Page 4 of Is This Real or Just Pretend?

In his letters, his father had minimized his illness, of course, so it wasn’t until the housekeeper wrote to Lucien directly that he learned just how close to death his father had been.

And how weak he still was. Even now, he wasn’t able to resume his full duties.

The Atkinsons had been very accommodating of his illness, but their goodwill wouldn’t last forever.

If his father didn’t fully recover, he would have to be replaced.

Lucien was filled with a sudden, piercing regret.

His father had spent a considerable part of his own savings helping him go to culinary school.

He should have taken the London hotel job and paid his father back first. Then he could have tilted at windmills all he wished without imperiling anyone but himself.

“Please, don’t get up,” Lucien said as he approached.

“Nonsense,” his father groused and slowly came to his feet. “I’m hardly the invalid Mrs. Holloway made me out to be.” Then he wrapped Lucien in a tight embrace, as if to emphasize the point.

“Glad to hear it,” Lucien replied, while noting the small brown medicine bottle on the nightstand by the bed. Yet another reminder that sickness still lingered here.

His father pulled back and pressed a hand to Lucien’s cheek. “I’d forgotten how much you look like her,” he murmured in surprise. “You didn’t used to. But as you’ve grown older…”

There was no need to finish the thought. Lucien glanced away from the sheen in his father’s eyes and cleared his throat. The likeness to his mother had been a frequent topic of conversation among his French relatives. And he had long grown tired of it.

“The aunts all send their regards,” Lucien said with a tight smile.

His father let out a sharp laugh and moved to sit back down in his chair. “Oh, I’m sure.” This time he allowed Lucien to help him. “They all blame me for why she never returned home.”

Lucien pressed his lips together. It was true. “I did tell them she was very happy here.”

“Good.” Then he gave Lucien a searching look. “But they were nice to you, weren’t they?”

“Yes. Very.” That was also true.

His father relaxed and let out a sigh. “Good,” he repeated. “And the language wasn’t too much trouble?”

“It was an adjustment at first, but I got on well enough.”

“Thank the Lord your mother was so insistent on you learning French.”

En Francais, 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 you loved 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, many letters 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—only child ,” 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 even be here,” 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.”

“It’s still a good idea.”

Lucien set his satchel on the narrow bed and began unpacking his few possessions. He shook out his only evening jacket and frowned. “This will need a good pressing.”

“Why?” His father asked absently. “You have somewhere to be?”

“Yes. The party tonight,” Lucien replied, deliberately keeping his eyes on the piece of clothing. “Miss Winifred invited me.”

He didn’t need to see the disapproval on his father’s face.

“Lucien,” he cautioned. “I thought you were done with all that.”

“She’s a friend. Miss Alexandra, too,” Lucien added, though that wouldn’t stand up under questioning. He could already picture her frown of disapproval at the mere idea.

“Miss Winifred is engaged to an American ,” his father said. “And I’m sure he’ll be there tonight.”

Lucien stiffened, then recalled her bare ring finger. She certainly hadn’t behaved like an engaged woman. “Then I will offer my congratulations,” he said casually.

“Well, they haven’t announced anything yet,” his father amended. “But I’m told it’s as good as done.”

Lucien turned around. “I understand perfectly. And not to worry. I have no intention of coming between the happy couple.”

“It’s not them I’m worried about.”

Lucien’s shoulders tightened and he met his father’s sympathetic gaze head on. “The iron is in the cupboard, then? I’ll need to start now if I’m to have any chance of smoothing out these wrinkles by tonight.”

“Yes.” His father relented with a nod. “The same place it always was.”

“Thank you.” Lucien then left the room before anything more could be said. He would not be dissuaded from this. Not by anyone.