“The general belief is that her mother was mostly or in part a Nègre. That makes her untouchable from the point of view of all society of quality and also indelibly stains any progeny of hers with equal measure,” Madame Tarnaut pointed out, watching Sérolène closely.
“You would do well to remember that, no matter who or what her father was,” Madame Tarnaut added for emphasis. Sérolène looked away so that her governess would not see the roiling sea of emotion beneath the placid surface of her blue-grey eyes.
“But what has all of this to do with me, Madame?” Sérolène asked meekly.
“Precisely, my dear; it does not concern you, nor should it ever concern you, as that particular branch of the Montferraud family tree has been pruned from all decent society. You are young and impressionable and your aunt merely wishes you to understand the reality of things. Do I make myself clear?” Madame Tarnaut asked firmly. Sérolène nodded, though now she began to feel not only downhearted, but physically upset as well.
Why hasn’t Nicolas responded to my letter? Just one word from him and my heart would be at ease, no matter what anyone else says. It’s been several days now since the Comte de Marbéville promised to deliver it to him. Is it possible that the comte could have forgotten his promise? Or worse yet, that Nicolas could have so easily forgotten me? Sérolène sighed. Could it be that some of the awful things my aunt said about the chevalier and his mother are true? she began to question, shaking herself briefly as if that might purge the seeping poison of doubt from her mind and body. She wanted to get out of the shop, to go back home -- or better yet, to the home of the Marquis de Blaise to see Nicolas for herself so that she might at least confront him and determine once and for all if he loved her in any manner approaching the way she thought she loved him.
“Can we go now, Madame? I’m afraid I’m feeling rather ill. I think perhaps it was something I might have eaten,” Sérolène said, desperate to be out of the confines of the shop.
Madame Tarnaut motioned to Éléonore to follow them as Sérolène began to make her way out into the street on her own; blind and deaf to the attentions of those around her and all else but the troubled musings of her heart. One of the lackeys in attendance upon her party opened a parasol to cover her from the unexpected rain that had begun to fall, following her out into the street as she began to make her way to their waiting coach.
“Stay and wait for my cousine and Madame Tarnaut,” Sérolène ordered, taking the parasol in hand, not wishing for the company of anyone as she ignored the mud and the horse manure that soiled her expensive shoes and the hem of her gown. Oh what does it matter? she sighed pensively, her heart in turmoil.
“Mademoiselle de La Bouhaire, is that you?” a small voice called out to her. Sérolène stopped in the middle of the muddy thoroughfare, now almost deserted due to the weather and the lack of horse and coach traffic. She looked to her left, recognizing the face of nine-year old Charlotte de Rigaud de Vaudreuil, daughter of Louis-Philippe de Rigaud, Marquis de Vaudreuil, who was second in command of the French Navy in the Americas.
“Mademoiselle de Vaudreuil? Why whatever on earth are you doing here?” Sérolène asked, making her way toward the young girl who stood with her own governess near the center of the wide avenue.
“How glad I am that you remember me, Mademoiselle. I had so much fun the last time we saw each other at the Governor’s ball. Is Mademoiselle Éléonore with you as well?” Charlotte asked eagerly, as Éléonore ran out to join Sérolène, leaving Madame Tarnaut inside the shop to settle the bill for her new hat.
“Here she is now. How fortunate we are to encounter you as we were just on our way back to our coach,” Sérolène said, indicating with a nod of her head, the waiting conveyance on the other side of the avenue. Sérolène waited patiently while Charlotte and Éléonore happily renewed their acquaintance in the middle of the deserted thoroughfare, happy for some diversion from her own melancholy thoughts, the rain now beginning to come down in earnest, turning the street into a sticky quagmire.
