Leonie (22 page)

“And are you being a good boy?” she had asked in her high clear voice.

“Yes, Maman.”

“Good, then have Nanny dress you properly this evening and you may come into the drawing room before supper. Off you go now, surely you have lessons to do.” And she had sent him off with a careless pat on his rump.

Of course, he had no lessons to do; the governess she’d hired had left after a month, unable to bear the big lonely house any longer, and Maman had not remembered to hire a new one, even though Nanny had said it was scandalous. So he still couldn’t read, even though he was six. Nanny was English and not a very good reader herself, so she was no help, and he had desperately wanted to read. He’d pored over the books he’d found in the big, gloomy library, not even ones with pictures in them, running his fingers along the words, threading together the letters of the alphabet, teaching himself until he could sort of half-read, but the words had been so big and didn’t sound the way the letters did.

He’d waited all that day for evening to come. Upstairs in the nursery wing he couldn’t hear the sounds of music and jollity from the other side of the house and he’d lurked behind the baize door, peeking out when Nanny wasn’t around, just to catch their laughter. He had even sneaked down to her room on the first floor, hiding behind the door while she dressed, smelling her drifting perfume. He wanted to stay near her forever, to hear what she said when she spoke to those strange people, to know what it was that she did when she wasn’t with him that was so important and glamorous and wonderful—and that took her away from him. Afraid of her anger if he were caught, he’d crept back through the big house to the nursery and Nanny, to wait.

And then it was time—and this last time was burned in his memory forever. He’d walked in holding Nanny’s hand and they had turned to watch him, all the smart ladies and the tall gentlemen, smiling at him as he basked in their warmth, like a foolish puppy displaying its charms. “And what are you learning in the
schoolroom, young man?” his father had boomed, awaiting the opportunity to display his son to his friends.

“Nothing, sir.”

“Nothing? What does he mean, nothing?” He turned to his wife.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Come here, Gilles.” He’d walked over to her obediently, smiling up into those dark deep blue eyes with the thick curling lashes. He’d put his hand on her arm, touching her soft peachy flesh, longing for her to put her arms around him. “Why are you not learning, Gilles?” she’d asked.

“The governess left, Maman, and you never got me another.”

She had flushed with embarrassment. “Nonsense,” she’d said, “you’re old enough to be at school anyway … surely he should be at school now?” She’d turned to his father angrily.

“Well, he’s old enough, Régine.…”

“Then that’s it: next week you’ll go to school, my boy. I shall arrange it myself,” and she’d turned her attention to the young man by her side, taking his hand and seating him next to her, charming him easily. He had stood there forgotten. She had just carelessly condemned him to twelve years of loneliness and misery and he had hated her for the rest of her life. When she had died, ironically in a shooting accident at the same house, he had felt nothing, not even a lessening of the hate. But he always remembered how beautiful she was, her perfume and her skin.

Gilles stood up abruptly as Verronet came into the room. “Excuse me, sir, but I have the new figures you requested on the rubber for the automobile tires, and the various comparisons on the durability of the paints.”

“Thank you, yes, put them on my desk. I’ll look at them later.” He glanced at his watch, it was almost twelve. “I’ll be back around three, Verronet.”

“Of course, sir.” Verronet followed his employer down the hall, hurrying to hold open the door, watching as Gilles strode out into the icy wind without even seeming to notice it. I’ll bet he’s going back to see her, he thought with a lewd smile. This is the first time
that
has ever happened.

The big room was silent and empty, the bed smooth and untouched. He had hurried into the suite expecting to find her still pottering about the way she had on the yacht, but she was gone.

Where had she gone? He paced the floor angrily, calling for Julie.

“I believe she’s lunching with Mademoiselle Montalva, sir, they were to look at houses together.”

Of course. He’d been so lost in his need to see her, to watch her smile, to have her tease him; fool, he should have known she wasn’t going to just sit around here all day. He closed the door to the blue suite and made his way down to the restaurant.

The head waiter seated him at a quiet table by the window and another took his order.

