Three Weeks in Paris

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Jessica, who stood just behind Tom, now stepped forward, staring at Jean. Immediately, she recognized him, just as he had recognized her. It was him. A grayer, older version of Lucien Girard. There was no doubt in her mind.

  Shaking inside, and just as undone as Jean was, she swallowed hard. “I often thought you must be alive somewhere out there in the world.… ” Her eyes welled with tears.

  Jean stared at her, then his gaze settled on Alain and finally Alexa. His eyes acknowledged them but he said nothing.

  He shook his head slowly and directed his attention on Tom. “Your talk about filming intrigued me,” he murmured.

  Sighing heavily, he opened the door wider. “You’d better come inside,” he said.

  ————

  JESSICA WAS STILL SHAKING inside and her legs felt weak, but she managed to hold herself together as the four of them followed Jean across the huge stone hall. It was baronial, hung with dark tapestries and stags’ heads; a huge chandelier dropped down from the high ceiling. Their footsteps echoed on the stone floor.

  He led the way down three steps into a long, spacious room with French windows opening onto a terrace. Jessica did not pay much attention, only vaguely noticed the dark wood pieces, the faded fabrics, the worn antique Aubusson underfoot. There was an air of shabby elegance about it.

  Jean paused in the center of the room and waved his hand at a grouping of chairs and sofas. “Please,” he murmured. He did not sit himself, but moved away, went and stood near the stone fireplace.

  Once the others were seated, he glanced at Tom and asked, “Did we know each other in Paris years ago?”

  “No.”

  “How did you … make the connection?”

  “My friend Alexa has a photograph of Jessica with you. When I mentioned your name, she said the man in the picture was someone called Lucien Girard. Then she told me the story … of your disappearance.”

  “I see.” He shifted on his feet, blinked several times.

  No longer able to contain herself, Jessica leaned forward slightly, and asked in a tight voice, “Why? Why did you do it? Vanish the way you did, without a trace?”

  He did not respond.

  No one else spoke. The room was very quiet.

  Outside, a light wind rustled through the trees, and in the distance a bird trilled. Through the open French windows the scent of roses and other flowers floated inside, filling the air with sweetness. There was a sense of tranquillity in this long, narrow library, an air of timelessness, of gentleness.

  But emotions were high.

  Jessica exclaimed, “I think you owe me an explanation. And Alain. We tried so hard to find you, and when we couldn’t, we thought you were dead. We grieved for you!” She shook her head, and tears gathered in her eyes. “I think I’ve been grieving for you right until this very moment.” Her voice broke and she could not continue.

  “I think you should tell Jessica why you disappeared, Lucien. You owe that to Jessica, if not to me,” Alain interjected.

  “Yes, it is true. I do owe you both an explanation.” He sat down on a chair near the fireplace and took a deep breath. After a moment, he looked over at Jessica, and slowly began to speak.

  “I said I was going to Monte Carlo to work because I couldn’t tell you the truth, Jessica.”

  “And what was the truth?” she asked, still tearful.

  “That I was not really Lucien Girard. This name was my stage name … I was, I am, Jean de Beauvais-Cresse. But twelve years ago I left this house and went to live and work in Paris, after a bad quarrel with my father. He disapproved of my desire to be an actor, and washed his hands of me. In any case, my older brother, Philippe, was his favorite, and, of course, he was the heir to the title and the lands. Seven years ago, just before you graduated, Philippe was tragically killed in an accident. He was flying on a private plane to Corsica, to join his fiancée and her family, when the plane went down in a bad thunderstorm. Everyone on board was killed.

  “When he received the terrible news of Philippe’s death, my father had a stroke. My mother, who was an invalid, summoned me to return to Montcresse. I was needed here. I had a funeral to arrange, and other matters to attend to, as well as my mother and father to care for.”

  “But why didn’t you tell me?” Jessica demanded. “I could have come with you, helped you.”

