“As I went by the large window of a lace maker’s shop, I heard a little shriek. There was some trouble, so I drew my knife and went in. The colonel—he was a mere captain then—came in soon after, drew his sword, and rescued me from some terrible men and asked me to be his valet.”
De Cantière snorted. “That is your version of events, Fourbier?”
“Only the truth, Monsieur,” said Fourbier, with a wink at Charlotte, who was hanging on every word.
“Ah-la-la-la-la,” said the colonel, shaking his head in disgust. “I shall tell my version instead. I was hurrying, late for a meeting. I heard a shriek, not a little shriek, and men shouting. It was my duty to keep the peace in the town and supervise my soldiers. I was bound by duty to investigate.”
Hélène smiled. She knew that anything he saw as his duty, especially protecting people, was vitally important to him.
He went on. “I went into a shop and found a short, thin man with only a dagger backed into a corner with three girls, holding off two angry, drunken louts. The men were threatening to gut him if he did not share. One girl per man, you see. No, you don’t see, at least I hope not.” He glanced at her, probably noting her fear.
She did see. She felt a little dizzy.
The colonel cleared his throat. “Anyway, I drew my sword and knocked one man’s dagger away before the other turned and saw who I was. I had them arrested. Fourbier helped me. Then I cautioned the girls’ parents about keeping the shop’s doors locked at all times and having a strong man stand guard while they made lace.”
Fourbier snorted. “Ah-la-la-la. Nothing but the truth, from you as well, Monsieur.” He turned to her. “Monsieur, le Capitaine et Chevalier de Cantière, understanding better than most the policy of billeting rough soldiers with Huguenots, bought up several shops and homes of families eager to escape France. He helped them move to Switzerland. He owns and rents out a block of houses and shops in Perpignan, vacated by Protestants for a fair price.”
She looked at the colonel, whose cheeks were slightly pink. Was he blushing?
“It was an excellent business opportunity. And the families were quite interested in rejoining other family members…”
Hélène smiled at de Cantière’s modesty.
“I rent them out to officers and their families. The shops to shopkeepers, of course.” He glared at Fourbier.
Hélène asked, “How did you hire Monsieur Fourbier as a valet?”
“Oh, let me tell it, Monsieur,” said Fourbier.
The colonel sighed, but Fourbier waved one hand airily. “I asked. Voilà. He was impressed with my feeble attempt to save those girls. I was impressed with his swordplay and sense of justice, but appalled at the state of his cloak and breeches. Really, positively démodés, you know. With stains and spatters below the knees. Quite shocking.”
The colonel’s mouth pursed, hiding a smile. “I hadn’t had a valet since leaving Paris. My colonel had remarked on my clothing only the day before, but I hadn’t thought it important.”
They rode along in silence for a while, until Hélène’s curiosity got the best of her. “Why would a tailor join the army, Monsieur Fourbier?”
Fourbier got the angry, closed look again. “I was nearly arrested, you see, and needed to disappear. And what better way than to put my life at risk? The friend who signed up at the same time is dead. He was sent to the Spanish Netherlands and died there almost two years ago.”
Hélène reached across the space between the seats and took Fourbier’s hand. “That’s terrible.”
Fourbier squeezed her hand and wrinkled his nose. “We were no longer in contact. A former friend, I should have said.”
The colonel cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. “Fourbier is much more than a valet, of course. He runs my household, as it were, predicts my needs, provides everything I need. My aide-de-camp.”
Fourbier squeezed her hand one more time, his usual naughty glint returning. “You shall make me blush, Monsieur.”
The colonel smiled, inviting her to laugh at Fourbier, she thought. She couldn’t. “You are very lucky to have a man like him.”
“He says…” said Fourbier, “he says I am better than a wife because he doesn’t have to consider my feelings.”
Hélène felt it like a hit to her chest. Fourbier was warning her off. She remembered how cold and angry the colonel had been at the funeral Mass for Amandine and the baby she died giving birth to.
