Unexpected Blessings (40 page)
‘That’s a good idea.’ Jean-Claude took hold of Tessa’s hand and drew her across the kitchen floor. ‘Don’t worry about the food, Gérard will attend to it in a moment,’ he said to her.
A side door led out to the terrace which ran along the back of the house, and Jean-Claude and Tessa walked over to a group of chairs casually arranged around an old wrought-iron coffee table painted white.
‘What a truly beautiful evening it is tonight, Tess,’ he murmured, as they sat down together. ‘I am so glad we left Paris when we did; there’s nothing like a summer evening in the country. I must admit, I do forget how lovely Clos-Fleuri is when I’m away from it.’
‘It
is
lovely here, and I agree with you, it was a good idea to leave Paris tonight. It’s a pretty name, Clos-Fleuri…it means field flower, doesn’t it?’
‘Exactly. When I found the house it was called that. It was terribly neglected, a broken-down old place, but my sister Marie-Laure helped me to bring it back to life. You will meet her tomorrow, she is coming to lunch with her husband.’
‘I can’t wait,’ Tessa said, smiling inwardly. She wanted to know as much about him as she could, and his sister would certainly offer a few more clues.
Tessa settled back comfortably in the chair, looking up at the sky. It was a very deep blue now and a few stars had already come out. They were extremely clear and bright, seemed so close to the earth she felt as though she could reach up and pluck one down. The gardens surrounding the house were quiet; the only sounds she could hear were the rustling of the trees under the light breeze, and a strange noise she couldn’t quite place.
Glancing at Jean-Claude she asked, ‘What’s that odd sound?’
‘Les grenouilles…
the frogs…in the pond at the edge of the lawn.’
‘Of course, I knew it sounded familiar. There’s a frog pond at my mother’s house in Yorkshire.’
Gérard came out onto the terrace and said,
‘Monsieur, s’il vous plaît, c’est le téléphone pour vous.’
‘Oh. Excuse me,’ Jean-Claude murmured, and got up.
Tessa closed her eyes, let herself drift with her thoughts while he went inside. Had she ever felt so peaceful? So complete and content? She doubted it. There had never been much peace with Mark Longden. He was always rushing around like a whirling dervish, restless, forever in a panic. Nothing had ever pleased him. She could do no right. Nor did he ever stop to think…about anything; he had no idea what was going on in the world, so self-involved was he. She couldn’t wait to be free, a divorced woman.
Lorne and Jean-Claude came walking along the terrace talking. She sat up, took the glass of water from Jean-Claude as he handed it to her.
The three of them clinked glasses and as he sat down Lorne said, ‘You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Jean-Claude. Why did you call your book
Warriors,
using the English word rather than the French?’
‘It struck me that warriors sounded better and it has such a good ring to it…I think it is more descriptive, so does the publisher, and everyone does know what warrior means. Don’t you think it is more international than
querrier,
the French word?’
‘I do. And you’re right, it works in any language.’
Jumping into the conversation, Tessa said, ‘Earlier today I asked you why you cover wars, put yourself in danger, but you know you didn’t really answer me. So…why do you, Jean-Claude?’
‘Most probably because I like to be where the action is. Also I have been doing it for many years, since I was young. In a way I think of myself as a war reporter.’
‘But those wars you covered were hellish,’ she said softly.
‘All war is hell, Tessa, and yet we keep going to war.’ He shook his head and a small sigh escaped. For a split second he looked perturbed, but he threw it off, then continued, ‘Will we never learn? I suppose not, unless man undergoes a radical change in his nature which I consider most unlikely. War seems to be…an integral part of this planet, and I never stop wondering why that is so. I have the need to understand this and understand myself and understand the human race, I think that is why I keep constantly testing myself.’
A small silence settled over the three of them and no one spoke.
Jean-Claude finally cleared his throat, forced a light laugh. ‘Enough of war. Let us relax here and count our blessings.’ He turned his head, looked at Tessa, and added, ‘Unexpected blessings.’
She smiled at him.
Lorne thought: It has worked between them. I knew they were right for each other. And he smiled to himself in the twilight, knowing he had done the right thing in bringing them together.
Before she could stop herself, Tessa blurted out, ‘I shall worry about you if you go off to cover another war.’
