Property of a Noblewoman (13 page)

“I’m sorry,” Jane said gently. She had always suspected that Harriet had a sad life, and she had heard that her mother was sick, but she didn’t know it was as bad as this. And the genuine pain and sadness on the older woman’s face tore at Jane’s heart. Some people had such hard lives, and Harriet Fine was one of them, and her mother. She had given up her own life to take care of her invalid mother, and it was all she had now. It seemed too late for her to marry, and have kids. And when her mother died, she would be all alone. It almost made Jane cry when she answered. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No, but you’re kind to offer.” She didn’t tell Jane how jealous she had been of her at first. She was young and free and alive, with a whole life and career ahead of her. For Harriet, it was more than half over, and everything she could see ahead of her was a dead end. But she had made her own choices, for better or worse, along the way. What one forgot while doing so, however good one’s motives, was that you don’t get the time back in the end. And one day, the game is over. Jane’s youth and opportunities were what Harriet resented, although it wasn’t Jane’s fault. And she had come to like her, in spite of it. Harriet thought she would make a good lawyer one day. Harriet had nothing bad to say about her, and had grown to like Jane, with her gentle, sunny ways.

“By the way.” Jane remembered Phillip’s mother then. “The jewelry rep at Christie’s asked if I could send him digital copies of all the photographs we have in the Pignelli case, from the safe deposit box. I think he wants to check them again for the catalog. Is it all right if I send them to him?” It sounded as innocent as it was, and Harriet didn’t need to know they were for his mother.

“Of course,” Harriet answered, and didn’t ask any questions. Jane went back to her office then, wrote a short email to Phillip, thanking him for a delightful lunch, and told him she had gotten permission to send the images. She sent him all of them in a separate email a minute later, even the ones of the unidentified child, so the selection was complete.

He saw the email come through, smiled as he read her short note, and printed the photographs for his mother, and another set for himself, just to have them if he wanted to refer to them again. He put both sets in confidential envelopes, and sent one set to his mother by messenger. Jane had made it easy to fulfill his mother’s request, and then he went back to work. He had been in a good mood all afternoon after his lunch with Jane. It made him even sorrier that she had a boyfriend, but he was determined to see her again anyway, even in the guise of friendship.

Jane thought about Phillip too, as she took the subway home that night. She was hoping to see John, since he had sent her a text that he’d be back from the library early. She didn’t feel guilty about Phillip, since she’d been honest with him, and she had decided to follow Alex’s advice, and not say anything about it to John. Things were tense enough between them at the moment, without adding fuel to the fire.

She was pleased that John was home when she walked into the apartment. He was sprawled out on the couch, with papers all around him, his computer on the table, and he was reading something. He seemed happy to see her, and she leaned over to kiss him as he lay there.

“What a pleasure that you’re here for a change,” she said sincerely.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, instantly irritated. He had dark circles under his eyes, as he’d had for months. Learning to become a successful entrepreneur wasn’t easy, and seemed a lot harder to her than becoming a lawyer.

“It means I’m happy you’re home,” she said simply. His temper was always short these days, he was sleep deprived, and he obviously felt guilty for the time he wasn’t spending with her. “Should I make something for dinner?” she offered. “Have you eaten?”

“I don’t have time. We’re meeting at Cara’s in an hour. I have to get going.” He got up off the couch, and Jane looked disappointed. And it didn’t go unnoticed that Cara seemed to have become house mother to the group.

“Are you going to the Hamptons this weekend?” Jane asked, as she sat down on the couch where he’d been lying. She looked worried as she asked him, wondering if it was going to be another lonely weekend.

The Hamptons were deserted in winter. They walked on the beach when they took breaks, even when there was snow on the ground. The walks were healthy and invigorating, and John said the air cleared their heads. And they all pitched in doing the cooking, and none of them brought their significant others, so Jane had never been invited.

