En famille

By Marilyn Storie

Be careful what you wish for ... While researching a family tree for a prominent Montreal client, genealogist Olivia Williams meets her fate in the shape of Marcel Beaulieu, a handsome clothing manufacturer.
Olivia won't be returning home to New York after she finishes this job after all. She's getting married instead. Life in a big family certainly sounds like fun, and Marcel is certainly everything she's ever wanted in a man.
Or is he?
Join Olivia on a romantic journey through the past as she searches for the aristocratic origins of her new husband. Will Marcel prove to be the Duke of Beaulieu De St. Amand? Or will his sister find a way to inherit the estate?

• Language: English
• Publisher: CreateSpace
• Release date: Jul 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781500593858

Book preview

Chapter One

The Montreal scenery was as attractive as promised. More than six foot tall, Olivia Williams thought, and with a complexion as smoothly dark as that of a foreign prince.

Stop it, she told herself. What if Madame Beaulieu walked in right now? You’re supposed to look professional. Remember? Olivia shifted her gaze from the man seated at the next table. Hoping he had not seen her appraising him, she busied herself with stirring her café au lait. It was her second one and she was starting to feel a little jumpy. What could be taking her new client so long?

Glancing at her watch, she rocked back and forth on the red metal chair to soothe herself. But that made her feel like even more of a kid: she kept lurching to the left like a dangerously sleepy driver. Just quit fidgeting, you idiot, and look around instead.

Prosperous-looking businessmen had filled the bistro restaurant to overflowing for the lunch hour. The fine autumn weather was continuing and the staff had taken advantage: circular tables were clustered outside on the broad sidewalk. A few lucky diners—all of them couples, she noticed with a twinge—were enjoying a pleasant meal in the fine autumn weather. Olivia was sorry she had had to settle for a table inside.

At least there’s one compensation. Almost against her will, she found her attention drawn back to the handsome stranger. Her eyes widened with sudden embarrassment when she realized he was staring straight at her. She pretended to look past him, but not without first thinking that she had never seen such dark brown eyes.

He looked away from her when his lunch companion said something, and Olivia studied him with renewed intensity. She wondered—professionally, she told herself—if he was French Canadian. French was certainly the language they were speaking, but something about him—perhaps his olive skin—had Olivia picturing him in a more exotic location. And with fewer clothes. Her eyes darted again to measure the broad expanse of his shoulders.

The two men were both wearing business suits. But the one who had captured her interest was younger and taller than his stocky, fair-haired companion. His wavy hair was jet black. Those high cheekbones make him look sensitive, she thought, but the firm line of that mouth would stop anyone from even thinking about taking advantage of him. Her lips quirked to one side in a private grin. But he sure looks like someone who would take advantage of everyone else.

Olivia suddenly realized that both men were now staring at her. She felt the heat rise to her face. Really, what was she thinking? It wasn’t her fault the waiter had practically pushed their tables together as a means of coping with the lunch-hour rush—but that didn’t give her the right to ogle a perfect stranger.

Dropping her gaze, she feigned an intense interest in the salt and pepper shakers on her table. She moved them aside to frown at an imaginary stain on the checkered tablecloth. She glanced back at the two men and saw they were still watching her. Bet they think I’m eaves-dropping, she thought uncomfortably. If she were home in New York, things would be easy. She would simply lean over and tell them she didn’t understand a word of what they’d been saying. But she couldn’t risk doing something that casual in Montreal. Everything seemed so much more formal here.

She resolutely turned her eyes to the window. Her youth had lost her jobs before, and she needed to impress this client. Pretending a worldliness that she didn’t feel was already proving a challenge. She had been thrown by an unexpected difficult with the language already. When her flight had arrived from New York that morning, Olivia had discovered her small stock of painfully memorized French phrases was next to useless in Montreal.

Her mother had once said that if you wanted to go to Paris but couldn’t afford it, you should go to Montreal. She understood that now. She was only a short distance over the border, but she felt like she was in a foreign country overseas.

Everyone speaks so quickly here, she thought with sudden annoyance. She didn’t understand them, and they certainly didn’t understand her. It had taken her five minutes at Dorval Airport to get the cab driver to understand where she wanted to go. She hoped Madame Beaulieu was not expecting her to be fluent in French.

At least her appearance was beyond criticism. Olivia looked down and gave the conservative beige pumps she had purchased yesterday a satisfied glance. She couldn’t help feeling a bit smug. The Beaulieus were a prominent family in Montreal—garment manufacturers with valuable connections throughout Canada and the United States. It was a wonderful opportunity and she knew it. A positive referral from this client would guarantee credibility for her fledgling business. Olivia congratulated herself. She was only twenty-three years old and almost exactly where she wanted to be.

