PART 8
All the girls congregated in Lorena's room that evening. Nikita and Carla related their encounters with Chandler and Fanning in hushed and shocked tones. This was met by sympathetic expressions of horror and disbelief. Nikita did not, however, mention her conversation with Walter. She and Carla agreed to wait and see what he had up his sleeve.
"I knew they were not to be trusted," exclaimed Lorena. "Don't ask me how, but I just knew."
"Yes, there's something evil about both of them," agreed Fern.
"But would you do any of those things Mr. Fanning suggested?" asked Carla. "I mean, with your husband, of course."
Lorena glanced around at the girls. She had a fleeting thought of her dear Victor, back in Rio de Janeiro. "Well, I'm open to new ideas so I would certainly consider it." Everyone was stunned for a moment, then burst out laughing.
"We should keep it down. Glanzman will be making her rounds soon," reminded Bel.
"Yes, we wouldn't want to have to write 'I will not discuss intimate relations' 50 times on the blackboard!" giggled Nikita. She had not said much after telling about Mr. Chandler. After all, she knew the basics. She had seen the horses on the estate mating. However, all the nuances of what occurred between men and women were still a mystery. But she was positive she did not want to discover them with the odious Mick.
This afternoon she had received a letter from him saying how much he looked forward to seeing her the next weekend at her uncle's home. She had promptly burned it.
"What about you, Nikita? You've been awfully quiet tonight," asked Bel.
Nikita looked around at her friends. "I can only say that I have yet to meet a man who could persuade me to do any of those things."
The others considered this for a moment. Gadenia spoke up. "Quite right, Nikita. We should be studying for tomorrow's history test instead of letting our imaginations run away from us."
"Speak for yourself!" said Carla boldly. This brought another round of laughter.
Miss Glanzman's authoritative voice was heard in the hall. The girls quickly opened the cumbersome history books and bent their heads over them.
The following Friday afternoon found Nikita and Carla on the train to Aunt Adrian's birthday celebration. Nikita had also received a letter from her father. He was back in London and would be traveling upto the party as well. She was beside herself with joy!
As she tucked his letter back into her pocket, her hand touched the haft of the small knife Walter had given her. He had demonstrated the sharpness of it by drawing a small bead of blood on his index finger. "I made these leather sheaths so you girls can keep them in your pockets," he told her and Carla.
"Who's going to meet us at the station?" asked Carla yawning. It was a warm afternoon and their compartment was stuffy. Oh, how she longed to take a nap and dream of Seymour!
"Probably Uncle George will send 'One-eyed Perry' with the carriage."
"And who might that be?" asked Carla languidly.
"The head coachman. He's been with the family forever. He lost one eye in an accident many years ago. He wears a black patch that makes him look rather sinister."
Carla suppressed another yawn. "How interesting! Your family is simply full of surprises, Nikita."
Half an hour later, the train screeched to a stop in the rural station. Nikita scanned the crowded platform for any familiar faces.
"Oh, my goodness! There's Seymour and Jason! I didn't expect them to be here," she exclaimed excitedly and began waving.
Carla sat up and peered out the window. Her boredom had miraculously vanished. "Seymour's here?" She quickly began smoothing down her hair. "How do I look?"
"You silly goose! You look fine," laughed Nikita.
Several minutes later, the girls and their baggage had been collected into the carriage. "One-eyed Perry" Bauer, the head coachman for the past thirty years, turned the carriage into the road and the little group began rumbling and bouncing their way toward Westmount, ancestral home of the Jones-Wirth family for five-hundred years.
PART 9
Everyone was talking all at once about classes, teachers, fellow students and roommates as they made the five-mile journey from the train station to Westmount.
"My roomie is a tremendous slob," sighed Seymour. "And on top of that, he snores loudly. Why, just yesterday I was tempted to put a pillow over his face!" The girls chortled loudly.
Carla was very sympathetic. "Oh Seymour, I'm so sorry you have to put up with such an uncouth person." She flashed him a brilliant smile, then turned to Jason. "And what is your roommate like?"
"He's an okay sort of chap, kinda quiet. I can't help thinking that he would have been a better roommate for old Seymour here!" He jabbed his brother in the ribs.
"Watch it, old man! Hey, maybe we can persuade them to switch next term."
Nikita filled them in about all the Brazilian Babes. That really got Jason's attention. "From Brazil you say? Wonder if I could juggle Latin and Portuguese?"
Seymour rolled his eyes. "You couldn't juggle three sticks if your life depended on it! The only reason you're passing Latin now is because I drill you every night."
