Dreaming of Manderley

by Leah Marie Brown

  “What if they sink?”

  He strokes my cheek with his thumb. “What if they learn to swim?”

  “You’re right,” I say.

  “I usually am,” he says, winking.

  He picks up my suitcase and we continue walking to the elevator. I push the down arrow.

  “Xavier?”

  “Oui?”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Saying you will be my life preserver.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  It is just after dawn when the rattle of a room service trolley in the hallway outside our suite pulls me from my slumber. I open my eyes and stare at the sixteenth-century fresco painted on the ceiling over my bed, an angel surrounded by a band of plump cherubs in a sky awash with golden sunlight, and wonder if I am still dreaming.

  I pinch my arm beneath the covers just to be sure I am truly awake and breathe a sigh of relief when it hurts. I have had wonderful dreams before, the sort of dreams that linger after you wake up and make you grieve for the loss of them as they fade from your memory, but waking up in Italy knowing I am getting married in a few hours is a dream come true.

  We arrived at the Palazzo della Ferrante several hours after sunset. The luxurious boutique hotel situated on the shores of Lake Como was originally built as a palace for an Italian Renaissance prince. Our two-bedroom suite has wrought-iron Juliet balconies with panoramic views of the lake and snow-capped mountains.

  When Xavier said we could elope to Italy, where it is easy for foreigners to be legally wed in civil ceremonies conducted by a public official, I pictured a nondescript government building in an ancient village. I never dreamt we would be married in a Renaissance palace.

  I certainly never dreamt we would spend our wedding night with cherubs gazing down upon us, but soon Xavier will climb into this bed and we will make love for the first time beneath the watchful gazes of angelic children. I try to imagine what it will be like to have Xavier’s naked body atop mine, his hands cupping my bottom, lifting me against him. His tongue tracing my lips, the faint taste of scotch in my mouth.

  There is a knock at my bedroom door and my body flushes with heat, as if my thoughts have been projected on the ceiling for anyone to see.

  “Come in.”

  The door opens and Xavier strides in, dressed in black trousers and a summer-weight light cashmere sweater, the sleeves stretching around his large biceps.

  “Bonjour, ma bichette,” he says, leaning over the bed and kissing my forehead. “Did you sleep well?”

  I am not a virgin, and yet, I pull the sheet up to my chin, suddenly feeling modest, self-conscious beneath the covers. Is my hair a frizzy bird’s nest? Did I remove all of my mascara last night? Do I have morning breath? Lawd, please not morning breath.

  “I slept well, thank you. Did you just get up?”

  The sheet isn’t covering the left side of my body. My bare leg is exposed; one sock-covered foot is sticking out.

  “I have been awake for hours,” he says, smiling at my thick, fuzzy sock. “I have already been to the gym and spoken with my assistant to confirm everything is set for the ceremony this evening.”

  I sit up quickly and one strap of my baby-doll nightgown slips down over my shoulder. I pull the blanket up.

  “This evening? We are getting married this evening?”

  He chuckles. “That is why we are here, ma bichette.”

  “I know,” I say, exhaling. “I just didn’t think it would happen so fast.”

  “The mayor agreed to officiate the ceremony. He was scheduled to leave on a trip this afternoon, but he offered to delay his departure so he could marry us.”

  Who am I marrying that he has the connections to rent out an entire champagne bar at an exclusive resort and arrange a last-minute wedding in Italy?

  “That was kind of him.”

  “He is a family friend.”

  “Ah.”

  “Are you getting cold feet?” he asks, quirking a brow. “If so, you can borrow my socks.”

  He makes me smile. Lawd, he makes me smile. “I am not getting cold feet.”

  “You are sure?”

  “Promise.”

  “Bon.” He smiles, handing me the robe that I tossed over a chair before going to bed last night. “I ordered breakfast. Scrambled eggs and orange juice. It should be here soon. Get dressed and meet me in the sitting room.”

