Destiny

by Sally Beauman

  Edouard, too, would be rich, that went without saying. But he would not inherit the title, and if he was not to fritter away his life, he would have to find some function, some purpose—and he had no idea what it might be. He felt himself, in contrast to his brother, to Jean-Paul’s massive sureness on every matter from politics to the bedroom, to be insubstantial, shot through with uncertainties and doubts. He knew he was more intelligent than Jean-Paul. He knew he saw things and understood things more quickly and more acutely—but that ability seemed to him useless. Jean-Paul simply didn’t bother, and Jean-Paul was happy. That was the other source of his charm—his capacity to enjoy life, to revel in the moment, and never once to worry about the past or the morrow.

  Also, Jean-Paul was not stupid. Anything that interested him, he mastered; he had always wanted to go into the army, and his military record was exemplary. He was without physical fear, Edouard knew that, whether he was on horseback or battleground. He was one of the finest shots in France; he was unexpectedly graceful on a dance floor. He could drink his fellow officers under the table, and had never been known to experience a hangover. And he was irresistible to women.

  According to Jean-Paul, he had his first woman when he was thirteen—it was one of the maids at the château in the Loire—and had not looked back since. When he was fifteen, his father, as was customary in their class, had arranged for him to be initiated into the pleasures of the act of love by a Frenchwoman renowned in Paris for her tact in such matters.

  Jean-Paul had not admitted to his father his previous experiences, and the woman in question had, according to Jean-Paul, been pleasantly surprised by his accomplished performance. Jean-Paul had from the first been only too delighted to explain to his eager younger brother exactly what a man’s requirements were, what he did, and what he could expect the woman to do in return. His descriptions were couched in the language of the barrack room, and were marvelously exact.

  He needed a fuck a day, he said negligently, as Edouard’s eyes rounded. Sometimes more, but on average, one a day. The time of day didn’t matter, though he himself favored the afternoon—that way the evening could be given over to drinking, and after drinking a man performed less well. All kinds of women were delightful to fuck: experienced women, inexperienced women, young ones, old ones, beautiful ones, plain ones, thin ones, fat ones.

  “Plain ones?” Edouard looked at him anxiously. The women of his dreams were always beautiful.

  Jean-Paul winked. “It’s nice to kiss a pretty face. I admit that. But for a good fuck, it’s not the face that counts. You’re not looking at their faces then, I can assure you, little brother.”

  What constituted a good fuck? That was what Edouard wanted to know. Did that mean there could be bad ones also? Here Jean-Paul was annoyingly less exact. The question seemed to puzzle him.

  Virgins were a bad fuck in general, he conceded eventually. He would advise Edouard to steer clear of virgins, until it came to his own wife, naturally. With a virgin, sex could be messy and unpleasant, and they were nervous, and didn’t know what to do, and frightened of getting pregnant, which was absurd. Virgins were a responsibility, and best avoided.

  Married women—now they were a much better bet. Half of them—especially here in England, where the men were so undersexed—were desperate for it. They knew what to do and when, and with the correct tutelage from the man could become highly imaginative. Jean-Paul then described some of their more inventive methods, and some of his tried and proven techniques, and Edouard listened in astonishment. Jean-Paul assured him that women’s mouths could be as pleasurable as their cunts, in some cases, more so, because certain women could be a little unresponsive at the crucial moment of a conventional fuck.

  “Some of them can’t come,” Jean-Paul explained obligingly. “God knows why, but they can’t, and frankly, you’ve got other things to worry about without fretting too much about that. If they do come, all well and good. It feels wonderful—you remember in the Loire, watching the cows being milked when you were small? Well, it feels like that. Like being milked. Their muscles retract—inside, you see. But if that shows no sign of happening, forget it, press on. That’s the answer, little brother. And if you want, try their mouths. They all pretend to be shocked to begin with, say they can’t, turn up their eyes, and so on. Doesn’t mean a thing. They love it.”

  “Do they…I mean if you do that…” Edouard hesitated. “I mean, what do they do, when it comes out? Do they spit it out?”

  Jean-Paul gave a shout of hearty laughter.

  “Sometimes. The prissy ones. The good ones swallow it.”

  “Swallow it?” Edouard stared. “Do they like the taste?”

