Leonie (31 page)

Now that they were back in Paris, it was no better. He was up most of the night—she knew because she’d see the light on in his bedroom—and he wasn’t working, so what
was
he doing?

“You look tired,” she said to him over dinner one night.

“Really?”

“Are you not feeling well, Gilles?”

“I’m perfectly all right.”

“Perhaps you’ve been working too hard. You should take a rest. Why don’t you go down to the south, you know being on the yacht always does you good.”

Gilles stared at her in surprise. She was offering him the excuse he had been looking for. “I’ll think about it,” he replied.

She pushed back her chair and Bennett hurried to help her. “I’ll go and say goodnight to the children and then I think I’ll have an early night myself. Goodnight, Gilles … and Gilles …”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you should see a doctor, have things checked out?”

“You’re exaggerating again, Marie-France. I’m perfectly all right.”

She shrugged. “As you wish.”

Gilles lit a cigar and sipped his brandy, alone in the dining room. The long table, polished to perfection, reflected the silver candelabra, pointing up his loneliness—candlelight was meant for two, for romance and attraction. Oh, God, how he missed Léonie. He was desperate for news of her. There had been no letter from her, no message. She had gone for good. The man in Saint-Jean had a rough time trying to keep a watch on the inn and had found it impossible to infiltrate the locals. The cigar went out and he relit it: he walked through the hall to his study, pulled the big chair close to the window, and gazed out across the Seine.

He’d intended never to see her again, she demanded too much. Oh, not like other women—not money and jewels and furs—Léonie wanted love. And love was the one commodity he didn’t have to give. What did he feel for her then, he wondered. For feel something he most certainly did. It was painful, his need for her. And why had she said that she wanted a child? A child! She must have been crazy. Didn’t she know the demands children made—no, not made, expected? They expected love—and he wasn’t prepared to give it to anyone. Except that was the one thing she wanted, the only thing she needed. Léonie wanted to be loved.

He leaned back in the chair thinking about what to do.

If he wanted her back, he must tell her he loved her. It was so simple he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before.

The stormy weather had lingered, lurking on the horizon and darkening the evening sky with purple clouds, just as it had when Charles had been washed up on her doorstep two weeks before.

Léonie eyed the clouds warily as she hurried back from Saint-Jean, running the last few yards as the heavens opened and the rain came down in torrents. “My poor trees,” she gasped to Madame Frenard, shaking the drops from her hair. “If this goes on much longer they’ll be washed away.” She peered out of the window at the young cypresses she’d planted on the western boundary of her land, but it was impossible to see anything through the sheets of rain.

Madame Frenard had lit a fire in the sitting room, and Léonie
sat before it drying her hair and watching Bébé enjoying its unaccustomed luxury.

“There’s a visitor for you, Léonie,” Monsieur Frenard spoke in a conspiratorial whisper from the doorway.

“A visitor? But who is it?” she whispered back.

He closed the door carefully behind him. “It’s him, Léonie; it’s Monsieur le Duc.”

The shock sent a tremor up her spine again. Her throat felt dry and her heart was pounding. Was it nervousness? Or excitement? So he’d come at last! But had he come to claim her as his property or to say his final farewells?

Monsieur was standing in the little hallway, dwarfing it with his presence. Water dripped from his hair and his clothes, forming a pool on the tiled floor.

“My car broke down,” he said. “I walked the last couple of miles.”

“You’d better come in.” Léonie held open the door to the sitting room. “I’ll get some towels.” She left him standing by the fire gazing after her and ran to the safety of the linen cupboard, giving herself time to get used to the idea that he was actually there. Damn it, she hadn’t expected to feel this way, but he looked so vulnerable, all wet like that. And he was thin, he didn’t look well. My God, was there something wrong with him? Léonie, Léonie, she said to herself, you’re not supposed to care, you hate him, he’s out of your life forever.

He was waiting where she had left him, and she handed him the towels. “Better take off your jacket,” she suggested. “I’ll put it here to dry.”

She turned her head, unwilling to watch even such a small intimate gesture, remembering how she used to unbutton his shirt and put her arms around him, loving the way his naked chest felt next to her, feeling his heart beating.

“Léonie?” His hair was rumpled from the toweling and his shirt was soaked, too, as wet as his jacket had been. “I had to see you. I came to say that I’m sorry for what happened.”

