The Lost Dreams

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  “Come, come, Charlotte,” he responded, patting her arm. “You must not be negative. I am very proud of the courage you have shown. It is not easy to open oneself to public criticism.”

  “Armand said the same thing. I hope at least he’ll succeed,” she remarked gloomily.

  “Armand will always find the spotlight—he seeks it. But you, mon enfant, something tells me you will shine despite your efforts to stay hidden.” His eyes softened as he tilted her chin and stared intensely at her. “You have his talent, Charlotte, and your own uniqueness. They must be so proud of you tonight,” he murmured, gazing past her into long ago.

  She frowned, mystified at his mutterings, wondering whom he was referring to. Who would be proud of her? Then suddenly he swayed and she rushed to help him.

  “Are you all right, Your Eminence?” Monsignor Kelly entered the room and hurried to his side. Together they sat Eugène down in the nearest chair.

  “Just a slight dizzy spell,” he murmured, waving off their assistance. “Turn around again, Charlotte, and let us see you properly. And Linus, pour the champagne, s’il vous plait. This is going to be Charlotte’s big night. We must drink to her success.”

  “And Armand’s,” she insisted. “If there’s any success at all, it will be thanks to him.”

  “Je suppose.” The Cardinal pursed his thin lips then smiled at her once more, eyes kind and bright in his withered face. “Now stop worrying, mon enfant, and have your champagne. I have no doubt that all will go well.” Then abruptly he changed the subject. “Why is Bradley not here tonight?”

  “I have no idea,” she muttered, following his example and raising her glass, as though the matter meant little to her either way. “But I’m sure he has far more important things to do than worry about all of this.”

  There was little time left to think of Brad as she excused herself to run quickly back into the bathroom and correct her smudged makeup.

  Five minutes later they were mingling with guests, making their way down the monumental staircase that led to the marble-columned elegance of the foyer Auteuil, where already a crowd of socialites and paparazzi was assembled. Charlotte glanced toward the doors of the renowned Salon Vendôme where the show was to take place and wondered how Armand was feeling. He was probably a pile of nerves by this stage. Should she have told him she was here? She had a moment’s hesitation as they descended the last steps of the stylish staircase, then thought better of it. He might suddenly decide to get her involved.

  She absorbed the atmosphere, the extravagantly attired guests sipping champagne expectantly. Soon they would begin making their way into the white-columned gold and gray Salon Vendôme, the perfect backdrop for the show, entitled the Daughters of Elysium. She liked the idea of a theme name—it had been Armand’s idea—and as she glanced at the usherettes, sylphlike models draped in long pearl-gray Grecian chiffon robes now guiding the guests to their seats, she admired Armand’s sense of detail.

  There was no sign of any programs, she realized, relieved. The thought of seeing her name in print was scary; it called forth too many memories of seeing it in the tabloids as they salaciously detailed yet another rumor about John’s latest conquest. Maybe she’d gotten lucky and the printers hadn’t come through on time. That way, if the show was a flop, at least it wouldn’t be quite as shaming a defeat.

  Taking a deep breath, she followed Oncle Eugène and Monsignor Kelly into the sparkling Salon Vendôme. An exclamation of wonder slipped from her lips. Never could she have imagined her work being shown in such a perfect setting. Everything—from the huge, multitiered chandelier to the gold-trellised chairs set along the sides of the catwalk, the exquisite pillars of white roses intermingled with candles perched on wrought-iron stands—was breathtaking.

  They proceeded toward the catwalk, halted several times by clamoring guests anxious to engage the Cardinal in conversation. But he was brief and distant in his responses and did not introduce her. No one seemed concerned, most of them more interested in making contact with the various celebrities in the room than in talking with the nobodies like herself. Gradually she began to relax, amused by the extravagant outfits, the multilingual conversations, chitchat that reminded her of the premieres she and John used to attend. A familiar face crossed her path and she spun hastily in the opposite direction. She hadn’t counted on so many movie personalities being present. At this rate it would be hard to remain anonymous.

