Leonie (81 page)

Controlling her feelings, she made polite conversation. She passed the girl a cup of tea. “Gérard tells me your home is in Brazil, Madame do Santos?”

“Yes, madame, or at least it used to be. Now I live in Florida.”

Marie-France stirred her tea for the tenth time. The girl’s name was Amélie—the name of Léonie’s daughter, the child she had had to hide from Gilles.
And the one Gilles claimed was his own!
Oh, God, she thought, what is happening; this can’t be true, can it?

“My family is French,” Amélie was saying.

Gérard helped himself to a wafer-thin sandwich, watching the two of them chatting together. If his mother had been surprised by his sudden announcement that he wanted to get married to a girl he’d known only a couple of weeks—a widow with two little daughters no less—she hadn’t shown it. In fact, she had told him she welcomed the idea—two ready-made grandchildren had a very appealing quality.

“Forgive me for asking,” said Marie-France suddenly, “but was your family name d’Aureville?”

Amélie’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why, yes. But how did you know?”

The delicate cup rattled in its saucer as Marie-France placed it on the table. “I knew your mother—long ago.” Her eyes met Gérard’s questioning ones. He didn’t know—had never known—of the lawsuit Gilles had brought for custody of Léonie’s child. He didn’t know that Gilles had claimed Amélie was
his
daughter; only Léonie knew the truth. Marie-France had believed her all those years ago, but now …?

“You knew Léonie?” Nothing the Duchesse de Courmont could have said could have surprised Amélie more.

“It was a long time ago. I—we met at some party, I think.” Marie-France made a great effort. “She was a remarkable woman, even then.”

Gérard’s eyes were fixed on his mother. Was she really saying what he thought she was saying? That Amélie was Léonie’s daughter? He leaned back in his chair, stunned. Of course it was true, the words had come from Amélie. All the clues clicked into his brain like bullets in the chamber of a loaded revolver. Léonie—the woman who had hovered like a shadow over his childhood
and youth, the object of his father’s mad obsession.… My God, it was the supreme irony. He had followed in his father’s footsteps; he’d fallen in love with Léonie’s daughter.

Marie-France was making polite conversation about the tourist sights of Paris and Amélie’s two children, but Gérard barely heard what they were saying. His father had damaged their lives enough, this was where it stopped. Nothing would make him give Amélie up. She was going south, of course, to see her mother—that was it! He knew now what he must do. He would resolve things with his father once and for all!

The tea had seemed interminable, thought Amélie unhappily as she said good-bye to Marie-France. What was the matter with Gérard? He had said nothing for the last half-hour. Perhaps he was regretting having brought her here, maybe she didn’t fit into his grand mansion with its footmen and butlers. Oh, dear, what could be wrong? Her shoulders drooped tiredly as they walked across the hall.

Gérard took her elbow and hurried her along. “I want you to pack your things,” he told her urgently, “and get ready to leave tomorrow.”

Amélie looked at him bewildered, was he asking her to go away? “Leave? But Gérard …”

“We’re going to the south,” he told her, walking her down the steps and through the courtyard. “I’ll drive us there.”

“But why?”

“Because I have to meet your mother, my darling Amélie.” Gérard looked into her beautiful eyes. How could he tell a daughter that her mother had been his father’s mistress for years? “And I want you to meet Monsieur.”

Amélie’s memory triggered like a hairspring at the name; Diego’s face leered at her from the past. “You’re not a d’Aureville,” he’d said, “your father is ‘Monsieur’!”

“Monsieur is my father,” Gérard said, kissing her worried face, “somehow he’s always been called just ‘Monsieur.’ ”

She looked so white-faced and tense sitting beside him in the car that he thought she must be ill. “Did my mother upset you?” he asked, rounding the corner onto the Pont Sully. “I should have realized that Léonie was your mother—you look so like her.”

Amélie couldn’t speak; she felt faint. She had to get away from him, from this whole situation. Her frightened mind couldn’t admit
the terrible truth: if Diego was right, then she and Gérard were both children of the same father.

Amélie rushed around the hotel suite, frantically throwing things into the big trunks, hurrying the nurse, and soothing the bewildered children. “We’re going to the sea,” she told them. “Grandmother is waiting to see you.” She had lain awake, crying into her pillow, cursing Diego, her head pounding until her brain refused to go once more over the possibilities. It was no use, she thought despairingly, only one person knew the truth. She must go to the inn and ask her mother.

