Three Weeks in Paris

Once again she read it carefully.

Anya’s party was on the second of June, a good four months away. She wondered if she could get an appointment with Francois Boujon for around that time.

It would be perfect if she could, because Ian hadn’t been invited, and so she could travel alone to Paris. Kill two birds with one stone, she thought, and then she sat back in the chair, frowning hard. Her vivid blue eyes clouded over, and her expression became unexpectedly grim.

They would be there and she would have to see them. No, not only see them, but socialize with them, spend time with them. Not possible. They hated her. The feeling was mutual.

Alexandra Gordon, the snob from New York. From the elite social set, Junior League, and all that ridiculous kind of thing. Always so toffee-nosed with her, stuck-up, snubbing her.

Jessica Pierce, Miss Southern Belle Incorporated, with her feminine sighs and languor and the dropping of lace hankies along the way. Poking fun at her, teasing her unmercifully, never leaving her alone with her taunts.

Maria Franconi, another snob, this one from Italy, with her raven hair and flashing black eyes and fiery Mediterranean temperament. And all those lire from her rich, Milanese textile family, flaunting her money and her connections, treating her like a servant.

No, it’s not possible, Kay told herself again. I cannot go to Anya’s party. Because my tormentors will be there…how miserable they had always made her life.

She knew what she must do. She must go to Paris sooner rather than later, to meet with this man Francois Boujon. She hoped she would get an appointment relatively soon. She would set everything in motion on Monday, ask to see him next month. And it did not matter what it cost.

She put the invitation back in the envelope, placed this in the wooden box, dropped the lid and turned the key. Then once more she sat back in the chair, her eyes becoming soft and faraway as she thought of Ian. The man she loved. Her husband…who must remain her husband at all costs.

Chapter Five

Even as a child, growing up in the slums of Glasgow, Kay had always managed to escape simply by retreating into herself. When the cramped little flat where she lived with her mother and brother Sandy became overly oppressive, she would find a small corner where she could curl up, forget where she really was, and dream.

A great deal of her childhood was spent dreaming, and she found solace in her dreams. She could escape the impoverished, gloomy world she occupied and go to another place, any place she wished. It made her young life more bearable.

And she always dreamed of beauty…flower-filled gardens, picturesque country cottages with thatched roofs, grassy meadows awash with wildflowers, and grand open spaces with huge, canopied green trees where trilling bird-songs came alive. And sometimes her dreams were of pretty clothes, and ribbons for her hair, and sturdy black shoes, shining with boot polish, for Sandy; and a beautiful silk dress for her mother…a pale blue dress to match her eyes.

But as she grew older Kay’s priorities changed, and she began to replace her dreams with a new-found focus and concentration, and it was these two qualities, plus her talent, which helped to make her such a great success in the world of fashion.

Now, as she sat at her desk, thoughts of Ian lingered, nagged at the back of her mind. But eventually she let go of her worries about her marriage and became totally engrossed in her work, as she usually did.

In many ways, she loved this old day nursery here at Lochcraigie more than her busy, high-tech studio in Edinburgh, not least because of its spaciousness and high ceiling, but also because of the clarity of the light which came streaming in through the six soaring windows.

After looking through a few sketches for her autumn collection, which she had just finished, she rose and went over to the swatches of fabric hanging on brass hooks attached to the opposite wall. The vermilion wool she had focused on a short while before attracted her attention again, and she unclipped it, carried it over to the window, where she scrutinized it intently.

Suddenly, a smile flickered in her eyes as she remembered Sophie’s comment a short while ago. Smoochy, she had called the colour, as in a kiss, and Kay knew exactly what her assistant meant. It was a lovely lipstick shade, one which reminded her of the glamorous stars of those old movies from the fifties.

As often happened with Kay, inspiration suddenly struck out of the blue. In her mind’s eye she saw a series of outfits…each one in a different version of vivid vermilion red. She thought of cyclamen first, then deep pink the colour of peonies, pale pinks borrowed from a bunch of sweet peas, bright red lifted from a pot of geraniums, and all of those other reds sharpened by a hint of blue. And mixed in with them she could see a selection of blues…cerulean, delphinium and aquamarine, as well as deep violet and pansy hues, a softer lilac and the lavender shade of hydrangeas.

