Legacy: A Novel

by Danielle Steel

  “So what about the rest of your life? You write academic books. You worked at a university until recently. Are you married?” He seemed interested in knowing more about her. And so was she, about him. But she was sensible about it too. No matter how appealing he was, she was going home in a few days, and he lived here. So even if they liked each other, all they could ever be was friends. More than that made no sense. She wasn’t into casual sex or sleeping with men she’d never see again. And she was still feeling raw after the breakup with Ted. So at best they might be friends. Nothing more.

  “No, I’m thirty-eight, I’ve never been married, and my boyfriend and I just broke up a few weeks ago. He worked at the university too,” she answered simply and honestly.

  “Ah,” Marc said with interest, “both academics. Why did you break up?” He knew it was a little rude to ask her, but he was curious anyway.

  “He went to Egypt to run a dig. He’s an archaeologist, and he wants to stay there for several years, and he figures it’s better like this, going our separate ways. So we broke up.” He was surprised by what she said.

  “And you? Were you heartbroken?” He was searching her eyes as he asked, and she shrugged.

  “Not really. Disappointed. I thought it was forever. I was wrong.” She tried to sound matter-of-fact about it, more so than she felt. It was still fresh, and not yet healed.

  “I had a relationship like that too,” Marc volunteered. “I went out with a woman for ten years, and we broke up last year. She said she realized she didn’t want to be married and have children. I thought she did. I was waiting for her to finish medical school. And when she did, she didn’t want me. It feels stupid after ten years. But I realized afterward that we hadn’t been in love with each other for a long time. We were in the beginning, for the first few years. After that it was just convenient and easy. Somehow you drift along on the river, and one day you wake up and you’re someplace you don’t want to be, with someone you realize you don’t know. I’ve never been married either. And after that, I’m not sure I want to be anymore. I gave ten years of my life to that relationship. Now I’m enjoying my freedom and doing what I want. I don’t regret the woman, but I’m sorry I stayed in it for so long. I kept thinking it would grow, but it never did.” It was exactly what had happened to her with Ted. Nothing had grown. “It took me a while to get over it, but I’m fine. We’re friends now. I take her to dinner once in a while. She hasn’t met anyone else, and I think she’d like to come back, but I won’t. I like my life now.”

  “I don’t think Ted and I will end up friends. Geography, if nothing else. And I was pretty upset about it … mostly at myself. I made a lot of assumptions that didn’t apply. I missed all the signs.”

  “We all do that sometimes. I did it too. Now I’m forty-two and a bachelor. It’s not what I expected, but I’m fine like this.” He seemed to have come to terms with it, as she had with Ted.

  “Me too,” she said quietly. “I feel like those posters that say, ‘Oops, I forgot to have kids,’ but I did. I was too busy being a kid myself. I think working at a university does that to you. You forget how old you are. You think you’re one of them.”

  “I agree. I like the class I teach, but I wouldn’t want to be there full time. It’s a very insular life.” He finished his glass of wine then and smiled at her. “Shall we take a walk and see where your illustrious ancestor lived?” She had made note of the address at the library that day.

  “That would be nice.” She liked his openness and honesty, and he was interesting to talk to. She liked him a lot. She was sorry he didn’t live in Boston, he would have made a good friend.

  She took the address out of her bag, and he had remembered it himself. It was only a few blocks away from her hotel on the rue du Bac. They found the number easily and looked up at the house when they got there. It was a once-beautiful building that looked somewhat frayed now. The doors to the courtyard were open, and they walked in. Marc explained to her from the signs that were posted that it was occupied by government offices now, as many beautiful old houses on the Left Bank were. But you could see easily what the house had once been, with stalls for the carriages that were garages now, and tall windows, and Marc explained that there was probably a big garden on the other side of the house. It was a handsome place, and as she looked up at it, Brigitte felt the magic of knowing that Tristan de Margerac had once lived there when he was in Paris, and almost certainly Wachiwi had lived there with him. They had no doubt used it when they went to court and stayed in town.

