The Lost Dreams

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  Crossing the main street, he entered the gallery, a satisfied smile spreading over his gaunt face. Even here one could see Charlotte’s artistry. The space was neither large nor pretentious, and although the light-ochre walls and sisal carpet weren’t much to his taste, which tended toward rich damasks, heavy dark-hued silks and plush velvets, the decor was cleverly conceived to accentuate the jewels. Each showcase was strategically placed to attract the viewer’s eye, and bright halogen lighting reflected every detail.

  There was no disputing it. Charlotte had an eye for making each item stand out like a masterpiece.

  And such talent.

  Oh, what wonderful, glorious talent. Her ability made a man like himself, who knew his own designs rarely rose beyond the mediocre, want to rage at the unfairness of it all. He quickly smothered the ripple of anger, focusing instead on the jewelry’s smooth sinuous lines, relishing its mythical symbolism, the clever use of gems so evocative of the prewar Rothberg work. And yet it wasn’t derivative. Each piece bore a unique stamp that was all hers, a quality and individuality that spoke of greatness.

  He glanced at Moira, seated behind the desk. With a deprecating smile he picked up a bracelet lying temptingly within reach and admired the delicate interlacing of paper-thin platinum strands. An intricate pattern, designed to set off the exquisite cabochon stones amid a cluster of diamonds. He let it rest in his palm, sighed and closed his eyes. Already he’d switched several tones in his fall collection, adapting the color scheme to better show off just such pieces as this. He could picture the hushed anticipation, the oohs and aahs, the excitement of the audience as the models strutted down the catwalk to the last movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. A standing ovation would inevitably follow. In a spurt of sudden inspiration, he decided to name the show Daughters of Elysium.

  Running his tongue over parched lips, Armand gazed once more at the bracelet. Instinctively he knew it would be an immediate success.

  Carefully laying the bracelet back on its burlap setting, he turned toward Moira and heaved a sigh. “It is such a pleasure to bathe oneself in her work. Just viewing it is sheer delight.” He heaved another gusty sigh, oblivious of Moira’s curious glances.

  “Charlotte’s in the workshop finishing the choker,” she replied, indicating the crooked door flanked by cardboard boxes at the rear of the gallery. “I can see if she’s available, if you like.”

  “Non, non, ma chère. Don’t bother.” He waved a thin white hand. “I shall announce myself. I think we now have sufficient intimité to proceed to such a liberty,” Armand purred, taking a determined step past a hesitant Moira.

  “Perhaps I should just warn her. She doesn’t like being interrupted.” Moira shifted uncomfortably in her broad leather sandals while Armand, paying no attention, adjusted his well-tailored tweeds and waved her peremptorily aside.

  He had never entered the hub of Charlotte’s creations, the place he considered the inner sanctuary, and he paused reverently on the threshold as he might upon entering Ali Baba’s cave.

  Charlotte, seated on a rickety stool, her hair drawn back in a rough ponytail, was leaning over the long trestle table that dominated the middle of the low-ceilinged room. She held a small pair of tweezers in midair, cradling a tiny diamond, sparkling in the dust-speckled beam of a bright work light that cast the rest of the room in shadow. She looked like a seventeenth-century painting come to life, he thought, a study in chiaroscuro. She continued working, oblivious to his presence, and he watched in fascination, listening to her soft humming as she picked up a degree-line gauge and carefully measured the stone before placing it on tissue paper to her left.

  His eyes followed the length of her arm, beyond the shirt cuff to where the heavy gold Rothberg watch dwarfed her slim wrist. Such a masterpiece. His mouth twitched nervously and he swallowed, pulse quickening, glad he’d taken the risk and entered the sacred portal. He focused now on the workshop, drinking it all in: the walls plastered with drawings, old magazine pictures and newspaper cuttings, all of it tacked up with little regard to order; the drawing table in the corner; the tools and multicolored gems distributed across the length and breadth of the wide worktable.

