Leonie (40 page)

“Look,” he said. “I’ve worked with actors and actresses since I was fourteen and I learned early that no one is himself on stage. The funny comedian is a quiet, unassuming man of few words offstage, the arrogant actress becomes the sweet young girl in front of an audience, the beautiful ethereal ballerina is sweating backstage in pain from strained muscles. They take on another image, become someone other than themselves. You must never give the audience yourself, Léonie, give them what they would like to see. That’s the image you should hide behind.”

He was right, of course. She wanted to be someone else on that stage, not Léonie. She wanted to be a new person. And, after all, didn’t the audience expect that, weren’t they expecting to see someone out of the ordinary, someone different from themselves—the Léonie of the newspapers, more exotic, more glamorous, and more exciting. But who was she?

“There is nothing else but me, Jacques. I’m just like they are.”

“That’s not true … you don’t even look like anyone else I
know. Apart from being beautiful, you’re different—foreign-looking.”

“That’s my Egyptian father’s influence.”

“There you are! It’s perfect.”

“What is?”

“The Egyptian image. Hide behind it if that’s what you want. Give them something exotic to look at, take their minds off the Duc de Courmont’s mistress. You’ve got more to offer than just the fact that you were his woman, Léonie.”

She thought of Sekhmet and the clinging robes like the Fortuny gowns she used to love—maybe even then, subconsciously, she’d been adopting an Egyptian look.

Jacques pulled books from the shelves and they pored over the illustrations of ancient Egyptians. He pointed out the hair ornaments, the strange blue painted lines emphasizing the eyes, and the supple clinging robes. Oh, yes, it was perfect; she could hide behind her ancestors.

“Jacques”—she threw her arms around him—“you’re wonderful. I thought I’d never be able to go through with it, but if I’m someone else, then maybe it will be easier.”

“Will you do something for me?” he asked, still holding her.

She gazed at him expectantly.

“Save ‘Léonie’ for
me.
”

She hesitated, looking into his eyes; they were dark and long-lashed behind those thick glasses. She took the spectacles off his nose gently. “A part of me, Jacques,” she breathed, “only a part of me.”

It felt so good to be in a man’s arms again—so good—and he was such a sweet and tender lover, gentle with her at first, kissing her, stroking her hair, whispering how lovely she was. And then she undressed for him, turning to look at him, naked as she. He was thin but muscular with slender hips and small firm buttocks and surprisingly strong legs; he was ready to love her, and she was ready for him. He kissed her and coaxed her and stroked her until she demanded more and then he entered her, filled with passion, and she was as passionate as he. It had been a long time; there had been no other man since she had left Monsieur, but it was in that final moment that she thought of him—and remembered the feel of his body in hers that first time.

And she had forgotten how nice it felt to wake curled up with a man and to make love early in the morning and then sip coffee,
tucked in together under the crumpled sheets. “This deserves a toast,” she said with a smile, “to a whole new era in my life.”

He lifted his coffee cup. “To Léonie’s new life,” he said solemnly, “and to her happiness.”

“Ah, Jacques, I’m happy here with you … I’m content.”

He put down his coffee and gave her a kiss. “Content or not, darling, you’re a working woman—it’s time to get up.”

“Slave driver.” She laughed, remembering that she did indeed have to be at the rehearsal hall at ten, and then a meeting with the lawyers at two, and then back for more rehearsals. And now, of course, there would be a lot more for them to talk about with Paul—new ideas for costumes and stage design—a whole new approach. For the first time she was interested, excited by the idea. It even made her forget Monsieur for a while.

Gilles watched warily as Marie-France stormed around the room. He had never seen her so angry. It was more than anger, it was rage. She was incensed. He had promised her weeks ago that he would take the case no further, though of course he had. He didn’t know how she had found out that his lawyers were still going ahead with the suit; he had counted on her not knowing until it was too late. She had threatened him with the entire family—and with the family behind her, he would have no choice. There were certain things over which even he had no final control, and the family set-up, with its trusts and foundations, was one of them. If they decided that what he was doing was against their interests, then they would take action. Marie-France was still pacing the floor, talking about mental instability, that she would remove the children from his care.
His sons!
He would have to find some way to appease her, but he would never give up his chance to get Léonie back!