  “God knows.” Jean-Paul shrugged. “I’m not worrying about that then, I can assure you…”

  And so it went on, an endless narrative. This position versus that one; the advantages of a slow fuck, and the occasional pleasures of a quick one. Lying down; standing up; dressed; undressed; from the front—the missionary position, Jean-Paul said—or from behind, curved together like spoons, the way animals did it. Contraception; the disadvantages of the sheath; the capote anglaise; how to time the moment of withdrawal for coitus interruptus; how, at certain times in a woman’s monthly cycle, you could fuck quite safely with no danger of pregnancy at all.

  Edouard’s head spun with it all. Jean-Paul assured him it was all terribly simple, and that when the moment came, he would know just what to do—men just did, that was all. But it didn’t sound simple to Edouard. It sounded terribly, terribly complicated. He was not at all sure that he’d manage it; he was certain he’d get it all wrong, and make a mess of it. And there was one other thing that bothered and perplexed him very much. Finally, plucking up his courage, he raised the matter.

  “What about love, Jean-Paul?” he asked. “I mean—do you love them, when you’re making love? Is that why it’s called that? It seems as though it would be a little difficult. With so many. Is it possible to love them all?”

  Jean-Paul threw back his head with laughter.

  Love? Love didn’t come into it—he should have explained. That was lesson number one, the first essential. He put his arms around Edouard’s shoulders, and his face became serious.

  “We’re talking about pleasure, little brother. About sex. Not love—put love out of your mind, it will only confuse you. You have to be quite clear about what you want. You take pleasure from the woman—with luck you give her pleasure. That’s all. Sometimes you like them—some women can be very good company, very charming, even intelligent. I’ve had good talks with women as well as good fucks. Some you don’t like—and that’s rather different. But love is not involved. Take my advice. A hint of the first symptom, and move on. Another woman will quickly cure you of all that nonsense.”

  “But wouldn’t it be better—” Edouard persisted. “Wouldn’t it feel better if you loved them? When you did it?”

  “I really couldn’t say. I’ve never been in love.”

  “Never? But people do fall in love, don’t they? In books. In poems. Papa fell in love with Maman at first sight. He told me once.”

  “Did he?” Jean-Paul’s face clouded. “Well, obviously the condition exists. I distrust it, that’s all. It’s a snare. A trap. You’ll find women talk about it a good deal—far more than men. And why do they talk about it? Because they want you to marry them. It’s part of the game they play. Admit you love them—never do it, believe me, Edouard—and they start expecting a proposal. Any man will tell you the same.” He paused. “Did Papa really say that about Maman? You’re not inventing it?”

  Edouard shook his head. Jean-Paul frowned. It was one of the few times Edouard ever saw him look uncertain. It was also one of the few times he chose to disregard his brother’s advice. Naturally, Jean-Paul ought to know, but Edouard nonetheless refused to believe him. He did not tell his brother, but he continued to think about love. He continued to believe, as he had always believed in his romantic and innocent heart, tha
t to love and to make love must be one of the great human experiences, one that would change a man’s life forever. He was impatient to have a woman, yes; but he was also impatient to love one. Soon, he would say to himself. Let it be soon.

  The conversation about love, as opposed to sex, had taken place in France some three years before. It had not been repeated. Now, as Edouard heard steps outside, the sound of Parsons opening the front door, Jean-Paul’s deep voice and the clear light ring of a woman’s, Edouard smiled to himself.

  Things had changed in those three years. Now, Jean-Paul was engaged to be married. His fiancée was English, young, and extremely beautiful. Jean-Paul must know by now that he had been wrong, Edouard thought a little smugly. He was engaged. He had fallen for the snare after all. And so, even Jean-Paul must be in love at last.

  Lady Isobel Herbert, eldest daughter of the Earl of Conway, was eighteen, dazzling, and imperiously aware of it. She came into the Eaton Square drawing room now as she always entered a room—quickly, gracefully, restlessly, tossing aside a silver fox cape before Jean-Paul could assist her, and throwing it negligently over a chair. Before she was halfway across the room, she was already reaching for her cigarette case and holder, and turning to Jean-Paul impatiently.

