Time for Eternity

by Susan Squires

  Robespierre flushed. “I could confiscate your wells.”

  “Probably with the same result as the other enterprises you’ve confiscated. Factories are not exactly humming. Whatever would your revolutionary friends do if the water ceased to flow? As for procuring the niceties of life—you just don’t have my contacts.”

  “I’ll talk to the girl. Don’t think I won’t.”

  “Ahhh. I would never doubt that.” Henri lounged back in his chair as Robespierre stalked over to the girl, who answered his questions tearfully but with what she believed was the truth. When Robespierre turned away in disgust, all the other girl attendants crowded round her asking very particular questions about Henri’s anatomy and technique. Robespierre must have heard them, for his face grew grim.

  Henri raised his brows as Robespierre approached. “I take it I’m free to go.”

  “Yes.” The word was torn from the man’s gut.

  Henri rose. “It would be an honor to have you and Madame Croûte attend my small soirée on Wednesday. You’ll be quite the toast of the party. Celebrities of the Revolution and all.”

  “I would never attend one of your dissolute gatherings.”

  “Never say never, Citizen.” Henri lounged toward the doors, pockets bulging.

  He was in no immediate danger, but Robespierre and his cronies would be watching him a little too closely from now on. Damn. And he had a shipment to deliver next week.

  Henri shut the door to the house in Rue Lespasse in the Faubourg St. Germain with a slam. What was he thinking? That would only draw attention. That was the last thing he wanted.

  He’d thought to make his sexual urges stand down by spending himself at Madame Fontaine’s exclusive establishment. Yet when it came to the point, so to speak, he couldn’t manage. The girl had been willing enough and beautiful. He provided her pleasure and care, as always. She would have only wonderful memories of tonight. But his nerve failed him (among other things) when it came to his own satisfaction.

  He strode down the street, glowering. It was nearly dawn. His cane tapped on the cobblestone with an irritated sound. As well it might.

  Maybe it was because the prostitute fawned over him. They had no choice, did they? Maybe it was because she only went through the motions of pleasing a man. It all seemed pathetic somehow. He only accentuated his loneliness, not alleviated it by stopping in a brothel. What had he expected? He’d been alone since his mother left him. He’d never known his father. And craving love for one such as he was always a disaster.

  In any case, tonight he couldn’t do it. Mother Mary and Joseph, what was he coming to?

  Insistent tapping. Françoise lifted her head and groaned. She uncoiled herself from the wing chair, stiff in every part of her body. A bright channel of light cut across the carpet. It must be late in the day. She’d fallen asleep after many hours in fear of … something. “Come in.”

  Annette bustled into the room. “Mademoiselle,” she said breathlessly, “Make haste. La Fanchon will be here at any moment.”

  Françoise rose and tried to stretch the kinks out of her body. The last thing she wanted was to see a dressmaker. She caught sight of herself in the mirror over the dressing table. Alors, but there were circles under her eyes from not sleeping. Or maybe from crying over Madame.

  The events of yesterday poured over her. She bit her lip. She had to get out of this house. Now that she couldn’t help Madame, she must leave this place. Except there was something she had to do before she could go. She couldn’t think what. But it made her shiver.

  In any case, before she could go, she must find another situation. “I … I need to go out today, Annette.”

  “Ayyyyyy!” Annette practically wailed. “The duc, I cannot vouch for his temper if La Fanchon is kept waiting for even an instant.”

  But she wasn’t kept waiting, because the door burst open and the lady herself swept into the room. “Me, I do not wait downstairs, for the jeune fille may escape by the servants’ entrance for all I know.”

  The woman before her was petite but bursting with energy. Her impossibly high coiffure, studded with real flowers and various feathers, only contributed to the impression that she was exploding with personality. She had been a beauty once and she was still a handsome woman. And her dress … Françoise had to admire how the military epaulets enhanced the shoulders, and the decreasing bands of gold between the frogs made a vee down her bodice that only emphasized her tiny waist. She wore the colors of the Revolution in a way no revolutionary would ever consider, and that was in itself a triumph.

  “I am so sorry I missed you yesterday,” Françoise apologized. “Please don’t blame his grace. It was my fault entirely.”

  “Of that I was sure, mademoiselle. The duc he would not dare to keep me waiting.” She spoiled the effect of this announcement by winking. “I know too many of his secrets.”

  Françoise did not like to think what secrets this woman might know about Avignon.

  “And what was so important that you offended me?”

  Françoise swallowed. “I … I visited a friend who was arrested.”

  “In prison?” La Fanchon gasped.

  Well, if she thought it not fashionable to visit one’s friends, no matter how unfortunate they were, then she could just be offended. “Yes. The Conciergerie, though I had to visit several prisons to find her.” All her outrage left her. Madame was dead. She felt her eyes fill.

  “You combed the prisons for your friend?” Madame sighed. “Well, at least I am not thrown over for less than friendship in the most trying of circumstances.” She peered at Françoise. “I am sorry for your friend’s fate.”

  Fate. That word again. Françoise shook her head slowly. “But is it? Is it fate, Mademoiselle Fanchon, which takes one and leaves another? And who decides? Robespierre could have chosen a hundred others to arrest.”