***
Several blocks further north along the avenue, Nicolas sat astride the dapple-grey mount that was his favorite, his leather cloak pulled tightly against the weather, waiting impatiently for Francis to conclude his affairs with the clerks and lawyers so that they could at last be on their way home. The rain matched the dreariness of his mood, his eyes red from lack of sleep; unable to rid his mind of its preoccupation with the sweet kisses stolen from the lips of the Vicomtesse de La Bouhaire. I must see her again, he said to himself, the weight of his longing increasing with each passing moment. But how can I possibly arrange a meeting? Perhaps Francis can help me, but dare I tell him what has occurred? He might think it too dangerous an affair since she is the cousine of his betrothed and forbid it; then what would I do? I should be completely undone! His agitation was felt by his horse, which pranced and pawed nervously as they waited.
“There you are at last. Is it possible for you to have more notes or papers? Surely not all those are required to marry,” Nicolas said as Francis emerged from the office of the marriage clerk, noting the large bundle of documents his brother’s valet carried under his left arm.
“Ah, that reminds me. I’ve something I forgot to give you. Forgive me, but with all the preoccupations of late it completely slipped my mind,” Francis said, removing the envelope Sérolène had given him from the pocket of his waistcoat and handing it up to Nicolas.
“Who is it from?” Nicolas said, clearly puzzled but hopeful nonetheless. Francis snorted with laughter.
“Come now, Nico, can you not guess? If you cannot, then you should either be taken for a child or pitied for a fool,” Francis laughed. Nicolas frowned at his brother’s teasing, motioning his valet to him.
“Open that parasol so it doesn’t get wet,” Nicolas barked with annoyance. He tore the envelope open with impatience, his eyes racing over the page, going first to the signature and then reading each line with increasing amazement. He finished the letter, folding it carefully and returning it to its envelope, which he placed securely in his waistcoat pocket.
“And?” Francis asked.
Nicolas turned his mount in a quick pirouette, then raised her up on her hind legs, leaning forward into her neck until he was almost completely vertical to the ground. As her front legs descended, he urged her forward in a standing jump, both fore and hind legs kicking out as he did so. It was a signature measure of both his extreme exuberance and the superb qualities of his horsemanship and his mount.
“That good is it?” Francis said with a laugh, knowing that his brother often preferred to express himself through his horse. Nicolas rode up close to Francis, leaning across the saddle so that only his brother could hear him.
“She loves me, Francis! By God she loves me!” he whispered. Francis raised his eyebrows, a multitude of questions poised on his lips.
“Look out, Monseigneur!” Francis’ valet thundered as a runaway four-horse team came careening around the corner, the loaded wagon the team pulled nearly turning over as its wheels lurched and skidded through the mud. Only the alertness of Nicolas’ mount saved him from being clattered into as it pranced out of the path of the oncoming juggernaut.
“I’m going after it!” Nicolas shouted without hesitation, realizing that there were likely to be pedestrians farther down the avenue whom the team might put in danger. Spurring his horse, he galloped off in pursuit.
“Nico! Come back, it’s too dangerous!” Francis shouted, but it was too late, the grey mare was already flying on the wind in an effort to catch the runaway wagon which, despite the muddy conditions, gathered speed as the horses raced headlong, straight down the main avenue.
“Come on, come on!” Nicolas shouted, encouraging his mare forward. It took him just a block to come alongside the rearmost horses of the team, but he needed to grasp the bridle of the lead horse in order to slow it and bring the other horses to heel. He could hear the screams and shouts of passersby as they realiz
ed the danger in their midst, but he paid them no mind, all his attention centered on the rhythm of his mount as he pulled even with the lead horse. Now to grasp the bridle, he thought to himself, before a flash of pale blue and white across the edge of his vision attracted his attention. He looked up briefly and his heart stopped. Standing no more than half a city block directly in the path of the onrushing horses was his beloved, his Sérolène! Even though her back was to him and she held a parasol above her, he somehow knew in his soul that it was she.
“Séro!” he screamed, trying to alert her to the oncoming danger, aware now that there were others with her where she stood. It’s too late to slow them – I’ve got to turn them instead! his mind screamed. He let go of the reins and stood up in the saddle. Then with the invincible audacity of youth, he leapt for all he was worth.
