by Nancy Gideon
“Nicole, wait. Don’t run from me.”
She risked a glance and saw her father there, his uplifted features stark with despair, his eyes steeped in tragedy. His chin wet with fresh blood.
She gave another incoherent cry and jerked free. Even as she surged forward, his voice followed, so broken, so heavy with pain.
“Nicole . . . please! Let me explain!”
Weeping frantically, she reached the upper hall and darted to the safety of her chambers. She flung the door shut, shot the bolt and leaned back against the sturdy wood, shock rattling through her in fierce teeth-clattering spasms. Then, even before she heard him, she felt his presence on the other side of the door. A whispering chill of something not quite human.
“Nicole, don’t be afraid of me. I won’t hurt you. Let me explain what you saw.”
Her breath caught up in a sob as she watched the knob turn this way and that. And she waited, shaking fitfully, but he made no attempt to force his way in. Not physically, at least.
“Nicole . . . I love you.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered uncontrollably. “My God, what are you?” The question tore from the heart of her confusion.
There was a long beat of silence, then his quiet reply. “Your father.”
“No,” she moaned in denying misery.
“Let me in. Let me explain. Please.”
“No! Stay away! Stay away from me! Demon! Monster! Stay away! You are not my father!”
On the other side of the barring portal, Louis Radman writhed beneath those damning words. And he couldn’t deny them. For that was exactly what he was. Demon. Monster. Worse.
“Louis?”
When he turned toward his wife, she gave a soft cry. She’d never seen such devastation in his gaze.
“What’s happened? Louis, tell me.”
He looked at her through welling eyes and spoke in fractured syllables. “She saw . . . she knows.”
Wordlessly, she took him in her arms, sharing his hurt, absorbing his grief and guilt, wishing there was some way to absolve him of it.
“Bella . . . what are we going to do?”
Arabella held him tightly. The day she’d dreaded had come at last.
“We tell her the truth.”
Chapter Two
DAWN WARMED the corridor with cheerful pastels when Arabella tried the knob once more and found it turned freely.
“Nicole?”
From where she lay curled upon her bed still wrapped in her cloak against a ceaseless chill, Nicole didn’t respond. Over the endless night hours, she’d wept a river of tears. Morning left her raw of throat and drained of feeling. For all purposes, she lay lifeless and staring upon the rich gold damask of her coverlet. She couldn’t summon enough strength to react to her mother’s gentle touch.
“Oh, Nicole, my darling, I’m so sorry you had to discover the truth in such a brutal fashion. Louis wanted to tell you long ago but I begged him not to. I wanted to give you time to know the goodness of the man he is. I was sure if you knew him, you would understand—”
Nicole cut her off with a raspy cry. “How could you let me believe that creature is my father?”
Arabella stroked her tumbled hair and the rigid set of one slender shoulder, heart breaking in her voice. “He is your father.”
“No.” She gave her head a jerky shake of denial. “No. What I saw was no man at all. How dare you pretend otherwise?”
“Nicole, you have only to look in your mirror to know you are his child. You look at the world through his eyes. You were born of our love.”
Those green-gold eyes were now accusing. “Love? How could you love such a—”
“Nicole! I will not allow you to wound him further by saying such awful things.” The steel that had always resided beneath her mother’s soft facade flexed itself and held strong. But Nicole could be just as stubborn.
“By saying what? The truth? When was the last time anyone spoke the truth in this house?”
Arabella’s tone gentled. “Every time we said we loved you.”
Nicole swallowed hard, the movement raking her throat with fire. “What is he?” Despite her mother’s words, she could no longer think of him as her father.
“A good man cursed to live in darkness off the blood of others. A man my father brought back to a normal life long enough for us to wed and conceive you. He is no monster, no demon. How can you say such things of the man who’s loved you all these years? Has he ever harmed you? Has he ever been anything other than a devoted father?”
“I’ve seen what else he is.” She gave a short, half-hysterical laugh. “Oh, how I wish he had been just an unfaithful husband out meeting a lover in the moonlight.”
Arabella drew a shallow breath. “Nicole, what he does, he must do. It does not mean he loves us any less.”
Then why did her voice waver ever so slightly?
“Where is he now?” For the first time ever, fear tinged her voice. As if she thought him a threat.
“He is . . . resting below. As soon as night falls, he will be up to see you. Nicole, I beg you, listen to what he has to say. Give him the chance to make you understand how difficult it has been to live this lie. Will you listen?”
But Nicole wouldn’t answer. She rolled away, her arms hugged tightly about herself in a defensive manner.
“Nicole, please. He loves you. We both love you. You must believe that.”
Everything Nicole once believed had shattered beneath that crescent moon. Everything was a lie.
In a soft, stilted voice, she murmured, “I’d like to rest now, Mother. Please go.”
And she struggled to keep from stiffening as her mother leaned down to embrace her.
