by Joyce Alec
Chloé had her handmaiden pull out her best visiting gown, and she pinned her long, fiery red curls atop her head. Her crimson locks were a gift from her mother. She regaled Chloé of stories of her cousins and their scarlet curls. Her mother’s mane was more golden blond, and she always wore it in a tousled mess on her crown. Chloé loved the way it looked. It was perfectly messy. She was so French.
Chloé’s azure eyes were set off by small sapphire gems adorning each ear. They accented her beautiful white gown. Chloé’s mother had hired the best dresser in all of Marseille for their household, and she had now been with the family for almost twenty years. She made the most delicious dresses. Chloé could not live without her.
Just as she was smoothing her skirts, the footman alerted her of Edward’s arrival. She tentatively entered the drawing room. Edward was standing at the window looking out onto his vast new estate. Chloé studied his figure. He was tall, his waistcoat stretched snugly across broad shoulders. His legs were remarkably long. His well-fitted breeches did not escape her attention either. “My lord,” she addressed him slightly louder than warranted.
Startled, he spun on his perfectly-booted heel to face her. He was immediately taken back by her stunning beauty. He had never seen a girl with hair the color of a Mediterranean sunset. She stood tall, her tiny chin pointed indignantly to the sky. He instantly knew she would not be quite as easy as he had assumed. He quickly bowed, never dropping his eyes from her searching stare. “My lady,” he replied, his deep voice slightly raspy.
He moved across the room toward her. Her body suddenly became hot with fear, trepidation, and screaming anxiety. He gently took her hand and placed a delicate kiss upon it. “Tis a pleasure.”
She was so uncomfortable she could barely stand. He was so close to her, and it suddenly hit her that being someone’s wife would entail much more than she had allowed herself to contemplate. She carefully removed her hand from his and walked past him toward the window. “So, do you like it?” she asked, parting the curtains.
“Pardon?” he replied, confused.
“The estate,” she answered, pensively gazing across the vast landscape.
“It’s acceptable, I suppose.”
She turned quickly, completely offended at his dismissive tone. “This estate means everything to me, Your Lordship. I hope you understand that.”
Slightly stunned by her passion, Edward decided it is not best to reveal too much of his plan just yet. “I assure you, my lady, that I understand your position.” Her stance slightly softened, and he took his opportunity. “I must excuse myself. I have some items to attend to.”
“But…” she started. Then he was gone. It irked her slightly that the business he was attending to had everything to do with her and their situation, and he had no intention of sharing it with her.
It was dinnertime before she saw Edward again. She was already seated at the large rosewood dining table when he strode into the room. He carried himself like he was already head of the manor. Chloé wasn’t sure she had ever seen such confidence in such a young man. She determined that he must be not more than five and twenty.
He sat down across from her. “My lady, your gardens here are quite spectacular.”
“Is that what you have been doing all day, my lord?” she asked, calmly sipping her wine.
“Let us not talk about business just yet. Pray, tell me about yourself.”
She studied him for a moment, methodically cutting his steaming pheasant. She was quite curious about his expectations. “Well, what would you like to know, my lord?”
“Anything,” he continued. “What do you enjoy?” He seemed pleased with the taste. He followed his first bite with several quick ones.
“I enjoy many things. I am quite fond of reading, like most I suppose.” She gazed at him warily. He was not listening to anything she was saying. He was too busy enjoying his dinner. Apparently, the English were not known for their food preparation. “Sir, I’m quite sure you are not listening to a word I am saying.” His lack of response was answer enough. She decided to have a bit of fun and continued on. “I adore swimming in our alligator pond. It’s quite refreshing.” Edward kept eating and nodding as she carried on and on.
When he finally looked up from his meal, he met her cross gaze. “Um, I am sorry, my lady,” he apologized, knowing he had forgotten his manners. He took a long drink from his goblet and rose. “I must excuse myself. I will see you in the morn.” And, again, he was gone.
