The Lost Dreams

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  Brad watched anxiously as the camera focused on the reporter. “Good evening, Mark. As you can see, I’m standing outside the Georges V hotel in central Paris, where I’ve just attended one of the most amazing fashion shows in recent memory, that of the Parisian designer Armand de la Vallière. As you’ll see from the clips, the show caused a sensation.”

  “Too damn late!” Brad exclaimed, his shoulders sagging. But as the screen flipped to models strutting down the catwalk, he leaned forward in anticipation.

  “Any luck?” Jeremy asked casually, following his gaze.

  “Maybe.” Brad’s eyes narrowed, a smile dawning as he recognized the flash of Charlotte’s ruby bracelet. “There, that’s Charlotte’s,” he said, pointing to the model.

  “As you can see,” Marian continued, “there’s a tremendous emphasis on jewelry in this collection, and it was stunning pieces such as this one that have the fashion world cheering. This is de la Vallière’s debut effort in this medium, but it’s clear he’s already a master.”

  “What the hell—” Brad stood up and stared at the screen.

  “Something wrong, old chap?” Jeremy raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “It is absolutely remarkable,” the commentator continued enthusiastically. “No one’s even bothering to talk about the designer’s clothing line—it’s his spectacular jewelry that’s on everyone’s lips.”

  “The bastard,” Brad swore, staring at the screen.

  “Are you sure that’s Charlotte’s design? The reporter mentioned La Vallière,” Jeremy remarked, eyebrows creased in a frown.

  “Of course it is. That son of a bitch has had the nerve to pass Charlotte’s designs off as his. I knew in my gut right from the start that something wasn’t kosher.”

  “Good Lord, poor Charlotte,” Jeremy said. “She must be feeling awful. Wait, it looks as if they’re about to show more.” The two men’s eyes stayed glued to the screen and cold anger gripped Brad as he watched.

  “Now, if I can squeeze my way behind the scenes,” Marian was saying, “I may get a chance to talk to the man of the hour. Well, as you can see, that’s impossible right now, so I’ll leave you with the final moments of what I can only describe as the most significant jewelry showing of the past decade.”

  The camera zoomed in on Armand saluting the crowd and Brad let out an oath. “That’s Charlie’s watch on that bastard’s damn wrist. It was stolen recently,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

  “Good God. You mean he stole Charlotte’s watch? What sort of a character is this fellow?”

  “One you’d rather not know,” he retorted angrily as Mark Clancy’s image flashed back on the screen.

  Brad turned off the television. “All along, I’ve had reservations about Armand’s sudden desire to promote Charlotte. Obviously, I should have paid them more heed.” He slammed the remote down on the table.

  “May one inquire what on earth is going on?” Major Whitehead appeared in the room, followed by the other partners.

  “I’m sorry, Major. An emergency. I have to leave at once.”

  “Good God, you look positively peaked, dear boy,” Sir Lawrence remarked, peering at him through his monocle.

  “Jeremy, can you give me a ride to St. Thomas hospital? I have a chopper waiting there.”

  “Of course.”

  Brad turned and addressed the room at large. “You’ll have to excuse me, gentlemen. I have an important appointment I can’t miss.”

  They hurried out of the partners’ room to the board-room, where they grabbed their jackets, then headed for the elevator.

  “I don’t suppose you’d like to put me in the picture, as far as your fiancée and the CEOship of Harcourts is concerned? This has come as rather a shock,” Jeremy remarked in measured tones.

  “She’s not my fiancée anymore,” Brad replied, glancing at the buttons of the elevator. The car was taking ages. “I can’t believe that little shit Armand had the guts to pass off Charlotte’s designs as his.”

  “A bloody nerve, I agree. But what’s this about you and Sylvia?”

  “I really can’t explain now. I shouldn’t have broken the news to you as I did. Totally unprofessional, I know. I guess old friendship breeds familiarity.” He gave his friend an apologetic grin. “Suffice it to say that I believe Syl will do a great job. I know you find her too American, too direct and to the point, but she does a hell of a job.”

