Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  He blinked. “What do you mean?”

  Faubert arrived with the silver coffeepot; Tom leaned back in the seat and allowed himself to be served. His eyes did not leave his grandmother’s face. He was processing information, much of it unpleasant.

  “Thank you,” he murmured to the servant. Faubert looked mildly surprised; Katherine, disapproving.

  “You don’t thank someone for doing their job,” she snapped.

  Tom was ashamed of her ill manners. He looked at Faubert, apologetically.

  “You’re so like your mother,” Katherine said, angrily. Then she gave a little shimmy, and seemed to pull herself back together.

  “And Judy—we were on the subject of Judy, weren’t we? She is very different from Sophie, I think. Do the two of them get on?”

  There was an exaggerated innocence to this comment.

  I need to get out of here, Tom thought. I have to get away—to think.

  “I won’t be marrying Judy, Grandmother,” he said, flatly.

  Katherine smiled, and for the first time since Tom had come, he thought it was genuine.

  “I think that is a wise decision, Thomas,” she said, silkily. “No doubt Miss Dean has been interesting—and perhaps entertaining . . . but surely not suitable. . . .”

  He stood. “Thank you for the coffee, Grandmother. I must be off.”

  “Darling.” Katherine sat still; Tom went to her, bent down, and kissed her on the cheek; he could see the rouge carefully painted on her paper-thin skin. “Come again soon. You mustn’t be a stranger,” she chided. “We’re family.”

  “Yes.” Tom straightened up. “We all need to remember that. I’m going to England for a few days, to visit Maman.”

  Katherine sat bolt upright. “What? She is still with Hugh Montfort. Your father’s enemy.”

  “Mother says he wasn’t Papa’s enemy. If she’s to marry him, I think I owe him at least a chance to explain.”

  “You owe him nothing.” Katherine pursed her lips together in disgust. “I can’t believe it, Tom.”

  He stood firm. “I am determined to be reconciled with my mother. I will meet Montfort and ask him these things myself.”

  “So.” Katherine glared at him; he saw fury in her eyes. And something else.

  Dislike.

  Tom was shocked. But a veil had slipped, and he knew what that look meant.

  “You join your mother in betraying Pierre,” Katherine snapped. “I always knew in the end that was how it would be.”

  “You forget yourself,” Tom said coldly. “I understand that Papa is your son, Grandmother. But he is also my father. And there is nobody in the world that loves him more than I do. Nobody is betraying him.”

  Katherine turned her head away.

  “Please leave my house,” she said.

  “I will.” Tom bowed stiffly to her. “And I shall expect you for dinner shortly, when Maman comes back to visit. I can’t allow my family to break up like this. You must see Maman, Grandmother, if you are to continue to live on the estate. This is my mother’s home too.”

  Katherine’s pale blue eyes narrowed. “This is Pierre’s, not yours. What I do and where I go are up to him.”

  “There’s something I think you’d better get used to, Grandmother,” Tom replied coolly. “My father is not here. I’m in charge now. If you doubt that, I suggest you ask your attorneys.”

  He turned and walked to the door. “I wish you a pleasant afternoon, Grandmother,” he said, and walked out.

  Chapter 47

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Percy,” Hugh said, not without a touch of weariness. It was one of the distinct pleasures of starting his own company to be able to hire Elizabeth Percy again. Hugh was paying her salary anyway, as he remarked, it would be better if she did some work for it.

  But some days hers was the last voice he wanted to hear. Montfort Jewels was a success, and that success came at a cost.

  Hugh was working so hard that he occasionally lost track of the date. Meeting suppliers, flying across the globe, interviewing staff, obtaining distribution, and talking to analysts; his days started at six and ended at seven, and there was usually no time for lunch.

  Sophie’s calendar was almost as severe. They had no showrooms yet, but she was designing the look of the shops; Sophie handled marketing, from the Web sites to the press campaign. She also hired the frontline staff and talked to the designers. When they met for dinner, there was mutual exhaustion.

  But there was also excitement—and more importantly, there was love.

  They were to be married in three days. And right now, Hugh simply wanted to leave the office.

