A House Called Bellevigne

by Gilbert, Jacqueline

  ‘That was after her birthday,’ broke in Troy, surprised. ‘And I thought she was being kinder because she was confident she would get her own way with you and Juliette.’

  ‘I have proof that she was reconciled to our marriage,’ stated Lucien firmly. ‘She left instructions that certain items of personal jewelry should go to you.’

  Troy turned a glowing face to him, smiling tremulously. ‘Oh, Lucien, you don’t know how relieved I am to hear you say that! How generous of her.’ She hesitated and went on pensively: ‘Don’t you think it strange how the circle has come round fully?’ She chuckled at the look of sceptical amusement on his face. ‘No, really, Lucien, almost as if we were meant to come together.’

  Lucien’s eyes twinkled. ‘Helped by our ghosts, perhaps? What do you think to the idea that we are related? Do you like sharing Valery?’

  ‘You seem so sure.’

  ‘My father was certain, and he was not given to romancing, and the time element is pretty conclusive. However, I am not content with a mere half-cousin- ship, and intend making our relationship a much closer one.’

  Troy gave a slow smile and murmured teasingly: ‘I don’t think it possible to get much closer than we did, less than an hour ago.’

  Lucien considered her with lazy amusement, those quirky eyebrows rising comically. ‘My dear mademoiselle! spare my blushes and behave.’ He settled her back in his arms and gave her a short, hard kiss. ‘I am not returning to France without you, so it will have to be by special licence. Will you be disappointed?’

  Troy shook her head and mumbled: ‘The trimmings don’t matter.’

  ‘A woman in a million! and one who realises that anything could be happening to my crop of grapes in my absence. So, I suggest we have a quiet ceremony here, in London, and have our wedding party at the end of the vintage and invite the whole of the district to come and celebrate both events with us.’ He lifted a brow. ‘Or am I steamrollering you again?’

  ‘Whatever Monsieur le Comte wishes,’ said Troy demurely, and was thoroughly kissed for her impudence. Rosy-cheeked and breathless, she added tremulously: ‘You know I adore your steamrollering, Lucien. The only thing is, won’t all your friends and relations be cross to miss your wedding? After having waited so long for it to happen?’

  He gave a bark of laughter. ‘Exactly why I want to keep them all away! No, Victoire, do not worry. I shall invite a few special guests who will think nothing of crossing the Channel for so auspicious an occasion. Juliette and JeanJacques and Philippe, of course, Raoul…’ ‘Did you know he has his eye on Fiona?’ asked Troy.

  ‘… probably the Descartes …’

  ‘Most definitely the Descartes! Their balcony is a special place,’ and they exchanged smiles.

  ‘And you, Victoire, who will you ask?’

  Troy considered the question. ‘Fiona’s parents have been very good to me over the years and I think Mr McKay would walk down the aisle with me.’ She slanted him a glance. ‘I am allowed an aisle? Not St Paul’s, of course,’ she added, with a grin, ‘but my own church of St Anne’s.’

  ‘I think we can manage an aisle,’ agreed Lucien. ‘And will Mr Hal Lindsey be invited?’

  Troy’s eyes widened. ‘Why, yes, I suppose so. I owe a lot to Hal.’

  ‘Hm.’ growled Lucien. ‘Invite him, then.’ They shared another smile and biting her bottom lip Troy dropped her eyes to her hands and began:

  ‘Actually, Lucien …’ She stopped as her courage failed her and went on brightly: ‘Can we eat? I’m hungry.’

  ‘Then we shall order dinner,’ he said, eyeing her thoughtfully. ‘Shall we go down to the dining room, or have something sent up here?’

  ‘Here, please,’ replied Troy, and while Lucien telephoned their order she went to the bathroom. It had been a long day, and so much had happened, and it was not over yet. She stared at herself in the mirror and thought despairingly: Why it is so difficult to tell him? You know he loves you.

  On her return a table had been set with a candelabrum and three candles flickering in the centre. A heated trolley wheeled in by one waiter and another carried an opened bottle of wine which Lucien had just inspected and nodded his approval, which was placed on the table. A bucket of ice sported an unopened bottle of champagne. After assuring the waiter that they would serve themselves, Lucien greeted Troy with a smile and held out her chair.

