Leonie (34 page)

“Like what?”

Monsieur was behind her. Léonie hadn’t heard him come into the room and she realized she must have spoken the words aloud. “Oh, nothing.…”

“It didn’t sound like ‘nothing’ to me. What could it be that you have to force yourself to stop thinking about it?”

“I was thinking about you—going off to New York again. You promised you would take me, remember?”

“Indeed, I do remember. And I shall take you … one day.”

She didn’t know what was the matter with him—or maybe it was she who had changed. Perhaps he sensed that she was different, that she hadn’t come back the same girl who had left. They rarely went out together, Monsieur worked late almost every night, and he’d been spending time with his sons. It was odd, though; she had thought he would be overjoyed to see her back. It wasn’t like the time at the inn when he’d come to find her, to tell her that he loved her. It’s probably just that we’re more used to each other by now … an old married couple, she thought grimly. His suggestion that they go to Deauville for a few days had come out of the blue; it’ll do you good, he’d said, to get some fresh sea air.

But Deauville was so different from the Côte d’Azur. Even though the sky was blue this was no gentle little sea, it was an ocean, pulled by tides that sent it surging and crashing onto the miles of lonely windswept beaches.

“I thought you might like to see the yacht races tomorrow,” he said casually, bending to fix his tie in the mirror.

A memory of Charles d’Aureville racing his little boat to safety came vividly to mind. “Oh, I don’t know,” she replied carefully. “I’m quite happy just sitting on the terrace and doing nothing. I’m not interested in sailing.”

“It might be amusing. We’ll take a look.”

She felt him standing behind her and turned with a smile, kissing
him on the cheek. He smelled of shaving lotion and crisp linen and she liked it; he was as attractive as ever. She took his fingers and kissed each one and held them to her breast.

“You’ll spoil your gown,” he said, disengaging himself and walking to the door. “We’re late for dinner. I promised the Massenets we’d meet them at eight.”

It was another brisk blue day of scudding fluffy clouds and swirling little winds that tossed up a fine dust from the sandy paths in the hotel gardens. Léonie heard the sailors among the guests congratulating themselves on having such perfect weather. What’s good for sailors obviously doesn’t suit me. She frowned, rubbing the grit from her eyes and making for the shelter of the terrace. She’d refused to go with Monsieur down to the harbor to watch the races. “I’ll see them go by from the hotel,” she had said, escaping thankfully from the drafty launch.

She settled herself at the table on the glass-enclosed terrace that overlooked the bay and ordered a
citron pressé
, glancing casually at the program of events that Monsieur had thrust into her hand as she left. There were six different classes of vessel, graded from large to small. In the third class was the
Isabelle
, crewed by Charles d’Aureville.

The name sprang from the printed page as though illuminated in scarlet. Charles d’Aureville was
here
—
Charles
, oh, my God, what should she do? What if they were to meet? It was quite possible that he was staying at the same hotel. Or she might see him strolling along the promenade, or in a restaurant, and, of course, he would come over to her, he’d wonder what she was doing there, his little kitchen maid from the inn at Cap Ferrat. She must leave, plead that the air was no good for her, the winds were too strong and took her breath away. She
had
to get away from here.

Could Monsieur possibly know? The idea struck her like a blow. Wasn’t it an odd coincidence that they should be here at the same time as the races, and as Charles? But they could just as easily have gone to Monte Carlo and Charles would probably have been there for the races, too—all the resorts had them this time of year. Of course, it must be just a coincidence. There was no way that Monsieur could know. It was impossible. But still the idea nagged her.

The races were well under way; she could see the boats skimming
over the choppy gray water, their sails ballooning in the wind, and she watched for a while, wondering if one of them was the
Isabelle
, remembering the night he had sailed into her life on the edge of a storm.

De Courmont adjusted the binoculars, focusing them on the
Isabelle
. He stared at his rival circled in the lenses. He was young and attractive, smiling cheerfully as he adjusted the rigging, throwing a casual comment to the crewman he’d picked up in Deauville when his own man suddenly became sick. He was certainly a competent sailor, he thought, lowering the glasses as the little boat tacked its way through the turbulence outside the harbor to join others in its class.

