by Paige Elwood
Edouard returned, unpacking his own basket. Sophie showed him the contents of hers. “It’s something I enjoy eating at home,” she said to him. “Chicken with a sweet sauce.”
She handed him a sticky drumstick, which he took eagerly. He sniffed at it cautiously. “Smells delicious,” he said.
Sophie’s hand was sticky from the sauce, and she was thinking this could be too messy for a picnic. They didn’t have napkins, and it didn’t seem very hygienic to wipe her hand on the blanket.
Edouard was digging into the chicken with gusto. She might have found it off putting, watching a man eat with his hands like that, a little sauce smeared on his chin. Yet she found it somehow endearing, and a sense of pride swelled in her that she had cooked something for him that he enjoyed so much. Granted, she’d had help, but still, she did make the sauce herself! She was quite proud of that.
She decided to abandon all hope of sophistication and took her own drumstick, doing her best to avoid smearing the sweet, fragrant sauce on her face. When it was all eaten, they looked at each other and laughed.
“Do I have a lot of it on my face?” she asked.
“Just a little,” he said, touching the corner of his mouth to indicate where she had sauce, and in the process smearing more on his own face from his fingers.
“The stream!” Sophie said. “Let’s wash it off in the stream.”
They used the clear, cool water to rinse away the sticky sauce, and in the absence of a towel, Sophie blotted her face and hands on the fabric of her dress. Edouard was bent down rinsing his own mouth and she couldn’t resist scooping up a handful of water and flicking it over him.
He reared up in shock, but amusement twinkled in his dark eyes and he splashed her back. She retaliated, but threw the water too hard, eliciting a shriek from Madame Petellier who got a splash of cold water onto the back of her neck.
“Arête!” she said, “you are not children!”
Sophie giggled like she was a schoolchild who had received a mild telling off from a school teacher. Edouard held his hand out, and she took it, anticipating that now-familiar tingling at the contact of their skin. She was almost sorry when he let go as they neared the blanket.
They made their way back to the blanket, still giggling. Edouard took out some bread, cheese, and cold meat, and they continued to eat until Sophie was nearly stuffed. He handed her an apple when they’d finished the rest of the food, and she was glad it was just a piece of fruit and not a heavy dessert. There was no way her girdle would allow her to eat much more!
She held the apple in her hand for a moment, closing her eyes and savoring the contentment of being outside on a sunny day with a belly full of food. The stream made a relaxing sound as it babbled over rocks, and she could hear birds singing and rustling in the trees overhead.
It reminded her vaguely of a description in a poem by Wordsworth, long ago learned and the words forgotten, but the stream brought back the feeling of the poem. Something about an April morning, she mused.
Young lovers always recited poetry to each other on countryside jaunts in period dramas and movies. Perhaps it would be nice to have someone do that for her. It certainly wouldn’t hurt for it to be Edouard.
Perhaps that fling might not be completely off the cards after all. Maybe his reaction to her kiss was just because women in this age didn’t make the first move? Perhaps it was time to nudge him towards action. She was warming to his personality after all, and he was certainly handsome. In fact… did she want more than a fling? No, she thought, that would be ridiculous, as well as impossible.
“Do you know any poetry?” she asked him, picking at a blade of grass.
“I do, I studied some. I can recite one if you like?”
“Yes please!”
“The fowls in the forest, the fishes in the flood and I must go mad: ... such sorrow I've had
for beasts of bone and blood!”
Sophie wrinkled her nose. That wasn’t really what she’d imagined. “That’s a strange poem. What does it mean?”
Edouard shrugged. “I think it’s about a man going mad from sorrow. Perhaps over a woman.”
“How do you get that he’s sad about a woman from those words?” she asked. It sounded mostly like nonsense to her. Definitely not as romantic as the poetry in the movies.
“I think it’s the ‘beasts of bone and blood’ that could mean a woman,” he said.
“That’s a horrid way to describe a woman.”
“I don’t think it was meant to be an insult. It just sounds lyrical.”
“Obviously written by a man.” She scowled.
“You don’t think so much of men then?” he teased her.
“Some of them aren’t so bad,” she shot back.
“Where do I fit in?”
“You’re ok.” She shrugged and gave him a teasing smile.
“What is ok?” he asked.
“Alright, fine, not bad…” she explained.
“You think I am a fine man?” He puffed up his chest mockingly and Sophie threw her apple core at him. He ducked quickly, and it narrowly missed his head. She laughed.
“You have a good throw for a woman,” he said.
“See, there’s that attitude again!” She pushed his shoulder playfully, recognizing his words were in jest. Had she been misinterpreting his arrogance all along? Maybe it was simply nerves.
“I’m just teasing.” he said. “Do you know any poetry from your time?”
“Not really.” Seeing his disappointed expression, she racked her brains. “Oh! I do know one. It’s by Yeats.” At his blank look, she said, “Obviously, you don’t know him but he’s very famous in my time.” She cleared her throat:
“Never give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seems
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that's lovely is
But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost
For he gave all his heart and lost.”
