The Lost Dreams

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  She swallowed, trying to school her features into a picture of cool confidence. Losing Brad would be hard, but losing Harcourts would be worse. It would mean giving up everything she’d striven and fought for so desperately. In her darkest hours she’d dreamed of this moment; the unwavering belief that one day she’d reach the top had saved her from self-destruction.

  Slowly she raised her eyes and took a fresh look at him. He really had changed, she realized suddenly. Or maybe this was who he’d truly been all along. There was no uncertainty in his eyes, no impulsiveness in his attitude, rather the sure confidence of a man who knows he’s made the right decision.

  She sighed an inner sigh and braced herself. She would not become Mrs. Bradley Ward. They would not share a life together. Instead, when she walked from this room, she would do so as one of the most powerful women in the city. She swallowed hard, surprised to find herself near tears, and watched him for a long moment, knowing she would never forget what it felt like to be held in his arms, to feel his lips on hers, to feel him moving inside her, the well-orchestrated existence she’d become so accustomed to. But that was the price she had to pay, she reminded herself sternly, the sacrifices a businesswoman of her caliber had to make to reach the top.

  When she was sure she’d successfully fought back the tears of pain, gratitude and regret, she allowed her eyes to meet his and met with mutual, unspoken understanding.

  It was time for her to move in and him to move on. But not together.

  He reached out his hand. Concealing her bewilderment she took it, fingers trembling uncontrollably. She’d walked in here minutes before with the sole objective of getting him back in her life. Now, he’d given her hers.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to put Sylvia’s candidacy as future CEO of this company to a vote. Will all in favor please raise their hands?”

  Every hand at the table rose and the motion passed unanimously.

  Her fingers still shook and he squeezed them hard. “Congratulations. You’ll do a great job, Syl. This is where you truly belong.”

  She could only nod, the knot in her throat preventing her from speaking. Then, in a courtly gesture so typical of Brad, he rose, smiling, and offered her his chair. She hesitated, knowing that this was not technically correct. But it was a rite of passage, and taking a deep breath, Sylvia mustered all her strength and stood at his side.

  “You go, girl,” Brad whispered, hand firmly gripping her shoulder as she sat carefully down in the CEO’s place. “I’m counting on you, and you’ve never failed me yet.”

  Paris was sweltering, hot damp air and fumes mingling as Armand walked down the Rue St.-Honoré. He sniffed, sending a disparaging glance at the tourists—window-shoppers who wandered along, holding up the flow of pedestrian traffic. He had a lunch appointment with a friend at Costes, after which they would repair together to the Georges V, the hotel where the show would take place. He shook his head with a worried frown. All morning he’d attended to business, while stylists flurried in and out, making calls to the florist who’d mistaken the arrangements, causing him an hour’s panic. Not to mention Charlotte. She was driving him mad. One minute it was the tiara, the next the delivery. At times he wished he’d never gotten her involved. Time was getting short, he reasoned nervously as he hurried down the pavement, reviewing his conversation with her. He really didn’t have time for all this nonsense. And now she’d decided not to come. He raised long-suffering eyebrows. He hadn’t intended to discourage her from coming to Paris, but when she’d told him of her plan to file divorce papers, he’d stated the obvious. Word of her decision to divorce John Drummond was sure to find its way into the tabloids, and media speculation would be rife once news of Charlotte’s participation in his show got out. In fact, there was a real danger it might overshadow the show itself. And, as Charlotte herself had pointed out, he justified reasonably, the last thing she wanted was for the press to believe she’d timed the action as a publicity stunt to coincide with the launch of her jewelry line. She wanted her work to stand on its own.

  As he crossed the road, narrowly escaping a swerving motorcyclist and passing yet another herd of bovine tourists, a delicious thought struck. He stopped dead in his tracks and gazed blindly at a bright silk scarf in the window of Hermès. Perhaps the idea had been hovering on the edge of his consciousness for some time.

  He’d just never voiced it, not even to himself.