  ‘Aylesbury duckling and a good red Bordeaux, in England often called a claret,’ he informed her, pouring the rich red wine into their glasses. ‘As you will be the wife of a vigneron your taste-buds must be educated.’ He held his glass up to the light, then took a sip. ‘Mmm … excellent. Good claret is a taste that is not always easy to acquire but is impossible to lose, and this particular wine from the Medoc has travelled well.’

  As their meal progressed with fresh strawberries and cream and an assortment of cheeses, Lucien opening the champagne, Troy was tempted several times to drop her bombshell, but the words stuck in her throat. Lucien said at last:

  ‘Your appetite seems to have disappeared, Victoire.’

  Troy gave an apologetic smile and allowed herself to be guided to the sofa, Lucien bringing their glasses, and when they were settled he turned to her, taking her hands in his own warm clasp, and saying gently: ‘My dear, you had much better tell me what it is that is bothering you. I’m sure, between us, we can deal with any problems that arise. Won’t you trust me, Victoire, to help you?’

  Troy’s eyes filled with ridiculous tears and she gave a choking laugh. ‘Are you always going to know when something is bothering me, Lucien?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  She pulled her hands free and said quickly: ‘I think I can tell you better if you’re not touching me. My wits seem to desert me, and I need them.’ She nervously smoothed the material of her dress over her knees and gave him an uncertain look. His calm, patient expression reassured her slightly and she went on more easily: ‘Lucien, I know you were furious with me, hurt too, when I thought we were having … only a brief affaire de coeur, but where you were concerned I never had any confidence in myself. I’ve always mistrusted my looks, they’ve never been much help in anything but work—photographic work, I mean—only you did know the other side of me, the side that’s important to me, and I found that I wanted to be beautiful for you …’

  Abruptly, Lucien rose and swung round to face her.

  ‘Victoire, my darling girl, don’t you realise that it is the whole you that I love? This includes your wonderful talent;—which makes me so proud of you—and your warmth, your humour, your compassion, everything about you is very, very dear to me.’

  ‘Well, I’m beginning to realise it,’ she admitted shyly, ‘and when I left Bellevigne I never doubted that you would come for me. At least, deep down I didn’t, although sometimes in my darkest moments I began to think I’d dreamed what you said—you know, that I was the woman who could make you believe in marriage. But that wasn’t often. Mostly I remembered the good things, and then I knew you’d come.’ She paused and raised her eyes, regarding him appealingly. ‘Do you believe that, Lucien?’

  Face slightly puzzled, Lucien replied: ‘Yes, Victoire.’

  Troy found that she was holding her breath. She gave a small sigh, followed by the makings of a smile.

  ‘You once told me that we ought to feel an affinity with our ghosts, that we look like them and bear their name. The link is stronger than you think, and although there was no future together for them I know there is one for us.’ The smile grew a little, cautiously. ‘Lucien, despite my good intentions not to follow completely in my grandmother’s footsteps, I’m carrying your child.’

  There was silence while shy brown eyes locked with blazingly intense, suddenly tender, grey ones. In two strides Lucien gathered her up into his arms and Troy lifted her glowing face to his.

  ‘Maman … qu’est-ce que c’est?’

  Troy peered over the little boy’s shoulder at the open book on his lap and replied:
<
br />   ‘C’est un elephant, Valery.’ Her finger went to the page. ‘See, here is the word written below the picture… and I thought we were going to speak English today, mon petit, to surprise Auntie Fiona and Uncle Raoul?’

  Valery nodded his dark head, frowning intently over his book.

  ‘Oui, Maman. Oil est … where is the baby elephant, Maman?’

  Troy smiled fondly and ruffled his curly mop. ‘It’s on the next page, as you well know!’ and mischievous grey eyes peeped brightly up at her. The study door opened and peering round his mother’s knees Valery gave a whoop of excitement and struggling to his feet, rushed across the room, shouting: ‘Papa! Papa! II neige, Papa!’

