A Friend in Paris

by Jennie Goutet

  “I can’t be sure. It’s true—I have no proof.” Chastity took a deep breath, knowing that this admission didn’t add to her credibility, but she was certain enough in her suspicions to insist. “Sometimes I catch a whiff of something that doesn’t smell like nicotine. It’s mostly his behavior in class. He seems so mellow at times, he’s almost comatose.”

  “My son is reserved.” Mr. de Brase shrugged. “As you said, you can’t be sure that the smoke is what you think it is. Or even that it came from him.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Mr. de Brase stood, ending the conversation. “I appreciate your concern for my son. I’ll take into consideration everything you said, but I believe you’re mistaken in the matter.”

  Chastity stood too, her eyes level with his chin so she was forced to look up. “Why? Why aren’t you even considering the possibility that your son needs help? What have you got to lose?”

  She saw his face flush with anger and wondered if she had been too pushy and whether Elizabeth was going to hear about it. Mr. de Brase walked to the door and turned back long enough to say, “Good day, Mademoiselle.”

  His broad shoulders filled the narrow corridor, and she watched him turn the corner and disappear from sight.

  Perhaps that wasn’t exactly my best behavior, she mused. But really. How am I supposed to be nice to the man?

  Chapter Two

  The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of the Château of Maisons-Laffitte, and the small square windowpanes made a checkered pattern of sunlight on the wooden floor. It was a warm day for late October, and the crisp sound of birds chirping nearby intermingled with the muted squeals of children playing further away.

  The Viscount Charles Jean Anne Monorie de Brase sat behind the Louis XIV desk, which was antique in structure but modern in disarray with cords and chargers strewn among the documents. Papers were stacked in what could roughly be called piles, and a steaming cup of espresso sat in the center of it all, yet untouched. Leaning back against his padded armchair, one leg crossed easily over the other, Charles idly flipped through yesterday’s news articles on the tablet perched on his lap, raising his brows over one of the photo captions.

  He dipped an end of the sugar cube in his coffee and watched as the cube turned brown. Then, stirring it with the tiny silver spoon, he drank the liquid in one swallow. As soon as the porcelain cup clattered on the saucer, a door in the wall opened that was so discreet you wouldn’t notice it unless you knew where to look.

  “I don’t imagine you want to be involved in this, monsieur, but the élagueurs are here from Versailles to trim the trees and bushes. I told André to show them what to do.”

  “You’re right. I don’t need to be involved. They know what they’re doing.”

  “Oui, monsieur.” The butler walked over and picked up the empty cup and saucer. “That just leaves your visit with the stable manager this morning before your family arrives for lunch.”

  Charles focused on some distant point out the window. “I wonder if we can keep the meeting at the stables to under an hour. Or better yet,” he muttered under his breath, “skip the family reunion entirely.” He sighed, and the butler waited silently.

  Noticing his employer had gone back to reading the news, Paltier ventured, “May I ask what time lunch should be served?”

  “My mother won’t arrive until one o’clock, so we’ll eat shortly after that.” Charles smiled by way of dismissal, and Paltier nodded his gray head, leaving the room through the discreet passageway.

  By the time the sounds of his mother’s arrival filtered up the stairs, the visit to the stables had been completed in record time, and his two sisters and the elder’s husband had been there for a half-hour. A stout, graying woman climbed the stairs with difficulty and stood erect at the entrance to the sitting room where the family was taking refreshments.

  “Hello, Maman.” Charles rose to his feet and crossed the room to kiss her lightly on each cheek. “I hope you didn’t hit too much traffic.”

  “The péripherique was slow, as to be expected.” She glanced around the room shrewdly. “Ah. I see you moved that Cézanne as I suggested.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she studied the painting for a moment before adding, “It needs to be closer to this armchair. It’s not properly centered between the windows.”

