Voice of the Heart

  A wooden shutter slamming back against the wall of the villa brought Doris back to the present. She leaned forward, looking down the terrace. Light was spilling out of the windows of the library, which she had converted into a bedroom for Christian. He began to play his violin, and the strains of a classical piece drifted down to her, poignant, melancholy, and beautiful in the silent twilight. Mozart, Doris thought. He always plays Mozart, and with such feeling and brilliance. A deep sadness enveloped her. How her heart ached for Christian, and also Diana. They were both far too young to carry such terrible burdens. She had invited David’s sister to join them for the summer, and although Arabella had tentatively accepted, Doris knew she would not come, as did Diana. Neither of them had dared voice this shared opinion to David, who was elated at the prospect of propelling his sister ‘back into the land of the living’. But Doris understood—understood the woman’s state of mind, her motivation. Princess Arabella von Wittingen, caught in limbo with time suspended, could not bring herself to leave West Berlin for any prolonged period. She was waiting for her husband to return from the dead.

  Sighing, Doris lit a cigarette. In the flare of the match her sapphire and diamond ring glittered like sharp blue flame. Doris studied it for a moment. It was her engagement ring from David. He had brought it back to France with him last weekend, when he and Kim had driven the Rolls-Royce down. It was part of the Langley Trust, and normally he was reluctant to take such heirlooms out of the country, in case of loss or theft. But, he had said, he wanted her to wear it immediately. ‘It makes our engagement official, and it also says “hands off to all the stray wolves around here,’ he had laughed when giving it to her. She twisted the ring, smiling thoughtfully, knowing it had been worn by his grandmother, his mother, and his late wife, Margot, mother of Francesca and Kim. Doris loved it because of its significance in this family, her family now. Her hand went up to her throat to finger the necklace resting there, a delicate thread of sapphires and diamonds, understated and beautiful, with a matching bracelet and earrings which she was wearing tonight. Edgar had given her the sapphires only a couple of days before he had died four years ago.

  Overpowering though her grief had been, time had subdued and lessened it. Yet even so, Doris knew that she would never forget that terrible day as long as she lived. How shocked and stunned she had been when Edgar had dropped dead, felled by a heart attack in his Chicago office. She had been inconsolable, her sense of loss so enormous she had been unable to function.

  Doris saw Edgar then, as though he were standing before her on this terrace, saw him as he had looked that morning before he had left the mansion on Astor Street. A handsome, vigorous man, full of life and fit as a fiddle at sixty-six. Yes, his death had indeed devastated her, for Edgar Asternan had been everything in the world to her—husband, lover, father figure, teacher, friend and confidant.

  Be glad for me, Edgar, be happy, my darling, she now whispered, talking to him as she so often did. David is a good man, loving and kind and innately decent like you. I’ll be happy with him, as I was happy with you. It won’t be the same. Nothing is ever quite the same. But we do have a lot to offer each other. Thank you, Edgar, for everything… for helping me to become what I am today. If I had not had you, I would not be sitting here tonight.

  Goodbye, Edgar, my dearest darling. The time had come to finally let him go. She was about to embark on a different life, with a man who needed her as much as she needed him, and there could be no shadows from the past. She leaned back against the cushions, sighing lightly, but it was a peaceful sigh.

  A clock chiming the half hour brought Doris fully out of her reveries. She crushed the cigarette in the crystal ashtray and stood up, smoothing the silken folds of her caftan. No more introspection, she told herself, walking slowly along the terrace and into the main salon.

  Doris paused for a moment beside the ebony and ormolu directoire desk, straightening the magazines, her mind revolving around her problems again. If only it had not surfaced now, she thought dismally. It would have been so much easier to handle later. This is the worst possible time. There will be nothing but upset and embarrassment. Everyone is going to be affected, and it will cast a dreadful pall over the rest of the summer. Oh God, I don’t know what to do for the best. David must be told. There was no alternative.

  ‘Then so be it,’ Doris said aloud, and simultaneously experienced a surge of relief, as she invariably did when she made a decision. Indecisiveness and procrastination were anathema to Doris. As were liars.