“An omelette
fines herbes
, please, and bring me the wine list.”

“Well, what do you think?” Léonie spun around in the center of the main salon, throwing out her arms expansively to take in the row of eight french windows with ornamental iron balconies, the high ceilings with their molded cornices, the vast expanse of polished boards, and the twin marble fireplaces, one at each end.

“It’s a perfect room for entertaining,” replied Caro, “and look, here’s a smaller sitting room with a very pretty Adam mantel.”

They wandered through the empty rooms, followed by the echoes of their own voices, exclaiming over each new discovery—a master bedroom with his dressing room and her dressing room and two bathrooms and her boudoir, small enough to be cozy, with a fireplace for chilly weather and two long windows that overlooked the leafy square and opened out onto a tiny balcony for warmer days.

“I think it’s perfect,” said Léonie, surveying her future domain, for she had already decided. This was to be her house.

“It’s suitable,” agreed Caro. “There’s plenty of space for entertaining.”

Léonie stopped in her tracks as a thought struck her. “Caro,
who
am I to entertain?”

“My dear Léonie, that will not be a problem. Monsieur knows everyone there is to know, and besides, every woman in Paris is dying to see who has finally melted the ice in Gilles de Courmont’s veins!” She laughed at Léonie’s surprised face. “You’ll be amazed at how quickly you get used to it,” she warned.

“But I don’t know what to do, Caro. I don’t know how to give a party.”

“The first thing you do is hire a good chef. And, if you insist on having Maroc as your butler, then you must have an experienced
housekeeper—she’ll teach you how to run a household. An efficient staff will know exactly what to do. As for clothes, take my advice, Léonie,
always
wear exactly what you feel like wearing. Forget all the rules and regulations. I’ve never forgotten the way you looked at my party—even then you had a style of your own.”

“And what about the house, Caro? It’s so big. Where do I start?”

“Come with me.” Caro led her to the middle of the vast salon. “Now, close your eyes and just think about it. It’s your house. This is your room, and it’s going to reflect your personality. What do you want from it? Imagine yourself in it.”

Léonie closed her eyes and saw the blank walls, the tall row of windows with their balconies; it was like an empty stage. Of course! The place was exactly like a theater, and this room was the stage where everything would happen. It couldn’t possibly be conventional and ordinary—it demanded flamboyance, textures, wonderful gleaming light, as though lit by stage lamps. “I know exactly what I want,” she announced, opening her eyes. “This room will be silver.”

Verronet’s eyes tracked his employer as he strode past him into his office, slamming the door behind him. Back so soon? De Courmont emerged again an hour later. “Verronet.”

“Sir.”

“I want you to get someone to keep an eye on Mademoiselle Léonie. I want to know where she is and what she’s doing—the same as before.”

“Yes, sir.” Verronet was surprised. Surely he couldn’t suspect her of being unfaithful already! “You’ll have a daily report, sir.”

“Oh, and Verronet”—de Courmont paused by the door—“I’ll have the answers on these figures you gave me sometime tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” Verronet’s face was blank. Normally he would have had them back within an hour.

–
• 18 •

It seemed to Léonie that the house consumed all her time. It didn’t matter anymore that Monsieur was up and out by dawn, she herself was up by seven, dressed and ready by eight, waiting impatiently for Caro and the first task of the day. Monsieur’s team of surveyors and experts had found evidence of dry rot on the upper floors of the house and damp on the lower ones, and advised that an enormous amount of work was needed. “If this is the house you want, then it will be done,” he told her.

Of course she wanted it, she could already see it finished; it was going to be wonderful. It was a house built from a poor girl’s dreams. She who had bathed in cold metal tubs had ordered a bath of rose quartz with taps fashioned from leaping gold dolphins and studded with turquoise—she even had her monogram in gold on the bottom—though Monsieur had refused the gold taps and initials on his plain cream marble tub. With a vision of the entire house in her mind, she’d ordered translucent silk brocades specially woven in Lyons, while factories at Aubusson were weaving delicate pastel-colored rugs and carpets. She was determined that the house should have a unique style that she had created. There would be no other house in Paris like it. “Do exactly what you want,” Monsieur had told her, “it’s your house.”

