Right after college graduation, as I planned to start my first novel, Beauregard appeared on my doorstep. He had a smirk that bragged he was up to mischief, and in retrospect I should have closed the door. Instead, I invited him to dinner with my parents.
Confining himself to pleasantries and flattery, Beau waited until Father sliced the roast beef and set the carving knife on the sideboard before announcing the purpose of his call.
“If I may, Marcus … Mr. Gadwell, sir, I came here tonight to ask if you will allow Thomas to accompany me to Europe. We shall begin in Paris.” He turned to my mother and added, “Where we will not see such finely twisted hair.” Looking back to my father he continued, “Then we will tour the French countryside, meet with society in London, and explore the Swiss Alps. My interest is in paying homage to historical cathedrals and visiting my third cousin in Lisbon. I expect such an extensive and educational trip might take up to a year, but as you know, Mr. Gadwell, that’s the standard these days.”
Of course I understood full disclosure of our escapade would commence over a lager at the pub.
“You should go, Thomas. Travel broadens the mind. Your mind could use some broadening,” my father said. His quick agreement was such a shock that Beau muttered something a bit vulgar and spent the next five minutes apologizing to my mother.
Just one week later I stood at the dock shaking hands with my father. Mother was too upset to see us off. She feared I would marry a French coquette and never return home. Father wished me a safe journey and added, “When you’ve tempered your wilds you’ll be ready to get back into law.”
The next month we enjoyed a grand time of endless festivities. We indulged in rich wines and company, and had yet to even leave Paris. When the weather cooled, we headed south and moved about the extravagant ports of Nice, Cannes, and Monaco—our stops dictated more by amiable girls than our tickets.
When Beau lost a tidy sum at baccarat, we departed Monte Carlo for Rome and vowed to enrich our minds by exploring the sights. As respectable lads touring Italy we made acquaintances with fellow Americans renting apartments for the winter and often secured invitations to evening gatherings in crowded parlors. We were not discriminating and indeed met striking characters. Someday I will tell you about our wager with a bullfighter from Madrid. I still use his banderilla as a letter opener. During one such evening, the parlor busting with extravagant velvet costumes and exotic accents, Beauregard met Francesca Ferrara.
Francesca was someone's niece visiting from Sicily, though I never met an aunt. She wore her long black hair pulled behind her ears with loose strands down her back. A tall woman with a slim physique and oval green eyes under thick dark eyebrows, there was something fluid about the way Francesca curtsied to the Americans and fluttered her unadorned fan as she gazed around the room. Beauregard was captivated. Although Francesca had but a meager mastery of English, she knew French well enough for them to chat for three hours that first night.
For the next two weeks Beau stayed out every night past midnight. When he returned to our room, he tossed his top hat on my stomach to wake me up and babbled about Francesca. I had never seen him so enthralled. Then one morning he woke me at dawn. It was Sunday. The bell from the Basilica San Clemente was announcing daybreak when Beauregard began shaking my shoulder.
“Wake up, you coot. I’m getting married,” he said.
It was either the shocking news or wet washcloth Beauregard slapped against my face, but I jumped up. In the process I knocked over the bedside table and stubbed my toe.
“What?” I asked, holding my foot.
“I’m getting married.” He had already put on his charcoal morning coat and pinstriped trousers.
“To whom?” I blurted.
“Get dressed, Thomas. We have to hurry. That means you don’t have time to decide between a kerchief and that ridiculously tall Piccadilly collar. A tip, my friend, little boys all around the world are begging not to wear their Piccadilly collars.” He plucked the pillow from his bed and thumped me on the head. “Now, pull foot. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
He rushed out the door before I could ask any questions, and I remained startled for a few moments. Not knowing what else to do, I dressed and met him in the lobby.
“My God, Thomas, what took you so long?” Beauregard waited by the bell desk. He examined me like a woman choosing a frock and said, “Good. I can see your neck. That’s a start. Francesca thought you were an altar boy.”
I asked again what was going on. “I’ve already told you,” Beau replied. “I’m getting married. Francesca is meeting us in a little village outside the city. The concierge is getting us a carriage, and you’re my best man. What more do you need to know?”
“I need to know if you’ve lost your crackers.”
It was not warm congratulations, I admit, but I was too flabbergasted to search for a more tactful approach. I do believe Beauregard felt hurt by my flippant comment, but he punched my shoulder and led me to the carriage.
“Will you at least tell me how all of this happened?” I asked.
“Thomas, my innocent young friend, how do any two people fall in love? It just happens. I asked her last night and she said yes. That’s all there is to it.”