"That's not true!" asserted Jason.
"Is so!" said Seymour.
"I may have had some difficulties at the beginning, but I've got the hang of it now," Jason insisted with an air of self-importance.
"Wait 'til Hayworth hits you with his final examination," challenged Seymour. "I hear it's brutal."
The good-natured bickering and laughing continued until the carriage drew to a stop in front of the ornately carved front door of Westmount. Adrian had been watching from the drawing room window and was out the door and down the steps immediately.
"Nikita, my dear! It's so good to see you." Adrian enveloped her niece in her arms. "The house is so empty since all you young people went away to school."
"I've missed you as well, Aunt Adrian and 'Happy Birthday!'"
Adrian laughed. "Thank you. It's hard to believe that another year has already passed." She then turned her attention to Carla and grasped both her hands warmly.
"Miss Fielding, welcome to Westmount. I do hope you will enjoy your visit here."
"Thank you for inviting me. I simply adore parties!" gushed Carla.
Now George and Nikita's father, Reginald Jones-Wirth, were coming down the steps. As soon as Nikita saw her dear father, she ran forward and flung herself into his arms. "Papa, Papa! I've missed you so much!"
They hugged for several long minutes and their eyes became misty. At last, Reginald pulled back. "Let me look at you, Nikita. It seems forever since I laid eyes on you."
He studied his daughter closely. "Why, you look even more beautiful than before. More like your dear mother every day."
"Oh, I'm fine, Papa. But how are you feeling? Are you completely recovered from your illness?" she asked anxiously.
"Oh yes, I'm as healthy as a horse now," he assured her.
"I'm so relieved to hear that," she said. Then she waved Carla over. "Papa, I would like you to meet my roommate and friend, Carla Fielding."
They stood and chatted amiably for several minutes until Maggie came to the door and announced that tea was served on the terrace.
As they were going in, Seymour pulled Nikita aside and whispered. "Mick was here this morning talking to your father. They were in the library for an hour or more."
Her eyes widened with alarm. In his letter, her father had hinted about a possible match with Mick, saying what a good man he was.
"Come on, you slow pokes!" Jason urged. "I'm dying for some of that walnut cake."
"We'll talk later," Nikita whispered to Seymour.
Later, while everyone was changing for dinner, Nikita quietly slipped down to the dining room to check the place cards. As she suspected, Mick was to be seated next to her. This will never do, she thought. Quickly, she switched Mick's place with that of an Admiral Barnes. She had no idea who this Admiral was, but anything was better than enduring Mick's attentions all through dinner.
PART 10
Two very different men sat in the compartment of the train as it chugged and belched along. One was an elderly vicar returning from a visit with his sister in Dover. The other was a young Frenchman who had just made the ferry crossing from Calais to Dover. They had exchanged perfunctory small talk about the train and the weather before settling down to their reading materials – a heavy religious tome for the clergyman and a French newspaper for the other man.
The channel crossing had been turbulent and therefore not conducive to reading. The young man was glad to find a quiet space. He had read through half of the paper when he heard the soft snoring of the vicar. His head fell forward on his chest with the book open on his lap and threatening to slip onto the floor. Michel quietly took the book from his hands and laid it on the seat beside him, securing the place with the bookmark.
Michel abandoned the newspaper and sat staring out at the rolling green fields as they sped by. His own thoughts were mixed. On the one hand, he would be glad to see his old friend, René and catch up on all his news. Michel and René had grown up together in Marseilles, enjoying all the boisterous activities of boyhood. Michel still had a faint scar on his arm from one of their fencing sessions.
But when René's father died suddenly, his mother decided to return to her native London to be closer to her family. Michel's father said that René could live with them and go on to the Sorbonne with Michel. After all, René was in and out of the Samuelle home so much he was like another son. But the mother could not bear to be separated from her only child.
That was, what, five or six years ago? Michel had lost track of the time. They had kept in touch sporadically over the years and now both were young men, ready to embark on their chosen careers. René had only hinted at his new job in his last letter a couple of months ago. He promised to tell Michel all about it when they met in London.
Besides spending time with René and his mother, Michel was to interview with a Miss Glanzman for a teaching position at The Sanibelle School for Young Ladies. It was quite well-known and enjoyed an excellent reputation. As fate would have it, the train would make a stop in the very village where the school was located. However, in another twist of fate, Miss Glanzman would be away at this time visiting her pregnant sister and young niece in Cornwall. In their last communication, she stated that in a few weeks she would be in London on business and would interview Michel at that time.