  “It was far too complicated. I did not have time for long explanations. I was suddenly needed immediately. Urgently. Anyway, I believed I would be here in the Loire for only a week at the most.” Jean paused, leaned back in his chair, took a deep breath.

  Scrutinizing him intently, Jessica thought he looked older than thirty-five. His narrow face was lined and his fair hair was meager. He had always been slender, but now he was really thin. To her, he seemed undernourished, and it struck her that he had lost his looks. And, not unnaturally, he was very nervous. Beads of sweat lined his upper lip and his forehead. It was not overly warm in this room, and she suddenly understood the extent of his unease with them, with her in particular.

  For his part, Jean de Beauvais-Cresse was fully aware of her fixed scrutiny, and he flinched under it. His discomfort was profound. Seeing her again had sent shock waves through him. She had never looked more beautiful, and her allure for him was as potent as ever. He still loved her deeply. He had never stopped loving her. He would love her until the day he died. She had been, still was, the love of his life. But it was not meant to be, could not be. Not anymore.

  Jean filled with regret. A deep sense of loss overwhelmed him, and his emotions ran high. And he had to steady himself, take hold of his swimming senses. For one awful moment he thought he was going to weep. Breathing deeply, taking hold of himself with steely determination, not wishing to break down in front of them, he rose, moved to the fireplace once more, took up a stance there.

  Clearing his throat, he said, “As I was saying a moment ago, I did not think I would be staying here for very long. Perhaps a week. I truly did intend to tell you everything when I returned to Paris, Jessica. Please believe that.”

  “And then what?” Jessica asked, her voice still shaking.

  “I hoped we could continue as we were, make a life together. Somehow. But then something else occurred, just after the funeral of my brother.”

  Alain, frowning intently, asked quickly, “What happened?”

  “I became ill. Extremely ill. I had been fighting what I thought was flu. A scratchy throat, aches and pains, night sweats, fever, were the symptoms. I mentioned this to my father’s doctor the day after the funeral, when he came to Montcresse to see my parents. At once he insisted I go to his office for an examination—” Jean stopped, cleared his throat, seemed for a moment hesitant to continue.

  Jessica’s eyes were riveted on Jean, and she held her breath. Even before he spoke she knew he was about to tell them something quite terrible.

  Jean continued. “Dr. Bitoun did not like what he found. He sent me immediately to Orléans, to see a cancer specialist, an oncologist. I had X rays, a CAT scan, and an MRI. The doctor also took a biopsy of a node under my arm. Everyone’s worst fears were confirmed when the results of the tests came back. I had Hodgkin’s disease.”

  “But you were so young, only in your mid-twenties!” Jessica cried, her eyes wide with shock.

  “That is true. It usually does strike young men in their twenties, sometimes even in their teen years,” Jean answered, and went on to explain. “Hodgkin’s disease is cancer of the lymphatic system, and once I was diagnosed, the oncologist at the clinic in Orléans hospitalized me at once, and started radiation treatment. Aside from—”

  “But why didn’t you call me?” Jessica interrupted heatedly. “I would have come to you at once. I loved you.”

  “I know, and I love—” He coughed behind his hand before saying, “I loved you too, Jessica. And because I loved you I decided it was better to … just disappear.”

  “But why?” she demanded. Her eyes filled again, and the tears
trickled down her cheeks. “I loved you so much … with all my heart.”

  “I know,” he said in a low, faltering voice. “However, I suddenly realized I had nothing to offer you. I believed I was going to die. I truly did not believe the treatments would work. Then again, I had an invalid mother, a stricken father, and the responsibility of running the estate … if I lived. It seemed … all too much to burden you with at the time. You were so young. And, as I just said, I did not think I would live for very long.”

  “But you did live,” Alain said, staring hard at Jean.

  Jean nodded. “I did, yes. After a number of agonizing treatments, I went into remission after about eight months. Even so, the prognosis was not encouraging. The oncologist warned me the cancer could come back; in fact, he led me to believe it would do so.” He looked across at Jessica. “Marriage was no longer a possibility.”

