“We met that afternoon in the lounge of the hotel. He was a tall, lean, gray-haired man with a craggy face and looked as if he was in his early seventies. I had never seen him before.
“With no preamble I asked him what he wanted with me. He repeated what he had written in the letter, that he was a friend of Joe Anthony and knew about my affair with Joe twenty-three years earlier.
He told me I had used the name Genevive Brunot and that I had been a guest at the Hotel Gray d’Albion in Cannes.
“Naturally I denied everything. His response was cold. He said he was sure I would not want my husband to know about my adulterous affair, nor would I want aspersions cast on Ariel’s legitimacy. I took an indignant attitude, a haughty stance and countered that he was talking nonsense. I got up to leave.
“Sam Loring pressed me to stay and brought out an old photograph.
It was one of me and Joe Anthony taken at La Chunga all those years ago.
Joe had his arm around me. I was looking up at him and smiling.
I recognized at once that the photograph was definitely suggestive and therefore damaging. Sam Loring pointed out the date the photographer had stamped on the back of the picture. July 1960.1 felt trapped.
“I asked Loring what he wanted exactly. But I knew before he answered that he was after money. And, more than likely, a great deal of it. I also knew that if I paid him to be quiet now I was exposing myself to further blackmail later. On the other hand, what alternative did I have but to pay.
“Whilst Loring could never prove that Arid was not Edouard’s child, the date on the back of the picture, was damning, and this frightened me.
Furthermore, I did not want Edouard questioning anything about Ariel. Or about Charles, for that matter. I had to protect my children. And my husband as well. He was no youngster; he was twenty-five years older than I, and at eighty-six a fit and healthy man.
Nonetheless, I did not want him unduly upset.
“Sam Loring shocked me when he asked for a hundred thousand dollars for his silence. I told him I had no intention of giving it to him.
I pointed out that I had no guarantee that he wouldn’t demand more 236Bara Taylor Bradford from me later on. His answer was that I would have to trust him.
‘Honor among thieves,” was his comment.
“I laughed in his face. I also asked him why he had waited so long to seek me out, to tell me this extraordinary story, which nobody would believe anyway, I said. Loring answered that he was retired, had serious family problems, great financial difficulties, and that if he hadn’t been so desperate he would never have been in touch with me.
“I then demanded an explanation about Joe Anthony. I asked how Loring knew him, how he had come into possession of the photograph taken in La Chunga so long ago.
“It was a curious story that he told me, Vivienne. But I believed him, I must admit that. Loring explained that twenty-three years ago he had been employed by an American businessman to run the security division of the man’s company. In the summer of 1960 Loring was sent to Europe to follow his employer’s son who was traveling through France and Italy alone. His assignment was to keep an eye on him, make sure he didn’t get into trouble.
“The young man in question was Joe Anthony, of course. Loring confided that he had known about our affair from its very inception.
He had seen us together on the beach, at the little cafe-, at La Chunga, and entering and leaving my hotel. He also informed me that at the time he had hired a French detective to follow me, that the man had boarded the Blue ain when I did, that day I returned to Paris after saying good-bye to Joe.
“Apparently Loring knew within twenty4our hours who I really was and all about me. He even knew when Ariel was born and the hospital she was born in. Through the French detective, he had kept tabs on me for a few years thereafter, just in case Joe Anthony ever tried to get in touch with me again. As for the photograph, he had bought it from the photographer at La Chunga the day after it was taken and had kept it all these years.
“I told him I would get the money, arranged to meet him three days later, and left the Hotel Scribe. In the taxi on the way home I told myself that Loring couldn’t prove anything, that I would not succumb to blackmail, but the moment I walked into this house I knew that I would.
I had far too much to lose.
“It took me several days to get the money together, mostly because I wanted to pay Loring in cash. Fortunately, my late husband Harry Robson had left me a very wealthy woman, and I used some of his inheritance to pay the blackmailer.
“When I met Loring at the end of the week I demanded the photo graph in exchange for the money. And I made him promise he would stay away from me. But even as I was speaking I knew there were no guarantees. Wanting to get rid of him, to be done with it, I took a great chance that day.
“Sam Loring did give me his word, for what it was worth, and vowed that I would never see him again. Then he handed me the photograph.
“As he did so he said, ‘Good-looking guy, Joe Anthony was, wasn’t he?
Except that he wasn’t Joe Anthony.” When I asked him what he meant, Loring said, ‘Countess, you weren’t the only one masquerading as another person, using an assumed name. So was Joe. His real name was Sebastian Locke.””
Vivienne was staring at me.
She looked stunned and very pale. She exclaimed, “Oh my God! If Sebastian was Joe Anthony, then he was Ariel’s father. Oh my God!”
Sitting back in the chair, she shook her head as if denying this, and said again, “Oh my God! Oh no!”
I had anticipated this reaction from her and I merely nodded and said, “Yes,” very quietly.
“Did Sebastian find out, Countess Zoe? Is that why he killed him self?” Vivienne demanded. “It must be so! Of course! He committed suicide because he discovered he was involved in an incestuous relationship , albeit unwittingly. That’s it, isn’t it?”
