An Improbable Pairing

by Gary Dickson

  Desirée quickly got involved with a group of friends, most of whom Scott hadn’t met. He whispered he was going to get them both another flute of champagne; she nodded absently, and he left her side to push through the crowd toward the bar. As he walked down the hall, he saw Celine at the other end.

  “Good evening, Scott,” she said. “Can I speak to you for a moment?” Leading him away from the crowd, they followed a short walkway to the breakfast room. She closed the door behind them.

  “Must be something serious,” Scott said.

  “Serious—and none of my business,” she replied gravely. “You can tell me so if you like, and I will drop the matter.”

  “Celine, I know you to be Desirée’s close friend. Please, tell me—what is it that you need to say to me?”

  “I don’t know you well, but I do know Desirée is madly in love with you. So, I want to like you, too, but I’m worried; I can’t be entirely sure of the sincerity of your motives.” Her voice was rising and falling with each nervous tremor.

  “Worried about what?”

  “Desirée would kill me if she knew I had spoken to you. I’m worried that she’s going to get hurt. You aren’t Catholic, and that could be a problem.”

  “My God, Celine, I would never hurt Desirée. Let’s face it; it’s more likely she will hurt me. I’m no threat to her; she’s quite capable of taking care of herself. Though she’d appreciate your concern, she really has no need of all the well-meaning assistance. And aren’t you jumping pretty far ahead to worry that I’m not Catholic?”

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “Forget it. You’re just being a good friend to the woman I adore. Let’s just start over.”

  Celine considered Scott for a long moment. “I think I just figured out why she loves you,” she said thoughtfully.

  He smiled at her. “I see why Desirée values your friendship—and I promise you, I will never hurt her. Now,” he said brusquely, “we should get back to the party, don’t you think?”

  As he rejoined Desirée and handed her the glass of sparkling liquid, she said, “There must have been a long line.”

  “No, it wasn’t that long,” he said, “but ladies first, you know.”

  SUNDAY MEANT MASS AND LUNCH AT ONE OF THE SMALL restaurants in a village two valleys away. Scott and Desirée returned to the chalet around three in the afternoon. The impending threat of separation—whether dreaded Monday or terrible Tuesday—crept into their psyches like a nagging toothache. Despite Scott’s recent resolve to embrace happiness with Desirée, that little voice continued to berate him about his studies and school responsibilities. Could he stay? In the face of pressure that he knew Desirée would put on him to stay, Scott reasoned that perhaps the time had come for a frank discussion of academic and financial issues.

  “Desirée, if I’m to continue my studies, I will need to get back to Geneva by at least noon tomorrow. That way, I will miss only one class in the morning. And I can come back on Friday,” Scott said.

  “Are we to be weekend lovers, then?” Desirée asked. “It seems I’m always taking you away from your school, always interfering with your studies. Perhaps one day you will hate me for interrupting your school to fall in love with me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. No one wants to stay more than I do.”

  “Look,” she said, “when this began, neither you nor I thought rationally. It just happened. Had we thought about it, considered all the ramifications, then—”

  “Why do you think I didn’t call you for several months? I thought about all the reasons why I wasn’t suitable, but from the first moment I saw you, I fell in love. You were the only one for me, and no amount of reasonable thought, no consideration of school or anything else, made a damn bit of difference. I resisted it, but in the end—”

  “So why are we arguing?” she said softly. “We will find a way to be together.”

  twenty-five

  LATER THAT EVENING, AS THEY LOUNGED ON THE SOFA in front of the fire, dreading Scott’s upcoming departure, Desirée said, “Why don’t we both go to Geneva? You can move whatever you need into the house and go to class from there. At least we will be together.”

  What could he say? Yes, this new living arrangement would allow them to spend more time together, but what Desirée was proposing wouldn’t help him get any studying done. At least he would appear in class, he reasoned (and he’d hope he didn’t get called on).

  “Also, darling—this next weekend is the Cresta Run Ball. We’ll need to leave early Thursday morning to drive to St. Moritz.”

