Le Chevalier
Page 31
Her stomach flipped as the scenery passed, and she closed her eyes to quiet it.
After a full day of traveling, they had spent the night in a roadside inn where the proprietor and his wife had tripped over themselves to serve their guests as soon as they spotted the crest on the carriage. Alex had listened to them chatter away in French as they brought out dish after dish laden with thick sauces. Pools of oil rose to the surface and glistened in the candle light, making Alex long for a simple bowl of stew.
She ate little of their supper and only nibbled at the warm bread and cheese served for breakfast.
“Are you still feeling ill?” Honoré’s voice, warm with concern, brought her back to the present.
She smiled at him. “I suppose I just haven’t gotten rid of my sea-sickness yet.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Cherie, you were fine for the first month of our journey. Besides sea-sickness does not often last more than a couple of days, and you have had it for two months now.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, closing her eyes.
“You’ll be fine,” his voice rumbled in her ear, “as soon as you have our baby.”
She smiled when he kissed her cheek. Could he be right? Could she actually be carrying his child at this very moment? She laid a hand on her flat belly, hoping her confident husband was correct as usual.
The outside temperature sat just below freezing, and even in the enclosed carriage, their breath hung in misty puffs. Alex snuggled closer to her husband, laying her head against his chest, so she could listen to the beat of his heart. Anchored to his steady strength, her stomach settled a little, and she gave a delicate yawn.
Honoré reached down and pulled the blanket covering their laps up over her shoulders. She squeezed her arms about him. He always seemed to know when she had grown tired, perhaps because she tired so easily during their journey.
“We have a house in town too,” he explained, as the carriage turned down a lonely country lane, “but my family prefers to spend the Christmas season at our country estate away from all the bustle of the city.”
Alex didn’t mind missing Paris. As the carriage rumbled over the frozen ground, she gazed out the window on Honoré’s side of the carriage, admiring the beauty of the French countryside. The day before, there had been a bit of a melt, and icicles hung like moss from bare branches. Although it had grown colder, the sun shone, and the world glistened in a prismatic display of color. A light dusting of snow covered everything like sugar.
“We will be arriving soon,” Honoré said, peering out the window.
Alex sat up with a start. Thoughts of meeting his parents made her stomach roil almost as much as the sea had.
During their voyage, Honoré had mentioned marriages in his circles were often arranged, and they were lucky to have been able to choose for love. He had cajoled the ship’s captain into marrying them in a service where her only attendants had been a couple of cabin boys, and their witnesses, a crew of privateers who looked as though they’d rather be slashing their way through the British than listening to the captain drone on about “this blessed day.”
She didn’t care if their church had a mast instead of a steeple, a fo’c’sle instead of an alter, and piles of rope instead of pews. Her greatest concerns were saved for his family.
He may consider them fortunate to marry for love, but would his parents feel the same way?
She tugged off her cap, undid her chignon, and ran her fingers through her knotted hair. Having no maid aboard ship or at the inn, she had been forced to wear her hair in a simple style she could manage by herself. Honoré had tried to help but had proven inept at hairdressing.
However, he had the foresight to have a dressmaker visit her before they departed Philadelphia. By the time they boarded the ship, several trunks of fashionable clothing waited for her. She felt awkward in her low cut gown of canary yellow satin, but at least she wouldn’t be meeting his mother in a tattered homespun dress.
Her mind raced as she worked her fingers through the knots in her hair. Not only did Alex have no claim to a family fortune or name, she was more English than French; although she had to go back a full three generations of Turners before she could claim an ancestor living in England. Honoré had laughed and told her that hardly made her English.
To make matters worse, her French was deplorable. Even though he had tried to teach her during their lengthy sea voyage, she could barely string together a sentence. When she said his family name, she sounded as though she had marbles in her mouth.
With his usual calm, he had assured her his family had promised to speak English until she became more proficient at French.
The wheels hit a bump even the well-sprung carriage couldn’t compensate for, and Alex groaned. Honoré rubbed her back as she leaned forward, fighting to calm her stomach and vowing not to disgrace herself by soiling her dress or the fine velvet cushions. If she could just make it another hour or so, the sickness usually passed before noon.
At last, the carriage turned onto a lane even less used than the one from Le Havre. As the wheels bumped and rattled, Alex pulled aside the velvet curtains covering the window behind them and watched two well-worn wheel ruts slide away from the carriage as they passed.
“Are we almost there?” she asked, trying to keep the dread from her voice as she twisted her hair into a knot and stabbed pins into it.
