‘Are you like your grandmother?’ Lucien asked, and Troy, oddly at a loss, replied:
‘They say I am. Why?’
‘Don’t you think we should feel an affinity, we two? I am supposed to be very much like Valery, even bear his name, and you are like your grandmother, and another Victoire.’ Unhurriedly he straightened and reaching out, touched her hair. ‘She must have been a beautiful woman, your grandmother.’
Her heart turned a silly somersault in her breast. His fingers raked through her hair and cupped the back of her neck. Troy made a token gesture of protest, her hands fluttering against his chest as he drew her near, discovering she had lost all power of speech. As his lips touched hers each sensible thought went out of her head and she was consumed with only a sense of touch and a feeling of exquisite sweetness rushing through her.
‘Why did you do that?’ Troy asked at long last, her voice husky. It was a banal question, but the best she could do at that particular moment. Their first kiss on the Descartes’ balcony had been child’s play to this. She felt as though if Lucien were not there to support her she must surely fall. No one should have that much effect on a person, she thought wildly, it simply was not fair! Striving for composure, she lifted her eyes to his and found them gazing down at her quizzically. Damn him, surely he realised she did not expect an answer to her ridiculous question? For the life of her she could not think of a single sensible thing to say. She was now fitted more snugly into his body as his hands left her hair and moved leisurely down her back, one thumb running impudently down her spine, making her arch herself more closely, while the other hand supported her weight with ease.
He smiled crookedly and said mildly: ‘Why? It seemed a good idea at the time … you could call it a sort of experiment.’
‘I see,’ replied Troy breathlessly, unable to meet his eyes any longer and very much aware of their bodily contact and of his warm breath on her face. Was the strong, steady beat of his heart, pressed against the palm of her hand, more rapid than usual? Certainly her own was thumping away like mad. If only she could redeem herself by at least making a token struggle to get away, but her limbs could have belonged to someone else, and in any case, she did not want to escape. She was exactly where she wanted to be. At least she had the sense to play it light.
‘A sort of reincarnation experiment, you mean?’
‘Exactly!’ The wicked grey eyes slanted down at her and he looked foxier than ever. ‘Reluctantly, however, the research into this fascinating subject will have to cease for the moment. I can see JeanJacques coming across the yard with purpose in his step. I’m obviously required,’ and he slowly released her.
‘Saved by JeanJacques,’ Troy responded flippantly, glad to sink down on to the packing case and make the strap of her sandal the excuse to hide her face. She heard Lucien walk through the other store room and open the outer door, heard the sound of their conversation, but not their words, and by the time Lucien returned she was standing by the window, her fingers rubbing the dust from the pane leaving a round circle of bright sunlight.
He said: ‘Sorry, I have to go, something’s cropped up that needs my attention. When shall you telephone your friend Fiona?’
‘In the early evening, I think, would be best.’
‘I’ll tell JeanJacques to expect you and he’ll help you to get through. Here are the keys … you don’t have to rush away. If you think of anything else you’ll need, just let JeanJacques know.’ He tossed her the keys and she caught them. Just as he was nearly out of the door, she said:
‘Lucien.’ He stopped and turned slowly, face showing that his thoughts were already flying ahead to whatever problem he was about to deal with. She could be as detached and clinical as he. ‘Lucien, if I agree to this studio it is on the clear understanding that you remember who you are. You are not your grandfather and I am not my grandmother. There will be no seduction scenes, Lucien de Seve, in the guise of experiments or otherwise!’
His face changed to horrified amazement. ‘Mon Dieu! That would be taking experimentation too far,’ he protested, those comical eyebrows high above dancing eyes.
Troy. bit her lip, glaring at him frustratedly. Honestly, he was the limit! What chance did she have when he looked like that, teasing and challenging at the same time? She was hopeless at these kind of games. She would have to make him understand.
‘I mean it, Lucien. I shall be here to work.’
