Her Own Rules/Dangerous to Know (48 page)

I paused and looked at Vivienne intently. “Try to see it from my point of view, my dear. I want Ariel to be absolutely concentrated on her work, so that she doesn't make any fatal mistakes. In short, I want her left alone. By you. By anyone else who might cause her more grief. There's nothing she can tell you that you don't already know. You can write your profile without meeting her, please believe me you can.”

“I understand how you feel, Countess Zoë, understand everything you're saying. I've only persisted about seeing her because I thought Ariel might have a clue.”

“A
clue?”
I repeated.

“Yes, a clue why he killed himself.”

“I doubt it very much. She can't give you an explanation about his death, Vivienne.”

“She loved him, he loved her, and he was so
happy
that last week of his life,” Vivienne murmured. “Really happy, Countess Zoë.” She looked at me and shook her head. Her expression was sad. “I knew him so well, and for so long, there was no way he could ever have fooled me. Not about anything. That awful gloominess, that moroseness of his, was absent. He was positively glowing. So why would he want to kill himself when he was on cloud nine and planning to marry your daughter?”

“Vivienne dear, listen to me. No one ever really knows why people do these awful, tragic things to themselves, take such terrible and irrevocable steps.”

“His suicide has never made sense to me,” Vivienne said softly, almost to herself. “The reason I wanted to see Ariel was because I had hoped she might be able to help me understand it.”

“How would she have been able to do that?”

“I've always had an uncanny feeling that Ariel was somehow involved. Please don't misunderstand, Countess Zoë, I mean
indirectly
involved. I know she was in Africa when he took his life in Connecticut.”

“But why do you think she would know anything?” I probed.

“Because his relationship with her was the only thing in his life that was
new
,
different.
His lifestyle was very predictable. His pattern didn't change very much. For years he had lived the same way.”

“And how was that?” I asked curiously.

“He went from Manhattan to the farm in Connecticut, and then back to Africa. Or to some other part of the world where he felt he was needed. He did his work there, returned to the States, stayed a while, attended to business at the foundation and Locke Industries, and went off again. But then he met Ariel in Zaire. He fell in love, made plans to marry her, but suddenly killed himself. To me there is something very strange at work here. I believe that something unusual occurred that week he was in New York. Between the Monday when we had lunch and the Saturday when he killed himself. But it's a mystery I can't begin to imagine what it was.”

“Maybe his life had simply become unbearable,” I suggested quietly.

“What do you mean by that, Countess Zoë?”

“Isn't that why people kill themselves, Vivienne? Because their lives have become unbearable. They simply don't want to live any longer,” I ventured.

Vivienne was silent. I could feel her pain.

After a moment she leaned forward, gave me a penetrating look, and said, “I want to explain something else to you, Countess Zoë. I loved Sebastian from the age of twelve. I will always love him, and part of me will always belong to him. But writing the profile of him is not very important to me in the long run. It was an excuse in a way. When I got the idea, I ran with it, thinking that it might help me to understand his death, even come to grips with it. Oh yes, it would be satisfying to write lovely things about him. But there is something much more pressing than my hero worship of him.”

She paused, took a breath and went on, “I've always had the need to know
why
Sebastian Locke took his life. For myself. It was an act so out of character, so alien to his nature. And I won't have any peace of mind until I know. I think it will haunt me for the rest of my life. I needed to solve this terrible riddle right from the beginning, which is when I got the idea for doing the profile. I thought that talking to people who had known him might help, that I might eventually turn up the truth. And that's really why I wanted to see your daughter. Not to write about their relationship. But, selfishly, for my peace of mind.”

“Thank you for your honesty, Vivienne. Ariel was just as perplexed as you, baffled by his suicide. And perhaps one day you
will
meet her, when her wounds have healed completely.”

Vivienne nodded, let out a deep sigh, then she said in a low voice, “I just want to close this book and move forward, Countess Zoë, get on with my life.”