  Now, as he eyed three suspicious-looking individuals loitering on the corner, Armand shivered. His fingers gripped the mother-of-pearl butt of the antique pistol he’d discovered at Strathaird, now safely hidden in his pocket. It reassured him to know it was loaded. He approached the restaurant in rising excitement. What had at first struck him as outrageous now seemed increasingly feasible. It was a daring move, one that could all too easily backfire. Still, as he entered Costes and smiled at the maître d’, he felt certain the risk was worth taking.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur de la Vallière.” Armand nodded graciously. “Monsieur Arnaud vous attend.” The maître d’ lead the way through the crowded restaurant.

  Armand followed, exchanging absent hellos with acquaintances and nodding to others. By the time he reached the winter garden where Hugues Arnaud awaited him, he’d made his decision. It might prove disastrous, he acknowledged, approaching the table with a fixed smile. But as the waiter pulled back his chair and he kissed Hugues on both cheeks, all he could envisage was that single triumphant moment of glory he’d longed for forever.

  “So, it is because you’ve finally taken a wise decision in your personal life that you have decided to back out of the show, Charlotte?” the Cardinal questioned, sending her a speculative glance from the deck chair where he sat, propped against faded floral cushions and wrapped in a tartan cashmere rug. The weather had improved, allowing for brief interludes in the warm afternoon sun. Charlotte lounged in one of the wicker chairs around the garden table and sipped Ribena despondently. She had just poured out her doubts about attending the show to her great-uncle and was already regretting it.

  “It seemed wiser to cancel my plans to go,” she insisted. “Armand’s right. One of the tabloids is sure to get a hold of the fact that I’m going through with the divorce. Can you imagine what a treat that would be for them? They’d think I was seeking publicity for my jewelry line. I had a conversation with John’s former agent and he thought it wise, too.”

  “A divorce is a serious matter. In your case, however, it is utterly justifiable. No one has the right to treat his partner in the manner to which you were subjected.”

  Charlotte’s head shot up in surprise. “You don’t disapprove?”

  “No.” The Cardinal shook his white head. “I am glad that you have finally come to the decision to free yourself from what can only be considered a curse. I believe the Church would pardon you. I shall seek a dispensation.”

  Charlotte nearly gasped. Could her great-uncle, an advocate of marriage and fidelity, truly be encouraging her? Relief swept over her and she let out a pent-up sigh, one she’d been holding for longer than she could recall.

  “Don’t you think you’re giving the divorce too much importance?” the Cardinal continued, unaware of Charlotte’s conflicting emotions. “After all, John Drummond has not been in the media for a while. I do not imagine he is what you young people refer to as a ‘hot item,”’ he remarked dryly.

  “No, I suppose not,” she agreed. “Still, you have to admit, Oncle Eugène, it would make for a good story. I shiver to think of the headlines.”

  He looked at her sternly. “Perhaps it is time you stopped quaking and fleeing from headlines or what others may say or think, my dear. Perhaps it is time you took your life into your own hands instead of living in your husband’s shadow.”

  She returned his gaze, eyes wide with surprise. “But I’m doing my own thing with my jewelry, Oncle Eugène, even though half the projects I undertake usually end up being a dismal failure.”

  “Rubbish. Ridicul
ous. You haven’t given yourself a decent chance, mon enfant. You must be in Paris for the show.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “Let’s face it, whether I’m there or not won’t make much difference. I’m just too preoccupied with other matters.” She stared across at the sea, bright blue today and surprisingly calm, determined not to be hurt that Brad had left without even saying goodbye. To be fair, she’d been in Edinburgh the day he’d left, but still, she’d had no word from him since, not a sign, a phone call. Nothing. It was as though he’d disappeared into thin air. She sighed, dejected. Back in New York, he would likely see sense. By now, he and Sylvia were probably huddled over plans for the famous St. Regis winter wedding Sylvia was so keen on. She thought of her interlude with Brad and swallowed. Not an hour went by when she didn’t burn for him. She’d picked up the phone a dozen times and dialed, only to lay down the receiver, determined not to run after him. If he wanted her, he’d come.

