The Eleventh Year (46 page)

“Never mind. What happened?”

“Cassandra was by the lily pond. I let her stay outside for a few minutes. No more than ten! And then she was gone. I came out, looked everywhere. Moments later the maître d'hôtel came running in, with this note—” Tears welled up in her pale eyes and her chin started to tremble. She handed Alexandre a folded piece of paper—a common piece of bond stationery, without identifying crest, initial, or monogram.

He felt Lesley's fingers tightening over his shoulder blades. She was reading too. In large block letters, somebody had written: “The Marquise de Varenne knows why Cassandra Stewart has been taken from her home. It concerns a matter discussed in her house, concerning a certain file. The child will not be harmed unless the Marquise and her husband refuse to cooperate. And there is to be a payment of one hundred thousand francs, in cash.” There was no signature.

Alex asked, his voice coming out hoarse: “What's this all about?”

“I-I don't know,” Lesley stammered. Her face was very pale, her eyes translucent. He could see her withdrawing into herself, the fear spreading around her mouth and nose. “I can't think….”

“Paul,” Alexandre stated. “You're going to have to leave us alone. If there's anything to report, I'll let you know.”

“I'm not leaving!”

“You are. This is my house. You're leaving or being thrown out. And understand that this is a crisis in which your presence isn't needed. You've never cared about Cassie—and it's too late now.”

“She's mine by rights! Jamie knows that! Jamie's welfare too is my concern!”

“You lost all rights to Cassie when she was born, and to Jamie, long before that, when you took up with Egorova. I want you out. And take Mademoiselle Francois with you. Have the butler give her a brandy. She looks as if she needs one. We all do.”

He stood up, and all at once his straightness, his tallness, was formidable. Lesley, behind him, was like a pale blur. Paul glowered, but turned on his heel. The nurse followed him out, carefully closing the door behind herself.

They were alone now, bound by a common tension. Alexandre pounded the desk once, twice, then regarded Lesley. “A file?” he asked. “What file?” His tone was sharp, and there was a coldness in his eyes that frightened her. “Everything is going to have to be cleared up now,” he declared. “All the little subterfuges, the doctored bills. I'm sorry, Lesley. But the words you told me this evening mean nothing to me. They're empty. Cassandra's life may be taken if you don't start admitting the things you've been holding in all these months and years.”

“But Alex—”

“Now,
Lesley.”

She stared back at him like a trapped animal. The rims of her eyes were red, and her fingers twisted together unconsciously. She pressed against the rear wall, raised a hand mechanically in front of her, as if he were about to strike. Alex felt his anger mount. “Damn it!” he cried. “This isn't the time to be thinking of yourself! Nor of our marriage! Think of your best friend's child, for God's sake, if not of me!”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” she answered. Suddenly all the life appeared beaten out of her. “I've got to go upstairs, Alex. Jamie may need me.”

“Are you planning to tell her about the note? Because if you don't, I will!”

“No!”

They stood defiantly facing each other. Her cheekbones gleamed bright red. “Then you do know,” he whispered.

She turned her back on him, held up the hem of her skirt, ran out of the room. He sat down again, his mouth dry.

He wondered then, as he had for so long, what it was that she was so intent on hiding from him. And he realized that as much as she seemed afraid and unwilling to tell him, so did he feel about hearing it.

L
esley sponged
off Jamie's forehead, then passed the hot, soiled cloth over her own face. Kohl came off, and she examined the rag with absent query. “Why?” Jamie was repeating.
“Why?
It's not as if I had a lot of money. . . .” Tears were streaming down her face, filling her eyes and then spilling out over the lashes again. Lesley sat mutely beside her, dry-eyed. She tossed the cloth down on the floor and raked her scalp with her fingernails, until it tingled with pain. Strands of sweaty hair stuck together over her eyes.

“Don't worry about money,” she murmured. “Money…that's the one thing I've always had too much of. And yet…it's never enough. . . .”

Jamie looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” She wished that this time she could weep, to release what she had built up inside her. Jamie had saved her life. If it hadn't been for Jamie's sacrifice, she would never have found the money to save herself. The shame of the pregnancy would have been unbearable. What would have happened to her then? What would she have done without Jamie?

