by Gary Dickson
Not wanting to startle or frighten his friend, Scott made some noise as he approached. He wanted to appear as though he’d been out strolling. “Good morning, Celine,” he said.
She turned, and Scott saw that she wore no makeup and a scarf hid her unstyled hair. Though she obviously hadn’t intended to be seen, she didn’t look at all surprised at his presence. “Bonjour, Scott,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Please tell me what’s going on,” he said. “You know I was worried sick yesterday. And still, you didn’t breathe a word about Desirée’s plans.”
“I can’t,” she said, her eyes beseeching him to understand. “Desirée doesn’t want me to. She made me promise.”
Scott wasn’t about to let it go so easily. “I’ve always treated Desirée fairly, and you as well. Celine, I deserve some answers, don’t you think?”
“Of course, you do, but it isn’t like that,” she said. As the morning light brightened, people began to emerge from their homes, and Scott saw their conversation was attracting attention. Self-consciously, Celine raised a hand to her face. Scooping up Marcel, she cast a look around before grabbing Scott’s arm. “Oh, come in,” she said.
Bustling into the apartment, Scott could tell that Celine and Albert were now living together. Though the childhood friends shared many things, Celine’s taste ran to old French—large wooden furniture and heavy dark brocades—rather than the eclectic themes and colors Desirée preferred. She prepared tea, explaining that Albert had left hours earlier. Scott sat on the sofa, she on a side chair. Her cup clattered in the saucer, she was so nervous. Though Celine tried several times to speak, whatever she wanted to say wouldn’t come out.
Finally, she closed her eyes wearily and said, “Can’t you give her a little time, Scott?”
“I don’t begrudge her the time alone. It’s not knowing the reason why she needs it. Can’t I help her through whatever this is, Celine? If she’s in trouble, I want to share that.” Celine struggled visibly with Scott’s words. He could watch the conflicting emotions play across her unvarnished face.
“I can’t; I promised.”
With Desirée, a gentle touch often helped. He took the teacup from Celine and held her slender hands in his. They warmed to his touch; the trembling quieted. He waited before asking again, “Celine, what is it?”
She studied him intently. There was nothing for Scott to do but wait as that internal argument played out. After several long moments, Celine removed her hands and covered her face. Suddenly, she straightened up, faced Scott, and said, “She’s . . . Desirée is pregnant.”
“Pregnant?” Scott exclaimed. A thousand thoughts flooded him all at once. She’d left Paris without telling him? Numbly, he couldn’t help but think of their parents; her mother would be furious (at first with her, and then with him) over the public embarrassment. Scott had no doubt what his mother would say. Sarah Stoddard had cautioned against this possibility, it seemed, since Scott was in puberty. A baby and not married? God, the whole world was going to be furious with them.
Quickly, he calculated Desirée’s condition. It had to have been that warm spring afternoon just six weeks ago; he and Desirée had rented a small cabin cruiser to motor down the Seine. The idyllic float and warm afternoon; a little too much wine; a progressive and impassioned series of kisses and fondling. They’d been careless; she, thinking it safe; he, lost in lust. To be truthful, Scott realized he simply hadn’t cared.
My God, he thought, I’m only twenty-three and going to be a father. He’d never considered the possibility of becoming a father. He and Desirée had never discussed children other than to imply they both wanted some—later.
He groaned inwardly, Oh, Desirée! What was she feeling? Had she gone to Geneva because she was embarrassed? Was she worried that he would be disappointed, maybe angry? Did she care about what her mother and everyone else would think? Was she sad that, contrary to some master plan, her life would change? Was she was angry at herself? Or did she blame him?
Celine sat as still as a statue, hardly breathing. “Please, Scott; I wasn’t supposed to tell you. She’ll tell you when she’s ready. Give her some time to work through this.”
“There is more to consider and no time to waste. Tell me right now—does anyone else know?”
“Her mother. That’s how it all started. When she told Madame de Bellecourt that she was pregnant, her mother exploded in anger, accusing Desirée of being irresponsible and uncaring.”
