The Eleventh Year (47 page)

J
amie sat
in the back garden of Lesley's mansion, a shawl over her knees. Neatly trimmed hedges stared at her from the sides, and a fruit tree in blossom. The most beautiful time of the year was spring: the only moments when Ohio had seemed bearable. Moments of honeysuckle and mimosa, of lavender drying in the sun—of the clinging scent of the hydrangea, its white, blue, and pink petals welcoming the sun like thirsty lips. She shivered. Louveciennes was bursting with signs of spring, but she wouldn't be able to return there until she had Cassandra back.

She heard a footstep on the porch, turned around. Paul was coming toward her. She noticed that age had caught up with him; there was a puffiness below his eyes that showed the strain, and his body wasn't so trim anymore. It was difficult to look at him without feeling odd sensations of loss, of regret, of anger. He'd never leave her cold. There was always the reminder that he'd left for another woman. She wondered if she'd ever be happy again, the way she'd been when they had lived together in her loft.

“Jamie,” he said softly. There was another wrought-iron chair next to her, and he drew it up, sat down. He crossed his legs, and she felt his awkwardness. Suddenly he bent toward her and touched her gently on the cheek. “How are you doing?”

“As well as can be expected, thank you.” She didn't want to help him, but at the same time didn't have the strength to send him away. Right now she needed company, and as she looked at him, she could see Cassandra in the set of his jaw, in the shine of his hair. She knew why she had loved the perfection of him, and once again, it hurt.

“Even with all that has happened, you are beautiful,” he commented.

How many times had he told her that before? She was wearing a simple dress of pale-yellow cotton and hadn't pinned her hair up. She looked down, embarrassed, a little annoyed. “How's Elena?” she asked sarcastically.

“Jamie, I made a lot of stupid mistakes. Elena was one of them. I should never have left you.”

“That was a long time ago, Paul. You were right: You didn't love me, and you loved her. Don't feel guilty now.”

“But the truth is, I no longer love her.”

“And so Jamie seems to be the only one to understand you,” she said bitterly.

He sat quietly, his face lost in thought. She wondered why she wasn't reacting more strongly to him. Ten years ago she would have been excited, moved. Instead she thought poignantly of her daughter and wondered if she would ever see her again. What was the identity of the person who had taken her? She turned to gaze at Paul's face in three-quarter profile, soft shadows falling over his nose and cheek. It was Cassie's face, except for the eyes. Such beauty, such virility. Yet Paul, inside, had always been weak. She'd been living without him for over three years and had felt strong in spite of his absence. Other men had made love to her, had found her amusing, intelligent, pleasing. Brilliant men like Pavel Tchelitchew, whom she had met through Jane Heap of the
Little Review.
Men who had won in the game of life, while Paul hadn't even dared to play. Paul was the kind of man who always sat by the sidelines, smiling at the women who played in his stead.

“Cassandra isn't just your daughter; she's mine too,” he was saying. “I want to wake up to her cries of laughter, I want to watch her grow.”

“Stop!”

Their eyes met. “She'll be brought back to us, Jamie,” he whispered. “I know it.”

“You don't know that! Please, Paul, don't talk about her.”

“Then tell me that if she is returned, we can be a family. Tell me, Jamie, that you'll marry me.”

To spend the rest of my days supporting him, she thought, and supporting the women who would hang onto his arm while I'm looking? She remembered the loft, her bathrobe falling open, his hands finding the secret softness of her stomach, the tenderness of her nipples. Making love while piles of onionskin papers danced down to the floor, unnumbered. Later, the two of them laughing, trying to sort through the mess. Eating sardines and Camembert, with day-old bread and strong coffee. A lifetime of that, even if there would be other betrayals. . .

“You've never loved anybody else,” he said.

“But it doesn't count now. I've made my own way. Cassie was brought up without a father. She doesn't know what it is to have one. I don't need you anymore either.”

A breeze had risen that was blowing tendrils of her hair against her cheek. She brushed them away. He sat mesmerized by her great blue eyes, by the grave, pensive expression on her plain face. How different from the Tatar geometry of Elena's features! But how much more poignant was Jamie, in her sincerity. “Don't send me away,” he said quietly.

There were tears on the edges of her lashes. He reached for her hand, and she didn't withdraw it. “I'm making you an official proposal. It doesn't matter that we already have a daughter. This is 1928. I really want to make this legal. You're the right woman for me, the only one who ever cared to understand me. Bertrand and you were my only friends. Both of you abandoned me. Maybe with your help, I can return to his good graces too.”

“It wasn't he who abandoned you,” she countered gently. “It was you who moved out of his sphere. I too tried, but you wouldn't let me stay close to you.”

They remained still for several minutes. Finally he raised his eyes to her, asked: “Will you consider my proposal?” She didn't answer.

She asked instead, her voice tremulous: “Who has taken Cassie? Do you have any idea?”

“It has something to do with my brother,” he replied, bitterness lacing his words. “Something to do with his political influence.”

“So it's not me they're blackmailing? It's really Alex?”

“That's how it appears.”

Paul was Cassandra's father. When she'd given birth to her, when the doctors had opened her up because the baby hadn't been able to exit from the birth canal by her own power, Jamie had prayed. Jamie had prayed for Paul to come forth, to declare to everyone that this child of her sacrifice was his as well. But he'd stayed away. Only Lesley and Alex had claimed Cassie. She looked at Paul and she felt a great emptiness, a great loneliness.

