Trilogy No. 109: Sail Away

by Lee Rowan

  Phil laughed and rummaged in his grip for his traveling chess set. It was a small, flat box with the squares painted upon the inner lid, and they whiled away the rest of the long wait by playing at soldiers. Neither of them was very good at the game, but any distraction was welcome.

  At last they reached the end of the line, presented their papers, and after a great deal of useless deliberation received a surly nod from the guardian at the gate. A second stalwart waved the carriage through. Even a country in revolution had to make a living, and even those who despised the new French government could not dispute the excellence of the old French wines.

  * * * *

  Zoe found herself at the front window once more. It was foolish to keep coming back here, looking out. What was she searching for? Better to stay within the confines of the house and pretend that the world outside was as it had been before the Revolution ... not an easy world, but one where a girl could grow into a woman, be courted and wed, and have some hope of a future.

  She had known a few young men who might have been suitors. They were gone now, one to the Navy, two to the Army. Another had vanished, no one knew where. She wondered about Louis, sometimes, but she knew in her heart he was dead. Louis’ entire family had disappeared. His father had been a professor, and involved in politics. Now no one mentioned his name.

  A carriage, heavily laden, rolled down the street and drew up at Monfort's wine shop, a few doors down the road. The luggage strapped on behind meant that this was not one of M. Monfort's local customers, and she had never seen the vehicle before. As she watched, a guard jumped down from the roof and opened the passenger door, and a giant emerged—a tall blond man, English by his clothing. He was followed by another young man, less imposing but beautifully dressed and very handsome, with hair the color of dark caramel. After a word with the coachman and some sort of payment, he followed the tall man into Monfort's shop.

  Zoe let herself daydream. That beautiful young man had to be someone of importance, or the son of an aristocratic family. Sir Handsome Englishman would find himself afflicted with a touch of dyspepsia and consult the excellent Dr. Colbert, and fall instantly in love with his daughter, and whisk them both away in his elegant carriage!

  Bonjour, milord! Je suis Mademoiselle Zoe Colbert, une jeune lunatique! She didn't need Marie to scold her. Beautiful the young man might be, and well-to-do, and most probably engaged to some English girl of good family. And in any case, whatever business brought him to France would certainly never bring him under this roof.

  Nonetheless, she stayed at the window until the two young men had left Monfort's and driven away in their carriage. Then she straightened her cap and went downstairs to see if Marie needed help in the kitchen. Papa would be home soon, God willing; she would appeal to him once again to give her permission to go to Angelique's party. There might be some young man there who would be worth a kiss, at least. And maybe something more?

  Of that, she could not be sure. She was not entirely certain what it was she was looking for. But she knew that she would never find it hiding here at home until the soldiers came to take them to the guillotine.

  * * * *

  "A party!” Kit contained his disbelief until the carriage was rattling down the street. “Good Lord, Phil, what do they have to celebrate?"

  "They're still alive,” Philip said. “Who knows for how much longer? Eat, drink, and be merry. But, as Monfort told me while you were dutifully inspecting your mama's order, a few of his customers are throwing a party to celebrate one of their members’ stage debut. She's in some theatre chorus and the actress she understudies came down with laryngitis. The matinee is tomorrow afternoon, if the Citizens’ Committee lets the theatre stay open."

  "Are they likely to close it?"

  "Who knows? At any rate, Monfort says it's his farewell lagniappe to his favorite customers—he's donating the wine, since he can't take it with him. We may as well go, Kit. It would be rude to decline, and it's not as though there will be anything else to do."

  Kit sighed. “We are leaving soon, yes?"

  "Tomorrow afternoon, if you like. Monfort's got a barge ready to go down the Seine, and he says there'll be room for us as well. It would be quicker than overland, if you don't mind a bit of crowding."

  "A barge?” Kit said. “If it means getting out of this hell-pit tomorrow, I'd scull down the Seine in a hip-bath."

  * * * *

  "Are you gentle with your women?"

