Leap of Faith

“How's everything going over there?” he asked, sounding happy. “Is he still Prince Charming?” he inquired, and she insisted that he was, but she was distracted over the disturbing file of bills she was holding. What upset her most was that he had lied about it, and written right on the top of the file was the address of the storage facility he said they didn't have. It was the first time she had ever caught him in a lie. And she said nothing to Billy about it. She didn't want to be disloyal to Bernard.

Billy said he had heard that her Aunt Carole had been sick, and more important, he told Marie-Ange he was getting married. His fiancee was the same girl he had been going out with when Marie-Ange left, and she was happy for him. They were planning to be married the following summer.

“Well, since you wouldn't marry me, Marie-Ange,” he teased her, “I had no choice but to go out and fend for myself.” His fiancee was finishing college herself that year, and they were hoping to get married after she graduated. He told Marie-Ange he hoped she'd come, and she said she'd try to. But she'd been so nervous about the pile of bills she'd found that for once she didn't enjoy talking to Billy. She was still thinking about Billy when she hung up, and of how wonderful it would be to see him again. But as much as she loved him, she had her own life now, a husband and family. She had her hands full, and she was worried about their mountain of unpaid bills. She wasn't sure how to broach the subject to Bernard, and needed some time to think about it. She was sure that there was some explanation of why he had been less than honest with her about the things he had in storage. Maybe he wanted to surprise her. She wanted to believe that his motive had been a good one, and she didn't want a confrontation with him.

She still hadn't broached the subject to him when they went back to Marmouton the following week, when she made a discovery there that truly shocked her. A bill had come to him for an expensive ruby ring that had been delivered to someone at a Paris address. And the woman who bought it was using Bernard's last name. It was the second time in a matter of a week that Marie-Ange began doubting him, and she was obsessed by her own terrors. She was so frightened of what it meant, thinking that he'd been unfaithful to her, that she decided to drive to Paris with her babies. Bernard was in London visiting friends and taking care of some of his investments, and she stayed at the apartment in Paris, while she pondered the problem.

Marie-Ange felt terribly guilty, but she called her bank and asked them to refer her to a private investigator. She felt like a traitor when she called, but she needed to know what Bernard was doing, and if he was cheating on her. He certainly had ample opportunity to do it, when he was in Paris, or elsewhere, but she had always been so convinced that he loved her. She wondered if this woman was a girlfriend of his, and had been brazen enough to use his name and pretend to be married to him. Or far more happily, maybe it was only a coincidence of last names, she was a distant relative, and her purchase had found its way onto Bernard's bill entirely by mistake. She wasn't sure what to believe or how it had happened, and she didn't want to expose herself by asking the store for information. It broke her heart now to doubt him, but given the amount of money he was spending, and the ruby ring she couldn't account for, she knew she needed some answers.

Marie-Ange still wanted to believe there was an acceptable explanation for it, perhaps the woman who had bought the ring was psychotic. But whatever the explanation for the ring, she was still worried about why he had lied to her about the items in storage. And none of it solved the problem of the unpaid bills that were accruing. They could be dealt with at least, but what she wanted to know most was that she could trust him. She didn't want to discuss any of it with him until she knew more. If the matter of the ring was all an innocent mistake, and the things in the storage vault were a surprise for her, gifts he intended to pay for himself, then she didn't want to accuse him. But if something different surfaced in her investigations, then she would have to face Bernard with it, and hear his side of the story.

In the meantime, she wanted to believe the best of him, but there was a gnawing fear in her heart. She had always trusted him, and thrown herself wholeheartedly into her life with him. They had had two babies in less than two years. But the fact was that she had ended up paying entirely for the renovations at the chateau, and now at the house on the rue de Varenne. All told, they had spent three million dollars of her money to do it, they owed another two on the house in Paris, and there were more than a million dollars currently in unpaid bills. It was a staggering amount of money to have spent in less than two years. And Bernard had not yet put the brakes on his spending.

As Marie-Ange walked into the investigator's office, she felt her heart sink. It was small and seamy and dirty, and the investigator the bank had referred her to looked disheveled, and was unfriendly, as he jotted down some notes and asked her some very personal questions. And as she listened to herself reel off facts and houses and dollar amounts, it was easy to see why she was worried. But spending too much money did not make Bernard a liar. It was the bill for the ruby ring that most upset her, and that she wanted to question. Why was the woman who had received it using Bernard's last name? Marie-Ange had been told by Bernard that none of his relatives were living. But as concerned as she was about it, she still believed that there was possibly a simple and innocent explanation. It was not impossible that there was another person in France, unrelated to him, who had the same last name.

“Do you want me to check for any other unpaid bills?” the investigator asked, assuming that she would, and she nodded. She had already expressed her concerns about the woman and the ring. But she just couldn't imagine that Bernard would cheat on her, and buy an expensive gift for his mistress, and then expect Marie-Ange to pay the bill. No one could be that bold or that tasteless. Certainly not Bernard. He was sensitive and elegant and honest, Marie-Ange believed.

“I don't really think there is a problem,” Marie-Ange apologized for her suspicions, “I just got worried when I found the file of unpaid bills, and the storage room he hadn't told me about… and now the ring… I don't know who the woman could be, or why the bill came to my husband. It's probably a mistake.”

“I understand,” the investigator said, without judgment, and then he looked up and smiled at her.

“In your shoes, I'd be worried too. That's an awful lot of money to pour out in under two years.” It was staggering, and he was amazed she'd let him do it. But she was young, and naive, and he correctly guessed that her husband was a master at it.

“Well, of course, it's all been an investment,” Marie-Ange explained. “Our houses are wonderful, and they're both historical.” She said the same things to him that her husband had said to her, to justify the expenses and the cost of the restorations. But she was afraid now that there might be more she didn't know. He had never told her about the house in Paris, until after he bought it and had begun work on it, and she couldn't help wondering now what else he had concealed from her.

But she was in no way prepared for what the investigator told her after he called her in Mar-mouton. He asked her if she wanted to meet with him in Paris, or if she would prefer that he come to the chateau. Bernard was in Paris, and Robert was only six weeks old, but had a bad cold, and she suggested that the investigator come to see her.

He arrived the following morning, and she led him into the office that Bernard used when he was there. She could read nothing from the man's expression, and she offered him a cup of coffee, but he declined it. He wanted to get right down to business with her, and took a file from his briefcase, as he looked across the desk at Marie-Ange, and she suddenly had the odd feeling that she should brace herself for what he would say.

“You were right to be worried about the bills,” he told her without preamble. “There are another six hundred thousand dollars of unpaid bills, most of which he spent on paintings and clothes.”

“Clothes for whom?” she asked, looking puzzled and worried as she thought of the ruby ring again, but the investigator rapidly put that fear to rest.

“Himself. He has a very expensive tailor in London, and a hundred thousand dollars' worth of outstanding bills at Hermes. The rest is all art objects, antiques, I assume for your houses. And the ruby ring was purchased by a woman called Louise de Beauchamp. In fact, the bill went to your husband in error,” he said simply, as Marie-Ange beamed at him from across the desk. The bills could be paid eventually, or if they had to, the art objects could be sold. But a mistress would have been a different problem, and Marie-Ange would have been heartbroken. She didn't even care about the rest of what the investigator had to say to her, he had already acquitted Bernard, and she was ashamed of the suspicions that she'd had about him. “What was interesting about Louise de Beauchamp, when I found her,” the investigator went on, despite Marie-Ange's broad smile and sudden lack of concern, “is that your husband married her seven years ago. I assume you didn't know that or you'd have told me.”

“That's impossible,” Marie-Ange said, looking at him strangely. “His wife and son died in a fire twelve years ago, and their son was four. This woman must be lying,” unless he'd had a brief marriage after he'd lost them, and never told Marie-Ange, but it was so unlike Bernard to lie to her, or so she thought.

“That's not entirely correct,” the investigator continued, almost sorry for her. “Louise de Beauchamp's son died in that fire, but it was five years ago. The boy was not your husband's son, he was hers by a prior marriage. And she survived. It was only a fluke that she happened to buy that ring, and it was mistakenly charged to your husband's account. She showed me documents to prove his marriage to her, and clippings about the fire. He collected insurance on the chateau that burned down. It was purchased with funds from her, but it was in his name. And I believe he used the insurance money to buy this one. But he had no funds to remodel it until you came along,” he said bluntly to Marie-Ange. “And he hasn't had a job since he and Louise were married.”

