Dark Enchantment

by Karen Harbaugh

  His anger did not seem to have an effect on her except to make her smile smugly, and he snarled in frustration. “Put on your dress this time—I will not have you look like a ragamuffin when I return you to your family. Be ready in an hour. We will leave then.” He thrust his feet into his boots and, with one last yank to tighten his belt, slammed the chamber door shut.

  Catherine’s smile faded slowly as she sat on the bed, and she sighed wistfully. She was glad she had seduced Jack this one last time. Of course, she knew it would be disastrous if she bore a child—her family was a noble one, and most likely she’d be cast off. She would not even be able to support herself by fighting duels for money.

  But a primal, unreasoning part of her had wanted a child from him, and the discovery that she was not a virgin—she had felt no pain when he entered her, and there had been no blood—half pleased her and half worried her. Pleased her because their lovemaking had not been hampered, and it gave her one more clue to her past. Worried her because that clue did not speak well of either her, or what had happened to her.

  Slowly she rose and unpacked the dress that Felice had given her, smoothing out the wrinkles as best she could. She put on her shift, opened the door, and called out to a chambermaid who had passed the room, and asked her to iron the dress.

  She shoved her feet into her stockings, meanwhile, then climbed into the bed again, pulling the bedcovers over her shoulders for warmth. She smoothed her hand over the indentation in the mattress where Jack had lain. This was the last time they lay together, warm and comfortable. She had savored every minute of it, taken in every bit of heat she could, and hoped she had given as much to him. She would remember it, remember her time with him for the rest of her life, she knew.

  A knock sounded on the door; it was the chambermaid with the ironed dress. Catherine thanked and paid the girl, who curtsied and left hurriedly to do her other duties after she helped Catherine to put on and lace her dress.

  She looked at herself in the mirror and pushed aside the curling hair from her face. She looked different from what she remembered from before her time in the alley. She looked thinner and stronger. Perhaps her family would not recognize her, and perhaps then she could travel with Jack.

  She bit her lip—it was a useless hope. Even if they did not recognize her, she knew she should not go with Jack, for she would not impose whatever curse she had on her on him, especially with his important duties to his king. She was obligated enough to him as it was, without putting more of a burden on him, whatever he might say.

  A distant church bell tolled the hour. She should leave now. She stuffed her trousers and the rest of her belongings into the saddlebag, and left the room.

  The coach Jack had procured for them was a good one, possibly the best the inn had to offer. He helped her into it, glancing at her only once, then climbed in, as well, after tossing her saddlebag within. He said little in what must have been at least an hour and a half in the carriage.

  It did not matter. She had no words now, and could only take comfort in his presence. She looked down at the coach seat between them; his hand lay lax at his side. Perhaps Jack would not mind it if she put her hand in his.

  He only sighed and looked at her with the loneliness she had seen before in his eyes. She grasped his hand and looked away, for looking at him would surely make her weep, and she would not let herself weaken in these last few moments with him. She gazed out at the soft hills near the Seine River instead, not truly seeing them, but too, too conscious of Jack’s hand covering hers.

  The carriage took a slight turn to a narrower road, and soon they came to an iron gate that seemed vaguely familiar. The coach stopped for a moment as the coachman called out to the gatekeeper, who opened wide the gates.

  She could not see forward, and she did not want to lean out of the window to look at their destination. It was enough to gaze out at the frosted green grass and the somewhat ill-kept grounds. She frowned. She had noted that the gatekeeper had not been well dressed, even for a gatekeeper, and the gatehouse was in some disrepair. She wondered if her family was either negligent of their tenants or not as well off as they should be for what was clearly a large estate.

  The coach came to a halt at last, the wheels crunching over the gravel at the foot of the mansion’s stairs. Jack stepped out, then handed her down.