“I need to,” he said to justify it. “I think I’m going to be out there every weekend now till June.” He looked almost belligerent as he said it, which was pure guilt. He was ready for a fight, but she wouldn’t give it to him. She tried to be understanding, and not rock the boat unduly. They were on very thin ice these days.

“How do people manage to graduate who don’t have a house in the Hamptons?” she asked him in a more acerbic tone than she usually used when they discussed it. But hearing that he was going to be at Cara’s with the others every weekend for the next four months was not good news to her. It wasn’t even about jealousy now, although some of it was; it was about respecting their relationship and trying to maintain it through this dry spell, and he really wasn’t trying. He was doing whatever worked for him, and forgetting about her. It was tough to live with.

“You don’t need to be a bitch about it, Jane.” His comment was particularly unfair since she hadn’t been and had made a real effort not to press him about it, or complain.

“I’m not, but you’re gone all the time. How many nights do you think you’ve slept here in the last month? Ten? Five? And now you’re gone every weekend. What am I supposed to think about us?”

“You’re supposed to think that that’s the deal if you live with a guy getting an MBA in four months,” he said in a nasty tone.

“I have a hard time believing that the other MBA candidates are sleeping with their study groups, and spending every weekend in the Hamptons. Some people even manage to maintain relationships and marriages.” She paused for a moment then, and suddenly decided to confront him. “Are you sleeping with Cara, John? Maybe we should just be honest with each other. Is it over with us? If it is, I’ll move out.”

“Is that what you want? You want out?” he said, moving his face close to hers. It didn’t frighten her, or even intimidate her – it just broke her heart. She could hear sucking sounds as she watched their relationship slide down the drain like an aspic. He was no longer the kind, funny, easygoing man she had fallen in love with three years before, and loved to be with. He was a stranger, with or without an MBA.

“I don’t want out. But I want you in this relationship with me if you still want it. I’m here all by myself.” And he hadn’t answered her question. And maybe because she’d had lunch with another man that day and had had a nice time and been treated well, she decided to press it. “What about Cara?” Her eyes never left his, and then he turned and walked away.

“What about her?” he said angrily.

“Are you having an affair with her?”

“Of course not,” he said, but didn’t sound convincing. “I don’t have time to sleep with her or anyone else.”

“You have the opportunity. You spend a lot more time with her than you do with me now.”

“I spend more time with Jake, Bob, and Tom too, and I’m not fucking them either, or are you accusing me of that too?” He tried to make her seem ridiculous for worrying about Cara, but that only made him seem more guilty. And she had serious concerns about their relationship and the amount of time he was spending with Cara and not with her. “Look, this is the deal now. You know how hard I’ve been working.” He tried to speak to her more calmly but barely succeeded. “If you can hold out till June without going crazy and driving me nuts with jealous bullshit, we can make it. If you’re going to bust my chops about it all the time, I can’t take it. So figure out what you want to do. You need to keep yourself busy until I’m done. Until then, I have no time to give you, and I don’t want to hear about it every time I see you.” Listening to him, she wondered if she should move out. He had absolutely no interest in her needs or feelings, only his own. It was what Alex had never liked about him. Even at his best, she had thought he was a totally selfish guy, and he was proving her right.

Jane didn’t say a word to him, as he strode around the apartment gathering things up to put in his backpack and computer bag. She saw a clean sweatshirt, socks, and underwear go into the backpack and knew it meant he wasn’t coming home.

“I take it you’re staying out tonight?” she said tersely.

“You’re not my mother, Jane. I’ll come home when I want to and when I can.” She didn’t know exactly when it had happened, but he had clearly lost respect for her. Completely. She didn’t answer him. She didn’t want to dignify his insults with a response, or lose her temper at him. She had to come to her own conclusions, and she was beginning to realize what they were. She knew in her heart of hearts that this would never be a healthy relationship again.

He didn’t say good-bye when he left the apartment, nor did she. She was too ashamed to call Alex and tell her what had happened, or what he had said to her. She just sat on the couch, thinking about it, her heart aching, and burst into tears. No matter how long it took her to deal with it, it was over, and she knew it. Now it was a matter of self-respect. Whatever he had been in the beginning, he no longer was. And all he could see in his future was Cara, not her. It was time to move on.

