Legacy: A Novel

by Danielle Steel

  “How disgusting,” the governess said, turned her back, and began putting their toys away.

  And in her own room, looking out the window at the ocean, Wachiwi was thinking about them. She knew now that she would never marry. She had refused the suitors in her village, and Napayshni. The only man she had ever loved and wanted to marry was Jean. And now he was gone. A tear crept down her cheek as she thought of it. But at least she could be kind to his nephew and niece and brother, for as long as she could stay. She didn’t know what would happen to her now, but she knew that sooner or later she’d have to go. She couldn’t stay here without Jean. Of that she was certain.

  Wachiwi saw Tristan leave for Paris early the next morning, before dawn. She had awakened early and was looking out the window when she saw him come out of the stables on horseback with his valet and a groom. He didn’t bother taking the carriage now that he was alone. And Matthieu had told her that the three men would stop at an inn that night. They would ride for fifteen hours for two days and then stay at his Paris house. Tristan had told her himself that he didn’t like going to Paris. He preferred his quiet life in Brittany and had too much to do here on his estate to waste time going to court. He said that since his wife’s death he went as seldom as he could, but he didn’t want to be disrespectful of the king, so he went from time to time.

  Wachiwi wondered what it was like at court, and found it hard to imagine. Jean had described it to her, and all she could envision were women who looked like his cousin Angélique, which seemed daunting to her. He had described millions of candles and mirrors, long tables with enormous feasts, music, dancing, and complicated intrigues that made no sense to her. Jean had said that many people wanted favors from the king and queen and did all kinds of things to obtain them.

  She couldn’t imagine Tristan as part of all that, or even dancing. He seemed like such a sober, quiet man, and as though he would be happiest on a horse, or with his children. She couldn’t envision him in satin breeches and a powdered wig and was glad she didn’t have to see it. She liked the person he was here, in Brittany.

  She watched him ride away from the château, with his two servants riding behind him. It started to rain softly as they disappeared from sight, and she knew it would be a long ride to Paris. She hoped he wouldn’t catch a chill or get sick. Jean’s death had reminded her that even strong men could be fragile. And she had already come to like and respect Tristan. He was the older brother she no longer had and still longed for and whom Jean had described with such love and respect. Tristan was someone she already sensed that one could count on. She was embarrassed to be so dependent on him without Jean. But for now, Tristan and his children were all she had. She prayed for his safe return from Paris, for their sake and her own.

  Chapter 14

  Brigitte

  The plane took off for Paris from Kennedy Airport on a Friday night just before midnight, as Brigitte looked out the window, thinking about what she was going to do. She wanted to go to Brittany, but she planned to go to the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris first. It seemed fairly simple, once she figured out her way around their archives; all she had to do was look up the Marquis de Margerac and see what they had on him. She already knew he had been married to Wachiwi, but she wanted to see what else there was about them. And then she would go down to Brittany by train.

  She’d been brushing up on her French for the past week. It had been fairly decent in college, and she’d written some good papers, but she hadn’t spoken it in sixteen years. She’d been listening to Berlitz tapes for the last several days. And the moment the flight attendant spoke to her in French on Air France, she felt paralyzed. She understood what she’d said but couldn’t answer. She just hoped they spoke English at the National Archives. She was planning to go there on Monday.

  She had booked a reservation at a small hotel on the Left Bank that someone in her office had recommended to her years before. She and Ted had always wanted to go to Paris, and never had. They had gone to the Grand Canyon, and an art fair in Miami instead. That was as far as they got. And now here she was, going there alone, while he started a dig in Egypt. They were on separate paths forever now. But she liked the one she was on better, and felt good about it.

  The weather was beautiful when she got to Paris the next morning. It was still chilly and felt like winter, but the sun was shining brightly, and she took a cab from the airport to her hotel. She managed to tell the driver in French where she was going, and he understood her, which was a major victory for her. She was traveling on a new passport, because her old one had expired. She hadn’t left the country in that long. But now here she was. She was giddy with excitement as they drove into town. And the driver couldn’t have planned his route more perfectly. He drove down the Champs Élysées, where she could see the Arc de Triomphe, across the Place de la Concorde full of Japanese brides having their photographs taken in their wedding gowns, and then they drove across the Seine, onto the Left Bank, and he took her to her hotel. She caught a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower on the way.

  The small hotel was clean, and her room was tiny. But there was a bistro across the street, a drugstore down the block, a dry cleaner—everything she could need. After she dropped her suitcase in her room, having managed to check in in French, another victory, she walked across the street and sat down at a sidewalk café and ordered lunch. She was doing great so far, and she felt like the mistress of her own fate as she watched people wandering by. There were a lot of couples kissing, men on motor scooters with girls wrapped around them, or the reverse. Paris looked like a city of couples, but for some reason she didn’t feel lonely there. She was happy and excited about what she was doing, and she couldn’t wait to go to the archives on Monday. She just hoped she’d find someone who spoke enough English to help her. And if not, she’d manage in her rusty French. Much to her amazement, she wasn’t even scared. Everything that she was doing felt right.