  He closes the door and I fall back on the bed. My head is spinning around. I am not thinking straight. Am I seeing things as they are or tinting them with the brush of infatuation? Am I in love or lust? Whatever the answer, no other man has ever made me feel so dizzy and disoriented, so reckless and ready to abandon responsibility.

  That bold voice inside my head, the one that has kept me from making impulsive, emotional decisions, has stopped guiding me and is humming one tune over and over again: I think I wanna marry you. I do. I do. I do. I do.

  I shower, scrape my hair into a sleek ponytail, and slip on a black sundress, the nicest in my suitcase. In the sitting room, Xavier is reading the newspaper at a table set for two. He smiles when he notices me.

  “There you are,” he says, folding his newspaper and tossing it on the table. “Another minute and I was going to make sure you hadn’t fallen back asleep.”

  “I am sorry,” I say. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long.”

  He stands and pulls my chair out. “It was worth the wait. You look beautiful.”

  Lauren Bacall would have received such a compliment with insouciance. I nearly knock the water glass over when I sit and reach for my napkin. I know there will come a time when I am at ease in Xavier’s presence, when his unexpected touches or compliments are as familiar as my reflection, but for now they make me clumsy and self-conscious. All I can do is mumble my thanks.

  Xavier pours orange juice into my empty glass and removes the silver dome over my breakfast plate. The scent of scrambled eggs and potatoes roasted with tomatoes, peppers, and onions fills my nose.

  We talk about Xavier’s home in Brittany while we eat breakfast. He tells me about the many responsibilities that go with taking care of a large estate. I want to tell him I will help him, but it feels somehow presumptuous.

  “I am sorry we won’t be able to have a proper honeymoon,” he says, stirring his coffee. “I have a business trip to Dubai later this month and I have to meet with an official with the department that monitors the restoration of historic properties in France before I go.”

  “I don’t mind, really.”

  “Hmmm”—he lifts his coffee to his lips, inhales, and takes a sip, placing it back on the saucer and looking at me through narrowed eyes–“I wonder. Don’t all women want an elaborate wedding with all the frills, followed by an extended honeymoon to some exotic place?”

  I look out the open French doors to the snow-capped mountains in the distance, the ancient village on the distant shore, the intricate wrought-iron fretwork of the Juliet balcony, and sigh.

  “Have you looked out the window?” I say, smiling at him. “This is an exotic location.”

  “You’re happy then? You don’t wish we were getting married in a church, you in a white gown, your friends weeping into their hankies?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I am not comfortable being the center of attention.”

  He chuckles. “I’ve noticed.”

  “Besides, I have always thought exchanging vows is a deeply personal event, an intimate union between two people who are promising to spend their lives forsaking all others. I have been to elaborately produced weddings and I always left feeling a little . . . sad. I feel the same way when I watch those reality television shows about wealthy housewives. Do we need to live our lives out loud?” I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

  “I am glad to hear it, ma bichette.”

  “What about you?” I ask, reaching for my orange juice. “Are you sorry we aren’t hav
ing an elaborate wedding?”

  “I had an elaborate wedding the first time I got married. C’était une expérience misérable.”

  My hand trembles and orange juice spills onto the table, splashes on the napkin covering my lap. First marriage? Did Xavier just say he has been married before? A sour taste fills my mouth and it’s not from the orange juice.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “First time?”

  Xavier reaches across the table, dabbing the spilled orange juice with his napkin.

  “Oui.”

  “You were married before?”

  “Oui.”

  He tosses the stained napkin onto his plate and sits back, staring at me with the sort of bored expression one wears when they discuss the weather with a grocery store cashier. I realize I am fairly naïve, having only dated a few men, and from a conservative part of the more puritanical United States, but Xavier’s confession is as stunning as his matter-of-fact delivery. Is this how things are done in Europe?

