Page 23 of If You Were the Only Girl in the World
Nate lifted his arm to signal to a large black phantom gig. In the driver’s perch was a woman of such astonishing beauty that Katrina could not take her eyes from her.
“Katrina Schubert meet my cousin, Aurore Boyer.”
The grinning woman with the perfectly oval face, astonishing brilliant blue eyes and platinum tresses caught up in a ribbon, reached down to offer her hand. “Katrina! Welcome! Or I hope it will be despite my driving and old Maurice here! Climb up, do.” She waved them both up into the two-seater, then spun as she fought to manage the horse. “I put up the top for you. The wind can knock the breath from you. Snow will get worse today, I think. I hope you both don’t get stuck here. If it threatens to come to that, I promise to get you back to the station for the eight-fifteen. Forgive me now,” she said as she pointed to the horse. “This fellow has a vastly different idea of how to behave than I.”
“And you’re doing a wonderful job of it, too,” Katrina said and settled into her corner of the very small seat.
Nate got in and put his arm around her shoulder, then pressed her to his side, happiness all over his face. “No use pretending we don’t know each other.”
She hugged him.
Aurore caught a glimpse of them over her shoulder. “Tight quarters. Apologies. And we are off!” She snapped the reins and the two horses gave her a huff of objection, but off they trotted.
“How was the train?” she called back to them after they left the station and the tiny village behind. The vast peace of the countryside and the gentle fall of snowflakes sent a slice of serenity into Katrina’s soul.
“Crowded,” Nate said.
“Normal,” Aurore responded. “It’s been like that since the start, you know. Not many get off and try to find accommodations in Melun. The looks of the station discourages them. But then, south of here, into the Loire, people are not better off. Worse, in many ways. Yet I understand many seek the south, if only for the warmth. But I will say no more of that! Enjoy the view. We will be home in ten minutes.”
CHAPTER7
Marianne Roland Marceau at seventy-two was as elegant as a willow tree as she poured tea and served pastries to the four of them. They sat in a grand salon that would have been fit to entertain the likes of Louis the Fourteenth and his entire retinue. Complemented by gilded Rococco and Imperial furniture, the portraits and tapestries upon the walls told of ancestors, royal fox hunts, family balls, and the first Napoleon’s crowning. The sumptuous upholstery and pastels of chintz coverings transformed the huge chateau into a comfortable home. The snow flakes falling beyond the wall-high windows to the formal landscape of winter brown grass added the touch of fairyland to the decor.
“Mama has managed to keep our chef by bribing her with double her wages and all the cream she wishes from our only remaining milk cow.” Aurore settled into her overstuffed wing chair, looking like a replica to her mother with platinum blonde hair and forest green eyes.
“The woman is worth every cent and never forget it,” said Marianne, the grand lady who was counted among the illustrious Impressionist painters. “We have guests often and we must ensure they are well fed.”
“Including us!” Aurore joked and sipped her tea.
Each of them had a large cup laced with brandy.
Marianne grinned. “A full heart comes with a full belly, am I not right, Nate?”
“Oui, TanteMarianne. We try to emulate your philosophy everywhere.” His inference Katrina took to mean the attempt to feed the armed forces.
“Good that you do. Noble work, Nate. One of the reasons the Confederates lost the War Between the States was that we could not produce enough food to sustain the march. Nor could we transport it quickly enough or in the vast quantities needed.”
“Mama,” said Aurore, “grew up in Virginia and was married to a planter. They had a large farm but her husband went off to war.”
“I could not sustain the work myself,” Marianne said with a sigh.
Katrina wondered if she and her husband had owned slaves. Most had to till the fields and bring in crops.
“He died at Gettysburg.”
Katrina’s parents had immigrated to America five years after the end of the civil war. In Chicago, many African American negroes lived having come up from the south seeking a better life. Katrina had studied the war that had torn the States apart and she remembered that the battle of Gettysburg was the beginning of the end for the southern cause.
“Mama knows too intimately the hardship of war,” Aurore put in.
“She will not mention her heroism, but we sneak it in when appropriate,” Nate added. “She will not tell you how she walked through Yankee lines to get to Uncle Killian in Washington.”
Marianne sat for a long moment of reflection and then rolled the fingers of one hand in the air. “I had had enough of trying to raise crops on my own and failing. Our donkey was so old and tired. He stayed alive for me, I do believe. But he could not outsmart a renegade Reb. The fellow killed him and carved him up to take to the woods and to roast. I…I chased him off with my rifle. I had no shot, but he didn’t know that. I buried that poor animal. That night, when the Yankees came again and took my house for their captain, I knew I had to leave.”
She inhaled a mighty breath and stared straight ahead at her memories. “I walked all night and two more days and then had to beg a Yankee sentinel to let me across the picket lines. It is no wonder that anyone flees the armies. Wise ones go. They must. The sounds, the shaking of the ground, the hideous knives that fly through the sky to pierce you or set you on fire. Any sane one leaves at first light.”
“As you did,mon amour.” The giant of a man who slowly ambled into the room was bent and white with age, but hearty in his voice and loving to the woman whom he leaned toward and kissed upon her coifed grey hair. This was the incomparable artist who had taken the world by storm with incredible sculptures of the human in all its emotions.
Andre Claude Marceau, was the famous sculptor known simply as Remy. He waspetite fils; Prince du Sang of French Bourbon kings, but he was also descended from the Bonapartes. He took to the settee beside his wife and lifted her hand to his lips for a kiss. “What she does not tell you is that she was leaving the futility of her past to begin her journey to find me and save me from my loveless days.”
