Authors: Judith Krantz
If Boston, Lilianne told herself, had sent her a baby hippo who couldn’t even ask the time in French, why should she return this girl, whom she had transformed, to what must obviously be an uncongenial and sad environment? Billy, unlike other girls she had sheltered, had never shown the first signs of homesickness. If those rich merchants of Boston didn’t know how to bring out the best in their own daughters, they deserved to lose them.
Why not, after all, keep Billy in France? Why not introduce her to several of her nephews and perhaps one or two of their friends? All of them had one thing in common: Their families had been impoverished by the war to varying degrees and these young sprigs of the old aristocracy had been reduced to working for their living just like everyone else. World War II had finished, for much of Old France, a decline that even the guillotine had been too selective to accomplish.
In any case, Lilianne assured herself, whether anything came of it or not, it was surely not normal for Billy to still live like a schoolgirl months after her nineteenth birthday, with no company but that of other women, dance students, and old family friends. (The Comtesse had, naturally, a private life of her own—she was still a young woman,
voyons
—but that was a very discreet one indeed and no paying guest, no matter how close she became, was ever to be included in it.)
Yet when she suggested to Billy that it might amuse her to meet a few young men, Billy’s response was violent.
“No, Madame! I beg of you! I’m so happy the way I am, my life is perfect just exactly as it is. There is nothing more embarrassing than a blind date—or whatever you call it in French. I know you’re being kind, but, truly, I’m not interested at all. The family is more than enough for me. Don’t ever talk about it again,
please.”
Nothing she could have said would have consolidated Lilianne’s nebulous plans more firmly. This would not do at all. What was the purpose of a transformation if there was no one to admire it? What if Cinderella had not gone to the ball? She had been right in thinking the situation was not normal. How could Billy be truly the credit to her that she deserved after all her efforts if the girl was without a single male admirer? She had not, after all, been preparing her for the religious life. Obviously, this Boston virgin must be outwitted. One must arrange it—it was no more than one’s duty.
Comte Edouard de la Côte de Grace was Lilianne’s preferred nephew. Unlike the physically undistinguished heritors of many great names, he carried about him a genuine hint of nobility, an air of another time. He looked truly like one of the last of the grand seigneurs, although Lilianne had to smile at some of his pretentions. Edouard had great height, a superbly aquiline nose, thin, arrogant lips, and an expression both stern and, when he chose, humorous. At twenty-six he still lived at home with his parents since his salary at L’Air Liquide wasn’t enough to enable him to maintain his own place in the style he would have accepted. However, his future in the giant corporation was assured in the long run through family pull, since he had, on his mother’s side, as one said in slang,
du piston
.
One afternoon Billy returned from her dance class almost too late for tea. She had chosen to stand outside on the platform of the No. 52 bus during the half-hour trip, in spite of the bitter cold of early February, because it was such a clear and brilliant evening that she didn’t want to miss a minute of Paris. Her cheeks flamed and her lips stung. Her hair was loose around her flushed face, blown about by the wind, and she dashed into the apartment on Boulevard Lannes with her long, eager stride, holding herself tall, laughing with anticipation of a cup of hot tea. In front of the blazing fire, feet planted wide apart, stood Edouard de la Côte de Grace, clad in full morning dress, tailcoat and striped trousers, warming his backside with all the assurance of the Sun King.
“This is my nephew, Comte Edouard de la Côte de Grace, Billy,” Lilianne said casually. “Edouard, this is Mademoiselle Billy Winthrop, who lives with us. Billy, you must forgive the figure Edouard sets—he doesn’t always dress this way at this hour. However, today he is going to be initiated into the Jockey Club and he has come to show himself off to his old aunt before he goes to drink an entire bottle of champagne, all by himself, mind you, so that then he will officially be a member of the Club. What folly! It was thoughtful of you, Edouard, to drop in to see me before this curious ceremony, rather than afterward.”
And so it began. Utterly beguiled, drenched in the glamour of Edouard, in love for the first time in her life, Billy surged into romance with reckless abandon, an impulsiveness that disturbed Lilianne de Vertdulac in spite of her smugness at the success of her plot.
All of Billy’s occupations became new ways of becoming worthy of Edouard, her mind and her emotions focused entirely on him. She could not believe her luck when he took her out shooting rabbits on the weekends or invited her home to dinner with his parents. Once he even invited her to have a drink in the bar of the sacrosanct Jockey Club, the most exclusive men’s club in the world.
For Edouard’s part, he was well pleased. This little American of Lilianne’s was far more attractive than he had expected, considering the fairly decent quality of her birth. It had been his rueful experience that the other girls of great fortune he had met were not girls he found physically possible, or he would have married one several years ago. Billy would be quite suitable in the role of Comtesse de la Côte de Grace, provided that the arrangements were correct, of course. He found her both suitably innocent and properly in awe of him. With the right coiffure, the right clothes, and the right maquillage, she would become a striking woman of the world. When his father and his uncle died, and she became Madame La Marquise de la Côte de Grace, she would be ready for the dignity of the name. He thought of his hunting lodge, so badly in need of repairs—to be reduced to hunting on foot!—he considered the family château in the Auvergne, waiting to be restored to its former beauty. It was clearly time to settle down.
Part of the bargain Billy had struck with Aunt Cornelia was that she would write weekly from Paris. She had deliberately been very vague about her weight, intending to surprise and stun all Boston when she returned. She rarely mentioned Edouard, except in passing, but by spring, Cornelia sensed that something was going on between Billy and this young count, although what it could possibly be she found difficult to imagine. One day in May two letters crossed each other.
