“Chloe seems to think it is,” he reminded her.
Stevie let out a long, weary sigh. “I don’t know why she’s got a bee in her bonnet about her father all of a sudden. She’s not mentioned him to me for years; now she’s bothering you and God knows who else. As if it mattered in the scheme of things. Here’s a girl who’s had everything handed to her on a plate. Now she wants to know about her father. A man who has done nothing for her, played no role in her life. Come on, Derek, let’s be fair.”
“You’re absolutely right; unfortunately the young are just that: young. She seems to think you’re being unfair. And please don’t kill the messenger; I’m only relating what she said.”
“Derek, surely I’ve made it clear. It was a one-night stand! I’m embarrassed. I told you that before. The grieving widow of three years had a fling one night and got caught. It’s an old, old story, and it’s happened to countless women since the beginning of the world…sleeping with a man for the first time and getting pregnant.”
“I understand.”
“Unfortunately, Derek, there’s nothing I can tell you or Mom or Chloe about him…because of the circumstances.”
“I know. But listen to me for a moment. You said you met him at a cocktail party. So it was most probably at our house, wasn’t it? And no doubt he was an actor. In which case, I would have known him. Tell me his real name, and I’ll think of something suitable to say to Chloe.”
“I didn’t meet him at your house, Derek! Mother and you did not know him!” Stevie exclaimed, her voice full of exasperation, her face taut.
Derek looked at her keenly. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that she was lying.
After Derek had left, Stevie changed into her nightgown and then went back into the study adjoining her bedroom. Seating herself at her desk, she opened her daily journal and reached for the pen.
But she did not write, merely gazed blankly at the empty page, her mind awash with so many different and troubling thoughts.
A sudden knock on the door startled her, made her jump, and she sat up in the chair. “Who is it?”
“It’s only me,” her mother said from the doorway.
“Another nocturnal visitor, I see.”
Ignoring her sarcasm, Blair glided into the room, came to a stop at the desk, and put a hand on Stevie’s shoulder. “Derek thinks he’s upset you.”
“He hasn’t. He never upsets me, and he should know that after over thirty years. Look, Mom, I know he means well, but—”
“But the road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
“I didn’t say that, Mother.”
“That’s what you meant. Come, sit with me on the sofa.”
Stevie got up, followed her mother, seated herself next to her, and said, “I hope you haven’t come here to rehash everything Derek and I discussed.”
“Certainly not. Nor do I want to start asking questions about something that happened so very long ago. The details of your relationship with John Lane, or whatever his name was, are your business. You didn’t want to tell me anything at the time. Now it’s eighteen years too late.”
“An intelligent comment at last.”
“Derek feels the same way I do, you know, Stevie. He’s rather sorry he started this tonight, but we were both concerned about Chloe. She seemed so troubled this afternoon. Full of questions about her father.”
“God knows why! I’ve been mother and father both to her, and frankly, I thought I’d done a good job. I’ve nurtured her, loved her, given her understanding and guidance. Furthermore, the whole family loves her, supports her, caters to her, and actually spoils her terribly. She has everything a girl could ever possibly want. An education, money, a future. And now, suddenly, she’s running around asking, ‘Who’s my father? Why won’t she tell me about him?’ That’s her new cry.” Stevie shook her head and gave her mother a hard stare. “I can’t tell her anything because I didn’t have a relationship with him. It was a one-night stand. He was a total stranger.”
“Derek told me all that,” Blair replied, and sighed. “I know you sacrificed a great deal for Chloe, so I’m not one bit surprised that you’re feeling impatient with her now.”
“I never thought of it as a sacrifice, Mother,” Stevie muttered with a frown.
“Yet it was, in my opinion. You were so devoted to her, you never gave yourself a chance to meet anyone, to have a life of your own, get married again. And you could have, Stephanie. By then the boys were all away at boarding school and you had Nanny for Chloe.”
