Angel

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  ‘It’s settled!’ Rosie cried. ‘I can see it written all over your faces.’

  ‘You’re going to get married!’ Collie exclaimed, beaming at them.

  ‘Yes, we are, thank God!’ Henri said, laughing, the tension that had ringed his face for the last few weeks finally disappearing altogether.

  ‘He knew,’ Kyra said, looking from Collie to Rosie. ‘Guy told Henri about us four years ago.’

  Rosie and Collie gaped at her, stunned to hear this, and Collie said angrily, ‘And so all this heartache was for nothing.’

  ‘Ssssh, darling,’ Henri admonished gently. ‘Don’t upset yourself about Guy. He’s not worth it. And I have something to tell you and Rosie. Little Alexandre is my son. Once Kyra and I are married I will adopt him legally, give him my name, make everything right and proper.’

  Collie went to her father and hugged him.

  Henri hugged her back. ‘My darling daughter,’ he murmured against her hair. ‘Always thinking of me, and of my happiness.’

  She looked at him and smiled. ‘Rosie and I knew Alexandre was your son, Father. Even though he’s only two, he looks exactly like you. He’s a de Montfleurie through and through.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Tiredness overwhelmed Collie.

  She felt weak all of a sudden and she put her pen down on the desk, leaned back in the chair, hoping the feeling of exhaustion would soon pass.

  It was Friday morning, just five days before Christmas, and she still had so many things to do for the fête de Noël, the very special holiday period that meant so much to everyone at Montfleurie.

  As always, Annie had everything under control, and was forever shooing her away whenever she tried to help; she wanted to pull her weight, though, needed to do so, because the meagre staff was always overburdened; the château was vast, and difficult to run. But at this moment she did not have the strength to go downstairs and join in the decorating of the château. It was a grand tradition, something she had enjoyed doing ever since she was a child; today the spirit was more than willing but unfortunately the flesh was far too weak.

  Gaston and his brother Marcel, who also worked at the château, had already been busy for hours, she knew, potting the giant-sized pine tree for the hall, which everyone would help to decorate on Sunday, cutting holly branches, other evergreens, and mistletoe for vases, and making sprigs to put on the tops of the paintings in various rooms.

  Wishing she felt better, and making an enormous effort, Collie pushed herself to her feet, and moved slowly across the floor towards the sofa in front of the blazing fire.

  Unexpectedly, an excruciating pain, like nothing she had ever experienced, shot up her back, and she gasped out loud, gripped the edge of the sofa and doubled over. She leaned against it, waiting for the pain to pass. Eventually it began to subside, and she sat down on the sofa, and rested her head against the soft cushions, taking small gulps of air. She had never had a pain in her back like this before, and it frightened her.

  Sudden panic flared. Had the cancer come back? No, it couldn’t have. In August, the doctors in Paris had assured her that they had got it all, that it had been arrested, stopped in its tracks. After treatment for cancer of the uterus they had given her a clean bill of health, and she had felt so much better, more like her old self. But lately she had found herself feeling constantly fatigued, debilitated, as if all her energy had been sapped out of her, and she had lost so much weight even she was worried. Now this sudden pain. It alarmed her. What was causing it? The mere thought of going through chemotherapy once again made her shudder. I won’t, I can’t, she thought desperately.

  Oh yes, you can, and you will, a small voice inside her whispered. You’ll go through anything for Lisette, you’ll do anything for your child. Your child needs you. She has no father.

  Her darling Lisette, her sweet little girl.

  Collie’s eyes settled on the photograph of her five-year-old daughter on the skirted table near the fireplace. She was a beautiful child, so chic, so bright, and full of so many endearing characteristics. She was a strong little personality. An old soul, that was the way Annie liked to describe her. An apt description, Collie had always thought.

  What will become of her without me? Collie wondered worriedly, and immediately she shoved this frightening thought away from her, not wanting to face it. She wasn’t going to die. She was going to fight to live for her little girl if the cancer had come back.

  But if anything should happen to her, there was Kyra now, who would soon be her father’s wife and part of the family, and this thought brought her a great measure of comfort.

