Page 97 of I Do, I Do, I Do
Thank you, my darling, for sharing yourself with me. I will love you always.
Your very own, Jean Jacques Villette
Chapter 23
They exchanged letters in the carriage, read them, and then sat in silence until Mr. Glascon turned the vehicle onto a shady road leading to the cemetery.
“Well, maybe he wasn’t a complete scoundrel,” Juliette said finally.
“I suppose we can admit that he had a few charms.” Biting her lip, Clara stuffed her letter into her handbag.
Zoe sighed. “I never thought I’d say this, but maybe I’m glad I didn’t shoot him.”
“You know, in a way marrying Jean Jacques and his subsequent departure changed my life for the better,” Juliette said in a musing tone. “If it hadn’t been for him, I never would have left Linda Vista. I never would have climbed Chilkoot, something I’ll be proud of all of my life. I never would have learned that I have a backbone, and I wouldn’t have met Ben. I would never have met either of you.”
Zoe clasped her hands and nodded. “I wouldn’t have run into Tom again, and I might never have discovered who I am and who I want to be. I wouldn’t have known the joy of sisters.”
“If it wasn’t for Jean Jacques, I would still own the inn. I might have married Hugo Bosch.” Clara shuddered. “Now I’ve been somewhere and done something that few women will do. And I met a good man and two good women whom I will never forget.”
“Jean Jacques did damage us,” Juliette said slowly, “but he gave us something, too. Perhaps he gave more than he took.”
Clara nodded. “Who can understand the human heart? Maybe he did love us in his own way.” She was first to alight at the cemetery, waving off Mr. Glascon’s assistance.
Neat rows of headstones covered a grassy area that drew enough sun to seem peaceful and welcoming and enough of a breeze that visiting here would offer a pleasant respite on a hot day.
“This reminds me a bit of the Newcastle cemetery,” Zoe said, falling into step behind Mr. Glascon. “Except we have more pines than shade trees.”
They fell silent as they approached a white stone adorned with carved grapes and vines curling along the upper curve. Beneath Jean Jacques’s name were his dates of birth and death. Below, an inscription read:SO MAY HE REST; HIS FAULTS LIE GENTLY ON HIM. WM. SHAKESPEARE.
“His faults lie gently,” Juliette repeated. Closing her eyes, she lifted her face to the sunshine, and the anger drained out of her. It was over. The pain, the fury, the resentment.
When she opened her eyes, she saw that Zoe and Clara looked at peace. They, too, had said good-bye and released the anger.
At the sound of another carriage drawing to a halt, Mr. Glascon glanced back at the iron gates. His eyebrows rose, and his shoulders straightened. “My dears, I apologize for what is about to happen. But Loma Grande is a small town, and news travels quickly.”
“What?”
“A lady has learned of your arrival and wishes to meet you.”
“Who could possibly—?”
A woman dressed in widow’s weeds stepped from the carriage and hurried toward them. Her face and form struck no familiar chord. But the four small boys who followed her were instantly recognizable. Juliette, Clara, and Zoe gazed in shock at four little Jean Jacqueses, the spitting image of their father.
Mr. Glascon managed a strained smile, then introduced Mrs. Jean Jacques Villette. The moment he mentioned Juliette’s, Clara’s, and Zoe’s names, Marie Villette smiled, seemingly oblivious to their stunned expressions.
“I know each of you,” she said in delight. She spoke in a charming French accent. “I know all of Jean Jacques’s beautiful cousins. He spoke of you so fondly.”
“Cousins,” Clara repeated in a weak voice.
“Oui. Although I have not had the pleasure of meeting my husband’s more distant relatives until recently, I feel I am acquainted with you all.” Marie Villette’s smile revealed dimples winking beside the corners of her mouth. If Clara had been asked to name which of Marie’s pretty parts Jean Jacques most admired, she would have guessed that he fell in love with her dimples.
Or maybe it was the shining chestnut curls that bounced atop her shoulders when she pushed her boys forward and introduced them. Each of the boys had inherited Jean Jacques’s straight, dark hair and his devilishly charming blue eyes. Little gentlemen all, they brought their cousins’ fingertips to their lips and then politely stepped back. At a nod from their mother, they straightened the painted stones outlining their father’s final resting place, pulled out weeds, and clipped the grass at the base of the stone.
“What?” Juliette wet her lips and tried to speak. “Forgive me, but I was admiring your sons and didn’t hear.”
“You’re the heiress, and you love to read, Miss March. Miss Klaus, I believe you own and operate a wonderful inn on the Oregon coast. And Miss Wilder, you’re the cousin with the large family. My husband spoke so highly of you all!”
Juliette stole a glance at Mr. Glascon, hoping he would step in and guide a shocking and unfortunate situation. But Mr. Glascon stood with his hands clasped behind his back, rocking backward on his heels, looking off into the distance. He would not intervene. If Jean Jacques’s out-of-town wives wished to explain they were not cousins, if they wished to fully identify themselves and detail how egregiously Marie Villette had been deceived, he would not interfere.