She took Jamie's hand, stroked it. All through their important years, they had stayed close. Jamie was the strongest person she knew. Lesley thought of Cassie, of Jamie's determination to give birth to her, against all taboos. Odd, how the turn of one woman's life had been determined by a pregnancy she didn't want, while another's now was being held together by one she had planned, hoped for. Still, in both cases the men had left. Men never stayed. Alexandre wouldn't stay.

How could Justin do this? she thought. Her predicament was so awful that her mind couldn't grasp it. Justin, whom she had loved. He'd lied, cheated, and now he might murder. She thought the unthinkable.

Would he really
murder?
she wondered. Was he that evil? Maybe he wouldn't, she reasoned. He'll get scared and return her. And I won't have to tell Alex to steal the file from the Ministry. If I told him, would he do it? For Cassie?

He doesn't love me anymore, she thought, her despair suddenly coming into focus. That evening she had realized how much he meant to her. It didn't matter now. He would surely leave her.

He'll go back to the other girl, whoever she was, Lesley said to herself. And eventually she'll be willing to have his child. And whether or not he steals the file, he'll continue in politics. It's his lifeline. He
could
find the file and get away with it. Justin didn't think I'd ask him to. He didn't think his threats were sufficient for me. Perhaps he was right.…I wasn't going to tell Alex, I was going to wait to see if Justin, if Paul and Elena, were bluffing. Or at least I didn't want to think about it…about the roof caving in over us. Yet it was bound to happen: Too many people knew.

And what now? she asked herself. She stood up, went to the connecting bathroom, poured herself a glass of water, drank it. She wanted something stronger. From downstairs, echoes of noise, of music, floated up. A band had started to play, a jazz quartet that she had discovered at Le Boeuf sur le Toit, thinking to impress all of Paris with them. But would anybody dance if she and Alex were absent at the key moment? Had Alex returned to his guests, or was he still alone in the study?

Jamie's child was gone. Her old lover had taken her. It was her fault. If she'd done as he'd asked her to, if she'd told Alex long ago, none of this would be happening.

Jamie was sitting up, her lovely brown hair falling over the pillow like a soft cascade of autumn leaves. “Lesley,” she was saying. “I love my child. I've got to find her.”

“It's my problem too,” Lesley replied. “I love her very much.”

They fell silent. There was nothing left to say. Jamie turned over, burying her face in the pillow, and began to sob, very softly. Lesley watched her and felt herself being torn apart.

Only I can really do something meaningful, she decided. I've got to tell Alex about Justin—about all of it. And even though he'll throw me away, he might take the risk of stealing and destroying the file, for Cassie's life.

Jamie had helped when she was desperate; and now she owed it to her to help save her child. Lesley took Jamie's hand, squeezed it. “I'll be back,” she promised. “I have to go talk to Alex about something.”

Her friend's eyes, searching, insistent, followed her out of the room.

T
he crowd had thinned
to a trickle of gossipmongers and close friends, who were still sitting around the reception room, gingerly holding onto their
coupes
of champagne in which the bubbles had died. Somehow, word had leaked out about the kidnapping, in spite of Lesley's strict injunction against this. Misia Sert was there, plump breasts pushing out of her violet gown. Sylvia Beach and Adrienne Monnier were sitting on a love seat, talking quietly, and Lesley saw Elena, her features white against the darkness of her costume, talking to the Baron Georges Brincard of the Credit Lyonnais.

Bouchard was passing out a tray of fresh coffee and snifters of Napoleon brandy. Another valet was bringing in light tea cakes and newly baked brioches and croissants, puffed to a golden brown. Lesley hesitated on the threshold. After all, these were her guests. Misia sidled up to her, laid painted fingers on her arm. “How is Jamie?”

“Managing, thank you.”

Natalia Gontcharova, looking like a crimson cardinal, approached, her flat Slavic face alive with concern. “Nobody knows anything?” she asked.

“Not yet. But thank you.”

She could see the blond Sara Murphy from the corner of her eye, speaking with Paul. She decided that here, things were in sufficient control, and so she pressed Misia's hand and tiptoed out into the hallway. She felt a terrible stillness. But now it was compounded with fear, with anxiety, with the dread of the unknown. Alex.

He was in the study, drinking coffee, his hair, gray at the temples, clumped together from being raked in nervousness. His eyes were bloodshot. When she entered, closing the door behind her, he looked up, and the vulnerability of his face aroused her compassion. She went up to him, put her hands over his face, pressed him against her breasts.