“I seem to remember you were sorry last time you came here.… Isn’t it the same story?”

He shrugged. “It’s difficult for me, Léonie,” he pleaded. “You know that. I see now that what I did was cruel. But somehow when I did it it didn’t seem that way—it just seemed the most
convenient thing to do, to take the children to New York with me. I hadn’t realized quite how much it meant to you.”

“Oh, I think you did, Monsieur … you always know exactly what you’re doing.”

“You give me credit for more than I’m capable of. Surely if I’d known what I was doing, I wouldn’t have behaved so stupidly, I’d have taken you with me.”

“Oh, I can’t bear it,” she cried suddenly. “I can’t bear to go through it all again. You’ll say you’re sorry and then I’ll come back to you, and then you’ll find some other way to torture me. Well, no. No, no. Never again!”

“Léonie, I need you.” He held out his hands toward her. “Please Léonie, come back to me.” She walked to the far end of the room as if she were afraid he might try to touch her, and he slumped weakly into the chair by the fire.

“What is it?” she cried in panic. He looked dreadful, he was white and shaking.

“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, Léonie. I must have caught a chill.”

“Madame Frenard, Madame Frenard.…” Léonie dashed from the room in search of brandy and he watched her through eyes that seemed to be rapidly dimming. He felt a numbing pain in his shoulder and began to cough; he hadn’t planned on feeling like this, he’d wanted to sweep her into his arms, overpower her, make her feel that she needed him—and now he needed her.

He heard her come back into the room, but somehow it was too much effort to open his eyes. He smelled the brandy as she held it to his lips and forced some down him, making him cough. “Monsieur,” she cried, “oh, Monsieur … open your eyes, tell me you’re all right.”

“I’ll be all right—just give me a moment. I felt as though I couldn’t breathe.” He gasped as the pain hit him again, and she fled back to the Frenards. “We must get help,” she cried. “Monsieur Frenard, please go into Saint-Jean for the doctor.”

She knelt beside him on the rug, holding his hands. He could feel the warmth of her fingers on his frozen ones. The pain was lessening, not gripping him quite so agonizingly, and the sensation was coming back into his numb hands, tingling in his fingers. He pushed himself upright in the chair. “I’ll be all right now,” he murmured.

He was breathing more easily and she watched as the tension
left his face. Gilles opened his eyes and gazed at her. “Léonie, this is ridiculous … I came to tell you that I couldn’t live without you.” He laughed and began to cough, his face contorting with pain.

“Don’t, please don’t,” she urged.

“I came to tell you that I love you,” he gasped. “I love you, Léonie.”

She remembered Caro’s warning voice. He finds out exactly what they need most and then he uses it to undermine them, everyone has their price. It’s not true, she thought, he’s telling me the words I’ve wanted to hear for so long only because he thinks he might die.

“It’s all right, Monsieur,” she said gently, stroking his fingers as they tried to grip hers, “don’t hurt yourself by trying to talk now.”

He moved restlessly in the chair. “I have to tell you. I must. Come back to me, Léonie. I need you. I love you. Please say you will.” His eyes closed and he lay back against the cushions.

“Just lie still,” she murmured. “The doctor will be here soon.”

With the doctor’s help they moved him into her bed and Gilles sank into its softness with relief. “I really should insist on sending you to the hospital in Nice,” said Dr. Marbeuf, “even though you seem better at the moment.”

“It’s happened before, Doctor,” Gilles replied, already impatient with his weakness, “and no doubt it will happen again. I’ll stay here.”

“The heart is an unpredictable organ, Monsieur le Duc,” the doctor said warningly. “My advice would be to return to Paris as soon as possible and consult with your own specialist. However, if you choose to ignore my advice then at least take a rest. Go back to your yacht and do nothing for a few weeks. If you’ve been under too much stress, then you must try to remove as much pressure as possible.”

Léonie listened from her seat in the corner. It was his heart then; she hadn’t known there was anything wrong.

“It’s all right, Léonie,” he said after the doctor had gone. “I’ll live. But I’m sorry I frightened you … except …”

“Except what?”

“Except it showed you still cared.”

