“I hate to tell you this,” I said, “but my French is not nearly good enough for a dinner party.”
“A fine time to say so!” he responded in mock dismay. “We’re ruined.”
“Honorine can surely translate for us if necessary,” I said hopefully.
But when we entered the salon, Honorine was nowhere to be found. A group of total strangers were milling about, cocktail glasses in hand, speaking French in low, melodious voices. As we arrived, they switched seamlessly to English, which I thought was considerate, yet typically French.
The first thing that struck me about this room was the way it was softly scented with lemon blossoms, from little plants with their shiny green leaves, installed in pale peach china pots that nicely contrasted with the dark panelled walls. A large fireplace—flanked by iron tongs and pokers with handles shaped like angels and ogres, and a fire screen with embroidered dragons, knights and other medieval images—was occupied by an urn-shaped basket filled with sprays of long-stemmed fresh flowers. The multiple windows looked out on the same view of the lawn and avenue in front, but heavy velvet curtains were partly drawn, a signal of the evening hour.
A fine, upright-looking man who appeared to be in his early thirties stepped forward and said, in perfect English with a polite French accent, “You must be Penny and Jeremy. I am David.”
This was Honorine’s older brother, whom she’d described as colluding against her with her mother. He was slender, dark- haired, pale-skinned and dark-eyed, just like Honorine. He had a graceful way of moving, as if his gestures were timed to music; but he also had an animated, slightly high-strung quality. As he handed each of us a glass of champagne, he introduced us to the other dinner guests.
There was a stout mayor and his wife; a muscular-looking retired general and his petite wife; a couple in their thirties who both taught at university and had grown up with David; and an elderly doctor and his white-haired wife. There was also a slim, pamperedlooking, curly-haired man in his early twenties, conspicuous for being the youngest person in the party. This was Charles, a law graduate, and he was accompanied by his doting mother and his tall, broad-shouldered father. As soon as I heard the name Charles, I realized that this must be the fellow that Honorine was supposed to marry. Someone mentioned the Vespa he’d received as a graduation gift, so he was the rider I’d noticed earlier.
David’s wife was the very proper Auguste, a woman with mildly blonde hair pulled into a chignon at the back of her head, and she was dressed in varying shades of beige. They had three children who’d been romping about on the side lawn, until they were summoned to come inside and bow and curtsy to us, before being sent to have their dinner in the first-floor tower room, which was the children’s dining salon. The adults serenely continued chatting, and I learned that David was in charge of the family perfume business. I could tell, from the way that everyone listened attentively to him, that he was highly respected among their friends and neighbors.
The guests had now seated themselves on various upholstered chairs, which left the swooping grey silk sofa available for Jeremy and me to sit on. David remained standing by the enormous fireplace. I stole a look at the women, who wore finely cut dresses of silk or linen, in soft, pale colors of the season, and delicate jewelry remarkable for its subtlety. The men wore dark suits that draped very naturally and made everyone looked polished yet relaxed. Only the older gentlemen wore ties.
Gradually the guests began to ask us polite, tentative questions, whose answers they received with sincere and gentle interest. How did we like life on the Côte d’Azur? Did we prefer winter in London? How did my parents feel about me living abroad, so far away from them? It soon became clear that they were all assembled here in our honor, and, like Honorine, they were curious about the “American heiress and her Englishman” whom they’d heard so much about. The funny thing is that they were just as exotic to me as I was to them; and, as far as I was concerned, the real celebrity of the evening was the matriarch of this attractive family—my dad’s cousin, the ambitious Tante Leonora, who now made a grand entrance as hostess, accompanied by her very dignified husband, Philippe.
“Welcome, chère Penn-ee!” she cried in delight, in a high, rather theatrical, feminine voice. “And this must be Zheremy.” I very nearly giggled, for she pronounced our names exactly as my father did.
