A Theory of Love

by Margaret Bradham Thornton

  Theo invited Christopher to join him on one of the shoots his firm managed, but Christopher politely demurred, saying such an invitation would be wasted on him, he wasn’t a particularly good shot and didn’t own a gun. He added that starting a firm had been harder than he had expected, and he was having to spend all his time getting it off the ground. Emma, on learning that he had recently bought a small mews house, and not knowing that Helen was living with him, was offering the design services of one of her dearest friends, when Louis and Henrietta’s daughter, Leonora, flew into the library, partly crying, partly shrieking two words—helicopter and Caspar. In the way that only children can, she had the entire room of adults standing at attention. Louis and Henrietta calmed their eight-year-old daughter enough to learn that five-year-old Henry had been flying his toy helicopter, and when Leonora had gone into the paddock to see Helen’s ancient pony, Caspar, the crafty pony had taken off across the south field. Louis and Helen followed Leonora to Caspar’s paddock to confirm his escape. Leonora held on to a vague belief that Henry’s helicopter had caused the pony to bolt and that he had done it on purpose.

  They weren’t sure where Caspar had gone, but they were fearful he could be heading over to the neighboring property, where he was kept and fed during the winter months. He would have to cross a stretch of road that could be busy at this time in June.

  “I know the way he’ll go. Christopher and I can drive down to the crossroads.” Helen started to run toward the barn.

  “Helen, where are you going?” Louis called out.

  “To get some grain and a halter,” she called back.

  Helen showed Christopher which way to go, but before they got to the crossroads, she spotted Caspar in a field full of grass and cows.

  “There he is. That little devil. You can pull over there.” She pointed to a grassy area by the road.

  “Here, give me the halter,” he said. She ran across the road and slipped between the rails of the fencing. Christopher followed at a slower pace with the rope and halter hidden behind his back. Caspar saw Helen coming, jerked his head up, snorted, gave a little buck, and trotted sixty feet away. She stayed where she was and shook the bucket of grain. Caspar edged closer. Soon the shaggy, once-white pony was pushing his mouth into the bucket of food. Christopher slowly approached and wrapped the rope around the pony’s neck. When Caspar realized what had happened, he attempted to back up, rear, and twist away, but Christopher held him tight. “He’s a tough little devil,” he said as he slipped the halter over the pony’s head.

  “You’ve been around horses before,” she said, somewhat surprised. He shrugged. “A bit.” She was so preoccupied with the unruly pony that she didn’t have time to ask another question.

  “I’ll walk him home. You know the way back?” Caspar pushed her hard to try to get to the feed bucket.

  “Here, give me that.” Christopher reached for the bucket of grain. “Straight ahead for a bit and then right at first turning.”

  Caspar tried to charge toward the transferred bucket of grain. “You sure you don’t want me to come—he’s really full of himself.”

  “If I could handle him when I was twelve, I should be able to handle him now.”

  Helen returned to Willow Brook with Caspar, and Leonora, who had been worried she would never see Caspar again, was offered a pony ride to cheer her up. Henry was banished with his helicopter to the front lawn on the other side of the house.

  Chapter Eight

  Saint-Tropez

  Helen never moved back into her flat. She had a small mortgage left, so she let it out short term to friends or friends of friends. As Christopher’s mews house began to feel more like theirs and less like his, she became less and less concerned about the duration of the lease. Her work was going well, and David was giving her more scope to choose her topics—one even came from Christopher’s world—the profile of a successful music company entrepreneur who was dedicating his time and considerable fortune to his NGO fostering entrepreneurs in sub-Saharan Africa.

  At first she found the world in which Christopher worked intriguing. The parameters were always changing. A quiet weekend in London could be redirected to Berlin to see a client, or, as was the case on Friday, a weekend in the country was overwritten with an invitation to Saint-Tropez. She could tell how fast Christopher’s star was rising by how many invitations he received from people he did not know. She found it odd that people they had never met invited them to dinners and parties and sporting events. In her world, friendships were slow to form, but in Christopher and Marc’s world, access was instant. Friends of friends were assumed to be friends, and invitations were extended. Their world was small and select, but once access was granted, barriers evaporated. It was as if a certain category of person did away with the need for introductions and periods of engagement necessary to make acquaintances. She could only assume there was a layer of society that was unapologetic in its admiration of money and influence. Marc, much more than Christopher, worked this aspect to his advantage. Christopher was disciplined enough never to turn down an invitation that could lead to more business for his firm. At first she enjoyed the invitations, but often she found herself watching events alone while Christopher had a private conversation with a chief executive who pulled him away to run an idea by him or get his reaction to a recent business story. She knew she would never run into any of her friends.

