Refreshed by her few days’ holiday and delighted by the prospect of seeing Ginny again, Clare shared her good news with Robert as soon as she went back to work.
‘But this is splendid. Of course you must see her when next we go to London. I shall keep an afternoon free and you must ask her to lunch. Perhaps I shall go and look at some pictures,’ he added, as if the thought had only just struck him.
‘Like the morning you packed me off with Charles Langley?’ she replied, laughing, and nodding towards his newest acquisition.
‘I have few vices,’ he said, with a slight twinkle. ‘At least this one hurts nothing but my wallet.’
He stood up and handed her a sheaf of papers.
‘You will find almost everything there is in French, but I should like you to assist me nevertheless. Regrettably it’s Avignon and not London, but that’s only a matter of time. Tell Ginny we shall certainly be over before Christmas.’
She looked down at the sheaf of papers in her hand, hesitated, and made up her mind.
‘Robert, there’s something I wanted to ask you, but I’ve never found quite the right moment. Perhaps there isn’t a right one, so can I ask you now, or are you very pressed?’
By way of reply he lifted his phone.
‘Paul, I do not wish to be interrupted. I shall tell you when I’m free.’
He put the phone down and waved her back to their armchairs.
‘Last time we were in Avignon, I met some young people down by the river,’ she began, taking a deep breath. ‘It was the afternoon when you visited your sister. They were so nice, a boy and a girl and a spaniel called Conker. It was because of him we got talking. It emerged that the boy’s mother ran away with him when the Germans advanced. She’d told them about the Stukers firing at them.’
She looked at Robert, anxious lest the memories should still be painful.
‘The village she mentioned was Aiguilles.’
He jerked his head upwards.
‘That was where my sister-in-law lived,’ he said flatly.
‘So their mother might possibly have known your wife?’
‘Inevitably,’ he said abruptly. ‘As likely as it is for your grandfather to have known Charlie Running or Mosey Jackson.’
Clare looked at him sadly, wishing she hadn’t spoken. Was it really worth upsetting him with the possibility that this chance meeting might somehow help to resolve the fate of his son, one way or another?
Robert leaned back in his chair as if he were suddenly very weary.
‘What do you think we should do?’ he asked.
Clare was taken aback. Often enough in the course of their work he asked her opinion. But never before had he put such a personal question to her. And never before had she seen such a strange, pained look on his face.
So what did she think? Was it better to let the past be the past? Or should she trust her intuitions. She thought again of the sturdy figure, so like Robert himself, walking along the river bank with Conker. Somewhere there might be another perfectly ordinary young man of the same age and the same sturdy shape who might turn out to be Robert’s son.
‘I know you tried to find out what happened to your son. You told me about it when first we met, but you haven’t mentioned it since. Are you still in contact with any of the agencies?’
He shook his head sadly and said nothing, his whole manner suggesting he had no power to act. She had never seen him look so defeated before, not even when a major negotiation went wrong.
‘Then I think we should look at the list together,’ she said firmly, amazed at her own coolness. ‘We can ask whichever one we choose to write to the children’s mother and see if Madame Duchamps can help in any way. We’ve nothing to lose.’
‘And everything to gain,’ he said, gathering himself up and smiling, as if he’d been released from a disabling spell. ‘A long time ago I set hope aside, but I have never turned my back upon it. I’ve often told you that banking is about risk. So is life. If you protect yourself all the time from hurt, there is little possibility of joy. But sometimes one needs to be encouraged. It is time to try again,’ he said easily.
He stood up, crossed the room and took an envelope from his desk.
‘I saw my old friend Hugo at the weekend, the jeweller who made your necklace. He is copying the Missus’s brooch for you. Meantime, he has sent you this. I think you will find it interesting.’
He walked to the door with her.
‘I’ll bring my files of letters for you tomorrow and there’ll be time in Avignon to answer your questions.’
Clare ran lightly downstairs, hardly aware of the familiar view over the banking hall or the still lingering smell of new paint and new carpet as she approached her office, her mind full of their conversation.
Expecting to see Louise, she smiled as she opened the door to their office, but the room was empty. On her desk a folded sheet of paper sat like a tent. She took it up and read: ‘Dentist and then couturier, by order of M.J. After the drill and the pins I shall expect lunch and sympathy. Rue Scribe 12.30. Your turn. All right? Much love, Louise.’
