by Hyland, Tara
“I wanted to congratulate you,” he said, seizing the initiative while she was still trying to compose herself. “Your collection was truly wonderful. You deserved to win.”
There was a silence as Caitlin tried to think of something to say. But the only thought going through her head was how fortunate it was that she had changed her mind and worn one of the dresses that hadn’t made it into the show. It was an intensely feminine piece, with a boned corset, a full satin underskirt, and a sheer outer coat made of silk organza. She’d let her hair grow out recently, and tonight it was curled into dark ringlets, giving a Gothic romanticism to her look that she knew Lucien would appreciate.
“I didn’t think you were going to come tonight,” she said.
He shrugged. “I thought I owed it to you.”
There was another silence.
“And now I should go.” He bowed his head to her and turned away.
Time slowed. In that moment, seeing him about to walk away from her, she realized she didn’t want him to leave. She thought of William, waiting for her outside, even though she had no desire to see him. She thought of the after-party at Hôtel Costes and how she wanted to skip it. And she thought how pleased she was to see Lucien again, that he had come tonight when she had feared he wouldn’t.
And that was when she made the decision.
“Lucien?”
There was something in her voice that stopped him, made him turn back and look at her again.
“Yes, Caitlin?”
“Let’s get out of here?” It was said tentatively, a question rather than a statement.
A slow grin spread across his face. “That sounds like an excellent idea.”
Back at his apartment, everything moved quickly. They were in his bedroom and he was kissing her with a feverish urgency. Kissing her mouth, her neck, her shoulders. They were in exactly the same place as they had been all those months earlier. Except this time she wasn’t going anywhere.
She heard him murmuring, “I knew you would change your mind, chérie.”
She felt a curious detachment as he unhooked her bra, peeled down her underwear, and laid her on the bed. There was none of last time’s panic as he came to join her. Just a quiet determination to see this through.
He was inside her now, and he was saying something, something that sounded like, “I missed you so much, Caitlin. Every day I missed you.” She closed her eyes, as he began to move in and out, slowly at first, then faster, his rhythm building with his excitement.
Not long now, she thought.
And, as if he’d read her mind, he grabbed her shoulders and her eyes flew open, just in time to see the look of intense pleasure come over his face as he started his climax. And she felt what she could only describe as relief as he buried his head against her neck, so all she could hear was the muffled sound of him calling her name over and over again.
Afterward, she lay in his arms. Gently he kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips. Then he pulled away a little, so he was staring into her eyes as he said, with utter sincerity, “I love you, Caitlin.”
She reached up and touched his face, wishing she felt the same way. But her only sensation was emptiness. The kind of emptiness that told her it was over between them.
She waited until he was asleep. Then, as quietly as she could, she slipped from his bed, pulled on her clothes, and left.
Back at her apartment, she made her preparations. Paris was over for her. She wanted a clean break, a new start.
It was surprisingly easy to pack her life away. She wrote three letters in all: the first to Dior, explaining that she wouldn’t be taking the internship after all; the second to Véronique, enclosing enough money to cover the next two months’ rent; then the final one to Alain, apologizing for leaving so abruptly. She knew she should write to Lucien, too. But somehow she couldn’t find the words. Another time—once she had gotten her head together—she would explain. But, for now, she couldn’t think about it.
That night, Caitlin boarded a plane to New York. From her window seat, she watched Paris fading into the distance.
You’re running away again, a little voice warned.
And back came her answer:
Right now, I don’t care.
31
_________
“I’ve decided to tell William.”
Piers stared down at his mother’s hand, clutching his own. It was a Saturday afternoon, and as usual he had come over to the Mayfair flat to keep her company. But instead of asking him to read to her as usual, she’d said that she had something she wanted to discuss with him.
He tried to keep his voice calm as he asked, “What are you talking about, Mother? What are you going to tell William?” But he was just playing for time. He knew exactly what she meant. It was his worst fear realized.
“Piers,” Rosalind spoke gently. Her watery eyes searched out his gaze, begging him to understand. “My love, I’m going to tell William what we did . . . what we did about Katie. I’m going to tell him everything. I have to, before it’s too late.”
But why? Why do you need to tell him? Piers thought as she continued speaking in her low, broken voice, explaining to him why she felt the need to confess her sins now that she was dying.
“It’s time I was honest,” she said. “For once, I want to do the right thing.”
He rested his head in his hands, his fingers massaging the dull ache that had begun to form in his temples. He couldn’t believe how selfish she was being. William’s wrath would last for years, and he would be left to endure it.
“But what about me?” His voice was no more than a whisper.
She blinked. “What about you?”
He looked up at her then. Could she really not see? “William will hate me!”
There was a silence. “Yes,” she said calmly. “He probably will.”
“But that’s not fair!” he burst out. “I only went along with this because I thought it was in William’s best interests. I can’t be punished for that now!”
