Leonie (17 page)

“Come on, Bébé,” she called. “It’s time for your dinner, though I’m afraid it won’t be fresh salmon tonight.”

She helped Madame Frenard in the kitchen, preparing a huge
tian
of zucchini, eggplant, and tomatoes, all picked from the plot on the hillside behind the house, spicing the dish with garlic and sprigs of wild thyme, and anointing it with olive oil fresh from the
old press in the courtyard. It was baking in the oven and, pleased with herself, Léonie sniffed the savory smell drifting over the terrace. At least she had done something positive, and Monsieur Frenard had promised to take her into Nice to see about a job next week.

She was sipping a glass of pastis with the Frenards, catching the last of the late evening sunlight, when a cab pulled up with a note for Léonie. She read it hurriedly. It was quite formal, absolutely unemotional. It was certainly no love note. Simply that Monsieur le Duc expected her for dinner at eight-thirty and the cab would take her to the Hôtel Métropole.

She rushed to get ready, wondering what to wear, sorting anxiously through her meager wardrobe and ending up with a white blouse flounced on the shoulders with
broderie anglaise
. It was simple but at least it left her neck and shoulders bare and hopefully looked suitable for evening. A white skirt wouldn’t be smart enough, she’d have to wear the deep pink—with the amber scarf wound around her waist, it looked nice, the colors were unusual and pretty together. Cutting the end of Bébé’s pink velvet ribbon, she pinned it around her neck. It matched the skirt perfectly and the choker made her neck look long and elegant so that her hair had to be swept up on top, more neatly this time, in smooth blond curves that she anchored as firmly as possible with long pins.

There, that would have to do. She peered at the result in the mirror. She hoped he would like it. Bébé watched from her perch on the window ledge, waiting. “Of course you’re coming,” Léonie called happily. “Don’t worry, Bébé.”

It was only later, as she sat in the cab joggling along the road to Monte Carlo, that Léonie began to wonder if she should have gone. Should she have been so quick to accept? He could have asked her last night. She frowned, suddenly angry with herself for being so easily available—and with him for assuming she would come.

A footman waited on the steps of the Hôtel Métropole. “Monsieur le Duc is expecting you, mademoiselle,” he said courteously. “Would you come this way, please?”

The awninged terrace overlooked a sweep of smooth palm-fringed lawn and in the distance strings of lights curved around the bay like necklaces in the blue-black velvet of a jeweler’s window. Gilles stood as she came toward him. She had forgotten that
he was so tall. His grip was firm as he took her hand. “Léonie, I’m so glad you could come.”

“But I’m not sure that I should have,” she replied, putting Bébé on a chair beside her.

“Why on earth not?” His smile was lazy, faintly teasing.

“Well, isn’t it more usual to
ask
a lady if she would like to go to dinner?”

“I’m a busy man, Léonie … my time is not always my own.” He shrugged. “Tonight I’m free. You wanted to come, didn’t you?”

He was leaning over her as he spoke and she stared up into his dark blue eyes, aware of his nearness, of the width of his shoulders, of his hand against her arm. “Yes,” she admitted.

“Well, then.” He moved away and took a seat opposite her. “I’m very happy that you’re here. Now, shall we start with champagne again?”

Dinner was more leisurely this time, more relaxed as he amused her, telling her stories of his travels in New York and Chicago and the strange ways of Americans. Again, he chose for them both, coaxing her to taste the caviar. “I might like it one day,” she admitted doubtfully. But there was no doubt she liked the chicken he ordered, stuffed with rice and crayfish and truffles. She ate with such gusto that he offered, with a smile, to send for more.

“Oh, no, please don’t.” Léonie was embarrassed. She remembered the
tian
at the Frenards’ and how good it had smelled and she laughed, telling him how she had cooked it herself. “Of course, it can’t compare with this,” she said.

“Good food is like beauty,” he replied, “it simply requires the right combination of good ingredients put together in an attractive way. Perhaps you’ll cook it for me one day?”

“I’m not sure you’ll enjoy it,” she protested, “you’re used to so much better.”

“Do you know that every day in Paris I eat lunch at the Ritz Hotel and I eat exactly the same thing: an omelette.”

Léonie stared at him, astounded. “But why, when you can have anything you want?”

“Maybe that’s why.”

“I think I understand,” she replied, but she wasn’t sure she did.

