here.’
‘Has he? Yes, I met him and thought him rather nice.’ Troy eyed her friend speculatively.
‘He was telling me about Bellevigne. It sounds impressive.’
Troy’s face lightened. ‘It is, Fiona, you’d love it.’ Bellevigne! Would she ever see it again? And Lucien— would she feel his arms holding her close, hear him whisper her name, tremble at his touch?
Saying goodnight to Fiona, Troy wearily made ready for bed. She closed her eyes and a kaleidoscope of memories taunted her, and she tossed this way and that, seeing Lucien’s face, always smiling his tender, teasing smile, until she allowed herself the luxury of tears and, at last, fell into exhausted sleep.
London, for the whole of August, lay under a heat haze. For the third day in succession Troy met Fiona’s concerned questioning gaze as she emerged from the bathroom. Pale-faced and feeling wretched, she smiled wanly, saying:
‘I’m more like Grandmother than I realised!’
‘Are you going to tell Lucien?’ asked Fiona, and Troy shook her head.
‘No, and you mustn’t. Promise, Fiona.’
‘Okay, I promise.’ She searched Troy’s face and went on gently: ‘Don’t you think he ought to know, Troy?’
Troy swallowed, fighting nausea. ‘Yes, but I have some pride left.’ She hesitated and added: ‘If he comes, then I’ll tell him.’
‘Ah!’ breathed Fiona with satisfaction. ‘If he doesn’t come for you he’ll be a fool, and from all I’ve heard of Lucien de Seve he’s no fool,’ but Troy merely shook her head and made no reply.
Later that day she entered the art gallery where the exhibition was being held. She was met at the door by the owner, who was looking extremely pleased. He took her hand and shook it warmly, saying:
‘My dear Miss Maitland, excellent news! We’ve sold the horse and the bust as well, if you’ll only change your mind.’
Troy’s delighted smile faded. ‘Mr Honeycomb, you know the bust isn’t for sale,’ she said firmly as they walked over to the stand. She saw the small ‘sold’ disc attached to the card and felt a glow of pride as she looked at Sable. Then her eyes went on to the portrait of Lucien and she said again: ‘That’s still not for sale.’
Mr Honeycomb spread his hands. ‘There’s time to change your mind. Personally, I think you have a good chance of being placed among the top few with the bust. There’s strength and depth of character in that piece of work.’
Like there is in the original, thought Troy, a sharp stab of pain shooting through her.
Mr Honeycomb glanced round with satisfaction. ‘The entries have been most gratifying and the number of sales already encouraging.’ He saw Troy smoothing the tips of her fingers along Sable’s back. ‘The horse looks good, cast in bronze, doesn’t he? The same with the bust. Amazing what a difference it makes. Think hard about selling the bust, Miss Maitland. You can’t afford to be sentimental in this game, you need sales to earn a living and provide publicity.’
Troy smiled gently. ‘I know you’re right. But the bust isn’t for sale.’ Not until I can get Lucien out of my system, not until I can bear to part with it, she told herself. How hard it was, being afflicted with a memory.
Mr Honeycomb proved to be right in his prediction that Troy would be a prizewinner. Standing in a packed gallery, Troy heard the judge call out ‘Exhibit twenty-three. Head of a Man in Bronze. Victoria Maitland. Third Prize’. Sable was given a ‘highly recommended’ and she spent the next hour in a daze, being photographed with the other successful candidates, drinking sherry with the judges and having her hand shaken by strangers.
At a suitable moment Mr Honeycomb drew her to one side and said:
‘Miss Maitland, the buyer for Sable is in my office and I was about to go and explain to him that the sculpture must remain in the gallery for another month. Normally clients don’t mind—the honour, you know, of purchasing a prize winner. Perhaps you could explain that to him yourself?’
Troy followed him to his office. She had been introduced earlier to the buyer, a bald-headed, shrewd-looking Scotsman, and she supposed the least she could do was to explain, after the man had bought her work.
Mr Honeycomb said: ‘I’ll see that you won’t be disturbed,’ and opening the door he ushered her in, closing the door behind her.
The man standing at the window, staring out on to the New Bond Street traffic, turned at her entry.
‘Bonjour, Victoire,’ said Lucien.
