The Paramour's Daughter

by Wendy Hornsby

  He nodded. “She discovered that Uncle Gérard not only had a mistress, but also there is a child.”

  “Jemima?”

  “Yes. Antoine’s half sister Jemima is almost exactly the same age as his son Chris.”

  “How cruel,” I said, having gone through something similar with my first husband, except that my uncle had managed to keep both his affair and child secret for a decade and a half, while I knew on the day a certain dip stick turned pink that my life, and Casey’s, was about to change.

  Gérard’s affair outlived his marriage. I wondered about the woman, Gillian, who had waited in the wings all that time. There must have been moments—months, years—when she expected her lover to dump the legal wife and make her, and their child, legit. What level of delusion, or cussed determination would that take?

  Oh, hell, we all live in some state of delusion or another, or so my film partner Guido always says. How else can we get through the realities of our lives? For the lover whose paramour had known that one day their child would receive a share in a French estate, legal marriage might only have been a conventional nicety, not a requirement: Gillian’s daughter, like me, had as equitable a claim on family assets as the children born within a sanctioned union. In France, legally there is no such thing as an illegitimate child. I wondered what satisfaction that fact might have given Gillian over the years.

  “What Gérard did to Louise was cruel, of course, yes, but there was more,” Freddy said, drawing me back to whatever he had been saying. “A local notary came to Aunt Louise for her signature. Gérard assumed his wife’s permission to encumber land she inherited from her family, to include it in his development. Louise of course would not sign, and instead she began an investigation. That’s when she learned that while Gérard was trying to screw her out of her birthright, he was screwing another woman, his long-time business associate in London, a woman she detested.”

  “And so Louise divorced Gérard?”

  Freddy shivered though he wore a leather jacket, so I didn’t think he was cold. “Louise died first. Shortly after our aunt was buried, Gérard married Gillian and gave his name to their child.” He tilted his head toward Antoine’s house. “And he built that abomination.”

  “Where Antoine now lives. Where he and Bébé hung a portrait of their mother that Gillian won’t walk past.”

  He laughed. “You catch on fast.”

  “But if it’s Gérard’s house...”

  He swept his arm in a broad, all-encompassing arc. “For as long as she breathes, everything here belongs to Grand-mère. Our grandfather left her usufruit, lifetime use of the estate. She decided that Antoine and Kelly should live there, in that house, close to her. It’s practical because Antoine manages all of the farm operations. Besides, Gillian hates us and hates this place, so they rarely come near us. They haven’t visited since Easter.”

  “Poor Uncle Gérard, commuting between women,” I said. “Was it Louise in Normandy Friday through Sunday and Gillian in London Monday through Thursday?”

  He shook his head. “When Gérard received a promotion to head the London office of his company—a big promotion—Aunt Louise wouldn’t go with him.”

  “She wanted to raise her sons in France?”

  Again Freddy shook his head. “They were already grown. Antoine and Kelly were married by then, still living in America. Bébé was working in Paris.”

  So, then, Gérard and Louise separated a long time ago. She stayed in Normandy near her mother while he took comfort in the arms of a mistress in London. Then Gérard upset the status quo by futzing with property that wasn’t his to futz with; I wondered how bright my uncle was. Or did he just feel entitled?

  I shivered and Freddy wrapped an arm around me, drew me close to him. It felt very nice. The brother I knew, Mark, used to cuddle me in his long arms, read to me, talk me through thunderstorms, explain some of the realities of life my parents were reticent about broaching. I worshipped Mark. I still mourned him. Freddy could hardly give me the same feeling of sanctuary I used to feel when engulfed within the web of my lanky big brother’s embrace, but there was welcome comfort in his presence.

  I admit that I fought some resentment—how dare Freddy presume to be my brother?—but caught myself up short, reminding myself that Freddy had just lost his mother, and I, a stranger, was the closest blood relation he had in the world, and he was mine. Weird, for both of us.

  “One more question,” I said, freezing, anxious to be inside the spotty warmth of Grand-mère’s house. “If you can stand it.”

  “Of course.”

  “Will you tell me about Claude?”