  Collie had made a tremendous effort to bring about a reconciliation between these two, and she was relieved and happy that everything had worked out so well. But her efforts, most especially last Saturday, had taken their toll on her, and she felt exhausted, weakened by them.

  It was worth it though, Collie whispered to herself. My father is happy at last; Kyra is happy; little Alexandre will be made legitimate, and he will finally have a father, his real father.

  And my father will have another male heir to continue the de Montfleurie line, should anything happen to Guy. Collie realized this was another reason for her vast relief this past week. She had never wanted Lisette to inherit the château and the lands, to be burdened with all of its inherent problems.

  Not unnaturally, her thoughts turned to her brother.

  What a dismal person Guy had turned out to be. For years her disappointment and irritation with him had been acute; none the less, she had tried to be fair to him, and, indeed, had somehow managed to retain a certain fondness for him. Sadly, even that had finally fled completely, leaving her devoid of any feeling for him whatsoever. In fact, she quite actively disliked him, hoped that he wouldn’t have the audacity to show up for Christmas. Surely not, after his hideous behaviour two weeks ago. On the other hand, he well might. You just never knew with Guy. He was unpredictable. And thick-skinned. And very stupid.

  Beautiful and dumb, she said under her breath, thinking that this term could be applied to men as well as women.

  Certainly Guy had been very beautiful when young, and had grown into an excessively handsome man. And oh how horribly spoiled he had been by women, because of those devastating looks, that fatal charm, which he could turn on and off like tap water. And the family had spoiled him too, always making excuses and allowances for him. We’re guilty. We helped to create the monster he has become. Uncharitable though it was, she hoped he would never darken the doors of Montfleurie ever again.

  Collie wished that Rosie had not married him, then she would not have been hurt by him. On the other hand, if Rosie hadn’t married Guy, she and her father would not have had the benefit of Rosie as part of the family. I’m being selfish, she told herself, thinking only of myself and Father, and not of her. And thank God for Rosalind Madigan, who has given us so much love and devotion and support, and is forever loyal and concerned for our well being. There is no one else like Rosie in the whole world. She’s an angel.

  And she’ll be here at Montfleurie most of the time when she’s not working on a film, Collie reminded herself. She will be very actively involved in bringing up Lisette if anything happens to me.

  I’m not going to die.

  I won’t let myself die.

  I’m going to get better.

  She leaned her head against the soft cushion once more, and closed her eyes, drifting with her thoughts. After Christmas she would go to Paris to see the doctors who had treated her this past summer. They would know what to do. They would help her. They would cure her if the cancer had flared again.

  ***

  Eventually Collie realized that some of her strength was finally returning, and she managed to get up and go over to the skirted table, where she picked up the photograph of Claude in its silver frame. Taking it back to the sofa, she sat staring at his face for a long, long time, loving him so much. He was deep in her heart, part of her very essence.


  He had been killed two years ago, when he was only thirty, exactly the same age as her. What a senseless accident. He had been driving to Montfleurie from Paris when the crash had occurred. It had not been his fault, and yet he was the one who had been killed. Cut down in his prime. The cruelty and irony of it was that he had been a war correspondent for Paris Match, and yet he had never suffered so much as a scratch in all the years he was thrust into the centre of danger as a journalist.

  As she continued to look down at the photograph in her hands, her heart squeezed and squeezed. Oh Claude, Claude, I miss you so much. I can’t go on without you. You were my life, the very best part of me. There’s nothing without you, only a left-over life to live.

  Tears welled up in her and she could not stop their flow; in a way it was a relief to let go of some of her grief.

  He was the only man she had ever loved, and he had been her entire life; try though she did to put aside her sorrow, to move on as best she could without him, she had discovered that most of the time she could not. Claude haunted her. She wanted to be haunted by him.

  Everyone had told her it would get better with the passing of time, but it hadn’t, and she knew it wouldn’t, even if she lived to be ninety. But I’m not going to live that long. I’m not going to see old age.

