An Improbable Pairing

by Gary Dickson

  Scott worried that Desirée’s attention would make his mother feel managed. Too much oversight, however generous, could backfire. But Mrs. Stoddard seemed to accept Desirée’s information in the vein in which it was intended, thanking Desirée and telling her she had thought of everything.

  THREE DAYS—AMPLE TIME FOR SOMETHING TO GO WRONG before the wedding. Scott was relieved that the initial meeting and ride into the city had gone so well. Since his parents had never been to Paris, Scott was going to show them some of the sights while Desirée and her mother worked with the dressmakers, florists, and caterers; after the tour, they would all meet for lunch at the Club Interalliée.

  When Desirée had been present, she regulated the tenor of his parents’ questions. Without her, Scott knew they would feel free to ask about anything they could think of, relevant or irrelevant to the situation. He knew how hard they were trying, but the unfettered joy usually found in a wedding was absent. He suspected that would’ve been different had he traveled a more traditional path—finishing his studies, returning to America, and marrying a Southern girl; they’d have been pleased. He wondered: was his choice of Desirée and Europe, things so foreign to them, seen by his parents as a rejection of them and their way of life?

  When he stopped by the hotel the next morning for sightseeing, his parents asked him up to their room. His father met him at the door. Although Madame de Bellecourt had described the suite to Scott, it was more palatial than he’d imagined. The large bed had acres of beautiful Porthault sheets, with silk pillowcases and a fine coverlet. The Eiffel Tower was clearly framed in the floor-to-ceiling French doors that led to a wrap-around terrace. There was Madame de Bellecourt’s touch, the orchids, placed in strategic spots in minimalist French fashion.

  His mother, impatient to have her say, got right to it. “Scott, do you really know what you’re getting into? You realize your child will be raised Catholic. And have you thought about the fact that Desirée has all the money?”

  “I know that I want to marry her, and that’s all I care about,” he said.

  “Let me be frank with you,” his mother continued (as though she’d ever be anything else, Scott thought). “Desirée, of course, is a lovely woman and could not be kinder, but be realistic. She is older, more sophisticated, and considerably experienced in the things a woman knows and uses to manipulate men.”

  Well, there it was; his mother resented the fact that another woman had seduced her son, and she was suspicious of some of the very wiles she used to manipulate his father.

  “Are you suggesting that Desirée has some kind of sexual hold on me? Nothing could be further from the truth. That is not only untrue but also demeaning,” Scott said. “Mother, I love her. Even without the baby, I would marry Desirée.”

  Mrs. Stoddard was rendered speechless by Scott’s directness. Her lips pursed into a well-known pout; she didn’t like situations where she could neither influence nor control their outcome. His father’s facial expression revealed that these were unchartered waters, perhaps too dangerous to navigate. But she recovered quickly. “I’m not suggesting anything of the sort,” she said haughtily. “I’m only asking if the two of you have given everything due consideration.”

  How many times would Scott have to rebuff doubts about their love? He’d had enough; he sat on one of the chairs and toyed with an orchid leaf. “I can’t say we’ve thought of everything, Mother. Desirée and I have been over as many things as we could think of and everything well-meaning others—like you—have suggested. Nevertheless, we always come to the same conclusion: we love each other and want to be married.” Mr. Stoddard had moved to stand by his son, placing a hand on the younger man’s shoulder in an unexpected move of support. Scott continued. “We hope those we love will support us, but if they don’t, our feelings for each other won’t be jeopardized. Nor will that interfere with our plans. And, if it turns out that we were in error, then Desirée and I will suffer the consequences of our misfortune and bad judgment.” His father gave a supportive pat, which Scott appreciated. Yes, he’d been converted all right. His mother, on the other hand, was still working through the details.

  “Are you saying we can’t register any reservations or ask any questions? Our only role is to accept?” his mother asked.

  “I had hoped your role would be to accept our love, hope for the best, and be happy for our future. It’s too late for your counsel, however well intentioned. But just to be clear,” said Scott firmly, standing to signal an end to the discussion, “I would have ignored any advice that excluded Desirée from my life. I’m very set on what I want.”