That’s it, she thought, instantly filling with excitement. A winter collection of clothes based on those two colours–red and blue–interspersed with other tones from these spectrums. What a change from the beiges, browns, greens, taupes and terra-cottas of her spring season.

Turning away from the window where she still stood, Kay went over to the other fabric samples and searched through them quickly, looking for the colours she now wanted to use. She found a few of them and carried them back to her desk, where she spread them out. Then she began to match the samples to the sketches she had already done for her winter line, envisioning a coat, a suit or a dress in one of the reds, purples or blues.

Very soon she was lost in her work, completely oblivious to everything, bubbling inside with enthusiasm, her creative juices flowing as she began to design, loving every moment of it.

At twenty-nine Kay Lenox was one of the best-known young fashion designers on both sides of the Atlantic. In London her clothes sold at her boutique on Bond Street, and in New York at Bergdorf Goodman. She had a boutique in Chicago and one in Dallas, and another on Rodeo in Beverly Hills.

Her name was synonymous with quality, stylishness and wearability. The clothes she designed were elegant, but in a relaxed and casual manner, and they were extremely well cut and beautifully made.

The fabrics Kay favoured gave her clothes a great sense of luxury…the finest light wools, cashmeres, wool crepes, soft Scottish tweeds, suede, leather, crushed velvet and a heavy silk which she bought in France. Her flair and imagination were visible in the way she mixed these fabrics with each other in one garment–the result a look entirely unique to her.

Kay worked on steadily through the morning, and so concentrated was she that she almost jumped out of her skin when the phone next to her elbow rang.

Picking it up, she said, ‘Lochcraigie,’ in a somewhat sharpish tone.

‘Hello, darling,’ her husband answered. ‘You sound a bit snotty this morning.’

‘Ian!’ she exclaimed, her face lighting up. ‘Sorry. I was lost in a dress, figuratively speaking.’

He chuckled. ‘Is your designing going well then?’

‘I’ll say, and I had a brainstorm earlier. I’m doing the entire winter collection in shades of red running through to palest pink, and blue going to lilac to violet and deep purple.’

‘Sounds good to me. Did John phone by any chance?’

‘He stopped by, actually. He wanted you to know that the septic tanks at the Home Farm are under control.’

‘That’s a relief.’

‘Did you find a gift for Fiona?’

There was a moment’s hesitation before he said, sounding vague, ‘Oh, yes, I did.’

‘So you’re on your way home now?’

‘Not exactly,’ he replied, clearing his throat. ‘Er, er, I’m a bit peckish, so I’m going to have a spot of lunch. I should be back about fourish.’

The brightness in her vivid blue eyes dimmed slightly, but she said, ‘All right then, I’ll be here waiting for you.’

‘We’ll have tea together,’ he murmured. ‘Bye, darling.’

He hung up before she could say another word, and she stood there puzzled, staring at the receiver in her hand, and then she went back to work.

Later that afternoon, when she had eaten a smoked salmon sandwich and drunk a mug of lemon tea, Kay put on a cream fisherman’s-knit sweater from the Orkneys, thick woollen socks and green Wellington boots. In the coat room near the back door she took down her dark green coat of quilted silk, pushed her red-gold hair under a red knitted cap, added a matching scarf and gloves, and went outside.

She was hit with a blast of freezing air, and it took her breath away, but her clothes were warm, the coat in particular, and she set out towards the loch, in need of fresh air and exercise.

This was one of her favourite walks on the estate, which in its entirety covered over three thousand acres. A wide path led down from the cutting garden just beyond the back door, past broad lawns, and thick woods bordering one side of the lawns. In the distance was the narrow body of glassy water that was Loch Craigie.

At one moment Kay stopped and stood staring across at the distant hills, partially obscured this afternoon by a hazy mist on their peaks and lightly covered in snow. Then her eyes settled on the great stone house where she lived, built in 1559 by William Andrews, the new laird of Lochcraigie. From that time onwards, the eldest son had inherited everything through the law of primogeniture, and fortuitously there had always been a male heir to carry on the Andrews name. An unbroken line for centuries.