  Sticking close to Eugène, she ducked her head, following him and one of the lovely usherettes to their seats in the front row facing the catwalk. She touched her right ear and smiled, a warm rush coursing through her. Sylvain must have experienced similar jitters, she reminded herself, trying to forget her fears by imagining what was happening behind the scenes.

  Time dragged.

  She looked about her, desperate to know what was going on backstage. Now that she was actually here, it was impossible not to speculate about the preparations taking place only feet away in the next room. Was everything under control? Were the final effects Armand had envisioned working out as they’d hoped? Would the tiara perch adequately on the model’s head? Had she modified the shape sufficiently to provide a better grip?

  Then the first strains of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony sounded, and a hush fell. The room’s lights dimmed to a flickering glow. Pulse quickening, she caught her breath and lowered her agitated hands to her lap, only to have Oncle Eugène slide a program into them. She glanced at it in trepidation just as the spotlights focused on the cat-walk, making it impossible to read.

  Let the show begin, she reflected, holding her breath as the curtain parted.

  Then all else was forgotten as the first model strutted onto the stage. With a thrilled gasp, she recognized the cabochon ruby bracelet sparkling on the girl’s alabaster skin. The redheaded model extended her long white arm and flicked her wrist for the crowd to get a better look. There was an immediate murmur among the audience, followed by spontaneous clapping.

  Her heart lurched. Could she, Charlotte MacLeod, who’d done nothing but mess up most of her life, really be the creator of something so exquisite?

  “I told you,” Oncle Eugène hissed. “And that, ma chère, is only the beginning.”

  Bulbs flashed and exclamations buzzed as the models streamed down the catwalk, angular hips thrust out and shoulders swinging. Armand’s designs were beautifully calculated to show off each piece of jewelry to perfection. The perfect marriage, she realized with a surge of emotion. A lovely black model came marching out, dressed in cream silk, sporting the platinum choker she’d spent so many hours designing and which Moira’s loving hands had crafted with such care. Shivers ran through her. She’d poured so much of herself into the piece, so much effort, so much hope. The crowd’s murmurs had turned from warm murmurs to an excited clamor, their applause enthusiastic as the music rose in a bold crescendo. Charlotte clasped her hands tight, biting her lip, holding back the rush of tears, both happy and sad.

  If only Brad had been here to share this with her.

  And suddenly, the joy of moments earlier was drained from the evening. She sat numb, staring blindly at the stage as one by one the models trooped out. It was as though someone else, not she, had designed the pieces. She tried to push Brad from her mind and recapture the magic, determined to revel in it and allow nothing to spoil her pleasure.

  Then at last Armand’s bride floated toward her, a vision of white taffeta and tulle, and the elation returned. Clasped around the model’s throat was the pearl and diamond necklace she’d finished only days before. Perched high on her head, the simple diamond tiara that had caused them so much agony glistened. Charlotte held her breath as the stunning young woman twirled, veil flying as in a waltz. The tiara sparkled over the girl’s golden mane that cascaded to her tiny waist. She was exquisite, a fairy princess in an enchanted setting. And she, Charlotte, was partly responsible for the spell.

  For seconds, the crowd stayed hushed, then suddenly it erupted.
All around her, exclamations of delight and murmurs of surprised appreciation burst forth. Charlotte watched in dazed pleasure as Armand, dressed entirely in black, appeared onstage. It was all thanks to him, she reflected gratefully, a smile lighting her face as he took the bride’s fingers lightly in his and together they walked down the catwalk before a delighted crowd. He was transformed. Never had she seen him so handsome, so alive and fulfilled, and unshed tears shimmered as she watched him. At last he’d realized his dream of success. The clothes were an exquisite backdrop that deserved the praise. She clapped till her hands hurt, thrilled to see Armand smiling and bowing to an admiring public.

  “It’s perfectly wonderful, Oncle Eugène, I’m so proud of him.” She leaned over to speak directly in the Cardinal’s ear. But before Eugène could answer, Armand reached the end of the catwalk and raised his left hand, waving triumphantly. His cuff receded and Charlotte let out a horrified cry.

  It couldn’t be. But there, only feet away, was her beloved watch, clasped to Armand’s wrist.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered, stunned.

