“Ah! Bradley. You’re home early.”
“Not much to be done outside in this weather. Thought I’d come back and dig into some of the paperwork.”
“Of which I’m sure there is much.” The Cardinal drew the rug across his knees and, wincing, sat up straighter, better to observe him. “You have quite a job on your hands, mon cher. Typical of Gavin to have expected you to take it on. Though in this particular case he didn’t have much choice after poor Colin passed on.” He sighed. It seemed unjust that he himself had outlived his generation, yet young Colin had been swept away by the wrath of an avalanche in the flush of youth.
“It’s manageable. At least I’m trying to make it manageable.”
“Hmm. Penelope mentioned that your fiancée did not appear pleased that you weren’t returning with her to New York,” Eugène remarked thoughtfully. “She seemed to think your presence there was of some importance.”
“Yes, well, it’s a bit of a sore subject right now.”
“I see.” Eugène studied Brad for a moment, surprised at the agitation he read in those fine blue eyes, so hauntingly reminiscent of his grandfather’s. That same agitation lurked, that same inquietude so characteristic of Gavin. But he’d never seen it in Brad’s eyes before. Or only once, he amended, frowning, trying to recall the exact year of Charlotte’s marriage.
“Have you seen Armand?” Brad asked, seating himself opposite the Cardinal amidst shelves of ancient books near the fireplace, glad to have caught him alone. He had known Eugène for years; the respected priest was Charlotte’s great-uncle, and had been one of Dex’s oldest, most trusted friends. Brad had always valued Eugène’s sharp mind and strong opinions.
The room was too warm for a fire and the grate stood empty. Brad stared at it, wondering how to broach the subject uppermost in his brain.
“I believe he went off to Charlotte’s gallery.”
“No, he didn’t go by the gallery.”
“Oh. You were there?”
“Yes, I was by there,” he replied calmly, knowing the wily old Cardinal was fully capable of somehow reading in his eyes things he’d rather not share—like what had happened with Charlotte this morning. Still, he was curious to learn more about Armand, and Oncle Eugène was without a doubt his best source. “I was in the village and saw Charlotte. We went together to the police station to talk to Bobby Hewitt. He’s a simple soul who sometimes hovers around Charlotte and the cottage. We thought perhaps he might have been responsible for the robbery.”
“An odd matter, that robbery, indeed,” the Cardinal agreed, a pensive frown knitting his thin white eyebrows. “Did this person, this Bobby Hewitt, strike you as guilty?”
“No. Not in the least.” Brad shook his head, leaned back in the faded armchair and flung an ankle over the knee of his beige corduroy pants. “The only other person seen there that day was Armand. But of course, we excluded him immediately.” He studied the Cardinal from under hooded lids, anxious to seek his reaction.
“Armand is an odd fish,” Eugène remarked slowly, “but I doubt he would resort to stealing. Still…” He pondered a moment and Brad grabbed his opening.
“Am I right in recalling a story that dates back to when Uncle David was a young man? Something about Armand having tried to take his watch? The same watch,” he emphasized slowly, “that was stolen from Charlotte’s cottage?”
“Yes, of course, you’re correct,” Eugène replied, eyes brightening. “It was one summer when David was working at the factory in Limoges. He never knew if Armand was actually trying to steal the watch or merely studying it.” Eugène shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve never been able to disabuse him of his strange obsession with Sylvain de Rothberg.”
“I gathered that. Do you think this obsession is such that he’d feel compelled to try and steal the watch from Charlotte?”
The Cardinal mused, then shook his red-capped head. “No, I don’t believe so. The thought of actually owning a Rothberg piece might have sparked something. But no,” he dismissed his words. “Perhaps earlier in his life, but not at this stage.”
“Why is he so fixated on the Rothbergs?” Brad asked, curious to get a better sense of Armand.
With a sigh, the Cardinal removed his glasses and wiped them carefully with his handkerchief. “I don’t rightly know the root of the obsession, for he’s never confided in me. We have never, as I’m sure you are aware, been particularly close.” Brad murmured an assent, not wanting to break the flow. “He was a difficult child,” Eugène continued, “which is hardly surprising, I suppose, when one thinks of the horror to which he was subjected. His mother was shot as a collaborator, you remember. I myself assisted her in her last moments.”
