be?” asked Will.
As if in response, a spot before one of the great mottled trunks shimmered and resolved itself into the old man.
“ Bonjour, Mesdemoiselles, Monsieur . Allow me to present myself. I am called Waldhart Jean–Baptiste de Rochefort, and I am entirely at your service.” He made a seriously old–fashioned bow before crunching along the drive toward us.
“You speak English really good,” Will said.
“I speak English very well, ” corrected the grey–haired gentleman. He then pulled himself up to his full height somewhere just below my own five–foot–seven and drew in a breath through his nose, so exaggeratedly that his nostrils almost pinched shut. “We French invented English, as a means of communicating to the miserable peasants inhabiting that forsaken island known as Greater Bretagne.”
His hauteur suggested we might belong to the miserable peasant contingency.
“Ten–sixty–six,” said Will.
The old gentleman tilted his head to one side and down, an understated nod.
I looked at Will, lost.
“The French conquered England in 1066,” Will murmured in explanation. “The English language came into being as the conquerors and the defeated figured out how to talk to each other.”
The Frenchman regarded Will with something like approval. “You evidently share the Conqueror’s name, Guillaume.”
“No, I was named after a river in Oregon,” Will said.
“You know my brother’s name?” Mickie asked. “Pfeffer kept that secret.”
“There’s a Guillaume River in Oregon?” I asked.
“Willamette River,” Will replied.
“So that’s your real name, Willamette ?” I asked.
“My real name is Will,” he replied tersely.
“How do you know my brother’s name?” Mickie repeated, an edge to her voice.
The ghostly Frenchman, ignoring Mickie’s question, continued dismissively, “Of course, you are Americans, with your own bastardization of the island dialect.”
“I flew six thousand miles to meet you and now you’re telling me you have a problem with Americans?” Mickie asked, eyes narrowing.
“Of course not. The French love Americans. We gave your country to you two times over as a gesture of our goodwill. First was the Marquis de Lafayette, and later our own Napoleon sold half your nation to you for pennies. Without France there would be no America.”
“Napoleon wasn’t French,” Will muttered.
The old man regarded Will. “Napoleon was la France ,” he said, as if he’d thrown down a glove and now waited for Will to retrieve it. The exchange left me puzzled, but Will nodded as if conceding the point.
“But we gave you Paris in 1944, so we’re even,” said Will.
“ Touché ,” whispered the gentleman, a hint of a smile as he gazed at Will.
The old man fixed Mickie with an imperious gaze. “As for my knowing the name of your brother, chère Mademoiselle Mackenzie, I took care that I should know both his name and his identity before revealing myself.”
Here he turned from Mickie to gaze upon me.
“ Bonjour Mademoiselle ,” he said.
“ Bonjour , Sir Walter,” I said politely. Then I blushed and stammered. “I mean Monsieur de Rocheforte .”
“ Non, non ,” he said. “You have not misspoken. But how did you know of my knighthood?”
“Knighthood?” asked Mickie.
“We didn’t know at all,” said Will. “I, uh, started referring to you as ‘Sir Walter’ back home. I got everyone else in the habit. Sorry.”
“As a speaker of English, it is most fit you would adjust my name from Waldhart to Walter.” A smile twitched along his mouth. “And you are welcome to continue to address me by my title as Sir Walter.” The small smile grew to a larger one.
He turned back to study me. “This is a cousin perhaps?” he asked Will and Mickie. “Not, I think, your sister.”
“Samantha is our friend,” Will said. Lowering his voice he whispered, “She’s the one we wrote you about.”
Sir Walter’s mouth curved upwards. “
As if in response, a spot before one of the great mottled trunks shimmered and resolved itself into the old man.
“ Bonjour, Mesdemoiselles, Monsieur . Allow me to present myself. I am called Waldhart Jean–Baptiste de Rochefort, and I am entirely at your service.” He made a seriously old–fashioned bow before crunching along the drive toward us.
“You speak English really good,” Will said.
“I speak English very well, ” corrected the grey–haired gentleman. He then pulled himself up to his full height somewhere just below my own five–foot–seven and drew in a breath through his nose, so exaggeratedly that his nostrils almost pinched shut. “We French invented English, as a means of communicating to the miserable peasants inhabiting that forsaken island known as Greater Bretagne.”
His hauteur suggested we might belong to the miserable peasant contingency.
“Ten–sixty–six,” said Will.
The old gentleman tilted his head to one side and down, an understated nod.
I looked at Will, lost.
“The French conquered England in 1066,” Will murmured in explanation. “The English language came into being as the conquerors and the defeated figured out how to talk to each other.”
The Frenchman regarded Will with something like approval. “You evidently share the Conqueror’s name, Guillaume.”
“No, I was named after a river in Oregon,” Will said.
“You know my brother’s name?” Mickie asked. “Pfeffer kept that secret.”
“There’s a Guillaume River in Oregon?” I asked.
“Willamette River,” Will replied.
“So that’s your real name, Willamette ?” I asked.
“My real name is Will,” he replied tersely.
“How do you know my brother’s name?” Mickie repeated, an edge to her voice.
The ghostly Frenchman, ignoring Mickie’s question, continued dismissively, “Of course, you are Americans, with your own bastardization of the island dialect.”
“I flew six thousand miles to meet you and now you’re telling me you have a problem with Americans?” Mickie asked, eyes narrowing.
“Of course not. The French love Americans. We gave your country to you two times over as a gesture of our goodwill. First was the Marquis de Lafayette, and later our own Napoleon sold half your nation to you for pennies. Without France there would be no America.”
“Napoleon wasn’t French,” Will muttered.
The old man regarded Will. “Napoleon was la France ,” he said, as if he’d thrown down a glove and now waited for Will to retrieve it. The exchange left me puzzled, but Will nodded as if conceding the point.
“But we gave you Paris in 1944, so we’re even,” said Will.
“ Touché ,” whispered the gentleman, a hint of a smile as he gazed at Will.
The old man fixed Mickie with an imperious gaze. “As for my knowing the name of your brother, chère Mademoiselle Mackenzie, I took care that I should know both his name and his identity before revealing myself.”
Here he turned from Mickie to gaze upon me.
“ Bonjour Mademoiselle ,” he said.
“ Bonjour , Sir Walter,” I said politely. Then I blushed and stammered. “I mean Monsieur de Rocheforte .”
“ Non, non ,” he said. “You have not misspoken. But how did you know of my knighthood?”
“Knighthood?” asked Mickie.
“We didn’t know at all,” said Will. “I, uh, started referring to you as ‘Sir Walter’ back home. I got everyone else in the habit. Sorry.”
“As a speaker of English, it is most fit you would adjust my name from Waldhart to Walter.” A smile twitched along his mouth. “And you are welcome to continue to address me by my title as Sir Walter.” The small smile grew to a larger one.
He turned back to study me. “This is a cousin perhaps?” he asked Will and Mickie. “Not, I think, your sister.”
“Samantha is our friend,” Will said. Lowering his voice he whispered, “She’s the one we wrote you about.”
Sir Walter’s mouth curved upwards. “
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