Confluence - 13. Epilogue -- Paris, France, Europe

Owen’s Pharmacy prospered in Eleanor Aiken Owen’s hands. The women of Franklin, led by a core of those who had sewn Ellie’s wedding dress, came to believe that the shocking death of young Mister Owen was somehow the fault of a conspiracy led by the Woodworths and Doc Lawson against the Aikens in general and Ellie in particular. They decided to patronize Owen’s Pharmacy as much as possible, and had the satisfaction of viewing each purchase as an act of political defiance.

This same group of women saw to it that Jeremiah Woodworth never came near any more of the town’s young girls, much to his frustration. Elias Woodworth eventually exiled him to a subsidiary business in Missouri. There, after Jeremiah got involved with a local girl named Becky Thatcher, he died in a bizarre whitewashing incident.

It was the spring of 1877 before Ellie felt that her finances permitted a tour of Europe with her mother-in-law. On their second day in Paris, momentarily away from their group of Americans led by a retired Boston schoolmaster, and weary of the historical lecture on the nearby Arc de Triomphe, they walked down a street of fashionable shops. The elder Mrs. Owen endured the promenade stoically as Ellie exclaimed over the window displays and slightly more subtly appreciated the fashions of the other pedestrians. Suddenly Eleanor stopped, mouth agape, staring down the street.

“What is it, Ellie? What’s wrong?” Mrs. Owen asked.

“Oh, Mother Owen!” Ellie gasped. “I saw someone -- someone who looked just like our Paulie. For a second I could have sworn that’s who it was. Oh, just like him! I suppose it’s because I wish so much that he could be with us here now!” Eleanor embraced her mother-in-law with tearful fervor. Since the disappearance and presumed death of her husband, she had taken to calling him Paulie. In life she had always called him Owen.

“Well, don’t take on so,” the older woman said, disconcerted by Eleanor’s behavior. “Of course I miss Paulie too, but I don’t see his ghost around every corner.”

“Yes, we both miss him terribly,” Eleanor said, clutching even harder. But after a moment of this, she cried, “Look at the display in that window! Just the sorts of things I could carry in my shop! Oh, I wish I could go in and speak to the owner, but my French is so bad, and they always speak so quickly, I can never understand!”

“Perhaps I could be of assistance?” A handsome, well-dressed young man had approached and addressed them with a heavy French accent. “At least, a little, comment dit-on, translation? If you wish?”

The elder Mrs. Owen’s face hardened in suspicion; but Ellie was delighted. “Could you? But we don’t have any idea who you are.”

“Simply a friend in your time of need. It makes no difference who I am. I could be a beggar or a king, and still be of use to you.”

“Well, you’re obviously not a beggar,” Ellie laughed. “And I doubt that you’re a king. Perhaps you’re a duke or something.”

“But France is a république again, now, Mademoiselle, just like your America. Titles and ranks have no legal meaning. If I am François Villon, le comte de Chardonnay, it advantages me in no way, except an occasional invitation to dine.”

“Le comte de Chardonnay? You’re a count? A real French count, did you hear that, Mother Owen? Oh my!” Eleanor was quite breathless.

My God, Americans are idiots, the young man thought. You try to amuse them with a joke and they take you seriously. Aloud he said, “At your service, Mademoiselle,” and kissed Eleanor’s hand.

“My daughter-in-law is not a mamzelle,” Mrs. Owen said with dignity. “She is a madam.”

“I am a widow,” Ellie said with a hint of a break in her voice.

“Veuve? But how sad. And you are so young and beautiful.”

“And I just wanted to talk to the owner of this shop about the things in his window because I think I could use some of them in my own business. My own shop is doing so well that I’m thinking of expanding,” Eleanor said, smoothing her hair.

“By all means, let us talk to him without delay,” the young man said, as plans began to form in his mind. His real name, which he hadn’t used in several years, was Wilbur Cox. The youngest son of a Sheffield merchant, he was a moderately talented painter who worked hard at his art and never let morals get in the way of his pursuit of it. He had a very rare gift among Englishmen: he spoke French extremely well. Now he was thinking of the ways he could put that gift to good use in America.

**********************

Owen arrived breathless at the restaurant table where Doctor Layne and Jordan Moreau were already seated. “I just saw Ma and Ellie,” he panted.

“What?” Layne looked at him in alarm. “What are they doing here?”

“Did they see you?” Jordan asked.

“I think Ellie saw me. In fact, I’m sure she did.”

“Four years we spend in Vienna, and when we finally get to Paris, they’re here,” Jordan splayed his hands. Owen was trembling.

