Slowly he rose and turned back toward the door, but Isobel stepped into his path. “Please, Papa, he ...”
“I have spoken.”
“I would have thought that a de Montargis would admire devotion to one’s honor and duty, no matter what the cause.” A firm voice spoke quietly from behind Isobel. “If I, who fought against him and countless other gallant souls today, can honor a brother officer, surely you might find it in your heart at least to acknowledge your son.”
The duc looked at the battle-weary officer in front of him, whose face was black with powder, his brow crusted with blood, one epaulet missing, and the shoulder of his jacket ripped where a spent ball had glanced off it. There was a light in his eyes, a ring of conviction in his voice, and an air of pride that commanded instant respect.
“We shall see. We shall see,” the duc murmured vaguely before making his way back to his own bedchamber.
“Thank you, thank you.” Isobel lifted one of Christian’s hands to her cheek. “You have done more for us than we deserved today. Now you must let us feed you and then you can rest.”
“I thank you, but I need rest more than I need food, rest, and the chance to say I love you.” He bent to kiss her one more time before leaving for his quarters in the rue Montagne du Parc, where, fully clothed, he fell into bed and the deep, dreamless sleep of exhaustion.
Chapter 35
It was the better part of a day before Christian could make it back to the rue du Musee, and when he did, it was to discover Isobel sitting with her brother as he ate his luncheon.
“Never did I think to taste Marthe’s good cooking again, and I owe it all to you, my lord, not to mention that paltry item, my life.” He greeted Christian.
“Think nothing of it. I am always glad to help a brother in arms, especially one who is the brother of the woman who saved my life.”
“Oh?” Auguste turned to his sister and raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“He is exaggerating, Auguste. I have done nothing for him except sing.”
“Nothing except sing like an angel, an angel who brought beauty and ideals back into my life when I had begun to doubt that such things still existed. Your sister gave me something to believe in again.”
“That is rare praise indeed, my lord.”
“And your sister is a very rare and talented creature.”
“That she is. She tells me that some of that she owes to you, for without your introduction to Signor Bartoli she would never have improved as much as she claims to have improved, and which she plans to demonstrate as soon as I am able to hobble to the drawing room.”
“It was little enough to repay her for the beauty she brought into the life of a battle-weary soldier.”
“Ah, yes, I know that feeling. But tell me, she says you were at Vitoria. I too was there, though naturally, I have a slightly different view of things than you do.”
The two men launched into a discussion of various campaigns throughout Spain and Portugal and Isobel, seeing they were no longer even aware of her presence, crept silently from the room.
Under Marthe’s expert care, Auguste improved daily, and soon he was able to hobble into the drawing room as promised. It was there one morning that he came upon the duc at his writing. Before his father could think about escaping, Auguste settled himself into the chair and stared at the duc, willing him to look up, until his father could stand it no longer and was forced to look him straight in the eye. “Papa, if you had not taught me that my honor was my most prized possession, and that my duty was to defend my country with my honor, I would not be limping before you as I am today. If France is to remain strong after this terrible war, it must grow and change. It needs both of us. It needs our family, the de Montargis, father and son, upon whom it can depend. Please let me be your son again. Let us restore our lands together, for France.”
The duc was so silent he resembled the marble bust of his grandfather that had graced the entrance hall of the de Montargis chateau. At last he held out one hand to Auguste, who lifted it gently to his lips. “Mon fils.” was all he said.
Standing in the doorway, Isobel gulped down a sob of joy and ran to share the good news with Marthe.
The next day when he came to call, Christian found all of the de Montargis in the drawing room as Auguste sketched out the battle from his perspective while Isobel played quietly on the pianoforte. “You cannot imagine the bravery, the heroism on every side, Papa. It truly was one of the most momentous battles in history.”
“But the Prussians, how were they able to march from Wavre?”
The two were so involved in their discussion that it was Isobel who first noticed their visitor. She rose and hurried joyfully to greet him.
