Meg observed her reflection in the mirror with a mixed review. The dress was simply stunning, but the person wearing looked resigned to an uncertain fate. Her hair was piled high with curls. A few slender ringlets were strategically freed about her face for the maximum effect. The dress of shimmering gold silk was full and long with a sheer overskirt embroidered with pink satin roses. The bodice had the same delicate pattern embroidered on the center panel that tapered to a vee below the waistline. White, gathered sheer straps draped lightly off her shoulders and accentuated the delicate sweetheart neckline. Meg had never been one to flaunt herself and the whole idea of being paraded for inspection was crude and left a bad taste in her mouth. Having been on stage, in some capacity or another most of her life, hadn't prepared her for the performance she faced now. She was a fraud from beginning to end.
"It is time, Meg." Madame Giry said from the doorway of Meg's bedroom. Meg followed her mother with the same enthusiasm as those who faced the guillotine so many years earlier. Numbly, she pulled herself into the carriage with her mother that would take her to the ball. She tried not to think. She'd already thought of every possible trick to get out of going, but the only respectable solution was to go. Aunt Clair and Uncle Alec had loaned them the money for the party and agreed to host it as well. They had rented a well-respected hall for the occasion. Every eligible bachelor with a reasonable bank account had been invited. Other young women were invited as well. They had been carefully selected as to not give the guest of honor, Meg Giry, any undue competition. Some were already married. Others were older than Meg and had been on the marriage market for many years without success. Meg knew this from the discussions she'd heard between Aunt Clair and her mother. It seemed that her mother and aunt really didn't have any confidence that she could hold her own with the prettier, unmarried girls.
Meg found herself positioned near the door, of the elegant hall, so that she could greet everyone as they entered. She did her best to smile and be pleasant, but in time it became an objectionable chore. Her feet were sore from standing in the ill-fitting shoes even before the dancing began. Her new, stiff shoes pinched her toes and each step brought intolerable pain.
She begged off on one dance, because her feet couldn't take any more and found a settee in a secluded corner. She removed her shoe with a sigh of relief and flexed her aching foot.
"Meg, I am so glad that you are alone. I've been wanting to talk to you." Meg looked up to see Lily Fairmont, Reggie's sister. The expression on Lily's face was one of concern and Meg had a feeling that she was not very happy at the moment.
"Of course, Lily. It is good to see you again. Sit down." Meg said, moving to make room for the other woman on the settee.
"I realize that I am over-stepping my bounds here, but I have to ask you...why. Why are you doing this?" She gestured toward the party. "I thought that you and Reggie..." She broke off and looked into Meg's eyes searching for clues "I mean I could be wrong. Reggie could be wrong, but he thinks that you love him. The letters that you have written have meant a great deal to him. Perhaps he is mistaken and has read too much between the lines."
"Oh, Lily, I am so sorry that you had to see all this and I am sorry for Reggie, but mother has decided that I have to marry and Reggie is in Cambodia. We owe money and I cannot wait for as long as it takes for him to come back." Meg plead silently for Lily's understanding. Even though she hardly knew the other woman, she sensed a good, kind heart.
"You couldn't wait six months?" Lily asked, surprised. "It seems like a relatively short time to wait for a good man." She added, in defense of her brother.
"What do you know of my letters?" Meg asked, uncertain of Lily's knowledge. Meg didn't know what was in Reggie's letters and this was proving to be quite embarrassing.
"Reggie writes to me as well. He is falling in love with you. I'm surprised that you didn't realize it. He is quite expressive in his letters to me." Lily sounded rather put out and Meg couldn't blame her.
"I have to confess something, Lily, and I won't blame you if you are angry. You have every right to be. But I haven't been writing the letters." Meg paused for the full effect of her words to settle on the other woman's mind. "I don't quite know how to explain it, but I'll try." Meg continued. "I was in love with another before I ever met Reggie." Lily looked stunned, as Meg expected.
"How could you lead him on like this?" Lily accused.
"Let me finish." Meg breathed deep and went on. "The one I cared about is... How can I put this delicately? He is disfigured. He doesn't return my affections. Mother has been pushing me into getting married and when Reggie acted interested in me, Mother rather insisted that I go out with him. I do love him, just as you do, like a sister." Lily turned her head momentarily, as if she was disgusted and did not want to hear it.