  Intent on her purpose, she crossed the circular marble hall and climbed the grand sweeping staircase to David’s suite of rooms, formulating sentences in her head. The situation was both delicate and explosive, and therefore every ounce of her diplomacy was required.

  ***

  Victor opened his eyes and blinked in the filtered light leaking in through the shutters. He reached for his watch on the bedside table and glanced at it, realizing, as he did, that he had a vague headache. Too much burgundy at lunch, he thought, putting the watch down.

  He stretched his body and turned on his side, reaching for Francesca. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her hair. She murmured something to him, sleepy, unintelligible words, and opened her eyes. He bent his head, kissing her on the mouth gently, then pulled back, looking down into her face.

  ‘You’ve got to get up, baby. You’re going to be late. And anyway, if you stay here we’ll only get into trouble again.’

  Francesca smiled languorously. ‘Then let’s get into trouble.’ She nestled closer to him, trailing her fingers across his shoulder. ‘I’m all for it.’

  Laughter caught in his throat. ‘So am I,’ he said, sitting up. ‘But it’s a fair drive to Cap Martin, and I don’t want you—’

  ‘Speeding on the roads again,’ she finished for him. With a sudden movement she left the bed.

  ‘You got it, kid. Right on the button. Now do as I say. Scoot. Get dressed at once. I’m going to call Nicky.’

  She lingered. The smile on her face was secretive and knowing and just a shade tantalizing.

  There were moments, such as this, when she was so irresistible it took all his self-control to contain himself. He wanted to crush her in his arms and make love with her over and over again, and never let her go. But she had to leave. Her father and Doris were expecting her and he did not want their suspicions aroused. Nor did he want her pressing her foot down on the pedal, as she was predisposed to do. He said, in a domineering tone, ‘I’ll give you fifteen minutes to get your show on the road, lady. And listen, you’d better let Diana drive. Jeez, the way you race anybody would think you’re practising for the Grand Prix de Monte Carlo.’

  ‘Do you know, Vittorio Massonetti, you’re beginning to sound like a cross between Napoleon Bonaparte and the Duke of Wellington. Always marshalling your troops, giving directives. Go there. Come here. Eat this. Sit down. Stand up. Get dressed. Get undressed.’

  ‘Come on, Ches, shake a leg,’ he broke in, swallowing a chuckle.

  ‘Yes, sir! Right away, sir!’ she retorted, blew him a kiss and glided across the floor. Her voice rang out gaily, ‘Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves, and Britain’s women never shall be slaves!’

  His mouth twitched. She rarely failed to entertain him. He loved her sense of humour, her blitheness of spirit, her outspoken manner, and her feisty independence. He wondered what she would be like when she had a few more years on her shoulders. Probably one hell of a woman, he hazarded. His eyes followed her retreating figure, tenderness and admiration mingled in them. Her lithesome young body had acquired a smooth golden tan and her hair was bleached to the colour of ripe corn. In the last ten days in the South of France she had blossomed under the sun—and his loving.

  She swung her head as she went into the bathroom, blew him another kiss. He stared at the closed door, half smiling to himself, thinking how well everything had worked out after all. He and Francesca had been able to spend a great deal of time tog
ether, openly and quite naturally, and also without awkwardness. This was due, in no small measure, to Doris Asternan, who had thrown them into each other’s arms on a continuing basis, albeit inadvertently, unaware of their true relationship. Doris, who more than lived up to Francesca’s glowing description, was gregarious, warm, and a generous hostess who loved to entertain. She had issued an open invitation to Nick and him, expressing the opinion that she was sure he, in particular, would appreciate the privacy the secluded villa afforded.

