Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  “Good girl.” His fingers splayed, and stroked her rib cage; he enjoyed her shiver. “Just to show you how much you mean to me, you will accompany me to the château. I will insist that the family accept you as my most trusted friend.”

  “Sophie knows we were lovers; Tom, also . . .”

  “A youthful indiscretion we both regret. But we intend to stay friends, so I introduce you. It will all be open and aboveboard; you will dine at the château with the family once a week.”

  He smiled. Pitting women against each other was his favourite spectator sport. His mouse of a wife would not object. He knew ways to psychologically break women. In Sophie’s case, he would pretend to discover Catholicism.

  Guilt was an excellent tool.

  “Katherine will hate that,” Judy said, licking her lips.

  “Mother, like Sophie and Tom, will obey me.” Pierre shrugged. “I have had many years to plan this, Judy. I assure you, I have thought through every detail.” His lips twitched at the corners. “And I intend to enjoy it.”

  Darkness had settled across the park. Sophie tugged her sweater tighter around her; through the open doors of the drawing room she could see the stars; there was a three-quarter moon, and the black surface of the lake glittered with its reflection, like a flash from a jet bead.

  No cloud cover. The night was brilliant, but cold.

  She tried to pray. But she could not feel God. Her anger was huge, and hard, inside her chest, a diamond that would cut everything, destroy every feeling. She wanted Hugh, and she might never hold him again. Never feel him inside her. Why had this happened to her?

  Pierre must agree—agree that he never intended to marry her, not truly. He must speak the truth and let her go. Or else, she was condemned to a loveless, lonely life. There would never be another man for her but Hugh. Sophie knew it. She had been born to love him. And only him.

  She still believed in God. And her faith. She would not go to Hugh, if she were truly married to Pierre. She would live alone, and see only Tom; she would obey God’s law.

  And she would hate Him for it.

  The huge fire hissed and crackled in the flagstone hearth. It was the largest one in the whole château; it took some of the chill out of the air, and sent the shadows dancing around the room.

  Sophie gazed about: at the portraits on the walls, the fine damasks, the antique firearms, the Roman and Greek statuary; this glorious room had once been one of her favourites. Tonight, she loathed it. It was a prison.

  God, how she wanted Hugh.

  He had brought her, but he had not stayed. She couldn’t allow it. Tom was to meet his father again. This was for the Massots, and no others could be admitted.

  “You are not cold, Sophie?” Katherine asked, solicitously.

  Sophie glanced at her, tiredly. “No.”

  Katherine smiled. “I am sure,” she hissed, “we are all lit with the fires of love. Especially those of us who had faith.”

  Tom said nothing. He was staring into space, and Sophie watched his fingers grip the armrest of his chair.

  She tried to muster some enthusiasm.

  “Thank God, Pierre is alive, and well. It is a . . . great mercy.”

  He was son, and father, to the two people here with her. They would always love him, just as she never could.

  “There is no need to thank God. Pierre takes care of himself.” Katherine adjusted her collar of gleaming diamonds; they flashed and sparkled in the firelight. Sophie had never seen her dress like this; her appearance at the party had been a mere preamble to tonight.

  When Katherine had entered the room, in all the state of a dowager queen, Sophie had gasped. She looked, from a distance, a full twenty years younger. Her hair had been viciously scraped back from her face, pulling the papery skin upwards. Her cheeks and eyes had been professionally made up; the slack folds of the thin neck were completely hidden in the diamond collar—probably, of all her personal pieces, the most expensive; Pierre had explained, long ago, that it belonged to the Empress Eugenie. Her gown was of a flattering mink-coloured satin, contoured with a whalebone corset and a billowing skirt; her hands wore fingerless ecru lace gloves, to cover the liver spots; and Sophie suspected that under the elegant folds of her hem, Katherine was wearing heels.

  On her right hand, she wore a perfect, golden spessartite garnet, eighteen carats, surrounded by flawless diamonds, and a cuff bracelet of intricately worked Russian gold. She might have been attending a ball at the court of the Tsar.

  Sophie was amazed; Katherine came close to looking attractive . . . in a certain light, like this one, lit by the dancing flames, not the harsh rays of the sun.

