FIC: The Holly Bears the Crown
Dec. 4th, 2009 06:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: The Holly Bears the Crown
Author: Alex
Fandom: Provocateur et al
Rating: PG
Feedback: Is treasured.
Warning: Click here for SPOILER WARNING
Disclaimer: I pillage public domain
Thanks: to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite for friendship, excellent beta, and title.
Summary: Christmas, 1880.
*
By no stretch of the imagination could Julien be called a churchgoer; nevertheless, not even he was entirely impervious to the joyous pealing of bells. Some overly enthusiastic rector at St. Casimir’s had been ringing the bells on Christmas Eve every hour on the hour for the past two decades, and in recent years other churches had joined in, regardless of denomination, and every Christmas Eve the entire neighborhood was a riot of clanging sound. There was nothing for it but to resign oneself to the din. No amount of wheedling would induce him to admit that he enjoyed it, though.
Julien whipped out his watch and timed it against the hall clock, then waited. Three…two…one...and there it was, a raucous carillon coming from every direction, utterly lacking in tunefulness. Julien shook his head, sighed, and shrugged into his greatcoat. He wrapped a muffler around his throat, swung his hat onto his head, picked up the sack of gifts and slung them over a shoulder. He looked, he supposed, like a sober Victorian’s dream of Father Christmas, all in black, top-hatted and starch-collared.
He let himself out and made his way carefully down the cindered stairs, irritably shooing away Tadgh, his solicitous chauffeur, as one would a pestilential fly. He climbed into the cab unaided and sat back, relieved to be out of the elements. The sky promised another snowfall before morning; a few flakes drifted down, more threatening than soothing. Old age and bad weather was a vexing combination. What had once been sturdy, solid bones were now as frail as crystal. He shivered in his coat. “One hundred thirty-four Fifth Avenue,” he instructed Tadgh, raising his voice to be heard above the bells that chimed on and on.
*
“Grandpere! Grandpere’s here!” ten-year-old Emile bellowed at the top of his lungs. “We have crackers, Grandpere! Grandmere brought them from England!”
“Grandpere! We got a puppy and a kitten!” Athalie, eight, skidded toward him, petticoats flying, clutching a struggling orange kitten. Behind them came a roly-poly golden spaniel pup, sliding on the black-and-white marble floor and yelping as if his very life depended upon vocalizing at top volume.
Julien cannily set down his parcels and enveloped the two children in his arms, wincing a little at his grandchildren’s ear-splitting shrieks. “Hello, hello, my little ones. My word, what a pretty kitten.”
“Her name is Josephine. She climbed the Christmas tree already! Because the dog tried to eat her,” Athalie informed Julien.
“Good heavens. That would be a terrible tragedy. Perhaps I should hold her for a bit until you can calm the dog down.” Julien gently prized the stiff-legged, bristling kitten from Athalie’s grip and fondled the pup’s long, silken ears. “And what’s this fellow’s name?”
“Napoleon,” said Emile, teasing the puppy with a knotted stocking, swinging it just out of reach. The little dog barked and pawed at the marble.
“Excellent names both. Merry Christmas, mon enfants. Where’s your father?” He let a black-clad maid carefully take his coat and hat.
“I’ll get him.” Emile ran halfway across the hall, then halted and turned back. “Grandpere, did you bring presents?”
“But naturally, you impertinent young scamp,” Julien replied gruffly, unwinding his muffler with one hand. “It’s Christmas, is it not?”
“Hurrah!” With the pup scampering after him, Emile tore out of the hall, narrowly missing a collision with his mother, Gabrielle.
“Slowly, Emile,” Gabrielle cautioned. “Take the dog to the kitchen.” She moved toward Julien with outstretched arms. “Welcome. Happy Christmas. I see you have a gift already.” She embraced Julien, kissing him on both cheeks.
“I understand she was in danger of being eaten. Let me look at you, my dear.” Julien held his daughter-in-law at arm’s length, frankly admiring. She was blonde and curvaceous, resplendent in a bustled gown of burgundy silk, and if her slender waist was in part due to rigid corsetry, she was no less lovely for it. She had borne nine children, after all, eight of whom had lived to make him proud. “You’re looking quite as beautiful as ever. Happy Christmas to you.”
Gabrielle beamed, then addressed Athalie, who was dancing around the forgotten sack of gifts in a fever of impatience. “That’s quite enough, young lady. Go into the drawing room, please.” Athalie frowned thunderously and folded her arms; a vertical line appeared between her brows. “Now!” Gabrielle snapped. The little girl’s scowl deepened, and she turned and stomped out of the hall, dark curls bouncing. Gabrielle sighed.
“She shows disturbing signs of inheriting her grandfather’s personality,” Julien remarked.
“God help me, she’s driving me mad.”
“Speaking of which...is the Dragon here?”
“Papa, really.”
“Is she?”
Gabrielle giggled behind a jeweled hand. “Yes. And impossible as ever.”
“Father!” Hilaire, tall and handsome, strode into the room and embraced Julien tightly. “Happy Christmas.” He kissed Julien’s cheeks. “You’re looking wonderful.”