He sipped his wine, watching her. She was a lovely tawny animal in that blouse with her golden shoulders, so slender and yet round, and that great mane of blond hair. He stared at her mouth,
wide and curving, showing strong perfect teeth when she smiled, and just the tip of a pink tongue when she licked her lips, as she did now. He imagined her with diamonds in those pretty ears, slinking round her lovely neck, decorating her fingers, and the texture of fur next to her skin. He wanted to rush out and get them now so that he could see her naked but for jewels and some rich tawny fur.

“Tell me, Léonie,” he said, taking her hand, “what do you want most in life? What is it that would please you most?”

The answer flashed through her head immediately. To have Rupert back! But no, that was not anything she could have. No, she knew now what it was, she was sure of it. “I’d like a home,” she said. “I’ve never had a proper home, a place that is truly mine. I think a home must be a place that welcomes you, a place of refuge. Like the old inn at the Cap. Somehow,” she added thoughtfully, “I feel that is where I belong. It has a feeling of home about it.”

Gilles was surprised. He’d thought she’d say jewels and money and yachts, wasn’t that what most of them wanted? All she wanted was a home!

Léonie had been driven back alone again, waving good-bye to him as the cab drove away, and again he hadn’t mentioned seeing her. But as the next day moved along toward six, and then six-thirty, she found herself waiting, listening for the sound of a cab on the lane above the inn. At seven she heard it, and read the same note, this time with a smile. She had a skirt waiting on the bed, freshly starched and pressed—how she longed for something silk, she thought, feverishly struggling with the buttons of the white skirt, instead of always wearing crisp cotton. She visualized herself in startling red silk, tight bodiced and revealing, and blushed as she realized that she wanted to look more daring, more tempting. What
was
she thinking about? Rupert would have hated her in red silk. Her only other blouse was black, high-necked and demure, and she felt hot and uncomfortable in it as she sat in the dining room of the Hôtel Hermitage. She’d endured the stares of the elegant ladies in lace in the foyer and the bejeweled matrons at the other tables and she felt shabby and ordinary. She wished she hadn’t come. He was late and she sat alone at the table sipping a glass of water. She had refused the waiting champagne, not caring
to drink it without him. Bébé was bored and had fallen asleep under the table.

The manager came toward her. “I’m afraid Monsieur le Duc is delayed, madame,” he said deferentially. “He asks you to begin without him and he will be here as soon as possible. He has already ordered for you, madame.”

“But …”

“Yes, madame?”

“Oh, nothing.…” She didn’t want to sit there and eat by herself with everyone staring, but if he had said she should, it seemed she had no choice. She felt so foolish there alone.

A waiter arrived bearing an elaborate terrine in aspic, wobbling colorfully on its silver plate. He arranged a slice, placing it before her. Léonie stared at it miserably.

“Is the terrine all right, madame?”

“Oh, yes … yes, thank you.” Picking up her fork hastily, she tasted it. It was delicious, but she felt too nervous to eat it.

The waiter removed her plate and a second waiter wheeled in a large trolley filled with elaborate hors d’oeuvre. “Would madame like to choose?” he suggested.

“I don’t think so, thank you.” The hors d’oeuvre terrified her, they were so fancy, she didn’t know whether you picked them up and ate them with your fingers or used your knife and fork—and there were so many knives and forks. Oh, dear, it had all seemed so simple when he was there, she hadn’t felt like this at all, she hadn’t even thought about it. Oh, where was he?

“Allow me to choose for you.” He piled her plate with tiny fish, and spears of asparagus, curls of meats and grapes stuffed with creamy cheese, pastes of eggplant and hearts of artichokes. And she ate nothing. She didn’t know what to do with it.

After ten minutes they removed her plate and the sommelier offered to pour the wine. “It’s a very good year, madame,” he said, flourishing the label for her inspection. “Monsieur le Duc knows his wines well.” Léonie sat stiffly while he opened the bottle and poured a little into her glass. She ignored it, she didn’t want any wine. What she really wanted was to go home. She was conscious of eyes upon her, of whispered glances from other tables where people were dining in groups of four and more. Everyone was with someone else and she was alone, and obviously didn’t belong there. They had to be wondering who she was, what she was doing.

“Would you care to taste the wine, madame?” suggested the sommelier, impatiently.

“What?” Her frightened eyes met his.

