He froze, mind whirling. “They might have thought I was you.” His throat closed up. “Or maybe they hoped to leave Ondine defenseless.”
She whimpered and gripped his arm more tightly. He cupped her cheek, his rough fingers sliding across her silken skin. He almost forgot the danger they were in. Her huge, blue eyes darted around his face. Her mouth was open, panting in fear. He was already starting to step toward her, to claim a kiss for his heroics, to steady his own nerves, when Fourbier cleared his throat.
Jean-Louis stepped back, shocked at what he had almost done, angry at Fourbier for witnessing it and for interrupting.
“Ondine and Charlotte are in the kitchen, Monsieur. Charlotte is dandling the little girl on her knee, playing horses. Ondine does not have any scratches, and only a few bits of glass were on her clothing.”
“We all have to change.” Hélène sounded calmer than she looked.
Mademoiselle Hélène, he reminded himself, taking another step back. Not Hélène.
“We should all get the glass-covered clothing off and shake it out and brush it, to be sure there aren’t any bits working their way through,” said Jean-Louis.
“Madame Pinard has suffered a bad shock. Her maid and our groom are putting her to bed,” said Fourbier.
“Oh! Nonni!” Mademoiselle Hélène turned toward the stairs.
“Change your clothes first, Mademoiselle,” said Jean-Louis, maintaining his fierce expression by force of will as he thought of Mademoiselle Hélène slipping out of her loose bodice. He was probably blushing as much as she was.
A maid led Mademoiselle Hélène up to a room, and another was dispatched to find Ondine and take her up.
“Fourbier, my trunk,” said Jean-Louis.
“And a bag with a few changes, Monsieur.” Fourbier frowned.
“Merde,” said Jean-Louis with a sigh. A few changes? “You guessed I would not be going back?”
“I shall have the coachman bring in the bag, Monsieur. And the small trunk.” Fourbier’s dark eyes glinted slyly.
“I shall need a dispatch rider to take a letter to Condé,” said Jean-Louis. “And another to Fontainebleau and de la Brosse, as my father could be in either place. Does Madame Pinard know any trustworthy messengers?”
“I will ask, Monsieur,” said Fourbier.
Jean-Louis rubbed the spot between his eyebrows where the headache was already threatening.
Fourbier turned back at the other end of the hall. “Where do we go next, Monsieur?”
Jean-Louis sighed deeply. “I don’t know.”
He was fairly sure Fourbier understood him. Fourbier always understood him. He didn’t know where his life would lead him now, much less where they should go to keep Ondine and Hélène safe while they discovered who was trying to kill them.
****
Hélène giggled nervously as she led Ondine up the hall. She had found lice in the girl’s hair along with a few tiny pieces of glass, and washed her hair carefully. Since the colonel announced they would leave at nightfall, they had plenty of time to bathe. She had washed Charlotte too and combed her hair—the lice were much more plentiful on her, the poor thing.
Nonni promised to get a doctor in about her heart once Hélène left. She was sitting up in her bed, watching Hélène bathe Ondine, making suggestions.
Hélène washed her own hair, too.
As they came around the corner into the small dining room, Hélène lifted her glass to her eye. The men looked up one by one and then looked at each other and again at her and Ondine.
Fourbier laughed with delight and leapt to his feet. The coachman and groom rose. Monsieur le Colonel followed last, but Hélène didn’t feel slighted because he was looking at her henna-red hair with his mouth slightly open. He glanced at Ondine, and his gaze caught on her now-flaming hair. He smiled, sending her heart fluttering.
“Come here, ma fille,” he said, holding out a hand to Ondine. She tiptoed to him, balancing her head awkwardly as if red hair were more precarious than she had expected.
The colonel held Ondine’s hands as he turned her side to side. Hélène looked at his face, so serious, and thought she and Nonni might have miscalculated.
Finally, he said, in a soft voice, “I think you’re the most beautiful lady I have ever seen.”
The little girl fluttered her eyelashes. “Don-deen princess.”
The colonel looked up at Hélène and smiled at her. “And I see your Tata Nénène is a beautiful princess, too.”
