Jilly Cooper - Score!

When Laurent died, all his things were sent back. Love-letters from Delphine, plans for naming the baby Tristan, if it was a boy, plans they would run away together the moment he came out of the army, how Laurent wanted tobe there when Delphine broke the news to Étienne because he knew what a temper his father had.

The extraordinary thing is that Don Carlos must be in your genes, because Étienne’s humiliation and heartbreak must have been so like Philip’s. You can now understand his animosity and harshness towards you. How would Philip have reacted, if he’d been left to bring up Elisabetta’s and Carlos’s orphaned son?

All the letters and photos are here for you and, perhapsmost important, a self-portrait painted by Étienne the year you were born, just after he found out about Laurent being your father. I think it must be the saddest, most beautiful and humane painting he ever did. Hortense said he wanted you to have it after his death, so perhaps you could understand and forgive him.

The words swam before Tristan’s eyes. The whole thing was too enormous for him to take in. His hands were trembling so much and he was so weak, it was a struggle to open the envelope. Letters and photos cascaded all over the bed. There was Delphine, Christ, she was sweet — not at all like the tawdry temptress of The Snake Charmer , and so pretty, despite the ghastly high-heeled boots, square fringe and pastel lipstick of the sixties. There was Laurent, so dashing in his uniform, the ideal Monsieur Droit, and the letters so passionate they burnt the page.

Tristan felt rage welling inside him, as he examined the little pencil drawing of himself as a newborn baby. There was pride in every centimetre. ‘Tristan Laurent Blaize, a beautiful boy. One hour old,’ Étienne had written on the back.

The self-portrait was in bubble wrap. It was small, fifteen inches by twelve, but an undoubted masterpiece. The tears glittered like Rutshire streams as they flowed down Étienne’s wrinkles; all the hurt pride and pain was contained in the narrow eyes and the clenched mouth.

‘Papa, Papa,’ cried Tristan.

Étienne was still his father, and at last he understood everything. What an absolute shit Laurent must have been. If only he could ring Étienne beyond the grave to tell him how much he loved him.

He lay for a long time listening to the wood pigeons cooing and the distant rumble of traffic. But only when he glanced up at the red plastic bag of blood dripping strength and vitality back into his body, did he realize the full implications. He was a Montigny, of the blood, if on the wrong side of the blanket. He was nothing to do with Maxim. He could marry and have children with whom he chose.

Giddy with happiness, he glanced at the bottom of Lucy’s letter. ‘With all my love’, she had written.

There was a knock at the door. Ignoring the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign, Wolfie walked in. He was grey with fatigue, but it would have been impossible to find anyone looking happier.

‘How’s Tab?’ asked Tristan.

‘Seriously wonderful,’ sighed Wolfie. ‘Oh, Tristan, I am so lucky.’ Then, with typical lack of ego, ‘But how are you feeling? I hear you saved Lucy’s life.’

‘You and Lucy give me back mine,’ said Tristan, pointing to the letters and photographs strewn over the bed.

Wolfie picked up Étienne’s self-portrait. Taking it to the window he whistled. ‘I didn’t see that. Christ, it’s powerful — Christ-like in a way, carrying that weight of suffering in one face.’

‘I can’t take it in. Tell me what happened.’

‘Lucy did it. She put up with a hell of a lot of stick from Aunt Hortense and eventually won her over. We were summoned back as we were leaving and allowed to go into Laurent’s room — which reminds me, I must find out what’s happened to Papa’s Gulf.’

‘Lucy did all that for me?’ said Tristan, in bewilderment.

‘She wanted you to find happiness.’

‘And I fire her because I was furious she let me down, and I back off even last night, because I didn’t think… I must find her.’ Reaching up, he kept his finger on the bell.

‘Where is Lucy Latimer?’ he demanded, as a fleet of alarmed nurses rushed in.

When he discovered Lucy had been discharged several hours ago, he went berserk, panic-stricken she was dead. He’d forgotten to salute that single magpie that flew past the window just now; he was being punished for pretending to be in love with Rozzy. He was about to pull out all the drips, and leap out of bed, when Gablecross and Rupert came running in.

‘Where the fuck’s Lucy?’ he snarled.

‘You must persuade him to stay,’ said a worried sister. ‘He’s running a high temperature and he’s lost so much blood.’

‘Lucy wanted out, Tristan.’ Gablecross sat down on the bed. ‘She had a terrifying ordeal. And if the press or defence get hold of her the whole case could collapse. We’ve found her a safe-house.’

‘How can she be safe without me?’

‘Very easily,’ drawled Rupert.

‘Shut up,’ snapped Gablecross. ‘She’ll be quite OK,’ he added, prising himself out of the stranglehold of Tristan’s good arm. ‘But she was insistent that no-one should be given the forwarding address.’

‘For how long?’ whispered Tristan in horror.

‘Nine months, perhaps a year.’

Tristan slumped back in bed, the picture of desolation.

‘This is crazy, I need to thank her. I need her.’

‘Best thanks you can give her at the moment’, said Rupert, who was reading about his heroic exploits in the Daily Express , ‘is to leave her alone.’

‘But I am in a different position now. I thought I was Maxim’s bastard child without any money, a maimed being who could not have children.’

‘You’ve hardly got a good track record.’ Rupert turned to page three, smirking over the headline: ‘Rupert’s Kiss of Life Saves Lucy.’

‘But she must feel something for me to have gone to France.’

‘She was freeing you for Tab,’ said Rupert bluntly. ‘She didn’t know anything about Claudine Lauzerte. That knocked her for six. If I were you, pretty boy, I’d get on with what you’re good at, editing our film.’

At that moment an excited nurse popped her head round the door. ‘I know you’re not taking any calls, Tristan, but it’s Claudine Lauzerte on the line.’

‘We’ll leave you to her,’ said Rupert, and sauntered out.

In the corridor, he turned to Gablecross. ‘Let the young puppy sweat. Let him find out he’s really missing her.’

Rupert was extremely happy. Peppy Koala was favourite for the St Leger. He was convinced he had masterminded Lucy’s rescue and produced what was going to be an incredibly successful film. Outside the window, a sea of press and television cameras filled the car park right up to the door.

He was delighted that Xavier had taken a terrific shine to Karen. This afternoon they were going off with Bianca to choose a puppy for Taggie’s birthday.

Rupert was also enchanted with his future son-in-law. All that was needed was to organize a quickie divorce for Tab. Helen didn’t seem wildly keen on the idea, she’d always felt Wolfie was her admirer and that it was all too close to home. Tab’s grandfather, Eddie, wasn’t wild about it either.

‘How can you marry a Kraut, darling? I spent half the war fighting them in the Middle East.’

The only cloud on the horizon for Rupert was that Bluey, his first jockey, had yesterday announced that he was going to live in America, having conveniently fallen in love with a trainer’s daughter. But as one door closes…

When Isa Lovell had walked unannounced into his office at Penscombe that morning, Rupert had reached for his gun, which was back in his desk drawer. But to his amazement, Isa held out his hand.