by Gary Dickson
Mother and daughter held each other’s gaze, Scott caught between the two formidable women. “This is nothing new,” Desirée interjected angrily. “Why are we here? What exactly are you saying, Maman?” A flush crept up the delicate skin of her neck, and Scott felt her hand tremble in his. Nothing good would come of an impasse, Scott thought.
“Wait, Desirée,” Scott implored. “Please allow your mother to continue. I’m sure she has more to say to us. Don’t you, Madame de Bellecourt?”
The older woman nodded and took a deep breath. “You say you are in love. You’ve dismissed the well-meaning counsel others close to you have offered. Be that as it may,” she said with a wave of her hand. “But what I can’t understand or condone, Desirée, is this flagrant display for the whole world to see and gossip about. In the beginning, the precise extent of this indiscretion was confined to a few friends; it was a private matter; but now you’re traveling all over Europe together.” Madame de Bellecourt’s strong display of feeling shocked Scott. He was floored; the older woman was usually so in control of her emotions. She appeared near tears.
“Now, this romance is common knowledge. Have you seen what they’re saying about you, Desirée? I know you both must be aware of the vulgar press coverage. After what was printed regarding Cannes, I can hardly face my friends.” Madame de Bellecourt’s lips trembled, threatening her composure. She was clearly on the brink of a very upsetting pronouncement. Scott steeled himself for the worst, as Desirée’s mother regrouped to continue. “If you’re not going to break up, my darling, then get engaged. Please. It would bring a level of propriety and decency to the situation,” she said.
Desirée sat immobile, quiet; everyone at the table seemed frozen in place. Scott knew it was not his turn to speak; the moment belonged to Desirée. Madame de Bellecourt had fixed her only child with an entreating look, one that most likely mirrored Scott’s expression. Which of us, he wondered, is the more eager to hear Desirée’s next words?
“Maman, you surprise me,” Desirée said slowly. “Only a month ago, you were opposed; just this moment, you are pushing an engagement. I don’t understand.”
The elegant older woman smoothed her skirt across her lap. “Desirée, my dearest; I’m a realist. More importantly, I’m practical. Faced with two choices, I’m inclined to choose the least damaging.” Scott smiled; now, this was the Madame de Bellecourt he had come to know. Catching his reaction, she raised an eyebrow and addressed him directly for the first time in many long minutes.
“You’re uncharacteristically quiet, Monsieur Stoddard,” she observed.
“Madame, your candor has struck me dumb.”
“Then I can claim a first,” came the arch reply.
LUNCH ENDED WITHOUT ANY REAL RESOLUTION. NO ONE CAME away with what they wanted: Madame received no assurance regarding her suggestion, and Scott had no more of an answer. Why didn’t Desirée tell her mother of his proposal?
A few days later, Father Kohler left a message for Desirée, asking her to call him as soon as possible. When she returned his call, it took a few minutes for him to get to the phone.
“Do you have news for us?” Desirée asked, Scott waiting at her side. She listened, smiled, and mouthed the words, “Good news.” She asked a few questions (though, Scott thought, not the same ones he would’ve, but he could always speak with Father Kohler himself). Desirée thanked the family priest profusely for his assistance before hanging up.
Father Kohler had reported that Monsignor de Pita had become intrigued with the challenge, despite his initial reluctance to become involved. Once the retired lawyer felt the proverbial itch, he had to scratch. According to the monsignor, the petition was practically writing itself; his investigation provided more precedent than he could have imagined. A few more weeks of work were needed before the petition could be presented; a few weeks after that, they could expect that a decision would be handed down—mid-July, at the latest.
Scott felt a major celebration was in order, and Desirée seemed happy to accommodate. They had a gourmet dinner, drank champagne, and even went dancing, much like when they first met. Afterward, they made love.
In the quiet of the night, with Desirée asleep in his cradling arms, Scott lay alone with his thoughts. The evening had felt false, like a game they were playing. Why didn’t this good news trigger a more positive response in Desirée? As the various reasons against their marriage were stripped away, why didn’t she show more joy in overcoming these obstacles to their union? Had Desirée been hiding behind the reasons, knowing that they probably couldn’t be overcome? Hoping she wouldn’t have to give an answer to his proposal?
