Danielle Steel - A Good Woman

“He filed for divorce, because I refused to. He thought he was doing the right thing for me. And in New York, the only grounds he could do it under were adultery. So he divorced me for adultery. Someone sold the story to the newspapers, and I became a pariah overnight. No one would speak to me, not even my best friend. If I had stayed, I would have been shunned by everyone I had ever known in New York. I was an outcast and a disgrace. So I left and came to France. I felt I had no other choice. And I went to work at the Abbaye de Royaumont. That’s how I wound up there.”

“And then you married again?” Antoine was looking stunned. The only reaction on his face that she could read was astonishment.

She shook her head. “No, I didn’t marry again. I never got involved with another man. I was too shell-shocked by everything that had happened in New York. I just worked, day and night. I never looked at another man.”

“And Consuelo was a virgin birth?” he asked, looking confused.

“More or less,” she admitted, took a deep breath and said the rest. “I was raped one night at Villers-Cotterêts. By a drunken British officer, who turned out to be from a decent family, though he was a very, very black sheep. I only saw him for those few minutes, and never again. He was killed shortly afterward. I found out I was pregnant. I worked until I was almost seven months pregnant, by binding myself.” They were painful details too, and hard to admit to him. But she had no other choice. Once he knew all of it, she would never have secrets from him again. And this was all there was. “I was never married to him. I didn’t even know him. All I knew was his name. And he left me with Consuelo. I never contacted his family until this year. His mother came over to see us, and she was very kind. She was very sweet to both of us. Apparently he had done things like it before. She wasn’t surprised.” She turned to look at Antoine then, her face awash with tears. “So I was married, but not to him. Technically, Consuelo is illegitimate. I gave her my name. And I’m not a widow. I’m a divorcée, from a marriage to another man. That’s it,” she said, finally relieved.

“That’s all?” he said, looking tense. “You haven’t done time in prison or killed a man?” She smiled at the question and shook her head.

“No.” She looked lovingly at him and wiped her eyes. It had been hard to tell him but she was glad she had. She wanted to be completely honest with him. And as she looked at him, he sprang to his feet and began to pace. He looked upset and as though he were in shock. And even Annabelle had to admit that the story was shocking.

“Let me get this straight. You were married to a man with syphilis, but you claim you never slept with him.”

“That’s right,” she confirmed in a small voice, worried about the tone of his.

“He divorced you for adultery, which you claim you never committed, although he never slept with you. You became an outcast in New York society, for the adultery you did not commit, but he divorced you for, because you refused to divorce him, although he cheated on you with a man. So you ran away after the divorce. And once here, you became pregnant out of wedlock, by a man you claim raped you. You never married him. You never saw him again. You gave birth to his bastard, while pretending to be a widow, instead of a divorcée, cast off by her husband for sleeping with another man. And then you brought your bastard to my parents’ house to let her play with my nephews and nieces, while pretending to be a widow to my parents and me, which is also a lie. For God’s sake, Annabelle, has anything you’ve said since the beginning been the truth? And on top of it, you claim that other than the convenient rape, which led to your bastard, you’re nearly a virgin now. How big a fool do you think I am?” His eyes were blazing at her, and his words were stabbing her in the heart. She had never in her life seen anyone so upset, but so was she. She started crying again as she huddled miserably on the bench, and he paced more and more furiously. She didn’t even dare reach out to touch him-he looked as though he might have hit her. What he had said to her was unforgivable.

“You’ll have to admit,” he said icily, “it’s all a little hard to believe. Your saintly innocence in all of it, your lack of responsibility, when in fact I suspect you cheated on your husband, probably have syphilis, and thank God I haven’t slept with you. I wonder when you were planning to let that little secret out. You were treated like the whore you obviously were in New York, and then you have a bastard child with someone you’ve claimed is British nobility, and who gives a damn for God’s sake? You’ve behaved like a trollop from beginning to end. And spare me the story of your virginity,” he raged on. “Given the risk of syphilis, I don’t plan to put it to the test.” If he had beaten her with his fists, he couldn’t have caused her more pain. She stood up to face him then, trembling from head to foot. He had just proven everything she had feared most, that she was branded forever with other people’s sins and no one would ever accept her innocence, not even a man who claimed to love her, and didn’t believe her when she told him the truth.

