by Ford, TA
La Roque cast his eyes at Zoé. “Of course, you are more than welcome to stay for as long as you wish. Gérard will prepare your accommodations.” He gave the valet a nod and Gérard hastened off to inform the housemaid.
La Roque steered the discussion toward their journey, and was solicitous enough to include Marianne as well. In this way, they passed a couple of minutes in light and pleasant conversation. He gave attention when Madame and Marianne spoke, but his gaze always returned to Zoé, who watched, but said nothing.
A tall, thin handmaiden entered the room. La Roque welcomed her.
“Ah, Geneviève, will you please show my guests to their quarters? ”
She curtsied. “Bien sûr, mon seigneur.” She turned to Madame. “This way, s’il vous plaît.”
La Roque explained that he would see them shortly at supper and escorted them out of the room. He stood in the doorway, his gaze following them. He saw Marianne grab Zoé’s hand, saw her whisper something and Zoé reply. He thought he heard the words “handsome” and “bore.” His eyes grew openly amused.
My, my, my. These two cherries would be fun to pluck.
EF When they were only a few steps out the door, Marianne grabbed Zoé’s hand and said in a loud whisper, “He’s handsome.”
Zoé rolled her eyes. “He’s a bore, if you ask me.” “Well, no one asked you!” Madame Bouchard snapped. Zoé cast her eyes downward. “Is it so inconceivable that
I would have an opinion? ” She then lifted her eyes and leveled them on Madame. “That I’d be entitled to it? ” She heard Marianne sigh. She knew her sister hated it when they quarreled, a common occurrence as the days progressed.
Madame raised a finger. “I warn you. I tire of your insolence.”
Before Zoé could respond, Marianne took her hand and pulled her away. At the foot of the stairs, the sisters let go of each other and grabbed their skirts to ascend the winding staircase. Midway up, that familiar sense of being observed stilled her. She glanced over her shoulder. La Roque stood still at the entrance to his salon, watching them.
Watching her.
Though he smiled at her, his eyes impaled her. There was something lazily seductive in his look, and though she didn’t understand it, she felt it.
Marianne now stood at the top of the stairs and looked back down at her sister with irritation. “Zoé? Viens!”
Zoé’s eyes cut upward to her impatient sister. When she looked back once more LaRoque was gone. She went quickly up the steps to join the others, forcing all thoughts of him from her mind.
The chambermaid led them down an enormous hallway to their individual rooms as coachmen brought up their luggage. Her room, not paneled in gold, was grand and fit for a queen. Hand carved out of cherry, the bed sat one metre off the ground with doubly thick goosefeather-stuffed mattresses. Walking over to the left side of the room, she admired the large fireplace and the crackling fire that burned within it. Touching the intricately carved mantle, she imagined her sister living there and nodded approvingly.
Except perhaps for the wandering eye of Comte La Roque himself, this place made for a perfect life for her sister.
EF A short while later, Zoé and Marianne descended the stairs and headed for the drawing room. Their late arrival didn’t afford them the proper introduction she was sure Madame had wanted. Of course that would be her fault too. She was not surprised to see additional dinner guests who’d been invited for the evening. Zoé shied away from the conversation. Welcoming the solitude, her eyes swept the collection of authors lining the bookshelves. Oh how heavenly it would be to sample just one of the many delicious tomes.
From behind her, supper was announced.
The guests were shown to the dining room. La Roque strolled out, speaking with acquaintances old and new. Madame and another stately woman both tried to gain his attention but were politely escorted to their seats. Smiling, indulging the polite chatter, he lifted his gaze to the girls as they approached the table. Marianne reached for Zoé’s hand, squeezing it and whispering through clenched teeth.
“He watches.”
Zoé returned the squeeze. “Don’t be afraid. Don’t give him that power, chère, especially if he is to be your husband.”
Zoé was seated. Her dining companion, a darkly tanned man with jet-black curly locks, spoke to her in Italian and she shook her head, indicating she didn’t understand.
“I say – what is your name? ” he asked with slow measure.
