He realized that he was staring at her quite openly when her blush deepened. He hurried to steer the conversation away from this topic. “Tell me what it’s like to grow up in an abbey.”
Her brows arched as she studied him. “I suppose there is nothing unusual about it to me, for I know nothing else. I would not know what might possibly interest you, unless I knew more about your upbringing.”
Simon grinned. Joan was clever and beautiful. “My story is much like any other young man’s who inherits his family’s estate. Plenty of family secrets, a series of tragic deaths, and even a curse to overcome.”
Joan’s eyes widened, then her brows snapped together. “The tragic deaths you are referring to were your parents?” she asked, her face pinking again.
“Yes,” Simon answered, giving her a sad smile. “It’s been many years now, and I am quite used to my lot in life. As you see, we have something in common, Joan.”
“We do?” she said, her expression troubled.
“We are both orphans.”
“We are,” Joan whispered. She met his gaze, her eyes a deeper blue than before. “I am sorry for your loss.”
Simon had been offered condolences many a time, but Joan had suffered a similar loss in her life, and, therefore, he felt that her compassion was more sincere. “And I am sorry for yours.”
Joan gave a small shake of her head. “Thank you, but I cannot see how we are on equal footing as you suggest. I never knew my parents.”
He straightened from the tree and took another couple of steps toward her. Instinctively, and not thinking of any possible consequences, he grasped her hand. “Your loss is still great, Mademoiselle.” He bent over her hand and kissed the soft skin.
She didn’t move, didn’t even seem to take a breath. He looked up at her, fearing he’d offended her somehow.
Her eyes were luminous and her lips parted... in surprise? Simon straightened and reluctantly released her hand.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice a throaty whisper. Then she turned from him, gathered her skirts and stepped over the low wall separating the two properties.
Simon was too stunned that she was leaving to call out to her. Instead, he watched her move through the trees on the other side, eventually disappearing, the dark blue of her dress blending into the approaching twilight.
Chapter Four
Joan waited to run until she was sure Simon Rousseau could not see her through the trees, that is, if he were watching her at all. But she hadn’t heard hoofbeats, so she knew he wasn’t astride his horse yet.
Once she cleared the grove, she ran straight for the barn. Her heart pounded with a fierceness she hadn’t known was possible. Not to mention the sure flame of her cheeks and neck. She was only grateful that the nuns weren’t in the yard this time of the evening. They were probably gathering for the meal, which meant she would soon be missed.
But Joan couldn’t face anyone just yet. Not until she had her emotions in check. She pushed through the rickety barn door, startling the lazing cows. They eyed her for a moment with their soulful eyes, then turned back to their feed.
She shut the barn door and leaned against it, pressing her hand to her chest. She’d never spoken to a man for so long before, nor had one shown her such compassion... and interest. She had been literally caught spying on Simon. Had he suspected that she’d been spying on him for months?
She closed her eyes and reviewed their conversation in its entirety. Soon, Joan found herself smiling, and allowing her thoughts to break down the barriers that stood between them. If she had been born into a prosperous family, then she would have been considered his equal in status and rank. But, as it was, even though they were both orphans, their lives would remain vastly different.
Then she remembered. He’d spoken about a curse. Whenever she had questioned the nuns about the Rousseau family curse, the nuns had only said, “’Tis bad luck to speak of it.”
Now that Simon had so openly mentioned the curse, Joan’s curiosity was magnified. With her heart rate calm and her face cool, she left the barn and headed toward the abbey. She slipped in through the back door that led to the kitchen.
Sister Laurette looked up from the oven, where she was pulling out hot bread. Her brows lifted at Joan’s entrance. “Well?” she asked. “How did your visit with Simon Rousseau go?”
Joan’s mouth nearly dropped open. “I— I didn’t...” she began, but she didn’t know how to reply or how to explain.
“You can’t fool me,” Sister Laurette continued, using a cloth to move the bread from the hot pan to a basket. “Your eyes are bright, your skin’s pink, and you look like a woman who has a secret.”