Scott wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answers. He wouldn’t ask her.
thirty-seven
ONE AFTERNOON, SCOTT AND DESIRÉE WERE ALONE IN her Avenue Fochs apartment. They sat on the terrace over the garden, Scott reading the day’s newspaper. Desirée was fidgety, a little nervous. Clearly, something was on her mind, and so Scott waited patiently. Finally, she broke the quiet and said, “Scott, I see two problems remaining for us. One: you must tell your parents you’ve proposed . . . ”
Before she could get to the second item, Scott jumped in.
“I was hoping to tell my parents that I had asked a lovely woman to be my wife and she’d accepted,” he said, attempting to remain factual without whining. “I prefer not to tell them that the woman I love and asked to marry me has requested I wait until the end of June for her answer.” To her credit, Desirée blushed under Scott’s steady gaze.
“I know, darling; it sounds so unfair. I’m so sorry, but you must be patient. I just need that time. Trust me, please.”
Folding his paper carefully, Scott struggled to keep his voice neutral. He asked, “And what’s the second thing?”
“Scott, I don’t want you to get angry with me—please listen before you say anything.” Desirée’s lips trembled as she spoke, and Scott grew very still—what in the world could this be? “Do you remember when we came back to Paris in April? It was your first time at the apartment. I went to see my lawyers—I said it was concerning taxes.” He nodded; yes, he remembered the day well. Desirée looked out at the gardens, took a deep breath. “Well, that meeting wasn’t about taxes,” she said.
“Yes?” Scott prodded gently. “Desirée, I won’t understand unless you tell me.”
“I don’t know how to say this,” she said, still refusing to meet his gaze. What, he wondered, would cause such discomfort in Desirée that could involve a meeting with her lawyers? An idea dawned.
“Oh, now I understand,” he said. “You went to your lawyers to talk about a prenuptial agreement.”
She turned to him, utterly relieved yet clearly fearful of his reaction to the revelation. “Is it so terrible?”
“Which—the agreement or the secrecy?”
“Both, I guess,” she said.
“Desirée, you’re a wealthy woman; I expected an agreement of some sort,” Scott replied thoughtfully. “But the secrecy is worse.” He stood and turned away from her. “Really, Desirée, I hadn’t even asked you to marry me at that point,” he said.
“Well, I must protect myself. We must have been thinking about our relationship.” In her voice, Scott heard Madame de Bellecourt’s pragmatism. “Tell me, Scott; what do you think about an agreement?”
He faced her, throwing his hands up in the air and giving a contemptuous laugh. “Would I mind signing an agreement that might leave me at the curb if our marriage didn’t work out? No, no bother. Where do I sign? Could I sign twice, to make it extra official?”
“I knew you would be angry, and I’m sorry I didn’t discuss it with you.”
Scott sighed. “But Desirée, I’m not angry about the prenuptial itself. I had expected to sign an agreement. I understand completely, darling. I just hope that you will be fair. What I can’t stand is that you kept this from me.” With that, he turned and left the terrace.
FOR SEVERAL DAYS, TENSION EXISTED BETWEEN
THE LOVERS, A kind of frosty coexistence. When time came to address the prenuptial agreement, Desirée advised Scott to retain his own lawyer, one of his choosing who would best represent his interests. Scott thought, what interests? He was a twenty-three-year-old student living off his parents’ stipend; he had no career, no property. If that simplified matters, then he was glad of it. He considered asking Andre for a recommendation, but the wily newspaper writer might guess what it was about. Who else? Scott decided to ask the American Embassy for names of attorneys dealing in contractual law.
The Embassy was happy to oblige and referred him to James Dinsmore, an American working in a French firm. Funnily enough, Scott had already met Dinsmore at a party after one of the galas he and Desirée had attended. Many Americans, especially those linked with interests in France, had been at the swanky Theatre Montaigne event held at the United States’ embassy.