  Lucien laughed and swung the little boy high into the air. The dogs’, Cesar and Satan, circled round his legs boisterously. ‘Yes, it is certainly snowing, Valery, and tomorrow we shall build a snowman, eh?’

  ‘Yes, please, Papa.’

  Lucien gave his son a hug and set him on his feet.

  ‘Papa, can Aimee help us build a snowman?’ asked Valery, and Lucien knelt, bringing his face level with Valery’s.

  ‘Do you think she could help us, Val?’ he asked, and Valery screwed up his face and shook his head.

  ‘But she will miss all the fun,’ he exclaimed, his lip beginning to tremble, and Lucien said quickly:

  ‘Not at all! Maman will hold her up at the window and she will have fun watching us.’ This seemed to satisfy Aimee’s brother, for he nodded happily and ran to the window, watching the falling snow, his sturdy body flanked on either side by the two dogs. Lucien regarded him for a moment, smiling, and then turned to his wife. Troy, who was knitting a white, delicate garment, sitting in an armchair by the fire, gave him an askance, upward look.

  ‘You’ve relegated me with Aimee, I see, when you know I’d much rather be helping you menfolk with the snowman.’

  ‘You’ll do as you’re told until Marcel gives you the all clear.’ He bent to kiss her, touching her cheek gently with his hand as he straightened.

  ‘You and Marcel Dubois are a couple of old fusspots. So I am a little run-down after Aimee’s birth. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘And we are not worrying,’ commented Lucien, ‘merely making sure you behave yourself.’

  ‘Steamrollering me, you mean,’ grumbled Troy goodnaturedly, putting down the knitting. ‘Will the snow mess up our plans?’

  ‘The roads are still passable, love,’ Lucien assured her. ‘Philippe telephoned to say he would be a little late, Andre has already gone to meet the train.’

  ‘And Fiona and Raoul?’

  ‘Raoul is an extremely competent driver, my dear, and they should be here within the hour.’

  Troy smiled and relaxed, clasping his hand and holding it against her cheek.

  ‘Is the forecast bad?’ she asked.

  ‘Bad enough for Valery to get his snowman tomorrow. We’re in for a hard winter, it seems. However, the snow need not concern us too much at the moment. Food provisions are in, the Christmas tree is decorated,’ he glanced at Valery, ‘and a certain little boy’s empty stocking is already hanging on his bed, ready to be filled by Santa Claus.’ His eyes returned to Troy, twinkling. ‘He does well having a foot in each of our countries, does he not? St Nicholas on the sixth of December and Santa Claus tomorrow on the twenty-fifth.’

  ‘As they both come to you too,’ returned Troy equably, ‘I shouldn’t say much.’ She paused. ‘Philippe did not mention Isabeau?’

  Lucien grasped her hand tighter and said gently: ‘No. Are you still worrying that she refuses to come?’

  ‘Her visits are so few and far between, Lucien, even after five years.’ Troy gave a small sigh. ‘I can’t admit that she’s an easy guest, and that makes me feel even guiltier. After all, Bellevigne is her home.’ ‘And Isabeau chooses to live away. We have done our best and can do no more. She is happier down in Provence and Philippe sees her regularly. I will not have you worried over Isabeau, Victoire.’

  Troy grimaced a smile and said lightly: ‘Very well, Monsieur le Comte.’

  The door opened and Gabrielle came in carrying a tray. She smiled a greeting, murmured: ‘Monsieur, madame,’ and placed it down on a low table.

  ‘Thank you, Gabrielle,’ said Lucien, and the young girl looked across at Valery, still engrossed in the falling snow, and then turned to Troy.

  ‘It is the little one’s supper time, madame.’

  ‘Very well, Gabrielle. I shall be up in half an hour, and will you ask Zenobie if cook can hold back dinner by an extra hour, if that is possible?’ Gabrielle murmured ‘oui, madame,’ and crossed to take Valery by the hand, whispering something in his ear. Valery asked anxiously:

  ‘You will come, Papa, to see my boat sail in the bath?’

  ‘I shall,’ promised Lucien, placing the palm of his hand gently on the top of his son’s head as he passed. ‘See that Madame does not tire herself, Gabrielle. The new nanny is competent?’

