Angel

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Even as a toddler she had wanted a cap or bonnet on her head, and this predilection had not diminished as she had grown. Very simply, she felt happier when she wore a hat, and everyone in the family had indulged her, hence the large collection now displayed in her room.

  ‘Grandpapa gave me this one,’ Lisette told Rosie, taking a small, beaded Juliet cap off one of the lower shelves. ‘He found it in a trunk in the attic and he said that it once belonged to my Grandmama Laure. It’s too big for me now, but Grandpapa said I’d grow into it.’

  ‘It’s charming,’ Rosie said. ‘And obviously very, very old, so you must treat it gently.’

  ‘Yes, I will,’ Lisette answered, placed the cap back with care, and at last removed her new hat which Rosie had given her. She put this next to the Juliet cap, and reached for a beige wool hood. Proceeding to tie this under her chin, she then added a circle of brown fur, worn like a wreath around her head. This is my other new one, Tante Rosie. Can you guess who gave it to me?’

  Rosie cocked her head on one side, and pretended to think hard, at the same time adopting a puzzled air. ‘Well, let me see… it reminds me of… Cossacks… no, of the Boyars of Russia. Ah, that’s a clue, isn’t it? Did Kyra give it to you?’

  ‘Yes, she did. You’re very clever, Tante Rosie.’

  ‘Now come along, darling, let’s take this off,’ Rosie coaxed, untying the hood as she spoke. ‘And Yvonne can brush your hair again before we go downstairs.’

  Lisette nodded, and then, as she spotted her mother entering the bedroom next door, she grabbed her new hat off the shelf and ran to show it to her.

  ‘It’s adorable,’ Collie was saying, as Rosie and Yvonne followed Lisette into the bedroom. ‘Now, please go and brush your hair.’ She gave Rosie a loving glance. ‘You’re so sweet, always remembering to bring a hat for her.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure. The only thing is, she’s grown so used to getting one, it’s not a surprise for her any more,’ Rosie murmured in a low voice.

  Colette nodded. ‘I know. We all spoil her when it comes to the hats, but she’s such a good little girl, so obedient and loving and never any trouble to me.’

  ‘Like Yvonne, she’s really shot up,’ Rosie remarked. ‘She looks so much older than five. More like seven or eight.’

  ‘It’s not only her height and her grown-up manner, but also her intelligence,’ Collie explained. ‘She’s smart, very bright really, and doing so well at school, far outstripping the others in her class. And she’s fearless you know: nothing fazes her.’

  ‘Just like her mother,’ Rosie said.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that. I haven’t been doing very well lately, have I?’

  The smile slipped off Rosie’s face. ‘Are you feeling sick, Collie?’ she asked, going to her sister-in-law, looking at her with sudden concern, putting an arm around her.

  ‘I’m all right. Really, I am. And I’m feeling so much better in certain ways. But I tire quickly, and I haven’t the strength to go back to work.’

  ‘Don’t even think about that right now. You can always open the silver gallery next spring. In any case, the tourist season is over, and the château’s closed to the public until April.’

  ‘Yes, what you say is true, it’s just that… well, I miss it. You know how much I love antique silver, how much I’ve enjoyed dealing in it over the years.’

  ‘Yes, I do. I met Johnny Fortune, the singer, when I was in Hollywood with Nell. We went to his house for dinner, and he has a wonderful collection. There were two Paul Storr dessert stands you would have gone crazy over.’

  ‘I’m ready, Maman,’ Lisette announced, running out of the bathroom, where Yvonne had been brushing her hair.

  ‘Come along, I’m sure Grandpapa is waiting for us,’ Colette said, ushering her daughter out of the room. Turning to Rosie she said, ‘Well, you know that Paul Storr is my favourite English silversmith… what were the dessert stands like?’

  As they went down the grand staircase, Rosie told her about them, and about the rest of Johnny Fortune’s extraordinary collection.

  TWENTY

  ‘What happened between your father and Kyra? Did they quarrel?’ Rosie asked, drawing Collie away from Lisette and Yvonne.

  ‘Quarrel is perhaps too strong a word,’ Collie said, as they moved towards the fireplace in the small family sitting room. They were alone, except for the girls, who now went and seated themselves in front of the television set at the far end of the room.

