Her Own Rules/Dangerous to Know

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “The first day of June my labor pains started. I was in labor for almost two days and when the baby was finally delivered on June the third I was totally depleted. They told me that the baby had died.

  “I was very ill for several months. Weak, exhausted, and afraid, I did not want to get well. As long as I was sick in bed no one could hurt me. However, I knew I could not hide forever. When I was finally up on my feet my stepfather told me I was being sent away by my husband to recuperate. It had been decided that I would go to London to stay with my mother’s sister Bronagh. Apparently it had been my mother’s idea to send me there, and miraculously my husband had agreed.

  “I cannot tell you how relieved I was to be leaving. I did not see my husband before I set out for New York to board the ship, since he was in Canada on business. However, I knew he was paying for my passage to England and a few new clothes, and that he had provided three hundred dollars for my expenses in London.

  “The thing that stays in my mind is what my mother said to me, Vivienne, the day I left the farm. I’ve never forgotten her face, the way she looked at me, the sound of her voice. ‘Don’t come back to this place, mavourneen,’ she had whispered to me when I bent down to kiss her. She told me she loved me, and I remember thinking how happy she looked that morning. I knew I was witnessing her profound relief that I was making my escape.”

  Lifting my glass, I took a sip of champagne and shifted on the sofa, making myself more comfortable.

  Vivienne, who had been watching me alertly exclaimed, “You’re not going to stop, are you, Countess Zoë? I want to hear the rest of your story. Please.”

  “Then you shall, Vivienne,” I said. “I am going to tell you everything . . . things no one else has ever heard.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “It was in London that I started my second life, Vivienne. And it was much happier than my first, thanks in no small measure to my aunt Bronagh.

  “She was my mother’s younger sister and an actress. When she lived in New York she had worked with a small theater company in Greenwich Village. And it was there that she met a young English actor named Jonathan St. James. They had fallen in love, and when he returned to England in 1933 she had gone with him. They had been married for five years when I arrived to stay with them.

  “The moment I walked into their little house in Pimlico my spirits lifted. It was a warm, cozy place, almost like a doll’s house, and Jonathan St. James made me feel welcome and at home. Like Bronagh he was in his late twenties and the two of them were full of vitality, high spirits, and somewhat bohemian in their lifestyle. They were crazy about each other and the theater, and both were working in plays in the West End. Naturally, they were in their element. Their happiness and gaiety was infectious and I soon felt much better, better than I had since my early childhood when my father was still alive. They were loving with each other and with me.

  “Slowly my health improved; my broken spirit began to heal. And Bronagh restored my soul. Sympathetic by nature, she had an understanding heart; gradually, I started to confide in her. Things came out slowly, little by little. Within three months she knew the whole story of my life, and she was enraged. ‘You’re not going back there, Mary Ellen. I swear to God it’ll be over my dead body if you do. Mary, Mother of Jesus! It’s criminal, what’s been done to you, sure an’ it is, mavourneen.’ Jonathan, who by this time knew everything from Bronagh, agreed that I must not return to New Jersey under any circumstances.

  “But no one seemed in much of a hurry to get me back, including my mother. Of course I knew that in her case she was protecting me, trying to keep me out of harm’s way. She wrote to me regularly and never failed to tell me she loved me, and I did the same, sending her a letter once a week.

  “At the end of six months in London I was a different person. Bronagh and Jonathan had truly worked miracles. They had cossetted and pampered me and it showed. I had put on weight; there was flesh on my bones at last. I had grown taller and my figure was willowy. The bloom was on the rose, as Bronagh kept saying to me.

  “But most importantly, because of Bronagh and Jonathan I felt safe, more secure than I had for years. I was no longer cowed and scared, fearful of being beaten or abused. The fear I had lived with for so long finally diminished and I came to understand that one day it would vanish completely.

  “Once I had believed that the only way out of my torment was to die. I had been a mere child of thirteen when I had contemplated suicide, Vivienne, that was part of the tragedy. You see, I had had no childhood.

