The Frost of Springtime

by Rachel L. Demeter

  •

  Respectfully dressed in a black frock coat and gloves, Christophe maneuvered through the nosy crowd as he shoved past highborn ladies and obnoxious dandies with growing cynicism. Determination filled his heart and carried his feet.

  Alas, he was stronger and healthier than he’d been in weeks. It wasn’t over yet. Hope clung to his chest like an icicle, quickly melting away. Dawn was coming.

  Christophe tensed and hung his face. An unavoidable resentment stirred within his chest. Every few steps a slanderous comment—whispered mostly on Aleksender’s behalf—reached his ears.

  “ … better off servicing his whores …”

  “ … a no good, scarred veteran of war with a particular taste for schoolyard blood …”

  “ … seen sniffing round the skirts of his ward as of late …”

  “ … corrupted by the stage, indeed … has the breeding of her promiscuous mother …”

  “ … not fit to lick the heels of his father’s boots—God rest the poor soul …”

  And so forth.

  Unable to see past the elaborate swarm of top hats, Christophe followed after the pastor’s emotionless drawl. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff comfort me. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

  A stunning vision lurked not far in the distance. The hem of the young lady’s mourning dress billowed all around her, carried by a mild breeze. Buried within an abundance of russet curls, the veil’s lace filtered her stare. She twisted a faded, red handkerchief between her fingertips, occasionally blotting away a fallen tear. Yet, her gaze was not fixed on the old comte’s mausoleum nor the pastor. It was on Aleksender.

  Christophe and Aleksender’s eyes came together at that very moment.

  “Amen.”

  The memorial concluded a half hour later. Aleksender lurked beneath a weeping willow, back ranged against its massive trunk, both arms crossed over his chest. His eyes fell shut as a wind chime tinkled overhead. The melody was as soft as the wind’s whisper, filled with the sorrow and nostalgia of a lullaby. Every limb stiffened as Christophe appeared behind him. Aleksender sensed his presence. He made no effort to turn.

  “Bonjour, mon ami.” Leaves crunched beneath the weight of his boots with the audacity of breaking bones. “I must say, your stories did her justice. Indeed. Sofia is quite the beauty.”

  Aleksender’s throat tightened. “You are never to mention her name.”

  “Anger, Alek?” A sardonic chuckle sounded out. “Good God! Was that possibly anger?”

  Aleksender pushed away from the tree and moved toward his comrade. He said nothing. His eyes dared Christophe to continue.

  “A bit refreshing, I must say,” Christophe dryly said, “knowing that you are still capable of feeling. I was beginning to doubt that.”

  Christophe stroked the curve of his chin. Then he sighed and gave an off look. His eyes rose to Elizabeth. She immediately adjusted her bonnet and glanced away. It was no great mystery that she wore the stripe of a lover scorned.

  “Ah. I suspect your faithfulness is not quite as noble as your title, eh?”

  Indeed, Christophe knew of Aleksender’s unorthodox liaisons better than anyone. But the tone of his voice suggested severe implications—a far cry from a typical debauchery. It spoke of an infidelity that went well beyond flesh and blood—an ultimate unfaithfulness to oneself. A crime even Christophe, a rather notorious skirt-chaser of his time, wouldn’t dare commit.

  Christophe shook his face. “Elizabeth saw the demon in you. Now I as well. And I daresay your father is turnin’ in his very grave right beneath our feet—”

  Aleksender lunged at him without warning. He grabbed onto Christophe’s cravat and slammed his back against the tree trunk with a brutal force. Aleksender stared daggers, breaths erratic, raven hair wildly tousled. He grasped onto the material of Christophe’s frock coat with steel fists, eyes blazing.

  “You best learn to hold your tongue, Cleef. You and your insolence tread a thin line. Men have been guillotined for far less.”

  The threat slid from Christophe’s back. His feathers remained unruffled. In contrast to Aleksender’s madness, he was perfectly cool and collected.

  “Gah! Take care! You’ll ruin my best frock. And, unlike you, I haven’t the luxury nor francs to buy another.”