He’d seen enough. He made his way back to the bar and ordered a large whiskey, drinking it neat in quick gulps. He ordered another immediately. He took the glass, sipping the spirit this time, drawn despite himself to the window and its view of the bay. The little boats were still there, scudding gaily before the wind. He watched for a while and then went to find Léonie.

–
• 31 •

Gray clouds banked threateningly over the wide silent stretch of the Tapajoz River in Brazil and Edouard d’Aureville, standing on the wooden jetty of the Oro Velho rubber trail, glanced at them with concern. “Just another few days,” he said, “that’s all we need to get this loaded and off to Santarém.” Even as he spoke, there was a low rumble of thunder in the distance—it looked as though the rains would come early this season and that meant no more work. An early rainy season cost money. He sighed with frustration, you couldn’t win with this forest, it always had an answer. You hacked the trails through it every morning, and every night it grew again, hiding its rubber trees in underbrush and lianas that the sweating laborers, out before dawn, hacked back once again in the flickering light of kerosene lamps strapped to their heads.

The laborers hauled the great two-hundred-pound balls of rubber in slings, stacking them in the hold of the launch ready to take them to Santarém at the junction of the Tapajoz and the Amazon, where they would be transferred to the steamer and taken to Manaus for onward shipment to Europe or America. It had meant six months spent in the Amazon, enduring its unnerving tall spongy green silence, its humidity, its vicious biting insects, downing quinine to ward off malaria and yellow fever, fending off the river pirates who would kill to take over a good trail, and supervising the work force of laborers drawn mostly from the drought-ridden savannahs of Ceará, who worked from dawn till dusk and then drank themselves into frenzied fights with machetes.

It was a rough, tough life and Edouard, after six months, felt the way the laborers did—exhausted. He needed civilization: some good food, wine, women, and fun. “I need Manaus,” he said to his partner, Wil Harcourt.

“Damn right,” said Wil. “The only good thing about six
months in the jungle is that the price of rubber will have gone up twenty times since our last shipment. It’s the black gold of the Amazon. We’ll be millionaires yet, Edouard.”

“If the rain holds off we’ll have another half a ton ready, the men’ll work right up to the last minute.”

“Okay, but let’s not leave it too late; I don’t want to get caught in the storms.”

Edouard strode across the compound to the curing sheds, wrinkling his nose against the acrid stench of the latex bubbling in caldrons over the smudge fires. Wielding fifteen-foot-long paddles, the laborers stirred the congealing mass, lifting and turning, wrapping it around each paddle until it formed a solid black ball of rubber. The sweat poured from their backs as they heaved its weight, peering through smoke-blackened eyes to see how much longer it would take.

The compound sweltered in the sunless heat and Edouard strode past the tumble of workers’ huts and outbuildings to the main house. It perched on stilts with a rickety veranda fronting the river and was what he and Wil laughingly called home. The wooden boards were bare, there were thin little snakes in the palm-thatched roof that they picked off with rifles when they spotted them, and termites were eating the stilts, causing the whole flimsy structure to lean dangerously. All it contained was a couple of iron beds, a few extra hammocks for visitors, and, out on the veranda that acted as their dining room and sitting room combined, a wooden table and a couple of chairs. Opening a bottle, he poured himself a beer, grimacing at the taste. It was warm. God, he could use a cold beer and a hot bath! And a woman. It was time to get back to Manaus and catch up with the world.

The looming nearness of the equator bisected Manaus with a knife blade of heat that left them breathless and sweltering as they walked along Marashal Deodoro Street toward the Chamber of Commerce, eager to check the price of rubber on the world market before they sought the comforts of the Hotel Centrale. The blue-tiled building was packed with trail owners and rubber barons, the élite of Manaus, newly and staggeringly enriched by the black gold.

“I told you”—Wil slapped Edouard’s back in triumph—“up thirty percent since last time … we’ve made a killing on this lot, Edouard.”

Edouard beamed. “Let’s celebrate: a bath, a shave—send to Atelier Simmons for some new shirts—and then dinner and a bottle of champagne, maybe even a few bottles, who knows?”