“Isn’t he?” Gabrielle said, linking her arm through Julien’s. “Quite your old self again.”
Julien smiled. “Happy Christmas, Hilaire. The house looks splendid.” He glanced about appreciatively. The wide staircase had garlands of box and holly looped around its balustrades and banisters, creamy beeswax candles ringed with holly gleamed on every surface, and bowls of clove-studded oranges sat here and there, emitting their sweet and tempting fragrance.
“We’re delighted that you came,” Hilaire said, embracing Julien again. “Come in and see Mother.”
“Must I?”
“Father.” Hilaire gave Julien a warning look. “You promised not to bait her.”
“I did no such thing,” Julien insisted stoutly. He set the kitten down and watched her run as fast as her tiny legs could carry her. Intelligent little creature; doubtless she was trying to get as far from Hilaire’s mother as possible.
Hilaire sighed. “Well...do try not to draw blood. I know, I know – she’s far worse than you are, but it is Christmas after all. Come along. I promise not to seat you next to each other at Mass or dinner tomorrow.”
Julien winked at Gabrielle, squared his shoulders, and marched into the music room. The rest of his grandchildren were assembled there, listening to the oldest girl, Elise, playing carols on the spinet. Hastily, Julien counted noses: Julien-Henri, the eldest boy at twenty, home from university, Gilbert, sixteen, Celine, fifteen, Michel, thirteen, Emile, Athalie, and his pet, four-year-old Charlotte.
Elise lifted her hands from the keys. “Grandpere!” The children surrounded Julien, kissing and embracing him fiercely.
Julien found himself in the center of a whirlwind of hugs and kisses. He laughed, his heart light for the first time in many months. What a blessing they were, these children. “Merry Christmas, my dears. Celine, you are a vision. Michel, you’re almost as tall as your father. Elise, how beautifully you play.” He found a special word for each, and lifted solemn little Charlotte into his arms, heedless of the twinge in his back. “Merry Christmas, mon petite.”
Charlotte wrapped chubby arms around his neck. “Merry Christmas, Grandpere.” Ever affectionate, she rested her curly head against his shoulder.
Fortified, he turned to the woman sitting in majestic silence on a pale-blue satin sofa. “Merry Christmas, Mathilde. You’re looking quite beautiful.”
It was true. Mathilde was still exquisitely lovely, even aged and considerably heavier than she had been in her youth. She wore a dark green velvet gown of exceedingly fashionable cut, and her still-black hair (was it dyed? Julien wondered. Like as not) was drawn into a simple chignon. Diamonds glittered on her neck, ears, wrists, and fingers, flashing like signal lamps. “Julien,” she said flatly. “Merry Christmas. I’m sorry I can’t say the same for you. You’re looking rather haggard.”
“Charming as ever, my dear.” Julien replied dryly.
“Do sit down, Father,” Hilaire interjected, casting a scowl in his mother’s direction. He led Julien, still holding Charlotte, to a sofa opposite Mathilde; they sat staring at each other like opposing generals about to go into battle. “Mother said the crossing was remarkably smooth.”
Pity, Julien thought. “Wonderful,” he said aloud, and bared his teeth at his erstwhile love. Mathilde had married the Comte de la Fressange, an obscenely rich and – apparently – unbelievably patient man who had brought up Hilaire as his own son and had endured Mathilde’s capriciousness and rages with the equanimity of a saint. The poor, besotted fool had died before Hilaire had reached his majority, leaving Mathilde his enormous fortune. To her credit, she had been extraordinarily generous to her son and grandchildren, but her few encounters with the father of her only child had always been tinged with animosity. In the end, they had been far too alike. But she had found true love, astonishing as it seemed, as had Julien.
He stroked Charlotte’s dark curls and pressed a kiss to them. His vision blurred.
Hilaire glanced at his father. “Give us another song, my dear.”
Elise nodded, sat at the spinet again and began to play and sing in her high, sweet soprano.
I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
*
The younger children were suitably awed at being allowed to stay up for Midnight Mass that they were as quiet and still as little mice during the long liturgy and endless carols. Julien glanced at Mathilde, who in typical perverse fashion had insisted on sitting beside him. She sat with her prayer book in hand and her head bowed, looking positively saintly. Only Julien heard the tiny snores whistling in and out of her nose and saw the slight fluttering of her upper lip. He stifled a smile and dug a gloved finger into her well-padded ribs.
Her head flew up, and she glared at him. The congregation stood; gallantly, he helped her to her feet. “A thousand pardons for interrupting your nap,” he whispered. Mathilde favored him with a look of infinite scorn and joined in the singing, her faulty soprano wafting like incense smoke to the vaulted ceiling.
At long last Mass was over, and the congregants filed out, happily greeting friends and neighbors. The children saw a few of their schoolmates and exulted over their mutual good fortune. There would be cider and eggnog after Mass, more carols, and a gift or two opened. Julien watched them for a few moments. How happy they were, how innocent, how exceedingly fortunate.
Gabrielle came and took his arm. “Ready to go home, Papa?”