  Christophe’s eyes drifted to the horizon. Sofia was nowhere to be found. Aleksender released him with a look of sheer misery. The faintest trace of shame embedded his gaze—as if he knew just who Christophe sought.

  Christophe seized onto Aleksender’s vulnerability. “She’s a little girl, Alek. A little girl and your puppet! It is all rather amusing—a child of God, harlot—what, pray tell, shall the noble Comte desire next?”

  “You know nothing.”

  His lips curled into a slick smirk. “Better to know nothing than to be nothing. To feel nothing.” Then, through a tense sigh, he added, “Paris—she is angry. How long do you think you can ignore that? Ignore your duty?” Only silence. Christophe scoffed, cursing beneath his breath. A fierce resentment was forming deep inside him. His comrade’s indifference was bone chilling.

  “To have so much potential for power, for change … to throw it all away is unforgivable. Unredeemable.” More silence. “Don’t you understand? The people of Paris are starving. Children are born in gutters, only to die. Honest women, virtuous schoolgirls, are whoring themselves. Men are making dinners of flea-ridden sewer rats. All while you hide up in your fancy chateau—regarding everything and everyone with your damn devil-may-care charm.”

  Christophe swore that a look of shock had creased Aleksender’s brow. But it was gone as quickly as it had come. His face had settled back into a mask of unyielding apathy.

  “You best be on your way, Christophe.” Gesturing one of the imposing gendarmes, not bothering to hide his grin. “If not, I can surely arrange for you to be shown out.”

  “Pitiful.” The threat was as hollow and cold as Aleksender’s green eyes.

  “You fool no one. You are every bit the self-righteous, holier-than-thou knave you claim to loathe. Only much worse.” A sad and mocking smile formed on Christophe’s lips. “You are no more than a disgrace. A disgrace to her. A disgrace to Paris. A disgrace to me and your father.”

  Christophe awaited the wrath of Aleksender’s unleashed fury. It never came. Instead, the comte swallowed with a curt and almost humble nod. “I’m afraid I must bid you adieu, Monsieur Cleef.”

  He stepped forward as Aleksender turned away. Christophe’s emotions bested him as he trembled from his anger.

  “I am not you. I shall not stay silent. This … this is far from over. You hear me, Alek? In spades, you shall pay for your apathy! On my word, ‘ol friend …” His final words dripped with mirth and an ominous edge. “Do take care. The both of you.”

  Aleksender eased toward him, stride slow and steady, eyes blazing. But Christophe never met his glare. He was focused entirely on the darkening skyline.

  “You listen and you listen well,” Aleksender spat through a clenched jaw and gritted teeth. “I shall warn you only once: do not underestimate my power.”

  “Been listening with a deaf ear, have you?” Christophe slapped his thigh, head tossed back in a hearty chuckle. “Ah, mon ami, you amuse me so.” After a moment, he leisurely straightened out the rumpled cravat and regained his composure. A feeling of weightlessness descended whilst eyes of cognac locked with eyes of emerald. “Indeed. I underestimate many things about you, Monsieur le Comte. But no—never your power.”

  •

  Sofia hadn’t stirred a limb, though the memorial had been over for a good hour. The onlookers had more or less cleared out, plunging the cemetery into eerie silence. Needing privacy and peace of mind—unable to stomach the sight of Aleksender and his relatives a moment longer—she’d wandered away f
rom the memorial. Angelic monuments and towering mausoleums filled her vision. A raven’s call mated with the whispering wind as the trees gently swayed, sweeping a sweet fragrance into her nostrils.

  How strange it was, being surrounded by death. She scanned the jagged, grave-filled horizon with an ache in her heart. Many of the tombstones were overgrown with weeds, long forgotten by their loved ones. She crouched to her knees, seated herself in front of a rather sad-looking grave, and brushed away a tangle of wild greenery.

  Sofia picked one of Père Lachaise’s native roses and laid it atop Dumont’s stone. The inscription’s simplistic wording spoke for itself. Maurice Vincent Dumont had died a lonely man.