“I understand your motivations and what drives you. And don't think for a moment that I'm angry, because I'm not. But I must say again that whatever you might think, my daughter couldn't possibly enlighten you.”

“You sound so sure.”

“I am.”

Vivienne's tone was deflated when she said, “You were my only chance. I thought you were the one person who could help me get to the truth of it all through Ariel. I thought she held the key.”

For a moment I could not think. My mind froze. I simply sat there in my beautiful garden, shivering slightly from the light breeze now blowing up, staring into those unflinching, honest green eyes that held mine.

And as I looked into the lovely face of this sincere young woman I made a momentous decision.

I knew she had integrity, that honor was an essential part of her character, and so I knew in my bones that I could trust her.

I rose. “Let us go inside, Vivienne dear. It's growing chilly,” I said.

She nodded and stood up, took hold of my arm solicitously, and helped me into the house.

Once we were seated in the small salon, I leaned back against the soft cushions of the sofa and regarded her for the longest moment.

Finally, taking a deep breath, I said, “I am going to tell you a tale, a familiar tale that's as ancient as the hills . . . a tale of a man, a woman, and another man . . .”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-ONE

“I
was twenty-eight and a rich young widow when I visited Paris for the first time, Vivienne.

“Paris instantly captivated me and I decided to move permanently to France. For numerous reasons, I was determined to leave London for good. Suffice it to say that I believed it to be imperative for my well-being to do so.

“After several weeks in Paris I returned to London, put my house in Mayfair and its contents up for sale, gave my solicitors power of attorney to deal with my business affairs, and returned without delay to France.

“Within several weeks I had rented a furnished apartment on the rue Jacob on the Left Bank, hired a student to teach me the language, and begun my search for a proper dwelling place, one of charm, elegance, and permanence. My French teacher, a young woman of good family, was instrumental in helping me to find the perfect apartment on the Avenue de Breteuil—large, airy, and light-filled. Whilst it was being appropriately decorated and furnished I settled down to my studies, and at the same time acclimatized myself to Paris and the French way of life.

“Even though I say this myself, I was quite beautiful when I was young, Vivienne. I had great
allure.
I suppose that is the best word to use. My looks were glamorous, not so much exotic as lush. Men found me irresistible. I did not lack male companionship in Paris, and I had plenty of escorts to take me everywhere I wished to go.

“But I was well aware that women and not men were the key to my success in local society Only women could propel me into the proper circles. Men might admire me, flatter me, lust after me, wine and dine me, and fall in love with me. However, it was women who could open all the right doors; it has always been women the world over who run the social scene, make the decisions, and issue the invitations. They can either make or break another woman, especially a newcomer to a city.

“I had no intention of allowing any doors to remain shut or be slammed in my face. Nor did I plan to let anyone break me. That had been done to me when I was a child.
Almost.
I would never permit it to happen again.

“Fortunately for me, I had a sponsor, a mentor, if you will, someone I had met in London several years earlier. She was a woman of a certain age and a socialite of some standing, regarded as one of the greatest hostesses in Paris, indeed in France.

“She was of fine lineage in her own right, had married into one of the grand titled families of France, and, like me, she was a widow.

“This accomplished and remarkable woman had been a friend of my first husband, the late Harry Robson. Because of his kindness to her during a most difficult time in her life, and their long-standing friendship, she took me under her wing when I moved to Paris in 1950.

“She was the Baronne Désirée de Marmont, attractive, elegant, charming, and very knowledgeable about everything. It was she who taught me about eighteenth-century fine French furniture, Aubusson and Savonerie rugs, tapestries, porcelain, and art.

“I had developed a good sense of clothes by the time I arrived in Paris, but it was the baroness who imbued in me her own brand of chic, her incomparable stylishness. What you admire in me, that sense of style you've commented on, Vivienne, I acquired from Désirée de Marmont.

