A gaggle of young peasant women in stained linens glance at me and hurry past as if I am a worrisome figure. I would not disagree. I most likely look it, my hair roughed and clothing wrinkled. Women often fear men, especially in alleys or after dark. But I wonder if they fear me for my mixture of race. I give one of them a small smile as she looks back at me with bulbous curiosity, and she snaps back to whisper to her friends.
“All right,” I utter to myself.
I should be on my way. I know the address, know the street the man has deposited me on. I begin my walk, working my legs out from the cramping they’d done in the cart. It seems colder here, the clouds a persistent gloom overhead. I walk past Patisseries and shacks, theatres and communal gardens. It’s been near an hour before I reach my father’s flat, and the clouds grow darker, dusk closing in on the day.
I approach the door and knock.
Alphonse’s face appears in the doorway as he opens it. A smug expression always seems to be taking up his features. Maybe that is just the way his face is? He stands there, unflinching, unmoving.
“Move aside?” I say, attempting to prompt him.
“Benjamin?” My father pushes Alphonse aside. “What are you doing here, boy?”
He allows me entrance, and I breathe in the dusty smells of the flat. It is appropriately furnished with lacquered tables and ornate mirrors. Things you’d expect of a flat in Paris. Though, it seems strange to me seeing my father in this scene. He’s so often home, in our humble dwelling with none of these fancy things. Another man appears in the foyer, saying nothing, and watches us from curious narrowed eyes. I think I’ve seen him before. I must have.
“I’ve news.” I clear my throat. “From Monsieur Bonteque. He expressed urgency in his letter. That is why I’m here.”
“Urgent is he?” Father chuckles. “We are glad you’re here. Come, sit with me. Tell me, what has the infamous Ferdinand Bonteque so excited.”
We go to settle ourselves in the salon. I ignore Alphonse’s grating side-eye sneering and the imperious gaze of the unknown man. I don’t care what they have to say. It only matters to me that now, I have a chance to return to her. This chance will be all I get, and father will understand this.
“Africa,” I state, and chuckle as I blow out a breath. “He has a sudden liking for what it could offer. Imagine that.”
“So he should,” father agrees, a wily smirk curling his mouth.
There is an exchange between him and this man, a half-second connection of their eyes, but I see it. I don’t know why this man would care, but it seems that my father has wanted to seek his reaction. This annoys me. I want nothing to do with whatever they’ve going on here. Selling their treasure maps or creating an underbelly business. I couldn’t care less. I sigh and raise my hands.
“Well?” I ask, vexation rippling on my tone.
“We should secure it for him,” Father agrees. “Though the Africa’s are a dangerous place…and this could be a complicated arrangement. Maps such as these do not replicate themselves in one day…”
A smile comes to me.
“What does he want there?” the unknown man speaks thoughtfully. “Slaves?”
I swear I have seen him somewhere before.
“If that’s what he wants access to then I won’t do it,” I retort.
“Slavery is a sensitive subject to my Benjamin,” Father warns the man crisply, as if I am a wild vagrant who doesn’t understand the ways of the world.
“Yes, and it always will be. If you were born there you’d be a slave too,” I say, pointing this accusation at the man. “What a lucky thing you just so happened to come into this world with that color of skin.”
He raises his brows and nods, as if he knows I have made my point.
“But you were not born there,” the man retorts. “I was not born there. Why not take advantage of what the world gives you? Many men do so simply because it is the easiest route. You cannot blame a man for doing what he must to make a living in his life.”
I stare at him, confused. I glance to my father and Alphonse. Both seem to know that this enrages me, their bodies tense as they hold their breath.
“I’ll assume then that you have no sense of right or wrong. I hope that when you are in a position where someone’s “normal” puts you into suffering and degradation that you’ll be as understanding. Perhaps, you should offer yourself up to the slavers. Get a taste of that life.”
The man’s brows raise, and he smiles, as if assenting.
“Let’s go. We should make this happen. Now,” I move back to reason I came.