  Scott’s sense of Swiss geography was still developing. “St. Moritz: isn’t that way over in the Graubünden canton?” She nodded. Scott took a deep breath before plunging into another difficult topic. “Desirée, something is bothering me. We need to discuss the finances of all this. I know talking about money can seem, well, unrefined but I’m sure you are aware I have a budget, albeit a nice one: an allowance from my parents, provided to support my academic studies. I have paid for a few dinners and lunches, but the big expenses—balls, dinners at the Palace, clothing, and champagne—you have graciously seen to these. Now, you propose a trip to St. Moritz, which doesn’t have the reputation of being a place where the needy hang out.”

  Desirée brushed her hair back and straightened herself on the sofa. “We’ve touched on this before, my dear, since that first dinner at Le Chesery. Yes, I have accounts at some of these nice places, and they send me a monthly bill. We both are aware that you, living on a student stipend, couldn’t possibly underwrite what we are enjoying.” There was a distinct silence for a time. Aware that the younger man was struggling with her greater wealth, Desirée gently said, “This is one of those rational and reasonable problems that we chose to ignore when we embarked on this relationship. Is my financial support a problem we can’t overcome?”

  “Of course not,” he said. “But I must find a solution to my means.”

  “I have one,” she said. Scott waited, expectantly. “It’s time to discuss pocket money.”

  “Pocket money?” A slight flush spread across his face.

  “Yes, an incidental sum that I will transfer the first of every month to your account. But we can still enjoy some of the benefits of my accounts at the hotels, restaurants, and stores, can’t we?”

  “But—” Desirée watched Scott’s face as he struggled with his masculine pride. He’d be trading his parents’ financial support for his lover’s. Was he strong enough to buck conventional roles?

  “No “buts”, Scott. This is the most practical solution. I have enough money, and we want to be together. As I asked before, can’t you learn to enjoy the things I can afford?” She looked at him expectantly, awaiting his response.

  Scott couldn’t argue with Desirée’s logic, but his pride was at stake, as inconvenient and tiresome as that conventional upbringing was. Damn it, he’d be a kept man. Would accepting an allowance undermine his manhood and, ultimately, diminish his virility—an important concern in their relationship, no doubt. Depending on his attitude and Desirée’s handling, Scott feared it was possible.

  According to plan, they arrived at Desirée’s house near Geneva in time for Scott to attend his afternoon classes. While he received some chastising looks from fellow students, his professors, however, said nothing (which, in its own way, was more worrisome than a direct rebuke). In the language of international relations, he had become a student without portfolio—not to be taken seriously.

  After class, he stopped by the apartment, checked his mail, and packed two suitcases in preparation for the trip to St. Moritz at the end of the week.

  IN THE FOLLOWING DAYS, LIFE WITH DESIRÉE SETTLED INTO a routine. Scott commuted to his classes at the university and dropped by the empty apartment to collect his mail. More letters arrived from his mother, each one more pressing, each demanding more information. He received an advisory from Credit Suisse, his bank, that 10,000 Swiss francs had been cr
edited to his account. He wasn’t shocked about the deposit; Desirée had asked for the account number so she could provide “something for incidentals,” as she put it. They hadn’t discussed the amount, but some incidentals! It was twice the amount he received monthly from his father. He had some ambivalent feelings about the money and its implications, his mind returning to the phrase pocket money.

  There was another letter of unrecognizable origin. Scott examined the envelope; the return address indicated a law firm in Geneva. Inside was a letter from a Monsieur Henri du Bois, attorney at law, requesting Scott’s presence at his office on Tuesday at eleven. There was a matter of some urgency and confidentiality, and the attorney admonished him to tell no one of the letter or their proposed meeting.

  Who and what was behind this, Scott wondered. Desirée? He thought not. His mother and father? Unlikely but not impossible. And why was an attorney involved? They couldn’t prosecute him for skipping school, could they?

  INSTEAD OF GOING TO CLASS, SCOTT MADE HIS WAY TO DU Bois’ office on Avenue General Guisan, a tony address in Geneva’s business center, where he was shown into a conference room and immediately joined by the attorney. Du Bois brusquely turned to the business at hand.