  They wandered back out to the sidewalk, and he walked her to her hotel. He asked if she was going back to the archives the next day, and she said she was. He suggested lunch and she agreed. It was fun having someone to talk to about their projects, as she hunted for Wachiwi, and he researched his book.

  Marc was waiting for her in the lobby of the library the next day when she arrived. He had looked up some references for her, and she hit pay dirt this time when she checked them out. She almost squealed with delight as soon as she found them, and went running to find him. She had come across a diary where a lady-in-waiting from the court talked about the Marquis de Margerac and his beautiful young Indian bride. She said that she had been at their wedding, in a little church near their house on the rue du Bac. She reported that there had been a small reception at the house afterward, and the next day the new marquise had been presented at court to the king and queen, and she even mentioned Wachiwi by name.

  It thrilled Brigitte to realize that their wedding reception had been in the house that she and Marc had looked at the night before. This was incredible, and it was all so real. It still said nothing about how she had come to France. And then, miraculously, later in the afternoon, Brigitte came across another of the same woman’s diaries on her own, chronicling court life. She mentioned the birth of Tristan and Wachiwi’s first child, and his christening. She said they had named him after the marquis’s dead younger brother, who had accompanied Wachiwi from America to France. The woman said that he had saved her, and was planning to marry her, but had died on the trip over. And eventually Wachiwi had married his older brother the marquis instead. So that was how she had come. The younger brother, Jean the count, had rescued her and brought her from New Orleans to Brittany by ship, as the diary explained. The Frenchman mentioned in the oral histories in South Dakota was probably he. Brigitte couldn’t help wondering if the Crow chief Wachiwi had supposedly killed when she fled was really killed by Jean who rescued her from them. How he had found her no one would ever know. But now she knew how Wachiwi had come to France. And there were also mentions of the Sioux chiefs who came to court from time to time, but apparently Wachiwi was not related to any of them. The woman who had written the diaries found it a little odd that their king was so obsessed with them. She thought the Indians who visited court an unruly lot, but she had nothing but kind things to say about Wachiwi and said she was a lovely girl, and made the marquis an excellent wife.

  Brigitte pored through several more of her diaries, but found no further mention of the marquis and his bride. But now Brigitte had it all.

  She was wildly excited when she talked to Marc about it at the end of the day, when they went for a drink again so she could report what she’d found. He said he had had a good day too, and had found some excellent diaries himself, about Josephine, written by her ladies-in-waiting, and one dearest friend.

  “And what are you going to do with it now?” Marc asked her with an interested look.

  “I don’t know, write it up for my mother for her family history. That was the whole purpose of this.”

  “That was fine when your ancestors were ordinary people, but they no longer are,” he said with a serious look. “This girl is remarkable. You have to write a book about her. If you fictionalize it a little, it would make an extraordinary novel. Or even just the way it is. Like my grandparents and parents. Sometimes there is no greater romance than the truth.” Brigitte was unsure, but it was certa
inly more interesting than the women’s vote. That much was sure. But she was scared to tackle Wachiwi’s story and not do it justice.

  “I’m fascinated by it because I’m related to her. But do you think other people would be?” Brigitte asked hesitantly. This was way out of her normal realm.

  “Of course. You read my book about my father, and he was just a little boy. This girl traveled across continents, oceans, was kidnapped by Indians, married a nobleman. What more do you want? Do you know what happened to them during the Revolution? Were they killed?”

  “I don’t think so. Their death dates are later than that.”

  “Many of the nobles in Brittany resisted, and escaped the guillotine. They held out, and they were a long way from Paris, which helped. But a lot of the Royalists and nobles in Brittany survived. Some even managed to keep their châteaux. The French call those Royalist resistants after the Revolution Les Chouans.”