  “My father?” Freddy shrugged, a quick one, a short story to tell. “He is a school teacher in Chantilly, outside Paris. Very intelligent, but not up to Maman’s standards; he went to a lesser university. They separated when I was very young, and eventually they divorced. I think that the best and worst I can say about my father is that he works hard and is constant, without much imagination. When you meet him, you will be able to decide about him yourself.”

  Freddy reached for Grand-mère’s door latch, but paused before he lifted it. “Tomorrow, I hope we will be able to talk further. Alone. We have much to decide, sister.”

  10

  Freddy and I walked into the middle of a meltdown in progress. I saw Julie Breton peer in from the kitchen, quickly assess the scene unfolding in Grand-mère’s salon, and retreat immediately.

  A sulky teenage girl, as implausibly blond as she was impossibly thin, had removed herself to a far corner where, arms crossed, posture rigid, she scowled at the man and woman nastily tiffing nearby. This gloomy triptych had to be my Uncle Gérard, his wife Gillian, and their extracurricular daughter, Jemima.

  “You saw it perfectly well, Gerry,” the woman seethed, but he only shrugged, dismissing the importance of her issues. They were obviously so wrapped up in their argument that they were oblivious to our arrival or the various sets of eyes that checked on the course of their argument through a crack in the kitchen door.

  Gillian was not at all what I expected. She was not merely well groomed. She had been polished, buffed, waxed, sanded, painted, coiffed, and then pinched into a hand-tailored spring-weight silk pantsuit until she looked absolutely untouchable.

  My notion of a mistress was a woman who would drop her clothes at the wink of an eye to engage in whatever level of sweaty, messy sex her lover desired, and to comfort him whenever his spirits felt ruffled. I could not imagine this woman, my aunt-by-marriage, ever agreeing to participate in any activity that involved sweating, mussing, or comforting. Alabastrine is the only word I can conjure that might describe her: carved of cold, white stone.

  Gérard, a full half foot shorter than his wife—a difference she exaggerated by wearing ridiculously high heels—and at least twenty-five years older, wore a sweater under a beautiful tweed jacket. He looked every bit the country squire, albeit one with a massive domestic problem.

  “They painted ‘Scullery Entrance’ over the back door,” Gillian said, urging her husband’s ire to rise on her behalf. “You know as well as I do they intended that for me.”

  “If their sense of humor bothers you,” Gérard snapped, “then enter through the front door.”

  “I will not. Not with her hanging there. They did it intentionally, Gerry. To hurt me. What are you going to do about it?”

  The stick figure in the corner chimed in, “Yes, Daddy, what are you going to do about it? I refuse to share a room with that horrible child.”

  Gérard looked up finally when Freddy cleared his throat. When he saw us, he blushed furiously, humiliated.

  “Please.” Gérard grabbed Gillian by the elbow and squeezed until her eyes popped wide, a signal she seemed to understand meant to shut up, because she did. He hissed to her, “Remember where we are, and why we are here.”

  “Uncle Gérard, this is...” Freddy began to introduce me, but Gérard had already turned his back on Gillian and came rushin
g toward us, arms outstretched toward me, cooing a greeting.

  “Here you are, our little Marguerite. I would know you anywhere.” He kissed my cheeks wetly, held my hands and gazed into my face. Gillian shook herself, squared her shoulders and tottered along behind as Jemima dropped into a chair, arms still crossed over her chest, and turned her face to the wall, snubbing Freddy and me.

  “You have turned this sad occasion into a reason to rejoice,” Gérard gushed before making a pseudo-mournful face. “How your poor mother longed to see this day, her little girl back with her family. What a shame that this is what brings you home to us.”

  I did not know how to respond to that. Was Gérard sincere? Or was he loading on guilt, trying to shame me for my many years of absence? Reminding me I was an outsider? Recruiting me? Ditching the argument with the wife? Perhaps because both Freddy and Antoine had described him as a schemer, I was wary of Gérard and his intentions before I ever met him. Maybe that wasn’t fair.

  He leaned in very close to me and whispered, “We must have a quiet chat later, you and me. Alone.”

  Gillian dutifully exchanged la bise with Freddy, though no surfaces were actually touched in the exchange. When Gérard released me, she took my hand in a straight-armed English handshake; no perfumed kisses whizzed past my ear.