Mademoiselle Williams?

Olivia looked up to see a slender woman smiling at her. Her hair was raven black and slicked back into an immaculate bun. Olivia couldn’t help feeling a moment’s pique at the sight of her petite figure. She thought of her own generous proportions and wondered what it would be like to be so tiny.

Olivia knew she was not overweight—not in the accepted sense of the word, at any rate—but she had spent her adolescence envying the bone-thin dancers her mother had in for costume fittings. Since men had first started whistling at her, Olivia had been skeptical about their attentions. She still caught herself looking around to see who all the fuss was over.

She looks like a professional ballerina, Olivia thought. No one else ever looks that good in a fitted suit. And what hair! I don’t think the woman has a single split end.

Madame Beaulieu?

Oui. The woman looked about at the crowded café and her polite smile disappeared. A scowl of impatience rose to replace it as she raised her voice to be heard over the din. Gabrielle should have made the appointment for later. We can hardly discuss anything in the middle of this.

But it’s a wonderful time, Marie. How thoughtful of you to arrange a lunchtime meeting so we could participate as well. You know how hard it is for us to get away from the factory.

Olivia gave the handsome stranger a startled look. She glanced back at her client and saw exasperated recognition on her face. Marcel! What are you doing here?

Olivia remembered to close her mouth. You know these gentle—uh, messieurs?

Non—oui. I wasn’t expecting anyone else, I mean.

But how could I resist a chance to uproot our family tree? The stranger’s eyes twitched with a humor that Olivia did not understand. You’re late. He chided Madame Beaulieu with evident familiarity. Will you ever be on time for anything? Introductions would be useful, n’est-ce pas?

This is Etienne . . . and Marcel Beaulieu. Madame Beaulieu’s rosebud of a mouth opened and shut precisely on the names.

Olivia suppressed a flash of disappointment. She had done her homework and she knew who they were—Marcel was the president of the Beaulieu manufacturing empire and Etienne was its general manager. She wondered why Madame Beaulieu seemed so unenthusiastic about having her husband there to participate.

You may call me Marie. She said it in the manner of a great queen conferring a favour.

Olivia Williams, she said, half-smiling at the haughty tone. I’m pleased to meet you all.

Enchanté de faire votre connaissance, mademoiselle, Marcel breathed softly. He dazzled her with a white smile that left her feeling like she’d been blinded by sunlight glancing off a chrome bumper. He reached out and yanked the round table she was sitting at even closer. Averting her eyes, Olivia got up and moved aside so Marie could seat herself. But oddly, Marie chose to sit down next to Etienne.

Why doesn’t she sit next to her husband? Are they having a fight? She felt Marcel’s intent eyes on her, sizing her up where she stood. To her embarrassment, Olivia found herself forced to slide her own chair closer to him in order to be seated at the tiny table. She felt herself pinned down by the broad grin that spread across his face. He’s a born womanizer, she told herself severely. No wonder his wife didn’t invite him to come.

So you’ve come to unearth all the skeletons in our closet?

Olivia looked helplessly at Marie.

Marcel, I’ll thank you not to interfere, Marie said through pursed lips. I have the matter well in hand—what brought on this sudden passion for family history, anyway? You’ve never shown any interest in it before.

You hurt me. You do. It’s a matter for all of us, n’est-ce pas? I can be of great use to Mademoiselle Williams. His dark eyes gleamed. In fact, I have already aided her cause immensely. Who do you think made this appointment?

Olivia—struggling to look as though she had lunch meetings with important clients every day—almost choked on her café au lait. Now she knew why his lightly accented English sounded so familiar. I thought you were the secretary, she couldn’t help blurting out.

Marcel laughed. I happened to be passing my sister’s office when the phone rang. Marie wasn’t in and Gabrielle was downstairs getting the new sweater designs. Naturally enough, when I heard about your interesting project, I couldn’t help but try to ease things along—

Sister’s office? Olivia looked quickly at Marie and then back at Marcel.

—for everyone. You know very little about La Belle Province, don’t you, mademoiselle?

Actually, I—

One of the first things you’ll discover is that her people come from a small beginning. He extended one arm—well-muscled, she noted with renewed interest—in an expansive gesture that took in the crowded bistro and busy street. French Canadians are descended from a very few people. Marcel leaned closer to speak confidentially and Olivia caught her breath. That, you must understand, is how my sister could marry her fourth cousin and still end up with the same last name, he whispered. He used his nearness as an opportunity to press his leg against hers.

