On the rare occasions when Cat had joined Hélène on location, or had gone away with Hélène and Lewis for a vacation, she had conceived a passion for airplanes. Now her eyes widened.
“Could we fly?”
“We could. Or perhaps we could go on a ship. A very big ship. You’d have your own room on it…” Edouard, who was eager to make this alternative tempting, felt his inspiration failing. “With—with round windows. They’re called portholes.”
“And bunks,” Hélène said quickly.
Cat’s color became hectic. “Bunks? Like you have in trailers? Oh, yes!”
“That’s decided then. We shall do it. We shall go in my airplane to New York, and then take a ship.”
“When? When? Tomorrow?”
“The day after tomorrow.” Seeing a trace of his own impatience in his daughter’s face, he began to smile. He observed that she did not mention Lewis Sinclair, and that the possibility of his joining this expedition did not seem to occur to her. This increased his sense of optimism. When Cat had disappeared to bed, and Hélène cried, he pressed her hand. It would be all right, he told her. It would all work out—gently, gradually. They had time, after all; so much time.
Edouard returned to the house the next morning; he was introduced to Cassie. Cassie, clearly, already knew something of the story, perhaps from Hélène, perhaps from Madeleine. Edouard had the impression that, as she surveyed him, she was now filling in the rest of the details for herself. Edouard, amused by her stern and searching glance, attempted to explain about the France.
“Where Hélène goes, I go. Where she stays, I stay.” Cassie drew herself up to her full height, as if daring him to challenge this statement. “You got her, you got me, I reckon.”
Edouard professed himself delighted. He looked forward to the confrontation between George and this plain-spoken woman; Cassie, for her part, was impressed, and also charmed. She had no intention of letting Edouard see that yet, however. Early days, she said to herself; early days.
“And no French,” she said, fixing him with a gimlet glance. “Can’t twist my tongue ’round it, never could. Too old to start now. And what’s more—you’ve hardly left us any time for proper packing.”
She swept off, arms full of swathes of tissue paper. Edouard, unused to a household in which women were packing in earnest, retreated, a little bemused. He entertained Cat, with stories and books. She showed him her paintings. Then, that afternoon, when she was whisked away, full of protests, by Madeleine, he spent two idyllic hours with Hélène, who was—at one and the same time—exhibiting the symptoms of a woman in love, and a woman who was frantically and distractedly trying to organize her departure. Edouard enjoyed all this. He lounged in a chair, surrounded by boxes and suitcases, and marveled whenever she blushed. He found it charming when she could not decide between one dress and another, when she leaned back on her heels and sighed, as if all decisions were beyond her.
“My darling,” he said, his eyes resting lazily upon her, “take them all. Or leave them all behind and I’ll buy you new ones. It doesn’t matter…”
Their eyes met. They were in her bedroom, and a certain tense awareness of that became apparent to them both.
“Not here. Not now…” Edouard said reluctantly, his lips against her hair. Moments later the tension was forgotten, and it was simply delightful to be a man, surrounded by femininity—by lace and petticoats and gloves and hats—by seriousness one moment, and by the most charming frivolity the next.
Hélène found herself in a state of ecstasy and terror. Everything was happening too fast, and not fast enough. On the one hand, she felt a perplexing desire to do nothing at all; simply to look at Edouard, or to hear his voice, or to touch his hand, seemed fulfillment enough. It had been a very long time since she had experienced that particular havoc of the senses, and that particular state of dazed bliss. She was inclined to indulge it; she was not entirely capable of controlling it; when she recognized that something similarly irrational was happening to Edouard, apparently the most controlled and rational of men, and that she could provoke it with a word or a glance, she found she wanted to provoke it, wanted it very much. The swiftness of his reaction, and the reassurance that it gave her—this was tempting. She did not give packing her undivided attention; she was inclined to flirt.