  But oh, how she missed him, longed for his touch, his hands fleeting over her body, making her remember what it felt like to be a woman. She sighed and stared at her lap. At least the interlude with Brad—and it seemed that was all it was destined to be—had helped her take the necessary steps to move ahead in her life. Whatever happened, she was grateful to him for that.

  She drained her glass and prepared to take leave. There was still so much to do for Armand’s show, so many last-minute details to see to. She never would have believed the huge effort that went into preparing a show like this. It was both exciting and exhausting, and a bit anticlimactic not to be there after all the work. But the divorce would be finalized by the end of the month and Genny would need her at home. It was impossible to even think of leaving the island right now.

  “I leave for Paris next Tuesday,” Eugène remarked, interrupting her reverie. “I am staying there expressly so that I can attend Armand’s show. I haven’t informed him, though—I couldn’t bear all that twittering about. He makes me nervous enough as it is. Monsignor Kelly tells me the show will take place at the Georges V.” He sniffed. “Not my favorite place, but so be it. I hear it has undergone a serious and much-needed overhaul. Do you know, Charlotte, why I am not immediately traveling to Rome?” He pursed his lips and watched her expectantly.

  “So that you can see Armand’s collection, I imagine. It should be magnificent. Armand certainly has flair,” she remarked, trying to keep the disappointment from her voice. It seemed suddenly cruel that she wouldn’t get to see her designs exhibited, or hear the crowds respond. Waiting to see whether they loved or hated them would be agonizing, she realized, but oh, how she longed to be there.

  “I haven’t the slightest interest in Armand’s clothes,” Eugène muttered dismissively. “The only reason I wish to be there is to see your creations welcomed by the world.” He watched her as she stared at him, astonished. His eyes narrowed. He could see the stark resemblance now, wondered how it had escaped him all these years, and sighed. Perhaps he’d been a coward. But did he have the right to go to his grave in silence? He plucked the fringe of the rug, pondering the proper course of action. “I think you want to go to the show,” he observed casually, “even though you hesitate to make a public spectacle of yourself.”

  “Well, of course I do,” she replied tartly. “But I can’t very well march in there and parade myself before the press, can I?” She gave a humorless laugh. “Perhaps I should wear a djellaba and pretend I’m a client.”

  “I think I have a better solution,” the Cardinal responded with a thoughtful smile. “It occurs to me that there may be a simpler way, should you wish to go incognito, so to speak.”

  Hope flickered and her eyes turned a darker shade of amethyst. Memories of an identical pair of eyes made him wince. His chest tightened.

  “How?” she asked urgently.

  “You can come with me. We shall arrive in a limousine, and you can pull your hair back or wear a hat and a pair of dark glasses. No one will believe the designer would deign to appear with an old cleric, believe me. Those who know me will think I’m there because of Armand, everyone else will expect you to be behind the scenes with him.”

  “I don’t know…I suppose it might work.” She bit her lip, but he could read the excitement in her smile.

  “Has he sent you a program yet?”

  “Apparently they still haven’t come back from the printers. Armand was worried when we last spoke. He’s all atwitter. Apparently one of the models dyed her hair the wrong color.” She giggled despite her tension. “You know, I can’t believe my name’s going to share billing with Armand! I told him to list me as Charlotte MacLeod, not Drummond. Part of the moving-on process,” she remarked with a rueful grin.

  “Excellent,” he said approvingly. Though there was another name that might suit her even better, he reflected. But enough. For now he needed to persuade her to face herself and her own future. The past would have to wait its turn. He had his own reasons for wanting her in Paris, but those too could be addressed later.

  “Then why don’t we do the following,” he remarked, pressing his advantage. “You return with me to Paris on Tuesday and we shall go to the show on Wednesday night together.”

  “It’s awfully tempting, but I don’t know if I can manage it,” she murmured, finding excuses. “Genny’s vacation is almost over, and she’ll be starting school again…”

  Eugène looked her straight in the eye. “Charlotte, you know very well your mother will be only too glad to help you. You must stop creating pretexts. This trip will teach you who you are and all that you can achieve,” he added, thinking of the many changes that lay ahead for her.