****
The sound of a strangely familiar shout pulled Sérolène’s attention away from her friends, making her suddenly aware of her wider surroundings. She felt the rumbling of the ground beneath her feet and the approach of a relentless thudding churning thing that seemed to grow louder with every second. She turned toward the sound just as her governess emerged from the shop, the piercing wail of Madame Tarnaut’s warning scream freezing the vicomtesse and the others in her party in place, the effect entirely the opposite of what in fact was needed at that particular moment. Sérolène turned, at last aware of the oncoming horses, their mouths flecked with foam, eyes red and wild. For a fleeting second she dreamt she saw Nicolas’ face amongst the surging mass of beasts. Dear God, please don’t make it hurt, she whispered softly, instinctively clasping Éléonore to her in a final protective gesture. Closing her eyes, she waited transfixed with terror, to be trampled to death, her pretty white parasol falling from her hands into the mud at her feet.
Nicolas’ leap had carried him across the back of the lead horse and he clung to the manes of both lead animals to prevent himself being thrown beneath the harnesses and crushed underfoot. Catching the reins of both front horses in each hand, he managed to get a foot on the bracing harness that separated the lead team to steady himself, but his extra weight and exertions on the reins did nothing to halt the pace of the speeding juggernaut. He looked ahead, everything seeming to move in slow motion, the world suddenly quiet and still. He saw Sérolène’s face before him framed in white, so beautiful, like an angel at the gates of heaven beckoning him onward. He felt strangely peaceful, as if his body was already rising upward; perhaps he should succumb to the quiet, just let his grip loosen, and join her in death.
“Breathe me with life!” Sérolène’s words screamed at him and he summoned his last reserves of courage and strength, commanding his burning muscles and the runaway beasts to his will.
“Turn damn you! Turn!” he shouted, jerking violently on both reins with all his strength.
The beasts at last yielded to his commands, veering sharply to the right. The lead right horse caught a hoof in the mud, its foreleg snapping like a twig, taking it down and pulling the other lead horse with it. The rear pair continued on, unable to halt their momentum, surging into the back of the leaders before they too tumbled over, causing the wagon they pulled to veer from its fatal course and fly up in the air, carrying with it horses and everything attached as it hurtled violently end over end before finally coming to rest in a shattered heap against the side of a nearby building. The street was suddenly quiet, the gentle pattering of the rain, the only sound.
Sérolène opened her eyes in utter disbelief at the fact of her own survival. She could still feel the hot breath of the horses on her skin, smell the strong musk of horseflesh in her nostrils, so close had they been to carrying her away. She looked down at Éléonore, then at the ground around her; her parasol, which was no more than a foot or two beside her, lay broken and trampled in the mud. It is a miracle, she thought to herself as light, sound and sensation slowly began to return to her. She felt the hammering of her heart as it beat in her chest, and she turned to look toward Charlotte and her governess who had been similarly untouched by catastrophe. Men began to pour out of nearby buildings, converging en masse on the twisted wreckage of wagon and horses. Madame Tarnaut ran out into the street, clasping Éléonore and Sérolène to her tightly and giving thanks to God for the miraculous deliverance of her charges. As they held on to each other seeking comfort, Sérolène was struck by the curious sight of a beautiful and well-saddled dappled-grey mare walking aimlessly in circles around the perimeter of the disaster, pawing the ground in agitation. She disengaged herself from the arms of her governess, walking slowly toward the nervous horse, recognizing the insignia on the saddle blanket.
“It’s the Montferraud crest,” she said softly, the light rain caressing her face like salt-less tears, her senses full of a deepening sense of dread. His face! Did I only dream it, or was it real? she asked herself, drawn toward the nearby scene of the wreckage, though every fiber of her young being recoiled at the ghastly scene. She put her hands over her ears to try to shut out the screams of the horses that intermingled with the frantic shouts of the men who worked their way between overturned barrels, crates, and boxes; some of whose contents had spilled onto the muddy earth, making for a scene of almost complete chaos. Something pulled her toward the very center of the disaster where several men worked frantically to overturn the wagon itself, its broken wheels making the effort all the more difficult.