  Collie was well aware that many people did survive cancer, and frequently they lived long and fruitful lives. And yet recently, deep down within herself, a new knowledge had begun to grow: it was the terrible knowledge that her life was drawing to its close. Though not understanding why this knowledge insinuated itself into her thoughts, in her innermost heart she had come to accept it. There were times when she denied it, fought it, as she was doing now, but it always returned.

  Without understanding why, a sudden and unexpected calmness came over Collie, suffused her, and she relaxed, feeling at ease with herself. It was as if someone was stroking her hair, comforting her, giving her unbounded love, and she did not want the feeling to go away. She closed her eyes. She was at peace.

  They say the good die young, Collie thought. My mother was young when she died of cancer; Claude was young when he was so tragically killed in that ball of fire. If it is my destiny to leave this earth sooner than expected, then so be it. I do accept my fate, because I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I cannot change it. I am in God’s hands, and He is the one who created everything, made the Grand Design.

  Each one of us comes to this earth for a reason, with a purpose, and when we have fulfilled our purpose, that task He gave us to do, He takes us to Him. Whatever happens to me, to all of us, is God’s will…

  ‘Maman, are you coming down to see the tree?’

  Swiftly, Collie wiped her damp cheeks with her fingers and pushed a smile onto her face as Lisette flew into the room. When she saw her daughter she smiled again and it was a smile that came from the heart.

  How adorable Lisette looked, dressed in the quilted snowsuit Rosie had brought from New York. It was vivid yellow, trimmed with red bows, and she was a little picture in it.

  ‘My sweet yellow bird,’ Collie said, smiling at her again, loving her so much.

  ‘Gaston has the tree up! It’s so big, Maman! The tallest tree in the whole wide world, Gaston says.’ She noticed the photograph of Claude, which lay on the sofa next to Collie, and she picked it up. ‘Why is this picture of Papa here?’

  ‘Because I like to look at him when I’m talking to him.’

  ‘Does he talk back to you, Maman?’ Lisette asked, leaning against Collie’s knee, looking up into her face.

  ‘Yes, he does, darling.’

  ‘But Papa’s not here. He’s in Heaven being an angel with God.’

  ‘That’s true, Lisette, but he does speak to me… in the deepest, innermost part of my heart.’

  ‘But Heaven is far, far away. How can you hear Papa when he’s way, way, way up there?’ Lisette lifted her eyes to the ceiling for a moment, then looked at her mother questioningly, her black eyes huge in her small face.

  ‘Because of love. It’s Papa’s love for you and for me that brings his voice into my heart, and because of my love and your love for him, I can hear him, and he can hear me, too.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lisette held her head to one side, trying to understand this, frowning slightly.

  ‘Love is the most powerful thing in the world, Lisette, always remember that, my darling. It can move mountains.’

  The five-year-old nodded, then said, ‘I didn’t want Papa to go to Heaven. Why did he have to leave us?’

  ‘Because it’s God’s will,’ Collie said softly.

  The child pondered, endeavouring to comprehend her mother’s words. After a moment, she asked, ‘Was it God’s will when Annie’s little cat went to be a cat angel?’

  ‘Yes, I believe it was.’

  ‘I don’t like God’s will!’ Lisette announced in a shrill voice, and her eyes were suddenly angry.

  ‘Neither do I,’ Collie murmured, and reached out, touched her daughter’s face gently. ‘But that is the way it is, I’m afraid, my darling.’

  There was a second or two of silence, and then in the casual, abrupt way that children have, Lisette changed the subject. ‘I’m going to be a bridesmaid with Yvonne at Kyra’s wedding to Grandpapa. Tante Rosie’s going to make cherry-red velvet dresses for us.’

  ‘Is she now?’

  ‘Oh yes, Maman, and we’ll have red velvet Juliet caps trimmed with bunches of red cherries. Tante Rosie told me just now when we were cutting up the mistletoe in the kitchen. She’s making the caps because of me. What will you wear for Grandpapa’s wedding? A cherry-red dress too?’