  “It’s seven, Mrs. Percy,” he said warningly. Couldn’t the woman manage his call sheet? Ah, stop it, Montfort, he told himself, you’re getting tetchy.

  “Yes, sir.” Elizabeth’s eyes danced; she remembered when all Montfort wanted to do was to stay in the office. “But it’s important. There’s somebody to see you, sir.”

  “Does he have an appointment?”

  “Well, not exactly—”

  “Then tell him to make one,” Hugh said shortly. “I’m going home.”

  “Sir, it’s Tom Massot.”

  Hugh paused. “Is that a joke, Mrs. Percy?”

  “Absolutely not, sir. Shall I show him in?”

  “Yes,” Hugh said. “Of course. And then you can leave. I’ll lock the office.”

  “Very good, sir,” said the unflappable Elizabeth. Hugh got up from behind his desk; if there was about to be an ugly scene, he didn’t want his secretary witnessing it. Fortunately, the other staff had gone home.

  There was an unfamiliar churning in his stomach.

  Sophie loved this boy. Hugh wouldn’t feel about her as he did, were that not true. And Tom hated him.

  Montfort was used to dismissing the opinion of others. He made his own way, and the rest of the world be damned. But in this case, he didn’t have that luxury.

  He hoped the boy wouldn’t try to hit him—

  The door opened; Elizabeth Percy, cool and reserved, said, “Mr. Thomas Massot, Mr. Montfort.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and to Tom, “Please sit down. Or shall we go somewhere else?”

  The Massot boy looked awkward; Hugh did not offer his hand. Perhaps he would refuse to shake it.

  “This is fine.”

  “I’m glad to meet you,” Hugh began. “I’m glad you came.”

  The boy shrugged. He was young and handsome, Montfort saw, but there was little of Sophie in his face. Dark eyes and hair, and a wiry frame; he carried himself as one who has lost some confidence, but perhaps that was a part of growing up.

  “I had to. You are marrying my mother.”

  “I love her,” Hugh said quietly. “Very much. I cherish her, and I hope you will at least give me the opportunity to prove my worth to you.”

  “In your business, you were an enemy of my father’s,” Massot responded.

  Hugh noted the tone; it was fairly neutral.

  “I wouldn’t put it in that way. That implies a personal element in what was a matter of commerce. In the time that I wanted to acquire House Massot, when your father ran the firm, we never spoke. I didn’t know him. I felt no personal enmity towards him.” Hugh struggled to keep his words to the exact truth. “Look, Tom, if I may . . .”

  The lad nodded.

  “I’m quite sure that your father was not happy with my attempts to take over his company. He said as much. But there was nothing personal in it. We did not even know each other. House Massot was a good fit with my company, and I wanted it.” He sighed. “I hope you can accept that.”

  Massot nodded. “I can see why you wanted to acquire it.”

  “All I can tell you is that I never allowed personal feelings to influence me in business. I’ve heard myself described as a robot.” Hugh smiled slightly. “Fair enough, until I met your mother.”

  “You said ‘allowed,’ ” Tom pointed out.


  “Ah, you caught that. Yes, I admit I am now partly, even substantially, motivated by my personal wishes.”

  The boy stiffened. “In what regard?”

  “In that I wish to effect the complete ruination of Mr. Peter Stockton.”

  Tom grinned. “Ah, some common ground,” he said.

  Hugh was relieved, but didn’t let it show on his face.

  “And M. Gregoire Lazard. The first for my own sake, the second for your mother’s.” He paused. “And yours. Sophie believes that both of them combined to cheat you of your inheritance, and that you were seduced by bad advice.”

  To his amazement, at that comment the boy’s eyes reddened, and he turned away smartly, covering himself with a cough.

  “You could say that.” Tom took a step forward and offered Hugh his hand. Montfort shook it, delighted.

  “If you hurt my mother, I’ll kill you,” Tom said.

  Hugh nodded. The idea of this slip of a lad killing him, a battle-hardened soldier, was amusing, but he admired Tom’s guts.

  “You know that our wedding is due to take place very soon.”

  “Why do you think I’ve come?”

  Hugh marvelled. Maybe there was something to the idea of a God, after all. His prayers, if you could call them that—all his private, quiet hopes—had been realized. Tom was here, the boy was being reasonable, and there was nothing, now, to cloud Sophie’s happiness.

