Leonie (66 page)

“Amélie,” Roberto waved to her from the other end of the leafy tunnel and she broke into a run, dashing into his arms as he caught her, swinging her around in the air.

“Roberto, I’m so happy,” she cried. “This place is wonderful, it seems to sort out all your problems.”

Arm in arm they walked down to the river. “I’d like to stay here forever,” he said as they watched the mallards skimming the water with rushing wings. And, he added to himself, I never, ever want to see Diego again. Amélie’s wild hair was blowing in the breeze and she looked poised for flight, bursting with eager energy, ready for whatever was to happen next.

“Amélie d’Aureville,” he said softly, “I love you. Will you marry me?”

Her amber eyes sprang wide in surprise, followed by a look of such contentment and happiness that he had to kiss her smiling mouth. She laughed under his kiss, and, wriggling herself free, she ran to the top of the bank and stood there for a moment looking at him, laughing with pure joy.

“Of course I’ll marry you,” she yelled triumphantly, throwing her arms wide to the heavens. “I
always
meant to marry you, Roberto do Santos.” She leapt into the air exuberantly, cavorting like a young animal in spring. “On my seventeenth birthday!”

He leapt up the bank toward her and she fled laughing along the path, turning teasingly to look at him. “I could always run faster than you,” she shouted over her shoulder.

“No you can’t,” he cried, gaining on her. “You see!” He grabbed her by the arm and swung her, laughing, toward him, folding her in his arms as she covered his face in kisses. And then he kissed her, taking her sweet fresh mouth in his, loving her as she moved closer in the circle of his arms. This was true happiness and now it was his. He would never see Diego again.

–
• 59 •

Jim sat on the terrace with the newspaper in his lap, looking down across the garden where Léonie was busy installing a border of pansies around Bébé’s tree. Chocolat was stretched out on the grass nearby, lazing in the sunshine. He could faintly hear Léonie’s voice as she talked to the cat. He smiled; she was probably telling her about Amélie. She had talked of Amélie constantly since they had met last week, telling herself that she had no right to be sad because at least now she knew her, she knew what her daughter looked like, sounded like, how it felt when she hugged her, how it was to kiss her, and she felt sure that one day she would see her again. One day, when she was free and Amélie needed her, they would be together. He didn’t know how such conviction had emerged from the despair of her decision to send Amélie away—again—but it had, and she was happy.

He looked back at the newspaper. The announcement was there, the bold caption said it all. “Léonie secretly married … Mrs. James Jamieson, wife of the American property tycoon.” He smiled as he read it; why were all American businessmen automatically “tycoons” to Europeans? he wondered. Anyway, there it was at last.

“Jim.” She waved to him. “I’m just going up the road to get the mail. Ask Madame Frenard for some fresh coffee, will you—and some brioches, I’m starving.”

He put down the paper and wandered inside. He loved this house as much as she did, he liked its cool thick white walls and terra-cotta tiled floors, its arched doorways and long, green shuttered windows, and he liked what she’d done with it, bestowing soft rugs on the gleaming floors, interesting paintings on the walls, and comfortable cushioned chairs for relaxing. It was truly a home. He passed their room. Its windows stood open to the sun
and the rays picked out the statue of Sekhmet—still with her face to the wall. “I’ve almost got you beat,” he promised, as he continued down the corridor.

The big cool kitchen smelled of herbs and flowers and fresh bread. A scrubbed pine table held a comfortable clutter of jugs and baskets and a rack of lamb lay in a flat dish, marinating in wine and bay leaves. Supper, he thought appreciatively, cutting a sliver of meat from the smoked ham in the larder. “Madame Frenard,” he called, “could we have some coffee?”

She bustled in smiling. “I’ll bring it out on the terrace for you.”

“Thank you … and some brioches, please, for Léonie.”

He wandered back to the terrace, enjoying the lazy tempo of the day. Léonie was already sitting by the table, reading a letter. “Nothing much,” she said, “just a note from Caro. Oh, and there’s one there for you from Marseilles.”