  At first the choice between spending the weekend at the country house of one of her friends or attending a dinner with a new client was easy. Christopher always assumed priority, and if she questioned him, he would say he didn’t have a choice. But over time, she began missing her old life. Not that any weekend was going to be anything special, but she missed the menagerie of former classmates from boarding school and university—most of whom had pursued careers without regard for how little money they would be making a decade out. Money and possessions were never discussed, because no one had much. Often she came across ideas for articles to run by David. Her article about the Chevalier d’Éon, the French diplomat and spy who infiltrated the court of Empress Elizabeth of Russia by presenting himself as a woman, had come from a classmate who now taught history at Stowe. Another friend, who worked for the London Arts Council, had told Helen about a prima ballerina who wanted to meet the maker of her pointe shoes. As was the custom of all the makers, he identified himself only by an initial stamped on the sole of each shoe. Despite David’s misgivings, Helen had accompanied the dancer to the north of England to track down “J.” Instead of finding an elflike man in a charming cottage, they met a young, hip black man who lived on a council estate and who had never been to the ballet. He followed football. For him, it was just a job, one he had fallen into by chance when he had dropped out of school at age fourteen.

  Had there not been these undercurrents, Helen would have been thrilled when Christopher returned from work Friday evening and said they were going to Saint-Tropez the following day so that he could meet with his client, Édouard Beaumont. They flew to Nice and took a helicopter to Saint-Tropez, where Édouard met them at the heliport and drove them in his Mini Moke to La Mandala, the villa built by his grandfather at the turn of the century. La Mandala sat on the flat top of a hill that sloped sharply down to the Mediterranean Sea. A pool and a terraced garden sprawled behind the one-story villa, which had been built around an open courtyard. From La Mandala, one could walk along the shoreline into town and be seated at an outdoor café in fifteen minutes.

  Édouard showed Helen the pool and library. He and Christopher retreated to his study to discuss the details of the sale of his company. She went for a swim but soon became bored and changed back into her clothes and wandered into the library. Rows and rows of uniform leather-bound volumes in French and German—histories and biographies, mainly—all in perfect formation as if they had marched into place. She skimmed along the rows looking for any books in English. She found a small collection in one of the darkest corners of the room. A four-volume e
dition of Churchill’s A History of the English-Speaking Peoples, Moby-Dick, and a slim volume, Ins and Outs of Circus Life. She edged the slight volume from the shelf, careful not to pull the cloth at the top of the spine. She was about to open it when Édouard and Christopher appeared.

  “Ah, I see you’ve found my orphaned book,” Édouard said, taking the book from her. “It’s the only book in this library not catalogued by my father. I can only assume a guest from a long time ago left it behind. But how it got here, no one will ever know. It’s quite rare, that one, one of only twelve known. I keep meaning to donate it to a museum of circus life, if such a thing exists. But come, I have kept Christopher away from you for too long. I will drive you to your hotel.”

  Hotel Byblos was just down the hill from La Mandala. On the drive down, Édouard told Helen that Christopher had mentioned her article on the binders discovered at the Foundling Hospital museum. His family had been in the textile industry before the French Revolution. He would be interested to see the documentation of the fabrics from the 1700s. She must send him a copy of her article, and he would let her know if any of the fabrics were French.

  Édouard met them in town later that evening to take them to a chic Moroccan restaurant decorated with cushions of brightly colored, beaded ethnic textiles and handsome waiters, all of whom looked as if they had just walked off a fashion runway. Over dinner, Helen asked Édouard about the history of La Mandala. He explained that his grandfather had bought the land when it was nothing but the foundation of a former fortress.

  “My grandmother would have liked a bigger house, but my grandfather refused to build beyond the footprint of the fortress. He felt the spirits of the place would only approve a design that reflected the past. My grandfather was a very superstitious man. I have been coming here every summer since I was born, as had my father before me. But after Christopher sells my company, I am going to sail around the world. It has always been a boyhood dream of mine.”

  “How long will that take?” Helen asked.

  “Depends.”

  “Approximately.” Christopher stepped in to cut off Édouard’s attempt to flirt with her.

  “Four to six months with a very good boat and a very good team, but I plan to take my time. I like the idea of stretching it over one year. I would like to end on the same day that I began.”

  “But you’ll miss your summer at La Mandala,” she said.

  “Yes, but perhaps the break will be good. I have spent every summer of my sixty-one years here. It is time I take a mistress for one of them. What about you?” he asked Christopher and Helen. “Did your family take you to the same place every year? It’s a very English thing to do, no?”

  Christopher turned to Helen for her to speak first.

  “No, not really. We pretty much stayed in England—in the country. A few summers we visited one of my mother’s cousins in Scotland or a friend on the Isle of Wight.”

  “And you, Christopher? Have you noticed, Helen, how well Christopher listens and how he never answers first. It is a sign of a good negotiator.”

  Christopher laughed.

  “You see, he is not going to answer the question.”

  They said good night to Édouard. It was past one A.M., and Byblos was in full swing. Outside, Ferraris and Maseratis and other fancy cars were prominently displayed; inside, young women in expensive dresses drank and danced with men who were almost as attractive as they were. Helen marveled at the sense of glamour that surrounded them. What do these people do during the day? she wondered. Christopher stopped by reception to get their room key, and the manager offered them a complimentary glass of champagne at the bar, but Christopher declined. He and Helen only wanted to be with each other.