  “There’s nothing new to that,” his father chuckled. “You were always headstrong and determined.”

  “I’ve had good examples,” Scott said. He wanted to mend some fences if he could. “You’ve taught me that was okay, especially when presented with something you wanted me to accomplish. But this marriage is something I want,” Scott said, pounding the table with his fist.

  “What about all the money your father has spent on your education?” His mother asked, “Has it all been wasted? Are you going to give up school and live on the countess’s money? What happened to your plans for a graduate degree and law school?”

  How could Scott explain? “Something came up” was the best he could offer.

  “Something came up!” His mother snorted disparagingly. “You mean you let Desirée interfere with your plans.”

  “Don’t blame Desirée. The reason has nothing to do with Desirée; it has everything to do with your original plan. The one you approved. The one that I didn’t create.”

  Out of the blue, his father joined in with an uncharacteristic candor. “Son, are you suddenly too good for us? You’ve become part of the countess’s world—my boy, you’re young, and there’s so much you don’t know. I hope you don’t get hurt.” He took Mrs. Stoddard’s hand, patted it briefly in a soothing gesture (though such demonstrative action completely discombobulated his wife), and addressed another issue. “Scott, you don’t know the customs, but Mother and I do. While it’s the tradition for the bride’s parents to ‘put up’ the groom’s parents,” his father said, “nobody’s paying for me to stay here. I can pay for myself.” His mother started to protest, but a firm shake of the head put her in her place.

  This is payback, Scott thought harshly. A way to salvage his pride over my living with a woman who would support me. Edward Stoddard had begun with nothing; his education limited to a night school college degree pursued after a long day at work. No one had paid his way, and he’d built a substantial business, with multiple locations across several states. Undoubtedly, the older gentleman was disappointed that this new generation was rejecting his life’s matrix for a quite different approach to work and money.

  “Father, please reconsider paying this time,” Scott said. “While I know you can afford these luxuries, and I appreciate how hard you’ve worked to earn the money to do so, Madame de Bellecourt is a stickler for etiquette. She’ll be embarrassed and, by the way, so will you and Mother.”

  His father didn’t answer. Leaving it at that, the three set out to see Paris.

  forty-seven

  THE TOUR AROUND ONE OF THE WORLD’S MOST BEAUTIful cities was somber and abbreviated. His parents seemed disinterested and wounded, unable to enjoy what could have been an amazing experience. Instead of preparing for a celebration, the Stoddards were on edge, brimming with anger and resentment. Scott dreaded lunch, worried that the slightest perceived infraction by him might set them off. And there was Madame de Bellecourt yet to meet. He sighed.

  At the club, the sullen trio was guided to the second-floor grand dining room where Desirée and her mother waited at a prominent corner table; joining them was Desirée’s paternal uncle, Pierre de Bellecourt, who would be giving the bride away. Introductions were exchanged, and the party took seats as the Stoddards exclaimed over the presiding view of the gardens, which pleased Madame de Bellecourt immensely. She’d taken great
care, arranging the luncheon seating per appropriate etiquette and the guests’ language abilities. Scott had only recently met Desirée’s uncle (who was supposedly a carbon copy of his brother, Desirée’s father). Pierre, a man of education, wealth, bonhomie—and, thankfully, proficiency in English—was seated between Scott’s parents; Desirée, next to his mother; and Scott’s father beside Madame de Bellecourt.

  A sensitive man of good size in both stature and girth, Pierre possessed a casual agreeableness. Though his suit was expensive, its cut was not so imposing as to intimidate. His manners and gesticulations were unstudied, reminding Scott of someone between a banker and a priest. Immediately sizing up the guests, Pierre commandeered the menu, recommending the sole meuniere and filet de boeuf and evaluating the dishes until he found something pleasing for each of them. He was, as they say in French, un animateur (one who gives life to a party), and the ease and humor with which he conversed put the entire party at ease.

  From his vantage point directly across the table, Scott enjoyed a front row seat to these interactions. His parents were absent any smile that might have made the situation less brittle, but Pierre was ready to address their uneasiness. Speaking first with Scott’s mother, he began a genial conversation. “Mrs. Stoddard, we are lucky that the weather is so wonderful right now; we can only pray that it holds for the wedding on Friday.”