“The first thing she did was take me to her favorite couturiers, milliners, and shoemakers, saw to it that I was dressed simply but elegantly in the height of fashion. It was her preferred interior designers who helped me to furnish and decorate the new apartment on the Avenue de Breteuil, again under her discerning eye. And it was she who found me the right butler, cook, and housekeeper to run things for me. In short, she supervised every aspect of my life.

“Thus Désirée turned me into a chic and polished young woman with unique style, grace, and sophistication, quite aside from my natural good looks. It was two years after my arrival in Paris that she decided I was ‘finished' and, therefore, finally ready to be launched into Parisian society as her protégé from London.

“And so, Vivienne, I began my life again. It was my fourth life. I had had three others, two of which I had tried hard to forget, to obliterate entirely. No one knew of this, not even Désirée. She was aware of one only, my rather pleasant but dull life as the wife of the Honorable Harry Robson, third son of a minor English lord.

“Désirée had one child, her son Louis, with whom she was not on the best of terms. Although she was still in her early fifties I became a surrogate child to her in many ways, like the daughter she had never borne.

“There was a special bond between us, rather like the bond we share, Vivienne. She was not only my mentor in those days, but my inspiration. I aspired to be exactly like her and in some ways I believe I succeeded.

“A good woman, kind, loving, witty, amusing, and a wonderful companion, Désirée was part of that elite circle known as le gratin, the top crust. Yet despite this she was not in the least snobbish. I have observed in my long life that true aristocrats such as Désirée de Marmont and Édouard never are. In my experience it is the jumped-up no-accounts who tend to look down their noses at others.

“It was my dearest friend Désirée who introduced me to Monsieur le Comte, Édouard de Grenaille. The evening we met it was a coup de foudre as the French say, a thunderbolt. Or love at first sight, if you prefer. By this time I had already been living in France for five years. I was thirty-three and completely unattached. He was a widower with no children, also uninvolved, and fifty-eight years old. However, Édouard did not look his age, nor did he seem it.

“He was a good-looking man, debonair and dashing, and was imbued with continental charm. He swept me off my feet. Within the year we were married. I became Madame la Comtesse, the mistress of this house and a wonderful old château in Normandy.

“We were sublimely happy for the first two years. Then a problem developed in the marriage. I did not conceive. Childless and longing for an heir to carry on the line, Édouard began to change. He became depressed, bad tempered, and critical of me. Oh, not all of the time, Vivienne, there were moments when he behaved like his old self, the Édouard of our courtship, and was kind, considerate. We had always enjoyed a good sex life, an active one, and we loved one another. But love and sex are not always enough. A marriage must be sustained by so much else besides.

“By the time our third wedding anniversary came around there was a genuine breakdown in our relationship. Édouard had grown more and more introverted, preoccupied as he was with his lineage and lack of an heir to carry on the family name. Somewhat irrationally he blamed me. Even though he loved me he took it out on me. For almost two years I ran to doctors and specialists in infertility, following Désirée's advice. The answer was always the same: There was nothing wrong with me.

“When I attempted to talk to Édouard about this, pass on the medical opinions I had received, he became angry and refused to listen. By now I was fully aware that he might not be able to face a simple fact: that he was sterile and unable to procreate.

“I feared for our marriage and I must admit I was profoundly relieved when he decided to go to Brazzaville in French Equatorial Africa. He had a longstanding invitation to visit with his uncle Jean-Pierre de Grenaille who owned vast estates there. I thought the break would do us both good. Édouard seemed to agree. He planned a long trip as he wanted to go on safari to hunt big game.

“It was the beginning of June in 1960 when he set off for Brazzaville. Before he left he expressed the hope that our three-month separation would have positive results. He said it might help to alleviate the strain between us.

“For the first two weeks Édouard was gone I spent my days undergoing further gynecological tests. Once more the results were exactly the same as before. Three new doctors confirmed to me that there was no reason why I could not have a baby.