Ian was the laird now, although no one ever used that old Scots name any more, except for a few oldtimers from his grandfather’s day who still lived in the village.

Apart from these vast lands, the Andrews family had many other interests, primarily in business, including manufacturing, publishing and textiles. Everything belonged to Ian, but he was a low-profile millionaire content to lead the quiet country life.

Kay began to walk again, striding out at a steady pace, her eyes thoughtful as she contemplated her own past. She couldn’t help wondering what Ian would say if he knew of her mean and poverty-stricken beginnings. He would be horrified, shocked, perhaps even disbelieving…

She let these thoughts float away, up into the air, and took several deep breaths…her troubles began when she was a teenager, but she had always known they would end, that she would have a different life when she was older.

And now she did. She had everything she had ever wanted, had ever dreamed about…a husband who was not only young and handsome but an aristocrat, an ancient historic house she called home, a big career as a fashion designer, fame, success…

But no child.

No heir for Ian.

No boy to be the laird of these vast estates and holdings, one day in the far distant future, when Ian was dead and they proclaimed a new Master of Lochcraigie.

She sighed under her breath. It was an old story. After a moment she increased her pace, almost running down to the loch. The body of water was flat and grey, leaden under the wintry sky, and she did not plan to linger long. The air had grown much colder and there was a hint of snow on the wind. But she walked along the edge of the water for fifteen minutes, always enjoying the tranquil view, the sense of peace that was all-pervasive here.

On her way back, she took the paved path which led her past the Dower House where Ian’s mother lived. For a moment she thought of dropping in to see her mother-in-law, but changed her mind. It would soon be four o’clock and Ian would be home; she longed to see him, to assuage her anxiety about him. She had plans for tonight, big plans, and she wanted him to be in the right frame of mind. If she were absent when he arrived, he could be put out.

And so she passed the Dower House and climbed the narrow steps, thinking of Ian’s mother. She was a lovely woman, with impeccable manners, manners bred in the bone, and a kind and loving heart. She had always been her champion, and for that Kay was grateful.

Margaret Andrews had been born a Hepburn, and her family was somehow distantly related to the ill-fated James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, third husband of Mary Queen of Scots, who had died a terrible death in Denmark, imprisoned in the dungeons of a remote castle. Kay hated the story of Bothwell’s death. It always upset her; she couldn’t bear to think of that virile, vigorous and handsome man dying in such a ghastly way. And yet the story haunted her…She chastised herself now for her morbid thoughts of Bothwell, and ran across the lawn to the terrace in front of the conservatory. A second later she let herself into the house.

Kay knew at once that Ian was in a good mood as he walked into the conservatory just after four. He was smiling, and when she went to greet him he hugged her close and kissed her cheek. ‘You look bonny,’ he said to her as he moved away, went and stood with his back to the fire.

She smiled back at him. Thank you. Hazel just brought the tea in, Ian. Shall I pour you a cup?’

He nodded. ‘It was a long drive back, and I thought I was going to hit snow, but so far it’s held off.’

‘Not quite,’ Kay said, and pointedly looked towards the window. ‘It’s just started.’

He followed her gaze, saw the snowflakes coming down heavily. But he laughed and said, ‘It looks as if we might get snowed in, Kay.’

‘I don’t care! Do you?’

‘No. Well, let’s have tea then.’

They sat down on the wicker furniture grouped in front of the fire, and Kay poured for them both, looking across at him surreptitiously as she did.

Ian appeared to be happier this afternoon than he had in a while, more lighthearted and carefree than was usual. He also looked younger, unusually boyish today, but perhaps that was because his fair hair was tousled from the wind and he wore an open-neck shirt under a pale blue sweater with a vee neckline. Very collegiate, and vulnerable, she thought, and smiled, thinking of her plans.

Ian said, ‘Actually, I hope the snow doesn’t stick. It really would be quite awful if we had to cancel tomorrow’s birthday lunch.’

Kay nodded in agreement. ‘Let’s not worry about the lunch now. I heard a weather report earlier on the radio, and it’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow, and also much warmer.’

