The Lost Dreams

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  As she stumbled, exhausted, into the white marble bathroom, Charlotte caught sight of her reflection in the huge mirror. The white Armani suit was splattered with drying bloodstains that formed a strange pattern down her right leg. She stared at it, mesmerized.

  That was Armand’s blood she was wearing.

  Suddenly she ripped her clothes off. Putting on the terry robe, she stuffed the pantsuit, her bra and panties and tights into a laundry bag with a shudder. No amount of washing would ever cleanse the memories associated with them. Even though it was now well-past midnight, she picked up the phone and dialed housekeeping. Grabbing the plastic laundry bag, she hastened back through the room and opened the door, depositing the bag outside with a sigh of relief.

  Minutes later, she was under the shower, desperately trying to cleanse herself of the tragic event.

  It had been the most ambiguous night of her life, she reflected as the warm water slid over her. Her fears of failure had been followed by recognition and the public’s applause, only to suffer the shock of seeing her watch flaunted on Armand’s wrist.

  She tried to forget what had followed as she lathered herself thoroughly, determined to eradicate every trace of horror.

  And finally Brad had come.

  She stopped scrubbing and her hands moved in softer movements over her soft skin. All this time she’d thought he didn’t care, yet as always, he’d turned up just when she needed him. In a few stolen moments, he’d explained why he’d left so suddenly, and told her that he’d ended his engagement to Sylvia. She smiled for the first time in several hours. It was comforting to know he was only a few doors down the hall, where he’d taken a room, probably in the shower, too. He’d tried to insist that she leave the hotel and go with him to the Plaza Athénée instead. But Charlotte was loath to abandon the Cardinal. They’d been through this together and she was not about to jump ship.

  Reluctantly Brad had agreed. He would come and see her later, once they were showered and dressed. Knowing him, he would insist she eat. Charlotte wrapped herself in the terry robe again, grimacing at the thought of food. After wrapping her hair in a turban, she returned to the bedroom and sank onto the bed, exhausted. What a night this had been, she reflected, yawning, eyes drooping as she curled on top of the bed to wait for Brad. She lay down, pulled a pillow under her cheek and, despite her certainty that she wouldn’t close an eyelid, drifted into a light slumber.

  Brad stood next to the bed and gazed down at her in relief. When he’d knocked and there was no answer, he’d experienced a sudden rush of fear. Charlotte was an emotional time bomb and he hastily called the concierge and had the room unlocked. Watching her lying there asleep in the center of the huge bed, wrapped like an Eskimo in her robe, she reminded him of the little girl he remembered. After covering her, he switched off the bedside lamp. Pulling off his shirt and pants, he did what seemed natural and slipped in beside her under the covers.

  She sighed, mumbled and snuggled close under the covers. Brad put his arms around her protectively. Nothing could tear them apart now, he reassured himself, basking in the soft warmth of her body. He’d been able to have a few words with her before they’d each gone to shower. He hoped he’d assuaged all her awful imaginings about the reasons for his trip to New York. They were nothing more than fantasies born of insecurity.

  The towel on her head had come loose and he drew it off, letting her hair cascade over the pillow. Gently he stroked the long damp strands. He loved her unconditionally, he realized, feeling her turn.

  The robe slipped off her shoulder, revealing firm white breasts outlined by a shard of moonlight that snaked through the half-closed curtains. He swallowed, watched as, half-asleep, she threw the robe off onto the floor then turned over, rubbing her cheek gently against his bare shoulder. His arm closed tighter around her. She murmured his name and her arms came around his back. For a long moment they clung, each sensing that together they could wipe away the evening’s horror.

  Gently their lips met.

  Charlotte kept her eyes closed. She needed to feel him, know he was next to her, that he would never let her go. A rush of tenderness made her press closer. She felt his hardness and instinctively cleaved to him, basking in the sheer power of his body and the overwhelming need for him to plunge deep inside her, obliterating the disturbing shadows that still lingered in their midst. His fingers sought her inner core, and she gasped, impatient to know him deep within her, the yearning more powerful than anything she had ever known. It was an elemental need for survival, for procreation, for union of body and spirit, as though nature’s forces, once merged, would finally vanquish death.

