Glamorous Illusions

by Lisa T. Bergren

After eating all of the tiny cucumber sandwiches, and several with tuna—or maybe they were sardines—a few brightly colored macaroons filled with raspberry cream, and two chocolates, I drained the last of my tea, leaned my head back, and listened to the rhythmic sound of the oars. It was soothing, the low rumble of a leader’s call down below, the creak of them leaning forward, the kerslup as they dipped, the creak as they pulled backward, the drips as they raised and waited for the next languid pull.

  I stared at the chateau but then closed my eyes, not wanting any more information in my head. No more pictures of things I wanted to memorize. No more effort in imagining Marie Antoinette and Louis here. I just wanted to be for a moment. With no one asking anything of me, no role to play, no hard feelings to soothe, no sorrow about yesterday, no fear about tomorrow. Just me. Being.

  My breathing slowed, and I relaxed, my hands settled on the rough silk of the pillows, the lounge chair fitting me perfectly. For a moment I resisted, not wanting to waste my precious hour of escape on sleep, and then realizing that there really was no more perfect escape.

  I remembered the song of the birds in the trees, echoing across the lake. And remembered meadowlarks at home, singing so sweetly…

  “Miss. Miss,” a man said, shaking my shoulder.

  I awakened with a start and sat up. Pierre was gone. The servant smiled at me. Obviously, he spoke no more English than “miss,” and he gestured to the chateau rising high above us, and Antonio waiting for me alongside the group’s bicycles.

  I’d been dreaming of Mr. Kensington’s note. Of his words. The question isn’t how society defines you, nor how I define you, but rather how God defines you, and in turn, how you yourself want to be defined.

  It made me think of my mother’s words too. You’re about to find out what it means to be a Kensington… And what it doesn’t.

  I was a Kensington, but I was also a Diehl. Claiming both the name of my childhood as well as the name on my birth certificate was somehow key…

  “Lord de Richelieu,” the footman said, lifting a stiff card in my direction, offering it to me.

  “Oh, thank you,” I said, rising. I opened the card and sucked in my breath. Inside was a perfectly splendid and simple sketch of me sleeping on the lounge. “L’ange au repos,” was written beneath it. I wondered if my guess at the translation—angel in repose—was correct.

  “Où est Seigneur de Richelieu?” I asked, following the servant to the side of the boat and a new, wider plank to exit. Where is Lord de Richelieu?

  He raised a brow and shrugged his shoulders. I suspected he knew where Pierre had gone but had been instructed not to tell. I smiled and accepted his hand as I made my way down and over to Antonio.

  Pierre had kept his promise, giving me an hour without asking for anything in return—not even waiting to accept my thanks. It had been a fine gift. An outrageous gift, but a fine one. The question lingered in my mind: how did it define me, to be courted by Pierre de Richelieu? And did I like that definition?

  “You realize, of course, that this is merely part of Lord de Richelieu’s ploy to win you with grand gestures,” Antonio said as I came near.

  “I take it you do not approve.” We fell into step beside each other, climbing the massive staircase, and I accepted his offered arm, still feeling rather sleepy.

  He shrugged. “Lord de Richelieu is like a beautiful gem on the beach. How can you pass him by?” He cocked his head. “But is he merely a beautiful bauble, or a jewel of worth? That remains to be seen.”

  I smiled, inwardly hoping that Pierre might be a jewel. “Agreed. But that takes time to decipher, does it not?”

  “Alas, the tour affords little time for such examinations. We are soon on to Provence. And perhaps that is just as well.”

  Was he warning me? Trying to dissuade me from allowing Pierre’s pursuit? His expression was difficult to read. “The others are already inside?”

  “Yes. They were eager to see the grand chateau.”

  “Mm, yes.”

  “You are not eager?”

  “I have already seen more grand homes than my mother has seen in her whole life,” I said. “And they are lovely…” I turned to him. “Why is it, Antonio, that we cannot continue to hold such places in the same esteem as we did with the first?”

  “It is true. We lose our sense of awe,” he said, studying me with his dark eyes. “We become accustomed, and then only bigger and better impress us.”

