Dark Enchantment

by Karen Harbaugh

  She smiled a little. He did want her. For all his protests, he had made love with her, and still tried to preserve her reputation by pretending to be her husband during their travels. Perhaps even if the marquis still wanted to marry her, she could refuse and persuade her brother to let her marry Jack, if he would have her.

  A knock sounded at her door again—it was her maid. She rose from the bed, smoothed down her dress, and walked out the door and down the stairs to where her maid led her.

  She could smell the food, and her mouth watered. She hadn’t eaten for quite a while, and hoped somehow she would remember the manners she had probably been taught from childhood, and not disgrace herself. She shrugged. If she forgot, she’d watch the other guests and do as they did.

  The guests had not yet been seated, but the scents of chicken and savory beef almost made her weak in the knees as she entered the room. It managed somewhat to assuage her uncertainty at the unfamiliar faces of the people there, until she saw her brother smile at her, and then saw Jack, resplendent in an obviously borrowed and fashionably beribboned suit of clothes. He stared at her, then quickly looked away, and she lowered her eyes, feeling a blush come over her face, especially after the voices of the dinner guests had quieted. Her brother held out his hand to her and took hers in his, leading her near a seat beside him.

  “May I present my dear, long-lost sister, Mlle Catherine de la Fer.”

  She glanced up at the guests and saw clear curiosity and speculation in their gazes. It felt oppressive, but she lifted her chin and smiled at them, for she would not show her uncertainty. Anyone would feel curious about someone who disappeared and was returned to her family again.

  Her brother lifted a glass of wine. “Let us drink to honor her safe return, and”—he gestured the glass toward Jack—“to her rescuer, Sir John Marstone.” The guests raised their glasses and gave the toast, and Catherine noted, with a small pang of jealousy, how the ladies looked admiringly at Jack.

  She felt a touch on her sleeve, and she looked up at Adrian. “You will sit by me, sister, and beside you”—he smiled widely—“is one you knew once, and who is my friend.”

  She turned to gaze up at a tall, handsome man. His brows were even, his eyes large, and a thin line of mustache lay just above his well-formed lips. His nose was neither too large nor too small, and his face was an even oval beneath the curls of his well-ordered formal wig. She did not recognize him, but she smiled warmly at him, for he was, after all, her brother’s friend. A look of surprise sat on his face, then quickly disappeared, his expression turning smooth and congenial.

  “Catherine, I present the Marquis de Bauvin. Marquis de Bauvin, may I present my sister, Mlle Catherine de la Fer.” He gave an apologetic smile to the marquis. “My apologies for my sister; she has been ill during her absence and remembers nothing of her life here.”

  A small shock went through her—this, then, was her former betrothed. She cast a look at Jack from under her eyelashes. He only glanced briefly at her, then returned to conversing with the lady who stood beside him. She looked again at the marquis and sank low in a formal curtsy.

  “I am pleased to meet you again, monsieur, and am sorry that my late illness prevents me from remembering you as I should.”

  He gave an elegant and precise bow. “And I look forward to reacquainting myself with you,” he said. His voice was deep, musical, and pleasant. He seemed about to say something more, but her brother gestured to the table and bade the guests to sit and eat.

  Catherine sat with relief, a little too quickly perhaps, for she almost bumped into the marquis in her haste, but managed to move so that only the sleeve of her dress brushed his arm. She gave him an apologetic smile, then frowned as she turned to her plate and picked up her knife and fork.

  Her hands felt odd and achy, and then began to prickle. She looked about her, but felt no other sensation of evil, not as she had felt in the alley, or just outside the church when the demon had attacked her and Felice.

  Her brother leaned toward her, his expression both shy and curious. “I hope I do not cause pain when I ask—that is, I cannot help wondering why you disappeared. I had thought—” He glanced briefly at the marquis who sat on her other side. “I thought perhaps you had run away because you did not wish to marry. That is what our father said. But I cannot think it was for that reason, for de Bauvin is an exceptional man, as you can see.” He lowered his voice so that only she could hear under the other guests’ conversation. “I had thought it was because our father . . .” He gave her an apologetic look. “Because he mistreated you.”