Clare smiled, amused by her note. She was pleased too, for Louise now left her notes in Italian and she’d managed all of it without having to fetch a dictionary.
She sat down and carefully opened the brown envelope Robert had given her. Inside, there was a letter written in a flowing hand on an elegant but yellowed sheet of paper, a note in biro in a firm, clear hand that sometimes ran below the lines designed to guide it and a sketch on a piece of invoice paper. Unambiguously, the sketch was the design for the emerald brooch The Missus had left her.
The letter was dated April 1895. The ink had scarcely faded, but the loops and curlicues of the elaborate hand were difficult to disentangle. The French was not only old-fashioned, but slightly strange. The signature went some way to explain this. Despite the flourish with which it had been completed she was able to read quite clearly the word ‘Voroshinsky’.
‘Russian or Polish?’ she whispered to herself.
‘My dear Zimmerman,’ she began, reading aloud.
I am returning the sketch at your hand. It is charming and I am sure will be to the pleasure of the lady in question. The Countess has been most indulgent and has contracted to me an emerald from The Great Necklace of which we have spoken. I shall have it in my keeping when I return to Paris next month. Please make ready the gold for the setting as I shall wish to take the brooch with me to Deauville with the greatest haste after my return.
There was some courteous expression which she couldn’t decipher and then the flourishing signature.
‘A signature fit for a Prince?’
She took up the note in biro. It was perfectly easy to read, despite the fact that the lines of words ran downhill.
Dear Mademoiselle Clare,
Thank you for your comments and good wishes. I hope your jewellery will bring you great pleasure, as it did for me in the making. I am most interested to hear from my good friend the story of the brooch the old lady gave to you. Now that I have examined it, I am sure my father fitted the emerald, but I remember I myself worked on the tracery. I also remember the young count when he came to the workshop so long ago and how pleased he was with the brooch. He was Polish and a very handsome young man. His family had large estates near Cracow. But he never came again.
Yours sincerely,
Hugo Zimmerman
‘He never came again,’ she repeated sadly, as she put the letters and sketch carefully back in their envelope.
It was Paul who’d suggested she have the emerald brooch copied because it was too valuable to wear, and Robert who’d expressed surprise at the similarity between the brooch she’d brought to him and the necklace he himself had given her for her birthday. She hadn’t noticed herself until she’d seen them together. She was delighted. It seemed she’d made an important link with the Missus. They’d both had jewellery made by the Zimmermans in Paris.
‘I hope you marry your Prince,’ The Missus had written in the note Andrew had found and passed to her solicitors. Clare sighed. Well, she hadn’t. So many puzzles, so many questions with no answers. She thought of the two gold rings in Harry’s safe. She now knew the date they’d been made, but the story of those lovers she’d have to invent for herself.
She put the brown envelope in her top drawer, took up the first of the documents in front of her and gave her mind totally to the present.
It was some five weeks later that Clare and Robert once again had meetings in London.
‘Clare, you look marvellous. I’m so pleased to see you,’ said Ginny, as she threw her arms round Clare and hugged her vigorously, quite indifferent to the glances of the other women who sat in the foyer of the hotel in Park Lane.
‘And I’m pleased to see you too, Ginny,’ said Clare, kissing her. ‘Any hope that Daniel will be able to come?’
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head vigorously. ‘I told him he’d have to wait till the wedding; I wanted you all to myself. I want to hear everything about Paris and all these wonderful trips you do. How was Italy? I loved your postcard …’
Clare could hardly believe the transformation. Admittedly, the last time they’d been together was the week of Edward’s funeral, when at least one of them had been in tears at any time. But it was more than that. This was a quite new Ginny. She’d always been open and direct in manner and was often very amusing, but often enough in the past Clare had seen her withdraw quite suddenly, only happy when she was working alone with her horses.
‘Louise sounds fun,’ Ginny went on. ‘Have you made a lot of new friends? Daniel seems to know masses of people. I’ve never been to so many parties in my life.’
As the two girls walked towards the dining room, she said shyly, ‘Have you noticed, Clare?’
‘Yes, I have,’ said Clare honestly. ‘It’s quite wonderful. What about the other one?’
Ginny sat down and stroked back the shining auburn fringe that lay across her forehead. A fine white line ran above her left eye and disappeared into her hair on the right temple.