  “Darling, light this for me. And make me a cocktail, would you? I’m exhausted. I’m dying for a drink. Make me something wicked, and extremely intoxicating. I’m quite worn out with decision-making—how I hate decisions, too beastly.” She flung herself down onto the sofa and stretched out decoratively, full-length. “Edouard. Darling. How are you?”

  Edouard gave her a half bow, and retreated to the window seat from which he could stare at her unobserved.

  All his life he had been used to beautiful women. His mother was famed for her looks; many of her friends were equally lovely. But Isobel Herbert was unlike any woman Edouard had ever known. She had been debutante of her year, and it was rumored, though unconfirmed, that she had turned down one prince, a duke, two sons of lesser peers, and one importunate Italian count before accepting the proposal of the Baron de Chavigny’s heir. Edouard knew that she had a reputation for what the English called being “fast,” and if that was so, he admired it. She was quite unlike the demure Catholic daughters of the French aristocracy whom Jean-Paul had occasionally, unwillingly, escorted. She had bright red hair, which flamed like red gold in sunlight, and deepened to chestnut in shadow. It was shingled shorter than a man’s at the back, falling forward over her lovely capricious face in the front. She painted her face blatantly—tonight her lips were bright scarlet; even her nails were painted, which Edouard’s mother would never have countenanced. She was tall, and slender as a boy, and tonight she was wearing a short-skirted black sheath of silk which was superbly and insolently understated. It was Schiaparelli; Edouard, who had an expert eye in such matters, knew that at once. Both slender bare arms were weighted with heavy ivory bracelets from wrist to elbow. The celebrated Conway pearls were slung around her neck, and she fiddled with them negligently, as if they were Woolworth beads, while she waited for her cocktail. She was never still: that was one of the things that most fascinated Edouard. She reminded him of something exotic, and swift: a hummingbird, or an exquisitely figured butterfly.

  Now she swung around to Edouard, stretching out her hand for inspection.

  “We’ve got it. I chose it this afternoon. Goodness, it was difficult! It gave me quite a headache. It’s rather sweet, I think. Tell me, Edouard. You’re the expert, Jean says. Do you approve?”

  Silently Edouard crossed the room. He took the hand she preferred him, and looked down at her fingers. The “sweet” ring was very simple. A square-cut emerald almost an inch across. It was dark green, mounted in twenty-four-carat gold. Since Edouard recognized it at once, he knew also that it was flawless and unique. It had been mined in South America, cut in the de Chavigny workrooms by his grandfather’s greatest gem cutter, and had belonged to Kaiser Wilhelm, whose family had sold it back to his father between the wars. It was exquisite, and it was widely regarded as unlucky. He stared at it for a moment in silence, then he released Isobel’s hand.

  “I approve. It’s very beautiful. It matches your eyes.”

  Isobel gave a delighted laugh. “How charming you are, Edouard! Jean—you hear? Edouard is charming—not like you at all.” She glanced up at Edouard from under her lashes. “And for such a young man, he’s very cunning. He says exactly what he knows a woman will like to hear. Not like you at all, Jean…”

  “Ah, but I make very good cocktails.” Jean smiled and placed a glass in her hand. “Edouard hasn’t learned to do that. Not yet.”

  “Cocktails! Cocktails!” Isobel tossed her head. “What kind of an accomplishment is that? The barman at the Four Hundred can make cocktails—and I don’t intend to marry him.”

  “I have other accomplishments as well, my darling.” Jean-Paul held on to her hand, and kissed her fingers lightly.

  “You do? I shall make you list them for me at once, and then I shall learn them by heart. Now, quickly—paper, Edouard, and a pen…” She was on her feet again. Edouard silently found her some writing paper and a fountain pen, and Isobel sat down again, frowning in a show of concentration.

  “Now, this is very serious! No mocking. I need to know this. In fact, I realize now I should have done it weeks ago. If the list is too short, I warn you, Jean—I shall leave you. Break off the engagement, just like that…” She snapped her fingers and Jean-Paul groaned good-naturedly. He stretched back in his chair and attempted to concentrate.

  “I’m very rich,” he began slowly.

  “Rich? Rich?” Isobel frowned. “That’s an exceedingly bad beginning. It’s very vulgar of you to think I would be interested in such a thing. And besides—lots of men are rich. Try again.”