  “But I turned a corner during those first few months in London. I was aware that I could become a whole new person, have a new identity, start again.

  “That summer Bronagh found me a job through a friend of hers. I became a dancer in a cabaret in the West End. Because of my height and slender figure I made the perfect showgirl.

  “I loved it all—the glamour, the costumes, the crowds, the glitter of the footlights. I had found my true métier. The stage was mine. It meant everything to me. It became my entire world. I put death and heartbreak behind me; I reached out for life.

  “Since I was living in a brand-new world I needed a brand-new name. Discarding Mary Ellen Rafferty, which only reminded me of my pain and humiliation, I invented a new one for myself.

  “Zoë Lysle. That is who I became. With this new name I acquired a different persona. Zoë had never been touched or damaged; she was clean, pure, whole. And every night when I stepped out onto the stage in my fine feathers I was reborn. I soared.

  “I missed my mother, I worried about her, and I had moments of sadness when I thought about my baby who had died at birth. But these moments were fleeting. After all, I was only sixteen. I had started my life again . . . as Zoë. I looked forward always, never back.

  “I did not hear from my husband and I was relieved he had remained silent for so long. When I had first arrived in London I had worried that he would eventually drag me back to America. But as the summer passed and there was no word from him I began to relax.

  “Then on September the third, 1939, Britain declared war on Nazi Germany. The world turned upside down. The war years in London were extraordinary—full of hardships and danger because of the constant air raids. But I came through them relatively unscathed.

  “After America entered the war in 1941, American troops started to flood into Britain. Every time I saw a GI I was scared to look at his face in case it was my stepfather. But he did not show up in London, although I knew from my mother that Tommy had joined the U.S. Army.

  “As for my husband, I didn’t know what had actually happened to him. He had sold the farm in Somerset County, divorced me, and had the legal papers sent to me in 1940, in care of Bronagh. I never heard from him again.

  “Being a showgirl I had many admirers and went out with some of them. But I was forever wary, always on my guard, determined that I would not be exposed to the heartlessness of others ever again.

  “However, in 1943 I met an English officer in the Coldstream Guards. He was the Honorable Harry Robson, a captain in the army and the son of an English lord. Harry’s father had been married three times and his last wife, Harry’s mother, had been an American heiress with a railroad fortune at her disposal. When she died in 1940 Harry had inherited everything.

  “I was twenty-one when Harry and I started going out together. He was twenty-eight. Harry was bowled over by me the first time we met, and I was rather taken with him. He was pleasant to look at and in his demeanor, the first kind man I had met other than Jonathan St. James.

  “Encouraged by Bronagh and Jonathan I accepted Harry’s proposal. We were married in 1944. At the time he insisted I retire from the stage and I was happy to do so. I had grown accustomed to men ogling me. But in all truth, Vivienne, there was often a knot of fear inside when I sensed instinctively that I had attracted someone who might be difficult to handle. Curiously enough, loving the stage though I had, I never missed it.

  “And so m
y third life began, Vivienne. Harry and I had five years together. They were good years. I was devoted to him. I know I made him happy; he gave me security and protection and a great deal of love.

  “Harry was crossing Oxford Street in 1949 when he was knocked down by a double-decker bus. He died of massive internal injuries a week later. I was grief stricken. I had loved Harry, in my own way, and I knew I would miss this gentle, generous man who had been so good to me.

  “After the funeral I went into mourning, kept to myself, and wondered what to do with the rest of my life. I was twenty-seven and Harry had made me a wealthy woman. I was his sole heir.

  “I had no wish to return to America. There was nothing there for me. My mother had died not long after I had married Harry. It was a year after I was widowed that I decided to take a vacation in Paris. Almost at once I knew I would make it my permanent home. I did so and disappeared from the London scene forever.