Luckily, they soon rolled up to a coaching inn, and Fourbier jumped out to help the coachman and groom with the horses. Hélène and the two girls got down to use the nécessaire. When they came back out, everyone was ready to go, Fourbier with their basket full of food for the road. He pulled her aside. “I don’t know what got into me, Mademoiselle. I do beg your pardon.”
She knew he was apologizing for reminding her the colonel wasn’t looking for a wife. She blushed that Fourbier had read her emotions so clearly. “Don’t worry, Monsieur Fourbier. Only the truth, after all.”
Fourbier patted her shoulder before handing her into the carriage and climbing up top to let the groom ride inside.
****
Fourbier wanted to kick himself. He meant to help Hélène de Bonnefoi marry the colonel, not warn her off, yet he had not been able to stop himself from digging bitterly at the scab left by the excision of his own hopes for the colonel. Not that he ever had any true hope, but Fourbier had been the most important person in his colonel’s life. He had made himself indispensable over the last year and a half.
Perhaps his bitterness came from being pushed aside. Perhaps it came from always being in the wrong: Huguenot. Short. Thin. Effeminate.
On the other hand, he felt like he had just pushed a child over; Mademoiselle de Bonnefoi was weak and without defenses. Well, he supposed that she defended herself by disappearing from her old life, just as he had.
****
After two more nights at inns and two more long days on the road, they arrived after sundown at Jean-Louis’ father’s property in the eastern end of the county of Poitou. It was a relief to get down from the carriage knowing they would not be moving the next morning. In the dim light of dusk, Jean-Louis gazed at the house—his house, more or less, though it still belonged to his father and no one lived there. His father said if Jean-Louis achieved a fortune in the army, he would leave the property to one of his younger sons, whichever of Henri or Emmanuel needed it most. The house had fine proportions—three stories tall, built of local white stone. Jean-Louis had used the income from the farm to keep the buildings repaired and clean, but the furnishings were out of date. He stayed there when he visited the farm and village, surveying the land and looking out for the people. Would his younger brothers look after it as well as he did? Henri would never visit it. Manu… Jean-Louis smiled at the idea of his fourteen-year-old brother being responsible for anything. He shrugged. It wouldn’t be his problem.
Fourbier found the front door locked so went around back to search for the servants. He returned just as the housekeeper flung open the front door, beaming. She was motherly in a way that his own mother had never been—stocky and comfortingly soft, doting on children and babies, cosseting him whenever he came to visit.
“It is lucky they knew me,” Fourbier said to Mademoiselle Hélène, “Or they would have knocked my brains out with a ham bone, the way I rapped on the window and frightened them.”
“Oh, Monsieur le Colonel.” The housekeeper curtsied deeply. “We did not know you were coming, Monsieur. We did not have your letter. The rooms are not ready, there are no supplies in.”
“I am sorry. I did not send a letter.” Jean-Louis was suddenly sorry he and Fourbier had decided not to warn his servants of his arrival. “There was some trouble in Franche-Comté and Dijon, and we wanted to get away quietly and quickly.”
Her eyes got huge. “Trouble, Monsieur? Surely…”
“Franche-Comté has been subdued and the Spanish routed. Family trouble.”
He turned back to the carriage, and Mademoiselle Hélène handed him Ondine before reaching for his hand, then gripping his arm tightly, stumbling even with her eyeglass to her face. He resisted the urge to hand Ondine to Fourbier and carry Hélène inside instead.
“Madame Grenier, this is my daughter, Ondine. And my late wife’s cousin, who cares for her, Mademoiselle Hélène de Bonnefoi.”
Jean-Louis looked again at the coach, where Fourbier was swinging Charlotte down. “And Charlotte, who helps Mademoiselle Hélène with Ondine. The three ladies shall need a room together for tonight. We can look into opening the nursery tomorrow.” His heart expanded with something which felt very much like joy with the idea of opening the nursery for his daughter.
“Oui, Monsieur,” said Madame Grenier breathlessly, staring at Mademoiselle Hélène with shock. She shook her head and led them inside.
Servants hastily stuffed candles into the sconces. They paused long enough to bow to him and Mademoiselle Hélène. Fourbier eased past them, asking questions and giving orders.
