Martine Cruzes Chanson sat perfectly erect on one of the white wrought iron benches at the edge of her beloved rose garden and contemplated the unfairness of life. Here she was, a year or two (four, if it had to be known) over seventy, prosperous, healthy, and still (everybody continued to say so) handsome, and yet not at all content. Old age was supposed to bring peace and wisdom, but as far as Martine was concerned all it brought was diminished strength to deal with mounting worries.
Well, one mounting worry, if she was to be honest. But a very important one, especially to a woman who valued family and tradition above all else. The problem was this: Martine had no grandchildren and no immediate prospect of getting any. What in heaven’s name, she asked herself again, was she going to do about Alain?
She and her husband Guillaume had made the long trip from Paris down to the chateau two days before because they had assumed they’d be spending the week with that impossible boy. It was only after they had arrived that Henri had discreetly hinted to them that Alain had set himself up in some lurid little love nest at the hunting lodge with someone from one of his New York advertising agencies. Mon dieu, Martine could just imagine the woman! Loud, demanding, a careerist who saw Alain as the ticket to early retirement.
Martine shuddered inwardly, dreading Alain’s decision to bring this new lover over to the chateau to meet her later that afternoon. Guillaume, disgusted with the whole business, had returned to Paris that morning. She should have put her foot down too, of course, and told Alain to keep his little whores to himself, but he had been so charming on the telephone. And, oh, she might as well admit it, she had never been able to deny her only child anything.
She had spent the last year, since that horrible Lisbeth episode, trying to figure out how to marry him off. She had no idea why it should be so difficult. After all, Alain was certainly one of the most eligible—and sought after—bachelors in France. Probably in all of Europe, for that matter. He was rich, handsome, aggressive, a sportsman, and—most important in Martine’s mind—she knew Alain wanted to marry. And yet his ridiculous pride, his need for perfection, stood in his way. He would only settle for the loveliest, the most giving, the most charming of wives. And Martine was seriously beginning to doubt if such a woman could be found. Not that she hadn’t tried.
She took a sip of the chilled Meursault that Henri had placed on a nearby table, closed her eyes against the warm midaftemoon sun, and tried to remember the names of all the poor girls she had thrust in Alain’s path in the past twelve months. Adele, Babette, Celine, Didi … she started to compile the mental list, but within a few minutes she had dozed off.
“Shhh … I think she’s asleep,” she heard Alain whisper much later. She made out the sound of footsteps on the flagstones and, facing the fact that she’d have to meet the woman eventually, she opened her eyes and turned toward the approaching couple. It took her a second or two to figure out why she had seen them as an actual couple, rather than the two very different human beings she’d expected. The reason was Alain was holding the woman’s hand. Alain, who made a point of avoiding physical contact, abstaining whenever he could even from the traditional French embrace, was gripping this woman’s hand so tightly it looked as if he never intended to let go.
Martine sat up and squinted through the sunlight. This woman looked more like a girl, actually; she was certainly younger than Martine had expected. Her hair was a rather pretty blondish red, held back at the nape of her neck with a thick black velvet bow. She was nearly Alain’s height, slim, creamy-skinned, though her cheeks were lightly flushed. She wore simple but obviously well-cut, expensive clothes: a starched white cotton blouse with a wide shawl-like collar under a wine-red cotton cable knit vest, and navy blue linen pants that tapered to brown woven leather loafers. She’d taken off a straw boater and fingered it nervously in her free hand as they stopped in front of Martine.
“Maman,” Alain began in his somewhat ponderous English, “I would you like you to meet Jane Penrod.”
“How do you do?” Martine responded, holding out her hand.
“Very well, thank you,” the girl replied evenly. Her grip was warm and firm. Her smile was direct. Her look told Martine: I have nothing to regret and nothing to hide.
“Sit down, children,” Martine instructed. “Ah, good, here comes Henri with a fresh decanter of white wine. Or would you prefer something else, Miss…?”
“Penrod,” the girl replied. “Jane Millicent Penrod is my full name actually. My mother was a great believer in middle names. And white wine is fine, thank you.”