  Charles sighed inwardly. He was respected in his field, and the owner of the nicest château on the outskirts of Paris, but his mother had the gift of making him feel like a boy as soon as she entered the room. She turned stiffly in her cream-colored Chanel suit to where a teenager with headphones was lounging on the sofa by the window.

  “Louis, aren’t you going to greet your grandmother?” Her tone was acerbic as she addressed the boy’s father. “Perhaps a few hints on etiquette from time to time would serve him well. That’s how I raised you, if you’ll remember.”

  “How could I possibly forget it?” he murmured. Or escape it? Charles lifted a stemmed glass lying on a nearby table. “A glass of Porto, Maman?” She shook her head no, scrutinizing the young man who rose to his feet and slipped off his headphones before lumbering over to his grandmother and kissing her. “Bonjour, Grand-mère.”

  The matriarch turned back towards her son, her pale blue eyes boring into his. She didn’t bother to lower her voice. “I’ve told you this before, but he needs a woman in his life. A mother. It’s been fifteen years.”

  She walked across the room to kiss her daughters and son-in-law, who had risen on her arrival, and turned back with an afterthought. “But not that young actress of yours.”

  Charles felt his temper rise, but he kept his face impassive from years of training. “Shall we have lunch?” He gestured for his mother to lead the way into the dining room that was large enough to accommodate the massive table.

  Over the first course, Charles’s sister, Adelaide, who was older by four years and his closest sibling in affection, leaned over with a twinkle in her eye. “How is that actress of yours?” She grinned and poked her fork into the toast with melted chèvre and took a bite.

  “You have salad in your teeth.”

  Adelaide knew not to be put off by his grumpy rejoinder. Turning her face from her mother, who sat across from them, she grinned wider showing all her teeth, now full of salad and cheese in the crevices. “Do you think she will like me, Charles?” She eyed him balefully, her mouth full.

  “Please be serious.” The stony face was belied by a smile in his eyes.

  Adelaide suppressed a grin and murmured, “Don’t rise to the bait, Charlie.”

  The dowager interrupted her son-in-law, who rarely paused for breath. “What are you talking about over there?”

  “I was asking Charles if he could look in on Isabelle at Cambridge when he goes to England next weekend.” Adelaide’s daughter was in her first semester at university there.

  “Why are you going to England?” his mother interrogated.

  Charles shot his sister a look before breaking off a piece of bread. “Manon will begin filming in London. I plan on accompanying her just for the weekend.”

  “Louis, what will you do while your father’s away?”

  Louis shrank into his seat as all eyes turned towards him. “I didn’t…I don’t know.” He scraped his fork against the plate, and everyone cringed.

  Charles’s eldest sister, Eléonore, who was six years his senior, spoke peremptorily. “Louis, you will come and stay with me.”

  Louis’s face froze in alarm until his father rescued him. “Louis is perfectly fine here by himself. He’s fifteen years old and doesn’t need a babysitter. Paltier will be here if he needs anything. Besides—” addressing his son directly, “you have plenty of homework, don’t you?”

  Louis mumbled and inspected the table, spared from a further need to talk by the footmen bringing in plates of roast pigeon and potatoes seasoned with thyme.

  “Charles, you know I don’t like poultry with little bones,” his eldest sister exclai
med.

  Paltier had begun to fill the viscount’s glass halfway with red wine, and he looked up at that. Charles drew in a breath. “I’m sorry, Eléonore. I had forgotten.”

  Adelaide hid a smile behind her linen napkin as her brother-in-law spoke bracingly. “It’s not like quail, mon chou. You won’t break a tooth this time.”

  “Paltier, I’ll have some fish. Or an egg if you’ve nothing else.” Eléonore inched backwards in her seat to allow the footman to clear the plate.

  “My dear,” continued her loving husband, “you are perfectly right to take no chances, especially with Mathilde’s wedding coming up. Last time you chipped your tooth, you couldn’t talk properly for a month.”

  “No loss,” whispered Adelaide.

