Page 8 of Hell Bent
“I never told you that?”
“No. I just knew they were in your family. Napoleon? Why am I just hearing this?”
“It’s not a secret,” she said, “but it’s from a time and place that doesn’t exist anymore. Better to live in the present, I’ve always thought. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe stories need to be passed down, too.”
I sat beside her. Who cared about creasing my boring dress? “What’s a … a parure?”
“A set of jewels,” she said, taking the purple velvet pouch from me and tipping the two objects inside into her palm. A pair of earrings, but not just any earrings. A cluster of diamonds, and hanging beneath, two enormous pear-shaped emeralds set in warm yellow gold and surrounded by more diamonds, the emeralds perfectly matched, perfectly saturated, perfectly clear. Now,thatwas jewelry. “Made in 1796,” my grandmother said, her finger stroking one faceted stone. “Josephine wasn’t young. In her thirties, six years older than Napoleon, and a widow with children, her husband killed by guillotine inla Terreur—the Reign of Terror. Napoleon fell passionately in love with her despite the disapproval of his family, and they married within months.”
“No pressure, then,” I said. “I don’t recall Ned ever actingpassionately in love, but if I hold out for that, I have a feeling I’d be waiting a while.”
“Maybe so, and maybe not,” my grandmother said. “They didn’t stay married. I could tell you that’s the reason the passion remained, but your grandfather—” She cut herself off and added, “Josephine couldn’t have more children, you see, and he needed an heir. But when he read of her death, he locked himself in his room and didn’t emerge for days. Her name was the last thing on his lips before he died himself, twenty-six years after they met and twelve years after their divorce. He loved her that much still.”
“So, again, that’s my model?” I asked. “I don’t think I have it in me to captivate anybody like that, sorry. What, he pines for me the rest of his life? He’s mine, body and soul? Not happening.”
“He had affairs, if it helps,” my grandmother said. “So did she. Life is complicated. Love is complicated. Tell me, if Ned were gone, how much would you miss him?”
“A lot,” I said. “I’d miss him a lot. He’s understanding, he’s supportive, and he’s—restful. I think that’s the word. No drama. He brings me a latte whenever he comes over, he doesn’t object to my take-charge tendencies, and, you know, when my periods are extra-painful?—”
“Still?” my grandmother asked. “Even with the pills? Have you told your mother?”
“Don’t fuss,” I said, irritable again. “I’m fine.”
“You have a disease,” she said. “I have a disease. Your mother has a disease. It’s not fussing to acknowledge it.”
“I’m a carrier, that’s all,” I said. “I don’thaveit, not really. You know that. And, see? Ned is willing to marry me anyway! Even if it turns out we can’t have kids. That’s got to be love, right? How many men would do that? And seriously? Your role model is a man who had affairs? No thanks.”
“Ah,” my grandmother said. The earrings were still in herwrinkled palm, the pale winter sun managing to create a sparkle, because that was how beautifully cut they were. “That’s what it is. That he’s willing to marry you.”
“No. Yes.” I sighed. “I don’t know. Nerves, that’s all. Tell me about the parure.”
“The earrings, the necklace, the brooch, and the tiara.” She reached into her purse again and pulled out a picture in a frame. White marks from creases marred the image, but she’d never had it rephotographed and cleaned up. “I want the original,” she’d said when I’d suggested it. “The one I carried for so long. This one.”
It was a photo of my great-great-grandparents, whom I’d never met. In old-fashioned black and white, from maybe 1900? 1890? Some time like that. The man in a very dressy military uniform with epaulets and a sash and medals, the woman in a magnificent gown that was clearly silk, with fine lace gloves that extended above her elbows. And, yes, she was wearing a tiara. And a necklace. And a brooch. All of them studded with stones large and small, the large ones showing dark and big as Chiclets. The emeralds, those would be, with diamonds around them.
“I loved the necklace best,” my grandmother said, her finger on the glass. “It looked like flowers, the way each emerald was surrounded by a circle of smaller diamonds. Delicate, not brutal the way crown jewelry can be. I took the necklace, the brooch, and the earrings. I couldn’t fit the tiara.”
My arms were tingling again, but not with dread this time. My grandmother had never talked to me about the past, beyond the barest sketch. “The past is gone,” she’d say, “and the future can’t be known. The present is all we have.”
“Into what?” I asked. “What couldn’t you fit the tiara into?”
My grandmother looked at me. Her eyes were huge, like mine, her forehead as broad, her nose as straight. Now, thoseeyes were level, and maybe sad. “Into the lining of my coat,” she said. “The cuff of the sleeve, not the hem, because somebody would be sure to look at the hem. I snipped the threads with tiny scissors from the mending kit I had in my pocket, and then I sewed the jewels into place. The coat was wool, heavy and very old. It had belonged to a young man I knew, named Franz. The coat hid the lumps, but not the lump of a tiara. The tiara, I left behind.”
“Where?” I asked. “Where did you leave it?”
“In a secret compartment in the cellars of theResidenzschloss.The royal palace. In Dresden.” She touched the earrings and repeated it quietly. “In Dresden. The day I ran.”
“Your parents had died,” I said.
“The firebombing of Dresden,” she said. “It was fire like you’ve never seen. Like you can’t imagine. Fire that brings wind so strong, it was like a hurricane. When I crept out to find them at last, they were gone. I hope the fire took their oxygen first, as it did for many, and it was easier for them. I hope they didn’t—” She stopped.
“I’m sorry.” Never had two words seemed so inadequate.
“We hadn’t suffered as others had suffered,” she said. “There was so much suffering. And they couldn’t believe this world they were in. Losing their titles, losing their position, and then all the beastliness … Maybe it was best that way, who knows? It was hard to run. Very hard. And if the Russians had taken them, at the end …”
She stopped, and I prompted, “If the Russians had taken them …”
“Confiscation and Siberia. Or worse. Maybe it was best that it was a surprise, and fast.”
