by Brianna Hale
There was a photograph taken by an orchestra member that appears to show the pair embracing, Isabeau possibly unwell, on Khaosan Road in Bangkok but it’s since been removed from Facebook and neither admit to knowing of its existence.
The first candid photograph of them together and the first public indication that they were a couple is from four weeks ago: a slightly blurry untagged photograph of Isabeau and Valmary on Hayley Chiswell’s Instagram. Miss Chiswell was concertmaster in Valmary’s youth orchestra and is now an accomplished soloist and one of Isabeau’s closest friends and co-performers. The photograph shows the couple laughing together over dinner, Valmary’s arm around his bride-to-be with Isabeau’s engagement ring clearly visible. It is simply captioned, Gorgeous fucking idiots. At time of publication the post has over twenty-one thousand likes.
Isabeau speaks of her mother, a cellist who passed away when Isabeau was seven. “She taught me to love music. After she died my father struggled with pain and addiction. We weren’t close, but Laszlo sent my father regular letters and recordings as I grew up. I saw him briefly before he died.”
Is she angry with him for not being there for her?
“He tried to get better, but sometimes people aren’t able to. It’s a great comfort knowing he tried, for my sake.”
When I ask if there was any formal or legal arrangement between Valmary and Isabeau’s father both decline to answer. Adopted children are not legally able to marry their adoptive parent so it’s doubtful an adoption took place. There are no records of any other sort of formal guardian and ward arrangement, though several of Valmary’s friends and colleagues have stated that he referred to Isabeau as his ward during the ten years up until her eighteenth birthday.
Finally, I ask the question that’s been at the back of my mind since arriving in their home. What would they say to people who find their relationship objectionable, even abhorrent? Isabeau seems to be have been expecting this and answers easily. “I was so happy for ten years living with Laszlo, and then what followed was a very sad and lonely time. We both worked hard to get where we are now. I think we’ve earned our happiness.”
I turn to her husband and see that Valmary’s jaw is set and his face his closed. Those who have worked with him or tracked his career over the years are familiar with this Laszlo Valmary: formidable; severe; someone who was able to hold his own against the classical music elite at the age of twenty-five. He has weathered his fair share of censure and disapproval. “I have nothing to say to anyone about our relationship.”
I thought this defiant statement was all I would get out of Valmary but his eyes land on his bride and his face softens. As his hand caresses her cheek I see a glimpse of Valmary’s private, affectionate side. The sort of man a girl of eight could cherish. The sort of man a woman could fall for.
“Isabeau is happy, and I have her love. Keeping it, being deserving of it, that is all that matters to me. That is everything.”
TO THE LIMITS, Evangeline Bell’s biography of composer and former musical theater star Frederic d’Estang is now available.
Acknowledgments
Mr. Hale, I couldn’t ask for a more supportive, kind, loving partner. I’m just so lucky to have you in my life. I love you. Thank you for finding all my typos. I love you even more for that.
Thank you so much to my gorgeous beta readers who helped me spank this book into shape, namely:
Bear (I have to call you Bear, you’re Bear on my PS4 headset so you’re Bear here) who is a truly wonderful and supportive friend through the best times, good times and awful times. Thank you for letting me ask you a hundred questions about classical music. Eyes up, Guardian.
L.R. Black, who would like everyone to know that she’s called dibs on Laszlo, she did it first, he’s hers, sorry I don’t make the rules!
Abby Gale, who is a breath of fresh air and inspires me with her strength and kindness.
Andi Jaxon, your incisive ideas made so much difference and I’m so happy to know you.
Lylah James, the other day I found an email I sent you with an ARC of PRINCESS BRAT and I remember thinking OH SHIT LYLAH JAMES WANTS TO READ MY BOOK. It’s still pretty much my reaction when you read anything of mine.
Liz Meldon, you are a ray of sunshine and loveliness in the world. Never change, beautiful.
