Angel

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

The count continued talking to Rosie. ‘Somewhere, tucked away in that vast library of ours, there is a whole collection of books on Napoleon and on the Empire period of French history. Tomorrow, I will ask Marcel to bring a ladder from the barn and get the books down for you. You’ll find them interesting, I’m sure, and perhaps they will prove useful to you—for your costume designs.’

  ‘Thank you, Henri, I’d really appreciate that,’ Rosie murmured, smiling at him. ‘And they certainly would help me.’

  ‘Father,’ Guy said. ‘I wish to ask you something.’

  ‘Yes?’ Henri looked across at his son, who was seated in a chair near the fire.

  ‘Is Kyra’s child yours? Is Alexandre Arnaud really your son?’

  Rosie froze on the sofa. She felt the count stiffen next to her, and stifle a gasp. She could not look at him. Her courage failed her.

  Collie was equally stunned, and she held herself perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe. She stared into the flames, waiting, her throat dry with apprehension. Her brother had gone too far tonight.

  Henri opened his mouth and closed it again, simply stared at Guy in total silence. The shocked expression on his face spoke volumes. Worriedly he glanced down the room, saw at once that Lisette and Yvonne were absorbed in a game show on television, and for once he was glad they were staring, mesmerized, at the set. He experienced a flicker of profound relief that they had not heard Guy’s words.

  Placing his glass on an end table, Henri de Montfleurie pushed himself to his feet and walked over to Guy, who appeared to shrink back in the chair as his father approached.

  Henri’s face was deathly pale, his dark eyes blazing with anger. ‘Stand up,’ he ordered as he drew to a standstill in front of the chair.

  Guy did so nervously.

  Henri took a step forward and looked directly into his son’s face. His eyes were steely, his voice hard and very low: ‘Listen to me, and listen to me very carefully. Never, ever again, are you to impugn the honour and reputation of a woman in this house, whether it’s Kyra Arnaud you are speaking of, or any other woman. Never, ever again, are you to speak of adult matters when there are children present. And never, ever again, are you to attempt to make trouble in this family. If you cannot abide by these rules, which are actually matters of common courtesy and good manners, then you can leave this house once and for all. And right now. I will not tolerate your behaviour any longer. You were born an aristocrat, born a gentleman. Kindly act like one, or get out.’

  ‘But Father, please… I didn’t mean to upset you, or anyone else. I’m not trying to make trouble, I’m merely having a discussion with you. Look, I simply want to ensure the future of the de Montfleurie line, in case anything ever happens to me. Which it well might, all the travelling abroad I do. I was only trying to help you—’

  Guy stopped at the sound of sharp knocking on the door. All eyes swung to it.

  As it opened slowly Gaston’s face appeared, and he stepped into the sitting room.

  Inclining his head slightly, he said, ‘Monsieur le comte… le dîner est servi.’

  ‘Merci, Gaston,’ Henri responded. ‘We’ll be right in.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  Kyra Arnaud came back to the Loire Valley a week later.

  It was Rosie who discovered her presence, quite by accident. She had gone to the village to do some errands for Collie early on Friday morning, and was driving back to Montfleurie when she saw Kyra standing on the terrace of her house.

  Although the small, grey-stone manor was set well back from the road, it stood on a slight rise and was therefore entirely visible through the copse of trees partially encircling it. Also, Kyra had naturally red hair, a very bright auburn cascade that was quite unmistakable. The woman on the terrace had to be Kyra, there was no question in Rosie’s mind about her identity. The hair gave her away.

  She drove on without stopping, not wishing to intrude on Kyra, to stop by at the house unannounced, and the minute she got back to the château she ran upstairs to find Collie.

  Bundled up in a black sweater, grey trousers and black blazer, the latter was seated at her desk near the fireplace, working on cards for Christmas gifts. She raised her eyes when the door flew open, and her face lit up at the sight of Rosie.

  ‘You’ve been quick! Did you manage to find the glue and the ribbon?’ she asked.

  Rosie nodded. ‘I also found something else—or, rather, someone else.’

  Looking puzzled, Collie asked, ‘Who?’

