Destiny (139 page)

He looked at them, with his pale heavy-lidded eyes, while first Scher, and then Helene, spoke. His face never betrayed the least emotion; he looked, if anything, almost bored.

When they had both finished, he gave a faint smile. He rested his large pale hands on the surface of the desk, and flicked at its surface with one well-manicured finger.

"Oh, well. I shall return to Portugal then, and Spain. You can hardly interfere with my activities there. All that was in the files? Really? You know, Edouard would have done awfully well working for a police state. ..."

He saw Helene's flush of anger, and it seemed to please him, momentarily. Some slight animation appeared in his pale heavy face; it flickered in his eyes, and then was gone. He gave a small shrug.

"I'm not too disappointed. Louise was very optimistic about my chances here—but then, Louise is a stupid woman. There was a time when I thought she might be correct, when I thought I might be able to fill the vacuum, so to speak. Now—" He paused. "Well, the zest has gone out of it somehow, in any case. It was rather more amusing to operate from the sidelines, to slip in and out of France, to advise Louise—when Edouard was still alive. Besides, we're doing extremely well. Nerval and I. To return here now—it might cramp my style a little, I think. ..."

Helene leaned forward. "Before you go," she said, "there's one thing that interests me. Why did you always oppose the Wyspianski collections? Why did you oppose that part of the company's work? You're not stupid. I can't believe you were unable to see how important it was."

De Belfort smiled faintly; he looked at her with slightly more interest than he had before.

"Why? I'm sure you know the answer. Because it mattered so much to Edouard, of course."

"But the work was good. The collections were always very fine. And

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simply from a commercial point of view, they were a success from the first. Do you mean to say that you disliked Edouard so much that you could not make an objective business decision?"

"Is there such a thing?" De Belfort stood up. "Are you making an objective decision now? Is Mr. Scher?"

"It's objective in my case." Simon Scher leaned forward. "I don't even know you. But I do know your record, and that's enough to make me sure we have no place for you here."

De Belfort turned a cold haughty gaze upon him. There was a pause, then de Belfort looked away, his lips pursed with a kind of patrician disdain. He regarded Helene levelly, then, slowly he swiveled around in his chair, and looked about the room, his expression close to regret.

"I always said this would never outlast Edouard. I told him that once— did he ever mention it to you?"

"He never mentioned your name," Helene said coldly. "And if that was what you predicted, you were wrong."

"I wonder." Again de Belfort smiled, that slow glacial smile. "Not that I doubt your energies for one moment, Madame, I hope you understand. I hear that—for a woman—you are very able. No, no—but in the long term? How many children is it? Three? A girl and two boys, I believe. Very difficult. One of them might take after Edouard, of course, but it's hardly likely they both will. Louise tells me the elder boy—Lucien, isn't it?—so much resembles her son Jean-Paul, and Jean-Paul, or so I've always heard, would have finished this company within three years, had it not been for Edouard. So I doubt the future is as assured as all that. One of the weaknesses of a private company—too few children, and there's no one suitable to carry on; too many, or the wrong kind, and they squabble so viciously that—"

"None of this is your concern. You were not invited here to speculate on the future of this company. You might do better to concern yourself with your own."

Simon Scher had spoken, tersely, rising as he did so. Helene said nothing, and de Belfort noted that. He looked at her intently, then got to his feet with a smile. He took his time, looking around the austere room, from painting to painting, object to object. Then, just before he left, he turned back to Helene.

"You know, it's quite odd," he remarked in an easy conversational tone. "I did dislike your husband very much—just as you suggested. Disliked is possibly the wrong term. I hated him. Such an arrogant man. Living in the wrong era, I always felt, despite his success. Not a part of the modem world at all. And yet—the odd thing is, the unaccountable thing is—now that he's dead, I rather miss him. He leaves a gap in my life—which would

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no doubt have amused him very much. Now, who would have predicted that?"