  Charles was immune to Adelaide’s attempts to make him laugh in front of their mother—the age-old game for their private amusement. He knew she wanted to chip through his icy exterior, and she knew his coldness was only a façade. Still, they slipped into the roles easily. Ignoring Adelaide, he addressed his mother. “The mayor asked me to serve on his advisory board for the city.”

  Eléonore looked up. “It’s about time you got more involved in politics.” Eléonore’s husband, Raphael was the campaign director for the right wing political party in France.

  “I’m not getting involved in politics,” Charles said firmly. “I’m more concerned with the affairs in this town—preserving the forest, for a start.”

  “I thought that was a given,” Adelaide said, serious for once. “I thought there were strict laws and that nothing could be built there.”

  “There are.” Charles took a sip of his wine and separated the meat from the drumstick. Its brown sauce marred the pristine white of the china plate. “There are those who feel some of the forest could be sold off to build a new housing community.”

  Everyone became animated, except Louis, who examined his plate. “I have never heard of anything like this,” the dowager spluttered. “Is no property—no piece of history to remain sacred?”

  “Many people felt the same way when my father bought the Château de Maisons-Laffitte,” Charles said in a spirit of mischief.

  “I hope you do not regret he did so.” His mother’s tone was dangerous.

  “No Maman,” was the smooth reply. “I recognize the value of heritage.”

  His mother picked up her fork again but remained silent throughout the meal. Paltier brought in the cheese platter and everyone refused, except Charles and his brother-in-law, who apparently decided to ignore the straining shirt buttons. Everyone accepted an espresso.

  The family lingered after their coffee for over an hour while Louis slipped away. Afterwards, the dowager walked down the large marble steps in the foyer and allowed her son-in-law to open the heavy iron and glass door that led to the courtyard. She turned to her son to receive his kisses and, glancing beyond him to the men trimming the trees, placed her gloved hand on Charles’s arm and sighed. “The grounds have never looked as good as they did when Pierre was caring for them.”

  “Yes,” he answered with a grim smile. “But Pierre took off one day without saying a word.”

  “I was never more shocked in my life.” His mother gripped his arm. “After twenty-two years of faithful service to go off without a word. He left the hedges half-trimmed.” She shook her head, and in spite of her sudden vehemence, seemed frail.

  Charles waited for his mother to recover, and when she did, her voice held urgency. “See that you preserve the legacy of this place. It may not have been long in our family, but you owe it to the families that came before you—and you owe it to your son.”

  “I will, Maman.” He led his mother to the back seat of her chauffeured car. He helped her into it and turned to kiss his sisters, and take leave of his brother-in-law, as they crossed the courtyard. As usual, there was little discussion between the men.

  “Charles.” Raphael shook his hand, his pompous voice booming out in the courtyard.

  “Have a nice drive, Raphael.”

  The cars drove off, crunching on the pebbles until they reached the broad street. Charles stood on the stone steps, watching the iron gates close automatically behind them. He was plunged in thought, remembering the last time he saw Pierre before he disappeared.

  The gardener had been on the ladder, trimming the hedges manually, which was, in itself, an ordinary occurrence. The younger version of himself rounded the corner with his childhood friend, Miriam, having just discovered she returned his deeper feelings. Pierre frowned when he spotted the young couple, and when they looked up, their newly clasped hands flew apart. The gardener removed his beret and studied its lining.

  Charles and Miriam had been unable to subdue their excitement. Joy spilled out in their bright eyes and the large smiles of young love. Normally, Pierre would have risked a wink at Charles, celebrating his triumph, but on that day the gardener was somber and unlike himself—as if there had been foreboding that such happiness could not last.

  Charles was frozen, recalling Miriam’s brown eyes—the only thing he could remember clearly without looking at a photo. The grief he suffered was long gone, but there had never been any joy to take its place. Sometimes he wondered if that should worry him.