“Does he know she's alive?” she asked, looking utterly confused. It didn't even occur to her that Bernard had lied to her, and that he had been for two years. Somewhere, somehow there had to be an enormous misunderstanding. Bernard would never lie to her.

“I assume he does know she's alive. They were divorced.”

“That can't be. We were married in the Catholic Church.”

“Maybe he paid off the priest,” the investigator said simply. He had far fewer illusions than Marie-Ange. “I went to speak to Madame de Beauchamp myself, and she would like to meet with you, if you'd like to. She asked me to warn you not to tell your husband if you do.” He handed Marie-Ange her phone number in Paris, and she saw that the address was on the Avenue Foch, at an excellent address. “She got badly burned in the fire, and she has scars. I've been told that she lives more or less as a recluse.” The odd thing was that none of Bernard's friends had ever said anything to her about it, nor about the son he had lost. “I have the feeling that she never got over losing the boy.”

“Neither did he,” Marie-Ange said with eyes full of tears. Now that she had children, the thought of losing a child seemed like the ultimate nightmare to her, and her heart went out to this woman, whoever she was, and whatever her tie had been to Bernard. She still did not believe her story, and wanted to get to the bottom of it. Someone was lying, but surely not Bernard.

“I think you should see her, Countess. She has a lot to say about your husband, and perhaps they are things that you should know.”

“Like what?” Marie-Ange asked, looking increasingly disturbed.

“She thinks he set the fire that killed the boy.” He didn't tell Marie-Ange that Louise de Beauchamp thought that Bernard had tried to kill her as well. She could tell Marie-Ange that herself, for whatever it was worth. But the investigator had been impressed by her.

“That's a terrible thing to say,” Marie-Ange looked outraged. “Perhaps she feels she has to blame someone. Maybe she can't accept the fact that it was an accident and her son died.” But that still didn't explain the fact that she was alive, and that Bernard had never told her the boy wasn't really his son, or that he'd been divorced from this woman. Her mind was suddenly reeling, filled with doubts and questions, and she didn't know if she was grateful or sorry that the investigator had found Louise de Beauchamp. Odd as it seemed, she was relieved that at least she wasn't his mistress. But it was hardly comforting to think she believed he had killed her son. And why was her story so different from Bernard's? She wasn't even sure she wanted to see her, and open that Pandora's box, but after the investigator left her, Marie-Ange went for a long walk in the orchards, thinking about Louise de Beauchamp and her son.

It was difficult to sort it all out. And she was worried too about how they were going to pay for their bills, and despite Bernard's advice to do it, she didn't want to attempt to overturn her trust and access the rest of her funds. That sounded far too risky to her, particularly if they spent all her money. Leaving her trust intact was at least protection against that.

Her mind was still reeling when she came back from the orchard to feed the baby, and after she put him down in his crib, sated and happy, she stood for a long moment, staring at the phone. She had put the phone number the investigator had given her in her pocket, so Bernard wouldn't find it, and she slowly pulled it out. She thought of calling Billy and talking to him about it, but even that was a disturbing thought. She didn't really know the truth yet, and she didn't want to accuse Bernard unfairly. Maybe he just hadn't wanted to admit that he was divorced, and had loved the boy as his own son. But whatever the truth was, she knew now that she had to know it, and with a shaking hand, picked up the phone to call Louise de Beauchamp.

A deep well-spoken woman's voice answered on the second ring, and Marie-Ange asked for Madame de Beauchamp.

“This is she,” she said calmly, not recognizing the voice at the other end, and Marie-Ange hesitated for a fraction of an instant. It was like looking in the mirror, and being afraid of what you would find there.

“This is Marie-Ange de Beauchamp,” she said in almost a whisper, and there was a small sound at the other end, like a sigh of recognition and relief.

“I wondered if you would call me. I didn't think you would,” she said honestly. “I'm not sure I would have in your place. But I'm glad you did. There are some things I feel you should know.” She already knew from the investigator that Bernard had never told his young wife about her, and that in itself was further condemnation of him, as far as Louise was concerned. “Would you like to come and see me? I don't go out,” she said softly. The investigator had told Marie-Ange about the scars on her face. She had had plastic surgery for them, but she had been burned very badly, and there had only been so much the plastic surgeons could repair. The burns had occurred, the investigator told Marie-Ange, while she was trying to save her son.

“I will come to Paris to see you,” Marie-Ange said, with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, deathly afraid of what she would be told. Her instincts told her that her faith in her husband was at risk, and part of her wanted to run away and hide, and do anything but meet with Louise de Beauchamp. But she knew she had to. She had no choice. If not, she would always harbor doubts, and she felt she owed it to Bernard to free herself of them. “When would you like me to come?”

“Is tomorrow too soon for you?” Louise asked gently. She meant her no harm. All she wanted to do for her was save her life. From everything the investigator had told her, she believed that Marie-Ange was in danger, and perhaps her children as well. “Or the day after tomorrow?” the woman offered, and Marie-Ange answered with a sigh.

“I can drive up tomorrow, and meet you at the end of the day.”

“Is five o'clock too early?”

“No, I can be there. Is it all right if I bring the baby? I'm nursing, and I'll bring him with me from Marmouton.” She was going to leave Heloise with the nanny at the chateau.

“I'd love to see him,” Louise said kindly, and Marie-Ange thought she could hear a catch in her voice.

“I'll see you at five then,” Marie-Ange promised, wishing she didn't feel she had to go. But there was no choice. She had started out now on this long, lonely road, and she just hoped she would come back safely, with her faith in Bernard restored.

And as she hung up the phone in Paris, Louise looked sadly at a photograph of her little boy, and he was smiling at her. So much had happened since then.

Chapter 10

The trip from Marmouton to Paris seemed to take forever this time, as Marie-Ange drove with the baby in his car seat, and she had to stop once to nurse him. And outside, it was blustery and cold. It was after four-thirty when she got to Paris, the traffic was heavy, and she got to the address on the Avenue Foch five minutes before her appointment with Louise de Beauchamp. Marie-Ange knew nothing about Bernard's ex-wife, she had never seen a photograph of her, or the boy, which she realized was odd now, but perhaps Bernard had simply wanted to put away the memories of his past life when he married Marie-Ange. What was far more difficult to understand was why she was not dead, as he had told her, but alive.

She had no idea what to expect when the door opened, and she was startled when she saw her. She was a tall elegant young woman in her late thirties, her hair was blond and hung to her shoulders, and when she moved, her hair seemed to obscure part of her face. But as she opened the door, Marie-Ange saw clearly what had happened to her. On one side of her face, the features were exquisite and delicate, on the other they appeared to have melted, and the surgeries and skin grafts had left ugly scars. Their attempts to repair the burns had failed.

“Thank you for coming, Comtesse,” she said, looking aristocratic but vulnerable, as she turned the damaged side of her face away. She led Marie-Ange into a living room filled with priceless antiques, and they sat down quietly on two Louis XV chairs, as Marie-Ange held her baby, and he slept peacefully in her arms.

Louise de Beauchamp smiled when she saw him, but it was obvious to Marie-Ange that her eyes were filled with grief.

“I don't see babies very often,” she said simply to Marie-Ange. “I don't see anyone in fact.” And then she offered her something to drink, but Marie-Ange wanted nothing from her. All she wanted was to listen to what she had to say. “I know this must be hard for you,” Louise said to her clearly, seeming to gain both her composure and strength as she looked into the young woman's eyes. ‘You don't know me. You have no reason to believe me, but I hope that for your sake, and the sake of your children, you will listen, and be watchful from now on.” She took a breath, and then went on, turning her damaged face away again, as Marie-Ange watched her with worried eyes. She didn't look like a crazy person, and although there was an air of sorrow about her, she did not appear bitter or deranged. And she was frighteningly calm as she told her tale.

