His funny littlechériewanted him to perform this medieval act of service of asking her father for her hand in marriage, so he would do this for her.
After they’d rung the front doorbell but before anyone had answered the door, Dree shook Maxence’s arm and said, “Don’t tell them you’re royal or a prince or anything, at least not for a couple of days or so. They’ll freak. He’ll probably say no. Let them get to know you first before you spring that on him, okay?”
And then, a tiny blond sprite, like a wee version of Dree, opened the front door and screamed back into the house,“They’re here, Mama!”
When they walked in the house and were being introduced to a line of children, all resembling Dree in many ways, one of the medium ones said to him, “Y’all sure do talk funny. Where y’all from?”
Dree piped up before Maxence had a chance to answer, stepping in front of him and saying, “Monagasquay. It’s over in Europe, kind of by France and Italy. And don’t ask so many questions, Grant.”
Another kid bent sideways to talk around Dree to Maxence. “Is that true?”
The slightly taller kid next to the first one backhanded her on the arm. “Andrea said that’s true. What are you asking the stranger for, Kelly?”
He was, indeed, a stranger.
Dree introduced Maxence, Casimir, and Arthur to her parents. “Mama and Daddy, I’d like to introduce you to Casimir van Amsberg, Arthur Finch-Hatton, and Maxence Grimaldi.” She turned to them. “Gentlemen, may I introduce you to my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Bartholomew Clark.”
They shook hands all around.
Dree’s mother announced, “Y’all call me Mama Beatrice.”
Her sunny smile was a reflection of her daughter’s, and Maxence melted a little.
Her father, Bartholomew, scowled at them from under his sandy hair, close-cropped but thinning, and slitted his gray eyes at them. When he harrumphed, his paunch punctuated the sound with a bounce.
After an excellent lunch of lamb chops and scalloped potatoes, Maxence helped clear the table and managed to be in the kitchen alone with her father for a brief interval while Arthur and Casimir were in the dining room gathering serving dishes. “I have a matter of some delicacy to discuss. Might we take a walk after lunch, alone?”
Dree’s father stopped and turned, looking at Maxence out of the corner of his eyes. “Is there a problem?”
“Not at all. Just something I’d like to discuss with you, man-to-man.”
“Alright, I’ll tell the missus we’re going to walk out on the back forty for a bit as a postprandial stroll.”
Half an hour later, Maxence was marching out into the fields with Dree’s father. Even in the very early days of February, the scrubby plants of the high desert ranges were beginning to bud. Her father had donned a straw cowboy hat.
Bartholomew Clark turned and stared back at Arthur and Casimir, who were walking a short distance behind them. They were just far enough away that Maxence couldn’t yell at them to go the hell back to the house. “Why are those guys following us along?”
Maxence shrugged. “They said they wanted to see this. I’ve been trying to dissuade them, but nothing has worked. I’ve tried bribery and threats. Do you have horses? Perhaps we could ride out a bit and leave them behind.”
“Well, now,” Bartholomew chuckled. He called back behind them, “Come on up here, boys. We’ve got nothing to hide.”
Maxence bit his tongue as Arthur and Casimir jogged through the meadow to catch up with them, grinning like evil loons.
Arthur slapped Bartholomew on the shoulder. “I was hoping you’d say that, old chap.”
Arthur and Dree’s father had gotten along swimmingly over lunch, talking about breeding farm animals and the differing types of wheat and rye grown in England on Arthur’s farmland versus in the southwestern US. Arthur hadn’t mentioned thathistenant farmersgrew the crops on hisearldom’sestatethat dated back beyond medieval times or that he was exactly the sort of English lord that Americans had fought their revolutionary war against.
Bartholomew was going to be disappointed Max was the one who was trying to marry his daughter. The two of them were having a deep heart-to-heart about cattle-feed corn.
Bartholomew asked Maxence, “So, young man, what is it you wanted to talk about?”
The southwestern high desert sun flooded the air with golden light.
Arthur goaded him, “Yes, Maxence. What is it that you wanted to ask Mr. Clark?”
Casimir was grinning. “Yes, Maxence. Go ahead. Spit it out.”
Maxence sucked in a deep breath.
