a Perfect Stranger (1983) Read online

  The aging Marquis de Quadral, his wife's father, had been the reigning financial genius of Madrid, but his sons had not inherited his passion for the world of finance and had, for the most part, gone into other fields. For years the elderly marquis had had an eye out for someone to succeed him in the banks he had founded over the years. What happened instead was that he met Antoine, and eventually, after a great deal of fancy footwork, the Banque Malle joined forces on numerous deals with the Banco Quadral. The union rapidly quadrupled Antoine's power and fortune, delighted the marquis, and brought along with it the marquis's daughter, Alejandra, Marquesa de Santos y Quadral. Antoine had been instantly taken with the flaxen-haired, blue-eyed Spanish beauty, and at the time he had been thinking for a while that it was time he married and produced an heir. At thirty-five he had been too busy building his family's banking business into an empire, but now other considerations had begun to weigh with him as well. Alejandra was the perfect solution to the problem, and a very handsome solution at that. At nineteen she was a startling beauty, with the most devastatingly exquisite face Antoine had ever seen. It was he who looked like the Spaniard beside her, with his black hair and dark eyes. And together they made an extraordinary pair.

  Seven months after they met, their wedding was the main event of the social season, after which they honeymooned for a month in the South of France. Immediately thereafter they dutifully appeared at the marquis's country estate, Santa Eugenia, on the Coast of Spain. The estate was palatial, and it was here that Antoine began to understand what marriage to Alejandra would mean. He was a member of the family now, yet another son of the elderly marquis. He was expected to make frequent appearances at Santa Eugenia, and come as often as possible to Madrid. It was certainly what Alejandra planned to do, and when it was time to return to Paris, she implored her husband to let her stay at Santa Eugenia for a few more weeks. And when at last she returned to him in Paris, six weeks later than she had promised, Antoine fully understood what was going to happen after that. Alejandra was going to spend most of her time as she always had, surrounded by her family, on their estates in Spain. She had spent all of the war years sequestered there and now, even after the war, and married, she wanted to continue to live in those familiar surroundings.

  Predictably, on their first anniversary, Alejandra gave birth to their first child, a son named Julien, and Antoine was well pleased. He had an heir for his own empire now, and he and the marquis strolled quietly for hours on the grounds of Santa Eugenia when the child was a month old, discussing all of Antoine's future plans for the banks and his son. He had his father-in-law's full endorsement, and in the year since he had married Alejandra, both the Banque Malle and the Banco Quadral had grown.

  Alejandra remained at Santa Eugenia for the summer with her brothers and sisters, their children, cousins, nieces, and friends. And when Antoine returned to Paris, Alejandra had already conceived again. This time Alejandra suffered a miscarriage, and the next time she delivered twins, born prematurely and dead at birth. There was then a brief hiatus when she spent six months resting, with her family, in Madrid. When she returned to Paris to her husband, she conceived yet again. This fourth pregnancy yielded Raphaella, two years younger than Julien. There were then two more miscarriages and another stillbirth, after which the ravishingly beautiful Alejandra announced that it was the climate in Paris that did not agree with her and that her sisters felt she would be healthier in Spain. Having seen her inevitable return to Spain coming throughout their marriage, Antoine quietly acquiesced. It was the way of women of her country, and it was a battle that he never could have won.

  From then on he was content to see her at Santa Eugenia, or in Madrid, surrounded by female cousins, sisters, and duennas, perfectly content to be always in the company of her relatives, assorted women friends, and a handful of their unmarried brothers, who squired them to concerts, operas, and plays. Alejandra was still one of Spain's great beauties, and in Spain she led an exceedingly pleasant life of indolence and opulence, with which she was well pleased. It was no great problem for Antoine to fly back and forth to Spain, when he could get away from the bank, which he did less and less. In time he induced her to let the children come back to Paris to attend school, on the condition of course that they flew to Santa Eugenia for every possible vacation and for four months in the summer. And now and then she consented to visit him in Paris, despite what she constantly referred to as the detrimental effects of the French weather on her health. After the last stillbirth there were no more babies, in fact after that there was only a platonic affection between Alejandra and her husband, which she knew from her sisters was perfectly normal.

  Antoine was perfectly content to leave things as they were, and when the marquis died, the marriage paid off. No one was surprised at the arrangement. Alejandra and Antoine had jointly inherited the Banco Quadral. Her brothers were amply compensated, but to Antoine went the empire he so desperately wanted to add to his own. Now it was of his son that he thought as he continued to build it, but Antoine's only son was not destined to be his heir. At sixteen Julien de Mornay-Malle died in an accident, in Buenos Aires, playing polo, leaving his mother stunned, his father bereft, and Raphaella Antoine's only child.

  And it was Raphaella who consoled her father, who flew with him to Buenos Aires to bring the boy's body back to France. It was she who held her father's hand during those endless hours and as they watched the casket being lowered solemnly onto the runway at Orly. Alejandra flew back to Paris separately, surrounded by sisters, cousins, one of her brothers, and several close friends, but always surrounded, protected, as she had lived her entire life. And hours after the funeral they urged her to go back to Spain with them, and acquiescing tearfully, she allowed them to take her away. Alejandra had a veritable army to protect her, and Antoine had no one, only a fourteen-year-old child.

  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 ni
ght, 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.