Stevie made no comment; she knew that everything her mother had just said was true. But she had felt so guilty about the circumstances of Chloe’s birth, she had overcompensated in so many different ways. She had denied herself the possibility of personal happiness with a man, had chosen instead her children and her work.
“The young are very selfish, Stevie dear,” Blair remarked. “Well, we’re all selfish, I suppose; that’s the human condition. But the young are more selfish. I remember I was, and so were you when you were a girl. And then there’s that awful, all-consuming self-centeredness of the young. When we’re in our teens and twenties we think we’re the only thing that matters in the entire world. And that’s what Chloe is going through now, Stevie. She has the pressing need to know about her biological father because of her need to know about herself. In a way, it has nothing to do with you, it’s not against you. I hope you realize that.”
“Yes, I guess I do, Mom. I’m just a bit annoyed she dumped all of this on Derek this weekend. I wanted you both to have a rest, enjoy yourselves.”
“Oh, but we did, and we’ve loved being here. It’s been wonderful, very cozy and relaxing. You’ve spoiled us.” Blair shifted slightly on the sofa and looked at Stevie closely. “Do you think Derek looks tired?”
Stevie shook her head. “Not at all. He seems marvelous to me. Full of vim and vigor.”
Blair smiled. “I do worry about him, you know. A long run in a play is always very taxing. Are you coming to London for Christmas?”
“Don’t we always? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
After the merest hesitation, Blair asked, “Is she serious about not going to college?”
“I honestly don’t know, Mom. I’ve decided to play the waiting game…let’s see what she says after she’s graduated from Brearley next summer.”
“And what about her working at Jardine’s?”
“That could be a whim. She seems to be somewhat focused on Gideon at the moment. And I don’t know why. She and Miles are closer.”
“What about Gideon, Stevie? Miles seems to think his brother is depressed. He told Derek he’s very gloomy.”
“Gideon has always been rather gloomy…perhaps morose is a better word. It’s funny, they’re so different in temperament. Miles is positive; his cup is always half full, while Gideon is just the opposite. Anyway, as far as Gideon’s present mood is concerned, I personally think he’s suffering from women trouble. More precisely, Margot trouble. I’ve noticed this odd mood of his in the past few months whenever I’ve been in London, and I think he’s perturbed because he broke up with her.”
“Is that all! Goodness, we’ll soon fix that!”
Stevie laughed. “Oh, Mom, there’s no one like you. You’re always so positive you can cure what ails us.”
After her mother had left, Stevie went back to the desk and once more picked up her pen. Again she did not write anything in her journal. Instead, she sat back, her thoughts centering on Chloe. I mustn’t be too hard on her. My mother’s right. This is not about me. It’s about her. If only I could tell her something about her father, but I can’t.
Stevie thought about him for a brief moment. She closed her eyes, and his image danced around in her head, as it had so often in the past. Thinking about him was futile, she knew that, but there were moments when she couldn’t help herself. Like now. How different her life, their lives, would have been if only she had had more courage…the courage to tell
him the truth. It was all too late now. No use dwelling on the past. As her mother had said earlier, it was eighteen years too late.
Almost against her own volition, Stevie rose and went to her briefcase, where she found her keys. Crossing the floor, she unlocked the large cupboard, bent down to the safe, and punched in the code on the keypad, then turned the handle. All of her diaries were stacked in neat piles inside the safe; it took her only a split second to find the one dated 1977. She took it out and went and sat on the sofa in front of the fire.
Stevie sat staring at the diary for a while without opening it, smoothing her hands over the gold-embossed numbers on the leather front: 1977. What a year that had been. All kinds of memories flooded her, and he jostled for prominence in her mind. But she shook off thoughts of him, swiftly began to flip the pages until she came to the first week of December. Here it was, that fateful day, the day she had made all of her decisions. She began to read.
December 5th, 1977
London
I’ve been thinking a lot about the predicament I’m in. In fact, I’ve thought of nothing else really for days. And tonight I made my decisions. I’m going to have the baby.