He opened it quickly, it was from Legrand Boat Yard—the man he was looking for had applied for a job there last week, but had not returned to start work. He looked up jubilantly. It was the first real contact. If this was his man, he was alive and he was here in the south. At last he was on the trail. He glanced at Léonie reading her letter and put the note carefully in his pocket. He wouldn’t tell her yet, he’d wait until he was sure.

Gérard de Courmont had enjoyed the walk to the Ile Saint-Louis. The sky was a bright cloudless blue, the sun was shining and every bright little city sparrow and pigeon was flaunting itself as though it were in some leafy country lane. Paris was alive and spilling out onto the pavement, concierges sat black-stockinged and scarved in sunny doorways knitting fragile lacy white jackets for babies, builders labored shirtless in the new heat, and pink-cheeked girls in pretty swirling dresses flirted with shirt-sleeved young men at terraced café tables beneath blossoming chestnut trees. Summer was almost here, except at the big house on the Ile Saint-Louis.

The butler closed the door behind him, shutting out the sunlight, and his exhilaration with the perfect blue day faded. There was no early summer joy here, just the immaculate polished grandeur of long, dead years.

“Is my father home?” he asked, striding through the hall, his footsteps ringing in the silence.

“You’ll find him in his study, sir,” replied Bennett.

The study door was shut and he tapped on it and went in. His father looked up from his desk, unsmiling. “Gérard,” he said, “I didn’t expect you back until tomorrow.”

His voice was tired and he looked dispirited, as though all the joy in the beautiful summery world outside had left him forever. He looks now, thought Gérard, the way he did when Armand died.

“I caught the night ferry,” he said, keeping his voice cheerful, “and I’m glad I did. It’s such a wonderful day … you can’t beat Paris in the springtime. I thought of having lunch at the restaurant in the Bois. Why don’t you come with me, Father, we could sit out on the terrace and share a bottle of wine, it’ll do you good.” I never, he thought, expected to be telling my father that something would do him good.

“I don’t know, Gérard.” Gilles picked up some documents on his desk, aligning them into a precise pile in front of him. “I’ve got work to do.”

“Oh, come on, Father, leave it for once. I’d like your company.”

“Would you?” The question was laced with bitterness and Gérard stiffened angrily. What did he expect from him? He moved the newspaper from the chair next to the desk and sat down. “I’d like to take you to lunch, Father,” he repeated. “It’s a beautiful day and I’d like your company.”

“I’m sorry,” said Gilles wearily, leaning back and closing his eyes. “Yes, I’d like that. Just give me a moment to finish writing this note.”

Gérard picked up the newspaper. It was folded carefully to the report of the disclosure of Léonie’s secret marriage to a Mr. James Homer Alexander Jamieson III. So that was it! How could he still care about a woman he had barely seen in sixteen years? What sort of woman must she be? How deep was that kind of emotion, he marveled, and why had he let it wreck his life?

“By the way,” said Gilles, looking up from his letter. “I met your friend Sebastião the other night, he asked me to tell you that he’s at the Ritz.”

“Sebastião? But what on earth is he doing here? He hasn’t been back in Brazil for more than a couple of months.”

“He was with his younger brother Roberto at the Théâtre de l’Opéra. They were just waiting for their cousin. They had been to Léonie’s farewell concert.”

Gérard looked at him in surprise. He’d never heard his father speak her name before. Maybe now that he’d finally lost Léonie, he was going to accept it and begin to live his own life again.

“That’s odd,” he said, determinedly cheerful. “Last time I was with Sebastião we saw Léonie in Voisins and he swore then that she was the image of his young cousin … or else Amélie looked exactly like her. He said it was uncanny, she could almost have been her mother.”

Monsieur stared at him. What was he saying? There was a cousin Amélie who looked like Léonie? His throat was dry, and his voice rasped as he framed the question. “Sebastião’s cousin … what did you say her name was?”

“Amélie. She’s only sixteen, but he’s crazy about her. Her name is Amélie d’Aureville.”

The cramping pain ran the length of his arm and along his shoulder the way it had that night he had gone to find Léonie at the inn. Gilles gasped, leaning back against the green leather chair. All these years he could have had her, she was there in Rio with Sebastião. Oh, my God, he’d been such a fool, so stupid not to have realized. All these wasted years! And now she was here in Paris. If he could get the girl now, he’d finally have Léonie. The cramp moved through his shoulder and into his chest and he cried out as it clenched around his heart, the same gripping burning pain.

