The Paris Model

by Alexandra Joel

  Grace wrapped her daughter in the rose-pink shawl she had found in the mysterious polished box. Then, with the babe in her arms and the heaviest of hearts, she trudged grimly through the mud and the slush to the Abbaye de Sainte Jeanne.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Grace stumbled, then stumbled again. She was so blinded by tears she could barely manage the short walk back to Charincourt. When she reached the château, she wiped her eyes and looked up blearily at the place where she had sought shelter. Without the camouflage of snow, the château had resumed its desolate appearance. The great decaying structure, dank and broken, emanated malevolence.

  Grace fled back to the safety of her solitary rooms. With shaking hands she unlocked the door, blundered inside and threw herself, sobbing, onto the bed. When at last there were no tears left to shed, she lay where she was, unmoving. How could she ever come to terms with what she’d done? Her body ached for the child who had so recently been a part of her. She hadn’t been prepared for this terrible raw pain. It was as if something essential — a hand, an arm — had been brutally torn away.

  Time passed. It might have been minutes or hours, Grace didn’t know. During the past week, each day had been marked by Serena’s cycles: when she slept, when she suckled, when she was bathed. Only a week! She would never again smell her sweet scent, feel her tiny fingers curl around her own, stroke her downy head. What she wouldn’t give for another day, an hour, a few precious minutes with her beloved child.

  The room was too quiet. She’d grown used to Serena’s cries, her whimpers and gentle coos. Now there was nothing, only silence. The void was unbearable.

  Still, she lay there. The fire was unlit but she barely noticed the cold. Grace wanted only to remember, tried to recall every moment she’d spent with her daughter during the past seven days. Yet already she felt the memories begin to disappear; they were no more tangible than melting snow.

  Grace glimpsed a shadow passing the window, then heard a knock at the door. It would be dear Claude again. She did not wish to see a living soul; she only wanted to be left alone with her grief. All the same, it was kind of the elderly caretaker to come and see how she was faring. She forced herself to rise from her bed.

  ‘Bonjour, Claude,’ she said dejectedly as she opened the door.

  ‘Bonjour, Grace.’

  She gasped, then staggered back into the sitting room before collapsing into one of the armchairs. This phantom was surely another cruel hallucination.

  ‘Philippe,’ she managed to whisper. ‘Is it really you, or have I lost my mind?’

  He was as handsome as ever, his eyes still a vibrant blue, his dark hair brushing his collar. Yet he had two faint lines on either side of his mouth that Grace had never seen before.

  ‘It’s me, all right,’ he said with an expression of concern. ‘I’m so sorry, I know this must be a shock, but I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to finally see you.’ He looked at her lovingly. ‘I came as soon as I could.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Grace said, faint and confused. ‘I’ve been here in the château for months.’ Although she longed for him to hold her in his arms, when he moved towards her she forced herself to look at him coldly.

  ‘You have every right to be angry with me,’ Philippe said, obviously dismayed. ‘But I can see you’re not well, and it’s freezing in here. Let me light the fire, or at least bring you something to drink that will warm you up a little.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ she replied curtly. ‘Just tell me what has brought you to Charincourt.’ Philippe’s presence was almost more than she could bear, yet her dearest wish was that he would never leave her.

  He sat down in the armchair opposite Grace. ‘First, I need to tell you what happened on the night of Bastille Day,’ he began, ‘when the communists discovered I had betrayed them.’

  ‘How did they find out? I thought your cover was completely secure.’ Grace drew her brows together.

  ‘Remember when we went to La Voiture Folle and there were all those photographers outside? I was convinced I’d eluded them, but apparently I was wrong.’

  Grace’s heart skipped a beat. She would never forget the moment she discovered that Reuben and Gaston were one and the same.

  ‘As soon as Orly realised his safe had been opened, he instructed his men to eliminate you. They were provided with a photo from a newspaper gossip column. Unfortunately, when the thugs spotted me in the same picture, they realised I was leading a double life, that we were accomplices.’

  ‘So they began to look for you too.’ Grace said.