“Pardonnez-moi,” La Roque’s voice boomed, silencing the table. “I thought all my guests had been properly introduced. Mademoiselle Zoé Bouchard, may I present Monsieur Dominic Giodarni.”
Zoé looked over, surprised he’d even heard the question from his position at the head of the table. She didn’t feel malice or sense any mockery. His gentlemanly nod to her actually gave her something more: his intended interest. She felt Madame’s eyes on her, and didn’t know how to proceed.
The unwanted attention made her nervous, and she wished it to stop. Smiling through the greeting, she averted her eyes. She knew that his subtle flirtation would have to end. Father protected her from the unfairness of her birth and the prejudices placed upon her because of her skin, but he couldn’t shield her from something like this.
A heaviness centered in her chest. A wealthy man like Comte La Roque would never take her as his bride. That would be too scandalous. He merely wanted what most men of his stature wanted from her: a taste of forbidden fruit.
Supper progressed, as did the table conversation. Zoé listened. Most of the men at the table deferred to La Roque, calling for his opinion on local partisan developments that threatened their wealth and stature under King Charles. He gave witty answers that prompted laughter over topics she didn’t understand. She was relieved that his lustful glances had ceased and hopeful that Marianne could find a union with a man this well regarded.
Once supper was over, all were invited into the drawing room to share brandy and discuss more politics. Madame Bouchard bragged about her “other daughter,” telling the guests what a songbird her Zoé was.
“Zoé, finally you can be of some use. Play for us,” she said.
She stiffened, momentarily abashed, but thankful for the color of her skin. It concealed the flush of embarrassment in her cheeks. Madame had a knack for turning something rewarding into something uncomfortable. Yes, she loved to play, but when called upon to perform at these gatherings, put on display like a caged bird, it was a hurtful reminder that Madame acknowledged her only when it served her purpose.
Marianne squeezed Zoé’s right hand, giving her a smile of reassurance, and Zoé felt ice spreading through her stomach. He was watching. His blue eyes pierced the distance between them. But when she looked into Marianne’s eyes, her sister’s affection soothed her anxiety. They never spoke openly about the way Madame treated Zoé, but Marianne, in her own sweet way, was always there to comfort Zoé and give quiet support.
“Why don’t you sing and I shall play? ” Zoé whispered to her sister, who she knew preferred the privilege.
Marianne nodded and Zoé took a seat at the harp. Looking up, she saw La Roque smoking his pipe by the fire with a smile of appreciation as he observed her. She drew her fingers across thin taut strings and a ripple of harmonious notes filled the air. Marianne began to sing.
“My Marianne has been singing from the cradle. You are in for a greater treat,” Madame stage-whispered haughtily to her nearest neighbor.
Zoé heard the veiled insult. Where her sister’s voice was whimsical and light, she’d been told by her father that her own voice carried her mother’s soul. Relaxing, she played and escaped in music as she did with poetry. Smiling proudly and watching her sister, she caught his watchful stare from the corner of her eye. She was careful to ignore it. She could feel his magnetism that made him so self-confident, and feared it. He was growing bolder by the minute.
Thankfully, the song ended.
Everyone applauded and Marianne cu
rtsied. Zoé would no longer be held under his watchful gaze. For that, she let go a soft sigh of relief.
La Roque removed his pipe. “Now the question remains, is her sister’s voice as lovely? ”
She froze.
“Oh, Zoé sings beautifully!” Marianne replied.
“I should very much like to hear for myself.” he said, and the beginning of a smile tipped the corners of his mouth.
Madame shot Zoé a look that demanded she oblige.
“Very well,” Zoé said. She went to the pianoforte and took a seat, spreading her skirt across the tufted bench. She lifted the lid to the ivories and began to play. She sang a song her mother taught her, closing her eyes and immersing herself in the music. In her mother’s song she found a bottomless peace.