Joan released a sigh and moved to pull the second pan of bread out of the oven. The heat from the embers didn’t help conceal her flushed face. At the moment, it was just she and Sister Laurette in the kitchen, but that could change at any moment. The cadence of many female voices floated into the kitchen from the dining room.
“He was very kind,” she said quietly.
Sister Laurette smiled and nodded as if she didn’t expect anything less.
Joan slid the bread into the basket. “He told me there was a curse—”
“Hush!” Sister Laurette hissed, then picked up the basket. She cast a warning look at Joan before she hurried from the room to serve the sisters.
Joan followed Sister Laurette more slowly, carrying a second basket of bread. The warm scent reached her nose, making her realize how hungry she was. She sat down with the nuns, and after prayers were said, she began to eat. But after a few bites, she couldn’t eat anymore, and she couldn’t stop thinking about meeting Simon Rousseau and all that he’d told her.
Tonight she would take time for personal reflection, and Joan found a way to slip outside again without anyone observing her. She walked past the barn and set off along the lane that led to the main road. The sun had set, but there was still plenty of orange and gold splashed across the sky. With no wind, the temperature was absolutely perfect.
“Joan!” someone called out.
She turned toward the abbey and saw Sister Laurette coming. “It will be dark soon.”
“Not for another thirty minutes,” Joan said. “Besides, I just want to walk to the end of the lane.” At the look of suspicion in the woman’s gaze, Joan added, “I’m not meeting anyone if that’s what you think.”
Sister Laurette blew out a breath. “Of course you aren’t. Meeting Simon Rousseau was just happenstance.”
Joan smiled. “Of course.”
Sister Laurette smiled back and linked her arm with Joan’s. “We’ll make it a quick walk. I don’t want anyone to worry about us.”
They set out at a good stride, and Joan appreciated the cooling air. It invigorated her thoughts. They had neared the end of the lane, where it joined up with the main road to the village, when the sound of an approaching rider reached them.
For some reason, Joan halted to watch the horse. It was clearly a tall man, and even more clearly not Simon. This man had white hair and wore a dark cloak that billowed behind him as he rode.
“Oh! It’s...” Sister Laurette started.
“Who is it?” Joan said, but Sister Laurette never got a chance to say because the horse suddenly veered toward them, as if the rider had lost control.
The man jerked on the reins, and the horse raised up.
Joan scrambled backward, pulling Sister Laurette out of the way. She lost her footing, and fell just as the horse’s hooves came down, narrowly missing Joan.
The man was yelling something, at the horse, or at the women, Joan didn’t know. But the horse seemed spooked beyond reason, despite the efforts by the rider to calm it.
Joan scrambled to her feet and helped Sister Laurette to hers. Then, the horse reared up a third time, throwing the man to the ground. Everything happened quickly, yet it seemed slowly enough that Joan would always remember how the man thudded to the ground, landing on his back, and how the horse twisted, then
landed on top of the man.
“No!” Joan cried out. She propelled herself forward, rushing toward the man.
The man yelled and tried to push the horse off of him. Joan was relieved the man was still alive, but surely he needed urgent aid.
“Help!” Joan called to Sister Laurette, who caught up with her. They tried to push and prod the horse to get off the man, but it wouldn’t budge.
She turned toward the man, frantic. “The horse won’t move, what should we do?”
His wild gaze focused on her and, for a moment, Joan had the strange sensation that she knew the man. But that was impossible. She’d never seen him before. She expected him to tell her how to move the horse off of him, but then his eyes widened.
“You! You are dead!” he said in a hoarse voice. “Am I dead too?”
“No,” Joan said. “We’re going to help you.”
“Don’t touch me!” the man shouted, clearly delirious. But his next words sent a sharp chill through Joan. “You are the very devil returned to curse me.”
