Love Among the Walnuts Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  Part Two

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  Part Three

  CHAPTER 21

  Twice Upon a Marigold

  1

  Copyright © 1998 by Jean Ferris

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and

  retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should

  be submitted online at www.harcourt.com/contact or mailed to the

  following address: Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc.,

  6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

  www.HarcourtBooks.com

  Excerpt from Twice Upon a Marigold copyright © 2008 by Jean Ferris

  First Harcourt paperback edition 2008

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  Ferris, Jean, 1939–

  Love among the walnuts/Jean Ferris,

  p. cm.

  Summary: Born and raised in isolation in a wealthy, eccentric family,

  Sandy is shocked when he, his parents, and their servants become

  victims of a vicious plot by his greedy uncles to incapacitate

  them and take their money.

  [1. Crime—Fiction. 2. Wealth—Fiction. 3. Uncles—Fiction.]

  I. Title.

  PZ7.F4174Lr 1998

  [Fic]—dc21 97-50291

  ISBN 978-0-15-201590-9

  ISBN 978-0-15-206227-9 pb

  Text set in Sabon

  Designed by Camilla Filancia

  DOM C E G H F D B

  Printed in the United States of America

  To the memory of

  JACKIE DEWEY EVERINGHAM

  who named this book

  and who knew plenty about love

  Part One

  CHAPTER 1

  Once upon a time there was a very wealthy young man named Horatio Alger Huntington-Ackerman. When he was a little boy he liked the fact that his initials spelled HAHA, because he found that in spite of some problems with his family, there was a lot to laugh about. But as he grew up and made his vast fortune and dealt with the world, it seemed that there were fewer and fewer things to feel HAHA about.

  Two of the things that were making his enjoyment of life less than it had been were his brothers, Bartholemew Algernon Huntington (who hadn't gotten along with his father and so didn't use the Ackerman) and Bernard Aloysius Ackerman (who hadn't gotten along with his mother and so didn't use the Huntington). Interestingly, both the brothers' initials made the same sound, though spelled differently.

  Bart and Bernie were younger than Horatio, and when they were children they had all gotten along well. Horatio was the big brother and so tried to be a good example for his younger siblings. But when they grew up, Bart and Bernie were unable to duplicate Horatio's splendid successes, and they became jealous and mean-spirited. Horatio enjoyed their company less and less, until one day, he discovered he didn't enjoy it at all.

  Although Horatio lived in an elegant town house in the choicest midtown location near his office buildings, stockbrokers, banks, financial advisers, lawyers, tax accountants, and health club, he gradually came to realize that all these things—considered by many (including Bart and Bernie) to be among the finest life had to offer—were not making him as happy as he had been in his childhood, when he had had none of them.

  Furthermore, it upset his digestion to spend all day wearing a three-piece suit and watching other men and women struggle to achieve what he had, sometimes by means of which he couldn't approve. When he tried to tell them that what he had achieved was no guarantee of happiness, they said, "Of course not, we know that." But he could tell by the look in their eyes that they didn't believe him.

  There were more and more days when it was difficult for Horatio to leave his elegant town house; more and more days when he put on his maroon silk dressing gown and went into his library instead of going to work. He took down from the tall dark shelves the books from his childhood that had given him such pleasure: The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Treasure Island, Peter Pan, The Wind in the Willows, and The Chronicles of Narnia. He sat in his deep, leather wing chair and read his books and a smile appeared on his lips—a smile that was absent when he was in his office.

  Horatio realized, of course, that this was not a healthy thing for him to be doing. He was a young man with a successful business empire that was making him lots of money. He had many acquaintances, which some people regard as the same as having many friends, and invitations to more things than he could possibly attend. He was also quite nice looking and talented at other things besides making money. He could play the guitar, model lifelike animals from clay, and play pool like a professional.

  Bentley, his valet, worried about him. He suggested endless games of pool. He bought pounds of clay, which lay untouched in the studio. He brought home new guitar music. He planned parties, trips to art galleries, and excursions to the park and the movies.

  Horatio sometimes agreed to go, but he was always glad to get home again, to his library and his old books.

  One day Bentley presented Horatio with two tickets to Social Service, the hottest new musical in town. Tickets were expensive and almost impossible to get, and Bentley had gone to a lot of trouble to obtain them.

  "It's supposed to be the best show in years, Horatio," Bentley said. "Who would you like me to call to go with you?"

  "Why don't you use the tickets, Bentley?" Horatio asked. "Take Flossie. I'll even treat you both to dinner any place you want."

  "I got these tickets for you," Bentley said. "And you must use them. You can't keep sitting around here moping and reading in that dark library. You've got to get back out into the world."

  "Why?" Horatio asked. "I've got more money than anybody could sensibly want. There's no reason to make any more. The world is an ugly place, full of crime and pollution. Not to mention Bart and Bernie." He shuddered at the thought of them. "I've decided to stay as far away from it as possible."

