* * *
Five days later, the Duc and Daisy traveled together to Le Havre for her sailing. He saw her settled in her stateroom, their conversation disjointed and fitful as they exchanged those social banalities required in leave-takings. He'd write—he'd telegram; she should write, too, when she found time; she wished him well with Bourges; he hoped her court dates went smoothly; give Hector a hug for me, she said, and he promised he would. The seas looked choppy, a cognac helped, sometimes, to relax, he offered, and she smiled, reminding him after spending years on horseback, she was immune to erratic rhythms. As they held each other, the last warning whistle for departure shrilled.
"You had better go."
"I had better go."
But neither moved.
"Come to Montana with me." Daisy's words were a spontaneous declaration of feeling and need, but she'd realized even before she'd finished speaking, Etienne couldn't or wouldn't and she smiled at the end, as if in bantering whimsy.
He hesitated. "I can't."
"I know."
They both knew the full extent of their commitments to other people and circumstances; they both knew the happiness they'd shared was predicated on adjusting their schedules and lives for a few brief weeks—and an extension right now wasn't a possibility. They were rational adults; they understood.
But beyond rational judgments they were desolate. And while they'd exchanged all the prescribed phrases denoting a future, neither was certain in their hearts such a future existed.
The Duc had Isabelle to deal with and after his thoroughbred's death, Daisy and Hector had become a concern. Daisy's return to Montana would effectively remove her from danger but Hector still remained to be protected. The divorce proceedings were going to be a horrendous stalemate unless Bourges was successful in changing the venue. And since meeting Daisy, Etienne hadn't been actively involved in his business interests. Both his steward and his secretary were waiting for him now in Le Havre with their most pressing affairs on the agenda for this afternoon.
After that, after all the significant problems were solved�then he had a future. He was a realist. But he was also in love. And there weren't any easy answers.
Daisy's concerns were based less on specific problem-solving than on issues of compatibility. Geographical and emotional compatibility. There was no question, she loved Etienne; whether his love was as committed still concerned her. He seemed determined somehow that she leave—and whether danger from Isabelle was indeed real continued to cause her disquiet. Had their relationship instead reached the habitual limits of the Duc's amorous interests? She didn't know anymore what was reasonable doubt and what was excessive sensibility to the patterns of his past behavior. She didn't know anymore if she could think rationally about Etienne Martel. She particularly didn't know if she could survive without him. And her sense of loss was already achingly real.
I won't cry, she determinedly told herself, I won't. For if this were simply another of the dozens or hundreds of good-byes the Duc de Vec had grown accustomed to, she wouldn't embarrass herself.
Dear God, the Duc thought, what if Isabelle's right and she keeps me in court a lifetime. He stood for a moment absorbing the feel of Daisy in his arms, inhaling the fragrance of her perfume, trying to memorize the smallest details of her face and hair and expression… against his uncertain future.
"Kiss me," Daisy said, because she couldn't help herself at the last. In a moment more he'd be gone and she desperately needed to kiss him once more. Tears welled in her eyes as she lifted her head, spilling over a second later despite her best intentions to control her weeping. Despite her reputation for coolness and restraint. Despite her attempts to bid Etienne farewell with cordial good manners.
He thought for a moment before his lips touched hers, that he could take her from this ship, bring her to Colsec and keep her there in safety from Isabelle—in opposition to her family's schedule or even her own wishes if need be. He selfishly considered the real possibility of abduction because he didn't know if he would be able to bear her absence.
With tears streaming down Daisy's face and the sadness of bereavement suffocating in the Duc's lungs, their lips touched and met and melted into each other softly like the first kiss of adolescence when time had no meaning. Openhearted and generous, they offered each other the fullness of their beings.
A knock at the door, insistent and authoritative, curtailed their poignant embrace.
"The gangway is being raised!" a man's voice shouted.
"Write," the Duc said.
"Think of me."
"Every second."
Daisy smiled, warmed by his answer. "You have to go…"
"Will you be all right?"