“Piers, please.” His mother’s voice took on an edge of firmness, the kind she’d reserved for telling him off when he was a child. “Don’t try to change my mind. Nothing you say can stop me from doing what is right.” She paused, took a breath before continuing. “I know now that I was wrong to conceal the truth from him for all these years.” She stopped again, to take another breath.
Piers looked at her carefully, concern for her health momentarily outweighing his anger. “Are you all right, Mother? Can I get you some water?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? Because—”
“I said I’m fine,” she snapped. “Just let me finish what I’m trying to say. It’s important.” She breathed in again, once, then twice. Piers waited patiently for her to continue. “I’m going to tell him what we did,” she said finally. “Everything we did, and then I’m going to ask for his forgiveness. I’m sure if you do the same he’ll listen and find a way to forgive you, too.”
“No, he won’t!” Piers could hear the whine in his voice and knew it was going to annoy her. “He’ll cut me out of his life—and you know it.”
She looked at him levelly. “And would that be such a bad thing?”
Piers stared at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, Piers.” Her laugh was gentle but faintly mocking. “You know very well what it means. You’re nearly forty-five. Isn’t it about time you started living your own life rather than hanging on your brother’s coattails?”
The verbal blow hit hard. He hated his mother when she was in this mood. She seemed to know exactly what to say to hurt him most.
“Well, I don’t think it’s quite like that,” he said defensively. “William appreciates having me around.”
“He tolerates you, my love. That’s a very different thing.”
“That’s not true!”
“Of course it’s true,” she said dismissively.
“But—”
&nb
sp; “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she interrupted. “I’m too tired to argue with you.” There was a true weariness in her voice. “I don’t care how you live your life. You’re old enough to make your own decisions. As am I.” Her voice sounded hoarse now, her breathing shallow. “And I just wanted to do you the courtesy,” she stopped, took a breath, “do you the courtesy of letting you know . . .” She stopped again, wheezing now. “That I’m going to tell William what we did. And nothing,” she was really struggling now, “nothing you say can stop me from . . .”
She stopped mid-sentence, as though pausing to take yet another breath. But then she started to cough, a great wracking cough that seemed to rattle her very bones.
Piers stood, paralyzed, waiting for her to recover. But instead she kept on coughing, a look of terror in her eyes. That was all he could hear and see—those great shuddering gasps and her wide, staring eyes.
“Mother?” he’d finally found his voice. “Tell me—what should I do?”
He watched as her hand stretched out, and he followed her gaze to the table at the end of the bed and finally worked out what she wanted—her nitroglycerin pills. She was having an angina attack. He remembered what they had told them in the hospital, that arguing could trigger an episode.
He picked up the plastic bottle and began to unscrew it, his fingers fumbling with the childproof cap, losing precious seconds. Finally he had a tablet in his shaking hand. He was about to give it to her when he stopped, remembering suddenly what she had said to him before the choking fit had started.
I’m going to tell William what we did . . . Nothing you say can stop me . . .
Maybe nothing he could say would stop her. But now, as though Fate was looking out for him, another way had presented itself. It would be easy, so easy . . . The thought—so abhorrent, so unnatural—had entered his head before he could stop it.
Rosalind’s pupils grew larger, as she realized what was going through his mind. Her eyes pleaded with him then, trying to let him know that she wouldn’t tell, after all. But how could he trust her?
Later, when he was alone and trying to ease his guilt, he would tell himself that he never really intended for any of it to happen. It was a split second of doubt, a minor hesitation, but one that he was about to rectify. He was, he would tell himself again and again, intending to give her the pill, to get help, to save her after all.
But somehow in that moment he couldn’t find the strength to move.
She was having a full heart attack now. And even though he knew he should run outside, call the nurse, knew that if he brought her in now, she would probably have enough time to fire up the defibrillator, to resuscitate Rosalind; even though he knew it wasn’t too late to do something, instead he stood frozen to the spot.
Finally her eyes closed. Her breathing became shallower. Her face grayed. One last breath shuddered through her. And it was over.
Only then did the enormity of what had just happened register with Piers. He fell to his knees, clutched both hands over his mouth.
“Oh God,” he sobbed through his fingers. “Oh my God, what have I done?”
Lucy Fielding was one of three nurses employed to take care of Rosalind Melville. It was a reasonably easy job. Every two hours she would check the patient’s vitals and administer her medication. That usually took all of five minutes. Then the rest of the time she was free to read magazines or watch TV.
That afternoon, she was on her way to do a routine check when she saw Mrs. Melville’s younger son coming out of her bedroom, closing the door softly behind him. Catching sight of Lucy, he put his finger to his lips.
“I think I tired Mother out,” he told her. “She fell asleep on me.”
Lucy hesitated. The agency was very particular about staff sticking to the planned schedule. But if Mrs. Melville was resting, then Lucy didn’t want to disturb her. The poor lady rarely got much sleep as it was.
“I’ll leave her for a bit longer then,” she said. “Shouldn’t do any harm.”
She walked Mr. Melville to the door, sighing as he left. He was such a sweetie—a little shy perhaps, but always polite and appreciative of the nursing staff’s efforts, not like that brother of his who was forever finding fault. With that thought, Lucy went to her room and called her boyfriend to recount the events of her day.
