A Perfect Stranger (4 page)

But later the tragedy provided a strange bond between them. It was something they never spoke of, but it was always there. The tragedy also provided a strange bond between her father and John Henry, as the two men discovered that they had shared a similar loss, the deaths of their only sons. John Henry's boy had died in a plane crash. At twenty-one the young man had been flying his own plane. John Henry's wife had also died, five years later. But it was the loss of their sons that for each had been an intolerable blow. Antoine had had Raphaella to console him, but John Henry had no other children, and after his wife died, he had never married again.

At the start of their business association, each time John Henry came to Paris, Raphaella was in Spain. He began to tease Antoine about his imaginary daughter. It became a standing joke between them until a day when the butler ushered John Henry into Antoine's study, but instead of Antoine, he found himself staring into the dark eyes of a ravishingly beautiful young girl who looked at him tremulously, like a frightened doe. She gazed up almost in terror at the sight of a strange man in the room. She had been going over some papers for school and checking through some reference books her father kept there, and her long black hair poured over her shoulders in straight streams of black silk punctured by cascades of soft curls. For a moment he had stood there, silent, awed. And then quickly he had recovered, and the warm light in his eyes reached out to her, reassuring her that he was a friend. But during her months of study in Paris she saw few people, and in Spain she was so well guarded and protected that it was rare for her to be alone anywhere with a strange man. She had no idea what to say to him at first, but after a few moments of easy banter she met the twinkle in his eyes and laughed. It was half an hour later when Antoine found them, apologizing profusely for a delay at the bank. On the way home in the car he had wondered if John Henry had finally met her, and he had to admit to himself later that he had hoped they had.

Raphaella had withdrawn a few moments after her father's arrival, her cheeks blushing to a delicate pink on the perfect creamy skin.

My God, Antoine, she's a beauty. He looked at his French friend with an odd expression, and Antoine smiled.

So you like my imaginary daughter, do you? She wasn't too impossibly shy? Her mother has convinced her that all men who attempt to talk to a young girl alone are murderers or at least rapists. Sometimes I worry about that look of terror in her eyes.

What do you expect? All her life she has been totally protected. It's hardly surprising after all, then, if she's shy.

No, but she's almost eighteen now, and it's going to be a real problem for her, unless she spends the rest of her life in Spain. In Paris she ought to be able to at least talk to a man without half a dozen women standing in the room, most, if not all, of them related to her. He said it in a tone of amusement, but there was also something very serious in his eyes. He was looking long and hard at John Henry, sizing up the expression he still saw lingering in the American's eyes. She is lovely, isn't she? It's immodest of me to say it about my own daughter, but ' He spread his hands helplessly and smiled.

And this time John Henry met his smile fully. Lovely isn't quite the right word. And then in an almost boyish way he asked a question that brought a smile to Antoine's eyes. Will she dine with us this evening?

If you don't mind very much. I thought we'd dine here, and then we can stop in at my club. Matthieu de Bourgeon will be there this evening, and I've been promising him for months that I'd introduce you the next time you're here.

That sounds fine. But it wasn't Matthieu de Bourgeon that John Henry was thinking of when he smiled.

He had managed to draw Raphaella out successfully that evening and yet again two days later when he had come to the house for tea. He had come especially to see her and brought her two books he had told her about at dinner two days before. She had blushed again and fallen once more into silence, but this time he was able to tease her back into chatting with him, and by the end of the afternoon they were almost friends. Over the next six months she came to regard him as a personage almost as revered and cherished as her father, and it was in the light of an uncle of sorts that she explained him to her mother when she went to Spain.

It was during that trip that John Henry appeared at Santa Eugenia with her father. They stayed for only one brief weekend, during which John Henry successfully charmed Alejandra and the armies of others staying at Santa Eugenia that spring. It was then that Alejandra understood John Henry's intentions, but Raphaella didn't come to learn of them until the summer. It was the first week of her vacation, and she was due to fly to Madrid in a few days. In the meantime she was enjoying the last of her days in Paris, and when John Henry arrived, she urged him to come out with her for a walk along the Seine. They talked about the street artists and the children, and her face lit up when she told him about all of her cousins in Spain. She seemed to have a passion for the children, and she looked infinitely beautiful as she looked up at him with her huge dark eyes.

