The Expected One (20 page)

Tammy nodded to a group dressed in Elizabethan-era costumes across the room. “There are some of them now, as a matter of fact. I call them the Protractor Crowd. They’ve spent lifetimes analyzing the sacred geometry of survey maps. You want an opinion on the meaning of ‘Et in Arcadia ego’? They can give you anagrams in twelve different languages and translate those into mathematical equations.”

She pointed out an attractive but arrogant-looking woman in an elaborate Tudor-style costume. A gold letter “M” with a baroque pearl hung from a chain on her neck. The protractor crowd gathered around her appeared to be fawning.

“The woman in the center claims to be descended from Mary, Queen of Scots.”

As if sensing that they were speaking about her, the woman turned to stare in their direction. She fixed her gaze on Maureen, looking her up and down with pure disdain before returning to her minions.

“Haughty bitch,” Tammy snapped. “She’s at the center of a not-so-secret society that wants to restore the Stuart dynasty to the British crown. With her on the throne, of course.”

Maureen was fascinated by the sheer breadth of belief systems that were represented in the room, not to mention the extreme, individual personalities.

Peter leaned over and quipped, “Freud would have a field day in this place.”

Maureen laughed, but returned her attention to the British group across the room. “How does Sinclair feel about
her
? He’s a Scot, and isn’t he related to the Stuarts?” she asked. Her curiosity about Sinclair was increasing — and the Mary, Queen of Scots woman was certainly beautiful.

“Oh, he knows she’s a nut job. And don’t underestimate Berry. He’s obsessive, but he’s not stupid.”

“Check it out,” Derek interrupted in his somewhat juvenile, limited-attention-span way. “There goes Hans, and his band of renown. I hear Sinclair almost banned them this year.”

“Why?” Maureen was becoming increasingly fascinated by the Languedoc and the strange, esoteric subculture it had produced.

“They’re treasure hunters in the most literal sense,” Sir Isaac offered. “Rumor has it that they’re the most recent group to use dynamite in Sinclair’s mountains.”

Maureen looked at the group of large, boisterous Germans. Their image wasn’t improved by their costumes — they were all dressed as barbarians.

“Who are they supposed to be dressed as?”

“Visigoths,” Isaac answered. “This part of France was their territory in the seventh and eighth centuries. The Germans believe that the treasures of a Visigoth king are hidden in the area.”

Tammy continued. “It would be the European equivalent of discovering the tomb of Tutankhamen. Gold, jewels, priceless artifacts. Standard treasure stuff.”

A particularly raucous group of revelers ran through the room, directly past them, jostling Peter and Tammy. Five robed men chased a woman dressed in colorful Middle Eastern veils. She carried a grotesque human head on a platter. The men called after her, apparently addressing the severed head. “Speak to us, Baphomet, speak to us!”

Tammy shrugged and explained simply as they passed, “Baptists.”

“Not real ones, of course,” Derek chimed in.

“No. Not real ones.”

Peter was intrigued by this religious angle. “What do you mean, not real ones?”

Tammy turned to him. “I’m sure you know what day this is on the Christian calendar, Father?”

Peter nodded. “It’s the feast day of Saint John the Baptist.”

“True followers of John the Baptist would never attend a party like this on his feast day,” Derek continued. “It would be blasphemy.”

Tammy finished up the explanation. “They’re a very conservative group, at least the European branch is.” She nodded in the direction of the woman with the head. “They’re a parody. A rather brutal one, I might add. Not that it isn’t warranted.”

Revelers around the ballroom watched the antics with varying degrees of amusement. Some laughed outright; some shook their heads; others looked scandalized.

Derek interrupted, seemingly unable to stick to one topic for very long. “I need a drink. Who wants something from the bar?”

Peter had taken Derek’s departure as an opportunity to excuse himself temporarily. His costume was behaving badly, and he was desperately uncomfortable for more than sartorial reasons. He told Maureen he was going in search of a restroom. In truth, he made a beeline for the patio. He was in France, after all — there was sure to be someone out there who would give him a cigarette.

A Frenchman, incredibly elegant despite his simple Cathar robe, approached Maureen and Tammy. He nodded to Tammy and bowed before Maureen.

“Bienvenue, Marie de Negre.”

Uncomfortable with the attention, Maureen laughed. “I’m sorry, my French is terrible.”

The Frenchman spoke in flawless, if accented, English. “I said, ‘That color suits you.’ ”

A voice across the room was yelling for Tammy. Maureen glanced over, thinking it sounded like Derek, then back at Tammy, who was beaming.

“Aha! Looks like Derek has one of my potential investors cornered at the bar. Can you excuse me for a minute?”

Tammy was gone in a split second, leaving Maureen with the mysterious Frenchman. He kissed her right hand, hesitating just for a moment to look at the pattern on her ring, then introduced himself formally.

“I am Jean-Claude de la Motte. Bérenger tells me that we are related, you and I. My grandmother’s name was also Paschal.”

“Really?” Maureen was excited by the connection.

“Yes. There are still a few Paschals here in the Languedoc. You are aware of our history, no?”

“Not really. I’m ashamed to tell you that anything I know I’ve learned from Lord Sinclair these last few days. I’d love to hear more about my family.”

Costumed dancers in the garb of eighteenth-century Versailles whirled past them as Jean-Claude spoke.

