Adam walked down the Strand into Trafalgar Square, staring glumly at Landseer’s enormous bronze lions. Francine would be waiting anxiously for him. Her genuine sympathy for Elizabeth had not been deep enough to override the dismay she had felt when he had told her that he would be accompanying Elizabeth back to London.
‘But chéri, is that necessary?’ she had asked, with a Gallic lift of her shoulders. ‘Surely Jerome’s lawyer will be with her and perhaps Princess Luisa Isabel, and—’
‘For God’s sake, what comfort will Jerry’s lawyer be to her?’ he had shouted. ‘She’s going to bury her father! She can’t possibly do it alone!’
They had parted on bad terms. Francine was sorry for Elizabeth but had seen no reason why Adam should have stayed with her in her hotel suite the night Jerome had died. It wasn’t his place to do such a thing. A nurse could have stayed with her. A woman friend.
‘Beth doesn’t have any woman friends,’ Adam had said, white-lipped. ‘She’s never been able to make any friends of her own. The only people she ever met socially were Jerry’s friends, and they’re all twenty years older than she is!’
‘As you are,’ Francine had said, her china-blue eyes flashing ferally.
He had sucked in his breath sharply, as if she had slapped him. ‘Yes,’ he had agreed between clenched teeth. ‘As I am!’ And had spun on his heel, striding from the room, slamming the door behind him.
Dusk closed in around him. Red motor-buses and Austins and Fords and taxi-cabs vied for supremacy as they roared along the side of the square and down Whitehall. On his massive stone column, Nelson looked out with an indifferent eye over the darkening streets. Adam turned his coatcollar up and flagged down a taxi-cab. ‘Victoria,’ he said without enthusiasm. ‘The boat-train.’
Francine greeted him with delight, secure enough now that he was back with her to indulge in her pity for Elizabeth. ‘La pauvre petite,’ she said, as she curled up against him, a mug of hot chocolate in her hands. ‘Was it very bad for her, chéri? Were there no London friends at the cemetery? No one to give her comfort?’
Adam shook his head. It was late the next evening, and a log fire was burning in the grate of Francine’s apartment. They had made love, eaten a bedroom picnic of hot cheese on toast, and were now sitting half-naked in front of the fire.
‘No,’ he said as Francine rested against him and he gazed over her head and into the flames. ‘Beth did not want another funeral service in London. There were only the two of us there, and the priest.’
Francine shivered. ‘Alors, it does not sound very nice,’ she said, snuggling closer against his chest. ‘And now what will Elizabeth do? Live in London and become a debutante?’
Despite his inner turmoil Adam grinned. ‘No, she’s going to buy a house in the country and, though she didn’t say so, I suspect she’s going to resume her piano lessons under the very best teacher that she can find.’
‘Mon Dieu!‘ Francine said, an expression of horror on her face. ‘She is crazy! She is young and pretty and rich. She could be having a wonderful time in London!’
‘Maybe she will,’ Adam said, his grin fading. ‘Later, when she has had a breathing-space to adjust to life without Jerry.’
He needed a breathing-space himself. Time alone in which to reassess his feelings for Francine. He had believed himself to be in love with her. He enjoyed being with her more than he enjoyed being with anyone else, except for Beth. She made him laugh; she made him feel good Her petite, high-breasted, slightly plump body gave him more pleasure than he had ever before experienced. She was sweet-natured and, for most of the time, eventempered. She adored him and she wanted to marry him and bear his children. And he knew, with pain, that though he was deeply fond of her he was not in love with her and never would be. The decision he had to make was whether to tell her so and break her heart by calling off the wedding, or keep the knowledge to himself and settle for the kind of marriage that most practical-minded Frenchmen would envy.
The decision grew harder with each passing day. A wedding dress was bought, a trousseau. The cake was ordered, the invitations sent.
‘I have never been so happy, mon amour,’ she whispered to him in the warmth and darkness of her Montmartre bedroom. ‘Another three weeks and I shall be Mrs Harland.’ She giggled, nestling close to him. ‘Do you think I will begin to look like a Mrs Harland? Will I become very English with twin-sets and pearls?’
