Leonie (57 page)

He smiled. “Now you’re going to tell me that they all live in Vienna or St. Petersburg and it’ll take weeks for them to get here!”

“No. Just Paris. It’ll be Caro and Alphonse—and Maroc, of course.”

“And I expect you have to go and buy yourself a new dress or something.”

“Well, of course I do.”

“All right. We’ll send telegrams to everyone telling them to be here on Thursday if they want to see you get married. But I warn you, I can’t wait any longer than that. I want to take you on a honeymoon … anywhere you want: a houseboat on a lake in Kashmir, a chalet in the woods in Vermont, an island in the southern seas—what shall it be?”

“A honeymoon? But Jim, I can’t. I have to be in Paris next week for rehearsals. The tour begins in a few weeks … there are costumes and fittings and music—everything.”

“Léonie Bahri,” he roared, “are our problems never to be over? Cancel the damned tour.”

“Certainly not,” she said, facing him angrily, “and you’ve no
right to ask me. I’m committed to those concerts. The theaters are sold out and I shall be there. It’s not just me, Jim, there are a lot of other people involved, it’s their livelihood, too. If I don’t work, then neither do they.”

“You’re right, of course.” He sighed, grabbing her and hugging her. “But I wish you didn’t have to do it.”

“There’s one other thing,” she said in a small voice.

He looked at her with a faint smile. “All right,” he said, “let me have it.”

“Would you mind very much if we kept our marriage a secret at first—not from our close friends, of course, but from the public. It’s because of the concerts. Léonie’s image is not that of a married woman. She’s just, well, a woman.”

“Does it matter to you very much?”

“Yes,” she replied, “it matters, at least for a while. Afterward, when there are no more concerts, I shall just be Mrs. Jamieson.”

“I don’t like it,” he told her, “but if that’s what you feel is necessary …”

Her smile covered the relief she felt. She hadn’t wanted to tell him her other reason for keeping it a secret. She was afraid of Monsieur’s revenge, afraid for Jim.

Caro sat with Monsieur and Madame Frenard at the front of the little English Church in Nice. It was pleasant, she thought, dark and cool, with a glimmer of silver candlesticks and a touch of color from the stained glass. Yes, it was a nice place to get married. She smoothed her dress and smiled at Madame Frenard, smart in navy blue silk—bought by Léonie, she suspected. And Monsieur Frenard, his red-bronzed outdoorsman face solemn as befitted the occasion, buttoned into a neat gray suit. The organ music was soft and sweet—Handel—and the two men stood at the top of the aisle chatting softly with the minister. Maroc, who was Jim’s best man, was smiling at something he had said. It had all been so sudden, but very satisfactory. She had good feelings about Jim. He turned and caught her eye and smiled. And he was very handsome—those blue eyes and black eyelashes were quite something—and he looked rugged and somehow dependable. He was exactly what Léonie needed. It had been a long road to happiness, but at last it seemed as though it were within her grasp. Remembering Monsieur, she hoped so.

A shaft of sunlight filtered down the short aisle as the church
door opened and Léonie entered on Alphonse’s arm. She looked wonderful: her cream silk suit was soft, a flutter of pleats in the skirt, the simple jacket tied with a velvet ribbon at the waist. Her blond hair was pulled back into a gleaming chignon and she wore a wide-brimmed flowery hat and carried a small posy of peach-colored roses. Caro dabbed at the tears of happiness in her eyes.

She’s beautiful, thought Jim, as she came toward him. My lovely bride. Her amber eyes met his, loving him. He took her hand and held it, and they smiled at each other. It was just them now, together for always.

Madame Frenard wiped her eyes. She had told Léonie that one day she’d find her happiness and now look at her. She’d never seen anyone look so happy. When Jim put the ring on her finger, her face was just like the shaft of sunlight when the door opened—she lit up inside. She reached for her husband’s hand, holding it in hers. The best thing in life was to be with the man you loved.

Caro followed the bridal party into the vestry to sign the register, kissing Léonie through her tears. “But you shouldn’t be crying,” said Léonie, tenderly dabbing her face with a lace handkerchief.

“It’s just because I’m so happy for you,” sniffed Caro, “that’s all. They’re happy tears.”

Alphonse took her hand. “We could always make it a double ceremony,” he suggested.

“Oh, Alphonse, I’m happy as I am. You know I love you.”

“I know,” he said, kissing her, “forgive me, it’s just a habit.”