“By the end of June I was feeling miserable, low in spirits, and overwhelmingly sad. I had had such a terrible childhood and youth. Suddenly it seemed to me that the past was repeating itself, albeit in a different way I began to think that I was doomed to be unhappy, that life was not going to go right for me after all. I was also fearful that when Édouard returned from Africa our marriage would finally crumble completely, that we would end up either leading separate lives apart or divorcing. I was not sure which I thought was the worst scenario.

“The weather in Paris that summer was gruelling hot and unbearable. Yet I had no wish to go to the château in Normandy by myself. Fitful, restless, anxiety-ridden, and constantly on the brink of tears, I went to see Désirée de Marmont, hoping that she might be able to both advise and console me. She knew why I had been troubled for so long and was also aware that Édouard had seen fit to blame me for depriving him of an heir.

“When I arrived at her country estate in Versailles to spend the weekend she took one look at me and threw up her hands in alarm. She told me I was too thin and exhausted, insisted that I must take a vacation immediately.

“Vivienne, even now I remember so well what she said to me all those years ago. ‘Take yourself off to the Cote d'Azur, ma petite. Sunbathe, swim, relax, go for long walks, eat delicious food, shop for pretty things, and indulge in a romantic interlude with a nice young man if the possibility arises.' You can't imagine how shocked I was about her last suggestion. I was speechless.

“Then somewhat indignantly I told Désirée that I loved Édouard. She smiled. ‘All the more reason to have a little lighthearted affair. It will make you feel more relaxed, instill confidence in you again, and when Édouard returns you will be in the right mood to work miracles. You can fuss over him, seduce him, make him feel virile, and believe me you will be able to put your marriage on a more even keel.' Naturally I insisted that an affair was out of the question.

“But on the Sunday afternoon, just before I returned to Paris, Désirée took me to one side, told me again that I needed a change of scenery for my own good. ‘Go to Cannes, Zoë. Have some fun. And if there's a chance for a little flirtation, take it. What harm can it do?
None.
Providing no one knows about it. Just remember to be discreet, careful. And take the advice of an experienced woman, stay at one of the smaller hotels and use an assumed name.' On the way back to Paris I pondered her words.

“I never intended to go to Cannes, Vivienne. But during the course of the next week the idea of a holiday in the sun became more and more appealing. On the spur of the moment one morning I telephoned the Hôtel Gray d'Albion in Cannes and made a reservation under the invented name of Geneviève Brunot, booked myself a seat on the Blue Train, packed a few simple clothes, and left Paris for the south of France.

“Désirée had been correct about the change in scenery doing me good. After three days of sunbathing, swimming, long walks, and good food I was feeling much better and looking more like my old self.

“Cannes was busy that summer. The American Sixth Fleet stationed in the Mediterranean had just put into port. Hundreds of young ratings were on shore leave, mingling with the locals and the tourists. I managed to get lost in the crowds. There was a sense of jollity in the air, a feeling of festivity. Everyone seemed so young and gay and happy. I was infected with this spirit of joie de vivre. And of course I met a young man.”

I stopped speaking and looked across at Vivienne. She was sitting on the edge of her chair, facing me. Her eyes were glued to my face, and I knew she had been listening attentively.

I said, “I'm afraid this is becoming rather a long story, longer than I'd intended. Can I offer you some sort of refreshment, Vivienne? Tea? Coffee? Or would you like a drink perhaps?”

“If you're going to have something, Countess Zoë,” she said with a small smile.

“I believe I will. I'm going to have a glass of champagne. Does that appeal to you, my dear?”

“That'd be lovely, thank you.”

“Would you mind ringing the bell for Hubert, please?”

“Of course not,” she answered getting up, crossing the room. After she'd done as I asked she glanced at the photograph on the console and said, “This one is of you, isn't it, Countess Zoë? When you were in your thirties?”

I nodded. “Yes, it is.”

“How beautiful you were.”

I merely smiled and glanced at the door as Hubert knocked and entered. “Madame?”

“Hubert, we would like to have some refreshment. Please bring us a bottle of Dom Pérignon and two glasses. Oh and perhaps you'd better retrieve the tea things from the garden.”