  He hadn't actually decided any such thing, but the minute he said that, he knew it was what he bad decided to do. "You go," he said to Bentley. "Take Flossie. She'll love it."

  Bentley had been engaged to Flossie for eleven years. He loved her dearly and definitely intended to marry her someday, just as soon as he quit being afraid that marriage meant the end of romance.

  "No," Bentley said firmly. "These tickets are for you, and you're going to use them if I have to carry you there on my back. If you won't go with anybody else, I'll go with you."

  Horatio sighed, knowing he would have to go to avoid hurting Bentley's feelings, but dreading the thought of getting all dressed up, being driven through the city traffic in the Daimler, and fighting the crowds at the theater. The trip would be even worse if somebody recognized him. Then a crowd would gather and the people would want to touch him and get h
is autograph; and strange women would give him their phone numbers. He wished Bentley would leave him alone.

  CHAPTER 2

  The night of the play, Horatio did his best. He got dressed in his tuxedo and his shiny patent leather shoes, and the outfit did make him feel a little better. Shuffling around in his dressing gown was a lonely and gloomy thing to do.

  The traffic wasn't too bad, and the Daimler was quiet and comfortable and air-conditioned. People recognized him in the lobby of the theater, but they were polite and respectful for once.

  The play was about a wealthy and eccentric woman who was a social crusader. She was so busy she had time only for her work, and she had a fleet of young women to do everything else for her. One chewed her gum for her, one carried her purse for her, one dressed and undressed her, one held the telephone so she could write with both hands while she talked on the phone.

  The wealthy woman wanted only beauty around her because she thought ugliness was distracting and interfered with her work. Therefore, all her helpers were gorgeous and wore beautiful things. One of the woman's eccentricities was requiring the young women to wear only white clothing, and white fur coats. (The fur was fake because she didn't want real animals dying for the coats.) The white clothes were made of the finest silks and satins and cottons, lavish with lace and ribbons and ruffles.

  The young woman who held the telephone captured Horatio's attention from the beginning of the play. With her glossy brown curls and thick dark eyelashes, she wasn't any more beautiful than any of the others, but her eyes seemed friendly, and the corners of her mouth, even in repose, turned up in a smile. Only someone with a smile inside herself could look like that, Horatio thought.

  At intermission he searched the program for her name, but since the actresses didn't have speaking parts, they were all lumped together under the heading of HELPERS. Was she Fifi Fernandez? Poodles Pennington? Fleur LaRoche? Mousey Malone?

  The minute the curtain closed at the end of the play, he ran backstage, with a bewildered Bentley hurrying behind him. They burst into the dressing room where the actresses were taking off their makeup and changing their clothes. Bentley, enjoying the shrieks and scurrying, was glad he hadn't brought Flossie. Horatio noticed nothing but his beautiful, smiling girl.

  She sat at a dressing table, her fingers in a jar of cold cream. Horatio took her hands, not even noticing the cold cream squeezed between his fingers and hers, and said into her surprised face, "Fleur?"

  She shook her head and the ends of her smile turned up a little.

  "Poodles?" he asked.

  She shook her head again and smiled a little more.

  "Then it's Fifi?"

  Again she shook her head. "Mousey," she said in a small and squeaky voice. "Mousey Malone."

  Being treated to the full power of Mousey's smile was like walking into a rainbow. "Mousey Malone," Horatio said, dazed. "What a beautiful name. My name is Ho ... ah, Homer Smith. Mousey, please have dinner with me. I've something important I must talk to you about."

  "Are you an honest man, Homer Smith? An honorable man? A respectful man?" she asked earnestly.

  "Oh yes, I am."

  "Then I'd love to," she squeaked, gently removing her slippery hands from his. "I'll meet you outside."

  Horatio paced in the hall in front of the dressing room. "Bentley, have you ever seen a more beautiful girl? Have you ever seen a more beautiful smile? That girl has the secret for finding joy in life, I know it. Nobody could smile like that if she didn't know where to find joy. I have a feeling she's the answer."

  "What's the question?" Bentley asked, pleased, though somewhat startled that his plan to cheer Horatio up had worked even better than he'd hoped.

  Horatio ignored him. "I feel better right now than I have in months. I want to marry that girl, Bentley. I need to marry her." He stopped pacing and took the lapels of Bentley's tuxedo in his hands. "Do you think she'd have me? I know this is sudden but my business hunches are never wrong; and I don't think this hunch is wrong, either. Do you think she'd be interested?"

  Bentley looked at his crumpled lapels. "Maybe. You're young, rich, handsome, honest, unaffected, sincere, and well educated. Though why she'd want to give up a career as a struggling actress who can't get a speaking part in a play, I wouldn't know."

  Horatio's hands dropped from Bentley's lapels. "Oh, no. I never thought of that. Her career."

  Just then the dressing-room door opened and Mousey came out, wrapped in a fake mink coat. "Here I am," she said with her little voice and big smile.

