“But of course.” Katherine arched one silver eyebrow, disapprovingly. “If one comes from a good family ... one hardly needs to ‘get used’ to it.”
Judy was unbowed. In fact, she felt a stirring of her old self—something that she had shoved relentlessly underground when the affair with Tom started. She was sick of playing the good girl. How far had it got her anyway?
She regarded Katherine with loathing, and decided to stir the pot a little.
“And are you?” she asked. “From a good family, I mean?”
Katherine made a motion that, were she younger, might have been interpreted as tossing her head.
“Being an American, I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” she said, “but the house of Massot is a very old French family....”
“All families are old,” Judy said, unfazed. “Adam and Eve, right?”
Katherine stiffened.
“I see it now,” she said, with a dangerous silkiness to her voice. “You’re so like poor Sophie, my dear ... common girls from common backgrounds ... it doesn’t do to have people from your class coming into society. It’s unkind, really. You have no idea how to behave, and you do rather linger past your usefulness.”
“And you?” Judy adopted a similarly light tone; she found she was actually enjoying the fencing. Maybe Katherine was banking that Tom was sick of her, but Judy had a suspicion Tom was sick of Katherine. After all, his grandmother couldn’t satisfy him in bed.
There was, as she considered that point, that sick feeling . . . the words of Françoise, about Pierre—father and son—but Judy wouldn’t go there. She told herself she loved Tom. And if she played her cards right, one day this house could be hers. She would sit in Katherine’s gilt chair, and the servants would fawn over her. “And you, Katherine? What’s your background? You aren’t a Massot by birth, are you?”
Katherine Massot stared at the American girl, sitting there as cool and impudent as you please, with her jewels—gifts from Tom—glittering inappropriately at her wrists and lobes; she was overwhelmed by them. A typical, brash New World slut, she decided.
“I’m afraid our conversation has left me a little fatigued,” she declared. “Would you mind very much if we terminated our little tea party?”
Judy stood up. This was typical of Katherine, who’d summoned her imperiously to tea out of the office. Katherine wanted to draw her into the web; she would try and truss her, and suck the juice out of her, the way she’d done with Sophie.
But I’m no Sophie, Judy thought. I’m not weak. I’m not trusting. I’m a match for her.
“Of course not, dear Katherine,” she said brightly. “I do hope you feel recovered by dinner. It’s Tom’s favourite. He does love to indulge.”
She invested the last word with as much meaning as she could, and pirouetted on her heels. It was a pleasant evening, and she’d walk back up to the château—that always made her feel better.
The butler bowed and scraped, but nonetheless physically hustled her—in a very discreet way—towards the door. Judy pretended not to notice, but rage boiled inside her. Ignoring him, she marched smartly out of the front porch and down the weathered grey steps of the dower house, her shoes crunching on the gravel of the drive, until she hit the tarmac. It was three-quarters of a mile back to the château—a short walk, and a welcome one; Judy wanted to work on her demeanour. Tom must not see her angry.
The château, with its ornate towers and grey stone crenulated walls, was lovely—so breathtakingly lovely. There was nothing Judy’d ever seen to match it, no billionaire’s penthouse on Fifth, no modern luxury pad in Miami. No, this was old, old money—the oldest—the kind that even Wall Street couldn’t give you. Judy glanced down at Tom’s latest gift, a ring of canary and white diamonds, a perfectly formed daisy. World-class jewels, and a château, and an estate. It was a fairy tale—the Massot fairy tale. She had clung to Pierre, had always hoped that what he’d given to that mouse Sophie he might give to her.
It had never happened, but now Judy had another chance. Forget those dirty feelings when she slept with Tom. Judy kept her eyes on the château. Focus, that was what it was all about. Her eyes on the prize . . .