Writing taboo and dark books can be a nerve-wracking experience when it comes time to set the pages free into the world. So thank you, dear reader. I couldn’t do this without you.
I’d love to get to know you better! Join my reader group for exclusive giveaways, excerpts from upcoming books and news: https://www.facebook.com/groups/BriannasBesties/
Finally, curious about that epilogue and want to know who Evangeline Bell and Frederic d’Estang are? Keep reading…
Read on for an excerpt of SOFT LIMITS by Brianna Hale
“If you test my limits I’m going to test yours back, twice as hard. If you push me you’ll find you run out of ground long before I do.”
Frederic d'Estang: performer, professional villain and my youthful crush. He calls me chérie, ma princesse, minette.
And I call him daddy.
Adult, sexy and daring. Brianna Hale gets better and better - The Book Bellas
*sigh* All the stars in the world for SOFT LIMITS - AnObsessionWithBooks
Brianna Hale knows how to write a damn good love story ... her books keep getting better and better - The Romance Rebels
As soon as I reached the end, I could have read it all over again - Wicked Reads
Beautiful and dark in all the best ways - Honeyed Pages
This book is the perfect combination of vulnerability and dark fantasy - Book Talk By Sarah
Brianna Hale just keeps getting better and better! SOFT LIMITS is so dirty and sexy that I couldn't put it down - Reading Café
Chapter One
Evie
I’m not paying attention when it happens. The laneway is deep with silence and noonday shadows, and there’s a fresh breeze blowing. My eyes are following tiny birds as they hop among the cow parsley and tangled wildflowers, but my mind is far away, in a dark and bitter East Berlin winter of razor wire and searchlights and snarling German shepherds. I picture Mrs. Müller, not as I left her just now, a sturdy, gray-haired woman in a cream blouse, but as a young woman of twenty with a pale, determined face and clear blue eyes. She laid photos out before me of friends long dead. Shot going over the Wall. Arrested by the Stasi. Arrested. Disappeared. This one betrayed us—she was an informant and we didn’t know it.
There’s a break in the hedgerow and I cut across the laneway, heading for the stile. The path beyond leads a mile across the fields to my parents’ country house, where I’m staying over the summer with my mother, father and my sisters. All three of them.
Suddenly a car races around the bend. I freeze, turning toward this black, rushing thing, as silent as it is sleek—Why is it so quiet?—but then the driver slams on the brakes and the air is filled with the screech of tires and smoking rubber. The car stops six inches from my legs and I’m finally released from terror-induced paralysis. I scurry to get out of the way but my feet tangle and I go down with a yelp. Papers and books cascade from my shoulder bag. I stare at my burning hands pressed against the gravel, my chest heaving.
A car door opens and rapid footsteps approach. Someone hovers over me, saying something about the driver and not seeing me and asking me if I am hurt.
“No, really, I’m fine, the car didn’t touch me, I just fell,” I say, brushing gravel from my bare legs and scraped palms while simultaneously trying to grab at loose pages that are fluttering into the hedge.
His hand catches mine. “Miss,” he says, in a voice that cuts through my babble. He’s got an accent of some sort. “I will collect your papers. Are you sure you’re all right?”
I look up, and recognition and dismay stun me into silence. The man bending over me has dark, curly hair with a few silver flecks and slanted green eyes above pronounced
cheekbones. His mouth is full and slightly parted. It’s a mouth I’ve seen thinned with anger, twisted into sneers and plumped with self-satisfaction. It’s the mouth of a villain.
“Monsieur d’Estang,” I say automatically.
His eyebrows shoot up, and then his concerned expression becomes a sleek smile. “Oui, mademoiselle.”
Oh, god. He thinks I’m a fan. Well, you are a fan. No—not really, not anymore. “I’m not—” And I take a deep breath, because even I can only bear making a fool of myself so many times in one day. “I think you are on your way to see my father.”