  After lunch, she wandered through the narrow streets of the Left Bank, and eventually found her way back to her hotel, without asking for directions. And she lay on the bed in her room that night, looking at her notes on Wachiwi again. What she wanted to find now was some mention of her and the marquis somewhere, hopefully at the French court, and maybe then she would discover how she had met him, if it mattered. She had married him and had his children, which was enough. But locating some history of her at court would be the icing on the cake, or what the French called la cerise sur le gâteau, the cherry on top of the cake.

  Brigitte explored St. Germain des Prés further on Sunday, and went to church. She walked to the Louvre, and strolled along the Seine. And feeling like a tourist, she stood and watched the Eiffel Tower, hoping it would sparkle for ten minutes on the hour, as it did at night. There was no sign of that in the daytime. She had forgotten how much she loved the city—it was beautiful and part of her heritage. So was Ireland, through her father, but she had never had any particular interest in that, nor affinity for it. France was so much more romantic and more fun to read about. She had always been interested in French history, maybe because her mother talked about it so much, and after she was eleven, her father wasn’t around, so her link to her Irish ancestors had vanished.

  Sunday went by faster than she had expected, and she had dinner at the bistro across the street from her hotel. The food wasn’t terrific, but it was good enough, and before she went to bed, she walked back to the Seine again, and watched the Bateaux Mouches drift by, all lit up. She could see Notre Dame in the distance. And the Eiffel Tower did its sparkler act for her at last. She was thrilled by it and felt like a delighted child as she watched. The cab driver had told her on the way in from the airport that it had been doing that since the year 2000—it sparkled for ten minutes every hour. And even Parisians loved it.

  She was excited when she went to bed that night and she woke up early. The hotel served croissants and coffee in the lobby and she helped herself to some and then took a cab to the Bibliothèque Nationale
. It was on the Quai François Mauriac, and it was open when she got there. She went to the information desk and explained what she was looking for and the approximate years. They sent her upstairs, where a librarian clearly had no desire to help her. She simply looked annoyed and didn’t speak a word of English. It was a far cry from the help she had gotten from the Mormons in Salt Lake.

  Brigitte carefully wrote down on a piece of paper what she wanted, what kind of books, and the span of years and subject, and the woman handed it back to her with a stream of hostile French. Brigitte had no idea what to do, and had an overwhelming desire to burst into tears, but she controlled herself, took a breath, and tried again. Eventually, the woman just shrugged, tossed the paper back at her, and walked away. Brigitte stood looking after her, and wanted to hit her, and instead she started to walk away in defeat. She knew she would get nowhere. She wanted to regroup and figure out what she was going to do now. Maybe she had to forget Paris as a resource and go straight to Brittany instead. She turned around to leave the desk, and as she did, she bumped into a man behind her, and expected him to shout at her too. Instead, he smiled.

  “Can I help you? They’re not very helpful to foreigners here. You have to know what you’re looking for very specifically,” he said in excellent English. He had been listening to the exchange. He reached for the paper, and Brigitte handed it to him without a word. He looked as though he was in his early forties. He was French, but spoke English with a British accent, as some educated French people did. But he was obviously fluent. He was wearing jeans and a parka and loafers, and had hair almost as dark as hers. He had warm brown eyes and a nice smile when he looked at her, and he took the piece of paper and approached the desk again. The same woman came up to it, and he explained smoothly in French what he believed Brigitte wanted. The woman nodded, disappeared, came back, and gave him the exact location of the whole section Brigitte was interested in. He hadn’t asked for anything different than she did. He had just said it in better French.

  “I’m sorry. They’re not very nice here. I come here all the time. I can show you where the section is. I did a book on Louis XVI last year. I know where it is.”

  “You’re a writer?” she asked as he led her to the right section. There were desks and chairs and benches, and endless stacks of books.

  “I’m a historian turned novelist because no one buys history unless you lie about it and make it more interesting. The truth is that the real stories are even more intriguing, they’re just not as well written. You’re a writer too?” He handed her back the piece of paper, with a smile. He was of medium height with slightly tousled hair that gave him a boyish look. And he definitely looked French. He wasn’t sexy, he was friendly. She smiled to herself, thinking that Amy would have said he was “cute.”

  “I’m an anthropologist. I’m researching some family history for my mother. Or I was. I fell in love with it, and I guess now I’m doing it for me. I’m hoping to find some diaries about the French court. You wouldn’t know of any, would you?” He seemed to be her only hope now of locating anything here.

  “There are an enormous number of them. You just have to wade through them. Anything in particular?”

  “I’m looking for accounts of the Sioux Indians that Louis XVI invited to the court as guests, and an ancestor of mine who was a marquis.”

  “That sounds interesting. You ought to write a novel about it,” he teased.

  “I only write academic nonfiction that makes no money and puts people to sleep.”

  “So did I, until I started writing historical novels, which is actually a lot of fun. You get to play around with history and add fictional people to the real ones, and they do what you want. Most of the time anyway.” He seemed interested in what she was doing, and he had been very helpful to her.

