A HOUSE CALLED
BELLEVIGNE
Jacqueline Gilbert
She who risks nothing has nothing…
“Qui ne risque rien, n’a rien. ” Ever since she’d met the aristocratic Lucien Charon, the old French proverb had echoed in Troy’s mind.
But hadn’t she risked enough already? After all, she’d abandoned her career as a famous international model to devote herself to her sculpture with only the prospect of an uncertain inheritance in the Loire—a house called Bellevigne—to sustain her.
And now that she knew Lucien, Comte de Seve, was the rightful master of Bellevigne, could she risk staying and losing her heart?
For my husband John
CHAPTER ONE
‘CHIN a little higher, Troy. Fiona, turn your shoulders more this way. That’s it! Fine. Now, give me your haughty look, girls.’
Troy Maitland complied with Hal’s drawled request, arching her finely shaped brows and pouting her mouth just a fraction. Haughty look, sultry look, outdoor-girl look were all within her range of expressions, and yet her reaction on seeing the finished product in the glossy pages of Vogue or Harpers & Queen was always the same, one of dissociation.
She would remember the day the photograph was taken. In this case the Hal Lindsey team had taken over the Cour du Cheval-Blanc at the Royal Palace, Fontainebleau, France, eight-fifteen on a May morning, before the Palace and gardens were opened to the public. Yes, the day would be remembered, and possibly she would recall her thoughts at the particular moment when her image was captured in a split second click of the camera. But the striking-looking girl so smartly dressed in a heather-coloured hand-woven woollen suit would not be the real Troy Maitland.
This shiny illusion was Victoria Maitland, a Hal Lindsey discovery, whose face and form were the perfect foil for promoting a new shampoo or perfume, or gracing the lines of a Jean Muir or Laura Ashley, a Mantana or Guy Laroche. The Victoria Maitland face was oval, with delicate skin tones, beautiful cheekbones, a straight nose and a pair of large brown eyes thickly lashed. A small, shapely mouth curved into a smile that could be cheeky or seductive, showing nice even teeth, and disguising a chin that, in repose, had an air of determination about it. Rich red hair sprang into natural waves and kiss-curls and fell in magnificent abundance to her shoulders. Tall, slim and long-legged, with natural poise and grace of movement—all this culminated in a certain indefinable ‘something’ that caught the eye and leaped out from the glossy page. This, then, was Victoria Maitland.
Troy Maitland was someone else altogether. The basic ingredients were the same, of course, but Troy Maitland’s hair was pulled back and ruthlessly secured out of the way. She wore old and comfortable sweaters and jeans which were covered by an all-enveloping smock. The lavishly oiled and manicured hands would be plunged in wet, pliable clay, sensitively moulding to shape an unformed mass which would eventually emerge into a ‘Troy’ sculpture. Over the years, one or two of these had found their way in to a modest corner of a few reputable art galleries and thence into the home of some discerning art collector.
Hal Lindsey knew of the spare room converted into a studio, but persisted in burying his head in the sand regarding its importance, having never really believed that the glamorous world he had opened up to Troy was merely a stopgap, a means to an end.
Troy knew different. She had come out of college with a good degree and the determination to specialise in sculpture. She knew that progress would be slow, that until -she made her name and earned a reputation she would have to get a job to support herself. She obtained one in the display department of an advertising agency and there met Hal Lindsey. He was one of the up-and-coming young men in the world of photography, and after persistent badgering, Troy sat for him.
Some days later a packet slipped through the letterbox and Troy stared for a long while at the glossy prints, the outcome of that sitting. She felt the first twinges of unreality as her face stared back at her.
Three years later her face and figure were still earning her the rent on the small terraced house in Bow that she shared with Fiona, and someone with less determination would have been seduced by the glamorous image she portrayed. Those few ‘Troy’ sales helped, together with the interest of Sir John Daviot, a distinguished sculptor, who hand-picked his pupils, only favouring those with promise.
According to Sir John, Troy had now reached the stage when her work needed total commitment and not half-measures. He suggested she enter for a yearly competition sponsored by a well-known art gallery in conjunction with a national newspaper. This meant giving up her job and concentrating on her art.