I did not answer her for a moment or two. There was a small pause before I said slowly, “For you to understand everything, Vivienne, I must begin at the beginning . . . the beginning of my life “I was born on April the sixth in 1922. My parents were Niall and Maureen Rafferty, and they christened me Mary Ellen. We lived in Queens, and the first few years of myn. Then he handed me the photograph.
“As he did so he said, ‘Good-looking guy, Joe Anthony was, wasn’t he?
Except that he wasn’t Joe Anthony.” When I asked him what he meant, Loring said, ‘Countess, you weren’t the only one masquerading as another person, using an assumed name. So was Joe. His real name was Sebastian Locke.””
Vivienne was staring at me.
She looked stunned and very pale. She exclaimed, “Oh my God! If Sebastian was Joe Anthony, then he was Ariel’s father. Oh my God!”
Sitting back in the chair, she shook her head as if denying this, and said again, “Oh my God! Oh no!”
I had anticipated this reaction from her and I merely nodded and said, “Yes,” very quietly.
“Did Sebastian find out, Countess Zoe? Is that why he killed him self?” Vivienne demanded. “It must be so! Of course! He committed suicide because he discovered he was involved in an incestuous relationship , albeit unwittingly. That’s it, isn’t it?”
I did not answer her for a moment or two. There was a small pause before I said slowly, “For you to understand everything, Vivienne, I must begin at the beginning . . . the beginning of my life “I was born on April the sixth in 1922. My parents were Niall and Maureen Rafferty, and they christened me Mary Ellen. We lived in Queens, and the first few years of my life were happy. Things changed drastically for me and my mother when my father was killed in 1927. A construction worker by trade, he was hit by a steel girder on a construction site and died of head injuries.
“My mother struggled to support us for the next two years, but despite her valiant efforts she was not very successful at earning a living.
“However, she was a pretty if somewhat fragile-loo
king woman and when Tommy Reagan, an old friend of my father’s, showed up one day she immediately set her cap at him. Thommy, known to be a hard working, hard-drinking bachelor, fell for her and within a few months they were married.
“My stepfather had a steady job. He was one of the managers of a large and prosperous farm in Somerset County near Peapack, New Jersey. Along with a good salary he was provided with a house on the property, one he said was big enough for us, his new family.
“At first I thought everything was going to be wonderful, living in the country on a farm, having a man to look after us again. I soon discovered how wrong I was. Tommy Reagan resented me, detested having another man’s child under his feet, and, looking back now, I believe he was insanely jealous of my mother’s love for me, the special place I had in her heart.
“Certainly he took it out on me whenever things went wrong and sometimes when they didn’t. He was a hard man who did not think twice about hitting me at the slightest provocation.
“When they were first married he was careful, never struck me in my mother’s presence, but as time went on and he recognized her dependency on him he grew careless. Or it could have been that what she thought no longer mattered to him. I’ve never been sure of that, Vivienne, although I do believe the gloss wore off their marriage rather swiftly.
“His attitude to me was unrelenting. His motto was spare the rod spoil the child. I can assure you I was never spoiled if the number of beatings I received at his hands counted for anything.
“Tommy Reagan was an exceedingly strict disciplinarian, and the true example of a naturally vindictive man who turned into a tyrant when given a small amount of power. A bully and a coward, he only picked on the weak and defenseless, those who could not strike back.
“My mother and I were intimidated by him. I tried to keep out of his way as best I could. Almost always my mother had to back down whenever she attempted to defend me. I often heard her sobbing in bed at night, especially when he had been drinking.
“The fact was my stepfather made me his whipping post and years later, long after I had left the farm, I began to understand how sadistic he had been.
“It was sad and unfortunate that after only three years of marriage to Tommy my mother developed a heart condition and became a semi invalid.
She was bedridden half the time. Her poor health infuriated my stepfather, and my life became even more miserable. Aside from hitting me whenever he felt like it, he turned me into a drudge. I was made to clean the house and cook for him, for us, since my mother was too debilitated most of the time. I was ten years old.
“I grew up quickly, Vivienne. By the age of thirteen I was already well-developed and looked older than I was. Nubile is perhaps the best way to describe myself. My lush looks were in bud but had not yet flowered. However, my mother had already told me I was going to be a beautiful woman when I grew up.
“One day, during that summer of 1935, I caught the eye of the man who owned the farm. Suddenly, as I went about the property, he started to look at me more closely and longer than he usually had before.
“He became very friendly and invited me into the main house, mostly into his office, where he gave me candy and chocolates, ribbons for my long hair, old magazines, and, once, a book. And soon his hands were all over me, on my breasts and up my skirt, between my legs and anywhere else he felt like putting them.
“Thus began my real misery, Vivienne. It was not long before he was unbuttoning his trousers, showing himself to me and making me touch him.
There were times when he even forced me to take off some of my clothes.
“Although I was terrified of him, there was nothing I could do to stop him from treating me in this way. My mother was ill; I did not want to upset her, make her feel worse by bringing my troubles to her.
My stepfather was unapproachable and he would not have believed me anyway. Perhaps he even knew and turned a blind eye. He did not care about me, I was a nuisance. I endeavored to block everything out, made believe it never happened.
