Danielle Steel: Echoes

“You're not Swiss then?” she asked with interest.

“I'm French,” he said simply, and as he said it, she frowned and said nothing. “Is that awful? My grandfather is Swiss actually, my mother's father. That's why I'm here. He died two weeks ago, and I had to come and help settle the estate with my brother and parents. They gave me a leave to do it.” He was remarkably easy and open, without being presumptuous or inappropriately familiar. He seemed very well-bred and aristocratic, and extremely polite.

“No, it's not awful at all,” she answered honestly, as her eyes looked directly into his. “I'm German.” She half-expected him to leap from the bench and tell her he hated Germans. They were enemies in the war after all, and she had no idea how he would react to her confession.

“Do you expect me to blame you for the war?” he asked gently, smiling at her. She was a young girl, and incredibly pretty. He thought her truly beautiful, and as he spoke to her, he was touched by her apologetic expression. She seemed like a remarkable young woman, and he was suddenly glad he had nearly knocked her over. “Did you do this? Is this dreadful war your fault, mademoiselle? Should I be angry at you?” he teased her, and she laughed along with him.

“I hope not,” she said, smiling. “Are you in the army?” she inquired. He had mentioned being on leave.

“In the cavalry. I attended the equestrian academy called Saumur.” Beata knew it was where all the aristocrats became officers of the cavalry, which was a most prestigious unit.

“That must be interesting.” She liked horses and had ridden a lot as a young girl. She loved riding with her brothers, particularly Ulm. Horst always went wild and drove his horses into a frenzy, which in turn spooked hers. “My brothers are in the army, too.”

He looked at her pensively for a long moment, lost in her blue eyes, which were darker than his own. He had never seen hair as dark contrasted by skin as white. She looked like a painting sitting there on the bench. “Wouldn't it be nice if troubles between nations could be resolved as simply as this, two people sitting on a bench on a summer afternoon, looking out at a lake. We could talk things out, and agree, instead of the way things are, with young men dying on battlefields.” What he said made her knit her brows again, he had reminded her of how vulnerable her brothers were.

“It would be nice. My older brother thinks it will be over soon.”

“I wish I could agree,” he said politely. “I fear that once you put weapons in men's hands, they don't let go of them easily. I think this could go on for years.”

“I hope you're wrong,” she said quietly.

“So do I,” and then he looked embarrassed again. “I've been incredibly rude. I am Antoine de Vallerand.” He stood up, bowed, and sat down again. And she smiled as he did.

“I am Beata Wittgenstein.” She pronounced the W like a V.

“How is it that you speak such perfect French?” he asked. “Your French is almost flawless, without any accent. In fact, you sound Parisian.” He would never have guessed she was German. He was fascinated by her, and it never occurred to him, even once he heard her name, that she was Jewish. Unlike most people of his ilk and milieu, it made no difference to him. He never gave it a thought. All he saw in her was a beautiful intelligent young woman.

“I learned French in school.” She smiled at him.

“No, you didn't, or if you did, you are far more clever than I. I learned English in school, or so they say, and I can't speak a word. And my German is absolutely terrible. I don't have your gift. Most French people don't. We speak French and not much else. We assume the whole world will learn French so they can speak to us, and how fortunate that you did. Do you speak English, too?” He somehow suspected that she did. Although they didn't know each other, and he could tell that she was shy, she looked extremely bright and surprisingly at ease. She was amazed herself by how comfortable she was with him. Even though he was a stranger, she felt safe with him.

“I speak English,” she admitted, “though not as well as French.”

“Do you go to school?” She looked young to him. He was thirty-two, twelve years older than she.

“No. Not anymore. I finished,” she answered shyly. “But I read a great deal. I would have liked to go to university, but my father wouldn't let me.”

“Why not?” he asked, and then caught himself with a smile. “He thinks you should get married and have babies. You don't need to go to university. Am I correct?”

“Yes, completely.” She beamed at him.

“And you don't want to get married?” He was beginning to remind her more and more of Ulm. She felt as though she and Antoine were old friends, and he seemed to feel equally at ease with her. She felt able to be completely honest with him, which was rare for her. She was usually extremely shy with men.

“I don't want to get married unless I fall in love with someone,” she said simply, and he nodded.

“That sounds sensible. Do your parents agree with that idea?”

“I'm not sure. Their marriage was arranged for them, and they think that's a good thing. They want my brothers to get married, too.”

“How old are your brothers?”

“Twenty-three and twenty-seven. One of them is quite serious, and the other just wants to have fun, and is a bit wild.” She smiled cautiously at Antoine.

“Sounds like my brother and I.”

“How old is he?”

“Five years younger. He is twenty-seven, like your older brother, and I am a very old man of thirty-two. They've given up hope for me.” And until that moment, so had he.

“Which one are you?”

“Which one?” He looked blank for a moment and then understood. “Ah yes, he's the wild one. I'm the boring one.” And then he caught himself. “Sorry, I didn't mean to suggest that your older brother is boring. Just serious, I imagine. I've always been the responsible one, my brother just isn't. He's too busy having fun to even think about being responsible. Maybe he's right. I'm much quieter than he is.”

“And you're not married?” she asked with interest. It was the oddest chance meeting. They were asking each other things they would never have dared to inquire about in a ballroom or a drawing room, or at a dinner party. But here, sitting on a bench, looking out at the lake, it seemed perfectly all right to ask him anything she wanted. She was curious about him. There was a lovely, decent feeling about him, in spite of his striking good looks. For all she knew, he was the rakish one and he was lying to her, but it didn't seem that way. She believed everything he said, and had the feeling he felt the same way about her.

“No, I'm not married,” he said with a look of amusement. “I've thought about it once or twice, but I never felt it was the right thing, in spite of a great deal of pressure from my family. Oldest son and all that. I don't want to make a mistake and marry the wrong woman. I'd rather be alone, so I am.”

“I agree.” She nodded, looking surprisingly determined. At times, she seemed almost childlike to him, and at other times, as she spoke to him, he could see that she had very definite ideas, like about marriage and going to university.

“What would you have studied, if they'd let you go to university?” he asked with interest, and she looked dreamy as she thought about it.

“Philosophy. The ancient Greeks, I think. Religion perhaps, or the philosophy of religion. I read the Bible once from beginning to end.” He looked impressed. She was obviously a brilliant girl, as well as being beautiful, and so very easy to talk to.

“And what did you think? I can't say I've read it, except in snips and bits, and mostly at weddings and funerals. I seem to spend most of my time on horses, and helping my father run our property. I have a lifelong romance with the earth.” It was hard to convey to her how much his land and his own turf meant to him. It had been bred into him.