Never Leave Me (33 page)

‘He's still in love with you, isn't he?' Greg said, a nerve ticking at his jawline as he swung himself back behind the steering wheel. She nodded, unable to speak. His hand closed over hers. ‘Just as long as it isn't mutual,' he said, and then put the jeep into gear, driving off through the rubble-strewn streets towards the main highway and Paris.

She said very little for the rest of the journey. She was tired, physically and emotionally. Too tired to appreciate at first the sumptuousness of their new home.

‘Let me take Dominic,' Greg said gently as he helped her from the jeep in front of a large house in the 16th arrondissement.

‘Where are we?' she asked curiously.

His teeth flashed in a grin. ‘Home,' he said. ‘At least it's going to be home for the new few months.'

They approached a tall wrought-iron gate set in a hedge and he unlocked and opened it, leading the way into a carefully tended garden.

‘Who does it belong to?' she asked, intrigued.

‘A banker. In the days immediately prior to the Occupation, he left Paris for the healthier climate of Geneva. The Germans appropriated it and now we're renting it. There are two servants in residence, both elderly. They won't be much help with Dominic, I'm afraid. We'll have to look round for a nanny.'

She smiled, the soft, effortlessly sensuous smile that turned his heart over. ‘That won't be necessary,' she said, sliding her hand into his. ‘I looked after Dominic by myself at Valmy. I can look after him by myself here.'

He didn't argue with her. He knew she hadn't realised yet how her lifestyle had changed. Paris was in holiday mood. Drunk with the heady wine of freedom. Every night was party night. She would need new clothes. Perfume. A reliable babysitter to care for Dominic while he wined and dined her in what was still the most beautiful capital city in the world.

Hand in hand, with Greg in full uniform, the baby held incongruously in the curve of his arm, they stepped up to the door of their new home.

It was a magnificent house. The floor of the grand entrance hall was of rose-tinted marble. The painting in the salon was a Monet. There were delicately inlaid Louis XV chests, velvet upholstered
chaises longues
, Persian carpets and crystal chandeliers. It was all breathtakingly elegant and freezingly formal. Within twenty-four hours she had turned it into a home, filling it with masses of flowers and silver-framed photographs.

They lived there for six months and they were six of the happiest months of her life. Paris was
en féte
after the dark, stifling days of occupation. The boulevards were thronged with pretty girls and American soldiers, the pavement cafés were festooned with flags and bunting, the tree-lined streets full of the sound of laughter. The war was truly over and the realization was exhilarating.

They employed a Savoyard girl as a nanny. She was young and pretty and Lisette was able to leave Dominic in the evening, knowing he was being well cared for as she strolled with Greg through the dusk-spangled streets, dining at Maxims or Le Moulin, dancing until dawn at Le Quarante-Cinq.

He had insisted in buying her new clothes. A dozen new dresses, two suits, half a dozen hats, shoes, handbags, scarves, lingerie, a cornucopia of gifts that took her breath away.

‘I've never seen so many new clothes all at once,' she said, laughing, as she stood in the centre of their vast bedroom, knee-deep in opened boxes and tissue paper.

He grinned. ‘Can you bear to open another box?' he asked, and sliding his arm lovingly around her shoulders he handed her a small, velvet-padded ring box.

The wool coat she had been trying on slid from her shoulders. Slowly, carefully, she lifted the lid. Inside lay a pink diamond, large and flawless, surrounded by smaller white diamonds and set delicately on a narrow gold band.

‘Oh, it's beautiful, Greg,' she whispered as he gently removed the ungainly signet ring she had worn for so long and slipped the guttering diamond in its place.

‘Not as beautiful as you,' he said huskily, his arms sliding around her, his mouth closing passionately on hers.

They left Paris for America in November. The chestnut trees were gaunt, the dome of Sacre Coeur sharp against a rain-washed sky. She took one last look round her before stepping into the limousine that was to take them to
La Gare-du Nord.
Paris had been an interlude. Now it was over and her new life, in a country half a world away, was about to begin.

They sailed on the
Liberté.
Simonette, the young Savoyard girl they had employed as a nanny, came with them. When Greg had asked her if she would consider accompanying them to America and working for them there, she had accepted unhesitatingly. They were her first employers, but she was convinced that she would never find anyone nicer to work for than Madame Dering.

