A Perfect Stranger (35 page)

Because you have neither killed nor destroyed anyone. God, I wish I could get that across to you. But she knew that it was almost hopeless. Raphaella was locked in her private dungeon and could barely hear what was being said. Then you won't come to Paris?

No. She smiled gently. But I thank you for the invitation. And Mandy looks wonderful. It was the signal that Raphaella no longer wished to talk about herself. She was no longer willing to discuss her decisions. She suggested instead that they visit the rose gardens at the far end of the estate. After that they rejoined Amanda, and a little while later it was time for them to go. She watched them leave with a look of regret and then walked back into the big house and across the pink marble hallway and made her way slowly up the stairs.

As Charlotte drove their rented car through the main gates of Santa Eugenia, Amanda burst into tears. But why wouldn't she come to Paris?

There were tears in Charlotte's eyes as well. Because she didn't want to, Mandy. She wants to bury herself alive here.

Couldn't you talk to her? Mandy blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes. God, she looked awful. She looks like she died, not him.

In a way I think she did. Charlotte let the tears roll down her cheeks as she turned onto the highway to Madrid.

It was in September that Alejandra began to push Raphaella. The rest of the family had gone back to Barcelona and Madrid, and Raphaella was determined to sit out the winter at Santa Eugenia. She insisted that she wanted to work on another children's book, but it was a lame excuse. She had no interest in writing anymore and she knew it. But her mother insisted that Raphaella return with her to Madrid.

I don't want to, Mother.

Nonsense. It'll be good for you.

Why? I can't go to the theater or the opera or any dinner parties.

Her mother looked pensive as she gazed at the wan, tired face before her. It's been nine months, Raphaella. You could go out with me once in a while.

Thank you' . She looked bleakly at her mother. But I want to stay here. The discussion had gone nowhere for over an hour, and as usual, afterward Raphaella had disappeared to her room. She would sit there for hours, looking out at the gardens, thinking, dreaming. There were fewer letters to answer now. And she never read books anymore. She just sat there, thinking, sometimes about John Henry, sometimes about Alex, and about moments they had shared. Then she would think about the trip to Paris, when her father had thrown her out of his house and called her a whore. After that she would think of the scene she had found when she came home that night, after John Henry ' and then her father's arrival' his calling her a murderess. She would simply sit there, living in her memories and staring outside, seeing nothing, going nowhere, doing nothing as she dwindled away. Her mother was even afraid to leave Santa Eugenia; there was something frightening about the way Raphaella behaved. She was so removed, so distracted, so distant, so indifferent. She never seemed to eat anymore, never spoke to anyone unless she had to, never entered into jokes or discussions or moments of laughter. It was ghastly to see her that way. But at the end of September her mother finally insisted.

I don't care what you say, Raphaella. I'm taking you back to Madrid. You can lock yourself up there. Besides, she was tired of the dreary autumn in the country. She herself was hungry for amusement, she couldn't understand how a young woman of thirty-four could bear the life she led. So Raphaella packed her bags and went with her, saying nothing on the drive and then going upstairs to the large suite of rooms she always occupied in her mother's house. No one even seemed to notice her anymore as she drifted among them. The aunts or the cousins or the brothers or the uncles. They had simply come to accept her the way she now was.

Her mother began the season with a round of parties, there was music and dancing and laughter in the house. She endorsed several benefits and took large groups to the opera, gave large and small dinners, and seemed to constantly entertain an army of friends. By the first of December Raphaella could no longer stand it. It seemed as though every time she went downstairs there were forty people waiting there in evening dresses and black ties. And her mother had flatly refused to allow her to continue to eat in her rooms. She insisted that it was unhealthy, and even though she was in mourning, she could at least eat with her mother's guests. Besides, it did her good to see people, her mother insisted, but Raphaella didn't agree. At the end of the first week of December she decided to get away and picked up the phone. She made a reservation on a plane to Paris, figuring that a few days in the solemnity of her father's quarters would be something of a relief. She always wondered how the two of them had stood each other, her mother so gregarious, so flighty, so social, her father so serious and so austere. But the answer of course was that her mother lived in Madrid, while her father stayed in Paris. Nowadays he very seldom came to Spain. He felt he was too old for Alejandra's frivolous entertainments, and Raphaella had to admit that she had come to feel that way herself.