"But you said that you did not write the letters. Who wrote them? I don't suppose that he dreamed them up."
"He didn't. This is the part that is really difficult for me. I am ashamed of what I did and I can see now that I was very wrong and I ask that you forgive me, because it gets worse." Meg took another deep breath. "Do you remember Michelle Montague?" Meg paused to let Lily reflect.
"Yes, I think so. She was a year younger than me, but we were in school together. I remember her. She had the most startling green eyes."
"That's her. I'm glad you remember. She came to the Opera Populaire about a year ago. I didn't know her very well at the time, so I can't even tell you all that happened, but she was assaulted and a very horrible man forced himself upon her."
Lily gasped, blinking at the horror that presented itself to her imagination. "Oh dear, that is awful. I am so sorry to hear of it. How is she now?"
"Well, that is the part that I'm getting to. She has been writing the letters. I asked her to, because I felt so guilty about not loving Reggie that way the he deserved. Michelle has a gift for writing and I told her to do it. I did not read the letters, but I did tell her to gently tell him that my feelings were of a friendly nature and not romantic. I don't think she told him. She has a tiny baby girl now." Meg smiled, remembering the baby. "Michelle named her Bethaleigh. She is quite the little beauty."
"The baby is from the unfortunate circumstances?" Lily asked. Meg nodded. "Where is the sorry excuse for humanity?"
"Dead."
"I can't say I'm sorry to hear it." Lily paused. "Reggie thinks he's in love with you, but really he is in love with Michelle, and knows nothing about the baby." She concluded.
"That pretty much sums it up... Ironic, isn't it?"
"Where is Michelle now?"
"She is living with us, at the House of Clureoux."
"That is extremely generous of you to provide for her support, when you do not have so much for yourselves."
"She has a benefactor, who pays for her board and room and has been generous to provide a trust fund for the baby." Meg admitted.
"She is taken care of then. Who is this person? I must write to him and express myself." Lily said.
"He does not wish to be thanked. I think it would embarrass him if his identity were revealed." Meg said, regretting her mention of Erik.
"It would?" Lily said with genuine surprise. "I think that I've fallen in love with the Stranger already." Lily placed her hand upon her chest and exhaled.
"You're a married woman!" Meg mocked, trying to hide a smile.
"And happily so. Perhaps it is too forward of me to ask, but...is Michelle's benefactor the one whom you love?" Lily asked, her eyes sparkling with interest. Meg blushed.
"I...can't... I... How did you know?"
"Women know these things. I don't think I shall tell Reggie that Michelle is writing the letters and I don't think you should either, for now. It is good for both of them, and I shall enjoy the mischief and intrigue, myself. How often does one get to see her brother make such a delightful fool of himself?" Lily smiled. "I shall love to have Michelle for a sister one day. I just hope Reggie won't be an idiot and ruin the whole thing with an unforgivable blunder."
"I think they are going to need our help. Michelle is terrified of men since her experience and I don't think it will be easy for her even if she has feelings for him." Meg said.
"What about you? How are you to going to win the heart of this mysterious stranger?" Lily pressed.
"He has had every opportunity to make his feelings known. I have embarrassed myself with my own declarations to the point that I would be a fool to continue." Meg confessed.
"You are going about it the wrong way, darling." Lily murmured conspiratorially. "If your beloved is neither blind or stupid, and everything else about him is healthy and normal, then it shouldn't be impossible for you to convince him."
"That's the problem. I don't want to convince him any more. If he cannot convince himself, then I am wasting my time. He does not care. I know it." Meg said looking away so Lily wouldn't see the tears filling her eyes.
"No. You mustn't give up. Love will win. You'll see."
"No. You don't understand. He still has feelings for another who betrayed him. I don't know if he'll ever be free of her and the hurt she caused him." Meg blinked and a tear rolled down her cheek.
"Oh dear, that does make things difficult." Lily agreed. Meg nodded and wiped the tear away, forcing a smile so that she did not succumb to a crying fit.
A gentleman claimed his dance with Meg before Lily could continue. Meg did not see her again that evening and went home thinking about the conversation with the young woman. She was relived that Lily was not angry with her and puzzled to find out that Michelle had not told her that Reggie would be returning in six months. It was possible that Reggie failed to mention it, but that didn't seem likely if he was falling in love and awaiting a reunion.
