Echo in the Wind

by Regan Walker

  The vixen brooded for a moment.

  He smiled, trying to coax her to consenting. “Would you not like to see the vineyards that produce all that brandy you and your fellow smugglers sell in London? What matters it if you do not return till summer’s end? If by being with me, you are ruined, a delay of some weeks will not alter the fact.” He gave her a wry smile, hoping the rebel in her would rise to the occasion. “I will give you quill and paper to write a letter to your brother. You can tell him the pirate holds you captive but is treating you well.”

  He was certain the smile that crossed her face just then was a reluctant one. “I suppose it would do no good to protest.”

  “None at all, Mademoiselle.”

  Rose entered with more coffee, which he gladly poured.

  “My niece has arrived, Capitaine, if the lady would like to meet her.”

  Jean glanced at his guest whose face bore a scowl. Better she should meet her prospective maid than argue with him over something she could not change.

  He picked up his coffee and rose to leave. To his housekeeper, he said, “Bring her in.”

  Conflicting emotions warred within Joanna. She was angry with Donet for having misled her into thinking she would be going home from Lorient. But she did not want to leave him just yet and, in truth, she did have a desire to see more of the land of his youth. Besides, if she were to travel as a lady, she would need a maid.

  “You are Gabrielle?” Donet asked the dark-haired girl. Nearly a foot taller than Nora, Gabrielle had thick dark hair, confined to a knot at her nape, and expressive blue eyes.

  “Oui, Monsieur,” she said curtsying before him.

  “Lady Joanna, I will leave you two for a bit so you can get acquainted. If she meets your needs, she has indicated to her aunt she is willing to serve you and travel with us to Saintonge. There will be room in my cabin for the two of you.”

  So, he had known from the beginning she would be sailing to Saintonge. Very well, she would go along with his arrangements. “You do think of everything, Monsieur.”

  One side of his mouth hitched up in a bit of a grin. “I try.”

  After he left, Joanna turned to the girl. “Please have a seat. Do you speak English, Gabrielle?”

  The girl sat in the chair vacated by Donet. “Oui, Mademoiselle, some.”

  “And I speak French, though not as well as Monsieur Donet. Between us, perhaps we will be able to communicate nicely. Tell me what you know of being a lady’s maid.”

  With some particularity, the girl described her training and her talents. She was not an accomplished maid like Nora, but she could style hair and knew enough about a lady’s dress to satisfy. Importantly for Joanna, the girl was French which, given Joanna’s immediate future, would be a great help to her. And the pretty girl had a pleasant manner.

  She poured Gabrielle a cup of chocolate. While they drank, they exchanged stories about their families. The maid was the youngest of three children with two older brothers. Joanna talked of her two surviving brothers and her younger sister. Of an age with Tillie, but more mature, Joanna thought Gabrielle would serve admirably.

  “If you would like the position, Gabrielle, it is yours for as long as I am in France.”

  “Oh yes, Mademoiselle. I would like it very much.” The girl was already making an effort to speak more English, which impressed Joanna. They would do well together.

  The housekeeper returned. “The capitaine is asking for you, Mademoiselle. Madame Provot has arrived with her assistant and many boxes.”

  “Come, Gabrielle,” said Joanna. “You can begin now helping with my new gowns.”

  Many hours later, Joanna had a new wardrobe. The lovely French gowns were as elegant as those she had at The Harrows, perhaps more so. Madame Provot’s flair for lace, ribbon and bows reminded her why the English modeled their fashions after the French.

  That night, after dining with Donet, Joanna wrote Freddie a letter to explain her injury and recovery. She told him her return would be delayed, but not to worry, that Monsieur Donet was being the perfect gentleman and had retained a maid for her.

  Donet promised to see the letter delivered. She did not doubt he had ways to see it done.

  Chapter 17

  La Rochelle, France

  It had taken them two days sailing southeast in the Bay of Biscay to reach La Rochelle, a port near Saintonge. Jean stood in the stern, his mind filled with memories, both pleasant and bitter. Two decades had passed since he’d left Saintonge under a cloud. More than a decade since he’d lost Ariane. Soon, he would see again his family’s estate and confront the ghosts dwelling there.