Alphonse glares at me cockily, “Do you not have any thought for the business of others? Father has things to attend to.”
“It is no matter,” Father gives us a mirthful, languorous gaze. “This is far more important.”
Alphonse rolls his eyes as if I am the most perturbing this he’s ever experienced.
In the gloom of this Parisian flat with the aroma of dried flowers and bodily fluids, the dusty oaky world around us has grown silent. Night is falling. I think about the world of the night uncloaking itself, the prostitutes and vampiric men coming out to play. I look to the man who has spoken on behalf of the men who allow slavery. I can see him as one of them now. I hate these men. These bastards that do anything to get what they want without a thought for the rest of the earth. They’ve always struck a chord in me, in that part of me that innately knows the difference between what is moral and ethical and what is not. Sometimes, I wonder why the rest of the world doesn’t understand it in the same way.
“We’ll all go together,” Father declares.
Alphonse balks, and I can only bite back laughter. He will not argue with father. I feel better now, urgency building in my limbs. I cannot wait to see her. Still, the dream clashes with my thoughts, and I shut my eyes for a moment. God, get ahold of yourself, I think. It was nothing. I’ll tell myself that forever if I have to.
Giselle
The past three days have slowly lost their torture as I come to terms with it all. When he reigns over my thoughts, I begin to work evermore studiously. If that does not do the trick, I retreat to the confines of the ballroom where I can practice ballet.
If ballet, which has always soothed me, does not invigorate my mind enough, I play the piano ferociously fast and sing in Spanish at the top of my lungs. Claire joins me in some instances, all to completely aggravate mother. Immersing myself in these things helps to a degree, but when I am alone in my bed, it is difficult not to be overwhelmed. I will be strong as the diamonds from Africa, no longer fragile when it comes to hardships.
Claire mentions over our evening meal that father is sending the famed Monsieur Francis Beauchard to rewrite his ledgers and charts in proper scripting as well as handle other dealings. I feel in my heart that Claire has written to father, perhaps under sleight of hand, insinuating that she is fond of him. I cannot help the annoyance from flashing across my face, wishing that it was Benjamin that he had sent for rather than the deceitful bastard Beauchard. It is not odd that men should come and go from our home as father sends them back and forth to process certain parts of his trade, but the renowned Beauchard heir would be something that France speaks of in their gossip.
It is lucky for her that mother has gone about making social calls all over France. Mother has left before she can defend the home from Francis Beauchard.
Mornings are the same, cripplingly gray with a crisp breeze from the North. I cannot dare to hope for more, especially for Benjamin.
It is early morning when I notice a stately carriage trundling up the pathway, jostling over the stones. The horses jerk forth, frothing at their bits. It is not one of our carriages, nor was it Beauchard’s as he’d arrived at the midnight hour. The curiosity sends a glacial rush through my limbs, almost as if I am being strangled by my adrenaline.
I toss my night robe aside and shimmy into a russet gown embellished modestly with lanes of gold lace, the one my maid had set out for me the night be
fore. Piecing it together is a struggle enough without the corset. I comb my hands through my tangled hair, unable to separate the mess of it. Piling it high atop my head in no general shape, I secure it with a ribbon and careen out of my chambers.
“Claire!” I shout down the hall.
Our steward is already contending for the doors. As they split wide it allows a spearing of light to fault through. I reach the top of the staircase overlooking a scene most unimaginable. I am clinging to the railing when I see him.
There he is, like some fine detail out of a long-forgotten dream. Skin as gold as ever in comparison to the ones he stands beside. His hair is tamed down in a low tress as is affable for a gentleman. Dark brows are pulled upwards on his neatly featured face.
I watch as Monsieur Beauchard greets Benjamin, Alphonse, and an aging man who I presume to be their father, a man whose name floats to the surface of my mind as Alexandre.
Benjamin seems all but interested in the nuances of Monsieur Beauchard’s welcome, and his eyes lift towards the staircase. I lose my breath when he finds my gaze, and I grip the railing even harder, unable to make a sound movement or thought. He smiles at me, purely amused. What is it that has him so entertained?