  “As you said, we’ll discuss it at another moment,” he murmured dryly. “By the way, I don’t suppose Charlotte has anything to do with the breakup?” he asked as they reached the garage.

  “Uh, as a matter of fact, she does.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Jeremy murmured, casting his eyes heavenward. Those two had been playing cat and mouse for as long as he could remember. “And what, may I ask, do you plan to do with your time, now that you’ll no longer be with us?” he asked as they reached the car. “Seek early retirement?”

  “I’m off to Scotland to become Lord of the Manor.” Brad threw him a mischievous grin.

  “Well. That’s certainly come as a surprise. Anything else you’d like to tell me while we’re at it?” He pressed the remote and the Jaguar’s doors opened.

  “I think that’s it for today.”

  “Good. I hope you’ve made the right choices.” Their eyes met over the car roof and Brad said quietly, “For once, they’re my choices.”

  Reporters were still spilling out of the Salon Vendôme into the splendid foyer and up the majestic stairway to the hotel lobby, Armand realized, delighted. He could barely see past the flashes bursting in his face, or answer the bevy of excited questions thrown at him from right, left and center. He, Armand, was the epicenter of this deliciously mad chaos. For a moment he thought he might expire from delirious happiness.

  His most cherished dream had finally come true.

  He blinked back tears of joy and wonder. He’d always been a second-tier player during Fashion Week, forced to watch the press fawn over the work of others, hoping vainly that he’d have a question or two shot his way. Now he was the center of attention, all of Paris at his feet, raving with excited delight, hands waving in expressive gestures of admiration. At long last, his genius was being recognized.

  With each new question came a newfound surge of power. With great drama, he explained to a hushed audience that his jewelry had been inspired by Sylvain de Rothberg’s work, all the while whetting their appetites with hints that there might be more to the Rothberg connection than met the eye. He could almost see his father’s face, beaming with pride as his son took his rightful place. As the moments elapsed, he relished each precious instant of adulation, lapping up the glorious sensations with the appreciation of a connoisseur tasting the finest vintage wine.

  Of course, Charlotte had some small role in his success. He’d almost forgotten her in the ruckus. But he minimized the fact, relegating it to a nether region of his brain. After all, it was obvious she would never have achieved this on her own. It was all thanks to his ingenuity and Sylvain’s guiding hand.

  Now, as he answered more questions, an inner warmth hitherto unknown swept over him. The moment gave credence, he realized excitedly, to everything his psychic—whom he’d paid a fortune to over the years—had constantly predicted. It was only right, he justified, that he, and he alone, receive all the kudos.

  “Armand.” An unmistakable voice penetrated the hubbub and pierced his reverie. He froze for an instant, and then realized he was being foolish. It could only be his memory playing tricks on him, some nightmarish vision coming to deprive him of his joy. He smiled once more at the cameras and graciously answered another question.

  “Armand, you will put an end to this charade at once.” The Cardinal’s voice rang loud and clear, its icy timbre sending shivers through him. Armand stopped and stared, aware that the left corner of his mouth had begun to twitch uncontrollably. His hands shook, growing clammy as he suddenly recalled that his uncle had mentioned he mig
ht be present.

  They were turning away, he realized, gazing horrified as the press fell aside to allow the imposing, scarlet-caped figure to pass through the crowd.

  Armand stayed rooted to the spot, unable to budge. This could not be happening, he told himself over and over. This was not how things were meant to play out. Desperate, he reached for the arm of the closest reporter. He needed to tell them, to explain. Surely they would understand. He would reveal his true parentage and keep them agog at his side.

  But no one was paying attention to him any longer. Armand watched as every eye in the room focused on his uncle. His guts ached and a slow sweat broke out on his forehead. He opened his mouth to beg Oncle Eugène not to smash his dreams.

  But no sound came.

  The figure surged forward relentlessly, a tidal wave ready to engulf and annihilate, leaving him no room for escape. Like a trapped animal, he stared helplessly as the Cardinal brushed his adoring press aside like bothersome flies. He felt weak and his legs shook, just as they had when as a child he’d committed some misdemeanor and awaited punishment.

  “Have you gone mad?” Eugène declared when he finally reached him. “Have you lost all notion of right and wrong?”