It was dark outside and the rain pattered on the windows,
drumming on the terrace. Bébé stared out into the night, hating the rain. The silence hung heavily in the air.

Léonie walked over to the bed and looked down at his tired face, gazing into his eyes. “Did you mean what you said?”

He reached up his hand, touching her hair with gentle fingers. “I meant it. I love you, Léonie.”

He lay back on the pillows watching as she unbuttoned her shirt and pulled it off slowly, and then the skirt, sliding it over her hips—her body so familiar, so beautiful. She slid beneath the covers, putting her arms around him, holding him close to her, comforting him with her nearness, sharing her strength. He felt like a child in her arms, protected and loved, soothed into sleep. Oh, thank God, he thought as his eyes closed, thank God she’s still mine.

–
• 27 •

He’s like a young man in the throes of first love, thought Caro, as Léonie and Monsieur strolled arm in arm up the path from the inn to the waiting car. Monsieur was returning to Paris and she had never seen a man more reluctant to go. It was Léonie she was worried about; one minute she seemed like a woman in love, happy and carefree, and the next she would be remote and distant, preoccupied with her own thoughts. Caro waved as he climbed into the car and, with a last kiss from Léonie, drove off down the road to Nice.

Well, she thought to herself, maybe now I’ll hear the truth. Has she found out she doesn’t love him after all? Caro had been at the inn for only two days, hurrying down at Léonie’s urgent request that she had something she must tell her, but Monsieur had lingered and there had been no opportunity to talk.

“Well, he’s gone,” Léonie announced with a sigh.

She sat on the steps leading to the shore, her knees hunched under her chin and her arms clasped around them. Was it just that she was going to miss him? wondered Caro. They’d been together on the yacht for over a month. Léonie always hated waiting.

“Caro, I’m pregnant.”

She let the words sink in. “Oh, Léonie, oh, my God, are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I must have an abortion.”

“Léonie!” She was shocked. “You can’t do that … it’s so dangerous.” She shuddered at the thought. “But why not just tell him? I know what he’s like, but surely we can work something out.”

“Caro, it’s not Monsieur’s child.”

Caro’s stunned gaze met Léonie’s.

“Then … who?”

“It’s the one I told you about … the shipwrecked mariner.”

“But it was just one night.”

Léonie smiled. “Oh, Caro, that’s all it takes.”

Caro was silent, wondering what to do.

“You’ve seen the way Monsieur is now,” said Léonie. “He’s different, he loves me. This last month has been so happy, so calm, for the first time in years we weren’t tearing at each other, trying to provoke each other. The games were over.”

“Léonie, is there no way that Monsieur might think it was his child?”

“He told me once that his children were his and his wife’s and those were the only children he intended to have … Monsieur is a very thorough man, Caro. He doesn’t make mistakes.”

They stared at each other, searching for a way out of the dilemma. “I must have an abortion,” said Léonie flatly. “There’s no other way.”

She began to cry and Caro put her arms around her. “Don’t, please don’t cry. Of course, you can’t have an abortion. I won’t let you do such a terrible thing, Léonie. Think of the risk, you could die.”

“Oh, Caro, don’t you understand? Finally I have everything. Monsieur loves me. It’s all I really wanted. And now, because of one night—just one sweet night with a young man who came along at a moment when I needed someone—I’ll lose everything. Oh, how could I have been such a fool!”

Caro put her arms around her, letting her cry. “Don’t worry, Léonie,” she said soothingly. “Everything will work out. I won’t let you kill yourself with an abortion … we must think of a plan. There
must
be some other way.”

Verronet knocked on Monsieur’s door. “Mademoiselle Montalva to see you, sir.”

He looked up in surprise. “Caro?” What on earth was she doing here?

Caro swept into his office, kissing him on the cheek and taking a seat without her usual confident smile. “I’ve come to see you about Léonie.”

He stared at her in surprise.

“I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, Gilles, but she’s not been looking well for the past few weeks. She’s been complaining of fatigue and listlessness—and you know that’s not like her.”

It was true. Léonie had always brimmed with energy, even sitting still she seemed just to be holding back, waiting for action, and now all that had gone. She was quiet, too quiet; and since they’d been back in Paris, she hadn’t wanted to go anywhere. He thought she was content just to be with him. Fool! Why hadn’t he realized that something was wrong?