He paused, contemplating her for a moment. “Your mother’s daughter, but with a different father than you thought, I presume you realize now.”
“Did you know?” Lili asked, her heart in her throat. Did he keep it from me? Is there anyone I can trust to be truthful?
“No,” he said, to Lili’s relief. “But I can’t say I didn’t know either. I do recall there were raised eyebrows at the time, but it seems to me they were more over her age and her carelessness.” He frowned. “I’m sorry—that was quite thoughtless. In this case, her carelessness turned out to be a wonderful gift to the world. I’d call you predestined, if I believed in such things.”
He searched her face for recognition of the compliment, but Lili was too distressed and confused to smile.
“It’s a rather poor use of the mind to dwell on gossip, especially when it doesn’t pertain to one’s own life,” Buffon went on. “You were here, the marquis called you his child, and of course the truly important thing was your mother’s untimely death. I grieved for her quite profoundly, for what we all had lost.” His face clouded. “Not knowing at the time, of course, what we had gained.”
Lili puzzled for a moment before realizing the count was referring to her. At this show of affection, the fears and anxiety she had felt since beginning her journey lifted, and words came tumbling out.
“So much of my life I’d just assumed I wasn’t important, that what happened to me didn’t really matter—that my obligations were only to others and that there was something bad in me if I cared too much about myself. Maman wasn’t like that, but Baronne Lomont has been relentless since I was a little girl. When I went to Cirey and found out I wasn’t the marquis’s daughter, I felt worse than I ever had, as if I was nothing more than—” She thought for a moment. “No more than a pesty insect buzzing around the face of someone I had foolishly thought would care. And then—I’m not sure exactly how—my mother’s voice was in my head, telling me that I’d have to matter to myself first, before I could expect anything good to happen. So I got the idea to go to Ferney, and Monsieur Voltaire told me to rely on myself, and if I failed to live well I would have no one to blame but me.”
She sat back, wondering whether she had ever in her life spoken so many words with no more than a pause to take a breath. “I decided I owe it to myself to be happy,” she said, pressing her palms into her thighs with the force of an oath.
Buffon was grinning broadly. “Your mother would be very pleased. And I would only add one thing. You owe it to her too. It’s what she wants for you. And Madame de Bercy also. Go out and conquer the world, or at least whatever little piece of it you choose. Do it for yourself, Lili, and for them too.”
“So you’ll help me?” Lili’s heart pounded with excitement.
“With all my heart,” he replied. “But I think we can wait a few minutes to begin plotting. If you are up for a walk, there’s something I’d like to show you in Jean-Étienne’s garden—a development I think you’ll find most interesting.”
* * *
SHE TOOK HIS arm as they strolled the Jardin de Roi, down a treeshaded path Lili recalled from memories that seemed both impossibly distant and as fresh as summer rain. “Did Jean-Étienne send a letter with the bones?” she asked, hoping she could take whatever followed with the equanimity she had vowed.
“No.” The count turned to her. “Let’s sit for a moment,” he said, motioning to a bench. “We’ve been so busy getting caught up about you that I haven’t told you the news.”
News? The count’s solemn face set off an explosion of fear in Lili’s mind. Jean-Etienne’s married. What else could it be with such a look? Or worse. He’s dead. Drowned at sea. Poisoned by some plant. Broken at the bottom of a cliff in the Falklands.
“Lili,” the count said. “You remember Francine Thibaudet, his betrothed?”
“How could I forget?”
“Well, it seems as if Jean-Étienne was gone a little too long.” The count smiled wryly. “Apparently she took up with a cavalry officer, and when she—when she needed to be married quickly—Jean-Étienne was on the other side of the world. Since he’d been gone for several months already, her situation had obviously been none of his doing.”
Lili’s heart slammed so hard against her ribs she wasn’t sure she could take a breath.
“The family had no choice but to break the engagement and marry her off quickly to whomever could be persuaded to take a less than virginal bride in return for a hefty share of the Thibaudet fortune,” the count went on. “She’s off already, living somewhere in Bourgogne with her new husband.”