She nodded.
He brushed the tears from her face with gentle fingers. "Take care," he whispered.
As he turned at the door for a last look, Daisy smiled. "I love you," she murmured.
His eyes held hers for a long moment. "You made me believe in love," he said, his voice low. And he hoped with impatient longing and breathless fear it wasn't too late for him.
* * *
The problem of Hector's safety was fortuitously solved without the Duc having to reveal to his daughter any of his fears concerning Isabelle. She was Jolie's mother, after all, and that consideration made him reluctant to disclose her involvement in Morocco's murder.
In the days since his thoroughbred's death, Jolie and her family had been enjoying the sea at Trouville, safely distant from Paris—out of harm's way. Before he had to face a decision, Jolie and her husband, Henri, surprised him with a visit, the same evening he returned from Le Havre.
Louis brought the young couple into the library where Etienne had retired after dinner. With his gaze on the river outside, he was nursing a cognac, feeling solitary and unrelated to the world, as though he were isolated completely from the rhythm of humanity.
The bustle of their entrance, Louis's fussing to turn up the gaslights, Jolie and Henri's beaming smiles and salutations brought him gratefully from his morbid reflections.
"Whyever are you sitting in the dark, Papa? Tea, Louis, for me, a brandy for Henri. Papa, you can't imagine what good luck has come our way. Maybe some sweets too, Louis—something chocolate. Light all the lights… I hate gloomy shadow. Just because Daisy's gone, Papa, doesn't mean you can mope. She'll be back soon, I'm sure, or you can visit her because—Henri—tell him—tell him all about your new business."
During all her monologue, she was arranging herself on the small tapestry sofa, seeing that her husband was seated beside her, adjusting the tartan taffeta ruching on her green moire gown, touching last the matching bow set becomingly in her upswept dark curls.
"But we had to talk to you first, Papa," Jolie excitedly said, usurping her husband's offered role as informant, "to see what you think of the proposal." Seated beside her tall blond husband, her hand in his, she smiled at her father. "It has to do with polo ponies and there's no one in the world who knows more about them than you."
Etienne grinned at her enthusiasm and fulsome compliment. "So tell me what this marvelous proposition entails." Frankly he was surprised Jolie's husband was interested in business of any kind. While he thought Henri a loving husband and father, he'd not thought him concerned with making money. Henri usually played third on their team; he was a crashing good player and now that Hector was better able to travel, he followed the polo season again as he had before his marriage, across the continent and into England. For entertainment… and occupation.
"You know Suantez," Henri succinctly said.
"He's involved? Before even hearing the details, I'd say take it. No one breeds better polo ponies than Suantez. Where did he buy a property in France?"
"Not France, Papa, in Kentucky," Jolie interjected. "Isn't it exciting?"
So far away was Etienne's first thought. He'd miss seeing his grandson. How convenient was his second immediate reflection… they'd be far away from Isabelle's evil temper. "It is excitin
g. When does Suantez plan on beginning or is he waiting for your decision?"
"I tentatively agreed, sir," Henri said, "contingent on your more experienced judgment."
"Well then. You can't possibly go wrong. Suantez has bred every champion polo pony in the world since the early eighties. Will I get a discount price on my next string," the Duc sportively inquired, "since I'm a relative?"
"Absolutely, Papa. Because you see, you're our banker." His daughter's grin was sunny and it reminded him of the times in her childhood when she'd shared a secret with him.
"I rather thought I might be," he said, his own smile warm. While Henri, as Comte de Saint-Joris was wealthy, breeding horses needed enormous capitalization for years before any profits showed. Suantez could use the de Vec resources. "How much does Suantez want?"
"It's not a lot, Papa," Jolie declared.
"It's a stiff sum, sir," Henri quietly said. "Five million francs."
Not as much as he'd anticipated, the Duc thought. Lower land prices in America no doubt contributed to more economical start-up costs. "See Legere in the morning. He'll arrange the money for you."