He had not answered her. She was loving and generous with her love, and he knew that she was being cheated in return. That she was not receiving the single-minded passion that was her due.
When the steady rhythm of her breathing indicated she was asleep, he eased himself away from her, dressing quietly, knowing that he had to make up his mind one way or the other, and that, whatever decision he made, there would be no going back. He let himself noiselessly out of the apartment, walking quickly down the curving stone stairs, past the concierge’s empty cubicle and out into the deserted moonlit street.
It wasn’t that he wanted to marry anyone else. There was no other woman in his life, except Beth, and he had long ago rejected that idea as being impossible. If he married Francine, all his creature comforts would be taken care of. He would have a pretty fun-loving companion. He would have the family life he had always wanted, and he would, no doubt, be happy, because being happy was in his nature. He crossed the cobbled street, walking beneath the chestnut trees towards the rue du Printemps. He would also be living a lie and denying Francine the right to be loved as she deserved to be. He dug his hands deeper into his pockets, walking down the dark shuttered street towards the milky-pale dome of Sacré-Cúur, knowing that when he returned to her his decision would have to be made.
She looked at him as though he were mad. ‘Je ne comprends pas! Why can we not be married in June? Have you to go away somewhere on business? Is there an emergency?’
She was sitting at the breakfast-table in her tiny kitchen, her blonde curls tousled, a pale-blue chiffon négligée over her lace-trimmed nightdress, her eyes wide and uncomprehending.
‘It has nothing to do with business,’ he said gently, hating himself for the pain he was about to inflict. ‘I’m sorry, Francine. I should never have asked you to marry me. I’m not the sort of man that should be married.’
‘That’s not true!’ He was sitting opposite her, and she flew from her chair, kneeling down at his side, clutching his hands. ‘You will make a wonderful husband, chéri! You are sweet and kind and understanding.…’
He looked down into her frantic eyes and knew that there was no way of sparing her the truth. ‘I don’t love you, Francine,’ he said gently. ‘I’m sorry. I thought I did. I thought we could have a good life together, but.…’ He raised his shoulders in an expression of despair.
She gave a little sob, pushing herself to her feet as if she were suddenly old. ‘You don’t love me and you’re sorry!’ she choked. ‘Sorry!’ She raised her hand and slapped him across the face with all her strength, tears raining down her cheeks. ‘It is Elizabeth, n’est ce pas? It is Elizabeth you love! Elizabeth you wish to marry now that Jerome is so conveniently dead!’
He rose to his feet, shocked at how much she knew of feelings he had thought were secret. ‘No,’ he said tightly, sick that their affair was ending on such a note. ‘It has nothing to do with Beth, Francine. I—’
‘Liar!’ she howled, flying at him with her nails, gouging at his face. ‘You have always loved her! Always wanted her! Ever since she was a little girl! I’ve seen it in your eyes!’
‘You’re wrong.’ His hands were clenched, the knuckles white.
‘I’m not wrong!’ Francine spat, her breasts heaving beneath the flimsy covering of her nightdress. ‘When did the little bitch seduce you? The night Jerome died? Was that why you stayed in her room all night? Was the “comfort” you gave to her the comfort you never dared give her while Jerome was alive? Is “comfort” a new prissy English word for fuck?’
His hand caught
her across the mouth, and she fell against the table, stunned incredulity in her eyes.
‘You’re wrong and you know it!’ he blazed, appalled at the violence she had unleashed in him ‘For Christ’s sake, her father had just died! I stayed with her because I’m the nearest thing to a relative that she’s got!’
‘You stayed with her because you’re in love with her!’ Francine screamed as he stormed into the bedroom, dragging his suitcase from the top of the wardrobe, yanking suits and shirts from hangers and stuffing them inside. ‘You stayed with her because she’s a whore! A slut!’
He slammed the lid of his suitcase shut, not trusting himself to speak to her.
‘I hate you!’ she sobbed as he strode past her out of the bedroom and across the living-room to the door. ‘I hate you! Hate you! Hate you!’ The door crashed on its hinges behind him and she flung herself on the sofa, battering it with her clenched fists, sobbing as if her heart would break.