After a time, Nicole let the numbness leave her mind, and unwelcomed thoughts began to turn wildly. The man she’d worshiped and adored was an unholy being. Those same lips that had smiled at her childish triumphs and had pressed to her brow each night as he saw her to bed had feasted in vile abandon upon the blood of innocents. Why had she never suspected? Had her love and their efforts to provide a normal facade completely blinded her to the sham of an acceptable family life? Thinking back, she realized she’d never seen him sit down to a dinner with them. Never. He would drop a kiss atop her head as she breakfasted, saying he was on his way out, or he would arrive just as they were finishing their evening meal, vowing he’d just eaten. Just eaten, indeed! From what unnatural wellspring? How could they have hidden such a horror from her? How could they believe she’d accept it now?
And she knew she could never look upon her father the same way again. She could never look upon his face without seeing it contorted in that demonic snarl. Or watch him kiss her mother without seeing that unfortunate female swooning in his arms. Nor could she endure his touch or pretend things could remain unchanged between them.
So why remain in this house of lies, where love once betrayed could not be restored?
It took very little time once she put her mind to it. She took one bag and stuffed it with the things she thought she might need. She had no money of her own but plenty of valuable jewels that could be turned for coin. Those she took as well. And while her mother was below believing her asleep, and while her father lay somewhere in his unnatural slumber, Nicole slipped from the house she could no longer think of as her home and fled toward Grez and freedom.
Away from the demon she’d discovered her father to be. Away from the fear that she was becoming just like him.
THE SLOPE LEADING down to the river Loing was already crowded with eager artists. Nicole wove her way through them. Seeking a familiar face and finding it, she gave a great sigh of relief.
“Camille, are you still leaving for Paris this afternoon?”
“Why good morning, Miss Radouix. Indeed, I am. Daresay y
ou plan to miss me?” The young painter doffed his beret and grinned cheekily.
“Daresay I plan to accompany you.”
He blinked as if he’d misunderstood.
“That is, if you have room. You see, a very old and dear friend of mine who lives in the city has recently taken ill and I must get to her side. My father is abroad and I am unable to obtain safe passage. I know I would be safe within your care. Only please say you’ll take me with you?”
Overwhelmed by her petition, his chivalrous nature stirred by her confidence, what could he say? “Where are your bags?”
“Just what I’m carrying here. I don’t plan to stay. Just long enough to assure myself that she is being cared for. My mother will be joining me at week’s end and she is bringing the bulk of our belongings.” How quickly that desperate fiction came into her mind, just the right words to put a gentleman at ease. This one smiled with a ready gallantry.
“I depart at noon, fair miss. You may await me at the Loing Inn. I shall be there as soon as I capture the right element of lighting.”
She took a moment to admire his canvas. “Your best work,” she praised, generous in her relief. He smiled again and daubed at his palette.
Waiting in the common room of the inn was a restless agony. Any moment she expected her mother or their loyal servant, Takeo, to come bursting in to drag her home. It wasn’t her intention to make a scene if they did. But it wasn’t her intention to return with them, either. Thankfully, her resolve wasn’t tested, for Camille was prompt, arriving to show her the finished landscape, and a fine and pretty piece it was, and to bid her to watch over it while he collected his things and paid for his stay.
Then they were headed north in his poorly sprung carriage. Nicole turned up the collar of her cloak and determinedly refused to look behind her. Her future was ahead in la villle lumière. Paris, the city of her dreams. There, she would lose herself and begin a new life, untouched by the dark circumstances she uncovered.
So she hoped.
NICOLE HAD ALWAYS heard that Paris was the most sophisticated city in the world, a place for good food and drink, of men that intrigued and women that fascinated. Her guide could have told her it was also a city of dissipation, pleasure, luxury, extravagance and ruin. A place for men to lose their fortunes, their honor, their manhood and their faith. But Camille remained silent, because the moment they were in sight of the city, Nicole’s face began to glow with the animation missing since that morning. And because he also thought it was the most delightful city in the world. If Paris was like a woman, it was a teasing coquette, not to blame if her promises were insincere.
From her seat in her friend’s carriage, Nicole felt her level of energy escalate to match the pulse of the city. They wound through a medieval network of streets, culs-de-sac, passages, squares, and boulevards, each leading to another as the whole of Paris spread out before her wondering eyes. The byways swarmed with carriages, sedan chairs and pedestrians. No one walked. They ran to keep up with the vigorous pace. The air was alive with the bellowing of coachmen and the coaxing cries of hundreds of small tradesmen shouting: “Oysters in the shell!”; “Chimneys cleaned from top to bottom!”; “Fine cherries, one sou the pound!”; “Flowers, roses and buds for lasses and lads!” All sounds combined in one noisy cacophony of life, charming Nicole into forgetting her troubles as these new surroundings bombarded her senses.
“Where do I take you, Miss Radouix?”
“What?” Nicole reluctantly tore her gaze from the enchantment of the passing scene, then realized what he meant by his question. Where, indeed? “It’s not far. Just up ahead. Let me try to remember the name of the street. How foolish of me not to have written it down.”
Camille gave her a long look, the beginnings of a frown touching his lips. Nicole could see he was starting to wonder if he’d made a mistake in offering her the ride, wondering if she could be a runaway. The last thing she wanted was for him to suffer a fit of conscience and turn the rig around to pack her back toward Grez.
