by Karen Ranney
But Mademoiselle Danielle had disappeared just like a succession of governesses, none of whom could adhere to her father’s severe requirements that she be educated like a Jesuit while being as charming as a courtesan. The jeweler summoned by her governess had likewise been banished by her father, the glasses Jeanne needed to see properly to be taken out only when there were no visitors to their home and no chance of anyone seeing her wearing them.
Heaven forbid that the daughter of the Comte du Marchand have any flaws.
Donning her nightgown, she removed her glasses once more and washed her face and hands. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she prepared for sleep. Her ritual was one she’d begun at the Convent of Sacré-Coeur. There, the nuns had expected obedience, some outward manifestation of her inner faith. They could not know, of course, that she had none left. But she’d pretended, just in case curious eyes were looking at her through the grille set in the middle of the thick oak door. Now she folded her hands in front of her, her lips resting at her fingertips. Then she breathed her prayer in an inaudible whisper.
Please, let me die tonight. Let my heart cease beating, and my breath still. Please, do not let me see the dawn.
Tonight, however, the imploration did not come as quickly or as easily as a day ago.
She knew that there would come a time when she would be called upon to face the consequences of her actions. There would be no mercy for her, no explanation that she could possibly make, nothing that she could say that would expiate her guilt. But she’d not expected that day to be this one or the judgment to be from the one man she’d always loved.
If she were a more courageous woman, she’d march down the stairs at this moment and ask permission to address Douglas in private. She would tell him of those months when she waited for him and he never came, and how cowardly she became. She would confess, more completely than she ever had to a single soul, how much she regretted what happened next.
Not even God could ever truly forgive her. But it might be a relief to have it over, to simply say the words to Douglas.
I am guilty of murder.
Chapter 3
D ouglas took leave from his host with less haste than he desired but probably more than was polite. The longer he listened to Hartley, the more aggravating the other man became, and when Hartley’s comments returned to Jeanne, Douglas found himself growing even more annoyed. By the end of the night he was envisioning planting his fist squarely into Hartley’s nose.
He dismissed his carriage, choosing instead to walk home on this damp and foggy night. He needed time to think, but before he turned the corner, Douglas glanced back at Hartley’s home. A prosperous three-story brick structure, it appeared inviting with its lighted windows glowing yellow against the night.
His gaze lifted to the third floor. She was there, readying herself for bed, no doubt. Or sitting at her charge’s bedside. Were those the duties of a governess? Or did she relinquish the care of the child to a nurse and dismissed all thought of him until morning? He realized his knowledge of governesses was paltry.
When he’d thought of Jeanne, it was either with irritation or sadness—irritation that Fate had taken her far from his punishment, and sadness that he’d been such a fool in the first place.
Now, however, he felt only hatred, an emotion so strong that it energized him. He wanted to retrace his path to Hartley’s door, demand entrance, and push his way past the manservant. He would make his way up three flights of stairs to her room. She would stand in front of him as she had earlier, attired in her modest blue dress, her head bowed, her gaze on the floor. A different creature, in so many ways, from the girl he’d known.
His imagination so wanted the encounter with her that he could feel his breath grow tight at the thought of seeing her again.
Deliberately, he pushed away the memories of those earlier days. He would not recall that afternoon in the conservatory when her laughter had been a backdrop to the rainy day. Or that morning when she had lain upon a knoll with her hair spread out over the grass. He’d leaned over her with a daffodil held in his hand, tickling her chin. She’d responded by granting him a kiss for every brush of the flower’s petals.
Those recollections were of a different woman, a different place. He was not the same person he had been in Paris. And Jeanne? How could he have loved someone so deeply and yet been so blind to her character?
The mist on his face was almost suffocating, the air felt so thick that he could barely breathe.
The idea of a confrontation was foolish. Besides, perhaps she wouldn’t sleep alone in her third-floor room after all. Douglas wouldn’t be unduly surprised if she’d already consented to be Hartley’s mistress. She’d proven to be a survivor, perhaps she was also an opportunist.
The rear lanterns on his carriage glowed yellow, a nimbus of light for him to follow in the fine mist. His hair was damp, his coat sparkled with a thousand tiny droplets, yet he still stood there staring at the third-floor light. In Paris he’d done the same, watching the great house of the Comte du Marchand, waiting for dawn and Jeanne. When her signal came, he would meet her at the garden gate.
Now, determinedly, he turned and walked away.
The city matched his mood tonight, everything shuttered and silent. Lantern light would periodically pierce the darkness, but nothing could lighten the gloom for long. Edinburgh sometimes possessed a brooding quality, hunched beneath a dark, cloud-filled sky. Above all, there was the hint of history, as if these hills and narrow cobbled streets had been witness to countless human acts, some kind and compassionate, others malevolent and predatory. Edinburgh’s past was replete with a history of plotting and planning. Men had died, monarchs had fallen, and fortunes had been lost or won as a result.