  Collie continued quietly, after a moment’s thought, ‘I think disagreement might be a better word to use. Why do you ask? Did Father say something to you earlier?’

  ‘I asked him how she was, and he was a bit abrupt with me. He told me she was away, and to be honest, Collie, he didn’t really seem to know if she would be coming back for Christmas or not.’

  ‘I hope she is. Father’s always happier when she’s around…’

  ‘What’s the problem between them?’ Rosie probed.

  I’m honestly not sure. Unless it’s to do with… Alexandre.’ Collie had dropped her voice, said the name in a whisper.

  The two women gave each other knowing looks. Nothing more was said for a few seconds, until Collie drew closer to Rosie and murmured sotto voce, ‘There’re always problems about Alexandre. But neither of them actually confided in me, so I truly can’t enlighten you. Very frankly, I wish they’d get married, Rosie. Kyra loves Father, loves him a lot, you know that as well as I do. I’ve been encouraging the idea for months—promoting marriage—and I really thought I’d got him to the point of proposing to her.’

  ‘You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink, to fall back on a cliché,’ Rosie said. ‘And I wish they’d get married too.’

  ‘Who? Who do you wish would get married?’ Guy asked from the doorway.

  Knowing how jealous he was of Kyra, and not wanting to inflame him, Rosie glanced over her shoulder, and said swiftly, ‘Kevin and Nell. They’re involved, and have been for the past year. I was just saying to Collie that I hope they’ll marry.’

  ‘Do you really! That would certainly prove to be an interesting union, the heiress and the cop,’ Guy said with a cold laugh, and walked over to a console table where a tray of drinks was kept. Lifting the bottle of white wine out of the ice bucket, he poured himself a glass.

  Rosie watched him surreptitiously, thinking that he looked tired, and there were new lines around his eyes, deep scores down each side of his face, running from his nose to his mouth, and touches of grey in his black hair. Although he was only thirty-six he looked older; yet, for all that, he was still a handsome man, and there was not an ounce of spare fat on his tall, athletic frame.

  It was obvious to her that he kept himself in good shape, as he always had, in fact—at least where his body was concerned. She knew that mentally he was confused and lost, and emotionally adrift. To her he was the eternal little boy, the Peter Pan who had never grown up, indulged by everyone. His growth had been stunted. Because he had never had to fend for himself, he had never developed any inner resources; he therefore had nothing to draw on or fall back on in times of trouble or difficulty.

  Yes, he was childish and spoilt; he was also lazy, did not want to work for a living, or help his father to run Montfleurie, which was a big job for one man. She had long thought it unfortunate that his mother had left him her money in a trust fund; because he had a small income of his own, he was enabled to do as he wished. What he had done was drop out. And he had been taken in by Eastern religion, renowned as a lure for the weak and the lost.

  Gavin had always said Guy was out of sync, and that was true. He was like a left-over from the sixties, out of step with the times; out of step with what was required of a man in the problematical nineties, a period of dramatic changes and trouble in the world.

  Walking towards the fireplace, Guy raised his glass to the two women. ‘Santé.’

  ‘Santé,’ Rosie responded.

  Collie did not bother t
o answer him. Instead she lowered herself into a chair near the fireplace, put her glass on a small table before holding her hands out to the flames.

  ‘Are you cold?’ Rosie asked. ‘Shall I run up and get you a shawl?’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine, thank you, Rosie.’

  ‘Ah, so you’re all here already,’ Henri said as he came striding into the sitting room and headed for the console, where he poured himself a straight Scotch. Taking a quick sip, he savoured it, then joined the others grouped around the fireplace.

  Looking across at his father, who had propped himself against the mantelpiece, Guy said, ‘But that’s not quite true, Father. We’re not all here. Kyra is missing. For once.’

  There was dead silence.

  Neither Rosie nor Collie dared to say a word, and they avoided looking at each other. Rosie cringed inside, and held her breath, waiting for the explosion.

  But it did not come. Henri pointedly ignored his son, not deigning to comment, and merely took another sip of his drink.