Now it was clear why Desirée had left so abruptly for Geneva: her mother had shamed her. It is one thing to encourage an engagement between Desirée and her Baptist lover; it was quite another to have the world see her pregnant daughter wed outside the church. Madame de Bellecourt’s previous opposition to Desirée’s marriage to Scott was a moot point and, while she wasn’t a mean woman, she liked to have her way. Scott well knew she was probably fuming at this very moment.
And what of poor, humiliated Desirée? Scolded by her mother and embarrassed by the circumstances, she’d rushed off to Geneva, leaving Paris and Scott without explanation. It was so unlike Desirée, a complete contradiction to her normal behavior. Scott ached. How might he reconcile this predicament? Though he had a right to be angry, there was no reason to punish Desirée for leaving. Bringing attention to how much his feelings were hurt could undermine their relationship; she’d feel even more guilty and he’d be that selfish boy his mother always accused him of being. If ever a time called for empathy and understanding, this was it. No, he told himself, this isn’t about my feelings.
He understood that Desirée would never be happy without her mother’s support and esteem, no matter how much the two women fought or disagreed. Deep down, they loved and admired each other, but neither could seem to relinquish their continuing battle for dominance. How could Scott bring them together? What would reconcile all parties?
Breaking into his thoughts, Celine said, “Desirée is going to be so angry with me.”
Her comment propelled Scott into action. Standing, he prepared to leave. “Listen, Celine,” he said, putting on his coat. “Don’t call her when I leave. Give me a day.” There was no practical way to exact a promise from her. If Celine couldn’t understand that it was in her best interests to resist the urge to call Desirée for the next twenty-four hours, then she would wish that she had when Desirée finished with her.
“What are you going to do?” Celine asked, wide-eyed.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” he said, rushing from the apartment.
thirty-nine
NINE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING IS, UNDER NORMAL circumstances, too early for a house call, but these circumstances were anything but ordinary. Scott passed Desirée’s apartment and arrived at 445 Avenue Foch, just two blocks further on. Madame de Bellecourt’s mansion sat on the tree-lined boulevard, a five-story Haussmann edifice of limestone and marble as imposing as the woman who resided within. A two-meter-high fence of black hexagonal rods with gold-tipped spears encircled the property. Generous etched-glass double doors stood at the top of four steps. Inside, paintings of illustrious French generals from the Napoleonic era decorated the lobby walls, a detailed Gobelins-esque carpet stretching across the floor.
The building’s concierge announced Scott’s presence by telephone before ushering him to the elevator. Arriving at the fifth floor, he was greeted by a gray and white uniformed woman who showed him into the grand salon. Decorated in gold and red embroidered silks, the room of inestimable formality contained an antique clavichord; it was a royal room, a close cousin of Versailles.
Already formally dressed in a Chanel suit of soft blue with cream piping on the lapels and cuffs, Madame de Bellecourt stood waiting, a grim look on her face. Her dress and the tone of her salutation revealed that she had expected him.
“Good morning, Monsieur Stoddard,” she said with a steely demeanor. “I presume your unannounced and inconveniently early visit is due to your having been informed of Desirée’s situation?”
“She’s very upset,” Madame said. “She had not planned this. I’m upset too. It’s embarrassing.”
Firmly facing Madame de Bellecourt, Scott squared his shoulders. “I’m elated,” he said. “Surprised, but happy.”
The older woman shook her head. “You can afford those sentiments because you don’t fully understand the consequences. You are so young.”
“Perhaps, but Desirée’s not. She will be a fantastic mother, and I intend to be her equal as a husband and father. Yes, we’re all in shock right now, but I am sure your reservations about our marriage will fade away when this grandchild is born. I’m asking you, begging you, to put aside your preconceptions and focus on the most important issues. Let’s find a way to make this right.”
“And you feel that to be what, exactly?” Madame de Bellecourt inquired icily.
