Sparkles

Pierre turned to the butler. “Close the door, and make sure that we are not disturbed.”

Sophie looked at Judy. How did he have the face to do it? To bring her here? She bit her lip; rage surged in her chest. But her son was gripping her hand. So she said nothing.

Katherine was the first to speak.

“Welcome,” she said, in ringing tones. “Welcome, welcome, my love—my darling. I never believed you were gone. Never, for one second.”

Pierre walked across the room and took her hand; he gently kissed her cheek.

“My beloved Maman,” he said—and Sophie thought she saw a flash of anger in Katherine’s eyes. But no. It could not be so.

“And my son. Let me see you.”

Tom relinquished his mother’s hand and stood up. He hesitated, then hugged his father.

“My son,” Pierre repeated. “You look exactly like me.” He kissed him on both cheeks, in the French manner. “And, finally, Sophie—my beloved wife.”

Sophie was mindful of Tom. She seethed, she wanted to slap him, but instead, she turned a cool cheek to him, and let him kiss her. Then she quickly stood, and moved back a step.

He was not to touch her, beyond that. She would never again be his.

“Pierre—you are well?”

“I am. And I am refreshed in the soul to see you. I prayed, day and night, that I would see my family again. I know what has happened.” He moved back, towards the fire. “And I want you all to know that I forgive you.”

“Why is she here?”

The question burst from Tom. Sophie’s head lifted; her son’s anger startled her.

“Why is Judy Dean standing like a guest in my mother’s parlour?”

Pierre’s dark eyes narrowed.

“Because she is a guest. She is my friend.”

“She is your lover.” Tom passed a hand through his hair. “Do you know, Papa, how often I have dreamed of this day? Do you know how I have prayed—how I have longed for you? How I would have offered my soul just to have this moment? And then, for it to happen, and for you to—to ruin it. To bring that bitch of a woman into our house.” Tom’s eyes were full of angry tears. “You do not know how she has wrecked this family.”

“Tom, Tom.” Pierre glanced over the Massots; they were not reacting quite as he had expected. Perhaps it had not been a good idea to bring the slut. The boy had grown up. The women, of course, were weak; they did not object.

He tinkered with his approach.

“There is an important reason that I bring her, my child. I have prayed, and the good Lord has shown me the way”—that’s right, Vladek, lay it on thick—“our family must heal, and it must know the truth. And the sad truth is that, long ago, I betrayed your mother, the love of my life. Judy and I are both here to beg her forgiveness. Just as I forgive her for giving up all hope of me. We must both live with the fact that another has possessed our spouse. But we can forgive, go on, and be a family again.” He turned to Sophie. “I am hoping you will introduce me to that old priest ... Père Sabin. . . . I want to start going to church as we rebuild our marriage.”

“I do apologize,” Judy said. “I was young. . . .”

Sophie saw no sincerity in her eyes; the woman was barely suppressing her mirth. A stab of hatred shot through her. Pierre was talking about God? He intended to tie her down.

Still, she said nothing.

“But Judy and I are friends. We have fifteen years as close friends, before we ever slipped as lovers, and I will not betray that. When you are alone in a prison cell you learn what’s important. We’ll remain friendly, and Judy will be a guest of this family.” Pierre’s eyes, confident, commanding, settled on Tom. “You will resign tomorrow from the firm and give up your place at Oxford. I will select a position where you can work, under me—nothing too senior, you understand. You must learn from your error in selling the shares. Maman—my dear.” He turned to Katherine. “You must give up all the shares I had allocated to you, for you see, I can no longer trust your judgement. Since your grasp of financial matters seems a little hazy, I will start to have the accounts of the dower house audited. For your own good. And you, Sophie.” He turned to her last. “I love you, and you know we are obliged to forgive each other’s infidelities. I expect you to stay home and to try to repair your reputation.” He reached out, and traced a fingertip across her collarbone. “I intend that we shall regain our marital passion.”

Pierre smiled. “You see? It is as if no time had passed. Everything shall be what it was.”

“No,” Sophie said.

She surprised herself; her voice was clear and calm.

“What do you mean, no?” he asked, with soft malice.

It didn’t impress Sophie. To his fury, she ignored him and turned to their son.

“Tom,” Sophie said. “I am sorry, dearest, but I think we should get some things straight at the outset. It will be better for the family that way.”