“Paul,” she murmured. “You say you want me. But you're only saying that because right now, you want Cassandra. You want what you can't have.”

A bird sang in the fruit tree, and above their heads, small white clouds moved in the sky, grouping and regrouping like dancers in a rhythmic ballet. He was looking at her, his brown eyes intense. She shook her head and touched his face. The tears fell down her cheeks.

“Why are you crying?” he asked, in a hushed voice.

“For all of us. For what we want and can't have.”

She withdrew her hand, and he stood up. By her chair he lingered, a strange light alive in his eyes. Then, abruptly, he went out of the garden and back into the house, his shoulders stooped.

She understood that whatever chance they might have had had died, that she had starved it, consciously. But what would have been the point? He was, she realized, beyond change.

I
t had been nearly
10 years since they had confronted each other, and both Paul and Alex could recall those terrible moments when, in Charlotte's apartment, they had struggled and brutalized each other over the property at Beauce, and Popov's horses. When Paul came out into the hallway after leaving Jamie, he was lost in thought, in regrets, in the mourning of the past. He didn't look up, didn't think to find his brother there. Alex was exiting from his study, and when he saw Paul, his footsteps quickened. He caught up with him in front of the living room.

“I want to talk to you,” he said curtly. He felt tense, about to explode.

“You have news of Cassie?” Paul's face suddenly looked hopeful.

“In a sense. But not here. Bouchard is by the door.”

Paul shrugged, followed Alexandre back into the study. As soon as he had closed the door, Alex turned on Paul, his face contorted, “You god damned son-of-a-bitch!”

Paul felt goosebumps rising on his skin. Fear crept into his body, and for a moment he couldn't move. “What?” he whispered.

Alex grabbed Paul and shoved him against the closed door. “What do you want?” Paul breathed.

“You went after her for three years. What else have you done?”

“‘
Her
'
?
”

Alexandre began to lift him by his shirt, and Paul could feel the oxford giving way, ripping. “It wasn't my idea,” he stammered, trying to look beyond Alex.

“I don't care! You're my brother! You're the one who went against me at every turn. Why? Why did you hate me enough to blackmail my wife?”

Paul began to shake uncontrollably. Alex let go with one hand and hit Paul hard in the face. Paul jerked away, but Alex's hand went up again, hitting him a second time. “You hated us both,” Alex whispered, his pupils tiny dots in the slate-gray irises. “And for this a man has seized your daughter. You say you want her. I'm never going to let you come near her! She's all the children that I never had—that
you
prevented me from having!
You're
the cause for the breakup of my marriage! You were blackmailing her, and she couldn't face me.
For three years!
”

“She was never in love with you! Ten years ago I nearly went to bed with her. It was an accident of chance that it didn't happen.”

“You pig!” Alex went to choke him, but caught himself.

“You shouldn't be going after me,” Paul said. “It's been Elena! She was the one who wanted revenge. I didn't care! You've never understood, but you and Lesley were foreign to me—people who didn't matter. I didn't hate you—I didn't love you. You were—you
are
!—nothing to me! The only family I have is Cassandra.”

“But I felt differently. In spite of who you were, I still never acted against you. You were my brother! Never mind who was your father: We had the same mother. Your child became my child—she was my blood! It was Jamie who bound Cassie to Lesley, but it was you, you bastard, who made her my niece!”

They remained inches from each other. Alex finally let go. He said, “It doesn't matter. But when this is over, I want you to leave Paris. I don't want Cassandra to know you, and I want you out of my life. I'm going to change my will, Paul, to cut you out permanently. What Elena chooses to do is her business.
You're
the one who was my family. I gave you one final chance, ten years ago. I should have disinherited you then!”

Paul didn't speak, but the blood left his cheeks. He felt his body sag. “Get out,” Alex said, and he went to the door and opened it. Paul stared at him, speechless. Slowly he walked out of the room and Alex closed the door.

Paul stood in the hall, feeling the chill of the spring day, the chill of the great old mansion and of emptiness.

T
he telephone call
came at eleven o'clock on the morning of May 1, and Micheline herself came into Alex's office to tell him that it seemed urgent. She did not go out, but remained by the door, waiting, as he picked up his extension. He knew, before he spoke, who the caller was. The line was garbled, sparked with electric interference, but he heard the precise, elegant British voice on the other end, and it gave him a jolt. This was not only Cassie's abductor, but Lesley's old lover. As his hand, damp with perspiration, closed over the receiver, he tried to picture the man. He'd have to be different from himself—delicate, but powerful, to please Lesley. Probably dark, with a fine nose. But not feminine. Had she said so, or was it just in his imagination? He said: “I know who you are, Clearwater. My wife relayed your message.”

“And you will comply?”

“That depends. How is my niece?”

“Very well. In good spirits. Now, Marquis, I want you to remove the file and to place it in a certain deposit box at the Gare du Nord. You will also bring the money there, in bills of varied sizes. If this is done today, I shall verify tomorrow if you have obeyed my orders. Then, if all has gone according to plan, Miss Cassandra Stewart shall be returned to her mother's house the following day, in the afternoon. Do you understand me?”