“We met at a party in Saint-Tropez, and I believe now that Bernard knew full well who I was. My father was a well-known man, he had enormous landholdings all over Europe, and he was involved in oil trades in Bahrain. Bernard knew all of that about me, and also that my father had just died when we met. My mother died when I was a child. I had no relatives, I was alone, and I was young, although not as young as you are now. He courted me passionately and quickly, and he said that all he wanted was to marry me and have a child. I already had a son by an earlier marriage. He was two when I met Bernard. And Charles adored him. Bernard was wonderful with him, and I thought he would be the perfect husband and father. My previous marriage had ended badly, and my ex-husband no longer saw the child. I thought Charles needed a father, and I was very much in love with Bernard. So much so that I included him in my will, after we were married, in equal part to Charles. I thought it was the least I could do for Bernard, and I had no intention of dying for a very long time. But I was foolish enough to tell him what I had done.

“We had a house in the country, a chateau in Dordogne my father had left me, and we spent a fair amount of time there. Bernard ran up a shocking amount of bills, but that's another story. He would have ruined me, if I'd let him, but fortunately my father's attorneys exercised some control. Under pressure from them, I told him eventually that I would no longer pay his bills. He would have to be responsible for them himself, and he got very angry. I discovered afterward that he was in debt for several million dollars, and in order to spare us both the scandal, I settled them quietly for him.

“We were in Dordogne that summer.” She stopped for a moment, fighting for her composure, as Marie-Ange braced herself for what would come next. “Charles was with us …” her voice nearly drifted away to nothing, and then she went on. “He was four. And beautiful and blond. He still adored Bernard, although I was slightly less enchanted by then, and terrified by his debts.” It rang an instant chord with Marie-Ange, as she listened to what the woman said, and her heart went out to her as she spoke of her child. “There was a fire one night, a terrible fire. It devoured half the house before we discovered it, and I ran to find my son. He was in his room, above us, and the housekeeper was out. And when I got there, I found Bernard …,” her voice was barely more than a croak, “locking Charles's door from the outside. I fought with him, and tried to unlock it, he had the key in his hand. I hit him and took it, and went after him myself, and when I got Charles out of his bed, I couldn't get through the door again. He had blocked it with something, a piece of furniture, a chair, something. I couldn't get out.”

“Oh, my God …” Marie-Ange said, as tears slid slowly down her cheeks, and she pulled Robert closer to her heart. “How did you get out?”

“The firemen came and held a net beneath the window. I was afraid to drop Charles into it, and I held him in my arms. I stood there for a long time, afraid to jump.” She cried harder as the memory flooded her, but she was determined to tell Marie-Ange, no matter how agonizing it was. “I waited too long,” she said, choking on the words, “my son was overcome by the smoke and died in my arms. I was still holding him when I jumped. They tried to revive him, but it was too late. And Bernard was pulled out of the main floor, completely hysterical, and claiming that he had been trying to rescue us the entire time, which was a lie. I told the police what he had done, and of course they checked, and there was nothing blocking the door to my son's room. Whatever he had put there, he had removed after I jumped, and before he got out. He told the police that I was unable to accept the hand of fate in the death of my son, and that I had to blame someone to exonerate myself. He sobbed endlessly at the inquest, and they believed him. He said I was unbalanced, and had an unusual and unnatural attachment to my son. And they believed everything he said. There was no evidence to support my story, but if he had killed us, he would have inherited everything my father had left, and he would have been a very, very rich man. The firemen discovered later that the fire had started in the attic, they said it was electrical, and one of the wires that ran through there was badly frayed. I believe that Bernard did that, but I cannot prove it. All I know is what I saw him do that night, he was locking Charles's door when I arrived, and he blocked the room so we could not get out. All I know, Comtesse, is what happened, what I saw, and that my son is dead.” Her eyes bored holes through Marie-Ange, and it would have been easier and less painful to believe she was crazy, that she had wanted to blame someone, as Bernard had said at the inquest. But something about her story, and the way she told it, made Marie-Ange shiver with terror. And although she didn't want to believe it of him, if it was true, Bernard was a monster and a murderer, as surely as if he had killed the child with his own hands.

“I do not know your situation,” Louise went on, as she looked at the young woman holding the baby, so obviously upset by what she'd just heard, “but I understand that you have a great deal of money, and no one to protect you. You are very young, perhaps you have good attorneys, and perhaps you have been wiser than I was in protecting yourself. But if you have left him money in your will, or if you have no will at all and he will inherit automatically from you if you die intestate, you and your children are in grave danger. And if he is dangerously in debt again, the peril is greater still. If you were my daughter, or my sister,” her eyes filled with tears as she said it, “I would beg you to take your babies, and run for your life.”

“I cannot do that,” Marie-Ange said in a strangled whisper, looking at her, wanting to believe her crazy, but unable to do that. She was distraught over everything she had just heard. “I love him, and he is my children's father. He is in debt, certainly, but I can pay for it. He has no reason to kill us, or hurt us. He can have anything he wants.” She wanted to believe that the story she had just heard was a lie. But it was not easy to do.

“There is a bottom to every well,” Louise said simply, “and if yours runs dry, he will desert you. But before he does that, he will take everything he can get. And if there is more that he can only get if you die, then he will find a way to get that too. He is a very greedy, evil man.” He was worse than that. He was a murderer in her eyes. “He came to Charles's funeral, and cried more than anyone else there, but he did not fool me. He killed him as surely as if he had done it with his own hands. I will never be able to prove it. But you must do everything you can now to protect your children. Bernard de Beauchamp is a very dangerous man.”

There was a long, agonizing silence in the room as the two women looked at each other for a long time. It was hard for Marie-Ange to believe he was as bad as Louise said, and yet she believed her story. Perhaps she had only imagined that the door was blocked, but there was no explaining why he had tried to lock the child's door from the outside. Perhaps he had hoped to protect him from the smoke and the fire, but even that seemed hard to believe now. Maybe he panicked. Or maybe he was truly as evil as she said. Marie-Ange didn't know what to think or say. She was breathless with shock and grief.

“I'm so sorry about what happened.” There was no way to console her for all she had lost. Marie-Ange looked at her sadly and then told her what Bernard had said to her. “He told me you had died with your son. Ten years ago, in fact.” In truth, it had only been five, three since the divorce. “And he said that Charles was his.”

Louise smiled at that. “He only wishes I had died. He's very lucky. I don't go out, and see only a few friends. After the inquest, I saw no one for a long time. For all intents and purposes, in his world, I might as well be dead. And there is no point trying to convince people of my story. I know what happened. And so does Bernard, no matter what he says. Be careful,” she warned Marie-Ange again as she stood up. She looked exhausted, and there were still tears in her eyes after all she'd said. “If anything ever happens to you, or your children, I will testify against him. That may mean nothing to you now, but perhaps it will one day. I hope you never need me for that.”

“So do I,” Marie-Ange said as they walked to the door of the apartment, and the baby stirred.

“Beware of him,” Louise said ominously as they shook hands.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Marie-Ange said politely, and a moment later, she was walking down the stairs and realized that her legs were shaking, and she was crying for Louise and her son and herself. She wanted to call Billy and tell him what Louise had told her, but there was nothing he could do. All she wanted to do now was run away and think.

It was nearly seven o'clock when she left her, and it was too late to drive back to Marmouton. She decided to spend the night at the apartment in Paris instead, although she knew Bernard was there. She was almost afraid to see him, and all she could hope was that he didn't sense anything different about her. She knew she would have to be guarded about what she said. And as she walked into the apartment, he was just coming back from a meeting with the architect at the rue de Varenne.

The house was nearly ready, and they were saying that it would be finished after the first of the year. He looked happy and surprised to see her, and kissed the baby, and all she could think of as she watched him was the boy who had died in the fire, and the woman with the ravaged face.

“What are you doing in Paris, my love? What a wonderful surprise!” He seemed genuinely pleased to see her, and she felt suddenly guilty for believing everything Louise had said. What if she was crazy? What if none of it was true, or if she was demented with grief and did in fact need someone to blame? What if she had killed her son herself? The very thought of it made Marie-Ange shudder, and as Bernard put his arms around her, she felt sorrow and love for him well up in her again. She didn't want to believe it, didn't want him to be as evil as Louise had said. Maybe he had told her Louise was dead because he didn't want to tell her of the horrors of the inquest, or Louise's accusations against him. Perhaps there was some reason why he had lied, even if only fear of losing or hurting Marie-Ange, however wrong he'd been. He was human after all.

