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The Frost of Springtime

Page 30

by Rachel L. Demeter


  Willing her hands not to shake, she arranged the items across the nightstand. The doctors nodded their gratitude and softly conversed amongst themselves. Sister Catherine held the candlestick over them as they collectivity labored. Aleksender’s dress shirt was unclasped from throat to stomach, exposing his seething wound. The flame quivered, shaking in time with Sister Catherine’s movements.

  Sinking in and out of consciousness, Sofia groaned from her spot on the floor. Sister Catherine knelt at her side and dabbed her brow with a wet cloth, washing away the dirt and grime. The sight of Sofia’s battered appearance was difficult to endure. “Shh, petit, relax. You are in good care.”

  “Alek?” Sofia strained, attempting to lift her head from the blanket. “Is he all right? Where—”

  “He is here with you,” Sister Catherine consoled. She gently pressed on Sofia’s chest, coaxing her back into a reclined position. “You mustn’t exert yourself, my dear, brave girl.” Brushing away a swarm of curls, voice heavy with emotion, “You, Sofia Rose, are the daughter I never could have.” Clearly touched by those words, Sofia nodded and managed a weak smile.

  “If I may see to her now,” the youngest doctor interrupted. As he came to Sofia’s care, Sister Catherine nodded and rose from the floor. Nerves dancing, she warily approached the bed. “Are the wounds fatal?” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

  “The girl shall be quite fine,” one of the men answered.

  “And what of him?” Sister Catherine demanded, her skin turning impossibly paler. “What of le Comte?”

  “He’s already lost a lot of blood and is suffering from not one but two injuries.” The doctor mutely hung his face. The spectacles slid down his nose, wired frame glittering in the candlelight. “I’m afraid that only daybreak shall tell.” Aleksender’s dress shirt was completely stripped away. Sister Catherine’s heart lunched, jarred by the sight of his scars. Where was the mercy? It seemed that Aleksender had suffered far more than his own share of original sin.

  Her thoughts were cropped short. “You may want to look away, Sister.”

  Pocketknife in hand, the doctor angled the blade, heating it with the candle’s flame. “Some assistance, if you would, messieurs.”

  The other men held Aleksender still as the point was lowered to the chest wound. Alcohol was poured inside the marred flesh in a blistering inferno. Probing for bullet fragments, the tip dug into the gaping hole … raking … searching … scraping the raw and painfully tender skin. The wound instantly gushed at contact, blossoming in a burst of scarlet. Executing decades of medical knowledge, the doctor maneuvered the knife with precise and graceful movements.

  Aleksender trembled and cried out, teeth chattering with the audacity of tin cymbals. The men increased the pressure of their holds and steadied his flailing body. Unable to stomach his pain, Sister Catherine whispered a prayer and fixed her gaze upon the dangling crucifix.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  A week after the horrors of La Semaine Sanglante, the following announcement was published in the Époque:

  Only a week ago, power was seized from our provisional government. The National Guard, recruited from the honorable men and women of Paris, had replaced Thiers’s army of Versailles. A new day had finally dawned.

  But the liberty had been short-lived.

  On the twenty-first of May at two PM, over sixty thousand troops were inside Paris by nightfall.

  No one was spared from the brutal massacres. The barricades fell quickly and the defenders were summarily executed. The dead littered our streets and homes. Every crevice of Paris overflowed with corpses and dying men, women, and children.

  The killing continued for eight days and nights straight. Every Parisian pavement was a battlefield and every home a fort. On the twenty-eighth of May, the Communards were driven to a last stand at Père Lachaise cemetery where they were executed against the ancient wall.

  With heavy hearts, we include amongst the deceased the archbishop, le Comte de Paris, and his beloved and talented ward, Sofia Rose.

  •

  Sister Catherine arrived at Chateau de Lefèvre almost two months after the announcement was posted. Dusk had broken fifteen minutes earlier, drenching the horizon in various shades of orange and pink. The sun was swallowed up by the skyline and the first stars had begun to creep into sight.

  Sister Catherine smoothed a palm over the coarse material of her habit, mentally confirming the note’s placement. Indeed—it was nestled safely against her breast, just as it’d been for the past four and a half weeks. Nerves dancing, she eased toward the enormous double-doors and collected the brass lion head within her palm. The metal felt unbearably cool—as hard and as relentless as steel. She tapped lion against wood, stepped backward, and waited in mounting suspense.

  Several moments passed without any sort of answer. Sister Catherine turned away, head hung in defeat, and began her descent. On the third step she paralyzed in her tracks. The door thrust open with a resounding creak. Flooded with relief, she turned on her heels and ascended the steps once more.

  Regarding her with a curious expression and arched brow, the first footman returned her leveled gaze. “Yes, Sister? How may I be of service?”

  “Is the madame of the house able to receive company?”