Jim burst out laughing. “Are they always like this?” he asked Léonie.

“Always—and they’re the most ‘married’ couple possible.”

“Well, Mrs. Jamieson, talking about married, how does it feel?”

She tilted her chin arrogantly, her eyes smiling at him from under the brim of her hat. “Mr. Jamieson,” she murmured, “it feels wonderful.”

–
• 51 •

Armand de Courmont lay in bed contemplating with satisfaction the day ahead of him. It was his twenty-first birthday, the sun was shining, and there was a beautiful dark-haired girl waiting in Paris to help him celebrate. He glanced at the clock on the mantel—seven-thirty—still early. He padded to the window and looked out across the pillared portico of the Château de Courmont. Hoskins, his father’s English chauffeur, was already out there, his shirt-sleeves rolled up, adding a final loving polish to the already spotless scarlet lacquer of the new sports car. The radiator with its eagle mascot glittered in the early morning sun and the car’s lovely low raking lines held a promise of power and speed. It was his birthday present from his father—the first of the new de Courmont sports cars and the one on which his father was placing his hopes for reviving his ailing automobile business. Armand knew that engine backward. He’d worked on the prototypes, he’d tested them, and he’d labored over them up to his elbows in grease along with the mechanics. It was a good car.

There was a clatter of hooves on the gravel as Gérard rode into view on his big bay hunter with Sebastião behind.

Armand threw open the window. “Hey, wait for me. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Throwing on his clothes, he ran along the corridor and down the stairs to the hall.

“Armand?”

His father emerged from the breakfast room, a cup of coffee in his hand.

He looks tired, thought Armand, as though he hasn’t slept—not just last night, but in weeks. He felt a pang of pity, his father was such a desperately lonely man.

“Happy birthday, my boy,” said Gilles with a smile. “Have you seen your present?”

“I saw it from my window, sir, I’m just going out there now to show it off to Sebastião and Gérard.”

They walked together through the soaring malachite columns of the vast hall. “Well,” said Gilles, “what do you think, Armand? Have we done it this time?”

“I’m sure of it, sir. It can’t miss, it’s a great machine. I’ll bet in six months the sales figures will have skyrocketed.”

“And what do
you
think, Gérard?” called Gilles.

“It’s wonderful, Father, a beautiful car. Sebastião was just saying he’d love to take one back to Brazil with him.”

“Trouble is I can’t afford it yet,” Sebastião added, laughing.

“Do what I did,” said Armand, climbing into the driver’s seat, “get your father to give you one as a birthday present.”

He switched on the ignition, touching his foot gently on the accelerator. The horses backed away nervously as he spun the car around amid a splutter of gravel and sped off down the drive. “Yes,” murmured Gilles with satisfaction, “it’s a good car.”

“See you later then, Father,” called Gérard, heading for the river with Sebastião.

Gilles watched them go, two nice-looking young men on a nice sunny summer morning. It was a pity Gérard hadn’t wanted to join him in the business, but he had Armand—and he couldn’t have wished for anyone better. The concept for that new sports car was his and he had followed every stage of its production meticulously.

He wandered back into the hall, glancing at the big grandfather clock with its gilt pendulum ticking away the hours as it had done for two hundred years now. But it didn’t make the time go by any faster. It was still only eight o’clock in the morning and he’d been up since five.

He could never sleep at the château, it oppressed him with its memories, though Marie-France, to her credit, had brought it to life; it wasn’t the gloomy house of his childhood. She had spent a fortune refurbishing it and had done it beautifully. Marie-France spent most of her time here now and it felt more like her house than his. The house on the Ile Saint-Louis saw her rarely, and even his sons seemed to prefer living elsewhere when they were in Paris. Gérard had rooms with Sebastião do Santos, and Armand had taken an apartment closer to the factory, though he suspected
he lived most of the time with some girl. And why not, he thought indulgently, the boy should enjoy himself.

De Courmont strode across the hall into his study. He’d reread the financial report from the man who had taken Verronet’s place. God, he missed Verronet. How
could
the man have been stupid enough to get himself killed? Satère had been working for him for three years now and he still didn’t seem able to get the details he needed the way Verronet had. His reports never showed anything more specific than where Léonie was and when—what city, what country, what theater. And sometimes whom she was with. One name had been cropping up often recently: James Jamieson, an American. The latest of her lovers, he supposed. It was the question that had run through his head in the sleepless hours of the night: What was he going to do about Jamieson? He knew the answer. Nothing. There was nothing he could do, unless he found Amélie—and that was a lost cause. There was no trace of the child, every possible lead had been followed. Verronet had been thorough. He would never find Amélie and without her he would never have Léonie. He put his head in his hands and stared sightlessly at the polished surface of the desk. Léonie! he thought helplessly. Oh, Léonie, you must come back to me soon, I can’t stand this loneliness much longer.