The train rattled along the track and the carriage was hot and stuffy. When they opened the windows grit and soot blew in on them and when they closed them they were stifled. The children grew bored and irritable and Amélie’s head ached. She thought the journey would never end. At last the train began to slow down, running along the coast beside the blue Mediterranean, past groves of olives and lemons. Her heart lifted a little at its peaceful beauty; she would see Léonie soon. She would know; her mother would have to tell her the truth.

–
• 72 •

The sun blazed from a cloudless sky as Léonie strolled the chalky path around the Point Saint-Hospice with Chocolat trailing at her heels. It was five o’clock, soon the sun would begin to lose its power and the evening would be soft and scented, time for drinks on the terrace with Jim. Life was almost perfect, even Jim’s absences in America only made them happier when he returned and they were together again. All her other lives seemed so long ago and what was left was solid and real, her work with her children at the Château d’Aureville, her good friends, her home, and her land—and, most of all, her love for Jim. He was the laughter in her life, the sharer of pleasures whether it was a plate of langoustines fresh from the bay, a journey to a foreign country, or a starry night on the terrace of the inn listening to the sound of the sea. Even Monsieur had faded into the background, though his yacht was often in the bay. And with the lessening of his threat, Sekhmet had relaxed her grip on Léonie’s imagination. Léonie picked up Chocolat, carrying the tired little cat across her shoulder and hearing the grateful purr.

Was it her imagination? Had she convinced herself all these years that Sekhmet governed her destiny? With a shrug she quickened her step, she wasn’t going to think of that now. It was remote, far away—a long-dead past; this was real, the sun sparkling
off
the points of tiny waves in the blue bay, the groves of olive trees, and the scent of flowers and wild herbs. She climbed light-footed up the broad steps leading from the beach to the house, pausing halfway to listen. What was that? It had sounded like children laughing. Yes, there it was again. Two identical smiling faces peered at her from over the rail of the terrace as Lais and Leonore clung to the rail, waving.

“Hello, hello, Grandmère,” called Leonore. “We’ve come to visit you.”

For a moment Léonie couldn’t take it in and then with a joyful hello she ran up the stairs to her grandchildren.

Their beaming upturned faces waited for her kisses, and their arms were eager to give her hugs. There were no inhibitions in these children, she thought, fighting back the tears of joy as she clasped them to her. “Let me see you,” she said with a shaky laugh, holding them at arms’ length. “Now you are Leonore because you have your mother’s amber eyes, and you are Lais with your father’s blue eyes.”

“And you look just like Mama,” said Lais.

“Only prettier,” added Leonore, clinging to Léonie’s hand. “Mama said you were very beautiful and that you had been waiting a long time to see us.”

“Ever since you were born,” confirmed Léonie, holding their small warm hands tightly in hers.

“Didn’t you see us then, when we were born?” asked Lais.

“No. This is the first time … and I’m so happy to find you here on my terrace. But where is your mother?”

“She’s inside talking to Jim.” Lais dashed into the house. “I’ll get her.”

Leonore stroked Chocolat’s soft brown fur and the cat rubbed against her legs and then rolled over, head tucked to one side and paws curled, waiting for her caress. “Oh, how lovely she is.” Leonore’s hand was gentle as she stroked the soft furry underbelly.

“Mother!”

Léonie’s eyes met those of her daughter and the years of separation fell away like the closed pages of an already-finished book. “Mother, I had to see you.”

Amélie flung her arms about Léonie, and tears slid down her cheeks. “I need you,” she whispered.

“Of course, of course, darling.” Léonie’s hand fluttered soothingly over Amélie’s soft hair. “You’re here now, everything will be all right.”

Taking Amélie by the hand, she led her into the coolness of the salon. She had thought that life was almost perfect only an hour ago—and now it was. Her daughter was with her at last. She needed her. And she had called her “Mother.”

Jim was waiting when they returned to the salon, the two small children trailing behind them. Léonie’s face was soft with a smiling
contentment as she sat Amélie on the sofa beside her, but the girl was crying. Jim had sensed Amélie’s tension as she had waited with him for Léonie to return, she had seemed tired and distracted though the children had been lively enough after their journey. They stood now in the doorway, Leonore with a thumb in her mouth and Lais jumping from one foot to the other.

