Leonie (36 page)

“Madame, I don’t want to shock you and in other circumstances I might never have come to you, but … there is a child.”

A child—could she mean Charles’s child? Was what she was saying true? Edouard looked at his mother. She was gripping the arms of her chair tightly and he could see she was shocked now. He walked across the room and stood beside her. “I am Edouard d’Aureville,” he said, meeting Léonie’s eyes. “Before you go on, I want you to remember that my brother is only recently dead. My mother is very upset; she cannot bear any more shocks.”

“Edouard … it’s you!”

He stopped in surprise.

“But you see, Edouard, I’m here because of you. Charles told me about you. He said he could tell you anything, all his secrets … that you always understood. That’s why I knew I could trust you with Amélie.”

“My dear,” said Isabelle, “where is this baby?”

“She’ll be here soon. Don’t you see … I want you to have her. I’m giving her to you … she’s
your
grandchild.” She turned to Edouard, her eyes desperate. “She’s your niece … she’s a part of Charles. And she needs you.”

“I think perhaps I had better explain,” interrupted Alphonse. “It’s a bizarre story and I see no sense in complicating it with detail. Léonie and Charles were lovers, briefly. A daughter, Amélie, was born from this relationship, though Charles knew nothing about it. Their relationship had been a … casual one; Léonie
was involved with another man at the time. He’s a very jealous man, capable of anything. She decided to conceal the birth of the child from him, and Amélie was taken to be brought up by a family on the southern coast. He has since found out about the child, and we feel now that he is a threat to her, that his jealousy could drive him beyond the bounds of sanity. Quite simply, Amélie is in danger. In an effort to remove her daughter from this danger, Léonie has come to you to ask you to take her and, more specifically, to take the child out of the country, back to Brazil with you. Obviously she asks nothing in return: in fact, she will give you any sum you stipulate to provide for her daughter. And once the child is handed over to you, she will never ask to see her again. It is the only way to ensure her safety.”

His words rang with truth and Léonie thanked God he had come with her. Without him she would have seemed just some hysterical woman, distraught over her lover’s death. But Alphonse was so cool, so precise; they must believe him.

“But I must see her.” Isabelle’s eyes had filled with tears, and Léonie knelt at her side.

“Madame, I had to give away my baby when she was only one month old. I have not seen her since. She will be here soon and I’ll see her one more time, and then I’ll trust her to you … you must take her, madame. If you don’t, I don’t know what I will do.”

“Are you saying that your lover will kill the child?” asked Edouard in amazement.

Léonie’s eyes met his. “He is no longer my lover. Yes, he will kill her. Believe me, he will.”

The evening mist was rolling in as Edouard walked silently with Léonie by the river. The torrent of words had stopped and there were no more tears. He could sense that she was feeling calmer, just from the relief of telling him her story, about Charles, her shipwrecked mariner, and “Monsieur,” her lover, and their strange relationship. They had walked alone by the river for hours. She had left nothing out, or almost nothing. The mystery of Charles’s death. It wasn’t simply that he’d been caught in a squall and washed overboard in a rough sea—conditions were perfect for sailing. Edouard had spoken with some of his yachting friends and they had complained of the quickness of the autopsy, the disappearance of the crewman whom nobody knew, and the fractured
skull—as if from some heavy blow. Charles had probably been dead before he went into the water, they had said. Some thought the man had murdered him—but why? What was the motive? Well, now he had one. He had been Léonie’s lover, and Léonie was associated with a jealous man, a man who was angry enough to kill her child.

“And now you’d better tell me exactly what happened to Charles,” he said quietly.

“What do you mean?” Léonie stopped in surprise.

“Did Monsieur kill him?”

His eyes asked only for the truth. “We have no proof,” she said.

“But?”

“Yes, I believe he did kill Charles. That’s why I’m convinced he’ll try to kill Amélie.”

He hadn’t been prepared for it, even though he’d asked her. His dear little brother—the boy he’d taught to sail and to swim—killed by this woman’s monstrous lover. “Where is he? I’ll confront him. I’ll get evidence … damn him!”

