Lucien broke into her thoughts. ‘By the way, we had a visitor this afternoon—Juliette. She was sorry to have missed you.’
Troy dropped the ice into the glass and watched it settle in the liquid. When Lucien received no reply he looked up from his paper work. Something, probably the stillness, the way she was staring down at the glass, must have registered with him, for he asked: ‘What’s the matter?’ and when she continued to remain silent, added abruptly: ‘I thought you liked Juliette?’
Troy turned and said flatly: ‘I do;’ Her face was pale and she stared at Lucien as if she had never seen him before. ‘You told her about us?’
Lucien rose to his feet. ‘I told her a little, not all. You mind? I’m sorry … I have known her all her life. Juliette is young, but being so, has no oldfashioned prejudices. She can be trusted to hold her tongue and is realistic enough to understand that these things happen. She is happy for us.’ He frowned, raising his hands expressively in bewilderment. ‘What is the matter, Victoire? Tell me.’
Troy began to shake. ‘I don’t understand you at all! Is Madeleine happy for us too?’
Lucien’s face went blank. ‘Madeleine?’
Troy said wildly: ‘Yes. Madame de Vesci! Please don’t tell me you’ve forgotten her!’
‘Of course I haven’t forgotten her, but I didn’t realise you were acquainted with Madeleine de Vesci.’
Troy knew she should stop. If she wanted to save things between them she should stop, and oh, how much she wanted to. But it was impossible. With a flash of insight she realised that the future had a way of rushing towards one willy-nilly. She could hardly bear to have him look at her with such a cold, forbidding face. Every inch ‘Monsieur le Comte.’
She said impatiently: ‘I’m not personally acquainted with her, of course, that wouldn’t be in the best of good taste, would it? Even in this liberated day and age. Her name, however, has been mentioned in my hearing linked with yours.’
Lucien swung away and began to prowl. He thrust fingers through his hair, saying explosively: ‘Mon Dieu! I do not know how we come to be discussing Madeleine. I had every intention of speaking to you about her, but did not think it necessary as yet.’ He swung back, more controlled, voice clipped. ‘I have known Madeleine de Vesci for many, many years, first only as a friend, and then later, when she was widowed, as …’
‘Her lover.’
‘Yes, as her lover. The liaison harmed no one. It was not one fraught with possession or passion, rather it was based on companionship and need such as satisfied us both. You hear me say “was.” Our association in that way finished a few weeks back, although we remain friends and shall continue to be friends.’ He gave an incredulous laugh. ‘Good heavens! I do not think that my cheresamies have anything at all to do with you, Victoire, so long as they remain firmly in my past. You can hardly have expected that I remained celibate for thirty-four years?’
She declared passionately: ‘No, of course I didn’t, and your cheresamies are nothing to me! Nothing!’
‘Then what is this all about, for God’s sake! How did all this start? With Juliette? Juliette has never been, and never will be, anything other than the daughter of a family friend and business associate.’ He drew in audible breath and stopped, shot her a look and crossed rapidly to her, pulling her round to face him, searching her face. His lips tightened and his brows came down above half-closed,
glittering grey eyes. ‘You surely cannot believe that she and I …!’
Troy said desperately: ‘Not lovers, no… but Madame Claudine said that it was all arranged. That the marriage settlement was all arranged. She told me, most definitely.’
‘And you believed her.’ His face was so set and stone-like it could have been her sculpture.
‘Juliette herself told me that she was only going through university to please her future husband,’ Troy went on feverishly, everything dying away to nothing inside her. No hope now. It was all finished. ‘She even s—said that she had known him all her 1—life.’
‘JeanJacques.’ The name whipped through the air between them.
‘JeanJacques Marin. Who has also known Juliette for all her life.’
‘JeanJacques,’ repeated Troy dully.