  And so invariably he and Nick drifted up to the beautiful house on the promontory at Cap Martin almost every day, to play tennis, swim from the private beach, laze around the pool, enjoy a game of poker or gin, sometimes croquet on the lawn. There had been casual drawn-out lunches on the terrace, charming candlelight suppers in the garden, as well as trips to the casinos in Monte Carlo and Beaulieu. He had reciprocated her open-handed hospitality with several elegant dinners at La Reserve and the Château Madrid; Nick had taken them to the Chèvre d’Or in Eze, the picturesque village high in the hills, and to Le Pirate, the amusing outdoor restaurant near the villa. Jake, who had arrived three days ago, had immediately been included and made to feel welcome, part of the family. Yesterday Jake had hired a speedboat at the tiny port of Beaulieu, and they had cruised up the coastline, picnicking on the way, stopping off at Cannes, on the trip back, to have champagne on the Carlton terrace and browse in the boutiques.

  From the first day he and Nick had been corralled by Doris, Victor had recognized the necessity for a certain posture. Discarding the avuncular role, since he had come to understand it infuriated Francesca, he had opted to play the part of a big brother. His behaviour could only be construed as fraternal, and he had kept everything light and on a jocular level, yet without appearing stilted. Francesca did not seem to object. In point of fact, she reciprocated in kind, and with a vengeance, obviously relishing the chance to be preposterous, sassy and irreverent, much to his secret amusement. All in all, the atmosphere Doris generated was so light-hearted and casual, Victor had relaxed from the first day, and he had quickly discovered he was enjoying himself, having the best of times.

  Being alone with Francesca did not present insurmountable problems either, in that Nick had elected to play a role himself. Genuinely interested in her talent, he had cast himself as writing professor to the budding author, and was advising her on the book. In consequence, she commuted between the villa and La Réserve with comparative ease, dragging the manuscript with her, and no one seemed to consider this coming and going remiss, particularly since Diana usually accompanied her. Also, there was a great deal of activity at the villa, and Doris and the Earl were so preoccupied with each other, the plans for the supper dance and their impending marriage, they were extremely laisser-faire in their attitudes towards the girls. Victor truly believed they were quite oblivious to the faint undercurrents, the innuendos and backchat, and most patently ignorant of Diana’s growing romantic involvement with Nicholas.

  Suddenly remembering the time, Victor jumped out of bed, slipped into his white silk robe, and went through into the sitting room. He poured himself a tall glass of Vichy water, took a long quenching swallow and sat down at the desk. He lifted the telephone and asked for Nick’s suite.

  ‘Hi, kid. About ten. Your neck. Okay?’ he said, using their particular brand of shorthand.

  ‘Deal, sport. Chow on?’

  ‘Yep. Usual hour.’

  ‘Good show,’ Nick laughed, adopting an English accent.

  ‘Arrivederci.’ With a faint smile Victor replaced the receiver, put on his tortoiseshell glasses, absently searched for the list of guests he had invited to the big party he was giving at Le Pirate on Saturday.

  Francesca said, ‘Here I am, General. All ready for inspection. Do I look decent?’

  He spun around in the chair. ‘Positively indecent. Very sexy, I’d say. Your father ought to keep you under lock and key, kid.’ This was said joshingly, but then he realized that he was not far off the mark. His eyes swept over her appraisingly, objectively, viewing her as another man might. She was wearing a white cotton shirt, the sleeves rolled up, the tails of the shirt knotted under her breasts to reveal bare midriff above very short white shorts. The marine-blue silk kerchief tied around her neck was the identical colour of her high, wedge-sole espadrilles, laced across the insteps with the strings finishing around her slender ankles. The outfit, simple though it was, flattered her in the most alluring way, emphasized her lovely figure, drew attention to her long, shapely legs. But apart from the clothes, he saw something else in her that made him catch his breath. There was a new voluptuousness implicit in her face, a certain kind of knowledge in her golden-topaz eyes, neither of which he had noticed before. She looked like a woman who had been well and truly loved and who had loved in return.

  Her brows drew together and her head went to one side. ‘What’s wrong, Vic?’ she asked, coming towards him.

  He thought: Even her walk is different—looser, more rhythmic. Clearing his throat, he said, ‘Just admiring you, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re not half bad yourself, General,’ she replied, laughing. Looping a strand of blonde hair over one ear, she continued, ‘But will I get past Doris’s eagle eye? I don’t look as if I just fell out of bed, do I?’