WHEN VALERIE GOT
the copies of the photographs that Phillip had printed out for her, she spread them on her dining room table carefully, and stared at them intently. She thought there was a faint family resemblance somewhere around Marguerite’s eyes, although she wasn’t sure to whom. Maybe to her mother, or to herself, but it was so faint that it could have been her imagination, or something she wanted to see that wasn’t there. And she was struck in several photographs by the poignant expression in Marguerite’s eyes, despite the wide smile. She was haunted by the images of her with Umberto, and the tangible love that jumped from the pictures and that they obviously shared. He looked as though he adored her, and she seemed happy with him. Marguerite was so young in the early photographs that it touched Valerie’s heart.

But she couldn’t honestly say that she was certain they were related. Marguerite had a very different look and style, and was very much herself. She had a very distinctive appearance and was a beautiful girl. And although Valerie didn’t resemble Winnie and her parents, she didn’t bear a strong similarity to Marguerite either. There was no reason to think that they shared anything more than a fairly common name. Valerie herself didn’t know why she was so intent on establishing a bond between them. It wasn’t about the jewelry, it was something more. It was about history and blood, if that proved to be the case. She felt closer to the woman than ever after staring at her photographs for two days. And finally, late the second night, she spread out the pictures of the unknown child. She looked like a sweet little girl, and the photographs documented her two or three times a year. At first she was only a baby, then a toddler, and a little girl.

But it was a photograph of the child at around the age of five that nearly stopped Valerie’s heart. She picked it up and stared at it, looked at it under a bright light, and stared into the little girl’s eyes. She’d had dresses like that as a child, and worn the same haircut. So had half the children she knew at the time. But it was the face that was familiar to her, and the eyes. She was certain of it. She sat for hours looking at it, went away, and came back to it. She examined all the pictures more closely, and in two or three she was almost sure. Not totally certain, because most of them were from a little distance, and they weren’t in perfect focus, but she grew more mesmerized by them by the hour. She looked at them in daylight the next day, gathered them up and put them in her purse, and called Winnie, who was finally recovering from her cold.

“Can I come over?”

“You’ll have to come this morning,” Winnie said tersely, “I’m playing bridge at noon.”

“I won’t stay long.”

Valerie hailed a cab in front of her building, and was at Winnie’s apartment in twenty minutes, which was record time from downtown. Winnie was still eating breakfast when she arrived, with all her pills lined up in front of her. And she nearly groaned when she saw Valerie’s face. She could see that she was on another crusade.

“What now?” she asked, sipping her coffee, while the maid asked Valerie if she’d like tea. Valerie smiled at her and declined, and focused on Winnie, and then took the photographs out of her bag, and held them in her hand. It was almost as though she could feel a connection to the little girl through the images on the paper.

“I don’t know if Marguerite di San Pignelli was any relation to us, and she probably wasn’t. And I have no idea who this child was in relation to her . . . but I am absolutely certain,” she said as she handed the pictures to her sister, “that that child is me. I have no clue as to why there would be photographs of me in that safe deposit box, but Winnie, look at her. It’s me.” Valerie appeared thunderstruck as she said it, and had been since the night before. Her sister was unimpressed. She glanced at the photographs and shrugged.

“All children look alike,” she said, not willing to agree.

“That’s a ridiculous thing to say. We don’t have any photographs of our sister, thanks to our parents throwing them all away, God knows why.”

“Because they made our mother sad,” Winnie said fiercely, defending them again.

“We have none of her at any age, so we don’t know what she looked like. But we have a few of me. You can’t deny it. This child looks just like me as a little girl. I even had a dress like that.”

“So did every child I knew. In those days, everyone dressed their children alike. We all had the same haircuts, either bowl cuts or braids. We all wore little smocked dresses. I can’t even tell you from me in half the photographs we have, and we look nothing alike.”