Because it was so early in the morning, it seemed to Tom that no one wanted to talk, and perhaps it was best that they didn’t, he decided. He slipped a disc into the player on the dashboard, and turned the volume down to low. Soon the car was filled with the background themes from great Hollywood movies, and it was soothing, not at all intrusive.
Jessica’s eyes were closed, but she was not dozing. She was wide awake, simply feigning sleep in order to sink down into her diverse thoughts.
She had been determined to come and see this man in the Loire who looked so much like Lucien, but now she felt a bit queasy about it.
On the other hand, Alain was with them, and this helped. In fact, he had insisted on accompanying them, and she felt she owed it to him. After all, he had helped her so much when Lucien had disappeared. This aside, Alain knew Lucien as well as she did, and if she were at all uncertain about the man’s true identity, she had Alain to turn to for a proper assessment.
Could it be Lucien? Was he alive and well and living in the Loire? Perhaps. Certainly she had sometimes had a weird feeling that Lucien was alive somewhere out there. She had even said that to Alain on the day they had lunched together at Chez André, when she had first arrived in Paris. That day she had been quite positive that Alain knew no more than she did, and he had proved that once again when she had gone to the Bonnal Gallery last Monday.
In the taxi from Le Grand Véfour, Alexa had told her about the photograph album, Tom’s reaction to the photograph of her and Lucien standing at the edge of the Pont des Arts. And although she had been momentarily startled, it had not come as a great shock. In one sense, she had half expected to hear something like this over the years. Then again, Mark had put a bug in her ear in February when he had suggested that Lucien might have vanished on purpose.
Alain had pooh-poohed that over lunch, and then again at the gallery, when Alexa had told him about Jean Beauvais-Cresse. It was apparent he had never heard of the man, that he did not know him, and he was very dismissive when Alexa said Jean could be Lucien. But when he heard they were planning a trip to the Loire, he had pleaded to be included, and Jessica had agreed, knowing she owed him this because of the past and his friendship to her.
The past, she thought now. Seven years ago. I was twenty-four and so innocent at that time, even more naive when I met Lucien when I was twenty-two, just a country girl from Texas. But Lucien had not been overly sophisticated, simply a good-looking, pleasant young man who loved being an actor. He had had a great zest for life, and they had been so compatible. And he had made her feel good about herself, their relationship, life in general, and the future they planned … California here we come, they used to say in unison. That had been their aim. An interior design business for her, Hollywood movies for him …
Alexa had been wonderful to her last Monday, so kind and compassionate, understanding of her sudden dilemma: to go and confront this man, or not to go. Alexa had been very determined, had opted for going down there, pointing out she really had no alternative. Jessica had at once seen the sense in making the trip.
She wanted, no, needed, to close this chapter in her life … she could do that only by going to Château
Montcresse. If the man who lived there with his wife and child was not Lucien, then no harm had been done, and perhaps she could close the book anyway.
But if it was Lucien, then she would finally have the answers to some very pertinent questions, the most important one being WHY?
She had voiced all this to Mark yesterday before they had gone to meet the others at Le Relais for dinner. He had encouraged the trip, and agreed with her. He had also asked her to allow him to come along. “I care about you, Jessica,” he had said. “And I’d like to be there for you, in case you need me. I’m your friend, you know.” She had smiled and squeezed his arm, and said she would be relieved if he went with them, genuinely meaning this.
————
NOT LONG AFTER he had left the motorway at the exit to Tours, Tom quickly circumvented the town, drove past Amboise, and took a secondary road going toward Loches. “We’ll soon be there,” he said at one moment, and everyone sat up, looking out the car windows eagerly.
Fifteen minutes later Tom was slowing down and turning into a driveway through iron gates that stood open and welcoming. At the end of a short drive stood a lovely old manor house, typical of the area, made of the local Loire stone that was renowned for turning white as it aged over the years. The manor looked pale and elegant set against a backdrop of dark green trees with an azure sky above.