Julien nodded. “In a moment, dearest. I think –" He pointed at the side door. “Tell Hilaire I shall be along directly.”
“We can wait for you. I shouldn’t like you to walk alone at night.”
“It’s less than half a block, Gabrielle.” He smiled and swung his silk hat, to which the children had fastened a jaunty sprig of holly, onto his head. “I won’t be long.”
Mathilde was fanning herself by the side door, away from the crowd. Her sable-lined velvet cloak fell partway open, gleaming mellowly in the candlelight. “Haven’t they finished yet, for pity’s sake?”
Julien scowled. “Our son, Madame, has turned out to be a friendly and gregarious individual. Considering his parentage, how that happened I cannot possibly guess, but I suggest you allow him his friendships, particularly on Christmas.”
Mathilde put her nose in the air, sniffing in delicate disdain. “You are still the most obstreperous man it’s ever been my misfortune to meet, Julien. And you become more cantankerous with age. Truly impossible.”
“I live for your compliments, Mathilde.” Julien moved past her and grasped the side door handle, but Mathilde caught his arm.
“Julien.” Her eyes, still a clear hazel, met his squarely. “I was sorry to hear about Charles. He was a fine man.”
“Thank you, Mathilde. He was.” The sorrow, still fresh, pierced his middle and lingered.
“And with the patience of a saint. God rest his soul,” Mathilde went on. “How he tolerated you for so long is an utter mystery to me. He was far finer than you deserved.”
Julien shook his head, smiling. “Of that, my dear Mathilde, there can be no doubt. I’ll see you back at the house.” He let himself out the side door and stepped into the cold, dark churchyard.
All was still and quiet here. The graves were protected from the street and its noisy denizens not only by a high, ornate iron fence, but also by a tall row of neatly clipped boxwood hedges, each wearing a peaked white cap of snow. The snow was cleared off the paths, and only a few footprints marred its frozen white purity around the stones. A fresh dusting glittered under the moonlight, and the air was clear and cold.
Julien walked slowly, watching his breath plume out in front of him. He turned left on the path, then right. His footsteps gritted faintly on the salted and cindered flagstones, then became silent as he stepped off the path into the snow and moved toward a monument almost as tall as himself.
It was an incongruity in this sedate and dignified churchyard filled with mostly French Catholics – a cross with a circle at its center, richly ornamented with knot work, looking fierce, brawny, and nearly pagan amidst the drooping angels and square tombstones.
Julien leaned down and gently brushed snow from its base, where sat the wreath of box and holly he had placed himself only yesterday, and the stone with its simple inscription.
Charles Churchill
1801 – 1880
Beloved and Cherished Friend
Julien stood still for a moment, his eyes traveling over the length of the cross. He took off one glove, reached out, and brushed his fingertips over the fleur-de-lis at the cross’ intersection. The Irish stonemason had looked a little puzzled at Julien’s request for the additional carving, but Julien had paid handsomely, and the mason had done beautiful work.
“The most extraordinary thing, Charles,” Julien whispered. “Mathilde paid me a compliment. Rather, she paid you a compliment, but I think since I had the good sense to remain your companion all these years, it reflected rather well upon me –" His breath caught in his throat, and tears clouded his eyes. He bowed his head and allowed the tears to fall.
September. It had been a rainy September evening that Charles had come home with a bad cough. He was nearly eighty, but still vigorous and hearty, going to the warehouse each day. He had worked in the offices, no longer strong enough to haul loads, but he had worked full days nonetheless. Julien, who tended toward slight indolence, had always marveled at his stamina. But the cough had turned into pleurisy, and pleurisy into pneumonia, and finally Charles had been bedridden, frail at last, the flesh melting from his solid frame.
But how patient, how sweet he had been, right up to the end. Uncomplaining, even as the fluid built in his chest and his breathing sounded as if he were underwater. During his last two weeks, Julien had taken a leave from the school and remained by Charles’ bedside, spooning broth and medicine into his mouth, and finally, when Charles would eat no more, staying beside him, holding his hand, talking with him when he was neither torn with rales of coughing nor sludgy from opiates. On the last day, Charles had refused his medicine. Somehow, he had known.
It’s today, laddie.
Hush. You don’t know that.
I do, though. Listen.
He had grasped Julien’s hand with more strength than he’d displayed in weeks, but fell paradoxically silent. Julien had waited, more patient than he had ever been in his life, and after a time Charles had spoken again. No fussing after it’s over, laddie. Don’t forget the roof still has to be repaired. Auld Tom will cheat you on those slates if you let him. And the chimney flue is out of order – can’t have you catching cold.
Incredulous, Julien had dashed tears from his face. Very well. Shall I call upon them today, or shall I wait until the afternoon of the funeral?
A smile had creased Charles’ unshaven cheeks, and he’d caressed Julien’s hand. That’s my laddie. That’s my darlin’ Julien.
You are a crafty scoundrel, Captain. You always have been. That pleasant demeanor may fool everyone else, but it doesn’t fool me.
Aye, I am that. You always were a clever wee lad. His breath had begun to rattle; Julien had spread camphor salve on his chest to ease him.