  A hush descended upon the room. Half-dressed models stopped to listen, stylists and hairdressers held their breaths, and the press waited in throbbing anticipation as the scene unraveled. A scandal! What more could they ask for, to round off the evening’s surprises?

  “Mon oncle, I beg of you, not now, not here,” Armand whispered hoarsely.

  “You shall come with us immediately,” Eugène forced through clenched teeth. The words stung like the lash of a whip. Armand wished to protest, to stop the torrent of disaster he sensed rolling implacably toward him, but the scathing contempt his uncle wielded stole his words. “Come,” the Cardinal ordered. “We will not make a public spectacle of ourselves for the rabble.”

  Taking a fearful step in his uncle’s direction, Armand willed his hands to reach out and strangle the man. But they remained glued to his sides. Nothing could diminish his intimidation, not his seething unleashed anger, nor the knowledge that he was the victim of a lifetime’s persecution.

  Then he saw Charlotte.

  His vision cleared and he focused again with a bang, heard the babbling voices, the curious looks greedy for gossip, his uncle’s relentless gaze. His eyes flitted nervously back and forth. He hadn’t counted on her presence. Mon Dieu. But here she stood, only a step away, staring at him silently. For a moment, regret and shame mingled. But only a moment. He racked his brain for a feasible justification for his actions, but could come up with nothing.

  Slowly his eyes met hers. He read horror and pity. His breath caught and the full impact of what he’d done struck home. He’d deceived her, stolen from her. She could expose him as a fake. Yet something in her expression gave him hope and he clung to it like a drowning man to a sinking liferaft. Perhaps she would help him. Maybe she, an artist, would realize how vital this was to him, and understand why he’d had to do what he did. Maybe she could save him from his uncle’s wrath.

  No. Even if she were willing, the Cardinal wouldn’t permit it, he realized bitterly. His mouth went suddenly dry and his vision narrowed, the room closing in on him like a pitch-black tunnel. He fought for control, willing himself to make a graceful exit. Licking his lips and straightening his spine, he murmured excuses to the swarming reporters and followed in the Cardinal’s wake.

  “No more questions,” Eugène ordered, motioning to Monsignor Kelly to deal with the press. The kindly Irishman placed a large hand on the lens of an obstructing camera.

  “That’ll do for now,” he said, firmly following the others out.

  Charlotte stood near the marble fireplace in the presidential suite’s salon. The Cardinal sat opposite, robes falling about him on a straight-backed, Louis XV armchair. Her feelings careened between fury and pity. The atmosphere was tense and silent. Armand cowered in the middle of the room, features gray and haggard under the shimmering crystal chandelier. He was a liar and a cheat, yet her bewildered gut told her his actions were rooted in something much deeper than the mere desire for fame, and she sought desperately to understand the reason for his shameless behavior.

  At first she’d been too stunned to speak, too shocked to react. Now, with an effort, she pulled herself together. Armand would have to explain why he’d stolen her watch and her designs. Yet he appeared so pathetic, eyes fleeting back and forth like a trapped rabbit, a shadow of the vibrant man who’d preened before the press only moments earlier. It was as if he’d aged a decade in the space of an hour.

  “Hand me the watch,” Eugène ordered.

  Armand fumbled with the heavy gold band, then, fingers shaking, handed it to Monsignor Kelly, who took it to the Cardinal. Eugène studied the piece silently and frowned. There was something hauntingly familiar in the bulky octagonal shape of the face. After a long moment, he raised his eyes to Armand. “It pains me to see that you are a thief and a liar. But I am not surprised. You are a blight to the name I misguidedly allowed you to use. Once we are finished here, you will call a press conference and tell the world that the designs you passed off as your own are Charlotte’s,” he continued coldly.

  “Please, non, I beg of you, not that.” Armand shook his head vigorously, wringing his hands. “You do not understand, mon oncle. You never have.”

  “What? That you are un bon à rien? A good-for-nothing wastrel, capable of such a despicable act as this?” The Cardinal’s voice cut like a sharp knife. He gave a short, harsh laugh. “You underestimate me, Armand. I knew that from the moment I first laid eyes on you. Your father, my own brother, I’m sad to say, was a shame to our family. It was a blessing he died in the war. Your mother, God rest her soul, was a poor misguided wench.”