“I have something to tell you.”

“About the note?”

She nodded. She moved away, went to the other side of the desk, sat down in the armchair. Her dress felt wet beneath the arms, and her temples were pounding with a dull, terrible ache. She found it impossible to face the questions in his eyes. “I'm going to tell you something, but after that you will find it impossible to love me.”

“I can't love someone who doesn't tell the truth,” he replied.

“But you have never done anything you'd need to hide. I have.”

He stared at her, disbelieving. She bit down on her tongue, took a deep breath. The pain inside her body was concentrated in her nerves. She felt ill because in her heart, there was sickness. I don't want to lose him, she thought. Not now that I've only just begun to find him and myself too.…Then she recalled Jamie's sobs upstairs, and she plunged in, desperately. “When I was eighteen, I went to England with my mother. We stayed at my grandfather's estate in Yorkshire, and I met a young man. I thought he loved me. I believed him when he told me that he did. I was certain I loved him too, as much as I'd ever thought it possible for a woman to love a man. I was very young, Alex, and inexperienced.”

“And?”

“He promised to make his life with me. But when we returned to London, he didn't call on me. I was bewildered, hurt. I was sure there had been a mistake. I went to see him, and I happened to stumble onto a revelation that shocked and startled me: He made his living by selling forged paintings by great masters. He didn't try to hide it from me. But he wouldn't marry me. I couldn't understand—that he didn't love me, that he wasn't honest. I still wanted to be with him in spite of everything. But you see,
he
didn't want
me.
The love wasn't mutual.

“Then I went back to Vassar for my sophomore year. I discovered I was pregnant. By November there was no way I could deny it. And so I told Jamie.”

“You were
pregnant?”

She felt very strong now, because she'd told him the first part without flinching. Her eyes stayed on his, and she read his astonishment. “You had a
child,
Lesley?” he finally asked, his voice hushed. “Where is it?”

“I didn't go through with the pregnancy. Jamie helped me to arrange to…have it taken care of.”

His stunned silence told her all she'd feared. He didn't love her anymore, and he never would again. His respect for her had died, because she hadn't ever been the girl he had imagined. It was too late now. Only Cassandra mattered. She continued in a hushed voice: “Nobody else knew. I won't go into details now, but it was a terrible business. It was horrible. But I lived on. I knew I couldn't have done anything else.”

“Your parents never knew anything about the courtship?”

“My mother did. But when nothing came of it, no one ever mentioned him again. He was British. His family knew ours. They could, I suppose, have forced us to marry. But that would have been a very bad solution.”

“And what you did was better?”

“I was Ned Richardson's daughter. The scandal would have hurt his business. And my parents might never have forgiven me. You know about these sorts of things…about the way people pass judgment on the actions of others….”

She was making an appeal to him, but his eyes remained hard. She cried: “But I didn't do anything wrong by loving Justin! And I hadn't planned to become pregnant. You may feel you're in a position to condemn me, but you're not.”

“Your never telling me was unforgivable,” he said. “Why?”

She looked away, became quiet again. “I couldn't. You wanted me to be spotless. I wasn't strong enough to destroy your illusions. I guess I wanted you to continue to see me as you hoped I was.”

“And now? What sort of illusions are you leaving me with?”

The harshness of his tone brought tears to her eyes. “I don't know, Alex. It was my life. I made my mistakes. The worst part was what happened to us because of it. I never could think of having a child because the idea of it was just too painful—the way the other pregnancy ended. I couldn't face it. It was easier to pretend I just didn't want children,
period
!”

He wasn't looking at her, but she saw the lines of his face, the set of his jaw. “Alex—I'm so sorry—”

“But what has all this to do with Cassandra? I don't understand!”

