Her Own Rules/Dangerous to Know

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  He gave me dignity, my husband.

  Édouard died nine years ago at the age of eighty-nine. He never looked his age, nor was he senile in his latter years, but quite strong and robust to the very end. He died peacefully in his sleep, went gently out into the dark night, as gently as he had lived.

  The king is dead. Long live the king, the saying goes.

  Charles inherited it all. The ancient title, the château and estates in Normandy, the bulk of the family fortune. Charles hardly seemed to care about these material trappings of life. Heartbroken, he long grieved for his father. They had been close, inseparable, the best of friends since he had been a small boy.

  Charles had his own son now, my grandson Gerard, who was six and would one day inherit the title. I had ensured the line, at what great cost no one would ever know. Nor should they.

  The morning after my birthday last week, we had taken breakfast together, my son and I. He had looked at me at one moment, and said, “Maman, you are a great lady Une femme avec grand courage.”

  I had smiled faintly as I had thanked him for his compliment.

  Yes, I was of good courage, he was correct in that, and if I was a great lady, une grande dame, then it was because I had made myself one. I had not been born great. Nor had I been born a lady. But I had been born with courage.

  Life is hard. It is meant to be hard. To test us, to test our mettle, to break us, or make us. And the lessons of life are equally hard. Yet if we are astute and quick then we only have to learn those lessons once.

  When I was first married to him, Édouard told me that I had the face of a madonna. I had smiled and thanked him and kissed his cheek.

  Later, when I was alone, I had peered at myself in the looking glass, searching my face. There was not a line, not a blemish, not a sign of pain nor a mark of sorrow on that face. How could it be that all the anguish I had suffered did not show?

  I could not answer that. Perhaps if they cut me open all the suffering I had endured would be visible on my heart.

  It was Édouard who made my life livable. He gave me the greatest of all gifts, the gift of happiness. And slowly, and with infinite love, he erased much of my pain.

  I missed him. I was lost without him. Alone. Lonely. Devastated by his death, I lived on because I had taught myself to survive years ago when I was a young girl. I knew no other way to be. But I was only marking time, waiting for the day I died, when we would be reunited in another life, the afterlife.

  The antique ormolu clock on the white marble mantelpiece began to chime, startling me out of my reverie. I glanced across at it, saw that the golden hands were sitting at three o’clock on the white enamel face. Then I looked down at the document on the desk. I placed it in the envelope, put that in the small letter case, and locked it. I sighed to myself, returned the case to the drawer of the desk.

  I had frequently wondered at different times if there was a grand design, as Édouard had believed, a preordained reason for all the things that happen to a person in the span of a life.

  Was I part of some great cosmic pattern? Had Édouard been interwoven into it? Were he and I simply pawns of fate, pawns who fulfilled their destinies when they came together, were joined as man and wife?

  Once Édouard had said that what must happen will happen. Nothing can stop it. “Fate rolls along inexorably,” he had said to me. “And you, Zoë, are my fate. And I am yours, don’t ever doubt that.”

  My eyes settled on his photograph in the gold frame on my desk. It had been taken forty years ago, the year we met and married. He had been fifty-eight then, twenty-five years older than I, but so vital and alive.

  I looked into his eyes and my own filled. Oh Édouard, I said to him silently, help me, give me strength.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I have lived in this house for forty years. I came here as a bride, and when I leave it finally, for the last time, it will be in a coffin.

  It is then that the house will pass to my son Charles. He will live in it when he visits Paris from Normandy, just as his father and his ancestors did, and one day it will pass to my grandson Gerard.

  Our family home has always been regarded as one of the most beautiful houses in the city, the finest hôtel particulier, as this type of grand Parisian house was called. It is located on an elegant street, the Faubourg Saint-Germain, in the fashionable seventh arrondissement on the Left Bank, a district I have always liked.

  Those many years ago when I came to live in Paris, I found myself drawn to the Left Bank, preferring it to the Right, for it seemed to have more gaiety and spirit, a marvelous sense of joie de vivre that made me feel buoyant and full of life.

  And I am still captivated by its quaint streets and wide boulevards, the small, enticing tree-shaded squares, the little cafés, the antique shops, and the art galleries.

  Now, as it was then, the area is a haven for writers, artists, and the students of the Sorbonne, who all roam around the quartier, gather at the Café Flore and the Café Deux Magots, to while away the time and watch the world go by, as I once did when I was young.

  In contrast, the seventh arrondissement also has an historic façade, visible in the architecture of gracious old houses like mine, the museums, and the public buildings. Whenever I wish, I can easily walk to the Rodin Museum or the Hôtel des Invalides, which houses Napoleon’s tomb.

  It was Édouard who first took me there, who explained so much about the Emperor, and gave me my first lesson in French history I constantly learned from him, and knowledge was yet another of the gifts he gave me.

  Or if I feel like it, I can stroll leisurely across to the Luxembourg Palace, to meander for a while through its beautiful gardens, sifting through my memories as I walk. For it is here that I brought my children when they were young, to run and play and be with other children. Those were the truly joyous days of my life, the golden days of their youth.