You needn’t speak, Charles.
Aye, I know. But we’ve never been at a loss for conversation, have we?
No. We haven’t.
Never a loss...when you’ve found your home.
A long silence had passed, broken only by rattling breaths. Then:
I’ll wait for you, lad.
And then, stillness.
*
Julien blew his nose, took off his spectacles, and wiped his eyes. The cold had sunk deeply into his bones, turning them into ground glass. Every joint ached. His head and heart ached. It was his first Christmas without Charles in almost fifty years. Charles had not wanted him to grieve, but how could he not? How could he survive this crushing loneliness?
Half-blindly, he made his way back onto the path and moved slowly toward the church. He would need an extra brandy, perhaps two, to sleep without pain tonight. He had been drinking more and more brandy lately, he thought wryly. Charles would frown at that.
He slipped back through the side door and halted in his tracks. Hilaire, Gabrielle, and the children were standing in the vestibule, waiting for him. Even Mathilde stood with admirable patience, her cloak folded over her arm.
“Children,” Julien said hoarsely, “you needn’t have waited for me.”
Hilaire moved forward and took his arm. “We couldn’t let you walk home alone, Father. Come along, children.” Quietly, they filed out of the church and began the short walk home.
They gathered once more in the music room, but no one encouraged Elise to play. The adults sipped punch and watched the younger children, glassy-eyed, but refusing to sleep, wrangling over the packages set under the Christmas tree. “That’s quite enough,” Gabrielle finally said. “Time for bed, children.”
A chorus of groans arose. “You said we could stay up late, Mamma!”
“It is late! Nearly two o’clock.”
“Grandpere hasn’t told us a story,” Emile said mulishly. “He always tells us a story.”
“He can’t tell us a story, stupid,” Athalie hissed. “He’s still sad about Uncle Charles.”
“You’re stupid. Nobody’s sad on Christmas.”
“Mamma!”
“Quiet,” Julien said. “You’re right, Athalie, I was sad, but I’m not sad any longer. How can anyone stay sad on Christmas Day, particularly in such delightful company? Come here. Come.” He opened his arms, and Emile, Athalie, and Charlotte crowded beside him on the sofa. “One story, and then bed, as your mother says. A short story, mind you. Now – what would you like to hear?”
“Is it true Uncle Charles was a pirate?” Emile said eagerly.
Julien stared at him. “What on earth – who told you that?”
“Grandmere,” Emile replied triumphantly.
“Really, Mathilde,” Julien said, exasperated.
Mathilde sat placidly on the sofa opposite, moving a needle in and out of her embroidery hoop. “I never said any such thing,” she asserted. “I said that Charles was a merchant seaman, but he fell upon hard times, and was occasionally compelled to associate with a rough crowd. As were you.”
“You were too, Grandpere?”
“Well, not precisely,” Julien said, glaring at Mathilde. She winked at him.
“Tell us about it!” Athalie demanded.
Julien sighed. “Very well. Just a little.” He thought a moment. The story would have to be edited for tender ears. “It was almost fifty years ago, and your grandmere’s father was a terribly hotheaded man.”
“Indeed he was not,” Mathilde huffed.
“I’m telling the story, if you please. Kindly leave your faulty memory out of it.”
Mathilde snorted. “It's your memory that's highly suspect, I must say.”
Julien ignored her. “He believed I had been trifling with your grandmere's feelings, and sent his servants to chase me, and so I decided to run away. Well, by and by I arrived at the city of Portsmouth on the English coast, and a couple of brigands attacked me and robbed me of everything I owned. I was penniless. Therefore I signed up with a ship to work my passage to America.” As he spoke, describing the rough seas, the crowded, noisy wharves, the hodgepodge of sailors, merchantmen and ruffians, he felt the years fall away. He remembered it all anew. Sharpest in his memory was a tall, handsome Irishman with a soft, deep voice and eyes bluer than a Caribbean sea.
“’Take care, lad,’ was the first thing he said to me,” Julien said, imitating Charles’ lilt. “’It looks as though a stiff breeze could blow you over.'” He smiled. Words to make an obstinate, lonely, frightened, and terribly stiff-necked young man fall in love and stay in love for nearly half a century. What a grand story it had been.
And outside, the bells began to peal again.
End.
Author: Alex
Fandom: Provocateur et al
Rating: PG
Feedback: Is treasured.
Warning: Click here for SPOILER WARNING
Disclaimer: I pillage public domain
Thanks: to
kimberlite for friendship, excellent beta, and title.Summary: Christmas, 1880.
*
By no stretch of the imagination could Julien be called a churchgoer; nevertheless, not even he was entirely impervious to the joyous pealing of bells. Some overly enthusiastic rector at St. Casimir’s had been ringing the bells on Christmas Eve every hour on the hour for the past two decades, and in recent years other churches had joined in, regardless of denomination, and every Christmas Eve the entire neighborhood was a riot of clanging sound. There was nothing for it but to resign oneself to the din. No amount of wheedling would induce him to admit that he enjoyed it, though.
