The Eleventh Year (44 page)

What I have to do now means my survival, she thought. If I can pull it off, maybe my marriage will be safe. But what then? Will there be sufficient ties to keep us happy, after all that's happened? Or shall I still long for that secret something that I once imagined I possessed with this man here? She cleared her throat. “Was it that you didn't want a wife, Justin?” she asked. “Or was it that you were finished with me, that the fascination of the moment had been used up? Was it my innocence you wished to break through?”

“You want answers for what I did twelve years ago. I was taken by your loveliness. You are still a lovely woman. You don't look your age.”

“If you had met me now, would you be wanting more?”

“You said you married your husband for peace. Why, Lesley? You never wanted peace as a young girl.”

“Maybe I'd had my fill of excitement with you. But it was unwholesome. What we had was heightened by the fact that it was forbidden. If you'd married me, and I'd had the child— we might have become bored with each other. And…our values are too different. We're not of the same world, Justin. And in a marriage, that's what's important.”

“You and Alexandre are of that ‘same world'?”

“I'm not sure. But I know you and I aren't. You're of Paul de Varenne's world, and Elena Egorova's. A world of quick passions and no remorse.”

“Elena Egorova,” he repeated.

“Do you know her?”

“I knew someone of that name, during the war, in the Orient. I thought I saw her again the other day. A beautiful woman with dark hair. But she didn't recognize me, and I wasn't absolutely certain.”

“What was she to you?”

“What does it matter? Someone whose life crossed mine for one brief instant.”

She stared at him, understanding. She'd told Elena everything except the name of her lover. She'd been stupid enough to reveal all but his name! But how could she possibly have imagined they'd have both known Justin Reeve? So all her problems now, as then, had come from him. Elena had capitalized on Lesley's mistake as a young girl to torture her now, as a married woman, without realizing she'd set her up for the shock of her life. “It's no use.” Lesley sighed. “I'm going to have to do something extremely repugnant to me. You are, and have always been, a man who used rich women. You are selling forged works in Paris, to my friends. If you wish to continue, I could stop you. But why should I? You'd only start again in some other part of the world. But I have problems of my own. My dowry is controlled by my husband. I need money. Do you understand, Justin?”

His face was totally devoid of color. “You want money from me?”

She suddenly enjoyed his shock and the role she was playing. “You thought me simple and naïve, and honest. I'm honest—but I'm not going to waste my honesty on those who have abused me. I want you to pay me a certain sum, against the promise that I shan't tell anyone who you are or what you're up to. I'm going to play Robin Hood, Justin.”

He licked his white lips, and his eyes turned hard. She could feel her heart beating in her chest and was lightheaded from the boldness she had just displayed. Now if he refused, she'd be backed against the wall. One had to hope she had bluffed her way into frightening him, into his taking her seriously. He asked: “And if I don't pay?”

“Then I shall start by telling my husband.”

He bit his lower lip, chewing on it pensively. Abruptly he stood up, pressing his clenched fist against his teeth repeatedly. When he turned, it was with sudden force, and his face frightened her. She hadn't expected the set lines on his face, the coldness, the anger. “No,” he told her, “it isn't going to be that way.
You
are going to do something for
me.
You're right: Your husband
should
know! You're going to tell him that there's a special file in the Ministry of Justice that I would dearly love to see destroyed. It concerns a case against me, years old. That's really the reason I have to operate under a different name here in Paris. I don't want to have to do that all my life. Like you, I don't wish to run away from my past like Jean Valjean. Tell the deputy that if he doesn't obtain this file, I shall warn the press about your affair with me, and the, shall we say, aftermath. He's running for office in this election, isn't he?”

She could hear the two of them, breathing in the silent room. It was as if she'd never met this man before—as if they'd never shared any tenderness, any past. She couldn't verbalize the incoherence of the moment—the complete effect of shock to her system. She would have to reply. She tried, but no sound emerged. And then she heard the voices in the entrance hall: Jamie's, Bouchard's, and Cassie's. Waves of relief and terror, simultaneous, washed over her. She knew she was perspiring, that the sweat was making her dress cling to her breasts and hips.