  He peered at the pictures, realizing that some dated back to before the Second World War. He glanced at Charlotte, still immersed in her work, and eased closer to the wall. A shiver gripped him as his eyes fell upon an old 1935 cover of Paris Match. His fingers shook and he checked the urge to reach out and touch Sylvain de Rothberg’s dark, morose eyes staring out at him from behind a film of cigarette smoke. He gazed at the eyes longingly, searching them for a clue.

  “Armand?” At the sound of Charlotte’s surprised voice, he spun round elegantly on his heel and moved quickly toward her with a gracious smile. He noted the scowl shadowing her features, as with an irritated gesture she shook her hair out of the rubber band.

  “Who let you in here?” she asked, not pleased.

  “Ma chère Charlotte, you must not blame the poor creature who guards this sanctum. I and I alone am to blame.” He laid a palm dramatically over his heart and sent her a winning smile. “I know it is very bad manners to invade your privacy, but I could not resist another day the temptation to plunge fully into the inner world of your creations.” He waved a graceful hand at his surroundings. “And now I stand here, a grateful witness to your genius. Like you, ma chère, your work is superbe. I am all the more convinced that you simply must exhibit your work with my collection. I am a supplicant before your altar, awed by your supremacy, your…” He paused, hand in midair, as he searched for the right superlative.

  “Good Lord! Don’t get all French and dramatic on me, Armand,” Charlotte replied, annoyance fading and laughter surging despite her irritation. It was impossible to stay angry with Armand for long. If truth be told, his fascination with her work had genuinely helped boost her battered self-esteem. In fact, since Armand’s arrival and subsequent encouragement, she’d been working nonstop, designing with new energy. That, and their mutual admiration for Sylvain de Rothberg’s legacy, had forged a tenuous bond between them.

  “Here, take a look at this choker.” She leaned over, picked up a narrow strip of platinum fresh from the mold, and handed it to him shyly, still afraid of the criticism that might follow. “It still needs work, of course, but I think the way it dips at the base works, don’t you?” She pointed to the subtle downward curve where two teardrop diamonds already sparkled, above which she planned to place a trail of garnets. She held her breath as Armand examined it.

  “It is magnifique,” he whispered, eyes glistening. “A reminder of the master himself, yet so distinctively yours. What a delight. It is almost as though his hand were guiding you,” he murmured softly.

  “Really?” She sent him a dubious glance, then shrugged and wiped her hands on her jeans. “Perhaps it’s his relationship with the family that has always made him such an intriguing figure to me. I wish I could have met him. He must have been a fabulous chap. Did you ever meet him, Armand?”

  He shook his head, eyes turning misty. He raised his hand and touched his chest, as though feeling for something. “I recall once, as a very small child, seeing him in the village of Ambazac,” he murmured, gazing into the distance. “He was a very handsome man, dark, wind-swept, with a bohemian touch about him. But I don’t know if that is an actual memory or a creation based on pictures I have seen since.”

  “There were quite a few photos of him and Tante Geneviève at La Vallière. Granny Flora used to talk to me about them a lot. She loved them dearly. Losing them was a terrible blow, especially in such tragic circumstances.”

  “Theirs was such a poignant yet profound love story, I suppose.” He flicked an invisible speck of dust from his lapel with a slight sniff.

  “I named Genny after Tante Geneviève, you know,” she remarked, taking the choker from him and wrapping it in an old piece of silk before placing it carefully in the drawer below the worktable. “I used to dream about them as a girl
. Granny Flora said she’d never seen two people so much in love.” She tilted her head wistfully and glanced at the picture of Sylvain. “He looks like a romantic, doesn’t he? I wonder where men like him hang out nowadays?” She added wistfully, “Strong, determined men who’d face the world for a woman they loved, a cause they believed in.”

  “They are a thing of the past, ma chère.” Armand sighed sympathetically. “Relics of an age of elegance and good taste that exists no more. You just have to look around you to see that the plebes have taken over.” A grimace of distaste accompanied his words and he shuddered delicately. “Everything has become so dreadfully vulgar, so excruciatingly banal. It staggers one’s sensibilities.”