He gave a small puzzled frown; then, ponderously, in a leisurely way, he left the room. Helene watched him leave, thoughtfully; from the first moment he came in, he had reminded her of someone, but she had been unable to place who it was. When he made those last few remarks, and then turned to go, it suddenly came to her. Physically, of course, they were nothing alike; it was perhaps what had confused her. But she had sensed his hate, and his antagonism, before he spoke of it—and that she had recognized. He reminded her of Thad.

She tried to explain this, that night, to Christian, and he, after the first burst of elation at what he regarded as clear-cut victory, listened quietly.

"They both needed him, in a way—do you understand, Christian? They needed the rivalry. Maybe they even needed the hate. I don't know. Perhaps people do need that, just as people need love."

"He enjoyed the contest, you mean?" Christian looked thoughtful. "Yes. I can see that." He paused. "Men like Edouard attract hate—though he could never understand that. Also love, of course."

Helene heard the affectation leave his voice; she heard the catch of regret in it. She leaned across the dining table, and rested her hand on his.

"Oh, Christian," she said sadly. "I know."

"I loved him very much," he said jerkily. "He could be arrogant, and obstinate and impossible. He made me laugh. He made me think. He was also the kindest man I ever met. Hugo thought—my cousin Hugo said . . . Oh, hell. I'm sorry about this, Helene."

"Don't be," she said simply as he turned his face away. She waited awhile, and then got Christian a brandy. She sat down again and rested her arms on the table, her face in her hands.

"Tell me about him, Christian. I wish you would. Tell me what he was like—when you first met him, before I knew him."

Christian looked up. "It won't hurt you?"

"No. Not now. I want you to."

"I understand that. To begin with, you can't bear to say or hear anything at all, and then, after that—" He paused. "I'll tell you how I first met him. I'd heard of him before, through Hugo. But this was the first day we met. It was in London, in Eaton Square, about a month before we were both going up to Oxford. Hugo said ..."

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He began to speak more rapidly, with his usual animation, his hands gesturing wildly in the air.

Helene listened. She saw the street, and the house, and Christian's eighteen-year-old friend. And after a while, as he spoke, she felt that icy calm, which had already begun to desert her, slip further away, and further, and with a sense of release she let it go.

Christian talked on; the candles on the table burned lower. His Edouard; her Edouard.

That night, when she went to bed, she reached out her hand as she did every night, to touch the cool space on the sheets beside her. She let it rest there, and closed her eyes, knowing that tonight she would sleep. Now that the calm had gone, and the inertia had gone, Edouard was very close to her.

I shall take the children to Quaires, she thought, for the summer.

That summer Helene arranged for a certain box to be sent from Paris to England, and, one evening, kneeling on the floor of the drawing room at Quaires, Cat opened it.

It was an antique box, the size of a small trunk, with a domed hd, covered in fine leather, which had faded to a soft mossy green; on its hd was the de Chavigny crest, and Cat's initials. Cat's hands trembled a little as she opened it: she did not know what it contained, but she knew that it was important, that it related in some way to her father, the second anniversary of whose death had just passed. Inside the box were two trays, with compartments, which hfted out, and inside the trays were a series of other exquisitely made leather boxes. Jewelry cases. She knelt back on her heels, afraid to open them.

The room was still and quiet; outside, the light was fading from the thick dusty gold of late afternoon, to the blue of twilight; shadows sloped across the lawn. After a while, Helene crossed to her, and knelt down beside her.

"Cat, I wanted you to see them; I wanted you to know," she said gently. "It was too soon before, but I thought, now—"

She hesitated, and lightly touched one of the small boxes in front of them.

"Before we came back to Edouard, the years when we were in America —every year, Edouard remembered your birthday. He chose a present for you, and it was put in the safes in Paris. To wait for you. To wait for when you came back." She paused. "There's one to mark your birth—this one

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here. And then one for each year after that. They're each dated—you'll see.

"Every year? Before he even knew me?" Cat lifted her eyes to Helene's face.

"Every year. And after we came back, he continued, just the same. And I continued, after he died. Oh, Cat, I wanted you to see them. He loved you so much." She touched Cat's hand. "Open them, darhng. Open them, please. ..."