Then her friend came in, holding her daughter's hand. Jamie's hat was a becoming array of blue flowers, with a small brim and a short blue veil. Her spring suit was of the same periwinkle blue. Cassie's hair was in pigtails, the red tint enhanced by bright red bows. Her smock of checkered red cotton was splattered with chocolate marks. Around her mouth were the same brown stains.

“We just thought we'd come for a visit,” Jamie announced. “We had to come to town, and Cass wanted to see the puppets at the Rond-Point. We bought ice creams. You can see the results!”

Lesley willed herself to sit up, to kiss her small niece. She tried to smile graciously. “Jamie,” she said, wondering how much her voice was shaking. “This is Daniel MacDougal. My friend, Jamie Stewart, and her daughter, Cassandra.”

Justin was rising, ceremoniously taking the hand that Jamie was offering, a pleasant smile on her face. “Everyone has heard of you, Madame,” he said, raising the gloved fingers to his lips. “Your books have rendered you unique among your contemporaries.”

“Thank you,” Jamie demurred. She looked at Lesley, and her eyes were question marks that Lesley avoided having to answer. She was praying for Justin to leave, right away, before her composure disintegrated completely. Jamie sat down, drawing Cassie close to her, and for a moment Justin drained the contents of his tea cup, as if nothing were even slightly amiss and he were only a casual guest in her home.

Then he stood up. Lesley felt as if hours had gone by, not minutes. Smiling, he went to her, but she made no motion to put out her hand. He bowed. How supple and smooth he was! “It's been such a delightful afternoon,” he stated. “Thank you, Marquise, for the delicious tea and the enlightening conversation.”

He waited, but Lesley answered nothing. And so he looked once again at Jamie, and at the child. “Good-bye, Madame Stewart—Mademoiselle . . .”

When she heard the front door closing behind him, Lesley shut her eyes and slumped against the cushions. Jamie asked: “And so who
is
he? He's terribly handsome.”

“No one important,” Lesley replied.

“But something's wrong.”

Lesley hesitated. It would be such a blessed relief to blurt everything out to her best friend. She opened her mouth, then stopped. Alex's future lay in the offing. She couldn't speak. “No,” she said. “He's an art dealer of sorts. I just…didn't like him very much.”

He'd been there, he'd gone. Her past had been totally razed and in its place had come new anguish. She couldn't associate the man who had just left with the young man with whom she had made love, whose baby she had carried, however briefly. She'd never make that association. It was better this way. Justin Reeve would remain a memory, etched in the sepia colors of long ago, and Daniel MacDougal would never be confused with him. He was a dangerous, cruel individual whom even Elena and Paul had misjudged. Their plan had backfired.

I
n the evening
, Lesley knew that she would not be able to tell Alex. He sat across from her in the formal dining room, the crystal chandelier gleaming rainbows onto the bone china of the dinner plates, and his face showed the extent of his exhaustion from the pile-up of work before the election. She couldn't eat. He couldn't either, but his reasons were different. His cheeks were white, tinted with evening stubble, and his eyes were bloodshot. She wondered why he thought it worthwhile to continue. Pushing away her salad, she asked him.

“There has to be something to believe in,” he replied. She read the sadness in his voice, felt the blow.

“Alex,” she began. “Do you want a divorce?”

The gray eyes quickened. “Why? Do you?”

She said, before she had reasoned through her answer: “No.”

The focus of his eyes became more pronounced. She felt his eyes piercing through her. She stood up, went around the table, hesitated behind his chair. He had half turned to stare at her in surprise. She touched his forehead, caressed it as if to iron out the creases. Such smooth, fine-grained skin. He was an aristocrat to the bone. Tired, unsure of his future, he was bearing up to his burdens, facing her. She thought, almost with amazement: I love him. Not like a brother—like a man! His physical frailties appeared dear to her, and also appealing. She felt a wave of tenderness and weakness inside, a melting. Was it desire?

“No,” she repeated. “But you've found someone else.”

She'd tried to bring up this question once before, but the poignancy of her tone struck him now. She half-hoped he would deny it, then found herself praying he would. Instead he looked into her eyes, lines jutting out around his mouth— lines of vulnerability. “Who is she?” Lesley asked. She had to know.

“Is it really important?”

“Is
she
important?”

Alexandre licked his lips. “She's kind. She's young. I never wanted to hurt her. I didn't do it to hurt you either, Lesley.”

