A Rather Charming Invitation (6 page)

Returning to her roots had a slightly dampening effect on Honorine’s high spirits. She was slumped in the backseat, closing her eyes to the magnificent views, with her earphones on again. But when we drew nearer our destination, she seemed to sense it, for she opened her eyes just long enough to tell us which turns to make. Then she went right back to her private earphone world of canned music.

Jeremy glanced at her in the rearview mirror, and whispered to me, “Geez, I feel like we’ve inherited a grumpy adolescent kid that we’re forcibly taking on vacation.”

“She certainly is drooping like the last rose of summer,” I agreed. We drove a short way in silence; then, glancing at the map, I confirmed, “Right turn here.”

Now Honorine sat up alertly, yanked off her earphones and directed us down a private driveway, which turned out to be a long, elegant avenue slicing through a private park of tall, beautiful old pine trees, and big leafy chestnut trees that demonstrated how gloriously a tree can grow when given ample space. Seated grandly at the far end of the drive, behind several squares of lawn rimmed with formal flowerbeds and potted topiary, was a fine old château, its multitude of rooms laid out with intellectual precision, its long windows and French doors like regal proud eyes, watchful of our approach.

I gasped. Was this the “country cottage” that Tante Leonora invited us to? Phew! Even Jeremy, with all his bigwig, world-wide connections, was impressed.

“Blimey,” he said drolly, slowing the car as we pulled up to the entrance.

Honorine reached for her backpack on the floor. “You can turn left and go halfway down the drive to the garage. Park anywhere you like. It’s fine. Leave the suitcases in the car,” she instructed. “And the keys.” She didn’t elaborate, so I assumed a servant would take care of it. We left the car, and followed her to the front path.

The château was a pale, yellowy- cream-colored building, with dark green shutters and a dark green roof. It stood three stories high, and was laid out very widely, with window after window in perfect symmetry; and on the left, there was a square four-story tower with a matching roof of its own. Honorine now scampered up the five steps to the big front door, and she offhandedly led us inside with the natural ease of a well-bred girl who is so accustomed to her elegant surroundings that she barely notices them. She put her key in the lock of the front door, and pushed it open.

The dark wall panelling of the great, high-ceilinged entrance hall made the interior feel cool and somewhat somber. We crossed the polished cherrywood floor to a wide staircase with two curving, coffee-colored banisters. Just before we went up, Honorine pointed out a doorway to the left, and told us that it led to the salon, so that we could find it when we came back downstairs.

Our footsteps echoed on the staircase. When we reached the second level, Honorine went bounding down the hallway ahead of us, like an enthusiastic puppy who wants to show you the way. She stopped at the very last room at the end of the corridor, whereupon she pushed open a big, heavy door. We entered an enormous bedroom that overlooked the front park, designed to make its occupant feel very grand and important, just gazing out at the view.

“You can sleep or relax awhile,” she said, smiling. “Come down when you hear the bell for champagne before dinner, in the salon.” She stepped out and closed the door softly behind her.

The room had that nice scent of polished wood furniture and floors. I glanced at the finely embroidered, upholstered chairs, the antique commode, the hand-crocheted bedspread, the Savonnerie carpeting, the brocade draperies, the gorgeous framed mirror, the gilded chandelier, and the large round crystal vase of pink and white flowers that added their springtime fragrance.

Passing the huge canopied bed heaped with pillows, I walked over to the adjacent bathroom, which had a lovely antique tub, and a deep sink with very old but fancy brass taps. A white antique cabinet was piled with fluffy white towels monogrammed in dark green. Another white cupboard was stacked with plenty of fine Provençal soaps, sachets, shampoo, bath salts and scented lotion from nearby Grasse, the capital of the French perfume industry. On the windowsill was a pale yellow vase with fresh violets.

While looking out this bathroom window, I saw a Vespa come puttering around the side of the château, its helmeted rider steering it in the direction of the garage in the back.

“This soap smells really good,” Jeremy commented. As we were freshening up, we heard a thump in the hallway outside. Jeremy opened the door, and found that our suitcases stood politely in the hall. “You didn’t tell me you came from the landed French aristocracy,” he joked as we unpacked. “Had I but known, I’d have asked your father for a dowry.”