  “I’ll find out about that when I go to Brittany. I’m going to go down there in a few days.” And then she had a crazy idea, since she hardly knew him, but he had been so helpful so far and they were becoming friends. “Do you want to come?”

  He didn’t hesitate for an instant. “I’d like that very much.” And then she looked nervous. She didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. She wasn’t propositioning him, she was asking him as a fellow researcher and a friend. He had understood that. He didn’t want to spoil their budding friendship either, and he was equally aware that she was going back to the States in a short time, when she finished her research.

  “There’s no romance involved, by the way,” she clarified, and he laughed. American women were so direct. It had shocked him a little when he went to graduate school in Boston. A Frenchwoman wouldn’t have said that in quite that way.

  “I understood that. Don’t worry. I can help you with your research there.”

  “You’ve been fantastic,” she said, and meant it. He had been invaluable to her, and Providence had brought him to her. If he hadn’t turned up, she would never have been able to work the Bibliothèque Nationale on her own. She would be eternally grateful to him for that. She just didn’t want to get carried away with him romantically. It didn’t make sense, and they’d just get hurt, no matter how appealing she thought he was. They were much better off staying friends, and apparently he agreed.

  “I know a nice hotel there, by the way. I’ll make the reservations, and yes, I know, two rooms, and a chastity belt for the lady.”

  “I’m sorry.” She blushed a little. “Was I rude?”

  “No, you were honest, and I like that. We both know where we stand.”

  “It would just be silly to start something, and then I go back, and we’re both sorry.”

  “Are you always so sensible?” He was interested in her as a person, and liked what he knew so far.

  She thought about it and then nodded. “Probably too much so.”

  “You don’t have to go back, you know. You said you don’t have a job. You could work at the American University of Paris, they have an admissions office, and you could write your book here.” He had it all worked out, much to her surprise. He liked organizing people’s lives, and helping them get what they wanted. But she didn’t want to write a book about her relatives, nor stay in Paris. She was going home.

  “I haven’t said I would write a book.” She smiled at him. He was looking and sounding very French, and he wanted her to stay. He thought her a very interesting woman, more than anyone he’d met in a while.

  “Why don’t you talk to them at AUP? You could spend a year here, and see how you like it.” She laughed at the thought. He was crazy. She lived in Boston. And had a book to finish about women’s suffrage. But Wachiwi was so much more interesting than the vote. She was what women’s freedoms were all about, and had been two hundred years ahead of her time.

  He didn’t press the point, and they stayed at the bistro and had dinner, and she had an odd feeling as she walked back to the hotel. Tristan and Wachiwi had lived in the house so nearby. They had married, had their wedding reception, had a baby. Their lives had happened so close to where she stood, and hundreds of years later they seemed so alive to her. It was as though they were reaching out to her. She couldn’t get them out of her head.

  She wondered if Marc was right and she should write a book about them, as a tribute to their love. She was beginning to like the idea. She even liked his suggestion that she work at AUP, but she had a life in Boston she had to go back to, or thought she should. Paris was so seductive, with its sparkling Eiffel Tower, its bistros and cafés, and even Marc, whom she barely knew but liked so far. But she couldn’t let herself get seduced by any of it. She was determined to resist the charm of Paris, and even his. They would go to Brittany, she would see what she could find there about her ancestors, and then she was going home. This was real life, not a book. And in real life, people met, nothing happened, and you went home. Or they went off to Egypt and told you that they weren’t a commitment kind of guy after six years. That was real life. Not a guy like Marc. Or the marquis.