Jean-Claude did not respond. Instead he took her hand in his, brought it to his mouth, kissed it. And he continued to hold it as he launched into a discussion about the film Lorne would be starring in. He was still holding her hand when Gérard came to tell them supper was ready to be served.
Much later that night, as she lay asleep in his arms, Jean-Claude remained awake, staring up at the ceiling, innumerable thoughts crowding his mind, jostling for prominence. He understood himself very well, knew that he wanted her with him at all times.
He remembered how once, long ago, he had asked himself if anyone could ever know whether a happy marriage would follow love at first sight. A love affair was a risky business. And yet he was sure of the way he felt, and sure about her, and the two of them together. Yet, it was a frightening prospect…because it would have to be serious. He had no time to waste, not at this stage in his life. He was fifty-three after all.
She was too young for him, wasn’t she? Of course she was. She was only a year older than his son. And yet she was mature for her age, intelligent, educated, cultured, civilized. These were all attributes which he found seductive in a woman.
They had seduced each other in a day…drawn together as one soul, as one entity. What did age matter?
Wasn’t she his destiny?
G
ideon Harte picked up his briefcase, slipped his mobile phone into his jacket pocket and walked across his office. As he reached the door the telephone on his desk began to ring.
Hurrying back to the desk, he leaned over and picked up the receiver. ‘Gideon Harte.’
‘It’s Andy. Can I see you for a moment?’
‘I was just leaving. Is there some kind of problem?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Okay, come on down to my office.’
‘Righto. Be there in a minute.’
Gideon went over to the plate-glass window, put his briefcase on the floor near his desk, then turned, stood looking out at the rooftops of London. The sky had a peculiar look to it, pinkish along the edge of the horizon, a dull glow like a fire in the distance, except that he knew there was no fire. Gideon sighed under his breath. He was very tired; it was almost ten o’clock on this Monday night, and he had had a long day. He was glad his father was coming back from New York at the end of the week. In his absence he had had the entire newspaper chain to supervise, and it had been quite a job since he also ran the London
Evening Post.
Now his mind zeroed in on Andy McHugh, and he hoped his top investigative reporter was not coming to give him news he had been half expecting for some time–and dreading.
A moment later Gideon swung around as Andy knocked, came barrelling in, exclaiming, ‘Sorry about this, Gid, but I felt you had to know tonight.’ Closing the door behind him, Andy strode across the floor, joined Gideon at the window.
‘Okay, give it to me straight, no frills please,’ Gideon said, looking Andy right in the eye.
‘It’s about Dusty Rhodes.’
‘Oh shit, I knew this was going to come and hit us in the face sooner or later. What’s happened? Who’s got the story?’
‘Look, it’s not a breaking news story, thank God. As you well know, the Harrogate police and the hospital conveniently forgot that stabbing ever happened. But there’s going to be a special piece in the
Daily Mail
tomorrow or Wednesday. An in-depth interview with Melinda Caldwell.’
‘Well, thank God it’s not about the stabbing. India’s name would have been all over that story!’
‘You’re right, and she probably isn’t mentioned in this one, although we don’t know that for sure. But listen, Gideon, there’s something else. This Caldwell girl has a child with Dusty. A little girl, Atlanta, three years old.’
Startled, Gideon gaped at the reporter. ‘Oh God, and he never told India. That I know for sure. She would have confided in me or one of her other cousins, we’re all very close. This is going to be a big shock to her. In a sense it changes the picture for India. He’s lied.’
‘Maybe not. I do believe that the relationship between Dusty Rhodes and the Caldwell girl is over, and has been for a long time. Harry Forster and I really did do a lot of digging into Dusty’s past, into his background, and he’d definitely broken up with Melinda Caldwell by 1998, actually maybe just after the child’s birth. He’s been truthful with India about all that.’
‘He just omitted to tell her he has a three-year-old child. Lying by omission, I would call it.’
‘That’s true.’
‘How did you find out, Andy?’
‘As you know, I have a contact at the detox clinic, well-paid by us, a male nurse I asked to keep me informed about Melinda. He just phoned tonight with some useful information. About two weeks ago, a friend of Melinda’s, Carrie Vale, went down to see her, as she has over the past few months. But this time she brought another woman, who was passed off as also being a friend of Melinda. I say passed off because the other woman is a writer for the
Mail.