“It’s all right, Maman.” Tom had brushed off the tears, and nodded at her. “I agree.”

“Pierre, I am not prepared to live as your wife. I thank God you are well, but I want to apply for an annulment.”

He could not believe it. “I just told you, that God’s law . . .”

“I don’t believe you care about God’s law,” Sophie said coldly. “I believe you never intended fidelity. I know there were countless women. We have a son together, so I hope we will be courteous. Even friendly. But I shall file for civil divorce tomorrow, and I will seek to have this marriage annulled.”

“And I will resign my job; the new company probably belongs to you anyway.” Tom stood up. “But I will go back to Oxford, Father. And I will never speak to Judy Dean again. If you bring her into any place where I am, I will leave. This point is not negotiable.”

Pierre stared.

He could not believe it. It simply did not compute. His clingy son and his mouselike wife. Defying him. Refusing his authority. Sophie, whom he had been so sure would jump at the first bit of religious trash he tossed at her . . .

“I will not give you an annulment,” he said, with ice-cold tones. “I will fight you all the way to the Vatican. You will never get to marry that English bastard. You will love me, be with me, or be a lonely old maid for the rest of your life.”

Sophie could not stop herself.

“No contest,” she said, with contempt.

Tom bristled. “Do not speak to Maman that way, Papa. The fault was yours, not hers. You don’t own her. She was a good wife to you.”

A red mist, a pure, bright rage, rose up in his gorge, choking him.

“You dare to side with her?” he said. Intimidation, all the icy command of his personality, he now bore down on his son. “You are my blood.”

“Yes, but hers too.”

“I can disinherit you. I can reduce you to poverty.”

“I love you, Papa,” said Tom, standing and backing away. “But don’t threaten me.”

“Darling.” Sophie put a hand on his shoulder. “Your father is not himself. He’s been through a terrible ordeal. . . .”

“Don’t patronize me!” Pierre roared. “Don’t you dare! You are my woman, Sophie, and you will stay in my home!”

He was shaking. Never in all his years had he been so utterly defied. Not to his face. That was his magic, the magic of Pierre Massot, of Pyotr Vladekovitch, of Vladek the nameless—he manipulated, he commanded, he enslaved. And of all the creatures in the world, were not these two most utterly his?

But then there came another noise.

“Pierre, Pierre.”

His head lashed around, in annoyance. Katherine, there she was, his Natasha, and she was speaking out of place. She had glided up to him in her rich robes. And there was a ghost of her former beauty. “She is not your woman, Pierre! You do not need her!”

He missed the feverish brightness in Katherine’s eyes; he gave her a little push out of his way.

“Be quiet,” he hissed.

But she was still there. Pawing at him, demanding his attention.

“You’re mine.” Katherine—Natasha—smiled; there was an intensity to her stare he could not miss. “After it all! After everything.” She moved towards him, her old eyes fiery. “I was true to you. I obeyed you. I won! Didn’t I? Now you’re mine, forever—forever! The way I always knew it would be. None of them ever meant anything to you. Only me!”

He shook his head, furiously. “Calm yourself!”

“And the whore. Why is the whore here? Send her away. She is not for you,” Katherine murmured. “I am here—I am here, at last. I who believed in you, my darling, my Pierre . . .”

“Grandmother.” Tom found his voice at last. “This is between Maman and Papa. You should stay out of it.”

“Did you not hear her,” Katherine cried to Pierre. “She doesn’t love you! She never did! She cannot be your woman!”

“Grand—”

“You be silent,” she hissed at Tom, with sudden, spiteful venom. “You betrayed him! You are nothing! You are hers, hers, all hers!”

Pierre stared at Katherine.

“Maman, be still.”

But she was on him—under the lace gloves, he could feel the old, withered hands, clutching, insistent.

“I don’t want the whore ... I don’t want her in our house ...”

“It’s his house!” Judy shouted, unable to bear it. “Not yours! You’re sick! You don’t want any woman to have him! If not Sophie, then me! Me! I love him!”

Pierre’s red mist of anger was pierced with another feeling. Fear. He turned to Katherine. Fool, old fool!

“Mother!” he said, sharply.

But she turned to him, her rheumy eyes glowing and intense. “Tell them, Pierre—Pyotr—tell them. It’s time—it’s our time—she’s nothing, she’s a traitor!”

“You’ve gone mad,” he said coldly.