  She herself had not changed. She would make no concessions, give nothing but her presence. She wore the suit she had arrived in: a simple, clean Givenchy in cornflower blue, with a sapphire pendant that was a gift from Hugh. Sophie had removed her engagement ring, and her second wedding ring.

  The first would go, as well. But—she looked at her son again—not tonight.

  There was a sound—the crunch of tires on gravel. Everybody heard it.

  “He’s here.” Katherine’s voice was a shout of joy, as clear as a forty-year-old’s. “Pierre! He’s here! He’s home!”

  Sophie felt light-headed, sick, but she didn’t care about herself. She walked over to Tom, squeezed him and hugged him.

  “I’m happy for you darling,” she whispered. “I love you, Tom—I love you so much.”

  Tom held her; his grip was so hard it hurt. But she did not care.

  The butler came in; his voice trembled.

  “Mesdames, Monsieur,” he announced. “The master of the house is here.”

  And then, walking into the room, came her husband.

  With Judy Dean, right behind him.

  Sophie gasped. She heard Katherine gasp. Tom’s grip tightened further, painfully. Judy gave each of them a triumphant smile—she wore a scarlet dress of shimmering silk, and her neck was hung around with rubies.

  Pierre was in a suit. And his eyes, reproachfully, swept over the three of them.

  “Well,” he said. “I’m home.”

  Chapter 54

  Pierre turned to the butler. “Close the door, and make sure that we are not disturbed.”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  Sophie looked at Judy. How did he have the face to do it? To bring her here? She bit her lip; rage surged in her chest. But her son was gripping her hand. So she said nothing.

  Katherine was the first to speak.

  “Welcome,” she said, in ringing tones. “Welcome, welcome, my love—my darling. I never believed you were gone. Never, for one second.”

  Pierre walked across the room and took her hand; he gently kissed her cheek.

  “My beloved Maman,” he said—and Sophie thought she saw a flash of anger in Katherine’s eyes. But no. It could not be so.

  “And my son. Let me see you.”

  Tom relinquished his mother’s hand and stood up. He hesitated, then hugged his father.

  “My son,” Pierre repeated. “You look exactly like me.” He kissed him on both cheeks, in the French manner. “And, finally, Sophie—my beloved wife.”

  Sophie was mindful of Tom. She seethed, she wanted to slap him, but instead, she turned a cool cheek to him, and let him kiss her. Then she quickly stood, and moved back a step.

  He was not to touch her, beyond that. She would never again be his.

  “Pierre—you are well?”

  “I am. And I am refreshed in the soul to see you. I prayed, day and night, that I would see my family again. I know what has happened.” He moved back, towards the fire. “And I want you all to know that I forgive you.”

  “Why is she here?”

  The question burst from Tom. Sophie’s head lifted; her son’s anger startled her.

  “Why is Judy Dean standing like a guest in my mother’s parlour?”

  Pierre’s dark eyes narrowed.

  “Because she is a guest. She is my
friend.”

  “She is your lover.” Tom passed a hand through his hair. “Do you know, Papa, how often I have dreamed of this day? Do you know how I have prayed—how I have longed for you? How I would have offered my soul just to have this moment? And then, for it to happen, and for you to—to ruin it. To bring that bitch of a woman into our house.” Tom’s eyes were full of angry tears. “You do not know how she has wrecked this family.”

  “Tom, Tom.” Pierre glanced over the Massots; they were not reacting quite as he had expected. Perhaps it had not been a good idea to bring the slut. The boy had grown up. The women, of course, were weak; they did not object.

  He tinkered with his approach.

  “There is an important reason that I bring her, my child. I have prayed, and the good Lord has shown me the way”—that’s right, Vladek, lay it on thick—“our family must heal, and it must know the truth. And the sad truth is that, long ago, I betrayed your mother, the love of my life. Judy and I are both here to beg her forgiveness. Just as I forgive her for giving up all hope of me. We must both live with the fact that another has possessed our spouse. But we can forgive, go on, and be a family again.” He turned to Sophie. “I am hoping you will introduce me to that old priest ... Père Sabin. . . . I want to start going to church as we rebuild our marriage.”