That evening, Scott had found himself side by side with Dinsmore at the bar. The gentlemen were trying to get a drink and competing to see who could be the most cordial. “No, you first,” Scott had said. “No, you,” Dinsmore replied. Finally, they procured their glasses of champagne and enjoyed a decent, decidedly American conversation.
Pleased that his counsel would be someone he knew (however modest their connection), Scott made the appointment with Dinsmore. Once he’d explained the nature of his need, Dinsmore understood completely; he would ask Desirée’s attorneys to messenger a copy of the agreement to his office for review. In addition, he proposed a fee arrangement, one that Scott thought implied a favor.
DINSMORE CALLED WHEN HE’D RECEIVED THE PRENUPTIAL and asked Scott to stop by that afternoon to review the document. When Scott arrived, Dinsmore cut right to the chase.
“You have not read this agreement, correct?” he asked.
Scott nodded his assent. “Yes; today is the first I will have seen of it.” Carefully considering Dinsmore’s expression, he asked, “How bad is it, James? Do I pay her alimony if we don’t work out?” Scott chuckled, but Dinsmore’s face didn’t relax.
“I know that you want to bring a little levity to a rather unpleasant reality,” the attorney said. “My job is to explain what you are signing and offer modifications where necessary. I do not see it as my function to counsel you on the fairness of the document or whether, indeed, you should sign it or not. That,” Dinsmore said emphatically, “is your decision and yours alone. It would be unfair of me to influence you.”
“Give me the basic terms, and I’ll read it in detail later,” Scott said.
“All right.” The attorney picked up the hefty document, scanning its pages and consulting a legal pad of scrawled notes. “If there should be a dissolution of the marriage within the first year, you would receive a living allowance of twice the current stipend provided by the Countess de Rovere for three years hence. After your third wedding anniversary, the settlement figure doubles and is extended to seven years; and after five additional years, it doubles again and is extended to ten years (with some other arrangements, as to living requirements, etc.). Should you and the countess have a child or children, then your investiture is immediate to the five-year provision. There are no terms to determine or assign fault. The guiding principle is that, if one or both decide to end the marriage, the tenets of this agreement will dictate the terms and principles of its dissolution,” he said.
Scott took a moment to reflect. He had no experience with this sort of arrangement, but he had expected nothing. After all, he was coming to the possible union with nothing. “I’m surprised. Desirée is a very generous woman,” he said. “I’m flabbergasted that her attorneys didn’t persuade her otherwise.”
Dinsmore shrugged. “As I indicted, it is not my role to advise on issues of fairness, only issues of legality. I’ll say this much, though. She must love you.”
SCOTT USED THE WALK FROM DINSMORE’S OFFICE JUST OFF the rue Marbeuf back to Desirée’s apartment as time to prepare. How he handled discussing the prenuptial agreement with her was important. His natural inclination was to tease, but this was not the time. Should he tell her he thought it more than fair? Perhaps, but he didn’t want to go much further than that. Desirée didn’t like talking or thinking about money. Scott didn’t know the extent of her wealth, and she had never volunteered or even hinted at specifics. His monthly allowance, that “pocket money,” had been generous, and he’d been thankful for whatever she’d provided. He would never have asked her for further details.
That the prenuptial agreement was so generous did indicate, however, that he might be on better footing with his proposal than he’d thought. If not, her lawyers would likely have recommended a more draconian tack, reasoning that if Scott protested the terms, Desirée could always up the figures. But she obviously didn’t want any negotiations or arguments over money. Desirée had tried to be candid when she said she had money enough for both of them, and these generous terms were a commitment of sorts. Maybe not the I will Scott wanted, but a firm step in the right direction nonetheless.
He found Desirée on the terrace. She and Celine had had lunch in the Plaza Athenée’s courtyard. However, she didn’t want to discuss that; she was more interested in his reaction to the prenuptial agreement. Scott didn’t make her wait.
“I met with my attorney, James Dinsmore,” Scott said. “He reviewed the agreement in detail with me, and I agreed to everything. He’s been instructed to tell your lawyers that I would sign it, as is, when the documents are available. Desirée, I thought it very fair—and that the fairness has your signature.”
Clearly relieved, she gave Scott a hug and quick kiss. “Oh, darling; I’m so glad.”