  “Come on, Armand, it’s not quite that bad.” She grinned. He had a knack of making her laugh with his old-fashioned notions. “Look at me,” she teased, hands straddling her slim hips and posing. “I’m not exactly what you’d call tasteful but you survive my company all the same.”

  “You, dear child, are the exception to the rule,” Armand replied loyally.

  “Come, come, Armand.” Charlotte laughed. “I know you think I look like something the cat brought in on a bad day.”

  “Non, really, Charlotte,” Armand protested, shaking his head. “You have about you a certain je ne sais quoi, an innate elegance that defies your efforts to meld with the common herd.” His voice rose and his hands flew dramatically. “Like Marie Antoinette in David’s sketches as she was driven to the scaffold, jeered at by the madding crowd, yet dignified and elegant despite her rags and shorn hair.”

  “Good Lord.” Charlotte rolled her eyes and pretended to swoon.

  “Your very bearing speaks of ancient heritage and fine ancestry. Your beauty stands alone. Had you lived in the Cinquecento, you would have been the muse of all—”

  “Is this Charlie you’re describing?” Brad leaned against the doorjamb, catching the sudden and enchanting flush on Charlotte’s cheeks. So she was enjoying all this French flattery, was she?

  Armand spun round and retrieved his cane, which he’d laid against the wall. “Ah, mon cher Bradley. What a pleasure to see you doing something other than work.” He smiled graciously. “How are you faring with your duties as seigneur?”

  Brad winced. “Jesus, Armand, cut the medieval crap.”

  “How dreadfully American. Dear boy, it is essential you become truly aware of your station,” he insisted. “You Americans have a regrettable habit of ignoring the social order.” He sniffed derisively.

  “No kidding! We’ve been working at it a while,” Brad said witheringly.

  “Shut up, both of you, and let’s have a drink,” Charlotte interrupted, knowing how irritating Brad found Armand’s determination to view Strathaird as a feudal fiefdom. “Did you manage to fix the fences with old Hamish?”

  “Yep, pretty much. We’ve ordered in new wire but the worst’s been dealt with.”

  “Fences? You actually touch barbed wire?” Armand squeaked, horrified. “Mon Dieu, surely you have menials to perform such tasks.” He dabbed his lips with his handkerchief.

  Brad raised an eyebrow. “Actually, I enjoy going out and getting my hands dirty. Feels good. You should try it yourself, Armand. We usually leave around 6:00 a.m. You’re welcome to join us.”

  “My dear boy, the mere thought of rising at such an hour makes one shudder,” he exclaimed.

  Brad watched as Armand did just that, and hid his disdain. “How about that drink, Charlie?”

  “Fine. I’ll let Moira lock up. Let’s see if Rory’s at the café. Want to join us, Armand?”

  “Thank you, ma chère, but I shall return to the château, where the chatelaine awaits me. But before we depart, allow me to inspect the stones you were placing.” Before she could respond, he moved nimbly toward the worktable and withdrew his glasses from the right breast pocket of his jacket.

  Brad sent Charlotte a look. She shrugged and moved over next to Armand. He was gazing at a design for another bracelet that she’d left next to the diamonds.

  “Fascinating,” he murmured, peering closer. “I imagine you mean to place round diamonds in a flat-top beaded setting. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. The platinum double-strap mount will center on a star ruby,” she replied, immediately engrossed.

  “Magnificent.” His eyes glinted behind the lenses. Then, all at once he grabbed her wrist, staring intently at her watch. “You should design a bracelet along the lines of this watch. It is a Rothberg, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Daddy used to wear it, and then Colin, but now it’s mine.”

  Brad frowned. Something niggled at the back of his brain. He shoved it aside, impatient to get going.

  “If you can bear to tear yourselves away, I was going to ask you both to dinner at the pub. Aunt Penn has guests tonight.”

  “The…pub?” Armand said haltingly as he removed his glasses.