  “To see your mother, I hope. Shall we go?”

  Tom gave him a wary smile, but it was more than enough for Hugh.

  “After you,” he said.

  They stepped out of the taxi at Seacourt Place. Hugh and Sophie had moved into his townhouse, temporarily; London was the perfect transportation hub, and it seemed more convenient to be there than in New York. Hugh hadn’t permitted Sophie to stay in Paris. Not while Tom was daily ridiculed in the national press.

  “This is a gentleman’s house,” Tom Massot remarked.

  “Thank you.” Montfort smiled inwardly at the arrogance of youth; his splendid Georgian house had been in the Montfort family for two hundred years. But who cared. Today he was simply glad to see the prodigal son in front of him.

  He rang the bell.

  “My mother may cry.”

  Hugh thought that was a likely assessment. “She’s a woman,” he said. “Goes with the territory.”

  Massot glanced back at him, amused.

  “Coming,” his mother’s voice sang from the hall. Tom was struck by the joy, by the liveliness of her tone. Judy never sounded like that; with her, it was always forced.

  The door wrenched open. Sophie saw Tom, and screamed.

  “Lovely to see you, too, Maman,” he said.

  Sophie flung herself on her son, her arms snaking around his neck. She covered his neck with kisses.

  “Tom! My baby. Tom—Tom—”

  “I think I’ll just go and have a shower,” Hugh said loudly. Sophie paid no attention; he hadn’t expected her to. But he managed to close the door behind his half-smothered future stepson, squeeze past his fiancée, and make his way up the stairs.

  As he was lathering himself up in a cloud of Floris soap, Hugh heard Sophie’s laughter floating up even over the noise of the water. And he thought it was the most pleasant thing he’d ever heard.

  They ate dinner at home. Hugh called, and the Ritz sent it over—a compliment paid only to the most special of clients. Hugh was gratified to see both his guests attacking the food with an excellent appetite. The conversation was light—small talk about the château and its gardens, about Katherine and the staff—but the emotions were heavy; Sophie’s eyes never left her son’s face. She was alight with joy and contentment, and Hugh knew the final piece of the puzzle had now been replaced.

  “Where exactly is the wedding?” Tom asked.

  He glanced at Sophie. Tom had been sent the sole invitation, which had gone both to his office and to the cháteau; clearly he had not even opened it.

  “At the Jesuit church in Farm Street. Père Sabin is coming over especially to perform it.”

  “And how many guests?”

  “Counting you and the priest, two,” Hugh said.

  He blinked. “No guests?”

  “None. We wanted this to be as low-key as possible.”

  Tom nodded. He began to look at Hugh with a new respect.

  “We haven’t told anyone, and the date hasn’t been published in the church bulletin. We’re hoping to avoid the press.”

  “You have no family?” Tom asked Hugh.

  “We’re not that close—and I think they’ll understand. My people have never been fond of circuses. There’s an old saying in England that a gentleman should be mentioned in the press only three times: when he’s born, when he marries, and when he dies.”

  Tom laughed. “I like it.”

  “I haven’t been able to manage that,” Hugh told him. “But I’m working on it.”

  “The press are evil,” Tom said, with sudden venom. “If you knew what I’ve lost because of them . . .”

  “Darling . . .” Sophie interrupted.

  “I’m sorry.” Tom made an obvious effort; he glanced away, took a large sip of champagne and a forkful of grouse. “This is splendid. One would almost think the English could cook.”

  “Is something wrong, Tom?” Sophie was not to be put off. But her boy smiled firmly at her.

  “No, nothing,” he said. “And no more unpleasant subjects. We will concentrate on the wedding. Where are you to honeymoon?”

  “No honeymoon,” Hugh said. “The new firm is too busy; we’ll take a long weekend at my place in Ireland and be back at work on Tuesday morning.”

  It was a cold, grey November morning. And Sophie thought it was the happiest day of her life.

  She had removed to a hotel for the night, not wanting Hugh to see her in her wedding dress. That was bad luck, and as a wife, she had had enough of that. Tom could hardly dress her; she was totally by herself.

