Brilliance (3 page)

‘Now I’ll tell you about your new school,’ Isabelle continued. ‘It is an exclusive boarding academy for young ladies. The headmistress prides herself on its high educational standards and, since she hopes for all her pupils to make good marriages, practical instruction on the running of a great house from bookkeeping to knowledge of cookery is included with everything else. Unfortunately the school is quite far from here as it lies just outside Bordeaux, but you can always come home on vacation, even though weekends will be out of the question. So hasn’t a splendid choice been made?’ Isabelle clapped her hands together in one of her extravagant gestures as if she expected Lisette to follow suit.

‘Yes,
Belle-mère
,’ Lisette answered truthfully. She had supposed that she would attend a local school as she had done in Lyon, but this was much better as she would be well out of her stepmother’s way. ‘When shall I leave?’

‘I thought at the end of the week. Your papa will escort you.’

Later in the day, Charles frowned when his wife told him the departure date. ‘It’s rather soon, isn’t it? I wanted you two to get to know each other, and I had planned that Lisette should meet some of the local young people and begin to strike roots.’

But he knew the matter was settled. His wife’s mind was made up.

Isabelle waved prettily with a lace handkerchief from the steps of the château as Charles and his daughter departed on their way back to Paris, where they would take a train to Bordeaux. Although it was impossible, Lisette wished that Philippe could have appeared again, but he had probably embarked already for a destination that would be as new to him as hers was about to be to her.

L
isette’s schooldays passed pleasantly. Learning came easily to her. Although she was sometimes in trouble through getting into one scrape or another, it was never for anything very serious and after some minor punishment was duly forgotten. Although she got on well with most of her fellow pupils it was an English girl, fluent in French, who became her special friend from the very first day.

‘My name is Joanna Townsend. I’m new here, Lisette.’

They were facing each other in the dormitory where they were to sleep with six other girls. Joanna had an impudent little face with a turned-up nose covered with freckles and smiling hazel eyes, her hair a tangle of bright, coppery curls.

‘Me, too,’ Lisette answered. ‘How did you know my name?’

‘By the label on your trunk. Let’s be friends.’

Joanna’s father had business interests in Paris where he lived with his wife and daughter, but in summer he took a house on the Brittany coast where Lisette was invited to stay and which Isabelle encouraged. The two girls swam and explored and picnicked with the young of other families until another summer was over and they travelled back to school together again.

As time went by Lisette found that whenever she was at the château for any length of time she drew closer to her father in a way that once she would never have believed possible. He liked her to stroll with him through the château park or accompany him on a carriage ride. It was as if he had a need to talk quietly with someone content to be with him on his own away from the constant ebb and flow of company at the château.

‘How are you getting on at school?’ He would ask, as grown-ups always did, but he seemed really interested. The two of them had outings to Paris, where he took her to important exhibitions at the Louvre and elsewhere, staying in his spacious apartment on the rue de Fauberg St Honoré. Isabelle had redecorated there too, but she was never with them and happily Lisette was able to sleep in the room where she was born.

These cultural visits were always the second time around for Charles, for he and Isabelle attended every prestigious preview.

‘So many people on those occasions are there to be seen instead of to see,’ he confided, refraining from saying that Isabelle was one of them. ‘It’s much better to come later as we are doing and look around at leisure.’

He also took her to magic lantern shows, puppet plays, concerts and, best of all, to the theatre. It was never to matinees, but to evening performances as if she were fully grown up, opening her eyes and her mind to the magic and drama of the stage. Being out at night also meant she glimpsed the Paris she was not yet old enough to visit. The lights shining out of the Moulin Rouge, its sails rotating against the stars. The dancing in the open-air cafes under rainbow-hued paper lanterns, the women’s skirts swirling, the men with their hats at jaunty angels. The sparkle of diamonds as wonderfully gowned women entered exotic nightspots with their escorts. She thought Paris was like a jewel in itself, dazzling and glorious, and Philippe’s words often came back to her about it being the only place in the world in which to live.

