Day Seven

Danny arrived back home, wearing last night's clothes and feeling very satisfied with life, just as a big white van blazoned with the Seguemont coat-of-arms pulled up to his curb; he let the carters into his apartment to haul off his luggage, and handed over the big garment bag he'd brought back from Poppy's as well.

Amongst the hoarded treasures in the SoMa warehouse complex in which Poppy lived, worked, and stored antiques for future use in his decorating business, they'd found a fabulous Russian Hussar's uniform in scarlet and black with fur edging and pounds of gold braid; it was a little short on Danny, and he would roast in the wool and sable if the night of the party was warm, but he looked incredibly dashing in the tunic and pelisse with over-the-knee boots and frogged black breeches.  With a boiled leather Venetian mask glittering with black and gold faceted beads, he would be a sensation at the ball.

He wasn't quite sure what to do with the next two hours; on an ordinary Friday, he would be getting ready to go to the gym at ten-thirty, but he didn't have time to go and come back by noon, and he didn't want to explain to friends why he was there instead of on his way to Palm Springs... if his plans hadn't changed, he'd already be in the air enjoying some second-rate champagne and warm chocolate-chip cookies.  He thought about taking a nap, since he hadn't slept much the night before, but he knew his housekeeper was going to be there soon (she always came right after he'd left for the gym and was finished before he returned), and he couldn't sleep with someone banging around his apartment.

With nothing better to do, he showered one more time and got dressed in something comfortable but classy--off-white khakis and a salmon silk sweater over a white dress shirt with caramel kidskin  loafers--that would be appropriate for the two-plus-hour drive to the Chateau, then sat down at his computer to play games and answer his emails while he waited.

"Oh, Senor Van!" Mrs. Flores exclaimed when she came through the front door at eleven on the dot, "Why you here?"

"My plans changed, Senora," Danny smiled at his tiny wizened cleaning lady, noting that she'd had her thick coarse black hair cut short since he'd last seen her in person, several weeks ago, "Instead of a weekend in Palm Springs, I'll be spending the whole week up in Napa."

"You won't need cleaning, then?" she cocked her head at him, with an expression he couldn't quite read... was she anxious for some time off, or worried about losing income?

"Unless you want to take some time off," Danny covered both bases, "you can do some bigger messy projects while I'm gone.  I know the curtains could use a good shaking and brushing, and the silver always wants polishing."

"Ah, bueno," she smiled delightedly, "I take two days off to visit my sister, then I come back and take the curtains down to the cleaners; and the rugs, so I can wax the floors.  I want to wash out your fireplace, too, it's getting black outside.  And air out your books."

"You can get some new dust-covers from the hardware store, if you want," Danny told her, amazed at her ambition, "Charge them to my account.  I'll be out of your way in an hour, just pretend I'm not here."

"Si, si," the old lady nodded, then went bustling off to the kitchen; she'd apparently taken him at his word and was pretending she was alone, playing salsa music at fairly high volume and singing along in her cracked tuneless voice as she washed the few dishes in Danny's sink.

An hour later, Danny was right on the verge of getting bored, having caught up with all his online games and answered every email in his in-box and even written a few new ones; but then he heard the peculiar non-noise of Valerien's car pulling up in front of his house: the old Rolls-Royce was meticulously maintained, its engine whisper-quiet, so the only sound it made was a silky hum and the tires churning against the pavement. He started shutting down his computer and was ready to go when the doorbell went off.

"Adiós, Senora Flores," Danny called out as he left the apartment.

"Hasta luego, Senor Van," she called back from deep in the back of the flat, "Buen viaje!"

Danny skipped down the stairs and greeted Valerien's chauffeur, Grenier, a short but delightfully handsome dark-eyed young man in a deep burgundy formal uniform; he held the door to the back of the gleaming chocolate-and-cream 1957 Silver Cloud, and Danny slid into the camel-velvet upholstered interior next to Valerien, who was reading a thick and imposing-looking contract.  The Baron gave him a distant "hello" and a fleeting peck on the cheek without taking his eyes off the papers.

Rather than be annoyed at such an offhand greeting, Danny felt honored that Valerien was comfortable enough with him to be seen working outside of his office, a sight which few of his friends ever witnessed.  He helped himself to a cup of coffee from the beautiful little Limoges service in the rear cabinet and watched the City slide past the untinted windows of the old limousine, enjoying the reactions of envy and awe that the gorgeous car inspired in passersby.