Elizabeth was stunned when he telephoned her and told her. ‘But what went wrong, Adam? I thought you were both so happy together.’
‘We were … for a time. She’s going around with a friend of Bendor Westminster’s now. It will probably end in marriage. He’s been crazy about her for years.’
‘Poor Adam,’ Elizabeth said sympathetically, and he said nothing to disillusion her. It was easier for Francine if it was believed that she was the one who had broken off their engagement.
‘How is the house coming along?’ he asked, changing the subject.
She had bought a small manor-house near Midhurst in Sussex, only an hour from London by train, but deep in the countryside, the old English garden looking out over a magnificent view of the South Downs and the distant sea.
‘It’s fabulous.’ There was undisguised pleasure in her voice. ‘Parts of it date from the fourteenth century, and there’s even a tiny minstrel gallery and a solar!’
‘And the music lessons?’
‘The Academy have taken me back.’ There was so much whole-hearted relief in her voice that he laughed.
‘Is it very hard-going?’
‘Excruciating,’ she said, laughing with him. ‘My Steinway has finally arrived from Nice, and the house had to be nearly taken apart before it could be fitted in. However, it’s sitting prettily in the drawing-room now and looking perfectly at home.’
‘And you’re happy there?’
There was an infinitesimal pause, and then she said, a little too brightly: ‘Yes, it was the right thing for me to do. Adam. I couldn’t possibly have lived in Eaton Place alone, and I have had enough of living in impersonal hotel suites. I wanted somewhere of my own, and Four Seasons is mine. You must come down and see it now that you’re not travelling to Paris every weekend.’
‘I’d like that,’ he said, the strong lines of his face softening. ‘Bye, Beth. God Bless.’
He had purposely restrained himself from visiting her. He had written to her, had long conversations with her on the telephone, but he had not seen her since the day they had parted at the Savoy. Now that he was no longer spending the best part of every week in Paris, he had no excuse for not visiting her.
He drove down the following Saturday. Once out of London there was very little traffic on the roads. It was a scorching-hot May day and the top of his Austin Swallow was down, the light sweet scent from the Sussex hedgerows thick as smoke in the sunlight. Feeling more light-hearted than he had done for weeks, he motored south through Guildford and Godalming, enjoying the sight of Georgian houses, their windows sparkling in the sunlight; thatched cottages, their gardens full of lupins and honeysuckle and Michaelmas daisies; and greystone Norman churches, their lychgates casting pools of shadow in the sunshine.
She was waiting for him in the driveway when he arrived. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and she was wearing a red silk shirt and a white linen skirt and summer sandals. Her legs were naked and honey-toned, her toenails varnished a rakish scarlet. She began to run towards him as he stepped out of the car, her arms wide. ‘Uncle Adam! It’s so marvellous to see you again!’
His arms were round her, and he breathed in the clean sweet scent of her, never wanting to let her go. The silky fall of her hair brushed his face, and she withdrew, taking his hand, her eyes shining.
‘Well,’ she said with pride, turning towards the house. ‘This is Four Seasons. What do you think of it?’
It was exquisite. Built of mellowed stone, it stood amongst its gardens as it had stood for centuries, as much a part of the surrounding countryside as the trees that sheltered it. Clematis clung to the walls, spilling clusters of purple blossom along window-sills and lintels. Roses, in bud but not yet in bloom, edged up the doorway promising splendour to come.
‘It looks perfect,’ he said truthfully as she led him inside into the drawing-room that had once been the great hall of a Norman knight.
‘This is the oldest part of the house,’ she said as he stared upwards at the hammer-beamed ceiling in amazement. ‘The two wings that give it its H-shape were added on much later, some time in the late sixteenth century.’
‘Quite modern, in fact,’ he said with a grin.
She laughed back at him, leading him through into the dining-room and then into the kitchen. ‘The last owner was an American who spent lashings of money on it and restored it with a great deal of love and care.’
‘I take it he died,’ Adam said as they walked out from the kitchen into a herb garden. ‘No one in their right mind would ever leave such a house voluntarily.’
‘Yes.’ A small shadow darkened her eyes. ‘He died about six months before Daddy. The house only went on the market the day I began looking for one.’