  There is so much life, so much excitement out there on the streets of the Rive Gauche. Yet here, behind the high garden walls, my house is quiet, grown still, now that I am widowed and my children are raised and gone.

  When children are small, one never thinks about the day they will spread their fledgling wings and try to fly. No mother ever thinks that day will really come. But it does, and they go with hardly a backward glance. There was no real surprise in this for me. I had always told Édouard that children are only ever lent to us. When the time comes they must be given to the world.

  The lovely, gracious rooms in my house are still the same, filled with priceless antiques, paintings, and objets d’art, extraordinary possessions my husband’s family accumulated over the centuries, and to which he added throughout his lifetime.

  Once these rooms rang with voices and laughter, but they have now been silent for some years. I no longer entertain anymore as Édouard and I once did so brilliantly.

  For many years I was considered to be one of the great Parisienne hostesses, renowned for my table and my distinguished guests.

  Only the finest quality in food and wines were acceptable to Édouard, who was a perfectionist, and our guests were of the highest quality too—ministers from the French Assembly, politicians, and prizewin-ning writers. And the upper crust of Parisian society, le gratin, the most closed and impenetrable circle of the elite, a circle open only to those of the same ilk.

  I was in mourning for Édouard for several years, but eventually I put away my widow’s weeds and began to entertain once more but on a smaller scale.

  Without him by my side I soon lost the taste for it. There was no purpose in it anymore. I had always done it for him, to please him. I brought the world to him, to entertain him, and he had applauded me for it, loved every moment of it. Once he was no longer here to share them, the luncheons and dinners palled on me, became meaningless, irrelevant.

  The back of the house opened onto a large garden, one of the few left in Paris.

  Now I stood in the small salon looking out toward that garden on this glorious
April afternoon. The gardener had turned on the antique fountains, five of them in all, each one placed in a different part of the garden. From where I was standing I could see them all easily.

  Jets of water spraying upward into the air caught the sunlight, and yet again I realized how clever Édouard had been to add those fountains years ago. They looked so cool, refreshing, and pretty in the bright air, and the sound of water was never far from my ears when I was outside.

  He had kept the rest of the garden simple. Green lawns were edged by wide borders of perennials in the palest of colors, and encircling the entire garden were tall trees that stood just in front of the high stone walls.

  The trees were very old, had been planted by Édouard’s grandfather in 1850. They were mostly horse chestnuts. Their wide and spreading green canopies were cool and inviting on hot summer afternoons or sultry evenings.

  Édouard had made the garden beautiful for me, because he knew what it meant to me. I enjoyed sitting out there under the chestnut trees reading. I was a voracious reader and it was Édouard who had encouraged in me the love of books, which I had harbored since being a child. But there were no books available to me in those grim days and no time at all to read. They had worked me too hard and taken away my privacy, and much else beside.

  This afternoon there was no time either for reading or going out into the garden. I had a job to do; I must do it well, in order to protect those things that I held dear.

  Turning away from the window, I moved back into the room. The small salon was decorated in the palest shade of watery green, with a marvelous Aubusson on the floor and eighteenth-century French furniture placed in intimate groupings.

  There were two large, gilded mirrors above the console tables on either side of the fireplace. I caught sight of myself in one of them as I crossed the salon.

  I paused to stare.

  And to assess.

  Earlier, I had changed into a tailored suit of navy blue wool and a white silk shirt. A pearl choker encircled my throat and pearl studs shone at my ears. My only other jewelry was my plain gold wedding ring and a watch.

  I decided that I looked rather austere but businesslike, which was exactly how I wished to appear.

  I nodded, satisfied.

  There was a light tap on the door and Hubert came in quickly. Inclining his head, he said, “Comtesse?”

  “Yes, Hubert, what is it?”

  “Do you wish tea to be served in here, Madame? Or in the grand salon?”

  “I think in here would be preferable, Hubert. Thank you.”

  He nodded again and disappeared as quickly as he had arrived, gliding off on silent feet. Édouard had hired him as a junior houseman twenty-five years ago and he was still here. But now he was the senior butler and in charge of my household.

  I sat down on a straight-backed chair to wait for my guest, who was due to arrive momentarily. And as I waited I asked myself how properly to deal with a loose cannon. I had no idea. I pondered this.

  Suddenly I had no further time for thought. I heard the sound of footsteps on the marble floor of the foyer, and a moment later Hubert was opening the door of the salon.

  I rose and turned to face the door expectantly.

  “Madame,” he said, “your guest is here.” He ushered her into the salon, and went on, “Madame Trent, I would like to present you to the Comtesse de Grenaille.”

  I stepped forward, arranged a polite smile on my face, and stretched out my hand. “Good afternoon, I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Trent.”

  The young woman smiled at me and grasped my hand firmly in hers. “And I am pleased to meet you, Countess. It is so very kind and gracious of you to see me.”

  I nodded, extracted my hand, and waved it in the direction of the seating arrangement near the French doors to the garden.

  “Shall we go and sit over there? In a few moments, Hubert will serve tea, but we can chat whilst we’re waiting, I think.”