“Do you think that’s true—you should never give all your heart for love?” he asked.
She shrugged and toyed with a blade of grass again. “It’s just a poem. I don’t really know what I think about love.”
“But aren’t most stories about love?”
“Not really. War, death, religion, they all feature pretty heavily too,” she said. She was enjoying the debate with him. She’d never met a man who’d been the type to discuss poetry. She liked it. She liked spending time with him more than she cared to admit.
“Perhaps,” he said,
“Do you think it’s true—about never giving your whole heart?” she asked him.
“I am also unsure about love. It’s not something I have experienced,” Edouard said.
Sophie felt a connection with him then. It was strange, the things they had in common even though they were born centuries apart. The ring warmed again on her finger, as though responding to her thoughts.
“I heard a story set in France once,” she said. “It was about a French nobleman, like you.”
“Did you?” Amusement shone in his eyes.
“Yes, the man was a womanizer who constantly dated young ladies and broke their hearts,” she said. A ghost of a reaction she didn’t understand flickered in his eyes. She paused for a moment, but carried on. “One day, his treatment of women and dismissal of the idea of true love triggered an ancient curse.”
“Go on,” he said.
“Well, the curse was that he could not be happy, or die, until he found his true love. But he didn’t believe in true love. He would be doomed to live f
orever in unhappiness.”
“What if he found his true love?”
“Then the curse would be broken.” She paused for a moment. “The thing is, what if he met his true love when he was very old? Even if they did fall in love, I suppose breaking the curse then would just kill him. That would be even sadder.”
“Do you not know how the story ended?” he asked.
“The person who told it to me said there were two endings. One where he found her, and one where he didn’t.”
“Which one will you tell?”
“I think he found her,” she said. “Stories should have happy endings, especially when real life has so many sad ones.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he said. His amber eyes flashed with emotion that Sophie didn’t recognize, and she wondered what had caused it.
They talked a little while longer, but Sophie felt he was more closed off now, a little guarded. She wondered what had made him shut down like that. Was it the talk of love? Or was it the talk of it perhaps not being real? Was he feeling the strange and growing connection that existed between them, or was that all in her head?
He’s just being kind, Sophie she thought. Maybe that fling will happen with him, maybe it won’t. You can’t get too involved anyway, you need to get home.
The sun was nearing the end of its daily journey across the sky, and so they gathered their belongings and walked back to the carriage.
“Thank you for a lovely day,” Sophie said to Edouard.
“Thank you for your lovely company.” He grinned, and her breath caught in her throat. When he looked at her like that with his perfect smile, it made her want to throw her arms around him and kiss him. But she told herself not to that, to remember what happened last time. He could make the first move this time.
They got back into the carriage, and with the rhythmic rocking of the carriage on the road and her full stomach, Sophie couldn’t help dozing off. She dreamed fitfully, flashes of images and feelings rather than a cohesive dream. Amber eyes, a bright smile. An old man’s hand on her elbow that morphed into a younger, stronger one. Brightly colored tapestries that told a story she couldn’t quite understand. Notre Dame visible from her bedroom window, always watching her.
She woke with a start, Madame Petellier’s hand on her shoulder. “We have arrived, Ma Cherie.”
Sophie blinked, the fuzziness of sleep clinging to her. “Yes, of course,” she said, hastily touching her mouth to make sure she hadn’t drooled. She was relieved to find the corners of her mouth dry.
Edouard helped them out of the carriage. “I will see you tomorrow,” he said. “At the ball?”
“Of course.” Sophie grinned. “I have a new dress and everything!” She hoped the dress had arrived as planned, or she’d be wearing another of Isabeau’s hand-me-downs to the ball, and that just wouldn’t be the same.
“Then I shall look forward to it,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips and pressing them gently against her skin.
The small gesture started a cascade of sensations in Sophie. Her stomach felt full of butterflies, and she could swear she felt the brush of his lips on the back of her hand even long after he had released it.
“Me too,” she choked out. She stayed watching as the carriage rode away. She was so confused at the signals that man gave out. He was infuriating and captivating all at once. The sight of him always cheered her, and yet she was annoyed with herself for reacting that way. What was happening to her?
When the carriage was out of sight, she entered the house. She could hear excited chatter from the drawing room and went to investigate.
Chapter 22
Edouard’s carriage trundled down the narrow roads, taking him back to his father’s duchy. He licked his lips, catching a tiny spot of the delicious sauce that had coated the chicken Sophie brought with her. At last, he’d had a chance to taste some of the food of her time. The delicious smells that had followed him during his dream and his visit had taunted him ever since, so it was wonderful to try something. She must have been an excellent cook, as the chicken was delicious.