He caught the note of sadness in her voice and he knew she was thinking of Jerome. He also knew that Jerome would not have thought the house exquisite at all. It would have been too far from London for him. Too quiet Too secluded.
‘Are you happy, Beth?’ he asked, no longer smiling, his eyes holding hers steadily. ‘Have you become used to living on your own?’
Her hair glistened in the sunlight, skimming her shoulders as she turned her face slightly away from him and said: ‘I don’t think living alone is a thing anyone gets used to, not when they’ve been happy with someone. I know that you thought Daddy was selfish and that he shouldn’t have insisted on my being with him all the time, but it was because he needed me. And because he needed me I didn’t mind.’
A bee hovered, buzzing, over a clump of sage. In the distance, beyond the rich sweep of the Downs, the sky merged into the bright glitter of the sea.
‘Why did you break off your engagement with Francine?’ she said suddenly, turning to face him. ‘She isn’t in love with that friend of Bendor Westminster’s. Luisa Isabel rang me yesterday to invite me to her summer party, and she told me that Francine was heartbroken and still in love with you.’
The bee transferred its attentions to a tuft of purple-blue salvia with scented grey leaves. The sun was fierce, and he took his blazer off, hooking it with his finger over his shoulder. ‘Because I discovered I was in love with someone else,’ he replied, his free hand deep in the pocket of his sporting flannels. ‘Because it would have been grossly unfair of me to have married her.’
She had stopped walking and was staring at him. ‘But who is it you are in love with?’ she asked, bewildered.
He was a yard or so ahead of her. He turned round slowly, facing her in the age-old garden, the bee still skimming the salvia. The sun was hot on his back.
‘You,’ he said, and knew that his Rubicon was crossed. That
there could be no going back. Not ever.
Chapter Four
She continued to stare at him. The bee, replete, winged up and away. He sucked in his breath, his nostrils white and pinched, the pain behind his eyes almost unbearable.
‘Now you know, I don’t expect you to continue offering me hospitality,’ he said harshly, wondering how, in the name of all that was holy, he could have been
such a fool. ‘I’m sorry for the offence I’ve caused.…’
‘Adam.…’
‘I don’t know what possessed me.’ His voice was stiff, controlled, embarrassed. ‘I would appreciate it if you would–’
‘Adam!’
‘– forget what I said. I’m truly sorry, Beth. Goodbye.’ He turned on his heel, striding quickly from the garden, sick at the expression of numbed incredulity he had seen on her face; sick at his folly, which had ruined the happy relationship between them.
‘Adam!’ She was running after him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes agitated. ‘Adam, wait.…’ She caught hold of his arm, but he did not halt in his purposeful stride. He had to get away. He didn’t want her sympathy or her pity.
‘Adam, please…,’ she panted, trying to keep pace with him. ‘I don’t want to forget what you said!’ Her eyes were urgent. ‘I never imagined… never considered…’
He had reached the car. He flung his jacket on to the rear seat, slamming open the door, sliding behind the wheel and punching the engine into life. ‘No. I don’t suppose you did!’ he said. ‘It isn’t what a girl expects from a man she regards as an uncle, is it? A man she’s always believed she could trust. I don’t blame you for how you feel, Beth.’ He rammed his foot down hard on the clutch.
‘You don’t know how I feel!’ she shouted over the roar of the engine. ‘I don’t mind, I tell you! In fact, I’m pleased!’
He stared at her, one hand on the wheel, the other on the gear-stick, smoke from the exhaust billowing into the air.
Her hands gripped the car door. ‘I’m glad that you’re in love with me! I’m not offended at all, Adam! I’m glad!‘
Smoke continued to plume into the air. He couldn’t move. He stared at her, transfixed, and she began to laugh. ‘Why are you so surprised? I’m eighteen now. I’m not a little girl any longer. I think you being in love with me is flattering and incredible and quite, quite wonderful!’
He snapped the engine off, his hand trembling slightly, not trusting himself to speak: She stood only inches away from him, a light breeze stirring the glossy sheen of her hair, her eyes warm and untroubled, far more in command of the situation than he was.
A Multitude of Sins Page 7