  Chapter 15

  Wachiwi

  1784-85

  The marquis returned from court a week after he had left, and he was happy to see Wachiwi. He came home to find Wachiwi giving Matthieu a riding lesson in the ring. A very sedate one. She wanted to ask Tristan for his permission before she did anything more advanced with his son. She asked him as soon as they met again, and he instantly agreed. He couldn’t imagine a riding teacher more competent than Wachiwi, from what he had seen. And she promised not to teach Matthieu any of the wild things she did on her own. But she wanted to teach him to ride bareback and to feel comfortable with their horses. There was a natural quality to her riding that Tristan wanted to learn from her too, but he suspected it was in her blood, and he would never fully achieve the ease she had. When the governess told him where Matthieu was, and his father went out to the stables to watch, he saw that Matthieu was doing well, and Wachiwi asked Tristan permission to teach him more.

  Wachiwi was wearing her elkskin dress and moccasins, and was showing the boy several things about his horse. How to check his muscles, how to feel at one with him. She took the saddle off, and led him bareback around the ring. The boy looked thrilled, and then gave a shout of glee when he saw his father. Wachiwi helped him off so he could run to him, and smiled as Matthieu took off and threw himself into his father’s arms.

  Wachiwi was planning to give Agathe a short ride on a pony that afternoon, to try and get her over her fears. She had become their new riding mistress while their father was gone. Her methods were unorthodox, by their standards, but her skill was supreme. And Tristan knew that if Matthieu learned from her, he would become an exceptional horseman, and he liked that idea.

  He looked over Mathieu’s head at Wachiwi and smiled at her. He thanked her for her lessons to his son.

  “I enjoy it even more than he does.” She was in the stables all the time now and rode out in the hills by herself. No other woman in the district did that, but she was totally at ease. There were no dangers here. No war party was going to attack her, or spirit her away. She was safe on his lands. And he suggested they ride together that afternoon. “How was court?” she asked him politely.

  “As it always is. Excessively busy, with too many people and a thousand intrigues. It’s very fatiguing, but one has to go. It makes a bad impression to stay away for too long.” But it was a long trip for him from Brittany.

  “At least you have a house in Paris to stay at when you’re there,” she mentioned, and he nodded.

  “Since my wife died, I seldom use it anymore. She enjoyed going to court more than I do, and we went to Paris more often.” Matthieu was running ahead of them as they walked back to the house. He loved his riding lessons with her. And Tristan was excited at the prospect of her teaching the boy more.

  “Is your house right in town?”

  “Yes, not far from the palace of the Louvre, although the
king and queen are more often in Versailles now, which is just outside the city. Perhaps you will go one day,” he said vaguely. He had mentioned her to one of his friends at court, who had said it would be amusing if he brought her. But Tristan felt cautious about his role with her. She had been his late brother’s fiancée, and no matter how much he liked her as a person, her presence was still awkward for both of them. She was keeping busy with the riding lessons for the children, and he was grateful to her. He liked the way she was with his children. She was sensible, and warm with them. And he could see how much they liked her. When he went to the nursery to see Agathe after his trip, she threw herself into Wachiwi’s arms first, and then her father’s. She was hungry for the mother she had never had. Mademoiselle was no substitute for the mother she had lost. Wachiwi wanted only to be her friend, and had hoped to be her aunt.

  The riding lessons continued over the next several months. Matthieu became noticeably more proficient, and Wachiwi taught his father a few of her “tricks” (as he called them). She had taken his breath away one day when she showed him how she could conceal herself along the side of a horse at full speed. He wasn’t about to try it, but she seemed to become part of the horse, and hang in space as they flew and she clung to the heavy beast. She had no fear at all. She could stand on the horse’s back as it galloped, and leap onto its back from the ground. She had a magic with horses and they did things for her they would do for no one else.

  His children adored her, and even Agathe had come to enjoy her pony rides now. She would never be a horsewoman, her mother hadn’t been, but she wasn’t frightened anymore, and she loved feeding her pony an apple when she got off.

  Another thing they had all noticed about her was how silent Wachiwi was. Particularly in her moccasins, but even in normal shoes, Wachiwi made absolutely no sound when she walked. She seemed to walk on air. Her father had frequently commented on it too. She had the grace of a butterfly and made as little noise. The Dancer was the perfect name for her.