‘This is a little different to the tub I came out on,' Greg said with a grin as a steward escorted them into a wonder of gold and scarlet and Lalique glass.

‘It's marvellous!' Lisette said with the husky note of laughter in her voice that so entranced him. ‘Like a palace!'

Her hair shone, wound into a sleek figure of eight. Her incredible amethyst eyes sparkled. The mink he had insisted on buying her swung casually from her shoulders. Beneath it, she wore a crimson cashmere sweater and a grey, narrow, exquisitely cut skirt. There were pearl studs in her ears and a rope of pearls around her neck. Her shoes were black crocodile, ridiculously high; her stockings sheer. She was so effortlessly chic, so lovely, so graceful, that he hurt with love for her.

He remembered how she had looked when he had first set eyes on her. The sweat-damp tumble of her hair. The deathly paleness of her face as she had stepped across the blood-spattered bodies of the Germans and welcomed him with heartbreaking dignity to Valmy and to France.

He had wanted then to make her happy, and he was confident that he had done so. Luke Brandon had written to her and she had showed him the letter and also her reply. It had been loving and caring but it had not been the letter of a woman to a man she still loved. She had been telling him the truth when she had said that she had never really been in love with Brandon. His surge of jealousy when he had seen Brandon kiss her goodbye so passionately, had been unnecessary. The emotion had all been on Brandon's part. Lisette wasn't in love with him. She never had been. He, Greg, had her love and he was determined that he was going to keep it.

She became aware of many things on their nine-day trip across the Atlantic. She had realised, in Paris, that Greg was wealthy and the realisation had filled her with pleasant astonishment. Now, for the first time, she realised that he was not only wealthy, but very wealthy, that the name Dering was one that was instantly recognised by their fellow passengers and accorded respect. She realised, too, that she was not alone in finding him devastatingly attractive. Other women did so, beautiful, sophisticated women.

‘My goodness, isn't that Greg Dering?' she overheard a willowy blonde ask her female companion as she entered the
Liberté
's cocktail bar a few paces behind them.

‘Dering as in banks and steel?' her companion asked, a carefully plucked and delicately pencilled eyebrow rising speculatively.

‘Yes, but curb your hunting instincts darling. I read in
Paris-Match
that he married a French girl shortly after D-Day.'

Her titian-haired companion, exquisite in a dress encrusted with bugles of jet, gave a low-throated laugh. ‘My God, a war bride! How will the Derings react to that?'

‘She isn't quite a little matchgirl, darling. Her father is a Comte.

Isabelle Dering is so unorthodox that she'll probably find it all terribly romantic and be absolutely delighted.'

‘Jacqueline Pleydall won't be,' the other said drily. ‘She was all set to become Mrs Greg Dering the minute he returned home.'

The blonde laughed, her eyes on Greg who was standing at the bar, his thick brown hair curling crisply into the nape of his neck, his shoulders broad beneath the expensive cut of his white tuxedo. ‘Yes, there'll be no warm welcome from
that
source for the returning hero.' She ran the tip of her tongue speculatively around glossy lips. ‘He really is a dish, isn't he. I think I could be very accommodating. Given the chance.'

Aware of several male heads turning appreciatively in their direction, the two women strolled into the rococo and gilt cocktail lounge. Lisette paused on the threshold, a slight frown puckering her brows. A war bride. Was that how Greg's family and friends would regard her? And who was Jacqueline Pleydall? Greg had never mentioned her and yet it was obvious they had been engaged, or unofficially engaged, before he had left America to fight in Europe.

She was oddly disconcerted. It had never occurred to her to wonder about the personal life Greg had led before they had met. Yet he was an accomplished lover. She should have realised that there would be a woman waiting hungrily for his return. A woman for whom news of his French marriage would come as a bitter shock and disappointment.

Greg lifted his head fractionally and across the crowded room their eyes met. A blaze of happiness shot through her. He loved her and he had married her. She flashed him a dazzling smile and began to ease her way through the crush towards him, happy for herself, but feeling intensely sorry for the unknown Miss Pleydall.

