by Susan Barrie
And then she decided that this was dangerous ground and added hurriedly, lightly, “But I don’t mind telling you he’s promised me faithfully that in future it will be in no sense of the word a roving eye. In fact, it’s never going to rove again. But as he’s a Frenchman it’s bound to do so occasionally—but only just occasionally!”
“I don’t think so,” Valentine said quietly. She felt much more calm and controlled now than she had done for weeks, having got rid of so many tears. “Philippe won’t let you down. And I know you won’t let him down, so you’re bound to be ideally happy.”
“Bless you!” Jane said, rising from the rug. “You said that as if you had the power to see into the future, and also as if you were bestowing your blessing on us! And now I’m going to get Martine to make us some fresh coffee, and we’ll have a good old natter about all the things that have to be done, and what’s going to happen to you while we’re away on that short—but I hope exciting—honeymoon.”
As JANE HAD FORETOLD, everything became a frantic rush, and the next few days seemed to fly by. Every morning flowers were delivered to the apartment, and they all bore Philippe’s card and were the most expensive obtainable. The more costly exotic ones were for Jane, and so were the devoted little messages written on the cards, but Valentine was never forgotten, and for her the floral tributes were gentler, not nearly so costly, but conveying a good deal of affection that she felt was more like the affection of a brother.
There was an enormous amount of shopping to be done, and fittings at the dressmaker, hairdressing appointments and the rest were all part of the daily rush. Although Jane stuck to it that she was not going to accompany Philippe to Zimbabwe Rhodesia, she wanted everything for her wedding to be absolutely right. It was to be a civil ceremony, which meant that the affair would be very quiet, and so far as Valentine knew no one but herself was to be a witness to it, and afterward there was to be a gay wedding breakfast for three at one of the smarter hotels.
“Imagine it! Being married in Paris!” Jane said so many times in the few days that elapsed between the announcement of her engagement and the actual ceremony, that Valentine was both amused and touched by her delight in what was happening to her.
The moments when Valentine felt in the way—and when she also felt that awful pit of emptiness inside her that she had struggled to close begin to open up again—were the moments when the two who were to be married so soon stopped indulging in the light badinage that seemed to be a part of their daily conversations and turned and looked at one another. Then, at the sight of the soft glow in Jane’s gray eyes and the melting tenderness in the man’s deep and velvety brown ones, Valentine felt her heart contract.
Philippe would pick up one of Jane’s hands and hold it to his cheek, and sometimes he would kiss each finger deliberately, and Valentine could do nothing but look on. He would kiss the huge diamond ring he had placed on his future wife’s slender third finger, and although sometimes he would joke and say that when his wedding ring joined it she would be his slave for life, the way Jane melted into his arms immediately afterward proved that she was looking forward to being the happiest slave ever.
Valentine made frequent excuses to leave them alone together; but sometimes she was dragged back—almost bodily—by Philippe, and he would rebuke her for thinking they couldn’t make love comfortably in front of her. Philippe would never cease to be audacious, and audacious utterances were the very breath of life to him; but for Valentine he always had a particular tenderness, and he supported Jane strongly in her determination to see Valentine comfortably and more permanently settled before she left her altogether.
The honeymoon was to be spent at a little hotel not far from Paris, and it touched Valentine inexpressibly when Jane confided to her that she was glad it was not to be in Paris itself. Her first honeymoon had been spent in Paris, and apparently there were some things—some experiences—that could never be repeated. And even for Jane, deeply in love though she was now, a first honeymoon was a first honeymoon ...
For Valentine there would be one and only one honeymoon, but she didn’t think that experience would ever be hers.
The night before the wedding the two girls stayed quietly in the apartment, making last minute preparations for the following day and talking until a very late hour. Martine had been called away unexpectedly to a sick relative, so they had the place to themselves, and they both knew it was one of the most memorable evenings they would ever experience.