Dad didn’t mention that Frederic d’Estang, the French Canadian musical theater performer, would be coming to the house, but then he’s not much in the habit of warning us about these things. As he’s a theater agent, and a gregarious one, it’s not unusual for a star to pull into the drive while you’re eating your toast or plump down next to you at dinner.
Monsieur d’Estang studies me for a moment. “You are Anton Bell’s daughter?”
“Yes. Well, one of them.”
He puts a hand over his heart. “Miss Bell, I deeply apologize.” And he continues to apologize in the most eloquent way for several minutes while he helps me up and collects all my notebooks and papers. I try to get them off him but it’s hard to get a word in while he talks on, and then he’s taking my elbow and steering me toward the car.
“No, please, I’m fine to walk, it’s not far across the fields.”
“But Miss Bell, we are going the same way, I believe.” His eyes are so much greener in person and I feel like a mouse pinned by the jeweled gaze of the cobra. He’s had more than twenty yearsʼ professional experience convincing people of things with those eyes and I’ve only had minutes to try and discover how to refuse them.
I fail, and get into the car.
The driver adds his own apologies to Monsieur d’Estang’s while I’m buckling on my seat belt. It’s an electric car, he explains, which is why I didn’t hear it. I mutter something about not getting many of these in the countryside around Oxford.
“What were you thinking about so deeply when we nearly knocked you down?” Monsieur d’Estang’s accent is unusual, a slight North American inflection with a clipped Frenchiness about the vowels. It’s a very nice voice, and surprisingly gentle for such a tall, sultry man. I think about all the actresses and singers he’s been romantically linked with over the years. He probably knows it’s very nice.
“Communists,” I say.
He looks amused. “Oh?”
“I mean, it’s just something I’m working on,” I say quickly. “East Germany, Cold War.” Why can’t you say, “It’s a book I’m writing for a client”? Is that so hard?
“Ah, so you’re a writer. That explains the daydreaming.” He glances out the window and I glare at the back of his head. I’ll put up with being pigeonholed as awkward and boring by my sisters, but it’s irritating from strangers.
But it seems he was just checking where we were, as he turns back to me. “What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“What, walking?”
“No, I mean here in the countryside. Why aren’t you in London, or Paris? Somewhere with a little more excitement.”
“University,” I say, waving my hand in the general direction of Oxford. I’m working on a PhD in Victorian literature but he probably thinks I’m a gormless undergrad. I’m dressed like a gormless undergrad, in scuffed shoes and denim shorts.
“During summer? Do they not allow you any holidays in England these days?”
I’m about to reply when we turn into the driveway of my parents’ house. It’s something of a spread, all white columns and twining ivy and gray stone. There’s a fountain in the center of a circular gravel driveway. Lisbet, just fourteen, is lying in the grass reading a book. My elder sister, Mona, appears at the sitting-room window, and I see her peer at the car and then turn and call over her shoulder, probably to our other sister, Therese.
I realize that if I stay where I am I’m going to get mobbed by the whole family. Why are you in the car with Monsieur d’Estang? What happened to you? You fell? Oh, Evie, how funny you are! Everyone, come and look.
“Well, thanks for the lift!” I cry, grabbing my shoulder bag and jumping out of the car.
Lisbet looks up from her book as I scurry past. “Who’s that?”
But I just push into the house and run upstairs. It’s not until I’m standing in my bedroom with my back against the door that I remember I’ve left all my books and notes in Monsieur d’Estang’s car.
“Drinks!”
My father’s voice is a roar up the stairs. I glance at my phone: six thirty. He’ll have been banging around in the kitchen for the last hour and will want everyone to come and have a gin and tonic before we eat. I pull off my T-shirt and shorts and yank the first sundress I lay my hand on over my head.
Lisbet, Mona and Therese are occupying all the good spots in the sitting room when I go in, and they’re arguing about whether this year’s Dancing with the Stars contestants were as good as last year’s. Monsieur d’Estang is standing in the door to the kitchen, his back to us, talking to my father.
