Southern Belle. Fiona Hood-Stewart
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a fleeting glance at the green neon numbers flashing on the digital panel of the state-of-the-art treadmill and jabbed the speed button. The pace upped a fraction and he fell into a faster trot. Another ten minutes or so of pitting himself against the machine might just do the trick, and finally allow him to let go of some of the tension.
Hell of a day, he reflected, feeling his muscles respond to the grueling exercise. Perhaps the correct term was exorcise? He smiled grimly at the pun and, breathing harder, stared out of the huge panoramic window of what had once been the chalet cellar, now expertly converted into a small yet well-equipped gym. He gazed down the white-blanketed slope, past neighboring chalet roofs partially hidden under a relentless flurry of chunky snowflakes that hadn’t stopped all day. Skiing conditions tomorrow would be fabulous. About time he got the hell out of the chalet, away from his mother’s hinting and nagging, his adolescent son Nicky’s permanent sulking and his brother Liam’s obsessive need to work at all times, despite the festive season.
Johnny regulated his breathing and continued to run. He loved Gstaad, the magic of the mountain that he’d known since childhood, but right now he longed for the freedom of Graney, for the peat bogs and the pungent smell of his Irish moors. He wished he could simply grab his old shooting jacket and stride out in the rain across the emerald fields, breathe in that bracing air that he only breathed back home in Ireland, instead of having to dress for dinner. Thank God his mother couldn’t read his mind. He grinned suddenly. Okay, maybe he was a bit biased, as she kept reminding him, but Holy Mother of God, as his countrymen liked to say, he wouldn’t exchange the limestone hills of Kildare for anywhere in the world.
The digital panel announced another three minutes, and Johnny ran on doggedly, determined to relieve the last shreds that the frustration of being cooped up indoors had provoked.
He was still brooding over the argument he’d had earlier with Nicky, he realized, eyes fixed on the lights beginning to twinkle through the twilight in the neighboring chalets. In the distance, he could just make out the MOB—the Montreux-Oberland train—winding its way faithfully up the mountain as it always had, day after day, year after year, with barely a change in the timetable for as long as he could remember.
Absently he pressed the button and the machine slowed its relentless pace while he followed the lights of the train plodding methodically on through the night. At last the mood that had stuck with him ever since he’d stepped on to the plane in Dublin had begun to ease. He smiled. There was something very solid and reassuring about the MOB. It transmitted stability and permanence, as though nothing, not even an earthquake, could change its routine. Its constancy and punctuality were entirely reassuring. He always felt better the minute he sat down in one of the pristine carriages, the gentle jog as the train pulled out of Montreux station. The signal to let go of the stress and let the mountain take over. He always, unfailingly, took the MOB instead of being driven by chauffeur to Gstaad.
The treadmill went into an automatic countdown, then slid to a reluctant halt. Johnny dismounted, wiped his face, then, tossing the towel over his shoulder, made his way to the steam room. Might as well pop in for five minutes before showering and getting changed for dinner. His mother, he recalled, grimacing, had guests coming over.
He stripped, threw his damp shorts and T-shirt on the slatted wooden bench and, wrapping a towel around his waist, opened the heavy glass door and penetrated the thick swirl of hot steam. Lowering himself onto the tiled bench, he sat down, his bronzed, lean, muscled frame supported by the upper bench and closed his eyes. Ah, that felt good. Already he could feel his muscles releasing, his whole body beginning to relax. His thoughts traveled home to Graney Castle, to Blue Lavender whinnying in his stall and all the plans he had in mind for him.
Sweat formed on his brow and limbs and he relaxed further, letting the image of Blue Lavender passing the winning post by several lengths take hold. At three years old, he was finally ready to realize Johnny’s dreams. Already last year he’d picked up the Dewhurst Stakes, run over seven furlongs in England, meeting all his expectations and more. He’d bred a few Thoroughbred champions and had loved each one of them, but for some reason he couldn’t explain, Blue Lavender meant more to him than all the others put together. Perhaps because he’d set such ambitious goals for him.
He leaned forward, flexed his arms and sank his elbows on his sweating thighs, holding the position for several seconds before the steam became suffocating and he knew it was time to get out. Closing the door behind him, he splashed straight into the small tiled pool of ice-cold water next to the steam room.
“Aargh!” He let out a groan of pain and pleasure while absorbing the shock, followed by the deliciously agonizing impact when he ducked. Thirty seconds later he stepped out refreshed. After a hot shower, he rubbed himself down with one of the huge white monogrammed terry towels that lay rolled in neat stacks on the pine shelves surrounding him. He glanced wryly at all the exquisitely packaged designer accessories, soaps and shower gels, creams and the rest that his American mother insisted on keeping available in what she liked to called the “fitness area.” Rubbing his hair, he smiled benignly at her antics. There was even an in-house masseuse on twenty-four-hour call when she had house-guests.
Pulling on one of the heavy terry robes, lips still twitching fondly at his parent’s whims, he regretted the sharp way he’d spoken to her earlier when she’d commented on his fight with Nicky. He knew she meant well, that it hurt her feelings when he snubbed her. For beneath that regally composed front lay a deep, sensitive and caring woman who had her family’s best interests at heart. Particularly his son’s.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. Almost seven. She’d be upstairs now in the living room, ensconced among the tapestry cushions of the deep velvet sofa that Juan Pablo, her Palm Beach decorator, had insisted on. She was probably wearing one of her endless collection of plush tracksuits and her habitual array of diamonds. Her feet would be tucked under the mink-and-cashmere throw before the flames of the blazing wood fire crackling in the grate, the latest copy of W magazine resting in her lap.
Well, that was “Mother,” as she insisted on being called. She’d never been Mummy. All the years she’d been married to a peer—albeit, an Irish one—hadn’t in any way diminished her all-American verve, Johnny reflected, tenderly amused, as he walked up the stairs. A ship in full sail was how he thought of her, with her gray hair perfectly coiffed, her manicured hands sporting jewelry consistent with her age and position. And one had to give it to her, he recognized. Widow of the ninth Viscount Graney, who had been the best Thoroughbred breeder in Ireland, and sole heir to the Pennsylvania Riley steel fortune, Grace was a legend in her own right. She had, he thought, peering at her now through the half-open double doors leading into the vast wood-paneled drawing room, the air of a woman entirely at ease with what and who she was. As though sensing his presence, she looked up and lowered her glasses.
“Hello, darling. Did you have a good workout?”
“Yes, thanks. And a steam.” He moved across the room.
“Well, that’s more than your brother has done,” she remarked tartly. “I’d better warn you. He’s having a fit.”
“Oh?” Johnny flopped in the sofa opposite and hooked his ankles up on the ottoman. “Why?”
“The Brandt stock fell several points.” She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Despite this tragedy, do you think he might be persuaded to remain here for the holidays as any normal civilized person would? You know, honey, I’m becoming increasingly concerned about Liam,” she continued, brows creasing. “Instead of letting up, he seems to be more and more obsessed with work.”
“I shouldn’t worry,” Johnny murmured mildly, avoiding being caught in a discussion concerning his sibling.
“That’s all fine and dandy for you to say,” Grace sniffed, “but I do. Of course I worry. It’s a mother’s duty to worry.” She eyed him severely. “And what about Christmas, may I ask? Have you two lost every shred of family awareness? Liam with his stocks, you with those wretched horses you never want to be apart from, and Nicky sulking all day like a bad-tempered bear cub.” She waved a disparaging hand. “There are times I wonder what I ever did to deserve such an ungrateful bunch of scallywags.”