  ‘So where is the beautiful Kyra?’ Guy went on, the same acerbic edge to his voice. ‘I had begun to think she was a permanent fixture in this house.’

  Another silence followed before Henri finally spoke. ‘Kyra had to go to Strasbourg. To see her sister. Anastasia has not been well.’

  ‘What are you going to do about her?’ Guy asked, his black eyes pinned on his father intently.

  ‘I don’t understand… what do you mean?’ Henri’s voice hardened slightly, and the look he gave his son held a warning.

  Either Guy did not see this, or he wilfully chose to ignore it. He said, ‘You know very well what I mean, Father. Are you going to marry the lady?’

  ‘I don’t believe that is any of your business!’ Henri exclaimed, the gleam in his eye suddenly irate.

  ‘Oh, but it is,’ Guy retorted, and smiled.

  ‘Now look here, Guy, I won’t—’

  ‘Father, just listen to me for a moment,’ Guy cut in.

  This was so rudely said that Rosie gasped.

  Collie sat back in the chair and gaped at her brother. She was also horrified by his behaviour, knowing that their father, who was a stickler about manners, was affronted. Why doesn’t Guy see this? she asked herself, baffled by his stupidity, his denseness.

  Undeterred, Guy foolishly pressed on: ‘She’s young, Madame Kyra Arnaud, only thirty-five, and therefore still able to bear children. Presumably. It’s unlikely that I will ever have any.’ A smirk glanced across his mouth as he threw a look at Rosie, and continued, ‘Inasmuch as my wife and I have been estranged for years. Oh, but do let me correct myself—it is unlikely that I will have any legitimate children, given the circumstances. And since that’s the case, I would have thought you would want to ensure the continuation of the de Montfleurie line by marrying again and begetting another son. Hopefully it would be a son.’

  Henri was furious. ‘Really, Guy, you are out of order and quite preposterous! This is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion!’ Despite his anger, the count spoke in a steady voice and was in absolute control of himself. ‘Furthermore, as I said a moment ago, what I do is none of your business,’ he finished icily.

  Blithely unaware of his own rashness, Guy plunged on. ‘Oh but it is, Father. If I the childless, the de Montfleurie line will become extinct.’

  ‘Not exactly!’ Collie cried angrily, rousing herself, sitting up straighter in the chair, glaring at her brother. ‘Have you suddenly forgotten your little sister? Under French law, I can inherit, as indeed can my child.’

  ‘I’m not dead yet!’ Henri snapped, appalled at what he was hearing, and he downed his Scotch in a gulp. Abruptly turning on his heels, he marched across the floor to pour himself another, larger one, seething inside.

  In an effort to break the tension in the room, and to change the subject as quickly as possible, Rosie said, to no one in particular, ‘I’m going to be working in France this coming year.’

  Instantly catching on, Collie exclaimed, ‘Oh that’s wonderful, darling. What’s the movie you’ll be making? Or is it a play?’

  ‘No, it’s a movie. For Gavin.’

  ‘Naturellement,’ Guy said, and sat down in the chair opposite Collie.

  Paying no attention whatsoever to her brother, Collie asked Rosie, ‘What’s the movie about? Do tell us.’

  ‘Napoleon,’ Rosie answered. ‘Gavin’s going—’

  ‘Mon Dieu! What a nerve! An American making a film about Napoleon. That’s perfectly ridiculous. Absurd. How dare he! And don’t tell me he’s thinking of playing the emperor himself?’

  ‘Of course he is,’ Rosie said quietly. She was already annoyed with Guy for the way he had spoken to his father; now his disdainful tone and bitter manner further irritated her. But at the same time she was relieved she had managed to divert him from the subject of Kyra, and so wisely she held her tongue.

  Guy began to chuckle. ‘At least Gavin Ambrose has one thing in common with Napoleon.’

  When no one bothered to ask what this was, Guy felt impelled to explain: ‘It’s shortness of stature. Napoleon was a small man, and so is the great mega-star.’ Once again he laughed, apparently amused by this.

  No one else was. Collie said in a cold little voice, ‘Napoleon was five foot six, that’s not so short, and it was certainly average height in those days. We’ve only had giant-sized men in the twentieth century.’