She had never forgotten him. His smile and kindly attention at a time when she was desperately unhappy had made a lasting impact on her that might otherwise have faded from her memory as swiftly as he had forgotten her. But it was as if he lingered at the back of her mind like a wisp of melody from a half-remembered song and would not go away.

It was a few days after Lisette had celebrated her fifteenth birthday with a party at the château that she heard Philippe Bonnard’s name again. She sat at breakfast with her father and Isabelle on the morning of her departure for the new school term after being home for Christmas and New Year.

‘I hear that young Bonnard has arrived back from Africa,’ her father remarked to Isabelle, who was pouring him a second cup of coffee. ‘It was a tragedy that he should lose his mother before he had even reached his African destination.’ He shook his head sympathetically. ‘There was no coming back for him then, but now his father has gone too, it has necessitated his return. I think his aunt should have delayed the funeral for his homecoming.’

‘I’m sure Mademoiselle Bonnard did what she thought best,’ Isabelle replied, her disinterested tone showing she held no opinion on the matter either way. ‘I met the young man briefly at the Villemonts’ recently. Madame Villemont told me how upset his mother was when he was sent away. It was as if she had had a premonition that she would not see him again.’

Lisette thought how tragic it was that Philippe should have been doubly bereaved when away from home. ‘The poor young man,’ she commented quietly.

‘Don’t waste your sympathy on him,’ her father advised, giving her a sharp nod. ‘From what I’ve been told, mourning isn’t keeping him from the nightspots and the gaming tables.’

‘You should not be so censorious, Charles,’ Isabelle remarked leniently. ‘It’s to be expected that he should wish to have some pleasure after being stuck in the back of beyond for such a long time. I think we should invite him to our next ball. We always include the younger group. There will be those among them whom he will know and it will help him to settle down again in society.’

For a moment or two Lisette wished she could be at that ball, but then she thought it would be pointless as Philippe would not remember her.

She went back to school and her own interests the next day, travelling with Joanna. They talked all the way as if Lisette had not spent more time at her friend’s home than she had at her own.

Some while ago Lisette had begun performing in school plays and latterly had been given leading roles. Charles, taking no heed of the distance he had to travel, always came to see her perform. Even when it was Shakespeare, which normally sent him to sleep, he was wide-awake in his delight at watching his daughter as Titania, Juliet or Rosalind and was quick to applaud. He also saw how unusually lovely she was becoming, although he doubted that her beauty would ever match Isabelle’s, but she was lithe and graceful and vivacious and her hair when loosened was a shimmering fair-gold cascade. He could tell she was exceptionally talented, but – mercifully to his mind – she had never spoken of any desire to go on the stage, being more interested in art, although it was Joanna who showed every sign of becoming a true artist.

When Isabelle was forty-one she gave birth to a son, who was named Maurice. Lisette’s six months with Joanna at a finishing school in Switzerland ended in time for the two of them to be back in France in time for the garden party held to celebrate the christening. Never before had either Lisette or Joanna seen a baby draped in so much silk, lace and ribbons. His angry little old man’s face was red as a tomato as he wailed lustily while being jogged around by his nurse, his mother preceding him, as he was shown off to guests. It was to everybody’s relief, including Isabelle’s, when his wailing faded from earshot as he was finally carried indoors.

Over a hundred people were present on an extremely hot day. There was a sea of top hats, parasols and wide-brimmed, flower-trimmed creations in pastel colours. Champagne flowed and long tables were set for luncheon with crystal and silver on white damask under the green awnings.

‘Your stepmother has managed to make this occasion one of the social events of the season,’ Joanna remarked with amusement as she glanced around. She and Lisette were now seventeen. Both of average height and wearing white dresses, they complemented each other’s good looks, Joanna with her flame-red hair and Lisette with her honey-fair tresses pinned up in the same fashionable style under a similar shady hat. Close as sisters, they spoke each other’s language with equal ease.