The carriage driver opened the door so I was forced to pause long enough to take my seat and watch Beauregard give the driver directions and a handsome tip.
As the carriage lunged forward I said, “Of course that’s not all there is to it.” I was vexed by his cavalier attitude. “Beauregard, you’ve only just met. Surely you need to know more about her. You haven’t even asked her father for her hand. What if her family wants you to live in Sicily? Are you going to live in Sicily? Beau, there’s a thousand questions. You can’t rush into something this important.”
“Take a deep breath, Tom. I’m the one that’s supposed to be jumpy. Funny, but I don’t feel nervous.” He slid down the window and slapped the side of the carriage. “Isn’t it a handsome day?”
“You never call me Tom.”
Beauregard shrugged then gazed out the window and whistled an odd tune. In a rather confounded state, I had so many questions my head began to pound. The most pressing question was how Francesca arranged a wedding on the fly.
Beauregard shrugged again. “I don’t know. Francesca knows the parish priest at a little Catholic chapel named …” he paused, “well, dash, now I can’t remember the name of the chapel. But it’s in the center of town with a nice view of the lake, and Francesca was sure the priest would marry us today.”
“How does she happen to know of a village chapel? For heaven’s sake, Beauregard, you’re not even Catholic.”
He bragged how Francesca traveled a great deal and knew the area well. “And so what if I’m not Catholic. He can legally marry us, can’t he?”
A disturbing thought entered my mind. Beauregard once said he admired Francesca’s modest style, how he had grown tired of women using the illusion of French perfumes and diamond tiaras. I said he was daft, but his words were forefront in my mind.
“Beauregard, does she know of your inheritance?”
His silence confirmed I had overstepped my bounds, and I wanted to apologize when Beauregard turned from the window. His merry smile had faded.
“Thomas, you sound just like your father.”
I reacted just as he intended. We were young, driven by rash emotions and at that moment I was too insulted to speak. We stared at each other in silence then Beauregard turned away and continued looking out the window. The tension in the carriage rose until I was glad when we at last arrived and found the church. Beauregard tumbled out of the carriage and rushed inside. I refused to follow and sulked outside.
We were perched on a rise surrounded by lush farms I had failed to notice while brooding in the carriage. There was indeed a breathtaking view of an azure lake and a quaint chapel with terracotta walls and a listing bell tower. Beside the chapel was a graveyard. A narrow gate held together with chicken wire scuffed across the soft dirt, and crumbling stone markers were laden with fresh dandelions. The chapel and cemetery reminded me of dear old chums who had exaggerated tales of their youth and complained of a chill in June. As I thought about Beau and the importance of our friendship, the bell rang releasing bits of rust into the breeze.
Beauregard bounded out the chapel door. His eyes were wide and he snapped his head back and forth between me and the road. “She’s not here yet. The second service begins in a few minutes and she’s not here. Where is she?”
I then noticed a few wagons and assumed the parishioners were already inside. “Oh, my very young friend, you should know that blushing brides have a great deal to primp and fluff and who knows what. You can’t rush these things,” I said, then winked.
Beau grabbed my shoulders and hugged me. “Thanks, Thomas. I knew you of all people would understand. You’re a foolish romantic at heart.”
“And you’re just a —”
“Don’t say it. I want us to stay friends.”
We chuckled, and I told him to go inside while I waited for Francesca. “You’re getting married without anyone’s approval and in a language you don’t understand. You could at least follow one of the rules of matrimony.”
He looked at me with a blank stare, so I waited for him to state the obvious. Instead he rolled his eyes and said, “Sakes alive, just tell me what you mean. My head feels like I’m wearing your stupid collar.”
“The groom’s not supposed to see the bride before the wedding, you ninny.”
He slapped his forehead and agreed to go inside. Before he left, he made me promise I would let him know the moment she arrived. I saluted, and he trotted back into the church.
A few minutes later a cab rounded the corner and pulled up in front of the chapel. I waved off the driver and helped Francesca from the carriage. She was dressed in a simple white tea gown with small pink flowers on the crown of her head. Though she wore no jewelry or veil, a little surprising for a young bride on her wedding day, I found myself in agreement with Beauregard. Her simplicity was elegant and fitting for a country ceremony.
“Good morning.”
“Buon giorno. Is here Beauregard?”
I was about to reassure her he was inside panting like an overheated dog when the breeze caught the edge of her dress. As she collected her long skirt she dropped her colorful bouquet so I bent to pick it up. This was when I saw the heels of her shoes. If not for my close examination no one would have ever noticed. I handed her the flowers and she nodded, unaware of what had just happened. The church bell rang again, and she took a step toward the door.