  “But you did marry. And you have a child,” she responded quietly, hurting inside.

  “That is true, yes. I married three years ago. I had a childhood friend living nearby, and once I came out of the hospital she came here to Montcresse to help me handle things. Then my father suddenly died, and I inherited. My responsibilities increased. Sadly, my mother died a few months after my father. I was totally overwhelmed. Annick, my dear old friend, was my rock at the time. Slowly, we became involved, but I had no plans to marry.”

  “Then why did you marry her?” Jessica asked. “And not me? I would have come here. I, too, could have been your rock.”

  “Because to my utter surprise Annick became pregnant,” Jean answered. “I had not thought this possible, because often the treatment for cancer renders a man … sterile. But Annick was pregnant all of a sudden. I cared for her. She loved me, wanted to marry me, and so I did the correct thing. Also, she was going to give me an heir to the title and the lands, someone to follow me when I died. She knew that I would probably not live to see the boy grow up, but she and I accepted that.”

  “How old is the child?” Alexa said, speaking for the first time.

  Jean looked at her, a faint smile flickering on his mouth. “Three.”

  “And you are in remission now, are you?” Alain asked.

  “No. I’m undergoing treatment again. Chemotherapy this time.”

  “I’m sorry,” Alain responded. “I’m sorry it has come back.”

  Jessica, staring at him, her eyes still moist, said slowly, “I would have understood all this, I would have come to you, Lucien, I would, I really would. You were … my life.”

  Jean’s light bluish-gray eyes filled with tears. He opened his mouth to reply but found he could not say a word, so choked was he.

  Jessica, always so close to him, always so understanding of his thoughts and feelings, rose and walked across the room, her step firm. When she drew closer to him, Jean reached out to her.

  As she came to a standstill in front of him, Jessica saw the tears on his cheeks, grief and sorrow in his eyes.

  He was aware of no one else in the room but her. He took hold of her gently, brought her into his arms. She clung to him, rested her head against his chest, her own face wet with tears. And she forgot every other question she had meant to ask him. They no longer mattered.

  Against the top of her head, he said in a low voice, “I thought I was doing the right thing. The best for you. Perhaps I was wrong.”

  When she did not respond, Jean murmured, “Forgive me, Jessica.”

  “I do,” she whispered against his chest. “I do forgive you, Lucien.” She blinked back fresh tears, endeavoring to compose herself. “I’ll always think of you as Lucien, remember you as him.”

  “I know.”

  There was a sudden rustling noise, the sound of running feet, and as the two of them drew apart, a small boy came hurtling into the library through the French windows. “Papa! Papa! Je suis là!” he cried, and then stopped when he saw that there were other people with his father.

  Jean walked over to him, took hold of his hand, and led him over to Jessica. “This is my son … Lucien,” Jean told her, looking deeply into her eyes.

  She gazed back at Jean, nodding, understanding. Then she hunkered down in front of the child, touched his soft, round baby cheek with one finger, and smiled at him. “Bonjour. Je suis Jessica,” she said.

  The boy smiled back at her. “Bonjour,” he answered in his high child’s voice, his little pink face radiant with happiness and good health.

  Swallowing her emotions, Jessica stood up, looked across at Alexa and the two men. “I think perhaps we should go,” she said to them, and turning to Jean, she added, “Thank you for explaining … everything.”

  “And I believe you understand everything.”

  “I do.”

  Dropping his voice, he said, “So you are not married, Jessica.”

  “No.”

  He sighed, looked at her sadly. “I’m sorry. C’est dommage.”

  “It’s all right.”

  Jean escorted them out of the library, one hand on Jessica’s shoulder, the other holding his son’s hand as he crossed the stone hall to the front door. When they stepped out into the courtyard, he leaned into her, kissed her cheek.

  “Au revoir, Jessica. Bonne chance.”

  “Good-bye.”

  He inclined his head.