He returned her embrace. Holding her arms, he stepped back so that he could look her full in the face. “I want you to know that I would have signed it anyway, no matter what the terms,” Scott said earnestly. She moved closer, placing her hands on either side of his face.
“I thought as much. That’s why I didn’t want to make it difficult.”
They sealed the moment with a kiss. Scott felt happier than he had in weeks; they were moving closer to marriage. Desirée had promised she would give him her decision in a few weeks, but she wasn’t being coy about her answer. The prenuptial agreement illustrated her caution; she was methodically eliminating all those problematic elements. Only something unexpected would cause Desirée to jump ship. But what could possibly go wrong? Her mother had urged an engagement; Celine had expressed her support to Scott several times; he would sign the financial agreement; and the church would most likely grant their dispensation. As he luxuriated in their happy kiss, Scott thought that things were certainly looking up. What could go wrong?
thirty-eight
WHAT COULD GO WRONG CAME AT THE END OF THE week. All morning and afternoon, Scott had been at the Louvre; when he returned, he’d expected to find Desirée getting ready to go out to dinner. The apartment, however, was empty; the servants had left for the evening, and when he called out for Desirée, there was no answer. After a while, when she hadn’t returned, he became concerned. Scott watched from the front windows, hoping to see her arrive. More time went by; becoming slightly alarmed, he called Celine. She said she hadn’t heard from Desirée but would call if she did.
Odd, Scott thought, hanging up the phone. Celine hadn’t expressed any worry about Desirée. Something was amiss, but what? He decided to go ahead and prepare for dinner and went upstairs to change. In the bedroom, resting against the pillows, was a pink envelope addressed to him in Desirée’s perfect penmanship. The note inside read Need some time to think. Something unexpected came up, and I’ve gone to Geneva. Don’t come. Just give me some time, alone, please. I love you, Desirée.
Scott’s hand was shaking. He analyzed his feelings. Was it fear? No, he was furious. Why would she leave him a note like that? Why not tell him she needed time to think? This wasn’t right; it was cruel. Tables turned, that’s not how he would’ve treated Desirée. Maybe the whole idea of their relationship was
a mistake. Maybe everyone was right; there were too many problems. What had he been thinking when he proposed? Was he like Marlyse, issuing an ultimatum to force Desirée’s hand? Scott was roiled with the intense emotions flooding through him. And he didn’t have one friend to confide in. He sat down on the bed, overwrought—the situation was downright embarrassing. What a fool he’d been. He’d tried to solve all the conditions, and now this. Was she rethinking their relationship?
Tossing the note aside, he got up and went to the bar, where he poured a double Glenfiddich, neat. After the second one, he picked up the phone and called Desirée’s Geneva number. The alcohol was erasing his inhibitions. Yes, she’d asked for him to give her alone time, but he couldn’t help himself. Another drink, another call. No answer. After many calls and no answer, Scott was very drunk. He staggered to the bedroom and passed out. Around three o’clock, he roused; at first, he thought he’d had a nightmare, but there was the note, crumpled on the bed under his body. No, it was real. Too real. His mouth fuzzy, Scott weaved his way to the kitchen for water. Resting his head on the breakfast table, he reviewed each conversation from the past week, looking for some indication, any telltale sign of what had precipitated Desirée’s note. Was it him? Had he said something that could have been misinterpreted? No, he couldn’t find anything.
Madame Tissot’s bustling woke Scott. Rumpled and hungover, the ache in his head equal to the ache in his heart, he declined the cook’s offer of breakfast. Against his better judgment, he called again and again; still no answer. He hadn’t expected an answer. Desirée wasn’t going to pick up, that was clear, but perhaps someone else would talk to him. Celine owed him that after last evening’s misdirection.
Scott quickly dressed and hurried the four blocks to Celine’s and waited across the street in the park. She walked her little dog periodically, and he hoped he might catch her on the first outing of the day; he was certainly early enough. About fifteen minutes later, Celine emerged with Marcel, her little Shih Tzu, in her arms. When they reached the park, she dropped the fluffy dog in the grass, cooing softly.