Chloé had an uneasy feeling. Her would-be suitor appeared as interested in her as she was in him. Perhaps, it would be better this way. She could go about living her life as she had been. She would just be married. That is all. Somehow, it seemed too simple.
The next morning, when she awoke, the footman informed her Lord Edward had left for London. He left her a note. She carefully parted the thick monogrammed paper. It simply said, “Thank you for a lovely visit. I will return shortly.” She was unsure if “shortly” meant an hour or a fortnight. She decided not to care and went about her day as usual.
It was about a month before Edward returned to France. He had been working closely with Sir Henry’s attorney to transfer the property to him. There was so much paperwork involved. Edward despised such things. His father was not much help as of late. His health was rapidly declining. Edward believed he might not live to meet his new bride upon his return.
Once the estate was transferred to Edward, he moved forward with finding a suitable buyer for it. He had met with several possibilities when he was last in France. He did not feel the need to inform Chloé until the last minute. He knew she would have strong objections, not that it surprised him. It was, after all, her home, but he refused to move to France, especially Marseille. Marseille society was insupportable as it were. He could never survive with such people.
Edward walked through the front door of the magnificent manor house and directly into Chloé. “Oh, pardon, milady,” he stuttered.
“Well, I see that you’re back,” she returned, her chin defiantly high. “And you no longer need formal announcement.” She noticed his back stiffen at her direct address. “I presume you have finalized the paperwork with Monsieur Le Clerc.”
He studied her for a moment. Her blue eyes blazed brighter when she was affronted. “Yes, I have. It is all done.”
Her heart sank a little at actually hearing the words. Her home belonged to him now. A stranger. At least she would not have to leave it. She clung to that small bit of sunshine in her completely disrupted life. “Well, welcome home, milord.” She curtseyed and spun on her heel, leaving him alone in the foyer.
Her attitude was troubling. If he was to introduce her to his society, she must change. The ton would have none of her French arrogance. He would be a laughing stock. Once they returned to London, he would have someone work with her. If she were to be his wife, she would have to learn how to act like a proper wife. Her breeding was not much to think about, but her wealth made her tolerable. He was certain she had it in her. A hopeful smile spread across his lips.
That evening, Edward informed his betrothed they would be married on the morrow at the church in Sainte-Marthe. Chloé’s heart started beating so hard she thought he could surely hear it. But she sat still, looking hard at him. The candle-light made his English skin glow light orange. He continued talking to her, but she only heard a few words here and there. He left her sitting silent in the darkening room. Saint-Marthe. That was where her parents were married. Ironic, she thought. They were totally in love and couldn’t wait to begin their life together. She wondered if they were looking down from heaven, happy she would be protected or sad she was not marrying for love. She fell asleep to the sounds of her own prayers echoing through the night.
3
Chloé’s handmaiden shook her mistress awake. “Miss, miss, it is your wedding day. We must dress you!”
Chloé slowly rose and followed her nervous servant up the steep stairs. Shelly flitted around the ro
om, grabbing underskirts, stockings, mules, ribbons, and drawers. Chloé had her dresser create a beautiful gown for the day. If she must wed, she would have a handsome wedding dress. It was cream silk with a beaded overlay, gathered just below her young bosom, draping ethereally across her curvy hips. Shelly helped her pile her long, red curls atop her head and threaded more beads through them. Her regal beauty was astounding. She looked like a queen.
Edward had left her a note he would meet her at the church. He was finishing some urgent business, it said. Great, she thought. Even their wedding day was not a priority for him. She could not wait for it to be over. She planned to lock herself in her room for the rest of the day. The thought of a wedding night particularly terrified her.
She paced the grounds of the sweet little church at the heart of Sainte-Marthe. The air was chilly, but her nerves had her insides burning hot with fire. She kept adjusting her gloves, straightening her gown, and turning the white pearls around and around in her cold ears.