  ‘Kyra Arnaud. She’s back!’

  ‘Did you run into her in the village?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I saw her on the terrace of her house as I was driving back here.’

  ‘Are you sure it was her? She does have a new housekeeper, you know, and the housekeeper has a daughter who lives there too.’

  ‘Oh it was Kyra all right,’ Rosie answered quickly, taking off her loden cape, laying it on a chair, walking over to the fireplace, standing with her back to it. ‘There’s no mistaking her. All that flaming red hair.’ Rosie looked across at Collie and grinned. ‘Unless, of course, the housekeeper and her daughter also have the same auburn hair.’

  ‘No, they don’t,’ Collie replied. ‘So it has to be Kyra. I wonder if Father knows that she’s come back?’

  Rosie shrugged, then shook her head. ‘I doubt it. If they were squabbling when she left, why would they be friendly now?’

  ‘They could have made up on the phone,’ Collie pointed out. ‘How would we know? Obviously, he wouldn’t discuss it with us, and I haven’t dared mention her name since last Friday.’

  ‘Neither have I, it would be like a red rag to a bull. I’m not surprised Guy skedaddled on Saturday. He really put his foot in it this time.’

  ‘Both feet you mean.’ Collie sighed heavily. ‘I still haven’t recovered, not really, and I know you haven’t. I’m even surprised that Father’s behaving with such equanimity…’ She smiled suddenly at Rosie, and added, ‘On the other hand, he’s always in a good mood when you’re here. As for my brother, he has to be the most stupid person on this planet. I still shudder when I think of what he said.’

  ‘I know. But listen, Collie darling, let’s go over and see Kyra, talk to her, see if we can’t put matters right between your father and her. Negotiate a reconciliation, so to speak.’

  ‘I’m not sure—’ Collie stopped, hesitating for a moment. ‘She might resent the interference, she can be rather touchy, you know. Temperamental. More to the point, Father might be annoyed if we get in the middle of his business.’

  ‘When I was here in August you told me you couldn’t get over how much little Alexandre resembled Lisette,’ Rosie remarked. ‘I’d noticed that myself, and I was pretty certain that he was a Montfleurie.’

  ‘You’d have to be blind not to see that! So, what are you getting at?’ Collie raised a brow.

  ‘Your father appears to care for Kyra, and care for her a great deal, I might add. You and I both think that Alexandre’s his son, and now that Jacques Arnaud has divorced Kyra there seems to be no earthly reason why they can’t marry. Am I correct?’

  ‘Yes. And I’ve been promoting marriage for a long time. I told you that the other day.’

  ‘Okay, so what’s the… the… impediment?’

  Collie shook her head. ‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’

  ‘Could it be that your father doesn’t want to marry her?’

  ‘I’m not certain, honestly I’m not, Rosie.’

  ‘Fair enough. Do you think that maybe Kyra herself is the impediment? That perhaps she doesn’t want to marry Henri?’

  Collie pursed her lips and remained silent, thinking and staring into space for a few seconds. ‘I just don’t know.’ She sighed. ‘My father is much older than she is, of course.’

  ‘Not that much older. He’s sixty-three, and she’s thirty-five. Not bad really, and he looks young, acts young, is very fit and energetic.’

  ‘Everything you say is true, Rosie. However, I’m not su
re I understand what you’re getting at.’

  ‘Listen, Collie, you and I are attempting to ascertain what’s preventing them from marrying. Also, for days we’ve been trying to guess what they had a disagreement about, and we’re not coming up with any answers. That’s because we can’t. We’re not a party to their conversations, we’re not involved with them in their involvement with each other.’

  ‘What you’re saying is that we’re not a couple of flies on the bedroom wall.’

  ‘That’s right. So the only way we’ll know what this is all about is to talk to one of the principals.’

  Collie groaned.

  Rosie said: ‘We can’t talk to your father. I wouldn’t dare… at least I don’t think I would. Can you talk to him?’

  ‘Not on your life. Oh no, not me!’