“What I don’t understand,” she fumed, “is
why
you want this child. Léonie even claims it’s not yours. Why? Why do you want to take another man’s bastard? Are you prepared to sacrifice your own family—the children you
know
are your own—just to torture that woman? You are crazy, Gilles. You are completely
mad!
”

“You don’t understand, Marie-France.” He kept his voice deliberately calm. “It’s
because
she is my child that I must have her. I can’t bear to think of her lost in some peasant household simply because Léonie doesn’t want her.”

“That’s not what she claims. She says she had to hide Amélie from you—that she’s afraid.”

“Marie-France, you are a mother … the child is a de Courmont. She is my daughter!”

“And if you get her—then what? What do you intend to do with her? Bring her here?”

“I need her, Marie-France. She is my child, too.”

She stared at him, the anger leaving her. He looked ill, worn out. Desperate. Could he be sincere? Had he been foolish enough to give Léonie a child? Only one person could know the truth. She sank into a chair wearily. Humiliating as it might be, she must ask Léonie.

Léonie stretched luxuriously. There had been no rehearsal this morning, and after the fiasco of the dress rehearsal the day before that had run half into the night, she was thankful for the reprieve. Paul hadn’t seemed too perturbed, even when the lights didn’t work properly and the costumes didn’t fit. The final straw had been when the beautiful panther, black and silent for most of the night on the end of her chain, had snapped at him, lunging forward, claws and teeth bared. “It’s all right,” he said philosophically, “it missed me,” and they had all laughed uproariously in relief. Paul was wonderful, calm and unflappable in the face of every new disaster. “I’ve seen it all before, love,” he had said, opening a bottle of champagne. “Here, you need reviving.”

“What I need are some new nerves,” she told him, sipping the drink gratefully.

“Léonie, you’re wonderful. You’re exactly the way you should be. Trust me, I know. All these other things—the lights, the costumes, the sets—are just technical, they can be worked out. But you and the music are exactly right. I don’t want you to worry anymore … go home and get a good night’s sleep.”

He knew she was sleeping with Jacques—they all knew now—and he was glad of it. She was a different woman since she had met the songwriter; he only prayed it would last as long as the show.

Jacques brought her breakfast in bed, appearing in the doorway with a loaded tray. “Mmm,” she said hungrily, inspecting the brioches and croissants as he sat beside her on the bed, shifting Bébé with a gentle push of the foot.

“At least you haven’t lost your appetite,” he commented as she dunked her brioche in her coffee.

She grinned. “Try me later … just now I’m not thinking about anything except breakfast—and you.” Reaching behind her, she pulled a small parcel from under the pillow. “This is an opening night present—for you.”

“For me?” His brown myopic eyes lit with pleasure as he searched for his glasses before ripping open the paper.

She had bought him cuff links—gold set with turquoise, the Egyptian stone—and she could see his pleasure reflected on his face. “It’s to say thank-you, Jacques”—she kissed him—“for helping me. I might still be a disaster, but at least it won’t be because of the music, and I can hide my fear behind the new Léonie.”

“And I have a present for you,” he said, “but it’s at the theater—to be opened later.”

She laughed. “Ah ha—a surprise. Perhaps it’ll take my mind off stage fright.”

“Nothing does that except going on.”

“I’ll remember that tonight,” she promised, snuggling up to him.

By two o’clock she was restless. Jacques had left for the theater and a final run-through with the orchestra, and she prowled his apartment with Bébé for company, unable to settle. She went to the mirror and inspected her face. It looked as it always did, smooth and unlined—apart from the worried frown between her eyebrows! She sighed and turned away, at least the makeup was wonderful. Paul had been right not to allow it to be too dramatic and masklike; it was mostly the eyes that were painted with the deep teal blue lines that the ancient Egyptian women had used, and her hair would be braided into a hundred small plaits, each with feathers and turquoise beads. Oh, God, it took hours. She checked the time—half past two—the hairdresser would be at the theater at four. She’d go now. At least if she were there, she might feel better—and she wouldn’t be able to run away!