“Taste the wine, madame.”

Léonie sipped obediently. “It’s very nice.” He filled her glass, placing the bottle in its impeccable white napkin on the side table.

She longed to escape, to hide in the ladies powder room, but she didn’t know where it was and she was too nervous to ask; besides, it meant walking past all those tables full of people, all staring at her; yet if she did go it meant she could run away, not come back. Just get up and walk to the door, she told herself, that’s all.

The maître d’hôtel arrived with two attendant flunkies and set up his little spirit flame. Other waiters appeared carrying silver-covered dishes of fresh vegetables, half a dozen different kinds, which they proceeded to serve, asking her bewildered permission, while the maître d’hôtel occupied himself with slivers of meat that he was heating quickly in butter in a copper pan, dousing it with cream and green peppercorns, splattering it liberally with warmed brandy that he then ignited with a flourish, scooping it onto a warm plate as the flames died out.

“Madame”—he placed it on the table before her—“enjoy your dinner, madame.”

Léonie sat with her eyes lowered, trying not to look at the food. She felt sick. She wished she were anywhere else but here.

“Léonie?”

It was he. She grabbed his hand in relief.

“Aren’t you enjoying your dinner?” He picked up the bottle from the side table. “Yes, the Leoville … it’s a good wine, don’t you think?” He settled back in his chair without a word of apology for being so late and she stared at him in astonishment.

“But I’ve been waiting for you.… I thought you weren’t coming.…”

“I told you that my time isn’t always my own, Léonie. However, I’m here now.” He smiled at her and took her hand. “You’re so cold,” he said. “You should eat your dinner.”

“What about you?”

He called the waiter. “Bring me some of the grapes stuffed with cheese,” he said, “and some Evian water.”

“Yes, sir.” The waiter sped off on his mission.

“But aren’t you having dinner?” She gestured to the plate of
meat in its elaborate sauce, the vegetables glowing like jewels under a glisten of butter.

“That was for you,” he replied. “I wanted you to enjoy your dinner even though I wasn’t here. I’m not hungry.” She stared at her plate, like an enchanting upset little child who couldn’t eat her meat. “Go ahead.” He smiled. “I’m sure it’s delicious, this is one of the best restaurants on the coast.”

She tasted the meat cautiously. It was good, the sauce more delicate than she expected. People at other tables were staring at them, but it didn’t seem to matter now. She relaxed. Everything was all right again. Now that he was here.

Each morning she ran up to the mailbox on the lane still hoping there might be a letter from Rupert. There never was, nor was there one from Caro. How she must despise me, Léonie thought as she sat on the big white rock at the top of the path that led to the inn, waiting for the mailman. She must hate me for running off like that, without even talking to her. She was my friend, she saved me before when I was desperate. If only she could speak to Rupert for me, find out what is happening. But Léonie was afraid that she already knew what was happening. An image of Puschi had formed at the back of her mind, a laughing, blond, pink-cheeked girl, who loved horseback riding and fun and lived in a castle, a beautiful fairy princess waiting for her prince to marry her. She had accepted that Rupert wasn’t coming back, but not the hurt of it, and not without telling her. He would write, he would explain—wouldn’t he? She couldn’t blame him for returning to Puschi. His family came first. That was always the way with families, she supposed.

She found that she spent each afternoon in a state of anticipation, wondering whether the cab would come, and each night when it came she forgot about Rupert, excited by the mysterious quality of Monsieur le Duc and their assignations, each time at a different place—a fisherman’s café at Cap d’Ail, a famous restaurant in Nice, or the grand dining rooms of the grandest hotels. And she enjoyed it. Rupert disappeared for a while in the magic of being the girl on Gilles de Courmont’s arm, the one for whom snobbish maîtres d’hôtel opened doors and flourished wines, for whom waiters hovered and flunkies arranged fresh flowers and for whom people stood aside to let pass. It was exciting and
he
was exciting. He was never the same man. Each night he seemed different.

Sometimes sympathetic and understanding, sometimes distant and abstracted, sometimes amusing—and sometimes silent and watchful, the way he had been at the party. She liked the way he made her feel—more conscious of herself physically, aware of the contact of his hand on her bare arm as he escorted her into a restaurant, his breath on her cheek as he leaned closer to comment, the feeling of restrained power in his broad-shouldered body.