Several days later, Meg cradled little Bethaleigh in her arms while Michelle tidied up after giving the baby her morning bath. A letter from Reggie had appeared in the morning mail. Meg did not touch it, but waited, interested to see if Michelle would mention it. She never did.
"Did Reggie say when he would be coming back?" Meg blew warm breath gently on Bethaleigh's tiny, bare foot and watched the baby smile each time she did it.
"Why?" Michelle stiffened just a little, before continuing with her task.
"I was just wondering about him is all. I hope he is well and safe." Meg said. Michelle agreed, and Meg didn't pursue the subject any further.
Aunt Clair had managed to finagle an invitation for Meg to every party and ball taking place within the next two months. Meg went and did her best to appear pleasant and demur while, inside, her heart wept bitterly. Meg had received three marriage proposals, but for one reason or another her mother instructed her to turn them down, citing the most obvious reason. One did not have a big enough bank account. A young handsome suitor had a dreadful reputation with the ladies, while another gambled terribly. Meg was not saddened that she had to refuse them, but she overheard Aunt Clair telling Madame Giry, in the parlor one evening, that she should reconsider at least one of them.
"Tristram Beaudette is very handsome and has plenty of money. He is quite a catch. Meg should be flattered that he proposed already." Aunt Clair said.
"I know, but you are forgetting his scandalous reputation." Madame Giry argued.
"He is young. Perhaps he will want to settle down with our Meg. They would surely make a handsome couple and their children would be absolutely gorgeous." Meg could not clearly hear her mother's muffled reply, but it was not in favor of the young rogue.
"You will be unusually fortunate to find a man, in this day and age, of your impossibly high standards, Adele. They just don't make them like they used to." Meg sensed that Aunt Clair was growing impatient with Madame Giry's stubbornness.
It was a hot July afternoon and not even a merciful breeze stirred the air in Paris. The stench of the sewers was overwhelming, putting everyone at the House of Clureoux in foul temperament. Even Michelle and little Bethaleigh were being testy with each other.
"She cries every time I put her down and I can't get another thing done." Michelle complained. "Clair isn't used to having a crying baby in the house and I know that it wears on her that Bethaleigh cries so."
"It is the heat." Meg suggested. "She is bored and fretful like the rest of us. I'll take her for a while, so you can have some time to yourself."
"Thank you, Meg. I would like that." Michelle said, placing the baby gently in Meg's arms. Meg enjoyed tending the tiny girl. When the baby finally fell asleep, Meg took her to Michelle's room to lay her down. The door was slightly ajar so Meg pushed it open quietly, trying not to wake the baby. It creaked anyway. Michelle was writing at her desk and jumped guiltily when Meg entered.
"Oh! You startled me!" Michelle said, hastily putting her writing away. Meg smiled to herself. She was convinced now that Michelle was falling in love with Reggie. She hadn't shared a single one of Reggie's letter in the last two months although they arrived regularly. Meg wondered briefly about what Michelle wrote in her letters and hoped that Reggie wouldn't be a complete jackass when he found out that he had been deceived.
Meg had been invited to another society ball. This one was hosted by Lily Fairmont and, for once, Meg was excited about going. She anticipated seeing Lily again. Madame Giry accompanied her daughter to the event with renewed hope that they would find the perfect husband. Lily met them graciously and instantly steered the older woman toward an elegant gentleman Meg had never met before. Lily introduced him as Monsieur Dublan, her father. With Madame Giry being entertained, the two young women escaped to the garden. It was the same garden where Meg first kissed Erik. The memory came back vividly, though she quickly repressed it.
"I have a plan." Lily confided. "I think we can capture the attention of your mysterious lover."
"He is gone and is not interested in me." Meg said dully.
"Where is he?"
"He has a house in the Midi-Pyrenees region."
"That is a bit far. How remote is it?"
"I don't know. It's the Chateau de Bagen, but I've never been there. "
"We have to believe that if it is meant to happen, love will find a way."
VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV
Erik swung at the blackberry bramble with an ax, severing the canes and tearing the overgrowth from the hedge. He'd been working on the hedge for days now, in a effort to restore some order to the grounds of the chateau. The orchard promised to yield apples, pears and peaches in another few months time. Grapes hung heavily on mature vines, ripening slowly in the small vineyard. Erik watched their progress with eager anticipation of the wine they would produce. He'd cleared an area earlier and planted some garden vegetables. He had yet to harvest anything, but he found his role as a farmer quite rewarding already. Young carrots, peas, onions, potatoes, turnips and cabbages grew in straight, obedient rows. The garden had started out as a curiosity. He'd never had the ambition to farm before now, but neither had it been an option. He planted it because he could.