  Soft words and tender caresses gave way to pent-up emotions, bursting forth now in a frantic rush. Another time he would caress her for hours on end, but right now his need to be inside her was too great. Through the darkness he sought her eyes, read the same insatiable hunger coupled with a feral need. He thrust, hard and fast, reckless and demanding, heart throbbing wildly as she arched, legs curling around him, as they reached for the depths of each other’s soul.

  This was how he’d wanted her, dreamed of her, yearned for her all these years. With a final thrust he took her, then felt her body give as together they crashed, racked by the violence of a climax that shattered the boundaries of sanity.

  There was no need for words.

  Brad pulled her head gently onto his shoulder and stroked her back tenderly. She was his as never before. Armand’s death and the revelations of the previous evening had sealed a new bond between them. As he went to sleep, he prayed that they would still be like this in forty years.

  By the time Eugène finally entered the bedroom of the presidential suite, he was exhausted. But this awful evening’s events would allow him no rest. He sighed. He was too old to carry such burdens. He wondered, as he had so often these last few months, when the Bon Dieu would see fit to let him set down his load. It was long past time for him to leave this wearying life. His friends and closest family, so many faces from his past, were gone now, and he yearned to see them again.

  Not that he expected an unquestioning welcome when the Lord finally called him to his side. No, he knew his own sins too well to assume that his stature within Christ’s earthly church would earn him an automatic place in his heavenly kingdom. But surely, once he was before the Lord and could explain himself, he’d be granted absolution for the many mistakes he’d made. He sighed heavily and moved to the mahogany dresser by his bed.

  Sadly he removed his pectoral cross, carefully folding its scarlet and gold cord, and laid it next to the square gold box where he’d kept it for over fifty years. He stared at it thoughtfully, the night’s occurrences still fresh in his mind. The box had been Sylvain’s last gift before he disappeared into hiding, he remembered sadly. For a moment he studied the enamel inlays, the heavy lid with the unique octagonal recess in the middle, set with a strange pattern of precious stones.

  Then, with another sigh, he looked away. Tonight had been a long, traumatic evening, with a tragic outcome he could never have imagined. How had he not sensed, not known Armand was living in such hell? Even more troubling, he wondered if it was one to which he’d unwittingly contributed. Clearly he’d played some role in Armand’s unhappiness, and for that he could not forgive himself. His nascent sense of guilt weighed heavily on him, and he longed for repentance and absolution. He must seek out his confessor when he returned to Rome. Perhaps then he might be granted a little peace of mind.

  He sat unsteadily on the edge of the bed, still in his robes. He would say prayers for Armand’s soul, and request that the priests in the dioceses under his control do the same. Perhaps with so many voices interceding on his nephew’s behalf, the poor boy might find in death the peace that had eluded him in life. But it troubled him still that Armand could have constructed such an elaborate fantasy. Of course, he would have found it exciting and romantic to be associated with Sylvain de Rothberg, rather than René, particularly after the untimely
death of his mother under such shameful circumstances. Still, the madness must have been in him from an early age.

  He moved his frail limbs and tried unsuccessfully to rise. He’d give himself another few minutes, he decided, wondering where Linus had gotten to. He needed his help to undress. Most likely he was still negotiating some final detail with the authorities, though the préfet de police had seen to matters most efficiently. Neither could he find fault with the hotel staff. Perhaps, he decided grudgingly, the Georges V was not as bad as he’d believed. Tomorrow he would thank the director personally for all the attention bestowed.

  Making a huge effort, he rose stiffly, felt a strange bulge in his pocket, and removed the heavy gold watch he’d forgotten to return to Charlotte.

  Sylvain’s presence was certainly everywhere tonight, he realized. Tomorrow he would sit down with Brad and Charlotte and tell them about the past. The time had come. But tonight he simply hadn’t the strength.