“Will you be coming down from there Mademoiselle Bonteque?” Benjamin calls up to me, his words polite yet flirtatious.
I find myself stammering, unable to formulate coherent words. I had not thought I would see him again. My heart hammers in my chest, and there is heat in my cheeks. How did he do it? How did he arrange it?
The rest of the men pause in observance of what is happening. I see Monsieur Alexandre Chardones cast his son a snort. His brother Alphonse and Monsieur Francis exchange a look that suggests that they are impressed with his boldness. I am awkward in this moment, under so much scrutiny. If it were not for Benjamin’s lingering gaze upon my face, I’d be enveloped in humiliation. But, his eyes are so free of inhibitions that I cannot help but beam back at him.
“Hello Monsieur Benjamin. I was not aware that we would be receiving guests this day.” I set off down the stairs and when I reach the bottom I force a curtsy. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
Monsieur Francis has a tight lip, as if I am quite the nuisance, and interjects before the rest of them are able.
“They are here for business, Mademoiselle Giselle.”
“Ah.”
More than anything, I want to ignore Monsieur Francis and his explanations. I want to focus myself solely upon Benjamin, but there is no way for me to do that without looking as if I have cast all propriety out the window.
“I believe you have yet to meet Monsieur Alexandre Chardones,” Monsieur Francis continues. “And you have met his sons, I take it? Alphonse and Benjamin Chardones?”
“Yes.” I affirm. “At the ball hosted for Claire’s return. It is a pleasure to meet you Monsieur Chardones.”
I have yet to regard Monsieur Alexandre. I have been so enraptured by Benjamin. My heart still stutters beneath the cage of my ribs, lungs seeming to be altogether too tightly compressed now, as if there is no room for them to expand naturally. When I do force my eyes to address Benjamin’s father, my brain feels a far cry heavier. What was it I felt when looking upon him? Shame? I can feel the heat in my cheeks.
“Ah. Benjamin has spoken of nothing of you for the past fortnight. The pleasure is mine.” The man is curt, stiff collared in his detailed waistcoat buttoned at the cusp of his chin. What once may have been a neatly angular jaw now sports the comfort of a few extra meals and a bristly unkempt swoosh of beard. His eyes are small but bright, with half-moon bags of reddish color beneath them telling of exhaustion.
The men begin to speak, and Benjamin pulls me aside as smoothly as he can without warranting attention. He assesses me plainly, as if there are no boundaries between us.
“Benjamin,” I say, laughter near in my throat. “How?”
“I found a way, didn’t I?”
“You certainly did.” I am impressed.
He wets his lips, drawing in my image. We stare at one another as if it cannot be, as if the sun and the moon had arrived at precisely the same time in the sky. It is austerely brilliant.
“Forgive the Madame Bonteque, she is currently out on social calls in Lyon.” I overhear Francis mention my mother. “Her daughters are more than capable of planning us a meal. And since the way back to the city is a long one, I must insist that we prepare you all rooms for the night. That way we will not be forced to rush our arrangements.”
My stomach is waylaid by an icy slosh.
“Forgive me, am I under the impression that you will be staying?” the question steals from my mouth.
They regard me sternly, as if I am not worth their time. As if I should have known this information already. Monsieur Francis has spoken of nothing involving the Chardones men and their presence in our home.
“Er, yes,” Monsieur Francis lends me a pitying smile. “Your father is asking for charting down the West Coast of Africa. He is stuck at port in Morocco. We must to reach an accord on the matter so that his voyage can continue, and seeing as these things can take time and detail, they will be making their lodgings here. Forgive my absentmindedness, Mam’selle. I assumed your sister would have made it known to you.”
“Africa? He said he was headed for Italy,” I muse, and shake away the thought. “No, she…”
“Ah, the revered Chardones trio!” Claire has arrived at the top of the grand staircase, impossibly elegant in a cornflower blue brocade, curls governing the salience of her features. A slash of bewilderment crowds my delight at Benjamin’s arrival. Had she known that they would be arriving this morn? I am certain that she would have told me, as she was fully aware of my partiality for Benjamin.