Mont Trignon squeezed her shoulder. “A few more minutes, mon amour. We are on my father’s land, but we still have a ways to travel to reach the house.”
“Ah,” Alex said, thinking about how she could walk from the lane to the front door of her childhood home in less than ten steps. What had she gotten herself into?
The next several minutes passed in relative silence, but the creaking of the wheels carrying Alex toward her mother and father-in-law, echoed throughout the interior of the carriage. Only the pounding of her pulse in her ears rose above it.
She turned to give her husband a smile meant to reassure him she looked forward to meeting his family, but only managed a tight-lipped grin. The look of concern on his face when his gaze landed on her grimace made her vow she would not smile at him again until the worst of the ordeal ended.
Behind her husband’s concerned face, Alex caught her first glimpse of his family’s estate, a large rectangular structure dominating a hillside.
Her stomach heaved, and she swallowed hard. When Honoré had used the word “house” and “estates” she had pictured a nice country house surrounded by fields and horses. The carriage had turned toward the structure, so she could no longer see it through the window, but she had a distinct memory of marble statues, a multi-tiered stone structure that must have been a fountain, and evergreen bushes manicured to form shapes and patterns.
The carriage slowed as it pulled onto crushed gravel then ground to a halt. Her stomach churning, Alex pretended to be interested in the bushes on her side of the carriage. A bench, glistening with icicles, sat along a path intersecting a maze of hedges. She imagined how peaceful it would be to sit in such a quiet, secluded spot. Perhaps she wouldn’t be missed if she went there now.
“Alexandra?” Honoré had climbed down from the carriage and waited with his hand outstretched to help her alight.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I was just so entranced by the beauty of the grounds.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Her leg shook as she placed her foot onto the carriage steps. When her boots were on firm ground, she dropped her husband’s hand, but he reclaimed it and tucked it into his arm.
She welcomed his support as the sheer enormity of the house looming in front of her made her head spin.
The structure had only two stories, but the windows on each floor must have been twelve feet high. An ornate wrought iron grillwork covered the lower third of each window, giving the house a feminine, frilly appearance. The slight pink hue of the stone enhanced the image.
Alex squinted up at miniature cherubs spaced at intervals alon
g the edge of the ornate trim lining the top of the house.
Overall, his home reminded her of a pastry, albeit a large one.
Her husband’s gaze landed on her, and she snapped her lips shut. She had been gawking.
“I think I should mention we French have a tendency toward the flamboyant,” he whispered in her ear.
She stifled a giggle with a gloved hand, lest the servants scurrying from the house to line up and greet them think he had married a simpleton. Nevertheless, she relaxed at his side, ready to face almost anything, including her in-laws.
He strolled, arm-in-arm with her past the servants, greeting each one in turn. Her only real exposure to servants had been Mrs. Montgomery’s dour-faced Butler and Nell. The servants on her husband’s family estate were far more like the latter, smiling at him with genuine affection.
Of course, he spoke to them in French, but when he said her name, they gave her the same warm smiles. She vowed she would work harder at learning French to show her gratitude.
When the introductions were over, he led her up a winding granite staircase to a large oak door. Alex clung to his arm as her legs shook.
“Relax,” he said, as they reached the top step. “They will love you just as I do.”
The door flew open before either of them had a chance to say more.
“Mon fils!” cried a tall, blonde woman.
Her hair, piled high on top of her head, made her appear almost as tall as Honoré. However, still inside the doorway, she was a step up from him, and she buried his nose in her ample bosom when she pulled him into a hug.
“Good to see you again, Maman,” he said, his voice muffled.
Alex bit her lip to keep from laughing. French mothers were obviously much like their American counterparts, reluctant to let their sons fully grow up.
The woman placed two strong, bejeweled hands on Honoré’s shoulders and stood him back up so she could examine him with watery, red-rimmed eyes.
“I cannot believe you are really home,” she said in a heavy accent, her tears flowing anew.
“Perhaps we should allow them in, my dear,” said an older man, in English every bit as flawless as Honoré’s. As he pulled the woman out of the doorway, he said with a shrug Alex recognized well, “She has missed you.”
“Maman, Papa, I would like you to meet my wife, Alexandra.”
Alex was about to do her best formal curtsey when her mother-in-law grasped her about the shoulders and buried her face in her warm, lace-covered bosom. She couldn’t have pulled herself free from Honoré’s mother’s gardenia-scented embrace had she tried, so she wrapped her arms about the woman’s midsection and returned the embrace with tears in her eyes.