Auguste, already curious about the tinge of pink that warmed his sister’s cheeks every time the Duke of Wellington’s aide-de-camp was mentioned, was now able, as he interrupted the speaking look that passed between them, to confirm his suspicions. His petite soeur was in love. In fact, he had never suffered under the illusion that Christian had saved him merely out of the desire to do a brother officer a good turn. It was because Auguste happened to be the brother of a particular sister that he owed this man his life. “My lord, I hope you will forgive me for not rising to greet my savior, but...”
“I forgive you anything when I see you doing so well. The question is are you well enough to drive in the park. I have prevailed upon an acquaintance of mine to lend me a barouche and I had hoped to convince you, your sister, and Monsieur le Duc, if he so desires, to take in some fresh air.”
“How delightful.” Isobel jumped up. “I shall just go fetch my pelisse.
“I thank you, monsieur, but my daughter is not in the habit of accompanying young men on such outings.” The duc spoke mildly enough, but his posture and his expression clearly registered his disapproval.
“Papa! We owe Auguste’s life to this man, besides which he is perfectly unexceptionable.”
“Unexceptionable is not enough. My daughter, sir, is a well brought-up lady of France, and as such, she owes it to her reputation to be seen only with men of her station.”
“Papa, please. This is absurd. Lord Christian is of my station, only he is English. How can you say that we can only associate with the French? After all, Marie Antoinette was not French. Besides, he is not asking for my hand in marriage, merely for a ride in the park.”
“No, actually”—a secret smile hovered at the corners of Christian’s mouth—”I am asking for your hand in marriage.”
“You are? Oh, Christian!” Completely forgetting her father, who looked on in horror, Isobel held out her hands.
Christian took them in his strong clasp. “So you see, sir, you are right to fear that I have designs on your daughter’s future, I do. But they are honorable designs; I mean to make her the happiest woman on earth.”
“Non, absolument, non.”
“Now Papa.” Auguste laid a calming hand on the duc’s sleeve. “Isobel has told me what an honorable gentleman this Lord Christian is and he is related to half the noble families in England. He owns several valuable properties in his own right, besides which, he loves her and she loves him. Having talked with Isobel a good deal myself in the past few days, I would say he is a most admirable fellow.”
The duc rose majestically from his chair. “My son and my daughter vouch for your noble lineage and your gentlemanly conduct, monsieur, and I thank you for all you have done for the de Montargis, but a marriage between my daughter and you is out of the question. I have made arrangements for her to marry someone of her own kind.”
“Papa, you know that is not true, for you had not decided between the Comte de Pontarlier or the Chevalier d’Entremont, and besides, Lord Christian is my own kind.” Seeing that there was no sign of weakening on her father’s part, Isobel played her trump card. “If you do not let me marry Lord Christian, I shall return to Paris to become an actrice d’opéra.”
“What? You will do no such thing! Bah, I do not worr
y. It takes training and extraordinary talent. After performing for a few friends you think you have the skill to perform at the opera, bah.”
“I might. Signor Spontini has offered me a position at le Theatre Italien any time I wish, and Signor Bartoli said he could make me greater than Catalani. I can support myself in greater style than we lived in London. You will see ...”
“And you would let her do that?” The duc appealed to Lord Christian.
“Not if I were her husband.”
“But...” Isobel opened her mouth to protest, only to be silenced by a meaningful squeeze of her hand.
One glance at his daughter’s stubborn face and the duc knew he was beaten. She had a will of her own. Her grandmother Chalet-Gonthier had never given in, and he could see she would not either.
“Eh bien, at least I have my son to marry a French woman. Come, Auguste.” And with that parting shot, the duc held out his arm to his son and the two of them slowly made their way from the room.
Isobel turned to Christian. “But you might let me sing at least once in a concert with Catalani, mightn’t you?”
Christian pulled her into his arms. “I might if I ever stopped kissing you long enough for you to sing at all.” His lips came down on hers and Isobel forgot about everything, but the love he had brought her.
Copyright © 1999 by Evelyn Richardson
Originally published by Signet (0451198581)
Electronically published in 2009 by Belgrave House/Regency
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
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