“Very good,” Martine murmured, studying the girl surreptitiously as Henri served the wine. She had wanted to dislike her because she was an American and therefore without culture or finesse. She had wanted to undermine her, slyly seeking out and laying bare her worst faults in front of Alain. She had assumed that this girl—like all the other unsuitable women Alain had taken as lovers—would be Martine’s natural enemy.
And yet she found herself saying almost sweetly, “I don’t know what I had expected when Alain told me you were an advertising art director … someone with spiky hair and white leather boots, I suppose. You don’t seem to fit the mold, if I may say so.”
“Jane doesn’t fit any mold,” Alain announced proudly, beaming across at her. “That is one of the first things I realized about her, too, Maman. She is unique.”
“Please, Alain,” Janie stammered, her cheeks turning an even deeper red. “You’re embarrassing me. Let’s talk about something else. Your rose garden, for instance, Madame Chanson … it’s absolutely beautiful. I’ve been admiring it since the first day I arrived. Would you mind … showing me around?”
The girl could not have hit on a subject closer to Martine’s heart, of course. And despite Martine’s rather cynical assumption that the request had been calculated to flatter, she was more than happy to show off her pride and joy. She stood regally and led the way down the brick path.
“I try to mix the colors … the way an artist does his palette,” Martine explained as she, Alain, and the girl strolled slowly through the sunlit flower beds. “You see, the way those white and pale yellow floribundas there complement the pink and red climbing roses on the arbor?”
“Yes, I understand,” Janie nodded, leaning over to caress a particularly beautiful bloom. “My mother has a rose garden, too. Nothing nearly as wonderful as this … but I remember loving all the funny names of the hybrids.”
“The one you’re looking at,” Martine replied warmly, “is named Madame Alfred Carriere. I’m particularly proud of it, as it usually thrives only in England. Now follow me, dear,” Martine instructed. “I know you’ll be interested in seeing my General Eisenhowers over by the fountain.”
It took nearly an hour for Martine to point out and explain the background and importance of each of her cherished hybrids, and, though Alain soon retired to the shade and the wine carafe, Jane followed Martine steadfastly through the tour. Martine could not help but notice that the girl seemed both interested in what she heard and intelligent in her comments.
“The layout here,” Janie remarked at one point, “reminds me a bit of the original plans for Empress Josephine’s rose beds at Malmaison.”
“Exactly!” Martine replied, turning to Janie with shining eyes. “That was my idea. But how in the world did you guess? I don’t think anyone in my flower club has ever realized that.”
“Oh, just coincidence,” Jane responded modestly. “When I was doing background research on Chanson, I read up on the French chateaux. The grounds and gardens, of course, are a big part of that. And I just fell in love with them all.” It occurred to Martine at this point that the girl was sincere in her enthusiasm for her garden and perhaps sincere in other ways she had not given her credit for. Martine observed her closely as she continued to talk, noticing the classic tilt of her nose, the determined curve of her chin, the graceful and expressive way she gestured with her hands to emphasize her words.
“Versailles and Fountainebleu,” she said, “all of Le Nôtre’s huge, majestic projects. Alain took me to the Bagatelle in the Bois. Oh, it’s just beautiful! Small, of course, but so lovely. Have you been there?”
“My dear,” Martine said coolly, “our apartment in Paris faces the Bois. I was lunching in the Bagatelle, I assure you, before you were born.” She hadn’t meant for her response to smart, but she was haughty by nature and especially touchy when she felt her importance or worth was in any doubt.
“I’m sorry,” the girl replied, her smile fading quickly. “I didn’t know. I guess Alain did mention it. But I’m not all that familiar with Paris, and…”
“Please, forgive me, that was quite unnecessary on my part,” Martine interrupted. Martine, who seldom felt the need to apologize because she so infrequently felt herself in the wrong, was surprised by her desire to snatch back her snide remark. She realized then that she wanted this girl’s respect. Though far from easily affectionate and seldom one to let her guard down, Martine came to the surprising conclusion that she actually liked Jane. She approved of her, in fact. She glanced over to where Alain sat in the shade and saw him studying them closely. Did he love this girl? Was she going to be the one? Her eyes returned to the woman at her side.