‘Exactement! The Descartes, at first, were disappointed when Juliette first informed them, but I have managed to persuade them that JeanJacques is an excellent fellow and quite capable of dealing with Juliette, who is no mean handful. He has endeared himself to them by insisting that she goes on with her studies, something they themselves could not bring about, and they are becoming more reconciled. They also realise that when Juliette reaches her majority in a few weeks’ time they will either have to consent, or lose hep. As for Grand’mere …’ Lucien took a few impatient steps and ended up against his desk, his fists resting on the top, ‘… she is an old woman who has foolish dreams and fancies.’ His head came up and he stared at her with cold, bleak eyes. ‘Just what do you think has been happening between us this past week, Victoire?’ The words were spaced out meticulously and delivered with scathing intensity.
‘I don’t know! I thought I did, but now I don’t know anything! Why are you so angry? I don’t understand!’
‘Oh, you don’t, eh?’
‘No!’ She almost shouted the word. ‘You’ve had what you wanted, haven’t you? We both have. Almost from the first I’ve known that this week could happen, and don’t you dare deny that you could feel it too, between us, whatever it is,’ and she shook her head, her hand to her forehead. ‘No, I don’t understand.’
‘Evidemment! To you I cut a very romantic figure. Mon Dieu!
Engaged to Juliette …’
‘I didn’t think you were engaged—I thought there was an … understanding!’
‘… Madeleine still my mistress—and yet prepared to make love to you! The big seduction scene in Paris. The wining and dining, the presents, the clothes … all as a means to an end—to get you in bed with me!’
‘You make it sound so simple … life’s not like that, it’s not so …’
‘All for lust, Victoire!’ His fingers gripped her shoulders, his face as white as hers. ‘That is how you see me, eh?’ ^
‘No, Lucien, not like that—you make it sound so sordid, and it’s not been!’
‘And you? For what reason did you come to my bed, Victoire? A frivolous holiday affair? Or perhaps …’
‘Damn you, Lucien! Damn you!’ and her hands beat ineffectively on his chest. ‘You know that’s not true!’
‘But I now find that I know nothing.’ He pulled her to him and kissed her fiercely. ‘You do not know why I’m so angry? When I meet, at last, the woman who can make me believe in marriage and I find that I am merely an interlude … that she considers me to be a Lothario … sacrebleu! Is that the sort of man you think me, Victoire? Is that the sort of man you want?’ He glared at her, nostrils flaring, eyes burning. ‘Then that is what I shall be!’
‘Lucien, please!’
He covered her words with his mouth, hard and ruthless, ignoring the tears coursing down her cheeks so that they mingled, salty, with the bitter-sweet caress. Troy, too bewildered emotionally, too spent physically, aware that beneath the anger was a great hurt, and loving him too much to resist, lay passive, his own mounting passion, starting as fury, lifting her out of her despair until she was as desperate and as violent as he. Some time during the course of this physical onslaught the tempo changed, the anger became selforientated, and when they lay, spent and exhausted, there was a curious bond between them, as if this all had been inevitable, from the beginning. Inevitable. And this was now the end.
Lucien stirred after the first few rings of the telephone. He sat up, looked briefly at Troy, ran fingers through his hair and rapidly shrugged on his trousers. Troy stared blankly up at the ceiling, one half of her vaguely hearing Lucien’s voice, low and monosyllabic, the words not penetrating, while the other half admired the intricate patterning of the cornice. Lucien came back and
said in a curious, flat voice:
‘That was JeanJacques. Grand’mere has died.’ He bent to pick up his shirt. ‘Andre is coming with the car. I should like us to be ready when he arrives.’ He began to dress with fierce concentration.
‘Of course,’ said Troy. ‘I’m so sorry, Lucien.’ How inadequate words were! She longed to take him into her arms and comfort him, but the sight of his face stopped her. She felt curiously alienated from her body and went through the motions of getting dressed, finding the buttons on her blouse stupidly stubborn.
Lucien was thrusting papers into a briefcase when she came back with her case. Remembering her toilet things, she made for the bathroom. When she reached the door he said: ‘Victoire,’ and she stopped and waited, her back still turned, and he went on: ‘We shall have to talk. Later.’ Troy nodded without speaking.