The chateau was a slate grey structure with three full stories, a partial loft and a basement. Small, circular towers with spiral roofs were situated on two corners on the front of the house .
At the back of the house, there was a modest chapel where two larger circular towers rose to the full height of three levels. The chapel would seat no more than twenty people and would not have been built for the use of the general congregation. It was meant to facilitate the needs of the family that lived there.
It had taken him the better part of two months to put the house itself into shape. Cracked plaster and split wood on the finish areas around doorways, windows and decorative moldings. It was with some delight that he'd found that most of the original furniture remained in the house. Erik added the modern bathroom with the new flushing toilet, hot and cold running water and the gas fired boiler that heated the water. The chateau boasted nine bedrooms, three reception rooms, a large kitchen and dining room, and of course, a music room where William Vincent Wallace's pianoforte still resided. He also found the late composer's old violin.
In the evenings, Erik found soul-healing recourse in his music. The old pianoforte produced a deep, rich timbre that filled the old house with lush vibrations.
Garrick had healed slowly. He was still thin and malnourished from his illness but continued to make steady progress. Several times after they had left Paris, Erik wondered if the boy would survive. It was one of the things that inspired him to plant the vegetable garden.
"Monsieur!" The voice startled Erik. Erik turned to see who addressed him, for there was none other around. In the drive that lead up to the house, a man sat on a large wagon pulled by the biggest horse Erik had ever seen. The man made no attempt to get down from his perch, high on the wagon. Since he hadn't heard the wagon coming, he wasn't sure how long the man had been there.
The instinct to turn away and disappear was overpowered by his natural curiosity. Erik kept his face adverted and greeted the man with the customary 'bon jour'. It turned out to be the local woodcutter. He inquired whether Erik was interested in firewood for the winter. Erik answered in the affirmative and the man left without further discussion. It seemed a little early to be concerned with firewood for the winter. After Erik thought about it, he remembered the pile of wood at the back of the house was dwindling. Perhaps it was the local custom to cut the wood in July so it would be dry enough to burn by the time the bitter cold set in. He was gradually learning about the simple traditions of the country folk.
Within days of his arrival, a small tin of fresh milk appeared on his door step. Erik suspected a local dairy farmer was responsible and put the emptied tin back where he found it. At the end of the week, a bill for the delivery appeared. Erik left the money beneath the empty tin and every day since, the milk was there. Not once had he seen the person who delivered it. It was the perfect arrangement.
Garrick had taken over the chore of cooking their meals. As much as Erik appreciated the gesture and didn't want to offend the boy, he was tired of boiled sausage and lentils. He missed Francois' cooking.
Erik spent the afternoons tutoring Garrick in basic academia. The afternoons were too hot to work outdoors and Erik was unused to the bright sunlight. He'd darkened the most of the windows in the house with heavy draperies because he felt vulnerable and exposed. Although he hadn't really seen anyone, he had the feeling that he was being watched. Somebody knew enough to have milk delivered. A knoll, densely populated with evergreens, shielded the Chateau from the main road. Erik thought he'd seen someone there. The sunlight caught the reflection of polished metal and winked at him.
The chateau was about as removed from the village as it needed to be. He started to wonder at how he'd come to see it as a nine-year-old boy. There was nothing there except the chateau and it wasn't visible from the main highway. He remembered horses grazing in the meadow. There was a barn with six stables and a carriage house.
The only horse there now was the old gelding that he'd bought with the carriage in Paris the day he and Garrick left. If he hadn't been in such a hurry that day, he would have tried to get a better horse. The journey had taken much longer than Erik first calculated. The distance was far and the horse was old.
A week after the woodcutter had showed up, Erik had a visitor. Garrick greeted the person who knocked on his door. Erik remained close, but hidden, so he could hear the exchange between Garrick and the newcomer. The individual demanded to see the master of the house. Garrick told them that his master did not entertain visitors, but that he, Garrick, would willingly deliver a message.
"I must know first that your master is person I seek." The visitor argued.