“Why don't we go out to dinner? We can take the baby with us if we eat at a bistro. You still haven't told me why you're here, by the way,” he said, looking innocently at her, as she felt torn in two. Half of her adored him, and the other half was filled with fear.

“I missed you,” she said simply, and he smiled and kissed her again. He was so loving and so gentle and so sweet as he held the baby, that she suddenly began to doubt everything Louise de Beauchamp had said. The only thing that did ring true was his penchant for running up debts. But that was certainly not fatal, and if she was careful, perhaps in time he would learn to keep it in check. And perhaps he had lied to her out of fear. She felt sure of it as they went out to dinner, and he made her laugh, as he held the baby, and told her some funny piece of gossip he'd heard about one of their friends.

He was so sweet and so loving with her that by the time they went to bed that night, with Robert in the bassinette beside them, she was certain that Louise de Beauchamp had lied to her, perhaps in order to get even with him for leaving her. Perhaps she was only jealous of her, Marie-Ange told herself. Marie-Ange said nothing to him about the meeting, and she felt sorry for the woman she had met, but no longer sorry enough to believe her. Marie-Ange had lived with Bernard for two years, and had two children with him. He was not a man who would murder women and children. He couldn't hurt anyone. His only sin, if he had any at all, Marie-Ange decided as she fell asleep in his arms that night, was that he ran up a few debts. And the lie about his being a widower was one she could forgive. Perhaps, as a Catholic and a nobleman, it had simply seemed too great a sin to him to admit he was divorced. Whatever had been his reason, Marie-Ange loved him in spite of it, and did not believe for an instant that he had killed Louise's son.

Chapter 11

Marie-Ange felt so guilty when she went back to Marmouton, after her meeting with Louise de Beauchamp, that she was doubly kind to Bernard when she discovered that he was further in debt. He hadn't said anything to her, but it turned out that he had forgotten to pay for the rental of their summer house and the yacht that went with it, and she had to pay the bill herself. But at this point, it seemed like a small sin to her.

The house on the rue de Varenne was almost finished, and although there were a stack of bills still waiting to be paid, she had finally decided to borrow some money against her trust to pay them off. His investments that had been promising to “mature” for two years so he could sell them off had never materialized, and she had long since stopped asking him about them. There was no point. She was no longer even entirely sure that they were there. Perhaps he had lost the money, or had less than he said. It didn't matter to her anymore. She didn't want to embarrass him. And they had her trust to live on. They had two beautiful houses, and two healthy children. And although she thought of her meeting with Louise de Beauchamp from time to time, she pushed it out of her head and said nothing to him about meeting Louise. She was sure that the woman had maligned him, and accused him unfairly. It was just too terrible to believe that she actually thought he had killed her child. But Marie-Ange forgave her for what she'd said about her husband, because she was sure that if she had lost one of her children, she would have gone quite mad herself. Bernard and her babies were all she lived for now. And it was obvious to her that Louise de Beauchamp was deranged by grief.

And when Bernard talked about buying a palazzo in Venice, or a house in London, she scolded him now like a little boy who wanted more candy, and told him they had enough houses. He had even talked about going to Italy, to look at a yacht. He had an insatiable appetite for luxurious items and houses, but Marie-Ange was determined to keep an eye on him, and keep his extravagances in check. And by the time Robert was three months old, Bernard was already talking about their having another child. The idea appealed to Marie-Ange too, but this time she wanted to wait a few months longer, although she had already regained her figure and was prettier than ever, but she wanted to have a few months to spend more time with Bernard. They were talking about taking a trip to Africa that winter, and Marie-Ange thought it would be fun. And as Christmas approached, they were planning a big party at Marmouton, and another even bigger one after the first of the year, when they occupied the house on the rue de Varenne. Marie-Ange was busy with her babies, and she called Billy a few weeks before Christmas to ask about his wedding plans. She wanted to go back to Iowa to visit him, but it seemed so far away, and there was never time. He teased her and asked if she was already pregnant again. But in a quiet moment at the end of the conversation, he asked if she was all right.

“I'm fine. Why did you ask that?” He always had a sixth sense about her, but she insisted she was fine. She didn't say anything about her meeting with Louise de Beauchamp, out of loyalty to Bernard. And she knew it would have been hard to explain, especially to Billy, who was somewhat suspicious of him.

“I just worry about you, that's all. Don't forget I've never met your husband. How do I know if he's really such a great guy?”

“Trust me,” Marie-Ange smiled at the red-haired, freckled memory of him, “he really is a great guy.” It made her sad to think that she hadn't seen Billy in such a long time. But he was happy for her that she was at Marmouton with her own family. It seemed like poetic justice to him.

“Do you ever hear from your aunt?” Carole was in her eighties by then, and Marie-Ange knew she hadn't been well for a long time. She had just sent her a Christmas card with a photograph of Heloise and Robert, but she didn't think it would mean much to her. She always wrote to Marie-Ange at Christmastime, a terse little note, once a year. And all she ever said was that she hoped that she and her husband were well. She never said much more than that. “Are you still coming to my wedding in June?” Billy asked.

“I'm going to try.”

“My mom says you should bring your kids.” But it was a long way to take them, and if Bernard had his way, she'd be pregnant again by then, although she could travel anyway. But Iowa seemed like part of another world.

They chatted for a little while, and then Bernard came home, and she got off the phone, and went to kiss him hello.

“Who were you talking to?” He was always curious about what she did, who she saw, who she talked to, he enjoyed being part of her life, although he was sometimes more private about his own.

“Billy, in Iowa. He still wants us to come to his wedding in June.”

“That's a long way off,” Bernard smiled. To him the States meant Los Angeles or New York. He had been to Palm Beach a couple of times, but a farm in Iowa was definitely not his style. He had just bought himself a set of matched brown alligator luggage, and Marie-Ange could just imagine him arriving at the Parker farm with his alligator bags in the back of a pickup truck. But she would have liked to go back, and was still promising herself she would someday. She had tried to talk Billy into coming to Marmouton for his honeymoon, and then going to Paris, and had even offered to let him stay at their new house, but he had only laughed at the suggestion. He and Debbi had decided a week at the Grand Canyon was too expensive, and even a weekend in Chicago would be tight for them. France was a whole other life, and only a dream for them. They put every penny they had into the farm.

“What did you do today, my love?” Bernard asked her that night over dinner. They had just hired a cook from town, and it was nice having the extra time with her children, but she missed making dinner for him.

“Nothing much. I was doing some things for our Christmas party, and some shopping. I played with the children.” Heloise had a cold again. “What about you?”

He smiled mysteriously at her. “Actually,” he said, as though waiting for a drum roll to accompany his announcement, “I bought an oil well,” he said, looking pleased, as Marie-Ange frowned at him.

“You did what?” She hoped he was teasing her, but he looked frighteningly sincere.

“I bought an oil well. In Texas, actually. I've been talking to the people selling shares in it for quite a while. It's going to make a fortune when it comes in. They've had some tremendous luck before in Oklahoma.” He beamed at her.

“How did you buy it?” She felt panic rise in her throat as she asked.

“With a promissory note. I know these people very well.”

“How much was it?” She sounded nervous and he looked amused. “How much was your share?”

“It was a bargain. They let me pay for half a share now, with the note, of course, for eight hundred thousand dollars. I don't have to pay the other half till next year.” And she knew by now that he never would. She would be responsible for it, and they would have to borrow more against her trust. Two years before, ten million dollars had seemed like a vast fortune, now she was constantly terrified that they would go broke. In Bernard's hands, ten million dollars disappeared like dust.

“Bernard, we can't afford it. We just finished paying for the house.”

“Darling,” he laughed at her naivete, as he leaned over to kiss her, “you are a very, very rich woman. You have enough money to last forever, and we are going to make a fortune on this. Trust me. I know these men. They've done it before.”

“When do you have to cover the note?”

“By the end of the year,” he said blithely.

“That's in two weeks.” She nearly choked at what he said.