“There’s someone trapped underneath!” a man shouted.
“It’s the hero who turned the team away. I saw him leap across and mount the lead horse!” another voice added.
“Mademoiselle de La Bouhaire, are you all right? You must come away from there, it’s no place for a lady,” a familiar voice said from close by. Sérolène turned to stare into the face of the Comte de Marbéville, a feeling of relief coursing through her.
“Oh, Monsieur de Marbéville, how relieved I am to see you! Your horse seems to have gotten itself lost,” she said, pointing toward the grey mare that was now under the control of Francis’ valet.
“I wish that it were mine, Mademoiselle. But that is my brother’s horse. It was he who gave pursuit to the wagon. I pray to God that his courage has not at last gotten the better of him,” Francis said.
Sérolène stared dully at Francis as the sweet taste of relief turned to bitter ashes in her mouth. She took his arm with trepidation, shuffling closer toward the center of the catastrophe as they both watched helplessly while a crowd of men desperately struggled to free a body from the heavy wreckage.
“He’s still alive! Quick, fetch a doctor!”
“Does anyone recognize him? Brave soul! Did you see him leap and mount the runaways?”
“Surely he saved several lives today! Brave hero! What audacity!”
“Please wait here, Mademoiselle,” Francis said, moving forward to take charge, commanding his lackeys to have a suitable stretcher made to carry his brother away and to find a doctor at once.
When he reached Nicolas’ body he gasped in horror; it seemed impossible that he could have survived the force of the accident-- his torso and lower body were covered in blood as was his face, down which a continuous stream of gore ran copiously from a long gaping wound above his forehead. Despite Francis’ warnings, Sérolène had followed along behind him, no one daring to stop her, the finery of her clothes denoting her rank and therefore giving her privilege to move about as she pleased.
She stopped when she saw the motionless body on the ground that had now been freed from the wreckage, finding herself oddly transfixed, recognizing the long muscular legs, the well-built torso that was now twisted at so odd an angle, arms flung wide as if beckoning her into their embrace. There was blood everywhere, so much of it that it seemed impossible that one body could have been the sole source of it all. She willed herself to look at the gore-covered face, her mind finally forced to accept what her heart refused to believe: that it was Nicolas lying there motionless on the ground.
“Oh my poor love!
” she wailed in anguish; words that she would not ever remember uttering, as she fainted dead away.
V. Breath Against Breath
Sérolène opened her eyes slowly, a dull throbbing ache moving in slow rotation about her skull. She sat up in an unfamiliar bed, disoriented by her strange surroundings. Where are my clothes? Where is Madame Tarnaut? How did I get here and where is here? she wondered in alarm, fighting down a rising sense of panic as she came fully awake in the fading daylight. The distant sound of a horse whinnying loosened a fragment of her memory and the terrible accident came flooding back to her all at once, jarring her out of her dazed state.
The accident in the Cap! she remembered, her hand flying to her mouth as she let out a startled cry. The door to her room opened immediately, revealing a woman dressed in a simple but very elegant cream yellow gown. She was so beautiful that Sérolène began to wonder if she were in heaven and the vision before her an angel sent to watch over her.
“Awake at last, my dear vicomtesse? We were so very worried about you. Your cousine and Madame Tarnaut were beside themselves with concern. Does your head trouble you? That was a nasty knock you took when you fainted. Lord knows with what almost happened to you, and what you witnessed, it’s a miracle you have only that as a complaint,” the woman said, her voice full of kindness and warmth as she approached Sérolène’s bedside. Seating herself beside Sérolène on the bed, she began gently stroking Sérolène’s forehead in an effort to soothe and reassure her. Sérolène closed her eyes, feeling the pain begin to subside under the gentle ministrations of her unknown guardian.
Love and Honor Page 8