  Catherine looked up—it was more chateau than mansion. It seemed a combination of an old Norman chateau and a later Gothic addition, and a web of ivy vines wove their way up a part of it, giving it a neglected air. The coachman knocked on the door, and when it opened he stepped back and climbed up on the coach again. The butler looked curiously at her and at Jack.

  “Sir John Marstone,” Jack said. “And Mlle Catherine de la Fer.”

  The butler’s eyes widened, and he stared at her, searching her face. “Mlle Catherine?” he whispered. He smiled. “Yes, I think I can see—” He stopped suddenly, his face taking on a respectful look. He bowed formally and moved from the door. “The Comte de la Fer awaits you.” Catherine glanced at Jack. Clearly he had sent word of their arrival from the inn.

  Jack did not look at her; he merely bowed and indicated she was to go before him. She sighed, and stepped past the door.

  She felt suddenly as if she could not breathe. The hall was covered in heavy dark draperies—obviously to help keep out the cold, but the effect was oppressive. It dimmed what light came into the room, and the fire that flickered fitfully in the hearth nearby only increased the impression.

  She pulled her cross from her bodice and clasped it tightly, forcing a deep breath into her lungs. The feeling of oppression faded.

  She glanced at Jack. Still he did not look at her, but followed the butler, his back straight and his steps firm, as if he were ready to march into battle.

  The butler led them up a staircase and opened a door. “Sir John Marstone. Mlle Catherine de la Fer.”

  This room was better. The afternoon light shone through open windows and the draperies had been drawn aside. A rustle drew her eyes to a corner of the room. A young, blond-haired man sat on a chair, turning the pages of a book. He looked up. He could not be much more than eighteen or nineteen, Catherine thought, and had a studious look about him. He looked tired and a little pale, but he rose from his chair and came forward, smiling and holding out his hands to her. He was well dressed, his hair well styled, and he was a good six inches taller than she. She could see the family resemblance in the shape of the eyes and the stubborn chin. His eyes were a deep blue, however, while her own were green.

  “Catherine? Is it truly you?”

  She did feel a nudge of recognition as he took her hand and gave an exquisite bow over it. His name . . . it started with an “A.” Antonine? Adrian? She sank into a formal curtsy, trying desperately to remember, feeling despair that memory seemed just beyond her grasp. “I . . . I am sorry,” she murmured. “I remember you . . . my brother, I think. Your name begins with an ‘A.’ ” She could feel her face heat with embarrassment.

  “Adrian, and yes, I am your brother.” He glanced at Jack. “It is true, then, what M. Marstone wrote to me—that you do not remember much of your life beyond perhaps the last six or seven months.”

  She nodded mutely, glancing at Jack, as well. He stood stiffly, formally in front of her brother, and for a long moment, an awkward silence sat in the room.

  “I am much obliged to M. Marstone,” Catherine said. Her voice sounded small, even to her own ears. “I was starving and near death when he rescued me from vile men who sought to kill me. If he had not done so, surely I would be dead by now.” At the very least, she thought, Jack should be paid for what he expended on her, if not more. “En vrai, he has brought me back to health and provided me with clothes.”

  The comte raised his brows. “A veritable good Samaritan,” he said, and smiled.

  Catherine thought Jack had made a sound as if beginning to speak, but when she looked at him, his lips were set firmly together.

&
nbsp; “As soon as I heard you had run away, I left the university and searched for you, Catherine,” her brother continued, his voice softening. He looked away, as if ashamed, then brought his gaze back to her, his expression hesitant. “Our father . . .” His face darkened for a moment. “After our father died, I sent our servants to search for you, as well.”

  He did not like our father, Catherine thought, and wondered if she had. A flash of memory came to her—she had not, either, though she did not know why. The thought both encouraged and depressed her. She was glad she had regained another memory, but had hoped for pleasant ones. “What happened to you? What did you—” Her brother—she must remember to think of him as Adrian now—stopped his eager questioning and shook his head, smiling ruefully. “I am being a bad host. You are clearly tired. We will speak of this later.”

