by Jade Lee
"You cannot be serious," she gasped.
"On the contrary, I am quite serious. And so were they."
Then he abruptly moved over so he could pull her stiff form into his arms. She resisted at first, but it was only a token protest and they both knew it. She needed his touch right now, needed to feel that someone cared.
"Fantine, the only reason they accept me is that you brought me here."
"You do not know that."
"I do. Nameless said so quite explicitly."
She did not know how to answer. "I suppose I was being foolish," she said softly.
He shook his head, then reached over and turned her face to his. "For the first time, you have shown me that something is important to you. The boys are important to you, as you are to them. I am honored you would trust me with such knowledge."
Fantine averted her eyes. She had not realized she had revealed so much or that he would be so astute at seeing it. But now that she had, she did not regret it. He would not hurt the boys.
As for hurting her, it had already begun.
Because at that moment she realized she loved him.
Chapter 14
He felt her stiffen in his arms, heard the catch of her breath. Marcus tried not to groan, wondering what he had said wrong now. She was such an unpredictable woman, angry one moment, giddy the next, and now, from the sound of her breathing, she seemed nearly panic-stricken.
"I must go," she said softly.
"What?"
"I have to go."
"But why? And where?"
But there was no more time. She was already out of his arms, flinging open the carriage door and jumping out of the moving vehicle.
He scrambled forward, grabbing hold of the sides as Jacob drew tight on the reins.
"Fantine!" he cried, but there was no answer. Only the dark shadows of buildings outlined by the moon. He twisted, searching for Jacob's dark silhouette. "Where did she go?"
The form shrugged. "Could be anywheres in this lot. Good thing I was going slow or she might 'ave 'urt 'erself."
Marcus shook his head. "I do not understand."
"Aye, guv. That is just wot me wife says."
"About me?"
"About men."
"Damn!" He slammed his fist against the carriage hard enough to startle the horses. Then he stepped down, still scanning the darkness for some hint of her form. "Do you know I stood in the alley for three hours, three bloody hours, waiting for her. And now she runs off!"
"Aye."
"It makes no sense. She makes no sense."
"Aye."
Marcus sighed. There was nothing to see out here, nothing that would tell him where she had gone. "We should leave. She is more than capable of handling herself."
Jacob did not answer.
"You do not think she hurt herself? Jumping out like that?"
"She be more agile than a cat, yer lordship. She's not hurt."
"True," Marcus agreed. But that did not stop him from worrying. And wondering. Why had she run off?
Eventually, he chose to climb up on top with his coachman, his gaze constantly scanning the darkness. "We will wait here for a bit. Just in case."
"Very well," Jacob answered as he offered up a brandy flask.
Marcus accepted it with a grateful smile, taking a long pull before handing it back. "Tell me what else your wife says."
Jacob grinned. "I will try, but I cannot think it will make sense to anyone but 'er."
Marcus nodded and reached for the flask again. "Women."
* * *
In the end, they waited for over an hour. They waited long after the brandy was gone. Long enough for the horses to get restless and for a fine drizzle to begin.
But not long enough for Fantine to come back.
"I guess we best be getting home," Marcus finally said. "It is too cold to sit out here. And it is not good for the horses."
"Aye," answered Jacob, but he did not take up the reins.
"No, I mean it this time."
"Aye." But still they sat there.
"Go ahead. I have a better brandy for us at home."
That was all his man needed. Jacob had them moving at a spanking pace before Marcus could change his mind.
Still, he had to check one last place before he became thoroughly cup-shot. "But take me to my sister's home first."
Though Jacob tried to stifle it, Marcus heard the man's groan.
"One little stop," Marcus said. "I swear. Then you may have a full bottle of my best brandy."
"One little stop," Jacob grumbled, as much to himself as to Marcus. "One little stop an' we will be waiting there for 'er too. Hours and hours while me nice bed gets colder an' colder."
In the end, Marcus had to promise the man a full bottle of brandy and ten of his best cigars before Jacob would stop grumbling. He did not mind the sacrifice. He knew Jacob was right about how long they would have to wait. But despite everything he told himself, he could not go to bed without first knowing Fantine was safe.
It was not until they finally arrived at his sister's home that he realized disaster had struck. The house was ablaze with lights and commotion. Servants scurried about carrying in luggage from a very distinctive coach.
Staring at it, Marcus had to accept the brutal truth.
Fantine was not safe. She was, in fact, in more danger than she ever had been before.
His mother had arrived.
He cursed with singular determination and fluency, but it did nothing to ease his mind or illuminate what he most wanted to know. Had Fantine returned to her bedchamber? There had been ample time for her to walk home, but only if she went directly here with little wandering.
There was only one solution, much though he hated to admit it. One way to check on Fantine without alarming his mother. He had to climb the wall to Fantine's chamber. If she were there, then everything was well. If not, then he would have to distract his mother long enough for Fantine to come to her senses and return.
"Best go on home, Jacob," he said with a sigh as he dropped to the ground. "I do not approve of servants watching their employers make fools of themselves."
"I could close me eyes," he offered with a grin.
