Tessa almost laughed out loud. Of course she could. She was a dyed-in-the-wool Francophile, and she loved Paris, knew the City of Light as well as she knew London. Well, almost. Years before meeting Jean-Claude, she had been going to Paris on a regular basis, and Shane O’Neill, her stepfather, owned one of the most exclusive and deluxe hotels in the city. It was situated on the elegant Avenue Montaigne, off the Champs-Élysées.
Then there was Jean-Claude’s small country estate, where he spent most weekends. Located outside Paris, near Fontainebleau, it was a picturesque country manor called Clos-Fleuri. On her first visit last summer, she had taken an instant liking to it, and she felt at home there, as if she truly belonged. Aside from the beautiful grounds and gardens, the house was lovely, full of charm, and when she was there she felt enveloped in quiet luxury and comfort. There was a peacefulness about it that she cherished.
All of these points aside, Tessa was deeply in love with Jean-Claude, and she had realized from the beginning of their affair that she could be happy with him anywhere.
Tessa had never known anyone like him. He was loving, warm, and kind to her, and he adored little Adele. Emotional considerations apart, he was a man she respected and admired. He had a vivid intelligence, was clever, street-smart, and brilliant in his work. Yet despite his superior intellect, he never made her feel inferior. They got on well and were great companions; she had never felt that way with her former husband, Mark Long-den. He had always managed to put her down and beat up on her—verbally and physically.
Jean-Claude Deléon, one of the most famous men in France, if not indeed in the world, had fallen in love with her the minute he met her. And she with him. He called it a coup de foudre. “We were struck by lightning,” he sometimes said, smiling at her tenderly.
That had been last August. In the last five months, they had managed to spend a great deal of time together in Paris and London, at Clos-Fleuri, and here in Yorkshire at her mother’s home. And during these months they had grown closer, come to know each other most intimately on every level. It was so right, this affair of theirs, and they both knew it.
But there was a problem, and it troubled her. What would she do if she married him? She had always worked. Hard work was bred in the bone of every Harte, and she was no exception. She had been brought up to be disciplined, dedicated, driven, and an achiever. Just as the whole family had. So wouldn’t she be bored if she didn’t have a job?
Naturally she would be bored. Bored silly. Especially since Jean-Claude worked like a Trojan himself, writing books, screenplays, theatrical plays, and articles for newspapers and magazines. He filmed documentaries and gave lectures. He was forever occupied.
And then there was his great fame in France. He was the philosopher-king, the favorite of presidents and politicians, and a member of the Parisian elite.
Fame had its own demands. She was well aware of that; her brother Lorne, her beloved twin, was a famous actor. Fame ate up his time, just as it ate Jean-Claude’s. There were personal appearances, press and publicity, events to attend, and she knew it was all part of his work.
Tessa let out a heavy sigh and sat down in the chair at her desk. There were so many questions bouncing around in her head this morning, and no answers were forthcoming.
She glanced at the mail on her desk, which she had brought with her from London. After reading the letters and e-mails, she put them back in their folder and pushed it to the end of the desk, an old French bureau plat she treasured. Then her eyes scanned the little sitting room which adjoined her bedroom. This intimate suite had been hers for as long as she could remember, and she loved its primrose yellow walls and yellow-and-red toile de Jouy documentary print at the windows. In this suite were displayed all her favorite possessions, decorative objects, books and paintings, which she had collected over the years. They helped to give the two rooms their attractive aspects and personality, bespoke her taste as well as personal preferences. It was distinctively her decor.
Glancing at her watch, Tessa suddenly realized she ought to go downstairs and find Jean-Claude and the others, offer them drinks before lunch. Her mother, who had gone to West Tanfield with Aunt Emily, had asked her to be the hostess in her absence.
Earlier, when she had talked to Margaret, the housekeeper had insisted on making lunch, because, as she put it, “You’ll have your hands full doing dinner tonight, Miss Tessa.” And so she had let the housekeeper take over. A short while ago, Margaret had come up to tell her about the menu. She was making hot leek-and-potato soup, a chicken pot pie, a cottage pie, and fish cakes for those who wanted lighter fare. There was green salad and a cheese platter, as well as fresh fruit.
