Search for Love

by Nora Roberts

Chapter Nine

  For the second time Serenity strolled in the moonlit garden with a tall, handsome man, and for the second time she wished dismally that it was Christophe by her side. They walked in companionable silence, enjoying the fresh night air and the pleasure of familiar linked hands.

  “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

  Tony’s question broke the stillness like a rock being hurled through glass, and Serenity stopped and stared up at him with wide eyes.

  “Serenity.” He sighed and brushed a finger down her cheek. “I can read you like a book. You’re doing your best to hide it, but you’re crazy about him.”

  “Tony, I …” she stammered, feeling guilty and miserable. “I never meant to. I don’t even like him, really.”

  “Lord.” He gave a soft laugh and a grimace. “I wish you didn’t like me that way. But then,” he added, cupping her chin, “you never have.”

  “Oh, Tony.”

  “You were never anything but honest, darling,” he assured her. “You’ve nothing to feel guilty about. I thought that with constant, persistent diligence I would wear you down.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders as they continued deeper into the garden. “You know, Serenity, your looks are deceptive. You look like a delicate flower, so fragile a man’s almost afraid to touch you for fear you’ll break, but you’re really amazingly strong.” He gave her a brief squeeze. “You never stumble, darling. I’ve been waiting for a year to catch you, but you never stumble.”

  “My moods and temper would have driven you over the edge, Tony.” Sighing, she leaned against his shoulder. “I could never be what you needed, and if I tried to mold myself into something else, it wouldn’t have worked. We’d have ended up hating each other.”

  “I know. I’ve known for a long time, but I didn’t want to admit it.” He let out a long breath. “When you left for Brittany. I knew it was over. That’s why I came to see you; I had to see you one more time.” His words sounded so final that she looked up in surprise.

  “But we’ll see each other again, Tony; we’re still friends. I’ll be coming back soon.”

  He stopped again and met her eyes, the silence growing long between them. “Will you, Serenity?” Turning, he led her back toward the lights of the château.

  The sun was warm on her bare shoulders as Serenity said her goodbyes to Tony the next morning. He had already made his farewells to the countess and Christophe, and Serenity had walked with him from the coolness of the main hall to the warmth of the flagstone courtyard. The little red Renault waited for him, his luggage already secured in the boot, and he glanced at it briefly before turning to her, taking both of her hands in his.

  “Be happy, Serenity.” His grip tightened, then relaxed on her hands. “Think of me sometimes.”

  “Of course I’ll think of you, Tony. I’ll write and let you know when I’ll be back.”

  He smiled down at her, his eyes roaming over her face, as if imprinting every detail in his memory. “I’ll think of you just as you are today, in a yellow dress with the sun in your hair and a castle at your back—the everlasting beauty of Serenity Smith of the golden eyes.”

  He lowered his mouth to hers, and she was swamped by a sudden surge of emotion, a strong premonition that she would never see him again. She threw her arms around his neck and clung to him and to the past. His lips brushed her hair before he drew her away.

  “Goodbye darling.” He smiled and patted her cheek.

  “Goodbye, Tony. Take care.” She returned his smile, determinedly battling back the tears which burned her eyes.

  She watched as he walked to the car and got in, and with a wave headed down the long, winding drive. The car became a small red dot in the distance and then gradually faded from sight, and she continued to stand, allowing the silent tears to have their freedom. An arm slipped around her waist, and she turned to see her grandmother standing beside her, sympathy and understanding in the angular face.

  “You are sad to see him go, ma petite?” The arm was comforting, and Serenity leaned her head against the slim shoulder.

  “Oui, Grandmère, very sad.”

  “But you are not in love with him.” It was a statement rather than a question, and Serenity sighed.

  “He was very special to me.” Pushing a tear from her cheek, she gave a childish sniffle. “I shall miss him very much. Now, I shall go to my room and have a good cry.”

  “Oui, that is wise.” The countess patted her shoulder. “Few things clear the brain and cleanse the heart like a good cry.” Turning, Serenity enveloped her in a hug. “Allez, vita, mon enfant.” The countess held her close for a moment before disengaging herself. “Go shed your tears.”

  Serenity ran up the stone steps and entered through the heavy oak doors into the coolness of the château. Rushing toward the main staircase, she collided with a hard object. Hands gripped her shoulders.

  “You must watch where you are going, ma chérie,” Christophe’s voice mocked. “You will be running into walls and damaging your beautiful nose.” She attempted to pull away, but one hand held her in place without effort as another came under her chin to tilt back her head. At the sight of brimming eyes, the mockery faded, replaced by surprise, then concern, and lastly an unfamiliar helplessness. “Serenity?” Her name was a question, the tone gentle as she had not heard it before, and the tenderness in the dark eyes broke what little composure she could still lay claim to.

  “Oh, please,” she choked on a desperate sob, “let me go.” She struggled from his grasp, striving not to crumble completely, yet wanting to be held close by this suddenly gentle man.

  “Is there something I can do?” He detained her by placing a hand on her arm.

  Yes, you idiot! her brain screamed. Love me! “No,” she said aloud, running up the stairs. “No, no, no!”