Tante Leonora was a tall, impeccable, dark- haired woman in her mid-fifties. She appeared as alert as a hawk; and in fact, she had a way of sweeping about in her black taffeta dress that was very much like a great-winged bird. She wore a necklace and earrings of gold and onyx. With her pale, flawless skin and oval face, dark eyes, high forehead and high cheekbones, she was attractive in a “handsome” way, like a particularly formidable goddess.
Leonora kissed me on both cheeks, then moved in a gust of soft scent to do the same with Jeremy. She seemed delighted that we’d cared enough to come and grace her home, and I found myself wanting to do my part to make the evening a great success. She immediately inquired about my parents, asking of their health, saying how proud they must be of me.
“What happy summers your father and I had as children!” Leonora proclaimed warmly, with a fond smile. For the first time I felt that we truly could be related, and I experienced an unexpected pang of regret that I had not grown up with the kind of old-fashioned, traditional exposure to an aunt like this, who’d give you sweets at Easter, and whom you must respectfully visit at Christmastime.
The conversation continued along pleasant topics of travel and weather, yet Tante Leonora was such a compelling presence that I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Certain people have a way of glimmering with energy and sparkle from the moment they enter a room, so that the very vibe of the assembled group changes in an exciting manner, as if we were all satellites that rotated around her strong, magnetic pull. She seated herself like a great diva, regal and in perfect control, her expression serene and confident of an enjoyable occasion.
Her husband, Philippe, who appeared at least ten years older than she, was silver-haired and straight-backed, spry and spiffy in his velvet olive-green jacket. Secure in his own exalted position, he was content to let his wife shimmer in the spotlight while he watched with appreciation of her gifts.
Only once did I catch a little crease of displeasure in Leonora’s brow, and that was when she glanced around the room, and saw that her daughter was still AWOL. Then she turned to David and asked, quite sharply, “Où est Honorine?”
At the mention of his sister, David shook his head and said resignedly, “Qui sait?”
Very soon, a serving woman in a black dress, black stockings and white apron entered and murmured to Tante Leonora that dinner was served. Tante Leonora rose, and instructed us to adjourn to the dining salon. Oncle Philippe graciously offered me his arm to lead me to table, and something in his gesture made me feel especially honored as I followed him. Tante Leonora selected Jeremy to escort her, and, two by two, we all went to dinner, by way of a long corridor that led to the back of the estate. We passed several tall pedestals bearing sculpted busts of France’s great kings and thinkers . . . and I had the oddest feeling that they, too, were watching us expectantly.
Chapter Six
“Alors,”said Oncle Philippe as we entered the formal dining salon, which was a long room with dusky plum and silver baize papering on the walls, very old- fashioned, and two beautiful chandeliers above a long, candlelit table laid with snowy cloth, shining silverware and crystal. But it was the exhilarating scent of the fresh pink and blue flower arrangements that gave the room a heightened atmosphere of celebration.
Oncle Philippe and Tante Leonora sat across from each other, but not at the far ends of the table. Instead, they were seated right in the center, facing each other. My father used to argue with my mother about this, telling her it was the only civilized way for a host and hostess to preside over dinner. My mother, of course, subscribed to the Anglo- American habit of placing the hosts at hollering distan
ce, on opposite far ends.
I was seated to Oncle Philippe’s right, and Jeremy was seated to Leonora’s right, so that Jeremy and I were not directly across from each other. Still, this put us much closer than the other couples were to their mates. Leonora must have read my thoughts, for she said laughingly, “You see, you and Jeremy have been spared—you sit closer, because you are not yet married, and are still in the lovebirds stage.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts!” cried the retired general, who had a very stiff-necked, military way of holding his head. “While you still adore the sound of each other’s voice.” He patted Jeremy on the shoulder as he passed his chair, en route to his own seat.
“And you?” said the stout mayor to the general. “Is your wife’s voice not music to your ears?”
“But of course!” replied the general, clapping his hands over both ears as if to shut out the sound. “All the more so, as I grow older and harder of hearing!” This was all done in a jocular way, but the general’s petite wife shook her head in resigned tolerance of these dumb I-love-my-wife-but jokes.