“No. I’ve waited long enough. Now, now is the time!” Katherine laughed, wild and high, in a maddened triumph. “You love me, tell them you love me! Send them away!” She waved at Sophie and Judy. “They aren’t for you! You choose me, only me!”

“You’re his mother!” Judy shouted.

“No!” Katherine stepped back, and too late, too late, he saw that the madness, the obsession, had boiled over, and was brilliant in her gaze. “I am not his mother! I am his woman! I am his woman, Natasha! I have loved him! I have killed for him! You are nothing, nothing, whore! And you—you are nothing, too! You were never worthy to be his wife!”

“My mother is unwell,” Pierre said.

And then, Katherine turned, slowly, to face him.

“I have kept the faith,” she said. “I—only I. This one left for the Englishman. The whore screwed your son. I, I am faithful. Tell them you love me, Pyotr. Tell them about us. Tell them I am your woman. Not Sophie. I, Natasha. Natasha Vladekovich. Your true wife.”

Sophie clutched at Tom. They were both silent.

“Mother—stop. You are unbalanced.”

“Noooo,” she crooned, and now there was something else. Terrible, slow-burning rage. “Nooooo. You will not betray me. You will choose me.”

“We should call a hospital,” Pierre said. “Maman has gone insane.”

Katherine turned to Sophie, hatred written bright across her face. “His name is Pyotr. Mine is Natasha. He found me in Estonia. We were in love, we escaped to Finland. He killed my niece to get here, her name was Aud—”

“Stop!” Pierre shouted.

“There is no House Massot,” Katherine screamed. “There is a dead watchmaker, Giles, and his wife—he killed them both. I was to pretend to be his mother—I loved him, loved him so! You never did! And he gave you a son! But I, I am the one he has been with all his life!”

“My God.” Tom found his voice. “Is that true, Papa?”

Judy, at the door, crumpled; her legs buckled, and she clutched at a table.

“You killed Gregoire,” she said. “You did—you killed him ...”

Pierre felt the red mist thicken, and bubble, until the fury, the rage consumed him. He turned to Natasha.

“You are a traitor! You are a liar! You are not worthy of me! You do not even know my name! I was never Pyotr . . .”

Sophie gave a little shriek; Tom shoved his mother behind him and clutched at a poker.

And Pierre suddenly realized ... he’d screamed in Russian....

And now Katherine was screaming, in Russian, back at him.

“You are mine, you are mine, you are mine! I am your woman!” She rushed at him. “I am your woman. . . .”

He started to swear that he would kill her, that he would choke the life from her.

But nothing came out. There was a hissing. Just a hissing. And then he saw the first spatters of red.

Sophie screamed. Tom lunged for Natasha. And then the pain . . .

Pierre, Pyotr,Vladek . . . he reached up . . . he felt the hole in his neck, saw the stiletto in her hand. Long, sharp . . . it was made of gold, and sparkled with diamonds.

Katherine had used the knife as a hairpin. In his agony, Pierre wondered wildly just how long she’d waited. Had she always known this moment was going to come?

He tried to scream. No sound. He thought of Giles, Mathilde, Aud. His father . . .

Blood, blood. It hurt. So bad . . .

“Papa!” Tom yelled. “Papa, Papa!”

His son caught him; he felt Tom’s fingers on the wound, his palm . . . desperately, fruitlessly trying to patch a cut throat. He held Tom’s eyes. . . .

And in his last seconds, he registered, with surprise, that there was love—real love. And for one moment,Vladek was sorry . . .

He could not speak. But he looked into Tom’s eyes.

For that one moment, Vladek returned his love, asked for his forgiveness.

And then he died.

Katherine, Natasha, wrenched herself free from Sophie’s grip; covered in Pierre’s blood, she wailed, keened, like the cry of an animal in pain, floating up from her very soul.

And then, before anyone could stop her, she took the knife, and her hands, in their last moment of strength, drove the slender blade straight into her heart.

When the police finally left, it was after three in the morning. Hugh had raced over and had stayed by Sophie’s side.Tom did not want to be parted from her. They had sat, in a knot, at the end of the room, watching the medical examiners come, watching the corpses go out, answering the endless questions.

Judy hovered in a corner of the room, by herself. She occasionally brushed her hand over her eyes—obviously weeping.

Sophie kissed her son on the cheek.

“Are you all right for a moment, darling?”