“He was rubbish, Lisbet,” Mona is saying. “The producers wanted to keep him on because he’s weird, and weird means ratings. Don’t look at me like that, Evie said it.”
Lisbet turns her red-cheeked glare on me as I sink into the scratchy embroidered chair by the fireplace. “Sorry, Betty-bun.” I did say that, but mainly because I was miserable about Adam and it felt good to be nasty about a stranger.
I wait for my sisters to screech at me about falling down in front of Monsieur d’Estang’s car, but they don’t so perhaps he didn’t tell them.
Mum comes in through the French doors, pulling gardening gloves off her hands. “Frederic, I didn’t know you were here.” Monsieur d’Estang turns around at the sound of his name and breaks into a smile. My mother is attractive and blonde, and her eyes are very blue. She kisses him on both cheeks. “How simply wonderful. Are you staying the week?”
“Just a day or two, if I may. I have to be back in Paris on Monday.”
Lisbet’s voice rises in outrage in defense of her favorite dancer, and Mona and Therese laugh.
“Keep it down to a dull roar, you lot,” Dad says, coming in. Then cheerfully to Monsieur d’Estang, “I’m sorry for the dreadful gaggle of women in this house. Everyone’s come home to roost for the summer holidays.”
“Not at all,” Monsieur d’Estang replies, smiling round at us.
Mona and Therese give him coquettish glances. It’s so easy for some people, flirting. I finger the scrape on my knee, trying not to think about Adam. The scrape hurts. I press it harder.
“Have you all got drinks?” Dad asks. “Mona, Therese, Evie?”
They ask for gins. I ask for sparkling water.
“Go on, have a proper drink,” Therese urges me.
“I have to write later,” I say, accepting the water from my father. Out of the corner of my eye I see Mona roll hers.
Therese looks up at Monsieur d’Estang. “Dad says you’ve been cast in a new production. What is it?”
He turns to her with a smile. “I’m playing Rochester in a new musical production of Jane Eyre.”
I look at him from beneath my lashes. Well, he’ll be perfect. Stormy, dark features, penetrating eyes and high cheekbones. He’s in a crisp white shirt now, but I can just imagine his broad figure in a frock coat and his legs in leather riding boots. Musically he’ll be good too. His singing voice can rattle windows with fury or caress with love.
Mona frowns at me. “You’ve read that book, haven’t you, Evie?”
About a thousand times. “Oh, that book. Yes, I should think everybody’s read that book.”
“Evie loves that—” Lisbet begins.
“A musical adaptation, that’s different,” I say. “What made you interested in the part?”
Monsieur d’Estang accepts a gin an
d tonic from my father. “It’s just such a different sort of role for me. When I was a young man I was called elfin and allowed to grow my hair out and play romantic leads. But then someone noticed what an excellent scowl I have, and my face began to harden with age, so they sheared off my curls, et voilà.” He sweeps his hand in a little flourish. “I am a villain. And, I thought, typecast for life. So it was a surprise, and a pleasant one, to be invited to play a romantic hero once more.”
I’ve seen photographs of Monsieur d’Estang as a very young man, and he was elfin, but very striking all the same. I think about the role and whether you could call Mr. Rochester, so driven by his passions, so contemptuous of the laws of society and the Church, a hero. “Some would say Mr. Rochester is a villain,” I muse out loud.
He tilts his head to one side. “Oh, that’s interesting. Would you say so?”
I’m not used to being asked to speak my opinion out loud in this house, and certainly not about something as achingly dull, as Mona would say, as nineteenth-century literature. “I don’t know,” I say, plucking at a loose thread on the side of the chair. “Maybe.”
We all finish our drinks and are herded into dinner. The talk is dominated by my father and sisters, particularly Mona and Therese. Mum and I eat and listen, and Lisbet, who hates being left out of anything, tries desperately to edge herself into the conversation.
“And what do you all do when you’re not summering here?” Monsieur d’Estang asks us.