  They sailed into the harbor just as the sun was setting behind the tall buildings lining the quay. The golden cloud-filled sky gave the water the same glorious hue making it appear like a great river descended from Heaven.

  Lady Joanna, her auburn hair tinged with the same golden light, stood amidships gripping the rail as she watched the activity in the harbor, her gaze fixed on the small boats and large ships.

  Looking over her shoulder, she tossed Jean a smile, her enthusiasm for what lay ahead clearly outweighing her annoyance at his failing to return her to London.

  On the deck beside her sat the ship’s cat licking his paw, unconcerned. “Ben”, as she called him, had become her constant companion, causing much speculation among his superstitious crew. While they worried for having a woman aboard—even more so one who had red hair—the constant presence of the black cat, a sign of good luck, had managed to neutralize their misgivings.

  One day, he must return her home, but it would not be easy, for he had grown attached to the vixen. Dining together and sharing quips about the aristocracy and his life at sea had brought them together. Neither spoke of the kiss they had shared but, sometimes, when their gazes met over the table, she would lick her bottom lip and then it would take all of his self-control not to drag her to his bed.

  Now that she had the gowns from Noëlle and Gabrielle to style her hair, she not only spoke like an aristocrat but looked very much like the earl’s sister she was. In the afternoons, she would venture on deck, drawing the eyes of his crew. Believing she was the capitaine’s woman, they did not openly leer, but their surreptitious glances told him much. Neither he nor Émile had let it be known she slept in his cabin alone with her maid.

  Émile came up beside him. “Am I to join ye onshore, Capitaine?”

  “Unless you would rather stay in La Rochelle with the ship, I would have you with me.”

  “Then I shall come. Who knows what ye will face in Saintonge?” His quartermaster frowned. “Like as not, ’twill be a bunch of glowering servants who thought ye dead. ’Sides, I still have yet to see those vineyards ye boast of.”

  Jean smiled as much to himself as to his friend. “Even I have not seen them for a very long time, mon ami.”

  “Do we disembark tonight?”

  “Non.” Jean had no desire to travel the roads by night. Though safer than some of England’s highways, he was not about to expose Lady Joanna to robbers lurking behind trees. “I think ’twould be best for the lady if we spent the night aboard ship and depart for Saintonge on the morrow.”

  Émile nodded. “As soon as we dock, I’ll have one of the crew arrange for a carriage.”

  Jean gave the orders that moored the ship at the quay where la Reine Noire joined a long line of merchantmen.

  The province of Saintonge, France

  The carriage bumped along on the dirt roads, which narrowed as they ventured deeper into the countryside. The rough jarring made Joanna glad she was nearly healed. Next to her, Gabrielle slept, leaning against the side of the carriage.

  Out the window, Joanna glimpsed rows and rows of grapevines covering rolling hills as far as the eye could see. On the top of the vines, the sun turned the green leaves gold. The stalks bore long bunches of green grapes. Never having seen such a place, she was enchanted. So this is the land that produced the amber liquor all of England craves.
The same land that produced Jean Donet.

  Seeing the sun on the gnarled vines gave her a new appreciation for the brandy she and the villagers of Chichester smuggled into England. And a new appreciation for the man sitting across from her.

  She sneaked a glance at Donet as he stared out at the vineyard, a melancholy expression on his handsome face. Was he remembering the past? For him, this was coming back to a home that had once rejected him. “Has it been very long since you were here?”

  He turned to face her and, seeing the longing in his eyes, her heart reached out to him. “Oui, Mademoiselle, a very long time.”

  “Has it changed much from what you remember?” She grabbed the strap and he braced his boot against the base of her seat as they swung around a curve. Gabrielle stirred and then went back to sleep.

  “Non, not at all,” he said with thoughtful inflection. “The odd thing is that I had expected it to.”

  “Perhaps that is because ’tis you who has changed in all the years that have passed.”