On the other hand, breaking through the delightful daze of mind and senses, there were other, less seductive imperatives. She could not, she said, simply depart…There were people who must be informed. Here Edouard was no help at all. He saw no reason why not. He was by then in a state of such exaltation and impatience that he was finding it difficult to believe that such a person as Lewis Sinclair existed—and as for agents, lawyers, secretaries, accountants, they had vanished from the face of the earth, and they had, he noted with particular pleasure, taken Thaddeus Angelini with them.
Hélène, fighting the pleasurable daze, was adamant.
“Inform them then…” Edouard said with an amused and magisterial wave of the hand. He frowned. “Perhaps I should go?” This possibility appalled him. Luckily, it seemed to appall Hélène too. No, she said; he must stay. She would do it quickly, quickly.
And so she made a chain of telephone calls, sitting at the desk in her office, and Edouard dutifully sat opposite her, in an upright chair, and piled paper clips into a mountain, knocked it over, and then piled it up again. He looked at the ledgers and the files and the evidence of Hélène’s business life; he listened to her voice as it managed to give the minimum information necessary with the maximum calm; he looked at the way the light shone on her hair, and the way her fingers twisted and untwisted the cord of the telephone.
The call to Thad Angelini was particularly brief—Angelini showed no interest in Hélène’s plans. This surprised Edouard somewhat, but he was in no frame of mind to consider it further. Only the call to Lewis took any length of time, and that was because he was obviously having difficulty understanding what Hélène was saying. She had to repeat the simplest phrases, and when she eventually replaced the receiver, Edouard could see her distress.
“He’d taken something. Some pills, perhaps. I don’t know.” She gave a little helpless gesture of the hand. “He wasn’t really listening.”
Edouard at once sobered; his mind sharpened. At that moment, when he admitted to himself for the first time exactly how jealous he had been of this man, the jealousy suddenly departed. Lewis Sinclair had loved Hélène, after all; and for an instant Edouard felt a kinship with him, and an understanding of him, which he had never had before.
He felt a little ashamed, then, of his earlier and carefree happiness. It reminded him that he must be careful: the past could not simply be undone, without regard for its complexities. A marriage was involved, and though it hurt him to realize that that marriage had secrets and convolutions and loyalties to which he was not party, he knew he must accept that.
That evening they left Los Angeles in Edouard’s plane, so that they would be in New York in time for the sailing the next day. It was only when they were airborne that Edouard suddenly realized something which appalled him.
Hélène still did not know of his own involvement with Partex and with Sphere; in the confusion, and the happiness, the rush of explanations, that one central fact had been omitted.
Edouard sat very still. He looked across at Hélène, who was sitting opposite him. Cat was looking out the window excitedly, thrilled to be in a plane that had no other passengers; Hélène was pointing out landmarks still visible below. The plane was climbing, and, as they entered the cloud line, Cat cried out with pleasure.
Edouard hesitated. His first instinct was to tell Hélène as soon as they were alone. Then he remembered all the things she had said about Thad Angelini, and the ways in which he had tried to control her life. He remembered how angry Angelini had made her, and he felt a certain fear.
If he told her now, it would look as if he had deliberately concealed the information until they left. It m
ight seem, to Hélène, that he had acted wrongly. To some extent, he knew, both Angelini and she owed their success to him. Sphere had given them opportunities they might have spent years fighting for in the Hollywood marketplace, opportunities that might otherwise have been denied them both. For all her willingness to leave Los Angeles, Hélène was proud of her work, proud of her achievements: how would she regard them if she knew the truth, and how would she then regard him?
He had done these things because he loved her—but Angelini might have claimed the same thing. Edouard looked at Hélène’s face, bent toward Cat, and then looked away.
He did not want to deceive her; he hated the thought that anything so important should be kept back, but to tell her now…
The plane leveled at cruising height; Edouard looked back at Hélène once more. He looked at the curve of her cheek, at the brightness in her eyes, the beauty of her face, and he decided.
He would Telex Simon Scher from the ship; he would instruct him to wind down Sphere’s operations, and then to sell it off, and to keep his own name out of all dealings, as before. He would not tell Hélène, now or in the future; his connection with the company, that role he had played in her life, would be relegated to the past.