“No, no, no. Please, Edouard. Don’t you understand? You can’t—there’s no way we can accuse him publicly. Don’t you see, it was all arranged, the autopsy and the coroner—even the police, for all we know. He’s too powerful, Edouard.… No one can go against him. He controls it all.”

“Then I shall kill him.”

She took his hand and held it to her burning cheek. “Please, no … no more killing. Think of your mother, think of Charles. Oh, I should never have told you! All that matters now is Amélie. She’s Charles’s daughter. Only
you
can save her, only
you
can look after her. You will be her father. You can’t become a murderer because of Monsieur … and because of me.”

A murderer. He felt helpless. What was he to do? How could he let Charles’s death go unavenged?

Léonie read his thoughts. “I will take care of Monsieur. One day I will have my revenge.”

Madame Frenard had accompanied Maroc to Tours with the child, refusing to let him take charge. “You’ll never manage without a woman,” she’d insisted, “a baby needs a woman around.”

Alphonse met them in the hotel lobby and the baby smiled at him delightedly. She loved company, and why not? Wasn’t everyone always so pleased to talk to her, to tell her she was pretty and
tickle her cheek? Oh, dear, thought Alphonse, now what? How will Léonie ever be able to give her up? She’s a charmer.

“Léonie’s at the château,” he said. “It’s all arranged. Was there any trouble, Maroc?”

“None so far. It seems Verronet has been spending more time at the casino than looking for the baby; we were lucky.”

“I hope he lost,” said Alphonse calmly.

Maroc smiled. He liked Alphonse. “I’ll wait here then,” he suggested. “You should take the baby to her.”

Alphonse picked up her basket gently, carrying it like an awkward parcel. He was not used to babies and Amélie crowed with laughter, enjoying being joggled so inexpertly. Oh, yes, he thought, this is going to be hard.

Edouard sat opposite Léonie as Alphonse put the baby in her arms. He had never seen anything so beautiful as her face when she saw her child. She was lit with such radiance that he wanted to hold her, to save her from what was to come. Such joy was fragile.

“Amélie,” she whispered, smiling into the eyes of her little girl. “Here I am … remember me? We were together in the beginning, maybe somewhere in the recesses of your little mind you remember.…”

Amélie reached up and grabbed the pretty beads swinging above her, tugging them in an attempt to get them into her mouth, wasn’t that where everything good went?

Léonie laughed, holding her closer. She was so beautiful, this child of hers.

“Léonie,” said Alphonse, “I’m afraid we must remember why we’re here.”

“Of course, but just a few minutes, please?”

They left her alone with Amélie: just ten minutes, though, warned Alphonse. Just ten minutes for the rest of her life!

Amélie was exactly as she had known she would be, a plump-faced, blond, smiling infant—already with two tiny white teeth and a dazzling smile. She stroked the soft hair with her finger, feeling its silkiness, studying her child’s face intently, catching up on the missing months and storing memories for the coming, lonely years. Amélie waved her arms, smiling at her mother, and Léonie smiled back at her, whispering little words of love as the child grabbed again for her pearl necklace. “Here,” she said, “take
it, my darling, I brought no toy for you, take this instead.” She laughed as Amélie took the necklace in her tiny fist and swung it, dangling, backward and forward. Oh, she was enchanting, this daughter of hers, and they had only ten minutes together, ten last private minutes.

“I know I shouldn’t ask you this,” said Edouard as he and Alphonse paced the terrace together, “but who is he … her lover?”

“It’s better that you don’t know.”

“You realize it would be easy for me to find out if I wanted to.”

Alphonse looked him in the eye. “Yes. It would. But I’m trusting you not to. Believe me, Edouard, when I say that it’s better you don’t know. Once you did, you might be tempted to do something about it. I don’t want to put that burden on you—and neither does Léonie. Remember, the child comes first.”

Edouard sighed. “There’s only one good thing to come out of this, and that’s that baby. My mother has a grandchild, a memory of Charles.”

Isabelle came toward them, hurrying along the terrace. “Is she here? Has she arrived yet?” she called.

Alphonse glanced at his watch. The ten minutes were almost up. “We left her alone with the baby,” he explained, “but now it’s time.”