"How was your dinner with Poppy?" Valerien finally asked, signing the last page of his document with a flourish and snapping the folder shut, shortly after crossing the Golden Gate Bridge.

"Very nice," Danny laughed, surprised by the sudden movement and sound, "We had steaks at Henry's Eight.  You know, I am becoming a big fan of sweet-potato fries."

"Really?  What are they?" Valerien was not a devotee of American cuisine, and in fact seldom ate anything that didn't come with a Michelin rating.

"French fries," Danny explained, "Pommes frites, you know.  Except made with sweet potatoes, or yams, instead of white potatoes. And if they're fried with butter, they are the utter bomb!"

"That sounds odd, but now that you mention food, I forgot about lunch," Valerien reached for the little gold speaker that hung beside him on the wall of the car, which connected him to his chauffeur on the other side of the closed partition, "Grenier, I forgot I was supposed to take Mr. Vandervere to lunch on the way.  Stop at the first likely-looking restaurant."

"There's a Cheesecake Factory in Corte Madera," Danny shouted helpfully toward the speaker.

"Cheesecake?" Valerien looked at him in horror, "Factory?"

"It's not really a factory, it's a very nice restaurant.  And they have more than just cheesecake," Danny explained, "They have good food and really cute waiters.  You'll like it, I promise."

"Cheesecake Factory in Corte Madera, then, Grenier," the Baron sighed into the speaker and hung it back up on the wall, "The places you take me, Danny Vandervere."

"Their shepherd's pie is fantastic!  And iced green tea with mint," Danny was almost salivating.  Though a connoisseur of fine dining, Danny also had a streak of populist tastes, and was always trying to get his food-snob friends to try chain restaurants.

"'Utter bomb'... where do you get these expressions?" Valerien wondered after a few moments' silence.

"Television, mostly," Danny laughed, "'Da bomb' is a hip-hop expression that was big in the 90s when I was in grade-school."

"Let me know when it reaches the Oxford English Dictionary, then I'll allow it," Valerien scolded him, but with a smile to show he was only kidding, then peered out the window with a frown, "What the... this looks like a shopping center parking lot!  Where are we?"

"At a shopping center, silly," Danny laughed at his friend as the car pulled up in front of the restaurant, "We can do a little shopping after lunch, if you like.  There are two department stores and some very nice shops here.  Honestly, Val, don't you ever get out of the car between the bridge and the Chateau?"

"Of course not," Valerien stepped out of the Rolls and took in the restaurant's glittering post-modern facade dubiously, "Why would I?"

"You miss a lot of life, tucked up in your little haute monde shell," Danny flung an arm around Valerien's waist and pulled him inside, "What's the point of living if you don't try everything at least once?"

"You're going to make me eat a hamburger, aren't you," Valerien narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"Oh, hamburgers are advanced magic, you're not ready for that, yet," Danny winked and stepped up to the hostesses' desk, "Two for lunch, please."

Valerien ended up being pleasantly surprised by the menu and the wine list, and they shared a very enjoyable lunch under the care of their button-cute waiter.  Though the young aristocrat remained leery of the setting, and tasted everything as if he was afraid it was poisoned, he was fascinated by the other diners, as well as the giant television over the bar showing a soccer game...he seemed oddly enchanted by eating someplace where he didn't recognize anybody.

After a postprandial stroll through the shopping center, where Danny found a number of things to buy and which Valerien bought for him, they got back in the car and resumed their journey north.  They chatted lazily along the way, not saying much but enjoying the relaxation of not having to say much.  In due course the Rolls pulled off a narrow country road through a pair of huge wrought-iron gates into the Chateau de Seguemont grounds.

Many people think that the Chateau was transported to California from France, stone-by-stone in the time-honored American Tycoon manner.  But the original medieval Chateau de Seguemont still stands above its accustomed valley in Champagne; the new Chateau was built fresh in 1938 from local stone, designed by a Hollywood architect to capture the fairy-tale romance of a French chateau while excluding the varied discomforts and inconveniences of a real 12th-century fortress, and then filled up with the 18th-century fixtures and furniture brought over from France by the last Comte, Valerien's great-grandfather.

One gets a glimpse of the south facade of the castle across the valley shortly after entering the gates, a long cliff of pale beige stone with octagonal corner towers and a square central tower rising up like sentinels from a vast terraced garden, a picture-postcard view suitable for wine-bottle labels; but one plunges immediately into a dense oak forest after this brief view, and remains surrounded by trees, with occasional glimpses of deer and white marble follies, as the road skirts the eastern edge of the valley to approach the castle from the northeast; the shorter yet more complex north side of the castle suddenly leaps into view as the forest abruptly disappears, surrounded by high walls and outbuildings covered in flowering vines.