  “What is it, mon enfant?” Oncle Eugène followed her gaze to Armand’s wrist and he froze.

  “Mon Dieu,” he whispered, blanching. “Ce n’est pas possible!”

  As Armand’s confident figure retired, bowing, behind the scenes, the Cardinal grabbed Charlotte’s hand and rose.

  “We must go at once,” he declared, beckoning Monsignor Kelly to follow. “There can be no delay.”

  With a mystified frown, Monsignor Kelly followed close on their heels as they hastened through the applauding crowd toward the side entrance that opened onto the improvised dressing rooms.

  A sturdy young man with a shaved head and black T-shirt stood firmly before the door, his arms crossed. “I’m afraid no one’s allowed past this point without a pass,” he declared.

  “Rubbish,” Eugène snapped. “Move aside immediately. I have no time for this nonsense.”

  “But—”

  “Move.” The Cardinal’s voice remained low but his eyes spoke with such authority that the young man hesitated. Thugs and the curious he could deal with, but he hadn’t been trained for this kind of opposition. Mumbling and lifting his hands in a Gallic gesture of defeat, he moved aside.

  Inside, the place was in an uproar. Half-dressed models chatted excitedly, retrieving clothing, giggling and exclaiming. Makeup artists and stylists carried on animated high-pitched conversations and assistants rushed hither and thither.

  Eugène eyed the scene with disgust. It did not take him long to locate Armand on the opposite side of the room, surrounded by journalists and photographers.

  “Look at him,” he exclaimed, revolted. A thought suddenly occurred to him and he turned, frowning, to Charlotte. “Have you looked at the program?” he asked, eyes narrowing. He opened the pages of his own program, scanning them rapidly.

  “No,” she whispered hoarsely. “It was too dark. Oncle Eugène, I can’t believe Armand stole the watch, I—” Her voice broke.

  “Your name isn’t anywhere on the program,” he interrupted, his fingers flexing angrily.

  Charlotte flipped anxiously through the pages. Her designs were there, but not her name. Each piece was described as an original Armand de la Vallière.

  She swallowed in shock and gazed across at Armand, unbelieving. The man responding to the journalists’ questions, smiling broadly for the cameras, didn’t even resemble the old Armand she knew.

  He was transformed.

  “How could he?” she whispered, pain searing through her. “How could he?”

  The Cardinal stared grimly at his nephew. “Why don’t we ask him,” he murmured bitterly. With a swish of his robes, he advanced.

  15

  Brad sent an irritated glance around the table of the London boardroom, desperate for an excuse to close the meeting and head straight for Paris. It was past 4:00 p.m. and the meeting showed no sign of being over anytime soon. The items on the agenda were irrelevant and the discussion increasingly trivial. As Brad’s impatience increased, he wished he could wring Major Godfrey White-head’s scraggy throat. But Whitehead was a longstanding member of the board and as such had to be respected.

  He let out an impatient sigh, aware that his chances of making Charlotte’s show were getting slimmer by the minute. Brad glanced at the Major, his booming voice echoing through the room, and exchanged a look with Jeremy Warmouth, the president of Harcourts Europe and his old Yale friend. Warmouth raised a long-suffering eyebrow. The occasional board meetings were obviously a highlight of the Major’s retired existence. A reason to get away from rural Sussex, and a chance to hear the beloved sound of his own voice.

  Brad sorted the papers on the table before him, then made a production of slipping his pen into the inner breast pocket of his gray suit. He was about to bring the meeting to a close, when the Major cleared his throat dramatically, as if to signal an important announcement. “After tea I believe we should discuss the dress code issue.”

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen,” Brad interrupted, finally fed up. “But I’m going to have to leave you shortly.”

  “But you can’t leave now,” Whitehead exclaimed, distressed, his trim mustache quivering. “The skirt matter must be settled here and now.”

  “Major, as far as I’m concerned, the PR department should be the one to decide whether or not our female sales staff should wear longer or shorter skirts,” he responded wearily.

  “But Harcourts’ traditions should be upheld,” the old gentleman blustered, his face growing red.