Dear Cousin Molly
,
Thanks to your great kindness in finding our Honey a place with Madame de Vertdulac, who has been quite wonderful to her, she’s been having a marvelous year! From what she writes, I believe that her French has improved
immeasurably—
I am so glad! She has even taken up dance class, which can only do her good! Recently she had mentioned one name rather frequently—that of a Comte Edouard de Côte de Grace, who seems to be squiring her about Paris. Do you happen to know anything about him or his family? I must confess that I’m as surprised as I am delighted that she should have found a young man, since the dear girl was not a great success in Boston in that particular way. I have always hoped she might be a late bloomer—unlike you, dear Molly! I would appreciate any news you may have for me
.
With much love,
Nelie
Nelie my dear
,
I have just received a most puzzling letter from Lilianne de Vertdulac. Apparently your young niece is having a serious romance with Comte Edouard de la Côte de Grace, whose family I know fairly well, although not intimately, and Lilianne believes it might turn into an engagement at any moment! All well and good, he comes from the very top drawer, as my maid would say, but, my dear, he is no more well off than she is, except for his job. Great expectations but nothing for years, as I understand it. The extraordinary thing is that Lilianne is apparently unaware of Honey’s exact circumstances as she spoke of a marriage settlement. She actually seemed to think that Honey’s father would have lawyers!!! who would want to meet with Edouard’s fathers lawyers, should it come to that
.
Reading between the lines I got the strong impression that she believes Honey to be an heiress merely because she is a Winthrop. How frightfully French of her. There are so many Winthrops. But then, how was she to know that? Edouard’s family is very proud and very grand, even for the English. They seem to take themselves very seriously, and I’m quite sure, in fact certain, that Edouard
must
marry an heiress. There could be no question of his marrying for love alone unless he were prepared to badly disappoint his entire family—he is the only son, you know. What
am
I to tell Lilianne? I’m quite distraught over this matter. Has Honey, perhaps, a trust fund that she will come into in the future? You spoke of a small inheritance, as I remember, but was there anything else—or could there be? I’m still American enough to disapprove of the dowry system on principle, but when in France—In any case, do write me
immediately
and tell me exactly how things stand
.
With love to you—as ever—and to dear George too—
Molly
refused to go to the Christmas Cotillion or to join the Vincent Club. Not even when her nephew Pickles failed to make A.D. at Harvard. In fact, this was actually worse than the time her son Henry seemed to be falling in love with a Jewish girl from Radcliffe—even if both of her great-grandfathers
had
founght in the Civil War! She cared more for Honey, she discovered, than she had realized.
Three weeks before Lilianne received Lady Molly’s enlightening answer to her letter, Edouard had made the decision to assure himself of his prize American virgin. Had Billy been French, he might well have waited until after the wedding, but since she was American, and not Catholic, he felt that the event might be conducted with a bit more promptness. However, the occasion of Billy’s initiation into lovemaking was a ceremony both solemn and painful. It took place on his bed in his rather bare bedroom in the tumbledown hunting lodge, with its empty stables and uncared-for garden. Billy would always remember that the ceiling of the room was draped with dusty cloth striped in dark blue and red, like one of Napoleon’s battlefield tents, that the furniture was heavy Empire and unpolished, and that her pain was as extraordinary as it was unexpected. Her main memory, however, was of her amazement that a stiff penis pointed upward, rather than straight out, horizontally, as she had always imagined it would. Edouard assured her that it would be better for her the next time, but, he told her, even for a virgin she was the tightest woman he had ever had. She felt supremely proud of that for some reason she never understood.
They returned to the lodge each Saturday and Sunday for three weeks and it did get easier, if not better, although Billy had no standards of comparison by which to judge sexual pleasure any more than she could have once judged chic. Edouard was the first man she had ever kissed on the lips. All she really cared about was pleasing him as she became more and more obsessed by the mere fact of actually being in love. She was awkwardly ardent and utterly credulous under his kisses, wanned by his body into an innocently burgeoning belief in the future possibilities of passion. She emerged from her trance of wonder from time to time to say to herself, with trembling pride, mingled with only a faint whisper of caution, “Comtesse Edouard de la Côte de Grace—Billy de la Côte de Grace—oh, wait till they hear this back in Boston!” And then she went out and spent more and more of her Katie Gibbs tuition money on beautiful clothes for Edouard to see her in.
When Lilianne received Lady Molly’s no-nonsense letter she locked herself up in her room and wept, as much for herself as for Billy. From her own experience in such matters she could not but believe that Billy would recover in time, but she, Lilianne, would never pardon herself. The mistake had been normal, in her estimation; in fact, the true facts made her feel like the victim of a deception, however unplanned. Also, she told herself, the wish to arrange matters for Billy was, in itself’s perfectly reasonable. But the result was cruelty and she was guilty.
That same day the Comtesse went to talk to Edouard in his parents’ drawing room. She told him that Billy could not expect a dowry. Her father was a greatly respected man, a medical man, a savant, but poor. She was absolutely a Winthrop, but there was no money on her side of the family. But whatever small hope she sheltered that he might still marry Billy died as soon as she spoke.
Edouard de la Côte de Grace was exceedingly angry. She should have known, he raged at her. How could a woman of her good sense, her experience, have let him believe that Billy possessed a fortune? What had given her that assurance? What had happened to her judgment, her prudence, her interest in the future of their family. As his aunt, how could she have led him to make such an error? Yes, of course, he agreed that Billy was uncontestably delightful, much more than she knew, and absolutely suitable, perfect in fact, except that the entire affair was, without need of further discussion, impossible. Utterly impossible—what to do? Who was to tell her? He, Edouard, as a gentleman, had never been involved in such a distressing affair. His honor—