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.
Chapter Six
“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.
“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.
Chapter Six
“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.
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