The house soothed her, and she started to cast her eyes around the grounds. Screw Katherine, look at the lake. Look at the woods, blazing with autumn leaves; the orchards, the stables . . . Judy felt her funk lift. An almost savage desire overcame her. She wanted this place. She wanted to be more than a guest, more than a footnote in the saga of the Massots. Always the worker bee, never the queen. It made her sick. It had to change.
She started; there was a familiar voice. Tom’s. What was he doing? It was coming from the stone bench under the weeping willow, a little way off the path. Instinctively, Judy froze. She didn’t want to be seen; she didn’t want to explain where she’d been. Her little joust with Katherine should stay secret. But who was he talking to? They had no visitors, not today.
She moved away from the path, very quietly; Tom’s back was to her, and now she saw: he was on his cell phone. Judy hesitated. If he saw her . . .
But she wanted to know who it was. Information was her currency. And although the sharp points of her heels were sinking into the manicured lawn, she crept behind a broad spreading yew tree, a little way from him. And listened.
“Yeah, well.” That was Tom, but not the voice she knew. It wasn’t so dignified—rougher, edged with longing—and the accent was gone: he sounded so English. “I feel the same way,” he said, gruffly. “And your finals . . . you got the results?”
There was a pause. “Really? Congratulations,” he said. “I didn’t have you figured for a nerd.” Another pause. And then he laughed.
Judy shivered. She had never heard Tom this way, not so young and pompous, relaxed, even lighthearted. Not with her.
“And that’s definite, is it Poll?” he asked, teasingly this time. “You’re missing out, you know. There’s no good coffee that side of the channel.”
The wave of nausea that rushed up over Judy took her by surprise, and she actually thought she might throw up. She swayed dangerously against the tree, feeling ill, the blood rushing to her head. Tom was still talking, and laughing, thank God, and he didn’t turn around. Judy scooped up her shoes, and ran—ran on her padded feet, ran, getting grass stains and daisy petals crushed into her Woolford’s—ran up the hill, away from him, towards the pear orchard. That way she could walk back to the house without being seen.
Judy ran. Years of training, and her body obeyed her. She was fast, her muscles taut, even without sneakers. She wished she could keep running forever. At least her speed was there for her—at least she could control that.
After some time, she became aware that she was crying. That would not do. She slowed, stopped beside the dead trunk of a fallen apple tree.
Judy knew exactly who was on the other end of that phone. Conversations she’d had with Tom had pried it out of him; his seeming insouciance didn’t fool her. The girl had mattered to him.Very much. A young girl, much younger than Judy.
Polly was her name. Poll, for short. And Tom was laughing and joking with her.
Judy slipped her heels on and headed left, towards the kitchen-garden entrance to the house. There were some servants there once she got inside, but she ignored them; she coughed a little, as though to explain her red eyes, and ran up the first marble staircase in the great hall, to her private room.
Judy thought of Katherine. And Sophie. The Massot women, proved right again. Of herself, unceremoniously dumped. She could cling on here—she was confident enough in her own sexual ability to know that—but she was now borrowing time. How would Tom do it, she wondered? A clean break? A shamefaced phone call? A letter—perhaps containing some kiss-off jewellery?
Certainly she would lose her job.
Judy’s heart thudded in her rib cage. Well, it wasn’t going to happen again. She was not about to be dumped by the son after being sidelined by the father. Screw the Massot girls. Screw the
Massot men. . . .
That thought stuck. She paused, went into her bathroom. First, she carefully washed her face and made up: pinks, to go with her Chloé dress for dinner.
Then she went to the medicine cabinet, that beautiful ornamental thing, an age-spotted mirrored door surrounded by ivory; she took out her contraceptive pills and methodically flushed every last one of them down the lavatory.
Judy smiled to herself. As a tactic, it was as old as the hills.
But then so was love. And so was revenge.
The French had some marvellous inheritance laws, she now recalled; it was illegal to shut a child out of the will.
Marriage or no marriage, Judy could control this family forever. And she was determined to do it.
Chapter 41
Sophie had never had so much fun.