‘I think it’s the proudest day of my father’s life,’ Lisette replied, ‘although I know he would have preferred a quieter celebration. He looks worn out already.’

On the lawn Charles was moving among his guests. Not all of them had been at the church and he was welcoming new arrivals. He was not feeling well, finding the heat of the day exhausting. Although in spirit he was proud and happy, as well as more than relieved that Isabelle’s temperamental displays during pregnancy were at an end, he had not forgotten Lisette. Whenever their glances met he nodded smilingly to convey his equal pride in her.

She had wondered sometimes if he regretted the years that they had missed together since all would have been different if her mother had lived, but decided that was not the case. Before his marriage to Isabelle he had not needed her in his life. Now she had his long delayed paternal love to which she responded wholeheartedly and which made them such good companions.

Side by side she and Joanna wandered about the lawns, greeting those whom they knew and stopping to chat with others who were frequent guests at the château. Although some among them were married couples, Isabelle had a penchant for good-looking young bachelors and they had come on this occasion simply because she always gave good parties and the reason was immaterial.

Leaving Joanna in conversation with one of them, Lisette moved on. Then she paused abruptly, her gaze caught by a new arrival coming down the stone steps from the château’s terrace. In spite of the years between she had recognized him immediately. Well-dressed in a light grey suit and top hat, he was looking around for his host and hostess. It was Philippe Bonnard!

He glimpsed Isabelle first and smiled to himself as he made his way towards her. Ever since her first invitation he had been a frequent visitor to the château with others of his age group. She was such a party-loving person and fun to be with, for age was of no consequence when a woman was pretty, witty and, as in Isabelle’s case, voluptuously attractive as well. He had been told in confidence by two of his friends that while he was in Africa each had had an
affaire
with her, but neither her husband nor anyone else had ever suspected that she was not a faithful wife.

Lisette waited until he had greeted both her father and Isabelle. Then she became impatient in her eagerness to speak to him as other older people trapped him into conversation, giving her no chance to greet him on her own. When finally he broke away and hailed some of his friends she darted forward across the lawn and into his path before he could reach them.

‘How are you, Philippe?’

Surprised, he gazed with pleasure at the girl who had suddenly appeared in front of him. Young and smiling, violet-blue eyes dancing as if in on some secret joke, she was on the brink of becoming extremely beautiful. He racked his mind as to whom she could be, but was completely baffled. ‘Mademoiselle! A pleasure!’ he answered automatically.

She laughed delightedly. ‘I knew you wouldn’t remember me, but I’m not in the least offended. It was so long ago that we met on the train from Lyon just before you left for West Africa. I’m Lisette Decourt.’

His host’s daughter! He decided to be honest, shaking his head with a grin. ‘I have to confess I still don’t remember that meeting, but I’m very glad to meet you now, Lisette.’ He took her hand in the conventional manner and bent over it. ‘Perhaps we can get to know each other all over again.’

‘I should like that very much,’ she responded with equal frankness, fired through with happiness. He was as handsome as she remembered, but matured now with a man’s face and physique. It seemed to her, with a thought as heady as champagne, that she had been waiting all those intervening years for this reunion with him today. She introduced him to Joanna and others joined them, the time passing merrily.

It was as Philippe watched her laughing and chatting that he wondered why he had not met her before. She must have been home at times when there were balls and other social events at the château. Yet he could guess the reason. Somehow Isabelle had managed to keep her out of the way, not wanting her own mature beauty to be overshadowed by her stepdaughter’s fresh young loveliness. Yet perhaps by now Isabelle had realized that she had charms enough to dominate any scene for an admirer.

It was as Charles Decourt stood up at the central table to make a short speech at the end of the luncheon that the celebratory atmosphere of the day was shattered. With all eyes on him he started well by expressing his pleasure that so many had been able to celebrate this very special occasion with him and his wife, and then he faltered, his colour changing. Even as a doctor among the guests started to rise to his feet, Charles clutched at his chest, falling back across his chair and down on to the ground. People exclaimed in dismay and confusion reigned.