At night, sound carried so well that Douglas could almost imagine the slide of a dirk from its sheath or whispers in the darkness from a hundred furtive meetings, a thousand promises. There were rumors that there was a city beneath the city, whole streets where people lived out their lives in darkness and relative safety. The poor of Edinburgh were periodically rounded up and shunted to another section of the city, and some had, it was said, taken refuge in these places far from sunlight and free from taxes.
In less than fifteen minutes he was on Queen’s Place. His red brick home was adorned with a white door and black shutters. Tall windows lined the first and second floors, only two of them now lit by candlelight. The third floor was embellished with half-moon windows that looked like drooping eyelids. On the roof were eight chimneys, one of them still sending tendrils of white smoke into the dark and cloud-filled night sky.
Douglas noted with some satisfaction that his home was much larger than Hartley’s.
The were wealthier and more influential than they had ever been. And happier? A question his brother Alisdair had asked him not that many weeks ago. Douglas had responded with a nod, introspection making him impatient. He disliked searching the contents of his soul. There were too many dark corners there to make him entirely comfortable with the task.
He waved to his coachman standing beside the curb and Stephens nodded. A moment later, the carriage was turning the corner and heading for the stables.
As he reached for the door handle, it opened in front of him. His majordomo, attired in his severe black, smiled at him and then stood aside, holding the door ajar.
“Good evening, sir.”
“I thought I told you that you needn’t wait up for me.”
Lassiter merely smiled and closed the door behind Douglas, moving with the lithe grace of a man half his age.
“It’s a horrible night outside, sir,” he said. “I almost think myself home in London.”
“At least it’s easier to understand the English,” Douglas offered. He spoke French and German and a smattering of Chinese, but occasionally the Scots dialect was more than even he could handle. Unlike his older brothers, he’d never learned Gaelic, and there were times when he felt the lack.
“Did you have
an enjoyable evening, sir?”
“I had an interesting one, Lassiter. The past came back to haunt me. And you?” he asked, smiling a little. He doubted he would receive an answer. His majordomo refused any attempt at democratization of their relative positions. Lassiter would not bend from what he thought his place. Tonight, however, he surprised Douglas by replying.
“I began reading this evening after you left, sir. A most elevating book of verse. May I compliment you on your library?”
“Most of the credit goes to my brother James,” Douglas said.
“Then if you will convey my thanks as well to him, sir. I must commend him on his most eclectic taste.”
He nodded, allowing Lassiter to help him off with his coat.
A spiraling mahogany staircase dominated the foyer of his home. It shot up to the second floor, then divided and wrapped around itself before reaching the third.
The first floor was comprised of the public rooms: his library, the parlor, a more intimate morning room, a large dining room that he used for entertaining, a comfortably appointed kitchen that was well ventilated to prevent the smells of cooking from reaching his guests, and various other chambers he rarely used. The bedroom suites as well as two guest rooms occupied most of the second floor. The third floor was given over to seven chambers for the servants, while above the stable were more quarters for the coachman and grooms.
A bigger home than he needed, possibly, but he’d planned for a larger family one day. Time, however, was passing, and he was no closer to making that nebulous thought a reality than he had been ten years earlier.
Douglas walked into his library, Lassiter following. In a matter of moments, the older man had the fire lit. Lassiter had many talents, all of them honed in service.
“Can I get you a glass of port, sir?” Lassiter asked.
Douglas glanced over at the sideboard and the five crystal decanters with their distinctive silver tops etched with the MacRae crest. His possessions revealed that he was a prosperous man. He was steward of the MacRae fortune in Edinburgh but his personal share of it made him wealthy enough that he’d never have to worry about an income. In addition to this Edinburgh home, he owned a small farm in the country, three ships, and a share in a racing stable. A fortune not yet equal to that of the du Marchands, but he was still young.
Lassiter evidently took his silence for assent, because he poured him a glass and returned to his side. Douglas took it with a smile.
“Go back to bed, Lassiter. I don’t need coddling.”
His majordomo studied him with a look that indicated he doubted Douglas’s words.
“I can do very well on my own.”
“But you don’t have to, sir,” Lassiter said. The man was English but had the obstinacy of a Scot. An instant later, obviously recognizing that he’d lost this particular battle, the old man bowed. “If you’re certain, sir.”
“I am.”
Douglas took a sip of the port, watched as Lassiter left the room. A moment later he left as well, loosening his cravat as he walked into his library. Putting his glass down on the surface of the desk, he fumbled with the tinderbox, lighting a candle. The flickering light was not enough illumination to read, but he had entered the room only for contemplation.
He returned to the doorway, shutting the door behind him, hearing it close with a satisfying click, a sound as reassuring as a lock. He didn’t employ many servants, but those who worked for him knew that his need for privacy was absolute. He was unquestionably the master in his own home.
Until this moment.
The memory of Jeanne floated into the room behind him, an incorporeal spirit that studied him with solemn gray eyes.
“What do you wish of me?”