The return journey was taken in almost complete silence. Lucien indicated that Andre was to continue to drive and sat in his corner, chin resting on fist, staring out of the window. Troy closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, glad of Andre’s presence. He had told Lucien all he knew, which was not much. Madame la Comtesse, he said sombrely, had died of a heart attack and Madame Isabeau was with her at the time.
Once back at Bellevigne Troy escaped to her rooms. She came down for dinner to find only Philippe present. Isabeau had been sedated and Lucien was in his office with JeanJacques. From Philippe, who was naturally subdued and upset, Troy learned that his mother had been taking afternoon tea with his grandmother and when summoned by the bell, Zenobie had arrived to finds his grandmother collapsed and his mother in hysterics.
After dinner, Philippe went to find Lucien and Troy went back to her rooms. The Chateau seemed stunned with grief, and she remembered the little old lady’s button-bright eyes and her dislike of the English.
She began to pack, and when that was done she made her way over to the studio, skirting the offices as though she was a thief. To her surprise the door was unlocked, the key protruding. The studio looked as though it had been hit by a tornado. Troy walked slowly round, her feet picking their way between scattered tools and broken clay. She halted at the modelling stand and touched a chunk of clay. The griffin was smashed into fragments, and as her shocked gaze went round, seeing the upturned bins and the powdered clay and plaster-of-Paris that had been wildly flung everywhere, she was asking herself blankly: Who would do such a thing? Who hated her enough to do such a thing?
She suddenly flew to the packing case and thrust aside the sacking, sinking to her knees with relief. The portrait of Lucien was intact. It had been overlooked.
How long Troy sat there, hugging the sculpture, she could not, afterwards, determine. She wrapped the head in the sacking and began to pick up and pack away all her tools and equipment. When they were secure in the case she snapped the lock and with some difficulty carried it down to the garage below, which, luckily, was in darkness and deserted. She returned for the sacking bundle, aware of the powdered clay imprint of the soles of her shoes on the wooden treads of the stairs as she left, locking the studio behind her.
Once back in her rooms she sat, fully clothed, in a chair by the window and waited for Bellevigne to settle down for the night. She felt quite calm, curiously so. She realised who had destroyed the studio and could find it in her heart to feel pity. Poor Isabeau! The proud and reserved manner was a facade and inside was a tangle of emotions and frustrations. To have harboured such hate! And what a terrible thing to have to live with, afterwards. That wild loss of control would cost Isabeau dearly. So … poor Isabeau.
When everywhere seemed quiet Troy checked the room and placed the envelope, containing the letter she had written earlier for Lucien, on the dressing table. She put the key to the studio next to it.
The M.G. started first go and she blessed it under her breath, waiting a few seconds for the engine to warm up. If her heart gave a sickening lurch at the sight of the beautiful Beaufighter standing alongside, she resolutely gave it no heed. Her eyes turned anxiously towards the Chateau windows, but no inquisitive light was switched on and the little red sports car crept slowly through the courtyard and out into the drive. Halfway across the park she put on the headlights and sparing no side glance at the two griffins perched high on their stone pillars, she passed through the gateway and out on to the open road, rapidly leaving Chateau Bellevigne behind her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘HERE, drink this. I don’t want you fainting on my hands.’ Fiona handed Troy a cup of tea, hot and strong.
Troy smiled wanly and took an obedient sip. ‘I’m not ill, Fiona, just tired.’ She lay back in the chair, glad to have reached home, the little breakfast room in their terraced house in Bow giving her a warm feeling of security and commonplace. Almost as if she had never left it, as if the last few months of her life had never happened. Her eyes rested on the two sculptures standing on the table and she felt pain exploding inside her, the first she had allowed herself to feel since leaving Bellevigne. Not much to show for her time away— two sculptures and a broken, heart. And a neatly mended scar at the top of her -leg.
‘What is it about these de Seve men? First your grandmother and now you,’ observed Fiona plaintively. ‘They have a lot to answer
for.’
Troy looked across the hearth and felt the warmth of her friendship with Fiona sweep over her. Dear loyal Fiona! She gave a grimace.
‘Be fair, Fiona. I went into this with my eyes open, as no doubt Grandmother did too. She got over it, and so shall I.’
