Count Toussaint’s Pregnant Mistress (5 page)

Always the music, her father’s joy and passion. But had it been hers? For the first time in twenty-four years, Abby felt like answering ‘no’, and the realization made a wave of fresh sorrow break over her and recede so that only the numbness was left.

The second half of the concert was as listless and unfocused as the first. No one came back with the requests for autographs her father would deny; no one came back at all. Perhaps they were confused. Perhaps they didn’t care.

In any case, Abby and her father remained alone backstage, Abby changing while her father paced outside her dressing room, talking tersely on his mobile to her agent.

‘Isn’t the saying “no publicity is bad publicity”? I
know
, Randall, but this will pass…We have six concerts left on this tour…She can do it.’

But I can’t do it
, Abby thought suddenly as she stared in the mirror and listened to her father’s increasingly desperate pleas.
And, even if I could, I don’t want to.
For twenty-four years she’d lived for the music. Now she wanted to live for herself.

When Abby came out of the dressing room, Andrew was slipping the phone into his pocket. He gave her a tired smile. ‘I know tonight wasn’t the best we’ve ever played, Abby, but we have a couple of days until we need to be in Milan, and I think we both could use a rest.’

We
, Abby thought, always
we.
As a girl it had made her feel special, included, part of something bigger than herself. Now it both irritated and saddened her. She knew the bare bones of her father’s story: he’d been a pianist too, but his talent hadn’t got him far, or not far enough, so he’d poured his creative energy into her instead. And she didn’t have any more room for it.

‘I want to cancel the rest of the tour,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m…burned out. I need more than a few days’ rest.’

Andrew stared at her for a long moment, his mouth dropping open in shock. ‘Abby—’

‘We can refund the money if we need to,’ Abby continued, her voice becoming firmer, more certain. This was what she needed, what she craved. Her night with Luc had merely been the wake-up call. ‘I’ve been playing and recording non-stop for seven years. I need a break. A big one.’

Andrew let out a shaky breath. ‘All right,’ he said after a moment. ‘All right. But after this tour—’

‘I can’t,’ Abby replied simply. ‘You heard me tonight. I can’t. We can refund—’

‘No,’ Andrew cut her off, and he sounded angry for the first time. ‘We can’t.’

Abby stared at him, felt the first fingers of dread creep along her spine. Finally, after a long moment, she asked in a level voice, ‘Why not?’

‘Because I lost it, Abby.’ Sorrow replaced anger, and her father hung his head. ‘I lost it all.’

Six months later

S
ITTING
in the warm September sunshine in a street café in Avignon, Luc gazed at the column of print, no more than a side item in the arts section of
Le Monde: Piano Prodigy Abigail Summers retires.

Luc felt a lurch deep in his gut. It was guilt, he knew, the guilt he’d tried to keep at bay now roiling through him. He’d tried not to think of Abby or that one wonderful yet unfulfilled night six months ago. He’d tried to forget her, for her own sake. She didn’t need him in her life. She
couldn’t.
So he’d stayed blank, cold, numb, as always, and immersed himself in work so there was no one left to hurt.

Yet as he stared at the fine print, accompanied by a rather grainy photo of Abby playing in some anonymous concert hall, he knew he hadn’t forgotten her. At all. He might not have been actively thinking of her, but she’d been present in his mind, in his thoughts. In his memory.

And now he felt the guilt deepen and intensify within him, turning into a solid mass of anxiety that lodged in his middle and clawed its way up his throat. Why had she retired?

Was it because of me?

Had he hurt another innocent with his greed, his need,
despite his intentions otherwise? He shouldn’t have spoken to her, or ordered champagne, dinner and the suite…There had been a dozen different opportunities to stop, to turn away, to keep himself from hurting her. He hadn’t taken any of them.

‘Salut
, Luc.’

Luc looked up from the newspaper to see his solicitor, Denis Depaul, coming towards him. He tossed the paper aside, wishing he could discard his memories and concerns as easily.

‘Salut,’
he replied.

Denis sat down and ordered a coffee before he continued speaking. ‘It is good to see you. I thought I might not have the opportunity; you have been working so hard.’ He paused. ‘And you come down south so rarely these days.’

‘Yes.’ He spoke in a clipped voice, then forced himself to relax and smile. Denis was an old family friend; he’d served his father before his death when Luc was only eleven, and had protected and nurtured the family assets as best he could until Luc had been old enough to take the reins of Toussaint Holdings.

Luc would never forget those desperate years, when Toussaint Holdings had slid and slipped quietly, inch by inch, franc by franc, into total financial disaster, beset by corruption and crooked managers. Denis had done the best he could while Luc had watched, irate, incapable, and only twelve years old.

‘I have news.’

Luc took a sip of his espresso. ‘Oh?’ he asked, his voice neutral.

‘Yes.’ Denis paused. ‘There has been an offer on Chateau Mirabeau.’

Luc stilled, his fingers curled around his tiny cup of coffee. ‘An offer?’ he repeated in the same neutral tone. ‘I did not realize it was for sale.’

‘Of course it is not, but it has been shut up like a box for six months; people begin to wonder.’