  She did. He was about to say so, but realizing this comment would make her jittery, he refrained. ‘No, of course you don’t,’ he lied. ‘And Doris doesn’t scrutinize you all that closely, from what I’ve observed. It seems to me she only has eyes for your father.’ He rose, placed his arm around her shoulder, and walked her to the door. When they reached it, he turned her bodily to face him. ‘Please let Diana drive, baby. The corniche is murderous, and you’re inclined to be reckless when you’re hightailing it, pressed for time.’

  ‘I promise.’ She stood on tiptoe, kissed him on the cheek. ‘I love you, Vic,’ she whispered, clinging to him.

  He tightened his hold. ‘I love you too, darling,’ he said, and released her with reluctance.

  Stepping away from him, Francesca scooped up her handbag from the chair, hooked it over her shoulder. ‘Are you coming to Zamir tomorrow?’

  Victor grinned. ‘Sure, we’ll mosey on over in the late morning.’

  He opened the door, peered up and down the corridor. ‘All clear. Not a soul in sight. And don’t forget, let Diana take the wheel.’

  ‘Yes, I will. Don’t worry so much, General.’

  He stood in the doorway, watching her walk along the corridor in the direction of Nick’s suite, so graceful, so carefree, so young, and her happiness was so palpable a thing it touched his heart. He wondered what would become of them both, for, with a rush of clarity and understanding, he suddenly realized how far their relationship had gone. His face sobered, and he frowned. He had said too much, taught her too much, loved her too much. It struck him, and with some force, that Francesca Cunningham would never be the same again. But then, would he?

  Fifteen minutes later there was a sharp rapping on the door, and Nick called, ‘It’s me, Victor. Can I come in?’

  ‘Sure. The door’s open, kid.’

  ‘Jake’s been trying to call you from Monte Carlo,’ Nick informed him, strolling across the floor, collapsing on the sofa. ‘Your line was busy, so he spoke to me. He’s still over there with the Bolding group. Jerry Massingham has invited him to stay for dinner, so he won’t be back until eleven or so.’

  ‘I’ve been on the ’phone to Le Pirate, checking the final details for Saturday. And talking of the party, we’re short of women. I was looking at the guest fist earlier, and we’re top heavy with guys. I’m not sure how we’re going to do it, but we’ll have to lasso some females from somewhere. Incidentally, do you happen to know whether Jake dug up a date or not?’

  ‘Yeah. Didn’t he tell you? He’s bringing Hilary… Hilary Pierce.’

  Victor shot him a surprised look. ‘I didn’t even know she was down here. That’s odd!’

  ‘What i
s?’

  ‘Hilary being alone. Mark’s very possessive about her. I wouldn’t have thought he’d let her out of his sight, never mind take a vacation without him. And I’m sure he’s not coming. He’s stuck in London editing the film. You know he overshot like crazy, so he’s got some solid hours of editing ahead of him. Know where Hilary’s staying?’

  ‘She has one of the few rooms at the Chèvre d’Or in Eze, until tomorrow, so Jake told me. Then she’s moving into a house in the village. Renting from a friend, I believe. It was Hilly Street’s idea. I mean for Jake to bring Hilary. And Hillard is going to escort one of Beau Stanton’s house guests. An Hon, no less.’

  ‘What the hell’s that?’

  Nick burst out laughing. ‘An Honourable. You know, the daughter of a something or other—a lord, I think. She’s the Honourable Miss Pandora Tremaine, and beautiful, according to Hilly, who is so impressed that he’s squiring a young debutante he actually stutters when he mentions her name.’

  ‘Nancy’s going to be impressed too, when she finds out he’s running around with young girls. Jesus, I wouldn’t like to be in Hilly’s shoes, an Hon or not,’ Victor said sardonically. His eyes flashed with merriment as he sat contemplating Hilly’s domineering and shrewish wife, currently in California house-hunting. ‘Well, at least we’ve got two extra women, more than I’d hoped for, and if Beau brings his own date that’ll help even—’

  ‘I heard he’s planning to bring the mother of the Hon who’s also staying at the Cap d’Antibes villa. Her name’s Alicia, and she’s just recently divorced from Pandora’s father.’