  Affection for her brother filled Catherine’s heart; he had cared for her—still cared for her. She felt at last that this was indeed her home, now that she knew she had someone in her family who was concerned for her welfare. She looked at Adrian’s pale, tired face and thought he had probably worked very hard to be the Comte de la Fer. She squeezed his hand.

  “I do not know why I left, Adrian,” she said softly. “I do not remember. I assumed I had been kidnapped, for I cannot remember how I came to be in Paris, so far away from home.”

  Sympathy and guilt showed in his eyes, and he squeezed her hand in return. “I wish . . . I wish I had been at home. I wish I could have protected you. I tried to find out what had happened to you, but our father—” A look of frustration crossed his face. “He told me it was none of my business.” Adrian looked earnestly at her. “It is my business now, however. I promise you, I shall do everything I can to restore our estate, and make sure you and Blanche marry well.”

  “I am certain you will,” Catherine said, smiling.

  He gave her another shy, eager look. “Are you glad to be back? I hope you are.”

  She smiled at him. “I believe I am. Certainly I have not seen food like this while I was gone. It is pleasant to find I have a brother, and a generous one at that.” She indicated the dinner utensils. “You have provided forks and knives for all your guests.”

  He grinned. “It’s the fashion at court. The king has done it, and has said that all his nobles must do the same. Isn’t that so, de Bauvin?” He looked across her to the marquis.

  “Quite so,” the marquis said, and delicately pierced a piece of beef with his fork. “Do you remember going to court, mademoiselle?” He kept his attention on the slice of meat he was cutting, merely glancing once at her, but Catherine felt he was somehow testing her. Did he not believe she had lost her memory?

  “No,” she said. “I have no idea if I have or not.” She turned to Adrian. “Have I, brother?”

  He shook his head slightly. “No, you have not, nor Blanche.”

  Blanche. She frowned; he had said the name before. It meant something to her. “She must be related to us, I think? Our cousin—or no, sister?”

  Adrian beamed at her. “Yes, that is right.” He turned to the marquis. “We should all go to Versailles—what say you, de Bauvin?”

  The marquis paused for a moment in cutting the piece of beef on his plate before answering. “I see no reason why you should not. It would be well, I think, if both your sisters and you were presented at court. Our king prefers to have his nobles close by.”

  Catherine glanced at the marquis again, then at her brother. Adrian’s expression was eager, and it was clear he sought the older man’s approval. How much control does the marquis have over my brother?

  The thought startled her. There was no reason to think that de Bauvin had any control over Adrian, though clearly her brother looked to the man for guidance and approval. And if the man did have influence over Adrian, then there was no reason for her to think that it would be anything but benign. The man had a cultured voice, though he said little so far, and he was well mannered. Indeed, that he questioned her about her memory could mean he doubted her identity, and if he was at all concerned about her brother, he would naturally wish to know if she were an impostor. Except perhaps for her hair and eyes, she had changed a great deal, she thought, for she did remember a little
of what she had looked like before she had come to Paris. It would not be surprising for anyone to question even a little.

  Adrian nodded and grinned at Catherine. “Yes, but now we have a dilemma.” His voice turned teasing. “The marquis was your betrothed, and then he became Blanche’s betrothed when you disappeared. Now that you have returned, I wonder if he will still choose Blanche, or decide to become your fiancé again.”

  She could feel her face become warm and lowered her eyes; she hoped that the guests—and the marquis—would think she had become embarrassed at the teasing. She was, but it was overpowered by anger. She felt, suddenly, as if she were a broodmare put up for auction.

  She glanced up and caught Jack’s gaze for a moment before he turned away. Anger lit his eyes for a moment, before a bland, cordial smile replaced it. She smiled at him; he did not like that the marquis might have a claim on her, whatever he might have said before. He need not fear; she would be quite content to have her younger sister marry de Bauvin. . . . She remembered then her resolution to let Jack go on his way, so that she would not be a danger to him, and looked away. She glanced quickly up and down the dinner table.