  His head sank into a curt nod as he stepped aside, welcoming Sister Catherine across the threshold. “Of course. Just allow me a moment to fetch her.”

  “Please—take your time, monsieur. I’m in no rush.”

  The chateau was as beautiful as she’d imagined it might be. Sister Catherine felt infinitely small as she entered the foyer. Columns lined the walls and swept at the domed ceiling. The de Lefèvre coat of arms was engraved in the stonework more than four and a half dozen times.

  With a courteous bow the first footman took his leave. Sister Catherine idly wandered the length of the foyer, studying the countless hanging portraits. One picture stole her breath.

  The man was dressed in military garb. His hair was black as the night, body strong, lips curved into a knowing grin. And those eyes—those emerald eyes appeared jarringly alive, alert, wise and calculating. No matter where Sister Catherine positioned herself, Aleksender’s gaze seemed to trace her every step.

  “Sister Catherine? Is that really you?” Elizabeth’s voice jolted her from her thoughts. Richard de Lefèvre stood mere inches behind, appearing proud and wonderfully aristocratic. The sureness of his posture shouted authority and commanded obedience. A small, secretive smile tugged at Sister Catherine’s lips. His likeness to a nearby portrait of Comte Philippe de Lefèvre was startling to behold.

  Sister Catherine took a moment to observe Elizabeth and Richard’s closeness—the way his hand rested upon the arch of her shoulder, his protective, all-seeing stare—something not unlike his father’s portrait. After a moment, she bowed her face and withdrew the folded parchment from inside her habit.

  Bewildered, Elizabeth’s hand froze midair. “I don’t understand?”

  “He wanted to be sure you received it. Read it well. The both of you.” Sister Catherine glanced from Elizabeth to Richard, then studied them together.

  Elizabeth slid the parchment from Sister Catherine’s fingers and held it against her breast. She nodded, tears swelling her almond eyes. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

  Wrinkles appeared at the corner of Sister Catherine’s eyes as she surrendered to a faint smile. She reached for Elizabeth’s face and caressed her cheek with a reassuring and gentle touch. “May happiness follow the both of you. Good luck.”

  With a last glance, Sister Catherine was gone.

  Hands trembling, Elizabeth unfolded the note and rotated in Richard’s arms. She swallowed, willing herself not to shake. He steadied Elizabeth’s hands with his palms and gave an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry. I am here with you.”

  Elizabeth inclined her chin and smoothed down the parchment. Basking in each other’s warmth, she and Richard read the familiar curs
ive.

  Dearest Elizabeth,

  No amount of words can undo the pain I’ve caused you over the past years. But I am not a coward—and I refuse to become a mere casualty.

  The first stirrings of daybreak have begun to pour through Sacred Heart’s windows. I lay here shot but far from defeated. I am very much alive. In rescuing Sofia I have rescued a part of myself. And in Christophe Cleef’s death, a part of my soul has resurrected. If I survive this day—which I’m confident that I shall—I have vowed to reinvent my destiny, to start anew, to leave Paris.

  As hollow as the words sound, as inferior as they appear scrawled upon this scrap of paper, I care for you, Elizabeth. I have always cared for you, and at times, I’d cared for you as much as I was capable of caring for anyone. I know it is wrong to request anything of you, but I ask that you do likewise.

  Do the same as myself. Free yourself and start a new life free from binds. In a way, is this not the very message our martyrs bled for?

  I have witnessed Richard’s affection for you throughout the years. He can care for you in ways I cannot. He can love you fully, as you deserve to be loved.

  I shall write to you and Richard within the next few months. I trust that Sister Catherine will ensure my words have reached you.

  Always yours, Aleksender De Lefèvre

  EPILOGUE

  Summer of 1875

  Slow and steady, The Nightingale skimmed across the pristine waters of the Pacific Ocean at a leisurely pace. The sails swelled as gusts of wind whistled through their linens, carrying the vessel through an endless glassy haze.

  Resembling something out of the pages of a storybook, the view was beyond breathtaking. Shades of orange and red illuminated the horizon. Blankets of white clouds mingled with the surrounding colors, artfully swirling in every direction.

  And up above, tucked high in the crow’s nest, a couple intimately embraced.

  Sofia sighed as her lashes fluttered shut. Flooded with pure contentment, she settled deeper into the beloved arms of her husband. They’d wedded two years earlier, and had been traveling the vast ocean ever since. Evenings were spent on Coney Island’s gilded stages, while the nights were reserved for Aleksender’s embrace.

  The divorce had not been by any means easy to come by. But, in the land of America, with the proper circumstances and finances, such a thing was far from impossible to obtain. Elizabeth and Aleksender had concluded their fifteen-year partnership on understanding if not delicate terms. A year and a half after, hand in hand, she and Comte Richard de Lefèvre had joined them on board for the ceremony. And a bundle of unsent letters had accompanied their presence.

