The French Encounter: Christian Historical (Window to the Heart Saga Trilogy Book 2)

by Jenna Brandt

  As the time she spent waiting for word from Mulchere lengthened, Margaret recognized her temporary stay in France was turning into a more permanent one. Her plans to relocate to a more remote destination seemed to be indefinitely on hold. After some convincing by Jacquelyn, Margaret decided she should start attending functions in French society. By paying with cash for everything and using her father’s name, Margaret believed it left her undetectable. She had also made sure that neither she nor any of her servants wrote home. It had been part of the condition of them coming with her. By accompanying her, they had chosen to leave all traces of their previous life behind. She had actually been surprised and honored when they chose to follow her to France.

  In addition, she knew that if she was going to provide true, lasting security for her son, she was going to have to marry again, and sooner rather than later. That meant she had to begin circulating to find a suitable match, as staying hidden away at Parintene would not help her situation.

  She knew she would never love again after losing her husband, but she was also wise enough to know that marriage often had little to do with feelings. She had been lucky once to be able to say she had truly loved her husband; she was not impractical enough to think it would happen twice. However, it did not mean she would compromise on her requirements, and she needed her future husband to be a Christian above all else. It was the one glaring reason she could not allow Pierre to court her, as he did not care to pursue religion.

  After she gave the go-ahead for Jacquelyn to start planning her social calendar, Margaret found herself being constantly pulled from one function to the next by the cousins. Her life in France was such a strong contrast to her life in England. Living in the center of Paris was so different than how she lived in her country home. There was little opportunity to meet new people, as most celebrations, get-togethers, and balls consisted of the same people who lived nearby. But the city was a bustling, lively entity all its own, filled with magical operas, decadent cafés, and glorious masquerades. In addition, she was being introduced to all sorts of new types of people, from actors, to artists, to musicians, and her eyes were being opened to all varieties of life.

  All of French society was dazzled by the new noblewoman from across the sea, and everywhere Margaret went, people flocked to her side. In England, she would have been reluctant to allow herself to be the center of attention, but somehow, Jacquelyn made her enjoy it when they were together. And they were always together, as they had become inseparable.

  She was beginning to appreciate living in France and found that she did not miss England as much as she had in the beginning. She was even starting to realize that, just because her first choice of living a quiet life in the country had been taken from her, this new life, with her different friends, was equally wonderful in its own way.

  But deep in her heart, she could feel that, even though her life in France was full of new and thrilling experiences, she was missing something by not giving God his equal portion of her attention. She prayed every night and read her Bible every morning, but since being in France, she had not taken the time to find a church to attend. Part of it was due to not knowing Paris, but deep down she knew that if she truly wanted to, she could have asked Pierre and he would be able to tell her of any number of nearby churches. The real issue was that she did not think her new friends would appreciate her religious needs, and because of that, she had decided to keep her faith to herself.

  She knew she was not doing right by herself or her father, whose dying wish was for her to have a relationship with God, yet she could not bring herself to broach the subject with either Pierre or Jacquelyn. She just kept hoping the situation would work itself out.

  Margaret had just returned from an evening out at the theatre where they watched the latest performance by the playwright Simon Shaw. He also happened to be one of Jacquelyn’s many admirers. She had an ever-rotating list. It had been an interesting play, but she found her friend’s interaction with Simon even more entertaining when Jacquelyn caught him kissing another woman backstage.

  Jacquelyn was a spitfire, and she marched right up to Simon and smacked him soundly across the face. “I play second to no one, least of all to a third-row chorus girl who does not have the common sense to see an impecunious dramatist for who he is.”

  Everyone around them was shocked by her behavior, except Margaret and Pierre. They were accustomed to her shenanigans. Margaret had to pull Jacquelyn away from the shouting match, and it took several hours for Jacquelyn to calm down after. What had started out as a pleasant enough night had turned into a tediously long one.