Philippe telephoned to say good-night to his beloved, but that was all they heard of him that night. Valentine hoped he wouldn’t say too many farewells to bachelorhood with a few specially chosen friends and be late for the ceremony the following day. But nowadays she had such confidence in Philippe that she had no real fear.
The morning dawned with all the sparkle of early autumn. Paris was gay for the occasion—gay with sunshine, gay with the colors of autumn leaves and smart new autumn outfits. Jane wore an outfit of palest gray that made her eyes look more lustrous than ever, and Valentine wore a little lilac suit that made her eyes look deep and dark like violets, and her golden hair gleamed beneath a violet cap. Both girls carried yellow roses ordered specially by Philippe, and he himself looked so smart and impeccable in his beautifully tailored suit that for the first time Valentine thought he really looked like a comte, not a happy-go-lucky adventurer.
The distance to the civil chambers where the marriage was to take place was short. Valentine, feeling unaccountably nervous—even more nervous than the bride—almost wished it was longer. She didn’t know why she was feeling as if each minute was bringing her nearer and nearer to a moment of supreme tension, and the only thing she did know was that when Philippe helped her out of the car she stumbled and would have fallen but for his steady arm.
He looked at her keenly. She was pale (and would have been much paler without a touch of rouge she had applied to her cheeks) and her eyes had a slightly unseeing look in them. He glanced at Jane, who was extraordinarily composed, and then away.
In an outer room they were welcomed by an official who led them into an inner room. Valentine understood that Philippe had asked one of his oldest friends to act as best man for the ceremony, and there he was when they entered the inner room, already waiting for them and sitting quietly on a chair.
Valentine felt her heart give a lurch, and yet somehow she was not surprised. She knew now why that dreadful feeling of tension had had possession of her, and why at the heart of her innermost being she had been expecting something. And now here it was, no longer a peculiar warning, almost frightening awareness of an inevitable happening, but Leon Daudet, as impeccable as Philippe, and owing even more to his tailor as he stood up, for he could hardly have looked more suave and attractive.
Valentine felt him take her hand, and her fingers were cold as ice. She couldn’t look at him—not anywhere near his eyes—but as the other two went ahead of them she felt his hand beneath her elbow, guiding her, and without that strong sustaining touch on her arm she might have blundered in the wrong direction.
The ceremony was mercifully short and then the Comte and Comtesse de Villeneuve kissed one another as if there were no other people in the room. Jane hugged Valentine, and Philippe kissed Valentine heartily, and Leon contented himself with shaking the hands of the newly wedded pair. Valentine still did not dare so much as look in his direction.
How the rest of that morning passed she was never quite sure—or she could never have given a very accurate account of it—but she did know that the wedding breakfast was very gay, and there was champagne and delicious food, which she scarcely tasted, although the others saw to it that she did drink one whole glass of champagne. Then Leon wished the newlyweds every form of happiness, while looking across the flower-decked table at Valentine, whose golden head was slightly lowered, so that all he could see of her was the top of her violet velvet cap. After that Jane seemed to become possessed of a feverish desire to fall in with her newly ac
quired lord and master’s wishes that they should be on their way as quickly as possible, and upstairs in the hotel room where she made repairs to her makeup she seemed to have scarcely any time to say much to Valentine.
What she did say didn’t at first mean very much to Valentine, until it was repeated, clearly and distinctly.
“You will let Leon take you back to the apartment, Val, won’t you? He has promised to wait while you collect a few things, and then he’s taking you to his aunt’s. You’ll be good and not raise any difficulties, won’t you darling?”
“Difficulties?” Valentine stared at her. “But I never agreed to go to the marquise’s. She might not even want me! It’s impossible, Jane, I ...”
Jane kissed her hastily, then dabbed at her cheek with a tissue, because she said she had smeared her with lipstick.