Obviously, the two of them induced Melinda to sell her story. “My Terrible Life with Britain’s Greatest Living Artist,” or something or other like that. My contact told me that unexpectedly Melinda opened up to him tonight, boasted that she’d been paid a lot of money to tell her side of the story, although Barry, my contact, believes she’s been motivated by revenge, not money. Wants to get her own back on Dusty Rhodes for dumping her…you know how it goes…hell hath no fury…’
Gideon sat down at his desk, pondering for a moment, then said to the investigative reporter, ‘Come and sit here for a minute, Andy,’ indicating the chair at the other side of the desk. ‘Let’s try to assess the damage…to India.’
Andy nodded, lowered himself into the chair, also looking thoughtful. ‘I don’t think there’ll be any real damage to her, Gid, I mean as far as the story goes. There’s nothing wrong with her having a relationship with Dusty Rhodes. He’s single, available. However, I’m fairly certain she herself won’t be too favourably disposed towards him,
if
he hasn’t told her about his child. And I do say
if.
He may well have explained the whole situation.’
‘I doubt it! She’d have confided in one of us. But I agree with you, as far as the actual story’s concerned.’ Gideon blew out air, slumped down in the chair. ‘I shall have to alert her, especially since you said it might appear tomorrow.’
‘That’s right, and one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you tonight is that there could be repercussions, as far as certain tabloids are concerned. Once the story appears, other papers may do follow-ups, write about Dusty and his kid. If India is with him at Willows Hall she’ll be exposed to them, maybe even in the middle of the feeding frenzy. You know what they’re like, some are real buggers if you ask me,’ Andy finished.
‘Damnation, that might easily happen!’ Gideon exclaimed, sitting up. ‘I can just imagine the headlines in some of the tabloids…playing up their different backgrounds. Anyway, it was smart of you to pay off that male nurse, at least we’re not going to be taken completely by surprise.’
‘I’ll stay on top of it, Gideon, but there’s not much we can do about other papers picking it up, rehashing, running with it.’
‘I realize that. However, let’s be thankful for small mercies. I shall call India to warn her, and if she’s staying at Willows Hall with him I shall advise her to beat a hasty retreat at once.’
Linnet was sitting in the upstairs parlour at Pennistone Royal, studying the sketches for her wedding gown, as well as those for the bridesmaids’ dresses. She had spread them out on the coffee table, and suddenly she glanced up at Evan, who sat at the other side of the room near the oriel window.
‘I know you’re going over the list of tomorrow’s chores at the Leeds store, Evan, but can you spare me a couple of minutes?’ Linnet asked.
‘Of course. What do you need?’
‘Your eyes. I just can’t make up my mind about my wedding dress. Maybe you can help me, you’ve got such good taste.’
Evan put down her notebook and came to join Linnet on the sofa, picked up one of the sketches and gazed at it for a few minutes. She suddenly made a face. ‘No, not this one. Far too modern.’ Slowly, paying great attention to the details of the sketches, she went through all of them, discarding every one. Then she turned to Linnet and said, ‘I’m not really crazy about any of these, Linny, to be really honest. This one isn’t too bad.’ As she spoke she selected a sketch, handed it to Linnet and added, ‘Even so, it isn’t the kind of wedding gown I picture you in, or how I see you in my mind’s eye on that very special day.’
‘How do you see me?’ Linnet asked, sitting back against the cushions, staring at Evan with interest, valuing her opinion.
‘I think you should look elegant yet romantic’ Evan lifted her hands, moved them around in front of her, as if trying to draw a shape in the air. ‘I think you should wear a medieval dress, no, not that, but something that hints of…the Tudor period! Yes, that’s it, and not white, it’s too sharp for your pale skin and red hair. I think the gown should be cream-coloured,
rich,
like clotted cream, and made of satin.
Heavy
satin. There should be pearl embroidery on it, too. The style I envision is with a high bustline,
Empire,
perhaps even with a high neckline and long sleeves. A full skirt, almost a crinoline. Elizabeth Tudor style, I think. That’s how
you
should look, like a young Tudor queen…and you are a queen that day, you know.’
