The Prodigal Daughter Read online

  “And so do you, even if it will always fall upon me to remind you.”

  Edward had been seen regularly with Florentyna during the year, and friends hoped they might soon announce their engagement, but Edward knew that would never be. This was one woman who would always be unattainable, he thought. They were destined to be close friends, never lovers.

  After Florentyna had packed her last few belongings and said goodbye to her mother, she checked that she had left nothing in her room and sat on the end of her bed reflecting on her time at Radcliffe. All she had left to show for it was that she had arrived with three suitcases and was leaving with six and a Bachelor of Arts degree. A crimson ice hockey pennant once given to her by Scott was all that remained on the wall. Florentyna unpinned the pennant, held it for a moment, then dropped it into the wastepaper basket.

  She sat in the back of the car with her father as the chauffeur drove out of the campus for the last time.

  “Could you drive a little slower?” she asked.

  “Certainly, ma’am.”

  Florentyna turned and stared out of the rear window until the spires of Cambridge were no longer visible above the trees, and there was nothing of her past to see.

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  The chauffeur brought the Rolls-Royce to a halt at the traffic lights on Arlington Street on the west side of the Public Garden. He waited for the lights to turn green while Florentyna chatted with her father about their forthcoming trip to Europe.

  As the lights changed, another Rolls passed in front of them, turning off Commonwealth Avenue. Another graduate and parent were deep in conversation in the back.

  “I sometimes think it would have been better for you to have gone to Yale, Richard,” she said.

  Richard’s mother looked at him approvingly. He already had the fine aristocratic looks that had attracted her to his father over twenty years before, and now he had made it five generations of the family who had graduated from Harvard.

  “Why Yale?” he asked gently, pulling his mother back from her reminiscences.

  “Well, it might have been healthier for you to get away from the introverted air of Boston.”

  “Don’t let Father hear you say that; he would consider such a suggestion nothing less than treason.”

  “But do you have to return to Harvard Business School, Richard? Surely there must be other business schools?”

  “Like Father, I want to be a banker. If I’m going to follow in his footsteps, Yale isn’t equipped to tie Harvard’s laces,” he said mockingly.

  A few minutes later, the Rolls came to a halt outside a large house on Beacon Hill. The front door opened and a butler stood in the doorway.

  “We have about an hour before the guests arrive,” said Richard, checking his watch. “I’ll go and change immediately. Mother, perhaps we could meet up a little before seven-thirty in the West Room?” He even sounded like his father, she thought.

  Richard bounded up the stairs two at a time; in most houses he could have managed three. His mother followed behind at a more leisurely pace, her hand never once touching the banister.

  The butler watched them disappear before returning to the pantry. Mr. Kane’s cousin, Henry Cabot Lodge, would be joining them for dinner, so he wanted to double-check that everything below stairs was perfect.

  Richard stood in the shower smiling at the thought of his mother’s concern. He had always wanted to graduate from Harvard and improve on his father’s achievements. He couldn’t wait to enroll at the Business School next fall, although he had to admit he was looking forward to taking Mary Bigelow to Barbados that summer. He had met Mary in the rehearsal rooms of the Music Society and later they were both invited to play in the university string quartet. The pert little lady from Radcliffe played the violin far better than he performed on the cello. When he eventually serenaded the reluctant Mary into bed he found she was again the better tuned, despite her pretense at inexperience. Since those days he had also discovered she was highly strung.

  Richard turned the dial to “Cold” for a brief moment before leaping out. He dried and changed into evening dress. He checked himself in the mirror: double-breasted. Richard suspected he would be the only person that night wearing the latest fashion—not that it mattered when you were a little over six feet, slim and dark. Mary had once said that he looked good in everything from jock strap to morning coat.

  He went downstairs and waited in the West Room for his mother to join him. When she appeared the butler served them both a drink.

  “Good heavens, are double-breasted suits back in fashion?” she inquired.

  “You had better believe it. The very latest thing, Mother.”

  “I can’t believe it,” she said. “I remember…”

  The butler coughed. They both looked around. “The Honorable Henry Cabot Lodge,” he announced.

  “Cabot,” said Richard’s mother.

  “Kate my dear,” he replied, before kissing her on the cheek. Kate smiled; her cousin was wearing a double-breasted jacket.

  Richard smiled, because it looked twenty years old.

  Richard and Mary Bigelow returned from Barbados almost as brown as the natives. They stopped off in New York to have dinner with Richard’s parents, who thoroughly approved of his choice. After all, she was the great-niece of Alan Lloyd, who had succeeded Richard’s grandfather as chairman of the family bank.

  Once Richard had returned to the Red House, their Boston residence on Beacon Hill, he quickly settled down and prepared himself for the Business School. Everyone had warned him it was the most demanding course at the university with the largest number of dropouts, but once the term had started, even he was surprised by how little free time he had to enjoy other pursuits. Mary began to despair when he had to relinquish his place in the string quartet and could manage to see her only on weekends.

  At the end of the first year she suggested they should return to Barbados and was disappointed to find he intended to stay put in Boston and continue studying.

  When Richard returned for his final year he was determined to finish at or near the top of his class, and his father warned him not to relax until after the last exam paper had been completed. His father had added that if he did not make the top 10 percent he needn’t apply for a position at the bank. William Kane would not be accused of nepotism.

  At Christmas, Richard rejoined his parents in New York but remained for only three days before returning to Boston. His mother became quite anxious about the pressure he was putting himself under, but Richard’s father pointed out that it was only for another six months. Then he could relax for the rest of his life. Kate reserved her opinion; she hadn’t seen her husband relax in twenty-five years.

  At Easter, Richard called his mother to say he ought to remain in Boston during the brief spring vacation, but she managed to convince him he should come down for his father’s birthday. He agreed but added that he would have to return to Harvard the next morning.

  Richard arrived at the family home on East Sixty-eighth Street just after four on the afternoon of his father’s birthday. His mother was there to greet him, as were his sisters, Virginia and Lucy. His mother considered he looked drawn and tired, and she longed for his exams to be over. Richard knew that his father would not break his routine at the bank for anyone’s birthday. He would arrive home a few minutes after seven.

  “What have you bought for Daddy’s birthday?” inquired Virginia.

  “I was waiting for your advice,” said Richard flatteringly, having quite forgotten about a present.

  “That’s what I call leaving it until the last moment,” said Lucy. “I bought my present three weeks ago.”

  “I know the very thing he needs,” said his mother. “A pair of gloves—his old ones are nearly worn out.”

  “Dark blue, leather, with no pattern,” said Richard, laughing. “I’ll go to Bloomingdale’s right now.”

  He strode down Lexington Avenue, falling in with the