"I am sorry, M'sir, but I cannot disobey my master's wishes. Perhaps you should tell me who it is that wishes to see him and he will decide if he will see you at another time." Garrick said knowing that Erik was listening to the exchange.
"I am representing Madame de Leon and I wish to know if your master is the man known as Erik and wears a mask." The man stated boldly. "Perhaps that is why he will not accept visitors."
"M'sir will not see anyone, because he does not wish to." Garrick did not betray his master with even a stutter or an ill-timed hesitation, and closed the door in the man's face.
Erik was proud of him.
The unexpected visitor had put Erik on edge. The idea of abandoning the place after he'd put so much work into it just did not appeal to him. He'd grown too attached to the chateau already to just leave. Nevertheless, he mentally began preparing himself for the possibility that he may be forced to flee. There could no coincidence that the visitor knew of his name and disfigurement.
The next day, a letter appeared in the mailbox, positioned out on the main road. It was a rather brief message, from Marchioness de Leon, stating that if Erik was indeed the man she was seeking, a title and fortune would be his. The handwriting was thin and scrawling, like the person who wielded the pen was arthritic. But, it sounded like a trap and only a fool would fall into that one. He laughed that anyone would think he was so simple as to take the bait. He had enough money to live comfortably for the rest of his life and no use for a title. He ignored the letter, but found himself retreating back to his old habits of staying indoors during the day.
Four days later, another letter arrived in the same handwriting. It read that the Marchioness de Leon, herself, would be arriving at one o'clock in the afternoon on the following day. She would accompanied by her lawyer, and if Erik did not see her, he would be turning his back on a vast fortune and title that was his by right of inheritance. She was his grandmother and, although she had seen him only once when he was nine, she would recognize him at once on sight.
The letter had the same impact as a weight of a hundred pounds being hurtled at his head. A dizzy sensation came over him and he was forced to sit down to avoid being nauseated. At nine-years-old, his mother had brought him to the region to see his grandparents. In his wildest dreams, he'd never thought that either of them would still be alive. But, that wasn't the whole of his shock. He'd thought that she'd brought him here to see her parents. A title couldn't be passed on through the issue of a woman. The title would have to be inherited through a father. He knew absolutely nothing about his father.
He racked his brain trying to remember that visit so many years ago and the woman who claimed to be his grandmother. An image of a stern disapproving figure came to mind, but he had no recollection of who the person was. No one else would have known of his one and only visit to the area so long ago or of how old he would have been. Now that his curiosity was substantially roused, he looked forward to the meeting, but not without some apprehension.
The woman arrived just as she stated in her letter. The two gray horses that pulled the black coach were high-spirited and regally decked out in headdress and harness. The coachman and footman wore powdered wigs and formal satin breeches and coats in light blue . Erik watched from an upper window, as she emerged from the roomy carriage. The ageing gentleman with her was probably the lawyer. She was tiny and withered, nothing like the rigid figure he pictured. She carried herself to the stairway and up the steps to his front door, using a cane for support.
Erik waited, looking for the possible trap that would follow. Garrick had been instructed to not leave the visitors alone. Erik would come into the reception room when he was ready. Satisfied that no one else had followed her, Erik went down to meet his grandmother.
He listened by the door for just a moment before entering just in case there was something that he should know. Garrick would warn him in some way if there was danger. Erik walked in, dressed in his finest suit and stood silent, facing his grandmother. He wore the black wig and the white mask for the full effect, as to not spare his dear grandmére entirely, the reality of his disfigurement. The flesh colored mask that he usually wore was less shocking.
The lawyer was sitting on a straight backed chair looking uncomfortable. His grandmother sat on the wine-colored, plush settee—one of the finer pieces in the house. Her frame was a diminished version of a former and greater stature. There was little evidence that she had ever been beautiful or even pretty. Her skin was thin, though not extremely wrinkled. The mouth was thin and lipless, and her eyes peered at him sharply from beneath drooping lids. She spoke first.
"I thought you might be dead by now." She said, her voice cracking harshly.
"Likewise, Madame." Erik responded.
She laughed, the sound resembling a bark. "I am as surprised as you. I have been looking forward to my permanent departure for several years now, but for some reason, God doesn't want me yet. Your father died before you were born. Your grandfather died only last year. When your mother brought you to see us you were nine. I was not kind as you may remember."