“Oh, now I remember!” she cried with feigned anticipation. “It’s just around the corner, there!” She pointed to a distant street. Between them and it was a veritable clog of vehicles. She could see him trying to plot some way to cross it when she insisted, “You’ll never get to that side. Set me down here. I should enjoy the walking. It’s such a beautiful day.”
“Well I don’t know . . .”
“You’ve been so helpful. How can I thank you?’ And she stretched up to touch a kiss upon his reddening cheek. That was all it took.
“Now you be careful. This is not Grez. These ruffians will run a lady down if she makes a misstep.”
“I’ll be careful.” Already she was angling to jump down, her meager bag in hand. Camille stopped the carriage and came around to assist her. He looked most uncomfortable about letting her loose within the rushing mob. She knew in his eyes, she appeared fragile, innocent. Too much so for this place. So he adopted a brotherly air.
“Now, mademoiselle, if you should need any assistance, please come to me and ask. I would be most honored to be of help to you.”
She blushed slightly and murmured prettily, “Oh, but you have done so much already.”
“Nonsense. I’ve done nothing. If you should need a . . . friend, I have a small flat in the Quartier Latin. Ask for me there, for I am well known.”
“I do appreciate it. You are most kind.”
But as she glanced impatiently down the walk, she knew she would not be seeing him again.
“You’ve made the journey most enjoyable, Miss Radouix. May I present you with this small token so that you might remember me.” And with a grand flourish, he gave her the painting he’d completed that morning.
“Oh, m’sieur! You mustn’t. It is too much!”
“Please! I insist. Something to recall you to home.”
She took it then, because to protest would be bad form. Something to recall her to home. She glanced at the pastoral scene and felt a sear to the heart. Reminders of home were the last things she desired. But she tucked the painting beneath her arm and shifted her bag to the other while the jaunty artist climbed back aboard and, grinning wide, rejoined the flow of traffic.
Feeling suddenly abandoned amid such strange and unwelcoming surroundings, Nicole took a deep steadying breath. Paris. All of it lay before her. A sense of adventurous freedom overcame her momentary panic. After listening so avidly to tales of the city’s many charms, why was she hesitating? Was this not her dream? To break loose from the shackles of her sheltered country life to see something of the world beyond? Of course it was! How she’d come to be here and why weren’t the issue. She was here! And she would enjoy. She would walk for a while and take in the sights, then she would have plenty of time to decide what to do about money and lodgings. With what her jewelry would bring, she should be able to live comfortably for some months, perhaps longer if frugal. Long enough for her to patch together the fraying fabric of her life.
She strolled along the banks of the Seine. A delightful exercise, taking in the river’s tree-shaded quays and picturesque boats. Her movement was slow, her step a meandering country pace so she wouldn’t miss anything. Where she stood at the Pont des Arts was the very center of historic Paris, with the majestic Louvre, which she recognized from books, on the left, and across the river, the quartier of the poet and artist where Camille was heading. She paused for a moment to drink it all in. To give her arm ease, she set her bag at her feet. And just like that, it was gone.
It took her a moment to understand the significance of a fleeing figure with all her worldly goods in hand.
“Stop! Thief!”
Her cry blended in with the sounds of the city, swallowed up by the carriage drivers’ yells. Clutching the painting to her side, she began to run in pursuit, but the mill of people quickly absorbed the robber. Obvio
usly, he knew exactly where he was going, for he was quickly lost from sight. After running a long block, Nicole slowed, breathing hard and blinking back tears of surprise and despair. Several curious glances touched upon her but no offer of aid came from the indifferent mass pushing to get around her.
All she had was in that bag.
Now what would she do?
LOUIS RADMAN took one look at his wife’s face upon his waking and he knew all was lost.
“She’s gone, Louis.”
“Gone?” he echoed in a neutral tone.
“Her bag, some of her clothes, her jewelry. I’m afraid she’s fled rather than face the truth.”
Arabella stepped back so he could nimbly leap from the silk-lined crate that housed him during his daylight sleep. Within the contoured interior, she had lain beside him to tell him she had conceived a child. The same box had carried him in their flight from London. He’d lain nailed within it on their choppy channel crossing, not so much to keep him inside but to keep the curious out. He kept to it more out of sentiment than comfort, though he claimed it didn’t matter where he lay during his twilight slumber as long as it was safe and out of the sun’s consuming rays. He preferred a bed with his wife beside him, but that time was a world away, a memory treasured but never returned to.
And now, he would have preferred a way to comfort his wife with a word or touch, but knew of none. Their daughter had run from them—or rather from him—in horror. How could she, and indeed, Arabella herself, not blame him?
Arabella followed wordlessly as he climbed up from the underground caverns into the lamplit spaciousness of their home, his mood composed and pensive. The guilt wasn’t gone, but he controlled it. One did not live for three hundred years without learning a certain degree of detachment from that kind of pain. But it was new to his wife. He could feel Arabella’s watchful eyes upon him, could sense her distress and her impatience. He didn’t need to read her thoughts to pick up that message. She was a mother, after all. How else would she react?
