An Improbable Pairing Read online

  Solange was on a hunt for her mother, who was somewhere among the ladies of the sponsor corps. Their systematic search took the couple through the crowd and into distant, less crowded rooms. But instead of finding Madame Pahlavi, Scott and Solange found (or, rather, were found by) none other than the palatial home’s owner, the Countess de Rovere.

  “Solange, my dear,” exclaimed the countess gracefully. “I was just asking your mother where you were. And now, I see you with my travel acquaintance, Mr. Stoddard. How are you Mr. Stoddard?” She gave Scott a cool appraisal before adding, “It would appear you are doing very well.”

  She was more beautiful than he remembered. That didn’t help, because Scott couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  Her mane of blond hair was pulled up, but small, fine wisps lurked here and there about her neck, tantalizing Scott. Her clear translucent blue eyes, high cheekbones, and patrician profile were all accentuated by flawless makeup. The cobalt blue of her sheath—Dior, no doubt—defined her seductive silhouette; the sapphires and diamonds the countess wore were almost dull against her shining beauty. The moment Scott saw her, all other women in the room dimmed in comparison. She was the belle of the ball. And she’d remembered his name.

  Scott felt Solange watching him; he knew the countess was waiting for a reply and cursed himself for not responding more quickly. He shook himself free of her spell.

  “Thank you, Countess,” he said, bowing over her proffered hand. “It is a pleasure to see you again. You are correct; I am quite well.” Looking up into her eyes, he dared to say more. “Solange, whom I met on the train from Paris, was kind enough to extend tonight’s invitation. I had thought you might still be in Italy, so discovering you here is an unexpected pleasure.”

  Madame Pahlavi materialized from across the room, and Solange turned to the countess, briefly touching her arm. “Oh, Desirée, Scott; excuse me for a moment. I see Maman.” In a flash of scarlet, she’d left Scott alone with the countess.

  There was a slight pause before the countess inquired, “Were you able to find an apartment in the old town?”

  “Yes, I did. Simple student quarters”—he laughed ruefully—“nothing like your magnificent home.”

  The countess smiled, and Scott, feeling encouraged, pressed on. “I wanted to thank you for the lovely dinner we had on board ship, but I didn’t see you again until the morning we docked at Le Havre.”

  A slight, puzzled frown crossed her lovely brow. “You saw me? But I remember. . . I left very early, around six in the morning.”

  Scott felt a momentary panic and scrambled to explain: “Yes, I know it was early, but something woke me up. I was roaming the upper decks when I saw you. Vicuna coat and brown fedora, right?”

  The frown shifted into a small, knowing smile. “Why, Mr. Stoddard—you remember my traveling ensemble after all this time,” she replied coyly. “However, I’m sure I didn’t see you.”

  Scott met the countess’s gaze. He paused for just a heartbeat before replying, “For a minute, I thought you’d looked up, but I didn’t want to shout your name.”

  “You should have.”

  The expression in her eyes revealed that his confession pleased her. She knew he’d purposefully lurked in the shadows, hidden. Not for a moment did she believe he’d been awake that morning and present on deck for any other reason than to have one final glimpse of her.

  The countess plucked a flute of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray. A small sip and then she said, “I invited you and Millie to join me at my table again that last night on board.” She gave Scott’s reaction an appraising glance. “She told me you’d been invited by friends elsewhere.”

  Scott raised an eyebrow. “Millie’s clever,” he said. “I don’t remember any invitation.”

  Her laugh rang out as she raised her glass in a mock toast. “To Millie. Obviously, I underestimated the girl. I see now she must have had a different agenda.”

  “Quite different. Different from mine as well,” he added.

  For a moment, it was as though everything in the room had gone still. Scott held his breath, waiting, as his reply hung between them. Suddenly, Solange and Madame Pahlavi were there, and the subtle tension was broken.