  “Thank you,” Vivienne Trent said, and followed me across the room.

  She took a seat on the small sofa.

  I sat down on the same straight-backed chair as before, which I preferred, and said, “When the Institut Pasteur telephoned me, they said you wished to talk to me about my daughter Ariel. Something to do with an article you are writing about the late Sebastian Locke.”

  “That’s true, Countess, yes. I am writing a profile about him for the Sunday Times, the British newspaper. I am calling it ‘The Last Great Philanthropist,’ and it will deal with the essence of the man, what made him tick. I will touch on his great achievements, his compassion and generosity to the world’s poor and suffering. It’ll be a very positive story Very upbeat, actually.”

  “I see,” I murmured. “However, I am not quite sure how I can help you. My daughter is away, and I didn’t know Mr. Locke.”

  “But your daughter did, Countess. Didn’t she?”

  I hesitated, but only fractionally, and then I nodded. “Yes, she did.”

  “I would like to talk to her about him, get her impressions of him as a man who set out to work miracles in the world.”

  “I don’t believe she is available at the moment. In fact, I am quite certain she’s not.”

  Vivienne Trent looked crestfallen, and then she leaned forward, rather urgently I thought, and said, “I want to be very open and straightforward with you, Countess. I am not only a journalist writing a story about him, but a member of the Locke family.”

  I merely nodded.

  Mrs. Trent said, “If I may explain?”

  “Of course, please do,” I answered.

  “I knew Sebastian from the age of twelve. My mother had a relationship with him for six years. When she died, when I was eighteen, he became my guardian. He sent me to college, to Wellesley actually, and looked after me in general. He and I were married when I was twenty-two and he was forty-two. We were married for five years and remained friends after our divorce. It was an amicable one.” She paused and looked at me intently.

  “I see,” I murmured.

  “Anyway, Countess, I’m telling you this because I want you to understand that my profile of him will be laudatory. It won’t be critical of him, I’m not about to write a ‘warts and all’ portrait of him. Quite the opposite. And of course it would only be laudatory about your daughter, Dr. Ariel de Grenaille.”

  “I understand,” I responded. “Thank you for explaining. But I don’t know how much my daughter could contribute, even if she were available. And I did just tell you she’s not.”

  “I think she could contribute quite a lot,” Mrs. Trent said swiftly. “After all, she was the last woman he was involved with. Personally involved on an emotional level.”

  I stared at her but I said nothing. I just sat there, waiting, wondering what she would say next.

  There was total silence in the room for several minutes. I knew Vivienne Trent was expecting me to make a remark, but I remained silent.

  Finally, it was she who broke the silence. Clearing her throat, she said, “Countess de Grenaille, Sebastian told me he was going to marry your daughter.”

  “He said that?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “When did he tell you this?”

  “Last October, early October. On the Monday of the week he died.”

  “You were his confidante, Mrs. Trent? Or did other members of his family know of his intentions?”

  Vivienne Trent shook her head. “No one else knew, Countess, because I was his only confidante.”

  When I said nothing, she asked, with a slight frown, “Didn’t you know they were planning to marry?”

  “Oh yes, Ariel had told me. You must have been extremely close to him if he confided in you, Mrs. Trent, even after your divorce.”

  “I was. Sebastian trusted me implicitly.”

  “What did he tell you about Ariel?”

  “Not a great deal about her, only that she was a doctor, a scientist, working in Africa. But he did speak to me about his
feelings for her, the depth of his feelings.”

  “Did he now. How extraordinary. Unusual really, under the circumstances.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “But you were once his wife. Was it not upsetting for you to hear that he loved another woman? To be told that he was going to marry her?”

  “No, not at all!” she exclaimed rather fiercely. “I cared about him. I loved him. I wanted him to be happy, to have love and companionship in his life, just as he would have wanted that for me. Did want it, actually As I’ve said, we were very, very close.”

  “I realize that you must have been.”

  “Countess de Grenaille, I know your daughter is working in Africa. I would like to go and see her. Could you arrange this for me, please?”

  “That is very doubtful, Mrs. Trent. She is unavailable.”

  “The Institut Pasteur said the same thing. The person I spoke to indicated she was working with infectious diseases. And explained that Dr. de Grenaille was in some kind of. . . quarantine.”

  “That is correct, she is.”

  “Could you explain what it is she is doing exactly?”

  “I’ll try,” I answered. “Ariel is a virologist. Currently she is working with viruses that are known as hot viruses.”

  “In a laboratory in Africa?” Mrs. Trent asked, leaning forward eagerly, her expression alert, questioning.

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Whereabouts in Africa?” she pressed.

  “Central Africa.”

  “Could you be more precise, please, Countess?”

  “Zaire. She is working in Zaire.”

  “With those hot viruses?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Trent, I just said so. That is what she does. She has been working on them for the past seven years, especially the filoviruses.”

  “What are they?”

  “Sometimes they are called thread viruses, because filo is the Latin word for thread. They are highly contagious and deadly. Lethal”

  There was a knock on the door and Hubert came in, carrying the tea tray.