Margaret had then thought to add, “And what about all this lamb stew, Miss Tessa? You’ve ordered far too much meat. Why, there’s enough to feed an army, that there is!”
Tessa had quickly answered that there were a lot of bones in lamb shoulder and neck, and that everyone liked a stew the next day anyway, because it tasted even better.
Tutting to herself, Margaret had said no more, but she had looked annoyed as she stomped off to the kitchen. Perhaps she’s mad at me because I’ve invaded her territory again, Tessa thought, then shrugged. She enjoyed cooking, and if she was in the kitchen, Margaret could have a night off. But she decided the housekeeper wouldn’t see it that way.
Rising, Tessa now walked into her bedroom and took a sage green wool jacket out of the wardrobe. Slipping it on, she swung around and stood for a moment regarding the bed.
No one had ever shared this bed with her. None of her siblings when they were growing up, and certainly not Mark Longden. Whenever she and Mark had stayed at Pennistone Royal after their marriage, she had asked her mother to put them in the Blue-and-White Suite. On these occasions she had been able to use her own rooms as her private place, to be alone, to rest and work. The suite was her quiet haven during her marriage, as it had been from childhood. Her little yellow-and-red suite was sacrosanct. No one had ever been permitted to share it.
Until last night. When the house was still and everyone had gone to sleep, Jean-Claude had come to her bedroom at her invitation. He had slipped into the bed with her, taken her in his arms, and held her close. They had loved each other very tenderly, and it had pleased her that he was with her here. He was her one true love, her soul mate, the only man she wanted, and wherever she was she wanted him with her. So her private haven was opened to him willingly and with joy.
She never worried about the difference in their ages, but she was aware he did. He was over twenty years older, and it bothered him. Sometimes she chided him for that, told him not to be silly, and he would nod, and smile, and change the subject. She wanted to have another child, but only by him; she wanted it even if they weren’t married. But whenever she thought of bringing it up, she lost her nerve. Perhaps this weekend she would mention it …
The buzzing phone interrupted her thoughts. “Hello?”
“C’est moi, chérie,” Jean-Claude said.
. “How odd!” Tessa exclaimed. “I was just thinking about you.”
He chuckled. “Nice things, I hope.”
“Oh yes, very, very, very nice things.”
“Are you coming downstairs, my Tess? I would like to talk to you about … something.”
“I was just coming down to find you.”
“I shall await you in the library.”
“See you in a jiffy.”
She hung up the phone, glanced at herself in the mirror, liking the sage green wool jacket with the cream sweater and matching cream wool pants. Invariably, Tessa wore light colors, knowing how well they suited her pale blond coloring, and she had discovered Jean-Claude preferred them to darker shades.
Hurrying across the bedroom, she went out into the corridor and down the wide, curving staircase, heading for the library, wondering what he wanted to talk to her about.
The great Stone Hall was empty, but a fire blazed up the chimney, and it was a warm and welcoming s
ight, as were the many large pots of gold, yellow, and bronze chrysanthemums and the white orchids. Her mother always had a lovely display of plants in the Stone Hall, following the tradition started by Emma many years before. Gardening was Paula’s hobby, and many of the plants in the house were grown by her in the greenhouses; she liked to display them in all the rooms. And they gave everyone pleasure.
Tessa’s high-heeled cream boots made a staccato sound as she crossed the Stone Hall and went into the library.
Jean-Claude swung around as she entered, and he hurried over to her, kissed her cheek.
His face was cold against hers, and she asked, “Did you go out for a walk after all?”
“Mais oui, chérie. I needed fresh air. And to clear my head,” he explained, and, taking hold of her hand, he led her down the long room. “Let’s sit here, near the terrace windows,” he murmured. Once they were seated, he stared into her face, his eyes searching, as if he were endeavoring to ascertain her mood.
