Jewels (53 page)

“I hope you’re right,” Sarah said sadly. The loss had weighed on her terribly. For all intents and purposes, in the past two years she had lost her last surviving daughter.

Chapter 27

T
was an agonizing three years later, before Isabelle came back to Paris again. They came when Sarah invited them to Whitfield’s thirtieth-anniversary party at the Louvre. They had taken over part of it for a party. It had never been done before, and Emanuelle had had to use her government connections to get permission. The entire area around it was going to be closed, and it was going to take hundreds of museum guards and gendarmes to make it work. But Sarah knew it would. And Lorenzo knew it was an event not to miss. Sarah was stunned when they accepted. Isabelle and Lorenzo had been married for five years by then, and Sarah had almost resigned herself to the distance between them. She concentrated her energies and her affection on Xavier and Julian, and Phillip to some extent, as little as she saw him. He’d been married to Cecily for thirteen years by then, and his affairs were hinted at in the press, but never confirmed, usually, Sarah suspected, out of respect for his position. The Duke of Whitfield, according to some, was allegedly pretty dicey.

The party Sarah gave was the most dazzling Paris had ever seen. The women there were so beautiful it took your breath away, and the men so important, you could have run five governments from her central table. The President of France was there, the Onassises, the Rainiers, the Arabs, the Greeks, every possible important American, arid all the crowned heads of Europe. Everyone who had ever worn jewelry was there, and a lot of young women who hoped to. There were courtesans and queens, the very rich and the very famous. It made the party five years before look paltry in comparison. No expense was spared, and Sarah herself was thrilled when she saw it. She sat back quietly in victory, looking at all of it, as a thousand people dined and danced and drank and cavorted for each other’s benefit and that of the press, and undoubtedly many misbehaved in assorted ways, although no one knew it.

Julian had brought a very pretty girl, an actress Sarah had read about in a recent scandal, which was an interesting change for him. He had recently been going out with a startlingly pretty Brazilian model. He never lacked for girls, but he always behaved well. They loved him when they arrived and when they left. One couldn’t ask for more. Sarah would have liked to see him choose a wife, but at twenty-nine, there seemed to be no sign of it, and she didn’t press him.

Phillip had brought his wife, of course, but he spent most of the evening with a girl who worked for Saint Laurent. He had met her in London the year before, and they seemed to have a lot in common. He always cast an eye on Julian’s girls, and he had noticed the actress, too, but never got around to introducing himself, and then they got lost in the crowd. It took him ages to find Cecily afterwards, chatting happily to the King of Greece about her horses.

Isabelle was one of the most beautiful women there, Sarah was pleased to note. She was wearing a skintight black Valentino dress that revealed her figure dazzlingly, her long black hair cascaded down her back, and she wore a remarkable diamond necklace and bracelet, with matching earrings, that Julian had loaned her. But she didn’t even need the jewels. She was simply so beautiful that people stared at her, and Sarah was pleased that she had come home for the party. She had no delusions about why they’d come. Lorenzo worked the crowd that night, chasing royals, and constantly posing for the papers. Sarah noticed, as did his wife, who eyed him quietly, but Sarah said nothing. She sensed easily that something was wrong there, and she waited for Isabelle to say something, and she never did. She stayed late and danced with old friends, particularly a well-known French prince, who had always liked her. There were so many men who would have loved to pursue Isabelle, she was twenty-three years old, and so beautiful, but she had been gone for five years, married to Lorenzo.

Sarah took them all to lunch the next day at Le Fouquet’s, to thank them all for helping her with the party. Emanuelle was there, of course, and Julian, Phillip and Cecily, Nigel, his designer friend, and Isabelle and Lorenzo. Xavier was already away by then. He had begged for months for Sarah to let him visit old friends of hers in Kenya. She had resisted him at first, but he was so persistent, and she was so busy with their anniversary party plans, that she had finally let him go, and he had thanked her profusely. At fourteen, all he wanted was to see the world, and the farther away the better. He loved being with her, and he loved France, but he had a constant craving for the exotic and the unknown. He had read Thor Heyerdahl’s book four times, and he seemed to know everything about Africa, and the Amazon, and every possible place in the world no one else in his family ever wanted to go to. He was definitely his own man, a bit of William in some ways, a bit of Sarah in others, he had some of Julian’s warmth, and a lot of William’s fun. But he had a sense of adventure, and a passion for the rugged life that no one else in his family shared with him. The rest of them much preferred Paris and London and Antibes, or even Whitfield.

“We’re a very dull group compared to him.” Sarah smiled. He had already written her half a dozen letters about the fabulous animals he’d seen. And he was already begging to go back, if she’d let him.

“He certainly doesn’t get it from me.” Julian grinned. He was far happier on a sofa than a safari.

“Or me.” Phillip laughed at himself for once, and Lorenzo immediately launched into an endless tale that bored everyone, about his dear friend the Maharaja of Jaipur.

They had a nice time at lunch, in spite of him, and afterwards they all went their separate ways, and the Whitfields all said good-bye to their mother. Julian was going to Saint-Tropez with friends for a few days to rest after all their work on the mammoth party, and Phillip and Cecily were flying back to London. Nigel was staying in Paris for a few days with his friend. Emanuelle was going back to work, as Sarah was eventually. Only Isabelle lingered after lunch. Lorenzo said he had to pick up something at Hermès, and wanted to see friends. They weren’t leaving for another day, and for the first time in years, Isabelle seemed to want to talk to her mother. She hesitated when they were finally alone, and Sarah asked her if she’d like another cup of coffee.

They both ordered espresso, and Isabelle came to sit next to her. She had been at the other end of the lively table, but there was something deeply unhappy in her eyes, and she looked at her mother miserably finally, as tears filled her eyes and she tried to fight them.