Marie-France surveyed the table happily. It wasn’t often that she had both her boys here, and even Gilles was putting himself out to be amusing. The thing that always surprised her was that he was such a charming man when he wanted to be. Why couldn’t he be that way all the time? But Gilles was two people, even to his sons. He’d be the indulgent father one moment and the cold disinterested businessman the next—they had never known where they stood with him. They had come to terms with it years ago. Gilles was the only one to suffer now. He suffered, she knew it—and she knew why: he had never forgotten Léonie and that child.

“When Sebastião goes back to Brazil, Mother, I’d like to go with him,” said Gérard. “I feel I know his family as well as my own, I’ve heard so much about them.”

“It’s true,” said Sebastião. “He reads my young cousin’s letters, so he knows all the family squabbles.”

“What do you say, Father?” asked Gérard.

“Yes, why not?” Gilles said absently, looking at his watch. Two-thirty. If he went back up to town now, he could catch the
night train to Monte Carlo. He knew Léonie was there. “I must get back to Paris this afternoon,” he said to Marie-France.

Can’t he even wait till Armand’s birthday lunch is over? she thought irritably. She lifted her glass. “Here’s to you, Armand,” she said with a smile for her son. “Happy birthday, my darling.”

“And many more happy birthdays, my boy,” said Gilles, smiling at his favorite son.

Armand lifted the long hood of the de Courmont, folding it back on its side to inspect the immaculate engine. He took out a wrench and tested a bolt, thrusting his hands beneath the gleaming pipes and fiddling with the wires. He thought he’d felt a faint wobble when he’d driven it to the garage, but everything seemed fine. Good. He’d leave in about half an hour, he could give his father a lift to Paris if he liked, it’d save him taking Hoskins. Wiping his hands on a rag, he pulled the hood back into place. It closed with a satisfying click and he smiled. It was a good, solid, well-crafted car.

Back in the house, he poked his head around the study door. “I’ll be leaving in about half an hour, Father. I’ll give you a lift if you like. We can see how she drives.”

Gilles packed his papers away in his case and went to the drawing room to say good-bye to Marie-France. She was sitting by the open window, a swirl of colored wools beside her, working on a piece of tapestry. Her dark hair curled neatly around her face and she looked at him with those big skeptical brown eyes as he came in.

“I shall be leaving for Paris with Armand,” he told her, “and then I expect to be out of town for a week or two.”

“Where is it this time?” she asked with a faint smile. “Chicago or Cap Ferrat?”

“Does it matter?” he asked coldly.

“I don’t know why you bother telling me, Gilles, it hasn’t ‘mattered’ for years.” She bent over her needlework and he watched her for a moment. They had been married for twenty-six years and they were strangers. He turned and walked quickly from the room.

Armand was waiting in the car. “Right,” he said. “Let’s give her a workout, Father. We’ll see what she can do.”

The long red car rushed along the country roads, controlled perfectly by Armand’s capable hands, taking the corners steadily
as he put her through her paces. He knew exactly how this engine should sound and it was like a symphony, every part in tune.

Armand glanced at the clock on the dashboard; it was almost six, which meant he’d be in Paris just before eight. He’d drop his father at Ile Saint-Louis and go straight on to Claudine’s. She’d be waiting for him, wearing, he hoped, that pretty lilac robe, and then later he’d take her to dinner at Café Cézar, she’d enjoy it there.

The steering wheel trembled slightly under his hands, had they gone over a stone in the road? It felt all right now. Still, perhaps he should stop and check it out, wasn’t that the same tremor he’d felt this morning? He glanced at the clock again, he was already late. He swung the big car around the bend into the hill. It had been a good birthday, he thought happily. Father had been civil, and he and Mother had seemed to get on all right. It was always a strain when they were together. Jesus, what was that? The tremor from the wheel ran up his arms and he took his foot off the accelerator. He felt rather than heard the crack of the steering column as it broke loose from its bearings and the next bend loomed before him. He slammed his foot on the brake and felt the car go into a skid, somersaulting twice before it landed upside down in the ditch, its wheels still spinning futilely in the air.