  “Where is my sister?”

  Adrian grinned. “She was to arrive before dinner from the convent, but no doubt she was delayed. I have noticed that girls are often late for their appointments.” He winked at a very pretty girl who sat across from him, and whose parents sat on either side of her. The girl blushed and smiled, and her mother looked smug. No doubt the girl’s parents thought to make a match with Adrian, Catherine thought, amused.

  Dinner was soon over, and though the meal was delicious, Catherine was glad. She found she was not good at company talk, or at least not at this time, for she kept most of her attention on her manners. She was used to inn company, not nobility.

  The party removed themselves to the drawing room, and more lavish refreshments were offered. Catherine wondered at it; the dinner utensils had been new and well made, and these refreshments could not be inexpensive. And yet she had seen for herself that the estate was not in good repair when she traveled through it. Had her brother come into money, then? She tried to remember what it had been like before she had left her home, but it seemed as if she tried to pierce a mist in her mind that refused to recede.

  The mist she and Jack had gone through came back to her memory and she shuddered.

  “Is there anything the matter, mademoiselle?”

  It was the marquis. He looked down at her coolly, and she wondered if he had truly had any affection for her. It was not as if all or even most marriages were contracted out of love, of course, but she had hoped that the marquis had been the sort who would.

  “No . . . I was very ill when I lived in Paris, and though I am much stronger now, I still feel the cold more acutely than most, I think.” She looked into his eyes and felt uneasy, for his expression did not change. She wondered if he cared for anyone at all.

  A light, high voice sounded near the door of the drawing room, and a flustered and apologetic footman followed a small whirlwind into the room. “Oh, hush, Henri the Footman, it is well. I am in my own home, so it does not matter. Go, you, to your duties.”

  The girl could not have been much more than fourteen, for her figure was still more straight than curved. But her eyes were a large, merry blue, her curling hair the color of golden wheat, and her cheeks pink with cold. She was still dressed for travel in a deep red cloak, but she looked about her at the guests and then let out a happy cry. “Adrian! See, I said I would be home today!” She ran to her brother and would have hugged him had he not laughed and held her off.

  “Blanche, behave! We have guests!”

  The girl looked about her and her expression became apologetic. The expressions on the faces of the guests were indulgent; clearly the girl had charm, and her good nature shone clearly in her countenance. She was a sort who would be forgiven easily for her errors. She made numerous small, hasty curtsies to them all, the way an errant schoolgirl might, and then turned back to her brother. “You must tell me, where is our sister? She is here at last, is she not? I must see her—it has been so long, and I have been so afraid for her!”

  Adrian laughed again and turned to Catherine. “Here she is, Blanche. She is changed, but you might still recognize her.”

  Blanche looked at Catherine uncertainly, clearly searching her face. A smile dawned, and she held out her hands to her. “Catherine . . . oh, Catherine, I do recognize you! And, oh—” Her lips turned down and trembled, and tears formed in her eyes. “Oh, I have missed you so much!” She ran to Catherine and threw her arms around her.

  The guests sighed sentimentally, and Catherine pressed her lips together to keep back her own tears. The mist in her mind parted just a little, and she thought she did indeed recognize this girl. A fleeting memory came to Catherine of a small blonde girl sitting in her lap as she told a story. . . . It must have been this girl, when she was younger. Her heart melted, and she dropped all formality, hugging Blanche close.

  “I am glad to be back,” she whispered. “Glad that you remember me.” She wished she could remember everything, for surely the memories of being with her sister had to have been pleasant.

  They parted, and Blanche searched her face again. “You have changed—you are so thin, Catherine! Have you been ill?”

  Catherine wondered how much Blanche knew . . . possibly very little, since it seemed she had spent much of her time at a convent. She smiled at her and merely said, “Yes. Very ill. It has affected my memory, you see, and so I must work to remember as much as I can of my life before I . . . disappeared.”