  He handled the watch gently then stared at it for a long moment. There was something familiar about it. Frowning, he glanced at the enamel box on the dressing table. “Bon sang,” he exclaimed, taking a trembling step forward. Desperately, he tried to remember Sylvain’s exact words when he’d given him the box. Something about holding secrets?

  His breath came faster. Unsteadily he picked up the box in his right hand, still holding the watch in his left. A sudden chill ran down his spine as he looked from one to the other. “Carry the secrets,” Sylvain had whispered when he handed him the box, almost as a benediction. At the time, he’d wondered what Sylvain had meant—“Mon Dieu,” he whispered, gazing from one piece to the other.

  Then, with trembling fingers, he brought the two together.

  There was a tiny click as the face of the watch snapped into place on the box’s lid. Eugène gasped. How could he have lived with the box under his nose all these years and never thought of it as anything but a gift from his beloved brother-in-law, in which he’d kept his assorted accessories? Hesitating only an instant, he turned the face of the watch as he would the lock on a safe.

  A spring gave way and the heavy lid split in two. As the upper tier popped up, he let out a long amazed breath and removed the top half of the lid, now divided into two separate parts, and looked inside. Gently he pried a thin envelope from its niche. It was addressed to him in Sylvain’s copperplate writing. Shaking, he took out a flat bronze key and gazed at it, lying in his palm. It was the key to a safe, or some safe-deposit box, he realized, pulse racing. He swallowed, mouth dry, and laid the box and watch reverently on the dresser, overcome by emotion. Then he reached for his letter opener. Sitting down shakily on the bed, he gazed blindly at the envelope. Slitting the top precisely, he drew out two leaves of neatly creased paper that crackled as he unfolded them. The sight of Sylvain’s writing, his elaborately drawn letters unmistakable, brought tears to his eyes. Could this be—literally—the key to the Lost Collection? He skimmed the text and his vision blurred. It was all here: the name of a bank he knew well in Switzerland, the number of the account, the safe, the codes and a notarized power of attorney delivered in his name, all signed for and sealed by Sylvain himself.

  Eugène’s hands shook again as he laid the letter on the dresser. Destiny had caught up with them at last. His thoughts turned to Charlotte, to the resounding applause of the crowd earlier that evening, then to Armand’s untimely death, which perhaps was a blessing in disguise. Silently he fell to his knees. “Seigneur,” he murmured, his withered hands clasped on the brocade eiderdown, “show me the way and bless me with the right words to tell her.” He prayed, thinking of the immense responsibility that was about to fall upon Charlotte. “May she be wise enough now to handle this legacy that you have seen fit to send us.” Then quietly, he thanked God for allowing him to fulfill his mission.

  Exhausted, he laid his head on the eiderdown pillow and stretched his fragile body along the pressed linen sheets, too tired to go on. Disregarding the clothes he still wore, he closed his eyes, surprised to feel a new-found sense of peace. For a few moments he reveled in it. So this was what it was like to know true serenity.

  For the first time in memory, Eugène cast aside his pain and worries and fell quickly into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  17

  It was 11:00 a.m. and still the Cardinal had not appeared. Breakfast had come and gone. Charlotte shifted nervously on the sofa in Eugène’s sitting room, flipping again through the papers. Somehow the news had leaked out that she, not Armand, had designed the la Vallière jewelry collection, and the phones had been ringing nonstop since early morning. Brad had finally ordered the hotel switchboard not to pass on the calls. He’d also efficiently dispatched two reporters who’d made their way up to the suite.

  There was just too much going on, Charlotte decided, knowing her stress level must be off the charts. Restlessly, she rose and crossed the room to stand beside the French window of the new presidential suite the Cardinal had been transferred to after last night’s horrible incident. Trying to forget that Armand had shot himself in front of a similar window just down the hall, she stared out across Paris. She felt as if she’d woken up this morning in some alternate universe. Her work was being celebrated in the world’s most famous fashion capital and she had learned she was the granddaughter of her idol. And, of course, Armand was dead.

  It was hard to assimilate.