“Darling, don’t be so ridiculous. You know the marquise will love to have you, and in any case. I’m going to telephone you at her house tonight. I’ll want to find out whether everything’s okay with you ...” She sent her a slightly odd look, or Valentine thought it was an odd look, and then looked at herself in the mirror and declared she didn’t know whether her hat suited her or not, but supposed it didn’t matter greatly now that she was safely married.
“Safely married ...!” She repeated the words to herself as if they were some sort of charm. Then she looked again at Valentine. “I hope you’ll be safely married, too, before long!” she said with quiet fervor, and when Valentine’s eyebrows went up and the beginnings of suspicion entered her eyes, took her arm and hurried her from the room.
“We mustn’t keep Philippe waiting,” she said. “Remember, he’s my husband now, and he might beat me if I keep him hanging around!”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ONCE MORE VALENTINE found herself in Leon Daudet’s sleek black car—so different from Philippe’s noisy red one—and driving with him through the broad avenues of Paris. She tried to think back to the first occasion when she had driven with him, and it seemed so long ago now. Actually it was not quite six months.
As they slipped away from the front of the hotel, after watching the red car roar off ahead of them, the doctor said quietly, “I think they’ll be happy.”
“I hope so,” Valentine returned.
Her roses were on her lap, and her fingers were clutching at them. The faint perfume from the roses seemed to be hovering in the air between them.
Leon said nothing more until they arrived at the apartment. For once his silence struck her as a grave silence, a deep and thoughtful silence. It didn’t actually unnerve her, but she wished she could think of something to say to shatter it. But her wits didn’t seem to be very alert that morning.
He insisted on accompanying her up in the elevator to the apartment, and after allowing her to fumble in her handbag for the key, took it from her and inserted it in the lock himself. The door was no sooner open than Fifi burst out at them from the little room where she was usually incarcerated when her mistress had to go out and there was no one to take charge of her; but today apparently the door hadn’t been fastened very securely, and she had been free to roam around the apartment. Valentine picked her up and scolded her gently, after which she looked at the man with sudden shyness.
“Do you mind if I take her and give her something to eat?” she said. “And I’d like to put my roses in water.”
“Of course.”
When she returned to the drawing room he was standing in front of the fireplace and staring down into the grate. It was the first time they had ever occupied Miss Constantia’s drawing room alone together—to her knowledge—and the realization affected her with a return of tension. She came to a halt in the middle of the carpet, the roses in a glass container in her hand, and he turned and looked at her.
“Wouldn’t you like to take those with you?” he asked.
“Take them with me?”
“To my aunt’s. You are permitting me to take you to my aunt’s, aren’t you, Valentine?”
She set down the roses on an occasional table, and suddenly her hands were trembling. His voice was so quiet, and for the first time she had raised her own eyes to his face, and the look in his had hurt her. It was such a dark, grave, reproachful look, and all at once she knew that her whole body was trembling, and a passionate desire to do something about that look in his eyes rushed over her.
“Valentine!” he said.
She stood quite still.
“You know why I’m taking you to my aunt’s, don’t you?” He moved to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “I’m taking you to her because it’s with her you’re going to remain until we can be married! Do you hear that, Valentine?” He shook her gently. “Married!”
She looked up at him with huge blue eyes that were swimming with disbelief.
“But I said ...”
“You said! I said ... So much has been said that was so pointless, and so much has been left unsaid that should have been said long ago!” His arms crushed her to him, and she made not the smallest move to resist him; she even nestled her head against his shoulder with a tired sigh and wondered whether this was all part of a dream, the aftermath of a single glass of champagne, or whether it was indeed reality. “My darling Valentine, my one woman out of all the women in this world, I adore you!”
And then his lips were on hers, and the dream of bliss completed itself and became something she hoped would never end.