‘Let them wonder.’ Luc’s voice was flat, ominously so, but Denis was not deterred.

‘It is quite a good offer, Luc. Of course you don’t need the money, but considering—’

‘Considering?’ Luc repeated. ‘Considering what?’

Denis paused for only a moment, his head cocked to one side. There was something too close to pity in his eyes, Luc thought. ‘Considering,’ he replied evenly, ‘that you no longer live there, and have expressed no interest in living there in the future.’ He leaned forward, his expression turning compassionate—too compassionate; Luc found he could not bear it. He surely did not deserve it. He didn’t want sympathy, or even understanding.

It would have been easier if Denis had condemned him, blamed him as no one ever had for Suzanne’s death, even though his own mind and heart were weighed down with guilt.
If I’d paid attention…If I’d loved her…If I’d realized how desperate and unhappy I’d made her…

Perhaps she would still be alive.

‘Luc, it is a good offer. And the chateau, with its memories…’ He trailed off, but Luc could have filled in what he hadn’t said.

He knew all about memories: Chateau Mirabeau, with its stone terraces and vineyards, its fountains and aquaducts, its secrets, sorrows and scars. Chateau Mirabeau, where Suzanne had lived so unhappily and died so suddenly.

‘I can’t sell it,’ Luc said, his voice uncompromising. ‘It has been in our family for four hundred years. My father—’ He stopped abruptly, his throat tight, and simply shook his head.

‘I know your father would not have wished such a thing to come to pass,’ Denis said gently. ‘But neither could he have ever imagined such circumstances as these. Selling the
chateau might help, Luc, and I don’t mean just your bank account. You need to—’

‘It’s not your job to tell me what I need,’ Luc cut him off coldly. ‘Save for matters concerning my bank accounts.’ He knew he sounded curt, but he didn’t apologize. He didn’t want advice; he didn’t even want kindness. He looked away, and jerked slightly when Denis laid a hand over his arm, removing it after a brief moment and shrugging philosophically. ‘As you wish. Thirty-five million pounds might change your mind, however.’

‘Thirty-five million?’ Luc arched an eyebrow, equanimity restored, or at least appearing to be. ‘That’s all?’

Denis gave a little chuckle. ‘I told you, you don’t need it. But still, in these times, thirty-five million pounds is thirtyfive million pounds.’

‘No.’

Denis shrugged again. ‘As I said before, as you wish.’ He took a folder out of his attaché case and began to discuss Luc’s other assets in the Languedoc, but Luc found his mind wandering. Once a conversation such as this would have been meat and drink to him: ways to preserve his family’s heritage, increase its revenue, restore its name. He still worked hard to keep Toussaint Holdings profitable, but he didn’t let himself think about it. He concentrated on numbers, figures, bank balances and ledgers, and refused to think about what lay behind them: the dusty vineyards, the ancient walls, the twisted olive groves and orange trees, the house and land that he’d loved too much.

As Denis spoke he found his glance slipping back to the paper, to the grainy photograph of ‘Piano Prodigy Abigail Summers’.

Abby.

Again he felt guilt roil through him. Six months ago she’d been at the pinnacle of her career, or close to it. She’d had
everything she could ever possibly want—and now she’d retired? Just like that?

Why?

The answer seemed, felt, obvious: because of him.

Because he’d taken too much from her and then slipped out of her life without a single word of explanation, without even a goodbye.

He’d convinced himself it had been better that way. If he’d waited, he would have crumbled. He would have taken her in his arms and made love to her; he wouldn’t have let her go. Not then, not yet.

And then what? She would have become more attached, more involved; perhaps she would have even imagined she loved him. And he would have hurt her, disappointed her,
failed
her, eventually. Just as he had Suzanne.

Still, Luc thought not for the first time, he could have softened the blow. Explained…something.

‘Luc?’ Luc jerked his unfocused gaze back to his solicitor, who tapped a sheaf of papers with a gold-plated pen. ‘Just going over the winery profits.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Luc said, although he had no idea what Denis had been saying. He forced himself to concentrate, but even so his mind slipped back not only to the article in the newspaper but to that night, to Abby herself.

He remembered how she’d felt against him; she’d fit perfectly. He could still recall how her hair had had such a soft, flowery fragrance, like lavender. It had reminded him of home, in a good way, which was strange. Amazing, really. When he’d held her in his arms, the ghosts had left him. He hadn’t heard their mocking voices; the memories hadn’t claimed him. He’d been at peace.

‘Luc?’ Denis prompted again, and Luc nodded.

‘I’m here.’

But he wasn’t here. Already his mind was miles away, thinking of where Abby could have gone…and how he could find her.

Abby slipped the home-cooked lasagne out of the industrial freezer and added it to the box of food on the counter.

‘Anything else going to Corner Cottage?’ she asked Grace Myer, her boss for the last four months and owner of Cornish Country Kitchen Catering.

Grace tucked a flyaway strand of greying hair behind her ear and consulted the order. ‘Lasagne, salad, bread and an apple crumble. I think that’s it. It’s just for the one man.’

‘He’s here for the week?’

