The Anonymous Miss Addams. Kasey Michaels
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the butler. “Thank you, Hartley. You are obedience itself. You may retire now. See that we are not disturbed.”
“Very good, sir. Thank you, sir,” the butler agreed, backing from the room, closing the double doors behind him as he went.
Pierre turned his head to see the offending box, then once more directed his gaze toward the gardens. “Taken to burgling my rooms, have you, Father? I am discovering new, disturbing things about you with each passing moment. I don’t want to hear those letters read, if that’s what you have in mind. How could you read them and still retain any feeling for Mother?”
“Quite easily, I imagine,” André replied, opening the box and picking up at random one of the dozen or so letters. “I loved Eleanore very much, Pierre, and miss her more with each passing day. Oh, my, there seems to be the smell of old perfume about these letters. Follet was always the fop, as I remember. No wonder that servant I turned off for attempting to steal some of your dear mother’s possessions took them posthaste to Quinton. Let’s see, I think I can make out this dreadful chicken scrawl. Oh, the spelling! It’s ludicrous! I’m afraid I must deny your request and read this one aloud. Prepare yourself, my son.”
André made a short business of clearing his throat and then began to read. “‘My dearest dimpled darling, light of my deepest heart.’” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Oh, that is dreadful, isn’t it? I can barely read on but, for your sake, Pierre, I shall persevere. ‘I sat awake till the wee morning hours just before dawn, my celestial love, thinking of you and our hasty, beatific meeting in the enchanted gardens last night. How I long to tell you all that is in my love-besieged heart, all the wonder and glory that I feel for you, but there seems no way we can escape for long your dastardly husband, André.’ Oh, that is good,” André stopped to comment. “He used my name—just in case it had slipped your mother’s mind, I suppose. No wonder Eleanore kept the letters; they’re better than a night at Covent Garden.”
“That is sufficient, thank you. You may stop there,” Pierre cut in, disgusted with his father’s levity. “Isn’t it enough that she had an affair with the man? Must you read his reminiscences of it?”
“An affair?” André repeated, his voice suddenly very cold, very hard. “You insolent pup! How dare you! Haven’t you heard a word I’ve read? The man was—is—an ass. A total ass! If his harridan of a wife hadn’t hauled him off to Ireland, you would have discovered that for yourself. Do you really mean to stand there and tell me you still believe someone as wonderful, as intelligent as your mother would have given the idiot who wrote this drivel so much as the time of day? Why do you think I didn’t kill Quinton when he first approached me? I laughed him out of the house!”
Pierre slowly turned away from the window to look piercingly at his father. “Are you telling me Follet’s love was all one-sided?”
André smiled. “Ah, and to think for a moment there I was beginning to believe you were slow. Yes, Pierre, Follet’s all-consuming passion for your mother was very much one-sided. To be perfectly frank, as I remember it, Eleanore considered him to be a toad. A particularly slimy toad.” He tipped his head to one side, as if reliving some private memory. “I readily recall one evening—Follet was skipping about our first-floor balcony at the London town house reciting some terrible love poem he had written to her pert nose, or some such nonsense, and causing no end of racket—until your mother cut him off by dousing him with a pitcher of cold water.”
Pierre smiled wanly, then returned to the drinks table to refill his glass. “All this time, wasted.” He turned to his father. “If you knew what I was thinking all these years—and how you knew I shall not be so silly as to ask, considering that you know everything—why didn’t you tell me? All these long years I’ve been warring with myself, trying to banish my love for my mother, trying to understand how human beings can be so fickle, so devious. And you knew—you knew!”
André put his arm around his son. “I must confess, I have known the whole truth for less than two years. It took me that long to figure out the reason for your defection, as I had taught you to hide your tracks very successfully. I had thought to tell you the truth then, but deep inside I was just the least bit put out that you could believe Quinton’s obvious lies, and I made up my mind to wait until you came to your senses. And, never fear, you never stopped loving your mother. I see the flowers you order placed on her grave every week, and I’ve watched you when you visit the cemetery.
“But I’ve also watched you grow and mature these past years, even more than you did during your years with me, or your time spent on the Peninsula. You have become a devoted student of human nature, my son, taking all that I’ve taught you and honing it to a fine edge. Of course, you have become a shade too arrogant, and even, dare I say it, a bit cold—but I think we can safely assume that your arrogance has now suffered a healing setback.”
“This has all been in the way of a lesson?” Pierre asked, incredulous. “I can’t believe it.”
“Oh, dear,” André remarked, looking at his son. “You’re angry, aren’t you? Good. You’re very gifted, Pierre, gifted with money, breeding, intelligence and a very pretty face. I taught you all I could about being a gentleman. The war has taught you about the perfidies and cruelties of mankind. Now, Quennel Quinton has taught you never to accept anything at face value, even if it is personally painful for you to delve into a subject. He has also taught you a measure of humility, hasn’t he, showing you that, for all your grand intelligence, you can still be duped. All round, I’d say the thing was a particularly satisfactory exercise.”
“I exist only to please you, Father,” Pierre drawled sarcastically.
“Of course you do,” André acknowledged in complete seriousness. “Never forget it. The only obstacle to becoming a complete gentleman left before you now is for you to accomplish some good, unselfish work—some compassionate assistance to one of the helpless wretches of mankind. You have made a good start by helping your friend Sherbourne secure the affections of Quinton’s supposed daughter, Victoria, but as you were trying to rid yourself of the title of murder suspect at the time, I cannot feel that your actions were completely altruistic. Yes, I would like to see you perform some good deed, with not a single thought of personal reward. Do you think you can handle that on your own, or shall I devise some scheme to set you on your way?”
Pierre stared at his father unblinkingly. “There are times when I actually believe I could hate you, Father,” he said, unable to hide a wry smile.
“Yes, of course,” André replied silkily. “Truthfully, I believe I should be disappointed in you if you were to fall on my neck, thanking me. Shall we go in to dinner?”
CHAPTER TWO
PIERRE LINGERED in the country with André for another two days, the two men rebuilding their former good relationship on a sounder, more solid base before the younger Standish reluctantly took his leave, his father’s admonition—to find himself a humanizing good deed as soon as may be for the sake of his immortal soul—following after him as his coachman sprung the horses.
“A good deed,” Pierre repeated, settling himself against the midnight-blue velvet squabs of the traveling coach that was the envy of London. “What do you think of that, Duvall, my friend?”
The manservant gave a Gallic shrug, shaking his head. “Il vous rit au nez.”
“Father doesn’t laugh in my nose, Duvall; he laughs in my face, and no, I don’t think so. Not this time,” Pierre corrected, smiling at the French interpretation of the old saying. “This time I think he is deadly serious, more’s the pity. My dearest, most loving father thinks I need to—”
“Tomber à plat ventre,” Duvall intoned gravely, folding his scrawny arms across his thin chest.
“Not really. You French may fall flat on your stomachs, Duvall. We English much prefer to land on our faces, if indeed we must take the fall at all. And how will you ever develop a workable knowledge of English if you insist upon lapsing into French the moment we are alone? Consider yourself forbidden the language