  “Scott, it’s so nice to see you again,” Solange’s mother said. “Solange tells me that you know Desirée.” The two friends quickly kissed one another’s cheeks and exchanged pleasantries, giving Scott a moment to admire the trio of fashionable women surrounding him. Like Solange’s scarlet dress, Madame Pahlavi’s burnt-orange velvet sheath with three-quarter sleeves complimented her perfectly. She was a very beautiful woman and would’ve been stunning even without the long strand of large, perfect pearls that accentuated her décolleté. But neither she nor her daughter were in league with the countess. Few, he thought, were.

  “Yes, dear—we met on the ship, and I offered to help if he needed anything in Geneva.”

  “The countess doesn’t make that offer every day,” Madame Pahlavi said, leaning conspiratorially toward Scott, her eyes wide. “She can be of enormous help.”

  The women’s conversation turned elsewhere, and Scott breathed a small sigh of frustration. Every time he and the countess were together in the same room, he was in the company of another woman. First Millie, now Solange. He couldn’t be rude and ignore his date (nor did he want to; he genuinely enjoyed both Millie’s and Solange’s company), but every fiber of his being wished to engage further with the countess. Were his feelings obvious? He feared that, like Millie, Solange would sense his disappointment.

  The rest of the evening went as Scott thought most of these grand affairs should. He stood at Solange’s side, shifting from foot to foot while carefully balancing a drink and canapé, which he nibbled in small bites that allowed intelligible speech about nothing of substance. The night dissolved in a crowd of self-important people, who wouldn’t remember him, his face, or his name tomorrow.

  Scott’s mind wandered often to the countess. He imagined that her social calendar entailed gatherings such as this on a frequent basis. Was she so involved with Geneva society, he wondered? Or was sponsoring and hosting various benefits a matter of reciprocity, with attendance and participation de rigueur for those events she herself hadn’t hosted?

  He’d already had a taste of this lifestyle at home in Charleston. His parents’ circle (and later, the university’s social circle) had pushed Scott into traditions and sensibilities that his more modern inclinations found utterly tiresome. Those debutant balls, he thought disdainfully; nothing more than some society-minded mothers drafting eligible young men to provide the proper accoutrement for their little beauties’ coming-out. He found even the most practiced participants’ conversation boring and the accompanying rituals outdated and arcane. However, this had been his mother’s world, and he loved her too much to disappoint.

  Scott didn’t see much of the countess for the rest of the evening. Their small exchange filled his mind, and he mulled over every phrase. Clearly his interest had pleased her, but Scott doubted he could anticipate much of anything more. Nevertheless, it didn’t stop his consideration of “what if?” What if he did follow up and call the countess? What if she accepted his overtures? As he glanced around at Geneva’s most influential people enjoying the countess’s hospitality, he was certain his interests would ultimately be set aside in deference to hers.

  As the evening wound down, Solange suggested they find Desirée to thank her, but she was nowhere to be seen. Madame Pahlavi had left earlier, so they resorted to leaving their expression of thanks with one of the hostesses (who, Scott thought ruefully, might or might not remember to pass it along to the countess). Another opportunity missed.

  On the drive home, Solange noted, “You know Desirée is a little miffed because you haven’t called her.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She told my mother she thought you had better manners.”

  “I’m surprised. Did she say anything else?”

>   “She said you were quite intelligent, a very good dancer, and never at a loss for words.”

  “I don’t remember dancing with her.”

  Scott was surprised at the countess’s compliments and delighted to learn he had not played the game as she’d expected. And she’d tipped her hand; of course, Scott would’ve remembered a dance with the countess. No; that first evening, she’d watched him dance with Millie.

  As Scott contemplated Madame Pahlavi’s revelations, Solange became uncharacteristically quiet. She, like Millie, was becoming suspicious of the coquetry developing between the countess and her American friend.

  Solange shifted in the roadster’s leather seat and studied Scott’s profile. Nonchalantly, she dropped a shocker. “Have you ever considered that the countess might be interested in you?”

  Scott kept his eyes firmly on the road. “No, why would she be?”

  “You may be a good dancer,” she said, laughingly, “but you’re a terrible liar.”

