“You’re Dr. Franklin.” Marcus looked at the elderly gentleman with the stooped shoulders and ample belly with something akin to reverence.
“And you’re a Yankee. I’m surprised the Associators took you in,” Franklin said with a slow smile. “They’re a clannish bunch, and don’t usually accept anyone into their ranks who was born north of Market Street.”
“What was your father’s name, Marcus?” Philippe asked.
“Thomas,” Marcus said, thinking of Tom Buckland.
“Don’t ever lie to me,” his grandfather said pleasantly, though the glint in his eye warned Marcus that this lapse into falsehood—like a challenging stare—was a serious matter.
“The man whose blood I once carried in my veins was called Obadiah—Obadiah MacNeil. But there is nothing left of him in me.” Marcus’s chin rose. “Thomas Buckland taught me how to be a surgeon. And a man. He is my true father.”
“Someone has been reading Rousseau,” Franklin murmured.
Philippe considered Marcus for a long moment. He nodded.
“Very well, Marcus Raphael Galen Thomas Chauncey de Clermont,” his grandfather at last pronounced. “I accept you into the family. You will be known as Marcus de Clermont—for now.”
Fanny looked relieved. “You won’t be disappointed, Far, though Marcus still has much to learn. His Latin is abominable, his French deplorable, and he is clumsy with a sword.”
“I can shoot a gun,” Marcus said sharply. “What need do I have for swords?”
“A gentleman must carry a sword, at least,” Madame de Genlis said.
“Give Stéphanie and me another month—perhaps two—and we will have him ready for Versailles,” Fanny promised.
“That is perhaps a matter for Ysabeau to decide,” Philippe said, casting a fond glance on his daughter.
“Ysabeau! But I—” Fanny was indignant. She turned her head away from her father. “Of course, Far.”
“And what do I call you, sir?” Marcus didn’t mean to sound insolent, though the horrified look on Fanny’s face told him he might well have been.
Philippe merely smiled.
“You may call me Grandfather,” he said. “Or Philippe. My other names would not suit your American tongue.”
“Philippe.” Marcus tried it out. It had been months, and he still couldn’t think of the chevalier de Clermont as Matthew, never mind Father. It was definitely too soon to call this terrifying man Grandfather.
“Now that you are part of the family, there are a few rules you must obey,” Philippe said.
“Rules?” Marcus’s eyes narrowed.
“First, no siring children without my permission.” Philippe raised a single, admonishing finger.
Having now met more members of the de Clermont family, Marcus had no desire to increase its size. He nodded.
“Second, if you receive a coin from me, like the one on the letter I sent to Fanny’s house, you must return it to me. Personally. If you do not, I will come looking for you myself. Understood?”
Once again, Marcus nodded. Like adding to the de Clermont family, he had no wish for Philippe to show up at his door, unannounced.
“And one more thing: no more hospitals. Not until I think you’re ready.” Philippe’s steady gaze traveled from Marcus to Fanny. “Am I clear?”
“Crystal clear, Far.” Fanny flung her arms around Philippe’s neck. She turned to Franklin. “Stéphanie and I discussed all the possible risks, Dr. Franklin, as well as the rewards. We didn’t think anyone was in real danger. Certainly not Le Bébé.”
“Tell me how you came up with the idea to let him ring the bells at Notre-Dame. What a coup—and something I have longed to do myself,” Franklin said, steering Fanny through the doors and onto the terrace outside. Madame de Genlis went with them.
Marcus was left alone with Philippe.
“Your grandmother is waiting for you in the salon,” Philippe said. “She is eager to see you again.”
“You know about our meeting?” Marcus said, his throat dry.
Philippe smiled once more.
“I know most things,” Philippe said.
* * *
—
“MARCUS!” HIS GRANDMOTHER OFFERED HIM her cheek for a kiss. “It is a delight to see you here.”
Ysabeau was seated in a deep chair by the fire, which was lit in spite of the open windows.
“Grandmother,” Marcus said, pressing his lips to her cool flesh.