“I don’t suppose I have the right to say anything now, do I?” she asked ruefully, and Sarah gently touched her hand, wishing she could take away her pain, that she could have shielded her from it from the beginning. But she had long since learned the hard lesson that she couldn’t. “I can’t really complain, since you all warned me.”

“Yes, you can.” Sarah smiled. “One can always complain.” And then she decided to be honest. “You’re unhappy, aren’t you?”

“Very,” Isabelle admitted, wiping a tear from her cheek. “I had no idea what it would be like … I was so young and so stupid … you all knew. And I was so blind.” It was all true, but it made Sarah sad anyway. There was no consolation in being right this time. Not at her child’s expense. It broke her heart to see her so unhappy. She had tried to resign herself for years to barely seeing her anymore, but nonetheless it had always been painful. And now, seeing how unhappy she had been, her estrangement from them seemed even more wasted.

“You were very young.” Sarah excused her. “And very stubborn. And he was very shrewd.” Isabelle nodded miserably, she knew that only too well now. “He played you like a violin to get what he wanted.” He had played all of them, he had forced their hand, and enticed Isabelle to marry him. It was easy to forgive Isabelle, but not as easy to forgive Lorenzo. “He knew what he was doing.”

“More than you know. As soon as we got to Rome, and he got what he wanted, everything was different. It seemed like he already had the palazzo picked out, he said everyone had them there, everyone of any consequence, and we’d need it for all our children, and the villa in Umbria too. And then he bought the Rolls … and the yacht … and the Ferrari … and then all of a sudden I never saw him anymore. He was always out with his friends, and I started seeing things in the paper about him and other women. And every time I asked him about it, he just laughed and said they were old friends, or cousins. He must be related to half of Europe,” she said grimly, looking straight at her mother. “He’s cheated on me for years. He doesn’t even hide it anymore. He does what he wants, and he says there’s nothing I can do. There’s no divorce in Italy, and he’s related to three cardinals, he says he will never divorce me.” She looked hopeless as she sat there. Sarah had no idea that it had come to that, or that he had dared to be so blatant. And how dare he come here, and sit with all of them, come to her party, pursue her friends, after abusing her daughter. She was livid.

“Have you asked him for a divorce?” Sarah looked worried as she stroked her daughter’s hand, and Isabelle nodded.

“Two years ago, when he had a passionate affair with a well-known woman in Rome. I just couldn’t take it anymore. They were all over the papers. I just couldn’t see the point of playing the game anymore.” She started to cry openly then. “I’ve been so lonely.” Sarah hugged her then, and Isabelle blew her nose and went on with her sad tale. “I asked him again last year. But he always says no, that I must resign myself to the fact that we’re married forever.”

“He wants to be married to your bank account, not you” He always had, and according to Julian, he had been very lucky. He had stashed a lot of the money Isabelle had given him and continued to make her pay for everything. But she wouldn’t have cared about that so much if she’d loved him. But she hadn’t loved him in years. When their first passion burned away, and it had quickly, there had been absolutely nothing left, except ashes. “At least you haven’t had children with him. If you can get out of it at all, it will be less complicated this way. And you’re still young, you can have them later.”

“Not with him,” Isabelle said bleakly, lowering her voice still further as they sat at the table, and the waiters kept a discreet distance. “We can’t even have children.”

This time Sarah looked stunned. Up until then, nothing had really surprised her. “Why not?” He had even threatened that Isabelle might be pregnant when he wanted to marry her, it had been his main reason for not waiting until Christmas. And he wasn’t that old. He was fifty-four then, William had been older than that when they had Xavier, and not even in good health, Sarah thought warmly. “Is there something wrong with him?”

“He had severe mumps as a child. And he’s sterile. His uncle told me. Enzo had never told me anything. And when I asked him, he laughed. He said I was very lucky, it was built-in birth control. He lied to me, Maman … he told me we would have dozens of children.” The tears spilled over on her cheeks again and again. “I think I could even stand being married to him, no matter how much I hated him, if we had children.” There was a longing in her heart that nothing would fill now. For five long years she had had no one to love, and no one to love her. Not even her family, whom he had caused her to fight with.

“That’s no way to have children, dear,” Sarah said quietly. “You don’t want them to grow up in misery.” But she didn’t want her own daughter living in it either.

“We don’t sleep with each other anymore anyway. We haven’t in three years. He never comes home anymore except to pick up his shirts, or get money.” But something Isabelle had said had caught Sarah’s attention, and she made a mental note of it for later. The Principe di San Tebaldi was not quite as slick as he thought, but almost. “I don’t care anymore,” Isabelle went on. “I don’t care about anything. It’s like being in prison.” And she looked it. In the daylight, Sarah saw that Emanuelle had been right when she went to Rome, and now she knew why. Isabelle looked wan and pale, and desperately unhappy, and with good reason.

“Do you want to come home? You could probably get a divorce here. You were married at the château.”

“We married again in Italy,” Isabelle said hopelessly. “In the church. If I got a divorce here, it wouldn’t be legal in Italy, and I could never get married again anyway. It would be illegal. Lorenzo says I just have to resign myself to my fate. He’s not going anywhere.” Once again, as he had before, he really had them over a barrel, and Sarah didn’t like it. It was worse than her first marriage had been, by far, or certainly similar to it. And her father had gotten her out of it. She knew she had to find a way now to help her daughter.

“What can I do to help you? What do you want, my darling?” Sarah asked sadly, “I’ll speak to my attorneys at once, but I think you may have to bide your time with him. Eventually there will be something he wants more than you, and maybe we can bargain with him.” But she had to admit, it wouldn’t be easy. He was a tough one.