  “Yes, it is really perfect. I was a little worried when I was packing whether I was bringing the right clothes,” she said.

  “Well, Madame, you brought the perfect outfit for today; you are quite chic.” Pierre’s deft compliment brought the smallest of smiles to Mrs. Stoddard’s face. (Scott had seen her quickly assess Madame de Bellecourt’s ensemble, then Desirée’s, as they took their seats.) Next, the suave Frenchman turned to Scott’s father. “And Mr. Stoddard,” he said. “Perhaps I need to warn you of the Avenue Montaigne, where your hotel is situated. It is known that the shopping on that street can be damaging to one’s wallet, even for a man of your considerable means,” he said conspiratorially. Ah, thought Scott, brilliant work, Pierre. You are applying some salve to my father’s wounded pride.

  “Mr. de Bellecourt, thank you so much for the advice. I will do my best to steer Sarah away from that street, but the woman has a mind all her own,” Scott’s father said.

  “We men are aware of the problem,” he laughed, including Scott in the comment. Pierre had ordered several bottles of Krug, and he raised a glass. The group’s attention focused on Desirée’s uncle, who stood. “Would you allow me a toast?” When each glass was held aloft, Pierre intoned: “To the lovely couple; may they experience untold happiness.”

  Madame de Bellecourt gave a sweet à votre santé while Mrs. Stoddard silently clinked glasses with Scott. His father, not to be outdone, raised his glass and said, “Sarah and I join in that wish, and we thank you all for your hospitality.”

  Madame de Bellecourt smiled in a rather perfunctory manner. Gazing at the Stoddards, Scott saw in her cool eyes an assessment of what might have been. He knew she had dreamed of a successful marriage for Desirée, some wealthy French family’s son, a noble or banker. Scott’s Southern background and self-made parents could not compare. But his father was graciously toasting, and ever proper, she found grace enough to smile and incline her glass toward Mr. Stoddard. “I certainly hope that your accommodations are satisfactory and that the hotel staff is answering your needs,” she said in her formal way.

  Scott’s mother replied, “Oh yes, Madame de Bellecourt; the rooms are superb, the flowers exquisite. Edward and I do so thank you for your incredible efforts to ensure that our visit to Paris is lovely. I hope that I’m not saying anything untoward,” Scott’s eyes shot to his mother—whatever she might say could very well be untoward, “but even though we’re familiar with the wedding custom, it’s difficult to accept your generosity regarding the suite at the hotel.”

  “I understand and appreciate your feelings, but you must allow me this pleasure,” Madame de Bellecourt said.

  “Of course, but it cannot pass unnoticed and without thanks,” his mother said.

  Overhearing this exchange, Scott was very proud of his mother; not only had she been tactful, but also her recognition would find favor with Madame de Bellecourt, who then lowered her voice to a confidential pitch. Leaning toward his mother, she said, “Mrs. Stoddard, I’m sure you were as shocked as I (or maybe more so, if that is possible) by what our offspring have visited on us.” The two women were, as Scott knew, quite united in their opinions on that front. Studiously, he addressed his salad, but his ears were attuned to every comment.

  His mother shot him a quick glance. Satisfied that his attention was elsewhere, she replied, “Yes, Madame, I confess we were shocked. Scott had written us about meeting your lovely daughter, but we were surprised to see the Life magazine photograph from Cannes.” Madame de Bellecourt clutched her napkin to her bosom and closed her eyes. Gratified at the reaction, Mrs. Stoddard continued. “The photo and caption revealed that Scott had obviously withheld important details about their relationship.”

  “I can imagine how you felt, my dear.” Madame de Bellecourt began to fill her in on the details. “Naturally, being Desirée’s mother, I had known of their involvement for some time. Desirée had introduced us at Easter; as you know, Scott is quite a charming and intelligent young man.” She leaned closer to Mrs. Stoddard, who was glowing at the praise the elegant woman had just bestowed upon her son. “The young Mr. Stoddard is almost too intelligent, if you know what I mean. I liked everything about him save but one. Each time I saw the two of them, they’d become more and more serious, and Desirée wouldn’t listen to any of the important differences I felt they must consider.”

