Leonie (51 page)

Léonie sighed with relief, they were already a day late and she would feel a lot better with her feet firmly on dry land. She pushed
aside her unwanted supper tray and peered out into the stormy night. “How early in the morning?”

“Around six.”

“Six! Oh, Maroc!” She flung herself into a chair, pouting. “Why did I agree to do this concert?”

They both knew why. It was for her favorite charity. He’d been astonished when she had accepted, though he knew she would do anything for children. But to travel all the way to New York for one concert and one charity ball was asking a lot, especially as it meant taking time away from her hard-earned rest period.

The request had come at the last minute and Léonie hadn’t hesitated. “Do you have any idea how much money those society women can raise in one night?” she asked him when he’d argued against it. “They can make enough to take care of hundreds of children, the newborn babies left on the doorsteps like unwanted kittens, the poor young children, starving and homeless.” She had flung her arms wide, gazing around at her lovely home: the old inn, ever-expanding, always beautiful. “How can I stay here in all this comfort when I know I could be doing something to help?”

The big liner lurched with the waves. “Here we go again.” She laughed as the sound of crashing glass filtered from above and Chocolat scurried terrified across the room and into her lap. “You’d better get out the whiskey, Maroc, and the cards … and find any of our fellow passengers who are still standing. It’s going to be another of those long nights!”

James Homer Alexander Jamieson III relaxed in the red leather chair, enjoying his brandy and watching the group at the card table. He had seen one or two of them before—they’d been among the few who had shown up for dinner on this crossing—but this was the first time he had seen the woman and he liked what he saw. She had rolled up the sleeves of her simple linen blouse in a workmanlike fashion and her marvelous blond hair was brushed back firmly from her smooth arrogant face without any concession to feminine vanity, or perhaps just one: the childish blue velvet ribbon that she had tied carelessly at her neck. He liked her hair, it spiraled in rebellious tendrils that every now and then she swept impatiently aside with a slender unringed hand; he had noticed that particularly, no rings. She was unattached!

She was taking this poker game very seriously, playing with panache and no fear of losing, sipping neat whiskey from a constantly
refilled glass, keeping them guessing with her lively play and making them laugh occasionally with some sharp comment.

The ship still lurched beneath them as if searching for a grip on some slippery surface, and most of the passengers had not ventured from their cabins. The card room was quiet and soothingly dim, there was just the lamp illuminating the green-topped table and its players, and there was one solitary steward on duty clearing ashtrays and supplying fresh drinks. He glanced at his watch—three o’clock—they would be in New York in a few hours’ time, and a few hours ago he would have been glad, but now? How, he wondered, can I get to meet her before we disembark?

Léonie flung her cards onto the table and stretched, lifting her arms above her head and tilting her chair backward as she pushed her long legs out in front of her. “That’s it for me, gentlemen,” she said. “I’m tired and I’ve drunk too much whiskey … and I’ve taken too much of your money.” She grinned at them wickedly. “I should have warned you I’m an expert.” It was true, poker was a passion with her, she’d taken it up first to pass the interminable hours traveling on trains, learning from the musicians who toured with her, and now she could out-bluff almost anyone.

She picked up her purse and glanced around the room. Maroc had retired hours ago. There was just that one man sitting in the corner. He’d been there most of the night, watching them—she had felt his eyes on her and had glanced up once or twice, but it was impossible to see him properly in the dim light. She supposed he was just another passenger who couldn’t sleep in this tossing ship and preferred to pass the night awake instead of fruitlessly searching for rest. Léonie nodded goodnight to him as she went by. He stood up with a smile. “Please don’t leave,” he said.

He was tall and rugged with dark hair, nice hair, soft and wavy, and he wore it rather long. A full mustache curved over his wide mouth. She definitely liked his mouth, the lips were firm with an upward tilt that made him seem ready to smile. She liked the rest of him, the way his well-tailored jacket fit smoothly over his broad shoulders and the way his body looked muscular and tight—and very fit. He was decidedly handsome. Positively American. And probably ten years younger than she.

“It’s very late, Mr.…?”

“Jamieson—James Homer Alexander Jamieson the third—Jim.”