When his mother let her go, his father grasped her about the shoulders and gave her two sound kisses, one on each cheek.
One of Alex’s tears escaped and trickled down her cheek. With an understanding smile, his mother pulled a clean handkerchief from her bosom and handed it to her.
“Your sisters are waiting for you in the parlor,” his father said, leading the way.
When Alex followed him into the side room, she gasped, her first thought being that she had died, and three blonde angels had come to welcome her to the afterlife. Almost in unison, they stood and glided toward her like a wave of golden perfection. Mont Trignon put his arm about her waist when she started to step back.
The tallest of them took her hand.
“I’m Marguerite,” she said. Her husky voice enveloped Alex as if in an embrace. If she had closed her eyes, Alex was sure she would have heard Marie’s voice. “Our dear brother’s letters have been filled with nothing but you, and I confess we were all a bit worried at first. You sounded so wonderful we thought perhaps he had imagined you.” She smiled at him with affection before turning back to Alex. “We are very much relieved to find you are real.”
Marguerite, she estimated, had to be within a year of her brother’s age, and the mischievous sparkle in her hazel eyes told her they were kindred spirits.
“We are so pleased to have another sister,” added one of the younger girls. Several inches shorter than her older sister, she had lush curves and dimples in her cheeks. Her strawberry blond curls danced when she spoke.
“She is Melanie,” said the last girl, “and, I am Isabelle.”
A shorter, younger version of her eldest sister, Isabelle lacked the directness of Marguerite’s gaze, but her smile was kind.
“Where is she?” the elder Mont Trignon asked.
“I sent her governess for her as soon as I saw Honoré arrive,” his wife replied.
“I understand you own an establishment in America,” Marguerite said. “You must tell me about it sometime. I have been thinking of starting a business in Paris.”
“You will do no such thing,” her mother interrupted. “What would Jean think of that?”
“Jean, Papa?” Honoré asked, eyebrows raised.
Before their father could respond, Melanie broke in. “Oh she will never admit it to any of us, but Marguerite has a new amour,” she said, her curls bobbing.
“One cannot have a new amour, or rather a new love,” Isabelle corrected, with an apologetic glance toward Alex, “if one does not have an old love. And as far as we know, Marguerite has never had any interest in anything except running the world.”
Marguerite rolled her eyes and made a sound as she blew air through her lips. Alex had never heard a woman make such a rude sound, yet do it with such feminine grace.
“I would like to see her try to run Jean,” Melanie said, with a laugh.
“Well, old or new, she has one now,” her mother said, clapping her hands. Then, with a grin befitting a schoolgirl, she added, “And he is something.”
Alex hadn’t thought it possible for a woman as elegant as Marguerite to blush, but her ivory cheeks took on a rosy hue, enhancing her beauty.
“What do you think, Papa?” Honoré asked, smiling at his sister.
“Oh, he approves of the dear man,” his mother interjected, giving her husband a warning look.
“I do,” he said, and then added with a harrumph, “for now.”
“And do you approve, Marguerite?” Honoré asked.
“Well I am not certain he could hold a candle to you, dear brother, but I hope you find him acceptable.”
“If you do, I am sure I shall,” he replied.
The door behind them flew open, and Alex turned to come face-to-face with a woman she knew well. Except Christiana looked fifteen at most, perhaps even younger. The artist had clearly done his best to make her look like a mature woman in the portrait. He had succeeded, but he had failed miserably to capture her real beauty. For although the woman in the portrait was beautiful, Christiana could only be described as angelic, even in a schoolgirl’s dress.
The one element the painter had captured faithfully was her eyes. She looked upon her older brother with the same adoration Alex had seen in the painting, confirming it had been Honoré standing just outside the frame.
Mont Trignon moved from Alex’s side to kiss his little sister on her cheek. “Christiana, I would like for you to meet my wife, Alexandra.”
Tears sparkled in Christiana’s beautiful blue eyes when she turned toward her. The rest of the family returned to the subject of Marguerite’s new love, squabbling half in French and half in English over whether they should be married in the spring or wait until summer. Marguerite protested he had not proposed, but her mother argued, equally adamant, it did not matter.
Christiana ignored her siblings and her parents as she glided over to Alex and drew her into an embrace.
In Alex’s ear, she whispered, “Thank you for bringing our brother back to us, and welcome home.”
A word about the author...
Mary Jean Adams has been writing romance since she was in middle school, a fact her English teachers didn't always appreciate. She also loves history and telling the stories behind the stories of the founding of America. Today, she liv
es in North Dakota with her husband and two children.
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