  She streaked up the stairs, like a golden doe pursued by hunters, and finding her bedroom door, she opened it, then slammed it behind her, and threw herself on her bed.

  The tears had worked their magic. Finally, Serenity was able to rinse them away and face the world and whatever the future had in store. She glanced at the manila envelope which she had tossed negligently on her bureau.

  “Well, I suppose it’s time to see what old Barkley sent me.” Serenity got up reluctantly and went over to the bureau to pick up the envelope. She threw herself down on the bed again to break the seal, dumping its contents on the spread.

  There was merely a page with the firm’s impressive letterhead, which brought thoughts of Tony flooding back to her mind, and another sealed envelope. She picked up the neatly typewritten page listlessly, wondering what new form the family retainer had discovered for her to fill out. As she read the letter’s contents, and the totally unexpected message it contained, she sat bolt upright.

  Dear Miss Smith,

  Enclosed you will find an envelope addressed to you containing a letter from your father. This letter was left in my care to be given to you only if you made contact with your mother’s family in Brittany. It has come to my attention through Anthony Rollins that you are now residing at the château Kergallen in the company of your maternal grandmother, so I am entrusting same to Anthony to be delivered to you at the earliest possible date.

  Had you informed me of your plans, I would have carried out your father’s wishes at an earlier date. I, of course, have no knowledge of its contents, but I am sure your father’s message will bring you comfort.

  M. Barkley

  Serenity read no farther, but put the lawyer’s letter aside and picked up the message her father had left in his care. She stared at the envelope which had fallen face down on the bed, and, turning it over, her eyes misted at seeing the familiar handwriting. She broke the seal.

  The letter was written in her father’s bold, clear hand:

  My own Serenity,

  When you read this your mother and I will no longer be with you, and I pray you do not grieve too deeply, for the love we feel for you remains true and
strong as life itself.

  As I write this, you are ten years old, already the image of your mother, so incredibly lovely that I am already fretting about the boys I will have to fight off one day. I watched you this morning as you sat sedately (a most unusual occupation for you, as I am more used to seeing you skating down the sidewalks at a horrifying speed or sliding without thought to bruised skin down the banisters). You sat in the garden, with my sketch book and a pencil, drawing with fierce concentration the azaleas that bloomed there. I saw in that moment, to both my pride and despair, that you were growing up, and would not always be my little girl, safe in the security your mother and I had provided for you. I knew then it was necessary to write down events you might one day have the need to understand.

  I will give old Barkley (a small smile appeared on Serenity’s face as she noted that the attorney had been known by that name even so many years ago) instructions to hold this letter for you until such time as your grandmother, or some member of your mother’s family, makes contact with you. If this does not occur, there will be no need to reveal the secret your mother and I have already kept for more than a decade.

  I was painting on the sidewalks of Paris in the full glory of spring, in love with the city and needing no mistress but my art. I was very young, and, I am afraid, very intense. I met a man, Jean-Paul le Goff, who was impressed by my, as he put it, raw young talent. He commissioned me to paint a portrait of his fiancée as a wedding present to her, and arranged for me to travel to Brittany and reside in the Château Kergallen. My life began the moment I entered that enormous hall and had my first glimpse of your mother.

  It was not my intention to act upon the love I felt from the first moment I saw her, a delicate angel with hair like sunlight. I tried with all my being to put my art first. I was to paint her; she belonged to my patron; she belonged to the château. She was an angel, an aristocrat with a family lineage longer than time. All these things I told myself a hundred times. Jonathan Smith, itinerant artist, had no right to possess her in dreams, let alone reality. At times, when I made my preliminary sketches, I believed I would die for love of her. I told myself to go, to make some excuse and leave, but I could not find the courage. I thank God now that I could not.

  One night, as I walked in the garden, I came upon her. I thought to turn away before I disturbed her, but she heard me, and when she turned, I saw in her eyes what I had not dared dream. She loved me. I could have shouted with the joy of it, but there were so many obstacles. She was betrothed, honor-bound to marry another man. We had no right to our love. Does one need a right to love, Serenity? Some would condemn us. I pray you do not. After much talk and tears, we defied what some would call right and honor, and we married. Gaelle begged me to keep the marriage a secret until she could find the right way to tell Jean-Paul and her mother. I wanted the world to know, but I agreed. She had given up so much for me, I could deny her nothing.

  During this time of waiting, a more disturbing problem came to light. The countess, your grandmother, had in her possession a Raphael Madonna, displayed in prominence in the main drawing room. It was a painting, the countess informed me, which had been in her family for generations. Next to Gaelle, she treasured this painting above all things. It seemed to symbolize to her the continuity of her family, a shining beacon remaining constant after the hell of war and loss. I had studied this painting closely and suspected it was a forgery. I said nothing, at first thinking perhaps the countess herself had had a copy made for her own needs. The Germans had taken so much from her—husband, home—that perhaps they had taken the original Raphael, as well. When she made the announcement that she had decided to donate the painting to the Louvre in order to share its greatness, I nearly froze with fear. I had grown fond of this woman, her pride and determination, her grace and dignity. I had no desire to see her hurt, and I realized that she believed the painting to be authentic. I knew Gaelle would be tormented by the scandal if the painting was dismissed as a fraud, and the countess would be destroyed. I could not let this happen. I offered to clean the painting in order to examine it more critically, and I felt like a traitor.

