I closed my eyes and the sun's warmth landed on my eyelids as it refracted through the carriage's windowpane.
My spirit renewed at the sight of Paris. It was as if a restricting band cinched around my chest had finally burst open, and I could breathe again.
Winterbourne lay miles away. And every shred of sorrow and misery I had endured, I left behind. The moment I had locked my bedroom's door, I had consciously made the choice of putting away the tormenting voice once and for all. I did not know if it would work, but I hoped with all my heart it would.
Alisa slept a pleasant dream.
As we drove through Saint-Germain-des-Prés and approached what would become our home for the following weeks, I realized she had not complained once during the entire journey. Perhaps Alisa was immune to such things as seasickness; perhaps her constitution was far stronger than I had ever imagined.
I understood then I knew her very little. And why would it not be so, when our education had taken place on very different arenas within the same household—although, in truth, most of my affairs were conducted outside, whereas Alisa's activities confined her to our home.
Perhaps now that we traveled together, I would get to see her—to really see her.
The carriage stopped.
“We're here,” I mused.
She opened her eyes.
“Bonjour, monsieur.” The footman unlocked the door.
I climbed off the black berline carriage and carried Alisa down, across a puddle of mud on the street and settled her on the sidewalk.
“Bonjour,” I answered.
“This way, s'il vous plait.” He pointed us to the house before taking care of the luggage.
Although small enough to adhere to our budget, this townhouse had enough splendors to leave me breathless as I walked through its threshold. Wood-tiled flooring and Bordeaux-colored draped walls; oriental rugs filled the rooms in gold and burgundy, granting the inescapable sense of luxury one would expect from Parisian décor.
A large golden chandelier pended from the hall's ceiling. My eyes followed the upper floor's corridor and went down its staircase. I touched the smooth wooden handrail and ran upstairs. I had never seen this place before, and I relished in discovering its every room because this would be our home for the following months.
I pushed the door open and ignored the bedroom's furnishings; the view held me spellbound immediately. The balcony lured me further, with the promise of a wonderful sight waiting beyond its railings.
Beyond the double doors, I stepped outside and the matinal breeze engulfed me. The tree-lined Quai de la Tournelle and the Seine lay before me, but Notre-Dame's Cathedral loomed above the horizon and that sight filled my eyes with tears.
In that moment, every single day of planning came to fruition.
This was real. I was here.
6
The Looking Glass
“Any plans for today?”
I took a sip of my steaming Turkish coffee, a welcoming gift from our landlord. I drank it after breakfast every morning ever since. The invigorating effects were well worth its strong bitter taste.
“I'm engaged for a petite promenade with Lady Cisseley and her sister,” she said, setting down her cup of tea. “We're going to the Place Royale.”
We had only been in Paris for a few weeks, yet Alisa had already developed quite a taste for mingling in society. As giddy as a child, she arranged her laced gloves over the table. The purest of smiles drew on her face.
“I am astounded at how fast you've made friends with Lady Cisseley,” I mused.
“It's hardly any surprise, I should think. After all, we've shared the same itinerary since we parted from London.” She took one last drink. Her eyes fixed on the gilt-bronzed cartel clock across the room. “Oh, is that the time?”
Alisa moved away from the table. I drew my chair back and stood.
“Goodness!” she said with amusement, her widened eyes studying my appearance. “That's a new suit.”
I looked at my three-piece ivory silk laced clothing. The tailor had delivered it last evening, along with another two suits I had ordered a few days ago, all according to Parisian trend.
“Do you like it?”
“Tighter breeches, I see...” She raised her brow. “Yes. It's wonderful, Ivan. Very à la mode!”
“I'm glad you appreciate it.” I shrugged, certain I blushed that very instant.
Alisa smiled and fixed her candid gaze on me for a while. In those brief seconds, I wished I could listen to her every thought and discover what kept her in such a daze.
She blinked, and it was as if she had snapped out of a trance.
“Oh! I must get on. We'll talk later!”
As much as she found herself drawn to society, the Parisian layout of theater, dance, and architecture fascinated her as well, whereas I delighted myself in simpler pleasures. I relished in taking strolls on the cobblestone streets, learning new routes to reach Le Quartier Latin or l’Île de la Cité and in the process, discovering the quaintest hidden cafés and cabarets.
“Leix,” I said to our footman. “I'm going out. I expect I will return in time for lunch.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
A few days ago, I had picked up much interest in exploring the Île Saint-Louis, which now seemed like the perfect excuse for a morning walk.
On my way, I followed the Seine's embankment until I came upon the Pont de la Tournelle. There, I stopped. The majestic panoramic rendered me breathless. Laid before me was a full view of Notre Dame's east side—its spire reached up to the clear blue sky, superb as it rose between both towers. And on its right, though far beyond, I caught a glimpse of the Hôtel de Ville and the Pont Rouge. The towers of Saint-Jean-en-Grève and Saint-Gervais emerged in the distance.