Theirs were familiar faces at the Centrale. “I’ll have your trunks taken out of the storage room, sirs,” the manager promised, “and the man from Atelier Simmons will be here shortly.”

The bath was porcelain, wide and long enough to wallow in, and the water was steaming hot. The barber from the hotel shop wrapped their weatherbeaten faces in hot towels, shaving them luxuriously with long clean sweeps of his blade and patting on a crisp cologne. The clerk from Atelier Simmons brought fresh shirts and the valet pressed their white linen suits. White suede shoes and jaunty panama hats finished their ensembles and they inspected themselves in the mirror. Wil, burly and bearded, and Edouard, slender and tanned, grinned with pleasure as they closed the door and headed for the delights of Manaus.

The well-paved streets were busy: fountains sparkled in the light of the street lamps: the tiled dome of the opera house gleamed under the moonlight; bars, cafés, and restaurants were crowded with smart women in the latest fashions from Paris with jewels from Cartier, and immaculately dressed men with great rolls of money in their pockets. Green electric streetcars carried passengers through the new city to its very edges, where paved streets met the jungle.

“I’ve made a reservation for dinner at the Montmartre,” said Edouard, “and after that … the night will still be young.”

Their spirits were high, they were free of the forest, they had made a killing on the rubber market—the world was theirs.

“Oh, by the way,” said Wil. “I forgot to give you this. I picked it up at the telegraph office today. It’s been waiting for you for days apparently, so I guess it can’t be too urgent.”

“A telegram?” Edouard turned it over in his hand. “From France.” He read it quickly, and then again in disbelief: “Regret to inform you that your brother Charles has died in a boating accident … please return at once.” The signature was that of the family lawyer.

He stared white-faced at the telegram, oblivious to the noise of the crowds and the snatches of laughter and music from the cafés. The night was sweltering, the humidity so dense it was almost tangible—and he was shivering with cold, the terrible cold chill of Charles’s death. Charles, his baby brother, the energetic young
man, the expert sailor, dead in a boating accident? He didn’t want to believe it. It couldn’t be true.

Wil took the paper from Edouard’s nerveless hand. “God,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, Edouard.”

“I must go home,” he said, his face tense with shock. “My mother is alone. She’ll need me.”

–
• 32 •

“Maroc,” called Caro, “I’m going to need you.” She hurried up the stairs to Léonie’s room as he stared after her in surprise, wondering what was going on. Monsieur was away again in New York and Léonie had been very subdued, staying home alone, seeing no one.

He followed her into Léonie’s sitting room and closed the door behind him. In the square the sharp autumn wind was blowing the leaves from the trees, and he could see the man sitting on a bench reading a newspaper. He was always there, waiting.

“Léonie, I’ve got something very important to say, and I wanted Maroc to hear it because we are going to need all the help we can get.”

“Caro, what is it?” asked Léonie, alarmed.

“First I must tell you that Monsieur knows about Charles d’Aureville. When Alphonse and I were in Monte Carlo, we saw Verronet there, gambling in the casino. Alphonse thought it odd that he wasn’t here with Monsieur at a time when he needed him for business—therefore he was obviously in Monte Carlo on more urgent affairs. As a spy, Léonie. Something had triggered Monsieur’s suspicions and somehow he got on the trail and Verronet found out the rest.”

How had he known? Léonie wondered frantically. What had aroused his suspicions? Of course it must be the letter—when it was missing she had thought she had left it behind at the inn. Oh, my God, the baby.

“Caro … then … does he know about Amélie?”

Caro took her arm sympathetically. “It’s not easy to hide new babies in a small community, Léonie. Everyone knew about the lady from Paris staying at the Frenards’, and that there was a baby. The only thing he doesn’t know yet is where she is.”

Maroc leaned against the door, his arms folded, watching the two women, wondering what they were going to do.

“I’m afraid, Caro—if Monsieur finds her he’ll take her away, he’ll hide her from me.”

“Léonie, there’s one more thing.”

They both stared at her, waiting.

“Charles d’Aureville is dead.”

Maroc drew in his breath sharply. The color had drained from Léonie’s face, and her eyes were blank with shock. “Dead?” she whispered incredulously. “But how did he die?”