  ‘Yes. When you didn’t turn up in Belleville, I was terrified something awful had happened to you. I was about to jump onto my bike and start searching, but’ — his voice faltered — ‘that’s when they made their move. I was shot.’

  ‘I had no idea!’ Grace felt ill. This was the reason why he’d never come to her, and it had been all her fault.

  ‘Grace, you’re shivering,’ Philippe said, looking worried. ‘Do you have any brandy?’

  Unable to speak, she pointed to the pantry.

  A few minutes later he returned with two glasses. ‘Drink this,’ he said, ‘while I light the fire.’

  He handed Grace a glass, then struck a match to some kindling. As the wood began to crackle and flare, she swallowed a mouthful of the burning liquor. ‘This attack on you. How bad was it?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘Bad enough. Fortunately, an ambulance arrived quickly — apparently the barman called it — and took me to Emergency. By the time I’d been operated on, word had reached my superiors about what had happened. I was transferred to a secure military hospital where I drifted in and out of consciousness for ages. Ironically, the former Minister of the Interior was one floor below me.’

  ‘Giscard Orly is alive?’ Grace grasped her glass so fiercely her knuckles turned white.

  ‘He is. But you have nothing to fear. Together with every one of his foul accomplices, our murderous ex-minister now resides in France’s most unpleasant, high-security jail.’ Philippe gave a contemptuous laugh. ‘I don’t think a man like Orly will adjust very well to the rigours of prison life, do you? On the other hand, he will have a very long time to get used to it. Imagine — no women, no fine wine and no gourmet cuisine, just a regime that would challenge a Spartan.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’ Grace drank some more brandy. ‘Not long ago, I thought his men had found me; I was terrified. Orly is the first truly evil person I think I’ve ever come across. All the same, I’m relieved I didn’t take a life.’

  No, she thought, staring miserably into her glass. I have created a life instead. And what a world of woe I have unleashed by doing so.

  Philippe frowned. ‘Something has happened to you since you came to Charincourt, hasn’t it?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Well, perhaps this should wait until you feel stronger . . .’

  ‘Philippe, for God’s sake, tell me what you’re doing here,’ Grace pleaded.

  ‘All right. When Brigitte revealed you had no feelings for me, that you didn’t ever want to see me again, I felt as if my world had come to an end. But I wasn’t surprised.’ He groaned. ‘I was sure that after everything I had put you through, you must have loathed me — and how could I blame you? I reached the conclusion that you had returned to the safety of your home, and quite likely to the warm embrace of your husband. I convinced myself it would be pointless to look for you.’

  Philippe stood abruptly and walked over to the bay window. Turning towards Grace, he said, ‘Remember, I was in hospital, ill and confused. Brigitte was the only person in Paris permitted to see me — she was recorded on my service file as next of kin.’

  Grace was mortified. Brigitte had begged her to listen to something very important she had to say concerning Philippe, but Grace had rejected her every attempt to do so.

  ‘I asked my cousin if she believed you might ever want to see me again. Brigitte said there was no hope. I tried to forg
et you, tried to stop loving you — it was impossible.’

  The fact that Philippe still cared for her made everything worse; Grace felt as if a shard of glass had pierced her heart.

  ‘Then, one day, Brigitte brought Jacqueline Bouvier with her. She was only allowed to see me because the US Embassy interceded. Things started to change after that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Grace said. ‘My head is swimming. You’re saying that Jackie had something to do with you turning up here?’

  ‘She wanted to share a remark her Australian friend had made. I said I didn’t wish to hear a word about you — it would hurt too much. But Jackie insisted.’ Philippe smiled ruefully. ‘Apparently, you told her that if one never took a risk, one would be unlikely to make a mistake; as a result, one’s life would be small and very safe. She asked me if this was what I wanted.’

  He sat down again and drained his brandy. ‘Seeing as I didn’t think my life had been small, and it certainly hadn’t been safe, I put what she’d said down to the boundless naivety of a rich American girl. Jackie clearly didn’t have a clue what I’d been through.’ Philippe looked forlornly at Grace. ‘It was only some time afterwards that I realised I was doing everything in my power to stay safe.’