  “Indeed. I’m thankful I haven’t lost all of it. I think I’ll continue to appreciate the unique. But I look upon this”—I waved forward—“and think it’s all a bit much, isn’t it? What is the purpose? To impress your neighbors? Your friends? Why not house a city of orphans, feed the poor instead? Would that not be all the more impressive?” I shoved aside an arrow of guilt as I remembered I’d just stepped off a lavish boat worthy of dreams.

  He smiled and nodded. “Agreed. But you must put it into context, Miss Cora. The men who built them. Their desire to control, conquer. It mattered not if they occupied but two rooms in this grand house.” He gestured toward it. “What it told the people of France was that they might be poor and starving, but their lot was to struggle, while the ruling class’s lot was to live in splendor. It worked for a time, until the poor and starving had had enough and rebelled.”

  “Good for them for rebelling, I say.”

  He laughed and stared at me quizzically. “What has come over you, Miss Cora?”

  I stared back at him, pondering his question. “Me,” I said at last. “I’ve overcome myself. I am who I am. And I think…I think I’m about to claim what’s mine.”

  William

  Will’s eyes narrowed as he watched Cora arrive on Antonio’s arm. They were in the Hall of Mirrors, and every single reflective surface seemed to showcase the pleasing blush high on her cheeks, the bright sparkle in her eyes. The gilt chandeliers above made her golden hair shine. But she seemed intent on listening to the bear as he lectured, and slowly edged her way near.

  “What happened to her?” Will whispered to Antonio as the man came to stand beside him.

  Antonio shrugged and lifted his brows. “I know not. She came off the boat as you see her.”

  So he’d recognized it too. Something that had shifted, changed for Cora.

  Will searched over his shoulder for a glimpse of Pierre de Richelieu. Was it possible that the man had come to take her for a boat ride and then disappeared? After all that? Was he not lurking about, waiting to collect on a debt now owed? Or had he already received payment? Was that why Cora wore that tiny secret smile?

  Will turned and abruptly strode toward the nearest double doors, which led to a porch outside. Once there, he leaned against the balustrade and took in great gulps of air. His imagination was running wild. Even if they had kissed, what did it matter? What right did he have to let it agitate him at all? He was merely a guide, a caring shoulder, nothing more to her—

  He smelled the cigarette smoke before he turned. A glance over his shoulder confirmed it. Hugh.

  Hugh grinned and tapped the ash off his cigarette over the edge of the balustrade. “What has you in such a state, man?”

  Will attempted to move his expression to boredom as Hugh came to stand beside him. “If I see the Hall of Mirrors once more in my lifetime, it will be a hundred times too many.” Especially with Cora’s face in every one…

  “Come now. Don’t play me the fool. Might it not be the lovely Cora that has you all up in arms?” Hugh took a deep draw on his cigarette and casually blew the smoke out his nostrils, all the while staring out at the gardens. “Must’ve grated, to see Lord de Richelieu sweep her away just as you might’ve coerced her from my blanket to yours.”

  Will sighed and leaned on the balustrade as he stared out onto the massive gardens reminiscent of Richelieu’s. “Go back to the group, Hugh,” he gritted out. “I think my uncle was looking for you.”

  But Hugh stayed where he was. He took another pull on his ciga
rette and slowly let the smoke out so it billowed around them. Will resisted the urge to cough.

  “What do you fear, Will? That you’ve lost her to that brash Frenchman?”

  “You know nothing of what concerns me.”

  “Don’t I? Cora’s just the sort of itch I long to scratch. You should’ve seen her at the lake, coming out of the water under the moonlight, her bathing costume clinging to every sweet inch—”

  Will grabbed Hugh by the shirt and rammed him against the doors before he knew himself. Just like the night before.

  Hugh only laughed, his breath coming at Will in disgusting waves, sweet with the scent of his French cigarettes. “Ahh, there it is again,” he said, staring into Will’s eyes with triumph in his own. “Does she know?”

  “You know nothing,” Will said, glimpsing the others inside, staring with wide eyes at them, on the other side of the glass. He dropped his hands.

  “Right. Nothing,” Hugh said. “Why not just own up to it? Play your hand? See if she burns for you like you do her?”

  Will shot him a look of fury, and Hugh laughed again, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’m only asking.”