Chapter Five
The days since the accident were filled with a dull numbness until Joan couldn’t tell them apart. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed since she’d been yelled at by the injured man on the road. The look of his wild eyes stayed in her mind, and his words wouldn’t leave her thoughts. What had happened after the man had told her not to touch him was still unclear.
She remembered Sister Laurette grasping her arm. A carriage stopping. Two men working to move the horse. The same two men carrying the injured man, who still shouted at her about how she was supposed to be dead.
Joan blinked back tears as she moved from one chore to the next. The chickens in the south yard clucked and pecked around her feet as she sprinkled feed onto the ground. What had she done to make the man on the road so angry with her? Sister Laurette said that he was in too much pain to be in his right mind and that he would have shouted at anyone so.
But Joan knew there was something more. What about the sense she had felt that she’d met the man before? When Sister Laurette said he was Monsieur Belrose, Joan couldn’t imagine how she’d ever think she’d know someone like him— the village recluse. Perhaps he was as mad as the rumors claimed.
“Joan, there you are!” Sister Eloise’s reedy voice rang out.
Joan was abruptly pulled out of her melancholy thoughts. She turned to see Sister Eloise hurrying toward her, bent slightly forward like a long piece of grass in the wind. Sister Laurette was a few paces behind, breathing heavy from her rush.
Joan’s chest constricted. Had something terrible happened to one of the nuns?
“You’re wanted in the main hall,” Sister Eloise said.
“It’s a servant from the Belrose estate,” Sister Laurette added in a huff. “He’s requested your presence most urgently.”
“What does he want?” Had the old man died and she was being blamed?
“We don’t know,” Sister Eloise said, lowering her voice. “But you better come with us.” She grasped Joan’s hand and tugged her toward the abbey hall.
A black carriage with two large horses was parked in front of the hall. Joan involuntarily shivered as she passed by the carriage. As they walked into the cool interior of the hall, it took a moment for Joan’s eyes to adjust to its dimness after the brightness of the sun.
The servant was a small man with darting eyes. He gave Joan a half bow as she came to a stop. “Monsieur Rudolph Belrose requests your immediate presence,” he said.
Joan folded her arms. “What does Monsieur Belrose want with me?”
A small gasp came from behind her— either from Sister Eloise or Sister Laurette.
The servant lifted his chin a notch, his eyes flitting to the left, then the right. “He is ailing, Miss, and has a dire request he needs to make of you.”
“Ailing?” Joan said. Of course he was. “Are his injuries extensive?”
“Quite,” the servant said. “He has two broken ribs.”
Was Belrose angry then? Did he blame her for his predicament? Perhaps he thought she’d spooked his horse, starting the entire incident. “What could he want of me?” she said in a small voice.
“Only to have a word, Miss.” But the tone of the servant’s voice was dark.
Sister Eloise and Sister Laurette stepped nearer to Joan, flanking her sides. “We will accompany you,” Sister Eloise told Joan.
“No,” the man said, his eyes focusing directly on Joan. His eyes were black and deeper than a pool of water. “It is to be a strictly private meeting, and you must come right away. We cannot delay any longer.”
Joan couldn’t look away from the depths of the man’s eyes. She assumed that Monsieur Belrose had a tight grip on all of his servants, and they certainly followed all of his commands. But what did that have to do with her?
Sister Laurette grasped her arm, speaking to the man. “She will remain here then. She is under our care.”
“I will go,” Joan said. She felt compelled to put these strange twist of events behind her, and it would start with finding out why Monsieur Belrose thought she was a curse in his life.
“Joan,” Sister Eloise whispered.
But Joan had made up her mind. She would go with this servant and hear the old man out, if only to clear her name.
“Do you need to change your clothing?” the man asked.
Joan didn’t care about her appearance when faced with meeting a deranged man. She knew there was mud and bits of straw on her shoes, and her skirt was brushed with dirt. Her hair was slightly askew from its normally neatly braided bun.
With a reassuring glance at the two nuns, Joan followed the servant out into the sunny day. Fittingly, dark clouds had moved in, scattered across the blue sky. They reached the black carriage, and Joan climbed up into it. The red velvet upholstery upon the interior bench was the most luxurious thing Joan had ever sat on.