"I don't."
"Well, it is just as good that you do not. I was frightened of you and I never wanted to see you again. I kept thinking of your father and I didn't want to believe that you were his son. It is a terrible thing to face when your only grandchild is deformed and your only son is dead. I confess that I was concerned about what other people would say and think. They are dead now and their opinions never amounted to much anyway." She stopped and took a deep breath, her lungs wheezing.
"Perhaps Madame would like something to drink." Erik said, rising to pour her a drink.
"Water and brandy." She said, tapping her fingers sharply on her chest. She coughed and accepted the drink.
"I heard from the servants' gossip that the new owner of the Chateau de Bagen wore a mask that covered the right side of his face. I thought it odd that someone of that description would buy the house your mother grew up in." She did not seem to notice Erik's surprise, and he remain silent. "She must have brought you here at the same time she visited us. By that time, her parents had both died from consumption and the house belonged to someone else." She took another swallow of the diluted brandy and continued. "Your grandfather was a marquis and as his rightful heir, you are now the Marquis de Leon."
"Titles are a thing of the past. They no longer have any merit with the courts and there are no advantages to having one." Erik said, watching her carefully.
"There has always been the entitled and untitled. Napoleon the III respected our titles. It is a shame that our present government has no respect for our history and the nobility. All great civilizations have had their nobles. I have come here today, because our titles are important to French history and culture. If you do not accept it, the lands and the property will be received by the godless government that has turned away from our traditions." Her voice had taken on a lowered pitch and the passion she felt on the subject came through loud and clear.
"So what does this title involve?"
"There is property of great value; houses, farms and business, horses and cattle and more money than you have ever dreamed of."
"How do you know what I've dreamed of?"
"I know more than you think. I knew of your time in Persia and India. You are the one known as the Phantom of the Opera. I heard the gossip about the soprano and the disaster involving the chandelier. I have always been a patron of the Opera Populaire, though I attended more so in my younger days. Our family was quite generous to the theater, in part, because I believed that it was you who blackmailed them for twenty thousand francs a month and because I love the theater. The Opera Populaire would have been bankrupt a lot sooner if I had not covered for you. For all those years, I worried you would disgrace our family. I hadn't heard any more gossip about the Phantom after the fire. I thought you might have been killed."
"You were in Paris?" Erik asked. He was still taking it all in.
"Oh, yes. We used to host lavish parties and knew everybody that was anybody. We still have a house in Paris. I haven't been there for years. I hate the stench. The summer is always best here in the country."
"If you knew this all those years ago, why do you seek me out now? What do you want from me?"
"I was frightened. I thought you might be mad." She said simply, then added. "I want Heirs."
"You are wasting your time. I will not reproduce and I am mad."
"I thought that you might say that. Your deformity is not hereditary. At the time your father died, I believe that your mother tried to abort you." She said dispassionately. "There was a doctor of an evil nature that was promoting a drug he claimed would abort an unwanted child." She didn't look at him as she spoke this information. Instead, she stared at the floor and held herself as though she was affected sorely by the disclosure. "Many babies were born without limbs or without brains. The doctor was arrested, but not before much damage had already been done."
"I am still mad."
"I have had spies watching you for the last few weeks. You are not mad. I have known people who are mad and they don't restore old houses and grow vegetables. Now that I've seen you, I am not frightened. Some women may even find the mask an exciting diversion. If Biagio Delvoix can find a woman to marry him, surely you can."
"Biagio Delvoix? Should I know him?" Erik inquired only to keep the old woman talking. It was a lot to digest, but the woman held many of the missing pieces of his life.
"He is one of the richest men in all of France. He married an heiress, but his wife died last year in childbirth. I hear the poor woman delivered three babies is as many years and the last one killed her. The man is a merchant and has more money than he knows what to do with. He gambles terribly. I feel sorry for the girl that is engaged to him. I hear she is a pretty thing, a ballerina. There is no doubt that she is marrying him for his money. There can be no other reason."
The room seemed to be spinning around and around. Erik steadied himself, fighting for control.
"Who is she?"
"The girl? I don't know her personally. Madame de Mol and her daughter said they saw her at the Fairmonts' a few weeks ago. I don't remember the name. I saw the announcement of the engagement in the Epoque, but I'm sure I didn't keep the paper."