‘I have special make-up I can wear if I want to put my hair up, but they say it will fade further. And if it doesn’t, I can have it done like the ones on my cheeks. I can’t believe it, Clare, I really can’t. I thought it was the end of the world. Though I suppose it might have been but for Andrew.’
She stopped, put her hand to her mouth and gasped.
‘Oh Clare, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mention Andrew. It just slipped out. Anyway, we mustn’t talk about my silly old scars. They’re nearly gone. It’s time I forgot them.
Clare shook her head. ‘Don’t be silly, Ginny. I want to know what’s been happening to you. And you don’t have to avoid mentioning Andrew. I want to hear about him too,’ she said, reassuringly. ‘And you mustn’t “forget” your scars,’ she went on, looking closely at Ginny’s face, ‘even if I can’t see them any more. I have a lovely friend in Paris; she’s a good deal older than we are. She says you must never forget what’s happened to you. “How can you learn from your experience if you forget it?” she says. “Look back to learn, look forward to live,” that’s Marie-Claude’s philosophy. I think she has a point, don’t you?’
Ginny grinned sheepishly. ‘You think more than I do, Clare. I don’t believe I really thought about anything very much till Teddy died. Then I thought so much, I got in an awful mess. I had to have tablets for depression. I couldn’t face seeing anyone. I didn’t go out for weeks. I got Barney to sell Conker for me because I couldn’t look after her properly. Andrew was the only one I could talk to. He said all things pass, however awful. That you have to see if you can make anything of them, so that, when you come out on the other side, you’re further on than you were …’
Ginny broke off as the waiter came to take their order.
‘Go on, Ginny. What happened then?’ Clare said, as soon as he had retreated.
‘Well, Andrew made me go out, and then he took me to this nice man in Belfast. He made me talk about Teddy and how I felt about him. It was awful, Clare. I used to just sit and cry and he’d pass me tissues and wait till I stopped. I went to him for weeks. It must have cost a fortune.’
When the food arrived they both admitted how hungry they were.
‘Mm … this is marvellous,’ said Ginny, as she munched her pasta.
Clare ate more slowly and listened as Ginny talked in short bursts, mostly about Daniel but also about Caledon and Drumsollen. A hazy picture of what had been happening to the Richardson estate began to emerge. By the time coffee appeared, Clare had quite a number of questions to ask, but she wasn’t sure how accurately Ginny could answer them.
‘So The Lodge will end up as a hotel, will it?’
‘Probably. It was going to have to go anyway, because of the death duties and the upkeep costs. Mum and I have some money from Grandad Barbour, but dear old Barney hasn’t a bean. His first wife was rolling in money and he helped her spend it. They had a wonderful time and were terribly happy, but when she died, hers was all gone and he was broke as well. I wondered why Mum ever got involved with him. Actually, I was rather horrible about it to begin with,’ she confessed. ‘If it hadn’t been for Teddy I’d have gone on being a pain about him. But Edward told me off. Barney is just so kind, and being kind is worth a ton of money, he said.’
She picked up her cup and drained it. ‘Is there any more in that pot, Clare?’
‘Yes, lots and lots,’ Clare replied, reaching for her empty cup.
She remembered so clearly a tear-sodden morning when she herself had wept all over Barney’s rough tweed jacket, and he’d lent her a silk handkerchief with racehorses on the border.
‘Well, Andrew got stuck in,’ Ginny went on. ‘He took advice and sold off the Caledon farmland to the people it had been let to, except for some fields close to the house and the paddocks. Then he got a something on the death duties. Can’t remember the word. It means they don’t throw you in jail for debt provided you cough up what you can and pay the rest within a certain period. And he raised a loan, so Mum and Barney could find a house. Oh Clare, it’s the loveliest house, quite small, only four bedrooms, down at Rostrevor, looking out over Carlingford Lough. It has wonderful gardens. You’d love them.’
Clare listened, delighted by Ginny’s liveliness. She went on to talk about going to London to stay with friends of her mother when Andrew was able to find the money for her plastic surgery, but finding out something about Andrew himself was proving much more difficult than Clare had expected. She waited patiently. When Ginny paused to drink her coffee, she took her opportunity.
‘So is Andrew farming at Drumsollen?’
