Music For My Soul

by Lauren Linwood

  Gwenith peered at her with concern. “Are ye lost, Maddie? Did ye fight with yer Mister Bouchard?”

  “No,” Madeleine said hastily. “Mister Bouchard is . . . well . . . he’s . . .” Her voice trailed off and suddenly her tears began flowing freely.

  “There, there, me girl,” the young woman said, and placed an arm around Madeleine’s waist as she balanced the squirming boy in the other. “Ye look like ye could use a friend, love.” She gave Madeleine a squeeze.

  “’Tis a long story”.” Madeleine sighed. “I find my plans have . . . changed. I’m not sure what to do, and I don’t know London very well.”

  “Some things are not even worth discussing,” Gwenith told her, looking Madeleine square in the eye. She paused a moment, and Madeleine saw she was sizing her up.

  “I’m a mummer,” Gwenith shared. “Evan and me, we travel all around the south performing our little plays. Sometimes,” she confided, “being on the road is the perfect way to forget yer troubles. Would ye care to join us? Can ye act or sing a bit?”

  Madeleine’s thoughts were in a swirl. She had nowhere to go, not a friend in all of England. She also had no way of escaping to France, at least not at the moment. Impulsively, she said, “I do sing and play the lute.”

  Gwenith looked about and frowned. “Have ye a lute?”

  Madeleine shook her head, feeling a flare of anger heat her cheeks, knowing her lute was in Lord Montayne’s hands.

  “If ye’ve money to buy one, then let’s do it and be off. We must meet up with Farley tonight, for we leave in the morning. Are ye game, Maddie Bouchard?”

  Madeleine smiled at her wearily, then said a silent thank you to God. Things were beginning to look up.

  Chapter 5

  Garrett pulled his new cloak about him as the wind suddenly gusted. The April day was gray and bleak, much like his mood. The overcast skies were threatening London with rain at any moment. He kicked Ebony lightly, spurring the horse on before the coming storm soaked them.

  He guided the steed through the tight streets that already teemed with people, though it was but eight of the clock. As he continued, a fine mist began, slowly turning into a lazy drizzle. Garrett cursed under his breath. He had hoped to reach his destination before the shower began. Now he would arrive wet and miserable, feeling as black as his soul at this moment. He pondered on his mood, which had been dark since they’d reached London. Or rather, as Ashby had pointed out, since just before they’d come upon the city.

  Lady Montayne. The vision of the woman calling herself thus invaded his private musings. He had tried to shake off her image over the last two days with no luck. She came to him at the oddest times, when he least expected it.

  Why was he so taken with a stranger? Especially one whose true name he didn’t even know? He closed his eyes briefly, and she appeared again. He could see those deep amethyst eyes that dominated her face. The flawless skin, the delicate bone structure, the generous mouth that wove her outlandish tales, were all too real.

  And the feel of her. Garrett remembered how little she weighed, despite her height, which was taller than any woman he’d seen. She’d fit quite nicely against him once she’d fallen asleep in the saddle.

  Garrett cursed again and opened his eyes. The picture of the mystery woman dissolved, leaving him to wonder again why she plagued him so. He thought back to his conversation with Ashby the previous day.

  “You’re coming out of your mourning for Lynnette, Garrett,” Ashby reminded him. “You’re ready to live again. ‘Tis simple enough to see. You’ve met an exceptionally attractive woman and you were drawn to her.” Ashby shrugged nonchalantly, which infuriated Garrett.

  “I’ve had plenty of women since Lynnette’s leaving,” he told his friend bluntly.

  “Aye, Garrett, but you’ve not gotten close to any one of them. ‘Twas nothing more than a quick roll in the hay—sometimes literally.” Ashby laughed, amused by his own clever reply.

  Garrett suspected Ashby was right. He’d changed when his wife had disappeared. He did everything possible to keep busy, the better to have no time to think. To feel. Driven in all he did.