That first evening, she wrote a letter to Tom.
My darling boy,
I’m staying with Hugh Montfort, at his place in Ireland, for the time being. He had no personal enmity with your father, and I hope one day you’ll give him a chance.
I want you to understand that I feel no anger toward you. I believe Granny and you have made a mistake, but you must sort that out for yourselves. I will always love you. One day you’ll understand that loving a child doesn’t always mean conforming to his wishes.
You can call me on my mobile anytime. I hope to see you soon. And don’t trust Judy. I know for a fact that she doesn’t love you.
Love,
Maman
She posted it herself the next day, in the village. And then, with some difficulty, she made herself forget about Tom.
After the first day or two, it wasn’t hard. Ireland was gorgeous, and Hugh showed her the time of her life. They rode out over his fields; they hiked through the woods; he insisted that she try to fish, and even though it was wet and cold, and she felt stupid wearing one of his old cricket jumpers, Sophie managed to catch a tiny trout—it gave her the thrill of a lifetime when she unhooked it and let it slip back into the stream. They went to fairs and bought local food and crafts; she became a jumble sale expert, and enjoyed the harvest festival. While Hugh worked out in his gym, two hours every day, Sophie took some time and just enjoyed a book.
Every sunrise, she felt a little more life flood back into her limbs.
As much as she loved the place, she loved the man more. Hugh was nothing like Pierre—nothing. His dominance, what she had thought of as dominance, now seemed like petty psychological bullshit. Sophie was ashamed she’d ever fallen for it. Pierre had been faithless, controlling, weak; Hugh was a real man. He had fought for his country—he’d taken his shirt off once, in front of her, when he slipped on a stone and fell in the stream—Sophie had seen the scars.
She’d seen the finely muscled chest and strong arms, too, and the dark smattering of hair. And she’d wanted to see the rest of it.
Hugh. He was a friend, a protector, a confidant. But Sophie also longed for him, physically, in a way she had never experienced. Not with Pierre, and certainly not with Gregoire. With them, she’d only wanted to seem desirable.
Hugh was more than a mirror. He was so stunning—so confident, manly, utterly gorgeous. He’d kissed her like he owned her. That first night. And Sophie was afraid to kiss him again because of what might happen. Now that she knew him better, she also knew herself. Once she started to kiss him, she’d never stop.
“It’s getting cold,” Hugh said.
“I don’t mind.” Sophie hugged herself. “I feel perfectly warm.”
It was true. They were trudging through some crunchy bracken, following a forest path that led back to the castle from the village. It was undeniably beautiful: ash, yew, pine, and oak—a mixed forest, golden in the full fire of autumn. Yet she had hardly seen any of it. They’d gone to lunch in the village, at the pub. And Hugh suggested they walk home.
A slow, long, beautiful walk. Sophie felt quite dazed with love. It was amazing; it was everything she’d imagined and never received. The desire, enough to make her faint, and yet the familiarity—the sense that he’d always been there, and please God, would never leave.
It was like being drunk, without the hangover.
Truly, in love.
In fact she knew that better than she knew almost anything, right now.
“Hugh.” Sophie stopped, by a patch of bracken. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
She tried to keep the tone light, but Montfort wasn’t fooled for a moment. He stopped dead, and took her hand.
“Of course,” he said, gently, reassuringly. “What is it?”
“It’s about us.”
“Is it because you haven’t heard from Tom? I can talk to him, if you like—”
“No, not Tom.” The thought of Hugh calling the château almost made her laugh. “And I don’t think that would be such a great idea.”
“I’ll have to get to know him eventually.”
“It’s, you know . . . something else.” Sophie blushed and felt stupid. “It’s my religion.”
“Your what?”
“Religion.” She stared at her feet. “I can’t sleep with you.”
Hugh stopped and raised a brow.
“Well, that’s a bit of a facer. Have you taken a vow of chastity? Joined a nunnery?”