“Believe me, if I could, I'd cover it myself. Your advisers at the bank are going to thank me for doing you a favor,” he said, without batting an eye, and Marie-Ange lay in bed awake, thinking about it, all that night.

In the morning, when she called the bank and told them, her advisers were in no mood to thank Bernard, and for her sake they refused to let her borrow the money against her trust to cover the note. They flatly wouldn't allow it, and at lunch the next day she had no choice but to tell Bernard, and he was enraged.

“My God, how can they be so stupid! And now what do you expect me to do? My word is my honor. They'll think I'm some kind of liar, they might even sue me. I signed the documents two days ago. You knew that, Marie-Ange. You have to tell the bank that they have to pay.”

“I did,” she said grimly, “maybe we should have asked the bank before you signed.”

“You're not a pauper, for God's sake. I'll call them myself tomorrow,” he said, implying that she had handled it badly. But when he called the trust department, they were even more direct with him, and told him in no uncertain terms that her trustees would not allow her to borrow against the trust again. “The doors are closed,” they said. And when he talked to Marie-Ange about it, he was furious with her.

“Did you tell them to do that?” he asked suspiciously, accusing her of double-crossing him.

“Of course not. But we've spent a fortune on both houses,” and he had spent another million dollars or more on art and bad debts from other deals. Her trustees had told her that they were protecting her, and what was left of her fortune, for her own good. She had to think of her future, and her children. And if she couldn't restrain her husband, they were more than willing to do it for her. But Bernard was like a caged animal over it for the next several days. He ranted and raved at her, and behaved like an angry, spoiled child, but there was nothing she could do. They sat through meals in stony silence, and by the weekend, when Bernard came back from a brief trip to Paris, he finally sat down with Marie-Ange in his study, and told her that in view of her obvious distrust of him, and her bank treating him like a gigolo, obviously at her direction, he was thinking of leaving her. He was not going to tolerate being treated this way, or living in a marriage where he wasn't trusted, and was treated like a child.

“I have had your best interests at heart since we met, Marie-Ange,” he said, looking wounded. “My God, I let you stay here when I didn't even know you, because I knew how much it meant to you. I spent a fortune restoring the chateau because it's a relic of your lost childhood. I bought the house in Paris because I thought you deserved a more exciting life than being hidden away here. I have done nothing but work for you, and for our children, since the day we met. And now I discover that you don't trust me. I cannot live this way anymore.” She was horrified by what she was hearing, and even more so at the thought of losing him. She had two small children, and she might be pregnant again. The idea of his leaving her, and leaving her alone in the world again, with her children, filled her with terror, and made her want to give him everything she had. It also never occurred to her that the expensive restoration he was claiming, she had actually paid for herself, or that the “fortune he had spent” was hers. She had paid for the house in Paris, after he had bought it without even asking her before he made the commitment, just as he had committed to the promissory note for a million six hundred thousand dollars now, without ever asking her.

“I'm sorry, Bernard … I'm sorry …,” she said miserably, “it's not my fault. The bank won't lend me the money.”

“I don't believe you even tried. And it is most certainly your fault,” he said harshly. “These people work for you, Marie-Ange. Tell them what you want. Unless of course you want to humiliate me publicly, and refuse to cover a debt I entered into for you. You're the one who would benefit from this investment, as would Robert and Heloise.” He was everything self-sacrificing and noble as he accused her, and she felt as though she had shot him in the heart. And in return, he was breaking hers.

“They're not my employees, Bernard. They're my trustees, you know that. They make the decisions. I don't.” Her eyes implored him to forgive her for what she couldn't give.

“I also know that you can take them to court, to get what you want, if you want to.” He was the image of injured virtue as he explained it to her.

“Is that what you want me to do?” She looked shocked.

“If you loved me, you would.” He had put it all on the line, but the next day, after Marie-Ange spoke to the bank again, they still refused, and when she threatened them with court, they told her in no uncertain terms that she would lose. They could point out easily how quickly and how recklessly her money had been spent, and they told her that no responsible judge in the world would overturn the trust under those circumstances, for a girl her age. She was only twenty-three, and they knew how grasping Bernard would look in those circumstances, and how suspicious to the court, but they did not say that to her.

And when she reported the conversation to Bernard, he said coldly that he would let her know what he decided to do. But she had been warned. He had already threatened to leave her if she did not cover the debt. And it was a matter of less than two weeks before he had to pay.

She was still beside herself over it the night of their Christmas party, and Bernard hadn't spoken to her in days. He felt humiliated and mistrusted and abused, and he was making her pay for it in spades. And she looked very nervous as she greeted their guests. He looked, as always, elegant, dignified, and cool. He was wearing a new dinner jacket he had had made in London, and a pair of custom-made patent leather shoes. He was always exquisitely dressed, and she was wearing a red satin gown he had bought her at Dior. But she felt anything but festive, and she was worried sick that he would leave her by the end of the year, when she couldn't cover his debt. He acted hurt that she didn't feel he was doing everything for her.

He said not a word to her as they led their guests into the dining room for dinner, and later on when the music struck up, he danced with every woman in the room, save his wife. It was a painful evening for Marie-Ange, in every way.

And all but the last guests had left, when someone in the kitchen commented that they smelled smoke in the house. Alain Fournier, their caretaker, was washing dishes in the kitchen, and helping the caterers clean up, and he said he'd take a look around to see what it was. At first the caterers insisted it was the oven they were cleaning, and someone thought it might be the candles lit throughout the house, or the cigars the guests had smoked. But just to be on the safe side, Alain wandered upstairs to look around. And on the second floor, he found a candle that had leaned too far toward the heavy new damask curtains. The tassels on the curtains had caught fire quickly, and one whole side of the curtains was on fire when he came upstairs.

Alain tore it off the rod, threw it on the floor, and stamped it out, but only then did he notice that the row of fringe at the top of the curtains had carried the flames to the other side, and now they were blazing too as he began to shout, but no one heard. He tried desperately to put the fire out before it spread any further, but because of the music downstairs, his cries for help were drowned out, and like a nightmare, the flames danced from one curtain to another, and within what seemed like instants, the entire second-floor hallway was on fire, and the flames were darting toward the stairs.

And without knowing what else to do, he rushed back downstairs to the kitchen, and told them to bring buckets and water and come upstairs to help, as one of the caterers ran to call the fire department, and then into the living room to warn the remaining guests. And the moment Marie-Ange heard it, she ran upstairs, heading for the second floor hall, where Alain was throwing water at the flames. By the time they got there, the fabric on the walls leading from the second floor to the third had created a tunnel of flame, but she knew she had to go through it, since both her children were asleep upstairs. But as she attempted to pass through the flames, powerful arms held her back. The men who had come up from the kitchen to fight the fire knew she would turn into a human torch in her billowing red dress, as the walls blazed.

“Let go of me!” she said, screaming at them, and trying to fight her way past them. But before she could wrench herself free of them, she saw Bernard run past her, and he was already at the top of the stairs as she pushed free of the men and ran up the stairs as quickly as she could behind him. She could see the door to the nursery just ahead of them, and the hallway was already full of smoke, as she saw him pick the baby up and then run into the room where Heloise was sleeping in her own crib. Heloise woke the moment she heard her parents, and Marie-Ange reached down and grabbed her. They could hear the roar of the fire by then, and downstairs she could hear people shouting. And as Marie-Ange looked behind her, she saw the stairs to the third floor alight with flame, and she knew that the windows on the third floor were tiny. Unless they could get back downstairs through the flames, there would be no escaping, and she looked at Bernard in desperation.

“I'll get help,” he said, looking panicked, “you stay with the children. The firemen are coming, Marie-Ange. If you have to, go to the roof and wait there!” And then, he set Robert down in Heloise's crib and made a dash down the stairs, as Marie-Ange watched him in terror. He stopped for only an instant on his way down, at the door to the roof, and as she watched him, she saw him slip the key to the door into his pocket, and she screamed after him to throw the key back to her, but he only turned once at the foot of the stairs, and vanished, gone to get help, she was sure, but he had left her alone on the third floor with her babies, in a sea of flames.