  Sofia inhaled a dejected sigh and came to her feet. Her thoughts shattered as a breeze stirred, wrenching the crimson handkerchief from her fingers. The wind playfully tossed it about, throwing it this way and that, spiriting away the beloved silk. Its scarlet material brilliantly clashed against the baby blue sky. She picked up her skirts and surged forward. A soft protest left her lips as she pursued the precious keepsake.

  Her eyes followed its lazy descent as it fluttered to the ground with a somersault. A second later it stilled, barricaded against a gentleman’s polished boot.

  He lowered gracefully to his knees and fetched the handkerchief, brushing away nonexistent specks of dirt. “My lady.”

  He was very handsome, boasting a broad, dimpled chin and wholesome good looks. But something warned her that he was every bit rogue.

  She frowned and chewed absently at her bottom lip. An ugly scar disfigured his cheek—the one blemish to an otherwise startling face—stretching from ear to mouth. Sofia tore her stare away, inwardly cursing herself. Really—she, of all people, ought to have known better.

  The gentleman surprised Sofia and only grinned. Outlining the raised flesh with a fingertip, he murmured in an easy drawl, “A knife wound.” Her lips parted in speech but no sound came. His grin widened to impossible limits. “No worries. I’m of no danger to you, I assure—far from a pick-pocket or alleyway brute.” A brief silence pressed between them. He stared up at the setting sun and exhaled the sigh of a tired man. A man who had seen and lived unthinkable tragedy. “I recently returned from the war.”

  His lips lifted into a dashing, crooked smile. He stared down at his gloved hand, fondling the handkerchief’s faded material. After a moment of apparent contemplation, he passed it to Sofia.

  “Thank you, monsieur. I would have been positively lost without it.”

  “My pleasure, Mademoiselle Rose.”

  Sofia pursed her lips together and studied the smooth stranger from head to toe.

  “Pardon me, monsieur,” she inquired, “but have we met before?”

  “Ah, I am afraid not, chérie. Consider me a dedicated admirer. One of many, I’m sure.”

  An oddly strained laugh escaped her. Of course. He recognized her from the stage. She forced a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  “You are lovely, mademoiselle. Almost impossibly so. And even lovelier up close. ’specially when you smile.”

  She blushed a deep crimson, both feet shifting uncomfortably beneath her skirts. His flattery was too strong for her liking … but something about him radiated. She stepped forward and lowered her dark lashes, appreciating the mere comfort of another human being. The full extent of her loneliness and solitude dawned on her. “Thank you. You are very kind.”

  The gentleman threw a sideways glance, studying her features with an astute awareness.

  “It seems I’ll be withdrawing from the opera quite soon.” Sofia held her tongue as heat rose to her cheeks. What was she thinking? “Oh, I am not sure why I told you such a thing. I haven’t been myself lately.”

  “I understand.” He stepped forward with a small grin. “Better yet, I relate.”

  Sofia smiled softly, believing his words, aching for the companionship he offered no matter how fleeting it may be. “Go on, chérie. I’m all ears,” he encouraged. “Unburden yourself.”

  “Oh, thank you—but there’s really not much to be said. I’m at a bit of a crossroads, you see—deciding whether I should take my vows or not.”

  He arched a fine brow and thoughtfully stroked his chin. “Hmm. In that case, mademoiselle, I am afraid I must object.”

  “Object?”

  “—to this taking-of-the-vows ordeal. It seems an unfortunate waste—a beautiful, talented lady living as a nun.”

  Sofia smothered a laugh with her palm. “Ah. But you are biased, monsieur!”

  Wearing the impossible look of angelic innocence, he raised both of his hands in a harmless shrug. “Naturally so.”

  Their playful exchange disappeared with a silence.

  “Were you acquainted with the ol’ comte?”

  The sudden inquiry startled Sofia. Her eyes jerked up to him as she held his leveled gaze. She swallowed and glanced at the grass beneath her feet. “Yes … I am a friend. A friend of the family.”

  He chuckled, the rich and charming sound filling the grave emptiness. “Why, of course you are—being le Comte’s ward and such. How very daft I must seem.”

  Blood drained from her rosy cheeks. When she spoke, her voice was shaky, words unconvincing and almost silent. “Not at all, monsieur.”