The mayor’s wife, who was thin and soft-voiced, retorted, “Yes, a deaf husband is a blessing, but a blind one is even better, so he cannot see the young girls and embarrass them with his flirting!” She nodded toward me, as if to reprimand the general for teasing a woman young enough to be his daughter.
It was good- natured banter, but I suddenly experienced one of those strange involuntary “irks” I’d been having lately, whenever somebody disparaged marriage. In the past, such jokes struck me as silly, but I had supposed it was just a way of letting off steam, although I never found them particularly funny, and I noticed that most wives didn’t, either. Now, however, with these remarks deliberately made for my benefit as a bride, or, even worse, as a warning to Jeremy, the groom, I found myself less inclined to laugh them off. It provoked an image in my mind, of Jeremy and me, years from now, behaving just like these couples, exchanging jokey insults, and feigning a desire to escape each other’s company. Yuckyuck, hoo-hoo. I didn’t think it was so damned funny.
While I silently pondered this, Jeremy deliberately caught my eye and gave me such a smile of comprehension and reassurance that I instantly felt better. Plus, the arrival of the food also helped alter my mood—starting with the appearance of an appetizer of the tiniest, most tender artichokes of the season in a light butter sauce, sprinkled with delicate fresh goat cheese in herbs, accompanied by a lovely white wine the color of pale gold. Glancing around the table, I admired the way everything in the room—flowers, bowls of fruits on the sideboard, plates of perfectly proportioned good food, and the ladies’ dresses—all served to remind us to rejoice in the return of the sun.
Oncle Philippe conversed with me in a quiet, charming voice, like an aristocratic country squire who was perfectly content to while away his retirement in the country; but I soon learned that he was the hardworking steward of a family business that originated centuries ago with gantiers parfumeurs.
“What’s that?” I asked, fascinated.
“Glove-makers,” Oncle Philippe said, raising his hands to mime putting on a pair.
“But I thought your business was perfume,” I said.
“Ah, well, let me explain. You see, in the Middle Ages, the town of Grasse was a center for tanning sheepskins from herds in the mountains of Provence,” he told me. “They used herbs to treat the leather. So, later, when Catherine de’ Medici arrived from Italy to become France’s queen, she asked the tanners of Grasse to make fine perfumed gloves, which were all the fashion. So the tanners became gantiers parfumeurs. In the process, they also became highly skilled makers of scent, using the especially fine flowers and herbs from this region.”
“And so, perfumed gloves from Grasse became a status symbol for the whole world’s royalty, nobility and wealthy merchants,” Tante Leonora interjected proudly.
The other guests appeared familiar with this story, and now the elderly doctor chimed in, offering, “They say it was also Catherine de’ Medici who first taught the French to eat with a knife and fork.” He held up his fork to make the point. Glancing over at Jeremy, his eyes twinkled as he added, “Of course the English took a bit longer to learn. One still hears that they haven’t quite got it right, what with scooping up their peas on the knife.”
He beamed at their resident Englishman; and Jeremy took the joke with good grace. The doctor’s white- haired wife reached out and patted Jeremy’s hand soothingly, as if to assure him that the insult wasn’t serious, and she did so in a highly feminine way, indicating that she enjoyed the excuse to touch a handsome younger man. There was something fascinating about an elderly woman still being sexy, and we all enjoyed it, for it was inoffensive even to me, Jeremy’s partner.
“After the French Revolution, when symbols of royalty, like powdered wigs and perfumed gloves, went out of style, the gantiers parfumeurs focused simply on being parfumeurs,” Oncle Philippe said. “En fin, they created the famous perfumeries of Grasse.”
He proudly added that his company still retained their own flower fields in Grasse. This, I realized, explained the wonderful preponderance of blossoms in the château, and the sophisticated toiletries in our room.