  He turned to go inside and came up flush against the same set of eyes, causing his heart to skip a beat in surprise—a ghost rising from the past.

  “Oh. Louis. You’re here.” He paused, his mind a blank. I don’t even know what to say to my own son. “Sorry to spring it on you that I’m away next weekend like that.” Charles shifted to the other foot.

  “That’s fine.” A long lock of dark, wavy hair hid Louis’s brown eyes, which didn’t sparkle or laugh like his mother’s, but rather turned downwards.

  His son didn’t offer anything else. Charles recalled his conversation with the English teacher and felt a flash of irritation towards her. He had the urge to lean forward and sniff his son to see if he smelled like smoke or something else. He resisted the urge. “I met with your English teacher.”

  Louis looked up, alarmed. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it and schooled his expression. His father was forced to go on. “Is…uh, everything all right in school?”

  “Yes, Papa, everything’s totally fine.” Louis oriented his face towards the door.

  Charles sighed, his eyes on his son. He's just going through a phase, like all boys his age. He'll come about if I leave him alone. He glanced at the iron gates that had closed behind his mother's departing car. At least that's what I would have wanted. A bit of space and more trust. “Make sure you do your homework for school tomorrow.”

  “Oui, Papa.” Louis made his escape.

  Charles stood on the steps surveying the beauty of his property and trying to shake off the ghosts it held. To the left, the élagueurs were now working on the rows of trees closest to the edge of the park. One man was standing in the bucket, perched on the arm of a small truck. He sliced the side of the tree with his electric trimmer in a perfect line. There were shouts as the men below cleared the area of falling branches.

  Charles turned and entered the marble foyer, his footsteps echoing as he walked up the empty staircase.

  Jean was sure it was him. The gentleman who leaned over the stone wall overlooking the Seine perfectly fit the description he’d been given. He had the straight black hair with a touch of gray, the Mediterranean skin color, the black leather jacket. He stood there, waiting. It couldn’t be anyone else.

  He watched as the guy pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his inside pocket. He could read the words FUMER TUE in large letters, even from across the street. Smoking Kills. The man tapped a cigarette out of the packet before tucking it back inside his jacket. Jean waited one more minute before heading over.

  He was nervous. This was not a person you messed with—the man radiated power. Even if his reputation hadn’t preceded him, every movement he made was decisive. Jean jogged across the street, dodging the last car that was anticipating
the light before he reached the curb. Slightly out of breath—as much from nerves as from the light jog—he approached the wall at a respectful distance, leaving enough space not to threaten the man if he had misjudged.

  “Jean.” As if he had sensed his presence, the man turned and reached out his hand, his greeting a confirmation rather than a question. “Let’s walk.” He jerked his head East towards the Notre Dame and began heading in that direction.

  “Are you clear on what Etienne told you—your end of the deal?”

  “Yes.” Jean’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat and continued in a deeper tone. “It’s perfectly clear. There shouldn’t be any problem.”

  “I don’t want to rush this. I want every step in place before we proceed. You’re not to deviate from the plan. Is that clear?”

  “Absolutely.” Jean gave a firm nod. “That’s precisely how I operate. When I—”

  The man cut him off. “Good. I’m glad we agree on that. Take your time. Build those relationships you talked about slowly. It’s been sitting there for twenty-five years, and it can wait a few more months. The important thing is that this time we pull it off without anyone getting caught.” The man studied Jean and lifted his stubbled chin. “Any problems you can foresee?”

  “None at all,” he replied quietly. The man cut across the street without another word, and Jean watched as he disappeared into the crowd. An Asian couple approached, gesturing with their camera to take a photo of them next to the Pont Neuf. Jean forced himself to smile as he waited for them to pose and for his heartbeat to return to normal.

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  A Regrettable Proposal

  Chapter One

  “Manuscript Not Final, Copyright © Cedar Fort, Inc.”

  Excerpt From: Jennie Goutet. “A Regrettable Proposal”