It was her heartsong that she offered, and part of her reveled in his open admiration. She nearly stumbled through the words when he gave her an oblique nod and a small, conspiratorial smile. Her gaze turned toward Marianne. Her sister looked unhappy. One of the guests, a woman who’d been introduced as a duchess, leaned over and whispered something in Marianne’s ear. Marianne simply nodded, and took a sip from her wine glass.
When the song ended, everyone gave generous applause. Zoé gave a modest curtsey and took her place next to her sister. Up close, she could see that Marianne wasn’t merely unhappy, but furious.
“Did I offend you? ” Zoé asked.
“You’re doing it again,” Marianne said.
“Doing what? ”
Marianne tipped her head toward La Roque. Zoé followed Marianne’s gaze and understood. She was somewhat angry at herself for having possibly encouraged him.
“I’m sorry. Really.”
Marianne shrugged, looking into her goblet. “Like you said, he’s a bore, anyway. I don’t want a man who has eyes for my sister.” She was silent a moment, and then looked up. “We must never let anyone come between us. Promise me that neither of us shall entertain his advances.”
Zoé noted the sadness in Marianne’s eyes. “But you know that he will never want anything of substance with me.”
“Why not, Zoé? Don’t you know how many suitors Father has turned away for you? ”
“They weren’t suitors,” Zoé said bitterly. Marianne was so naïve. Those men wanted her as a mistress, not a wife. Father would never allow that and for that at least, Zoé was grateful. She regarded Marianne. “I promise you that nothing shall come of Comte La Roque and any intentions he may have toward me.”
“Good.”
Zoé knew that if she agreed to Marianne’s promise, her sister would not keep the same. Marianne liked the monsieur, and if he chose her, she would readily become his bride. It was just as well, for Zoé. His advances would never lead to anything more than what she saw in his eyes.
EF
Shortly after midnight, Zoé stirred. The persistent need to relieve herself caused her eyes to flutter before she fully awoke. It was strange waking in another bed. Her head fell over to the right, and she waited for her eyes to adjust. Once aware, she decided to venture to the private closet that she knew was down the hall. She rose, stretching out of her sleep. Loose tendrils of her hair fell to her face as she climbed from the bed. The thin floorlength gown she wore provided little warmth. So she donned her dressing robe and slippers, then retrieved the candelabrum from the nightstand and lit three pointed candles.
Zoé slipped into the hall and stepped cautiously through the darkness. Earlier, she and her sister had discovered that the toilette was on the adjoining wing. It was next to a library that had called to her in her sleep. Books were the one single place where she truly felt free.
Cupping the flames with her left hand, she ventured forward. The flickering candles cast a warm yellow glow over her face as she walked, her heavy velveteen robe flowing behind her. Her eyes swept the paintings along the corridor. Landscapes hung on both walls, interspersed with portraits. Though her home was lavish in Narbonne, its modesty was glaring compared to the château’s unyielding charm.
Concerned about dawdling, and possibly stumbling upon Madame who slept more during the day than night, she quickly made her way. Within minutes she was again in the hall headed for her room. Then she stopped. The light pouring out of the library door, which was ajar, caught her eye. In her haste, she’d passed the door just minutes before, not noticing. Zoé stood in the drafty hall weighing her options. She could return to her room as expected, or steal a moment to find a jewel to pass the night away.
Thinking no more of it, she entered, stopping to put the candelabrum on the end table near the door. All in all, it was not an unpleasant room. However, it was not as immaculate as the others. She surmised this was not a library, but the office of La Roque. It was a bit cluttered: books were piled on chairs and on the floor, and his desk was covered with papers.
She knew it was wrong of her to enter his personal chamber, but when her eyes fell upon the hundreds of books lining the floor-to-ceiling shelves, she abandoned all thoughts of leaving. Drawn to the collection, she tilted her head curiously. How odd to find authors such as Théophile Gautier, Alphonse de Lamartine, and translations by Gérard de Nerval in his private collection. Why would the Comte own such a diverse assembly of work? Maybe, like Father, he didn’t know of the lurid, exotic tales that lay between the pages. But when she thought of the blue heat within the Comte’s gaze, she imagined that he must know. Fully.