Thank God Léonie had taken it in her stride; this should be one of the happiest days of her life, and if he had anything to do with it, it would be. He’d leave them alone, let them say to each other whatever needed saying.

“Come on, you two,” he called, grabbing the children by the hand, “let’s see what Madame Frenard has for us in the kitchen—she bakes terrific cookies—and then how’d you like to go down to the beach?”

Amélie brushed the tears from her lashes with the back of her hand. “He’s such a nice man, your husband,” she said. “He’s so understanding.”

Léonie wondered what had caused the tears; it was more than just the reunion, she felt sure of it. Amélie didn’t seem to be the sort of person who cried easily.

“I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re here, Amélie—and with the children. They’re so pretty and so amazingly alike. I hope you’re here to stay for a while?” She was suddenly afraid that she might lose them as quickly as she had found them.

Amélie took a deep breath. “We’ve been in Paris. I was on my way to see you, but … I met someone there. Oh, it’s all so mixed up, Mother.” The tears came to her eyes again and she sniffed angrily. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cry. This was meant to be a happy visit—I was bringing my children to meet you—oh, but you see, Mother, I met someone in Paris and I fell in love.”

The tears flowed unheeded down her cheeks and Léonie handed her a handkerchief. “Well, darling, that sounds like a very natural and very pleasant thing to do. Why so many tears?”

Amélie dabbed at her eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you by asking … I don’t want to pry into your life, Mother.” She took a deep breath. “The name of the man I’m in love with is Gérard de Courmont.”

Léonie fought back a burst of hysterical laughter. Only a short while ago she’d been congratulating herself that the past was finally the past, and that Monsieur had disappeared from her life.
Gérard de Courmont!
The elder son, the young boy in the café all
those years ago; he looked like Monsieur, she remembered, dark blue eyes, dark hair, the same arrogant profile. She leaned back against the sofa cushions wearily. Amélie had fallen in love with Monsieur’s son!

Amélie watched her mother anxiously for her reaction. There was weariness in Léonie’s eyes, and sadness, but not the horror she would have expected if—

“Mother”—her hand reached out and clasped Léonie’s—“I only know parts of the story, just the surface, and I’m not prying into your life or criticizing, but you see I
must know the truth.
” She took another deep breath. “Am I truly a d’Aureville … or … or am I, too, a de Courmont?”

Her mother’s eyes regarded her with surprise; there was no hesitation, no hiding of any secrets. “Why, of course you are Charles d’Aureville’s daughter. Why else would I have given you to his family to bring up?” The implication of Amélie’s question hit her suddenly. “Oh, you poor girl, my poor darling, let me tell you what happened, you should know.”

“No.” Amélie’s relief was so great that she needed no more explanations. “No, it doesn’t matter. That’s all I needed to know.” Her eyes brimmed with happier tears. “It would have been too terrible. Mother, Gérard wants me to marry him—he took me home to meet his mother.… That’s how I found out.”

Léonie was filled with sudden suspicions. Monsieur’s son claimed to be in love with Amélie, but was he? Perhaps it was just a game he was playing, maybe he was in league with his father, perhaps Monsieur finally had Amélie in his grasp. Oh, my God, but she couldn’t let Amélie know of these suspicions, the girl had been through enough already. What must she do?

“Gérard wants you to marry him?”

“Yes, oh, he’s so wonderful, Mother, I can’t tell you.… I’ve never felt like this before. I loved Roberto all my life, but it wasn’t like this. I know that you and Gérard’s father … well, that you hate each other, but isn’t it over now? So many years have passed, does it really matter anymore?”

Poor Amélie, poor, poor girl. She doesn’t know that Monsieur was responsible for the death of her own father, for his
murder!
And Gérard—was he like Gilles, was he ruthless and seeking the revenge Monsieur had wanted? Amélie’s eyes were waiting trustfully for her answer; how could she tell her these terrible truths? And if she did, wouldn’t she lose her daughter again—this
time forever? It was a risk she wasn’t prepared to take. Léonie took a deep breath, she would have to deal with this herself, though she didn’t know quite how.