Edward’s steward, Jeffers, arrived first. He approached Chloé and instructed her to wait inside the church for his master’s arrival. His lofty tone irked her, but she did as he bade, desperately trying to remain calm on this day. She would scream and cry later. For now, however, she was a formidable woman, a veil she intended on impressing upon her new husband.
Chloé waited in the office de pasteur. As far as she knew, there were no guests, other than Edward’s steward and her handmaiden, Shelly. The pastor finally knocked on the door, alerting Chloé that her fiancé had arrived. A soft piano-forte echoed through the small rectory, and Chloé serenely approached Edward and the pastor at the front of the church.
Edward’s breath caught in his throat at her exquisite beauty. He had noticed her attractiveness before, but today she radiated. He was so used to cold English women who all vied for his attentions because of his stature. He was to be the next Duke of Dorchester, and they all wanted to be the next duchess. But this girl… she had no interest in his title. Yes, she needed him, but in the same way he needed her. So far, they were on equal ground, and he didn’t entirely mind it at this moment.
The pastor pronounced them husband and wife, and Edward placed a delicate kiss upon his new bride’s gloved hand. Chloé felt slightly lightheaded but steadied herself on Edward’s strong arm. The couple exited the church to a waiting phaeton.
Chloé noticed the additional carriage behind them. “What is in that carriage?” she asked Edward as he boarded the ornate phaeton.
“That is our luggage milady,” he answered confidently. “We are bound for London.”
Chloé’s heart sank. “For a visit?” she asked tentatively, fearful of the words to follow.
“No, Chloé,” he said using her given name for the first time. “I have sold the estate. We shall live in London.”
Her fear suddenly turned to anger at his insolent tone. He cared not for her feelings at all. She had completely overestimated his ability to adhere to his word. “You were not to sell the estate. My father trusted your family to preserve it for me,” she spat at him, her voice rising. “You are no gentleman. Your word means nothing!” She turned away from him and stared furiously out the carriage window.
Incensed that she would insult him in such a manner, Edward pondered tossing her out on her indignant bottom. After a few deep breaths, he pushed the rotten thought from his mind. He was a man of his word, and he would take care of her as he promised.
“Chloé, you will be taken care of. You will have a lovely life,” he said, attempting to calm her.
She would have none of it. She didn’t even get to say good-bye. Her entire life was wrapped up in that beautiful estate. All her memories were there. All her dreams were there. And without a drop of consideration for any of it, Edward Cayley callously sold it out from under her. She would never forgive him. Never.
Chloé’s eyes grew wide as the phaeton approached the colossal ship that was to take her to her new life, far away from all that she had ever known. She was relieved to see Shelly, her handmaiden boarding the ship. Edward noticed her eyes soften. “Your handmaiden shall stay with you,” he told her, less unfeeling and perhaps slightly empathetically.
She distrusted his every move and refused to look him in the eye. She exited the carriage, a lonely tear sliding down her cheek. She raised her eyes high above the tallest mast of the behemoth before her. “God, I trust in your plans for me and follow where you lead,” she whispered, her eyelids dropping and washing more tears across her sun-kissed face.
Edward offered her his arm. She ignored the gesture and continued past him, her eyes hardening. Her “spirit” was beginning to tire him. He was not a patient man, but he refused to give in to her prodding. She would come around. He would see to it.
The couple had barely spoken for two days aboard the ship. They were still a day and a half from port when the winds kicked up, and the sea began to toss the massive vessel about like a toy boat. The captain ordered everyone to their staterooms for the remainder of the journey.
Chloé had her own room next to Edward’s on the upper floor. Their servants were one level beneath. When the ship began to roll on its side, the lower rooms were flooded first. Chloé’s door flung open, and Edward grabbed her by the hand just as a wall of water rushed through the hallway. Edward could not hold on, and Chloé was thrust against a heavy wooden pillar. He fought the water and grabbed hold of her before the water took her again. She was unconscious, her head covered in blood from a deep gash.