Lucien shrugged expressively. ‘Naturellement, Victoire … while I prefer to play my seduction scenes without anyone breathing over my shoulder—ghosts or otherwise,’ and on that sardonic observation he viewed her calmly, and when finally satisfied that their conversation was over, inclined his head courteously and made his getaway.
Lucien telephoned Troy later at the Home Farm. He had on his brisk, business voice.
‘Victoire? JeanJacques has booked a call to England for seven o’clock. Grand’mere has agreed the use of the studio and Zenobie is preparing a room for your stay…’
‘Lucien—wait! I can’t stay at the Chateau!’
‘Why not? We have enough room. It will be more convenient.’
‘You do steamroller a person, don’t you? Perhaps I don’t want to stay at the Chateau.’
He laughed softly. ‘Oh, but I know you better than you think. You will adore to stay at Bellevigne.’ His voice changed and became encouraging. ‘Come, agree that my suggestion makes sense. I have already spoken to Modestine …’
‘But, Lucien …’
‘Perhaps the thought of seeing more of JeanJacques can tempt you?’
Troy took a deep breath. ‘JeanJacques is intelligent, charming and
polite …’
‘Mais oui, why else do I employ him?’
‘… and he doesn’t make me lose my temper!’
‘How boring, Victoire! Start packing.’ There was a click and he was gone. Troy replaced the telephone and found a silly grin on her face which she hastily got rid of and went to do as she was told.
Apart from being intelligent, charming and polite, JeanJacques was also efficient and tactful. When Fiona’s voice came through from England on the telephone he unobtrusively left the office.
‘Fiona, it’s Troy.’
‘My God—Troy! How are you? I got your letter and still can’t believe all you wrote. You’ve saved me writing back, but I’m damned if I can remember all the do’s and don’ts, especially the don’ts that I was going to put in it! I doubt you’d have heeded them, anyway.’
‘I don’t suppose I would have,’ agreed Troy, laughing a little. ‘Fiona, listen, have you a paper and pencil handy? Take this down—I’ll explain in a minute.’ Troy read out her list of requirements and when she finished went on to the explanations. There was silence at the other end and then Fiona, gave an audible sigh.
‘It’s getting a bit complicated, Troy, isn’t it? I mean, I hope you know what you’re doing—you’re so bloody naive at times. But you’re in too deep, aren’t you, to back out?’
‘ ‘Fraid so.’ Troy’s eyes wandered round the office. Lucien’s presence dominated the room even when he was not there. She added staunchly: ‘I haven’t completely gone under yet, though.’
‘You will. I knew that man was dynamite the minute I saw him looking at you. At a guess I’d say the guy usually gets what he wants. Just make sure it’s what you want too.’ Fiona tactfully changed the subject and passed on news from her end. She mentioned a new outfit she had just bought and Troy interrupted to say quickly:
‘I nearly forgot … Fiona, will you pack a case of clothes for me? I leave it to you what to put in, except include my riding gear and a few decent evening dresses, especially the red.’
Fiona exclaimed: ‘Wow! The Calvin Klein?’
‘Uh-huh … I’ve decided the old Comtesse’s birthday is just the occasion for it.’
Fiona said worriedly: ‘Troy, are you sure you’re doing the right thing by staying? I know the studio is an incentive, but . .
>
‘Of course I’m not sure, but I’d kick myself afterwards if I didn’t,’ acknowledged Troy.
‘Ah, well, che sera, sera, as Doris Day used to warble, and which they tell me translates into the well-known adage, what will be, will be. Pearls of wisdom drop daintily from my lips for all occasions.’
Troy laughed. ‘Your accent is terrible, Fiona, and another pearl you can store away is qui ne risque rien n’a rien, which means, who risks nothing has nothing!’
‘How apt. Have they anything about making one’s bed and lying on it? Don’t answer that! They’re sure to. Just you keep your mind off the Count and on the work.’
‘I’ll try,’ promised Troy, smiling into the telephone.