"Thank you, Papa," Jolie cheerfully said, having known her father would agree, five million francs not a disconcerting sum to her. "Come with us, to visit the properties. You always said Kentucky was perfect horse country and we can use your advice on a thousand details. And," she added, her enthusiasm alight in her eyes, "with Justin in Egypt and Daisy gone to America and now us, there's nothing to keep you here."
His business interests aside, nothing except an acrimonious divorce, the Duc regrettably noted. But the fact that Jolie was happy and exempt from the destruction consoled him. "Later I'll come, darling. After Bourges has settled matters between your mother and me."
"Thank you very much, sir," his son-in-law said with more formality. "We're very grateful, sir." He put out his hand.
"I'm damned glad to have access to the best ponies in the world," Etienne replied, taking Henri's hand in his strong grip. He was pleased to be of help, more than pleased Jolie's family was about to settle for a time so far from Isabelle's villainous temperament. "When are you leaving?" he asked then. Without causing alarm he hoped to persuade them on an early departure.
"We're booked for next week, Papa."
"It wasn't my idea, sir," the young Comte de Saint-Joris quickly interjected. "Jolie booked us without my knowing. She was sure, she said, but… well… I know how much five million is, sir, and sometimes… well… Jolie doesn't seem to—"
"Understand economics?"
"Exactly, sir."
"Really, Papa, sometimes Henri goes on about money as though we didn't have any. I tell him my dot is more than enough, but he says we should save it for the children."
"Children?" The Duc's voice was softly inquiring.
Jolie's face was wreathed in smiles and she grinned at her husband first before she answered her father. "It's too early to be absolutely sure yet, but we think… Hector might have a brother or sister next year and that's why," she went on in pleased explanation, "we're interested in settling down for a time."
"If Jolie's having a baby, I won't be playing on the circuit for the next few years," the young Comte earnestly said, squeezing his wife's hand and darting an affectionate glance her way. "So Suantez's offer came at an opportune time."
The look passing between the two young people triggered a small pang of envy in the Duc. How nice they shared such pleasure in their hopes for another child. Isabelle had found both pregnancy and child-rearing an irritating imposition.
Oblivious to her father's morose speculation, Jolie went on in her familiar buoyant good spirits. "You know Henri lives for polo like you do, Papa, and if we have another baby, even if he can't travel the circuit, in partnership with Suantez, he'll still be actively involved in the game."
"I don't live for polo," the Duc protested.
"Of course you do, Papa. You haven't missed a match in years."
Until this week, he thought. For Daisy.
"Until this week," his daughter echoed. "Whyever did you let Daisy go?" she asked, as if she were reading his mind.
For the same reason I want you to go, he thought. "She had business commitments in the States," he said.
"When will she return?"
"I'm not certain."
"Will you be visiting her?"
"Not until the divorce is settled."
"Did she say that?" Jolie understood the awkwardness of her father's position.
"No."
"Well, you should change your mind about seeing her then and come to visit us on your way to Montana."
Etienne smiled at his daughter's casual suggestion that overlooked the myriad social taboos relating to his visiting a single young woman at her family's home while he was still married. Even though Daisy had assured him no one would look askance at such a visit, the Duc knew better. In Paris, his influence afforded protection to Daisy from anyone who took issue with their relationship. Almost anyone, he corrected himself, thinking of Isabelle. In Montana, provincial custom would no doubt censure his interest in Daisy. Her family certainly would show concern for her happiness.
"Maybe I will… someday," he replied, not so certain the someday would be soon. Not in the current gloomy aftermath of Daisy's departure. "Have you told your mother your plans?" he asked then with thoughts of Isabelle fresh in his mind.
"Mother's in England. Lady Wilcomb invited her for the Ascot races. Henri spoke to Suantez in Trouville after Mother left. He has a small stud there… you know that."
After the polo season closed in Paris in July, and the haut monde left the city for their summer homes, the circuit moved to the cool seashore at Trouville.