  Kit blinked at the pretty blonde who had appeared noiselessly at his elbow as he stood with a glass in hand, trying to blend into this noisy alien crowd. His third glass of wine—or was it the fourth? He felt a bit muzzy around the edges. “I beg your pardon?"

  "Pardon, je parle tres mal,” she said. “My name is Angelique, m'sieu. I—ask, are you kind to women?"

  He caught himself just short of a laugh. “I try to be,” he said, not certain where the conversation was leading. He added, “I speak a little French,” in that language, hoping she would not reply too quickly. “Do you need my help?"

  "Ah!” Her face lit up. “Not I, m'sieu. Do you see my friend, by the stair?"

  Kit glanced in the direction she indicated, and for a moment he forgot to breathe. The young woman beside him was quite pretty in a candy-box sort of way—blond curls, blue eyes, artfully applied cosmetics—but there was something about her charm that made him think she must be one of the ladies of the stage here to celebrate their colleague's good fortune. But her friend by the stair ... that girl did not belong here.

  She was tiny, scarcely over five feet tall, and she wore a simple pink gown trimmed with a few ribbons, another ribbon holding dark ringlets in place atop her head. She might have been mistaken for a child at first glance, but her figure was clearly that of a young woman. Her eyes met his, and held them, with an expression he found hard to describe. It was neither coquetry nor desire—more a sort of determination and possibly a touch of alarm. He felt drawn toward her. He had never seen this girl before, did not know who she might be, but it felt as though he had finally found someone he had been searching for.

  "I see her,” he said. “What—"

  "She would like to speak to you, m'sieu, but she is ... shy? Is that the word? She is not often among us. Would you like to meet her?"

  "Yes, very much.” Oh, no, he protested inwardly. He knew what actresses did offstage. Granted they likely had to, to keep body and soul together, but this beautiful creature could not be one of the muslin company. She must not.

  But Philip had said that most of the women at the party would be looking for a generous friend with whom to spend the night, and Phil had gone off with a vivacious brunette at least half an hour ago. Gentle with your women. Dear God. It wasn't even women, plural, his sole experience had been one highly educational night with an amiable widow about ten years his senior whom Phil had introduced him to on the eve of his 18th birthday. In loco paternis, Phil had said, because, after all, Kit would be expected to marry a young maiden lady and it was always helpful if someone knew what to do on the wedding night.

  Kit fought down a sudden urge to giggle. That was what this felt like—a wedding night. Marching down an aisle of drunken Frenchmen to the woman of his dreams. It had to be the wine.

  "Mademoiselle Zoe,” Angelique said. She took the dark-haired girl's hand, placing it in Kit's, and he bent to place a formal kiss upon it. “And you, m'sieu?"

  "Christopher St. John, at your service,” he said releasing Mademoiselle Zoe's hand reluctantly. “Baron Guilford, if admitting to a title is not a breach of local etiquette."

  Her beautiful dark eyes lit with laughter. “A baron? Oh, I do not laugh at you, sir. It is only that when I first looked upon you I thought you must be a Milord."

  "Just something left me by my father, I promise. I've done nothing to earn it. And I would guess that you must be a princess?"

  "I am pleased to be nothing more than a Frenchwoman, milord. And safer so. Would you—"

 
; She hesitated, and Angelique immediately moved into the breach. “M'sieu, would you care to retire with us for a little while?"

  He wasn't’ sure what she meant by ‘retire’ and felt it would be too gauche to say, “Both of you?” so he followed the two young ladies up a narrow flight of stairs to a hallway lit only by a single candle-lantern. Angelique took a candlestick from a table at the top of the stair and lit it from the lantern. “This way, sil vous plait!"

  She knocked at one of the doors. When no one answered she opened it and motioned the others inside. “I will be back with more wine,” she said, and vanished down the hall.

  The room was a bedroom, a very plain one, though as far as he could tell by the light of one candle it looked clean. But it didn't suit this girl. She should have a glittering chandelier and a mahogany bed with everything fine, not a faded quilt and lumpy pillows. “Mademoiselle ... this seems most irregular."