She kicked at him under the table and the leg hastily withdrew.

So Marie was married to Etienne. She stared at the little man before it occurred to her that Marcel was making her look a complete fool. She had known, of course, that family connections were particularly tangled in Canadian families of French origin. But Marcel had gotten her so flustered she had forgotten.

Marie looked as if she was regretting her decision to consider hiring her. Olivia knew she had to act quickly to establish her worth as a genealogist. She fought to regain her composure. In my preliminary research, I discovered your original family name was shortened sometime in the seventeenth century.

Marie’s eyes came alive with interest. They were as dark as Marcel’s own, Olivia realized. What a fool I was to not realize they’re brother and sister! His rugged build had distracted her—and that curly mop of hair she had wanted to touch, though her impulse right now was to yank it. Hard. While his sister’s hair was straight, their hair was the exact same shade, she saw. Their complexions were also similar. Dusky, she saw, as though they had both been born with tans.

The first Beaulieus came to New France in 1664. There were two brothers—Louis Henri and his younger brother Pierre. Their surname at that time was Beaulieu de St. Amand.

How fascinating. Marie turned her head. Etienne—have you ever heard this before?

Non, Etienne confessed. His round face brightened. "You did say de St. Amand?"

He wasn’t even wearing a wedding ring. How could she have missed that? Her head shot up when she realized Etienne was talking to her.

Uh, yes. That’s what my preliminary research indicates.

Oh, good going, she thought and frowned down at her feet. She had thoughtlessly let that particular piece of information slip out much too soon. She would have to say something. It was early on to be giving this particular speech, but she recognized the look on Etienne’s face all too well.

Even a slim chance of uncovering a famous ancestor got people excited. And North Americans were the absolute worst, she had discovered, when it came to the hidden desire to possess noble ancestry. Even the most unassuming of people, like Etienne, could become obsessive about it.

It’s not uncommon to find a distant link to nobility, she said, but it’s really rare to discover you’re a direct descendant. She couldn’t help smiling at the look of disappointment on Etienne’s face. In particular, it’s not to be expected with a family that came from France so long ago. Just look at the Montreal telephone directory. There are dozens, if not hundreds, of families named Beaulieu—not to mention St. Amand—listed in there."

In other words, we shouldn’t mount a coat of arms over the fireplace just yet—correct, mademoiselle?

Olivia found herself smiling at Marcel’s summation, but quickly relented when she again felt his leg pressing invisibly against hers.

Yes, she said with a coldness she didn’t feel and kicked him harder this time. I wish I had a dollar for every client I’ve met who’s been rooked into buying a coat of arms through the internet. Just because your surname is the same as that of a noble family doesn’t mean you’re a direct descendant. Look at the Scots—everyone in a clan had the same surname, but there was only one family that could actually lay claim to a title.

Is it a racket, then, these coats of arms you can purchase?

That’s better, Olivia thought. At least Etienne sounds like he’s accepting me as an expert.

I was hired by one New York family who thought they were related to an English earl, she said aloud. They had sent their name in and promptly received a coat of arms in the mail. I understand they were quite proud of it until they had a family reunion. Three other relatives they’d told about it had also ordered a coat of arms and guess what? All four were completely different!

And this American family, Marie asked with interest, did you discover their true origins?

Hog farmers in Sussex.

Everyone laughed.

So you never know, Olivia said, smiling. The real purpose of genealogy is historical. It’s fascinating to confirm that a member of your family was an English highwayman—or yes, even a hog farmer—because that’s part of your family’s history. But ancestor worship shouldn’t really come into it.

You are an exacting young woman, Marcel said.

Olivia was not sure if meant that as a compliment. It was probably a come-on of some sort, she decided suspiciously. She tensed, but his leg remained where it was supposed to be this time.

So what do you think, Marie? Is she hired?

Oui, Etienne. She’s hired. She scrutinized Olivia. You’re just who I want—someone who will stick to the facts and not invent fairy tales for the sake of pandering to . . . to ancestor worship. I’m not interested in having you track the family back to Europe, Olivia. It’s our time on this continent that I want researched. But everything, Marie warned, absolutely everything must be properly documented and backed up.

Oh, it will be, Olivia said, relieved. I try to validate any questionable material from three sources. That’s easy enough here because of the consistent record-keeping by the Roman Catholic Church.

Can you begin right away?

I came prepared for that. She gave her laptop computer a pat.

Good. I’m glad to see you’re efficient as well as honest.

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