  “I do apologize,” Judy said. “I was young. . . .”

  Sophie saw no sincerity in her eyes; the woman was barely suppressing her mirth. A stab of hatred shot through her. Pierre was talking about God? He intended to tie her down.

  Still, she said nothing.

  “But Judy and I are friends. We have fifteen years as close friends, before we ever slipped as lovers, and I will not betray that. When you are alone in a prison cell you learn what’s important. We’ll remain friendly, and Judy will be a guest of this family.” Pierre’s eyes, confident, commanding, settled on Tom. “You will resign tomorrow from the firm and give up your place at Oxford. I will select a position where you can work, under me—nothing too senior, you understand. You must learn from your error in selling the shares. Maman—my dear.” He turned to Katherine. “You must give up all the shares I had allocated to you, for you see, I can no longer trust your judgement. Since your grasp of financial matters seems a little hazy, I will start to have the accounts of the dower house audited. For your own good. And you, Sophie.” He turned to her last. “I love you, and you know we are obliged to forgive each other’s infidelities. I expect you to stay home and to try to repair your reputation.” He reached out, and traced a fingertip across her collarbone. “I intend that we shall regain our marital passion.”

  Pierre smiled. “You see? It is as if no time had passed. Everything shall be what it was.”

  “No,” Sophie said.

  She surprised herself; her voice was clear and calm.

  “What do you mean, no?” he asked, with soft malice.

  It didn’t impress Sophie. To his fury, she ignored him and turned to their son.

  “Tom,” Sophie said. “I am sorry, dearest, but I think we should get some things straight at the outset. It will be better for the family that way.”

  “It’s all right, Maman.” Tom had brushed off the tears, and nodded at her. “I agree.”

  “Pierre, I am not prepared to live as your wife. I thank God you are well, but I want to apply for an annulment.”

  He could not believe it. “I just told you, that God’s law . . .”

  “I don’t believe you care about God’s law,” Sophie said coldly. “I believe you never intended fidelity. I know there were countless women. We have a son together, so I hope we will be courteous. Even friendly. But I shall file for civil divorce tomorrow, and I will seek to have this marriage annulled.”

  “And I will resign my job; the new company probably belongs to you anyway.” Tom stood up. “But I will go back to Oxford, Father. And I will never speak to Judy Dean again. If you bring her into any place where I am, I will leave. This point is not negotiable.”

  Pierre stared.

  He could not believe it. It simply did not compute. His clingy son and his mouselike wife. Defying him. Refusing his authority. Sophie, whom he had been so sure would jump at the first bit of religious trash he tossed at her . . .

  “I will not give you an annulment,” he said, with ice-cold tones. “I will fight you all the way to the Vatican. You will never get to marry that English bastard. You will love me, be with me, or be a lonely old maid for the rest of your life.”

  Sophie could not stop herself.

  “No contest,” she said, with contempt.

  Tom bristled. “Do not speak to Maman that way, Papa. The fault was yours, not hers. You don’t own her. She was a good wife to you.”

  A red mist, a pure, bright rage, rose up in his gorge, choking him.

  “You dare to side with her?” he said. Intimidation, all the icy command of his personality, he now bore down on his son. “You are my blood.”

  “Yes, but hers too.”

  “I can disinherit you. I can reduce you to poverty.”

  “I love you, Papa,” said Tom, standing and backing away. “But don’t threaten me.”

  “Darling.” Sophie put a hand on his shoulder. “Your father is not himself. He’s been through a terrible ordeal. . . .”

  “Don’t patronize me!” Pierre roared. “Don’t you dare! You are my woman, Sophie, and you will stay in my home!”

  He was shaking. Never in all his years had he been so utterly defied. Not to his face. That was his magic, the magic of Pierre Massot, of Pyotr Vladekovitch, of Vladek the nameless—he manipulated, he commanded, he enslaved. And of all the creatures in the world, were not these two most utterly his?

  But then there came another noise.

  “Pierre, Pierre.”

