Leonie (30 page)

“Oh, I dare say,” she replied. “I’ll speak to Madame Frenard for you.”

“You work here then? Fantastic—I was rescued by the fair maid from the inn. I should write a song about you.”

“Wait here,” she said, leaving him dripping in the hallway. “I’ll get you some towels and some dry things and then I’ll show you your room.” In the kitchen she explained their visitor to the Frenards, returning minutes later with an armful of towels, a pair of workman’s pants, and an old shirt. “I don’t suppose they’ll fit.” She smiled ruefully. “Monsieur Frenard is wider than you, and shorter.”

“They’ll do,” he said cheerfully. “Now lead the way, fair maiden.”

Léonie showed him to a room and hurried off to change. She wondered what he looked like when he was dry and, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, mud-spattered and rain-soaked, her hair an unkempt tangle of sodden strands, she laughed. No wonder he had thought she worked here. Well, there was no reason to disillusion him. She did work here.

She bathed quickly and changed into a fresh cotton skirt and a soft white shirt, rolling up the sleeves in a workmanlike fashion. She toweled her hair, braiding it loosely out of her way, and went off to help Madame Frenard in the kitchen. It was almost supper-time and the inn had a guest. Her first guest. It was exciting.

Charles d’Aureville buckled the old blue pants around his lean waist, smiling as he rolled up the ankles—at least if they were too short it was better to make them shorter than having them flap around his calves. His canvas boat shoes were still wet so he had to go barefoot. He hoped they wouldn’t mind. His glance took in the small room overlooking the rainswept sea and he counted himself lucky to have found such a snug haven. He’d better find the girl, buy her a glass of pastis, and thank her for her help. He could smell food cooking.

Following the delicious aromas, he made his way along the corridor to the small dining room. The girl, neat now in a skirt
and shirt, was setting a table with blue-glazed dishes. She looked up as he came in, swinging the blond braid from over her shoulder, smiling at him with the most amazing eyes. Was this the same girl? “Hello, it is you, isn’t it?” he asked with a grin.

Léonie stared at him. He was tall with the wiry, muscular leanness of an athlete. His dark hair curled crisply and his curiously light eyes—were they gray or hazel?—regarded her quizzically.

“And it is you,” she answered. “I can tell by Monsieur Frenard’s pants!”

“You certainly look better than I do.” He laughed. “I must thank you for coming to rescue me. There’s just one thing … what would you have done if I’d been swept overboard?”

“I’d have gone in after you, of course, I’d have fished you out.”

He believed she would! “Well then, my brave rescuer, will you share a bottle of wine with me?”

Léonie plunked the bottle on the table. “This is on the house,” she said, “we never charge shipwrecked mariners. We usually find they have no money in their pockets.”

He slapped his hands to his pockets—of course, he didn’t have any money! “I’ll pay you back,” he promised. “My mother taught me always to be honest and never to take money from a woman.”

Léonie laughed, filling their glasses. “The sky is clearing. Shall we go out onto the terrace?”

“Look,” he said, “if you’ve got work to do I’m quite happy to hang around the kitchen. I used to do quite a lot of that at home when I was a kid … I’m a terrible scrounger, no one was safe from my charm. I could get anything I wanted from the cook, even her best chocolate cake before it was really cool enough to slice.”

“I bet you were thoroughly spoiled.”

“You’re right, though I always thought Edouard more spoiled—he was older, so he’d had more opportunity.”

“Edouard?”

“My brother.”

“I see. Well, we needn’t go into the kitchen, I’m allowed a little time to myself.”

“I don’t even know your name,” he said, surprised.

“Nor I yours.”

“I’m Charles d’Aureville.”

“And I’m Léonie Bahri.”

They wandered onto the terrace, laughing. Madame Frenard,
peeking through the kitchen door, watched them go. “That’s better,” she said. “She needs some company.”

He lived at the family château, near Tours, where he managed their estates. “What I really like most are horses—the racing sort—and boats, not necessarily in that order,” he told her. “I was in Monte Carlo for the yacht race last week—no, I didn’t win. I came in third, but I gave it a good try. Next time I’ll do better.” He glanced at her work-roughened hand holding the glass of wine. “And what do you do?”

“Oh, a little of everything. I cook, I work in the garden, do the dishes … the usual things.”

“Isn’t that boring? I mean, a girl like you … well, you are very pretty.” She was looking at him with those lovely long eyes, an enigmatic look that he couldn’t read. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you … I mean I wasn’t making a pass or anything.”