And how many do you want when you grow up, Raphaella? He always said her name so deliberately. It pleased her. For an American it was a difficult name.

I am grown up.

Are you? At eighteen? He looked at her in amusement, and there was something odd in his eyes that she didn't understand. Something tired and old and wise and sad, as though for an instant he had thought of his son. They had talked about him too. And she had told him about her brother.

Yes, I am grown up. I'm going to the Sorbonne in the fall. They had smiled at each other, and he had had to fight himself to keep from kissing her then and there.

All the while, as they walked, he was wondering how he was going to ask her, and if he had gone totally mad for wanting to ask her at all. Raphaella, have you ever thought about going to college in the States? They were walking slowly along the Seine, dodging children, and she was gently pulling the petals off a flower. But she looked up at him and shook her head.

I don't think I could.

Why not? Your English is excellent.

She shook her head slowly and when she looked up at him again, her eyes were sad. My mother would never let me. It's just' it's just too different from her way of life. And it's so far.

But is that what you want? Your father's life is different from hers too. Would you be happy with that life in Spain?

I don't think so. She said it matter-of-factly. But I don't think I have much choice. I think Papa always meant to take Julien into the bank with him, and it was understood that I'd go to Spain with my mother. The thought of her surrounded by duennas for the rest of her life appalled him. Even as her friend he wanted more for her than that. He wanted to see her free and alive and laughing and independent, but not buried at Santa Eugenia like her mother. It wasn't right for this girl. He felt it in his soul.

I don't think you should have to do that, if that's not what you want to do.

She smiled up at him with resignation mingled with wisdom in her eighteen-year-old eyes. There are duties in life, Mr. Phillips.

Not at your age, little one. Not yet. Some duties, yes. Like school. And listening to your parents to a certain extent, but you don't have to take on a whole way of life if you don't want it.

What else, then? I don't know anything else.

That's no excuse. Are you happy at Santa Eugenia?

Sometimes. And sometimes not. Sometimes I find all those women very boring. My mother loves it though. She even goes on trips with them. They travel in great bunches, they go to Rio and Buenos Aires and Uruguay and New York, and even when she comes to Paris, she brings them with her. They always remind me of girls in boarding school, they seem so so the huge eyes looked up at him apologetically so silly. Don't they? She looked at him and he nodded.

Maybe a little. Raphaella' . But as he said it she stopped walking suddenly and swung around to face him, ingenuous, totally unaware of her beauty; her long graceful body leaned toward him and she looked into his eyes with such trust that he was afraid to say more.

Yes?

And then he couldn't stop it anymore. He couldn't. He had to' . Raphaella, darling. I love you. The words were the merest whisper in the soft Paris air, and his lined handsome face hovered next to hers for a moment before he kissed her. His lips were gentle and soft, his tongue probing her mouth as though his hunger for her knew no bounds, but her mouth was pressed hard against his now too, her arms around his neck, pressing her body into his, and then just as gently he pulled away from her, not wanting her to sense the urgency that had sprung up in his loins. Raphaella' I've wanted to kiss you for so long. He kissed her again, more gently this time, and she smiled with a womanly pleasure he had never seen before in her face.

So have I. She hung her head then, like a schoolgirl. I've had a crush on you since we first met. And then she smiled up at him bravely. You're so beautiful. And this time she kissed him. She took his hand then, as though to lead him further down the Seine, but he shook his head and took her hand in his.

We have something to talk about first. Do you want to sit down? He motioned to a bench and she followed him.

She looked at him questioningly and saw something in his eyes that puzzled her. Is something wrong? Slowly he grinned. No. But if you think I just brought you out here this afternoon to spoon,' as they said in my day, you're mistaken, little one. There's something I want to ask you, and I've been afraid to all day.

What is it? But suddenly her heart was pounding and her voice was very soft.