  She hesitated, then let out a huff. Could the Cardinal be right? “All right,” she exclaimed, taking the plunge. Jumping out of her chair, she came over to his side and kneeled next to him. “Thank you, Oncle Eugène. I know I’ve tried you dearly over the years, but you’ve always been so patient and—and wonderful. Thanks for doing this for me.”

  Her voice, shaking with emotion, and her trembling smile left him weak, the light in her violet eyes so like his beloved Geneviève’s. The years rolled back and his sister’s image flickered before him, sending a sudden shaft of pain searing through his heart. It was as though she were kneeling here at his side. Charlotte slipped her slim hand in his, and for a moment he closed his eyes, seeing Geneviève and Sylvain plainly before him, their gaze falling on Charlotte, filled with love and hope. He shivered, unable to control the sudden tremor in his fingers.

  “Oncle Eugène, are you all right?” Charlotte squeezed his frail fingers, her worried voice reaching him through the haze.

  The vision faded and he opened his eyes. “I’m fine, ma chère,” he murmured, returning the pressure. Reclining his head back against the cushion, he rested his eyes upon her. She was so young, so beautiful, so full of life and hope. Just as his dear Genny had been before they massacred her. She had been almost the same age as Charlotte. His grip on her hand tightened and for a moment he stared fixedly at her. “You must not turn your back on the future, Charlotte,” he said suddenly. “You have a destiny to fulfill. You, and Bradley too, must face the future and not seek excuses to flee it.”

  Charlotte frowned. “I—I’m trying my best,” she murmured, not understanding his sudden outburst.

  “Oui, bien sûre, of course you are.” He smiled reassuringly and patted her hand gently. “But there is so much—” He stopped himself and shook his gaunt head. “Not now, my love, another time. Go and fetch Linus, please. I find myself somewhat fatigued.”

  Charlotte rose, confused and concerned. He looked so frail, as though a sharp gust of wind might blow him away. “Are you sure you’ll be all right by yourself?” she asked, worried, glancing toward the castle, wishing someone would come out. She didn’t like the idea of leaving him alone, even for a few minutes.

  “Don’t worry about me, ma petite, I haven’t survived this long only to die in a deck chair without completing my mission. But that is another matter. N
ow run along and get Linus before I catch cold.”

  Charlotte ran hastily back across the lawn and up the worn steps to the drawing room, wondering what he could possibly mean with his talk of missions and destiny. He’d looked at her with a penetrating gaze that seemed to see into her soul. She frowned as she reached the library door and knocked. It was almost as though his so-called mission had something to do with her personally.

  But as she opened the door and Monsignor Kelly put down his glasses, already rising expectantly, she forgot about her strange conversation with Eugène. Instead, the possibility of seeing her work at the show filled her with an excited rush, and she knew then, without a doubt, that she’d be there.

  14

  After several fruitless attempts, Brad gave up trying to reach her. He should have known Charlotte wouldn’t own a damn answering machine. Or know how to pick up messages on her mobile phone. God knows, he’d left a few.

  But Charlotte never remembered a damn thing, never adhered to convention. And he wouldn’t want her any other way, he realized with a half smile. Still, he was annoyed that she was making herself unreachable. It worried him. He didn’t want her thinking he hadn’t bothered to call. His sudden departure hadn’t allowed any time for explanations. Was she upset, or hurt, or had just decided in good-old-Charlotte fashion to ignore what had happened between them? God, he hoped not. He was determined not to allow her to hide once more behind a barrier of pride and guilt. The only thing that kept him from going insane with worry was Penelope’s news that Charlotte had gone to Paris with Eugène for Armand’s show. She’d also revealed that Charlotte had visited a lawyer in Edinburgh and was seeking a divorce. Of course, he was already aware of that, but telling the others was an important step. It meant she was truly committed to the decision.