  ‘Oui, Monsieur Lucien, she seems a good girl,’ and giving Troy a knowing smile, Gabrielle led Valery from the room.

  ‘Madame will not tire herself supervising her son’s bath,’ observed Troy mildly, ‘and as for the new girl, she’s somewhat shy at the moment and knows no French, but Valery has taken to her. She comes from a little village in Dorset, so is used to country life.’ She watched as Lucien opened the bottle on the tray and began to pour the sparkling liquid into two glasses, and said in surprise: ‘Champagne, Lucien? Are we celebrating?’

  He handed her a glass. ‘We are.’ He sat down on the rug in the same spot his son had vacated some time before and Troy ran her fingers through his dark hair and thought how alike they were, father and son. ‘You really are feeling better, Victoire?’ Lucien now asked, his grey eyes appraising her intently.

  ‘Much better,’ she told him firmly. ‘Please don’t worry about me, darling, I come from some good sturdy stock.’

  ‘Of course I worry,’ Lucien said roughly, holding her to him, and Troy replied quickly:

  ‘Yes, I know you do. What I mean is, I have no intention of being a worry to you. Now, what shall our toast be, and what are we celebrating?’ She tilted her head questioningly. ‘I’m always ready to drink champagne, mon cher, but have I been awful and forgotten some important anniversary?’

  Lucien shook his head. ‘No, no … it’s just that I had been over to the stables and was walking back to the house, hurrying slightly because I did not wish to miss Valery’s bedtime. For no particular reason I began to think of the other Valery, Grandpere, and your Victoria, and how they had brought us together, and I was consumed with such a rush of happiness, of wellbeing, that I wanted to share my feelings with you. I wanted to say thank you from the depths of my heart, for being the mother of my children, for being my wife, and to tell you how much I love you.’ The hand on his hair had ceased to move while he had been talking and Lucien swivelled round. He saw the bright, large tears trembling on her lashes and said with tender amusement: ‘My dear girl, the last thing I wanted to do was to make you cry!’ He stood and gathered her up into his arms, wiping her tears with his handkerchief.

  Troy gave a shaky laugh and blew her nose. ‘Yes, well, you shouldn’t say such beautiful things to me and not expect the waterworks.’ They stood holding each other, silent, comfort and love flowing between them. Finally, Troy murmured: ‘We must have a

  toast.’

  Lucien suggested thoughtfully: ‘Shall we drink to our ghosts for bringing us together? Or shall it be to us, and Valery and Aimee?’

  ‘Yes, to both,’ replied Troy, smiling, and raised her glass. Lucien caught her free hand and raised it to his lips and Troy came to him and their lips met. With his arm round her shoulders Lucien drew her to the window, Cesar and Satan making way for them, and together they looked out at the bleak white landscape of the park, looking eerie in the darkening twilight.

  Troy turned her head slightly and found that the room was reflected on the window-pane. She remembe
red the first time she saw it, when Lucien told her the story of their respective grandparents. It was still her favourite room and she had chosen it to be the most fitting place for Lucien’s portrait and her eyes rested on it now, allowing herself a small glow of satisfaction. It really was one of the best things she had done, she thought. The statue of Sable was in Lucien’s office and there was a rapidly growing following for ‘Troy’ sculpture, both in England and France, that was most gratifying.

  Lucien shook her gently. ‘He! Come back, from wherever you are!’

  She looked up and smiled. ‘I’d not gone anywhere. I was right here.’ Her eyes went round the room reflectively. ‘In the final analysis we’re not very important, are we? We come and go, but Bellevigne stays.’

  ‘I do believe you’re more feudal than any of us,’ teased Lucien, and Troy grinned, raising her glass and saying firmly:

  ‘To a house called Bellevigne.’ She drank, eyeing Lucien over the rim. He followed suit, and remarked mildly:

  ‘However unimportant you may think us, there are two upstairs who would disagree.’

  Troy laughed and tucked her arm companionably through his as they left the study.

  ‘Aimee will be extremely demanding in about twenty minutes,’ she agreed, and Lucien added: ‘And there is a new boat to launch in the bath, remember?’

  They exchanged smiles and together began to climb the stairs.