Michel sighed as he continued looking out the window. He hardly knew whether he wanted the position or not. Had it not been for Andrea, the mentally unstable daughter of his mentor, Professeur Trémont, he would have already taken up a position at the Sorbonne. That red-haired vixen, he thought irritably.
Andrea had fallen in love with Michel and thrown herself at him. When he did not return her feelings, she became enraged and shouted that he had forced himself on her and that she was carrying his child. He had never even held her hand. He realized that she was out of her head, but was still mortified by the false accusations. A shadow was cast on his spotless reputation.
One day she unexpectedly burst into the lecture hall with a pair of scissors and proceeded to raggedly chop off her long red hair in front of the class. As Michel and her father tried to restrain her, she shouted, "You will be the death of me, Michel Samuelle!"
Twisting free from them, she ran out into the street and was struck and killed instantly by a carriage turning the corner. Even in the midst of his own sorrow, Professeur Trémont had tried to comfort him saying, "I know you did nothing wrong, Michel. I do not blame you for anything. My poor daughter was troubled in ways we cannot understand."
Later, the Professeur showed him the letter from his old friend, Dr. Desbiens, in England. "It is a good position, Michel. Would you be interested in applying?"
Michel took a few days to think it over and then sent his curriculum vitae. Dr. Desbiens wrote back that he would put in a good word with the administration and looked forward to meeting him.
Perhaps a change will be good, after all, he thought.
The train was slowing as it came into the station. The old vicar's head snapped up and he began to gather up his book and small valise. He nodded at Michel. "Goodbye to you, my son, and good luck!"
After he left, Michel began studying the people on the platform. Some who had been on the ferry with him now disembarked into the loving arms of their families. Businessmen going up to London got on as did some schoolboys in their uniforms.
One particular little group caught his attention. Two teenaged girls and an older man. The father or uncle of one of them? Michael could not decide. At any rate, the man resembled a gypsy and seemed very protective of them.
One of the girls had curly brown hair and the other had long, straight, white-blonde hair. Michel kept staring at it. He had never seen such a pure color before. It was mesmerizing!
The whistle was blowing and the gypsy man bustled the girls onto the train. He stood waving as the train pulled out and began to gather steam.
Some time later, Michel awoke from a brief nap in time to see the two girls getting off the train. They were met by twin brothers, apparently relatives of the blonde girl. There was much hugging and laughing. The boys gathered up the baggage and the four of them got into a waiting carriage.
PART 11
The servants' voices were heard coming toward the dining room. Nikita barely managed to slip out and back up the stairs without being seen. She was brushing her hair when Carla knocked softly and came through the communicating door between their rooms.
"Well, I think I'm ready!" she announced as she twirled around. "Will Seymour like this burgundy color?"
Nikita eyed her speculatively. "More than likely he'll like those more than the color!" She indicated the tops of Carla's breasts, which were evident above the ecru lace of the bodice.
"Oh, I should hope so!" giggled Carla. She tugged on the bodice in an effort to expose even more pale skin. "You should try to project your assets a little more."
Nikita looked down at her chest. "This neckline is already too low," she protested. "Besides, I do not want to encourage Mick in any way."
"I know you don't give a fig about Mick, but aren't there some other boys around here who are interesting?" Carla was so content in her relationship with Seymour that she wanted Nikita to have the same happiness.
Nikita wrinkled up her nose in disgust. "Let me see – the Stephenson boys, Ronald and Jasper. All brawn and no brains. Elroy McDowell – I'm not sure he even likes girls, if you get my meaning. Richard Cartwell – he got sent down from Cambridge for drinking and gambling. Then there's . . ."
Carla threw up her hands in surrender. "Okay, I see where this is going! Where do you get all your information?" she asked in exasperation.
"For the most part, it's gossip from the servants, with the occasional tidbit thrown in from Jason and Seymour!" laughed Nikita.
"I suppose I shall have to look further afield to find someone for you. Mark my words, when you do fall in love, you will fall hard. You're the kind of girl that only a certain type of man can tame."
Nikita put her hands on her hips and said, "Since when did you become my matchmaker?"
"Oh, I just figured if you were going to defy your father, I would be only too glad to help you."
For a moment, Nikita looked stricken. "I love Papa dearly and would not hurt him for the world. But I simply cannot go along with this ridiculous idea of marrying Mick. He didn't even ask me what I thought about it."