Sophie squirmed. “You know what I mean. I just . . . it’s been a month—”
“I’ve been counting the days. I assure you.”
His black eyes swept, assessingly, over her body; Sophie flushed as though the tight jeans and sweater were transparent.
“I just don’t want you to think I’m teasing you. Or . . . leading you on.”
“No sex before marriage.”
She nodded.
He turned away. “I understand. Come on, Sophie—let’s get back, before you get a chill.”
Hugh walked on through the forest. And her stomach turned over.That’s it then, Sophie thought.That’s the end. He wanted me the first day. But he’s not going to wait forever.
It’s finished, she thought. And she picked up her boots and trudged on, determined that she wouldn’t let Hugh see her cry.
Hugh had never thought of himself as a good actor. He could keep his own counsel, in business, and in war; that was about all, though. At present, all he wanted to do was to get away from Sophie. Long enough so that she wouldn’t be able to guess.
When they got back to the castle, he pecked her distantly on the cheek and asked to be excused.
“I have to run an errand in Cork: bloody insurance. Do you think you’ll be all right by yourself for a while?”
Her face was glum, but she struggled to smile.
“Don’t mind me,” she said. “I’m in the middle of a Jilly Cooper reading marathon. I wanted some time to finish Octavia.”
“See you later, then; tell Mrs. O’Connor what you want for dinner—all right?”
“Okay,” she muttered, turning to go up the stairs.
Hugh exhaled. He’d made it. He rushed out to his garage, retrieved the Aston Martin. He thought it would take two hours. He had been mulling this over since the middle of last week, when she’d been laughing with him after dinner, and he had determined this moment would come. He’d made several calls, and prepared; now he fished out his mobile and rang Paul.
“I’m thinking this evening.”
The restaurateur clicked his tongue. “What time?”
“Early—six. I have to turn this around before she gets herself a sandwich at home. D’you think you can pull it off?”
“No problem. In fact, I only need an hour. Forty-five minutes, even.”
Hugh was taken aback. “So fast?”
“For you, I’ve been practicing,” the chef said.
“You have my gratitude,” Hugh answered, and snapped the phone shut. He was touched by the good wishes of these people that he knew only slightly: his housekeeper, his cook, the owner of his favourite village restaurant. For the first time that day, he felt a sliver of nerves penetrate
his happiness. He trusted that none of them would be disappointed.
He could make it to Cork in twenty minutes flat, if he ignored the speed limit. Hugh pressed his foot on the accelerator, and the car took off down the road like a hare flying across the fields.
The sun had just set when he returned to the castle, and the blue sky of twilight was still streaked with gold. Hugh hurried inside and was met by Mrs. O’Connor.
“Has Mrs. Massot eaten?” he asked.
“She’s still in her room, sir. She did ask for a salad half an hour ago—”
Hugh’s shoulder’s slumped. Damn it.
“But I told her the cook was still in Kilcarrick, finishing the shopping.”
“Well done!” said Hugh, who could have kissed her. “Would you go and get her, and ask her if she’d like to come out for dinner with me? Tell her it’s nothing special, she shouldn’t bother to change.”
“Yes, sir.” The older woman hovered. “And best of luck to you,” she added.
Hugh grinned and gave her a solemn wink. “Thanks, Mrs. O’Connor.”
“Where are we going?” Sophie asked. She still felt gloomy; Hugh had asked her to take care of her own dinner arrangements for the first time since she’d arrived in Eire.
She felt like a deflated balloon. It couldn’t be long, surely, before Hugh made some excuse, asked her to leave. He wouldn’t be the kind of man who was prepared to wait.
Sophie thought this might be her last night here. Why make it hard on Hugh. It would be much easier if she left than if he had to try and get her out. She’d had a fantastic, glorious month with him. She didn’t want it to end on a sour note.
“It’s just a little local place. Called the Blind Pike.”
Despite herself, she smiled. “Great name for a pub.”
Sparkles Page 40