Almost an hour passed before she finally went back to check on Rosalind Melville. By then her body was already growing cold. Afterward Lucy couldn’t help feeling a little guilty. If she’d come in sooner, maybe she could have done something to save the old woman, given her that last medication. But she knew that was silly. Rosalind was old. She’d had a good life. With her heart, it had only been a matter of time. There was nothing anyone could have done to prevent her death.
The funeral took place the last week of August. The weather had been unrelentingly bright and sunny over the past month, and no one relished attending such a sad occasion on an incongruously beautiful day. But thankfully it rained overnight. The mourners woke up to gray skies, although the air was still warm and wet.
The service was dignified, just as Rosalind would have wanted. Her coffin was a solid mahogany casket, adorned with a single arrangement of lilies. The congregation read like a Who’s Who of the fashion world: fellow industry executives, designers, and models crowded into the magnificent Wells Cathedral. Naturally, the board of Melville were all in attendance.
Elizabeth had come back from Tokyo for the funeral. Of the three grandchildren, she was the only one who would truly mourn her grandmother’s passing. Standing by the graveside, she tried to think of the good times—remembering childhood trips to London, Rosalind showing her around Melville’s flagship store and recounting stories of her adventures during the war. Elizabeth had visited Rosalind often during her illness. The last few times, the once-great lady had been so pathetically grateful that Elizabeth had felt a mixture of sadness and embarrassment whenever she went to her Grosvenor Street flat.
Uncle Piers had taken it hardest. And understandably so. While William had his own family—a wife and three children—Piers had no one else. Elizabeth knew how devoted he’d been to his mother. She tried to find words to comfort him, but once they got back to Aldringham after the interment, he excused himself and went to lie down. Given that he looked as though he hadn’t slept since Rosalind’s death, Elizabeth could only hope he’d find some peace now.
With over a hundred and fifty mourners thronging the drawing room, no one noticed him go. A buffet lunch was being served, but Elizabeth had no appetite. There was no one she could talk to, no one who would understand. Caitlin hadn’t even bothered flying back for today, and in some ways Elizabeth didn’t blame her: it wasn’t as though Rosalind had been especially welcoming to her illegitimate grandchild. And Amber was nowhere to be seen. She had come back from New York full of talk about her latest fad, modeling. No doubt she had sneaked upstairs to call her friends and tell them all about it. That was the last thing Amber needed—a bunch of people spending the day flattering her. Elizabeth still couldn’t quite understand why their father had allowed it.
Their mother seemed to think the independence would do Amber good, teach her some responsibility. But two months abroad seemed to have done little to stem her teenage rebellion. She’d even had the gall to turn up at the funeral in black jeans, a black T-shirt, and oversized sunglasses. Elizabeth had been horrified by the show of disrespect. Then she thought, if granny could see Amber now, she’d sniff and say that was all you could expect from such a spoiled child, and that made her smile. That was what today should be about, after all: remembering who Rosalind Melville had been.
“That was a beautiful speech you made in the church, Elizabeth.” The girl looked up to see her father.
“Thank you,” she said. Truthfully, she had been surprised when he’d asked her to give the eulogy today. It had taken a lot for her to get through it without crying. “I did my best.”
“Yes, you did,” he said firmly. “She would
have been delighted, you know.”
Elizabeth looked away, unsure how to react. These expressions of fatherly pride were so longed for by her, but equally so rare that she had no idea how to deal with them.
Before she could think of an appropriate response, William had moved off into the crowd, back to playing his role as genial host. Elizabeth walked over to the bar and got the waiter to fix her a gin and tonic. It was Friday, and she was planning to stay for the weekend at Aldringham rather than rush back to Tokyo. She heard a shout of laughter behind her and whirled around, prepared to glare at whoever was being disrespectful. But as she surveyed the room, she suddenly realized that no one looked contrite or embarrassed by their humorous outburst. The low, respectful voices that people had used at the start of the day were abandoned now, along with their jackets and ties. Because, deep down, no one really cared about Rosalind. Most of these people were only here to show their faces, to network. Standing there, in the middle of the hypocrisy, Elizabeth felt a sudden desire to be alone.
She had the bartender pour another large gin and tonic and then took it out onto the veranda. But even there she felt too close to everyone else. She wanted to get completely away. So she started to walk, heading down toward the tennis courts. No one would find her there. Only when she was far away from the house did she finally sink down onto the stone steps and rest her head on her knees, pleased to be able to let her public mask slip away.
She’d hardly been there a minute when she heard a cough behind her. She looked up and her heart sank. It was Cole.
“Oh, great,” she muttered. That was all she needed. She’d spotted him in the church earlier and had managed to avoid his gaze. Now, she quickly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She hated anyone to see her looking vulnerable, and it was even worse that it was Cole. However, he didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. Instead, he took out a clean hanky from the pocket of his suit jacket and held it out to her. She hesitated for a moment and then took it from him.