Léonie laughed. “Your mother obviously expected a lot from
you … Homer
and
Alexander! I hope you didn’t disappoint her.”

“I tried not to, but you know how it is with mothers.”

Do I? she wondered, do I know how it is with mothers? She was suddenly very tired. Too tired for conversations like this. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jamieson, but it’s late, I’d like to get some rest before we get to New York. Goodnight.”

She strode toward the door but he matched her stride, talking fast as they threaded their way through lurching empty corridors. “Why haven’t I seen you before? We’ve been on this boat for over a week and yet we didn’t meet. I don’t even know your name.”

Léonie stopped at the door of her cabin. He didn’t know who she was? Could that be true? She remembered her shirt with its rolled-up sleeves, her hair tied back with a ribbon, and her unadorned face. Of course, she didn’t look like “Léonie”—she was just herself. “It’s mademoiselle,” she replied, “Mademoiselle Bahri. Goodnight, Mr. Jamieson.”

With a final smile she closed the door, sliding her feet out of her shoes, unbuttoning her shirt, and flinging it onto the still lurching floor along with her skirt, peeling off her stockings and letting them drop in a trail toward the bed; she crawled naked under the sheets. Fatigue claimed her; nothing, not even the sliding lurch of the boat, could keep her awake another moment. Jim Jamieson’s face with his nice mouth was the last thing she thought of before she drifted into sleep. That nice mouth that curved up at the corners as though he were just about to smile.

Maroc shrugged off his coat, thankful to be in the warmth of the Waldorf Hotel at last. It had been freezing on the pier, even though they’d been ushered through immigration and customs with a minimum of delay. He’d had a hard time waking Léonie, but she had finally dragged herself out of bed and into a hot bath, hiding the fatigue beneath a wide-brimmed hat and a brush of artificial color on her pale cheeks. She huddled miserably into her furs, managing to smile charmingly when necessary, though all she really wanted to do was climb back into bed. She must get some sleep, she had the show to do tonight. She cursed the weather for delaying the ship, it left her so little time.

“I’ll have them send up some hot tea with lemon for your throat,” said Maroc, “and then you rest until this evening. I’ll take care of everything.”

The manager of the Waldorf considered Léonie one of the few guests worth getting up to meet this early in the morning. He showed her the suite with a flourish, opening doors and switching on lamps. Fires glowed in the marble hearths and flowers bloomed on every table. Léonie thanked him and collapsed on the sofa, kicking off her shoes, as the door closed behind him. “Julie,” she called to her maid, “I’m going straight to bed, and I don’t want to be disturbed until five o’clock.”

Maroc took the pile of envelopes and messages from the desk clerk and glanced through them quickly. There was the usual stuff, a note about rehearsal time—five o’clock—earlier than he’d expected. They wanted to know about the lights. The pianist would be there at two o’clock to check that the Steinway was to their liking. What would Madame like in her dressing room—champagne, wine, whiskey, food? Would she need the services of an extra dresser? There was a charming note from Mrs. Van Wyk, president of the Charitable Homes Trust, welcoming Léonie to New York and offering any assistance she might need. One from Mrs. Austin, who had organized the ball, selling tickets for two hundred dollars each, saying she could easily have sold twice as many. The fund raising was already a success, and that was without the donations yet to be demanded from the wealthy guests later that evening.

He picked up the pen to sign the register. The harsh, uncompromising, black script jumped out from the page. “Duc de Courmont!” Monsieur was here? He pushed the book away angrily. How the hell had he known Léonie would be here? Wait a minute, though, did he know? Monsieur was often in America on business.

“The Duc de Courmont,” he said casually to the desk clerk, “I see he checked in yesterday. Is he staying long?”

The clerk checked his list. “No, sir. He’s just here for the one night. He’s sailing for France this morning.”

Maroc heaved a sigh of relief. Thank God, that meant he didn’t know. And he wouldn’t tell Léonie that Monsieur was here in the same hotel. There was no point in upsetting her unnecessarily.

“Excuse me, sir.” The desk clerk broke into his thoughts. “But you forgot to sign the register.” He pushed the book toward him again, apologizing as the pages flipped forward.