“It would have done you no good, you cad,” I said. “We’re the poor relations, remember?” I peered into my suitcase. “What do you suppose we should wear to dinner?” I asked, anxiously scanning my overnight bag, suddenly comprehending a cryptic e-mail my mother had sent me just before I left, almost as an afterthought:
Darling, you should bring a nice cocktail dress, elegant shoes, a good pantsuit and a silk blouse. Also, this is as good a time as any for your best jewelry. Love, Mum.
I glanced up and saw that Jeremy was unpacking a nice weekend suit that seemed perfect for the occasion.

“How did you know how to dress for this ‘country’ shindig?” I asked suspiciously.

“Darling, I’m English,” he said maddeningly. I almost threw a small pillow at him, but when I noticed the fine old eyelet trim on it, I put the pillow back down again. “After all, I’m going to meet my little French fiancée’s family,” Jeremy said. “Did you think I’d show up in sweats?”

“Hook this chain for me, will you?” I said, holding up my graduation-day diamond pendant, adding jokingly, “I’m scared.”

At that moment, we heard a soft, low bell that resonated through the house. “Show time,” Jeremy said, kissing the back of my neck after he’d hooked the necklace.

“I hate to tell you this,” I said, “but my French is not nearly good enough for a dinner party.”

“A fine time to say so!” he responded in mock dismay. “We’re ruined.”

“Honorine can surely translate for us if necessary,” I said hopefully.

 

 

But when we entered the salon, Honorine was nowhere to be found. A group of total strangers were milling about, cocktail glasses in hand, speaking French in low, melodious voices. As we arrived, they switched seamlessly to English, which I thought was considerate, yet typically French.

The first thing that struck me about this room was the way it was softly scented with lemon blossoms, from little plants with their shiny green leaves, installed in pale peach china pots that nicely contrasted with the dark panelled walls. A large fireplace—flanked by iron tongs and pokers with handles shaped like angels and ogres, and a fire screen with embroidered dragons, knights and other medieval images—was occupied by an urn-shaped basket filled with sprays of long-stemmed fresh flowers. The multiple windows looked out on the same view of the lawn and avenue in front, but heavy velvet curtains were partly drawn, a signal of the evening hour.

A fine, upright-looking man who appeared to be in his early thirties stepped forward and said, in perfect English with a polite French accent, “You must be Penny and Jeremy. I am David.”

This was Honorine’s older brother, whom she’d described as colluding against her with her mother. He was slender, dark- haired, pale-skinned and dark-eyed, just like Honorine. He had a graceful way of moving, as if his gestures were timed to music; but he also had an animated, slightly high-strung quality. As he handed each of us a glass of champagne, he introduced us to the other dinner guests.

There was a stout mayor and his wife; a muscular-looking retired general and his petite wife; a couple in their thirties who both taught at university and had grown up with David; and an elderly doctor and his white-haired wife. There was also a slim, pamperedlooking, curly-haired man in his early twenties, conspicuous for being the youngest person in the party. This was Charles, a law graduate, and he was accompanied by his doting mother and his tall, broad-shouldered father. As soon as I heard the name Charles, I realized that this must be the fellow that Honorine was supposed to marry. Someone mentioned the Vespa he’d received as a graduation gift, so he was the rider I’d noticed earlier.

David’s wife was the very proper Auguste, a woman with mildly blonde hair pulled into a chignon at the back of her head, and she was dressed in varying shades of beige. They had three children who’d been romping about on the side lawn, until they were summoned to come inside and bow and curtsy to us, before being sent to have their dinner in the first-floor tower room, which was the children’s dining salon. The adults serenely continued chatting, and I learned that David was in charge of the family perfume business. I could tell, from the way that everyone listened attentively to him, that he was highly respected among their friends and neighbors.

The guests had now seated themselves on various upholstered chairs, which left the swooping grey silk sofa available for Jeremy and me to sit on. David remained standing by the enormous fireplace. I stole a look at the women, who wore finely cut dresses of silk or linen, in soft, pale colors of the season, and delicate jewelry remarkable for its subtlety. The men wore dark suits that draped very naturally and made everyone looked polished yet relaxed. Only the older gentlemen wore ties.