  The gentleman furrowed his brow and frowned. “Are you quite all right? You look unwell. Perhaps—”

  “Please, don’t mind me. I’m only tired.”

  His head dipped forward and sank into a slight nod. “Have you an escort? I daresay a cemetery is no place for a young lady to venture alone.”

  “Yes,” she quickly fibbed. “A carriage is awaiting my return, parked just down the pathway.”

  Exhaling a sigh of defeat and straightening his gloves, her stranger grumbled, “Very well.” He stuffed both hands deep into his pockets and smiled. “I should like to call on you sometime. With le Comte’s blessing, of course.”

  The blunt request rendered Sofia speechless. Beneath the lace of her veil, her sapphire eyes widened, appearing bright and luminous. She shook her pretty head, as if in stunned disbelief, neatly tucking a wild curl behind each ear.

  “Forgive me, monsieur, but I don’t even know your name.”

  “I suppose I am a brute, after all.” He threw his head back as the broad expanse of his chest rumbled in a wonderfully masculine laugh. “I fear I abandoned my sense of etiquette out on the battlefield.” He scratched at the stubble on his chin, murmuring a dry afterthought, “That, amongst other things …”

  The harshly spat statement raised little red flags, shooting chills up and down Sofia’s spine. In a single heartbeat, everything seemed to suddenly darken. Père Lachaise, the afternoon sky, her dashing gentleman—they all mutated before her very eyes.

  Sofia suppressed a shudder. The man’s stare was dangerously perceptive. As he allowed the mask of his façade to slip away, she knew that his kindness had been a masquerade and nothing more—a fact that left Sofia feeling oddly disheartened.

  “Ah, I see that I have made you uncomfortable.”

  “No. No, I—”

  “As well you should be,” he interjected with only a hint of mockery. Auburn eyes flickered with a devious flare. “After all … the souls of the fallen are known to wander cemeteries.”

  What a peculiar and disturbing thing to say.

  “I … I don’t believe in such things.”

  “I present to you, my little Sofia …” The stranger outstretched both arms with a rolling laugh and signaled himself. “Flesh and blood proof before your eyes.”

  “Tell me who you are,” she breathlessly demanded.

  He stepped back, a grin plastered to his face. The horribly sardonic expression twisted the scar, transforming his disfigurement into something diabolical. She feared for herself.

  “I’m a friend of the family, you could say.” Dipping into a shallow bow, he collected one of her fair hands and pressed a kiss upon her knuckles. The gesture of mock propriety sent more c
hills up and down her spine.

  His opposite hand fell out of vision, brushing down and over the side of her body, skirting across the handkerchief’s faded material.

  Sofia remained ignorant of the gesture.

  “Till our paths cross once more, my fair lady, I bid you adieu.”

  And then, like a true phantom, he was gone. Sofia stared after her mysterious stranger, plagued with a reluctant empathy. She watched as his elegant form weaved in and out of the cold tombstones and sculpted angels, the tail of his frock coat fluttering like wings, wondering just how it felt to fall from grace.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Nine years earlier …

  The hearth chirped and crackled as its flames warmed the sleek floorboards. Lost within the soothing rhythm of her guardian’s voice, Sofia lay close to the fire, bundled up in oblivion. In mere moments, her bright blue eyes fell to half-mast and her heart set sail. She exhaled a shallow sigh and settled into the cocoon of her inner sanctuary.

  “‘No red rose in all my garden!’ he cried, his beautiful eyes filled with tears. ‘Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.’”

  A melody of giggles escaped from Sofia’s lips. As always, Aleksender shifted his tone, playing the part of each character with a delightful accuracy and exuberance. On nights such as these, he transformed before her very eyes. The harsh and cold façade he wore during the daytime was nonexistent. Within her presence, something inside of him blossomed to life. It was as though his spirit had once withered away, and now had been nurtured back to health. And it was a phenomenon she, too, often experienced at his side.

  Whenever Alek was in arm’s reach she felt most alive. She smiled for no reason at all and settled deeper into her daydreams.

  Aleksender peered down at Sofia, taking pleasure in her awakened happiness. Although she’d been in his care only weeks, a strong attachment had already formed between them.