Bernard had told her he didn't want her to try to get through the flames on the stairs, she was safer waiting upstairs, he'd said. But as she watched the flames drawing closer to them, she knew he was wrong, and it was small consolation as she heard sirens in the distance. Both her children were crying by then, and the baby was gasping in the thick smoke that had begun to choke them. She was expecting to see firemen, or Bernard with a bucket brigade, coming up the stairs to save them at any moment. She couldn't hear the voices downstairs anymore, the roar of the fire was too loud, and a moment later she heard an enormous crash, and when she looked, she saw that a beam had fallen and was blocking the stairway. And there was still no sign of Bernard coming back to them, as she sobbed, and held both her babies.

She put them in Heloise's crib for a moment, and ran to check the door to the roof, but it was locked, and Bernard had taken the key with him. And suddenly she remembered a voice in her head, and a scarred face, and everything Louise de Beauchamp had said to her. It was all true, she realized instantly. He had tried to lock them in her son's room. And now he had left her here, with no access to the roof, and no way to escape the fire and save her children.

“It's all right, babies. It's all right,” she said murmuring frantically to them, running from one small round window to another, and then as she looked out one of them, she saw him standing there, down below in the courtyard, sobbing hysterically and waving his arms in their direction. He was describing something to the people below, and shaking his head, and she could just imagine now what he was saying, perhaps that he had seen them dead, or that there was no way for him to get to them, which was true now, but it hadn't been when he left them, and slipped the key to the roof into his pocket.

She opened all the windows she could, so they could breathe fresh air, and then rushed from room to room as embers fell and pieces of flaming wood flew all around them. And suddenly, she remembered a tiny bathroom they never used. It was the only room on the third floor with a slightly bigger window, and when she got to it, she saw that it could open. She rushed back to Heloise's room and grabbed both of them, and then rushed back to the bathroom and began screaming from the open window.

“Up here! I'm up here! … I have the children!” She screamed above the din, waving one arm out the window, and at first no one saw her, and then suddenly a fireman looked up and noticed her, and ran quickly for their ladder. But as she watched the men below, she saw Bernard look up at her with a look she had never seen on his face before. It was a look of pure jealousy and hatred, and she had no doubt at that moment that he'd done this. He had set the fire probably, on the second floor, where no one would notice, close enough to the stairs to the third floor so that it would devour his children. And he had known what Marie-Ange would do, she would go to them, and be trapped with them. It was no accident of hysteria that the door to the roof was locked, he had taken the key with him. He had wanted to kill them. And from what she could see, there was a good likelihood that he would succeed. The firemen had put their ladders to the walls of the chateau, and found they would not reach up far enough for them to reach her. And as Bernard watched, he began to sob hysterically, just as Louise had described the night her son died. Marie-Ange felt a chill of terror rush over her, she could not see how she was going to save her children. And if they all died, Bernard would inherit everything, if they lived and Marie-Ange didn't, he would have to share the estate with his children. His motive for killing all of them was a thought so disgusting and unbearable that Marie-Ange felt as though her chest had been torn open and her heart ripped out. He had tried to murder not only her, but their children.

And as she looked below and watched him cry, she held the children as close to the window as she dared, to keep them breathing. The door to the tiny bathroom was closed behind them, and the roaring sound from beyond it was deafening. She couldn't hear what anyone was shouting to her from below, but three of the firemen were holding a net for her, and at first it was not clear what they were saying. She watched their mouths as intently as she could, to read their lips, and finally one of the men held up a single finger. One, he was saying to her. One. One at a time. She sat Heloise down on the floor at her feet, as the child clung to her dress, and sobbing hysterically, she kissed Robert's tiny face, and held him out as far as she could, as the firemen rushed beneath her and held the net firm. It was an unbearable moment as she let go, and watched him fall and bounce into the net like a little rubber ball, and then finally she watched one of them as they held him. But he was still moving. He waved his arms and legs as Bernard rushed to him, and took him in his arms, as Marie-Ange looked down at him with hatred.

And then she did the same with Heloise, while the child kicked and screamed and fought her and Marie-Ange shouted at her to stop, and then kissed her and threw her. And like her brother, she fell into the net like a doll, and was grabbed by the firemen, and then kissed by her father. But they were all looking up at Marie-Ange now, as she stared out the window. It had been one thing to throw them, another to leap from the window herself. It looked like an agonizingly long way down, and the window was so small, she knew it would not be easy for her to climb through. But as she looked at Bernard in the courtyard below, she knew that if she didn't, he would have her children, and God only knew what he would do to them, to steal their share of the inheritance. She knew from that day forward, they would never be safe with him. She climbed to the windowsill, and sat poised, as she heard an explosion downstairs and all the second-floor windows blew out into the night, and she knew it was only a matter of time before the floor beneath her gave way, and collapsed, taking her with it.

“Jump!” the firemen shouted at her, “Jump!!” But she felt frozen as she sat there, and they were powerless to help her. There was nothing they could do for her, except encourage her to do what she had done for her children. And as she sat, clutching the window frame, she could see Louise de Beauchamp's face in her mind's eye and knew what she had felt that night, when she had lost her son, and had known that Bernard had killed him, as surely as if he had taken a gun and shot him. If nothing else, Marie-Ange had to leap to save her own children from him, and to stop him. But it was so terrifying she couldn't move. She was paralyzed with terror as they watched her.

She could see Bernard screaming to her, her babies were in other arms than his by then, and all eyes were turned toward her. And knowing that no one was watching him then, Bernard looked up as he hung back in the crowd and smiled at her. He knew she was too frightened to do it. He would gain the lion's share of her estate when she died, and he could do anything he wanted with it once he had it. He had failed in his mission to kill his last wife, and killed only her son, but this time he would be more successful. And the next time, Marie-Ange wondered as she looked at him, who would he kill then? Heloise? Or Robert? Or both of them? How many people would he destroy before someone stopped him? And as though she were next to her, Marie-Ange could hear Louise speaking of Charles the night he died in her arms in their country house, and it was as though Louise spoke to her now, loudly and clearly.

“Jump, Marie-Ange! Now!” And as she heard the words in her head, she leaped finally from the window, and flew down, her big red skirt billowing like a parachute, and it knocked the wind out of her when she landed in the net they held for her. The first face she saw looking down at her was Bernard's, crying and holding his arms out to her, as she shrank from him. She had seen it all in his eyes before that, she had understood everything. He was truly the monster Louise had said he was. He was a man who had been willing to kill her child, and his own, and two women. And as Marie-Ange looked at him, she spoke clearly.

“He tried to kill us,” she said calmly, stunned by the sound of her own voice, and the words she was saying. “He took the key to the roof with him, after he locked it, so we could not get out. He left us there to die,” she said, as he stepped backward as though she'd hit him. “He's done it before,” Marie-Ange said for all to hear, but he had tried to destroy all that she held dear, and she would never forgive him for it. “He set a fire that killed his last wife's son,” she said, as rampant hatred leaped from his eyes toward her. “He locked them in a room as well, and nearly killed her, but he didn't. You tried to kill us,” she said directly at him, as he reached out as though to slap her and then stopped himself, fighting for composure.

“She's lying. She's insane. She's always been unbalanced,” and then he tried to sound calm, as he spoke to the fire chief standing next to him, listening, and watching Marie-Ange's face. She didn't look unbalanced to him. “She's come un-glued from the shock of seeing her children in danger.”

“You set the fire, Bernard,” she said to him in an icy tone. ‘You left us there. You took the key. You wanted us to die, so you could take all the money, not just mine, but theirs too. You should have died in the fire, and perhaps next time you will,” she said as the rage she felt began to boil over, and the local constable moved toward Bernard discreetly. One of the firemen had said something to him, and he was suggesting to Bernard that he come with them and answer some questions. And Bernard refused to go with him, and expressed his outrage.

“How dare you! How dare you listen to her! She's a lunatic! She has no idea what she's saying.”

“And Louise? Was she a lunatic too? And what about Charles? He was a four-year-old child when you killed him.” Marie-Ange was sobbing by then, as she stood in the freezing night and one of the firemen put a blanket over her shoulders. They had nearly stopped the fire by then, but the destruction inside the house was almost total.