She frowned. “That’s all right. Every girl likes to be told she’s pretty. Tell me more about yourself.” She leaned against the wall at the edge of the terrace. “What’s it like to be nineteen and be in charge of vast estates and to have a big family and horses and boats?”

“Hey, wait a minute. First of all, I’m twenty-two, and the estates are not that large. Just a decent size. The house was built three hundred years ago by a d’Aureville and we’ve managed to live there ever since. My mother seemed to run it like a hotel—it was always crowded with friends and grandparents, uncles and aunts and cousins. It brimmed over with people and pets—dogs, hamsters, guinea pigs, cats, rabbits, horses—you name it. The river ran through our parkland and Edouard taught me to swim.”

“Your older brother,” she prompted.

“Yes. Edouard was the perfect older brother; he taught me all the things older brothers should—how to swim, how to sail a boat, to ride—and helped me with my schoolwork.”

Madame Frenard poked her head through the window. “Dinner is ready,” she called.

Charles was disappointed, he liked being with her. “Will you have to go and help?”

“We don’t seem to have any other customers tonight—no one goes out around here when it’s wet!”

“Then would you have dinner with me? I’d be awfully lonely all by myself.” He smiled at her winningly.

“I’d like that,” she said, eager to hear more about his family.

For her, his life was more fantastic than any tale from the Arabian Nights, he was a Scheherazade telling her the stories she longed to hear, tales of a mythical childhood in a château on the Loire, where summers were full of long, sun-dappled days with favorite ponies and faithful old dogs, of swimming with great troupes of friends in a chilly pool dammed from the river, of stealing apples and plums from their own orchards. And there were always strawberries in June and a lovely mother who made sure they washed their hands before supper, refusing to banish them to a nursery, claiming that she needed her family around her constantly, that they were the joy of her life. Winters were crisp and there were hunts in the forest when they were older and Christmas Eve was a festival, always with the same traditional food and Midnight Mass and trooping back again afterward, not sleepy at all, to have mulled wine—more lemonade than wine really—and hot sticky buns in front of the roaring fire in the hall, while the grown-ups laughed and kissed each other and wished “Happy Christmas” and everyone opened presents.

“And your brother?” she asked. “Tell me about him.”

“Edouard is the adventurer of the family,” he said, in between mouthfuls of her
tian
.

“Go on,” she prompted.

“There’s a story about Edouard my mother always loves to tell,” he continued. “One morning when he was only six, he packed a bag with the necessities of life—an apple, two slices of chocolate cake, and a teddy bear—and set off for the village, en route for Paris. When he arrived in the village he sat on a bench outside the inn to eat his cake—walking, he’d decided, was a hungry business. The patron spotted him and, recognizing him as the young one from the château, sent someone to tell my mother, meanwhile giving Edouard a big glass of milk to go with the cake. When she arrived, she threw her arms around him in relief and asked where he was going. ‘Adventuring,’ he said, ‘I’m going to the jungles and the lakes and the mountains, in Africa and China.’ ‘Can’t you go later?’ she asked him. ‘When you’re a little bit older? After all, I need you now.’ He looked at her very seriously, thinking it over. She always swears it was touch and go—her or
the jungle—and then he agreed to stay. ‘But only for a while,’ he said, ‘and because you really need me.’ ” Charles laughed. “He managed to keep his promise until he was sixteen, and then he was off: first to Africa, the land of his dreams, and then all the other places. And now he’s twenty-five years old and he’s in Brazil … miles away, up the Amazon, bringing rubber from the jungles.”

“You must miss him,” she said enviously, “such a perfect elder brother.”

“Edouard is my best friend. There’s nothing I couldn’t tell him. It’s hard to explain but … well, Edouard has a quality of tenderness that’s rare in a man. That probably sounds strange, but if you ever met him you’d know what I mean. As an elder brother he loved me almost like a father; he always allowed me to join in his games without being pressured by my mother. He used to stand in front of a semicircle of his friends and say, ‘This is Charles, he’s my brother and he stays with me,’ daring them to refuse. And they never did … and so I stayed.” He laughed reminiscently.

“And you, Charles, did you ever want to run away to far off lands like your brother?”