“So Jean-Étienne is—” Lili’s head swam. “Free?”
The count nodded. “And, I might add, quite the richer for the experience. A broken engagement can be quite lucrative for the one not at fault. It’s a business contract, like any other, with considerations of real value. So he is now at liberty to marry the woman of his choice, and I am quite certain he knows who that is.”
Unreasonable hopes will make you unhappy. Lili remembered her mother’s words. But reasonable ones? Lili’s heart shook off its burden of restraint, like a winter of snow sliding from a roof. “Is he—” she stammered. “Does he—”
“If you mean, does he love you, I think the answer is decidedly yes.”
She leaned in against the count on the bench, too overwhelmed to say aloud what perhaps it was now safe to acknowledge: I love him. Can it be possible to get what I haven’t even dared to hope for? “I feel dizzy,” she murmured. Buffon gave her knee a fatherly pat. “We’ll rest, then, before I tell you the rest.”
There was more? Lili sat up, her head instantly cleared. “No,” she said. “Please go on.” She gave him her best attempt at a smile. “I can always faint later.”
The count laughed. “Well, if you think his misery at his engagement could not be surpassed, I assure you, when I told him I heard you were betrothed, it was far worse. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a young man with a grimmer face.” He waited for his words to register.
The development in the garden? Lili’s eyes widened. “He’s back?”
Buffon’s face broke into a huge grin. “And about to receive some very good news.” Lili didn’t wait to hear. Holding up her skirt, she ran down the path.
“JEAN-ÉTIENNE?” HE WAS kneeling over a shrub, finishing a graft. He looked up at the sound of her voice.
“Lili!” A grin exploded over his face as he jumped to his feet, but it just as quickly faded. “How delightful it is to see you,” he said stiffly, brushing his hands on his work trousers. “I’m afraid I’m far too dirty to greet you properly.”
Lili’s heart sank. Why was he being so distant? Hadn’t the count just told her how he felt? Then it came to her: he’d been principled when he was betrothed, and he would be just as principled now that he thought she was.
“Jean-Étienne, I—” Tongue-tied and shaking, Lili put her hand over her mouth.
Buffon had come up beside her and put an arm over her shoulder as her eyes flooded with tears. “If perhaps I may interject?” he said. “I believe Mademoiselle du Châtelet has something important to tell you.”
“I—It was a misunderstanding. I’m not engaged.” Without knowing exactly how it happened, her arms were around him. “You’re not lost to me,” she whispered, feeling her hot breath on his neck.
“Lili …” They swayed together like branches of a tree when a breeze sweeps away the staleness of too long a spell without rain. When he pulled away, she saw that his face was wet.
“And you’re not lost to me,” he said, wiping away her own tears with a touch so soft her knees trembled and a hoarse sob broke loose from her throat.
“I’m sorry,” she said, embarrassed by the coarseness of the sound. “I hope I’m not turning into a frog.” She stepped back, trying to make a joke of it by giving him a crooked smile.
“No,” he said, facing her and taking both her hands in his. “You will always be the fairest in the land.�
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Buffon gave a gleeful laugh. “And I suspect the evil fairy in the story is about to lose her power.” Enjoying the moment, he rocked backed and forth between his heels and toes, clasping his hands behind his back. “My dear boy,” he went on, “I think you have captured the heart of the cleverest girl in all of France.”
“Not yet,” Lili said. “I haven’t freed myself of Baronne Lomont yet, and apparently she’s decided I’m getting married this month.” She shrugged and gave Buffon a wan smile. “Although no one but herself seems to know to whom.”
“But what uncle said about your heart?” Jean-Étienne asked. “About my capturing your heart—?”
Yes, yes, yes. She wanted to say it again and again, to cry it out to every rooftop in Paris and to the heavens themselves, but suddenly his arms were around her and his lips were on hers. So joyfully she thought she might explode with happiness, Lili said yes with no words at all.