“Dex told me the story,” he remarked, nodding. “A rough start.”
“Yes. Already he suffered from the stigma of being the illegitimate son of my younger brother, René. His mother was the barmaid at the Café du Centre in Ambazac—you know the place?” Brad nodded once more. “People can be terribly resentful and mean. Those days just after the war were very different from today, you know,” he added with a long sigh. “Personally I never believed poor Françoise was a collaborator and told the judges so. Perhaps she even tried to help some of the Résistants, who knows? That is certainly what she claimed. You will recall, Brad, that Sylvain de Rothberg and his wife, Geneviève—my sister—were part of the underground resistance movement in the Second World War? Françoise asserted that Sylvain himself was one of the people she’d aided. I even showed the judges the Star of David she swore he’d slipped to her when he was in jail. But there was no proof of that to be found when the defense tried to establish the occurrence at her trial. If trial you can call it,” he murmured acidly. “Those sitting on the benches of justice were there to condemn, not to try. It was an appalling example of petty animosity and revenge. People were too intent on getting back at one another, taking advantage of the situation to settle old scores.” He shook his head sadly. “Françoise was not a bad girl. In her final hour she wrote a letter for her son that she begged me to keep until he was eighteen.”
“Did you see it?”
“No. She sealed it and it remained thus in my safe at La Vallière until his eighteenth birthday, as she requested. By that time he was already on a troubled path, from which I regret he has not deviated much since.”
Brad supposed he was referring to Armand’s boyfriends. Otherwise, he could think of nothing that might condemn the man in the Cardinal’s eyes, except that he was an annoying pedant. Still, a niggling voice urged him to pursue the subject further. It was probably absurd, but for some reason the thought of Charlotte handing over a large amount of her jewelry to Armand left him uneasy.
“What do you think of Armand’s invitation to show Charlotte’s collection with his own in the fall?” he asked, snapping his finger at Rufus, who’d ambled in the door.
“Frankly, I’m surprised he’d even consider it. Armand has not been known for his generosity of spirit. Certainly not in the professional sphere. From all I gather, he is a mediocre designer at best, though apparently quite well liked among his peers.” He shrugged. “Perhaps he hopes that showing Charlotte’s work will bring him reflected glory. He will be the ‘discoverer’ of new talent.”
“I hadn’t thought of that, but it makes sense.”
“I can think of no other reason why he would so bestir himself on Charlotte’s behalf. I just hope it benefits Charlotte—she has enough troubles in her personal life, poor child.”
Brad looked away. “Yes, she has.” And now she had the passion between them to contend with as well, he thought, overcome with guilt.
They had to talk, whether she liked it or not. Knowing Charlotte, he doubted she would come over tonight. She would flounder, try and pretend that everything could fall back into place as it had been. But it couldn’t. And the sooner she realized it the better.
“You seem very silent.”
The Cardinal’s voice made him look up, st
artled. “I was thinking about Armand and all you were saying.” He smiled and leaned forward to knead Rufus between the ears. “As you say, it doesn’t seem likely he’d be involved in the robbery.” He caught the Cardinal’s skeptical glance and held it a second. Was there nothing the old gentleman didn’t see? Suddenly he wondered how much he might have noticed that summer at La Vallière. If anyone had been aware of his feelings for Charlotte back then, it was probably Oncle Eugène.
He rose regretfully. “Time to get some work done, I’m afraid.”
“Of course. I shall see you at dinner. And by the way—”
Brad paused, aware by the tone in the Cardinal’s voice that Eugène was about to say something of note. “You should think hard about your future, cher Bradley. Marrying the wrong woman can result in a very unhealthy situation.”
Not knowing how to answer, he grunted an assent and slipped from the room. The Cardinal was right; he had a lot of rethinking to do.
Exactly how much remained to be seen.
