The Perilous Journey of the Not-So-Innocuous Girl

by Statham, Leigh

  “And you’ve loved every minute being the center of attention. Don’t try to fool me. I know you.”

  “It’s not like that. You should see them, Claude. They are horrible!” Marguerite didn’t enjoy defending herself.

  “Who? The old ladies lined up to evaluate your education and upbringing?”

  “No, the men. The pawing young ones and the lusty old ones. It’s disgusting. You’d think I was a prize pig at the harvest fair.” She waved her arms dramatically and huffed at her friend.

  “You’ve not set a foot inside a fair in your life. You are the princess in the palace annoyed at her blessings.”

  This was too much. Marguerite felt tired from dancing and frustrated with Claude. Why couldn’t he see her side?

  “You make me sound horrid,” she whimpered. “And I have too set foot in a fair. I followed you and the other smithies to the bazaar a few years ago.”

  “Marguerite! Your father would have killed us all if he’d thought we took you there.”

  Claude scolding her like a big brother was not helping her mood. She decided to get the conversation back on track.

  “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  Claude took a deep breath. “Yes, I leave tomorrow. Why else would I sit out here on this cold slab of stone waiting for hours to say goodbye?”

  “No!” Marguerite couldn’t help herself. She did something she hadn’t done since they were children. Leaning with her whole self, she laid her head on his chest and let all her hopes and fears and stress slide onto him through her tears. He wrapped his heavy arms around her and she returned the gesture.

  She sobbed for what seemed like an eternity while he held her in the dark, patient as ever, strong and tall and capable of holding all the emotions that she could not. Eventually Marguerite took a deep breath, savoring the smell of the estate on his rough clothes; grease, animals, and sweat filled her nose, bringing back all the comfort of home and best friend.

  This was her type.

  How could she have ever thought of anyone else? Claude was her companion. He was the one she wanted to be with for the rest of her life. Now that she tried, she couldn’t imagine life without him.

  She leaned back and peered into the dark for his face, hoping to see the same kind of revelation filling his features. When all she could make out was the glint of the stars on the bridge of his nose, she quietly whispered: “Why can’t it be you?”

  “What’s that?” He was just as soft spoken.

  “Why can’t I choose you? Why can’t you be the next Lord Vadnay?” Her heart raced at the thought of Claude in her father’s chair, Claude holding their children and teaching them to build, Claude walking hand in hand with her across their home as an equal, not just a smithy.

  “Because, my friend, it’s not allowed.”

  “Of course it hasn’t been in the past.” Her thoughts raced faster than an aership. “But things are different today. Things are changing! My father is an open-minded man and he loves you, Claude.” She hesitated for a moment, then, “And I love you too.”

  Claude was silent. Her heart felt like it would burst. She tried and tried to see his face, one glimpse of his face would tell her what she wanted to know, but it was too dark.

  “Marguerite.” His voice was serious now. “You know I love you, and you know that it doesn’t matter.”

  “But — ” She started to argue. He cut her off.

  “You do not love me in the way that you should love your future husband. You love me because I am safe and dependable. You love me because I’m always here when you need something. You love me because I break the rules for you and I follow you wherever you want to go.”

  “No, Claude. Listen—”

  He cut her off again. “No, you listen. I love you, but you are so far above me, in intellect and status and manners. You would never be happy living the kind of life I would give you—and I can guarantee it would not be a life on this estate with your father’s blessing. He is a good man, and has been like a father to me, but that does not mean that I get to marry his only daughter. You do not understand the ways of men, especially rich men with pretty daughters.”

  This final statement squashed her heart without mercy. That hope she was searching for wouldn’t be found in his face in broad daylight, much less in a dark garden on the eve of his escape. And he was escaping, she could see that now. He was beholden to her and her father and their way of life. He was beholden to Mother France, but she’d given him a way out and he was jumping on it.

  Her arms slumped to her sides and she let her forehead rest on his chest. “So you leave at dawn, then.” It was a statement for herself, an adjustment of expectations and reality once again.

  “Yes.” He was not unkind. He was never unkind. He did love her.

  “But, Marguerite, I want you to promise me one thing.” She took a deep breath, steeling herself for another blow. “If there is no one that you want to marry, if you find no one, tonight or any other night, promise me that you won’t.”

  “Won’t what?” Her head was still down, she was only half listening to his words.

  “That you won’t marry.”

  She looked up again. The moon slid from behind the manor house. Its crescent sliver poured out just enough light for her to discern his features now. His eyes were shining, not with pity or embarrassment at her declarations of love, but with hope.

  “Do not marry anyone you don’t love.”

  Hope rang in his voice, a hope for the future, their future. Marguerite was sure of it. She drew in a deep breath filled with that hope.

  “I promise.” She said it with as much sincerity as she could muster. In fact, it was probably the most sincere thing she’d ever said in all of her overindulged life.

  “Good.” The moment had passed, he was back to business. “Now get back to your party before someone notices you’re gone and they call out the hounds.”

  “And you will go to your commanding officer and learn to shoot and march and live with foul-mouthed men eating even more foul food.”