  He laughed. “Well, that is certainly true.”

  The nonchalant manner in which his body easily adapted to every curve in the road told her he did as well in a swaying carriage as he did on the deck of his ship.

  “You did not expect to return,” she said. With all she knew of him, she believed it to be true.

  “Very perceptive, Mademoiselle. I did not.” He returned his gaze to the vines.

  Even if the world stood still, Donet never would. Forced to give up one dream, he had pursued another. She admired that about him. And she trusted him, even with her life. The life he saved, she reminded herself.

  What would it be like to be married to such a man? She thought of his past, his privateering for America and his daring escapades. It would be like marrying adventure itself. He would never be dull like so many men in the ton. And while he was very attractive to women, he was no Jack among the maids. He had been faithful to his wife. Perhaps he was even now.

  Joanna no longer believed he found her unattractive. What she had seen in his eyes, what she had felt in his kiss told her otherwise. He wanted her, that much was clear, but as what? He, more than she, held himself away. Why? Did he worry for her virtue? Or was it the love he still harbored for his dead wife?

  The carriage slowed and she peered out the window to see a grand château set back from the road. As they neared, it seemed to grow larger, rising before them, a stone palace with a slate mansard roof pierced by eight dormer windows.

  More than twenty large windows graced the front of the edifice. On either side of the main building stood a wing with a high pavilion. “Why, ’tis enormous,” she said, her voice reflecting the awe she felt.

  “As a child, I imagined it went on forever,” said Donet. “On rainy days, my brother and I played games in the great hall.”

  Gabrielle woke and looked out the window, her eyes growing wide.

  The carriage stopped and Donet’s quartermaster, who’d been riding on top with the coachman, opened the door. “Ye failed to mention a few details about yer ancestral home, Capitaine.”

  The comte stepped down and helped her and Gabrielle to alight. “Should I have said it is quite large?” He paused to examine the château as if seeing it for the first time. “Even so, it is larger than when I last saw it. Why my father felt a need to add to the monstrosity, I do not know. Come, let us see who is here.”

  Before the four of them reached the front door, it flew open and a young girl in a white gown with a wide blue sash ran out, her dark hair flying behind her. “Papa, Papa!” she cried, hurling herself at the comte and hugging his waist. “Oh, Papa,” she cried, shutting her eyes.

  Joanna shifted her gaze to Donet. As far as she knew he had only one daughter, and that one was grown and living in London.

  Donet gently placed his hand on the girl’s head. “You must be Zoé.”

  The girl pulled back, her brow furrowed. “You are not Papa, are you?” Her young face conveyed her terrible disappointment. For a moment, she stared up at Donet. “I hoped he had returned.”

  A woman hurried out of the same door the child had come through. “Zoé!” she shouted, a look of despair on her face. The girl turned to look at the woman but held on to Donet as if afraid he might disappear. The short woman wore a ruffled mobcap on top of gray curls. Her careworn face bore an anxious look. Wiping her hands on her apron, she frowned at the girl. “Mademoiselle Zoé,” she said in a kindly tone. “Ce n’est pas votre papa.”

  The girl had thought Donet was her father? But why?

  As if to answer Joanna’s question, the girl raised her eyes to Donet. “But he looks so like Papa, I wanted it to be true.”

  The woman in the mobcap lifted her gaze to Donet and gasped.

  “Marguerite,” said the comte. “It is you, is it not?” To Joanna, Donet muttered, “My older brother Henri and I always looked much alike. Marguerite knew me as a younger man.”

  “Master?” The woman’s wrinkled face stared up at the comte in wonder. “You have come!”

  Donet leaned forward and kissed her on both cheeks. “I have and I must beg your forgiveness for my delay in doing so. I had intended to be here earlier, but my presence was required in London.” Crouching down in front of the girl, he said, “Zoé, I am ton oncle Jean.”

  The girl touched his face as if to assure herself he was real. “Mon oncle? You have come to stay?”

  He stood and patted the girl’s head. “We will see.” To Joanna, he said, “Allow me to introduce you to our housekeeper Madame Travere and to my niece, Mademoiselle Zoé Donet.”