  ‘I’m so sorry I hurt you,’ Grace said in a low voice.

  ‘You were the first person outside my secret world with whom I dropped my guard,’ he explained. ‘But I am ashamed to say, when you ran from me, when Brigitte delivered your message, I attempted to shut off my feelings behind a set of iron doors.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I was a fool.’

  ‘So you decided to find me. I can’t believe Brigitte would have revealed where I was.’

  ‘You’re right — she refused. But it wasn’t hard to work out that if there was a chance you had not returned to Australia, it was likely she had hidden you safely away in Charincourt.’ Philippe paused. ‘Believe me, I would risk anything, do anything, to have our life back, exactly as it was before I involved you in that political madness.’

  Despairing, Grace clasped her hands together. Her love for Philippe had never diminished; if only it was possible to obliterate the past, if only their story could be rewritten.

  ‘As soon as I was more or less recovered, well, as you can see — here I am, pleading with you to return to me. Only, I must tell you, I am not alone.’

  Philippe stepped into the hall. Grace heard a few muffled words being exchanged before, wearing an enormous greatcoat and carrying a battered felt hat in his hands, Reuben Wood strode into the room.

  Grace jumped up, her heart beating wildly. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve come to set you straight, Princess,’ he said. ‘It’s something I should have done a long time ago.’

  ‘And that makes it okay for you to turn up, out of the blue?’ Grace demanded. She was shaking with anger.

  ‘I’m sorry — ’

  ‘Sorry? Having stayed away from me all these years, you come waltzing in as if nothing had changed, and on a day that — thanks to you — happens to be the worst of my life. I can’t believe you have the hide to show your face.’

  ‘My God, you poor girl. It’s all my fault,’ Reuben cried. ‘You’ve been living in — you know at fun fairs, where they have a Hall of Mirrors? Everything is distorted, all the bits are in the wrong order. Trust me, nothing is the way you think it is, nothing.’

  Grace’s rage was replaced by a wave of fatigue. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ she said, sinking back into her armchair.

  Reuben pulled up a seat. ‘Identity,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘Yours, mine, and that of just about everyone who has ever loved you. I’m talking about who we really are.’

  Grace couldn’t help it. Shocked, overwhelmed and exhausted, she began to cry.

  ‘The only thing I’m certain of is that you are my real father,’ she sobbed. ‘Olive confessed before I went to Paris. But because you walked away, because of your silence, the most terrible thing has happened. Didn’t it ever occur to you that I deserved to know the truth?’

  Reuben rubbed his chin. After a moment, he began to speak. ‘Every single time I looked at you I wanted to tell you who I was, what you meant to me. Only I couldn’t.’

  Philippe coughed. ‘This is between the two of you. I’m walking over to the village for a coffee but, please, come and fetch me when you’re finished.’

  Reuben nodded.

  ‘Well?’ Arms crossed, Grace looked at her father.

  ‘I’m not asking you to forgive me; I know it’s too late for that,’ he said. ‘But perhaps if I tell you what happened, you might begin to understand how it all went wrong.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Sydney, March 1922

  Reuben Wood scuffed the turf beneath his feet as he inhaled the familiar smell of Smith’s saleyards, a distinctive combination of horse sweat, manure, waxed leather and fresh hay. At just twenty-four, he was large and well built, with a shock of black hair and brawny hands.

  He ambled a little closer to a lively grey colt he’d seen.

  ‘You won’t find a finer prospect,’ Smith said, running his fingers over the animal’s glossy hide.

  ‘Is that a fact,’ Reuben responded coolly, pushing his hat to the back of his head.

  His friend Alfred Woods was looking for a swift horse of just this colt’s type, but Reuben wasn’t about to reveal any interest to the vendor. That wasn’t how a good deal was done.

  Reuben was determined to do his best by Alfred. At first, they’d had a strictly professional association. But, over time, it had become much more than that. Despite Alfred’s wealth and education — Reuben had left school at fourteen himself, and never seemed to have much cash — the two men soon discovered they shared a similar outlook on life.