  Margaret yawned as she made her way towards her dressing room. She knew Motty and Francisca should be on their way to help her undress for the evening, so she sat down at her vanity to unpin her hair. As she was removing the last of the pins, Sarah entered the room with a worried look on her face.

  It was surprising to see Sarah, as she was supposed to be in the nursery with Henry. Since Margaret had the baby, Sarah had unofficially taken on the role as his nanny. These days, it was rare to see Sarah without Henry in her arms.

  “Something is amiss. What is it?” Margaret asked.

  “Yes, my lady. As you know, he hasn’t been feeling well the past few days and has been fussy with a slight fever. We all assumed it was because he was getting his first tooth, but this evening, the fever has increased significantly and his condition has worsened.”

  “What do you mean, ‘his condition has worsened’?”

  “I think you should come with me, my lady.”

  Jumping up from her chair, Margaret hurriedly followed Sarah out of her bedroom chambers, rushing down the hall to Henry’s nursery. The room was illuminated with a few candles, and Motty was sitting in the rocking chair with a limp Henry on her lap.

  Margaret could tell immediately that something was drastically wrong. It was apparent that Motty had been crying, as her eyes were red and puffy and there were tearstains on her cheeks. Henry lay flaccid and was an odd shade of pale with black circles under his eyes. He did not look well at all. Margaret’s stomach tightened in terror, and she forced herself to swallow the lump in the back of her throat.

  “Please, hand me my son.”

  Motty stood up and swiftly handed Henry over to Margaret. “I am so sorry, my lady. We had no idea he would get this sick so suddenly.”

  “Leave me alone with him and send for the doctor directly. Make sure he is aware that it is urgent.”

  Afraid she might faint from fear, Margaret walked over to the chair and sat down. She could sense whatever ailed her son was severe. He was exceedingly hot to the touch and had a heavy line of sweat along his curly brown hair. It felt as if she were touching a live flame as she gently placed her hand on his forehead. He was struggling for every breath and she could hear a slight wheezing underneath.

  As she looked down at her son, he appeared so small in her arms. It did not seem fair to have him lying there so incredibly ill. She had barely gotten any time with him. If he did not pull through what ailed him, he would never get the chance to grow up. He would never crawl or walk or speak. She would never hear him say he loved her. He would never wrap his arms around her and kiss her cheek good night. He would never go to school, fall in love, or get married. The idea of losing so much time with him made Margaret shake with fright.

  Tears cascaded down her face as she clutched Henry to her chest. What started out as soft cries turned into full-body sobs she could not control. What would she do if she lost him? She had already lost her father and husband, and she did not know if she was going to find her brother. Her son was all the family she had left and the most important thing in her life. She did not think she could survive his loss. Mothers were not meant to bury a child.

  Margaret knew Henry’s life was in God’s hands. She trusted God, so she knew she had to pray. Shakily, she stood up and placed her son’s frail body on the chair, then fell to her knees beside him. Lord, I know you gave me He
nry for a reason. Please, Lord, do not take him from me. I will do anything you ask of me. I am so scared. I cannot make it through this without your strength. Your word says that when I am weak, you are strong, so please give me your strength. I cannot get through this without you. Please, God, heal my son. I beg you, save him!

  As Margaret waited for the doctor to arrive, a poem she read in a book that was read to a dying child came to mind. She repeated it out loud, believing every word.

  “Jesus loves me—this I know

  For the Bible tells me so

  Little ones to him belong,

  They are weak, but he is strong.

  “Jesus loves me—loves me still,

  Though I am very weak and ill;

  From his shining throne on high

  Comes to watch me where I lie.

  “Jesus loves me—he will stay

  Close beside me all the way.

  Then his little child will take

  Up to Heaven for his dear sake.”

  She wondered how anyone was able to surrender a child to the Lord. She wished she had the fortitude to have the peace to do the same, but selfishly, she wanted her son to stay with her.