Once I had crossed the bridge, towering manors piled close to one another, mounting an exclusive residential quartier. Even the city's cacophony shied from its confines. Such silence seemed unreal to me since it was almost noon; if not for the occasional carriage passing, the streets' tranquility could very well announce its desolation.
Could I live in a place like this? I wondered. I rather enjoyed the city's vibrant character, the jostling hordes gathering at the Place Saint-Michel, crowding the small cafés even if it meant staying afoot while drinking their stimulating beverages—but this, a life of opulence and discretion, I could get used to.
As I made a right turn, I walked up to the Saint-Louis-en-l'Île Church, still under construction. It's bell tower's design, shaped as an obelisk, struck me as odd. And perhaps I would have ventured inside, had I not caught sight of something else that jolted my prying nature.
A few feet away from me, it lay on the pavement. It shined too brightly for such a small object. Curiosity compelled me. I moved closer and leaned towards it, took the square-shaped object in my hand and studied it.
I held it up to eye level and then realized what it was.
“A looking glass,” I mused. It was small and quite simple, wrapped in a metallic casing in pristine condition, with no engraving to reveal its owner's identity.
Amused by my discovery, I played with my tiny treasure and stared at my eyes' reflection for a little while.
Clanking horse hoofs approached.
At the whinnying of a horse, I turned, and the gorgeous black Friesian shied from me quick. He shrieked again, and then bolted along with the three other horses, pulling the carriage fast down the lane.
“Whoa! Whoa, Stallion!” The driver's cry did nothing to appease the speeding four-in-hand.
A few feet from reaching the street's corner, the Friesians galloped out of control. And as I stood there, powerless before the inevitable, the carriage overturned, projecting the coachman several feet high in the air. The vehicle crashed on its side within seconds.
I ran towards the carriage. The horses squealed and reared, and as soon as I got to them, I reached for that youngest, inexperienced horse—the one that had unleashed the entire ordea
l with its shying.
With a gentle tug, I took hold of its bridle.
“Easy, Stallion,” I said, smoothing my hand on his neck.
He calmed down fast and the others followed.
The driver lay on the street, a few feet away. I ran to him and knelt by his side.
“Are you all right, man?”
The coachman did not respond. He had received a terrible blow to the head; blood poured from his forehead and covered half of his face. I placed my hand on his chest; it did not move. Was he alive? How else could I tell?
The looking glass.
I placed it under his nose and hoped his breath would stain its surface, but it did not. He was dead.
Not a soul passed in the street. I found myself the single witness to this tragedy. Then, I heard it—a low, thudding beat.
It stopped. Or perhaps I had imagined it? I turned around and studied the wreckage with the highest degree of attention I could summon. The horses had regained their steady temper, I saw no movement that could—there. I heard it again. This time, it grew louder.
It came from the carriage. And in between the steady pounding, I heard a muffled voice. Someone was banging on its door!
With no time to lose, I climbed up the overturned coach. It would have been impossible to readjust it by myself. I lacked enough manpower to do it, so I did what best I could. And as I stepped onto the rear quarter, I caught a glimpse of the person locked inside.
Her widened eyes fixed on mine for a second, and she turned into stone. We must have stared at each other for over a minute. But soon after that, the spell was broken, and she banged on the door with what appeared to be a parasol.
“I will get you out,” I yelled. “Stay calm!”
Whatever the woman answered remained a mystery to me. Her muffled voice made it impossible for me to understand a word she said.
I pulled the door's handle once, twice... it did not work. I tried it one more time but to no avail. My efforts were in vain. The door was stuck. I had to do something, and fast, because this woman was ready to keep hammering the door with her precious parasol until she regained her freedom.
The options were clear. Either I would have to unhinge the carriage's door or break the window; but the latter seemed undesirable, for it would undoubtedly add to her distress.
With one quick look, I searched amongst the wreckage's debris… A metal rod. That would do the trick.
I moved away from the window, and she banged on the door once more. With a frown on her face and parted lips, I perceived in her a most demanding attitude, which in truth upset me greatly. What was she thinking? Here I was, doing my best to relieve her from this uncomfortable situation, and yet, she treated me as if I were nothing more than a lackey!
“I'm beginning to think you're probably best suited where you are,” I muttered. With my hand, I signaled her to wait. “I'm coming back!”
Out of a sense of duty—for I doubted I possessed any goodness at this stage—I tried to dismiss her braggadocio. Surely, such wanting demeanor must have answered to the shock impressed on her by the accident, right?
As soon as I stepped off the cart, I reached under the wheel. The bar lay on the floor amongst scattered fragments of leather and wood, far from my grip. I pressed my chest against the pavement, shortening the distance between my hand and the rod until my fingers touched it. With one quick swing of my index finger, I managed to grab it at last.
A sudden wave of damp coolness spread on my chest. I looked down. Oh, no... Muck and grime stained my coat and vest. I winced. My suit was ruined beyond repair.
While holding the rod in my muddied hand, I climbed over the carriage once more.
“Stand back!” I said, and she moved to the back of the cart. I slipped the rod beneath the lock and pushed until it broke.
After opening the door, I knelt before the gap and peered inside. Her large green eyes pierced the shadows, and her gaze landed straight on me.