  I took the painting to my studio in the tower, and under close study, I had no doubt that it was a very well-executed copy. Even then, I do not know what I would have done, if it had not been for the letter I found hidden behind the frame. The letter was a confession from the countess’s first husband, a cry of despair for the treachery he had committed. He confessed he had lost nearly all of his possessions, and those of his wife. He was deep in debt, and having decided the Germans would defeat the Allies, he arranged to sell the Raphael to them. He had a copy made and replaced the original without the countess’s knowledge, feeling the money would see him through the hardship of war, and the deal with the Germans would keep his estates secure. Too late, he despaired of his action, and hiding his confession in the frame of the copy, he went to face the men he had dealt with in the hopes of returning the money. The note ended with his telling of his intention, and pleading for forgiveness if he proved unsuccessful.

  As I finished reading the letter, Gaelle came into the studio; I had not the foresight to bolt the door. It was impossible to hide my reaction, or the letter, which I still held in my hand, and so I was forced to share the burden with the one person I most wanted to spare. I found in those moments, in that secluded tower room, that the woman I loved was endowed with more strength than most men. She would keep the knowledge from her mother at all costs. She felt it imperative that the countess be shielded from humiliation and the knowledge that the painting she so prized was but forgery. We devised a plan to conceal the painting, to make it appear as if it had been stolen. Perhaps we were wrong. To this day I do not know if we did the right thing; but for your mother, there was no other way. And so, the deed was done.

  Gaelle’s plans to tell her mother of our marriage were soon forced into reality. She found, to our unending joy, that she carried our child, you, the fruit of our love that would grow to be the most important treasure of our lives. When she told her mother of our marriage and her pregnancy, the countess flew into a rage. It was her right to do, Serenity, and the animosity she felt for me was well deserved in her eyes. I had taken her daughter from her without her knowledge, and in doing so, I had placed a mark on her family’s honor. In her anger, she disowned Gaelle, demanded that we leave the château and never enter again. I believe she would have rescinded her decision in time; she loved Gaelle above all things. But that same day she found the Raphael missing. Putting two and two together, she accused me of stealing both her daughter and her family treasure. How could I deny it? One crime was no worse than the other, and the message in your mother’s eyes begged me to keep silent. So I took your mother away from the château, her country, her family, her heritage, and brought her to America.

  We did not speak of her mother, for it brought only pain, and we built our life fresh with you to strengthen our bond. And now you have the story, and with it, forgive me, the responsibility. Perhaps by the time you read this, it will be possible to tell the entire truth. If not, let it remain hidden, as the forgery was hidden, away from the world with something infinitely more precious to conceal it. Do what your heart tells you.

  Your loving father.

  Tears had fallen on the letter since its beginning, and now as Serenity finished reading, she wiped them away and took a long breath. Standing, she moved over to the window and stared down at the garden where her parents had first revealed their love.

  “What do I do?” she murmured aloud, still gripping the letter in her hand. If I had read this a month ago, I would have gone straight to the countess with it, but now I don’t know, she told herself silently.

  To clear her father’s name, she would have to reveal a secret kept hidden for twenty-five years. Would the telling accomplish anything, or would it undo whatever good the sacrifices made by both her parents had done? Her father had instructed her to listen to her heart, but it was so filled with th
e love and anguish of his letter that she could hear nothing, and her mind was clouded with indecision. There was a swift, fleeting impulse to go to Christophe, but she quickly pushed it aside. To confide in him would only make her more vulnerable, and the separation she must soon deal with more agonizing.

  She had to think, she decided, taking several deep breaths. She had to clear away the fog and think clearly and carefully, and when she found an answer, she had to be sure it was the right one.

  Pacing the room, she halted suddenly and began changing her clothes in a frantic rush. She remembered the freedom and openness that had come to her when she rode through the woods, and it was this sensation, she determined, slipping on jeans and shirt, that she required to ease her heart and clear her brain.

  Chapter Ten

  The groom greeted her request to saddle Babette doubtfully. He argued, albeit respectfully, that she had no orders from the count to go riding, and for once Serenity used her aristocratic heritage and haughtily informed him that as the countess’s granddaughter, she was not to be questioned. The groom submitted, with a faint muttering of Breton, and she was soon mounted on the now-familiar mare and setting off on the path Christophe had taken on her first lesson.

  The woods were quiet and comforting, and she emptied her mind in the hopes that the answer would then find room to make an appearance. She walked the mare easily for a time, finding it simple now to retain command of the animal while still feeling a part of it. She found herself no closer to resolving her problem, however, and urged Babette into a canter.

  They moved swiftly, the wind blowing her hair back from her face and engulfing her once more with the sense of freedom which she sought. Her father’s letter was tucked into her back pocket, and she decided to ride to the hill overlooking the village and read it once more, hoping by then to find the wisdom to make the right decision.