He looked at her for an endless moment, his face close to hers and her hand held tightly in his own. Will you marry me, Raphaella? He heard her sharp intake of breath, and then closed his eyes and kissed her again, and when he pulled slowly away, there were tears in her eyes and she was smiling as he had never seen her smile before and slowly, the smile broadening, she nodded.

Yes' I will' .

The wedding of Raphaella de Mornay-Malle y de Santos y Quadral and John Henry Phillips IV was of a magnitude seldom seen. It took place in Paris and there was a luncheon for two hundred on the day of the civil ceremony, a dinner for a hundred fifty family members and intimate friends that night, and a crowd of more than six hundred at Notre-Dame for the wedding the next day. Antoine had taken over the entire Polo Club and everyone agreed that both the wedding and the reception were the most beautiful they had ever seen. Remarkably they had also managed to strike up a bargain with the press so that if Raphaella and John Henry would pose for photographs for half an hour, and answer whatever questions arose, they would be left in peace after that.

The wedding stories were featured in Vogue, Women's Wear Daily, and the following week's Time. Throughout the press interviews Raphaella had clutched John Henry's hand almost desperately, and her eyes seemed larger and darker than ever before in the snow-white face.

It was then that he vowed to keep her shielded in the future from the prying eyes of the press. He didn't want her having to cope with anything that made her uncomfortable or unhappy. He was well aware of how carefully protected she had been during her early years. The problem was that John Henry was a man who attracted the attention of the press with alarming frequency, and when he took a bride forty-four years his junior, then his wife became an object of fascination too. Fortunes of the magnitude of John Henry's were almost unheard of, and an eighteen-year-old girl, born of a marquesa and an illustrious French banker was almost too good to be true. It was all very much like a fairy tale, and no fairy tale was complete without a fairy princess. But thanks to John Henry's efforts she remained sheltered. Together they maintained an anonymity no one would have thought possible over the years. Raphaella even managed to attend two years of school at the University of California in Berkeley and it went very smoothly. No one had any idea who she was during the entire two years. She even refused to be driven to Berkeley by the chauffeur, and John Henry bought her a little car that she drove to school.

It was exciting, too, to be among the students and to have a secret and a man she adored. Because she did love John Henry, and he was gentle and loving in every way. He felt as though he had been given a gift so precious, he barely dared to touch it, so grateful was he for the new life he shared with this ravishingly beautiful, delicate young girl. In many ways she was childlike, and she trusted him with her entire soul. It was perhaps because of that that it was such a bitter disappointment to him when he discovered that he had become sterile presumably from a severe kidney infection he'd had ten years before. He knew how desperately she had wanted children and he felt the burden of guilt for depriving her of something she wanted so much. She insisted, when he told her, that it didn't matter, that she had all the children at Santa Eugenia whom she could spoil and amuse and love. She loved to tell them stories and buy them presents. She kept endless lists of their birthdays and was always going downtown to send some fabulous new toy off to Spain.

But even his failure to father children could not sever the bond that held them together over the years. It was a marriage in which she worshiped him and he adored her, and if the difference in their ages caused comment among others, it never bothered either of them. They played tennis together almost every morning, sometimes John Henry ran in the Presidio or along the beach and Raphaella ran along beside him, like a puppy dog at his heels, laughing and teasing and sometimes just walking along in silence afterward, holding his hand. Her life was filled with John Henry, her studies, and her letters to her family in Paris and Spain. She led a very protected, old-fashioned existence, and she was a happy woman, truly more of a happy girl, until she was twenty-five.

Two days before John Henry's sixty-ninth birthday he was to fly to Chicago to close a major deal. He had been talking about retiring for several years now, but like her father, there was no real end in sight. He had too much passion for the world of high finance, for the running of banks, the acquiring of new corporations, and the buying and selling of huge blocks of stock. He loved putting together mammoth reale-state deals like the first one he had done with her father. Retirement just wasn't for him. But when he left for Chicago he had a headache, and despite the pills Raphaella had pressed on him that morning, the headache had grown steadily worse.