“Sit down and have a glass of wine,” Layne said. “We were just about to order.”

Owen sat and pulled at his mustache. “She froze. She looked like she’d seen a ghost. Probably that’s what she thought. Other than that, she looked good. Prosperous.”

“She’ll think it’s her mind playing tricks on her,” Layne assured him.

Jordan was studying an attractive middle-aged man at a distant table who was in turn smiling at him. “How can you think of women at a time like this?”

“I have to talk to her. I have to explain to her,” Owen said.

“I hope you’re not thinking of going back,” Jordan said. “I know I’m not. I have a good position in a hospital and this city suits me fine.”

“Think this through before you do something rash,” Layne said. “Speaking to Ellie and your mother could have serious repercussions. But anyway, Paris is a big city. You’re unlikely to cross paths with them again, even if you look for them.”

“What if they see the bookstore?” Owen had set up an English-language bookstore and named it Merrimac Books.

Layne scoffed, “I don’t think Ellie will be venturing to the Left Bank, much less the disreputable little side street where you’ve hung out your shingle.”

Owen had been looking out the window distractedly. He raised his eyebrows. “There they are!”

“What? Where?” Layne half-stood in alarm.

“Over on the far side of the street, with that man with the ridiculous tie! I have to talk to them!”

“Consider carefully,” Layne said, grasping Owen’s arm.

“There’s no time to consider carefully!” Owen shook him off. “I’ve got to do it now while I can!” He ran out of the restaurant and crossed the street.

Both Mrs. Owens stopped abruptly at the sight of the man who had rushed to block their way.

“Ellie, I have to talk to you. I have to explain. And to you, too, Ma.”

The older woman was having difficulty taking this in. “Paulie?” Ellie looked at her in alarm.

The women’s companion stepped forward. “Madame, if this man is bothering you--”

“Bothering her! Who are you?” Owen shouted. More quietly, he continued, “Ellie, I had to leave. You were better off with me dead. You are better off with me dead. I was living two lives and one of them had to end. Part of me had to die. Please forgive me for running away. I was just doing what I thought was best for everyone.”

Ellie’s expression had gradually hardened from astonishment to indignation. “I don’t know what you are playing at, sir. My husband is dead. He died several years ago in a tragic accident. He was a good man. He would never have simply run off. I don’t know what you hope to gain by this, but I am a respectable widow traveling with my mother-in-law.”

Owen was not prepared for this. “Ellie, don’t you know me?”

“Be off, you fraud, you scoundrel, you charlatan!” the fake Comte de Chardonnay cried, pushing Owen to the side. To Ellie he said, “I know this type, all too common in Paris. They see a foreigner and hope to secure some advantage with their tricks.”

“Tricks?!” was all Owen managed to say.

“Yes, tricks!” the false Count replied. Taking an arm of each woman, he hurried them away and called over his shoulder, “And if you try this again, monsieur, this lady will apply to the police and to the American embassy for protection!”

“Please, monsieur, take us someplace dry,” Ellie said tearfully. “No one told me it rained so much in Paris.” The fine drizzle which had started a few moments before was quickly progressing to a steady downpour.

Owen, speechless, stood where he was. The elder Mrs. Owen looked back at him briefly in confusion, then allowed herself to be led away without protest.

Layne crossed the street and stood beside Owen. “I heard it all, Paulie.”

Owen shook his head. “I guess the old Paulie really is dead.”

“And I’ve got the new Paulie, the better one,” Layne said, “the one I love as dearly as life. I know I cautioned you, but I admire you for trying to speak to them.”

“I can’t believe they didn’t recognize me.”

“I think Ellie didn’t want to recognize you. The deception you practiced turned into the truth. She is a well-off widow now. Don’t take that away from her. And I want you to be all mine now, Polliwog; I don’t want to share you with anyone.”

Owen grinned as he looked at the ground. “Sounds like you’re asking me to marry you.”

Layne removed his silver and lapis ring and offered it to Owen. “Would you?”

Owen pushed Layne’s hand away. “Only if you buy me a ring that will fit me. Yours would fall right off my finger.”

“Done.” Layne put his ring back on and kissed Owen. “We’ll go to a jeweler’s this afternoon.”

“Well, are we just going to stand here getting wet?”

“There’s no one in the world with whom I’d rather get drenched. But right now, let’s get back to the restaurant. Monsieur Moreau will be getting impatient.”

As they re-entered the restaurant, they saw that Jordan was now sharing a table with the man he had been studying earlier. “He doesn’t wait long enough to get impatient,” Owen said.