Contrary to old Hamish’s predictions, the weather cleared the next day, sharp sweeping gusts blowing the rain eastward. Despite her initial misgivings, Charlotte had conceded to Brad’s offer and went to Glasgow by chopper. She had to admit it had made the trip a lot easier and she was back home by late afternoon. Still, as always, the depressing atmosphere of the hospital—the sterile tubes, the smell of anesthetic and the silent motionless bodies—left her anguished. How could she go on living like this, tied to a corpse? she wondered later that day, glad to be back in her gallery, surrounded by the familiar feel of her work.
Taking a sip of decaf, Charlotte watched Moira, perched on a high stool, carefully preparing a wax mold. Since yesterday morning she’d found it impossible to set her mind to anything useful. Moving impatiently across the workshop to her drawing table, she switched on the light and doodled with the new sketch of a ring—anything, she realized somberly, to avoid obsessing over what had happened yesterday morning. But it was pointless. So much was bubbling in her troubled mind. She’d gone to Glasgow today almost hoping that seeing John would convince her that she still had a husband and duties to fulfill. Instead, his expressionless figure had forced her to acknowledge that things couldn’t go on as they were.
Now, as she rose restlessly and carried the empty cup of coffee to the battered sink, she pondered. Did it really matter that she and Brad had no future? What if they simply had an affair? Would that get him out of her system?
She placed the cup down, letting the water trickle in loud drops into the dilapidated metal sink, thinking of Brad’s hands gliding smoothly up her body, and that brief moment of union. Could she persuade herself this was just about sex? She let out a heavy sigh. She didn’t think so. There’d been so much more in Brad’s touch than mere physical sensation. But only misery awaited her if she allowed matters to get any more involved, she realized, policing herself, trying desperately to banish the persistent images.
“Damn Brad,” she exclaimed, bringing her palm down hard on the counter.
“Excuse me?” Moira glanced up. “Charlotte, turn that damn tap off, it’s driving me nuts.”
“I said, damn Brad.” Charlotte gave the tap a twist and turned. “Why did this have to happen just as things were beginning to look up? Right now I need my full concentration focused on the jewelry for the show.”
“Do I gather you’re referring to yesterday?” Moira sent her a quizzical look.
“Yes. You know perfectly well what happened in here, so don’t pretend not to.”
“I’m not,” Moira replied airily, returning her attention to the mold she was crafting. “You’re old enough to know what you’re doing.”
“I wish I did,” Charlotte muttered. “I feel like a whirling dervish.” Her eye caught the calendar and she winced. “Do you realize that we’ve only three weeks left if we are going to participate in the show?”
“Of course you’ll participate. And don’t worry, we’ll make it.” Moira winked.
“I’m glad you’re so calm about it,” Charlotte grumbled, squinting at the bright new Swatch watch the twins had bought her. It was later than she’d realized. “I suppose I must go find Armand. After all, he’s leaving in a few days and there are still so many details to settle.” She gave a worried sigh. “How’s the choker coming along, by the way?” She shifted nervously, then stood gazing over Moira’s shoulder at the plasticene form she was creating. Suddenly, she stamped her foot, angrily as a child. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she wailed. “I can’t seem to be able to settle my mind on anything.”
“Maybe it’s time you and Brad finally let loose,” Moira murmured, shaping the gooey substance with deft hands. “You’re going to be no use at all floating around in a bubble.”
“But all I can think of is—” Charlotte stopped, realizing how ridiculous she must sound, and gave a short laugh.
“Brad,” Moira supplied with a knowing nod.
“Yes,” she whispered in a small voice, a tiny smile curving her lips. It was true. All that registered was the touch of his lips on hers, his thumb grazing her nipples in that tantalizing magic manner that had left her tossing all night and aching for more. “It’s absurd to be moping like a moody teenager, Mo,” she said, trying to get a grip, “and even more ridiculous for this to be happening with Brad. I’ve known him forever. He’s engaged, for Christ’s sake.” She whirled around and leaned against Moira’s worktable, making it impossible for her to continue her mold.