  “You ask too much. And you pry into business that is not your own.”

  Hugh lifted his brows and pursed his lips. “If she’s not your business, I’ll keep trying to make her mine. Once her little crush on Richelieu is over, of course. He’s doing the yeoman’s work. Prying open her heart. Making her see that she might find love in her new world.”

  Will shook his head, staring at him in disbelief. Of all the cold, calculating— “You keep away from her, Hugh.”

  “And if I don’t?” Hugh taunted casually, taking another long draw of his cigarette while watching him through squinted eyes.

  Will eased toward Hugh and looked down his nose at him. “You don’t want to find out what I’ll do.” He turned then and entered through the doors.

  But Hugh’s laugh could be heard even beyond the glass.

  CHAPTER 32

  Cora

  It was difficult to avoid smiling through supper. Again and again, I caught Pierre and the rest of our traveling party staring at me, clearly wondering what I was thinking. It was then I knew that what had shifted inside me had made a difference in my very appearance.

  I’d decided I would go by the name of Cora Diehl Kensington. I would lay claim to both the name of my childhood and the name of my birth, honoring it all. But that mattered little. I’d realized that if Jesus had sat down with the tax collectors and the prostitutes and sinners, making upstanding religious people cringe, then He’d have no difficulty with either Mama or Mr. Kensington.

  I’m a sinner…but I’ve made my peace with my family and my Maker, Mr. Kensington had written. Whether or not that was true, I had yet to ascertain. But I knew that living like a redeemed sinner was what freed a person to live life to the full. Were there regrets? Certainly. I knew Mr. Kensington had them—I’d seen them lurking in the sorrow in his eyes. But if he truly knew Christ, he was a man who looked forward, not backward. And now I would follow suit.

  I would claim what was mine and not fret over the rest. Vivian, Felix, and Lillian could decide whether they wanted me as a part of their lives. I could not make that choice for them. The relief of my new way of thinking allowed me to take my first full breaths in weeks. The Morgans? They were simply flawed human beings that I had to deal with for the remaining weeks of our journey. I’d be polite to them all and accept what came—and what did not. It did not matter. I was Cora Diehl Kensington. Accepted and loved by those important to me. The rest would be like lights on the Eiffel Tower—a gift when seen at night, but not integral to who I was.

  Pierre asked if I might walk with him in the gardens after dinner, and I accepted, “as long as Anna might accompany us,” I added. I knew better than to put myself in the same situation I’d allowed the night before. And after the boat ride in Versailles…

  He hesitated for half a breath. “But of course,” he said smoothly. “Anna is a welcome chaperone. Monsieur Will is not.” He smiled as he rubbed his bruised cheek as if remembering it all over again.

  The rest of our party laughed over that, a bit too loudly. Will gave our host a rueful smile. But his eyes shifted from Pierre to me.

  I was certain Pierre had been hoping for more stolen kisses. And I was not at all certain that was wise. But I felt indebted to him—for the incredible generous act of our ride upon the water at Versailles, for not asking for anything from me in return. Upon waking from that dreamlike ride, I’d found my mooring, after weeks of feeling adrift. And I wanted him to know it.

  As we walked, he tucked my hand around his arm and stroked it, sending shivers up my arm and neck, down my back. He was handsome and charming, for certain. Was I a fool to try to cool the ardor he genuinely felt for me? But what could I be to him other than a welcome distraction? A curiosity? He didn’t even know me.

  Behind us, Anna puttered along, turning to pretend to admire the rosebushes whenever we paused. Pierre glanced at her and then gave me a wry grin. He held my hand in both of his. “So, mon ange,” he said tenderly, searching my eyes. I looked down and to the side. “What is it that you have to tell me?” he asked.

  “Tell you?” I dodged, not certain I had the strength to speak the plain truth now that he’d given me the opportunity.

  “Our time upon the waters of Versailles has clearly revived you. Never have your beautiful blue eyes sparkled so. But I have had trouble seeing them since this afternoon. You do not meet my gaze.” He put his hand beneath my chin and, with the softest of gestures, eased my face up. “Ah, yes,” he said, pulling back a little, as if he could read the words within.