When the conversation had begun, I’d noticed that there was an empty seat beside me. Now, as Oncle Philippe was finishing the story of Grasse, Honorine slipped into this seat, almost unnoticed, as if the family was so horrified by her breach of etiquette that they simply chose to ignore it. She kept her eyes focused on her plate, clearly trying to avoid the gaze of Charles, who sat directly across the table from her. Charles appeared to be an intelligent, genial kid, but one who was indulged and petted by his parents; particularly his mother, a tall, attractive woman with light brown hair, who seemed aware of his every move. The broad-shouldered father seldom spoke, but he and his wife listened with watchful expressions; and more than once I saw them exchange glances whose meaning was clear only to them. The fact that they, too, ignored Honorine’s entrance made it all the more significant.
Evidently Honorine had been dodging Charles as long as she could, which accounted for her absence during cocktails. She’d missed the appetizer, but now, as the plates were cleared, and a chicken consommé topped with tiny, precisely cut vegetables was served, she turned to me and, under cover of the distraction of food, whispered that her mom had roundly scolded her for intruding on us in London.
“I hope you can find a moment to speak to my parents on my behalf,” Honorine whispered. “Could you perhaps tell them that it wasn’t so horrible to put me up for a few nights?”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll tell them we made you wash the dishes.” Honorine giggled conspiratorially, but we both caught the flicker of disapproval in Tante Leonora’s face, and this caused Honorine to flush angrily, and jut her chin out a bit defiantly.
Uh-oh, I thought to myself, wondering what dreadful mother-daughter tangle I might have inadvertently allowed myself to become ensnared in. Charles’ mother was watching, too, I noted.
“Penny, I do see a great deal of your father in you!” Leonora said, now gazing at me intently. “Perhaps not only in looks, but in temperament, too?”
She turned to the others and said, “My cousin Georges was a restless man, très indépendant, who simply had to go away and see the world. New York captivated him, and would not give him back. Then, he moved again, to Connecticut!” Her tone was bewildered, and ever so slightly resentful. “Now, his daughter also feels compelled to leave home, but her travels have brought her back to France, to make up for our loss of Georges.”
Geez, I thought, she’s making it sound as if my dad was dead—perish the thought—or, that he was one of those ancient explorers who ignored all warnings, sailed away to the edge of the map and fell off. I recalled my father saying that his relatives were so averse to change that “you cannot move a stick of furniture in a room without coming to grief”.
“Americans are always moving from one house to another!�
� observed the professor. There was a murmur of amazement, as if they were all baffled by the size and scale of America, and of the prospect of voluntarily uprooting oneself from one state to the other. In their milieu, I realized, one relied on the family home for centuries.
But this little ripple on the calm surface of the conversation was soon smoothed away by the arrival of the next course—Alpine lamb accompanied by Provençal red wine. The excellent repast soon created a more relaxed, convivial mood where the talk became even more spirited, increasing a bit in volume. It was as if the food, wine, and conversation was lifting us all together, and we’d embarked on an old- fashioned balloon ride, with everyone doing their part to keep the balloon afloat. Even when discussing potentially prickly topics like art and politics and science, I noticed that Tante Leonora was particularly skilled at keeping the talk artfully lighthearted, yet never lightweight.
After a dessert of a small, wonderful airy chocolate soufflé, we took our coffee and liqueurs in the salon. Then, Tante Leonora announced, “And now, we go to the gallery, where we have a little surprise for Penny and Jeremy.”
Mystified, we followed her out to the entrance hall, quietly, in a very solemn procession. Leonora pointed upward, to something I hadn’t really noticed earlier in this high-ceilinged hall: opposite the main stairs and the second-level landing, right above the front door, was a graceful walkway, like a narrow balcony with a wrought-iron railing, that spanned the entire width of the hall. Two long, splendid windows were centered here, above the door and walkway.
While we stood there, Tante Leonora touched a light switch, which illuminated the area between the windows. Now I saw that a baroque tapestry was hanging as an entrefenêtre in the considerable space there. I gazed upward at the tapestry, which looked to be about nine feet high, and five feet wide. It seemed to bear the image of a man and woman asleep in bed, surrounded by other fanciful designs.
A Rather Charming Invitation Page 5