Julien whipped out his watch and timed it against the hall clock, then waited. Three…two…one...and there it was, a raucous carillon coming from every direction, utterly lacking in tunefulness. Julien shook his head, sighed, and shrugged into his greatcoat. He wrapped a muffler around his throat, swung his hat onto his head, picked up the sack of gifts and slung them over a shoulder. He looked, he supposed, like a sober Victorian’s dream of Father Christmas, all in black, top-hatted and starch-collared.
He let himself out and made his way carefully down the cindered stairs, irritably shooing away Tadgh, his solicitous chauffeur, as one would a pestilential fly. He climbed into the cab unaided and sat back, relieved to be out of the elements. The sky promised another snowfall before morning; a few flakes drifted down, more threatening than soothing. Old age and bad weather was a vexing combination. What had once been sturdy, solid bones were now as frail as crystal. He shivered in his coat. “One hundred thirty-four Fifth Avenue,” he instructed Tadgh, raising his voice to be heard above the bells that chimed on and on.
*
“Grandpere! Grandpere’s here!” ten-year-old Emile bellowed at the top of his lungs. “We have crackers, Grandpere! Grandmere brought them from England!”
“Grandpere! We got a puppy and a kitten!” Athalie, eight, skidded toward him, petticoats flying, clutching a struggling orange kitten. Behind them came a roly-poly golden spaniel pup, sliding on the black-and-white marble floor and yelping as if his very life depended upon vocalizing at top volume.
Julien cannily set down his parcels and enveloped the two children in his arms, wincing a little at his grandchildren’s ear-splitting shrieks. “Hello, hello, my little ones. My word, what a pretty kitten.”
“Her name is Josephine. She climbed the Christmas tree already! Because the dog tried to eat her,” Athalie informed Julien.
“Good heavens. That would be a terrible tragedy. Perhaps I should hold her for a bit until you can calm the dog down.” Julien gently prized the stiff-legged, bristling kitten from Athalie’s grip and fondled the pup’s long, silken ears. “And what’s this fellow’s name?”
“Napoleon,” said Emile, teasing the puppy with a knotted stocking, swinging it just out of reach. The little dog barked and pawed at the marble.
“Excellent names both. Merry Christmas, mon enfants. Where’s your father?” He let a black-clad maid carefully take his coat and hat.
“I’ll get him.” Emile ran halfway across the hall, then halted and turned back. “Grandpere, did you bring presents?”
“But naturally, you impertinent young scamp,” Julien replied gruffly, unwinding his muffler with one hand. “It’s Christmas, is it not?”
“Hurrah!” With the pup scampering after him, Emile tore out of the hall, narrowly missing a collision with his mother, Gabrielle.
“Slowly, Emile,” Gabrielle cautioned. “Take the dog to the kitchen.” She moved toward Julien with outstretched arms. “Welcome. Happy Christmas. I see you have a gift already.” She embraced Julien, kissing him on both cheeks.
“I understand she was in danger of being eaten. Let me look at you, my dear.” Julien held his daughter-in-law at arm’s length, frankly admiring. She was blonde and curvaceous, resplendent in a bustled gown of burgundy silk, and if her slender waist was in part due to rigid corsetry, she was no less lovely for it. She had borne nine children, after all, eight of whom had lived to make him proud. “You’re looking quite as beautiful as ever. Happy Christmas to you.”
Gabrielle beamed, then addressed Athalie, who was dancing around the forgotten sack of gifts in a fever of impatience. “That’s quite enough, young lady. Go into the drawing room, please.” Athalie frowned thunderously and folded her arms; a vertical line appeared between her brows. “Now!” Gabrielle snapped. The little girl’s scowl deepened, and she turned and stomped out of the hall, dark curls bouncing. Gabrielle sighed.
“She shows disturbing signs of inheriting her grandfather’s personality,” Julien remarked.
“God help me, she’s driving me mad.”
“Speaking of which...is the Dragon here?”
“Papa, really.”
“Is she?”
Gabrielle giggled behind a jeweled hand. “Yes. And impossible as ever.”
“Father!” Hilaire, tall and handsome, strode into the room and embraced Julien tightly. “Happy Christmas.” He kissed Julien’s cheeks. “You’re looking wonderful.”
“Isn’t he?” Gabrielle said, linking her arm through Julien’s. “Quite your old self again.”
Julien smiled. “Happy Christmas, Hilaire. The house looks splendid.” He glanced about appreciatively. The wide staircase had garlands of box and holly looped around its balustrades and banisters, creamy beeswax candles ringed with holly gleamed on every surface, and bowls of clove-studded oranges sat here and there, emitting their sweet and tempting fragrance.
“We’re delighted that you came,” Hilaire said, embracing Julien again. “Come in and see Mother.”
“Must I?”
“Father.” Hilaire gave Julien a warning look. “You promised not to bait her.”
“I did no such thing,” Julien insisted stoutly. He set the kitten down and watched her run as fast as her tiny legs could carry her. Intelligent little creature; doubtless she was trying to get as far from Hilaire’s mother as possible.