‘Goodness no,’ she said laughing. ‘What made you think of that? He’s working as a solicitor in Armagh. Drumsollen’s been shut up since The Missus died back in May. I expect he’ll have to sell it. He probably needs the money for the death duties, like with The Lodge. The Lodge isn’t on the market yet. He says it’s not fit to sell till it’s had a facelift. It’s had nothing done to it for years. Good old Harry just fixed things and kept them going. You remember Teddy tackling the sitting room, don’t you? No, there’s no chance he can keep it. Drumsollen will have to go.’
‘Charles, how lovely you could come,’ she said, putting down her book and walking up to him, as he strode into the foyer and looked around. She kissed his cold cheek and brushed flakes of melting snow from his shoulders. ‘Sorry about the short notice. And the weather,’ she said lightly.
‘Not a bit, I’m just so pleased to see you. What’s Robert up to?’
‘He hasn’t told me,’ she said, laughing. ‘But if he appears with a parcel under his arm, don’t be surprised. He went off yesterday afternoon and came back asking if I’d mind staying a few hours longer. There was some business he had to complete after this morning’s meeting. So we’re on the evening flight, not the afternoon one. Now, have you time for a drink first, or have you only got an hour?’
Charles Langley threw out his hands.
‘I am yours to command,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ve run away, absconded. Absent without leave. Till about four o’clock anyway,’ he added, with a wry smile.
‘Oh that’s lovely. I want to hear all your news.’
They settled comfortably and began to talk, moving easily between business and more personal matters. The Covent Garden project which had first brought them together was going from strength to strength, even better than anyone had expected.
‘Do you still get fed up with the importing business, Charles?’
‘Yes, I do,’ he said honestly, leaning back in his armchair and twirling the stem of his sherry glass. ‘But there are compensations. I fly at weekends. And I didn’t have to come in a taxi,’ he said laughing. ‘I’ve got a new car. An actual new car, not off the second-hand lot.’
‘Oh that’s great news. I know how much you enjoy driving. You had the odd bad moment that day you took me on a Langley’s Tour. On the steep hills.’
‘And how. Wish I could whiz you round in the new one.’
‘Ah, but there were advantages to the old one. I could take in the countryside. All those lovely patches of woodland and green fields. I sometimes think of your bit of England when we’re doing vineyards in the south of France. “England’s green and pleasant land”, as my school hymn would have it.’
‘But your school was in Ireland. How come you sang ‘Jerusalem’?’
Clare laughed and shook her head.
‘I haven’t the remotest idea, Charles, but I always sang it with passion. I think I miss my green and pleasant land.’
‘Do you?’ He looked at her in amazement.
‘Wouldn’t you miss yours?’
‘Well, yes. I suppose I would. Never thought of it before.’
She smiled to herself, amused by the directness and the honesty of the man, who had always told her the truth, even when it was to his own disadvantage.
‘Say you inherited a nice French château,’ she began cheerfully. ‘Lots of lovely vineyards running nicely. Guaranteed income, very large. Oh, and an airfield nearby for your private plane,’ she added, as the thought struck her. ‘But you had to go and live there. What would you do?’ she said, looking him straight in the eye.
‘You do ask them, don’t you?’
She giggled.
‘Well …’ he said, opening the menu the waiter had just brought.
‘If you like pasta, it was great yesterday,’ she said, helpfully.
‘Mm … yes, good idea.’
‘Can I choose the wine, or will you?’
‘You choose. I’m too busy walking round the vineyard I’ve inherited to see if I like its wine.’
‘Well?’ she asked, after she’d chosen a Châteauneuf-du-Pape she’d tasted in the vineyard near Avignon.
‘Perhaps I could commute,’ he suggested. ‘Château in France and cottage on the Downs? How about that?’
‘No, it has to be a real choice. No sneaky compromises.’
‘Oh well, sad as it is, all that lovely wine and lolly, I’d choose the Downs.’
She laughed happily. ‘Oh Charles, I’m so glad. I thought it was only me that got homesick when I’d everything I could ever wish for.’
‘You?’ he said, amazed. ‘But I thought you loved France.’
‘No, I like France; I do like it very much. I find it interesting and often very beautiful. It’s Paris that I love, not France. But sometimes, even in Paris, I long for my little green hills. That day you took me out, I think it was homesickness that suddenly came upon me when we got back to your nice house.’
He smiled wryly. ‘To my advantage.’
‘To our advantage, Charles,’ she said gently. ‘I won’t ever forget how loving you were.’
The wine waiter arrived, poured a taster into Charles’s glass and stood back. Charles sipped it, looked severe and nodded.