EXCEPT FOR THE small group of servants who remained in Paris while Ambroise and Delphine were at Étoges, Lili was alone in Hôtel Bercy that night. Her candle cast a pool of light as, unable to sleep, she roamed the house. Here was the bed where she and Delphine told stories, the stair railing where she had stood to listen to the guests in the salon, Maman’s sitting room where she and Delphine practiced their curtseys, the parlor where Delphine had been married. The bedroom where Maman died alone, to protect them.
How full the mind could be! Some days were for saving every last detail—days like the one she had just passed. “Tell us how you and Papa fell in love,” her children might say someday.
“Well, we were both supposed to marry someone else, so we tried to pretend we didn’t care. We both went away for a while, and when we came back everything had changed. We were both free to admit how we felt, and …”
The swirl of images and the rush of feeling in her head and body were the real story. How Jean-Étienne had taken her up in his arms, how they buried their heads in each other’s necks and wept until their shoulders were wet. How their lips came together as if they were always meant to do just that. How the sensation traveled down her body to a place deep in her groin where a feeling awakened in her she had not known before and that she wanted to feel again. How she had a glimpse of what her mother meant when she said that people must make their own happiness. How when they turned around and saw Buffon in the distance, walking back alone to the house, they knew that sometimes time really does stop, at least in one spot in the Jardin de Roi.
Memory was a strange thing. The coach ride from Bar-sur-Aube had receded in one day to nothing but a few aching bones and unpacked bags, but as she stood in the dining room of Hôtel Bercy, wishing she could conjure up Maman to tell her the news, it seemed as if the scent still lingered from her handkerchief, ready to catch Lili’s tears just as it did after all those painful childhood visits with Baronne Lomont.
Baronne Lomont. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Lili whispered into the candlelight. “There’s no happily ever after yet.” Giving the silent room one last look, she went up to bed.
THE DOORMAN’S GREETING at Hôtel Lomont was cool and perfunctory. “This way,” he said, leading them to the parlor. Baronne Lomont was sitting with a man Lili did not recognize.
“May I introduce Monsieur Brillat,” she said after Buffon bowed to greet her. “From the tenor of your note, I thought it advisable to have my lawyer present.” Lili’s heart fell as her hopes for a quick victory evaporated.
“This is unexpected,” the count said, “but if mademoiselle agrees, it is quite all right with me.” He gave Lili a reassuring look, and she nodded, speechless with apprehension. “Mademoiselle du Châtelet has just returned from a trip to Cirey,” the count said after they both sat down.
Baronne Lomont’s eyebrows arched. “Cirey?”
He nodded. “While she was there, she met with the marquis on several occasions—”
“This is extraordinarily deceitful behavior, Stanislas-Adélaïde.” The baroness’s eyes flashed like a sharpened sword as she turned to look at her.
Lili’s heart slammed against her tight bodice. “I’m sorry for that,” she said, reaching up to touch her fingertips to the spot where the prism lay hidden under her dress. “But I believe it was also wrong of you to keep me from meeting him when it turned out he was most welcoming.” Mostly when he thought I was someone else, she thought, but I’ll keep that part to myself. “I believe you should have encouraged it. He is, after all, a part of my heritage, is he not?”
Had the baroness’s eyes darted? Lili wasn’t sure.
“Mademoiselle du Châtelet came away from Cirey with some correspondence,” the count said, taking one letter from a small leather portfolio and handing it to the baronne.
“The seal is broken,” she said, fixing Lili with a critical stare.
“It was not addressed to you, madame,” Buffon said. “In fact, you will see it is addressed to no one, since it was given directly to Mademoiselle du Châtelet. It was her right to open it if she wished.”
The baroness turned it over to look at the blank exterior and passed the vellum sheet to the lawyer. “Perhaps you could read it aloud. My eyes are not what they once were.”
Monsieur Brillat cleared his throat. “‘To all those it may concern, in regard to Stanislas-Adélaïde du Châtelet: I, Florent-Claude, am the father of the aforementioned child. I recently appointed Philippe-Charlotte, Baronne Lomont, to serve as my representative in the betrothal and marriage of my daughter. I hereby revoke that appointment in favor of a representative of my daughter’s choosing. Sincerely, Florent-Claude, Marquis du Châtelet.’”