Last week, when Jennifer Easton took me to see her doctor, I was thrilled when he confirmed that I was about eight weeks pregnant, as I suspected. And then on the drive home reality took over. I began to panic. Jennifer told me about a doctor in Mayfair. A well-known doctor who was associated with a clinic. Jennifer said that all I had to do was go and see him for an examination and explain my circumstances. He would then check me into the clinic and perform a D & C. When I came out I would no longer be pregnant. But I don’t want to have an abortion. I want the baby. His baby. I never thought I would love another man after Ralph, but I do. I love him. We cannot be. But I can have his child. Some people are not so lucky.
Jennifer asked me what I’m going to tell people if I go ahead and have the baby. I’ve decided I’m not going to tell them anything. They can’t force me to, and nobody’s going to put me up against a wall and shoot me because I’m silent. My mother and Derek won’t be a problem. Alfreda might make trouble, but I don’t care about her. And anyway, I’m holding all the cards as far as the Jardines are concerned. My three sons. Sons who are in my custody. They are Jardines. Heirs to the Jardines. As for Bruce, whatever he really thinks he’ll be diplomatic, careful with me. He needs me at Jardine’s. He’s not a well man; sometimes he seems much older than his years. Daily he grows more dependent on me. No, I won’t explain myself. Not to anyone. I cannot tell him either. What to do? I’ll have to break off with him. It will be difficult because I care about him.
There was more on the page, and the page after that, but Stevie had read enough. And so she closed the diary without finishing that particular entry to the end, just sat there, absently gazing at the dying embers in the grate.
Rightly or wrongly, those had been her decisions and she had abided by them. She filled with sadness. It was an old familiar, that ache inside. She had learned to live with it long ago.
11
WHENEVER SHE WAS WITH ANDRE BIRRON, STEVIE found herself smiling. There was something about him, about his demeanor and his personality that made her feel at ease, even happy, and it seemed to her that he brought out the best in her.
André was a small, stocky, energetic man with silver hair, a round, cherubic face, and shrewd eyes that looked like shiny black buttons. He had been a friend of her husband who had described André to her as “a little leprechaun of a man,” and that first description had stayed in her mind ever since.
She had met André just before Nigel was born, when she had been heavy with child and slow on her feet. André, the father of two himself, had been very solicitous of her, and caring. This kindness aside, they had taken to each other at once. Despite the difference in their ages they had become fast friends over the years.
After Ralph’s unexpected, very sudden death, André had gone out of his way to stay in touch with Stevie. “I must keep a fatherly eye on you,” he would say whenever he came to London. And for many years now he had been her mentor; she listened to him, took his advice, and had never regretted doing so, since he always brought to her problems an unprejudiced point of view. And he was wise in the ways of the world.
It was from André that she had learned about the international side of the jewelry business, and about such great designers as Belperron, Boivin, and the Duke of Verdura, to name only a few.
André was an expert on these renowned designers of the thirties, forties, and fifties, as well as on Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, the intrepid merchant-traveler who had moved between Paris and the Golconda mines of India in the seventeenth century, and who had first brought diamonds back to Europe from the subcontinent. Tavernier had supplied diamonds to Louis XIV, the Sun King, and those members of the French court who could afford them. One of the first big “name” diamonds was called the Grand Mazarin, named after Cardinal Mazarin, who bequeathed it to the Sun King on his death.
Ralph had already taught her a great deal about diamonds by the time she met André; the latter had been impressed that a woman so young and inexperienced had acquired so much knowledge in so short a time. As she explained to him, she was a quick study, had a photographic memory, and had always harbored a genuine desire to learn about precious stones and Ralph’s business, which fascinated her.
Ralph had told her once that he had two great passions in his life. “You, my love, and diamonds. So let me share my second passion with you, my first.”
And that was really how she had been given such a well-rounded education about diamonds and other gems. Ralph had impressed two things on her when teaching her about diamonds: that the rarity and value of a diamond was determined by the four Cs: carat—the weight and size—plus the clarity, color, and cut of a stone, and that only the largest, rarest, and most dazzling stone is given a name.