  “I shall be Baron de Chavigny…”

  “Worse and worse. Papa says French titles are at best suspect and at worst absurd. Again.”

  Jean-Paul smiled. “I shall give my wife everything her heart desires…”

  “I have most of it already.”

  Jean-Paul frowned, and Edouard leaned forward eagerly. “He’s very good-natured,” he prompted. “Very. He almost never loses his temper. And he never sulks.”

  “Never sulks? That’s good. I’ll write that down.” She paused. “I’m not sure about the temper though—that might be a little dull. I find men charming when they are in a rage.” She tapped the paper with the pen. “Go on.”

  “He’s handsome,” Edouard put in again. “You can’t expect him to say that, but I can.”

  “Oh, very well. Handsome.” The emerald eyes flicked up at Edouard. “I think you will be more handsome one day, but that’s beside the point. So—what do we have, Jean? Good looks and a refusal to sulk. It’s not a great deal.”

  Jean-Paul stretched and put his hands behind his head. To Edouard’s surprise he looked slightly irritated.

  “I am a jealous and demanding lover,” he said firmly. “Or so I’m told.”

  Isobel ignored the slight edge in his voice. She scribbled on the paper.

  “Jealous is good. Demanding sounds good. Are you romantic, though?”

  She wrote the word, and then crossed it out.

  “No, I don’t think you are, not at all.” She glanced up at the clock. “We’ve been engaged just three days, and it’s at least an hour since you last kissed me. I don’t think you’re romantic at all.”

  “Then I shall have to change your mind.”

  Jean-Paul stood up, crossed the room, leaned over her chair, and kissed her. Edouard watched for a second uncomfortably, then turned away to the window. He had the oddest feeling that this kiss had been provoked, and for his benefit, not his brother’s. He turned around as Jean-Paul drew back, and the emerald eyes flashed up at him for a second, as if Isobel were amused, as if she shared a secret with him from which his brother was excluded. To his horror and distress he felt his body begin to respond, to stir. He turned away miserably
.

  “I’ve got lessons to do. Latin. I’d better go and get started…” He began to move to the door, but Isobel sprang up.

  “No—don’t do that. We’re going to stop this silly game now. It’s too boring. If we go on, I shall end up with five words on a piece of paper, and then I’ll have to give Jean back this emerald. And I don’t want to do that. I’m attached to it. And to you, Jean darling—now, don’t frown. You know I love to tease you. I shall go up to see your mother—she won’t mind, will she, Jean? I want to show her this. And we’re going to start making marvelous lists. Women adore list-making, did you know that, darling? We can’t have a proper wedding without lots of them, which will be sheer heaven. Now. There! I’m going…” She glanced over her shoulder. “I shall leave you two to talk…”

  When the door closed behind her, there was a little silence. Edouard had gone bright red. He stared at his brother accusingly.

  “Oh God. She knows. Isobel knows. You didn’t tell her? You can’t have told her?”

  “I might have mentioned it.” Jean-Paul shrugged. “Why shouldn’t she know? She thought it was a fine idea. She said it was sweet.”

  Edouard glanced at his brother doubtfully. He inflected the word sweet with a sarcasm he did not trouble to hide.

  “I’m embarrassed, that’s all. I’d just rather she didn’t know. I—I thought it was something private. A secret. Just between you and me.”

  “So it is. So it is. Now, come on. Cheer up.” Jean-Paul smiled. “I’ve good news. I’ve arranged it.”

  “Arranged it? You have?”

  Jean-Paul pulled a small pasteboard card from his uniform pocket and slipped it into Edouard’s hand.

  “Tomorrow afternoon, at three. Maman will be out all day. I checked. Glendinning takes you only in the mornings on Saturday, yes? So—you’ve plenty of time to get there. The address is on the card.” He paused. “She’s perfect, Edouard. Perfect in every respect. Not too young, not too old. Very experienced. A delightful woman. French—I thought that might help. Not a tart—nothing like that. Very clean. She has—well, she’s kept, if you understand me. But the gentleman in question is elderly and often away, and she likes younger men.” He shrugged. “She’s a good fuck, Edouard. I can recommend her personally.”