“I think I know how to run the house, Fourbier,” said the housekeeper with a snap of her teeth. “I know Monsieur’s preferences as well as you.”
Jean-Louis watched them quarrel. He decided to let them work it out.
Jean-Louis led Mademoiselle Hélène into the drawing room at the front of the house and helped her to a chair whose dustsheet had been whisked off a moment before. The room was icy, and a maid crouched before the fireplace, blowing anxiously at the coals, which glowed red but didn’t catch the kindling. Fourbier strode in, shooed the maid out, and bent to the fire himself.
“There have been some letters, Monsieur,” said Madame Grenier, coming in on Fourbier’s heels. “We were going to forward them to you in Franche-Comté. There are three that arrived today and yesterday.”
He took the letters with thanks.
She said, “And we can have a small supper for you. It is not much, Monsieur, not really befitting a lady.”
Mademoiselle Hélène spoke up then. “We have been eating in inns and in the carriage. I am sure your supper will be the best we have had since we left Dijon.”
Madame Grenier beamed at her, then curtsied and went out.
“We are not taking their supper, are we, Monsieur?” Mademoiselle Hélène said.
Jean-Louis blinked. “I sincerely hope not, Mademoiselle. They surely had supplies in for themselves. Enough to feed us, too.”
“Oh.” Mademoiselle Hélène smiled slightly. “I am silly. Of course they would. I’ve never thought about managing a household. I suppose I should learn.”
Jean-Louis’ lungs froze. Was she hinting that she would marry him? Why did the idea give him hope?
“Someday, when Ondine has grown, I’ll get a house of my own. I would feel terribly silly if I didn’t know anything about supervising the servants. I don’t know if I will have enough money to have very many servants. I should learn to cook. Maybe I could watch your cook?”
Jean-Louis wanted to deny she would ever need to worry about such things, but he could not make her any promises. “When Ondine has grown, I will…” What? What would he do? “I will make sure you are provided for. An…an annuity or an income of some sort.”
She smiled at him beatifically, radiantly beautiful, stealing his breath. “Do you mean it? I know my aunt and uncle will leave everything to Ondine and nothing to me, so if Ondine does not wish for me to stay with her, I don’t know what I’d do.”
“I will…I will consult with my advocate about my will.” He felt his cheeks get hot.
An advocate seemed a terribly cold way to deal with Mademoiselle Hélène. If she dedicated the next fifteen or so years to caring for and educating Ondine, she should have a reward. She was not a servant, but even a servant expects a pension. I could make a better provision for her. He shook his head. He was never marrying again. He had been crazy to marry in the first place, when all it gave him was heartbreak and two years in exile in Perpignan.
The girls went straight up to bed after supper. Mademoiselle Hélène disappeared along with them.
Jean-Louis pulled the three letters out of his pocket, wondering why he had been so distracted as to not read them as soon as they were given to him. He usually opened everything instantly.
The first letter contained urgent marching orders. The Prince de Condé had sent a reply to his request for leave. It had arrived at the home of Madame Pinard, who folded it in another sheet of paper and sent it on to Poitou. He must return immediately to his post once his daughter and cousin were safe. It was dated a week before, the day after they left Dijon. Jean-Louis closed his eyes, envisioning his trial and execution for desertion. If he was lucky, he would only have to give up his commission. It would half kill him, but better half dead than Ondine completely dead.
He wrote a quick reply, apologizing to the Grand Condé for not receiving the orders sooner, begging his pardon greatly, but he had already left Dijon when the letter arrived. He was currently in an undisclosed location and would not be available for another two weeks—one for assuring his daughter’s protection and another for returning to Franche-Comté.
The second letter was forwarded from Franche-Comté by his friend, Colonel Hardi. The letter was from his father-in-law, Ondine’s grandpère. He had sent a man to Franche-Comté to fetch Ondine. Jean-Louis should ignore Hélène’s insane babbling. He should return their granddaughter to them as soon as possible. They would deal with Hélène as they saw fit, and maybe it was time for her to be shut away in a convent. Could he possibly find her a nunnery in Dijon so they would not have to incur the expense of bringing her all the way back to Paris?