She called her father to let him know that she was coming, but assumed that it would present no particular problem for him. She had a room in his house too. He was not home when she called his number, but the phone was answered by a new maid. She decided then to surprise him and reminded herself that she hadn't been in the house since the year before when he had confronted her about the affair with Alex. But now for nine months she had atoned for at least some of her sins, with her agonizing monastic life in Spain. She knew that her father approved of what she was doing, and after the ferocity of his accusations it was a relief to know that he might approve of her a little more now.

The plane to Paris was half empty. She took a taxi in from Orly Airport and stood for a moment looking up at the splendor of her father's house when she arrived. In a way it always felt odd to be back there. This was the house she had lived in as a child, and she could never quite return without feeling somehow as though she weren't a woman but was once more that small child. The house also reminded her of John Henry, his early trips to Paris, their long walks in the Luxembourg Gardens, and their meandering along the Seine.

She rang the doorbell and the door was opened, again by an unfamiliar face. It was a maid in a starched uniform with a sour face and thick black eyebrows who looked at her inquiringly as the taxi driver brought her bags inside.

Yes?

I am Madame Phillips, Monsieur de Mornay-Malle's daughter. The little maid nodded at her, looking neither impressed nor interested in her arrival, and Raphaella smiled. Is my father at home?

The young woman nodded with an odd look in her eyes. He's ' upstairs. It was eight o'clock in the evening and Raphaella hadn't been entirely sure that she would find her father at home. But she knew that he would either be in, dining alone, or out for the evening. She ran no risk of encountering a party like those at her mother's, with dancing, laughing couples drifting through the halls. Her father was a good deal less social and he preferred to meet people in restaurants instead of at home.

Raphaella nodded pleasantly again at the woman. I'll go up to see him. Would you be so kind as to have one of the men bring the bags up to my room in a while? And then, realizing that the woman might not know which one it was, The big blue bedroom on the second floor.

Oh, said the maid, and then suddenly she clamped her mouth shut as though she couldn't bring herself to say more. Yes, madame. She nodded her head at Raphaella and hurried back to the pantry as Raphaella walked slowly up the stairs. There was no particular joy for her in coming back here, but it was peaceful at least, and it was a relief after the constant movement in the house in Spain. She realized as she reached the second landing that after she sold the house in San Francisco she would have to set up an establishment of her own. She was thinking of buying a little piece of land near Santa Eugenia and putting up a small house adjoining the main grounds. While it was under construction, she could live peacefully at Santa Eugenia. It would give her the perfect excuse not to be in town. All of that was part of what she wanted to discuss with her father. He had been handling the estate for her since she had left San Francisco, and now she wanted to know where things stood. In a few more months she wanted to go back to California and close up the house for good.

She hesitated for a moment in front of her father's study, looking at the elaborately carved double doors, and then she walked on quietly to her own room, to take off her coat, wash her hands, and comb her hair. There was no rush to see her father. She assumed that he would probably be reading in his library or going over some papers, smoking a cigar.

Without stopping to think of what she was doing, she turned the large brass knob and stepped into the anteroom of her old room. There were two sets of double doors that sealed off the entrance, and she passed through one set and then casually opened the next one and walked into the room. But there was the suddenly startling feeling of having walked into the wrong apartment. There was a tall heavyset blond woman seated at her dressing table, wearing a blue lace peignoir ringed with a soft fluff of feathers around the neck, and when she stood up to face Raphaella with a look of audacious inquiry, Raphaella saw that her blue satin slippers matched her robe. For an endless moment Raphaella only stood there, not able to understand who the woman was.

Yes? With an air of authority she gazed at Raphaella, and for a moment Raphaella thought that she was going to be told to leave her own room. And then suddenly she realized that it was quite obvious that her father had house guests, and here she had arrived totally unannounced. But it was no problem really. She could sleep in the large yellow and gold guest room on the third floor. It did not occur to her as she stood there that it was odd that her father's houseguests did not have that room instead of hers.

I'm terribly sorry' .I thought She didn't know whether to advance and introduce herself or back out saying nothing at all.