  “Mr. Stoddard, I know you were probably surprised by my letter, and I hope that you have honored my request to keep this meeting in strictest confidence. I’ll get right to the point. My role in this is to make you an offer, an offer that you shouldn’t refuse.”

  Scott had not expected this at all. Genuinely curious and thoroughly perplexed, he inquired, “An offer of what?”

  “My client has instructed me to offer you the sum of 300,000 Swiss francs to end your relationship with the Countess de Rovere. If you accept, then you will not communicate—”

  His reaction was immediate and forceful. “No, no, and no! I won’t do it,” Scott shouted, leaping to his feet.

  Despite the angry young man towering over him, the attorney remained unfazed. “But Mr. Stoddard, you should take your time to think this through. Your chance of a committed relationship with the countess is a decided long shot. Your studies are suffering. Eventually, she will tire of you. Think what this sum could do for your future.”

  “You don’t have enough money to buy me off. Tell your client to go to hell.”

  “There’s no need for anger. It’s only business.” Du Bois smiled in a ruthless manner. “You must know, however, that my client will not be pleased to hear of your refusal.”

  Scott snorted in disgust. “Not pleased? Your innuendo is highly unethical. Should I report you to the police or the Swiss Bar Association?”

  “And what would you report?”

  “That first, you attempted to bribe me and second, when that failed, made a threat.”

  “But I haven’t.” The attorney was thoroughly unruffled.

  “I can’t imagine that you or your client would like the publicity. It would be your word against mine. And you summoned me, remember?”

  “I’m not sure anyone would benefit from any publicity. “Tell me, young man, said Du Bois, poising his pen expectantly over the paper before him, “is there a larger sum you would consider?”

  Without responding, Scott walked out, slamming the office door. He decided that for the moment he would keep this from Desirée. He could imagine her rage if she were to find out. The count (for surely, Du Bois’ client could be none other than Stefano) must be stupid if he thought Scott could be bought. No, Scott was not the gold digger the count assumed him to be. And he’d be insane to imagine he could win Desirée back, with or without Scott in the picture.

  twenty-six

  ST. MORITZ WAS SOME FIVE TO SIX HOURS AWAY, SO Desirée and Scott got a decent hour start on Thursday. Even with Gustav behind the wheel, a long lunch at the Baur au Lac with one of Desirée’s friends, a middle-aged woman of exiled Russian royalty, they still arrived at the fabled Badrutt’s Palace as the sun set on the lake below the hotel. When the Badrutt brothers themselves came out to greet Desirée and assure her of the luxury of the accommodations, Scott smiled to remember Millie’s once confusing reference to Badrutt’s. Everything had been taken care of, they said; the steamer trunks Desirée had sent by train earlier in the week for Saturday’s ball had been delivered, their contents pressed and hung in the suite’s closets.

  Their suite was on the sixth floor, its large windows overlooking the lake—a spectacular view—some three hundred meters below. In the distance, the Engadin mountains loomed. It was already dark, but the iced lake shimmered in the moonlight. Scott had heard that, on weekends, horse races were held on its frozen surface.

  Furnished in the French style of Louis XV, the apartment had a large salon and an equally luxurious bedroom, with a private dressing room for Countess de Rovere, two large closets, and a bathroom fit for a queen. On the coffee table, placed along with a large basket of fruit and various cheeses, was a bundle of letters addressed to Desirée.

  “We’ve been here thirty minutes,” Scott said, incredulously. “And you’ve already received mail.”

  “Invitations, my prince. We must choose which to accept.” Desirée began to work her way through the stack.

  “How do you choose?” he asked.

  “Carefully,” she said. “I try to accept the most agreeable and refuse the most cumbersome.”

  “Sounds difficult.”

  “It takes practice.”

  Scott didn’t offer any advice. He knew she would work it all out; she would please some and offend none. That was her way. Always conscious of other’s feelings, Desirée never intentionally hurt anyone, and those she had to refuse, Scott knew, would be compensated in some other fashion to assuage their disappointment. Her sensitivity helped her anticipate the feelings of others before they even experienced them.