Hilaire sighed. “Well...do try not to draw blood. I know, I know – she’s far worse than you are, but it is Christmas after all. Come along. I promise not to seat you next to each other at Mass or dinner tomorrow.”
Julien winked at Gabrielle, squared his shoulders, and marched into the music room. The rest of his grandchildren were assembled there, listening to the oldest girl, Elise, playing carols on the spinet. Hastily, Julien counted noses: Julien-Henri, the eldest boy at twenty, home from university, Gilbert, sixteen, Celine, fifteen, Michel, thirteen, Emile, Athalie, and his pet, four-year-old Charlotte.
Elise lifted her hands from the keys. “Grandpere!” The children surrounded Julien, kissing and embracing him fiercely.
Julien found himself in the center of a whirlwind of hugs and kisses. He laughed, his heart light for the first time in many months. What a blessing they were, these children. “Merry Christmas, my dears. Celine, you are a vision. Michel, you’re almost as tall as your father. Elise, how beautifully you play.” He found a special word for each, and lifted solemn little Charlotte into his arms, heedless of the twinge in his back. “Merry Christmas, mon petite.”
Charlotte wrapped chubby arms around his neck. “Merry Christmas, Grandpere.” Ever affectionate, she rested her curly head against his shoulder.
Fortified, he turned to the woman sitting in majestic silence on a pale-blue satin sofa. “Merry Christmas, Mathilde. You’re looking quite beautiful.”
It was true. Mathilde was still exquisitely lovely, even aged and considerably heavier than she had been in her youth. She wore a dark green velvet gown of exceedingly fashionable cut, and her still-black hair (was it dyed? Julien wondered. Like as not) was drawn into a simple chignon. Diamonds glittered on her neck, ears, wrists, and fingers, flashing like signal lamps. “Julien,” she said flatly. “Merry Christmas. I’m sorry I can’t say the same for you. You’re looking rather haggard.”
“Charming as ever, my dear.” Julien replied dryly.
“Do sit down, Father,” Hilaire interjected, casting a scowl in his mother’s direction. He led Julien, still holding Charlotte, to a sofa opposite Mathilde; they sat staring at each other like opposing generals about to go into battle. “Mother said the crossing was remarkably smooth.”
Pity, Julien thought. “Wonderful,” he said aloud, and bared his teeth at his erstwhile love. Mathilde had married the Comte de la Fressange, an obscenely rich and – apparently – unbelievably patient man who had brought up Hilaire as his own son and had endured Mathilde’s capriciousness and rages with the equanimity of a saint. The poor, besotted fool had died before Hilaire had reached his majority, leaving Mathilde his enormous fortune. To her credit, she had been extraordinarily generous to her son and grandchildren, but her few encounters with the father of her only child had always been tinged with animosity. In the end, they had been far too alike. But she had found true love, astonishing as it seemed, as had Julien.
He stroked Charlotte’s dark curls and pressed a kiss to them. His vision blurred.
Hilaire glanced at his father. “Give us another song, my dear.”
Elise nodded, sat at the spinet again and began to play and sing in her high, sweet soprano.
I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
*
The younger children were suitably awed at being allowed to stay up for Midnight Mass that they were as quiet and still as little mice during the long liturgy and endless carols. Julien glanced at Mathilde, who in typical perverse fashion had insisted on sitting beside him. She sat with her prayer book in hand and her head bowed, looking positively saintly. Only Julien heard the tiny snores whistling in and out of her nose and saw the slight fluttering of her upper lip. He stifled a smile and dug a gloved finger into her well-padded ribs.
Her head flew up, and she glared at him. The congregation stood; gallantly, he helped her to her feet. “A thousand pardons for interrupting your nap,” he whispered. Mathilde favored him with a look of infinite scorn and joined in the singing, her faulty soprano wafting like incense smoke to the vaulted ceiling.
At long last Mass was over, and the congregants filed out, happily greeting friends and neighbors. The children saw a few of their schoolmates and exulted over their mutual good fortune. There would be cider and eggnog after Mass, more carols, and a gift or two opened. Julien watched them for a few moments. How happy they were, how innocent, how exceedingly fortunate.
Gabrielle came and took his arm. “Ready to go home, Papa?”
Julien nodded. “In a moment, dearest. I think –" He pointed at the side door. “Tell Hilaire I shall be along directly.”
“We can wait for you. I shouldn’t like you to walk alone at night.”
“It’s less than half a block, Gabrielle.” He smiled and swung his silk hat, to which the children had fastened a jaunty sprig of holly, onto his head. “I won’t be long.”
Mathilde was fanning herself by the side door, away from the crowd. Her sable-lined velvet cloak fell partway open, gleaming mellowly in the candlelight. “Haven’t they finished yet, for pity’s sake?”
Julien scowled. “Our son, Madame, has turned out to be a friendly and gregarious individual. Considering his parentage, how that happened I cannot possibly guess, but I suggest you allow him his friendships, particularly on Christmas.”
Mathilde put her nose in the air, sniffing in delicate disdain. “You are still the most obstreperous man it’s ever been my misfortune to meet, Julien. And you become more cantankerous with age. Truly impossible.”