Troy valued his advice and while deliberating on it something happened that took control of her destiny. Her grandmother died. She was eightyfive and Troy’s only living relative with whom she was close.
Her grandmother’s death was a great loss to Troy and she left an intriguing inheritance behind, an unknown house in France. A house called Bellevigne.
With a five-day assignment in Paris already booked, Troy decided it would be her last. She would then take a much-needed holiday and search for this house at the same time.
So here she was, sixty-eight kilometres south-east of Paris, on the last day of that assignment, and already beginning to feel excitement growing for the mystery that lay ahead.
‘Right, girls, you can relax for a minute.’ Hal’s voice brought her sharply back to earth. She watched him adjust the highly complex and expensive camera equipment set up in the courtyard below, and gave an inward sigh. Hal Lindsey, tall and thin, fair-haired and goodnatured, dressed in jeans and sweat-shirt, had been a good friend over the past years. She knew he was disappointed in her decision to finish and knew also that he would have liked to have taken their friendship a step further, given the slightest bit of encouragement. This Troy could not do. Hal was a good friend, an excellent boss, but nothing more.
Fiona gave a delicate yawn and Troy raised her brows, saying:
‘Come, come, Miss McKay, this will never do. Can I see the ravages of a late night? Against the rules, you know. Was it worth it?’
‘No, it was not,’ complained Fiona, shaking her dark, smoothly coiffured head. ‘One should never look up old flames. Absence dulls the memory.’
Troy grinned and allowed her eyes to wander round the Royal Palace. There was a deep sense of history about the place which appealed to her, and standing as they were on the famous curved horseshoe staircase, a prominent feature of the courtyard, she could easily imagine a host of royal personages who must have walked these same stairs and trod the same paving stones. Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette, Napoleon and Josephine … she could almost see them, so strong was the atmosphere.
She took a deep, satisfying breath, savouring the clear air and wondered what it was about France that appealed to her so. It was always the same, whenever she came, this instant feeling of wellbeing. She loved England, of course, but there was something about France that stirred her senses.
Hal had been prowling the courtyard, assessing angles, and now raced up the staircase.
‘What a fantastic setting this is for a farewell scene.’ The words broke involuntarily from Troy’s lips but they made little impression. Fiona merely raised a sceptical brow and Hal tweaked Troy’s skirt and twitched Fiona’s lapel before running back down again to the camera. Everyone froze. The photograph was taken and Hal called: ‘That’s it … thank you, everyone,’ and Troy and Fiona made their way to the caravan that doubled as wardrobe and changing room.
It was a relief to get out of next Spring’s fashions and into their own cooler clothes, for the May day was wonderfully warm. Troy was ready first and she joined Hal, who was staring thoughtfully ac
ross the grounds to the surrounding forest.
‘Are the clients going to be pleased?’ she asked, and Hal replied:
‘With luck. British Wool Travels Anywhere.’ His voice parodied an advertising slogan. ‘Even to Gay Paree with the promise of a handsome, passionate Frenchman lurking round every corner,’ he added dryly.
‘I should be so lucky,’ murmured Troy, lifting her face to the sun.
‘Was that your own farewell scene you were speaking of, back there on the staircase?’
Troy pulled a face and shook her head. ‘No … Napoleon Bonaparte’s, you ignoramus! It so happens that he bade an emotional farewell to his Old Guard on that very staircase before being taken off to exile on Elba. That’s why it’s sometimes called the Courtyard of Goodbyes.’
‘How erudite of you, poppet,’ drawled Hal. They began to walk back towards the caravan to meet Fiona, who had now emerged. ‘One more session in the Bois de Boulogne and then we’re finished,’ he announced with satisfaction. ‘You haven’t forgotten the Descartes this evening?’
The two girls looked at him pityingly. Fiona spoke for them both. ‘Hardly, Hal dear, when we’ve brought over new dresses especially for such an occasion. Who are these Descartes, anyway?’