  I gave him a rueful smile and gently pulled my hand from his, then turned to resume our walk, hands behind my back. He, in turn, tucked one arm across his midriff, holding the elbow of his other, chin in hand, as if already intent on honoring the words I’d yet to speak.

  “Pierre, I can’t begin to thank you enough. For your kindness,” I said, looking at the tiny pebbles on the path. “For your attention and generosity. For not throwing us out the moment you knew who…I was.” I resisted the urge to insert “and what.” I am Cora Diehl Kensington, I repeated to myself. Important to the people I love. Beloved daughter of God. Nothing else matters.

  “For clothing us for your ball,” I stumbled on, “for not sending Will to jail after he punched you last night, and for your grand gesture at Versailles this afternoon.”

  He laughed under his breath. “But of course,” he said. He glanced back at Anna and then touched my elbow, easing me to a stop again. “But why is it that I feel as if you are bidding me adieu?”

  “Because…” I dragged my eyes up to meet his. “Pierre, what is this? Between us? An idle flirtation? A distraction? I am a woman on a journey, but I intend to go home. To Montana, a place few Parisians will ever see. To return to school to become a teacher. And you…you are a man with roots generations deep in Paris. Your life is far different.”

  “Surely your life is not so different from mine,” he said with some confusion in his eyes. “Granted, the chateau…it is large. Ostentatious. But it has been in the family for centuries. Your own home might be newly built, but does it not compare? At least in some measure?”

  I shot him a wry grin, thinking of our tiny house on the ranch. The houses he was probably imagining—even homes as grand as the Kensington home in Butte or the lodge on the lake—were not anywhere near the size or grandeur of his chateau. I shook my head.

  He smiled even though his eyes betrayed frustration. “What does it matter? I’ve courted many women whose families have but apartments in the city.” He glanced at the chateau and then back to me, shrugging. “It is not I who built her. I was merely born within her walls. Why does it matter?”

  “Because today…today on the boat, as I slept, as I awakened, I remembered who I was, Pierre. And that girl counts it a joy, an experience, to be here with you. But s
he does not belong here.”

  He considered my words. Slow understanding, and a tinge of defense, lifted his chin. “What if it’s something more, ma chérie?” His eyes searched mine, hoping. “This thing between us?” His intense look almost had the same power as his kisses to draw me in. I wanted him to kiss me again. God help me, I had the wildest urge to kiss him, just to see, to see if I remembered it right, to see if it had been a one-time thing. But that was exactly why I’d brought Anna along. So I wouldn’t get distracted, forget what I needed to say. I looked down at the toes of my shoes peeking from beneath my skirts, and then looked back into his eyes. “There is no doubt that we find ourselves drawn to each other, Pierre. That is not the difficulty, is it? Though our paths have met here in Paris, they are soon to part. And by summer’s end, there will be an entire ocean between us.”

  “Let us address the ocean later. Let us only consider a week at a time. I could come with you to Provence.”

  “And then what?” I asked, lifting my brows. “We head to Austria next. Venice. Rome. I doubt you have time to follow us about all summer long.”

  He pursed his lips and then cocked his head. “Perhaps not all summer.” He took my hand in his again. “But let us not decide this now, Cora. Let us see what transpires. I will try to see you in Provence. In Vienna and Venezia—I have business to tend to in both cities,” he added in a rush, shushing my protest. He paused. “You find it so undesirable? Seeing me elsewhere about Europe?”

  I laughed under my breath. What could I say? He was merely asking for the opportunity to see me again. “No, Pierre. I’d welcome seeing you anywhere,” I allowed.

  He grinned at that. And then, ignoring Anna, he pulled me close for a brief kiss.

  William

  As they neared the Eiffel Tower, Will ran his finger under his collar, again wishing he had another half inch to let out. Richelieu had sent two new suits to his quarters that morning. The servant said that Richelieu no longer had any use for them and wondered if Will might be interested in having them tailored to fit. Caught off guard, Will tried them on, curious. But as he admired himself in the mirror, he admitted the truth. Richelieu was a couple inches shorter and narrower in the chest, so clearly these had not been his. He merely had been intent on helping to clothe the “poor” junior guide in some act of charity, regardless of what the servant said.