  She had bathed and spritzed on a little scent. Then she dried herself, slipped into her Rigby & Peller lingerie, delicate cream silk and lace, and walked to the drawing room of her suite.

  The dress was there. Sophie walked across to it, stroked it gently; yes, still gorgeous, still perfect. She was not a vain woman, but there could be no doubt that today she was going to be beautiful.

  But that was the least of it. She would be happy. She would finally be able to experience true love. And her son would be there.

  There had been wealth and ease in Sophie’s life, but not love—not much love. Apart from Tom, there had only been distance, disapproval, and deceit.

  Today that would all change. Today, in the middle of her life, her real life was about to begin.

  Quickly, she stepped into the dress; her practiced hand found the hooks and eyes at the back. She applied a light touch of makeup and put the tiara in her hair.

  It was her only piece of jewellery. She would never wear a Massot gem again; let Tom give them all to his future bride. But this was special. It was a delicate coronet of ice blue aquamarines and diamonds, and it had been worn by Lady Georgiana Montfort, Hugh’s first wife, on her wedding day.

  Sophie touched it softly. She whispered a little prayer for Georgie. And for herself. But she was sure everything would be fine. Hugh giving her the tiara was perfect; he had made his peace with the memory of his first true love. Sophie hoped that their marriage would be as blessed as Georgie’s had been.

  She would have taken six months with Hugh over seven years with Pierre, any day. But now, God willing, she didn’t have to choose.

  She was forty. But she was still vital, still beautiful. Sophie’s life had been a long wait, she felt, for this moment.

  She was to be a bride, a mother, an accomplished career woman. She wanted that—success in her own right, at last, not as somebody’s wife.

  And it was about to start. All of it.

  She picked up the telephone and dialled reception.

 
“This is Sophie Massot.” It was the last time she would ever have to say that. Thank God! “Please have a taxi waiting for me in reception.”

  This was a very discreet hotel; if a bride walked through the lobby in a cloud of pewter silk and silver thread, by herself, at seven o’clock in the morning, nobody would say a word.

  The church at Farm Street was gothic and quite spectacular. Sophie had attended Mass there now for ten weeks; she had felt instantly at home. There was incense, there were priests in old-fashioned vestments, there was Gregorian chant. Even Hugh had not objected to coming with her; he sat quietly in the pews with his eyes closed.

  Sophie paid the taxi with a fifty pound note from her tiny satin purse, edged with seed pearls, and told him to keep the change. The heavy wooden doors were ajar. She walked inside, and saw them: Hugh, standing at the end of the aisle; Tom, looking wonderful in morning dress, his best man; old Père Sabin, stooping but smiling, waiting for her; and the organ, swelling—one soloist, singing, in a voice clear as glass, the ancient Latin hymn:

  Veni, Creator Spiritus,

  mentes tuorum visita,

  imple superna gratia,

  quae tu creasti, pectoral . . .

  Sophie’s eyes prickled with tears, but she was smiling. She walked down the aisle, processing down the empty church with a dancer’s grace; she saw the love light up Hugh’s gaze, the amazement, all her beauty reflected there; she kissed Tom on the cheek; he squeezed her hand, and she saw that he was not unhappy. Her entire being flamed with a delight she had never thought she would know.

  Fr. Sabin smiled at her as fondly as though she were his natural daughter, in a way her own father had never looked at her.

  “Dearly beloved . . .”

  They went out for a postwedding breakfast, which Hugh insisted was traditional. Sophie wanted to change, but he would hear none of it.

  “They can’t ruin the wedding now,” he said. “And there’s no need to hide. Let’s have a little fun.”

  They went for breakfast at the Victrix, the ancient hotel off Mayfair. Hugh explained to his new stepson that this hotel made the best breakfasts in England—nowhere else cooked his kipper exactly the way he liked it. The staff greeted them with surprise and delight, and led them into a small, ivy-clad courtyard garden; the rain had ceased and the sun was now shining brightly, with an unseasonal determination. Sophie recognized a few of the other diners from endless Parisian parties, and Hugh introduced her to some of his friends: aristocrats, businessmen, and two cabinet ministers breakfasting with the leader of the opposition.