  Scott didn’t protest. Denial would only reveal the strength of his attraction for the countess. It wasn’t that he felt guilty—other than friendship, Solange had never indicated any interest in him. He liked Solange, and under other circumstances, he could have been interested in her romantically. In Scott’s experience, turning a friend into a lover could be very difficult. It was, he thought, equally as difficult to turn a love interest into a friend. A relationship’s beginning had a lot to do with its ending.

  But now, his friend had told him the countess was miffed. He decided to wait even longer before attempting to see her. If Scott called now, after the countess’s comments to Madame Pahlavi, he’d be playing into her more experienced hands. Besides, classes at the university were starting on Monday. He needed to concentrate on what was important and not go chasing after some fantasy.

  twelve

  SCOTT WAS THE ONLY AMERICAN IN THE CLASS OF twenty students. And whether through paranoia or perspective, it seemed that the entire class—split about seventy/thirty percent male to female—collectively wondered what he was doing there. He was asking himself the same question.

  This group of graduate students was a competitive crowd, one perhaps unwilling—or unable—to easily accept a foreigner in their midst. That they were already separated into small groups indicated earlier familiarity, and Scott carefully considered his options for developing study partners and companions. In assessing the possibilities, his eyes came to rest on a statuesque woman talking with two classmates. Sitting at the other end of the room, Scott couldn’t discern the nature of their conversation because her voice was soft, mannerisms and facial expressions restrained. The other man and woman listened to her intently, without interruption, fixated on her dark, expressive eyes and puffy lips.

  When the professor entered, everyone who wasn’t already seated quickly channeled themselves into the pew-like benches. Influenced by a spartan, no-nonsense Calvinist tradition, the classroom was furnished with rough benches and desks hewn from Alpine evergreens. The docteur ascended his pulpit-like platform, so students were compelled to gaze reverentially upward at him; for the next few months, he would be their master. Switzerland has few universities and, therefore, limited professorial positions for any one subject or category; Scott’s professors seemed to have had tenure since the Ice Age. Most were much older than Scott’s professors in the United States, and it was obvious that whatever the course, it had been given many times before in the same manner, down to the same bibliography, inflections, and analysis.

  The Swiss, watchmakers and bankers at heart, are precise and detailed. Predictably, Scott’s courses were thorough and exacting, concentrating on the finer points of fact and displaying an ample skepticism of any overanalysis. From the beginning, it was clear that his classmates were brilliant, the crème de la crème. All spoke at least three languages fluently, whereas Scott, with no previous European travel and only classroom conversation, struggled to keep up with lectures. His ego deflated, he knew he was at a disadvantage. The Swiss educational administration categorizes students at an early age as to their abilities and intellectual capacities. Some go to trade school; the academic stars go to the university and land in the Faculté des Lettres—more precisely, in courses connected to the international program. What luck that he should fall in with this precocious and seemingly xenophobic group of geniuses!

  At Northwestern, Scott’s original studies had concentrated on a science- and math-based education. But he’d become enamored with history, particularly French and Italian history, and so he’d switched from pre-med to a liberal arts degree. Thanks to that earlier focus, Scott was sure he knew more about calculus, chemistry, and physics, but while his French had been good enough to gain admission to the program, it was still not where it needed to be—and he was intimidated. His classmates seemed determined to make it difficult for him to integrate; they scarcely pretended he might belong in their club. As a result, Scott attended the lectures, most of the time lying low and trying to be the most inconspicuous of students. His intent was to imitate a piece of furniture.

  Agrarian Policies and Outcomes in the Soviet Union began, with Professor Blicht launching into his lecture with certitude. As the old docteur droned on, expounding theories, Scott’s attention wandered to the young woman, the animated conversationalist. Lost in admiring her flawless complexion, it took Scott a minute to realize the professor had called on him. Not knowing the desired student’s name, he had simply pointed.