  "Do you not want me?” her voice was plaintive. “Angelique is much prettier, I know—"

  "No! That is, yes! I do! I think you are exquisitely beautiful, milady. But this does not seem the place for you—"

  "Please!” She threw herself into his arms and kissed him, furiously and with an awkwardness he would not have expected in a Parisian girl. His body responded, though. That sweet, slender form pressed so close against him muddled his thoughts even further.

  "Mademoi—

  "Please, call me Zoe! And you are Christophe?"

  "Yes, yes, that's fine.” He took her by the shoulders and held her off, just a bit. “Zoe, I am honored by this invitation, but—my dear, have you—” Heavens, what a question to ask. “Have you ever been with a man before?"

  "I do not kiss very well,” she admitted, with a small quick smile. “Will you teach me?"

  "I don't understand—"

  She took a deep breath, and her small hands closed into fists. “No. I have not been with a man. I want to be! The boys I have known—they all are gone. You are a beautiful man and your face is kind. Will you not let me be a woman with you?"

  Her explanation made very little sense. Her desperation was evident, though, and Kit could find no good reason to refuse her invitation. He was also just a bit concerned that if he did refuse, she would march back downstairs and press some other fellow into service. And considering the number of drunken fools downstairs who would probably make her first experience an ordeal, he simply could not allow that to happen.

  Angelique's question echoed in his conscience. Are you gentle? Yes, by God, he would be as gentle as he could with this mad little creature, and hope that he was man enough for the task.

  Kit scooped her up into his arms. “My dear,” he said, “I am, as I told you, entirely at your service.” Zoe put her own arms around his neck, and in that position he found it easier to slow things down. Not that he wanted to, but he remembered his own first experience so clearly, and the one thing he recalled above all was that he had been terrified at first. What on earth had she expected, flinging herself at a stranger? And why would she do such a thing? He knew that Philip would say she was merely a good actress, but he could not bring himself to believe that. He wanted her, yes, but not like this. If only they had met in someone's drawing room and he could have courted her in a reasonable way!

  But at least they had met. Her face was turned up to his, so he kissed it. First on the lips, then her cheeks, her chin—then the tip of her nose. She giggled and did the same to him. He sat down on the bed, thankful that it did not squeak, and they continued in that manner for a little while. There was no need to hurry. “Tell me if you change your mind,” he warned.

  "I will not.” She reached up and tugged at the ribbon that held up her hair and a cascade of shining black curls fell around her shoulders. “I made up my mind the moment I saw you that you were the one."

  "My mother warned me to beware the wiles of French women!” he said with a smile, reaching to touch her hair. It felt like silk sliding through his fingers.

  "My father never told me Englishmen could be so beautiful,” she returned.

  "Handsome, please! Ladies are beautiful, gentlemen are handsome. Though I think you flatter me."

  "You are ‘ansom to me, then,” she said. “I would like to see if you are—pretty? under your clothes. I have no brothers, Christophe, and what my friends tell me sounds very strange. I would like to see a man's body."

  He didn't feel pretty under his clothes, and could not imagine what the masculine adjective might be. Why was he worrying about that, anyway? This was no time for a language lesson, and if she wanted to call him pretty, why not? But if he was going to strip down, he'd have to convince her to shed a few garments, too. They had progressed from kissing to undoing the buttons on his waistcoat when Angelique popped in with a bottle of wine. “I return!"

  Three really was a crowd. Kit would have liked to ask Angelique to leave, but Zoe took the glass her friend poured for her. What a strange girl! He had a thousand questions that he could not ask unless they were alone together.

  "Zoe, silly girl, why are you two not en couchant?” Angelique demanded.

  "You were right,” Zoe said. “The English have many manners, and they are slow!"

  Angelique poured another glass of sparkling wine and gave it to Kit. “Why is that, m'sieu?"

  A trifle annoyed, he replied, “Because she is a lady, and she is too young to be rushed!"

  Angelique laughed. “Ah, you chose well, Zoe! M'sieu Baron, you are tres gentil! But you wear too much clothing."