“I live for your compliments, Mathilde.” Julien moved past her and grasped the side door handle, but Mathilde caught his arm.
“Julien.” Her eyes, still a clear hazel, met his squarely. “I was sorry to hear about Charles. He was a fine man.”
“Thank you, Mathilde. He was.” The sorrow, still fresh, pierced his middle and lingered.
“And with the patience of a saint. God rest his soul,” Mathilde went on. “How he tolerated you for so long is an utter mystery to me. He was far finer than you deserved.”
Julien shook his head, smiling. “Of that, my dear Mathilde, there can be no doubt. I’ll see you back at the house.” He let himself out the side door and stepped into the cold, dark churchyard.
All was still and quiet here. The graves were protected from the street and its noisy denizens not only by a high, ornate iron fence, but also by a tall row of neatly clipped boxwood hedges, each wearing a peaked white cap of snow. The snow was cleared off the paths, and only a few footprints marred its frozen white purity around the stones. A fresh dusting glittered under the moonlight, and the air was clear and cold.
Julien walked slowly, watching his breath plume out in front of him. He turned left on the path, then right. His footsteps gritted faintly on the salted and cindered flagstones, then became silent as he stepped off the path into the snow and moved toward a monument almost as tall as himself.
It was an incongruity in this sedate and dignified churchyard filled with mostly French Catholics – a cross with a circle at its center, richly ornamented with knot work, looking fierce, brawny, and nearly pagan amidst the drooping angels and square tombstones.
Julien leaned down and gently brushed snow from its base, where sat the wreath of box and holly he had placed himself only yesterday, and the stone with its simple inscription.
1801 – 1880
Beloved and Cherished Friend
Julien stood still for a moment, his eyes traveling over the length of the cross. He took off one glove, reached out, and brushed his fingertips over the fleur-de-lis at the cross’ intersection. The Irish stonemason had looked a little puzzled at Julien’s request for the additional carving, but Julien had paid handsomely, and the mason had done beautiful work.
“The most extraordinary thing, Charles,” Julien whispered. “Mathilde paid me a compliment. Rather, she paid you a compliment, but I think since I had the good sense to remain your companion all these years, it reflected rather well upon me –" His breath caught in his throat, and tears clouded his eyes. He bowed his head and allowed the tears to fall.
September. It had been a rainy September evening that Charles had come home with a bad cough. He was nearly eighty, but still vigorous and hearty, going to the warehouse each day. He had worked in the offices, no longer strong enough to haul loads, but he had worked full days nonetheless. Julien, who tended toward slight indolence, had always marveled at his stamina. But the cough had turned into pleurisy, and pleurisy into pneumonia, and finally Charles had been bedridden, frail at last, the flesh melting from his solid frame.
But how patient, how sweet he had been, right up to the end. Uncomplaining, even as the fluid built in his chest and his breathing sounded as if he were underwater. During his last two weeks, Julien had taken a leave from the school and remained by Charles’ bedside, spooning broth and medicine into his mouth, and finally, when Charles would eat no more, staying beside him, holding his hand, talking with him when he was neither torn with rales of coughing nor sludgy from opiates. On the last day, Charles had refused his medicine. Somehow, he had known.
It’s today, laddie.
Hush. You don’t know that.
I do, though. Listen.
He had grasped Julien’s hand with more strength than he’d displayed in weeks, but fell paradoxically silent. Julien had waited, more patient than he had ever been in his life, and after a time Charles had spoken again. No fussing after it’s over, laddie. Don’t forget the roof still has to be repaired. Auld Tom will cheat you on those slates if you let him. And the chimney flue is out of order – can’t have you catching cold.
Incredulous, Julien had dashed tears from his face. Very well. Shall I call upon them today, or shall I wait until the afternoon of the funeral?
A smile had creased Charles’ unshaven cheeks, and he’d caressed Julien’s hand. That’s my laddie. That’s my darlin’ Julien.
You are a crafty scoundrel, Captain. You always have been. That pleasant demeanor may fool everyone else, but it doesn’t fool me.
Aye, I am that. You always were a clever wee lad. His breath had begun to rattle; Julien had spread camphor salve on his chest to ease him.
You needn’t speak, Charles.
Aye, I know. But we’ve never been at a loss for conversation, have we?
No. We haven’t.
Never a loss...when you’ve found your home.
A long silence had passed, broken only by rattling breaths. Then:
I’ll wait for you, lad.
And then, stillness.
*
Julien blew his nose, took off his spectacles, and wiped his eyes. The cold had sunk deeply into his bones, turning them into ground glass. Every joint ached. His head and heart ached. It was his first Christmas without Charles in almost fifty years. Charles had not wanted him to grieve, but how could he not? How could he survive this crushing loneliness?
Half-blindly, he made his way back onto the path and moved slowly toward the church. He would need an extra brandy, perhaps two, to sleep without pain tonight. He had been drinking more and more brandy lately, he thought wryly. Charles would frown at that.