  Chapter Nine

  Fontainebleau

  Early Sunday afternoon they flew from Nice to Paris, rented a car, and drove south to Fontainebleau, where Christopher’s mother lived at the edge of the forest. Soon they were on a road that paralleled the Seine. “You can take a boat from Paris all the way,” he said.

  “Have you ever done it?”

  “No, but I remember my father talking about it.”

  Christopher circled back to the edge of the forest and turned down an unpaved road. He slowed to pass two riders who trotted in single file. A few miles later he turned down a road that distinguished itself by a formal avenue of plane trees. They passed a small gatehouse. “Just there”—he pointed to a rise in the land several hundred feet ahead—“was the main house, but it burned down and was never rebuilt.” He turned down a secondary road and followed its slow curve through the woods.

  “Here we are.” He parked in front of a one-story building with a flat roof.

  A tall thin woman opened the door. Christopher’s mother. Two large tan-and-black dogs that vaguely resembled lions stood beside her. Mrs. Delavaux’s face was softer than Helen had imagined. The lack of a strong correspondence between mother and son made Helen wonder about Christopher’s father.

  They entered a small vestibule and then a large rectangular room with high ceilings. “This was my mother’s studio. I don’t know if Christopher showed you, but there was a massive house at the end of the main avenue.” Mrs. Delavaux’s voice was soft, and Helen had to lean forward to hear her.

  “It had been built by my mother’s older sister. She and her husband never had children, and in the twenties they decided to leave Tuxedo Park and build a house here. She dabbled a bit in art, but I think she built the studio for my mother after her divorce. I remember coming here when I was little.”

  Helen looked around. Paintings—mainly of landscapes, a few portraits—were hung in organized randomness around the room.

  “All the pictures are hers—I think she was a wonderful painter—amateur only, of course. She kept most of what she did, but she did give a few away to friends. I’m glad she kept most of them. They comfort me. To be around her work. When my aunt died, she left this property to me. We moved here when Christopher was just learning to walk. The year Christopher went off to boarding school, the main house burned down. We never learned how the fire started, but the police think some people who were living rough in the forest left their campfire unattended.

  “We always talked about building the main house back, didn’t we, Christopher?” Mrs. Delavaux glanced at her son, who was gazing out into the garden. “But I think it was more out of a sense of the past than anything else. And of course we never did—what use would I have of a massive fourteen-bedroom house? After Christopher and Laure went off to school, they only came back for parts of the summer. I never thought I would live here as long as I have, but here I am. And of course I have all my animals.” She rubbed the ears of the two large dogs sitting next to her. “Oh, dear, I’m prattling on. Now, Helen, Christopher tells me you’re a writer.”

  “A journalist. I write features for the Sunday Times in London.”

  A housekeeper brought in a tray of tea and biscuits.

  “Let’s have tea in the garden and then we’ll go for a walk. I’ll show you the stables and the two foals born at the beginning of May.”

  Christopher had learned how to navigate these encounters with his mother by steering away from anything that could conjure the past. He had his reasons for staying away from certain topics. Maybe it helped his mother to fall backward, but it didn’t help him, and he knew, too, that if his response wasn’t as she desired, there would be sound waves of small antagonisms and minor hurts.

  Helen watched as Mrs. Delavaux poured tea from a silver teapot that had a top inlaid with a cabochon emerald.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It was made by Puiforcat as a wedding gift for my parents. Now, Helen, what do you take in your tea?”

  “Milk and sugar, please.”

  She handed Helen a cup and then offered a small silver tray of biscuits.

  As they stood up to walk to the stable, Christopher excused himself to make some phone calls. Mrs. Delavaux and Helen walked down to the small stone stable b
uilt in the same style as the studio. Mrs. Delavaux spoke about how busy the stable had been when they all rode. “When we had twelve horses, the barn was always so wonderfully warm, even when it was snowing outside.” She pointed to the two foals who shadowed their mothers in the pasture.

  “I have a girl who comes and will start working with them next year. Just to get them used to being handled.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Dea is the small bay filly and the large chestnut colt is Serengeti. Do you ride?”

  “Oh, I did, just around the countryside on a renegade pony. Nothing serious.”

  “When they turn three, I send them on to a wonderful man who breaks and trains them, and then, if they have promise, I let one of the young professional riders take them on.”

  “Where do they show?”

  “Mainly in France. Occasionally in Belgium or Holland. I’ve only had a few with the ability to compete on the international level. But it’s great fun to go and watch them. Christopher’s father was a wonderful rider. As a young man he rode on the French national team. He always said Christopher had three times his talent. As I imagine you know, when he was fourteen he won a grand prix at Val-de-Reuil, the youngest rider ever to do so. He had huge promise, but one day at age fifteen he just stopped.”