‘Of course you will,’ agreed Fiona stoutly, yet shot her friend a concerned look. As she drank her own tea she pondered on the fact that Troy had been travelling for nearly twenty-four hours so that the shocked, bruised look in her eyes was hardly surprising.
Troy sat up. ‘That was lovely, Fiona. Is there another in the pot?’ She handed over the cup, stifling another yawn. ‘My body is tired, but I know if I went to bed right now I’d not sleep. My mind is too active at the moment.’ She accepted back the refilled cup with a grateful smile. ‘Driving through Paris is enough to give you nightmares! I’d have bypassed it if I could have, only I had to pick up Sable from Honore d’Arcy’s studio—thank goodness he was out. I shall have to write and say I’ve been called back to England unexpectedly. I went from there to Georges Brissac’s office. You remember Georges, from the Descartes’ party? Luckily he was in. Poor man, he couldn’t understand what was happening. He’d been expecting Lucien as well, you see, and when I told him that I wanted to renounce all claim to the de Seve Estate he nearly had a fit. He did everything he could to try and make me change my mind—he’s a good lawyer, I’ll say that for him. When he could see I was adamant he drafted out a declaration in simple jargon, which I signed, witnessed by a couple of clerks, and then I left him, a worried man. I bet he rang Lucien before the door closed behind me. I headed for the coast and had to wait for a ferry, July is always a busy month, but once on board I did put my head down for a bit.’
‘I can never sleep on boats,’ Fiona reflected. ‘Troy, this signing business. I don’t think Lucien is going to like it.’
‘Like it?’ Troy gave a mirthless laugh. ‘He’s going to be furious! I’ve told you how feudal everything is at Seve and Lucien is so used to being puppet-master he’ll give Georges hell, but I’ve signed and there’s nothing Lucien can do about it. He can forget all about the Courtneys and the Maitlands!’ If he wants to, she added forlornly to herself.
‘These are the best you’ve ever done,’ Fiona declared, studying the sculptures closely. ‘What does Monsieur le Comte think to his
portrait?’
Troy hesitated briefly. ‘He doesn’t know about it.’
‘Oh,’ said Fiona blankly, and then: ‘At least that awful woman didn’t get her hands on it. How could she have done such a terrible thing?’ ‘She just lost control for a while. She’s possessive and jealous and could see her world crumbling and smashed out at what she thought was causing it. I was t
he catalyst. She would be horrified afterwards at what she’d done.’
‘So she should be. I think she was probably a bit in love with Lucien herself,’ asserted Fiona, and Troy looked up in surprise but made no comment. Instead, she said slowly:
‘Fiona, Georges Brissac told me something, back there in his office when he was trying to persuade me not to sign, something I could hardly take in at the time. He said that there was every indication that Grandmother was in the early stages of pregnancy when she returned to England.’ Fiona stared and Troy gave a small shrug. ‘I suppose that makes more sense of the regular payments, doesn’t it? Valery de Seve would want to support his child.’
‘YOUR mother,’ stated Fiona, and Troy nodded, saying reflectively:
‘It also makes sense of why she married so soon. Since hearing the story that bit had niggled me, it seemed out of character, but if a child was on the way …’ She broke off and frowned. ‘My grandfather must have loved her very much, knowing that, and my mother always spoke warmly of him, so he must have treated her as if she’d been his own.’
‘Is there any proof?’
‘No, not really, only the dates, but it’s accepted as a fact by the de Seves… Philippe and then, in turn, Lucien.’
‘In, which case Lucien is going to be even more furious about the paper you’ve signed,’ pointed out Fiona, and Troy shrugged.
‘A slap in the eye for de Seve responsibility, isn’t it? He’ll just have to realise that I refuse to become one of his dependants. I will not be beholden to him. At least,’ she added lamely, ‘not by reason of anything that happened years ago.’
‘Troy, that makes you Lucien’s half-cousin,’ stated Fiona thoughtfully, ‘and talking of cousins, did you meet Raoul Levannier, the feller who came for your cases? He’s become quite a visitor
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