"Don't worry, Nikita. I'm sure you can make your father see reason." Carla patted her arm in a reassuring manner. "Tears have been known to work wonders with fathers. I should know!"
Nikita could never stay depressed around Carla. Her natural optimism and enthusiasm dispelled the gloom of any situation. Lifting her chin, Nikita said, "Yes, of course. I will make Papa see how wrong this is. I know I can make him understand."
"That's more like it!" nodded Carla in vigorous agreement.
After a final check in the mirror, the two girls stepped into the hall. The grandfather clock was striking eight o'clock. Guests were arriving and there was already a buzz of conversation at the foot of the stairs.
Dinner was to be an intimate affair with only the family and a few close friends. The silver gleamed and crystal sparkled on the long table. Large vases of flowers decorated the room and mouth-watering aromas were detected as the servants brought in the food.
On Nikita's left was Uncle George's old mate, Admiral Barnes. He was a large man with a bushy beard and eyebrows. He enjoyed regaling the guests with tales of his and George's adventures in the Royal Navy.
". . .and then there was that time off the coast of North Africa. . ."
George cleared his throat discreetly. "I say, Wally, perhaps that's best left for another time."
"Eh? Oh yes, of course, Georgie. It might not suit the delicate ears of the ladies. Wouldn't want to give offense!"
After dinner everyone proceeded to the ballroom at the rear of the house. It appeared that the rest of the shire had now flocked in. The noise level had risen considerably as guests talked, laughed and clinked champagne glasses. The musicians were tuning up in the corner and the French doors had been thrown open to the terrace.
"I told George this was entirely too much fuss, but he insisted," said Adrian as she and Nikita surveyed the scene. "He said it wasn't every day his best girl celebrated 50 years."
A blur of burgundy gown passed Nikita. Carla and Seymour seemed to be having a marvelous time. Suddenly, she noticed Mick approaching. In a panic, she decided to ask Admiral Barnes to dance, but he was taking his leave.
"I say, Adrian, this is a swell party! However, I must be off. My good lady is a bit under the weather. Touch of the influenza, I believe. And you know how servants are if you're not there to take them to task."
"Thank you for coming, Wally. Please give our regards to dear Adelaide," said Adrian.
George was slapping him on the back. "Oh, I'm sure all Addy needs is a hot toddy!"
Nikita was left standing alone in the foyer. Mick was almost upon her. She would probably have to dance with him, after all.
PART 12
"Ah, Nikita! If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to avoid me." A lecherous smile curved Mick's lips. Nikita held her breath and took a step backward, almost knocking over a large Delft jar on the sideboard. Mick had invaded her personal space and was emboldened by too many drinks.
He continued staring at her. "You know, I am quite fond of you. I took the liberty of speaking with your father this morning." His words came out in a slur.
"About what?"
"Why, us, of course!"
"Us?" she asked in a flat voice.
He began waving his arms around expansively. "Us! The joining of your lovely body to mine in Holy Matrimony! 'What's mine is yours' and all that rubbish. How about a kiss to seal the deal?"
Nikita said nothing, but inside she was seething. Her fists were tightly clenched at her side. Not bloody likely! she thought. Suddenly, a devilish idea came to her.
"My, it's so stuffy in here! Why don't we step outside for a breath of fresh air?" She smiled prettily at Mick and fluttered her eyelashes.
He lurched forward. "Jolly good idea!" He grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing servant. "I'm simply parched."
Nikita went out the front door and sat by the fountain on the left side of the house. Mick stumbled after her, sloshing champagne down the front of his white shirt.
"Now this is more like it," Mick said approvingly as he flopped down by Nikita. His breath almost knocked her down. The fountain was partially obscured from the front door by a trellis of flowers. "No one can see us here. Now what about my kiss?!"
He leaned forward expectantly and Nikita grabbed his lapels tightly. "If you think for one minute I'm going to marry you, then you need to have your thick head examined. I would rather join a convent than to be your wife." With that, she heaved Mick backwards into the fountain.
"What the. . ." Arms and legs flailing, Mick struggled to get up. He had been caught completely off guard by this wisp of a girl.
Nikita stood up and threw out one final insult. "And another thing – I hate men who cannot hold their drink!"
Mick was cursing loudly now and trying to regain his dignity. "I say, Nikita. . ."
Her tension vanished and she began laughing uncontrollably. This only infuriated Mick more. She picked up his champagne flute and drained it in one gulp. "A la vie!"
Nikita skipped back into the house, still laughing.