“You and I and Desirée all know very well what the best course is. We must get married as soon as possible. In the long run, the exact timing of the marriage and our baby’s arrival fade in importance. For all concerned, please forgive Desirée; I’m sure she is in Geneva grieving because she has disappointed you. She doesn’t deserve this treatment; she’s going to be a mother.”
“This is not at all what I had planned,” Madame asserted.
“I understand. It is not what any of us planned,” Scott reiterated. While he had no desire to touch Madame de Bellecourt as he might her daughter, he moved closer. “If we leave in the next two hours, we can be in Geneva by nightfall.”
Desirée’s mother narrowed her eyes. “Desirée will be very unhappy that you have found out her secret,” she said. “Nor will she like being surprised. She told me she needed time alone to think things through. Why should we ignore her wishes?”
“You are correct, but I predict that, after the first few moments, she will be relieved that I know her secret and bolstered by our united presence. Will you come with me, Madame?”
“You’ve given me no choice,” she said. “I’ll have Vincent bring the car around. We’ll pick you up in an hour.”
Jubilant, Scott hurried back to Desirée’s apartment. It was just the right amount of time to put a few things together, telephone Father Kohler, and rejoin Madame de Bellecourt. The Mercedes pulled up shortly before eleven o’clock, and they left for Geneva.
SEVEN HOURS IN THE CAR LAY BEFORE SCOTT AND MADAME de Bellecourt, an eternity. They sat quietly in the back seat; although family chauffeurs traditionally could be counted on for discretion, Scott wasn’t sure about Vincent. He guessed that whatever Madame was willing to discuss would indicate her trust and the degree of discretion required. When Madame asked about the state of the dispensation, the question was answered. Scott said he had called Father Kohler that very morning to determine the status of their petition, and the priest said he would contact Monsignor de Pita as soon as possible. Scott was to call back the next day.
Scott had so many questions. When and how did Desirée find out she was pregnant? Had she been to a doctor? No matter how discreet Vincent might be, Scott couldn’t ask these questions of Madame de Bellecourt. She was of a more refined era. Desirée’s mother probably didn’t know the answers, and her daughter’s delicate condition was not something she’d feel comfortable discussing with Desirée’s lover in the first place. This situation was highly irregular and embarrassing, and Madame de Bellecourt was having a difficult time accepting the inconvenient circumstance. Things like this just didn’t happen in the de Bellecourt family. Scott understood she might be looking to place blame, and of the two possibilities—himself and Desirée—he was by far the more likely candidate. Given the level of her anger, she probably thought it prudent to remain silent.
They silently gazed out the car windows at the passing scenery. After a few hundred kilometers, Scott said, “I love her, you know.”
“I know, and Desirée loves you. If only love were all that is required.”
“It’s the most important thing,” Scott said. Emboldened by the slight smile on her face, he added, “I hope that you will find a way to forgive both of us.”
forty
SHORTLY AFTER SIX THAT EVENING, THE MERCEDES turned into the driveway of the Geneva house. Desirée, dressed in a full-skirted primrose dress with small white polka dots, her hair pulled into a casual ponytail, looked more beautiful than ever. From the car, Scott noted her surprise.
As the chauffeur scurried around to open Madame de Bellecourt’s door, Desirée exclaimed, “Maman, what are you doing here?”
Scott opened his door and stood, silently regarding Desirée over the roof of the Mercedes. Was it surprise or shock that registered on her face? Maybe it was both. It didn’t matter. Scott rushed toward Desirée. Taking her in his arms, he buried his face in her hair and whispered, “I love you, my darling.”
“Are you angry?” she asked.
“A little, but I’m happy too.”
Madame de Bellecourt followed the couple into the house. Once inside, conversation was difficult. Realizing that mother and daughter probably wanted some time alone, he excused himself to freshen up. He tried to stay away a good half-hour, taking a shower and shaving. When he returned, Desirée was alone in the salon, quietly crying.
When he sat down next to her, Desirée leaned into the firm wall of his chest. “What happened?” Scott inquired tenderly.
“We talked and apologized to each other. Maman said she was sorry she got so angry. And then she asked if she could help me plan our wedding.”
