Three Weeks in Paris Read online

  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, anyplace 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-song 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 newfound focus and concentration, and it was these two qualities, plus her unique talent, that 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 at Lochcraigie more than her busy high-tech studio in Edinburgh, not the least because of its spaciousness, high ceiling, and clarity of light.

  After looking through a few sketches for her fall 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 and 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 color, as in a kiss, and Kay knew exactly what her assistant meant. It was a lovely lipstick shade, one that reminded her of the glamorous stars of those old movies from the 1950s.

  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 color 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 colors— red and blue—interspersed with other tones from these color 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 colors 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 color 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 Drive 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 favored 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 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, and focused on her designs, she almost jumped out of her skin when the phone next to her elbow jangled.

  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 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 woolen 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 toward the loch, in need of fresh air and exercise.

  This was one of her favorite 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 she swung her head, her eyes settling on the great stone house where she lived, built in 1559 by William Andrews, then new laird of Lochcraigie. From that time onward, 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 anymore, except for a few old-timers from his grandfather’s day who still lived in the village.

  Aside 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, and perhaps even disbelieving.…

  She let these thoughts float way 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 gray, 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 that led 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 toward the French doors. “It’s just started.”

  He followed her gaze, saw the snowflakes coming down, and heavily so. 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, 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 V neckline. Very collegiate, and vulnerable, she thought, and smiled inwardly, 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. I heard a weather report earlier on the radio, and it’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow, and also much warmer.”

  Ian smiled to her and surveyed the tray of finger sandwiches and fancy cakes.

  “By the way, Ian, what did you end up getting Fiona?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Kay gave him a baffled look, her eyes full of questions, 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 finger sandwiches and cream cakes in front of the blazing fire. Outside the windows it was snowing heavily now, and the flakes settled 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 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 focused on his wife, and he couldn’t help thinking how beautiful she looked, 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, suddenly frowning, looking worried. “You know how I hate traveling.”

  “No, of course not,” she answered quickly. She didn’t bother to tell him 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. “Why ever 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 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 coziness. 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, and 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. And I do believe my mo
ther’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 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, and 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 a bit of a nationalist.”

  He laughed. “So are you!”

  “Something must’ve rubbed off.”

  He smiled at her indulgently. She was full of romantic notions, but then, perhaps that was a female prerogative.

  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.”