Gradually the guests began to ask us polite, tentative questions, whose answers they received with sincere and gentle interest. How did we like life on the Côte d’Azur? Did we prefer winter in London? How did my parents feel about me living abroad, so far away from them? It soon became clear that they were all assembled here in our honor, and, like Honorine, they were curious about the “American heiress and her Englishman” whom they’d heard so much about. The funny thing is that they were just as exotic to me as I was to them; and, as far as I was concerned, the real celebrity of the evening was the matriarch of this attractive family—my dad’s cousin, the ambitious Tante Leonora, who now made a grand entrance as hostess, accompanied by her very dignified husband, Philippe.

“Welcome,
chère
Penn-ee!” she cried in delight, in a high, rather theatrical, feminine voice. “And this must be Zheremy.” I very nearly giggled, for she pronounced our names exactly as my father did.

Tante Leonora was a tall, impeccable, dark- haired woman in her mid-fifties. She appeared as alert as a hawk; and in fact, she had a way of sweeping about in her black taffeta dress that was very much like a great-winged bird. She wore a necklace and earrings of gold and onyx. With her pale, flawless skin and oval face, dark eyes, high forehead and high cheekbones, she was attractive in a “handsome” way, like a particularly formidable goddess.

Leonora kissed me on both cheeks, then moved in a gust of soft scent to do the same with Jeremy. She seemed delighted that we’d cared enough to come and grace her home, and I found myself wanting to do my part to make the evening a great success. She immediately inquired about my parents, asking of their health, saying how proud they must be of me.

“What happy summers your father and I had as children!” Leonora proclaimed warmly, with a fond smile. For the first time I felt that we truly could be related, and I experienced an unexpected pang of regret that I had not grown up with the kind of old-fashioned, traditional exposure to an aunt like this, who’d give you sweets at Easter, and whom you must respectfully visit at Christmastime.

The conversation continued along pleasant topics of travel and weather, yet Tante Leonora was such a compelling presence that I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Certain people have a way of glimmering with energy and sparkle from the moment they enter a room, so that the very vibe of the assembled group changes in an exciting manner, as if we were all satellites that rotated around her strong, magnetic pull. She seated herself like a great diva, regal and in perfect control, her expression serene and confident of an enjoyable occasion.

Her husband, Philippe, who appeared at least ten years older than she, was silver-haired and straight-backed, spry and spiffy in his velvet olive-green jacket. Secure in his own exalted position, he was content to let his wife shimmer in the spotlight while he watched with appreciation of her gifts.

Only once did I catch a little crease of displeasure in Leonora’s brow, and that was when she glanced around the room, and saw that her daughter was still AWOL. Then she turned to David and asked, quite sharply,
“Où est Honorine?”

At the mention of his sister, David shook his head and said resignedly,
“Qui sait?”

Very soon, a serving woman in a black dress, black stockings and white apron entered and murmured to Tante Leonora that dinner was served. Tante Leonora rose, and instructed us to adjourn to the dining salon. Oncle Philippe graciously offered me his arm to lead me to table, and something in his gesture made me feel especially honored as I followed him. Tante Leonora selected Jeremy to escort her, and, two by two, we all went to dinner, by way of a long corridor that led to the back of the estate. We passed several tall pedestals bearing sculpted busts of France’s great kings and thinkers . . . and I had the oddest feeling that they, too, were watching us expectantly.

“A
lors,”
said Oncle Philippe as we entered the formal dining salon, which was a long room with dusky plum and silver baize papering on the walls, very old- fashioned, and two beautiful chandeliers above a long, candlelit table laid with snowy cloth, shining silverware and crystal. But it was the exhilarating scent of the fresh pink and blue flower arrangements that gave the room a heightened atmosphere of celebration.

Oncle Philippe and Tante Leonora sat across from each other, but not at the far ends of the table. Instead, they were seated right in the center, facing each other. My father used to argue with my mother about this, telling her it was the only civilized way for a host and hostess to preside over dinner. My mother, of course, subscribed to the Anglo- American habit of placing the hosts at hollering distance, on opposite far ends.