“Then why?”

“You know. There's been nothing between us but distrust. Why did you marry me?”

Her hand still lay on his forehead. She pondered the ridiculousness of the situation, their conversation, her sudden rush of jealousy toward this unnamed woman. “I'm not exactly sure,” she answered. “But I do know I don't want it to end.” And at the same time, she knew that it had to. If Elena and Paul kept their silence, now there was Justin, a far more severe threat. But he might have been bluffing. She could picture him again in her mind, sitting across from her, so close, and looking at her without anything but cold ruthlessness. When it came down to the razor's edge, nobody had any emotions but that essential one of wanting to survive. But what would her life be like without Alex?

If I tell him, he won't steal the file, she thought. He's much too honest. But if Justin reveals what took place between us twelve years ago, Alex will be ruined anyway. If I can only stall Justin until the election, maybe I can conveniently disappear, and the scandal won't be so bad for Alex. Everyone will feel sorry for him and blame
me.
He'll suffer. He'll have to relive the shame of Yvonne. But it was different with them; he still loved her. It took years for him to get over the rejection. And she left with another man….

He was reaching up to encompass her hand with his, and for a long moment, they remained like this, feeling the warmth in each other's fingers. Then he whispered: “I can end it, Lesley. I'm not in love with her. I still want you to be my wife.”

The suddenness with which she turned about, bursting into tears and running from the room, left Alexandre wide-eyed and concerned.

P
aul's fist
came slamming down on the table, and Elena saw the wine splash over the rim of her glass. “Of all idiotic mistakes!” he cried. “I can't understand you! Her grandparents were of the British aristocracy—Couldn't you have checked it out? God damn it, any child would have given the notion a possibility. Her lover was English; she
told
you! And Taylor is a baronet. They're of the same generation, social class, lineage. And you never even imagined they could have met?”

“You knew the same facts,” she countered. “You didn't figure it out either.”

“But it wasn't my idea! The one who thinks up a con has to put two and two together! That wasn't my job—it was yours!”

“Why? Why does everything always have to be up to me? I was the one who first thought of blackmailing Lesley. She supported us for a long time. Where else would we have turned? You alienated Bertrand to the point of losing his precious help. Now where are we?”

“Bertrand alienated himself,” Paul stated tightly.

“But at least when he loved you and considered you his son, he was on your side! Now he hasn't given you any jobs, and we're running out of funds. How could I possibly have known that someone I met during the war, in the Orient, would turn out to have been Lesley's lover?”

Paul looked at her, and she felt the coldness in his eyes. She was chilled by it, and panicked. Blood rushed to her cheeks. She tried to put her hand on his, but he withdrew it, and his eyes narrowed. She thought: Not only has he stopped loving me, but he actually hates me! And I've been the greatest fool in Paris: Ashley Taylor, Lesley's lover.…Using her to blackmail the one person who has as much evidence against her as she does against him! A Mexican stand-off.

“Darling,” she said, “we'll think of something.
I'll
think of something.”

His jaw stood out against the light, and she saw the muscles contracting.

“It's all right,” he retorted, not looking at her. “Your tastes were always more extravagant than mine. It's you who's going to have the problem, Elena. You thought up this crazy idea. Alone I can manage, somehow.”

She couldn't believe it. “You aren't serious?”

“Come on.…Let's face it. We've been together for three years. It's been good at times. It was even grand at the beginning. But passion has to die at some point, doesn't it? We'd be far better off going our separate ways before we really hate each other.”

She couldn't speak. He said, looking at her again, his eyes expressionless: “Elena, it wasn't love. Love is something that binds people in subtle, emotional ways. We had a very good affair, but it was always tinged with violence. We ravaged each other. We left each other empty hulls. After sex we felt depleted. Not completed.
That's
love.”

“You don't even understand what that word means!”

He sighed, and her insides ached with the need for him to meet her eyes with the old desire, for whatever it had been worth. She asked again: “Paul? You can't really be serious?”

“I am. Our lives no longer have a common purpose. There are other ways to earn a living than to blackmail people.”

“You're becoming moral?”

“No. Simply practical. You're a year older than I am. I, at least, have a few basic skills, thanks to Bertrand. And I have a daughter.”