As Tom pulled up and braked outside the front door, it opened and his father came hurrying down the steps.
After embracing his son, who was a younger version of himself, Paul Conners hugged Alexa with great affection, and then Tom made the introductions all around.
“Come on, let’s go inside and have breakfast,” Paul said, leading the way into the circular front hall with a terra-cotta-tiled floor and white stone walls hung with antique tapestries.
Christiane Conners, Tom’s mother, appeared at this moment, and once she had kissed Tom and Alexa, her son introduced their companions.
“Perhaps you would like to freshen up,” Christiane said, turning to Alexa and Jessica, and then heading toward the staircase, beckoning to them. “And Paul and Tom, I’ll leave you to look after Mark and Alain.”
Christiane led the way up the curving staircase to the floor above, and showed them both into a pretty guest room decorated with a pale blue toile de Jouy used throughout. It covered the walls, the bed, and was hanging at the windows as draperies.
Jessica noticed it immediately and thought the room looked so fresh and airy, but she made no comment. She was preoccupied, nervous now that they had arrived in the area.
“You will find everything you need here, Alexa,” Christiane said, waving her hand around the room and then indicating the bathroom.
“Thank you, Christiane.” Alexa turned to Jessica. “Why don’t you tidy up first, Jess, I want to talk to Tom’s mother for a moment.”
“Thanks,” Jessica replied, and disappeared into the bathroom.
Once they were alone, Christiane rushed over to Alexa and hugged her. She had always liked Tom’s parents, and she knew this feeling was mutual. They had made her feel welcome, had always been loving.
Finally releasing her, Christiane looked into her face and said softly, “I was so happy when I heard you were in Paris, ma petite, and that you and Tom were back together.” A beautifully arched blond brow lifted, and she quickly asked, “You are, are you not?”
“Yes, we are,” Alexa answered. “We’re meant to be together, and I think Tom knows that now.”
“I hope so, chérie. You are important for him, good for him. I know this … ah, les hommes … sometimes they can be … stupid.” She shook her head. “But what would we do without them?”
When Jessica came out of the bathroom, Christiane looked at her intently, said, “Tom wished me to tell you about Jean Beauvais-Cresse, but there is not much to tell, Jessica.”
“He’s the mystery man, according to Tom,” Jessica responded, sitting down on the chair opposite Christiane while they waited for Alexa.
“Mystery man?” Tom’s mother repeated, and shook her head. “Non, non.” She thought for a moment, before continuing. “I think of him as a recluse. We do not see much of him in public. Nor his wife. They keep … to themselves.”
“Perhaps that’s an indication of something peculiar,” Alexa said as she came out of the bathroom. “I think so anyway.”
“I hope we’ll soon have some answers,” Jessica muttered.
Christiane nodded. “Let us go downstairs and have a little refreshment. I am sure you are eager to be on your way to Montcresse.” She now hurried out of the blue guest room, and the two young women followed hard on her heels.
Despite her preoccupation, the designer in Jessica surfaced a couple of times as she followed Tom’s mother and Alexa down the stairs, acros
s the entrance hall, and into an unusual circular room. This was at the back of the house, and had many windows; these looked out onto lawns, gardens, and a stand of trees. Beyond she could see a stretch of the river.
“How beautiful!” she exclaimed as she glanced around, noting the tasteful decorations, the mellow antiques, the displays of porcelain plates on the walls.
“This is the summer dining room,” Christiane explained, ushering them toward the circular table in the middle of the room.
They sat down just as Tom, his father, and the other two men came into the room. “Sit anywhere you wish,” Paul said. He took a seat next to Alexa, grasped her hand in his, and squeezed it.
Alexa squeezed back, smiled into his face. She thought: How handsome he is. Tom will look like this when he is sixty-five. I’ve got to be with Tom. Always. I want to share my life with him.
Paul said, “Penny for your thoughts, Alex?”