  Dismay was clear on Blanche’s face, but a resolute look quickly replaced it. “I will help you, you shall see! You may go about with me in our house and on our lands, and I will tell you everything.”

  Catherine smiled. “I shall be very pleased if you would, thank you.” She looked about her at the guests—Jack, who still refused to look at her, at the marquis, at her brother—and put a wider smile on her face. This was as good a time as any to leave and repair to her room; she was tired, and did not really wish to have more company. She glanced at Jack again; it seemed his expression had slowly turned to stone over the course of this afternoon. “Indeed, I am very tired from my own journey. If you all will excuse me, I think I shall rest for a while.”

  Some of the guests looked disappointed, for curiosity had been rampant on their faces for the whole course of the meal. But she had not the stomach for questions, or for watching how Jack avoided her.

  Her brother bowed elegantly, though he also looked disappointed. “Of course, I understand. M. Marstone did tell me you had been very ill. Go, then, and if Blanche wishes to go with you”—he nodded at his youngest sister—“she may, although you must let her know if she chatters too much at you.” He gave Blanche a wide grin.

  The girl wrinkled her nose at him. “I shall not talk too much, for I can see for myself that Catherine is tired.” She gave another quick series of schoolgirl curtsies to the guests, then turned to her sister. “Come, let us go. I have much to tell you, and you must tell me everything about your adventures.” Catherine smiled and turned to follow.

  “Mlle de la Fer.” It was Jack. He took her hand and bowed formally over it. “I am afraid I, too, must leave.”

  Her heart sank. She had hoped that perhaps he might stay the night. But his mouth pressed together in a firm line, and she knew he would not.

  “I have many miles to go before I reach Breda, and my king is impatient.” He hesitated. “I hope . . . I hope I might visit your family again at some time.”

  He still held her hand—it was firm and warm, and she closed her eyes to memorize the sensation. She wanted to remember everything about him; for all that she was returned to her family and welcomed warmly, her life would be colder for the lack of his presence. She swallowed, and nodded, then sank into a curtsy.

  “I am grateful for all that you have done for me, M. Marstone,” she sa
id. Jack. Jack. She would never forget him.

  He bowed once more and released her hand, and for a moment her hand seemed frozen in the air, half reaching for him. But she dropped her hand to her side and turned to her sister, who was watching with great curiosity. She heard Jack’s footsteps behind her as he walked down the stairs to the hall, and the doors to the mansion seemed to boom hollowly as the footmen closed them behind him.

  “I, too, must leave.”

  She looked up to see the marquis, who had moved toward the door, as well. He had little expression on his face, but she felt somehow that he was watching her.

  “I shall return on the morrow, however, to see how you”—he bowed toward Blanche—“and your sister fare.”

  Blanche smiled uncertainly, but gave a deep curtsy. He held out his hand to Catherine, and she placed hers in his as he bowed over it in farewell.

  Blackness rolled over her mind and thundered in her ears. For one moment it seemed she was encased in the creeping fog she had encountered but hours before when she traveled with Jack, and pain pierced her, freezing her bones. She fought it, pulling in a deep breath against a force that seemed to squeeze her chest.

  “Catherine, are you well?”

  It was her sister, calling to her. She opened her eyes.

  She was in her home, the home of the de la Fers. She was at the threshold of the drawing room. Her sister Blanche looked at her, worry clear in her eyes.

  Catherine looked up. She still held the hand of the marquis. Slowly she curtsied low, as was proper for one in her station to one who was higher, and released his hand. Slowly she rose again, putting all the control she had in the precise rise from bent knee to a steady stance. She put a polite smile on her face and nodded cordially.

  “I am well, Blanche,” she said, and was glad that her voice was steady and even. “I still feel ill from time to time, though you must not worry, for I grow stronger every day.” Blanche’s face cleared, though she still wore a small frown of worry.