"I'll write her in England," Jolie went on, "and tell her our plans." She refrained from saying what they all knew; that Isabelle wouldn't interrupt her social commitments to come back and say good-bye even if they telegrammed her. "But I'm not going to let you mope in Paris long, Papa," Jolie added, bestowing her special smile on her father. "Expect a telegram a week and then if you don't come—a message every day until you do decide to visit. Hector will miss you terribly… so you see—you must oblige. And Henri needs your help," she added, patting her husband's hand, "don't you, darling?"
"Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir." The young Comte, unlike his wife, was in awe of the Duc. Not only was the Duc de Vec the best polo player in France, distinction enough to impress Henri, but in the milieu of Jockey Club and Hunt Club, he held the enviable reputation as the most sought-after ladies' man in Paris. His name was conspicuous, as well, for integrity on the playing field and in the world of business. "We'd be honored, sir," Henry said with genuine reverence, "if you'd consider taking a hand in the management of the farms."
"Thank you, Henri, perhaps… later." The Duc smiled at the man who'd brought such happiness to his daughter and regretted again for a fleeting time his own misspent life.
"Promise you'll come, Papa," Jolie insisted. "It's only a few days now from Le Havre to New York."
"I'll come as soon as I can," he answered, smiling. "Fair enough?"
* * *
That evening while the Duc was being vague and ambiguous with his daughter's demands for a visit, Daisy was seated at the Captain's table listening to a rich industrialist's wife from Chicago remark on the necessity for clearing the slums. "They're altogether too offensive to look at," she petulantly maintained. "It quite ruins my drive up the lake to our summer home, having to pass through those… well… filthy blighted areas of town. They should simply move all those squalid people—" she waved her pudgy, bejeweled hand in airy disdain, "away."
Her diamonds would have fed all those squalid people for a month, Daisy thought, familiar with the slums of Chicago since she'd attended law school in that city. She'd spent a good deal of time in those slums during her stay in Chicago, working with Jane Addams—trying to help where she could.
"All those foreigners shouldn't be allowed into the country in
the first place," another matron said. "My husband suggested to our Senator an eminently useful quota system for all those dark-skinned foreigners." Her husband, a Judge from Philadelphia, City of Brotherly Love, Daisy recalled, apparently drew the line at dispensing love democratically. "No offense, Miss Black," the Judge's wife added, her smile gracious since she'd judged Daisy's diamond parure in the neighborhood of a queen's ransom.
"Actually, I'm less of a foreigner than you, Mrs. Lowell," Daisy replied with a gracious smile of her own. "My family's lived in America for over a thousand years."
And life goes on, Daisy ruefully reflected while the lady from Philadelphia sputtered in consternation. Outside the ambiance of Etienne's rarefied society, prejudice and bigotry continued unabated. So far removed from the censure of the world, he didn't begin to understand the existence of intolerance or predatory politics or stark privation. She could have chosen to stay in Paris, protected by his name and power, ensconced within the comfortable exclusivity of his privileged circle, allowing him to shield her not only from Isabelle's wrath but from the reality of life. She could have, had she been less committed to her own people… or perhaps, she reminded herself with a practicality independent of noble causes—had he insisted she stay.
But he hadn't, had he? He'd only said, "perhaps it's for the best___"
Damning bland words compared to her own fervent love.
A polite and courteous conclusion, perhaps, to a love affair that was over.
She found herself uninterested in the ensuing conversation centered on items of luxury, favored spas, and social amusements preferred by the wealthy matrons from Chicago or Philadelphia or Boston. Or the later discussion which digressed into mutual commiserations over the dearth of good hired help—of a non-foreign nature, of course. Withdrawing into the consuming sorrow inundating her mind whenever Etienne intruded into her thoughts, she left the table before dessert, not in the right frame of mind to watch overweight ladies who deplored the sight of poverty eat their fill of whipped-cream concoctions. Her dinner companions, reminiscent of the idle luxury of Etienne's fashionable milieu, reminded her too emphatically of the great gulf between her life and his.
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