She stepped in closer to select a book, but her hip connected with the desk, knocking one to the floor. When she looked down she saw none other than Victor Hugo’s Nouvelles Odes et Poésies Diverses, published just a few years ago and a rare find. Hugo himself had received a royal pension from King Louis after writing the anthology.
Zoé’s spirits soared. It was like a dream realized to have the pages at her feet. She lowered slowly and picked up the treasure, dusting it off with her delicate hands. Her fingers stroked the olive-green leather. The binding was finished with raised floral gold embroidery. The book was as beautiful as she imagined Victor Hugo’s words would be inside.
Zoé’s heart fluttered wildly beneath her breasts. Her mouth curved into an unconscious smile, and she rose.
La Roque appeared in the doorway, looking at her curiously. She stood before the fireplace reading something he could not see. Zoé had no idea he watched her. She turned the page and began to recite in French the first passage, savoring each word.
“Well, look what the night brings,” he said.
Zoé whirled around with a jolt; the book fell from her hands. “Pardon, mon seigneur, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to –”
La Roque stepped forward. His eyes dropped to the book splayed on the floor, then lifted to Zoé’s.
She bowed her head. Her heart pounded, and her face grew hot with humiliation. La Roque knelt and picked up the book, turning it over to read the imprint on the spine. “Ah, Victor Hugo? ”
How shameful of her to be caught in one of his private rooms. Madame would be furious and certain to tell Father. Avoiding his eyes, she tried to think of an appropriate explanation. “I passed the room… and the books… mon seigneur, I was wrong to enter.”
La Roque touched her chin with the tip of his index finger, lifting her face to look into her eyes. “I’m an admirer of Hugo as well.”
She blinked at him curiously, locked in his gaze. He handed her the book. “Would you like to read it? ”
“I couldn’t.”
“I’d be offended, Mademoiselle Bouchard, if you didn’t.”
“It is a rare piece.”
La Roque chuckled softly. “I have others. In fact, I have one personally signed by Hugo. In my chamber.”
“Signed?”
“He’s a friend.” La Roque held the book out for her to accept. Zoé sucked in a breath and reached for it, the tips of their fingers meeting in the exchange.
“Merci,” she said, trying to avoid the tanned plane of his chest, exposed by his open blouse.
La R
oque looked back at the shelves. Zoé followed his gaze, admiring the collection once more.
“My mother loved to read. As do I, thanks to her.”
She studied his profile from the corner of her eye. Underneath his classically handsome features she found a hint of sadness. His voice carried the same tone her father’s did when he spoke in private of her long-dead mother.
La Roque continued to stare at his mother’s books. “The times I can remember her at her happiest was in this room with these books. I suppose it’s why I chose this room for my personal use.” He stepped forward and Zoé watched him. “It was she who taught me to read. To appreciate things of beauty.”
With the slight turn of his head, he leveled his eyes on her again, making a deep blush cover her cheeks. “What’s more beautiful than a poet’s words? I say it is the reader who understands those words.”
She pressed the book to her chest. “My mother taught me to read as well, before she died. I have her favorite book of poems.”
“Then you must let me show you my private pièce. Victor himself left a sonnet that only you can appreciate, Mademoiselle.”
“I could not.”
“It is just in the chamber beyond this one.”
“No, no, thank you. It’s very late and I am tired,” she said, trying to step around him. La Roque blocked her passage. She held on to the book but bravely raised her head to look into his face.
His gaze dipped to her breasts and below, and she was reminded that the flickering light of the fireplace revealed more than she intended due to her open robe. Pulling it shut she stepped back.
“I daresay I have never met an actual angel.” His soft voice urged her to believe him. “What if I said please? ” he asked with a theatrical pout.
She smiled, but shook her head again. “Pardon, but I must return to my room.”
“Mademoiselle…”
“Oui, mon seigneur? ”
She dropped her eyes again. Her fear now getting the best of her, she was afraid to look at him, afraid of what she might see in his eyes – afraid, too, of what he might see in hers.