  Catherine managed not to sigh with relief. His questions would be awkward to answer. She did not know how to tell him everything she had experienced without seeming half mad. If she had not Jack to confirm what she had seen and done, she would not have believed it herself. She had much for which to be grateful to him.

  She smiled at Adrian. “You are kind. I am tired, indeed, and would be worse off if it had not been for M. Marstone.” She gave a quick smile to Jack, but he merely nodded gravely. “I would like to see him well rewarded, brother, for my safe return.”

  The comte nodded and waved his hand in a genial manner. “Of course, of course. I will arrange it.” He smiled.

  He smiled. “Meanwhile, stay and have dinner with us. We will have guests—let us make it a celebration of my dear sister’s return.” He looked at Catherine up and down. “I think your old dresses will not fit you, but perhaps one of the maids will be able to fix one of them in time.” He turned to Jack. “Monsieur, if you wish, you may refresh yourself in one of the bedroom I will have reserved for you.”

  “I am afraid I cannot stay,” Jack said suddenly. “I have an errand to run for my king.”

  The comte raised his brows, then smiled. “Understandable, but surely you can stay to sup, at least? I imagine you would have to do so anyway.” Jack hesitated, and the comte turned to Catherine. “Sister, perhaps you can persuade him.”

  She smiled a little. “My brother is right that you will need to eat soon, Monsieur—Marstone, so I will add my pleas to his.” Her words were formal, but she gazed at Jack and put all the hope she had within her into her look, for she wished to hold him to her for at least a little longer. She returned her gaze to her brother, who looked from her to Jack and back again, as if trying to discern the quality of their relationship. She lowered her eyes to her folded hands in front of her. She felt, suddenly, that she should seem as indifferent as possible, other than having gratitude for her safe return to her family. She made herself shrug carelessly. “However, I doubt I can persuade him to anything, since he is a very stubborn man.”

  “I thank you,” Jack replied, bowing. “I will partake of your hospitality, my lord, but will need to leave soon afterward.” His smile had a grim edge. “Duty calls, after all.”

  The comte bowed again, formally. “I am glad.” He turned to Catherine. “Do show M. Marstone to the Blue Room—ah! My apologies, sister, you would not remember which room it is, I assume?”

  Catherine shook her head slightly.

  “Very well, I will have the butler escort you to your respective rooms.” He smiled at her. “We have kept your room very much like it was when you left. You will be pleased, I think.”

  He summoned the butler and, after giving instructions to the servant, bowed them formally from the room.

  Jack had become as formal as any French nobleman, she noted, as he bowed, said nothing still, and left for the room to which the butler led him. She did not like it, but she did understand; he was probably preparing himself to part from her, and wished her to do the same.

  She would comply—for now. For now, she needed to find out who and what she was, and then find a way to see him again. She was determined on it. Their parting would not be forever.

  The butler opened the door for her, and she stepped into a room of pale yellow walls and pastel green draperies. It was pleasant, she thought, surprised, and then wondered at her surprise. Why would not her own room be pleasant? The wardrobe was well made and richly scrolled, the escritoire dainty, and the papers and pens on it neatly laid out. The bed—

  Bile flooded her throat and she wanted to vomit.

  Catherine groped for the chair at the escritoire and sat before her weakened knees made her fall to the floor. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, calming her stomach and wildly beating heart.

  She was being stupid. There was no reason for her feeling like this. The bed was just as pretty and well made as the rest of the room, and she felt certain it was indeed her room. She felt this way, no doubt, because her return home was overwhelming to her, such grandeur after living in the alley and then at various inns. That must be it—certainly she felt intimidated when she first entered this house.

  She made herself walk to the bed, though she could not help touching the bedpost cautiously, as if it might have teeth and might bite her. It did nothing, of course. She made herself sit on the bed itself. The mattress was soft and the bedsheets fine; anyone would be glad of such comfort at night.