Troy felt the colour come and go rapidly in her face. There was no one else in the room. Only Lucien, looking very Lucien-like. Dark charcoal suit, pin-stripe shirt, dark tie, highly polished shoes, and his face, so familiar and yet a little austere at the moment, grey eyes enigmatic.
‘Won’t you sit down?’ Lucien politely gestured to a convenient chair. ‘Honeycomb has kindly placed his office at our disposal.’
Of course he has, thought Troy, her heart thumping away like mad. Honeycomb can recognise an influential client when he sees one. He can also recognise Head of a Man in Bronze. His curiosity must be killing him!
Fighting for composure, she said quietly: ‘Hello, Lucien. This is a surprise. I was expecting someone else. How are you?’ and she sat down, glad to do so, her legs weak and trembling. She forced herself to meet his look and called on all her reserves to hide her feelings. Why had he come? His expression was not particularly a friendly one, but neither was it unfriendly. Impartial … and her heart sank. He had come, as of course she had known he would, but merely to tidy the ends, to satisfy his Lord of the Manor upbringing.
‘You were expecting Donaldson, my agent over here,’ he was explaining, briefly dismissing the bald-headed Scotsman, ‘and I’m very well, thank you.’ He took his favourite perch, on the edge of Honeycomb’s desk. ‘And you? But there’s no need to ask, I can see for myself—you are as beautiful as ever. And successful. Do allow me to congratulate you on winning third prize.’ He folded his arms across his chest and considered her thoughtfully. ‘I gather it’s not for sale?’ He waited for a reply and when one was not forthcoming, went on: ‘Of course, now that it has been placed third in the exhibition you can command a much higher price.’
‘It is not for sale,’ replied Troy with desperate control.
Lucien raised his brows. ‘That interests me deeply.’ He waited again and when she did not speak, continued smoothly: ‘It’s fairly reasonable why I want to buy it. I’m flattered that this poor face of mine should inspire anyone to produce such a work—the egotist in me rearing its ugly head. Forgive me! The pun was not intended.’ He smiled cynically and after another encouraging pause, added mildly: ‘I should have thought you’d be glad to get rid of the thing. After all, it must remind you of an association you would prefer to forget.’
Troy rose to her feet. ‘I don’t wish to discuss the matter. If you’ll excuse me …’
Lucien also stood. ‘If you insist. But first, I must give you my cheque for Sable.’
Like a zombie Troy sank back into the chair while Lucien took his time seating himself at the desk, bringing out first his cheque book and then his pen. As he wrote he went on conversationally: ‘Georges sends his regards, by the way. What an amazing effect you do have on the poor fellow. Each time he sees you he goes to pieces.’ He looked up briefly and Troy wanted to get up and run, away from this stranger. Instead she murmured:
‘He was most helpful.’
‘Too helpful. Thank you for the flowers for Grand’mere’s funeral. Most kind and forgiving of you, considering she had made it plain that you were not welcome at Bellevigne. Would it make it any better for you if I tell you that she knew who you were? I did wonder, and found evidence when clearing out her bureau. I came across an old, much worn photograph of Victoria Courtney. There is no mistaking the resemblance to yourself. Hence her antagonism. I hope you’ll think a little more kindly of her, knowing this.’ He pulled out the cheque and wafted it for the ink to dry. ‘Philippe sends his love and wants you to know that he i
s to start as a weekly boarder at Orleans next month.’
‘I’m glad,’ said Troy, showing a brief warmth in her carefully controlled manner. Lucien, equally polite, gave a cool nod and observed with wintry detachment:
‘Yes. One good thing emerging from the disaster.’
Troy visibly flinched, but he went on:
‘Everyone at Bellevigne sends their very best wishes. Isabeau sends inadequate apologies. I offer my own. No words can convey …’
‘Please! I’d rather you didn’t…’ broke in Troy desperately, ‘and I really have to go.’
‘Very well.’ He came towards her and handed her the cheque. Troy took it, stared miserably at it for a few seconds and then tore it in half. She lifted her head and regarded him gravely.
‘I find I cannot accept money from you for Sable.’ She took a deep breath before saying simply: ‘I should like you to have him as a gift.’ ‘A gift?’ The words were softly spoken.
‘Yes. To show that we … are still friends.’ She forced a slight smile. ‘Now you can go back to Bellevigne with a clear conscience.’