Troy was to have personal experience of Lucien’s capacity for getting things done during the next few days. Men appeared to clear and paint the studio, the wiring and heating was overhauled and a work-bench and modelling stands delivered within three days. Clay and plaster-of-Paris arrived, as did the two suitcases from London, and as Lucien had predicted, Troy was working in the studio one week later. But he was wrong about the doubts. They still came.
Mostly when she looked out of the window and caught sight of the familiar dark head and suited form sliding behind the wheel of the Beaufighter, or running up the steps into the Chateau.
She was royally housed in a guest suite in the east wing, consisting of a bedroom, sitting room and bathroom. The staff barely concealed their approval of her visit, which caused Troy a fair amount of inner embarrassment and made her spend more time in the studio than perhaps she would have done. They became used to her odd hours of working and young Gabrielle would often bring a tray over, hoping to catch sight of Andre and linger to have a hasty few minutes with him. How simple their love for each other was, thought Troy enviously, encouraging the meetings all she could.
She saw more of Philippe than anyone. A firm friendship had grown between them and he would climb the stairs to the studio and make coffee and they would talk photography. Philippe was now the proud possessor of his own camera and Lucien had promised a fully equipped darkroom if his enthusiasm stood the test of time … precipitated by an encouraging report from Philippe’s tutor.
The studio became less bare. The piano had been left in the corner, but was now joined by an armchair and sofa, a table of the gatelegged type and cups and a coffee percolator. Philippe produced a record player, a set of classical records because Troy happened to mention that she liked to work to music, and endless photographs for her to look through and criticise.
She saw very little of Isabeau, but the few times they met Troy was unable to penetrate her polite reserve, and of Madame Claudine she saw nothing. This did not mean that Madame was unaware of what was going on, however, another reason for keeping out of Lucien’s way.
In this she did not have to try very hard. Lucien was away more than he was at the Chateau and would come and go without warning. Philippe’s early morning rides had been reinstated and Troy had taken to joining him, mounted on a brown mare named Cleo. On the odd occasion, Lucien went with them, and the ride was always heightened in the degree of pleasure for Troy. Since that first day in the studio he had made no attempt to touch her, which should have relieved her but did not, and the fact that it did not barely surprised her. She was becoming philosophical about her feelings for Lucien de Seve, although her resolve to keep them in check was not impaired.
Coming back from one of the morning rides, Troy and Philippe were walking away from the stables, both more than ready for their breakfast, when Philippe said suddenly:
‘There’s the Beaufighter. Andre’s back from the airport.’
Troy followed his gaze and saw the car draw slowly to a halt in the courtyard.
‘Has Lucien gone somewhere?’ she asked, the day beginning to stretch out endlessly before her. Philippe nodded, and said:
‘Yes, Italy, didn’t you know?’ He waved to Andre, who came towards them. They exchanged greetings and when Philippe ran into the Chateau to change, Andre handed Troy an envelope, saying:
‘From Monsieur Lucien, mademoiselle.’
‘Thank you, Andre,’ Troy replied, pretending an indifference she did not feel. She was conscious of his barely concealed look of approval as she took the letter into the studio to read. She still felt an outsider in the Chateau, but in the studio, with its familiar smells and objects, she was able to completely relax. Once inside she studied the envelope. Lucien’s handwriting was like himself, neat and well formed, the letters joining and flowing, showing strength in the strong downward strokes and sensitivity in the general artistic forming of the overall effect. Only the word ‘Victoire’ was on the envelope and wonderingly, she opened it up. The letter was businesslike and to the point.
‘ “Victoire, I have been in touch with Sir John Daviot in London, explaining the situation here, and he agrees with me that you should continue your weekly studies, if possible. He suggested Honore d’Arcy. Despite being highly recommended by Daviot I have made enquiries and I find d’Arcy has a sound reputation. There is, therefore, a place in his teaching class every Thursday for you. Andre knows the studio address in Paris and will take you. I hope my ‘steamrollering’ will not send you into a temper! I return from Italy in time, I hope, for Grand’mere’s party— and so, until then, Lucien de Seve.” ‘
Tomorrow was Thursday. In a daze Troy read the letter again. Honore d’Arcy! She had no need to look up his credentials, his name being well known to her, she had even been to an exhibition recently in London where certain pieces of his work had been on display.