  He’d thrown himself into the management of his estate in England and the vineyards he owned in France, even taking his first trip the previous year to the Bordeaux area. He had learned more about wines during his month in France than he would have thought possible. Robert Bouchard, who oversaw the Montayne family estates in France, had proven to be reliable and knowledgeable. His son, Pierre, had even more expertise. By the time Garrett came home, he could list all the fine intricacies of a Cabernet Sauvignon and a Merlot.

  Unfortunately, he had turned to his cups lately, drinking more heavily when the headaches came upon him, as much to numb the throbbing in his head as to ease the pain in his heart.

  Now, some strange woman had come about and intrigued him with her beauty and her spinning of yarns, and suddenly he felt alive again, wondering what new story she’d invent once they reached London and she didn’t know where the Montayne family home lay.

  And then she’d cheated him by vanishing without a trace. Garrett suspected the smith’s wife had known more than she’d let on, but short of beating the woman into a confession, he’d been helpless. Despite his reputation, he had never struck a woman, and so he and Ashby had pressed on to London without their female companion.

  Garrett arrived at Lord Fenton’s, the gentleman who’d introduced him to Henri de Picassaret. He dismounted and handed Ebony’s reins to a young lad, who gazed at the steed with admiration.

  Garrett ran his fingers through his damp hair and hurried up to the shelter of Fenton’s home. A pretty blond maid answered his knock and led him down a long corridor. Normally, Garrett would enjoy the sway of her hips, but she wasn’t the blond female who weighed on his mind. He was glad he’d left Ashby behind in his shipping offices, for this comely wench would have distracted his friend from the business at hand.

  The servant showed him to a cozy room, complete with lit fire. He slipped his cloak off and tossed it aside, taking a seat near the fireplace. He stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. The heat quickly warmed him, slowly moving from his booted feet up his chilled limbs.

  A servant entered and Garrett recognized him from his previous dealings with de Picassaret, although he couldn’t recall the retainer’s name.

  In stilted English, the stout man said, “Monsieur de Picassaret has been detained, my lord. He will arrive shortly. May I get anything for you?”

  Garrett shook his head. “No, thank you.”

  The man nodded and left, leaving the door ajar. Garrett heard him pause in the hallway and begin speaking rapidly in French.

  Garrett could not follow the entire conversation. The words came quickly, spoken more as the French did in the north. Still, he was able to ascertain that Henri was terribly angry. Something about plans being ruined and responsibility being questioned.

  Frustrated at his lack of understanding, Garrett closed his eyes and imagined himself back in Bordeaux, the lazy sunshine of the south permeating his being. Speech there was more melodic and not nearly as rapid. Garrett had picked up much of the language while there. Unfortunately, he had rare opportunities to use it since he despised any time spent at court, so he’d lost his command of it since returning home to England.

  Eventually, he heard sharp steps approaching and he sat up quickly. Henri de Picassaret strode in. Garrett was shocked by his appearance.

  The man had aged half a score since they’d met the previous year in France. Henri’s skin was even paler than before, and deep wrinkles now lined his face. His ice blue eyes were bloodshot, as though he hadn’t slept for several nights. His iron gray hair had a dull cast to it. Always lean despite his extended belly, he now seemed gaunt. As usual, his thin mouth was set in a tight line.

  Garrett rose and offered his hand. Henri shook it perfunctorily. Both men took seats across from one another.

  He
nri spoke first. “I hear that your wife ran off, Montayne.” His eyes flicked rapidly over Garrett, who sat stunned by the Frenchman’s opening remark.

  Garrett stood abruptly, his fists clenched. He fought to keep his anger from erupting at the older man’s cruel words. “That topic, de Picassaret, is not open for discussion. Good day.”

  Garrett moved to leave, but Henri stood and clutched his arm tightly. For such a frail—looking man, his strength was surprising.

  “No, my apologies, monsieur. I was thoughtless. I am sure that you grieve for your lost wife.”

  Garrett was slightly mollified but did not take his chair.

  “Come,” Henri said, his tone now conciliatory. “Let us not talk of wives when there is business to conduct.” He paused. “I merely heard that an acquaintance’s wife had run off. The man is beside himself and has no idea where to begin looking.” He offered Garrett an apologetic smile. “I thought you might advise me, for my friend, since you have experienced something similar.”