“Our house,” she’d corrected him.

She walked through the courtyard of their house and up the short flight of stone steps, pushing open the big double doors with a possessive hand. The hall was quiet this morning, the heavy work had been completed, just the painters were in now, putting on the final touches. She wandered through the rooms that had already taken on a new life, imagining herself with Monsieur. They had been together for almost six months now, and she still didn’t really know him. He allowed her just so close, and then no
closer. It was disconcerting. She was so wildly in love with him, not the wonderful gentle love she’d felt for Rupert—this was different, crazy. She thought about him all the time, planned how she would look for him, how she would be for him, fantasized him covering her with kisses and telling her he loved her, loved her forever.

She peered into the room that was to be his study. It was already completed and it was the only room in the house, apart from his dressing room, that felt masculine. She’d found a wonderful carpet from Scotland in a dark green tartan and had chosen plum-colored walls—making the painters fade it slightly with cream so that they were just warmly rouged—and the curtains were heavy ribbed green linen with a border of plaid braid. She’d sought out a marvelous old ebony desk in Drouet’s salesroom and an immense dark green padded leather chair. Walking to the desk, she unwrapped the writing set. A simple silver tray held round crystal bottles for inks, a silver pen and pencil, and a little curved blotter with a handle. She had bought it yesterday in Cartier and had been meaning to give it to him when she showed him the finished house, but she decided now to arrange it on the desk to surprise him. Just by the groove where the pen rested was a tiny inscription. “To Monsieur,” it read, “with love from Léonie.” She ran a finger over it thoughtfully. She hoped he would like it.

Voisins was busy, as always, and Léonie happily surveyed the crowded room from their corner table. They were alone tonight, just the two of them having dinner together. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d been alone for an evening, there always seemed to be something arranged—a theater or a party, or dinner at some restaurant with a dozen friends. “Remember,” she asked, taking his hand and squeezing it, “remember all those dinners at all those grand restaurants along the coast?”

“Of course I remember, you ate such enormous quantities of food.”

She laughed, studying the menu. “I don’t know what to choose,” she said, closing it finally. “I think I’ll just have some fish.”

“I also remember at one of those dinners you asking me why I always ordered the same thing when there was so much to choose from.”

Léonie looked at him, wide-eyed, surprised that she had become so blasé in so short a time. “Are you bored already?” he asked her.

“Of course not; it’s just that I’m excited at being alone with you,” she flirted with him. “And you must choose for both of us, just as you did on that first night.”

“Then we’ll have the very same things,” he said, ordering oysters and salmon.

It was a sort of anniversary, she’d explained to him that morning, because it was exactly six months since they had been together. This evening he had said they would go to Voisins to celebrate. He checked his watch and she frowned; surely he couldn’t be going home to Marie-France tonight? She felt a flicker of jealousy for her unknown rival—not even a true rival, really, because there was no contest. He belonged to his wife. They were sitting together on the red velvet banquette and she moved closer to him and placed her hand lightly on his thigh. Their eyes locked and she caught her breath. He took her hand, kissing her fingers as she leaned back against the seat, feeling weak, wanting him. She always wanted him; he had a magic hold over her body that she had no wish to release—she just wanted to feel him next to her right now.

“I’m afraid I have to go away tomorrow,” he said as the waiter poured their favorite champagne.

“Go away? Where?”

“To Vienna first, but there’s a possibility that I may have to go on to St. Petersburg.”

“But that’s in Russia!”

The waiter placed the oysters in front of them. They glistened juicily in their own brine.

“But what shall I do all day, without you?”

He shrugged. “Whatever it is that you do all day now, I suppose.”

She stared at him. “Take me with you.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged impatiently. “This is a business trip.”

“But surely—”

He cut her off abruptly. “I told you in the beginning that my time is not always my own. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. Surely you can amuse yourself until I get back.”