Driving up a causeway to a real working drawbridge and through a portcullised watchtower gate, the car entered the broad courtyard in front of the castle, where two footmen in pink and buff satin 18th-century livery emerged from the bronze-bound front doors to receive the Baron and his guest; once they'd been handed out, the limousine rolled away to disappear through another archway into the garage court.

"Take this to the study and fax the signature page to my office," Valerien said to one of the footmen, speaking French as he always did at home, handing over the contract he'd signed earlier as he strode through the echoing stone hall, "And then have someone take it back to the City.  Is my Grandmother down yet?"

"No, monsieur, Madame la comtesse has not come down," the young man answered formally, bowing his white-wigged head in deference while walking sideways alongside Valerien, a feat of dexterity that Danny had to admire, "Madame la comtesse asked me to inform monsieur le baron that tea will be served in the glass-house."

"Very good, thank you," Valerien responded without looking at the man, "I'm going up to my rooms.  Please escort Mr. Vandervere to whatever room he's been assigned.  I'll see you at tea, Danny."

"Monsieur Vandervere is in the Clock Room," the second footman chimed in, "Would monsieur care to take the elevator, or the stairs?"

"The Clock Room?" Valerien stopped in his tracks and looked at the footman, "That's practically a garret. Are there no more rooms on the third floor?"

"Oh, is that the room at the top of the square tower?  Over the big clock?" Danny enthused.

"The house must be awfully full, or else Grandmere is punishing you for my last-minute invitation," Valerien frowned as the footmen exchanged nervous glances.

"I've always wanted to stay in that room, Val," Danny assured his friend, "Seriously!  The view is absolutely breathtaking!"

"But you'll be so far away," Valerien pouted, "And your coffee will arrive stone cold in the morning. Not to mention the noise of the clock."

"I like the clock noise," Danny shrugged, "It's like a metronome, it'll put me to sleep."

"You're like a puppy," Valerien laughed and kissed his friend, "All right, if you don't mind, go ahead and climb up into the bell-tower like Quasimodo.  I'm still going to have a word with the major-domo, I don't like the idea of all eighteen bedrooms being in use.  How big is this ghastly party, anyway?"

Valerien disappeared through a door leading into the lower portions of the castle, the first footman went off in the other direction with the contract, and Danny followed the remaining footman up a grand marble staircase... and then up a slightly-less-grand stone staircase to one side, then down a narrow hall to a not-at-all-grand wooden staircase, then a spiral staircase in a turret of the great tower, and finally into the big rectangular aerie at the tippy-top of the castle that was to be his for the next ten days.

"Please do not bring me coffee in the morning," Danny said to the footman as he went and opened the tall window onto the tiny little balcony over the clock, "I don't want you climbing all those stairs just for me."

"It will be my pleasure to bring anything monsieur wishes," the footman protested in French, bowing low and backing out the door, then grinned and added in English, "These stairs will give my glutes a good workout."

Danny laughed and turned his attention to the view, which was truly spectacular: he could see all the way across the valley and over the tops of the trees in the forest along the high ground, across the neighboring valleys with wineries dotted here and there, mountain ridges framing the east and west, and the barest glittering glimpse of the city of Napa at the horizon.

Taking a deep breath and saying a little pagan prayer to himself, he leaned forward on the balcony rail to take a daring peek at the stone terrace some hundred feet below, then quickly scuttled back into the safety of the room.  He was terrified of heights, but also loved to face his fears whenever a controlled environment presented itself, thrilling at his own fear and the adrenaline it brought up.

He explored the room, opening drawers and walking into the huge closet to see where the servants had put his things; satisfied with the arrangement, he went into the large square bathroom and peeped through the little round window at the northern woods across the roofs of the Chateau, used the toilet and washed his hands, then went back out into the bedroom and flopped down on the big four-poster bed to simply enjoy The Room at the Top, as he'd decided to call it in his interior monologues.

Being at the top of the tower, the room had sloping walls starting above the bleached wood wainscoting, and the big south-facing French window was set in a dormer.  The room had no fireplace, but it never really got cold, so Danny didn't miss it; the furniture was all pale Louis XVI in distressed whitewash and faded gilt, the wallpaper was a lovely coffee-and-cream toile de jouy, with a faded brown Aubusson reproduction carpet and smooth beige linen bedding, upholstery, and curtains. There were two large paintings, a porcelain-skinned Icarus by a student of Ingres tumbling out of a cloudy blue sky as his wings slowly unraveled, and a contemporary copy of Le Brun's La Chute des anges rebelles (rather questionable themes for a high tower room), as well as several free-standing mirrors of varied sizes arranged to reflect the light of the single large window around the room.

