Peach (57 page)

Peach’s eyes met Leonie’s in the mirror and she turned, smiling.

“I’ve only come to say goodnight, my darling, and to wish you happiness. Tomorrow you’ll be too busy and I wanted to speak to you privately.”

“Oh Grand-mère, I was just thinking how different it is this time. It’s not just the silly obsession I had for Harry. Noel loves me and I love him. Nothing can stop you from being happy when you start out with that, can it?”

Leonie sat down tiredly in the armchair under the light. “Love is such a fragile emotion, Peach, it can become obscured by all sorts of things—the difficulties of adjusting to living together, boredom, jealousy—oh, a dozen different things, and suddenly you wonder where the love went and who this stranger is you’re living with.”

“Like Harry.”

“Not quite. Harry was a mistake, on both your parts. You are a romantic, Peach, but love goes beyond just romance. It’s caring for someone more than yourself, sharing your strengths and taking from his to shore up your own weaknesses. Love is understanding his life and trying to make it easier and more pleasant and he must do the same for you. It’s sharing your joy in your children, seeing them through their illnesses together, and taking pride in their achievements. Love is so complex I’m not sure anyone truly understands exactly what it is—the first feelings of appeal and romance are only the foundation. Love is a long path, Peach, and to achieve it you need understanding and compassion.”

“Grand-mère, that sounds as though you are speaking from the heart,” murmured Peach. “Did you love Monsieur like that?”

“I loved Monsieur more than any man in my life—I loved him more passionately than Rupert, my first love, and more intensely than Jim—my last. But there was no laughter between us, the way there is with Jim and me, and there was no innocence the way there was with Rupert. Looking back I can see now that the man I thought was so strong and invincible was as vulnerable as any of us. Every man has his Achilles heel, Peach, and perhaps if I’d understood Monsieur better, if I’d been less concerned with myself and my own feelings, if I’d have known
why
he was like he was, then maybe I would have acted differently. Monsieur needed my compassion as well as my love and I never gave him that.” Sighing, Leonie smoothed her forehead with a trembling hand. “And how different our lives might have been if I had,” she said.

“Oh Grand-mère,” whispered Peach, not knowing whether she quite understood, but sensing Leonie’s deep emotion, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s in the past, child, and you are facing your future. In his own way Noel is as complex as Monsieur. He hides his feelings from the world the way Monsieur did. One day he may need your compassion and your strength. And when he does, Peach, I want you to remember, my darling, that
love
is all that matters.”

Peach stared at her solemnly, a little frightened by her words. “I’ll remember,” she promised. As Leonie bent to kiss her, Peach put her arms around her grandmother, feeling the warmth of Leonie’s lips against hers and the brittle bones under the soft skin.

“Then goodnight, my darling Peach,” murmured Leonie, smiling at her tenderly, “and be happy with your Noel. You know,” she added, “you’ve always felt more like my daughter than my granddaughter. I was so lucky, I had a double share of you.”

The little brown cat was waiting outside the bedroom door and Peach watched as it followed Leonie along the shadowy corridor to her room, before returning thoughtfully to her dressing table.

If there were a lovelier sight than Peach on her wedding day then Lais had yet to see it. Peach looked beautiful in the dress of creamy silk taffeta, chosen from Leonie’s vast closets and dating from the turn of the century. Her smooth golden shoulders emerged from flounces of delicate cream lace and the full backward sweep of the skirt with its tiny Edwardian bustle made her waist so small it looked breakable. With her russet hair upswept and wound with fresh blossoms, Peach looked the perfect picture of a bride. But it was the look of love darkening her blue eyes when she gazed at Noel and the sparkle of on-top-of-the-world happiness that projected her into a dazzling bridal beauty. Holding Peach’s bouquet as she vowed to love and honour Noel, Lais remembered the “little sister”, her constant companion, always just a foot behind her, hoping to be told it was all right, she could come along; or sitting on the white rug in her bedroom, sliding Lais’s rings on to her fingers just the way Noel was sliding the gold wedding band on to Peach’s hand now. Lais recalled the charming child, waiting by the side of the dance floor on the ocean liner, loath to go to bed, waiting for her big sister. She remembered the sick little girl, tossing with fever, and she felt the pain again and the shock of seeing those baby limbs encased in steel. If she had saved Peach’s life by hurling herself in front of Kruger then Lais knew she would do it all over again. But that was in the past and watching Peach as she turned to kiss Noel, Lais knew that at last her little sister had grown up.