  She offered some well-worn platitudes about how lovely Isabelle had been, what a terrible shock and loss, shame I never knew her, and so on. I sensed a lack of sincerity, the faux interest that might be a prelude to a sales pitch. Again, maybe that assessment wasn’t fair. However, Gillian’s immediate economic future just might rest on decisions made by Lien Holders C, me and Freddy. I had certainly found myself in an interesting position.

  Gérard ordered Jemima to come and meet her cousin. Reluctantly, the girl rose. Poor kid, I thought, like me the inconvenient and breathing evidence of a husband’s infidelity. I wondered if the family had accepted her, an unknown dropped into their circle. Beastly situation for a kid, I thought. As awkward as I felt in that place, at least I had the advantage of being an adult and having a return ticket in my bag. Did Jemima have a ticket of her own?

  The clank of the front door latch followed by a gust of cold air announced Kelly’s arrival. She carried a covered dish wrapped in a big linen kitchen towel, trailing the aroma of something delicious. Lulu reluctantly, but dutifully, followed her mother.

  “Gérard, here you are,” Kelly said, almost scolding. Perfunctory kisses were exchanged. “We saw your car and wondered where you’d gotten to. Tony and Chris have taken your bags out of the trunk and put them in your rooms. Jemima, Lulu is delighted to have you as her guest.”

  “Delighted,” Lulu managed, and even managed a stiff offering of la bise to her teenaged aunt, who as stiffly reciprocated.

  “Maggie, good, you’ve met everybody.” Kelly offered her cheeks to Freddy. Before she left the room to take her covered dish to the kitchen she instructed Lulu to go tell her father that Gérard had been found. Lulu sped from the room, obviously happy to comply.

  “Do you ride?”

  It took me a moment to realize that Gillian was speaking to me. I followed her glance down to my feet. I was wearing flat-heeled boots that looked something like riding boots, but certainly cost nothing near what the real thing would.

  I said, “I ride for fun.”

  “Do you keep a stables?”

  “That sounds grander than the corral we share with a neighbor,” I said. “We have a few trail horses.”

  She frowned, sort of; her forehead refused to wrinkle. “What breed is that?”

  I shrugged—it was becoming a habit. The three horses we kept were quite a mix. I said, “They’re family pets, all shelter rescues.”

  “I see,” she said, two words heavy with smug superiority, as if the answer were what she might have expected from a mongrel like me. “Gerry rides. Polo, you know.”

  “I hate horses,” Jemima offered. “They smell. Worse than cows.”

  During the lull that followed that pronouncement I could hear activity in the kitchen, several women speaking rapidly in French, and all at once it seemed, as Kelly joined them. I was tempted to excuse myself and join them myself. But before I could, the kitchen door burst open and a very old woman wearing a severe black dress burst through, with Grand-mère following in her wake. The woman made a beeline for me, walking surprisingly fast though she needed a cane for support.

  “Moggy, ma chère petite Moggy,” she said, tears running down her face as she reached for me, letting her cane clatter to the stone floor.

  Just at the moment when she wrapped her arms around me and smooched my face I realized that if I said Maggie with a French accent, it would sound like Moggy. So, I was her dear little Moggy. But who was she? And what was she saying? I could only catch random machine-gunned words. With a glance, I appealed to Freddy for help.

  He touched her hand and said, “Grand-mère Marie, have I become invisible?”

  She turned to him, beaming affection, tapped his face for his impudence before she kissed him. What she said to him I understood: You were always jealous.

  He smiled, he shrugged, as in, what can I say? So, here was my godmother, Marie Foullard, who had helped Grand-mère and Grand-père slit the throats of German soldiers. Such a tiny, sweet-faced woman, who would think it possible?

  Grand-mère—my Grand-mère Élodie—was making the rounds, welcoming her son Gérard and his family. Antoine arrived with Chris and Lulu, David with them. I saw David’s mother, Julie Breton, watching from the kitchen with Kelly, her cousin by marriage, at her side as greetings were exchanged with the newcomers, and as the sound level rose. Gérard saw Julie, broke away from the family huddle and crossed the room headed toward the kitchen door.