‘I know their son,’ replied Hal, ushering the girls into his car and signalling to his assistant that the caravan was to go first. Climbing behind the wheel, he went on: ‘They’re bankers. Remember the Scarlet Pimpernel? Well, the Descartes would have needed his help to escape Madame Guillotine!’ He engaged gear. ‘I trust you’re duly impressed?’
With the party going full swing that evening, Troy was even more impressed. The large room was beautifully decorated and furnished and the English trio were given a warm greeting by Armand and Jeannette Descartes. They were in their mid-fifties and spoke excellent English, much to Fiona’s relief, although Troy would have liked the chance to air her French. The wine flowed copiously and when trays of food were brought round by the maids the choice was as varied as it was delicious. Someone refilled Troy’s glass, murmuring: ‘Charon, you understand … an excellent vintage,’ and Troy nodded her agreement in what she hoped was a knowledgeable manner.
This same guest, as the evening progressed, seemed as intent on filling her glass as many times as his own. His name, he told Troy confidentially, was Georges, and he reminded her of an amiable teddy-bear. Recognising the signs of an amorous drunk in the making, she managed to lose him eventually by stepping out on to a balcony which she reached by a pair of long double windows, left slightly ajar.
She pulled the paisley shawl more securely round her shoulders and leaned forward against the rail, glad to leave the noise and smoke behind her, the night air, still retaining some warmth from the beautiful day, cooling her cheeks.
Perhaps Georges had done his work a little too well, she reflected wryly; the fresh air, on top of all that wine, was making her lightheaded. She grinned inanely to herself. What did it matter? Tonight was a halfway mark in her life. Behind her lay glamour and makebelieve, ahead—her face became serious for a moment— ahead lay the work she passionately wanted to do more than anything else in her life.
She gave a sigh and wished, a little bleakly, that her grandmother could have shared in this moment, and then gave herself a mental shake. Her thoughts, never far away from the subject, again returned to this house called Bellevigne …. Beautiful Vine. What would it be like? Was this the reason her grandmother had always encouraged her to continue with her French? A house! Troy felt mounting excitement which she had tried to bank down ever since the solicitor had told her about it. Just supposing it was possible to live in this house … convert it into a studio and work there!
A feeling of recklessness overwhelmed her and she laughed out loud and swung round, lifting her arms high and watching the silk fronds of the shawl swirl and billow through the air.
Come, this won’t do, Troy told herself sternly but it was difficult to batten down the excitement. The lights of Paris twinkled tantalisingly before her as she gazed out into the darkness, the bridges over the Seine and the outline of the Eiffel Tower making a pretty pattern in the night sky.
She closed her eyes, listening to the muted sounds of the city. If she could choose, Paris would be the perfect place for a perfect love affair, she thought dreamily, and then laughed softly. No unique observation! And any place would be perfect, given the right man.
She opened her eyes and frowned thoughtfully. Why on earth was she thinking about love affairs right now? She leaned her chin contemplatively on her fist and reflected that at this moment in time there was no room in her life for a love affair. The only love affair for her was one with work.
Another, almost unnoticed sigh escaped her lips. Twenty-five and never been in love, never totally, blindly in love. She had had one or two minor skirmishes, but something had always happened to disillusion her. She expected too much, probably. Besides, they only seemed to want Victoria of the glossy print, not the real Troy, and were not prepared to share her with a lump of clay.
A reluctant laugh followed this observation. Really, this introspection would never do. She was in France, on the eve of an adventure, and indulging in dreams of romance was ridiculous and childish. Grandmother’s death might have left her alone in the world, but that did not mean she had to run into the arms of the first man who held them open to her. That kind of comfort was a false comfort.
Interruption came abruptly on to the balcony as a familiar figure staggered his way through the window, clutching a bottle to his chest. Troy swung round and watched his tottering progress and wondered with a spurt of amusement whether he would make it!
‘Ah! La petite anglaise! Enfin!’ Georges beamed at her, swaying slightly on the spot.
Troy hid a smile. La petite anglaise indeed! No one could call her five-feet-seven small, especially Georges, dumpling that he was!
