Danielle Steel: Passion's Promise

Edward always cared. He cared too much-for Liane, who had been too perfect to be touched (or so he had thought) and for her child. Edward had always wondered if it excited her to have someone so far from her own class, or maybe it was just that the man was young, or maybe because he was French.

At least he could protect Kezia from that kind of madness, and he had long ago promised himself that he would. She was his duty now, his responsibility, and he was going to see to it that she lived up to every ounce of her breeding. He had sworn to himself that there would be no disasters in Kezia’s life, no blackmailing, boy-faced French tutors. With Kezia it would be different. She would live up to her noble ancestry on her mother’s side and to the powerful people on her father’s side. Edward felt he owed that much to Keenan and Liane. And to Kezia, as well. And he knew what it would take. How he would have to inculcate her with a sense of duty, a sense of the mantle of tradition she wore. As she grew up, Kezia had jokingly referred to it as her hair shirt, but she understood. Edward always saw to it that she did. That was the one thing he could give her objectively, he thought: a sense of who and what she was. She was Kezia Saint Martin. The Honorable Kezia Holmes-Aubrey Saint Martin, offspring of British nobility and American aristocracy, with a father who had used millions to make millions, in steel, copper, rubber, petroleum, and oil. When there was big money to be made on unthinkable scales, Keenan Saint Martin was there. It had made him an international legend, and a kind of American prince. His was the legend Kezia had inherited with the fortune. Of course, by some standards Keenan had had to get his hands a little bit dirty, but not very. He was always so spectacular, and such a gentleman, the kind of man whom people forgave anything, even the fact that he made much of his own money.

Liane, on the other hand, was Kezia’s threat, her terror … her reminder that if she crossed the invisible boundaries into forbidden lands, she, like her mother, would die. Edward wanted her to be more like her father. It was so much less painful for him that way. But so often … too often … she was the image of Liane, only stronger, and better, smarter, and so much more beautiful even than Liane.

Kezia was born of extraordinary people. She was the last surviving link in a long chain of almost mythical beauty and grace. And it was up to Edward now to see that the chain was not broken. Liane had threatened it. But the chain was still safe, and Edward, like all lonely people who never quite dare, who are never quite beautiful, who are never quite strong-was impressed by it. His own modestly elegant family in Philadelphia was so much less impressive than these magical people to whom he had given his soul. He was their guardian now. The keeper of the Holy Grail: Kezia. The treasure. His treasure. Which was why he had been so glad when her plan to work at the Times had failed so dismally. Everything would be peaceful again. For a while. She was his to protect, and he was hers to command. She did not yet command him, but he feared that one day she would. Just as her parents had. He had been trusted and commanded, never loved.

In the case of the Times , he had not had to command. She had quit. She had gone back to school for a while, fled to Europe for the summer, but in the fall, everything had changed again. Mostly Kezia. For Edward it had been almost terrifying.

She had returned to New York with something crisper about her manner, something more womanly. This time she didn’t consult Edward, even after the fact, and she didn’t make claims to being grown-up. At twenty-two she had sold the co-op on Park Avenue where she had lived with Mrs. Townsend-Totie-for thirteen very comfortable years, and rented two smaller apartments, one for herself, and the other for Totie, who was gently but firmly put out to pasture, despite Edward’s protests and Totie’s tears. Then she had gone about solving the problem of a job as resolutely as she had the matter of the apartment. The solution she chose was astonishingly ingenious.

She had announced the news to Edward over dinner in her new apartment, while serving him a very pleasant Pouilly Fumé ’54 to soften the blow.

Kezia had acquired a literary agent, and stunned Edward by announcing that she had already published three articles that summer, which she had sent in from Europe. And the amazing thing was that he had read them all, and rather liked them. He remembered them-a political piece she had written in Italy, a haunting article about a nomadic tribe she had come across in the Middle East, and a very funny spoof on the Polo Club in Paris. All three had appeared in national publications under the name of K. S. Miller. It was the last article that had set off the next chain of events.

They had opened another bottle of wine, and Kezia had suddenly begun to look mischievous, as she tried to extort a promise from him. Suddenly, he had that sinking sensation in his stomach again. There was more, he could tell. He got that feeling every time she got that look in her eyes. The look that reminded him so acutely of her father. The look that said the plans had been made, the decisions taken, and there wasn’t a hell of a lot you could do about it. Now what?

She had pulled out a copy of the morning’s paper, and folded it to a page in the second section. He couldn’t imagine what he might have missed. He read the paper thoroughly every morning. But she was pointing to the society column by Martin Hallam, and that morning he hadn’t bothered to read it.

It was a strange column, actually, and had begun appearing only a month before. It was a well-informed, slightly cynical, and highly astute account of Jet Set doings in their private haunts. No one had any idea who Martin Hallam was, and everyone was still trying to guess who the traitor might be. Whoever he was, he wrote without malice-but certainly with a great deal of inside information. And now Kezia was pointing to something at the top of the column.

He read it through, but found no mention of Kezia.

“So?”

“So, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. Martin Hallam.” She was laughing openly, and Edward felt faintly foolish. And then she stuck out a hand to shake his, with a gurgle of laughter and those familiar amethyst lights in her eyes. “Hello, Edward. I’m Martin. How do you do?”

“What? Kezia, you’re joking!”

“I’m not. And no one will ever know. Even the editor doesn’t know who writes it. Everything goes through my literary agent, and he’s extremely discreet. I had to give them a month of sample columns to show that I knew what I was talking about, but word came back to us today. The column will now run as a regular feature three times a week. Isn’t it divine?”

“Divine? It’s ungodly. Kezia, how could you?”

“Why not? I don’t say anything I could get sued for, and I don’t let out any secrets that will destroy anyone’s life. I just keep everyone … well, ‘informed,’ shall we say … and amused.”

And that was Kezia. The Honorable Kezia Saint Martin, K. S. Miller, and Martin Hallam. And now she was home after another summer away. Seven summers had passed since her career began. She was successful now, and it only added to her charm. To Edward, it gave her a mysterious sparkle, an almost unbearable allure. Who but Kezia could pull it off? And for such a long time. Edward and her agent were the only two people she had entrusted with the secret that the Honorable Kezia Saint Martin had another life, other than the one so lavishly depicted in WWD, Town and Country , and occasionally in the “People” column of Time.

Edward looked at his watch again. He could call her now. It was just past ten o’clock. He reached for the phone. This was one number he always dialed himself. It rang twice, and she answered. The voice was husky, the way she always sounded in the morning. The way he liked best. There was something very private about that voice. He often wondered what she wore to bed, and then reprimanded himself for the thought.