  “You have nothing to fear, ma bichette. Marine is not a part of my life.” He plucks a tangerine out of the bowl of fruit on the table between us and slices it in half with his butter knife, a slightly ominous act that seems to hold a deeper, metaphorical meaning. “She will never be a part of my life again.”

  A sudden gust of wind causes the French door to rattle against the doorstop. The sheer white curtains billow, fluttering, floating above our table like a specter. I shiver and cross my arms. Marine. It could be my imagination—for it can be overactive in times of stress—but it feels as if Marine is looming over us, as if she has been looming between us all this time.

  Marine.

  The first Madame de Maloret.

  I suddenly remember the conversation we had about my visiting Cap-Eden-Roc and his strange, far-off expression, and how I felt he was thinking of someone else as he spoke to me.

  You are afraid retracing your aunt’s footsteps will only remind you that she is further from you than ever before. You worry that you will visit the places she loved only to discover they aren’t as magical as they were in your memory, and then you might wonder why you ever thought them magical in the first place. Is that it?

  Now, I wonder if he had been thinking about Marine, about the places they visited together.

  “Are you in love with her still?”

  He drops the tangerine wedge onto his plate and wipes his fingers on his dirty napkin before standing and coming around to my side of the table.

  “Mon Dieu, non!” he says, squatting beside me, holding my hands. “I do not love Marine. I do not hate her, either. I feel nothing for her. Nothing at all.”

  The hairs on the back of my arms stand up straight. “That frightens me.”

  “Do you want me to have feelings for her?”

  “No, but it scares me you once loved her enough to marry her and now your feelings have moved from great passion to a place beyond hatred, a place that is cold, barren. How do I know you won’t say the same about me one day?”

  He stands, pulling me up with him, wrapping his arms around my waist, brushing his lips against my ear. “Because you aren’t Marine. You are nothing like her.”

  A wave of love and longing washes over me and I am ripped out to sea on a current of emotions. I love him. I do. I know it sounds ridiculous to say I love someone I have known only a month, but when he holds me in his arms, I lose myself in the depths of my desire, rationality becomes a distant place on the horizon. When I am with Xavier, I feel a spark of courage to be the person I have always longed to be, the confident, spontaneous, cultured woman hidden beneath the layers of uncertainty.

  And so, I make the choice to believe him when he says our marriage won’t end in divorce, that he won’t one day say he feels nothing for me, nothing at all.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  After breakfast, Xavier suggests we tour the Palazzo della Ferrante’s gardens until it is time for us to get ready for our civil ceremony. It is a beautiful sunny morning, with a slight mist lingering over the dew-speckled grass. The air is heavy with the scent of oranges and cypress. The perfect day for a wedding.

  We follow a gravel path bordered by tortuously clipped box hedges until we arrive at a fountain. A statue of Cupid embracing Psyche stands on a pedestal in the center of the fountain. Psyche is reclining on her side, her arms reaching up for Cupid, hovering above her, his wings outstretched as if he is about to pluck his lover off her plinth.

  We pause to admire the statue.

  “I wish I read Italian,” I say. “I would like to know what the words carved into the pedestal mean.”

  “ ‘Ho saziato la mia sete alla fontana dei tuoi baci, ’ ” Xavier says in flawless Italian. “ ‘I quenched my thirst at your fountain of kisses.’ This is the La fontana degli amanti. The Lovers’ Fountain. I had a motive for bringing you here.”

  “You did?”

  He reaches into his pocket and removes a small midnight-blue velvet box. He opens the box. An engagement ring with a large grayish-blue, pear-shaped stone surrounded by diamonds is resting inside.

  “Will you marry me?”

  For the second time today, I pinch myself to make sure I am not dreaming and say a little prayer of thanks when I realize I am not. My eyes fill with tears.

  “Yes. I will marry you.”

  Through the haze of my tears, I watch Xavier take the ring out of the box and slip it on my finger. He cups my face and stares into my eyes deeply.

  “Are you happy?”

  “Incredibly happy. I wish it could stay like this forever.”

  “Me, too.”