She sat down, trying to get her thoughts in order. Why had Lucien done this? Did he realise just what a tremendous experience this weekly class would be for her? How like him to arrange it all and then fly off to Italy without giving her a chance to discuss it with him. Could she accept this generous offer? She already felt deeply in his debt with the use of the studio.
She rose restlessly and began to walk round the studio, a slight frown on her face. Was it purely altruistic reasons that made him so generous, or were his motives more complex? He was a business man and used to summing up situations to his best advantage. She shied away from thinking such cynical thoughts, but they had to be faced. Her inheritance from Bellevigne was the reason for her being here and because Lucien had not pressed her, she had put the decision of what to do with it to the back of her mind.
Looking at it from the de Seve point of view, if she sold out then the whole thing could be forgotten. And then there was this … this attraction between them. It was there, they both knew it was there. Was he being kind to her to undermine her defences? Awful thought! How could she even begin to think like that? Yet she could still hear Madame Claudine’s harsh ‘if Lucien fancies you, he’ll have you’ lurking in the background.
Her eyes rested on the work-bench and she gave a deep sigh. It was a little too late to heed the old lady’s advice. She had fallen in love with Lucien and it was more than likely that he would hurt her, but there was nothing that she could do. Except work.
On the day of Madame Claudine’s birthday the atmosphere at Bellevigne was one of calm organisation. Flowers were cut from the gardens, jasmine, lilac, honeysuckle and roses, filling the house with their heady perfume. Isabeau, with JeanJacques in attendance, dealt with the necessary effects that would determine a successful evening, and the staff, who had been polishing and dusting all week, gave a final flick of their dusters and stood back complacently to view the results.
Troy was anticipating the party with mixed feelings. Lucien was due back during the day, and not even the fact that her work was going well could make her feel anything other than restless and on edge.
She dressed with special care that evening. Lucien had arrived, the Beaufighter rolling silently into the courtyard as she was about to abandon the studio for the day. She had stood by the window and watched him walk from the car into the house, and found that her heart was pounding just seeing that brie
f glimpse. Somehow she had to find sufficient reserves to meet him calmly. It was not an easy situation to be in. Her presence at Bellevigne was causing talk and speculation, as she had known it would even with all the care she had taken to keep Lucien at arm’s length, and to Troy, at least, (it was obvious that so far as Isabeau and Madame Claudine were concerned, she was a guest on sufferance.
She found herself giving a sigh and narrowed her eyes critically at the mirror. The Calvin Klein was daring … not in its design, which was high-necked and flowing in chiffon, but in the colour, a strawberry red … not normally worn by redheads. Troy’s hair was piled on to the top of her head, allowing wispy curls to escape above her ears to soften the style, the whole effect emphasising her slender neck and striking features. She purposefully put on a pair of evening shoes with a high heel—if there was nothing else she was going to do that night it was to walk tall!
A liberal helping of her favourite perfume and she was done. Her chin lifted defiantly. The warpaint was on, now for the battle. She would need to call on all her twenty-five years to get her through the next few hours.
As she stepped out from her room and closed the door behind her she could hear the music from the ballroom floating upwards. She walked along the corridor feeling the same nervous chill that she used to suffer before an important job. The chiffon wafted gently against her arms and legs as she moved and the nearer she came to the stairs the less she wanted to go down them.
When a figure turned the corner ahead of her, preparing to descend the stairs, her steps faltered. Lucien saw her, stopped, then walked slowly towards her. ‘Bonsoir, Victoire.’
‘Good evening, Lucien.’ Oh, the relief of finding that she had a voice!
‘You look magnificent! There will be great gnashing of teeth among the females and admiration in the eyes of all the males!’ Lucien took both her hands in his and appraised her with his sardonic grey eyes.
A House Called Bellevigne Page 11