  “Don’t speak about my father in that way,” Armand hissed. His face contorting, his shoulders straightened as he rounded on his uncle. “My father was a brilliant man, a brave man who died for this country and for his beliefs. How dare you insult him?”

  “Whatever you wish to believe is a matter of indifference to me. I can only tell you, though it pains me to do so, that René de la Vallière was never known either for his valor or his good habits.”

  “I’m not speaking of René de la Vallière,” Armand cried, eyes shooting venom. “I’m speaking of my real father, Sylvain de Rothberg.”

  Eugène stared at him blankly. “Sylvain, your father? What on earth are you talking about? Have you gone mad?”

  “Stop pretending, mon oncle. You know very well what I mean. You have known all these years,” Armand spat. “But I know the truth—that you’ve lied and masqueraded for your own benefit.”

  “You must be truly mad,” Eugène said, shaking his head, genuinely confused. “There’s no link between you and Sylvain.”

  “Of course there is. Stop denying it. Face the truth and that famous God of yours, mon oncle. It is you who should be ashamed, you who preach honesty, integrity and truth from that trumped-up pulpit, wielding unjust power in the name of the Lord from your precious Cardinal’s perch. You,” he cried, pointing a trembling finger, “are the one who has perjured yourself, stolen my identity and lied. All these years, you have hidden the truth from the world, afraid that should someone discover Sylvain’s Lost Collection of jewels, I would be acknowledged as its rightful heir.”

  “What are you talking about—?” The Cardinal blanched.

  “Don’t pretend to misunderstand me,” Armand interrupted with a harsh, hysterical laugh. “I know very well what you had in mind.” His eyes simmered with years of hate, narrowed to tiny slits as he approached the armchair menacingly. “You thought that as Geneviève’s brother, and the last living survivor, you could claim the fortune.”

  “But how can you possibly have arrived at such idiotic conclusions?” Eugène exclaimed, horrified.

  “I knew the moment you gave me the letter all those years ago.”

 
; Eugène frowned. “Are you referring to your poor mother’s letter? What has that to do with it?”

  “Everything,” Armand whispered hoarsely, eyes aglow with a new fervor. “She spoke to me of the Lost Collection. It was her last gift to me. But my confirmation was this.” He wrenched the Star of David from under his shirt and stuck it in the Cardinal’s face. “This,” he said, shaking it, “is how I knew. Why would you give me this unless Sylvain de Rothberg was my father? You would never have given me anything so personal of his had there not been a specific reason. And, poor Maman, she was too terrified to tell me that Sylvain, not René, had been her lover. His marriage to your sister Geneviève was nothing but a dupe and a decoy,” he continued, trembling. “An excuse for my father to be close to my mother in Ambazac.”

  “Armand, this is madness. You must stop this ridiculous fantasizing immediately.” The Cardinal attempted to rise but the effort was too much and he leaned back, overwhelmed by the enormity of what was occurring. Could some misguided action of his have led this tormented boy to believe this ridiculous tale? “I have no clue where the Lost Collection may be,” he murmured shakily, “none at all. But let me assure you that you have no connection to the Rothbergs whatsoever. The chain and star were there in the safe with the letter. I couldn’t give them to Sylvain’s real son. Sylvain had met your mother in prison, managed to slip the star and a note to her and asked her to give it to me shortly before his demise. I gave them to you out of sentiment—to commemorate your mother’s courage in smuggling them to me. As for Sylvain’s son—” All of a sudden he stopped and stared at Charlotte, still standing rigid next to the fireplace.

  “I am his son, his only son,” Armand yelled hysterically. “I know it. I’ve always sensed it. You are telling lies to protect yourself.”

  “No,” Eugène insisted, genuinely distraught, “you are not.”

  “Then who was his son?” Armand demanded, eyes mad with tormented desperation.

  After a moment’s hesitation, the Cardinal turned toward Charlotte. “David MacLeod was Sylvain’s son.”