  THE SEASON’S OPENING OF THE CRESTA RUN WAS AN EVENT not to be missed. Cresta (a sport that evolved into the skeleton event) involves men holding on to sleds and hurtling themselves down the icy track at breakneck speeds. Hosting some thirty annual races, the Cresta Run had been entertaining winter sports fans since 1884.

  The Kulm Hotel, located near the Cresta Run’s starting point, was the home of the British contingent of high society and sporting life in St. Moritz, and so its owner hosted the reception, essentially a pre-party for the ball that would take place the following evening. Haute couture was the uniform of the evening, and as they dressed, Scott soon learned what Desirée had packed in those pre-delivered cases. She wore Balenciaga, and her metallic silver gown, a kind of Roman toga, was created from a supple fabric that suggestively kissed her body’s contours. With her blond hair cascading over a silver band, an exquisite diamond necklace and pair of chandelier earrings dazzled about her face and décolleté. All in all, Desirée was a stunner from every angle. Scott wore his tuxedo along with his birthday cuff links and studs. Before leaving the suite, they stood side by side and studied themselves in the large mirror and agreed that, as a couple, they weren’t bad.

  Scott couldn’t keep up or remember the many persons to whom he was introduced—the marquis, the comtesse, the ambassadeur—even though Desirée gave sotto voce running commentary on each. Scott found some solace in the large number of people; with so many unfamiliar faces, he wasn’t of interest, nor did the glittering crowd seem to notice that he didn’t know anyone.

  Eventually, they left the cocktail party with two other couples and returned to Badrutt’s for dinner. As Desirée and Scott walked to the elevator that would take them down to the Grill, there was Millie Summersmith. Pretty as ever, and, as ever, pushing the limits with her outfit, a trendy silver mini skirt and white fur jacket. They saw each other at the same time, and Millie turned from the group she was talking with to greet Scott and the countess.

  “Millie, my dear, what are you doing here?” Desirée asked, hugging and kissing her friend.

  “Desirée, Scott—my word, are you two together?”

  “Why yes, dear,” Desirée replied. “We�
��ve just been to the reception at the Kulm.” Scott couldn’t help but slide a proprietary arm around her waist, and she melted into his side. Scott watched Millie’s face—there was a look of momentary shock (after all, she’d kissed him when they last saw one another), but it was quickly replaced with a warm smile.

  Millie recovered brilliantly: “I’m not at all surprised. I had a feeling back in September, when you two couldn’t keep your eyes off each other. I presumed the hands would be next,” she laughed, with a wink at Scott. “Anyway, my charming Scott is too mature for me.” She turned to him flirtatiously. “Scott, you are uncharacteristically quiet.”

  “A wise man knows when to be silent,” he quipped. Millie was a fun girl. But having spent these last weeks with the countess, she now seemed juvenile.

  “Are you here with your dear mother?” Desirée inquired. “Will you tell your mother hello and that I will call her?”

  “Of course,” Millie said. With that, she rejoined her friends, and Scott noted, “She wasn’t shocked to see us.”

  “She was, and she wasn’t, but she behaved well,” Desirée said. “It’s a sign of a good education.”

  They joined Desirée’s friends, who were already seated at the table in the restaurant. Juan Carlos de Flora and his wife, Teresa, split their time between Paris and Madrid. Juan Carlos’s mother was a lady-in-waiting to the exiled Queen of Spain, Victoria Eugenie, who lived in Lausanne. She and Desirée’s mother, Madame de Bellecourt, were close friends, and Madame de Bellecourt often visited Lausanne to pay court to the queen. The other couple, Jacques Deschamps and his wife, Caroline, were Parisians. He was an attorney, and she owned a chic art gallery on the rue de Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Both couples seemed to be in their mid to late thirties.

  From the questions asked, Scott surmised they had been prepped to meet him; Desirée had been busy. They all seemed to know where he attended school and what he was studying. Their easy conversation revealed these to be some of her closest friends. Juan Carlos was the funniest and, apparently, he loved teasing Desirée.