"Jesus Christ on a cracker, how tall is this fucking tower?" came an irritated voice in the spiral stairwell outside Danny's door.

"Marquesa?" Danny called out, rising from the bed in surprise.

"Rapunzel!" Marquesa cried out breathlessly as he burst through the door, took two steps into the room and then collapsed elegantly on a chaise longue to catch his breath, "I swear I passed a lost Sherpa on the last landing."

Marquesa was beautifully dressed for the country in a nubby silk tweed suit in shades of pink and brown, the narrow jacket trimmed in self-fringe after the fashion of Chanel, the slim skirt just meeting the tops of tall glossy brown boots, and three graduated strands of large pearls with a starburst platinum clasp around his slender throat and the usual two huge diamond solitaires on his long French-tipped fingers, one cushion-cut white flanked by pink pear-shapes and the other an Asscher-cut rare blue; his gorgeous flame-auburn hair tumbled around his shoulders in rich spiraling curls, and his exquisite screen-goddess face was artfully painted to look completely bare of paint, except for the gloss of vermillion lipstick on his small severe mouth and the thick black fringe of false eyelashes over his wide glittering periwinkle eyes.

His long whip-thin body was draped bonelessly across the chaise, but Danny knew that whip-strong muscles writhed constantly under the stately couture, and that the graceful pose was very carefully contrived and maintained by a man who was at all times in complete control of his body... he wasn't in the least bit winded, he was only pretending to be as it was the preferred way to play the scene at hand.

That control was one of the things that Danny loved about him: nobody saw Marquesa Willard Wilkes doing anything that Marquesa Willard Wilkes did not want them to see, no surprise could ruffle his incredible poise, no emotion marred the pristine surfaces he'd created as an armor against the world.  Danny was incapable of such cool, being emotionally transparent and endlessly vulnerable, so he found Marquesa's icy reserve exotic and fascinating.

"The least you could do is offer me a drink after that endless climb," Marquesa suggested sharply, snapping Danny out of his trance of silent worship.

"I don't think I have anything up here but water," Danny glanced around to see if he'd missed something.

"Valerien is in an absolute froth that you've been shoved away up here," Marquesa shrugged eloquently, waving away the offer of water, "But even I have been elbowed out of my accustomed second-floor rooms for the sake of grander personages than myself.  I'm in one of the octagon rooms on the third floor, facing the front.  I have a glorious view of the garage court and the chapel roof."

"And the woods, of course," Danny pointed out.

"And no dressing-room," Marquesa arched an eyebrow in disdain, "But since the house is packed to the rafters, I guess I can't really complain.  At least Danvers is lodged in the house and not out over the garages. But he's doubled up with Henri.  Not that he minds, of course."

Danvers is Marquesa's manservant, a combination butler and lady's maid, a multitalented real-life Jeeves who looks like a real-life Siegfried, all chiseled jaw and warrior physique, without whom Marquesa could not function for more than a few hours; Henri is Valerien's valet, a tiny adorable monkey of a man (all of Valerien's personal servants are smaller than him), and he and Danvers have been physically but not romantically involved for years.

"Who's in your usual room?"  Danny wondered, trying and failing to imagine someone grander than Marquesa.

"An Italian opera singer," Marquesa rose from the chaise in a fluid motion and spent a moment smoothing his clothes into place, "Donna Somebody."

"Opera singer?  I thought it was all nobility this week.  Is Donna her name or her title?"

"Do I care?" Marquesa laughed, "All I know is she did me out of my room, for which I shall have to exact some mild revenge.  Come on, let's go downstairs.  I hear tea is being served in the glass-house.  Do you ever find it odd that someone as French as the Comtesse holds a tradition so English as afternoon tea?"

"I'm pretty sure the French have teas, as well," Danny followed Marquesa into the spiral stair, "One has to do something between lunch and dinner, after all."

"French children have le goûter at four; adults have tea parties after five, but it's not a daily occurrence.  I asked Danvers."

"And Danvers would know," Danny smirked.

"As far as I can tell, he does know everything.  Or else he has a direct uplink to Wikipedia embedded in his brain."
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3,572 Words
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