  She walked away from him, heading for the car. She heard the others taking their leave, hurrying after her. Jessica paused at the car; turning around, she looked back.

  He stood where she had left him, near the door, holding the child’s hand. With the other he blew a kiss to her, and then waved. So did Lucien.

  She blew kisses back and waved to them, then got into the car, her heart full.

  ————

  NO ONE SPOKE as they drove away from Montcresse.

  Alexa held Jessica’s hand and looked at her several times. But once they had left the château behind, she finally asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Oh, yes, I’m fine,” Jessica replied in a fading voice. Clearing her throat, she went on speaking softly. “Now that I know what happened to Lucien I can be at peace with myself. I have closure, as I always knew I would.”

  “It was so sad,” Alexa said. “My heart went out to him.”

  “I also felt sorry for him,” Alain murmured, turning to look at them. “What a pity the cancer has come back. But perhaps … Well, let us hope he will go into remission again.”

  “I honestly think he truly believes he made the right choice. For you, Jessica. He thought he was protecting you,” Tom told her.

  “I know he did. But he did my thinking for me. That’s not really fair.” Jessica let out a deep sigh. “All these years I have been in love with a memory. A memory of Lucien, a memory of my first love. But he is different now. I am different now. I just wish he had trusted me. Trusted our love enough to tell me the truth seven years ago, when all these terrible things were happening to him.”

  “What would you have done?” Alexa ventured, looking at her intently.

  “I would have gone to him immediately. There is no question in my mind about that,” Jessica asserted.

  “And would it have worked, do you think?” Tom asked.

  “I don’t know, I really don’t. But I am relieved I did finally see him again. Now I can move on at last.” But part of me will always love him, Jessica added to herself as she leaned back and closed her eyes. And part of me will always belong to him, as I know part of him belongs to me. He made that so very clear, just as he made it clear that he still loves me.

  PART FOUR

  Celebration

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  KAY SAT STARING AT HERSELF IN THE MIRROR, WONDERING if she needed just a touch more blush. It seemed to her that her face was paler than usual, and she wanted to look her best tonight.

  Leaning back in the small chair, she now scrutinized herself from a distance, her eyes narrowing slightly, her head held on one side. Picking up the brush, she delicately stroked her cheekbones with it,
and finally, satisfied with the effect, she turned her attention to her hair. It fell around her face in a tumble of auburn waves and curls; she mussed it a little more with her hands, combed the front, and sprayed it lightly. “There, that’s the best I can do,” she said out loud, again peering at herself in the dressing table mirror.

  “You look beautiful, Kay,” Ian said from behind her, placing a hand on her bare shoulder.

  “Gosh, you surprised me!” she exclaimed, craning her neck to look up at him towering above her.

  Smiling, he bent down, touched her cheek with his finger, then swiveled her shoulders so that she was again looking at herself in the mirror.

  “Close your eyes,” he instructed.

  “Why?”

  “Just do as I say.”

  “All right.”

  Once her eyes were tightly shut, Ian reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a necklace. Very carefully, he placed this around Kay’s long, slender neck, fastened it, then said, “Now you can open your eyes.”

  When Kay did so, she gasped in surprise and delight. Around her neck her husband had placed the most beautiful diamond and topaz necklace she had ever seen. Loops of diamonds formed a lacy bib, and set along the front in the loops of the diamonds were eight large topaz stones.

  “Ian, it’s exquisite! I’ve never seen anything quite like it!” she exclaimed, gazing at him through the mirror. “Thank you, oh, thank you so much.”

  “I’m glad you like it, darling. I fell in love with it the moment I saw it, in just the same way I fell in love with you. Immediately, to be precise.”

  She laughed, and then her eyes widened as he handed her a small black velvet box.

  “These will add the finishing touch,” he said.

  Again she gasped as she lifted the lid. Lying on the black velvet were a pair of topaz earrings, each large stone encircled by diamonds. “Ian, how extravagant you’ve been,” she cried. “But they’re so beautiful. Darling, thank you.”