It was the wrong page and Maroc paused, pen in hand, as his
eye caught the looped continental swirl of the French name. “D’Aureville … the Comtesse Isabelle d’Aureville, Mademoiselle A. d’Aureville, and Senhor R. Castelo do Santos.”

The names exploded in his head like rockets, reverberating in sound waves of shock. Could it be? It
must
be the same one—there couldn’t possibly be two Isabelle d’Aurevilles! But then A. d’Aureville. He stared again at the neat script. That must be Amélie!

The full implications of the situation hit him suddenly. Somehow he had always known it would happen like this. They would go on for years, being cautious, never communicating with the d’Aurevilles, not even attempting to find out where Amélie was, parrying Monsieur’s every spying move. And then one day there would be the coincidence that would trigger the sequence of events that they had all been dreading.

What must he do? He turned urgently to the desk clerk. “When are the d’Aurevilles leaving?”

The desk clerk glanced at him in surprise. Maybe it was the rough sea voyage, but this guest was behaving a little oddly. “The Comtesse d’Aureville leaves this morning, sir.” He looked at the clock on the wall. “In fact, in about fifteen minutes. They’re catching an early train to Florida.”

Maroc hesitated. The decision was a terrible one. “Oh Léonie,” he murmured, “will you ever forgive me for this?”

The desk clerk looked at him in alarm. “Is something wrong, sir? Is there anything I can do?”

“No. Thank you.”

Maroc glanced uneasily around the lobby. It was empty but for a couple of cleaners and porters. Of course, it was still very early, only seven o’clock. Amélie would be safely away from the hotel before Monsieur was down. And, with luck, Monsieur would also leave without knowing that Léonie was there. God, he needed a cup of coffee, he felt chilled to the bone, but he had to wait. He had to see Amélie. It was the least he could do for Léonie. He took a seat in the lobby, half-hidden by a pillar but with a good view of the doors.

He didn’t have long to wait and he recognized them immediately. The grandmother, the young boy, and the girl. They were both blond and almost the same height—the girl was tall for her age. Isabelle hurried them through the lobby to the big doors and
Amélie revolved twice around, laughing, before darting out into the street.

Maroc let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. This was the baby he’d carried to safety from Menton, the infant who had slept in his arms. Amélie looked
exactly
as Léonie had when he had first met her, a young bright-faced innocent girl, still too slender, but with the promise of beauty. And her mother’s special magical quality.

He wandered slowly across the lobby to the elevator. He knew he should feel relieved that the danger was past, but all he felt was sad.

Léonie’s smart Vuitton steamer trunks waited under the awning at the front of the hotel to be carried inside and the porter hurried forward with a trolley. Amélie and Roberto stared at them curiously. “Look, Roberto,” said Amélie. “Imagine having all that luggage—there’s enough for six people and yet they all have the same monogram.” She ran a curious finger across the gold initials emblazoned on the top of each trunk.

“LB,” she said, “I wonder what it stands for. She must be very grand to need so much luggage.”

“How do you know they belong to a woman?” asked Roberto.

Amélie looked at him scornfully. “What man would have sixteen matched pieces of luggage, silly?”

They watched the porter maneuvering the mound of baggage onto the trolley.

“It’s Léonie’s,” said the burly Irish porter with a smile. “She always stops here—and she always has enough luggage for six. More than this, usually.”

“Who’s Léonie?” asked Roberto curiously.

“You don’t know who Léonie is? Where do you live? On the moon?” asked the porter incredulously. “She’s the singing star, that’s who! The most beautiful woman in the world.”

“Imagine,” said Amélie in an awed voice. “Imagine, Roberto, she’s the most beautiful woman in the world!”

“Huh, I don’t believe it, there are lots of beautiful women.”

“Yes, but still … how nice to be called that,” sighed Amélie. “Léonie, the singing star, the most beautiful woman in the world. My mother’s name was Léonie,” she said to the porter.

“Well, I’m sure she was lovely, too. Come to think of it, you
look a lot like her.” He stared at her in sudden surprise. She was only a little girl, but there was something about her.

“Did you hear that?” she said triumphantly to Roberto. “He says I look a lot like the world’s most beautiful woman!”

“He should see you in a pair of baggy old shorts with your skinny legs and big feet,” teased Roberto, dodging as she aimed a kick at him.