Page 40 of Across Time

Awesome. The rude maid works for a rude old woman.

With a slow exhale, I begin reading. I was never anywhere near fluent in French, and I'd expected to feel even rustier now that I've been forcing myself not to use a word of it, but it seems all these weeks of eavesdropping on Henri and Marie have had some benefit. The words flow off my tongue, less stilted than they'd have been before I arrived, but I’d enjoy it more if the old woman didn’t sneer at me each time I pronounce something wrong. Toward the end of the hour, she’s even begun to slap my hand when I mess up, and I’m worried if it continues much longer I’m going to slap her right back.

She’s in the midst of a tirade about les gitane, whatever that is, when the girl who answered the door arrives to tell me it's time for tea.

I follow her to a parlor where Madame Beauvoir waits with a man not much older than me. He must be André, who is, at first glance, not quite as odious as Henri made him out to be. Though he lacks Henri's size and looks, he's handsome enough and wearing a very nice suit. He kisses both cheeks.

"A pleasure, Mademoiselle Durand,” he says. “André Beauvoir. I believe you’ve already met my mother?”

Yes, when she burst into Marie’s home bitching about the chickens, and then demanded to know who I was. Was that really only five weeks ago? It seems like so much longer. I force myself to smile at her before she leans in to do the customary kiss to the side of my cheek.

We sit at a table covered in heavy damask and laid out with cutlery and fine china. Mark and I once had tea at a table just like this, only at the Ritz Carlton—memorable because I felt the same sort of anxiety I do now, maybe even worse. It was early in our relationship, the days when he still wanted to know everything about me, and I’d had to spend hours and hours pretending I was someone else entirely—a woman who had normal problems, who suffered only the regular amount of parental disapproval. I had to create a new reason for my father’s departure, for my avoidance of home. Everything I was and everything I wanted seemed to touch back to my sister’s death and the role I played in it—and if I couldn’t tell him that, I couldn’t tell him anything.

The tea is poured and André proceeds to ask me polite, generic questions: how I'm enjoying Saint Antoine, how long I plan to stay, how I broke my ankle.

I tell him I tripped on uneven ground and he looks at me with utter sympathy, translating for his mother.

Poor girl, says Madame. That farm is a disaster. They live like animals.

I thought it was hard to feign a lack of comprehension around Henri, but this is much worse. My nails dig into my palms as I try to silence myself.

You're being uncharitable, Mother, André responds. I smile at him, though I’m still supposed to be feigning ignorance of what was said.

The servant reappears to tell Madame she has a call and she excuses herself, exchanging a quick, meaningful glance with her son. It feels an awful lot like a set-up, but as far as set-ups go, it’s not a bad one.

He watches her leave the room and then smiles at me. “You were very kind to read to my grandmother. And brave. Did she yell at you the whole time?”

I laugh. “She yelled at me a little. Mostly she was yelling about something else. Les gitane?”

He laughs low, glancing over his shoulder before he turns back to me with a conspiratorial smile. “The gypsies. One of my grandmother’s many dislikes. They stole her car at the end of the war, or so she claims. The police found it almost immediately, but she’s never forgotten it. I’ll try to make sure I’m home the next time you read so I can intervene if necessary. I’d have been here sooner today, but work called me away.”

It’s kind of nice to be around a man who wants to help me, instead of one who’s always lecturing me. "What do you do?"

"I manage my family’s company," he says. "We own a manufacturing plant on the outside of Reims. It’s not what I dreamed of doing when I went to university, but I can’t complain, obviously. Times are hard and we’re lucky to have the company to fall back on.”

I tip my head, wondering how Henri can possibly object to this man. Is it jealousy? It must be. I can’t imagine André being anything but pleasant, while I can easily imagine unpleasant behavior from Henri.

“What did you dream of doing when you were at university?”

He gives me a sheepish smile. “I studied engineering. I was always fascinated by airplanes. I don’t think they’ve come as far as they might—if they were streamlined and their engine size increased, I believe they could hold perhaps fifty or sixty people at a time. But Maman disagreed, and of course, she needed someone to manage the company,” he concludes with a forced smile, “so it fell to me.”

He and Henri have more in common than either of them realize. They both gave up their own dreams to take care of their families. And why is Marie not interested in this guy? He’s good looking, he’s sweet, he’s well-off. Yes, it would involve dealing with Madame Beauvoir, but if she married André, she’d live a much better life than she does now. No more Saturdays spent doing laundry. No more hours in the kitchen.

“Do you know Henri and Marie well?”

He gives me a cautious smile. “I don’t. I went to boarding school as a child, so I never got to know anyone here in town until I finished university two years ago. And right now, I’d rather get to know their beautiful American cousin.”

I can understand why he’d rather flirt than become friends with Henri, but Marie is stunning. He should be flirting with her, and I can’t imagine why he is not.

“Except I’m leaving in a few weeks,” I reply. “And I’m seeing someone back home.”

He reaches for my hand, grazing my knuckles with his lips. “Perhaps, with a few weeks’ time, I can change your mind about both.”

* * *

Henri arrives not long after that, and André sees me to the door. He is perfectly polite to Henri, who returns his handshake with obvious unwillingness.

“How was it?” Henri asks when we get in the car.