“The owner warned me that if I ever breathed a word to anyone about what he did in the privacy of his office he would get rid of us.
He would fire my stepfather, turn us out without money or references.
“I blamed myself, thought it was my fault that he abused me the way he did, so freely, so wantonly. Just before he had started to waylay me, his mother had been visiting him and she told me that I was a lovely looking girl. But then she added in a spiteful voice that my looks were bound to get me into trouble one day. She said they would only lead me down the path to hell where Satan was waiting to devour me. As far as I was concerned her son was Satan incarnate.
“I was fourteen when he raped me in September of 1936. Naturally, I was a virgin and since he had been overly rough with me, forcing me, I bled profusely.
“There was a bit of a commotion about this matter. He had not properly locked the door in his haste to violate me. The housekeeper had walked in on us. Our disheveled state, plus the blood on the hooked rug, left little to her imagination. She knew what had taken place and told him so. But like everyone else on the farm she was afraid of losing her job. So he continued to do whatever he wanted with me.
“It was not until the winter of 1937 that he made me pregnant. I was fifteen and more frightened than ever when I realized I had conceived.
But times were hard, he was my stepfather’s boss, and we were dependent on him. Therefore, nothing much was said about my condition.
My mother cried a lot. My stepfather blamed me.
“The owner of the farm was in his thirties and had never married.
The idea of a child and a wife must have appealed to him. Much to Tommy Reagan’s surprise, and mine, he married me because of the baby.
The wedding took place at the farm. It was conducted by a local judge, and it was a simple affair, rather hurried.
“The odd thing was he immediately went away and left me living in the house with my mother and stepfather. When he returned to the farm unexpectedly a few months later, he installed me in the main house with him. He continued to have sex with me until it was impossible for him to do so because of my condition. But he rarely spoke to me and there was no warmth between us, no kindness in him. I dreamed of running away, but I knew I could not.
“The first day of June my labor pains started. I was in labor for almost two days and when the baby was finally delivered on June the third I was totally depleted. They told me that the baby had died.
“I was very ill for several months. Weak, exhausted, and afraid, I did not want to get well. As long as I was sick in bed no one could hurt me.
However, I knew I could not hide forever. When I was finally up on my feet my stepfather told me I was being sent away by my husband to recuperate. It had been decided that I would go to London to stay with my mother’s sister Bronagh. Apparently it had been my mother’s idea to send me there, and miraculously my husband had agreed.
“I cannot tell you how relieved I was to be leaving. I did not see my husband before I set out for New York to board the ship, since he was in Canada on business. However, I knew he was paying for my passage to England and a few new clothes, and that he had provided three hundred dollars for my expenses in London.
“The thing that stays in my mind is what my mother said to me, Vivienne, the day I left the farm. I’ve never forgotten her face, the way she looked at me, the sound of her voice. ‘Don’t come back to this place, mavourneen,” she had whispered to me when I bent down to kiss -her. She told me she loved me, and I remember thinking how happy she looked that morning. I knew I was witnessing her profound relief -that I was making my escape.”
Lifting my glass, I took a sip of champagne and shifted on the sofa making myself more comfortable.
Vivienne, who had been watching me alertly, exclaimed, “You’re not going to stop, are you, Countess Zoe? I want to hear the rest of your story.
Please.”
“Then you
shall, Vivienne,” I said. “I am going to tell you everything things no one else has ever heard.”
i-i’
I “It was in London that I started my second life, Vivienne. And it was much happier than my first, thanks in no small measure to my Aunt Bronagh.
“She was my mother’s younger sister and an actress. When she lived in New York she had worked with a small theater company in Greenwich Village. And it was there that she met a young English actor named Jonathan St. James. They had fallen in love, and when he returned to England in 1933 she had gone with him. They had been married for five years when I arrived to stay with them.
“The moment I walked into their little house in Pimlico my spirits lifted. It was a warm, cozy place, almost like a doll’s house, and Jonathan St. James made me feel welcome and at home. Like Bronagh he was in his late twenties and the two of them were full of vitality, high spirits, and somewhat bohemian in their lifestyle. They were crazy about each other and the theater, and both were working in plays in the West End. Naturally, they were in their element. Their happiness and gaiety was infectious and I soon felt much better, better than I had since my early childhood when my father was still alive.
They were loving with each other and with me.
“Slowly my health improved; my broken spirit began to heal. And Bronagh restored my soul. Sympathetic by nature, she had an under standing heart; gradually, I started to confide in her. Things came out slowly, little by little. Within three months she knew the whole story of my life, and she was enraged. ‘You’re not going back there, Mary Ellen. I swear to God it’ll be over my dead body if you do.
Mary, Mother of Jesus! It’s criminal, what’s been done to you, sure an’ it is, mavourneen.” Jonathan, who by this time knew everything from Bronagh, agreed that I must not return to New Jersey under any circumstances .
“But no one seemed in much of a hurry to get me back, including my mother. Of course I knew that in her case she was protecting me, trying to keep me out of harm’s way. She wrote to me regularly and never failed to tell me she loved me, and I did the same, sending her a letter once a week.
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