  Scott struggled to mask his pleasure as his mother placed a hand over Madame de Bellecourt’s. What was the saying? The enemy of my enemy is my friend, he thought. Brava, Madame de Bellecourt, on uniting the fronts. Sarah Stoddard’s voice trembled. “I do sympathize, Madame de Bellecourt. Scott can become quite determined when he sets his mind on something. I, too, attempted to voice my concerns, but they fell on deaf ears.”

  “And my daughter, particularly after her father’s death, has become even more headstrong than before.”

  Desirée, suddenly noting their proximity and intimate conversation, was startled at whatever conspiracy these formidable women might be hatching. Entering the fray, she exclaimed, “Maman, darling, you should see the beautiful suit Mrs. Stoddard is wearing to the ceremony. It is simply perfect in every way.” With satisfied smiles, the two matriarchs resumed the meal, but their connection lingered.

  As the waiters were clearing the main course plates and silverware in preparation for dessert, Desirée’s uncle cleared his throat. “My dear friends and family,” he announced. “I would like to say what everyone is thinking but no one has mentioned. Desirée, my always special but often unpredictable niece, you and Scott have taken us by surprise.” He bowed in the direction of Madame de Bellecourt. “Naturally, my sister-in-law told me some time ago that you were seeing an American, a graduate student in Geneva, but the situation advanced rather more quickly than any of us could’ve imagined. But the more I think about your love, it is not as surprising as one might think. My dear brother, Bertrand (God rest his soul), moved to America in the mid-fifties, and if one thing is certain, he loved that country, and he loved Americans. It was part of his esprit, as we say in French. So, when I heard the news, I thought, why not Desirée, too? She is her father’s daughter, through and through, as her mother will surely attest: strong willed, full of joy and love, and optimistic about all life has to offer. Why wouldn’t she fall in love with someone who embodies those characteristics that make Americans uniquely, well, American?” Scott, moved, saw that there were smiles all around and Desirée’s eyes were moist with tears. “I raise my glass to this surprising couple,” Pierre concluded.

  Madame de Bellecourt and Mrs. Stoddard were the barometers of record; as their sentimen
ts rose and fell, so would those of the entourage. Pierre’s speech had worked for the moment. Finally, there seemed a hint of the joy that one expected with a marriage celebration (if not joy, then a happy acceptance that any opposition to the wedding, either in thought or action, was counter to destiny’s designs). For better or worse, and in spite of anyone’s misgivings, Scott and Desirée would be married.

  Scott’s father, ever more malleable than his mother, was the first to respond favorably, complimenting Pierre on his well wishes to the couple (and the compliments to his son and country). His mother didn’t want to appear to give in to platitudes and sentimentality; even following her friendly conversation with, and approval from, Madame de Bellecourt, her face still retained traces of her intractable streak. Though she was warming, Scott felt certain there was little prospect that his mother would fully embrace the nuptials before she and his father returned to the States, and that could be particularly unfortunate. She was playing a dangerous game; after the wedding and once the baby came, Desirée would hold most of the cards.

  forty-eight

  IN THE UNITED STATES, A SMALL INTIMATE GATHERING OF the bride’s and groom’s families, their witnesses, and officiant (in this case, Father Kohler) is called the rehearsal dinner. Scott and Desirée’s was held at the Ritz Hotel’s private terrace, just off the main room of the hotel’s Michelin-awarded, three-star restaurant and bar. The court was enclosed by ivy-covered walls and a series of French doors with mousseline drapes through which the dazzling restaurant and bar were visible. Planted with trees and small hedges and paved with polished stones and tiles in a geometric pattern, the terrace was arranged in intimate groupings, with tables and chairs clustered in the center of the garden. The party’s private bar was situated on one flank while hors d’oeuvres were served on the other. Lanterns at various locations illuminated without overpowering the festivities. The staff, in white coats with gold epaulettes, were stationed at strategic points, ensuring no guest went unattended.