"Go home, Jacob," he said dryly, then watched as his coachman set off at a brisk trot toward a warm, dry bed. His own destination was the small patch of mud beneath Fantine's window.
It was difficult to slip around to the back of the house without being seen by the many servants still hauling his mother's baggage. He had to walk down the street, then come up the back row, cursing the cold and the mud and women in general. By the time he made it to the back of his sister's house, he was thoroughly disgruntled.
"Fantine," he called softly as he scanned her dark window.
Nothing.
He sighed. He dared not call louder, but he had to see if she was up there. That meant climbing the wall.
Putting one hand to the ivy, he began to pull himself up. Unfortunately, the leaves were damp and his boots were not suited to finding toeholds where there were none. With a muffled curse, he dropped back down to the ground and stripped off his footwear. Then, with another heartfelt curse, he began to climb.
He made it to her window despite the wet leaves that kept slapping him in the face. Then he twisted his large frame into position on her very narrow windowsill and leaned down to open the window.
It did not budge.
He worked harder, nearly lost his footing, and still nothing. It was locked.
He did not know whether to scream in frustration or kick through the window in anger. In the end, he did neither. He grabbed hold of two solidly placed bits of greenery, planted his feet on the sill, and stuck his buttocks far out over the ground. The position was undignified, but it allowed him to push his face against the window to peer inside.
Someone had to have locked the window. He could only hope it was Fantine. Pressing his cheek against the freezing pane he frowned. He thought he saw movement ins
ide, but he could not be positive.
"Fantine!" he called again. "Fantine!" Then, he took the ultimate risk. He released one hand and used it to tap lightly on the glass.
The response was immediate. A dark shadow moved and came directly to the window. Then, before he could catch hold, the window flew open and he came face-to-face with his own mother.
"Marcus!"
"Moth—aieeee!"
It was not his fault. Even with one hand, he was in a stable position on the sill. Except the vine that anchored him chose that moment to pull away from the wall. And though he gripped it with all his strength, it was still wet and it slid right out of his hand. In the end, the vine merely slowed his descent.
He fell. Painfully. Twisting his ankle in the mud, then slipping onto his behind with a final, undignified splat. And all the while, his mother watched him, an expression of horror on her face.
"Marcus! Are you quite insane?"
"Yes, Mother," he groaned from his position, flat and spread-eagled on the ground.
"Are you hurt?"
"Yes, Mother. But not seriously."
"Well!" she huffed.
Then Marcus looked up to see Fantine, wearing a high-necked, canary gown, poke her head out beside his mother.
"You see, Fantine," his mother said, "even the best of families have at least one odd fish." Then they both pulled back into the room and shut the window with a resounding snap.
Marcus would have gone home right then and there if he could have. He would have crawled on his hands and knees if need be, but there was no opportunity for escape. The servants, alerted by his scream, scrambled outside, each one to gawk and pretend to assist him to his feet. When he found he could not move without groaning, they immediately lifted him up and carried him inside, gingerly depositing him in the parlor settee as if he were some crazy great-uncle. In fact, he nearly bared his teeth and growled at them just to see them scurry.
He would have if his mother had not chosen that moment to sail into the room, disappointment clear on her face.
"Very well, Marcus, acquaint me with the particulars. How desperately are you injured? Will you be able to dance? Can you stand? If you cannot escort us tomorrow night, I must know immediately so as to find your replacement. Your father will not be in town for another two weeks at the earliest, so tell me now if you intend to leave me in the lurch."
Marcus waited, making sure she had indeed finished speaking. When she spun back around, staring at him impatiently, he deigned to answer. "You are looking quite lovely this evening."
She did, in fact, appear magnificent. Though a somewhat stout woman, she carried her weight with grace and style. Her dark traveling gown was stately despite the wrinkles, and her pinned white hair was still striking.
"Marcus!"
"Hmm? Oh, I was merely admiring your new hairstyle. Last time I saw you, you were still doing that..." He gestured toward his ears. "Ringlet thing. I much prefer this."
His mother gaped at him, her jaw slack. Then suddenly, she spun on her heel and threw open the parlor door. "Lottie! Lottie, come quick! He has lost his wits!" Then she came back and settled beside him on the settee, the whoosh of her skirts nearly enough to topple him over the arm.
Marcus merely grinned, knowing that at last he had accomplished his task. His mother's statement would no doubt rouse the entire household, including Fantine. He would be able to see her and finally judge for himself if she was all right.
At their mother's command, Lottie came rushing in, closely followed by her husband. Both she and Christopher looked hastily dressed and somewhat bleary-eyed, but both were able to nod in his direction. He smiled congenially back.
"Sorry about the ivy and the mud," he said, gesturing to the soiled settee and his filthy bare feet.
"Not at all, not at all," boomed his brother-in-law with a welcoming smile. "Brandy?"
"Please."
Lottie rushed over to him, brushing some of the mud off his face with her handkerchief. "Really, Chris, brandy? I do not think that is at all wise."
"Nonsense," returned her husband. "Seems like the perfect response to having a muddy, barefoot man in one's parlor. Come to think of it, sounds like the perfect response if one is the barefoot muddy chap, right, old boy?"
"Right," responded Marcus, but his eyes were still on the parlor door. Where was Fantine?