  Garrett s glared at Henri. “Some things are best left private,” he said, his mouth set. They stared at each other for several moments before taking their seats.

  Henri opened the discussion again. “I am ready to offer you an unusual business proposal, Lord Montayne.” Henri’s eyes glittered. “It is one that you must accept immediately, however, for I am to return to my home shortly.”

  “What do you propose?”

  Henri smiled. “I would like to go into a partnership with you, mon ami. You have a good head for the business, and you know wine. Your vineyards in Bordeaux regularly bring in a profit.”

  “’Tis true, my family has been in the wine business for many years now. What kind of partnership do you seek?”

  “I know you trade your wines not only in England, but also ship to the Hanseatic ports and the Low Countries. I would like my champagnes to go also to these places.”

  Garrett raised his eyebrows. “On my ships?”

  Henri nodded. “In exchange for our wines traveling to their destinations together, I would give you control of one—fifth of my vineyards outside Reims for a period of ten years.”

  Garrett frowned. “I would own part of your vineyard in exchange for your champagne accompanying my wines? Do I understand you correctly?”

  “Yes, you have grasped the essence of my offer. We can work out the details, of course, at a later date.” Henri waited for Garrett’s reply, but Garrett rose and began to pace around the room, his hands locked behind him.

  He stopped abruptly. “I know little to nothing about champagne and really have no inclination to begin now. I rarely travel to Bordeaux as it is. Reims is far away from my home. Why do you suggest this?”

  Henri shrugged in the typical Gallic manner, a shrug that could encompass many things. “It would open up new markets for my champagnes, of course. You have a large fleet, and it is well—protected.” Henri grinned. “You also have a reputation for getting the best prices available, my lord. You seem to squeeze more gold from the traders than anyone in all of England.”

  Garrett nodded. He knew that to be correct. He drove a hard bargain, as did his managers. His family was much better off in the years since he had been in charge of their finances.

  Henri shifted in his chair. “Naturally, I would not expect you to care for the vines. I would look out for your portion of the champagne vineyards as if they were still my own. You’d simply have to transport the wine, along with my own stock, and collect the profits.”

  He looked expectantly at Garrett. “Then we are in agreement?”

  Something kept Garrett from rushing ahead. The proposition appeared simple on the surface. In regard to business, he was a patient man. He’d never leapt into any transaction without more information. He would not start now.

  “Your proposition is intriguing, my lord,” he said as he returned to his chair. “I could be interested in entering the champagne trade. But I hesitate.”

  Henri appeared startled, as if he’d assumed Garrett would immediately accept his idea without question.

  Before he could speak, Garrett added, “I have never undertaken something so vast quite so suddenly. I would first have to see your vineyards.”

  Henri appeared taken aback. “But why, monsieur? They are impeccably kept. My secret recipe for adding the cultured yeasts and sugar yield the finest champagnes in all of France! You have drunk of my champagne. You know it to be the best.”

  “’Tis quite fine, de Picassaret, I’ll agree with you. I simply need more time to study the situation and learn more about champagne.”

  “Impossible!” Henri sputtered. “I want an answer from you today, this minute!” His voice rose as his complexion mottled bright scarlet. “You must give me an answer now. I insist!”

  Henri reached over and grasped the arms of Garrett’s chair in his hands. He leaned close, spittle flying, and demanded, “Now! I want you as my partner now! I want this settled before I sail for France.”

  Garrett remained composed as Henri hovered inches from him. His voice was low when he responded, but his tone was deadly. “Remove your hands from this chair, monsieur, or they will be removed from your wrists.”

  Henri stared at him blankly for a moment. Slowly, he released the chair and stepped back. He seemed uncertain of where he was. Garrett was afraid the man had gone mad before his very eyes. What else could explain such bizarre behavior?

  The manservant rushed into the room. Garrett wondered how much of their conversation he’d heard.