Of course the marriage to Harry Launceton had been doomed from the start but at least one good thing had come
from it. Wil. Lais never envied Peach her long strong legs but she envied her her son. But it was no use wishing that she and Ferdi could have had a child like Wil. They had each other and their own private world in their castle overlooking the river, and they were happy.

Dust motes hovered in the warm shafts of sunlight beaming through the windows of the tiny little white church in Nice, gilding Leonore’s smooth blonde hair. She put up her hand to smooth back an errant strand, smiling at her mother as their eyes met. “She looks so happy,” she whispered.

Amelie nodded. She didn’t know whether to smile or to cry, Peach looked so lovely and so happy. Cheated of a ceremony and a party by Peach’s first runaway romance with Harry, Amelie had insisted on this “proper” wedding—for her own sake and for Leonie’s. “So that your grandmother can see at least one of her grandchildren married,” she said.

Leonie sat with her back straight, chin up, looking pensive, a delightful fantasy of a hat, all veil and flowers, sweeping across her brow. Beautiful as Peach was today, looking at her mother’s strong profile Amelie wondered if anyone could ever be as lovely as Leonie? Reaching across Wil she touched her mother’s gloved hand. “Are you happy for her, Maman?” she whispered.

Caught between their linked hands Wil gazed from face to face.

“I was just remembering when she was a little girl,” murmured Leonie, “somehow I thought Peach would never grow up. And now she’s surprised me.”

“She surprises me all the time,” whispered Wil solemnly.

His grandmother and his great-grandmother smiled at each other over his head.

“Well, I don’t suppose she’ll ever change,” said Leonie, as the organ pealed triumphantly.

At the reception at the Hostellerie la Rose du Cap it was Gerard, proud father of the bride, who proposed the first toast, and Paul Lawrence, President of US Auto and Noel’s best man, who responded. He and Mrs Lawrence were Noel’s only guests at the church, but Noel and Peach had invited top-management from the de Courmont company to the reception along with their wives as well as the new American executives that Noel had brought over from Detroit to work for de Courmont. There were a dozen or so long-service employees from de Courmont’s factory, and a couple of retired old men who had known “Monsieur” and remembered him well enough to see the resemblance in his great-grandson. In tight dark blue suits they quaffed champagne and chatted about cars while their plump wives in floral Sunday silks nibbled the delicious food and asked for recipes from the chef.

Swinging round the floor in her father’s arms as they danced the first waltz, Peach smiled at Gerard delightedly. “Isn’t this the most perfect wedding?” she demanded. “Everyone is here who means anything to our family.”

Gerard looked at her quizzically. “And what about Noel’s family?”

Peach laughed. “Oh, everyone is here who means anything to Noel. His car people. And me. That’s all Noel needs to make him happy.”

Looking into his lovely daughter’s glowing face, Gerard prayed that this time Peach was right.

Leonie sat up in bed wearily. The night had been warm and humid and its blackness had seemed to close around her so densely she almost felt she could touch it. She had lain awake, tense with pain, waiting for the throbbing in her head to subside and for morning to come, when she knew she would feel better. As the first pale hint of dawn split the sky outside her open window she stepped on to the terrace, feeling glad that Jim was in Paris—she would only have kept him awake with her restless tossing. And today she welcomed her solitude.

