Leonie (5 page)

Caro Montalva watched him from her vantage point just two
tables behind his. She could see only his back, but it was an unmistakable back—broad-shouldered under the immaculately tailored jacket, his dark hair curling crisply over his powerful neck. There was no doubt that Gilles de Courmont was a very attractive man, and a sensual one—she’d be willing to bet that he would be a marvelous lover, he certainly had the right body. Pity he was such a cold bastard! He had women, plenty of women—she knew several of them—but he never seemed to have an intimate relationship with anyone, even his wife. Or especially his wife. It was common knowledge that theirs was an alliance, rather than a love match. Marie-France de Courmont’s family was even older than his, and his marriage was just another business deal. But still, a man as powerful as the Duc de Courmont was always intriguing. The combination of power and great wealth had their own lure for a woman, and he could be charming and amusing when he wanted. She had seen women devastated by a smile from him, or some small attention—he had a trick of making them believe for a while that perhaps they could be the one whose charm and femininity could break through that ruthless, icy barrier. Then, of course, he would discard them, coldly and abruptly.

“He’s very attractive, isn’t he?” said her friend Gabrielle with a smile.

“I was just trying to decide if he was or not.”

“And?”

“It’s yes—and no. Yes physically, he is … look at those thighs, Gabrielle! Have you ever seen that man ride a horse! It makes you wonder what it might be like …”

Gabrielle threw back her head and laughed. “Caro, other women might think these things, but you are the only one I know who says them!”

Caro smiled demurely. “On the other hand he is so cold.” She stared at his back. “I think he could be quite frightening. Alphonse says that he is probably the richest man in France—and one of the most powerful. Yet you can come in here almost any day and find him lunching alone, never with a friend.”

“If you’re feeling sorry for him, why don’t you invite him to your party next week?”

“No one feels sorry for Gilles de Courmont. But you’re right. I shall invite him to my party.” The waiter hastened to pull back her chair as she stood to walk over to his table.

“Gilles,” she said with a smile.

He sprang to his feet. “Caro, how nice to see you. How is Alphonse?” He took her hand and kissed it. “Would you care for some lunch … a glass of wine?”

“No, thank you, Gilles, I only came over to invite you to my party … it’s to be next Thursday to celebrate my birthday.”

“I couldn’t refuse an invitation like that.” He looked into her eyes. Caro Montalva was a very beautiful woman. He wondered if she might be interested. He knew she lived with Alphonse de Bergerac, but that wouldn’t stop him.

“I know you don’t like parties,” said Caro, tilting her head and flirting a little. She always flirted, it was part of her nature, and it drove Alphonse crazy.

“Not usually, I admit. But yours are always special!”

“Then I shall expect you. About nine o’clock? Alphonse will be delighted to see you.” She waved a cool farewell and returned to her table.

“Well?” asked Gabrielle.

“Of course he said he will come, but now I wish I hadn’t asked him.”

“Why on earth not?”

“I don’t know.” She shivered. “I just have a strange feeling that you don’t meddle with lives like his. He says all the right words, but you feel he’s thinking of something else. Oh, well”—she shrugged—“it could be fun.”

De Courmont left the Ritz and walked over to Boucherons, the jewelers on the rue de Rivoli. The manager hurried forward to greet him, anxious to please his important client. “I need two things, Maurice,” he said. “Something small and pretty for a lady’s birthday, and something large and obvious for another lady.”

“Of course, sir. I understand.” It was a request he’d heard before and he knew what was required. He held out a bracelet, a strip of diamonds, three rows banded together with baguettes and a ruby clasp. “How about this, sir, for the other lady?”

He glanced at it. “That’s fine. Deliver it for me, will you, to this address.” He took out a card and wrote briefly on the back. There might never be any tender farewells, but no woman could accuse him of being ungenerous.

“And this, sir, for the birthday?”

“Sapphires? Yes, very suitable.” The brooch was discreet, a pleasant gift. “I’ll take it with me.”

“Of course, sir.” The man bowed him to the door and he continued on his way. A quick fitting at his tailor’s and then back to the office—there were still the reports to read on that railway deal.

It was almost ten when Gilles finally turned into the courtyard of his mansion on the Ile Saint-Louis. Despite the cold, he had walked from his office, preoccupied with his thoughts. He strode up the steps without bothering to look to see if the door were open, he knew it would be. The liveried footman closed it behind him. “Good evening, sir.” The butler took his wet jacket, there was a spattering of snow in the air.