“The Paschal name is one of the oldest in France. It was a name taken by one of the great Cathar families, the direct descendants of Jesus and Mary Magdalene. Most of the family was eliminated in the Crusade against our people. At the massacre of Montsegur, those who remained were burned alive as heretics. But some escaped, later becoming advisers to the kings and queens of France.”

Jean-Claude gestured at the couple dressed elaborately as Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI on the dance floor.

“Marie Antoinette and Louis?” Maureen was surprised.

“Oui. Marie Antoinette was a Hapsburg and Louis was a Bourbon — both bloodline descendants through different streams. They united two strands of the blood, which is why people were so afraid of them. The Revolution was caused in part by the fear of the two families joining together to form the most powerful dynasty in the world. Have you been to Versailles, Mademoiselle?”

“Yes, I was there during my research on Marie Antoinette.”

“Then you know the hamlet?”

“Of course.” The hamlet had been Maureen’s favorite part of the vast palace grounds of Versailles. She had an overwhelming feeling of sympathy for the queen as she toured the halls of the royal residence. Each of Marie Antoinette’s daily activities, from sitting on the toilet to preparing for bed, was witnessed by noble watchdogs. Her children were born to audiences of nobles crowded into her bed-chamber.

Marie the Queen had rebelled against the suffocating traditions of French royalty and invented an escape from her gilded prison. She built a private hamlet, a tiny Disneyland of a village surrounding a duck pond with rowboats. A miniature mill and a small farmhouse were the settings for pastoral parties with small groups of trusted friends.

“Then you also know that Marie was very fond of dressing as the Shepherdess. In all of her private gatherings, she alone wore that costume.”

Maureen shook her head in amazement as pieces fell into place. “Marie Antoinette always dressed as the Shepherdess. I knew that when I went to Versailles, but I didn’t know then about all of this.” She gestured to the wild scene surrounding them.

“That’s why the hamlet was built away from the palace and with very strict security,” Jean-Claude continued. “It was Marie’s way of celebrating the bloodline traditions in privacy. But, of course, others knew about it, as nothing was a secret in that palace. Too many spies, too much power at stake. It would be one of the factors that led to Marie’s demise — and to the revolution.

“The Paschals were loyal to the royal family, of course, and were often invited to Marie’s private fêtes. But the family was forced to flee France during the Reign of Terror.”

Maureen could feel the goose bumps running down her arms. The story of the tragic Austrian queen of France had always been a source of intense fascination for her and had become a major motivating factor behind her book. Jean-Claude continued.

“Most settled in the States, many in Louisiana.”

Maureen snapped back to attention at this. “That’s where my father was from.”

“But of course. Anyone with eyes to see would know that you are of that strain of the royal bloodline. You have the visions, no?”

Maureen hesitated. She was reluctant to speak of her visions even with those closest to her, and this was a complete stranger. But there was something immensely liberating about being in the company of others like her — others who felt that it was perfectly natural to have such visions. She answered simply. “Yes.”

“Many bloodline women have visions of the Magdalene. Sometimes even the men, like Bérenger Sinclair. He has had them since he was a child. It’s very common.”

It certainly doesn’t feel common,
Maureen thought. But she was very curious about this new revelation. “Sinclair has visions?” He certainly hadn’t mentioned this to her.

But she would have the opportunity to ask the man himself, as Sinclair was gliding across the floor, dressed impeccably as the last Count of Toulouse.

“Jean-Claude, I see you’ve found your long-lost cousin.”

“Oui. And she is a credit to the family name.”

“Quite. May I steal her from you for a moment?”

“Only if you will allow me to take her out for a drive tomorrow. I would like to show her some of the landmarks that pertain to the Paschal name. You have not been to Montsegur, have you, cherie?”

“No. Roland took us out today, but we didn’t go as far as Montsegur.”

“It is sacred ground for a Paschal. Do you mind, Bérenger?”

“Not at all, but Maureen is perfectly capable of making her own decisions.”

“Will you do me the honor? I can show you Montsegur, and then take you to a traditional restaurant. They serve only food that has been prepared in the authentic Cathar manner.”

Maureen couldn’t see a graceful way to say no, even if she had wanted to. But the combination of French charm and an insight into more of her family history proved irresistible.

“I’d be delighted,” she replied.

“Then I will see you tomorrow, cousine. Eleven o’clock?”

Jean-Claude kissed her hand again as she agreed, then said his farewell to Bérenger. “I shall take my leave now, as I have plans to make for the morning.”

Maureen and Sinclair smiled at him as he departed.

“You made quite an impression on Jean-Claude, I see. Not surprising. You look marvelous in that dress, as I knew you would.”

“Thank you, for everything.” Maureen knew she was blushing, completely unused to so much concentrated male attention. She steered the conversation back toward Jean-Claude.

“He seems very nice.”

“He’s a brilliant scholar, an absolute expert in French and Occitan history. Worked for years in the Bibliothèque Nationale, where he had access to the most astonishing research materials. He has helped me and Roland immensely.”

“Roland?” Maureen was surprised at the deferential way in which Sinclair spoke of his manservant. It did not seem to be typical behavior for an aristocrat.

Sinclair shrugged. “Roland is a loyal son of the Languedoc. He has a great interest in the history of his people.” He took Maureen’s arm and began to guide her through the room. “Come, I want to show you something.”

He led her up a flight of stairs and into a small sitting room with a private terrace. A large balcony overlooked the patio and the enormous gardens that stretched beyond. The gardens, with their gilded fleur-de-lis gates, were locked, and protected on both sides by guards.