“Charlie, I’m trying to get this finished today.”
“I know, but just listen for a moment. It’s important,” Charlotte wheedled.
With a resigned sigh Moira pushed back her stool. “Okay, but not long, I’ve got to finish it.”
“Damn the mold. Mo, what am I going to do?” she cried, sending her friend a desperate plea for help.
“What do you want to do?”
“I haven’t a clue,” Charlotte lied.
“If you want my real opinion, I’d say you’re both chomping at the bit. Best thing to do is jump into bed with him and take care of business, if you ask me. Now, if you moved over, I could actually get on with my work.”
“It’s not that simple,” Charlotte remarked, shifting nervously aside, conscious of a dull ache in her heart. The truth was she wanted him, desperately. But not in bits. She wanted down to the last inch of him. And not just for robbed moments either, she reflected anxiously, aware that the only other time she’d ever felt quite like this was all those years ago when Brad had refused to make love to her. A sudden chill ran up her spine. What if she came to him, and he refused her again?
Shock that she was even considering such a thing made her stop and swallow. John had been the one and only man in her life. Sex between them had been a disappointment from the start but she had little room for comparison. John had wasted no time except on his own pleasure. But this, this was so different.
“I can’t do it,” she whispered, suddenly clenching her fingers. “He’s engaged, I’m still married, there’s Genny and the twins, a never-ending list of reasons why it simply can’t happen. Plus, it would be the end of our friendship.” She fidgeted, dragging nervous fingers through her hair. She paced about the workshop, then stopped in front of Moira as though expecting her corroboration.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit late to be coming up with all of this now?” Moira said.
“No.” She shook her head violently. “I can’t afford any more mistakes. Just think, Mo. It would muck everything up.”
“I don’t see why that should stop you, when you’ve been mucking your life up for so long,” she remarked dryly.
“What do you mean?” Charlotte bristled.
“That you’re in love with him and always have been. And have spent the past ten years in the hands of a man who, as far as I’m concerned, should be behind bars for the way he treated you.”
“Rubbish,” Charlotte scoffed. But in all the long years she’d been ma
rried to John, not once had she thought of his lips grazing hers the way Brad’s did, or of his tongue roaming slowly, tauntingly over her temple, down her cheek to her lips, then lingering, as though he had all day.
Moira laid down the mold and looked up, voice softening. “Stop being so hard on yourself and on him, Charlie. Give yourselves a chance. Okay, it carries risks,” she agreed, “but what doesn’t? Surely anything’s better than what you’ve been going through.”
“I’m sure to get hurt.”
“Maybe. But isn’t that better than continuing in this no-man’s-land you’re in now?”
“Plus, there’s Sylvia to consider.” She sounded unconvincing to her own ears. The New Yorker’s blond image seemed awfully far away. Apparently neither Sylvia nor trying to convince herself about her own obligations had acted as sufficient deterrents. Maybe Mo was right. What was the point of resisting when it was obvious she’d shot her own ground rules to hell?
“At some point you’re going to have to face him,” Moira added. “It’s a bit much to hope Brad will let yesterday morning’s incident pass without mention.”
“You’re right,” she agreed in a hollow voice. “He’ll either expect me to go to him or, more likely, he’ll turn up here or at the cottage.”
“Well?” A slow grin spread over Moira’s broad face. “Why not take the chance? Live the moment. Stop always thinking about what you owe others, or what tomorrow will bring. If I were you, I’d go for the cottage,” she added sagely.
Charlotte tilted her head, then grinned as an idea occurred to her. “Maybe you’re right,” she murmured. The possibility of him arriving at Rose Cottage suddenly seemed infinitely more tempting. All at once she spun around and stared at herself in the stained mirror hanging askew on the wall, next to Sylvain’s photograph, and smirked at her own reflection. Mo was right. He would come, and soon. Of that she was certain. Whether she was right about what happened then remained to be seen. There would probably be one hell of a high price to pay. But what of it? She’d been paying all her adult life. At least this time the price would be worth it. Scooping her hair up with her free hand, she tilted her head and sized up the effect.
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