  The doctor arrived at the vidame’s estate after two hours’ time. As the elderly, grey-haired man entered the nursery, he adjusted his glasses upon his long nose and walked over to Margaret.

  “I have been informed that something seems to be wrong with your little one, Countess.”

  “Yes, Doctor Labonte. I am distraught with concern.”

  “Can you bring him over to the changing table so that I may examine him?”

  Margaret did as requested, placing him on the table and anxiously watching as the doctor touched the boy’s body, listened with a stethoscope to his chest, and lifted his eyelids to check his pupils, all the while saying nothing.

  After thoroughly checking the baby, he turned to Margaret. “Your son has pneumonia.”

  She inhaled sharply and shook her head in denial. “No, that is not possible. He was perfectly satisfactory a couple of days ago, but then he started teething. You must be mistaken.”

  “I should clarify, my lady. Your son has pneumonia, but extraordinarily, his fever seems to be reducing moment by moment. This never happens, especially in ones so young. It almost always turns out the child does not survive.” The doctor reached out and touched the child’s forehead and rubbed his grey beard with his other hand. “Every time I touch him, he is cooler. When a child has pneumonia, that does not happen. I am baffled by what I am witnessing.”

  “Truly? You mean my son is healed?”

  “I would not say that yet, but I do believe he is on his way to being so. We will need to keep an eye on him, and I will be stopping by daily to determine that he is still on the mend. If he continues to get better and does not relapse by week’s end, your son should be cured.”

  “I believe in God, Doctor Labonte, and I prayed for my son’s recovery earlier this evening. He was still horribly sick at the time, and I feared the worst. But God has decided to give me a miracle. I know it, without a shadow of a doubt.”

  “I am also a believer, Countess, and I have only seen a handful of true miracles in my forty years in medicine.”

  “This is my first one.”

  Margaret picked up her son and kissed the top of his head. God saved her son, and she knew she would never forget it.

  Chapter 5

  Two weeks had passed since Henry had fallen ill and he was completely recovered. Margaret did not leave his side for the first several days, but Pierre and Jacquelyn insisted that it was time for her to resume social activities again. For her first outing, the cousins were taking her out to a café on the Boulevard des Italiens.

  Taking one last look in her vanity mirror, Margaret adjusted her crinoline domed skirt and nodded in approval, noting that the deep purple of her dress enhanced her eyes perfectly. She grabbed her belongings for the evening and headed out the door.

  The carriage ride to the Café Anglais was uneventful as Margaret’s mind was churning with anticipation of the exciting night that lay ahead. It was an exceptionally hard place to gain entry in order to enjoy a meal, but luckily, Pierre had all the right connections to get them in anywhere they chose.

  The Café Anglais was ornate in its bright white and golden décor. With gold leaf patina mirrors and mahogany and walnut wood furnishings, the ambience was elegant and stately.

  The servers were bustling back and forth and weaving in and out from the crowds, the café overflowing with patrons.

  Jacquelyn could not stop talking about the renowned chef Adolphe Dugléré, who was cooking for their party tonight. Apparently, he was one of the most illustrious chefs in all of Paris and known for his delectable French cuisine. He had studied under Marie-Antoine Carême, who taught him in the style of haute cuisine, the “high art” of French cooking.

  Margaret and Jacquelyn made their way into one of the dining salons while Pierre gave the carriage driver instructions for returning after the party was over.

  “We are going to have such a great time, Margaret. I hear that Adolphe has planned an eleven-course menu just for us and it is filled with decadence. Pierre also told me that he has even arranged for Adolphe to come have a drink with us at the end of the meal.”

  “It sounds lovely, Jackie,” Margaret said, using the nickname the vicomtesse insisted her friends and family called her.

  Looking around the room, Margaret noted that there was a diverse crowd with them, including a few actors and actresses from the nearby legendary Salle Le Peletier, two famous artists, a novelist, and several aristocrats.

  Pierre arrived and helped Margaret into her seat while saying, “Are you ready to have your taste buds tantalized, Margaret?”