“And, yes,” Martine went on, slipping her arm through Jane’s as she continued the stroll, “I do love the Bagatelle. That superb iris garden! You must come visit us in Paris, my dear. Stay a few days at the apartment. There are so many lovely gardens in Paris. Did Alain take you to Jardins des Plantes?”
“No, he didn’t. But I went there with my parents. I’ve a sister who lives not far from there. Near the Sorbonne.”
“A student, I suppose. A junior year abroad?”
“No, Cynthia is married to someone who teaches at the Sorbonne,” Jane replied. “Doctor Gigonte. He has something to do with sociology … or philosophy … I’m never quite sure which.”
“Not André Gigonte?” Martine demanded.
“Yes, André,” Jane replied, her smile returning. “Do you know him?”
“My dear, who in Paris doesn’t? He’s one of our leading intellectuals. And so handsome! And his wife, Cynthia, she’s your sister? Why, this is just marvelous! Did you stay with them in Paris? What’s he working on now? His last book caused quite a sensation, I assure you!”
“No … I didn’t see Cynthia this trip…” Janie hesitated. “She’s a lot older than I, and we haven’t really stayed in touch.”
“Now … wait … I seem to remember hearing something about your sister,” Martine mused. “Yes, that’s right. I heard that she comes from quite a prestigious, wealthy family in America.” Martine turned once more to Jane, studying her. “Penrod … yes?”
“Yes,” Jane nodded dutifully, but Martine could see that the subject didn’t thrill her.
“The Boston Penrods?” Martine prodded.
Jane nodded again.
“Well, this is just marvelous!” Martine enthused, though she could sense Jane’s unhappy reaction to her discovery. But why in the world should the girl be displeased? The Penrod fortune was as old and probably a great deal more secure than the Chansons’. This lovely, gentle child was an heiress! If she and Alain married, it would mean the joining of two wealthy, revered families. It would, Martine realized with mounting joy, look like a social coup on Martine’s part! She could already imagine spreading the news to all her Paris friends. Where would the wedding be? Boston or Paris? Either one would be acceptable to Martine. Boston was the only city in America that Martine considered halfway civilized.
“My dear,” Martine added as they started to walk back down the path toward Alain, “I can’t tell you how pleased I am that my son has found you. He seems so happy. It’s been years since I’ve seen him looking so relaxed.”
“I doubt it has anything to do with me,” Jane replied quickly, looking away from Martine across the darkening back lawn. “He obviously loves it here. It was good for him to get away from business worries for more than a weekend.”
“And you?” Martine demanded gently. “Has it been good for you?”
“Oh, yes,” Jane replied promptly, but Martine heard the hesitancy behind her words. “It has been a delight.” But still Martine detected the undercurrent of doubt in Jane’s tone, and she noticed how, once they’d sat down again beside Alain, Jane rarely met her son’s gaze. And yet—oh, his feelings were so patently clear—he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. And he talked of nothing else.
“Jane is a superb artist, Maman,” he was telling her. “And not just commercially. She’s done some beautiful sketches of the house and vineyards. Jane, darling, did you bring your sketchbook to show Maman?”
“No, Alain, it’s still at the lodge,” Jane replied, and turning to Martine she added, “They’re nothing, really. Just little thumbnails of spots we might want to use in the brochure.”
“She’s ridiculously modest, Maman,” Alain said. “I tell you—and all her colleagues agree—she’s enormously talented.”
“I’m curious, my dear,” Martine said to Jane, “why you decided to go into commercial work. Surely you didn’t need to … and it can’t be that artistically rewarding.”
“Actually, I did need to,” Jane told her simply, “for many reasons. Mostly because I wanted to make it on my own. I needed to prove to myself that I was something—someone—besides a Penrod. I guess it’s difficult to understand, but…”
“No,” Martine told her, “I do understand.” Martine, after all, had felt the same drive to prove herself. Born with all the advantages a wealthy, established Bordelaise family offered, Martine had never been content to sit back—as all her sisters and friends had done—and play out her life as wife and mother. Martine, too, had needed to prove herself if, as Jane had put it, only to herself. Chanson International had been her proving ground, just as the advertising agency was Jane’s. Yes, she understood what Jane Penrod meant, and it worried her. Because deep in her heart she knew—with the surety only a mother can feel—that Alain didn’t understand. And that he never would.