He picked her up in his arms and carried her to one of the deep armchairs. Her expensive silk suit was sadly crushed as those arms seemed to make her a part of his body, and although her eyes were shut she could feel his mouth moving hungrily over every inch of her face, and at the same time he murmured to her, “Foolish little one ... How could you be so foolish, Valentine? As if I would ask you to marry me for any other reason than that I loved you with all my heart! And I thought you knew it. That time when I kissed you in the car ... I wanted to go on kissing you, but you were so elusive and unpredictable at that stage, and I was terrified, since it wasn’t very long since you had actually disliked me, that it was not what you wanted, and that you would take offense. You were so English—you are so very English—and I had the feeling that I must tread carefully. And then when you admitted that you had agreed to marry Fairfield if he would take you without your money, I was terrified afresh. I was afraid that I would lose you if I didn’t do something quickly, and I asked you to marry me in such a clumsy fashion that you were quite right to turn me down.”
“Was I?” She opened her eyes and looked up at him, and this time it was his heart that gave a lurch, for the love in her eyes, now completely undisguised, was so much more than a girl’s love—it was a woman’s deep and lasting love! “I came to see you that night,” she admitted, “because I had to. It wasn’t merely that I was unhappy, but I had been so rude to you. I felt that I had been unforgivably rude...”
“And you found Elise there!” His voice was suddenly dry.
“Yes.” But her hand stole up and touched his cheek. “I think I understand about Elise. ... At least, I will understand!”
“Will you?” The dryness persisted in his voice, and he looked down keenly into her eyes. “It is kind of you to make allowances for any little masculine weaknesses you think I may possess, Valentine—any French masculine weaknesses! But I can explain Elise with the utmost simplicity, and it will not be necessary for you to make any allowances.”
He saw her delicate face turn scarlet, but even so he thought it best to be quite brutal in order that she would understand.
“Elise and I have known one another for years—long before she was married. And after her husband died she thought she would like to marry me. I admire Elise, and she is very beautiful, but I had no intention of marrying anyone—anyone, do you understand? Until you came into my life I was perfectly content as I was, and it was you who shattered my contentment so completely that I really should find it hard to forgive you!” But in the depths of his eyes she re
ad something that convinced her that she had been forgiven long, long ago. “My little Valentine, it is hard for you to take in these things, but Elise is not as you would be. When she wants something she doesn’t attempt to hide what she wants, but goes after it. That night you called at my apartment she herself had only just arrived, and she was trying to persuade me to take her out for the evening, although I told her I planned to stay at home, and that was why I was wearing a dressing gown. I had not long parted from you, all my thoughts were with you ... What I would do next to persuade you to change your mind about me! And then Elise arrived. And when you turned up she recognized your voice, and by the time I took you along to the sitting room she had arranged matters so that you would receive an entirely wrong impression...”
Valentine hid her face against him.
“I was so desperately unhappy that night, I wanted to die!”
His arms held her with a kind of fierce protectiveness. “You will not die, my little one, from any damage to your heart that is caused through any carelessness of mine. Your heart will be my most precious charge for the rest of your life and mine!” He buried his face in her hair. “Oh, Valentine, you cut off this lovely golden hair to hurt me! How soon will it grow again and become the wonderful golden cloud it was?”
“Do you want it to grow again?” she whispered.
“I will certainly not permit you to cut it!” His fingers twined themselves in it. “It was to hurt me that you had it shorn so close to your adorable head, wasn’t it?” Valentine had to admit that it was, and meeting the reproach in his look she wondered how she could ever have done so.
“You seemed to think I had to be punished, and yet all I did was love you. You made me very unhappy, Valentine, and if you were unhappy yourself it was only right and fitting that you should be! But when I saw you looking pale and wan I couldn’t bear it, and Tante Minette couldn’t bear it, either, and she was determined to find out why there was such a change in you. She did find out, I think, that it was because you loved someone ... as much as that someone loved you! When she told me that it was true I couldn’t believe it, but Philippe was also certain—although he couldn’t be certain of me—and through the cleverness of the two of them we met today. I had given my word that by tonight you would be able to assure Jane over the telephone that your future is something she need no longer concern herself about. And that Philippe can have his wife, and I ... I can have my wife!”