  At night . . . she was not certain she’d like sleeping here at night, but that, too, was nonsense. She had made do with sleeping on cobblestones in the alley in Paris; she had slept under church pews; and she had slept on the floor and a good bed in the Fichets’ inn. This bed was finer than any of them. She would get used to it, she was sure.

  A knock on the door roused her from her thoughts. “Entré!” she called out.

  A maid entered and curtsied. “Mademoiselle, I have been sent to dress you.”

  “What is your name?” Catherine smiled at her, half in apology, half in embarrassment. “I have lost my memory of much of my life, you see.”

  The girl’s eyes held sympathy, and she smiled shyly. “I am new, mademoiselle. My name is Marie, and I have been told I am to be your maid.” She gestured to the wardrobe. “Your dresses do not fit you any longer, I hear, so I am to fit one to you as best as I can so you may go down to your dinner.”

  Catherine let out a deep breath. This she understood and had dealt with before. She nodded, rose, and opened the wardrobe doors, which contained dresses that seemed familiar and whose colors suited her. She thought of the male clothes she still had . . . she would have to get them washed soon. Pushing aside one dress after another, she chose one that was of dark green wool and looked warm. The fabric was soft, not scratchy like the wool she had worn so far, and was delicately embroidered in silk along the edges. It looked simple enough so that it would not be difficult to alter.

  The girl was quick with the needle, and the dress had a separate bodice and skirt, so it did not take long before it was ready to put on. Marie brought out a corset, and for one moment Catherine felt her back tense before she put it on, but the girl’s hands were gentle and she did not pull the lacings tight at all. It was only enough to keep Catherine’s posture straight and push her breasts up higher than she was used to.

  A distant clock tolled the hour, and Marie moved more quickly. The maid pulled a light linen chemise over Catherine’s head, and then the skirt, then the bodice of the dress, again lacing the bodice lightly. A small lace fichu was tucked at the edge of the bodice, and Catherine thought it did less to cover her décolletage and more to enhance it and her bared shoulders. She wondered how highborn ladies managed to survive the winter, showing such expanse of flesh, but since her maid looked on the whole with approval, it was no doubt the usual thing for noblewomen to wear.

  Marie was also deft with styling her hair and pulled most of it to the back in a knot, letting the rest fall in curls about Catherine’s face. A quick glance in the mirror showed a stranger, and made her shake her head at herself. Only her face was familiar, the rest . . . the rest belonged to so
meone else. Someone who was called Catherine de la Fer and whose family lived in this estate. Someone she did not know.

  Her spirits lowered, but she turned and made herself smile at her maid. “You have done well, Marie. I thank you. You may go until it is time to let me know when to come down to dinner.” The maid grinned and curtsied, and curtsied once again at the door before she left.

  Catherine wandered about her room again, looking at the china figurines on the mantelpiece above the fireplace, a needlework sampler above it, as well as a watercolor painting. She supposed she might have stitched and painted them, since her name was at one corner of each. She did not feel much connection to them.

  She made a complete circuit around the room before she found she avoided the bed. She went toward it again, and again she felt nauseated. But she gritted her teeth and went to it once more, sitting gingerly on the edge of it.

  Nothing. Nothing happened to her when she sat on it. Not even the prickling of her hands or an ache to her back. There was no evil, then, that existed here. But she wondered if something happened here that made her feel ill.

  She remembered that she was not a virgin, and dread crept up from her belly. Perhaps whoever kidnapped her from this place had taken her virginity, and perhaps that was why she had been so afraid the first time she and Jack had made love. She thought of her betrothed—her former betrothed—the Marquis de Bauvin. Would he still wish to marry her if he knew she was not a virgin? Many men would not. Her heart grew lighter at the thought. If he did not, then she could persuade her brother as head of the household to let her marry Jack.

  She loved him. Catherine let out a deep breath. He was not just a friend to her. She had thought she did not want to marry anyone, or that she would not know what love was. But she knew she wanted to be with him always and have children with him, if he wanted her.