He smiled at his own whimsy. She would never stand before him so docilely. Her eyes would flash fire, and she’d demand to know why he’d summoned her. But then, ten years stretched between their last meeting and tonight. She’d been a wealthy nobleman’s daughter the last time he’d seen her. Now she was a governess and the child standing beside her had possessed more animation.
Drawing open the drapes, he stared out at Edinburgh. The city was never truly quiet, but had a rhythm for both day and night. In the area in which he lived, carriages were encouraged not to travel after a certain hour, and straw was laid down on the road to muffle the sound of their wheels. Wealth brought comfort, including a good night’s sleep.
The du Marchand wealth was legendary. What had happened in the intervening years? A story repeated a thousand times, no doubt. The last few years in France had been difficult for aristocrats.
He braced his hands on either side of the window, feeling the stiffness in his shoulders. Anger still coursed through his body. He looked into the night is if his eyes could see past the houses and the large church on the corner directly into her window.
Jeanne. Without a lot of prodding his thoughts could transport themselves back all those years ago to Paris. He’d been seventeen years old, a boy who’d fallen so desperately in love that food, sleep, even air was unnecessary to him. All he needed was the sight of Jeanne. Yet even his love hadn’t been enough, had it?
He remembered the moment he’d come to tell her that his parents had arrived from Nova Scotia. He’d wanted her to meet them, prior to his asking the Comte for her hand in marriage.
Instead of Jeanne, he’d been greeted by a tall, slender woman with dark red hair. Justine.
“She isn’t here,” Justine said, her patrician good looks almost haughty in the dusk light.
“What do you mean, she isn’t here? She has to be.”
“Arrogant young whelp, aren’t you?” Justine smiled at him through the iron grille of the gate. It was not a warm smile, and the amusement it revealed was no doubt at his expense.
“Where is she, Justine?” He’d held his breath for her reply, anxious in a way that he couldn’t quite define.
“She won’t see you,” she said, her answer clipped and disinterested.
“Didn’t she leave word?”
She’d only shaken her head.
“No note, no message?”
Justine only laughed. “And what message might that be, young sir? That she has nothing but love for you? That the future looks bright? You know such things are not for the two of you.”
“Because I’m not French?” He’d been studying at the Sorbonne for two years, long enough that his command of the language had increased as well as his understanding of the French antipathy for anything foreign. The residents of Paris simply felt that they were superior to the rest of the world. “My family is from Nova Scotia,” he’d offered, but Justine had only laughed.
“I don’t care where your family is from, you stupid boy. You’re not an equal in rank to Jeanne du Marchand. Not now, not ever.”
He’d plunged his hands into his pockets and came up with several coins, which he thrust in Justine’s direction.
“Tell me where she’s gone,” he said, but his demands were only met with that enigmatic smile and Justine’s cool look.
“It’s not worth my life to tell you, young sir. Nor does she wish to see you.”
“I’d prefer to hear that from her.”
“You don’t believe me?” She’d given him an amused look, one that made him decidedly uncomfortable. As if she knew a secret that he should have known.
“The Comte can have you taken away,” she said. “And no one will ever see you again. Do you wish that?”
“I want to see Jeanne. I’ll stay here until she comes out.”
How stubborn he’d been and how idiotically intoxicated with love.
“She isn’t even here,” Justine said finally. “She’s left Paris altogether.”
He had a leaden feeling in his stomach, and the almost pitying look on her face told him she might be telling the truth.
“Where has she gone?” He’d asked the question slowly, as if to prepare himself for the answer.
Justine looked back at the house an
d then at him as if weighing her words. Finally, she spoke again. “I’ve been told to tell you that she’s been sent home to Vallans. She’s with child, and in disgrace.”
Shock had stripped him of any words.
“She’ll not see you again, young sir. The Comte du Marchand will see to that. Besides, she doesn’t want anything to do with you. You’ve caused her nothing but pain.”
Justine turned away from the iron gate, picked up her skirts, and began to walk back to the house.
“Is there nothing you can do?” he’d called out.
Justine turned and smiled at him again, a genuinely amused expression that should have warned him as to her next words. “She’ll never return to Paris, young sir. After the child comes, she’ll have a new life.”
He’d stood in the rain for three hours, staring through the iron grille to the window where Jeanne used to signal to him. The curtains were drawn and there was no movement. No smiling face, no wave of a hand. Nothing. He slowly began to believe that she had truly left Paris—and him.
Only when the afternoon turned to night did he move away.
Now Douglas moved to his chair, sat heavily, and propped a boot on the corner of his desk. His mind wasn’t occupied with the stack of papers he’d brought from his office. He would look over the agreement to purchase land in London in the morning. Memory still held him in its grasp.
She was a governess now, attired in clothing her servants wouldn’t have worn a decade ago. It wasn’t enough that she’d only looked at him once and then stared intently at the floor. He wanted her to suffer. Not for anything she’d done to him, but for a greater sin.
Hartley’s lascivious intent might ruin his plans. She’s a fine morsel. The words rankled, as did the lecherous tone in which they were uttered. Damn Hartley.