"He is frozen through!" gasped his mother, as she pressed her hand to his cheek. Unfortunately, the lace of her sleeve tickled his nose, and he was forced to release a prodigious sneeze. "He has taken a chill! Quick, we must warm him."
"Absolutely," cut in Christopher in his booming voice. "Your brandy—"
"Thank you—"
"Brandy!" gasped his mother. "We need blankets and boiling water for his feet."
"And tonic," continued Lottie, gesturing to the butler.
"Tonic!" snorted his brother-in-law. "Bother, but that is nasty stuff. Here, Marcus, have some more brandy."
"Much obliged," Marcus answered as Chris topped off his glass.
"Thank heaven," exclaimed his mother, as the butler preceded a veritable army of servants carrying blankets and hot water. "Lottie, help me take care of his feet—"
"Yes, Mother—"
"And what kind of tonic is it?" his mother continued without pause. "Pray, not that vile potion I sent you last year? It killed the rooster, you know. Cook gave him just a spoonful...."
Marcus never truly listened to his mother. Not closely at least, but her words faded into nothing when he saw Fantine step into the room. She still wore the demure canary gown. In fact, it was the very brightness of the fabric that caught his attention in the first place. But what robbed him of speech was something entirely different.
She looked terrible. Quite dull, in fact.
Her eyes were keen as they took in the scene. Lottie was at his feet carefully smearing the mud on his toes. His mother nearly stretched across his lap as she buried him beneath three heavy blankets. His brother-in-law stood two steps away, trying hard to stifle his laughter in his brandy glass.
But though she seemed to see the tableau, she did not react to it. Instead, she settled quietly into a comer, folded her hands into her lap, and lowered her head.
Something was most definitely wrong.
He leaned forward, trying to catch her gaze, but it was lowered to her lap. He had to do something.
Pushing away his mother, he stripped off the blankets.
"Marcus—"
"Hush, Mother. I am quite well," he said curtly, then stepped over his sister, set aside the brandy, and went directly to Fantine. "But are you?" he asked as he knelt before her.
It took an agonizingly long time for her to look at him. Then, when she did, her eyes were wide and confused, as if she was torn between fear and panic.
The sight alarmed him. He did not know what to do or say, especially since the wrong word might send her fleeing.
"I am quite well, my lord." Her voice was soft, cultured, and so restrained as to be almost nonexistent. Definitely not what he had come to expect from her. "It is kind of you to ask."
Marcus frowned, his fear escalating. "You do not sound at all fine. You sound..." He could not find the correct word. "So... demure."
She tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. She could have been any of a hundred different society girls, just another face in the crowd of debutantes. "I am behaving inappropriately?"
"Yes!" Then he shook his head. "I mean, no, but—"
"Stop it, Marcus!" his mother cut in. "You are upsetting the girl!"
Marcus shifted to stare at his mother. "Me? I upset Fantine?" The thought boggled his mind. But one look at Fantine's face, and he knew it was true. He did frighten her. And he had not the least clue why.
Then his mother was standing before him, her hands on her hips, her expression as severe as he had ever seen before. "Exactly what are your intentions here, Marcus?"
He shifted to look at her, but the movement
strained his injured ankle, and for the second time that night, he fell flat on his behind with a rather loud thud. His mother merely stepped forward, as much the protective hen as ever. "Come, Marcus. Surely this is not a difficult question. Exactly what are your intentions regarding Miss Drake?"
He frowned, momentarily forgetting that Drake was Fantine's new surname. Then, when he did remember, he glanced at her, looking for help. But there was nothing to see, no expression on her face.
"Marcus!"
"I have no intentions whatsoever!" he snapped, not really knowing what he said. His only thought was to pacify his mother so that he could concentrate on Fantine. "I am concerned for Fantine's well-being. She is not acting right."
"Nonsense," his mother returned. "She is behaving perfectly."
Marcus shook his head. "No, you do not understand."
"On the contrary, I believe I do. Lottie tells me you want her as your mistress."
There was no safe means of responding to this statement, so Marcus remained silent, choosing to shoot his sister an angry glare. She merely shrugged while Christopher silently refilled Marcus's brandy glass.
"Well, you cannot have her," continued his mother undaunted. "We are bringing her out. That makes her a well-bred young lady in all respects, whether or not she is technically a bastard."
"Mother!" Marcus exclaimed. He could not help himself, as he glanced fearfully at Fantine.
"Do not feign worry now, my boy," she continued. "Fantine has been most honest with us."
"Fantine was honest?" The words slipped out without his conscious thought, and he regretted them almost immediately.
"Of course she was! Shame on you for even thinking that she would not be! Really, I am most disappointed in you."
Marcus had no response to this except to take his brandy glass from Christopher.
"Now you listen to me, young man, and you listen well. Despite her parentage, Fantine is a well-bred young lady. She will not be anyone's mistress, least of all yours. She is here for her coming-out, sponsored by me. There will be no more midnight climbs up to her window, no more furtive glances or attempts to be private with her. Whatever your political or private motivation, you have asked Lottie and me to bring her out, and we will. As of this instant, your responsibilities are at an end."