  So much was still unclear. And there was only one person who could provide the answers. Impatiently she glanced at Oncle Eugène’s door, willing him to put in an appearance. She must learn the truth about the past. Only then could she move on and deal with the present, and the future. She needed to know.

  She’d talked to Mummy earlier this morning and told her the amazing news. Both had suffered the same reaction; anger and sadness that David, her father, had lived his life under a false pretense. She’d asked her mother to tell Genny only the necessary facts, so that she wouldn’t learn of Armand’s death through the media. Charlotte would tell her daughter the rest when she returned home. But now all they could do was wait for the Cardinal to reveal the story behind his secrets, a story he’d apparently carried for a lifetime.

  “He’s taking so long,” she exclaimed, turning to Brad at the desk answering e-mails on his laptop.

  “Calm down, Charlie, he’ll come out when he’s ready. Yesterday was incredibly traumatic. He was very tired last night. Give him a chance to recuperate.” He smiled at her from across the room.

  Whenever he smiled like that, Charlotte felt the tension within her loosen. There was something about being in his presence that calmed her. Even the sound of his voice over the phone did wonders when she was wired. She smiled back at him. How handsome he was in his dark suit and tie, how tender, how strong and wonderful.

  And at last he was hers.

  Just as she was indisputedly his.

  The thought sent shivers down her spine and she crossed over to where he sat. He set his laptop computer on an adjoining table, patted his knee invitingly and she dropped into his lap.

  “I love you,” she murmured, slipping her arms around his neck and fastening her lips to his.

  “I love you too,” he mumbled between kisses. “More than I ever thought it possible to love.” His voice was hoarse and he held her close.

  For a moment they simply held each other tight, needing to feel the other’s warmth. It was blissful to know that nothing could keep them apart ever again. She nuzzled his neck, breathing in the delicious scent of his after-shave. “I like that,” she said, sniffing. “It smells like Dex.”

  “Not surprising. Roget & Gallet, the cologne Dex always wore. It’s old-fashioned but I like it. He introduced me to it when I was fifteen.” He nibbled her ear, sending delicious shivers through her.

  “That scent has stayed with me all these years, ever since Chester Square.”

  “And will do so for the rest of our lives, I hope,” he murmured, hand slipping to her breast, fondling tenderly through th
e thin white cotton shirt.

  “Don’t,” she moaned, “or I won’t be in a fit state to concentrate on all Oncle Eugène has to say. I can’t believe Sylvain really is my grandfather, can you? It’s so incredible. I’ve practically worshiped the man. No wonder Granny Flora said I looked so much like Geneviève, and I don’t resemble any of the other MacLeods. I suppose I’m a throwback,” she added. “It’s like a fairy tale.”

  “You’re right. It is. But since you’re a fairy princess, I guess it’s only appropriate.” He massaged the back of her neck and drew her mouth to his once more.

  It was a long, tender kiss, a gentle communing, each seeking the other’s core. When Charlotte raised her head, her vision swam. She dropped her forehead to his and sighed. “Guess that makes you my knight in shining armor. Lord knows you’ve come to my rescue often enough.”

  “No, Charlotte, it’s you who’s rescued me,” he said solemnly. Then, teasingly, he pinched her cheek, breaking the intensity that had suddenly sprung between them. If things continued in this vein, Brad realized, Eugène was going to get a rather shocking eyeful when he opened his door.

  “Up you get,” he ordered, lifting her off his lap. “We need to focus on your new career. You need a publicist, young lady, someone to deal with PR and set up a press conference.”

  “But I can’t do a press conference,” she exclaimed, horrified.

  “You don’t have a choice, Charlie. Your collection has generated tremendous excitement, and the bizarre circumstances surrounding its debut have made this more than just a fashion story. You’re going to be hounded until you set the record straight—and what you do now will establish the tone for the rest of your career. Everyone is expecting something of you.”

  “Oh God!” She grimaced and flopped into the nearest chair. “Why can’t I just design my jewelry back on Skye and be done with it?”