Who let you in here?

I'm not sure. There seems to be a new maid. She smiled pleasantly and the woman advanced on her angrily, and for a moment Raphaella got the feeling that this was the heavy-set woman's house. Who are you?

Raphaella Phillips. She blushed faintly and the woman stopped in her tracks. And as Raphaella watched her she got the feeling that she had met this woman somewhere before. There was something vaguely familiar about the heavily lacquered blond helmet, the set of her eyes, something about her, but Raphaella couldn't place it, and with that, her father came in through the boudoir door. He was wearing a dark red silk bathrobe, and he looked pomaded and clean and perfectly groomed, but all he wore was the bathrobe, hanging slightly open, his legs and feet bare, and the gray tufts on his chest peeking through the open robe. Oh' . Raphaella backed toward the door as though she had walked into a room she should never have entered. As she did so she realized that it was exactly what she had done. She had walked right into an assignation, and as the realization of that hit her the woman's identity struck her with full force. Oh, my God. And then Raphaella just stood there, staring at her father and the blond woman, who was the wife of the most important Cabinet minister in France.

Please leave, us Georgette. His tone was austere but his face looked nervous, and the woman flushed and turned away. Georgette' . He spoke to her softly, nodding toward the boudoir, and she disappeared and he faced his daughter, pulling the robe tightly closed. May I ask what you're doing here like this, unannounced, and in this room?

She looked at him for a long time before answering, and suddenly the rage that she should have felt a year earlier washed over her with a force she could neither stop nor resist. Step by step she advanced toward him with a light in her eyes he had never seen there before. Instinctively his hand went out to the back of the chair near him, and something inside him trembled as he faced his child.

What am I doing here, Papa? I came to visit you. I thought I'd come to see my father in Paris. Is that surprising? Perhaps I should have called, and spared Madame the embarrassment of being recognized, but I thought it might be more amusing to come as a surprise. And the reason I am standing in this room, Father, is because it used to be mine. But I think what is far more to the point is what you are doing in this room, Father. You with the saintly morals and the endless speeches. You who threw me out of this house over a year ago and called me a whore. You who called me a murderess because I killed' my seventy-seven-year-old husband who had been almost dead for nine years. And what if Monsieur le Ministre has a stroke tomorrow, Papa, then will you be a murderer too? What if he has a heart attack? What if he finds out he has cancer and kills himself because he can't bear it, then will you bear the guilt and punish yourself as you've punished me? What if your affair with his wife ends his political career? And what about her, Papa? What about her? What are you keeping her from? What right do you have to this while my mother sits in Madrid? What right do you have that I did not have a year ago with a man I loved? What right' ? How dare you! How dare you! She stood before him, trembling and shouting in his face.

How dare you have done to me what you did last year. You threw me out of this house and sent me to Spain that night because you said you would not have a whore under your roof. Well, you have a whore under your roof, Papa. She pointed hysterically at the boudoir, and before he could stop her, she strode to the door, where she found the minister's wife sitting on the edge of a Louis XVI chair, crying softly into a handkerchief as Raphaella looked down at her. Good day, madame.

Then she turned to her father. And good-bye. I will not spend a night under the same roof as a whore either, and you, Papa, are the whore, not Madame here, and not I. You are' you are' . She began to sob hysterically. What you said to me last year almost killed me' for almost a year I've tortured myself over what John Henry did, while everyone else told me that I was innocent, that he did it because he was so old and so sick and so miserable. Only you accused me of killing him and called me a whore. You said that I disgraced you, that I had risked a scandal that would destroy your good name. And what about you, damn you? What about her? She waved vaguely at the woman in the blue peignoir. Don't you think this would be a scandal to top all scandals? What about your servants? What about Monsieur le Ministre? What about the voters? What about your clients at the bank? Don't you care about them? Or is it that I am the only one who can be disgraceful? My God, what I did was so much less than this. And you have a right to this, if it's what you want. Who am I to tell you what you can and can't do, what's wrong and what isn't? But how dare you call me names. How dare you do what you did to me. She hung her head for a moment, sobbing, and then glared at him again. I will never forgive you, Papa' never' .