But she wrinkled her nose. The inside of the carriage smelled as if it had been stored in a deep, dank cellar. And perhaps it had. Joan couldn’t ever remember seeing this carriage pass along the road before.
The servant shut the carriage door, then joined the driver at the front. Joan spent the next twenty minutes alone in the musty carriage as it lurched along. When it finally came to a stop, Joan didn’t know if she should be relieved or more afraid. What did Monsieur Belrose want with her? Would he blame her for his spooked horse?
Joan should have known that the interior of the gray stone mansion would be dim. Candles burned in sconces, but they seemed feeble, as if they were afraid to cast too much light in the grand hall that Joan entered.
“This way,” the servant said in a stiff voice.
Since he didn’t offer to take her cloak, she kept it on. But she soon became grateful for this because the room that she was led to was as frigid as a winter’s day.
She didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t Monsieur Belrose sitting in a large chair, a glass of brandy in one hand, and a pair of spectacles in the other. His blue eyes seemed to pierce right through her as he stared at her from across the room. To his left, a fire burned heartily in the grate, but it didn’t seem to give off any warmth, just like its master.
“Leave us,” Monsieur Belrose said to the servant who had brought Joan.
The heavy wood door shut behind Joan, leaving her utterly alone with the strange man with cold eyes.
“This will not take long,” the man said, rising to his feet ever so carefully, “so you need not make yourself comfortable.”
If he’d been standing closer to Joan, he would have towered over her. As it was, the distance brought little comfort.
“It’s unfortunate we met in such a way,” Belrose continued.
Joan didn’t know what to do with her hands or where to look. Her heart was so high in her throat that she could barely breathe.
“I am sorry,” she began, hoping to soften the look in the man’s eyes.
He lifted a hand. “It’s better you do
not speak, for this is already difficult enough.”
Joan pressed her lips together, feeling a sharp pang of nausea in her stomach. Why had she insisted on coming alone?
Belrose turned toward the windows, his profile to her now. Could he no longer even bear to look at her?
“I had never thought to see you again,” he began in a low voice.
So she had seen him before? When? Had he visited the abbey?
“But there is no denying who you are,” he said with a short laugh. But his laugh was bitter and harsh. He turned to face her fully, and with the slant of light, and play of shadows, Joan suddenly knew.
“You are my daughter,” Belrose said the same moment the realization coursed through Joan.
She felt her breath leave her body, and her legs barely held her up.
“And you look just like me,” he exhaled, as if the words were distasteful to speak aloud.
This man is my father? Joan thought. Questions tumbled through her mind, colliding until her head throbbed in pain.
His gaze was steady on hers, unflinching. “And you, my daughter, will break the family curse.”
Her mouth opened, but none of her questions came out. She simply stared at the tall man with the white hair and blue eyes. The angle of his nose, the cut of his chin... How had she not seen it before?
His lips curved into a half smile. “I think you need a drink, Joan.”
The use of her name startled her. Of course he knew it. He was her father. He crossed the room in slow strides and poured something from a decanter into a crystal cut glass. When he pressed it into her hand, she became aware of the weight of the glass. She lifted it and took a deep swallow.
The brandy burned her throat, but she took another swallow, then handed it back to him.
“You may want to sit after all.” His tone was almost gentle. He motioned toward a chair, and she crossed to it.
Once she was seated in the dark wooden chair, she began to tremble.
He sat across from Joan and told her all about a woman named Sophia Rousseau and how Sophia had cursed Belrose’s father... which meant Joan’s grandfather had been the one that had the affair with Sophia. Her curse stated that every five years, on All Hallows’ Eve, a member of the Belrose or Rousseau family would die. Over the years, aunts and uncles, servants and delivery boys, and then Simon’s parents, and finally Belrose’s wife had all died... Joan’s mother.
All Hallows' Eve Collection Page 11