  "Wonderful, Mousey, you look just wonderful," Horatio said, his eyes glazed with admiration. "My car's just outside." Without removing his gaze from Mousey, he said, "Bentley, take us someplace nice and come back in four hours." He held his arm out to Mousey, who solemnly took it. Bentley took his other arm and guided them both out the door.

  CHAPTER 3

  Horatio and Mousey were settled at a corner table in the best restaurant in town, screened from the other diners by a leafy potted tree. The waiter had just poured their first glass of champagne.

  Horatio raised his glass. "To your performance. I couldn't take my eyes off you." They sipped. Horatio leaned toward her. "What is the secret of joy?"

  Mousey thought for a moment. "Doing what you like best."

  "Of course," he said. "How simple. And how true." He hesitated. "And what you like best is acting?"

  "I'm never happier than when I'm on a stage," she said, and looked sadly down into her champagne.

  "What's wrong?" Horatio asked anxiously.

  "This is probably the last play I'll ever be in."

  "Why do you say that? Your performance was—" He couldn't think of a word good enough.

  "Listen to me," she said. "My voice. Why do you think everybody calls me Mousey?"

  "Well, can't you take voice lessons? You have such wonderful stage presence. You just need to learn to ... to project a little," he said tactfully.

  "I've tried that. There's something wrong with my voice. I'll never be able to project past the second row. But I love the stage." Tears trembled on her thick lashes.

  Horatio took her hand. "What about nonspeaking parts?" he asked tenderly.

  "How many of those do you think there are? I'm tired of being a chorus girl and a spear carrier. This is the best part I've had in my whole career, and I'm not likely to find another one like it. I just have to face it. I'm finished." Two iridescent tears slid down her pearly cheeks. Horatio watched in fascination and pain.

  "What if you had your own theater, one with only two rows, where you could do anything you want, and you wouldn't have to worry about projecting?"

  "What kind of theater has only two rows? Who would come to a theater like that?"

  "I would," he said. "It could be a theater in your own house."

  "Don't be cruel," she said. "I live in a fourth-floor walk-up with a bathroom down the hall."

  "I mean in our house."

  "What?" Her tears hesitated momentarily.

  "Our house," Horatio repeated. "Mousey, will you marry me?"

  "You told me you were an honest and honorable and respectful man. I don't think it's very nice of you to make fun of me."

  "I only lied to you once, when I told you my name was Homer Smith. Everything else is true, I swear it."

  "Homer Smith, who are you?"

  He took a deep breath. "My full name is Horatio Alger Huntington-Ackerman. I'm one of the ten richest men in the United States. And until I met you, I was one of the ten unhappiest."

  "Horatio Alger Huntington-Ackerman? The chemist and business wizard who invented chemical-free Pensa-Cola, The Thinking Man's Drink? And Damitol, Asylum-Strength Pain Relief Without Side Effects? And Quiche-on-a-Stick? I don't believe you."

  "It's true, Mousey. But you have no idea how unhappy all that success and money can make a person if there's no joy in his life, no one to have fun with. I know we can be happy together. I'll do anything in the world for you. Ple
ase say you'll marry me."

  "No." She was gentle but firm.

  "Why not?"

  "Because you'd think I was marrying you only for your money and you'd never believe that I really loved you and after a while it would make you sour. I wouldn't marry you unless you were sure I loved you."

  "How can I be sure? How can one ever be sure?"

  "I could sign something that said I'd never ask for any money from you if we weren't happy together and decided to part."

  "Oh, Mousey. You are honest and honorable and respectful. All right. Now will you marry me?"

  "Yes," Mousey said. Her smile was so dazzling as she looked into Horatio's enraptured face that people dining in the restaurant turned around to see where the light was coming from.

  A month later—a month during which Horatio had a two-row theater constructed in his town house—he and Mousey were married in a small ceremony in the garden. The only guests were Bentley and Flossie; Bart and Bernie; and Fleur, Poodles, and Fifi.

  Bart and Bernie were furious. Until Horatio married, they were his direct heirs and had always been hopeful that he would work himself into an early grave and spare them the trouble of ever having to earn an honest living. Now that he was married, Mousey and any children they might have would be his heirs. Bart and Bernie wore black to the wedding and glowered and grumbled so much that not even Fleur, Poodles, and Fifi—who knew how to have a good time better than most people—could erase their scowls.

  Flossie caught the bouquet and looked at Bentley with misty, sentimental eyes, which made him nervous. With Horatio and Mousey to take care of now, he was much too busy to get married, even if the two of them did make marriage seem like a more romantic arrangement than he'd previously believed it to be.

  Horatio and Mousey, absorbed totally in each other, noticed nothing except what an excellent day it was to be getting married. The hour before the ceremony, Mousey met with Horatio and his attorneys in the library to sign the papers saying she wanted none of Horatio's money. Instead, Horatio announced to her that because she had proven she loved him by being willing to renounce all his millions, he had decided it was unnecessary for her to sign the papers and everything that was his was now hers, as well.