  His head lashed around, in annoyance. Katherine, there she was, his Natasha, and she was speaking out of place. She had glided up to him in her rich robes. And there was a ghost of her former beauty. “She is not your woman, Pierre! You do not need her!”

  He missed the feverish brightness in Katherine’s eyes; he gave her a little push out of his way.

  “Be quiet,” he hissed.

  But she was still there. Pawing at him, demanding his attention.

  “You’re mine.” Katherine—Natasha—smiled; there was an intensity to her stare he could not miss. “After it all! After everything.” She moved towards him, her old eyes fiery. “I was true to you. I obeyed you. I won! Didn’t I? Now you’re mine, forever—forever! The way I always knew it would be. None of them ever meant anything to you. Only me!”

  He shook his head, furiously. “Calm yourself!”

  “And the whore. Why is the whore here? Send her away. She is not for you,” Katherine murmured. “I am here—I am here, at last. I who believed in you, my darling, my Pierre . . .”

  “Grandmother.” Tom found his voice at last. “This is between Maman and Papa. You should stay out of it.”

  “Did you not hear her,” Katherine cried to Pierre. “She doesn’t love you! She never did! She cannot be your woman!”

  “Grand—”

  “You be silent,” she hissed at Tom, with sudden, spiteful venom. “You betrayed him! You are nothing! You are hers, hers, all hers!”

  Pierre stared at Katherine.

  “Maman, be still.”

  But she was on him—under the lace gloves, he could feel the old, withered hands, clutching, insistent.

  “I don’t want the whore ... I don’t want her in our house ...”

  “It’s his house!” Judy shouted, unable to bear it. “Not yours! You’re sick! You don’t want any woman to have him! If not Sophie, then me! Me! I love him!”

  Pierre’s red mist of anger was pierced with another feeling. Fear. He turned to Katherine. Fool, old fool!

  “Mother!” he said, sharply.

  But she turned to him, her rheumy eyes glowing and intense. “Tell them, Pierre—Pyotr—tell them. It’s time—it’s our time—s
he’s nothing, she’s a traitor!”

  “You’ve gone mad,” he said coldly.

  “No. I’ve waited long enough. Now, now is the time!” Katherine laughed, wild and high, in a maddened triumph. “You love me, tell them you love me! Send them away!” She waved at Sophie and Judy. “They aren’t for you! You choose me, only me!”

  “You’re his mother!” Judy shouted.

  “No!” Katherine stepped back, and too late, too late, he saw that the madness, the obsession, had boiled over, and was brilliant in her gaze. “I am not his mother! I am his woman! I am his woman, Natasha! I have loved him! I have killed for him! You are nothing, nothing, whore! And you—you are nothing, too! You were never worthy to be his wife!”

  “My mother is unwell,” Pierre said.

  And then, Katherine turned, slowly, to face him.

  “I have kept the faith,” she said. “I—only I. This one left for the Englishman. The whore screwed your son. I, I am faithful. Tell them you love me, Pyotr. Tell them about us. Tell them I am your woman. Not Sophie. I, Natasha. Natasha Vladekovich. Your true wife.”

  Sophie clutched at Tom. They were both silent.

  “Mother—stop. You are unbalanced.”

  “Noooo,” she crooned, and now there was something else. Terrible, slow-burning rage. “Nooooo. You will not betray me. You will choose me.”

  “We should call a hospital,” Pierre said. “Maman has gone insane.”

  Katherine turned to Sophie, hatred written bright across her face. “His name is Pyotr. Mine is Natasha. He found me in Estonia. We were in love, we escaped to Finland. He killed my niece to get here, her name was Aud—”

  “Stop!” Pierre shouted.

  “There is no House Massot,” Katherine screamed. “There is a dead watchmaker, Giles, and his wife—he killed them both. I was to pretend to be his mother—I loved him, loved him so! You never did! And he gave you a son! But I, I am the one he has been with all his life!”

  “My God.” Tom found his voice. “Is that true, Papa?”

  Judy, at the door, crumpled; her legs buckled, and she clutched at a table.

  “You killed Gregoire,” she said. “You did—you killed him ...”