“I’m fine.” Tom struggled to smile; he was hollow-eyed with grief, but Sophie knew that in the end, he would be okay. He had come to the last few months a boy, and left them a man. He would survive this, too. “I’ll go to bed soon. And in the morning I’ll call Polly.”

“All right.” She hugged him. “I’ll be back.”

Sophie walked across the polished oak floorboards to Judy.

“I’ll be out of your hair in just a minute,” Judy said courageously, tilting her chin upwards. “I’ve got a mobile. The police impounded his car—I’ll call for a cab.”

“No need. Richard will drive you wherever you want to go.” Sophie gestured towards the French doors. “Would you like to get some air for a moment? It’s not too cold outside.”

Judy looked at her, surprised; Sophie saw the tear streaks down her chin.

“Yes. Thank you.”

She followed Sophie out onto the terrace and sat with her on the Victorian wrought-iron bench, piled with tapestry cushions, under the loggia. The harvest moon was low now, but still bright; it shone through the clouds.

Judy spoke first.

“I know I owe you an apology.” She sighed, bitterly. “I really thought I loved him, if it makes any difference.”

“So did I, at one time. The difference is that you truly did love him. So did Katherine—or whoever she was.”

Judy shook her head.

“No,” she answered. “We never knew him. I never did, anyway. I loved an idea. He wasn’t that idea. But by the time I discovered the truth it was far too late. I clung on to that romantic ideal for so long that I utterly lost myself. Katherine might have known him better, but she had the same disease, worse. It’s not love; it’s obsession.” She sighed. “You and your husband have love.”

“Yes, we do.” Sophie smiled, and blinked away tears. “I understand, you know. I forgive you—for what that’s worth. There’s no bitterness here. I think we’ve all had enough of hate and rage.”

“Oh, God, yes,” Judy said. She drew her shoulders back. “I think I guessed he’d killed Gregoire—even when he was acting. I just didn’t want to admit it to myself. It had been so long. By then, Pierre was the focus of my life. A goal, not a real person.” She shivered. “He’s gone, and it’s like waking up . . . coming out of a fog.”

“What will you do?”

For the first time, a slight smile appeared on the younger woman’s face.

“Start fresh,” she replied. “I’ve learned a lot. Sell the apartment, go back to New York. Now that I don’t have this weighing me down, I feel like I could do—almost anything. I’m going to start my own business.” She grinned. “Maybe even fall in love—with a nice single guy.”

“I think we can do anything we put our minds to.” Sophie smiled back at her. “I really do.”

“Me too. Something else we have in common.” Judy stood, straight and confident. She extended her hand to Sophie, who shook it. “I wish you well.”

“And I you. If you’re ready, Richard’s waiting on the drive. He’ll take you home.”

“Thanks. Goodbye,” Judy said.

“Goodbye.” Sophie watched as Judy, her old rival, left, head held high. Suddenly she felt a great sense of peace.

She sat there, alone, looking down towards the lake under the moonlight. Sophie wasn’t sure how long—after a while, a strong hand descended on her shoulder. She turned round; it was Hugh.

“How are you, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine,” she said.

“Tom went to bed.”

“He’ll recover. He’s strong; I know him.”

Hugh sat down next to her and put his arm around her.

“You know I love you,” he said. “I didn’t want it to end like this.”

“None of us did. But it was Pierre’s choice. And Katherine’s.”

“Shall I drive us back to the hotel?”

“No; I’ll stay here tonight.” She kissed him, lingeringly, on the lips. “I don’t believe in ghosts. I believe in forgiveness, and mercy, and love—and our family.”

Something in her tone caught Hugh’s ear. He pulled away from her, his eyes searching her face.

“Maybe it’s a strange time to tell you.” Sophie passed a hand over her belly, gently, caressing it. “But this is an end, of sorts—and now it’s a beginning, too.”

“My God—you don’t mean . . . ?”

“Yes I do. I’m pregnant,” she said, and leaned into him and kissed him again, deeply. Hugh’s arms enfolded her.

“Let’s not move,” he said, after a minute. “This is the greatest moment of my life. Let’s just sit here forever. What do you say?”

“There’ll be even better ones, soon. From now on, everything is going to be wonderful.” Sophie sighed with sheer joy. “Although I do love the moonshine on the lake. I love how it sparkles.”

Hugh kissed her again, and led her back into the house.