  “Please don’t remind me of the food. Giving up the goodies here is a small price to pay for my own piece of the world.” He laughed at his own joke.

  “I will write to you, you know. They have post in New France. Wireless telegraphs even, or so I’ve heard,” she offered.

  “Not anything reliable, but I would appreciate news from home whenever I can get it.” He seemed suddenly despondent.

  “Be careful,” she added. “Don’t let anything happen to you out there. Don’t follow any fool commander off a cliff.”

  “You too. Don’t go traipsing through the woods without me to protect you. Take Outil at the very least. And the cricket, do you still have it?”

  She reached into her secret pocket and pulled it out. “Right here.”

  “Ahh! My little magician!” He was genuinely surprised. “I don’t think I told you, but that could be my finest work to date. Keep it safe would you? I haven’t made another and I didn’t write up the plans. I will need it back one day.”

  “You did tell me, and of course I will!” She marveled that he might think she didn’t treasure something so finely constructed by his hands.

  “The Chinese believe that crickets are good luck. You might need a bit of luck to go with your money and beauty in the future.”

  Beauty. He thought she was beautiful. He’d never said that before. Marguerite felt as light as a feather.

  “Claude”—she was treading on very dangerous ground now—“would you do me one last favor?”

  “Of course. Anything.”

  “Would you kiss me?”

  If she thought her heart had raced its fastest when fueled by anger she was sorely mistaken. The pace of the poor organ could scarcely be slower than that of a hummingbird's in this moment. She held her breath immediately after uttering the request and almost closed her eyes except she couldn’t resist watc
hing for his reaction.

  Claude stiffened a bit, seeming to consider her motives, but then leaned forward slowly, his hand reaching up to find her face in the shadows. Her cheek brushed against his and she could smell his breath, warm and spiced, before his lips ever touched hers. They were dry and rough and large, just as she thought they would be. Pins and needles danced all over her body and an ache grew in her belly that was almost unbearable. It was slow and agonizing and awkward, but the moment it was over she wished it would never stop.

  She wanted to pull him back to her, but he quickly wrapped his arms around her tiny frame, smothering her in his musky shirt, and whispered, “Goodbye, Marguerite,” before turning away and cutting through the hedgerow to sneak back to his quarters.

  Chapter Five

  “Lady Vadnay!”

  It was Delacourte. Marguerite was just stepping into the light before the main entrance from the garden when he launched at her from the opposite side of the fountain.

  “They told me you’d come outside to get some air. I can’t say that I blame you. It is quite stuffy inside. Our family’s main estate is fitted with the latest in circulatory technology. We have automated fans in each room facilitating a constant stream of warm or cool air.”

  “Yes, yes. I’m sure it’s lovely,” Marguerite cut him off before she had to hear another word about his large family fans. She smiled prettily at him and kept moving toward the ballroom.

  Delacourte followed. “I believe you owe me another dance.”

  “I believe I do.”

  Marguerite stepped through from the gardens accompanied by Delacourte, a healthy glow to her skin and a twinkle in her eye. Her father was one of the first to spot her entrance and she could tell immediately that he was alarmed by the sight at first, then reassured the night had been a success.

  She let his assumptions go and spent the rest of the evening dancing with the suitors she found the least repulsive. She successfully avoided Laviolette, although he was not pursuing her as hotly as she first assumed. She made sure to give a large, luscious smile to Pomphart, whom she spied scowling from a dark corner at one point. And as the night came to a close, she couldn’t help but overhear the gossip of the crowd.

  In the end, everyone in attendance agreed that Delacourte had won the night. How could he not have? His clothes and manners were impeccable, he always knew what to say to make the old ladies twitter, and he looked like he was made to twirl the delicate little Marguerite around like a jewelry box duo.

  The guests convened on the roof to bid farewell to those traveling home by aership. Several small ships with deeply polished wooden passenger decks hovered over the rooftop garden. Their large, helium-filled canvasses were securely strapped to the decks like dirigibles of old. The only difference was a modern, steam-powered engine expertly built into the hull that propelled it silently in any direction the captain steered.

  Delacourte, determined to leave the night with the upper hand, made a grand show of bidding farewell to his quarry. Marguerite was too tired to discourage or embarrass him further. She thought nothing of offering her hand when he stooped low to kiss it. The heat lingering on her lips far out-burned this formal assault on her hand. She waved him away merrily and turned to look out over the estate in its midnight splendor, leaving those less affluent guests to proceed to the front hall to collect their carriages and steam motors with only her father’s adieu.

  The tiny homes and buildings dotting their land sparkled in the moonlight; drops of condensation from the steam pipes clung to the rooftops like diamonds. She picked out Claude’s home easily enough. It was the closest to the smithy shop, smaller than the rest, but perfect for himself and another smithy. There was a small candle warming the front window. Claude must have left it there for his roommate to find his way after the ball. She wondered who would take Claude’s bunk once he was gone.

  Her heart ached in its newfound depths. They had wasted so much time! All those lazy days hiding in the glen and running through the fields, they could have been planning all along. Who knew how much more time would pass before she would see him and be able to plan with him again. She looked away from the little hut, unable to process it all with her tired mind.