Very carefully. Cat began to do so. For Catharine, with my love, 1960. A necklace of pearls, rose, and briolette-cut diamonds, an exquisite deUcate thing, like a circlet of flowers, which she knew at once could have been designed only by Wyspianski. For Catharine, with my love, 1961. A Cartier tiara, of black onyx surmounted with pearls; 1962: a Chinese necklace of carved coral, with tiny carved flowers spilhng little clusters of onyx and diamonds. Year after year; box after box: a necklace with five strands of perfectly matched pearls for her fifth birthday. Two matching bracelets, so cunningly mounted they appeared to have been carved from sapphires. Lapis and gold; every stone except emeralds; 1973, the year of his death, a cabochon ruby ring, which fit her finger exactly.

Cat looked at them in wonder and bewilderment. Tears came to her eyes; a tiara—would she ever wear a tiara? It touched her heart that her father should have chosen something so much a part of his era, and taking it from its box, she pressed it against her face, thinking that yes, if she wore one, ever, it would be this one.

She held it away from her face, looking at it, tracing its outline with her fingers. Her face grew fierce and tight, and then abruptly, with a little cry, she set it down again, and rose to her feet.

"I want to show you something—Mother, wait. Wait there." She ran from the room and returned, a few minutes later, clutching a folder under her arm. She knelt down beside Helene, her hands shaking, and opened it carefully. It was a portfolio of designs, jewelry designs; page after page of them, each signed and dated, and drawn, as Cat always drew, meticulously.

"I've been working on these for a year. When I'm in Paris, I show them to Floryan and he helps me. He tells me what is technically possible, and what impossible. This one—you see. I had to revise it. It couldn't have been made, not the way I first drew it. And this one—oh, I like this one. I think this is one of the best. Mother, I know they're not very good yet, but they'll get better—as I learn, as I work on them. ..."

She lifted her face eagerly to Helene's, and Helene drew the folder toward her. She bent over them intently. She had had no idea that Cat was working on these, and they were good; they were imaginative. She turned

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the pages slowly, scrutinizing each drawing, and the small technical notes Cat had made in the margins. "But Cat—these are beautiful. They're very fine. . . ."

"I didn't want to show you before. Not until I had enough. Not until I felt satisfied with them ..." Cat paused. She gestured shakily to the little boxes in front of her, and then back to the drawings.

"I wanted you to know—I wanted Daddy to know. That I shall carry it all on. All this. The jewelry. The company. Oh, I know I have so much to learn, but I will learn, if you'll teach me." She hesitated. "I know how much you've done. Floryan says you've saved the collection, saved the company. I asked Christian, and he said—it will go from strength to strength. And I wanted you to see—that it won't stop there." She broke off, and her flushed face grew still. "I understand about Lucien. And Alexandre. I know Lucien will take priority over me. I accept that. But I wanted you to know—whatever Lucien does, whatever Alexandre does—I shall be there. To carry on."

She stopped again, and bent her head. Helene, touched by the fierceness and impetuosity with which she spoke, looked at her tenderly. There was a little silence: Cat did not accept Lucien's precedence as easily as she said, Helene thought, but she did not for a second doubt her determination. After a pause, she reached across and took Cat's hand. Cat pressed hers tightly. She lifted her face and turned to Helene, her eyes shining, and suddenly wide with uncertainty, and appeal.

"Can I do that? Oh, Mother—can I? Sometimes I feel so sure that I can. I know it. And at other times, I feel afraid. I think how difficult it is, how big it is—and then I think it's just a stupid boast. A fantasy . . ."

Helene hesitated. She leaned forward and put her arm around Cat's shoulders. She could feel that her daughter was almost quivering with the emotion and the tension she felt.

"Oh, Cat. When I was your age—do you know what I believed then?"

"Tell me."

"I believed that anything was possible. Anything. If you willed it enough. If you were determined enough." She paused. "I was quite certain of that—then."

She spoke carefully, but Cat heard the note of regret in her voice, the shading of sadness.

At once she twisted away from her mother's embrace. "You thought it then? Weren't you right? I'm sure you were right. I feel that now—it's just what I feel. ..."