  ‘Okay, so there’s only one thing for it, we’ve got to talk to Kyra, the other principal in the affair.’ Rosie paused, stared at Collie. ‘Why are you looking at me like that? I’ve always thought that Kyra was quite approachable, very friendly in fact. And in any case, you and she have always been good friends, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why the peculiar look?’

  ‘I suppose I’m a bit shy about talking to her about my father. I feel a little awkward, discussing their relationship, his love life, his sex life, for Heaven’s sake.’

  ‘That’s understandable, I guess. But she’s the only person who can enlighten us, except for Henri, and we’ve both ruled him out.’

  Collie nodded, remained silent.

  Rosie walked over to the window, stood looking out towards the Cher river, her eyes thoughtful. After a moment or two she swung around and returned to the fireplace. Leaning against the antique desk, she said to Collie, ‘I’ll talk to her. But would you come with me? Keep me company?’

  ‘Of course!’ Collie exclaimed. ‘But we must telephone her first. To arrange a rendezvous.’

  ‘I wasn’t intending to barge in on her unannounced,’ Rosie said with a faint smile. ‘You can call her and make a date, and then we’ll drive over. The sooner the better. Why not this afternoon?’

  ‘Why not indeed!’ Without wasting any more time, Collie picked up the phone and dialled.

  TWENTY-TWO

  There was something quite majestic about Kyra Arnaud, Rosie decided, realizing this was the most appropriate word to describe her bearing and her manner.

  There was a regality about the Russian woman which manifested itself in the proud tilt of her head, the straightness of her back, and the way she moved. Kyra was slender but taller than average, around five foot nine, and, although she was not beautiful in the classical sense, her face was so arresting most people usually glanced at her twice, completely taken in by its elegance and distinction.

  She had a narrow face, with high, slanted cheekbones, a smooth, rather broad brow, thinly arched brows above large eyes which were grey, luminous and set wide apart.

  It was her hair, of course, which was her most striking feature—thick, luxuriant and bright auburn in colour: naturally curly, today she wore it loose, and it spread out around her face like a fiery halo. Dressed in an oversized sweater-tunic knitted in a mixture of autumnal colours, brown leggings and matching suede boots, she moved around the coffee table in her drawing room with infinite grace and self-confidence, the epitome of an assured, sophisticated woman.

  It was Saturday afternoon, and Kyra was serving hot lemon tea to Rosie and Collie, who had arrived just a short while before. As she poured the tea into tall glasses contained in silver filigree holders, she chatted to them about her sister Anastasia who had been ill.

  ‘She had an appendicectomy,’ Kyra explained. ‘But thank God she is now all right. When she first came out of the hospital she wasn’t feeling too well, and that’s why I went to visit her.’

  ‘So Father said,’ Collie murmured, her expression sympathetic. ‘I’m so glad she’s better now.’

  ‘So am I.’

  Kyra and Collie continued to chat for a few minutes about Anastasia and her family, and about Olga, Kyra’s other sister, who had recently moved to New York.

  Rosie sat back in the chair; she was only half listening to them, trying to think of a way to broach the subject of Henri, which was the reason they had come here. Collie had made the date yesterday, but had not given a reason for their wish to see her; nor, apparently, had Kyra asked for one.

  Last night, Rosie had pointed out to Collie that, even though they were going to ask Kyra what had gone wrong in her relationship with Henri, she might not tell them the truth. Collie had disagreed, explaining that Kyra was scrupulously honest, frequently quite blunt, and would indeed tell them the truth.

  The music playing softly in the background was a Rachmaninov concerto, one she was familiar with, and it created a soothing mood in the sun-filled room. The latter was of medium size, with French windows opening onto the terrace and the garden. Somewhat haphazardly decorated with a mixture of French and English antiques, flea-market finds, odd bits and pieces Kyra had picked up along the way, it had a certain kind of bohemian charm, and it was a comfortable room despite its off-beat appearance.

  Rosie had always liked Kyra Arnaud, and she found this feeling being reinforced at this moment as the woman spoke lovingly about her two sisters. The three of them were the daughters of a Russian diplomat who had defected to the West in 1971, when Kyra was fifteen years old. Her father had been an attaché at the Russian Embassy in Washington when he had asked for political asylum for himself, his wife, and three young daughters, which the United States had granted. The US Government had immediately placed them in a protection programme, and they had gone to live in the Midwest under an assumed name.