  "I suppose I do,” he said, coming to a decision. “Mademoiselle Angelique, you are une bonne femme, and I thank you for introducing me to this lady. But as you say, the English have many manners, and I fear I may have more than my share. Do you know where to find my cousin Philip?"

  "Ah, oui,” she said. “He is in a room nearby."

  "Excellent.” Kit dug into his vest pocket and found a coin sufficient to pay twice over for the wine she'd brought. “If you would, go and get another bottle, and take it with you to my cousin, sil vous plait? He's twice my size and much more adventuresome. I think he would be very happy of your company."

  She feigned a pout. “And you would not?"

  "I—” He met Zoe's eyes and decided to tell the truth. “If you do not mind, mademoiselle ... I fear if I attempt to please two of you, I will end by pleasing neither."

  "You please me very much,” Zoe said, a touch of pink in her cheeks. “Go, Angelique. I am safe with Milord Christophe!"

  "I think you are.” Angelique dropped a quick kiss on Zoe's cheek, and on Kit's. “Bless you, children!” And she was off.

  Kit let out a sigh of relief. “Now, where were we?” he asked.

  "You are still wearing too many clothes."

  "So are you."

  Eyes sparkling, she began undoing the buttons of her bodice, and had the simple gown off in a trice while he was still unfastening his breeches. She sat on the edge of the bed wearing only her shift, sipping her wine. “Do you have a wife, Christophe?"

  "No. Beautiful as you are...” He considered whether to roll off his stockings before removing his breeches, decided that was sensible. “Beautiful as you are, my dear, when I take a vow, I keep it. If I had a wife, I would be home with her, not here with you.” He pulled off his stockings. Damn, the floor was cold.

  "I am glad you are here."

  "So am I.” Kit had worked his way down to his ruffled shirt. He looked at Zoe sitting in her sleeveless white shift, the gentle curve of her breasts showing above the deep neckline, and was struck once again with the sense that this was his wedding night. Absurd, of course—she had not even hinted, she said quite plainly that she wanted only this experience, and God only knew the uproar that would ensue if he were to wed her. Still, she was so sweet, so innocent—

  "Do you go to bed in a night-shirt, Christophe?"

  And she had such a startling streak of frankness. “As a matter of fact, I do. But I usually sleep alone.” He reminded hi
mself that he didn't have any heroically-endowed rivals to be compared with, and tugged the shirt self-consciously over his head.

  Zoe's eyes grew large, and she took a breath.

  "Please don't ask if it's always so small,” he implored, looking down at his less than impressive display. “It's the cold, you see. It grows longer when it's warm and happy."

  She clapped a hand over her mouth, and dissolved in giggles. “How did you know?"

  He shook his head in mock exasperation and drained his own wineglass. “What an impertinent wench! Here I stand, stripped of my dignity—"

  "And your night-shirt."

  "And my nightshirt! You give me no respect!” He pulled back the quilt. “Come here, you French temptress. Let's have you out of that sack."

  Wordlessly, she stood, raising her arms, and he slipped the thin garment from her body as though unveiling a sculpture. She was perfect. Cleopatra must have looked like this, hair a midnight mantle, two perfect breasts with nipples like rosebuds, gently flared hips, her whole body smooth and pale as ivory. “Oh, my dear girl—are you quite sure?"

  "Yes. And I am cold!” She clung to him once more, and the velvet softness of her skin against his own nakedness was enough to put an end to his reluctance. He kissed her again, coaxing her mouth open this time, and she responded eagerly.

  The room was cold and plain, the bed had no elegance at all. But they were warm beneath the covers, and before long Kit forgot about the surroundings, and Zoe seemed to notice that he had told the truth about the effect of warmth and desire on a man's wedding tackle. All the questions he had meant to ask her went by the wayside, replaced by simpler ones that could be answered without words.

  And before too much time had passed, Kit was silently blessing both Philip and the kindly Lady Campion, who had provided for his education in these matters. But it was one thing to put his lessons into practice; it was another to disregard the one thing that he had been trained in all his life: responsibility.