She laughed. “I couldn’t possibly tell you.”
“Then I’ll tell you,” he said with a small, knowing smile. Leaning closer, he whispered in her ear, “You want to be with him for the rest of your life.”
Alexa stared at Paul Conners, squinting in the sunlight streaming in through the windows. “How did you know?”
“It’s written all over your face, honey.”
Christiane was pouring coffee, and Tom was offering a basket of breads to everyone, moving around the table slowly.
“What would you like, Alexa?” he asked when he finally stopped next to her chair.
“You,” she mouthed silently as she looked upon him and took a croissant.
Tom kissed the top of her head, made no comment.
Paul focused on Alain and said, “Tom explained to me that you used to know Lucien Girard when Jessica did. At the time he lived in Paris.”
“Oui, oui,” Alain said, nodding.
“And he was a nice guy then?”
“Ah, bien sûr,” Alain exclaimed. “A man of integrity. I find it hard to accept this theory that he … disappeared on purpose.”
Mark interjected, “It wouldn’t be the first time a man has done that. Or a woman, for that matter.”
Paul nodded in agreement. “And there’s usually a helluva good reason when this happens. I can’t imagine what his family suffered, quite aside from Jessica’s grief, of course.”
“He told me he was an orphan, that his parents were dead,” Jessica volunteered.
Alain added, “And he told me the same thing. No parents, no siblings.”
“And seemingly no past,” Mark remarked, staring at Paul pointedly.
“If you’re intent on leading a double life, it’s always best to keep the story and the details very simple. That way you can’t make too many mistakes,” Paul responded.
“That is true,” Christiane murmured.
Alexa, studying Tom’s mother, thought how lovely she looked, but then, she usually had in the past. Christiane Conners was one of those well-groomed Frenchwomen who could manage to look chic in a plain cotton shirt and pants, which is what Christiane was wearing this morning. She admired her for looking the way she did at her age, and she was glad Tom’s mother was her ally.
Jessica had been listening to them all, quietly sipping her coffee, saying nothing very much. But once she thought everyone had finished, she said, “Do you think we can drive over there, Tom? I’m awfully nervous, and as long as I sit here, I’m prolonging the agony.… ”
Tom and Alexa both leapt to their feet, and Tom said, “Of course we can go.” Taking hold of Alexa’s hand, he moved away from the table, telling his parents he would see them later. Alain did the same, then ushered Jessica out of the dining room.
Mark pushed back his chair, excused himself, and hurried out after Jessica. He caught up with her on the front steps, took hold of her arm, drew her toward him. Looking down into her face, he said, “Whatever happens over there doesn’t really matter, Jess darling. One way or another, you’ll finally have closure.”
Jessica tried to smile, but it faltered. “You’re right, Mark, I know that. I’m just nervous, queasy.”
He brought her into his arms, held her close, and said against her hair, “You’re going to be all right, Jessica. I’m going to make damned sure of that.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
TOM AND ALAIN SAT IN THE FRONT OF THE MERCEDES; Alexa and Jessica took the backseat. No one spoke on the way to Montcresse, but at one moment Alexa reached out, grabbed Jessica’s hand, and held it tightly in hers, wanting to comfort and reassure her.
Jessica sat very still on the backseat, holding her breath, eager to get to the château. Already she was wishing the confrontation were over, and that they were on their way back to Paris. Confrontation, she said to herself. Who knew if there would even be one? Jean Beauvais-Cresse was more than likely a very nice man leading a quiet life with his family, who simply happened to bear a resemblance to Lucien Girard. An innocent bystander, in other words.
Tom broke the silence in the car when he said, “That’s Montcresse straight ahead of us.”
Jessica and Alexa strained to get a better glimpse.
What they saw was a truly grand château, standing proudly on a rise not far from the river Indre, another tributary of the Loire. Its white stone walls gleamed in the bright morning sunlight, while the black, bell-shaped roofs atop the numerous circular towers gave the massive edifice a fanciful air.