Hélène blushed until her face ached and she felt tears prickle. “I thought…” She had to stop to clear her throat. She hadn’t been beautiful since her parents died. “I thought we would at least change—Nonni thought it—but we could change our hair. And if you thought it would be—if you don’t object, we would say she is my daughter. And Charlotte. We colored her hair, too.”
She had been looking only at the colonel, but Fourbier turned to stare at his master, eyebrows raised.
The colonel said, “Excellent idea. We have been trying to decide on a place to hide, but this way, we might throw people off the trail and slip away. Fourbier, do we have my old black coat and breeches?”
Fourbier wrinkled his nose in distaste. “I did not think to pack them, Monsieur. I do have your black velvet combinaison, the one with only a hint of lace.”
“Remove the lace,” said the colonel. Fourbier looked ill. “And prepare a plain shirt for under it. We will buy a black gown for Mademoiselle and find something dark for Ondine and another for Charlotte. We can be a Protestant Huguenot family.”
Fourbier’s eyebrows rose, and tension passed between the two men. Fourbier bowed. “I will consult with Jacques about the coach. It is also too decorated for a Huguenot.”
He slipped past Hélène, glancing at her orange hair with a smile. The coachman and the groom bowed respectfully and followed him.
The colonel picked up Ondine and touched her damp hair. Hélène thought of earlier, when he had touched her face.
Maybe he was wishing for more, too, when he brought his hand away from Ondine’s hair and said to Hélène, “Come here, Mademoiselle, s’il vous plaît. I wish to see you together in the light.”
The colonel’s eyes went over her hair and onto her face. She tore her gaze away and dropped her lorgnette to her side to take Ondine.
“Turn around slowly, Mademoiselle,” he said.
She almost shivered at his low, deep voice. Ondine peered over her shoulder, turning in her arms to keep her eyes on her father.
As she turned back to the front, she lifted her lorgnette again. He frowned.
“Do you think it will help?” she asked. “It will take many washings to remove the henna. We should have consulted with you before we did it.”
He shrugged. “I think it might make a difference, yes.” He stared at Ondine and took a deep breath. “You and Ondine look a great deal alike. Especially in profile.”
Hélène stared in surprise.
“I always thought Ondine looked like my sister, Aurore. But as she grows, she looks more like you. Like Amandine.”
Hélène deflated. “I look nothing like Amandine.” She was not pretty at all, not beautiful, not vivacious.
He chuckled. “You do. When I first met you, I thought you were her sister, only with lighter hair.”
She blinked at him through her lorgnette, trying to understand.
“It’s the shape of your face. Your chin, maybe. I’ll ask Fourbier to assess it closely.” He shrugged.
Hélène suddenly didn’t want to look like Amandine. She had wanted to before, because Amandine was the beauty. She looked down at her feet, embarrassed. Ondine struggled to get down, so Hélène put her on the floor and she scampered to the corner where there was a stack of books.
“Maybe this is why no one told you,” said the colonel, suddenly closer to her, “because you are modest, while Amandine was not.”
Hélène closed her eyes. Her aunt and uncle had said many things t
o her and about her: all the ways she could not compare to her cousin. She thought about the terrible things Amandine had said, the many times her friends laughed at her lack of grace, her eyeglass, her height, and her blotchy blushes. She thought of how it was easier to be invisible, but how she would sit at the edge of a room, hoping someone would come speak to her.
Perhaps, like in the army camp, others had looked at her but she hadn’t been able to see them.
She realized the Colonel de Cantière was quite close to her now. She raised her head and eyeglass and met his eyes. His expression was troubled, but he raised his hand and gently touched her cheek again.
Her knees wobbled.
“In spite of all of this,” said the colonel, “all of this danger, I find you very restful, Mademoiselle Hélène. Very…soothing.”
He cupped her cheek in his warm, rough hand, and she wanted to lean into him. She wanted to step closer and put her arms around him; she wanted him to hold her close. She wanted the impossible—that he marry her. She might settle for being his mistress in secret for a short time. She could continue taking care of Ondine, and when the colonel—Jean-Louis—would come to visit…
A thump made her jerk back, blushing terribly. What was Ondine doing?