He slipped back through the side door and halted in his tracks. Hilaire, Gabrielle, and the children were standing in the vestibule, waiting for him. Even Mathilde stood with admirable patience, her cloak folded over her arm.
“Children,” Julien said hoarsely, “you needn’t have waited for me.”
Hilaire moved forward and took his arm. “We couldn’t let you walk home alone, Father. Come along, children.” Quietly, they filed out of the church and began the short walk home.
They gathered once more in the music room, but no one encouraged Elise to play. The adults sipped punch and watched the younger children, glassy-eyed, but refusing to sleep, wrangling over the packages set under the Christmas tree. “That’s quite enough,” Gabrielle finally said. “Time for bed, children.”
A chorus of groans arose. “You said we could stay up late, Mamma!”
“It is late! Nearly two o’clock.”
“Grandpere hasn’t told us a story,” Emile said mulishly. “He always tells us a story.”
“He can’t tell us a story, stupid,” Athalie hissed. “He’s still sad about Uncle Charles.”
“You’re stupid. Nobody’s sad on Christmas.”
“Mamma!”
“Quiet,” Julien said. “You’re right, Athalie, I was sad, but I’m not sad any longer. How can anyone stay sad on Christmas Day, particularly in such delightful company? Come here. Come.” He opened his arms, and Emile, Athalie, and Charlotte crowded beside him on the sofa. “One story, and then bed, as your mother says. A short story, mind you. Now – what would you like to hear?”
“Is it true Uncle Charles was a pirate?” Emile said eagerly.
Julien stared at him. “What on earth – who told you that?”
“Grandmere,” Emile replied triumphantly.
“Really, Mathilde,” Julien said, exasperated.
Mathilde sat placidly on the sofa opposite, moving a needle in and out of her embroidery hoop. “I never said any such thing,” she asserted. “I said that Charles was a merchant seaman, but he fell upon hard times, and was occasionally compelled to associate with a rough crowd. As were you.”
“You were too, Grandpere?”
“Well, not precisely,” Julien said, glaring at Mathilde. She winked at him.
“Tell us about it!” Athalie demanded.
Julien sighed. “Very well. Just a little.” He thought a moment. The story would have to be edited for tender ears. “It was almost fifty years ago, and your grandmere’s father was a terribly hotheaded man.”
“Indeed he was not,” Mathilde huffed.
“I’m telling the story, if you please. Kindly leave your faulty memory out of it.”
Mathilde snorted. “It's your memory that's highly suspect, I must say.”
Julien ignored her. “He believed I had been trifling with your grandmere's feelings, and sent his servants to chase me, and so I decided to run away. Well, by and by I arrived at the city of Portsmouth on the English coast, and a couple of brigands attacked me and robbed me of everything I owned. I was penniless. Therefore I signed up with a ship to work my passage to America.” As he spoke, describing the rough seas, the crowded, noisy wharves, the hodgepodge of sailors, merchantmen and ruffians, he felt the years fall away. He remembered it all anew. Sharpest in his memory was a tall, handsome Irishman with a soft, deep voice and eyes bluer than a Caribbean sea.
“’Take care, lad,’ was the first thing he said to me,” Julien said, imitating Charles’ lilt. “’It looks as though a stiff breeze could blow you over.'” He smiled. Words to make an obstinate, lonely, frightened, and terribly stiff-necked young man fall in love and stay in love for nearly half a century. What a grand story it had been.
And outside, the bells began to peal again.
End.
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Date: 2009-12-10 02:14 am (UTC)I so wanted to read it and so didn't want to reach what is irrevocably the end of the saga.
I love that you let me down gently by beginning with the reassurance that Julien can indeed still take pleasure in the simple things of life, in the peeling of the bells, despite the fact he won't admit it.
How wonderful to have his sense of joy, love and belonging as his grandchildren call out his name and flock round him, demanding stories and such. It takes the edge off the aching loneliness for me as it does for him. But of course it is still there.
It's a delightful end, gentle and sad, to what has been a much enjoyed and loved story. We've shared so much, their friendship, passion, disappointments and trials, but always their enduring love and need for each other.
These characters of yours will always be very special to me and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for sharing them with us.
The end is perfect, as we are taken back to the beginning of their story again as Julien tells it to his grandchildren.
I'm going to stick with your version though - more sex in your version :)
I have no doubt at all that I will return again many times to those wonderful moments on the beach where they first begin to explore the feelings they have for each other, and discover the delights of each others bodies for the first time.
It's been truly wonderful! Thank you!
Thank you!
:D
no subject
Date: 2009-12-16 10:01 pm (UTC)It is the end, and sad, but as you said, a gentle one too. I've had many years with the pair of them, all good, only good. They're so close to my heart.
I'm so pleased that you grasped the sense of belonging with Julien's family. Part of what I was thinking of as I was writing was your fantastic vid, of course, and that last shot of Julien and Mathilde and Hilaire, a family in a sense, but of course the "real" story [in my head and heart anyway] is Charles and Julien, and I wanted to bring things full circle. So I'm delighted that you caught a sense of that as well. Thank you so much.
And you're right - my version's more fun. ;D
Thank you, Sue!
xoox
A