Gérard leapt to his feet. “Father, what is it?”

Monsieur’s eyes met his, agonized and unbelieving. “Bennett,” yelled Gérard, running out into the hall, “get the doctor at once. My father is seriously ill.” The butler hurried to the telephone.

“Father,” Gérard spoke gently now, but Monsieur couldn’t hear him. He breathed in short labored gasps. His eyes were closed and his face looked white and bleak beneath the vigorous silver hair. “Oh, Father,” said Gérard, taking his cold hand, “don’t you understand that you cared
too much?
”

–
• 60 •

The little boat yard on the outskirts of Nice was just a jumble of sheds set back a pace from the water’s edge. The sound of a saw buzzed across the sandy yard and a couple of men working on the keel of a neat twenty-foot sailboat looked up from their task as Jim paused beside them.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said with a smile. His French was heavily American-accented and completely colloquial, and always raised enough curiosity to gain him the attention he wanted from the indifferent boat yard workers. As did the bank note he held forward with the name written on it. “I’m looking for a man,” he said. “This is his name: Marigny. He’s a reddish-haired fellow, big, running to fat you might say.”

The note disappeared into the pocket of the blue overalls. “Red hair,” said the workman, “yes, that’s Marigny. He used to work here.”

“Used to?”

“Yeah. He got fired about an hour ago … for drinking. He was never really drunk on the job, but he’d always had a few. It made him aggressive, see; he picked one too many fights this morning—and with the boss. That’s no way to keep a job, now is it?”

“Apparently not,” said Jim, producing another note and passing it over. “Do you know where he lives?”

“You’re too late. He already left. He never lived long in one place anyway. He must have had three different rooms in the few weeks he’s been here. He’s gone to Paris; said there was a lot of money there for him, money he wouldn’t have to work his ass off for, like us fools. He’s crazy,” he said, spitting contemptuously into the sand. “If you’re looking for him,” he suggested suddenly,
“he’s probably gone to the railway station to catch the Paris train.”

“Thanks a lot,” called Jim, striding through the yard. The next train to Paris was at noon. He might just be in time.

Jim spotted his prey as he went through the barrier, a burly figure in a blue workshirt carrying a small bag, shambling along the platform. Jim watched as he disappeared into a second-class carriage of the Paris train, and then he followed him down the platform, sauntering past the carriage, casually glancing inside. Marigny had taken the last seat. People were already standing in the corridor and the conductor was checking tickets. “Paris,” he said, clipping Marigny’s ticket and moving on to the next.

He was bound for Paris to get the money that was waiting there, the money that “he didn’t have to work for.” It seemed that Marigny was finally coming out of hiding. He was going to Paris to find Gilles de Courmont.

Jim walked down the platform, took a seat in a first-class carriage, and considered what his next move should be. Suddenly it seemed so simple and so clear. There was no need to confront Monsieur with the evidence of his crime, the assassin would do it for him. And he’d bet Monsieur would pay up. He smiled. That would be the time to let Monsieur know he knew. The threat of exposure of his crime was a terrible one. He took out his big gold pocket watch and looked at it. Noon. The train was leaving right on time, as usual. He might as well relax and enjoy some lunch. This would be a very satisfying day.

Marie-France de Courmont sipped her tea from a rose-patterned cup of infinite fragility, without enjoying it one little bit. Gérard was reading the newspaper to his father and she watched them coldly. She should never have come here, Gilles meant nothing to her—nor, she supposed, did she to him. I shall only see him because of family duty, she had warned Gérard when he had pleaded with her. Gérard had remained silent and she had wondered if he could possibly understand what it had been like living with his father for all those loveless years. She had been young when she married him—only eighteen—she could have had a happy family life. She sighed and put down the cup, she hadn’t been the sort of woman who would take a lover; instead she had bestowed all the caring and loving on her children.

Gilles was gazing out of the window, listening, she supposed, to
the detailed report of some merger between two steel companies that Gérard was reading to him. She had meant it when she had told him she wished it were he who had died in the crash and not Armand, and now he had cheated death a second time. Nothing could beat him.