Hélène looked up from Cat at that moment, and smiled at him happily.
Edouard smiled back, with sudden relief. It was not such a terrible thing, after all, he told himself, and besides—it was the only secret he would keep.
Cat had a cabin with a bunk and a porthole; Cassie and Madeleine had cabins that were larger, but similar, on either side of her. Cat was in transports of delight. Even before they sailed, she had explored the whole ship. She had seen the swimming pool, and the movie theater, the library and the ballroom. She had peeped into the various restaurants, and examined the lifeboats.
She stood between Edouard and Hélène when the great ship finally eased away from the quay; she leaned on the rail and waved to all the people who were so unlucky as to be staying on shore. She counted the tugboats; she gazed at the Statue of Liberty, and at the outline of Ellis Island in the distance, when Hélène pointed it out.
“Thank you,” Cat said to Edouard. “Oh, thank you. It’s much better than an airplane.” She stopped, and then realizing she might have been untactful, added, “Even your airplane, which was very nice.”
She found fault with only one thing. When she came up to the higher deck, where Edouard and Hélène had separate but adjoining staterooms, she looked around Hélène’s in consternation. It was large, and filled with flowers. It was very pretty…but it had a bed.
“Oh, Mother, what a shame. You don’t have a bunk…” She looked up at Edouard. “Do you have a bunk, Edouard?”
Edouard smiled; he and her mother exchanged a mystifying glance.
“Well, no. I have a bed, too, I’m afraid. You can come and bounce on it if you like. They’re both very comfortable.”
Cat stood and stared at the ground. Her face became very red. After a pause, she said, in the small voice of one prepared to make the supreme sacrifice, “I bet Mother would rather have a bunk. I’ll change places with her. If she wants to.”
Edouard coughed. He turned away and coughed some more. Hélène crouched down to Cat, and, to her daughter’s great relief, said, “Darling, it’s very kind of you. But really, I’m quite happy here…”
“All right then,” Cat said nonchalantly. “Maybe I’ll go and play with those ring things…Madeleine’s going to show me. I’m going to beat her, and Cassie…”
She made a speedy retreat, in case her mother should change her mind.
“My mother has a bed, not a bunk,” she said to Cassie and Madeleine when they began their game of quoits. “So does Edouard. I said Mother could have my bunk if she’d rather, but she said no.”
It was very odd, because this seemed to make Cassie cough. She went quite red in the face, as if she were laughing. Only Madeleine took the news in her stride.
“Attention, ma petite. Concentrate now. It is very difficult this game, we have to master it before we reach France, and we only have five days…”
“Perhaps Edouard will play.”
“Maybe. Maybe. But you mustn’t bother them, Cat, they may be a little busy…”
Cat gave a resigned sigh. She didn’t mind. There were so many things to do, so many places to explore. How stupid grown-ups were, she thought, to be busy in such a wonderful playground as this.
On their first night at sea, long after dinner, Edouard and Hélène walked on the deck, and then stood, at the stern of the ship, looking down at the water. They were quite alone. Behind them, the ship was lit up. In the saloons, people were drinking and talking and playing bridge; in the ship’s ballroom, they were dancing, and they could just hear the music above the thrum of the huge engines.
It was cold on deck, and the Atlantic was dark and unmoving, almost without waves except those caused by the wake of the ship. Hélène shivered a little, and Edouard drew her closer to him. They stood for some time, silently and contentedly. “We are between two continents,” Hélène said at last.
Edouard pressed her hand. And two lives, he thought, knowing it was what she had meant. He turned to look at her, her profile pale and clear-cut in the dark air, the wind lifting the fair hair from her forehead.
“Will you miss it?” he said finally. “All these things and places that I’m asking you to leave behind?”