He looked into her eyes—those strange wonderful eyes, like a sleepy animal’s. “No, I like it here. I like my horses and my dogs, and the farms. I like everything the way it has always been.” Bébé leapt onto the table next to him. She began to purr, rubbing her head against his arm. “Why, you flirt,” he said, laughing, sleeking back the fur on top of her small head. He looked up in astonishment. “My God,” he said, “this cat is wearing diamonds—and rubies!”

Léonie shrugged. “Perhaps she had a rich father,” she said with a smile.

“But can they be real?”

“I doubt it, but she looks equally pretty wearing fakes, don’t you think?” She pushed back her chair. “Let’s go out onto the terrace and see if the stars are out. Maybe you’ll be able to rescue your boat tomorrow.”

The sky was cloudless and the air balmy and warm, as if Odin and Thor had never heard of the Côte d’Azur. “Tell me about yourself,” he urged as they paced the terrace together. “There’s a mystery about you. You’re too exotic to belong here.” He watched her face, waiting for a reply. Her lower lip was round, cushiony, tempting.

“Exotic? I’m afraid not. I’m just an ordinary kitchen maid. The only exotic thing about me is that my father was Egyptian.”

“Then,” he said, taking her hand and kissing the harsh, worn fingers, “perhaps you’re a goddess … a maker of destinies, a weaver of spells.…” He put up his hand and unfastened her braid, fanning the hair about her shoulders. She smelled fresh and cool, of jasmine and peaches.

Léonie walked away, leaving him foolish and stranded at the end of the terrace.

“Léonie. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that. Well … yes, I did mean it, but not the way you think.”

Dear God, she thought, he’s so very sweet. He thinks that I think he’s taking advantage of the poor servant girl! When really I didn’t want him to kiss me because I didn’t know where it might end.

Charles was abject in his apologies. “Forget it, forgive me. I lay myself at your feet.” And he did, spread-eagling himself on the terrace and kissing her toes until she laughed, wanting him to kiss her mouth this time. He did, tasting deliciously of sun and wind and wholesome goodness and all the things she craved.

It was very late, they had talked their way far into the night. Taking his hand, she led him to her room and they lay there together side by side in the big bed, holding hands and talking in whispers about how he must be up at dawn to check the boat, and how lucky he had been to find her, and how lucky she had been to find him. And then he kissed her and held her and she relaxed in his young loving arms, letting him make love to her and dreaming that she was part of his big happy family, that she, too, was one of the d’Aurevilles of the sun-filled summers and the happy Noëls. As long as she was in the arms of this purveyor of her dearest dreams, she, too, belonged.

She woke him at dawn and they went down to the boat together, climbing the rocks and wading across little tidal pools to its secret harbor. “I hate to leave you,” he said, holding her hands and gazing into those beautiful eyes. “It’s a night I shall never forget as long as I live. You are a goddess, Léonie Bahri. You have magic about you.” He put his arms around her and kissed her tenderly and she smiled as he waved to her. The boat rode easily in the water, waiting for its master, and with the brisk morning
breeze he hoisted sail and set his course. “Good-bye, Léonie,” he called, standing at the helm.

“Good-bye Charles … take care.” I’ll never forget you either, she added in a whisper.

A week later there was a letter from him. She took it down to the beach to read, sitting on the rocks where she had met him.

“Dear and lovely Léonie Bahri,” it read.

“I told you that my mother said that I should always be honest and I should never take money from a woman … therefore as an honest man I’m enclosing a sum in payment for my room and board at the Frenards. Please thank them for me.

“And, magical Léonie—sorceress, goddess, weaver of spells—thank you for being with me, for giving me a night from your charmed life, for being as beautiful as you are, and as loving and gentle … need I say you have a place in my memories.… Charles.”

She folded the letter carefully and walked slowly back to the inn, thinking of him. She would keep his letter forever—he was her memory, too.

–
• 26 •

Marie-France de Courmont had never seen Gilles quite like this. He’d been many things—charming, bitter, amusing, cold, remote—but never indecisive. He had insisted quite suddenly on taking the boys to America to look at schools, overriding her protests that she couldn’t bear to leave her children so far away; then stay there with them, he had replied, indifferently. And once they had gotten there he looked at a dozen schools, narrowed his choice down to two, and then the whole subject had been dropped as though it never existed. When she had asked him about it, he had said he’d think about it later. She’d heard Verronet questioning him about the new cars and again he would put off making an important decision, and she knew from Verronet it wasn’t the first time. It was as though Gilles, who had never left his desk with a paper on it, who’d stay there until he had everything under control, couldn’t concentrate. And work was his passion.