Before she could make a reply Georges lurched himself amorously at her and the ensuing scramble had little dignity attached to it as Troy, trying to ward him off in the kindest manner, became showered with the wine from the now wildly erratic bottle.
The tussle ceased almost immediately. A figure came out of the darkness from the other end of the balcony, hidden until now by tall potted ferns. Before Georges knew what was happening he was lifted up and deposited out of harm’s way. Surprise, and too much wine, made him stagger backwards before overbalancing completely into a tub of geraniums.
Once he had removed Georges, Troy’s rescuer turned his attention to her. She was caught off balance and ended up clutched in a firm embrace, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, very conscious of a strong, wiry body and a pleasant after-shave.
How strange that only a few moments ago she had been reflecting on the comfort of being in a man’s arms.
There was amusement in his voice as he murmured close to her ear:
‘Mademoiselle, permettez-moi, je vous en prie.’ She was set on her feet, his hands clasping her shoulders until she was steady, then taking the handkerchief from his top pocket, he went on in excellent English: ‘Please, use this to mop up the wine. Georges is clumsy always.’ Bright, humorous eyes stared at her intently. ‘You are all right, mademoiselle?”
It was necessary to recover her dignity as well as her wits.
‘Thank you, yes,’ she said a trifle breathlessly, dabbing at the wet patch of wine, feeling his eyes still upon her.
‘Good.’ There was a pause and then he turned on his heel, remarking blandly: ‘Georges! Quelle bonne surprise!”
A surprise, certainly, thought Troy wryly, whether a good one remained to be seen. Wine stain forgotten, she watched the ensuing encounter with interest. This man, whoever he was, had an air of authority about him and complete control of the situation, but she did not want Georges hurt; she had a soft spot for Georges. She need not have worried.
Georges stared blankly, his hand still clutching the bottle, and then he recognised the voice and in his own language excl
aimed:
‘Lucien! You are back in Paris!’
Had Lucien the slightest idea that Troy could understand French the conversation would not have taken the form that it did.
‘Yes, Georges, I came especially for Jeannette and Armand’s party.’ Lucien bent down and heaved his friend to his feet, taking the bottle from him and placing it carefully on the nearby wrought-iron table. He then brushed him down solicitously in a way that made Troy want to giggle.
Georges waved a hand blearily somewhere in Troy’s direction.
‘Lucien, had I known you were with the so beautiful anglaise I would never have interfered.’ His voice was earnest and Lucien said soothingly:
‘No, Georges, I know you wouldn’t.’
‘Couldn’t compete with my old friend, Lucien, could I? But what a beauty! A man could be happy in those arms, eh, Lucien? Your bed will never be cold with her by your side. She has hot blood in her veins, I suspect, that one!’ Georges embraced his friend emotionally. ‘You deserve her, Lucien, my friend, you deserve her. How glad I am for you, old fellow … and she has kind eyes. Did you notice her kind eyes, Lucien?’
Lucien freed himself, urging Georges towards the windows. ‘Yes,
Georges,’ he replied calmly, ‘I noticed her eyes.’
Georges stopped in his tracks, hit by a sudden thought. ‘Does Madeleine know about her, eh?’ He began to chortle, touching the side of his nose knowingly. ‘I won’t tell her, Lucien, you can depend on me.’ He smiled benignly. ‘You sly fox, you!’
‘Thank you, Georges, I am most obliged to you,’ Lucien told him with remarkable composure, ‘and now we will go this way…’ and the rest of the sentence was lost as they entered the house, Lucien carefully closing the window behind him.
Troy began to giggle. Dear old Georges had her well and truly fixed with his friend. Hot blood in her veins indeed! But this Lucien, after the initial hassle, had been kind and gentle with Georges. She liked that in him. And he had not turned a hair at all the implications that she was sharing his bed. A tingling confusion swept over her as she remembered being held close to him, his hands resting on her bare shoulders. With a quick intake of breath she wrenched her thoughts away from the memory and her eyes caught sight of the tub of squashed geraniums. The giggle exploded into chuckles and she sank down on to a garden chair, visions of Georges with his legs waving in the air convulsing her into helpless silent laughter.
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