“Don-deen read,” said the little girl when Hélène approached.
Ondine bent over a heavy book open on the floor. Hélène recognized a dictionary she had given Madame Pinard when she left to marry an elderly widower a few months before Amandine married the colonel. Hélène scolded her for not taking care of such a nice book, then sat on the floor and pulled Ondine onto her lap to read out loud.
Ondine flipped some pages, being careful with the paper, landing on “amour.” Hélène’s heart stuttered. She heard the colonel leave and took her first deep breath in several minutes.
Chapter Five
If everything went well, it would take a week to travel west across the center of France to Jean-Louis’ small estate in Poitou. If everything went well. If the roads weren’t too muddy or too frozen. If they found changes for their horses. If men with muskets didn’t catch up to them. If brigands didn’t waylay them. If they didn’t have to stop every hour to go pipi. Jean-Louis wondered if there wasn’t a way to carry a chamber pot for the child.
Every day, “Don-deen no like long rides” echoed in Jean-Louis’ ears. What was it about another’s boredom that increased one’s own? At least her boredom and constant activity were preferable to the three or four times a day when she began to scream.
Fourbier rode on top with the coachman from time to time, helping keep watch for bandits and other followers. Fourbier had sent out riders from Dijon in all directions, reserving carriage horses over the first fifty miles, hoping to confuse the trail. Fourbier was sneakier than Jean-Louis, who would simply have set off in a straight line. They headed toward Paris after dark the first night, but took a side road toward the west and stopped in a small, dirty inn with a crucifix in every room. The landlord was rude because they looked Protestant.
Fourbier and the coachman would sometimes choose a smaller road around a town instead of the large one through it. Jean-Louis fretted that it would take several extra days to reach Poitou at this rate, especially since they often had to stop as soon as the sun went down because the roads were freezing into slippery ruts.
The hardest part of the journey was sitting across from Mademoiselle Hélène day after day. Well, that and mailing letters to his family. He hated begging for help, though he knew he would take any mockery from his brothers and his sister’s husband if they would keep Ondine safe.
On the second day, Fourbier swung up into the coach and pulled a deck of cards from his pocket to play a game with Charlotte. Ondine wanted to play, too, so he dealt Mademoiselle Hélène in, and she let Ondine sit on her lap.
Jean-Louis watched as Fourbier carefully explained the rules to her. “You seem awkward with cards, Mademoiselle,” Jean-Louis said.
Mademoiselle Hélène startled and dropped everything.
Jean-Louis felt guilty for pointing it out. It had been rude of him. He retrieved the cards. “I am sorry; I was merely surprised because I know Amandine enjoyed cards.”
Then he felt guilty because Mademoiselle Hélène blanched and apologized.
There was silence for a while, except for the talk needed for the game. Jean-Louis was very sorry he had mentioned Amandine. One’s late wife was not the sort of conversation one wished to have with a lady one was interested in. He paused. Was he interested in Mademoiselle Hélène? He had originally believed his father was correct in finding him a vivacious, happy girl to marry, to balance his own taciturn nature, but Amandine had been too vivacious. She had also lost a great deal of money playing cards, so it was a good thing Mademoiselle Hélène was not a player. He still couldn’t help but wonder why she was so awkward.
He shook his head. “Mademoiselle Hélène, how did you not learn to play cards? Your cousin and her parents very much enjoyed card games and were quite pleased to have me as a fourth when I was courting Amandine.”
Mademoiselle Hélène looked at her cards, taking much too long to choose one to play, and then handing it to Ondine, who gave it to Fourbier.
She stacked all the cards in her hand. “I cannot play without my lorgnette, so it is better if I don’t play at all. It’s too embarrassing to squint through my eyeglass in front of other people. Nonni Pinard—she wasn’t yet married to Monsieur Pinard then—was their fourth.”
Jean-Louis scowled. He had known Amandine was doted on by her parents, but not that they had been so rude to Hélène. He’d hardly paid attention to the comments they had made about her over the years.