A flush stained his cheeks. He said shortly: ‘I did not buy Sable as conscience money, Victoire.’
‘I know you didn’t. You wanted the statue and I want you to have it, for Bellevigne.’
‘You give and yet you will not receive. I suppose I cannot make you change your mind about signing away your inheritance?’ He paused and Troy looked away, and he went on mildly: ‘No, I didn’t think I could. Very well, we shall remain friends,’ and he held out his hand.
Troy hesitated and then placed her hand in his. The whole of her being, as if her life-force depended upon it, was concentrated on that contact. She stood still, her heart and pulse racing, the colour slowly rising in her cheeks and she tried to pull away.
‘And now,’ said Lucien pleasantly, retaining his grip, ‘as a friend,’ and the word was emphasised, ‘perhaps you can explain that extraordinary letter you left me before running away.’
‘I didn’t run away, Lucien …’
His voice changed to sardonic mimicry. ‘ “Dear Lucien, thank you for allowing me the use of the studio. I think it better if I go. I’m sorry, Victoire.” ‘ He gave a short laugh. ‘Sorry? Sorry for what, Victoire?’
Troy tugged at her hand. ‘Lucien, if…’
‘Sorry that you had erupted into my life and turned it upside down? Sorry for leaving behind everything associated with me, every little thing that I had bought you, all left behind in neat tidy piles. Who for, Victoire?’ His hands came up to grip her shoulders. ‘And was I, too, placed in a neat tidy compartment, to be filed away in your past?’
‘Lucien, you’re hurting me!’
His jaw clenched and a muscle jumped in his cheek. His hold on her slackened and he took his hands away, slowly, saying with some difficulty:
‘I beg your pardon. It seems to be a habit of mine … hurting you.’
Their eyes met and then she was in his arms and with a sob, Troy held up her face and their lips met with fierce eagerness.
‘Imbecile!’ The word was a caress, torn from him, his hands holding her completely his prisoner. ‘How could you believe that for one instant I’d let you go?’ He searched her face and kissed away the tears. ‘You knew I’d come for you?’
Troy nodded, smiling through her tears.
‘Of course you did! You know the de Seve motto— he can hold his own … and that is what I am doing. You are mine, Victoire.’
‘Yes, Lucien, yes.’
‘Did you think I could forget you? Mon Dieu! Dealing with Isabeau’s hysteria, Philippe stricken and scared, the whole Estate and village in mourning, the funeral and Grand’mere gone—I thought of you constantly, feeding my guilt…’
‘Hush, there’s to be no talk of guilt.’ She touched his face, relearning the hollows and bones, his hand coming up to hold her palm against his mouth, to kiss it and tightly clasp it.
‘Generous, Victoire, with the memory of that wrecked studio still before me, and you say there is to be no guilt! Can you imagine with what I had to contend? I was raging inside against all my commitments, my duty, everything that kept me away from you. Do you think I did not know exactly how you were and what you were doing?’
Troy gave a gurgle of laughter. ‘Monsieur le Comte has only to lift the telephone.’
Lucien smiled grimly. ‘You are pleased to think me arrogant and powerful, Victoire, but it is not so. Where you are concerned I have no armour.’ His speech ended abruptly as his mouth hungrily found hers, his embrace tightening ruthlessly. It relaxed only enough for Troy to gain her breath and gaze wonderingly into Lucien’s eyes as he mocked her gently: ‘Well, mademoiselle? Are you sorry for running away?’
Troy gave a shaky laugh and hid her face in his shoulder, murmuring: ‘Yes, Lucien. I won’t do it again.’
‘I should think not! Here.’ He handed her his handkerchief. ‘This is, I believe, where we came in, although it was wine and not tears that was needed to be mopped up. Let us get out of here, my sweet, before we shock Mr Honeycomb too much.’
‘More likely to give him grey hairs through curiosity,’ joked Troy, and Lucien grinned wickedly, saying under his breath as they left the office: ‘We shall find somewhere comfortable and quiet where you can tell me exactly why my poor, ugly face is not for sale.’
Some hours later Lucien remembered that remark and slyly reminded her of it.
‘You know why,’ Troy murmured. ‘I couldn’t bear to part with it.’ She put her hand in his and let him pull her down into the comforting curve of his arm as he sat on the sofa in the sitting room of his hotel suite. She rested her head on his shoulder. ‘I desperately hoped you’d come over for the exhibition, and if you did, what you would think to your portrait…’
‘My dear girl, I could hardly believe my eyes, and when I found it was not for sale I began to think I stood a chance.’