Ian smiled at her, and surveyed the tray of sandwiches and fancy cakes. ‘My goodness, Hazel’s done us proud this afternoon,’ he murmured and reached for a sandwich, bit into it. ‘Mmmmm…this is delicious. I see she’s put out most of my favourite things.’

‘By the way, Ian, what did you end up getting Fiona?’

‘What do you mean?’

Kay gave him a baffled look, and exclaimed, ‘The gift, for her birthday. What is it?’

‘Oh yes…a pair of earrings. Rather nice, I’ll show them to you later.’

They fell into a companionable silence, sipping their tea and eating the little sandwiches and cream cakes in front of the blazing fire. Outside the windows it was snowing heavily now, and settling on the ground, but neither of them noticed, preoccupied as they were with their own thoughts.

Kay couldn’t help feeling taut inside, even though Ian appeared to be so relaxed and at ease with himself and with her.

He was more like his old self, and this was a good omen. She planned to seduce him later, planned a night of lovemaking, and it was important that he was in the right mood. She believed he was…at least at the moment. She prayed it would last. And with a little luck she would get pregnant. She must. So much depended on it.

For his part, Ian was thinking about his trip to Edinburgh. It had been interesting, to say the least, and he was glad he had made the effort to go. And he was happy with the purchases. He hoped Fiona would like his gift, certainly it had been carefully chosen. He looked at his wife, and couldn’t help thinking how beautiful she looked today, and desirable…he let that thought slide away…

Kay broke the silence when she confided, ‘The FedEx envelope I received yesterday was an invitation…an invitation to go to Anya Sedgwick’s eighty-fifth birthday party in Paris.’

‘I don’t have to go too, do I?’ Ian asked, frowning, looking worried. ‘You know how I hate travelling.’

‘No, of course not,’ she answered quickly. She didn’t even bother to tell him that only her name was on the invitation. But she did think to add, ‘I’m not going to go either.’

Ian stared at her, apparently puzzled and surprised. ‘Whyever not?’

‘I don’t really want to see people I haven’t seen in seven years…I lost touch with my friends when I graduated.’

‘But you’ve always admired Anya.’

‘That’s true, she’s the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met, a genius, too.’

‘Well, then?’ He raised a sandy brow.

‘I don’t know…’

‘I think you should go to her party, Kay, just out of respect.’

‘Perhaps you’re right. I’ll think about it.’

Chapter Six

By the time they had finished their tea the snow had settled on the ground, and it was continuing to fall steadily. Outside, it was growing darker and darker; the dusky twilight of late afternoon had long since been obliterated, and already a few sparse early stars sprinkled the sky.

But in the snug conservatory all was warmth and cosiness. The fire roared in the great stone hearth, constantly replenished with logs and peat by Ian; the table lamps cast a lovely lambent glow throughout, and in the background music played softly.

Ian had turned on the radio earlier, to listen to the weather report, and after hearing that heavy snow was expected, he had tuned in to a station playing popular music. Now the strains of Lady in Red, sung by Chris De Burgh, echoed softly around the conservatory.

The two of them had been silent for a while, when at one moment Ian looked across at Kay intently, his eyes narrowing. ‘You’re very quiet this afternoon, and you look awfully pensive. Sad, even. Is something the matter, darling? What are you brooding about?’

Kay roused herself from her thoughts, and shook her head. ‘Not brooding, Ian. Just thinking…people do suffer for love, don’t they?’

His brows drew together in a small frown, but his expression was hard to read. After a split second he answered her. ‘I suppose some do…’ He paused and shrugged offhandedly. ‘But what are you getting at exactly?’

‘I was thinking of Bothwell earlier, and the way he loved Mary. How he died because of her…well, in a sense, he did. And that awful death…chained like a poor dog to a pole for years…’ Her voice trailed off and she let out a long sigh. ‘He suffered for love. It’s so heartbreaking, that story, when you think about it.’

‘But it happened hundreds of years ago. I do believe my mother’s been filling your head with stories again–’

‘Yes, but they’re all part of Scottish history,’ she interrupted peremptorily. ‘I can never get enough of it. I guess I didn’t pay enough attention at school…but your mother’s rectified all that. She’s been a wonderful teacher.’