  A smudge of sadness darkens his sparkling gaze and he presses his lips together as if trapping unspoken thoughts in his mouth. I look up at him, waiting for him to share what he is feeling, but he bends down and presses his lips to mine instead. It’s a poignant kiss, filled with a mélange of unspoken emotions—yearning, wonder, hope, and the fear that always shadows new love, the fear we will fall too fast and not survive the fall.

  He stops kissing me. When I open my eyes, he is watching me, smiling.

  “What?”

  “I like the way you look after I have kissed you, sleepy-eyed, as if you are just waking up from a wonderful dream. I hope you always look like this when I finish kissing you.” He lifts my hand and kisses the knuckle above my engagement ring. “Do you like your ring?”

  “I love it. Is that a sapphire?”

  “Blue diamond.”

  “I didn’t know there were such things.”

  “Oui.” He puts his hand on the small of my back and we begin walking back to the palazzo. “They’re extremely rare. Fortunately, a jeweler in Monaco happens to deal in rare gems. I told him I wanted a stone that looked like the sky before a winter storm, to match your eyes. He sent three rings to our hotel yesterday afternoon by courier and I chose this one. The courier was delayed in traffic, which is why I was late picking you up.”

  “You went to all that trouble just so you could get me an engagement ring?”

  “It was no trouble,” he says.

  “It is more trouble than anyone has ever gone to on my behalf, and I will treasure this ring even more because of it.” I stop walking and turn to face him, standing on my tiptoes and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Xavier.”

  It is only later, as I am soaking in a tub of hot, bergamot-scented bubbles, that I realize Xavier has given me my something blue.

  Something old.

  Something new.

  Something borrowed.

  Something blue.

  And a lucky silver sixpence in her shoe.

  I also realize, with a pang of anxiety, Xavier didn’t say he loved me when I told him how much I loved him.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  It took twenty-seven years to find the man I wanted to marry and only twenty minutes to unite my life with his. The brevity of the ceremony stunned me almost as much as the enormity of what it meant: Manderley Maxwell was gone foreve
r, and in her place, a new, unfamiliar creature. Manderley de Maloret. Would she emerge from her uncertain cocoon a bolder, more confident butterfly, secure in her unique beauty because of the love of her new, still unfamiliar husband? Would she fly to her new land, content, or would she long for what she had left behind?

  The look Xavier gave me when I walked onto the terrace wearing Olivia’s gown, the slow, satisfied smile that spread across his handsome face, the way his eyes narrowed with obvious approval, and his chest rose with a sharp inhalation of breath, is a look that could embolden the most timid butterfly. It certainly gave confidence to my faltering feet. It gave me the confidence to walk past the hotel staff and guests who had assembled to watch the ceremony.

  It was a warm evening, with long amber rays from the setting sun stretching over the lake and a light breeze sending orphaned geranium blossoms skittering across the terrace. If there were other details worth remembering, I did not notice them in the few seconds it took me to reach the place where Xavier stood with the mayor and the interpreter. I kept my gaze firmly focused on the tall, dark, handsome Frenchman who would become my husband before the sun slipped behind the distant Monte San Primo. His dark wavy hair combed back. His startling blue eyes sparkling as brilliantly as the diamond ring on my finger. The dark stubble on his angular jaw. The crisp white collar of his dress shirt. His charcoal suit coat stretched over his broad shoulders. His hand, tan and steady, reaching out for mine. The warmth and strength of his fingers laced together with my fingers.

  The next few minutes passed in a blur. A stronger breeze, swirling geranium petals, my fluttery sleeves fluttering against my skin, gooseflesh on my arms, Xavier squeezing my hand in reassurance. Blinding flashes of light and the click-whir, click-whir of the hotel photographer’s camera. The mayor prattling on in Italian about civil codes and marital duties, the interpreter murmuring the translation in English. And then, finally, the moment was upon me. The interpreter smiled and translated the mayor’s words.