  After her father’s death from natural causes in 1976, Kyra, her two sisters and her mother had come to live in France, where their mother had relatives. At the age of twenty-seven Kyra had married Jacques Arnaud, the noted modern impressionist painter, but the union had foundered two years later and she had soon vacated Paris for the Loire, buying the old stone manor house in 1986.

  Some of Kyra’s story Rosie had learned from Collie, the rest of it from Kyra herself, and although Rosie had not spent much time with the Russian woman, she had never felt anything but warmth for her.

  ‘Anyway, I came back here on Thursday afternoon,’ Kyra was saying as Rosie roused herself from her thoughts, and sat up a little straighter in her chair, focusing on her.

  Kyra went on hesitantly, ‘I’m not sure how long I will be staying. But certainly it won’t be for long.’

  ‘Why not?’ Collie exclaimed in surprise, her face full of questions.

  Kyra did not answer.

  Rosie said, ‘Do you mean you won’t be in the Loire for Christmas?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ Kyra responded. ‘There’s not much here for me, or for Alexandre either. I’m better off going back to Strasbourg, to be with my sister and her family. My mother will be there and Olga is going to come over from New York.’

  ‘You say there’s nothing here for you at Christmas, but that’s not true,’ Collie said, leaning forward, putting her hand on Kyra’s arm affectionately. ‘You could come to us. The same way you’ve been coming to us for the past few years.’

  Kyra shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  There was a little silence.

  Rosie decided to plunge in. ‘Is there a problem, Kyra? I mean between you and Henri?’

  Again, the strained silence.

  Rosie pressed, ‘Is that why you’re really going back to Strasbourg?’

  ‘More or less,’ Kyra finally admitted with a weak smile.

  ‘Can we help to sort it out?’ Rosie asked.

  Kyra shook her head.

  Collie said, ‘That’s the reason we wanted to see you. Rosie and I decided that there was something wrong, and that we’d be the United Nations negotiators, so to speak. We wanted to try and bring about a truce between you and Father. We both sensed something was a
miss, and yet we know you care deeply for each other.’

  ‘That’s true, we do, but I don’t think there’s anything to be done.’

  ‘Why not?’ Rosie pinned her eyes on her. ‘When you love someone and he loves you, there’s always a way to work things out.’

  ‘Rosie’s correct,’ Collie interjected. ‘Father cares for you, loves you, Kyra, I just know that. In fact, I thought I’d got him to the point of proposing. Now I realize I was wrong, and it’s obvious my efforts went to waste.’

  ‘Not really.’ Kyra said this softly, looking across at Collie, her eyes filled with absolute candour. ‘Your father did propose… sort of…’

  Collie stared at her. ‘What does that mean exactly?’

  ‘He said he thought we ought to consider making our relationship permanent, but he didn’t actually get down on his knees and propose to me in the traditional way, nor did he actually use the word marriage.’

  ‘But you knew what he meant, surely?’ Collie murmured.

  ‘Of course, I’m not trying to split hairs. But when I didn’t say yes immediately, or jump at the idea, he backed off. He muttered something about being too old for me, that twenty-eight years was too big a difference between us, and that it had been foolish of him to think I would want to attach myself to an old man. He hurried out of this room, still muttering under his breath that he was an old fool.’

  ‘You should have gone after him, Kyra,’ Rosie admonished softly. ‘And told him that you would marry him, that the age difference didn’t matter. Weren’t those the answers he was looking for?’

  ‘I think so, now that I look back.’ Kyra seemed suddenly morose and she bit her lip.

  ‘When did this actually happen?’ Collie asked.

  ‘Just a short while before I went to Strasbourg.’

  ‘And that’s the reason you went there, isn’t it?’ Rosie said.

  ‘Partly. Anastasia did want me to be with her, of course, but my mother was there anyway. Still, it was a good excuse to leave here. I felt I had to be on my own, to think, and I wanted to put distance between myself and Henri.’