  She noticed a solitary figure walking leisurely through the night on the road to town. She could just make out his suit jacket slung over his shoulder, a merry bounce in his gait. Who could that be? she wondered. No guest of any sort of social standing would walk home from my party. None of the servants has business in town this time of night. She watched with great interest as the figure passed under the last of the gas lamps before leaving the official bounds of her family’s property. She quite liked the way he sauntered and skipped as if he hadn’t a care in the world on this dark, damp night. He twirled magnificently just as he passed under the light, causing Marguerite to recoil in disgust at her own appreciations: Captain Laviolette.

  She groaned out loud at herself. She knew it didn’t make sense, but somehow she felt he’d gotten the upper hand again. She pushed the thoughts of him quickly from her mind. With luck, she’d never have to see him again.

  She turned to descend the stairs just as she heard Madame Pomphart calling from below, “Marguerite! It is far too late for a lady to be spying from the rooftops! Come to bed this instant!”

  Chapter Six

  The next morning, Marguerite’s human lady’s maid knocked timidly on the door before entering with her tray of brunch items. Marguerite rolled to one side and peered at the girl through crusty eyes.

  “What are you doing in here?” Her favorite clock, the only one set to chime, came to life just then, striking its tiny, tinkling bell twelve times.

  “Your father sent me to wake you, mademoiselle. Please forgive me.”

  The apologetic manner of the maid pushed Marguerite into a deeper mood of resentment. “What does he want? I played all his little games last night. He can at least afford me a day in bed.”

  “I believe you have received several letters of inquiry this morning, ma’am. I think he’s excited to talk them over with you.”

  “He’s excited to plan my entire life for me.” She muttered this last sentence from under the pillow she was using to block the light from the window her maid had just drawn open.

  “GET UP.” Pomphart had descended.

  Marguerite groaned and pulled the pillow down harder, pretending she had never heard. Madame Pomphart jerked the pillow away from her head unceremoniously. “Get up this instant and show some respect for your father’s wishes.”

  If she didn’t know for a fact that Pomphart had no heart, Marguerite could have sworn she was in love with her father. She spoke as if he were the King himself.

  Marguerite sat up grudgingly and motioned for her maid to bring the breakfast tray to her bed.

  “No, you haven’t time for that.” Pomphart held up her hand blocking the maid.

  “And how am I to keep my wits about me if I’m half-starved and fatigued from all the buffoons who stomped my feet half the night?”

  Madame Pomphart raised her hand and brought it down hard across Marguerite’s face.

  “Ah!” she cried out in pain and surprise. The maid jumped, spilling tea all over the biscuits.

  “I’ve had enough of you, young lady. You will remember your place and you will fill it with dignity and grace just as your mother did and all the ladies of this manor before her.”

  Marguerite took her hand from her stinging face, drew in a deep, controlled breath before sliding her feet out from under the covers and pushing herself to stand in front of Pomphart.

  “You are relieved.” She looked steadily into the older woman’s eyes.

  Pomphart gazed back without flinching; she was calling the younger girl’s bluff. “Your father has instructed me to—and I quote—‘Help my daughter realize her potential and her blessings. Help me tame her and make her a good match for a suitable mate.’ That is exactly what I intend to do
, by any means necessary.”

  Rarely had Marguerite ever felt so much hatred for anyone. Annoyance, yes, dislike, often, but hatred was a strong emotion she wasn’t often bothered with. She turned to her maid and took the tray from the poor girl’s trembling hands. She tried to keep her voice even as she whispered, “You are no longer needed.” The maid, obviously relieved, scurried out of the room and down the passageway, her feet landing heavily on the richly carpeted halls.

  Marguerite turned back to face Pomphart and expertly balanced her tray with one hand while daintily lifting a piece of tea-soaked biscuit to her lips. Dribbles of brown liquid ran down her arm and fell from her face to her dressing gown. Pinky extended, she took a huge bite and then wiped the excess off her lips with the back of her hand.

  Through a mouthful of soggy breakfast she mumbled a surprisingly audible, “Good luck to you then!” and smiled sweetly at her tormentor as bits of biscuit fell from her lips and littered the floor.

  Pomphart moved quickly, knocking the tray from her hand and grabbing a fistful of Marguerite’s untamed morning hair. Breakfast dishes flew all over the floor and Marguerite wailed as Pomphart dragged her to the dressing table, shoving her down in the chair.

  “You will learn. You will behave like a lady, and you will agree to marry this month. Only then will you be free of me and I of you. Do you understand?”

  At the word “marry” Marguerite’s heart did a flip—Claude! She had thought briefly before she fell asleep of sneaking out to the docks to see him off, but had most certainly missed him by now. It was so late in the day! The pain in her face and head were nothing compared to the pit in her stomach.

  Pomphart pulled and twisted Marguerite’s hair into a knot at the back of her head in the traditional style of a woman who had come of age. Marguerite’s eyes seemed a bit slanted, her hair was drawn so tightly, and her head ached even more. Pomphart then took three strides to the wardrobe and pulled out a drab, everyday dress. “You will put this on and be in the dining room in ten minutes or I will finish what you’ve started here.”