He looked up, right into her offending lorgnette.
His heart stuttered. “You do know it’s complete…completely ridiculous they kept you from playing cards, don’t you? Lords and ladies, even princes and queens, depend on nose-glasses, lorgnettes, and monocles all the time. You should have glasses that sit on your nose and hook over your ears. One of my captains uses them to read.”
She swung her gaze back to her cards.
He had surely offended her by commenting on her vision.
“I was never given the choice, Monsieur,” she said quietly. “I was told to never let anyone see me use my glass.”
Jean-Louis sighed and added eyeglasses to his mental list of things for Hélène. Why was he making a list of things for her? She was just a cousin. She had her own money, her family, her independence. He wondered if she had taken charge of her small inheritance yet or if she was still dependent on her uncle.
He glanced at Fourbier, who smirked. Since her tent had burned with all her things inside, she was reduced to the ill-fitting black gown from Madame Pinard and another ill-fitting gown, bought from the wife of a fellow officer. He would have Fourbier find her a nicer gown as thanks for her kindnesses to Ondine. Something blue, in the same shade as his own blue woolen doublet and breeches. That would bring attention to her eyes.
He didn’t need more of his attention on her eyes.
He caught himself staring at her again and looked out the window for a while.
****
The countryside changed gradually.
On Saturday evening, they found themselves outside Bourges, a day past their halfway point. Mademoiselle Hélène wondered aloud if she could attend Mass the next day. Fourbier told her no, as they were meant to be Huguenots. Jean-Louis was relieved—his attendance other than on feast days was spotty at best. Fourbier didn’t know if there was a local Huguenot community, but he didn’t ask around. Better to let others make their own assumptions.
Sunday, it was gray and cold and the muddy ruts were half-frozen, but it was neither raining nor snowing, so they went for a walk, Mademoiselle Hélène stumbling in spite of Jean-Louis’ arm, and Fourbier and Charlotte following Ondine as she raced around getting filthy.
Mademoiselle Hélène held her monocle to her eye almost all the time now, which Jean-Louis su
pposed was an improvement for her.
****
Monday, they were on the road at dawn. If they were lucky and had dry weather, they might reach the colonel’s property by nightfall on Wednesday, just eight days after they had left Dijon. Hélène was eager to arrive but sorry their forced proximity would end so soon. But in a house, she could move on her own without her eyeglass, once she was used to the layout. She could be alone with her thoughts. She could breathe again without smelling the colonel’s wool coat and the hint of cologne. She could walk away from Ondine when she had a tantrum.
In the afternoon, while Ondine slept sprawled across the backward-facing seat with her stockinged feet shoved against Fourbier’s thigh, Hélène turned to the valet. “You seem to know a lot about Huguenots, Mr. Fourbier.”
He darted a glance at Jean-Louis, who shrugged. Fourbier blinked slowly before smiling, though without delight. “Instead, I think I should tell you the story of how I met the Colonel de Cantière and how I became his aide-de-camp.”
Hélène had expected Fourbier to tell her he had known some Huguenots and that would be the end of the subject. She was sorry she had given in to idle curiosity.
“You see, when I first joined the army—with a false name, of course…” Fourbier said. He paused, waiting for her to reply.
Hélène nodded. “I didn’t suppose Fourbier was your real name, though I didn’t want to offend you by asking.”
He grimaced. “I was sent to Perpignan with a large company. If you think riding in a carriage across hundreds of leagues is difficult, imagine marching across them. Once there, we were billeted on the populace. I did not know it at first, but the policy was to billet the roughest, most dangerous soldiers with Huguenots.” Fourbier’s frown was dark and forbidding.
Hélène wondered if he had been considered a rough, dangerous soldier, because he looked it right then.
“I was at liberty one afternoon, walking through the streets, looking at the lace shops and tailor shops—I worked in a tailor’s shop before joining the army.” Fourbier’s expression darkened further.
Hélène nodded; he had already said he and his sister had their own atelier.
The Honorable Officer Page 7