As Tom drove up the rise, Jessica noticed the well-kept grassy lawns edging the sand-colored gravel driveway, and behind the château there was a dense wood of tall, dark trees. Two more circular towers with bell-shaped roofs and thin spires flanked the drawbridge leading into the interior courtyard.
Tom slowed down as he rolled over the drawbridge, went under the arch and into the yard, heading toward the front door.
Jessica felt her stomach lurch, and for a second she thought she could not go through with this encounter. She almost told Tom to turn around and leave; she looked at Alexa, opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.
At once, Alexa saw the expression of anxiety mingled with fear on Jessica’s pale face, and she tightened her grip on Jessica’s hand, murmured, “It’ll be fine.”
Still unable to say anything, Jessica merely nodded.
Tom parked close to the château’s walls, a short distance away from the huge front door. Half turning in his seat, he said to the two women, “One of the staff might answer the door, and in that case I’d be invited inside. Should that happen, wait five minutes and then come looking for me. You’ll be allowed inside if you say you’re with me.”
Now glancing at Alain, Tom went on. “You should take charge if I go inside, it’ll be quicker and easier for you to deal with any staff member.”
“Of course, Tom, don’t worry,” Alain answered.
Alexa asked, “But what if Jean answers the door?”
“I’ll engage him in conversation for a few minutes, then I’ll glance at the car, wave to you. At that moment you should come and join me … join us. Everything clear?”
“Yes,” Alexa said, and Jessica nodded.
Tom alighted and walked down the cobbled courtyard, heading for the huge front door made of nail-embellished wood. When he came to a stop, he saw that it stood ajar. Nonetheless, he knocked and waited. When no one came, he pushed the door slightly, peered inside, and shouted, “Hello!”
A moment later an elderly gray-haired man wearing a striped apron over his pants, shirt, and waistcoat suddenly appeared in the entrance hall. He was carrying a silver tray, and he stepped forward when he saw Tom. He inclined his head. “Bonjour, monsieur.”
“Bonjour. J’aimerais voir Monsieur le Marquis.”
“Oui, oui, attendez une minute, s’il vous plaît.”
These words had hardly left the man’s mouth when Tom heard footsteps on the cobblestones, and he glanced down toward the stables.
Jean Beauvais-Cresse was walking toward him. He wore black riding boots, white
jodhpurs, and a black turtleneck sweater. He raised a hand in recognition, and a split second later the two men were greeting each other and shaking hands.
Tom then went on. “I apologize for intruding like this, without telephoning first, but as we passed the château my clients asked me to stop the car. They were intrigued by Montcresse. You see, they’re making a movie about Mary Queen of Scots and plan to shoot in the Loire. I’ve been showing them this area, since they’re seeking possible locations for the upcoming film—”
“C’est pas possible,” Jean cut in with a small, regretful smile. “Many people have wanted to film here in the past. But it doesn’t work. The château’s not the best place to shoot a film, I’m afraid.”
“I see,” Tom responded, and wanting to find a way to keep him talking, he improvised. “But what about outside?
There are quite a lot of exterior scenes, and perhaps you would consider allowing them access to the property.”
Unexpectedly, Jean Beauvais-Cresse seemed to hesitate all of a sudden, appeared to be considering this idea. At the same time, he moved forward, stepped inside the château, stood regarding Tom from the entrance hall. “Perhaps there might be a way to film on the estate,” he said finally.
Tom was listening attentively, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Alexa, Alain, and Jessica alighting and walking toward him. Wishing to keep the other man totally engaged as they approached, Tom leaned forward slightly, and continued. “There would be a very good fee involved, and the crew would have instructions to be extremely careful on your land. Also, the production company is insured anyway.”
“I understand. But I must think about it—” Jean broke off abruptly. Shock was registering on his narrow face, and he had paled. As if undone, he staggered slightly, leaned against the doorjamb, his light eyes wide with surprise and panic.