That night, as she lay in bed flicking through the glossy magazines that Greg had purchased before they sailed, she came across a three-page article on Berlin. Greg was in the shower carrying on a conversation with her over the noise of gushing water, asking her if she intended visiting the gymnasium with him in the morning. She didn't answer him. Berlin, the city Dieter had loved so much, lay wasted and devastated.

Photographs showed a civilian population queueing in tattered clothing for bread and potatoes, waiting at standpipes for driblets of brackish water. The once proud city had been divided by the Allies into four occupation zones. American soldiers, chewing gum, swaggered through the Schoneberger Volkspark where, as a child, Dieter had walked hand in hand with his father. British soldiers lounged outside the battered facade of the Hotel Adlon where, long ago, he had drunk iced lemonade.

She closed the magazine, sick at heart. How Dieter would have hated the occupation of his city. How he would have loathed the sight of Allied soldiers strolling at ease through the streets. Her stomach muscles tightened. Was Dieter's mother one of the weary women queuing for food? Was she, too, one of the dispossessed and homeless? She remembered the photograph that had stood on Dieter's dresser in the turret room. The laughing woman with the trug of flowers at her feet. The woman who had lost her son and who would never know that she had a grandson.

‘We'll go in the morning, before breakfast,' Greg said, striding out of the shower, towelling his hair vigorously. He stopped suddenly as he saw her white face. ‘What's the matter?' he asked, crossing the room towards her, his eyes dark with concern. ‘Don't you feel well?'

She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

‘I'll call the ship's doctor,' he said, stretching out his hand to the telephone.

‘No! Please don't Greg. It's only a headache. I'll be fine by tomorrow.'

He looked down at her doubtfully and she forced a small smile. ‘Please Greg. There's no need to worry.'

‘If you're sure. What about an aspirin? A brandy?'

She shook her head again, her heart hurting with pain and grief. ‘No, all I need is some sleep. Goodnight, Greg.'

‘Goodnight, sweetheart,' he said gently.

She squeezed his hand and when he slid into bed beside her she lay against him, but she didn't sleep. Not for a long time.

A week later they passed the Statue of Liberty at sunrise. ‘Oh, isn't she magnificent?' Lisette exclaimed, her eyes shining with delight. ‘I'd never realised she was so enormous!'

They leaned against the deck rails and Greg slid his arm around her waist, hugging her close as the
Liberté
glided into the welcoming waters of New York harbour.

‘Will we stay in New York?' she asked as they cleared customs. ‘Will we be able to see the Empire State Building and Central Park?'

He laughed, delighted with her enthusiasm, delighted to have left a war-ravaged Europe far behind him, and delighted to be once more on American soil.

‘We can stay here as long as you like, sweetheart. We can have our honeymoon here.'

Her eyes were bright, her voice teasing. ‘I thought our honeymoon was the voyage over.'

‘Our honeymoon is never going to be over,' he said, his eyes gleaming in such a way that the breath caught in her throat. ‘Let's book into the Plaza and I'll show you New York.'

Her first shock was how few people spoke French. The concierge at the Plaza spoke a few carefully pronounced phrases, but the rest of the staff were able to do nothing more than courteously wish her good-day and good evening.

‘I thought everyone would speak a little French,' she said, a note of alarm in her voice. ‘How shall I manage when you are not with me? My English accent is terrible.'

‘Your English accent is delightful,' Greg said truthfully, kissing the top of her head. ‘Everyone will adore your accent. And you.'

She had been doubtful, but in the following days discovered that he was right. Everyone she spoke to beamed at her immediately and listened with immense patience as she sought the right words with which to express herself.

She liked New York. It was big and brash compared to Paris, and utterly alien compared to the villages and market towns of Normandy, but there was an excitement about it that she responded to. Everywhere she went she was met with friendliness and she was stunned when she discovered that the friendliness was not always what it seemed to be.

They had run into an old college friend of Greg's in one of the art galleries. When Greg had introduced her as his wife, the American greeted her effusively, telling Greg that he was damned lucky. After a little while, Greg and he had begun to talk of people and places that she did not know and she had gently excused herself in order to go to the powder room. It was when she was on her way back to them that she heard the American say, ‘She's a stunner, Greg, but you were taking a risk weren't you? From what I've heard of Vichy France not all French girls were violently opposed to the Krauts!'