“What is it?” Tessa instantly asked, frowning, staring back at him. “You look so intense. Worried even.” Anxiety suddenly flared in her.
“No, not worried. Intense, perhaps. Tess, I am going to … get this out. Say it. I cannot encase it in fancy rhetoric.”
She felt herself stiffening, and she gave him a harder, more probing stare. “Get what out? What do you mean? You sound as if you’re going to tell me about something … unpleasant. About us, maybe?”
“Non, non, chérie. What I have to say is not about us. I have been given a big assignment. For a French television network, and I wanted to explain … . I will be out of Paris for a while, perhaps for several weeks. Possibly a month. I hate to leave you for this period of time, Tessa, but it is an important assignment. I must take it.”
Relief flooded through her, and she exclaimed, “That’s fine, I understand.” She laughed somewhat weakly and added, with a slight grimace, “I thought you were going to announce something quite awful, like you were finished with me. That it was over … that we were over.”
Startled by her words, baffled at her lack of faith in him, he looked at her askance and said softly, “That will never, ever happen. You must not worry about such a thing. Which reminds me, I have this for you.” As he spoke, he pulled a small leather box out of his pocket and handed it to her silently.
Tessa took the box, lifted the lid, and her eyes grew wide as she stared down at a glittering diamond engagement ring. “Jean-Claude!” she gasped, surprise echoing. “It’s perfectly beautiful. Gorgeous. Oh, my God, Jean-Claude.”
He beamed at her. “Do you like it?”
She nodded emphatically. “Of course. I love it. And I love you!”
He took the box away from her, took out the ring, and put it on her finger, noting that her hand trembled. He said, “Do you think I have to ask Shane for your hand in marriage? Or am I being a little old-fashioned?”
She laughed uproariously, filled with excitement and amused at this suggestion. “You don’t have to ask him. Or Mummy. I am a divorced woman, after all. Well, not quite divorced. Yet.”
“And will you be my wife, Tessa, once you are free?” he asked, his voice solemn, his face serious.
“Oh yes, Jean-Claude. Yes, very much yes,” she cried. He leaned closer, kissed her on the mouth, and told her, “You’ve just made me a happy man. A very happy man, my darling.”
“And I’m a happy woman.” She held out her hand, gazing at the ring. “It’s just beautiful, Jean-Claude. Thank you so much.”
“It’s an old stone, I had it reset. It suits you.” He smiled at her indulgently. “I think diamonds are your stones.”
“And why not?” she asked gaily, and then sobering slightly, she added, “But you haven’t told me where you’re going. Where is your assignment taking you?”
“To Afghanistan.”
She gaped at him, flabbergasted. For a split second words failed her, but after a moment she gasped, “Oh, no, not there. You’re going to cover the war there. You could get hurt. Why, you could even get killed!”
“Non, non. Jamais … never. I will be fine. Remember, chérie, I have done this many times before. I am a war correspondent, Tessa. You must not forget that. I learned long ago not to take risks.”
“But Jean-Claude, being a war correspondent is terribly dangerous, whatever you say,” she protested.
“That I do not deny. However, I am experienced, and I am not a hothead. I do not put myself in harm’s way, and I have been there before when the Russians invaded Afghanistan. I know the terrain.”
“I shall be frantic with worry,” she cried, her face paler than usual, her eyes stricken. She began to tremble.
“I know that, but the time will pass quickly. It will be only a month. And thank God for cell phones. We can speak every day.”
“Please don’t go—”
He held up his hand. “My Tess, you know who I am, what I am all about. I must go. I do not have a choice in this matter. It is what I do. And you must learn to live with it.” He sounded suddenly tough and very determined. His tone brooked no argument.
“You have to go? You really do?” she said in a low voice.
“I do.”
“Then I shall have to learn to live with it,” she answered and blinked rapidly as tears welled.
Jean-Claude noticed her tears at once and put his arms around her, held her close. “Nothing is going to happen to me. I promise,” he reassured her. “I shall come back to you safely. We shall be married as soon as your divorce is final, and we will be together always.”
