“Thank the Lord your mother was so insistent on you learning French.”
En Français, mon petit chou.
Lucien smiled at the memory of this near constant refrain. She had been insistent almost to the point of obsession at times, speaking to him nearly exclusively in French when they were together, while his hapless father, who could only retain a handful of words, mostly food-related, looked on in bemusement. “I am very grateful.”
Lucien decided not to mention how mercilessly his Gallic cousins had teased him about his pronounced English accent when he first arrived. Even five years later, he still hadn’t managed to convince anyone that he was a native speaker.
“Here, I brought you something.” Lucien pulled out a book wrapped in paper from his satchel. Aside from a few items of clothing, it was the only thing he had brought with him from Paris. And he had stubbornly held on to it while he sold off everything else.
“The Count of Monte Cristo!”
“It’s a first edition,” Lucien said proudly.
His father looked appropriately shocked and that alone made all those sacrifices worth it. “My goodness. How on earth did you afford it?”
Lucien shrugged. “I got a good price.”
In truth he had spotted the book in a shop window and spent an irresponsibly large sum. But that was back when his little business was thriving. When the whole city seemed to fall at his feet and there was no limit to his success. How quickly things changed.
His father rightly gave him a skeptical look but didn’t press the issue and began to flip through the pages with reverence. “How youloved this book as a boy. We must have read it half a dozen times over the years.”
Indeed, the story of Edmond Dantès and his lifelong devotion to Mercedes had sparked something inside Lucien, and laid out a path for him to follow. That despite seemingly insurmountable obstacles, in the end true love could prevail.
“Come,” his father said, rising once more. “Your room is all ready for you.”
Lucien dutifully followed him down the short hall to his old bedroom, which was really more of a glorified closet and barely big enough to fit the narrow bed. Still, his chest fluttered as he entered the tiny space, as if the last five years hadn’t happened and he was that lonely, heartsick boy once again.
His father looked him over from top to toe before turning to the bed with a wince.
“You might not fit in there anymore.”
“I’ll be fine,” Lucien insisted.
“We can switch. I’ll sleep in here and you—”
“Father,no. This is fine. More than fine,” Lucien added. “Besides, it’s only for a few nights.” After which he intended to go to London. For as much as he wished to linger by his father’s side, Lucien needed money and he would not find a profitable future here in Bunbury.
His father relented with a short nod. “You have a place to stay in the city?”
“My friend Alain from culinary school is a concierge at the Linden. He offered the use of his sofa until I get on my feet.”
Like Lucien, Alain found professional kitchens too chaotic. But his Gallic charm served him quite well in the hospitality service.Alain had generously offered to use his connections to find Lucien something and Lucien intended to take him up on it. Even if it meant washing dishes, Lucien was no longer in a position to turn down work.
His father was quiet for a moment as he mulled this over. “I’m sorry there isn’t more here for you,” he said abruptly. “And that I couldn’t help you more when you needed it.”
Lucien let out a sigh. They had been over this, both before he left and in many,manyletters afterward.
“You paid for my school,” Lucien said. “That was more than enough.” His father began to reply but Lucien continued. “And I wouldn’t have accepted a penny more from you anyway.”
“A parent should be able to help his only son—onlychild,” he insisted. “I wasted so many years piddling about,” his father continued mournfully. “Just looking after myself. Never thinking about the future. I could have worked harder. Earned more.”
Lucien pressed a hand to his father’s shoulder and held back his shock at how narrow it felt. “But then you wouldn’t have met Maman and I wouldn’t evenbehere,” he pointed out.
His father rubbed a hand down his haggard face. “Let me have this regret, Lucien. Please. Besides, what kind of parent would I be if I didn’t feel some guilt?”
Lucien smiled at the twinkle in his eye. “A fair point, I suppose. Just don’t ruminate on it too much. I admire the life you created for yourself. You found a way to be paid to read.”
His father let out a weary laugh. “Yes, well. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