“I’m glad. I talked her into coming here for that very reason, and I’m happy she found the courage,” he said, smiling softly. Desirée looked up at Scott, and he knew the question in her eyes.
“Is it true, then? She said you gave her the idea, and she knew you were right. But what about you, my darling; what are you feeling?”
Scott listened to the sounds of the house for a few minutes, deciding what he wanted to say. “At first, I was angry—more about your leaving like you did. When I found out about the pregnancy; well, it does take two, you know.” He gazed at her fondly and was relieved to see a small, answering smile to his little joke. “I understand how it all happened, and I am not unhappy with our solution. I’ve always wanted to marry you, and it only follows that you would be the mother of our children. It all just arrived a little earlier than expected,” Scott said.
There was a sobbing embrace, and reassurances flowed between them, each affirming to the other their love and respect.
With dusk, a slight chill permeated the air, and Desirée and Scott retired to the great room, where a fire smoldered in the hearth. Secure in his arms, Desirée rested her head against his chest; Scott massaged the back of her neck, whispering over and over that he loved her. He kissed her cheeks, her forehead, and then her mouth, never releasing her from the pressure of his embrace.
“My darling,” he said, “tell me. Tell me everything.”
Desirée sighed. “When I missed my period, I panicked; you know I’m always on schedule, like a Swiss train. I knew I was pregnant before going to the doctor because I felt different,” she said, stroking her still flat belly. “And the doctor confirmed it; I’m pregnant. Then I thought of you, and us, and all the plans we had made. You’re so young; you might not be ready to be a papa. And I worried—I’m almost thirty—is this too old? I felt responsible, and I couldn’t face the idea of telling you. And my mother was so angry; I couldn’t disagree with her judgment that I’d acted irresponsibly. With that swirling in my head, I just simply and regrettably ran away. Truly, though, I only needed to get away to think.”
In the glow of the fire, Desirée’s hair gleamed like
liquid gold. Scott stroked its fine softness absently. Under his soothing caress, Desirée opened her heart to him.
“I can’t say that I’m ready, but in truth is one ever ready to become a mother? I’m beginning to cherish the idea, and I wonder—will it be a boy or a girl? I’m thinking of baby clothes, and nursery décor, and what I should eat. I’m fast becoming an expectant mother.”
Scott kissed her head. “Sweetheart, you are completely wonderful. I love you even more than ever, if that’s possible,” he said. “You and your mother need to plan the wedding quickly, so it takes place in the least amount of time possible.” Pulling back, he lifted her chin so their eyes met. “Desirée, you haven’t asked me how I found out.”
“I’d told two people: Maman and Celine. I knew you would seek Celine out, and I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist telling you if pressed.”
“You’re right,” Scott said. “I begged her. Has she called you since I saw her?”
“No; she’s so sweet and is probably much too frightened to call.”
“Celine is a good friend—to both of us. Maybe you should call her,” Scott said. “She could use a good night’s sleep.”
Desirée called her friend. Celine was relieved that Desirée wasn’t angry, and Desirée was glad Scott had learned her secret. From the bedroom, Scott could hear Desirée reinforce Celine’s promise not to discuss the situation with anyone. She’d surely tell Albert, but he was a first-class gentleman, and Scott would bet that the news would go no further. The women said their farewells fondly, without any hard feelings.
Madame de Bellecourt, Desirée, and Scott shared an impromptu dinner of cheese, cold cuts, rustic bread, and wine. After that brief glimpse into her vulnerable side, Madame had resumed her more comfortable role as matriarch, mistress of her domain, and returned to that intimidating straight posture, stiff manner, and Parisian dialect that warded off all but the most secure. As they dined and chatted, Scott hoped there were no new wars on the horizon for these two stubborn women; he’d heard about mothers and daughters wrestling over wedding details. Madame had her own connections in Paris and Geneva; she was indispensable as an ally, and they couldn’t waste any time. Scott envisioned the situation as an hourglass with the sands gradually, but inexorably slipping away.