The Sheik's Son

“Thank you,” she said, kissing him on his cheek.

Eugenie knew she had achieved much, so she said no more. She smiled at her son; though his hair was graying at the temples, he was still attractive, with soft brown eyes and salt-and-pepper hair. He had never remarried after Danielle’s death and she had often wondered why. She eyed the small painting on his desk and moved away again, leaving him alone in his library.

Danielle had been a sweet child eager to please her young husband and make a good wife. She had married at 18 years old and became pregnant right away. Jean Pierre had been delighted and thrilled at the prospect of a young wife and child. He had picked out several names, including naming the unborn babe after his father or grandfather. But after the baby girl had been born and Danielle had died after a night of agonizing pain, he had lost interest in everything.

His mother had joined his small household in Paris to raise the young baby girl. Jean Pierre had taken his young wife’s death very hard and had found solace in drink. A year passed before he regained his footing and it was only his profession as a lawyer with the prestigious Ferme générale that had given him some stability.

The Ferme générale collected duties on behalf of the king under contract and many in its employ became very wealthy in doing so. As a young lawyer, Jean Pierre had done extremely well for himself.

Though his work and those who collected taxes were not popular, imposing various taxes on land, salt, wine and tobacco, his lucrative position allowed him a comfortable life and his daughter and mother benefitted from it as well.

He had never remarried after Danielle’s death because he never wanted to. Danielle had been an angel, pure and innocent, and he had been very much in love for the brief time they had been joined in matrimony. Once she had died, a part of him died as well.

When his mother joined his household, he had truly felt a burden lifted from his shoulders. He loved his daughter as any father would, but he did not know how to raise a small infant and did not want to learn. He knew in his mother’s hands Sophie would be well loved, and so she was.

Sophie exhibited a quick mind and intelligence from an early age and Jean Pierre indulged her. He did not want to argue with his mother over these trivial details, but he also knew his mother was from another era. She did not understand that Sophie may yearn to be a wife and mother, as was natural, but she also yearned for more. In that respect, she was like her father.

He climbed the stairs to Sophie’s bedroom, which overlooked the Seine River. The comfortable home allowed him to entertain those he worked with, but it was also intimate enough for the family to enjoy their time alone. He engaged a cook, two maids, two footmen and a butler. When his mother held a formal dinner party, they would often bring help in for that evening.

Jean Pierre knocked softly on Sophie’s door and she called out permission to enter.

He saw his daughter bent over her desk, writing in a quick manner. Her handwritten words skimmed over the papers, and he closed the door behind him.

“Sophie.”

“Yes, Father, please—one moment.” She was in the middle of a great thought and took care to make sure the entirety of it was captured on the linen paper. Satisfied, she placed the quill pen down upon her desk and turned to her father.

He smiled at his daughter. She was a beauty. Her dark auburn hair and hazel eyes were striking in her oval face, with its creamy complexion. She had a trim figure and her beauty made him proud to call her daughter.

“Writing in your diary?” he noted absently.

Sophie nodded. She knew her father and grandmother would not understand so she eluded their more serious concerns by telling them that she found solace in a diary. In truth, she did. She found great solace in placing her more radical thoughts down on paper, and she had already decided that she would write under the pen name Jean Inconnu—Jean Unknown. Sophie was convinced that her writings were good enough to be printed into a pamphlet. She had made some cautious inquiries into finding a printer and had finally secured one. Her dear maid, Marie, would deliver them to the printer when they were complete. All she needed to do was finish it.

“Yes, I am.”

Jean Pierre sat across from her in a worn chair that she liked to read in and noted the many reams of paper strewn across her desk, with her cursive handwriting covering them all. She had scratched out some words and written other words in and it seemed a haphazard affair.

“Your writings are very intense,” he said, nodding toward her desk.

Sophie blushed slightly. “Yes. I become quite engrossed in my thoughts.”

He surveyed her room, which was simple and not at all what he expected from a young woman. Her large bed was covered with a plain bed covering and books lined her shelves, floor and chairs. A window seat with several plush pillows piled atop it overlooked the Seine. More books were piled upon it and he wondered what sort of books she read.

On Sophie’s small vanity table were placed a brush and mirror and two costly bottles of perfume that he had purchased for her birthday. She wore the scents sparingly.

She dressed elegantly when they went to the theater or socialized, but at home she simply wore cotton and linen gowns, with a shawl to keep her warm.

“Your grandmother was downstairs just now,” he began.

Sophie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes?”

“Sophie, I would never force anything upon you.”

“I know that.”

“You have received several offers of marriage in the past four years,” he added.

“None of which interested me.”