‘Yes. He only rented the property a few days ago. Must have been a last-minute thing.’ She laid the order form on top of the box. ‘There you go. You’re all right to go to Helston this afternoon?’

Abby nodded. ‘No problem.’ Part of the reason Grace had hired her was to do the toing and froing, the heavy work that she couldn’t manage with an increasingly bad back. Abby was glad to do it, glad, actually, to be useful, to keep herself busy and productive in a way she never had been before. It helped to be busy; then she didn’t have quite so much time to think.

Now she hefted the box and headed out of the thatched cottage from where Grace ran her business supplying self-catering cottages with ready meals. The September day was crisp and sunny with a light breeze blowing in from the sea ruffling Abby’s hair.

She loaded the box in the back of Grace’s old van and then climbed in the driver’s side. The sea was a bright-blue ribbon along her right-hand side, the sky a lighter blue above her as she drove down the coast road to Carack, the little fishing village where Corner Cottage was located.

It occurred to her, not for the first time, how much her life had changed in the last six months. That night in Paris, her father’s revelation that their—
her
—assets had vanished completely, had been the turning point of both her life and career. She’d played two more concerts, played badly, before cancelling the rest of the tour. In a wave of speculative concern and spurious interest, she’d left the music scene, left every despised remnant of the life she’d known. And now she was here.

She spent most of her days driving to and from various self-catering cottages with boxes of meals. The mundane nature of her work was alleviated by the sight of the sea and sky, the occasional trips to Helston or Penzance for supplies and the friends she’d made—whether it was Marta, the older woman who had been running Carack’s tiny shop, ‘the Harrods of Cornwall’, for thirty years, the postman, or Grace herself. Small, simple pleasures, ones she’d come to savour.

It had been an instinctive decision to come to Cornwall, one she hadn’t really needed to think about. She’d gone on holiday here as a child, when her mother had played a music festival in Devon. It had been a glorious week of building sandcastles and eating melting ice-creams, one of the few holidays she’d had with her family
as
a family. It felt good to be back. She didn’t regret it, or her decision to answer Grace’s tiny ad in the local paper for an assistant. Her parents had been bewildered, the public stunned, and yet Abby was glad. She needed a complete respite, relief from the life she’d known, the person she’d been. The ‘Prodigy’.

For the first time in her life—besides that one night with Luc—she felt free. Free and, in small, simple ways, happy.

Yet just the thought of Luc caused a little pang of sorrow to shoot through her like a lingering toothache, a sudden, surprising, jagged pain. She’d stopped being angry a few months ago; anger was too exhausting. She didn’t know why Luc had
left—had he planned to all along? Had he simply lost interest? Did it even matter?

As the anger receded, she found she could even, in an objective way, summon a little surprising gratitude. Luc had woken her up; he’d made her see how limited and caged her life had been, even if he hadn’t meant to. Had made her feel.

Still, it hurt. It made her sad to think of what she thought might have been, now knowing it never could have. Yet she was glad for the wake-up call she’d so obviously needed.

‘Maybe if I keep telling myself that, I’ll believe it,’ she said wryly. She’d started talking to herself as she drove the van along the narrow, twisting lanes with hedgerows high on either side. She remembered that night with Luc when she’d spoken aloud to her own reflection. She’d felt lonely then, a bit pathetic, but now she found she liked her little one-way conversations. It reminded her that she’d chosen this. She’d chosen to leave the past behind, to move ahead, to finally live and feel, even if it hurt.

Surely that was better than the numbness she’d first felt after Luc had left? Surely feeling pain along with the joy was better than feeling nothing at all?

Corner Cottage was the last of a row of terraced cottages on the high street of Carack, whitewashed, thatched and facing the sea. The air was cool and sharp with brine as Abby parked the van in front of the cottage and went to unload the box of meals.

She let herself in by the back gate, through a tiny garden, right into the little brick-floored kitchen. She loved Corner Cottage. It was tiny, with just the little kitchen and a parlour that was dominated by a stone fireplace, with a cozy bedroom above, the bed tucked snugly under the eaves. It was one of the area’s most popular rentals for couples, and Abby could see why. The sight of the slate-blue sea winking from the
bedroom window made you want to curl up in the huge bed with its thick, fluffy duvet and stay there for ever.

Part of Abby’s job was to check the cottage was ready for the next tenants, and after unloading the food she went upstairs to make sure the rooms were prepared and clean. Just the sight of that high, wide bed caused a pang of memory to pierce her again, and for a second she let herself imagine being in that bed with Luc. She had no one else to imagine doing such a thing with, as he’d been the sum total of her romantic and sexual experience—limited as it so obviously was. A few men she’d met through the course of her work flirted with her, and one had asked her out for a drink at the local pub.

Abby had gone. Since that morning, after being with Luc when she’d woken up alone, so terrifyingly numb, she had been determined to live life to the fullest, accepting invitations, laughing, dancing or just enjoying life when she could. She hadn’t enjoyed that evening. The man, a local carpenter, had been too full of himself and his own importance. Abby had barely managed to get a word in edgeways, and she’d taken herself home alone at nine o’clock.