Lesley concentrated on a nub of silk on the curtains. “Once, when I was feeling very lonely, I confided in Elena. Of course it was at a time that we were still close friends, and I could rely on her discretion. But then I had to make the decision to cut her out of my life—because she'd begun to live with Paul, and Jamie was pregnant. I had to make a choice. She was very angry. And also, she and Paul couldn't pay their bills. They blackmailed me, Alex—and that was why I forged the bills for you. When you put a stop to my spending, they became desperate. Elena had known Justin in Singapore, under a different name: Ashley Taylor. She recognized him in a café. She knew his past. She resolved that I was the one person who could be successful in blackmailing him—because I was a stranger, because I was your wife. She had no idea he was the same man I'd told her about. I asked him to come here and did what they'd told me, so that they wouldn't tell you anything then in their desperation. But you see, he turned the tables. He thought that
he
would be able to blackmail
me
and force you to steal the file on him, the file on his criminal activities before the war, in return for never divulging to the press what I had done twelve years ago. I thought he was bluffing, that we had reached an impasse. But he's gone one step further and taken Cassie. He meant what he said: You will have to comply, or . . .”

She looked at him, pleading with her eyes. Both of them were completely drained by Lesley's revelations. After several moments, she said wearily: “We look awful. My clothes are clinging to me, and I'm exhausted. I need to take a bath, sleep a little—if I can.”

“Yes,” he replied. “I need some time alone. To decide what to do. About Cassie. About us. About our whole life.”

“What do you feel for me at this moment?”

He shook his head, sighed. “I don't know. Honestly, I don't. I feel…dead.”

“But if it helps…I know now I love you. When you told me tonight that you were alone, that there was no ‘other woman' anymore, it was as if a whole new world were opening up to me. I felt…happy.”

He half smiled. “You and I are the less important concern,” he commented. “I must resolve the issue of the file. I have never, Lesley, disobeyed the law. I am a lawyer. Right now I can't even understand what this person expects me to do—to violate everything I've ever held sacred! To rob a file from the Ministry of justice!”

“But Cassie—”

“Cassie. Our only heir. Jamie's daughter.” He looked down, fumbled with a cufflink that he had removed. “My brother's child . . .” Then his gray eyes went to her face. “Besides, I could so easily be caught at that. The Minister of Justice isn't a friend of mine—I'd have to think of a reason to go there. And there are always secretaries around at all hours of the day….”

“You could go at night.”

“I don't have the key. And I have no inkling of where the file might be kept. No, I'd have to pray, and bluff my way through, during office hours.”

She nodded. The enormity of the situation made their own personal dilemma seem unimportant. She wondered, briefly, if Jamie had felt the same way when it had been a question of money for her next semester, and she'd suddenly been faced with Lesley's problem, that November so long ago. Jamie had sacrificed. Jamie had never thought of
not
coming through for Lesley.

I am too tired to reason properly, she thought, welcoming the end to all the secrets. It's in Alex's hands, and God's.

A
ll his life
he had lived by the rules. Now he was suddenly being put face to face with a reality that had nothing to do with codes and honor. A man had taken his niece from her home. And he, Alex, was the only one with the power to save her life. In order to do that, he would have to break the laws of his country.

And what of Lesley? He felt anguish in every muscle and vein. Lesley's confession had ruined ten years of living together—the delicate framework often years of respect, of caring, of building confidence in each other. He would have given his life for this woman, and now, ten years later, he was finding out that he had really been living with a fantasy. Maybe it was his fault after all. Maybe he hadn't shown her how much he really loved her. What examples had he had? Charlotte? Yvonne? I have no marriage left. Maybe I never really had a marriage.

He wondered what he was going to do. But was there really any question? He had to find a means to locate the Reeve file. After that, he'd worry about Lesley.

As he was pressing his fingers against his temples, he imagined himself divorced. He pictured this house empty of her, of her scents, of her paints. Another empty house, without dreams. Lesley hadn't even loved him. It had all been pretense on her part and hope, eternal, stupid hope, on his.

He knew she thought he was rigid, pretentious. He supposed she was right. But what difference did her labels make? He was who he was. For years he'd tried to be a son his mother might love. From now on he would be responsible to himself.

And Paul? Such fury rose in him that his fingers began to tremble. Paul had betrayed him so many times.…His own brother had known about Justin Reeve and used the information to make them pay. And Elena…! How did this Justin Reeve ever decide to kidnap Cassandra? he wondered. It doesn't make sense.…He must have done a lot of research on my family—or someone told him what he needed to know. If so,
who?
Lesley loved Cassie; Paul would not have hurt his own child. That left only Elena.

I am beginning to imagine things, he told himself. Probably the man simply asked around. Everyone knows who Cassandra is—and that I would go to any length to get her back.