  “I am sorry, my lord,” he addressed Garrett, even as he went to Henri and put an arm about him. “My master has been under much strain lately.”

  Henri looked at Garrett with clearer eyes now. “Lord Montayne, consider my offer. If you wish to come to Chateau Maraine to inspect my vineyards, you would be most welcome. I sail for France the day after tomorrow.”

  He turned to his servant. “Come, Bertrand, we must go to mass again. There is much I wish to discuss with God.”

  The pair left the room, leaving Garrett puzzled by such odd behavior.

  Garrett retraced his steps and exited Lord Fenton’s home, reclaiming Ebony from the stable boy. As he mounted, Garrett wondered about the state of Henri de Picassaret’s mind. Had he witnessed a spell of madness? Why had de Picassaret become so unhinged when Garrett had refused to act immediately? He had noticed the Frenchman was a bit high-strung in the past, but today he had been truly unbalanced for a few minutes.

  Garrett pondered over their meeting as he headed for his London home. A steady rain fell and showed no sign of letting up. Soon he was soaked to the skin, cold, and irritable. The pounding in his head began a constant beat. He couldn’t wait to arrive. A drink would do him wonders.

  He spotted her a few short blocks from his destination. He could not be mistaken. She wore a simple tunic of brown cloth, but her head was uncovered. A long braid of golden hair trailed down her back. Carrying a heavy basket balanced on one hip, she trudged along the uneven street. He wondered briefly if she’d sold his cloak.

  “Lady Montayne!” he called out as he leapt off Ebony. “Wait!” He rushed to her, grabbing her elbow.

  The woman started and her basket fell from her grasp. Apples rolled all along the muddy street. Garrett stared into brown eyes filled with fear, not the amethyst ones that had haunted his dreams.

  “’Twas my mistake,” he quickly apologized. “I thought you someone else.” He released the stranger’s arm. The woman backed away. She then looked out over all the apples spilled from her basket. Her lip quivered.

  Garrett realized how precious the fruit must have been to her. He removed a few coins from his purse. “My fault entirely, madam. Will you accept payment for the damage I have done?”

  He took her hand and placed the coins into her palm. Surprise flooded her face, and she looked at him in wonder.

  “Thank ‘ee, milord.” Her voice quivered as she spoke.

  He bowed to her and remounted Ebony.


  Was he going as crazy as Henri de Picassaret? Or had he been bewitched?

  Chapter 6

  Madeleine couldn’t have spent a happier two months. She genuinely liked all members in the troupe of mummers she had fallen in with, thinking of them now as family. Being with this large group gave her a taste of a life unlike she’d ever known before. She said a quick “Hail Mary” to thank her Dear Lord for sending Gwenith into her path.

  The June heat was oppressive, though, and it wasn’t even noon yet as she rested from her duties in the shade of a tree. Madeleine reached around, lifting her long braid high, and used it to fan the back of her neck. The slight breeze gave her momentary relief. She dropped her hair and started to turn, but she stopped in her tracks when her braid remained aloft. For a moment, icy fear swept through her. Images of Henri crowded her head, and blinding panic pushed all else from her consciousness.

  Then she slowly relaxed as a familiar laugh floated on the air behind her. Whirling, her braid now freed, she caught a glimpse of Royce, a fellow member of the mummers’ troupe, ducking behind the mature oak tree that had provided her shade for the past ten minutes. Silently, she crept toward the huge, gnarled trunk and melted into its side.

  She moved quietly around the tree, stretched across the far side, then reached out and goosed him in the ribcage. He let out a yelp and wheeled around.

  “You don’t play fair, Madeleine,” he said, his eyes teasing her.

  “And you do, Royce? Shame on you.” She shook her finger at him comically, much as she remembered from her childhood how Cook had done when a scullery maid displeased her.

  The thought of home and her youth gave her pause and she felt the smile slide from her face. She fell silent, an aching lump lodged in her throat.

  Royce must have noticed the change in her, for he took her elbow in his hand and moved her quickly along.

  “Come, wench, we have need of sustenance. I can smell the hot chewets floating along the breeze.”