Not that she’d need to cook as his wife. They would have servants and cooks to do all of that work for them. They would have plenty of time to spend together, to go on more picnics and laugh together. His memory brought back an image of Sophie, laughing as she splashed him with water from the stream. Her laugh was so infectious, and he loved to see her smile. Her playful nature made her a joy to be around, and he recalled her lips pressed to his on the day that he’d found her.
He wanted nothing more than to feel those lips on his own again, but he mustn’t rush. He couldn’t afford to scare her away. Not for the curse, but just for him. He needed her, he realized, for more than breaking the curse. In fact, the curse didn’t even seem so important anymore. He’d brought her here for the sole reason of breaking this curse, and yes, he’d been a little curious about what he would feel for her, and if they would find the love together that was foretold. He just hadn’t expected it to be like this. He’d expected that if he loved her, he’d want to own her, possess her, all of her.
This wasn’t that kind of feeling, though. He wanted to protect her. From himself as much as any other threat that might rear its head. He wanted to make sure she was happy, whatever that took. He needed to give himself to her, more than he needed to take anything from her. It was a revelation, and he thought that maybe he really was beginning to experience love beyond the first flush of novelty and attraction.
The carriage pulled into the courtyard of his father’s chateau, and the enormous iron gates opened to reveal his father’s tall figure standing by the door, waiting for his arrival. Edouard took a deep breath and hoped this wouldn’t be bad news. The carriage halted, and he climbed out. His father greeted him perfunctorily before jumping right in to the questions.
“Have you broken the curse yet?” He ran his hand through his graying hair.
“No, Father, it is a delicate matter,” Edouard explained.
The Duke dismissed his explanation with a wave of his hand. “You need to hurry and break it so you can send her back.”
“Why would I send her back?” Edouard was astounded.
“I had my people look into her and we can’t trace her family, she’s a foreigner likely with no money, no title and no influence,” he said. “She is not a suitable marriage prospect at all, there is no way we can overlook this. She simply does not have the pedigree.”
“Is that all that matters to you?”
“Yes! Marriage is not about whimsical notions and flights of fancy. It’s a partnership to further both families’ interests, but a union with this girl has no benefit to our family.”
“The curse isn’t broken yet, and I believe she is a good match regardless of the curse. Why can’t you let this be, it will be me marrying her, not you!” Edouard’s voice raised a little. He couldn’t believe that his father wouldn’t accept his one true love. How did he expect Edouard to be able to just marry another woman?
“She’s not suitable, Edouard. Break the curse and then send her on her way with a little money. She’ll do as you ask if you pay her well enough, everybody always does.” His father inspected his nails, considering the conversation to be over.
“No,” Edouard said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean no. I will marry her if she will have me, and that is final.”
“If she will have you. You stupid fool, of course she will have you, all she wants is your money.”
“That’s not true. If it were true she wouldn’t be the one to break the curse.”
“This is not a discussion, Edouard. If you disobey me then I will disown you. That girl is not swooping in to claim our family’s heritage.”
Edouard opened his mouth to protest, but his father turned on his heels and marched into the house, leaving Edouard alone in the courtyard, a shaking mess of rage and disbelief. He kicked a small gargoyle statue, sending pain reverberating through t
is toes and up his shin, but he didn’t care.
What would he do now? He could defy his father, but how would he make a living without the title and lands he was supposed to inherit? Even if he tried, just one word from his father would ruin any business her tried to create. Not that he had the training to be anything other than a noble. This was an absolute disaster.
For a moment he flirted with the idea of just building a ramshackle house in one of the villages and living a simple life with Sophie by his side. She was more important than his lands and money. Yet he couldn’t do that to her. He’d briefly seen the lifestyle she had at home, and while he didn’t understand a lot of it, it was clear that the life of a medieval peasant wouldn’t satisfy her. Nor would he wish to ask that of her. She deserved more than that.
He stalked up the stairs to his bed chamber, slamming the door behind him. This was a worse predicament than the original curse, he thought. He sat on the bed and put his head in his hands, trying to clear the anger at his father so that he could come up with a clear plan.
All he could think of was that he would have to somehow convince his father that Sophie was worth it. That his informants were wrong, and she was nobility. Perhaps, he could convince the Duke that Sophie had pretended to be someone else because she was such a high ranking noble she wanted to be sure Edouard was worthy before revealing it?
More lies, he thought, his hope sinking. He couldn’t bring himself to weave an ever more tangled web of lies. The more lies he told, the more he had to remember and the more wretched he felt. He’d told enough lies to get to this point. The only way forward was an honest one. Whatever he did to rectify this situation, there would be no more lies.
Chapter 23
“Sophie! The dresses are here!” Delphine exclaimed as she entered the drawing room.
There was collection of dresses laid out across the back of the chairs. “Let’s have a fashion show!” Sophie said.
“What’s a fashion show?” Isabeau asked.
“We try on our dresses and model them for each other,” Sophie explained.