And tonight, for the first time in her twenty-one-year career as a jeweler, she herself was going to bid on a big “name” diamond, the famous White Empress, which would go on the auction block at Sotheby’s at seven o’clock exactly.
Only a few hours away. She did not feel nervous or apprehensive. Quite to the contrary. She was relaxed, self-confident, and calm. And her mood, she was quite sure, was due to some extent to André’s reassuring presence.
Stevie sat with him now in the sitting room of his suite at the Carlyle Hotel, sipping a glass of carbonated water, her attention riveted on him.
“And so, ma chérie, it was a decision I made…to show you the pieces first, before disposing of them elsewhere if you are not interested.”
“I’m sure I will be, André,” Stevie responded, smiling at him. “As you know, I’m always looking for lovely old things for the antique jewelry department at the London store. Some of my clients are interested only in the very old pieces these days.”
“They are in vogue, yes,” he answered, and got up, hurried off to another room in the capacious suite. Within a few seconds he returned, explaining, “Matt is bringing them so that you can view them, Stephanie.”
Once again he sat down opposite her and then instantly jumped up, as sprightly as ever at seventy-five. He exclaimed, “Let us sit over there. At the table near the window. It is the better light, I think, no?”
“Yes, it is,” Stephanie agreed, adding, “And there’s also a good lamp on the table.” She followed him across the room, eager to see what he had brought with him from Paris.
André Birron owned one of the most elegant and prestigious jewelry shops in the world, located on the Place Vendôme near the Ritz Hotel. The business had been founded in the nineteenth century by his great-grandfather, Pierre Birron, who had made a name for himself when he had outbid other jewelers for some of the royal jewels. At an auction in Paris in 1887, the diamonds of the Crown of France had been put on the block by the Third Republic. All the great jewelers were present, including Frédéric Boucheron of Paris, Tiffany & Company of New York, a
nd Bonynge of London. It was Pierre Birron who had won some of the more magnificent spoils by going for broke. He never looked back. Like Jardine’s, Birron et Cie was family owned and run. André’s two sons worked with him at the Place Vendôme shop.
Matt Wilson, André’s assistant, came in carrying a briefcase, which he brought over to André.
“Bien, bien, ouvrez-le!” André exclaimed.
Matt opened the briefcase, took out various gray suede pouches and jewelry wallets. Opening one of the large wallets, he pushed it toward Stevie without comment, but his expression said more than any words could.
Stevie stared at the necklace Matt had revealed. It was made of two strands of stained blue chalcedony beads. She felt a little shiver run through her as she gazed at the blue-gray beads that glistened as they caught and held the light. Then she exclaimed, “It’s Belperron, isn’t it?” Her voice held a note of excitement as she glanced at André.
“Yes, it is most probably Belperron.” He let out a small sigh and shook his head, looking regretful. “It is unfortunate that Suzanne never signed her pieces. She believed her designs were so absolutely unique and unconventional that they were easily recognizable as being hers, and no one else’s. ‘My signature is redundant, André,’ she used to tell me.”
“More’s the pity she never signed her creations. May I look at this more closely?”
“Mais naturellement.” The Frenchman lifted the necklace out of the suede wallet and handed it to her.
Stevie held it under the lamp on the table, examined the chalcedony beads and the flowerhead clasp. This was composed of larger, carved chalcedony stones that formed the petals; the center was set with a cluster of eight cabochon sapphires and bands of brilliant-cut diamonds.
André sat back in his chair, observing her, thinking what a stylish woman she was. Tonight she wore a well-cut tailored suit of black wool with black satin lapels and cuffs, and to his seasoned eye it was obviously couture. Her only pieces of jewelry were mabe pearl earrings, a single strand of large South Sea pearls, and a platinum watch. Simple, understated, very chic. She had a refined and elegant taste in all things, and especially so in jewelry; not unnaturally, her perfect taste was reflected in her own personal style of dressing.
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