  The woman curtsied and Joanna returned her a smile.

  His niece greeted Joanna. “Bonjour.”

  To the woman he had called Marguerite, he explained, “My guest is Lady Joanna West. She brings her maid, Gabrielle, who is also the niece of my housekeeper in Lorient.”

  Gabrielle dipped a small curtsy to the older woman.

  “And lastly, here is my quartermaster and good friend Émile Bequel.”

  M’sieur Bequel bowed before the housekeeper. “At yer service, Madame.”

  The housekeeper smiled at the gruff man, not put off in the least by his harsh countenance and rough appearance. “Come inside,” she said to them. “You must be tired from your journey, and we have much to discuss.”

  Taking Donet’s hand, Zoé walked beside them as they headed toward the door.

  Inside, a young dark-haired maid hurried toward the housekeeper. “Some refreshments for Monsieur le comte, Sophie.”

  The maid gave Donet a startled glance and curtsied before rushing through a door on the other side of the entry.

  The entry hall was large, its floor black and white marble tiles that reminded Joanna of a checkerboard. Because of the many windows, no candles would be required during the day, but a huge crystal chandelier hung above them with candles ready to be lit.

  In front of her, a wide curving staircase led to the next level.

  “Where is the butler?” Donet asked, looking around. “And the footmen?”

  “The butler, Lefèvre, retained by your brother, is around somewhere. A most unusual man, that one, but efficient. And there are still a few footmen, maids and, of course, the groom and stable boys. But after the funeral, some of the servants left. Alas, the child’s governess has gone as well.”

  “I did not like that one,” said Zoé, still holding Donet’s hand. “She was very strict.”

  As if in explanation, the housekeeper said, “Like you, Monsieur, the child has a mind of her own.”

  Donet smiled with approval at the child. Joanna had no doubt that Donet, as a child, possessed a strong will for he did to this day. Perhaps this niece of his would be the same. Someone should warn the men of France in years to come.

  Marguerite continued. “You will remember the old maître du château.” Donet nodded. “Monsieur Giroud is just now inspecting the vines with one of the workers.”

  “Well,” Donet said to M�
��sieur Bequel, “it appears we have much to do.”

  To their right, a parlor beckoned and Donet led them to it. “We might as well make ourselves at home. You will see about rooms for my guests, Marguerite?”

  She dipped her head. “Oui, Monsieur.”

  The parlor was not unlike those in fine London homes but reflected more of antiquity. The walls were high and much of them covered with large tapestries, bucolic scenes of people enjoying themselves beneath trees in the countryside. Over the fireplace’s mantel of white marble hung a tall mirror between crystal sconces.

  Scattered around the room, she counted six chairs and two sofas. On one end of the room sat a pedestal table holding a bouquet of pink and white roses in a large vase.

  The floor was inlaid parquet, small squares of oak set at angles to each other, making a beautiful pattern around the edges of the cream and rose carpet.

  Observing her interest in the polished floor, Donet said, “There is much of it at Versailles. The parquet is easier to maintain than tile.”

  A man appeared at the doorway dressed in a suit of bright orange brocade, his stockings white silk above his silver-buckled black shoes. His hair was the color of walnuts and his face looked ancient, his leathery skin wrinkled like a prune. Joanna could not tell if he was a guest or part of the household.

  When he saw Donet, he stared as if in shock. Then, in a flourish, he bowed. “Monsieur le comte, I am your butler, Lefèvre. The maid told me you had arrived, but I must say I am astounded. You look so like your brother, it is as if he were here with us again. Welcome to your home.”

  “Lefèvre,” Donet said, returning the butler a small smile, “it is good to meet you. I have brought guests. My quartermaster M’sieur Bequel and Lady Joanna West. Her maid, Gabrielle, accompanies her.”

  The butler dipped his head to the quartermaster and bowed before Joanna.

  “Do you require anything, Monsieur?” he asked Donet.

  “Nothing now, but later I would like to go over the accounts with you.”