Chocolat, emerging from her warm corner of the bed, padded softly after her mistress as she slowly paced the terrace, clutching her thin robe around her while the cool early morning breeze cleaned the night from the sky. Leonie took deep breaths of the fresh scented air, sweeping the bay with a glance that knew its every different shade of blue, its every change of mood. Today it was calm and azure fading to pale crystal as it rippled lazily along the smooth shore. She thought it had never looked more beautiful.

Curling into a deep cushioned chair she tucked her bare feet beneath her, marvelling that this morning there was no sign of the lurking stiffness in her limbs. They felt as limber as an eighteen-year-old’s: she could have walked miles across the hills today, just as she used to … but she was dreaming again. She was just an old woman, living in the past. The future was Peach and Noel and Wil, and their children.

The warmth of the sun’s rays relaxed her and as the throbbing pain began to recede from behind her eyes, she dreamed against the cushions, the little cat curled in her lap. She remembered Jim saying that the only credit he gave the Sekhmet legend was that it kept her young for ever—but Leonie knew that it was just in his eyes only. Darling, wonderful Jim. She could recall when they first met as clearly as though it were yesterday, and remember the first time he made love to her in New York and how crazily, happily in love they’d been. She had run away from him and returned to France to face her responsibilities, but Jim had found her again and this time he’d given her his strength as well as his love.

Leonie dozed through the morning, waking to sip the tea that the new housekeeper, Marianne, brought her, but eating nothing. Old Madame Frénard had been dead for years now and Marianne must have been here with her for at least a dozen, but she still thought of Marianne as the
“new”
housekeeper—age played funny tricks with her concept of time, lengthening it or shortening it to suit her emotions. Now wasn’t
Marianne
the name of the manageress at Serrat’s lingerie shop where she had worked when she was just seventeen, the one who’d accused her of stealing the red silk stockings and had dismissed her, calling her a thief? Of course she had paid for the stockings and Marianne knew it, she’d just been jealous of her—though at the time it had been hard to understand why. She had bought those stockings to go to Caro’s party, she’d been wearing them when she met Rupert … “I saw the longest red silk legs,” he’d said to her, “disappearing up the steps in front of me and I knew I had to meet their owner!” Of course her dress had been disgracefully short—what a sight she must have been! And now that she thought about it she remembered tucking five francs into the top of her only pair of black silk stockings
as insurance when she first went to the casino at Monte Carlo—just in case she lost everything. Which of course she had … and then she met Monsieur. He’d been watching her, knowing she was gambling for survival, knowing it was inevitable she would lose, waiting to make his move. Of course Monsieur hadn’t needed to gamble—he knew he would win her. And then hadn’t she worn cream silk stockings when she married Jim? They had matched her beautiful pleated silk suit and she had such a lovely sweeping-brimmed hat, piled with flowers … she could almost smell the flowers in the church now, she remembered it so clearly … or were they flowers from Peach’s wedding? Yes, of course, they must be … her memory was playing her tricks again. Odd though, how silk stockings had played a role in her life, red for Rupert, black for Monsieur and pure cream for Jim. Leonie smiled as she dozed.

“Madame, Madame Leonie.”

Leonie awoke as Marianne shook her shoulder. “Yes? What is it, Marianne?”

“You’ve been sleeping a long time, it’s almost four o’clock. You should eat something, Madame.”

Leonie sat up, stretching. She felt refreshed. “Do you know what I’d like most in the world right now, Marianne?” she asked. “I’d like a glass of champagne—and maybe one or two of those little pink biscuits the champagne house sent me. Yes, Marianne, that would be perfect.”

Muttering about not eating properly, Marianne hurried off to her kitchen, and Leonie glanced down at herself in dismay. Here she was barefoot and in her robe at four in the afternoon. This would never do. Standing up she stretched again, feeling the suppleness of her spine with pleased surprise. She felt wonderful, quite her old self. She would bathe and dress in something special. This would be a celebration, the return of the new youthful Leonie.