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She looks at me sideways. “Why’s that?”
“Father has… He has addictions.”
Thankfully, Camille doesn’t ask me what they are.
I decide not to pussyfoot around it. She may see him drunk as early as at the gathering we’re heading to. And over the course of the week, she’ll witness him high, or half-naked and sneaking out of a maid’s room, and well… drunk. It’s best if I warn her.
“Father has been into hitting the bottle, taking drugs, and whoring for as long as I remember,” I say.
She gives me a funny look.
“What?” I ask.
“You’ve seen my file.”
I nod. “Your mother is an addict. She abandoned you and your sister when you were tiny.”
“Seeing how our grandparents didn’t want us either, I sometimes think…” She looks away, then adds after a beat, “Maybe your dad is the way he is because his own dad, the duke, was unkind to him.”
“You’re a shrink now?”
“No.” She turns away again. “Of course not.”
I soften up. “The truth is, it’s a chicken and egg situation. No one knows which came first, Father’s addictions or Grandpa’s unkindness.”
“What about your mother?” she asks. “Why is the duke unkind to her?”
Where do I begin?Perhaps with the most obvious reason.
“I suspect he can’t forgive her for being unable to save my father from himself.”
“That’s unfair.”
“It would’ve been,” I concede with a smirk, “if she’d ever tried.”
It beats me why I’m opening up like this to Camille, a perfect stranger until two days ago.A stranger who’s going to be my wife for a year.Yeah, I guess that’s the reason. I’m trying to mitigate my disgrace. I’m letting her preabsorb some of the shock she’ll experience when she realizes just how dysfunctional my esteemed family is, and how little we care for each other.
We descend the central staircase and turn into the hallway on the ground floor. Camille looks around as we walk. Her gaze shifts from the oakwood parquet polished to a high shine to the faux-marble walls and the real marble busts that they’re lined with. Some of the rooms we pass are decorated with antique tapestries or beautiful wallpaper. Their cerulean blues and greens have faded, but the patina of time has only enhanced their charm. In other rooms, the walls are covered with bucolic rococo murals that make her smile.
One salon has bare walls and a painted ceiling. Slowing down, she tips her head backward and admires the fresco, which depicts the everyday life of chubby, flying baby boys.
“Angels?” she asks.
“Cherubs.”
We enter the elongated Portrait Hall. The smell of burning wood, welcome this time of year, fills my nostrils.
Grandpa, his notary, my parents, Tate, Jacques, and Serafina are gathered in the back of the hall around the fireplace. Mother, Grandpa and his notary—I can never remember his name—are seated in armchairs. Father is stretched out on the leather sofa, probably too nauseous to sit up. The valet, butler, and housekeeper are on their feet.
As we make our way toward them, Camille looks up at the oil portraits of my ancestors. All the paintings are decently executed… except one.
“What do you think of that one?” I point out the portrait of a corseted duchess with her young son. The child’s size suggests he’s seven or eight. But his face is that of a middle-aged man.
“The kid looks freaky.”
“It’s my great-great-grandfather.”
“I heard inbreeding can wreak havoc on the genes.” Camille shoots me a look of fake solicitude. “That poor boy! Is that because your great-great-great-grandmother had married a cousin?”