The tension was unbearable, thought Isabelle. She wanted to see the baby and yet she didn’t—what if she looked exactly as Charles did when he was that age? Oh, dear, she couldn’t bear it.

But this baby was blond, golden eyed, and peachy skinned, smiling at her with a merry grin. “Amélie,” said Léonie softly to her child, “this is your grandmother and she will look after you. And this is Edouard, your new father … he will love you as your real father would have.” She placed the baby in Isabelle’s arms and in a voice she struggled to control said, “We must leave now, Alphonse.” Turning her back on her child, she ran from the room. Isabelle started after her, holding the baby.

“Léonie,” she called, but Léonie kept going.

It was Edouard who caught up with her as she ran through the hall and out across the lawn. “Léonie!” He grabbed her arm. “Please stop, Léonie, don’t run away.”

He folded her in his arms, holding her trembling body close to him until she had calmed, and then when she turned her face up to him, he kissed her. It was gentle and without passion, but it was full of love.

–
• 34 •

The vast silvery room was cold. No fires burned in the grates of its twin fireplaces and there were no flowers to cast lingering sensuous scents into the air. Monsieur didn’t notice. He’d been there for hours, waiting. She had to return eventually. And when she did? What then? He sank wearily into a chair, remembering how he’d felt when he heard she was ill, that she had to go away for months. He’d been in agony, telling himself she
had
to get better, she couldn’t die and
leave
him! And all the time she’d been plotting, she’d been planning to go away and have another man’s child. God, how she had fooled him—worse. How she had let him make a fool of himself! Well, all that remained now was to find the child. Verronet would know in a few days, the man was efficient. If it hadn’t been for his intuition, he never would have known about the child. And now Verronet knew how he’d been made a fool of, that his mistress had had a child by another man! But he didn’t know what had happened to Charles—it was never good business to keep all your secrets in one safe so he had gone to other agents for that.

The door clicked. Her hair was wild, blown by the wind, and her stare was as icy as the room. “I should kill you,” she said, standing by the door, “but it’s probably just what you expect me to do. I’m never sure whether my actions are my own or just the result of your planning. I don’t want you to die. You can live with the disaster you’ve made of your life … a great man, son of a noble family,” she mocked him, “a rich man, a powerful man. A murderer, Gilles de Courmont.”

“Nonsense,” he said crisply. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I? I’m not the only one who believes Charles d’Aureville was murdered.”

“Murdered? You’re being ridiculous, Léonie. I heard that he died in a boating accident.”

“An accident that you planned just as you plan everything.”

“I don’t know on what evidence you’re basing these statements, but of course they are not true. I suppose it’s only to be expected, though, from a woman as treacherous as you. I give you everything you want and you use it to cheat on me, to flaunt yourself with other men … d’Aureville wasn’t the first.”

It clicked suddenly. “Of course, Alain—the important gallery owner in London, the offer too good to refuse—why didn’t you kill him, too? Or didn’t you ‘love’ me then, Monsieur? Oh, that’s right, ‘love’ only came later—when you decided you needed me and to love me was the only way to get me back. But that was after Charles.”

His rage was ice-tipped as he towered over her. “You made a fool of me. No woman does that.”

“You made a fool of yourself, Monsieur. You should have told me you loved me long before. I begged you to, I wanted you to. All I wanted was to be loved by you. There would have been no Alain, no Charles—”

“And no child.”

She looked at him warily.

“Where is she, Léonie?”

She turned her back on him, staring out of the window. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I gave her away when she was born; she has her own life, without me.”

“Don’t you want her back?” He moved closer to her. He could smell jasmine. “Léonie. Find the child, get her back. Bring her here, we’ll live here together. I’ll bring her up as my daughter, take care of her, provide for her.…”

She turned and stared at him in astonishment.

“Stay with me, Léonie.”

Their eyes locked. “Do you imagine for one moment that I would give you my child? You’re crazier than I thought, Gilles de Courmont. Charles d’Aureville is dead because of me—I have to live with that for the rest of my life … and so do you! I wasn’t the one who struck him on the head, but we’re both guilty.”

“Léonie, I swear I had nothing to do with it. You can’t leave
me, Léonie, I need you. Stay with me!” He gripped her arm, pulling her toward him.