"Where have you been? I was looking all over for you." It was Seymour, his face scrunched up with worry.
"Oh, just getting some air!" she answered breezily. "Is something wrong?"
He looked around to make sure they were alone. "I wanted to warn you about Mick. One-eye Perry was talking to their coachman who said that Mick was thrown out of the Chesterfield Club last week because he was so far behind in his gambling debts."
"Indeed!"
"He also overhead him bragging that he would soon be reinstated because he was going to come into some money when he married." Seymour paused and looked pointedly at Nikita. "I guess you know where he thought that money was coming from."
"I have a pretty good idea," she answered thoughtfully.
Seymour shook his head. "I used to like Mick, but he's out of control these days. He's turned into a drunken lout."
Suddenly, a blood-curdling scream pierced the air. Maggie came flying down the stairs. "Oh, Miss Nikita! It's Mistress Penelope's time! She's in a terrible way!"
Nikita and Seymour looked at each other in horror. Penelope was already two weeks past her due date. "I'll find Mummy," said Seymour. "And I'll start boiling some water," added Nikita.
PART 13
It was almost midnight and Adrian's birthday party was at its height. However, as word of Penelope's condition raced through the crowd, the revelers began dispersing. "Looks like someone else will be celebrating a birthday soon!" was the general consensus.
Old Dr. Fletcher, who had delivered every baby in the shire for the past 50 years, was rousted from his warm bed. As he climbed the steps to the room where Penelope was confined, he proclaimed, "Never can tell about these first ones – sometimes they pop right out, other times they hang on for dear life!"
Nikita and Carla exchanged a look as they sat in the hall outside the room. "That's not very encouraging, is it?" muttered Carla.
"This is scary," whispered Nikita. "And exciting at the same time." She twisted her hands nervously in her lap. "Somehow, I can't picture myself in this kind of situation."
"That makes two of us," admitted Carla. Another scream was heard and Carla's hand gripped Nikita's painfully. "Maybe we should go downstairs and wait. I mean, we're not really doing anything to help."
Adrian stuck her head out the door and said, "Nikita, would you be a dear and fetch some more towels from the cupboard?"
Not wanting to be left out, Carla jumped up and asked, "May I do anything to help?"
Adrian considered for a moment. "Well, you might bring Dr. Fletcher a cup of tea. I'm sure he would appreciate that."
"What about some brandy?"
Adrian pursed her lips. "Yes, that as well."
Nikita went down the hall toward the linen cupboard while Carla ran down to the kitchen. When they met again outside the bedroom door, Nikita said, "Are you ready?" Carla nodded nervously and together they pushed open the door.
When Carla saw Penelope moving restlessly on the bed and the blood between her legs, she promptly dropped the china cup and fainted dead away. However, she was still clutching the bottle of brandy. Nikita couldn't decide which was more shocking – the sight of Penelope in such agony or Carla fainting. She dropped the armful of towels and managed to catch Carla's head before it hit the floor.
"Dear me! Is she all right?" asked Adrian.
"I see the head!" shouted Dr. Fletcher. "Come on, Penelope! Push, push!"
Nikita was feeling a bit faint and nauseous, too, but rooted through the doctor's black bag and found some smelling salts. She waved them under Carla's nose until she began to come around.
"One more big push and he'll be out," urged the doctor.
Penelope gave one last push and one last agonizing scream, then another kind of scream was heard.
"Well, well! It's a boy!" shouted Dr. Fletcher, slapping the infant's bottom. "And what a fine specimen he is! Just look at that head of black hair! Why, he's the spitting image of his father."
The baby was wrapped in a towel and laid at Penelope's breast. "Congratulations, my dear! Meet your son," laughed the doctor.
Nikita found a chair in the corner and gratefully sank into it. The men had been downstairs in the library, smoking and drinking whiskey in an effort to distract poor Richard, Penelope's bank manager husband. Now they all swarmed into the room.
The baby was placed in Richard's arms as everyone offered congratulations and slapped him on the back. Richard, who was used to looking at balance sheets and debits and credits, seemed genuinely stunned that he had helped produce this large, squirming, wailing bundle of humanity.
George analyzed his first grandchild. "He may have your hair, Richard, but he definitely has the Jones-Wirth chin!"
"You think that's a good thing, George?!" asked Dr. Fletcher. Everyone started laughing.
"Come, come now. Penelope needs her rest." The doctor began herding everyone out of the room. "Having a baby is tiring business."