  It wasn’t only horses they had in common. Each was as much taken with music as the other, especially the classics, and they both agreed there were few poems that captured the great Australian bush better than those penned by Henry Lawson and Banjo Paterson. They also shared a philosophical turn of mind, and were wont to converse well into the night about such matters as the morality of war, and how far a man might go to do what he knew was right.

  Reuben looked up, surprised to hear his wife’s voice. ‘Rae, what on earth are you doing here?’ he said.

  The pretty young woman ran over to him, kicking up puffs of dust with her feet as she crossed the yard.

  ‘You’ll never guess!’ she announced, tossing her curls.

  ‘Well, it must be something special, considering I’m busy talking to Mr Smith about this colt of his.’ He turned towards the vendor, slightly embarrassed. ‘My apologies, I’ll just be five minutes. It seems Mrs Wood’s got a bee in her bonnet.’

  Reuben took Rae to one side. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m sorry to break in like this, but I was so excited I just couldn’t wait. It’s definite. Oh, darling, we’re going to have a child.’

  Although the bar at the Hotel Australia was crowded, it wasn’t difficult for Reuben to pick out Alfred. The man’s elegant bearing, his perfectly tailored pin-striped suit and finely wrought features set him apart, even from the well-heeled clientele of this exclusive watering hole.

  Reuben elbowed his way towards his mate with a broad smile on his face.

  ‘Hello, my boy, you look as pleased as Punch,’ Alfred greeted him. ‘You must have bought that colt for a damned good price to be as cheerful as this.’

  Reuben took off his shabby hat. ‘I reckon I did. But I’ve even better news than that.’

  ‘Do you now? Happens I’ve a bit of news myself. What’s going on in your neck of the woods?’

  ‘A baby, that’s what!’ Reuben announced, beaming. ‘Rae’s due to give birth in early September.’

  To Reuben’s surprise, Alfred emitted a hearty laugh.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘It looks like our names are not the only way in which we are alike. Olive’s pregnan
t too and —’

  ‘Don’t tell me she’s due at the same time.’

  ‘You’re right! Well, well, this is a fine coincidence.’ Alfred clapped his strapping friend on the back. ‘Good God, man, if anything calls for a drink, it’s this.’ Alfred signalled to the barman. ‘I’d like two of the best whiskies you have — let’s make it doubles.’

  ‘Happy days,’ said Reuben when the tumblers of amber spirits appeared.

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’ With a smile, Alfred touched his glass to Reuben’s.

  Charincourt, February 1950

  As Reuben spoke, the web of lines on his face appeared to deepen. Grace could see how much he’d aged during the past decade.

  ‘Alfred rang me at home in Surry Hills from the women’s hospital in Paddington to tell me Olive was in labour. He was thrilled, declared he’d already bought the finest Cuban cigars, ready for us to smoke when the baby arrived. I was pretty excited myself, knowing Rae’s time couldn’t be far away.’

  ‘I’ve never heard anything about this before,’ Grace said.

  ‘Anyway,’ Reuben continued, ‘we waited and waited to hear back until eventually, Rae said she couldn’t stand it. So I decided we should take a little walk. Mind you, she couldn’t go far. ‘We went up to the corner shop and bought a copy of The Sun newspaper — it’s funny, I still remember what was on the front page. It was something about Lloyd George, the British Prime Minister, laying down the law about the Turks and the Greeks all over again. As soon as I opened the door of our cottage I could hear the phone ringing. I sprinted over, but I was too late. Then I recall saying something like, “Not to worry. If that was Alfred, he’ll be bursting to tell us the good news. I bet he rings again in a minute.”’

  Grace stared at Reuben. ‘What are you saying? That you calmly sat by, with your pregnant wife at your side, while you waited for news from another man who was just a few miles away about the birth of a child he thought was his — but that you knew was your own? That’s one of the most cold-blooded, duplicitous acts I could ever imagine! And to think I was that child.’