  “I don’t know, child.”

  “Maybe no one decides,” Françoise whispered. “Perhaps it is … random.” She looked up. The little lady had gone still. “We would not like to believe that, would we?”

  The room froze for a moment. “No, we would not.” La Fanchon’s eyes were sympathetic. Then the dressmaker clapped her hands. “But who can know? In which case, all we can do is dress well. Now, a dressing gown for Mademoiselle? We have much to do.” She did not wait for Annette but threw open the wardrobe and began tossing peignoirs and elegant dresses out onto the floor. “Non. Non. Definitely not.” She came to the charred dress. “Quel horreur! Woman, throw this on the rag heap.” The offending dress landed in Annette’s arms.

  “With pleasure,” the maid said.

  “But … that is my only dress. Everything else I own was burned.”

  “So his grace intimated. Fanchon will provide.” She tossed Annette a silk dressing gown.

  And she whooshed out of the room, saying over her shoulder, “The yellow salon. The light is good there.”

  “Dear me,” Françoise murmured, looking after her. “A force of nature.”

  Annette had the dressing gown on in no time. The maid practically shoved her out the door and hissed, “Third door on the right.”

  Françoise tiptoed down the hall, listening to the bustle coming from behind the half-open door to the yellow salon and feeling trapped. She should be looking for a position, not being fitted for dresses. Yet, one did need to dress well to hunt for a job. One dress? Well, two dresses. Two dresses only. Françoise pushed the door open.

  The room was a hive of activity. Half a dozen assistants swarmed about, setting up a long table, opening the draperies to bathe the room in light, carrying bolts of heavy pattern cloth and stacks of fabric swatches. One set out a low platform, and another carried in a cloth dummy on a metal stand. At the center La Fanchon directed the whole like a symphony.

  “Here, here.” She motioned to the low platform. “Stand here.”

  She swept the robe off Françoise, leaving her to stand in her undergarments. No one seemed to notice
her at all.

  “Measurements,” Fanchon called. Assistants rallied round with tapes, pulling Françoise this way and that, measuring every conceivable part of her.

  Françoise was merely the object here. That freed her to look around. The room was lovely, with mirrors and big windows out to the park from the first floor of the great house. It was full of lightness and promise somehow. It seemed a long time since she had been in a room like this. Some part of her was nervous. Darkness seemed more comfortable.

  But she needed a dress before she could find a situation. Was that what she must do before she could leave this house? Or was it something else? Something worse? She pushed down the image of the sword in the evil leather bag.

  The assistants were packing up at last, having measured every part of her, held up swatches, prepared a stuffed mannequin that matched her figure.

  “I shall send over a dress until we can put together the”—here Fanchon smiled sweetly—“two day dresses you require.” Fanchon waved a hand. “My customer lost her head before she could claim it.” She glanced to Françoise’s look of horror. “Je m’excuse, mademoiselle. I do not guarantee a perfect fit, you understand, but you must have something on your back, and what is in the wardrobe in your room is hardly suitable.”

  Françoise gathered her courage. “I am not sure some of the fabrics you chose would be suitable for everyday dresses …” She faltered under Fanchon’s raised brow.

  “You question Fanchon?” The little lady raised her brows.

  “I should never do that, child.” The baritone drawl came from the shadows in the hall.

  “Your grace, what a pleasant surprise.” Fanchon motioned for the assistants to close the draperies. All Françoise could think about was that he was seeing her in her chemise. She didn’t reach for the dressing gown. The room dimmed. She could feel his eyes on her. Part of her was horrified at her boldness, and part of her was … was challenging him. And she didn’t know which part was which.

  He sauntered into the room, his dress the height of fashion except that he didn’t powder his hair or wear any patches. His eyes were glued to hers. They seemed to burn. Then they jerked away. “One may count on La Fanchon without reservation for her taste.” His tone was insouciant, in contrast to his recent expression.

  Fanchon looked from one to the other then bent to retrieve Françoise’s dressing gown. “That is one thing we have in common, Avignon. I’ve always thought Satan probably had much better style than all those angels in that dreary white.”

  Françoise took the dressing gown and, as she slid into it, a blush crept up her throat. A little late, that blush.

  “Alors, what are you waiting for?” Fanchon swept the assistants, who were standing as if transfixed by Avignon, out of the room. “We have much to do.”

  “I should like to consult with you on your way out,” Avignon murmured. He slid a glance at Françoise, who stepped off the platform so the last assistant could carry it away. Then he took Fanchon’s arm and they walked out of the room. Françoise didn’t like the stir of anger that took her as she watched Fanchon lay her other hand over the duc’s arm and look up into his eyes.

  Belatedly, it occurred to her that he had come into the room only after Mademoiselle Fanchon had ordered the draperies closed. That was odd and … interesting.

  Nine

  Henri shook himself. It was almost as if the girl had put a spell on him. Her eyes, as she stared at him, had held both ancient wisdom and … and innocence. Her limbs had been just as white, as finely formed as he’d imagined. And curse it all, he had been imagining. He should make her leave this house. He was in danger of courting disaster once again if she did not.