“This is absurd!” the baroness said, putting down her cup forcefully enough to warrant a scolding if Lili had done it that clumsily as a child.
“Not at all.” Buffon shrugged. “What he gave, he can take away.” He took a sip of coffee with the utmost casualness, as if they were discussing nothing more important than the weather. “And Mademoiselle du Châtelet has chosen me.”
“You are not even a relative!” she said. “I’m surprised you would accept. It’s already a bit of a scandal that she spends so much time with you. It’s hardly proper to have such interest in a child not your own kin.”
“Well,” Buffon said, setting the trap. “Perhaps that makes two of us.” He pulled out the second letter and handed it to the lawyer.
“It looks the same.” Brillat looked up in confusion. “‘To all those it may concern, in regard to Stanislas-Adélaïde du Châtelet: I, Florent-Claude, am—’” He suddenly stopped reading and looked up at Buffon, who was sitting back in his chair, waiting. “It says I, Florent-Claude, am not the father of the aforementioned child.”
“What?” The baroness leaned forward, her chalky skin mottling with pink. “This is an outrage!”
The lawyer went on. “‘I recently appointed Philippe-Charlotte, Baronne Lomont, to serve as my appointed representative in the betrothal and marriage of said child. I did this with no legitimate authority, since another man, Jean-François de Saint-Lambert, is her father. As of today, Stanislas-Adélaïde is disinherited, and neither I nor any member of my family will take any responsibility on my behalf in the matter of her marriage.’”
The victory far outweighed the pain of the letter’s contents. Lili had waited several days at Cirey for the marquis to be sufficiently angry to write the second one. He had already been sanguine enough to write the first, although at that moment the marquis had thought she was Emilie asking him sweetly for a favor. Some things the baroness simply doesn’t need to know, Lili thought, lowering her head to disguise the smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
The lawyer put the letter down. “Well, that certainly makes a tangle of things. Is he or is he not her father? Even he doesn’t seem to know.”
“He is!” the baroness spat. “The child befuddled his mind.”
“I don’t think Lili played much of a role at all,” Buffon said, producing the third letter, written in
the childlike scrawl of someone with little opportunity to practice. He read this one himself. “‘I, Berthe Villon-Crassy, and my husband, Lucien Crassy, both of Cirey, have served all our lives at the château. Sometimes Monsieur le Marquis’s memory is good but he don’t recognize people from one day to the next, and thinks things are happening that aren’t. He don’t pass one day without saying things that make no sense or are different from what he said an hour before. He’s been like this for going on two years now, and it’s only living here so long that makes us know what to do with him.’” Buffon handed the letter to the baronne. “It’s signed by Berthe, with her husband’s X underneath, and witnessed by the village priest.”
“Well, there you have it,” the baroness said. “Just what the servants said—he doesn’t know from one moment to the next—”
Buffon held up his hand to cut her off. “Precisely. And that’s why the document you claim gives you permission to choose a husband for Lili is no more valid than these.” The baroness looked like a duelist in the moment between the firing of the shot and the realization he has been hit. “This Berthe makes it quite clear that his condition is long-standing,” the count added, “and it is no more certain he wishes your assistance than that he wishes Lili to choose for herself.”
Baronne Lomont gave her lawyer a questioning look. “Your letter would be a difficult authority to enforce, madame, under these circumstances,” Brillat said.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, Lili thought, picturing Voltaire’s mischievous smile. It was true that the answer had been right in front of her nose: who her father was didn’t matter, just the fact that the marquis wasn’t. Voltaire had been right about how different she would feel if he had told her the answer. This is my victory, she knew, and now it Marquis’s was hers to claim.
She took the Marquis’s two letters back from the lawyer. Holding one in each hand, she locked her gaze on the old woman across from her. “You are correct that these letters are contradictory, Baronne Lomont. You may pick which one will be destroyed after my wedding.”
Finding Emilie Page 37
