God alone knew what she would do or say in the reception line—but he needed to talk to Humberto.
He walked onto the veranda and allowed himself to be emotionally greeted by his aunt.
“You look so elegant, Cletus!” she cried happily. “So much like your father, may he be resting in peace with your sainted mother and all the angels.”
Clete was wearing a tweed sports coat, a checkered shirt, a blue silk foulard, gabardine breeches, and glistening British-style riding boots. Their reception was informal, Dorotéa had announced, and the riding costume would set the proper tone.
After examining himself in a full-length mirror in his dressing, Clete had come to two conclusions. First, he looked like the Duke of Whateverthehell about to have tea and crumpets—whatever the hell a crumpet is—with the Duchess of Windsor. The second, truth to tell, Cletus Frade, you do look pretty spiffy.
“And you are as beautiful as ever, Beatrice,” he said. “Dorotéa’s still dressing.”