  “You indulge us extravagantly, Pierre.”

  “I would not have it any other way.” Pierre took his seat across from Margaret while Jackie sat down next to her. Immediately, her friend was engaged in conversation by one of the actors sitting on Jacquelyn’s other side.

  Margaret watched as their glasses were filled with white Bordeaux wine, and the first hors d’oeuvre course was served in union. She began to eat the canapes a l’amiral when a well-dressed man sat in the other seat next to her.

  He addressed the table in a leisurely manner, “Pardon my interruption, ladies and gentlemen. I was unable to… detangle myself from a previous engagement.”

  Several of the other guests began to laugh, knowing he must have just returned from a dalliance with someone. A couple of the women at the table whispered while demurely eyeing the stranger.

  Curiously, Margaret glanced over at him. Who was he that he could cause such a flurry of interest? He was striking in an unusual way with his curly black hair, which he left natural and hung just down past the nape of his neck. He had pale green eyes and expressive, bold eyebrows. As she watched him, he began to smile and she realized that was what drew all the women to him. He had dimples on both cheeks that made his smile irresistible.

  Leaning over to Jackie, Margaret whispered, “Who is the man sitting next to me?”

  Jackie grinned knowingly. “That is Eduard Voclain, one of the most gossiped about artists in all of Paris. His reputation is quite provocative, as it is rumored that, if he paints a woman, she must pay him first in ways other than money.”

  The soup course arrived and Margaret silently said a prayer over her food, then mechanically started eating as she thought about Jackie’s words. What would it be like to be painted by a man like that? The only portrait she had ever done was when she lived in England and her father had commissioned one in honor of her fourteenth birthday. The painter had been an old crotchety man who snapped at her constantly, making her nervous the entire time. She suspected Eduard Voclain would make her nervous as well, but for an entirely different reason.

  “You do not seem to be enjoying your soup.”

  Margaret looked over at Eduard and replied, “Whatever gave you that impr
ession?”

  “You are not smiling, and that is a shame because I am betting you have a remarkable smile. What would it take for me to put a smile on that stunning face of yours?”

  Oh goodness, he was a smooth one. She reddened at the blatant flirting.

  “How charming. You are so fresh you can still blush. I wonder where else I could make you blush.”

  He was right. Even though it had been going on since she started circulating in French society, she still had not gotten used to all the ceaseless innuendos.

  “Do you talk in such a way to all women to whom you have not even been properly introduced?”

  He winked at her. “I do not have to know your name to know I want to get to know you. But if it makes you feel more comfortable to know my name, I am Eduard Voclain.”

  She retorted indignantly, “I never said I wanted to know your name.”

  He leaned back in his chair and whistled lightly. “My, my, you are a fiery one. I am liking you more and more all the time, Miss….” He waited for her to fill in the blank.

  Reluctantly, she replied in a chiding tone, “Lady Margaret, Countess of Renwick.”

  In a slightly mocking but amusing way, Eduard asked, “I was wondering, Lady Margaret, Countess of Renwick, would you be interested in letting me paint your portrait sometime?”

  Margaret had to admit that he was rather formidable when he was determined to get what he wanted. She had thought that by her curt replies, he would realize she was not interested in a dalliance. Yet she had to admit to herself that he was amusing her. Would it hurt if she continued to let him flirt? What’s more, if she flirted back?

  “What exactly would me letting you paint me entail, Monsieur Voclain?”

  “Please, call me Eduard.” He leaned in towards her, whispering in her ear so only she could hear, his breath brushing across her cheek suggestively. “You would come over to my studio and I would pour you a glass of wine. You would make yourself comfortable, anywhere you like, and I would begin to ever so slowly make long, deliberate strokes, ending with”—Margaret squeezed her lips together and clenched her hands in her lap. Her heart beat wildly in her chest as she imagined what he described. He finished with a flippant tone—“a picture of you on canvas, of course.”