  “I began my fourth life when I married Édouard, but then you know a good deal about that life, Vivienne, and what happened to me in the intervening years. As I already told you, Sam Loring showed up in Paris in 1983 and blackmailed me to the tune of one hundred thousand dollars because of my affair with Joe Anthony, or rather, Sebastian Locke. I paid because I wanted to protect my family, even though I knew that it was risky to do so. Loring could come back at any time and demand more money.

  “However, a few days after I had paid Loring I began to worry about another matter, one that had more serious implications than blackmail. I decided to go to America to check out something for myself. When I told Édouard that I had family business to attend to in the States he suggested I go alone. At eighty-six he did not feel like traveling anymore.

  “I flew to New York and went straight to the Pierre Hotel, where I had booked a suite. The following day I hired a private investigator to do the work I required. It did not take him long. Within forty-eight hours he brought me the information I needed.

  “What I had dreaded and feared was true. For several days I was in shock and incapable of thinking straight. But as the shock receded I filled with enormous rage. For the first time in my life I wanted to kill somebody. . .”

  I realized that I could not continue.

  A wave of emotion swept over me, and I was held in the grip of that terrible fury I had experienced twelve years ago. I was trembling inside.

  “The rage has never really left me,” I said at last, looking at Vivienne, holding her with my eyes. “Nor have I ever lost the desire to kill that man.”

  “Which man? Who do you mean, Countess Zoë?”

  “Cyrus Locke.”

  “Cyrus? But why? Because of Loring? Because Cyrus sent Loring to follow Sebastian all those years ago, when you met him in Cannes?”

  “No, Vivienne, this has nothing to do with Loring. In a way he was a godsend, coming to me when he did. He helped me without even realizing it, helped me to avert a great tragedy.”

  A puzzled expression crossed Vivienne’s face. “I’m sorry Countess Zoë, but I’m afraid I’m not following you.”

  “Of course you’re not,” I said and stopped.

  My throat suddenly constricted, I could feel the tears welling behind my eyes and I had begun to shake uncontrollably.

  Taking a deep breath, I clasped my hands together to steady myself, but my voice quavered as I said, “Cyrus Locke was the owner of the farm in New Jersey. He was the man who abused me as a child and raped me when I was fifteen, the man who impregnated me, married me, and then discarded me like a piece of worthless garbage. And he stole my child. He told me my baby had died, but that was not the truth. My son lived. My son Sebastian.”

  As I said his name the tears crept out from under my lids and slid down my cheeks. I brought my shaking hands up to my face and the tears continued to fall unchecked.

  Vivienne came and sat next to me on the sofa. She took me in her arms and held me close, endeavoring to comfort me.

  And I wept as I had wept in 1983, on the night I had discovered the shocking truth. And I felt as though my heart were breaking all over again, as it had done then.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Eventually I drew away from Vivienne, found a handkerchief in my pocket, and blew my nose.

  Then I looked at her.

  She was white-faced, and I could see the pain in her eyes. Reaching out, I squeezed her hand. “Thank you,” I said, and before she could ask any questions I went on, “I’d like to finish my story, tell you the rest of it, Vivienne.”

  She nodded. “You must.”

  “Armed with Sam Loring’s information I grew suspicious when I began to focus on Joe Anthony’s age—” I broke off. “I always think of him as Joe, never Sebastian. Anyway, he was twenty-two and I was thirty-eight when we met in Cannes. Sixteen years difference in age. My mind began to race. My baby had been born on June the third, 1938. He had died the same day, according to Cyrus Locke and the midwife who had delivered the child at the farm in New Jersey. Had my baby lived he, too, would have been twenty-two in 1960.

  “It was hardly likely that Cyrus Locke had fathered two sons in 1938. No, only mine, I reasoned. Especially since he had not married again for several years.

  “The unthinkable was staring me in the face. Was it possible that my child had lived? Was it possible that Sebastian was not Hildegarde Locke’s son, but mine? And if he were, then I had given birth to a child by my own son. My daughter Ariel.