‘Foolish man,’ scolded Troy lovingly. ‘I was yours, right from the start. When Sable was sold I thought you’d come and the despair I felt when I met your Scotsman because he wasn’t you! I then began to think I’d angered you so much, that day when Juliette came…’
‘Foolish girl,’ mimicked Lucien, lifting her face to his. ‘So you thought I wanted you for my mistress, eh? What a blow that was to my self-esteem, and how brutal I was to you! When you left Bellevigne that was all I could think of—that you had gone with memories of anger and not of tenderness and love.’ His hand stroked her hair and he went on pensively: ‘Of course, until you told me I did now know what Grand’mere had told you. I thought you knew that our future would be together. How could it be otherwise? That very day I saw Georges and told him of my intentions. That, my sweet, is why poor Georges was so bewildered when you came to him the following day intent on washing your hands of us all. That is also why Isabeau destroyed the studio.’
‘Lucien, there’s no need…’
‘Yes, there is, my dear.’ He fell silent and then went on: ‘After the ball I told Grand’mere of my feelings toward you. She was not surprised, and I also told her about JeanJacques and Juliette. That day in Georges’ office I telephoned Grand’mere and asked her to break the news to Isabeau, so that by the time we arrived home she would have become used to the idea. I have no need to go over Isabeau’s neurosis, we both know how possessive and jealous she is where Philippe, the family and myself are concerned. What I did not realise, or perhaps did not want to realise, was how deep these feelings went. How could I conceive that she would go straight to the studio and … well, we know what she did. From what I can piece together, when she finally came to her senses she flew straight to Grand’mere and confessed what she had done. Grand’mere succeeded in calming her down and rang for tea. Zenobie says that when she took this in to them they were both sitting quietly discussing the colours of the embroidery Isabeau was working on. Grand’mere asked Zenobie to send JeanJacques to her later.
However, after Zenobie left and before J
eanJacques arrived she became ill and had a severe heart attack, which sent Isabeau into further hysterics.’
Troy gave a sigh. ‘How is Isabeau now?’ and Lucien shrugged.
‘Less hysterical, still consumed with guilt, of course. She is with friends in Provence and is having medical attention. Philippe, I need hardly tell you, knows nothing of what his mother did. Only JeanJacques and myself know, and we cleared the studio together.’
Troy threaded her fingers through his and said broodingly:
‘The minute you told me about JeanJacques and Juliette I could see it all clearly. You helped them to be together, didn’t you? The ballet tickets, and JeanJacques taking papers to Paris to be signed. You brought them together whenever possible.’
‘What a ninny you were,’ Lucien observed tenderly, ‘to think I could marry Juliette.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘When it became known that I was coming to England the whole of Bellevigne seemed to let out a long-held breath. No one said anything, of course, but JeanJacques ordered more clay, Zenobie began to be interested in menus again and Andre polished the Beaufighter until you could see your face in it. They all made it very clear that you should never have gone in the first place.’
Troy laughed softly, absurdly touched by their approval. ‘I didn’t want to leave, Lucien, but I’d caused so much trouble. Indirectly, I even caused your grandmother’s death…’
He shook her roughly. ‘Don’t talk such arrant nonsense! You might as well say that it was our grandparents’ fault, for meeting and falling in love, or mine for telling Grand’mere of our impending marriage. Rather prematurely, as it turned out,’ he added wryly.
Troy stirred uneasily, listening to the sounds of the traffic outside Lucien’s hotel window. She said a little wistfully:
‘I wish Madame could have liked me.’
Lucien sat up and turned her face to his. ‘But, my dear, she did, believe me—against her will, almost. She was a proud woman, Victoire, but not an insensible one. Consider. It could not have been easy for her, loving Valery as she did, to know that she was not his first love. That, but for a quirk of fate, another woman would have married him and borne his children. You were not her first choice as a suitable partner for me, how could you be? You were the granddaughter of her rival, the natural granddaughter of her husband. She was almost bound to be antagonistic toward you. But once I had convinced her that you were the only woman I could ever marry she decided to get to know you better …’
A House Called Bellevigne Page 15