“Is madame at home, Bennett?” This was one of the few houses in Paris with an English butler, a vanity of his wife’s, not his. In his personal life he was an austere man.

“Madame la Duchesse has retired to her room, sir.”

“Thank you, Bennett. I shan’t need anything further, then.”

“Very well, sir. Goodnight, sir.”

Gilles was always courteous and thoughtful with his servants and they liked working for him. He walked through the immense hall that soared two stories high, climbing the marble stairway, unheeding of the cherubs and blue skies in the frescoes above him, crossing the first-floor hall into his study. The great house had a different kind of chill than the wintry cold outdoors; there was a bleakness despite its blazing fires and rich rooms. Shivering slightly, Gilles poured himself a glass of whiskey from the decanter that waited with a single crystal glass on the silver tray. He never brought anyone in here. It was his room, even his wife was banished from it. He gulped the brandy, grimacing as it hit his throat, enjoying the aromatic flavor. A fire burned in the grate and his big leather chair was pulled up close to it, but he wandered over to the window and stood, glass in hand, gazing moodily across the lamplit courtyard to the river. After a while he put down his glass, and pulling loose his necktie, he walked across the room and opened the door to a connecting bedroom. It contained a shelf of books, a chair, a chest; it was bleak but for the fur rug thrown across the narrow bed, one touch of sensuality in a spartan world. He was thirty-six years old and he was a lonely man.

*   *   *

The weather had taken on an unseasonable chill for October and the epidemic of colds and flu swept through the shop and workrooms at Serrat, daily reducing the staff as more and more retreated to their beds, until by Monday only Léonie and Madame Serrat were left to hold the fort. The sky hung gray and threatening over the city as Léonie arrived for work, and at one o’clock the snow began to fall, covering the streets with a thin white film. “We’ll not have many customers today, thank goodness,” said Madame Serrat, who was not feeling too well herself. “You’ll have to cope, Léonie.” She retreated to her office and Léonie savored the delight of being alone in the salon. She wandered around flicking the dust from the counters with a little feather duster, straightening the racks and praying that someone would come in and order ten nightdresses or a dozen sets of lingerie so that she might have the pleasure of acting as head salesgirl, if only for one day. But no one did and she was bored.

She opened a drawer and looked at the red silk stockings; they were so beautiful. She touched them lightly with one finger, feeling their smoothness, longing for a pair. She had a little money saved, but it was only a little. No, the stockings were horribly expensive—and, anyway, where would she go to wear them?

She began to parcel up the order Mademoiselle Montalva had placed earlier that week. As usual she had bought lavishly, ordering dozens of sets of lingerie and gowns in deep glowing colors. “I’m not meant for pastels,” Léonie remembered her saying, although she had never again had the opportunity to serve her. Marianne had seen to that! She packed the sapphire blue panne velvet robe carefully and the matching slippers, adding them to the growing pile and thinking about Carolina Montalva. The salon always seemed different when she came in, it was suddenly lighthearted and full of laughter. She was so easy and charming, chatting with the girls as if they were friends, leaving a little afterglow of pleasure behind her. Maroc had told Léonie that it was rumored that mademoiselle was the daughter of a Spanish count, but because she had behaved badly the family had cast her out. Could that be true?

By three o’clock the snow lay thick on the ground. “You’d better leave early, Léonie,” said Madame Serrat, emerging from her room looking pale and ill. “You can deliver the Montalva order on your way home.”

“Me, Madame Serrat … go to Mademoiselle Montalva’s?” Her voice was squeaky with excitement.

“You’d better take a cab, I don’t want those parcels getting wet. Here’s some money, tip the man ten percent and bring me the change tomorrow. And take care with those things. If you drop them in the snow, they’ll be ruined.”

“Oh, I won’t, I won’t drop them. I’ll take such good care. Thank you, Madame Serrat, for trusting me.”

Léonie threw on her coat, gathered up the parcels, and stood shivering in the street, waiting impatiently for a cab. Three things, she thought, three exciting events. I shall ride in a cab for the first time; I’m being trusted with an important job; and I’m going to see Carolina Montalva’s home. She jumped up and down with excitement and to warm her feet. She could barely believe her luck. If the others didn’t have flu, she would still be dusting the shelves and Maroc would have had this job.