Tessa did not answer. She was too choked up to say anything. As he held her closer, she silently prayed that he would be safe, that he would come back to her in one piece.
9
“I need to speak with you.”
Lorne nodded, looking across at his twin sister from the window seat where he had so often sat as a child, here in the old playroom on the top floor of Pennistone Royal, underneath the attics.
Tessa stood near the ancient rocking horse, Gallant Lad, which had been ridden by their mother, aunts, uncles, and cousins before them. The vibrant red, green, yellow, and white paint was faded now, cracked and chipped, and the black mane had thinned with time, but oh, how that beloved horse had been ridden, hugged, patted, and enjoyed by so many Harte children.
Lorne waited patiently for her to speak; he was always patient with her and loving; they were the closest of friends, and he knew she was not the ogre so many of the family thought she was. Suddenly he noticed how pensive she looked, saw the worry flickering in her silvery gray eyes, so like his own, and he immediately thought of that bastard of an ex-husband of hers—well, soon to be ex—and he wondered if Mark Longden had been causing more trouble. Whenever he thought of him, Lorne saw red, wanted to find him and thrash him within an inch of his life. He had mistreated and abused Tessa in every way, and as far as Lorne was concerned, no punishment was too harsh for him. Blackguard, he thought, using a very old-fashioned word but one he believed most appropriate.
“Come on, tell me! Speak to me, Ancient One,” he coaxed, using the name he had invented for her when they were children, when, at the tender age of five, she had announced to him that she was the elder twin by five minutes and therefore their mother’s heir. Much to her chagrin, he had never let her forget that little child’s boast.
Tessa smiled her special smile, the one she reserved for him, and giving the rocking horse a little push so that it began to move, she looked directly at Lorne and murmured, “Jean-Claude’s going to Afghanistan. To cover the war for a French network.”
“Is he really! That’s great, he’ll be in his element. He’s such a brilliant war correspondent …” Lorne’s voice faltered as he instantly noticed the pained look crossing her face, and quickly he added, “Oh, God, Tessa, how stupid I’m being. You’re worried, of course, and who wouldn’t be? Reporting a war is dangerous, I know that. But listen …” Lorne leaned forward, his expression intent as he swiftly w
ent on. “He’s been at this game for years. He knows what he’s doing, he’s a seasoned war correspondent and not a beginner, green behind the ears. Please try not to worry.”
“Easy to say, brother of mine, hard to do.” She shook her head slowly. “Very hard not to be on the verge of panic.”
He nodded, compressed his lips, understanding exactly how she felt. “Knowing you, I suppose you told him how nervous you are about this.”
“Yes, Lorne, I did. I asked him not to go.”
“And?”
“He told me he had to, and that I would have to get used to it … more or less those words, anyway. He was adamant, so naturally I agreed with him.” She lifted her slender shoulders in a light shrug. “What else could I say?”
“Nothing really,” Lorne agreed. “In reality, you have no choice. You have to go along with him. He’s a fifty-three-year-old man who’s been doing what he wants all his life, especially when it comes to his career. That’s who he is. His own man. I doubt he could be deterred once he’d made up his mind, not by you or me or anyone else. Look, it is his forte, after all.”
“That’s right, and he’s good at it. And over the last few years he’s become an expert on the Middle East, fanaticism, and militancy. He said to me only the other day that it’s a political philosophy—waging war against the Western democracies, that is. He has the need to understand, to write about such things. That’s one of the reasons he’s excited about going to cover this war.”
“I realize that. Actually, he’s talked a lot to me about the Middle East, and especially in the last year. But listen, Tess, the news is good, and has been since December. The armed resistance of the Taliban at Tora Bora has come to an end, American forces destroyed the operations there, and Karzai has formed a new government. Things are better, most certainly, and let’s not forget he knows the country, covered the last war there, when the Russians invaded.”
Just Rewards (Harte Family Saga) Page 8