  “Yeah. Have a problem with that?” Brad growled. He was getting fed up with Armand’s dramatic airs, and not quite sure he liked Charlotte’s reaction to the man’s flattery. Of course her work was good—incredible, in fact; he had enough experience in the art field to know exceptional work when he saw it. But it irritated him that she seemed to feed on Armand’s praise, as if her self-esteem was starved.

  “Bradley, vraiment, is there nowhere more elegant to dine in this remote land?”

  “Not unless we go to the Three Chimneys, and I’m darned if I’m driving halfway across the island. Plus, I feel like pub grub. How about you, Charlotte?”

  “I’m game. By the way,” she commented, sending Armand a sly smile, “the pub belongs to Rory’s brother, Ben. Have you ever seen him?” she asked innocently.

  “I do not believe I have had that—”

  “Pleasure—and it is that, believe me,” she said with a wink. Brad stifled a grin. “The man is simply gorgeous,” Charlotte teased. “If you think Rory’s handsome, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

  “Well! That changes matters somewhat,” Armand said, brightening, “I am never averse to making sacrifices in the name of beauty.”

  6

  It was Friday and the Lord of the Isles was warming up for an evening’s entertainment. Several out-of-towners had arrived for the ceilidh that would take place later that evening. Brad liked the pub’s informal atmosphere, the smoky haze, the dark, low-beamed taproom exuding age and malt whiskey, the faded plush velvet benches and the bar, heavy and stalwart, hewn from live oak and invitingly waxed and worn. A television droned, and occasional grunts and murmurs accompanied the rugby match, as Stewart MacDonald and Davy Murray—husband of Mrs. Murray, who worked at the castle—argued half-heartedly when their team fell behind.

  Charlotte threaded a path among the tables, calling greetings as she went. Brad followed, Armand in his wake, uncomfortably aware of the sudden silence that had descended as they entered. He pretended not to notice the wary, surreptitious glances and soft murmurs that followed him and made steadily for the bar.

  “Hello, Ben.” Charlotte smiled brightly at the handsome Celt carefully polishing a glass behind the bar. Like his brother Rory, Ben was what Americans referred to as Black-Irish. Here, Brad realized with amusement, if you told him he was Irish you’d be spoiling for a fight.

  Ignoring the tense atmosphere, he sat at the bar and nodded a hello to Ben, who returned the greeting with a silent nod. Not exactly welcoming, he reflected. But he was getting used to the inquisitive stares, the grudging hellos and cautious smiles, discovering for the first time what it felt like to be thoroughly observed and dissected, analyzed and judged. He’d never considered political life, but now he wondered how the politicians back home survived such constant scrutiny. He perched a foot on the brass rail below the counter, showing none of his qualms, and smiled when Armand let out a deep and appreciative sigh; obviously he’d noticed Ben. The man was an impressive figure, with the sleeves of his rugby shirt rolled up above the elbow, revealing a deep tan that accentuated his bright blue ey
es and thick black hair. Brad felt Charlotte’s nudge and grinned, even as he wondered if she’d ever been attracted to the guy.

  “I told you,” Charlotte murmured, leaning toward Armand.

  “You were quite right, ma chère. Definitely worth the sacrifice.”

  “Sorry to burst your bubble, but something tells me he’s as far from gay as a man can get,” Brad said, taking a sip of the strong island malt Ben had placed before him.

  “You could have let me indulge in a few prurient fantasies before dashing my hopes,” Armand lamented, clearly aggrieved.

  “Sorry, just didn’t want you to be disappointed, that’s all.”

  A door leading to the kitchen burst open and a pretty redhead, balancing a tray piled high with fish and chips, swung behind the bar and sidled up to Ben, who immediately stopped pouring.

  “Definitely not a player, Armand,” Brad murmured laughingly as Ben’s eyes softened and his hand snagged Alana by the waist, nearly upsetting her and the chips.

  “Is it true about the baby?” Charlotte asked once Ben had finished kissing his wife.

  “It is,” Alana replied proudly. “I’m three months along.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “He’ll be a fine strapping lad.” Ben laid a possessive hand gently over Alana’s belly and looked down at her proudly.