Carla had recovered and Seymour and Nikita helped her to her feet. "I'm exhausted!" she said.
"Me, too," answered Nikita. The grandfather clock struck five a.m. "Let's go to bed."
PART 14
Nikita quickly undressed and brushed out her hair. Despite the tension and excitement surrounding the birth, she succumbed to a deep sleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. But her slumber was soon marred by a nightmare.
Instead of Penelope screaming in childbirth, it was Nikita. As she writhed and moaned on the bed, gentle hands wiped her face with a cool cloth. A kind voice said, "Call her husband. He will comfort her."
"I am here," came a quiet man's voice. He stood in the shadows at the edge of the room, away from the bustling women. Nikita struggled to lift her head, but it was no use. The man who claimed to be her husband remained just outside her field of view.
With a violent start, Nikita sat up in bed. Her heart was pounding as she attempted to slow her breathing. Shakily, she ran the back of her hand across her damp forehead. That does it, she thought. I must speak to Papa this instant.
She swung her feet off the bed and reached for her dressing gown. Papa would probably be reading the morning paper in the library or maybe out on the terrace. Without decisive action, Nikita feared the dream could very well become reality.
London – Friday evening
Michel Samuelle stepped off the train at Victoria Station. From here it was a short walk to the Hare and Hounds, a pub where he was to meet his life-long best friend, René.
The great melting pot – that was London. People from every corner of her vast empire crowded into the capital, some looking for adventure or romance; others hoping to leave their mark in the world of business or trade.
Ever observant, Michel enjoyed studying the throngs as he walked along. He took an almost scientific approach, noting one person's walk and another person's mannerisms. His trained ear picked out various languages and dialects.
Long blonde hair. An image pushed its way, unbidden, into his thoughts. He saw many attractive ladies in the streets, but not one was as stunning as his mystery woman. He was at a loss to explain why her image was so imprinted in his brain. He did not know who the young woman on the train was, nor did he ever expect to see her again.
Still, it would be pleasant to make her acquaintance, he mused.
Turning a corner, Michel saw the Hare and Hounds ahead on the left. His mouth began to curve into a smile as he recognized his old friend approaching from the opposite end of the street.
"Right on time, eh Michel?!"
"René! Is it really you?" The two friends shook hands and embraced warmly. Eyeing René's sober, dark suit, Michel said, "Have you come from work or a funeral?"
René laughed. "Work, of course. Uncle Bertrand recommended me for a position at the Great Trafalgar Bank. Once I get some experience, I can apply to the fraud division at Scotland Yard. What I really want to do is detective work."
"Aha! You always were a snoop so that would be the perfect job for you!" laughed Michel as he slapped René on the back.
"And what is this, mon ami?" René asked, indicating Michel's face.
Michel rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps I will grow a beard."
"Do you think the ladies of London will like that?"
Michel continued rubbing his chin, a devilish gleam in his eyes. "Let's go inside. I'm rather thirsty!"
They jostled their way into the crowded and noisy pub and found themselves at a table near the back. Soon shepherd's pie and pints of ale were set before them.
They talked and laughed easily, the years seeming to melt away. It was almost as if they were back at Véronique's, their favorite café in Marseilles. More than two hours later they were back outside the pub.
"I must return to the office to finish some paperwork. Here are the keys to the flat. Make yourself at home," said René.
"Merci. We will talk more tomorrow."
"Oh, you might find a bottle of good French wine on the shelf over the stove."
"I would expect nothing less," laughed Michel.
After an hour of pouting, whining, and even a few tears, as Carla had suggested, Nikita left the library with a lighter heart. Her father had agreed not to push the marriage issue with Mick!
"You know I only wanted what's best for you, Nikita." Reginald Jones-Wirth paced back and forth in front of the long windows that looked out on the front lawn. "It's times like these that I miss your dear mother the most, God rest her soul." Nikita's mother had died when she was five years old and Aunt Adrian had been her main female role model.
"I thought it would be good to see you settled in life. But you're right – what's the rush? In another year or so you may see things in a different light."
"Oh, thank you, Papa! You don't know how happy this makes me because I really want to finish my studies at Sanibelle. I've made lots of friends there."
As Nikita went up the stairs, a smile on her face, she suddenly stopped on the landing. In that strange way that so often happens, she remembered something odd about her dream. The man who claimed to be her husband was not speaking English – he spoke French. French with a very soft, seductive accent.
Well, it wasn't Mick after all, she decided. I'm sure the only French words he knows are Moulin Rouge and champagne!