‘He should have let you taste it, given you chose it,’ he said, as soon as the waiter was out of earshot.
She shook her head and smiled.
‘Still a man’s world, Charles, for all the talk of equality and women’s rights. But it’s coming on a bit. At least I can ring you up and ask you to lunch. My treat. What do you think of the pasta?’
‘Great, just great. I’ve had worse in Italian restaurants. And I like this wine too, now that I’m not being asked to taste it.’
Clare was pleased that Charles could be so relaxed and easy with her. It hurt her still to remember how downcast he was when she told him she wasn’t the right woman for him, however easy it would be to love him. It wasn’t that they wouldn’t get on well together – they would. But after the first joy of having someone to be with, someone to love, she knew they’d end up feeling lonely all over again. What Charles needed was someone like Ginny, someone far more outgoing than she was.
She watched him as he ate, enjoying his pasta, as he enjoyed so many things.
She knew she’d made him sad, and yet, by the time he’d taken her back to her hotel, he’d been able to take the friendship she’d offered. He’d hugged her and kissed her cheeks like a Frenchman.
‘You are a funny one, Clare Hamilton,’ he’d said. ‘Here I am ready to die for you and you turn me round and point me in a different direction. At the bottom of it, I know you’re right, damn it, yet I can’t think how I know. Don’t desert me, will you?’
She had promised willingly. ‘Of course I won’t. I’ll come and dance at your wedding. And you can come to mine, should I ever marry.’
‘Thank you,’ she now said, as the waiter set down a tray of coffee and presented a document for her to sign.
She wrote her name and wondered if she would ever change it. Marriage had looked so easy when she and Andrew got engaged, but it had somehow become a much more problematic thing. Threatening, as well as promising. She would never forget how much she loved Christian Moreau, nor the frightening prospect which had opened up at the thought of being married to him.
‘I haven’t asked you about John and Jane Coleman,’ she said, suddenly remembering the anxieties of that visit.
‘Oh, they’re fine. Absolutely besotted with son and heir. They’ve asked us to be godparents at his christening next month.’
She looked at him sharply, and laughed when he suddenly looked sheepish.
‘All right. Confession,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘I was going to tell you. Her name’s Lindy. She says it’s short for Lindbergh. We met at the flying club. We went climbing in Scotland in October and things took off rather. She’s been rather badly let down herself, so we’re not rushing it, but when we do name the day you’ll be the first to know.’
‘Oh Charles, what lovely, lovely news. That’s the second piece in two days. I saw an old friend from home yesterday and she’s getting married here in June. Perhaps we could meet up when I’m over for that.’
‘Great, I’d like you to meet Lindy. They say good news goes in threes. That leaves you,’ he said, looking at her meaningfully.
She smiled, offered him more coffee and refilled their cups.
‘Oh, I’ve had my good news,’ she said quickly. ‘Do you remember I told you about Robert Lafarge losing his wife and daughter in 1940 when the Germans invaded?’
‘Yes, yes I do. There was a son as well, but he’d never been able to trace him.’
‘It looks as if he’s found him,’ she said, beaming. ‘It’s an extraordinary story, one way and another. Robert had no sooner signed on with the agency than they contacted him about a young man who’d approached them several months earlier. He’d been trying to find his father and he’d seen Robert’s picture in a newspaper. The details fitted perfectly. The photographs the agency sent were so like Robert it was incredible. If he arrives back with half a dozen pictures for his collection, I wouldn’t be surprised, he’s so excited about it all,’ she ended up, laughing.
‘That really is splendid. I always felt rather sorry for old Lafarge. He’s fond of you, but he must know darn well he’ll lose you one of these fine days.’
‘Yes, he does, but maybe not just yet. He’s offered me a job on the financial side from next October.’
‘Whee …’ Charles shook his head and put down his coffee cup. ‘My goodness, Clare, you are going it. Will you take it? Will I have to come and grovel if I need new lorries?’
She shook her head. ‘I honestly don’t know. It’s a big vote of confidence, but I actually enjoy being Robert’s assistant, whether it involves translation or not. I certainly wouldn’t leave Paris for one of the regional branches.’
She glanced out of the window and saw the snow had begun to fall again, big, soft flakes out of a grey sky. The trees in Park Lane were already lightly covered, the traffic throwing up wet spray where the feathery flakes had turned to slush.
‘I’ll think about it in the springtime, Charles. I always think better in the spring.’