She climbed into the cab, giving the address importantly, and sat back to enjoy the ride, peering out at the streets she knew so well on foot; somehow they seemed smaller and more intimate seen frame by frame from the cab’s windows. What would the apartment be like? Would she be able to go in, or would the concierge just keep her standing on the step?

“Here we are, mademoiselle.”

Léonie collected her parcels and climbed gingerly out onto the pavement. Her feet sank into snow that came up to her ankles, and she stared in dismay at her shoes, two black sodden lumps half-hidden by slush. She trudged on through the courtyard, leaving a little track behind her, and rang the bell at the imposing front door, staring at it nervously. It was a very grand building, just like the ones she used to peer into so longingly on her Sunday walks.

“Yes, what do you want?” The concierge was irritable. “You should have gone to the back with those deliveries. Well, as you’re here now and it’s snowing, you may as well go up. Mademoiselle Montalva is on the first floor.”

What a bit of luck; she was going to get inside. The concierge could have taken the parcels from her, but he was too lazy to go up the stairs himself. He’d already gone back to his newspaper and his cup of coffee.

The marble staircase swept grandly up to the first floor and a red carpet flowed down the center. It looked soft and thick and
shiny brass rails held it in place on each tread. Léonie looked at her shoes and back at the carpet and then walked up the stairs keeping to the narrow marble bit at the side, careful not to mar its perfection with her wet feet.

She faced the grand double doors with a smile—this was it at last.

The door was flung open from inside and someone crashed into her, sending her parcels flying. “Sorry … I’m so sorry.” The young man’s eyes met hers with a smile. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, yes—it’s just the parcels—I wasn’t supposed to drop them.”

He laughed. “Well, it’s too late! Here, I’ll get them. Caro?” he called. “There’s a very pretty girl here to see you.”

“Oh!” Léonie blushed in confusion and he laughed again. “It’s the truth,” he whispered.

Carolina looked at her in surprise, a young beauty in a worn brown coat and wet shoes, dripping melting snow onto her lovely rug. It was the girl from Serrat. “Don’t tell me they sent you out with my order on a day like this!” she said indignantly.

“Madame Serrat said that you needed it today, mademoiselle.”

Caro heaved a sigh of exasperation at Madame Serrat’s stupidity. “You poor girl, you must be frozen—look how wet your feet are.”

“Oh, dear … oh, I’m so sorry, look what I’ve done.” Léonie stared with an anguished face at the spreading damp stain on the beautiful rug. “I’ll leave at once, mademoiselle. I’m so sorry.” She pulled off her shoes and clutched them in her hand. If Madame Serrat hears about this, she thought dejectedly, I’ll never be trusted again. Oh, why do things always seem to go wrong for me?

It was so easy to read her face that Caro laughed.

“Don’t worry about the rug, it’ll dry. And you’re certainly not leaving until we’ve got
you
dried out. Poor girl. We’ll get you some hot chocolate and then we’ll unpack the parcels and see if everything is there.”

“Can I come, too?” the young man asked hopefully.

“No, Robert, you may not. I’ve already said good-bye to you. Léonie—it is Léonie, isn’t it?” She nodded in reply, pleased the lady had remembered her name! “Léonie and I have work to do. Follow me, Léonie.”

Léonie padded after her, curling her stockinged toes into the softness of the rugs and sticking out a furtive finger to touch the
aquamarine wall to see if it were really silk. Imagine, she marveled, having silk on your walls! She peeked into the main salon as they passed, amazed by the opulence of its spindly gilt chairs and deep sapphire sofas, and another salon with an enormous ebony grand piano and golden stands holding music and more rows of those little gilt chairs and chandeliers that were lit on this dark afternoon even though no one was sitting in the rooms.

Caro’s small sitting room seemed filled with the luxurious spring scent of hothouse hyacinths and a deep chaise lounge, piled with lacy pillows, was pulled close to the crackling log fire. It was the most delightful room Léonie had ever seen. Curtains of stiff apricot silk, swagged and tied with enormous bows, framed the snow piled high against the windows and still falling steadily, coldly, freezing as it landed. But inside it was another world, a beautiful, friendly, warm, rich world.