  He went in pursuit of his own research then. Brigitte took down a stack of diaries in the section he had pointed out to her, but she found no mention of Wachiwi or the Margeracs, so it turned out to be a lost day. She ran into him again when she was leaving the archives late that afternoon. She had been there all day, without even stopping for lunch. She had brought an apple in her purse and ate it while she continued reading.

  “Did you find anything?” he asked with interest. She shook her head, looking disappointed.

  “That’s a shame. You have to keep at it. It’s here somewhere. Everything is,” he said calmly. But he knew his way around. Brigitte didn’t.

  “What are you working on?” she asked politely as they left the building together.

  “A book about Napoleon and Josephine. It’s hardly an unusual subject, but it’s fun to write. I teach literature at the Sorbonne, so that pays my rent. But the books help a bit too.”

  He was very friendly and open with her, and he introduced himself as they stood on the front steps on the way out. He said his name was Marc Henri. His name sounded familiar, but it was a fairly ordinary French name.

  She saw him again the next day as she made her way through the stacks. She still hadn’t found anything of interest when he wandered over to her in the late afternoon. And she was exhausted from reading in French. She had to use a dictionary constantly, which made it tedious work.

  “What is the name of the ancestor who was the marquis? Perhaps I can find him for you,” he said helpfully, and she wrote it down for him. “We can cross-reference him in their lists.” And five minutes later Marc had found him. She was embarrassed by how easy it was for him, and how difficult for her. But the archives were confusing, and it wasn’t her language.

  They looked up Tristan de Margerac together, and it listed his Paris address in 1785. It was on the Left Bank, and she had a feeling it wasn’t far from where she was staying. She wondered what the building was now. But it said nothing about his wife.

  “We might find him in some diaries tomorrow,” Marc said hopefully, “if he went to court often. Did he live in Paris all the time?”

  “No, the family seat was in Brittany. I’m planning to go there next week, to visit the château.”

  “You have very fancy ancestors,” he teased her, and they both laughed. “Mine were all either paupers, priests, or in prison. What about the Sioux Indians you’re looking for? Are you related to them too?” He was kidding, and didn’t expect a positive response when she nodded.

  “The marquis married one of them. She was a Sioux Indian, the daughter of a chief in South Dakota. I’m trying to figure out how he met her. I think it must have been at court. But I don’t know how she got there, or to France. She’s an amazing young girl.”

  “She must have been, for a French nobleman to marry her. It would be interesting to know how that happened, wouldn’t it?” She told him about her research with the Mormons and at the University of South Dakota then, and he was intrigued. “That is fascinating. I can see why you’re pursuing it. I feel that way about Josephine Bonaparte when I read about her. She was a bewitching woman too. And so was Marie Antoinette. I’d give you some books to read about them, but they’re all in French.” He casually suggested a drink to her on the way out, and feeling somewhat swept away by their mutual interest in history and research, she agreed. She didn’t usually go out with strangers, but there was a café nearby and he seemed like a nice man.

  “So tell me, what do you do when you’re not chasing your relatives all over France? Do you teach anthropology or only write books?” he asked her, as they sat at a table in the café.

  “I worked in the admissions office of Boston University for ten years.” She was about to tell him she had just quit, but decided to tell the truth. “I got laid off. That means I got fired, and a computer took my job.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. What are you going to do now?”

  “This, for a while. And then I’ll probably go back to work in the admissions office of another college. There are a lot of them in Boston, that’s where I live.”

  He smiled as she said it. “I did a master’s in literature at Harvard, and one at Oxf
ord. I had more fun in Boston. Where do you live?” She told him, and he said he had had an apartment about four blocks from hers. It was a funny coincidence, and then she realized why she had recognized his name. “You did a book about a little boy who looks for his parents after the war, didn’t you? I remember your name now. I read it in translation. It was incredibly touching. They were in the Resistance and had been killed, and another family takes him in, and eventually he married their daughter. It was the sweetest book I ever read, although it was very sad.”

  He looked pleased. “That little boy was my father. My parents actually. My mother is the daughter of the family that took him in. My grandparents were killed in the Resistance. That was my first book. I dedicated it to them.”

  “I remember. I cried like crazy when I read it.”

  “So did I when I wrote it.” She was impressed that he had written that book. It had been beautifully written even in translation, and very poignant. It had haunted her for weeks after she read it.

  “You know, you look a little Indian,” he said, looking at her.

  “The woman at the Mormon Family History Library said that too. I think it’s just because I have dark hair.”

  “I love the idea that you’re part Sioux. How exotic. And how interesting. Most of our histories are so boring, and look at you. An Indian great-great-great-great-whatever-grandmother, who came from America and married a marquis.”

  “Better than that, she was kidnapped by another tribe and ran away from her captor. She may have killed him, and then escaped with a Frenchman, or at least a white man, and wound up here. No mean feat for a woman in 1784.”

  “Those are powerful genes,” he said admiringly. But so were his, she remembered from the book he’d written. His grandparents had been war heroes and were decorated by de Gaulle posthumously. They had saved countless lives before they lost their own.