“Monsieur le Comte,” the constable said clearly to him then, “if you do not come with us willingly, sir, which I hope you will, we will be obliged to put you in handcuffs.”

“I'll see that you're fired for this. It's an outrage!” he objected, but went with them. Their friends had long since departed, and Marie-Ange was left with the caretaker, the men who had come up from the farm, the firemen, and her babies.

They had given oxygen to Robert, and he was shivering, but calm by then, and Heloise was fast asleep in the arms of a fireman, as though nothing had happened. Alain offered to let them stay with him that night, and as she watched the last of the fire burn, Marie-Ange realized that once again she was starting from nothing. But she was alive, and she had her children. That was all she cared about now.

She stood outside for a long time, as the firemen continued to put out the last of the fire, and they stayed all night to watch the embers. She took the children into the caretaker's cottage with Alain, and in the morning two policemen came to the door and wanted to see her. Alain's mother had come up from the farm shortly before that, to help her with her children.

“May we speak to you, Comtesse?” they asked discreetly, and she stepped outside with them. She didn't want Alain to hear what she had to say about her husband. They questioned her extensively, and told her that the firemen had found traces of kerosene in the second-floor hall, and on the stairs leading to her children. There would be a full investigation made, and as things stood now, they were prepared to bring charges against Bernard. She told them then about Louise de Beauchamp, and they thanked her.

She took a room for herself in a hotel in town that night, and they set up two cribs for her children, and Madame Fournier came with her. She was there for a week, to answer questions for the police and firemen, and after the fire cooled, she went back into the house to see what could be saved. Some silverware, some statues, some tools. Everything else had been destroyed or ruined, but the insurance people had already been there to see it. There was some question as to how much or if they would pay her anything, if it could be proven that Bernard had set the fire himself.

And she called Louise de Beauchamp after the first few days. It took Marie-Ange that long to calm down. The aftermath of the shock was worse than what she had felt the night it happened. She had lost not only her home, and nearly her children, but her hopes, her dreams, her husband, and her faith in him. He was being held in the local jail for further questioning, and Marie-Ange hadn't been to see him. All she wanted was to ask him why he had done it, how he could have hated her so much, and wanted to destroy their babies. It was something she knew she would never understand, but his motives were clear. He had done it for money.

And when they spoke on the phone, Marie-Ange thanked Louise for her warning. Had she not known, perhaps she would have been foolish enough to believe he was coming back for her, and never tried to find her way out through the bathroom window. And certainly, she would have believed his histrionics. But she would never forget seeing him that night, and the look of hatred in his eyes, as he watched her poised on the win-dowsill, praying she wouldn't dare leap to safety.

“I thought I heard your voice that night, telling me to jump,” Marie-Ange said sadly. “I was so afraid to, I almost didn't. But I kept thinking of what he would do to them if I died … and then I heard your voice in my head, saying jump,' and I did.”

“I'm glad,” Louise said quietly, and reminded Marie-Ange that she would gladly testify to what had happened to her, and Marie-Ange told her the police were going to call her. ‘You'll be all right now,” Louise reassured her, “better than I. Poor Charles was sacrificed to that bastard's greed. What a terrible thing to die for.”

“I'm so sorry,” Marie-Ange said again, and they talked for a long time, comforting each other. And in a way, Marie-Ange knew, Louise's warning had saved her, as much as the firemen and the net they had held, and the leap of faith she had taken.

They spent Christmas in the hotel, and the day after, Marie-Ange drove the children to Paris. She had already decided to sell the house on the rue de Varenne, and everything in it. She hated to stay in the apartment, but all their things were there, all that they had left, and Bernard could no longer hurt her. He had tried to call her once at the hotel, and she had refused his call. She never wanted to see him again, except in court, and she hoped he would go to prison forever for what he had done to Charles, and tried to do to her children. But the real tragedy for Marie-Ange was that she had not only trusted and believed in him, she had loved him.

It was New Year's Eve when she finally called Billy. She was at home with her babies, and thinking about him. She had so much to think of, values and ideals, and dreams that had been destroyed, integrity that had never existed. Like Louise, she realized now that she had been nothing more than a target for him from the first, a source of funds that he would have bled till it ran dry. She was just thankful that her trustees had been more cautious than she was. But at least the sale of the house in Paris would restore some of her financial balance.

“What are you doing at home tonight?” Billy asked when she called. “Why aren't you out celebrating? It must be midnight in Paris.”

“Pretty close.” It was shortly after, and it was five in the afternoon for him. He had been planning to spend a quiet night at home, with his family and his fiancee.

“Aren't you supposed to be at a grand party somewhere, Countess?” he teased her, but she didn't smile. She hadn't smiled in almost two weeks.

She told him about the fire, and what Bernard had done, or tried to do. She told him about Louise, and Charles, and the money Bernard had bilked from her. But more than anything, she told him what it had felt like, in the bathroom during the fire, and throwing her children out the window, and as he listened to her, she could hear him crying.

“My God, Marie-Ange, I hope they send the son of a bitch to prison forever.” He had never trusted him. It had all happened so quickly. Too quickly. And Marie-Ange had always insisted that everything was so perfect, and for a while she thought it was. But now that she looked back, she realized it never had been. She even wondered if the children he wanted so desperately had only been a way to distract her and tie her to him. She was just grateful now that she hadn't gotten pregnant a third time, but since the fire, she had been reassured that she hadn't. “What are you going to do now?” Billy asked her, sounding more worried about her than ever.

“I don't know. The hearing is in a month, and Louise and I are both going to be there.” She had described her face to him, and the tragedy she'd been through. Marie-Ange had been a great deal luckier in being able to save her children. “I'll be in Paris until I figure out what to do. There's nothing left at Marmouton. I suppose I should sell it,” she said sadly.

“You can rebuild if you want to.” He encouraged her, still trying to absorb the horror she had told him, and wishing he could put his arms around her. His mother had seen him crying on the phone, and had shooed everyone out of the kitchen, including his fiancee.

“I'm not even sure I do want to,” Marie-Ange said honestly about the home she had loved as a child, but so many tragedies had happened there that she was no longer sure she wanted to keep it. “So many awful things happened there, Billy.”

“Good things too. Maybe you need to take some time to think about it. What about coming here to kind of catch your breath for a while?” The idea appealed to her immensely, although she didn't want to stay at a hotel, and she couldn't impose two small children on his mother. Everyone on their farm was busy and had their hands full.

“Maybe. And I can't come in June for your wedding. I have to be here for the lawyers, and they said he might go to trial then. I'll know later.”

“So will I,” he said, smiling, and looking more boyish than ever, although she couldn't see him. Marie-Ange was twenty-three, and he was twenty-four now.

“What does that mean?” Marie-Ange questioned his cryptic comment.

“I don't know. We've been talking about putting the wedding off for another year. We like each other a lot, but sometimes I wonder. Forever is a hell of a long time. My mom says not to rush it. And I think Debbi's kind of nervous. She keeps saying she wants to live in Chicago. You know what it's like here. You're not talking big-city excitement.”

“You should bring her to Paris,” Marie-Ange said, still hopeful it would work out for them. He deserved happiness. She had had her turn, and it had literally turned to ashes. Now all she wanted was peace and some quiet times with her children. It was hard to imagine ever trusting anyone again, after Bernard. But at least she knew Billy, and loved him as her brother. She needed a friend now. And then she had an idea, and proposed it to him. “Why don't you come to Paris? You can stay at my apartment. I'd love to see you,” she said, sounding homesick. He was the only person in the world she could trust now.

“I'd love to see your kids,” he said, thinking about it.

“How's your French these days?” “I'm losing it. I have no one to talk to.” “I should call more often.” She didn't want to ask him if he could afford the trip, or insult him by offering to pay for it, but she would have loved to see him.

“Things are pretty quiet here right now. I'll talk to my dad. He could probably get by without me for a week or two. We'll see. I'll think about it, and see what I can work out.”

“Thank you for being there for me,” Marie-Ange said with the smile he remembered so well from their childhood.

“That's what friends are for, Marie-Ange. I'm always here for you, I hope you know that. I wish you hadn't lied to me about him. Sometimes I thought something was wrong, and other times you convinced me you were happy.”