“Are you all right?” I said clearing the muck from my hands over my already wasted vest.
“Ah, Briton...” she mused, caring little to conceal her disappointment. She then reached for my hand and pulled without warning.
“I don't think that's—!” I slipped and fell into the coach's cabin, and much to my displeasure, landed on top of her, “—such a good idea.”
The car’s dim lighting allowed little to unveil her facial features, but in truth, all I cared about was leaving this wretched vehicle as soon as possible and carrying on with the rest of my day.
“Well, I see you're determined I remain within this carriage,” she said in flawless English, an inch away from my face. “What was it you said? I am 'best suited' where I am?”
My eyes widened with shock. “You heard that?”
“Please remove yourself from me, sir.”
My hand had landed on her waist; the other one, on her bare shoulder. “I—forgive me,” I said as I backed away.
She had the advantage, now that she took offense from my vexed words. I did not want to stay angry at her, although her temper did little to atone for her rudeness.
As I moved out of the carriage, I offered my hand to lift her. In spite of her slim complexion, the weight of her gown did pose quite a challenge to my strength.
The moment we reached the ground, I sighed in relief.
“You might want to avert your eyes from that side of the road,” I said. “Your driver—well, I'm afraid it ended badly for him.”
“No,” she mused. “Not Hector!”
She fled my arms before I even got the chance to restrain her from running to the coachman's side.
A few steps behind, I witnessed the entire scene. She knelt beside him, and her figure concealed from me the sight of the driver's bloodied face. Thank heavens.
“Hector,” she said. “Ne vous inquiétez pas, vous vivrez.” Don't worry, you will live. I begged to differ. Last time I had checked, he was not breathing, remember?
She released his hand and moved aside. And when she did, I could not believe what my eyes beheld. The coachman rose on to his feet!
With a white handkerchief, she covered his face. She wrapped her arm around his waist and helped him move towards the carriage. This was beyond extraordinary!
In that moment, I heard footsteps approaching the street and went to meet them. Enough men volunteered and hurried along to help me turn the vehicle upwards once more. It bore no major damage, apparently.
“Allow me, mademoiselle,” one of the men said in French. He went to the coachman and carried him into the cart.
“Merci beaucoup, monsieur!” She waved him farewell as the men got on their way.
While adjusting the fingers of her white kid gloves, she approached me from the other side of the street.
I vowed to myself that no matter how vulnerable she might seem as she conveyed her gratitude, I would not take any advantage from it. I would accept her apology with humility and we would part ways as friends.
“You mustn't say a thing,” I said as she drew near.
“Mustn't I?”
“You are most welcome. There's no need for an apology. Let us part as friends.”
She flinched. “Apology?” she said. “The courtesy of my gratitude, I would extend. But you are far too presumptuous to expect an apology, sir, since it is you who must apologize to me.”
“Me? Apologize to you?” I said. “Whatever for?”
“Causing the accident, of course!”
I laughed under my breath. “This is ludicrous! I did no such thing—”
“Of course, you did! That shimmering case you carried nearly blinded me as we passed you. I can only assume how distressing it must have been for the horses. Why else would they have bolted as they did?”
I took a deep breath. This was no game. This woman meant every word she said. And after everything I had done for her... I knew my swift temper would take over my tongue, so with every ounce of strength left inside me, I held it in. But n
ot for long.
“May I point out, mademoiselle,” I muttered, “your Stallion is quite a young horse. He's clearly unfit to pull a carriage.”
“I resent you for saying that, sir. Stallion is one of my best horses.” She paused. “I would stay and discuss every aspect regarding the rudeness of your manners, but I fear such a feat would require most of my day. And I must take this man to the doctor; otherwise, he will die... This time, for real.”
“He should not pay for our disagreement,” I mused. “Do you need help driving him there?”
“I assure you, I am quite capable of managing,” she said as she hopped onto the coachman’s seat.
“Good day, sir.”
“Good day.”
“There you are...” She set her glass of wine aside. Her eyes widened as soon as they acknowledged my presence. “Heavens, Ivan! You're covered in mud!”
“You are not going to believe what happened,” I roared and shut the door behind me. “Oh. I see dinner has already started.”
“Don't worry about that,” she said. “Marguerite, please tell Cook that M. Lockhart has arrived, and to be as kind as to send his meal.”
“Oui, mademoiselle.”
As soon as the parlormaid left the room, Alisa's self-composed demeanor crumbled. She moved away from the table fast and ran to me.
“What is it, darling? What's wrong? You seem quite flustered.” Her gentle hands examined my face.
Look at her. Devoted and tender in her affections. It had been years since she had called me that… darling. The word on her lips sent a soothing wave of warmth through my body.
“Are you all right?”
“I'm fine...” I said under my breath, reaching for the chair's back and steadying my weight against it.
Satisfied after establishing my well-being, Alisa returned to her seat.
“What happened?”
Written in Blood: A New Adult Vampire Romance Novella, Part One. (The Unnatural Brethren Book 1) Page 7