“Everything I’ve just said to you is true,” she said miserably, “from beginning to end. And don’t ever call my daughter a bastard. It’s not her fault that I was raped, nor mine. I could have gotten an abortion, but I was too afraid, so I decided to have her anyway, and cover it as best I could, so people didn’t say about her what you just did. Syphilis may be contagious, but illegitimacy isn’t. You don’t need to worry about your nieces and nephews catching it from her. I can assure you there’s absolutely no risk.”

She was angry now, and hurt by the cruelty of his words.

“I can’t say the same about you!” He spat angrily at her again, his eyes like fire on ice. “How dare you think that you could trick me into marrying you by pretending to be a widow, and failing to mention all this to me. Everything from syphilis to adultery and bastard children. How could you present yourself to my family as something you’re not? And try to convince me now of all these outrageous lies. At least have the guts to admit what you are.” He was in a white rage. He felt as though she had stolen something from him, his faith, his trust, and the sanctity of his family. What she had told him was unthinkable, and he would never believe another word she said, and he certainly didn’t believe the way she was trying to clean it up now.

“And what is it that you think I am, Antoine? A whore? What happened to love and faith in me if you love me? I didn’t have to tell you any of this. You would probably never have found out. But I wanted to tell you the truth because I love you, and you have the right to know everything about me. The bad things that have happened to me were mostly done to me by others, and I’ve paid a high price. I was left by a husband I loved in a marriage that was a fraud, and was then shunned by the only world I knew as a result. I lost everyone I loved and came here alone at twenty-two. I got raped when I was still a virgin. And I had a baby I didn’t want, alone. How much worse does it have to get for you to be a human being and have a little compassion and faith in me?”

“You’re a loose woman, and a liar, Annabelle. It’s written all over you.”

“Then why didn’t you see it before?” she said, crying through her words. They were shouting at each other in the Bois de Boulogne, but there was no one else around.

“I didn’t see it before because you’re a damn good liar. The best I’ve ever known. You had me totally convinced. You’ve contaminated my family and violated everything I hold dear,” he said, looking pompous and sounding cruel. “I have nothing more to say to you,” he said, standing as far away from her as he could get. “I’m going home, and I’m not driving you. Maybe you can pick up a soldier or a sailor, and have a little fun on the way back. I wouldn’t get near you with the toe of my boot.” He turned away from her then and strode off, as she stood and stared at him and shook from head to foot, unable to believe what she’d just heard or what he’d done. A moment later, she heard his car drive off, and she walked slowly out of the Bois de Boulogne. She felt as though her world had ended, and she knew she would never trust anyone again. Not Hortie. Not Antoine. Not anyone she knew. From now on, her secrets were her own, and she and Consuelo didn’t need anyone. She was so devastated she was almost hit by a car when she finally reached the street.

She hailed a cab and gave the driver her address. She was frozen to the bone, and sat sobbing in the back seat. The kindly Russian who was driving her finally asked her if there was anything he could do to help. And all she did was shake her head. Antoine had just proven all her worst fears, that no one would ever believe her innocence, and she would be condemned forever for what everyone else had done. Whatever had been left of her heart was in a million pieces at her feet. He had just proven to her that there was no such thing as love, or forgiveness. And the idea that Consuelo could contaminate anyone’s family, or be accused of it, made her feel sick.

When they reached her house in the sixteenth arrondissement, the gentle old White Russian refused to take the fare from her. He just shook his head and put it back in her hand.

“Nothing can be as bad as that,” he said. He had had hard times of his own in recent years.

“Yes, it is,” she said, choking on a sob. And then she thanked him, and ran into the house.

Annabelle roamed her house like a ghost for the next three days. She canceled her appointments, didn’t go to her office, and told everyone she was sick. She was. She was heartsick over everything Antoine had said to her, and all that he had utterly destroyed. If he had stoned her in the street or spat on her, it wouldn’t have hurt as much. And in fact, he had done both. And worse. He had broken her heart.