“No.” Hélène looked up at him quickly. “I had left them behind already, before you asked me to come away with you. There is nothing I shall miss. I feel as if I’m coming home.” She hesitated. “Everything, and everyone, that most matters to me, is with me on this ship now. None of the other things matter. I’ve done them, and now I’m glad just to leave them behind.”
Edouard pressed her closer to him, and they stood there a while longer. Then, with one accord, and without a word’s being spoken between them, they turned and walked slowly back to their cabins.
They went into Hélène’s, and she did not turn on the light. As Edouard shut the door and moved forward, she lifted her arms to him. The coat she had draped around her shoulders fell to the floor, and Edouard felt the glance of her bare arms against his throat. They had both been a little afraid of this moment, Hélène thought. But now that it was here, she felt only peace, and a sweet relaxing. The past five years were gone, as soon as she touched him.
Afterward, they lay for a long time in each other’s arms; Hélène felt as if they floated, just above the water, just above the distant hum of the engines, calmly and serenely upon an ocean of contentment. They talked, slept, touched, talked, slept once more.
Since they rarely left this cabin, the voyage felt like five days of dreaming, and five days which obliterated five years.
“I never left you,” she said one night,
“You couldn’t leave. I couldn’t let you,” he answered.
On the fifth day, they reached France. When they docked, Christian was there to meet them.
“You may not yet know this,” he said to Hélène, “but I played a most significant role in this drama. I have no intention of ever letting either of you forget it. Now, hurry up, the car’s waiting—you shall come straight to my apartment and drink champagne. Oh—and this is the little Cat.”
He turned to Cat, who was staring at him wide-eyed, taking in the battered panama, the wine-red floppy bow tie, and the ancient pair of white flannel trousers.
Christian held out his hand, and shook Cat’s. “We can’t call you Cat, you know,” he said. “You haven’t grown enough yet. I shall introduce you to my Siamese, and I shall address you as Kitten. Now, come along…”
He ushered them toward the customs sheds; beyond, in the parking area, a black Rolls-Royce was waiting.
At the last moment, with one accord, both Hélène and Edouard looked back. They looked up at the ship, and at the passengers, so small from here, still lining the decks; they looked at each other, and smiled, and followed Chr
istian.
On board, on one of the upper decks, one man watched their progress with particular interest. From here he had a clear view. He watched them enter customs—the man, the film star, the child, two other women, and the man wearing a ridiculous hat. Philippe de Belfort leaned on the rail, his pale heavy face expressionless. He watched them enter the sheds, and emerge on the other side. He watched them separate into two cars, and a third pull alongside for the luggage: little changed, he thought, Edouard de Chavigny still traveled, as he lived, with style.
It had occurred to him that Edouard might have seen his name on the passenger list, might even have sought him out to demand to know why he was returning to France. De Belfort felt a passing regret that he had not done so: he might have enjoyed the confrontation, he felt. But presumably he had not seen the name; perhaps, de Belfort thought, with a small smile, perhaps he was too occupied to scan passenger lists, or even to pay attention to those who sat, not many tables distant, in the first-class dining room.
He watched the procession of cars disappear into the distance, and then walked slowly to the gangplank. It was pleasant to be returning to France after such a long absence. The dust had settled now, and there were people who would welcome him back, though, obviously, he would have to be careful.
He passed through customs and immigration swiftly, and saw, with a certain satisfaction, that the Mercedes he had expected was waiting for him. He climbed into it, and waited patiently for his luggage to be loaded. Then he leaned back, and gave the driver directions. He smoothed down the folds of his vicuña overcoat, noted the fittings of the Mercedes with approval.
The intervening years had been kind to him, and he had prospered.
They spent a week at St. Cloud, several weeks by the sea in Normandy, and the rest of the summer at the château in the Loire. Edouard would fly to Paris, and then fly back, hating to leave, impatient to return. In the Loire, he taught Cat to ride, and with her and Hélène, he rode the same routes he had once ridden with Grégoire. The months passed: Christian came to stay, and so—for a while—did Anne Kneale: it was a time of great happiness.
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