His searching hazel eyes rested on her, and then he half smiled. ‘My mother’s the best teacher I know. A genius at it, especially when it comes to history, and the history of the clans. She held me enthralled when I was a child.’

‘She’s told me a lot about the noble families, but so much more as well. I’ve learned a great deal about the Stuarts. How extraordinary they were, so bold and courageous, so very beautiful to look at.’

‘And very ill-fated,’ he shot back pointedly. ‘At least some of them were. Foolish Mary, led by her heart and not her head. She was no match for crafty Elizabeth Tudor, I’m afraid. Not in the long run. Her cousin was so much cleverer.’

‘The problem with Mary and Bothwell is that they were so entangled in the politics of the times. It doomed them.’

‘That’s an old familiar story, isn’t it?’ Ian shook his head, laughed a bit cynically. ‘She was trying to keep a throne and protect her heir, and he wanted to sit next to her on his own throne, and the lords were in rebellion. God knows, it was a dangerous and hellish time to live.’

‘Your mother explained everything. She’s such an expert on Scottish history…’ Kay paused, added: ‘And a bit of a nationalist.’

He laughed. ‘So are you!’

‘Something must’ve rubbed off.’

He smiled at her indulgently.

There was a small silence.

Eventually Kay murmured, ‘Your mother once told me that suffering for love is a noble thing. Do you agree with her?’

Ian burst out laughing. ‘I’m not so sure I do! And let’s not forget that my mother is something of a romantic, always has been, always will be, just like you are. But come to think of it, no, I don’t want to suffer for love. No, not at all. I want to relish it, enjoy it, wallow in it.’

‘With me?’

‘Is that an invitation?’ he asked, eyeing her keenly.

She simply smiled, beguilingly.

Ian rose and crossed the room, took hold of her hands and brought her to her feet. And then he led her over to the fireplace, pulled her down on to the rug with him.

He smoothed his hand over her red-gold hair, shimmering in the fire’s glow, and held strands of it between his fingers. ‘Look at this…Celtic gold…it’s beautiful, Kay.’ She was silent. Her eyes never left his face. He began to unbutton her white silk blouse, leaned forward, kissed her cheek, her neck, and her mouth, then moved her down. He kissed her with mounting passion.

But after only a moment, Kay pushed him away. ‘Ian, stop! We can’t. Not here! Someone might come in.’

‘No, they won’t.’

‘Maude might, or Malcolm. To clear away the tea things.’

He laughed dismissively. But, nevertheless, he got up and walked over to the door set in the wall, to the right of the fireplace. This led to the main house.

Risk, Kay thought. He loves taking risks, taking chances. It excites him. And I mustn’t fight him now. He wants to make love…I must seize this moment.

She heard him locking the door, and his footsteps echoing on the terra-cotta tiles as he came back to her.

Ian knelt on the floor next to Kay. He took her face in both of his hands, brought his lips to hers gently, gave her a light kiss.

‘What about the French windows?’ she asked, pulling away, glancing worriedly towards the terrace.

‘Nobody’s going to be out in this weather, for God’s sake! There’s a snowstorm brewing!’

He doesn’t care, she thought. He doesn’t care if someone sees us through the windows. Or walks in. But she knew this wouldn’t happen. He was right. Everyone was snowbound tonight, safe in their homes. His mother down the hill in the Dower House; his sister Fiona ensconced in her cottage by the loch; John Lanark and his family secure in the estate manager’s house close by the Home Farm. No one would venture out unless there was an emergency.

Ian had taken off her cardigan and white silk blouse, and was fumbling with the hooks on her bra. She helped him to unfasten it, then reached out for him, pulled him into her arms. They fell back on the rug together, and she kissed him hard, deeply. He responded with ardour, and then almost immediately sat up, pulled off his sweater, struggled out of his shirt, threw them to one side.

Kay followed suit, and within a few seconds they were both completely undressed, naked on the rug in front of the fire. Ian sat back on his haunches looking down at her. She never failed to stir his blood. She was such a beautiful woman, tall, slender, long-limbed; and her skin was pale as ivory. But now, in the firelight, it had taken on a golden glow and her red hair was like a burnished halo around her narrow face. How very blue her eyes were.