  Granted, Elizabeth hadn’t been entirely forgiving of Aleksender’s ways. She’d rather taken a decadent satisfaction in granting herself the freedom to love openly. Likewise, witnessing the pains of love and war firsthand had allowed Richard to open his mind and disregard his insecurities.

  During La Semaine Sanglante, Aleksender de Lefèvre was reported as a casualty of the fires and mayhem, and only those whom mattered had known the truth. Thanks to Sister Catherine and some strange stroke of fate, he’d survived that final night in Sacred Heart Convent. Marked as a widow shortly after, Elizabeth had managed to live free from the stigma that came with divorce. And, for the four of them, it had been the beginning of a new life. A fresh start and redesigned destiny.

  In all likelihood, one of the noblest things Aleksender de Lefèvre had ever done was run away.

  Standing intimately near to Sofia, his raven hair danced freely in the wind’s breath and skimmed the wide expanse of his shoulders. Condensation curled the tips and sparkled like teardrops, dampening the lush forelock across his brow. His cotton dress shirt fluttered about, whipping with the audacity of a high-flying flag. Half of the claps had been left undone, exposing strong slates of bronzed, sun-kissed muscle. A pair of dog tags and Sister Catherine’s crucifix shone beneath the sunrise.

  Breasts molded against the silky material of his dress shirt, Sofia rotated within the circle of his arms. She set a long kiss upon his chin as her fingertips whispered across his flesh. Aleksender returned her smile. His eyes blinked shut. Pure contentment flooded his body.

  Sofia’s lips curved with devilish intent. She undid the clasps of her dress—snap, snap, snap—allowing the material to slide from a pair of scrunched shoulders. It fell down to her belly, exposing a sheer layer of cotton. She flexed at the knees and crouched before Aleksender’s form.

  The front of his trousers was in view. Rows of golden claps were kissed by the morning’s sunrays. The material puckered and strained, manipulated by the impressive bulge that lay beneath. Sofia caressed him through the linen. Aleksender stiffened as a wild moan escaped from his throat. One hand fisted in her curls. The other grasped onto the wooden railing to better stabilize his weight.

  “Yes, chérie.”

  Sofia unfastened the clasps at a maddening pace and released Aleksender from his confines. He was magnificent wrapped in her little fists. She moved both hands up and down, up and down, coaxing a melody of groans, moans, and pleas from his lips. Her tongue joined in the dance, swirling and licking, skimming his length from base to tip, tip to base. Aleksender’s head lolled back in acute pleasure.

  “Take me in, darling,” he demanded in a silky smooth baritone. “Take all of me.” Sofia relaxed her throat and obliged with a complimentary moan. With a firm tug, the final clasp of his trousers came undone. Sofia ran her fingertips up and over his finely sculpted thighs as they fell to his knees, claiming her prize, teasing him with the heel of both palms.

  Consumed by overlapping sensations and the surrounding beauty, Aleksender went feral and loss control of his body. His fingers twisted against Sofia’s scalp as his breaths shortened to erratic grunts. Splinters that were embedded in the wooden railing bit at his flesh. Sofia increased her tempo and massaged the smooth planes of his chest, moving down the broad length of his back, caressing the endless scars that had branded him for so long.

  Far, far too long.

  Climax claimed Aleksender in a sudden and sweet rush. Trembling from head to toe, he chanted her name like a sacred prayer.

  Sofia rose to her feet and embraced Aleksender in the circle of her arms. Her nude breasts molded against his chest as they held each other for countless moments. He recuperated from his spent passion as his breathing steadily grew more regular. Staring into the limitless horizon, Sofia brought her lips against the column of Aleksender’s neck and whispered, “I am with child.”

  Shuddering within Sofia’s arms, he increased the pressure of his hold. His head spun with a pinnacle of emotions.

  “And should it be a boy, well, I’d like to name him Philippe.”

  Sofia stepped back and swept the forelock from Aleksender’s eyes. She was startled to find he had begun weeping. Surrendering to a smile, he sprawled an unsteady hand across her lower abdomen and brought her impossibly nearer.

  Fierce passion ignited both of their souls—a passion nearly fourteen years in the making. Sofia gasped as he pinned her body against the jutting pole. Aleksender drowned her beneath his kisses, caressing every curve of her body, his arms strong, steady and sure. Sofia sagged against him as she grew weak at the knees.

  “My Alek, my beloved …”

  He whispered the eternal vow, his voice beautiful and soothing, every word spoken like a lullaby, “I am yours and you are mine.”

  •••

  Rachel L. Demeter

  Rachel L. Demeter lives in the beautiful hills of Anaheim, California with Teddy, her goofy lowland sheepdog, and her high school sweetheart of ten years. Rachel holds a Screenwriting BA from Chapman University’s School of Film and Media Arts. She enjoys writing dark, edgy romances that examine the redeeming power of love.

  RachelDemeter.net

 

 

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