She turned very pale. “What does Cassandra have to do with anything?”

“She's Alexandre's niece. My brother isn't like me; he's extremely moral. He'd like nothing better than for me to mend my ways. Jamie hasn't yet married anyone. And everyone in Paris knows I'm the father of her child. If I were to right this wrong and take my responsibilities with them, Alex would surely support me.”

The scream died in her throat. She stood up and threw the wine she'd been drinking in his face. While stunned, he sat gazing at her through drops of absurd red liquid, she smashed the crystal on the tablecloth and snapped the stem off the glass in a single gesture. Red seeped around broken shards, soaking into the tablecloth as if it were a blotter.

“You're mad,” he whispered. “Absolutely, dangerously mad. I should have stayed away from you from the start, Elena.”

He heard, before he saw, the crash of glass against the wall, inches from his head. The hair around her shoulders bounced with life of its own, wild and free. He stared at her face as if he'd never seen it before, and she saw, reflected in the brown irises of his eyes, her own ugliness.

Jamie Stewart, who had never been beautiful, was only thirty years old, and she was Cassie's mother. And Jamie Stewart lived in a white stone mansion protected by the security of her talent.

“
M
adame Egorova
?” he asked, his hand reaching out for hers and lifting it like a swan's feather to his lips.

She sat down in the Louis XIV armchair opposite his, and from behind the netted black veil, she took in the luxurious surroundings of his suite at the Georges V Hotel. He fit into it like a smooth suede glove, his trim beard hiding the point of his chin, his mustache hiding the fullness of his arched lips. In his civilian attire, brown suit and brown-and-red tie, he gave off a totally different appearance from his military demeanor of l918.

Elena raised the netting over her small pillbox hat and looked at him. There was kohl around her black eyes, and the carmine of her lips matched the color of her blouse, under the Patou suit of elegant black velvet. She said: “It's ‘Princess,' Monsieur MacDougal. But I think you remember that.”

“I'm terribly sorry. Of course: You told me so at the café.” He smiled, inclining his head. She thought: I can understand why Lesley wanted to make her life with such a man. He was possessed of such innate finesse and grace that, with a few more Italianate touches, he might have appeared a dandy. His fingers were perfectly formed, long and almost delicate. He was slender and lithe, and his clothes were molded around him as if they were a second skin. Polished brown boots finished off the picture.

“I believe you knew it before. In Singapore, at the Little Club, just before the armistice was signed. Or rather, just after. Only we were too busy dancing to realize it had been signed.”

She watched for an expression of surprise, but his eyes were too much like hers: impenetrable through their blackness. His head tilted to one side, and he stroked his beard. Then he smiled. “Indeed. But a gentleman waits for the lady to acknowledge him first in such delicate situations.”

She made a small clapping gesture with her gloved hands. “Bravo.
Touché.
Nevertheless, Ashley, we meet again. Or rather, we already did. I think that there were other reasons for your refusing to reintroduce yourself—Monsieur MacDougal.”

“The della Robbia sold well?”

“Extremely. I thank you again, my dear. That was a beautiful gift, and because of it, I'm here today. It paid for my passage and the first few months I lived here.”

“Then this is a visit of gratitude?”

She noted the wariness of his tone of voice. “This is a visit of reacquaintanceship. We were partners once, in the Orient. I came to propose a new venture. But first, don't you feel we should toast the future together, along with the past?”

He clicked his fingers, all graciousness again. She watched him ring for a bellboy, and when one appeared at the door, heard him order a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne from 1926—an excellent year. She rested on the back of the armchair, and half closed her eyes. It was all going to work out.

“You seem somewhat nervous, Ashley,” she commented when they were alone again and she had unbuttoned the jacket of her suit. “But of course, it's normal. Monsieur MacDougal doesn't wish to be confused with the art forger Ashley Taylor, or to be more accurate, Justin, Lord Clearwater. The one whose reputation was tarnished by the sale of a William Blake whose authenticity was highly contested at the time. Leo Stein's word meant a great deal, didn't it, to the French authorities? Were you actually brought to trial?”

“Don't be absurd, Elena.”

“Oh, don't be concerned, dear. Poor Lesley de Varenne. Apparently it's an old story.”