Edward dragged them both to the deck while it was still above water. A sailor pulled them to a nearby lifeboat just as the entire deck was consumed by the sea. The waves tossed the small lifeboat around like a rag doll, but it remained upright by the grace of God. Edward removed his shirt and wrapped it around Chloé’s bleeding head, hoping to keep her alive until they got to safety.
It was but an hour before a large fishing vessel pulled the survivors on board. The fishermen helped Edward get Chloé’s head properly bandaged as the boat moved quickly toward calmer seas. As far as Edward could tell, they lost both his steward and Chloé’s handmaiden. There were only three lifeboats taken in by the fishing vessel, and they were mainly filled with crew.
Edward sat by Chloé’s side staring at her lifeless body. What had he done? She was so innocent, so untouched, and she may never open her eyes again. His eyes suddenly began to well with tears.
The fishing boat pulled into port, and Edward rushed Chloé to his home in London where a doctor was waiting. The doctor told Edward there was not much he could do. He changed her head dressing and cleaned her wound. It was up to God now. She was resting comfortably, and they could only pray that she would wake.
Edward sat awake in his study all night long. Just before sunrise, a winded footman banged on the front door of the townhome. He delivered Edward a letter from his bedridden father. It was news of his mother. She had died suddenly from a horse fall.
Edward’s mind spun with emotion. Grief, guilt, anger. His stomach tightened, and his head throbbed. He had just returned from the worst few days of his life to this. He had done all of this for his mother. He didn’t really care about the dukedom. He had done it all to save her from the embarrassment from the financial ruin. He caused all of it. He had done this to his family. To Chloé. He had done it all.
He sunk to the floor, tears welling in his swollen eyes. He had to somehow fix this. He had to make it right. He lay on the floor until sleep finally took him.
It was around midnight when a soft knock on his study door awakened him. “Sir, the lady wakes,” his house-maid squeaked, stirring him from his slumber. He sat upright, lightheaded, and found his way to his feet. “I will be right up.”
“Yes, m’lord,” she agreed, sliding back out of the room.
4
Edward peeked into Chloé’s bedchamber. She was struggling to sit up. He rushed to her bedside to help her. “Careful, you’re still weak,” he said softly.
�
�What happened?” she asked, stroking her head. “Where am I?”
“You’re in my home… in London,” he said, sitting down on the bed beside her.
“Who…” she stammered, her throat exceptionally dry.
“Here,” he said, bringing a nearby glass of water to her lips. “Drink. You need water.”
She gingerly sipped the liquid, her head obviously hurting. “Thank you,” she whispered. He smiled the sweetest smile she thought. “Um, who are you?” she asked.
Edward sat back, startled. “Pardon?” he asked almost involuntarily.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?” she asked again, her mind searching to no avail.
“My name is Edward.” He cautiously explored her eyes for some sort of recognition. There was none.
“Edward,” she repeated. “Do you mind telling me what my name is? I can’t quite remember.”
He was in complete shock. The bump to her head must have caused her to lose her memory. He didn’t want to alarm her any more than necessary, so he attempted to remain calm. “Your name is Chloé,” he said, stroking her face.
Her brows furrowed. She felt no attachment to such a name. “Am I French,” she asked in perfect English.
“Oui, mademoiselle,” Edward answered her with a kind smile.
“I feel French,” she giggled.
Edward was amazed how calm she was. She had no idea who she was or where she was, and she was giggling. He suddenly felt a ray of light course through his weary body. He thought her quite remarkable at this moment. He took in her perfection for an instant before quickly retreating back into himself, standing and placing the water back on the table.
“Mademoiselle,” he stammered, “You must excuse me. I shall return shortly.”
“All right,” she said, sensing his abrupt unease.
Edward ordered his staff not to give the lady any information about herself or anyone else until further notice. He skulked back down to his study to contemplate the goings on of this crazed morning.