  “Have we had any complaints?” Brad asked, trying to keep a straight face, amused despite his anxiety to be on his way and reach Charlotte. His eyes met Jeremy Warmouth’s once more.

  “Nothing like a good pair of legs to boost sales,” Jeremy murmured.

  Major Whitehead sent a withering glance down the long mahogany table and Jeremy retreated behind his glasses, tongue in cheek.

  “I don’t mean to belittle the matter,” Brad said, hoping to assuage the Major’s ruffled feathers, “but I’m afraid I have a plane to catch.”

  “I’m sure your aircraft can wait for you, Bradley. The extra few minutes won’t make you too late for whatever rendezvous you have awaiting you in Paris.”

  Was it that obvious? he wondered, digesting White-head’s withering comment. Brad let out a resigned sigh. It was wishful thinking to believe the meeting would end without the sacred break for tea. “Okay, let’s have a quick break then finish off,” he said, rising.

  “Sorry, old chap, not much to be done,” Jeremy muttered, straightening his Harrovian tie with an apologetic grin. “Old Whitehead has a bee in his bonnet about the skirt business. Just have to sit it out, I’m afraid.”

  “But I need to be in Paris, for Christ’s sake.” Brad dragged his fingers through his hair then grasped at an idea. “Say, do you have CNN here?” he asked suddenly. Perhaps there would be some coverage of the Paris shows.

  “There’s a telly in the partners’ room,” Jeremy responded doubtfully.

  “Great. Let’s switch it on right away.” Brad hurried to the door.

  They crossed the hall. Harcourts’ London offices had always reminded him of a well-lived-in English country house, the walls painted dull green and hung with nondescript oil paintings. He saw Finch, the company’s long-time butler, pushing the tea trolley reverently toward the partners’ room and stopped him.

  “Hey, Finch,” he said, grinning. “How’s it going?”

  “Very well, thank you, sir. Is there anything I can do for you?” Finch drew himself up to a full five foot four and waited.

  “As a matter of fact, there is. Find me the remote control of the television, would you? I need to see if I can catch a fashion show in Paris on CNN.”

  “Fashion show…?” Finch’s voice trailed to a whisper. “I fear the Major wouldn’t approve, sir.”

  “I’m aware that I’m breaking a scared rule, Finch, but it can’t be help
ed. This is an emergency. Did you know that Miss Charlotte is presenting her first jewelry collection in Paris at the Georges V hotel? I believe there may be some mention of the show on television.”

  Finch’s face softened. He’d had a soft spot for Charlotte, whom he’d known since she was a little girl. “Well, in that case, sir, I shall see what can be done.”

  “Thank you.” Brad smiled gratefully.

  “Didn’t know Charlotte was designing jewelry,” Jeremy remarked as they followed close on Finch’s heels.

  “She is. The show is with Armand de la Vallière’s fall collection.”

  “Ah. Sylvia not joining you on this trip?” Jeremy asked casually while Brad drummed his foot, curbing his impatience.

  “Syl?” Brad hesitated then glanced at his friend. “That’s actually something I need to talk to you about, Jeremy. There are going to be a couple of changes at Harcourts in the future.”

  Jeremy stiffened. “Such as?”

  “Well, I’ve decided to step down as CEO.”

  “You’ve what?” Jeremy collapsed into the nearest chair and stared at him. “Did I hear you right?”

  “Yes. It’s a long story but it’s the right thing to do. I’ll explain in detail when I have time.”

  “Who, may I ask, is succeeding you as CEO?”

  Brad glanced at Jeremy. “Syl’s taking over.”

  “Sylvia?” Jeremy jumped up, horrified. “What the hell made you do that?”

  “It’s a long story,” he responded. “I can’t explain now. Just trust me on this one.”

  Jeremy sat, silent, flabbergasted by Brad’s news, and Finch reappeared with the remote control.

  Brad turned on the television. In a few minutes, the story he was hoping for appeared on the screen.

  “This is Mark Clancy at the CNN center in Atlanta. Now, joining us live in Paris is fashion correspondent Marian de Soto, who’s covering the hottest items of this season’s shows. Good evening, Marian.”