  ‘Gavin happens to be five feet nine,’ Rosie could not help pointing out.

  ‘You would know that,’ Guy retorted, picked up his wine glass and took a long swallow.

  Having calmed himself, Henri returned to the fireside. He paid scant attention to his son, sat down next to Rosie on the sofa, and said, ‘It’s good to know that you won’t be travelling so much next year, my dear. When does filming start?’

  ‘Not for a good six months or so. There’s a lot of preproduction to be done first, a lot of planning. But I’ll start to work immediately after the New Year, doing my research for the costumes. Actually, I’ve already started.’

  ‘Where will you be filming?’ Collie asked, also glad that Rosie and she had successfully deflected Guy away from his discussion about the extinction of the Montfleurie line. This was not a new subject with him of late; he seemed preoccupied with it, if not indeed obsessed.

  ‘We’ll start the movie in Paris,’ Rosie told Collie. ‘At the studios, and also, hopefully, at Malmaison. If the Government gives permission, of course, and we’ll shoot in other parts of France. Actually, I’m waiting for the script. I’ll know more, once I’ve read it.’

  ‘Rather a big undertaking, even for the great Gavin Ambrose, isn’t it?’ Guy asked in his usual sarcastic way.

  ‘Not at all.’ Rosie’s voice was strong, assured. ‘Gavin is a brilliant film-maker, as well as being one of the greatest screen actors alive today. He can tackle anything and succeed, I’m absolutely certain of that. But as it so happens he’s not making Napoleon’s life, merely a segment of it.’

  ‘Oh really, which part?’ Henri asked with genuine interest.

  ‘The period just before and after he was crowned emperor.’

  ‘You mean crowned himself emperor, Rosie,’ Guy interjected.

  ‘It was the will of the French people,’ Collie declared, and threw Guy a scathing look. It seemed to her that her brother was determined to upset her father tonight, and she could not understand why. Actually, he was managing to upset them all, whether he intended this or not.

  ‘Don’t be such a fool, Collie,’ Guy shot back, and stood up, strode across the room. As he proceeded to refill his glass, he announced, ‘Napoleon was a tyrant, no better than Stalin or Hitler.’

  Turning to Rosie, Henri explained in a reflective, rather scholarly tone, ‘There are two schools of thought about Napoleon Bonaparte, Rosie. Some of us love, respect and admire him, and admire his achievements, think of him as the great saviour of France at a time when she might well have gone down. Others abhor him, s
omewhat irrationally in my opinion, and consider him to have been a despot and a war-monger. But if one studies the history of that period very carefully, one sees that, for the most part, he did nothing but good for France and the French.’

  ‘You call all those wars good!’ Guy interrupted, his tone still argumentative.

  ‘They were mostly defensive wars,’ Henri remarked evenly, holding in check his anger with his son. ‘Wars Napoleon had to fight to make France safe.’

  ‘That’s not so,’ Guy began, ‘Napoleon—’

  ‘Oh, but I am correct,’ Henri said calmly, cutting across his son, sweeping his arguments aside. ‘Please go to the library and dig out one of the many history books, if you don’t believe me. You’ve obviously forgotten your school lessons.’ Glancing again at Rosie, the count proceeded to elucidate further. ‘England was at France’s throat during that period in history, and so was most of Continental Europe. Napoleon had little choice but to go to war, in order to defend France from invasion. And from defeat, I might add.’

  ‘Father is quite an expert on Napoleon,’ Collie said, jumping into the conversation before Guy could say anything more. ‘One of our great ancestors, Jean-Manuel de Montfleurie, fought with Napoleon in the Egyptian campaign, and for his great courage Napoleon made him a brigadier-general. Later Jean-Manuel, who was one of the younger sons of the house, was promoted to full general by Napoleon, after the battle of Austerlitz.’

  ‘How interesting,’ Rosie said. ‘I never knew.’

  Henri smiled at her. ‘But why would you know, my dear? We don’t go around talking about our ancestors, and we haven’t exactly given you a history lesson on the family.’ He laughed, and so did she, and there was a lessening of the tension in the room, and the atmosphere became lighter, calmer.