Marie-France had had trouble finding Léonie; she didn’t have her husband’s ways of knowing things. She had known so little about Gilles’s mistress that she had no idea where to look for her. She hadn’t asked Gilles’s lawyers, for obvious reasons, and although she knew the name of Léonie’s lawyer, she hadn’t wanted
to approach him. She had no idea who Léonie’s friends were, or where she now lived; she had had no reason to think about her since her visit to Léonie’s house years earlier. It wasn’t until she had read in the newspaper that Léonie was opening at the Théâtre Royal that night that she had even known Léonie was involved with the theater. Well, she thought, opening night may not be a good moment to see her, but I have no choice. My need is more urgent than hers.

The concierge at the stage door recognized quality when he saw it and he jumped from his usual fixed position on his chair to do her bidding.

“Please take this note to Mademoiselle Léonie,” she commanded.

“Yes, madame, shall I say who it’s from?”

She glanced at the man, who was waiting eagerly to find out who she was—there had been enough gossip. This was between her and Léonie. “No,” she replied coldly, “you may not.”

He shuffled off down the corridor and she peered after him impatiently. She’d never been backstage in a theater before and looking at the shabby peeling walls and the dusty floors, she had no wish to see more.

The concierge returned after a few minutes. “Come this way please, madame,” he beckoned.

The corridor outside Léonie’s dressing room was a bit cleaner and more brightly lit, but not much. The paint on the door was new though, a bright shiny gold, and when she knocked it swung open to reveal a different world. The walls and ceiling were hung with a bronze-red fabric patterned in gold, so that the room resembled a tent. Low, cushioned divans lined the walls and a sweet, musky scent came from candles burning in bronze sconces. Léonie waited on a gilded thronelike chair in front of a vast mirror lined with lights.

Her eyes were enormous, glittering like canary diamonds between their liner of deep teal blue. Her cheekbones gleamed beneath a coral blush dusted with gold powder and her mouth was rouged a wet glossy red. She walked towards Marie-France flicking back the feathered braids, and held out her hand. She wore a loose silk kimono and her feet were bare, their nails enameled red to match her fingers and her lips.

“I don’t know why you’re here,” said Léonie, as Marie-France
ignored her outstretched hand. “It’s your husband I’m fighting, I have no quarrel with you.”

“I’ll get right to the point,” said Marie-France. “I’m not here to argue with you. I’m here to find out the truth. You may remember the only other time we met I warned you that if ever there should be any conflict, my children—and their good name—would come first. Well, now there is a conflict. Gilles is destroying our name. It’s an old and honorable family and my sons have a right to inherit that name unsullied by any scandal. Gérard is at a vulnerable age—he’s almost seventeen—the boys at his school are aware of what’s happening with his father. It’s unfair, mademoiselle.”

“Then why don’t you ask him to stop; surely
you
can do that? Don’t you think I would have stopped him before now if I could. I’m helpless, madame.”

“There is a way, but I must know the truth. Gilles swears the child is his—and if she is, then he has a legal right to her. Give her to him, please, I beg you. We can end this court case, resolve it in a civilized, private fashion. I promise you—as a mother—that I would look after Amélie; surely it would be better than hiding her away. You would be able to see her, I would make sure of that.”

“And if she’s not his child?”

Marie-France looked at her levelly. “Then I will use all my power—and that of our family—to stop him from taking this action any further.”

Léonie brushed back the feathered braids from her throbbing head. It was tempting to believe that Marie-France could take the child and protect her, but it wasn’t true. Monsieur would still have power over her.

“Amélie is not your husband’s child,” she said clearly. “Her father was Charles d’Aureville. He is dead … drowned in a boating accident.”

Marie-France breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t know what to say. Beneath the makeup the girl’s face looked so bleak.

“My daughter is Amélie d’Aureville, and you can tell Gilles that. It’s the truth.”

“Thank you, Léonie,” she said quietly. “You can trust me to do all I can now to stop the case. You will have no more trouble from the de Courmonts.”