  But he had come away as much to speak to La Fanchon as to escape the girl.

  “Mademoiselle …”

  She raised her brows in question. “Your grace?”

  “At her first presentation tomorrow night, I want the world to be very certain that she is my ward—and nothing else. Do we understand each other?”

  Fanchon cast down her eyes, but not before he saw the speculation in them. “But of course, your grace.”

  He gestured ahead and they continued walking to the staircase. “She is an innocent, and I want her to dress that way.”

  They reached the head of the staircase. Fanchon looked up at him. The speculation was back. “How old is she, your grace?”

  Startled, Henri said, “Twenty-one, I think. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.” She stared past his shoulder down the corridor. “Only, sometimes I catch a look about her … a feeling that she is much older and more experienced. More … world-weary. No girl of twenty-one looks like that.”

  He wasn’t imagining it. The dressmaker saw it too.

  “One strives to capture the spirit of the woman in the dress one makes for her.” She tapped one finger against her lips as she thought. “Can one ignore that strange duality of innocence and experience?”

  “Mademoiselle Fanchon,” he said firmly. “À la jeune fille.”

  Fanchon seemed to come to herself. “I know. I know. It will be as you desire. And yet, would it not be a test of skill to express that complexity of character in a wardrobe?” She sighed and glanced up to Henri. “Be careful, your grace.”

  Henri waved a languid hand. What did she mean? “I? I am never careful, Fanchon.”

  She looked him over. “But I think you are. Very careful. You cultivate the bored façade. You never let any of your women near to the center of you. And you do have a center, your grace, however hard you try to conceal it. But this one …”

  He led the way down the stairs into the foyer. “This one is a charity case, nothing more. She is gently born and fallen upon hard times. I took her in with the purest of intentions.”

  Fanchon laughed. “If you want people to believe that, I suggest you stop looking at her as if she were a life preserver and you were a drowning man.”

  She did not give him a chance to retort but strode to the cluster of assistants at the door. Fanchon did not enter or leave by the servants’ entrance. At the last moment she turned. “By the way, she has given me very strict instructions to make for her only two everyday dresses. They are what she requires to make her way in the world and she does not desire to be beholden to you for more.”

  “I hope you know from whom you take your orders.”

  “Of course.” Fanchon laughed. “And I leave it to you to explain to her. Good day, your grace.” Jean opened the door and the gaggle streamed into the darkening street.

  He did not look at the girl that way. The woman was mad. Was she? Or was she too perceptive by half? She had seen the way the girl flashed between experience and innocence. Henri knew what experience could do to one only too well. What he could not remember was any feeling that the world held promise, the eagerness for experience that was the essence of innocence, and if one obtained that experience, its demise. And he knew for certain that he was death to all innocence. So all he had was his work, and that was like lighting a candle against the darkness in the pits of hell.

  Best he get to it then.

  He glanced up the stairs. How did she get that world-weary look of experience? He thought of her life as she described it. Growing up with an aunt who treated her well even if her father did not acknowledge her. That aunt dying and the girl cast upon her own resources. The life of a paid companion. Belonging neither among the other servants nor among those she served, no doubt dodging advances on all sides. Bleak prospects now that her friend had died.

  But those experiences were only a glimpse of the horrors of the world he had seen over the centuries. And they did not begin to touch the things one did, the things one became … Not enough to turn one so young into a cynic like he was, nor to grind down one’s spirit, as the world had been grinding on his spirit for nearly five hundred years.

  And yet enough so that the mere fact that she had any duality at all was remarkable. Perhaps it was her innocence that was the mir
acle. Oh, that he could learn to retrieve some eagerness for the world. Even his work could not give him that.

  He found himself climbing the stairs again, almost against his will.

  He should stay away from her. Mon Dieu, but she raised a need again in him at the mere thought of her. Why was she so different from the pathetic creature in the brothel? They were both human. By nature that made them both pathetic, doomed to die in only a few years, subject to the ravages of illness and time. He couldn’t bring himself to feel any desire in the brothel. Yet even now, his loins were heavy, thinking of the girl. His testicles tightened as he strode down the hall to the yellow salon. He hesitated, then threw open the door.

  The room was empty, dim.

  She’d taken the opportunity to escape. Was he so fearsome?

  Of course he was. He could drive a girl to suicide. He took a breath; let it out. Well, then. He’d use that image to his advantage. It would keep her away from him. He strode out of the yellow salon and down the hall. He’d go back to his room.

  And do what? Think about her? Try to ignore the erection thinking about her brought? Even now he swelled. Why did she draw him so?

  He found himself unable to pass her room. He hovered, indecisive, in front of her door.

  Damn.

  He did not knock, but opened the girl’s door unannounced.

  It was a good thing the sun was low in the sky. The draperies were open to the light. But the trees in the park across the street cast long shadows into the room. It was just bearable. Still, he squinted. The girl stood in front of the wardrobe. She whirled to face him, her eyes big.

  “What are you doing?” It was the only thing he could think to say.

  She looked puzzled. “Trying to find something to wear, your grace. Annette took away my only dress. And these others are … hardly suitable for afternoon.”