“I was, most of the time, a lot of the time, really. And my kids are so sweet. But he scared the hell out of me the way he spent money.”

“You'll be okay now,” he reassured her, “the main thing is that you and the kids are fine.”

“I know. What if I lend you the money for a ticket?” she asked, worried he didn't have the money and afraid to embarrass him, but she was dying to see him. She suddenly felt so scared and so alone, and so lonely, and it felt like a hundred years since she'd seen him. It had been just over two, but it felt like decades. And so much had happened. She'd gotten married, had two kids, and nearly been destroyed by the man she'd married.

“If I let you lend me the money for the ticket, how would you be able to tell me from your husband?” He was serious. He didn't want to do the same thing to her as Bernard, but he couldn't even conceive of the scale on which he'd done it.

“Easy,” she laughed in answer to his question, “just don't buy an oil well with the money.”

“Now there's an idea,” he said, laughing at her. He thought she was kidding. “I'll figure out what I'm going to do, and I'll call you.”

“I'll be here,” she said with a smile, and then remembered. “And by the way, Happy New Year.”

“Same to you, and do me a favor, will you, kid?”

“What's that?” It felt like their old school days just talking to him.

“Try to stay out of trouble till I get there.”

“Does that mean you're coming?”

“That means I'll see. Just take care of yourself and the kids in the meantime. And if they let him out of jail, I want you to fly out here.”

“I don't think that's going to happen. Not for a long time,” but it was a sensible suggestion, and she was grateful for his concern.

After they hung up, Marie-Ange got into bed. Heloise was sleeping next to her in her bed, and Robert was in his crib in the next room. And she smiled to herself as she thought of Billy.

At that exact moment, he was talking to his father. Tom Parker had been more than a little startled by the question, but he said that he figured maybe he could spare it, as long as Billy eventually repaid it, and Billy promised to do that. He had been saving for their honeymoon and already had four hundred dollars put aside.

But when he walked back into the living room, his sisters thought he looked distracted. One of them spoke to him and at first he didn't even hear.

“What's with you?” his oldest sister said, as she handed her baby to her husband.

“Nothing much.” And then he told them all what had happened to Marie-Ange, and they were horrified. His fiancee, Debbi, was listening with interest, but said nothing. “I'm going to Paris,” he said finally, “she's had a hell of a time, and it's the least I can do, for old times' sake.” It was impossible for any of them to forget that she had given him his Porsche.

“I'm moving to Chicago,” Debbi spoke up suddenly and silenced the room as they all stared at her.

“Where did that come from?” Billy asked her, and she looked embarrassed.

“I've been waiting all week to tell you. I found a job, and I'm moving.”

“And then what?” he asked, feeling a strange flutter in his stomach. He wasn't sure yet if he was glad or sorry, mostly confused, but he had been for a while, when he thought about their wedding.

“I don't know yet,” Debbi answered honestly, as his entire family listened. “I don't think we should get married,” and then she added in a whisper, “I don't want to live on a farm for the rest of my life. I hate it.”

“That's what I do,” he said quietly, “it's who I am.”

“You could do something else if you wanted,” she whined at him, and he looked unhappy.

“Let's talk about this outside,” he said calmly, and handed her her coat, and they walked out onto the porch, as the rest of the family began to chatter. They still couldn't believe what he'd told them about Marie-Ange, and his mother was worried about her.

“Think they'll ever get married?” his older sister asked her about Debbi.

“God knows,” their mother said with a shrug, “damned if I know what people do, or why they do it. The ones that should get married, don't. The ones that shouldn't can't wait to run off with each other. Most people make a mess of it, if you give ‘em half a chance. Most of them anyway. A few don't, like your dad and I,” she said, grinning over at her husband, who was still intrigued by what was going on around him.

And when Debbi left, Billy went straight to his room, without explaining anything to his parents or sisters or brothers, or their respective spouses. He said nothing at all, and softly closed the door.

Chapter 12

When the plane from Chicago landed at Charles de Gaulle, Marie-Ange was waiting for it, with Robert in her arms, and Heloise in the stroller. She was wearing slacks and a warm coat and heavy sweater, and her babies were bundled up in matching little red coats that reminded her of her childhood. And she was holding a single rose for Billy.

She saw him as soon as he got off the plane, and he looked just the way he always had when they rode to school on the school bus. Except he wasn't wearing overalls, he was wearing jeans, a white shirt, and a heavy jacket, and brand-new loafers his mom had got him. And he sauntered toward her just the way he always had, when she waited for him on her bike, in the places where they used to meet and talk during the summer. And he smiled the minute he saw her.

Without saying a word, she handed the rose to him, and he took it and looked at her for a long moment, and then he hugged her close to him, and felt the silk of her hair on his cheek, as he always had. It was like a homecoming for both of them, they were each the best friend the other had ever had, and even after two years, it was old and comfortable and sure that they loved each other. It was the way things ought to be, and seldom were. It was the same way Frangoise had felt the first time she saw John Hawkins again when she saw him in Paris, but neither of them knew that. And after Billy had hugged her, he stopped to look at her kids. They were both beautiful, and he said they looked just like her.

And as they walked toward the baggage claim, she told him how the first hearing had gone. They were charging Bernard with three counts of attempted murder, and they were reopening the investigation about the death of Charles, Louise's son. The prosecutor said that given the new evidence against him, it was more than likely he would be charged with murder.

“I hope they hang him,” Billy said with a vehemence she didn't remember about him, but he couldn't stand thinking about what she'd gone through. And he had had a lot of time to think about it again, on the plane, and before that, when Debbi moved to Chicago. They had finally agreed to break their engagement, but he hadn't told Marie-Ange yet. He didn't want to scare her. She might be worried if she thought his engagement was broken off.

Billy had come for two weeks, and she wanted to show him all the sights in Paris. She had planned the whole trip for him, the Louvre, the Tour Eiffel, the Bois de Boulogne, the Tuileries, there were a thousand things she wanted to show him. And then they were going to drive down to Marmouton, just so he could see it, but they couldn't stay there. They would have to stay at the hotel in town, and then drive back to Paris the next day. But she wanted to walk the fields with him at least, and show him the orchards, and get his advice about whether or not he thought she should rebuild it. But if she did, she wasn't planning to put in any of the excessive luxuries Bernard had. She wanted it just like the old days, when her parents lived there. And maybe in the end, it would be a good place for her and her children. She hadn't made up her mind.

When Billy picked up his small bag off the turntable, she looked at him and saw that he was different. He was more grown-up, more confident, more at ease with himself. He was a man now. And she had changed too. She had been through a lot, and she had two babies. She'd been through the wars with Bernard, and come through them eventually. And now Billy was here, and in the best possible ways, nothing had changed, as he looked down and grinned at her, as he took the baby from her with one arm, and she pushed the stroller.

“It's like coming home again, isn't it?” She looked up at him with a smile, as he said it, and he smiled at her. She saw something flicker in his eyes and asked him what he was thinking. They had always read each other's minds.

“I was just thinking that I'm damn glad you jumped out that bathroom window. I would have had to kill him myself, if you hadn't.”

“Yeah, me too, I'm glad I jumped, I mean.” She smiled, as they walked along, looking like a family. There was no reason for anyone to guess they weren't. The four of them looked right together. And all Marie-Ange wanted now was to be with him for the next two weeks, and talk about all the things they always had, and that meant something to them. They had lives and dreams and secrets to share, things to talk about and explore. And Paris to discover. It was as though a door was closing behind them, and another was opening right before them, into a brand-new world.

About the AuthorDanielle Steel has been hailed as one of the world's most popular authors, with over 480 million copies of her novels sold. Her many international best-sellers include The Cottage, The Kiss, Lone Eagle, Journey, The House on Hope Street, The Wedding, Irresistible Forces, Granny Dan, Bittersweet, and other highly acclaimed novels. She is also the author of His Bright Light, the story of her son Nick Traina's life and death.

a cognizant original v5 release october 26 2010

Published by

Dell Publishing

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New York, New York 10036

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

either are the product of the author's imagination or are used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2001 by Danielle Steel

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Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 00-045174

eISBN: 978-0-307-56658-4

v3.0

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

About the Author