  “There you are, Julie,” he said, hands extended toward her. “How have you been?”

  “Excuse me,” she said, saying something about a pot of soup—that much I understood—before she turned away and disappeared into the kitchen, door closing behind her.

  Stopped halfway, Gérard seemed chagrined, unsure where to turn. Apparently he hadn’t expected a cold shoulder from Julie, who was his dead wife’s niece. Possible hard feelings? Let me count the ways: first a mistress, then a shady attempt to wrest away her inheritance. I wondered if Julie might have inherited something from the Foullard estate, as Louise had, and how might Gérard’s plans have affected that property? In a way, I had to admire Gérard for even daring to show his face. Or, did he fear what might happen behind his back if he didn’t show?

  Grand-mère Marie looped her arm through mine, and leaning on me as much as on her retrieved cane, she walked—hobbled—me over to the sideboard and poured us each a glass of deep ruby-colored port. She talked to me nonstop. I asked her to forgive my pathetic French and to please speak more slowly, which she remembered to do as she told me a long story. The parts I understood were, she helped to bring me into the world, she gave me my first bath and changed my first diaper, and I was so-o-o-o tiny, pink as a little rosebud. As she talked, she would reach up and pat my cheek and make cooing noises, as if I were still a little baby; I had to be six inches taller than she was. She pulled a silver locket out of the bosom of her dress, opened it, and showed me the little face captured inside: me.

  I recognized the photograph that the little face had been cut from. My parents had a framed copy of the full snapshot in their den, taken when I was a toddler, perched on my father’s shoulder, picking an apple from a tree. Obviously, there had been some communication between the two families after I left France as a baby. Unless...

  Until Mom told me that I had named myself Maggie, I assumed that my nickname came from my brother and sister, who called me Maggot. So, if I named myself, how old was I? And where was I when I did that? For no good reason I had assumed that my father removed me from Isabelle’s arms when I was still an infant, but no one had actually told me that. Maybe, because the new story about my origins replaced a made-up story about my birth,
the image I still held in my mind was of an infant arriving during a terrible storm. And maybe that was incorrect. The estate had several orchards. Where was the apple tree in the photograph?

  Grand-mère joined us, beaming. Her old friend Marie cupped both our faces in her hands and told us we could be twins. Grand-mère thanked her, but said Marie should apologize for comparing me to an old hag. They both laughed.

  I asked Grand-mère, “How old was I when I left here?”

  She looked me directly in the eyes, smiling fondly, her dry hand stroking my cheek. “Two years, four months, and eight days.”

  Gillian interrupted by wedging herself between me and Grand-mère, cutting me out as neatly as a cowboy cuts a calf from a herd. She placed a solicitous hand on Grand-mère’s arm. “My dear, Gerry and I are quite concerned about you being alone in the house. We thought it best that we should stay here with you tonight, to be close.”

  “Very kind of you, my dear, to think of me.” Grand-mère patted Gillian’s hand where it rested on her arm. “But don’t you think Gérard should be with his family? His grandchildren haven’t seen him since Easter.”

  “But—” Gillian ventured.

  “And I won’t be alone. Marguerite is here with me.” Grand-mère excused herself and went to speak with Julie about the table.

  Nice try, Gillian, I thought. But Grand-mère saw through you.

  Gillian aimed her attention at me. Looking down from her perch atop her stilettos, she said, “I am confused, as are the others. What is your surname?”

  “My late husband was Mike Flint.”

  “And MacGowen?”

  “My first husband.”

  David touched my elbow, presented me to his father, Jacques Breton. Jacques was an older version of his son, and as handsome. His skin was weathered from working outdoors, as Antoine’s was. And, like Antoine, he wore enviably comfortable slacks and a beautiful handmade sweater. There was about him, as well, an air of confidence, a man at home in his world.

  Jacques was the estate’s cheese maker, and he was very proud of his product. With David to bridge the language gaps, Jacques invited me to the kitchen to sample some of his Camembert. His wife, Julie, scolded him for being in the way and for feeding me cheese before the meal and not waiting until after. He silenced her with a noisy kiss on the lips. She chastised him for that as well, but the brightening in her face belied the protest; she liked the kiss just fine, and he knew it.