  ‘I don’t really know.’ Collie smoothed her daughter’s hair away from her face, and continued, ‘But let’s go downstairs and ask Rosie about it, shall we?’

  ‘Oh yes, let’s. But you talk to her. I’m going to help Marcel and Gaston with the yule logs.’

  ‘All right. But do me a favour please, Lisette. Put the photograph of Papa back on the table, in its special place.’

  ‘Yes, Mama,’ the child said, and went to do this, carrying the picture carefully in both hands.

  As Collie tried to get up she felt the pain stabbing at her again, crippling her, and she fell back on the sofa, a look of agony creasing her face.

  Lisette was turning around at this precise moment and she saw her mother’s expression. Her own little face was washed over with anxiety as she rushed to her. ‘Maman! Maman! What is it? Does something hurt? What is it?’

  ‘Nothing, darling. Nothing. I had a twinge of backache.’ Collie forced a bright laugh. ‘I must be getting old… it’s a bit of rheumatism, I think.’

  Lisette clutched at her mother, buried her face against Collie’s sweater. ‘I don’t want you to hurt, Maman, I don’t want you to hurt,’ she cried, on the verge of tears.

  ‘The pain is going away, darling. Just give me a minute,’ Collie said, and closing her eyes she held her child tightly in her arms, rocking her to and fro. And she said a silent prayer: Please God, don’t take me away from her just yet. Please let me stay with her a little longer.

  ***

  Rosie stood on a step ladder in front of the fireplace in the family sitting room. For the last ten minutes she had been endeavouring to anchor two large sprigs of holly on top of the mirror over the mantelpiece.

  Earlier she had twisted them together, and tied them with fine wire, and now she struggled to arrange the long spray effectively, but it wouldn’t sit quite right. As she leaned back slightly, to view the spray, the phone began to ring. It went on ringing and ringing, and when nobody else picked it up she came down from the ladder, muttering under her breath, and grabbed it.

  ‘Château de Montfleurie, bonjour,’ she said a bit breathlessly.

  There was a good deal of static, and from far away a masculine voice said, ‘Miss Rosalind Madigan, please.’

  ‘This is she.’ It was a voice she did not recognize.

  ‘Rosie! Hi! It’s me, J
ohnny. Johnny Fortune.’

  ‘Goodness, Johnny! How are you?’ she exclaimed, startled to hear from him.

  ‘Doing great, Rosie. How’re you?’

  ‘I’m fine, getting ready for Christmas. Where are you calling from? You sound as though you’re on another planet.’

  ‘I guess you could say I am—I’m in Vegas.’

  ‘But it must be the middle of the night—’

  ‘Sure it is, honey. It’s three in the morning. I just finished my late show. I thought I’d call you before I went to bed. I wanted to wish you a merry Christmas, and tell you that I’m coming to Europe. In January. Do you think we can meet? Have dinner? Or something?’

  She hesitated, and instantly wondered why she was doing so. She was about to divorce Guy, so he wasn’t an impediment any more. He never really had been. ‘I’d like that, Johnny,’ she said at last. ‘I’d love to see you.’

  ‘Hey, that’s great! Just great. I’m going to be in Paris. Will you be there? Or where you are now?’

  ‘I’ll be in Paris.’

  ‘Can I have your number?’

  ‘Of course. Incidentally, how did you find me? I mean, how did you get this number?’

  ‘It wasn’t easy, believe you me.’ He chuckled. ‘Yesterday, Nell told me you were in London, and she gave me the studio number. Again. She’d already given me that. Anyway, I spoke to some nice lady, Aida Young. She said you weren’t in London. Or in Paris. When I pressed her hard she told me she thought you’d gone to Montfleurie, but she wasn’t sure how I could reach you. I got the feeling I was being stonewalled by her, and by Nell, to tell you the truth. Armed with that name, I called Francis Raeymaekers at his shop in London, you know, the guy I buy antique silver from. I asked him if he’d ever heard of a place called Montfleurie, and what was it? A hotel? A town? Or what? He knew it all right, explained that it was one of the great châteaux of the Loire. He got the number for me, and here I am talking to you at last.’