Jean-Louis set the letter aside, wishing he could, in good conscience, burn it, but thinking he needed to consult with Mademoiselle Hélène about her wishes. He shuddered at the idea of her entering a convent.
The third letter was from his brother Cédric. He groaned at the opening paragraph.
“Cher petit frère,
Do my eyes deceive me? Is the do-it-myself Jean-Louis requesting my help? Is it possible? I had to read your letter three times—and Papa asked me to read the letter you sent him also—before we could believe it. We agreed it was your handwriting. It was the begging for help that made us wonder.
You say you wrote to Dom and Aurore. They are currently in Poitou too, so I am writing them there, in case you did not.
Papa talked Henri into traveling to you. He should arrive by Thursday or Friday, as they are coming by coach. Henri said you surely would not be there before then, and he would rather be damned than travel a hundred leagues on horseback with Emmanuel complaining the whole way of the cold (for we are sending him too, to get him out of our hair. Dom and Aurore are meant to be raising him. Why is he in my house?) in the middle of winter, only to arrive before you. If he must listen to complaints, he should at least listen to them in the relative comfort of a coach, where he can read.
Papa and I shall ask around at court, though I cannot believe there is much to be learned there. Papa will go to see your in-laws, crying worry for his granddaughter.
We are most worried by the fires and the shots through the glass. Whoever this is doesn’t mind killing everyone around Ondine, do they? Are you sure they are aiming for Ondine? Perhaps Mademoiselle de Bonnefoi is the target, if they are shooting at adults.
Do tell us more about Mademoiselle de Bonnefoi. None of us know her well except maybe Aurore, who is not here for us to question. Papa says she is quite pretty. Sandrine agrees and says she is sorry they are both so shy, because she sat next to Mademoiselle several times and could not think of what to say, so they sat in silence. Could she be behind the attacks? Mademoiselle, not my wife, of course. Perhaps she hopes to inherit if Ondine does not? Her uncle’s furniture factory is surely worth quite a lot.
Of course, if she is not, then you will have to marry her. Honestly, Jean-Louis! Keeping a beautiful young lady under your protection in an army camp is hardly subtle. Even
if she is merely Ondine’s governess, the situation is untenable.
And when did you ever expect I would be preaching propriety to you? I used to have to convince Dom to break the rules, but only rarely could get you to, and only by physical threat. And only until you got strong enough to threaten me back.
Anyway, as you can see, I am running out of room.
Write when you have arrived in Poitou, and let us know how everything stands. We will write with what news we can glean, when we can glean it.
Your loving frère,
Cédric
Jean-Louis set the letter on the desk. He had felt humiliated when he wrote to ask for his family’s help. Cédric was determined to make a joke of it, but his brothers and father were rallying to him, sending him aid, investigating on his behalf, just as they had all rushed to Aurore and Dominique’s assistance two years before. He had ridden up from Perpignan with some of his officer friends and helped restore their lands to them.
Of course, it was on that same trip he’d discovered Amandine was turning his superiors against him instead of forwarding his interests at court. And she was pregnant with her second child. He shook his head in disgust, forcing memories of Amandine from his head.
He took up his letters and went to his room. He hesitated outside the room where Mademoiselle Hélène was sleeping with Ondine and Charlotte. He tapped softly, not expecting anyone to answer.
The door opened after only a second, and Mademoiselle Hélène stared, her left eye huge through her eyeglass. “I was expecting the maid with hot water.”
She stepped out of the room and closed the door. She was still dressed in the cast-off bodice and skirts of one of his officers’ wives. At least she had changed out of the black Huguenot one. Her hair was loose around her shoulders and still gloriously red. He wished suddenly it were blonde again and spread across his pillow.
He found himself stepping close to her, his hand on her cheek. His lips touched hers. She sighed. He pulled back to see her face in the flickering candlelight in the hall. She was surprised, but not frightened, so he kissed her gently—tiny kisses from one corner of the mouth to the other, then up her cheek to the corner of one eye.
The Honorable Officer Page 8