  “I was horror-struck, and naturally I denied it to myself for some time. But in the end intelligence took over from emotion, and I was convinced that Cyrus Locke had lied to me all those years ago. I was haunted by the knowledge that we had committed incest, although we had done so unknowingly. I felt as though I were living in a nightmare. Ariel fathered by my own son. My mind shut down whenever I thought of this.

  “After a great deal of soul-searching I realized there was only one thing to do. I must go to New York and start digging for the facts. I had to know the truth for my own sanity. As I explained to you, I hired a private investigator and asked him to obtain certain documents for me. I also told him I wanted him to provide me with information about Cyrus Locke. I was vaguely aware that, after divorcing me, he had eventually remarried and fathered children. I had noticed the occasional item about him in newspapers over the years, but wanting to forget that painful period in my life I had paid little attention.

  “Several days later the private investigator reported to me at the Pierre Hotel. He brought with him various documents and a detailed summary of Cyrus Locke’s life.

  “The most important document was a copy of Sebastian’s birth certificate. And there in black and white was the date of his birth: June the third, 1938. The father’s name was given as Cyrus Lyon Locke. The mother’s name was Mary Ellen Rafferty Locke. Me. The place of birth was shown as Reddington Farm, Somerset County, New Jersey. As I had requested, the private investigator had also obtained a copy of my marriage certificate.

  “The report about Cyrus Locke explained additional things to me. Apparently he had moved to Maine after selling the farm in New Jersey and lived in a mansion he had owned since December of 1937. Obviously he had bought this immediately after marrying me. There was no doubt in my mind that he took the baby to Maine with a nurse, installed them in that house, and brought up the child himself until he remarried several years later.

  “I think he always planned to do this, Vivienne. When he raped me he was thirty-three years old, unmarried, and childless. Once he discovered he had made me pregnant, he married me to get the child. He did not want me. I was of no further use to him. But he did want an heir. The more I pondered it the more convinced I became this was the only explanation. Otherwise why would he have stolen my baby?

  “That night at the Pierre Hotel my world was shattered. I was so devastated I was unable to function properly for almost a week. Finally I managed to pull myself together and flew back to France. I had a life there, a husband and family who adored me.
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  “But it was not easy for me to go on, and for some months I was desperately ill. The doctors were baffled as was Édouard. I was not. I knew what was wrong with me. I carried a terrible secret in my heart. It was a secret I could not confide to anyone on this earth. It was the greatest burden I’ve ever had to bear, and I was concerned about Ariel. At twenty-two my daughter was beautiful and a brilliant student. Everyone predicted she would have an extraordinary career in medicine. I knew there had been no genetic damage; nonetheless, I fretted about her.

  “It was Édouard who helped me to recover my health. He was no longer young, but he was a robust and active man, and he devoted all of his time to me. He was always at my side, always encouraging me. And he was full of love.

  “Gradually, I began to feel better. I stopped blaming myself. I accepted that I could not change what had happened so long ago; therefore, I must live with it.

  “Once I was finally on my feet I put every ounce of strength and energy into loving Édouard, Ariel, and Charles. I survived because I am a survivor by nature. In 1985 I received a letter postmarked Chicago. My heart missed a beat when I saw the name S. Loring on the back of the envelope. The letter was from Sam Loring’s daughter Samantha. She had written to tell me her father had died. One of his last requests of her was that she write to let me know he had passed away. She told me that he thanked me for my aid in his time of need. So, my blackmailer was dead.

  “When my beloved Edouard died in 1986 I felt that my life had come to an end too. We had been very close for the last twenty-odd years of our marriage. He had been my great love and my cherished companion; he had been my whole life. Without him I believed there was no reason for me to exist. But I went on. I drew immense pleasure from Ariel and Charles, from my daughter-in-law Marguerite and grandson Gerard. As the years slid by I somehow managed to obliterate Joe Anthony from my mind and I put the past behind me.