  With every eye in the classroom turned his way, Scott’s first inclination was to faint. He stammered some unintelligible reply, which was suddenly and quite unexpectedly supported and expanded on by that same young woman, who was sitting next to him. The lecture resumed, and Scott breathed a sigh of relief.

  When class ended, Scott thanked his savior and asked if he could buy her a coffee. At first, she refused, saying it wasn’t necessary (and she was right; a simple “thank you” was all the situation required). Scott had other motives, though; he hoped saying yes to coffee could then be leveraged into getting to know this popular classmate. Plus, she clearly grasped the course material in ways that Scott didn’t. And nothing could hide the fact that, even dressing like a demure Catholic schoolgirl, she was very, very pretty.

  The two students walked the short distance to one of the cafés near the university. In typical Swiss fashion, each ordered a café au lait; beyond that, she didn’t speak. Scott saw he’d need to talk for two.

  Her name was Marlyse Richter. Scott ventured an observation: “Our classmates are a little cool. At least, they are to me.”

  “They will need time to warm up to you,” she said.

  “Will I live that long?” he asked with a rakish grin.

  She laughed but didn’t answer.

  The next day, Marlyse wasn’t in any of his classes, but she appeared in the following morning’s class, and they sat next to each other. Scott didn’t want to spook her, so he decided to take “becoming more acquainted” relatively slowly. After class, he asked Marlyse if she would like to have dinner one evening. Yes, she responded, though she didn’t want to stay out too late. Scott wasn’t sure what that meant exactly, but he responded with an enthusiastic “Great!”

  The following Friday, they met at Les Armures, known for its fondue and Swiss specialties. The rustic restaurant, painted in old town’s ubiquitous yellow ivory, with hewn wooden beams and straight-backed booths and tables, was dimly lit by iron chandeliers and small candles on each table that softened the ambiance. Pink tablecloths, substantial china and silverware, paneled walls festooned with taxidermy deer, antelope, boar, and fish comprised traditional décor. Opposite the bar was a large fireplace. Marlyse and Scott had a cozy table nestled near the hearth.

  Scott broke the ice. “I’m glad you could come this evening,” he said.

  “Normally, I don’t go out with foreigners,” Marlyse responded, practically pursing those resplendent lips.

  “Why not?”

 
; “Well, foreign students are here today and gone tomorrow. Most are just looking to pass time. Most are not serious.”

  Scott could see that any levelheaded response would not get very far, so he made a playful argument instead. “I think you’ve found me out right away. I came here from the United States, signed up for a two- to three-year program at the university, rented an apartment for a year, have had all my stuff shipped to Geneva, and I’m going to buy a car. But you’re right; I’ll probably be gone by the end of next week.” He threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Should we say goodbye now?”

  To his relief, Marlyse looked amused. “All right, you’ve made your point,” she said. “Are you always this difficult?”

  “Yes, and sometimes even more difficult.”

  “Well, let me warn you; Swiss professors don’t like to be argued with.”

  “Never met one who did, Swiss or otherwise.”

  “Touché. I think I see now why they let you into the university. Tell me, Scott—are you used to getting your way?”

  “It depends.”

  “I won’t ask on what.”

  From that point on, Marlyse was much better company. He began to see the relaxed, conversational side he’d noticed in class. She chattered about her life. Marlyse was from a village near Basel, where her parents owned a small auberge. There was a division of labor; her mother managed the inn. The attached restaurant, run by her father, belonged to the Chaîne des Rôtisseurs (Scott knew enough about good food and fine dining to be impressed). Marlyse had learned English at a one-year boarding school in London and a summer program at the University of Pennsylvania.

  Marlyse ticked methodically through a careful list, checking off chronologically and sequentially the most pertinent facts that, though providing full disclosure, would also profile her in the best possible light. She was intensely serious, her measured voice quietly enumerating experiences and attributes—almost as if she were applying for a job. When she reached the end of her recital, it was Scott’s turn. He didn’t try to emulate her factual delivery but shared some stories about growing up in Charleston. He hoped he’d entertained her with enough details to be comfortable with dinner conversation.