I notice Monsieur Francis’s smug adoration in the way his lips twist. It makes my flesh crawl the way he observes her, as if she is a strip of meat that later he will consume.
“I have been anticipating your arrival.” She comes to stand beside me and smiles kindly.
“As have we, Mam’selle Claire.” Alphonse strides forth and takes her hand in his, kissing it lightly. “My brother’s arranging with your father has kept us quite busy and looking forward to returning to your home. Even if it is under rather dire circumstances.”
“My.” Alexandre Chardones creeps nearer. “You are even lovelier in person. It’s a pleasure.”
Monsieur Francis clears his throat of the delicacies of introduction. “Now, I suppose we shall get straight to business. If that is custom for you, Monsieur? I would not want the Bonteque Trading Company held up any longer than it already has been.”
“Ah,” the man grumbles. “Of course, we would be fools to waste any more time.”
“Claire,” Francis addresses my sister flagrantly, lacking formal regard. This tenses the rest of the men as much as me. “Would you instruct the housekeeper that we will require a fine dinner this evening and to prepare our visitors chambers?”
Claire’s eyes widen, affronted by his demands. What can she say? Her only option is to accept his delegation with dutiful courtesy. Perhaps she feels that with mother gone, he is now in charge.
“I shall.” She shakes herself, pushing back. “I will also order the maids to serve tea at noon in gardens.”
“It shall provide the perfect break between business dealings.” Alphonse nods appreciatively.
“We’ll talk more at noon,” Benjamin utters for my ears alone.
The men begin their promenade down the arching hallways to my father’s study hall, and I am left to watch his retreating form.
He glances back at me with that charm, so generous on his face, so promising and brimming with a secret entertainment of which only he is aware. Something draws me to him like a leaf to a pond. I could cling to him forever, watch that mischievous, nonchalant glance as if it would transmit a deluge of wisdom to me for every hour, every minute, every second to come.
When they are gone, I realize that it is Claire and I
that remain there alone.
I turn, and she is already facing me, crimping me with her saucy take on things.
“Well?” she asks.
“Well what?” I am aghast.
“Your Benjamin is here, is he not?” she hisses, enjoying the aroma of my shock. “I thought you might be happier now.”
“Yes, and I heard that you knew they would be arriving. How could you not tell me, Claire?”
“Father had mentioned it in his last letter, though I don’t know why.” She sighs, taking my arm in hers and dragging me down the hallway towards the breakfast parlor. “I wanted it to be a surprise. Though, I wish you’d choose someone else.”
I halt our footsteps, her words echoing off the achingly wide halls. “What?”
“You know what I mean. I don’t like Benjamin, you don’t like Francis,” she adds.
“I only worry about his reputation,” I remind her smoothly. “He may not be best for you.”
“And you think I had not yet thought of it?” She tips her nose in the air. “I am no fool. It isn’t that I have no other options. Take Alphonse, for example. Or any damn medium status son. I practically have them eating out of my palms, but do you see the truth of it? I want Francis. He is all that I want, Giselle. All that I shall ever want, and I need you to understand that.”
I give her a sour smile and shake my head. I feel that she is foolish, but then, perhaps I am right there with her.
I experience this same weakness when I think of Benjamin. I want to drag my thoughts over his very existence, to decrypt the disarray of my mind like some illuminated sophist. Am I as sick as her in my conquests? Is infatuation as simple as some misjudgment of reality? A syndrome or malady that compresses its host body of all logical reasoning?
“Let us take our breakfast on the lawn today,” she says.
Claire
“I could not stop thinking of you,” Francis tells me.
It is what they have always told me. Men and boys alike. I like to keep an even distance from them all. But not now. Everything within me is smitten and smoldering for him. His dewy eyes chase me, watching me like a cat watches its prey. I blush under his gaze.
The Blood of Caged Birds (Mortalsong Book 1) Page 6
