Beau Reve

The house, after dark, was so quiet. An ideal time for her to do some research, thought Genevieve. She was getting nowhere in her investigation, and she thought her time might be running out. While Gardner was interesting to talk to, he was not sharing any useful information with her, and he did not seem inclined to. It was only a matter of time before he began to demand that she choose a husband, or become suspicious when she continued to vacillate. She had to make some progress.

            The study was dark. Genevieve could have turned on some of the convenient electric lights that Beau Reve was wired for, but she didn’t want to call attention to where she was. Instead, by the pale light of the moon shining through the French doors, she made her way to the heavy walnut desk she remembered dusting and lit the oil lamp. It cast a dim circle of wavery yellow over the top of the desk. As neat as she remembered it being. Everything in its place. An unfinished letter in the center, to a New York acquaintance who was touring Europe. Genevieve scanned it quickly, seating herself in brown leather chair by the desk. It creaked a little as it absorbed her weight, and she leaned back into its welcoming softness with a sigh when the letter revealed nothing of interest, just innocous, proud-fatherly comments about the children and random bits of businessman gossip. She could open up these drawers and go through them again, but what good was that going to do her? She had searched his desk dozens of times over the course of her three summers, and had never found anything remotely suspicious. Maybe because he kept all his suspicious correspondance in his bedroom. She still remembered the letter he’d been reading the night he had arrived back from his unexpected trip. She would love to get into his bedroom to search. Maybe he would go away again. That would be convenient.

            Genevieve’s eyes roved over the crowded bookshelves that lined the wall adjacent to the desk. She had been through them before, military histories, several Greek classics, and then, of course, the Scott romances, some Dickens. Morte d’Arthur. The wall opposite the desk contained a fireplace, done in the same heavy walnut as the desk, in simple, clean lines. Nothing elaborate about it. Much, she thought, like the man at first glance. Above the fireplace was a joint portrait of the children. Daisy and Harry were both sitting in the middle of a pile of daisies. Genevieve supposed it was the portrait artist trying to be clever.

            On the other wall, facing the bookshelves, were two doors, although one was merely for show. The other led to the hallway. And in between was a table scattered with small, scarred marble statuettes, evidently Greek and Roman, probably genuine, and over that was a portrait of Alexander Gardner himself, informally dressed, seated in a carved chair, gazing straight out of the painting with a small half-smile playing on his face. It was a fine likeness. Even looked self-important and smug, she thought, sardonically.

            “What are you doing in here?”

            Startled, Genevieve shifted her eyes to the doorway, where the man in the flesh was standing, looking tired and quizzical rather than suspicious. “I…couldn’t sleep. I came down to find a book.”

            “And you just thought you’d sit for a while?” he asked, sounding skeptical.

            “I was thinking.”

            “Yes, you seem to do an awful lot of that.” Sighing, Gardner moved into the room, collapsed in a dark green leather settee set up facing the desk. He pinched at the bridge of his nose, as if he were developing a headache.

            Genevieve watched him warily. Was he playing at being unconcerned, really hoping to figure out why she was in the room? “Tired?” she asked, deciding to make trivial conversation.

            “Yes. A bit.”

            “Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”

            “Oh, no,” he denied, lowering his hand, looking distracted. “I was…just coming in.” She wanted to ask from where, but he said, abruptly, “I don’t know what to read the children after we finish Waverley. Do you have any suggestions?”

            Genevieve considered not allowing him to change the subject but she was already treading deep enough water at the moment. So she said, smiling, “Not really. You’re fond of Scott, aren’t you?”

            “I love Walter Scott,” he said. “You don’t like Walter Scott?” He sounded appalled.

            “I don’t like Waverley.”

            “Why not?”

            “Because he ends up with the wrong woman. And I think, in a romance like Scott’s writing, where he gets to control all the characters and determine the ending, it was unnecessary to give the hero the wrong woman at the end.”

            “Why do you think it’s the wrong woman?” asked Gardner.

            “Really,” she said. “You think Rose is the right woman? Rose, who will never do anything to interest Waverley in his life? He had a woman who would challenge him, who would keep life exciting, who was fun and made him laugh and had some personality and spirit to her. And he ended up with a woman who’s basically a marble statue. Not the right woman. Waverley made the wrong choice. I would love to read a sequel and see how that marriage turned out.”

            “Like every other marriage I know?” Gardner drawled, sardonically. “A man doesn’t pick a woman like Flora.”

            “What is a man afraid of?” Genevieve asked, raising her eyebrows mildly.

            “Nothing. It’s simply that…a woman like Flora doesn’t make for a happy life.”

            “Why not?”

            “Because everything would be a constant struggle.”

            “That’s a silly thing to say. Marriage has nothing to do with whether or not it would be a struggle. It’s a personality thing. If you like a woman, why not marry the woman? Wouldn’t marriage to a woman you like be preferable to marriage to a woman who you don’t like, who you despise? Wouldn’t that make marriage hard?”

            She could feel Gardner regarding her for a second. Then he leaned his head back against the chaise lounge, as if he were relaxing, but she could sense the alertness in him, as if she could see clearly that his eyes were locked on her face. “Are we discussing my marriage?” he asked, finally, sharply.

            “Marriage in general,” Genevieve replied, evenly. “Just marriage in general.”

            “I don’t despise Helen.”

            “It’s late,” said Genevieve, standing. “Time for bed.”

            “I thought you couldn’t sleep. I thought you wanted a book.”

            “Do you have one to recommend?”

            “What about Madame Bovary?”

            Genevieve chuckled. “I’ve read it. I didn’t like it. Good night, Uncle Gardner,” she said, with a trace of amusement in her voice.