The Chevalier (Châteaux and Shadows) Read online

  “As long as the baronesse is happy, I have a place to live. I could find another benefactress, of course, but the only others who would take me are within her circle.”

  She looked back at her peach, which was squashed and ragged but finally peeled. She wiped her hands on a napkin and picked up a spoon to poke at the orange flesh.

  Monsieur Emmanuel cut his peach into sections, only struggling for a moment with the pit. He pushed the plate across the table to her. “You really cannot peel them when they’re ripe.”

  He went to talk to the innkeeper and signaled to his men. She leaned forward and saw them getting up one or two at a time, talking and smiling.

  Marie came over and stood silently by the table. Catherine took the last bite of the peach and dabbed carefully at her chin. “Has my trunk been taken up to our room, Marie?”

  “Oui, Mademoiselle.” The girl lifted her eyes to Catherine’s and smiled suddenly. She leaned forward and whispered, “I’ve never slept in an inn before.”

  Catherine smiled back. She hoped the cot or pallet or whatever had been provided for the maid would be comfortable, so as not to dash the girl’s expectations. “It’s never as nice as being home in one’s own bed,” she warned gently.

  Not that Catherine had a home. The baronesse moved from place to place—wherever the king was, to the baron’s Paris townhouse, to friends’ châteaux. She brought along feather mattresses for herself and Catherine unless she was quite sure they would have comfortable beds.

  Catherine sighed. What I would give for my feather mattress right now. What I would give for my grandmother’s house in Normandy and the ocean breeze.

  Chapter Three

  The knock came at Emmanuel’s door before the sun was up, just as he had requested. The innkeeper’s wife crept in and left a pitcher on the wash stand as Manu stretched and yawned. As soon as she was gone, he flung the blankets back and rolled out of bed. He always slept in drawers when away from home. At home, his servants knew to knock and wait for an answer before coming in.

  Home. He rarely thought of it that way, but it was where he had spent most of his time for the last five years, wasn’t it? He sighed. It was the closest he had to a home. He was eager to get back to it, not least because some of his mares needed to be covered again, as their pregnancies hadn’t taken in the spring. His assistants knew what to do, but he preferred to be there to be sure it was done with a minimum of risk to the horses. He would trust Jacques, of course, but he had brought him away from Poitou.

  The mares covered the year before had all foaled except one, and she wasn’t due until autumn. Manu wanted to keep an especially close eye on her, since she was Dom’s aging prize mare and this might be her last foal.

  Downstairs, he found his grooms and coachman heading for the stables and the guards and footmen finishing breakfast. They leapt to their feet.

  His stomach sank and irritation boiled up in its place. “No sign of Mademoiselle de Fouet?”

  Jacques shook his head. “Non, Monsieur. The innkeeper’s wife went up again a short while ago. They were still dressing.”

  She’s dressing for court, then? How about her powders and patches? “Get everyone ready and saddled. The sun’s about up.”

  Manu took the stairs two at a time. He rapped hard and, after just a moment, Marie the maid peeked out. “Nearly ready, Monsieur.”

  “I trust you both slept well?” He was trying hard to sound polite.

  “I slept like a baby, but Mademoiselle—”

  “I slept well, Monsieur de Cantière. Don’t worry, I’m ready now.”

  And she was. She wore the same brown dress as the day before, smoothing gloves over her hands. The sight of her made Manu’s heart leap irrationally. Her face was white, so Manu supposed her delay was from powdering it, but when she stepped into the hall, he realized she was horribly pale.

  “Are you well, Mademoiselle de Fouet?”

  “Perfectly all right, Monsieur. Shall we go?”

  He gestured for her to precede him down the narrow stairs. Reluctantly, doubting his need for speed if she really were ill, he said, “If the two of you wish to break your fast, I’m going to have to ask you to eat on the road.”

  The innkeeper’s wife scurried out of the kitchen with two small sacks and Mademoiselle’s drinking gourd.

  “I believe we have everything now, Monsieur Emmanuel.” Mademoiselle de Fouet swept out of the inn with the maid right behind.

  At the first change of horses, Manu knocked on the coach door and peered in to check on her. She was sleeping in the corner, her face pale except for bright red spots on her cheeks. The air weighed heavy and humid already, and the coach was stuffy, but he didn’t want to disturb her by opening the curtains. Besides, the draft might make her more ill.

  At the second change, she was asleep again, which didn’t seem like her. He supposed she was sleeping away the boredom.

  At midday, when they stopped to dine, she was asleep.

  “Marie!”

  “Oui, Monsieur?” She answered just behind him, and he jumped.

  “Your mistress appears to be ill. Rouse her.” He was too gruff. He softened his voice. “Please, Marie.”

  She patted Mademoiselle de Fouet’s hands gently and murmured, glancing at Manu in concern. Mademoiselle de Fouet was confused and lethargic but roused herself enough to go inside.

  “You’re not ill again, are you?” Manu’s mind was already on the second half of the day and the road to cover before Paris.

  “Of course not,” she answered, her voice tight and disapproving as usual.

  Manu yanked his glove off and touched her forehead to check for fever, but she pulled away.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I won’t delay your schedule, Monsieur de Cantière.” She strode regally toward the inn.

  That’s not what I asked. Manu stomped in after her.

  She waved him away from her table when he approached. She and Marie spoke quietly, the maid wringing her hands under the table. Neither Mademoiselle de Fouet nor the maid ate much, for fear of motion sickness, most likely.

  Manu made sure he was the one to help Mademoiselle de Fouet up into the coach. “Mademoiselle, if you are truly ill, we will stop here. It’s not the nicest inn on the road, but it is fairly comfortable. My sister has it on her list of acceptable stops.”

  She assured him she was well.

  She assured him again at the next change.

  The one after, she was asleep again, but he set a small loaf of bread next to her and had the maid refill her water gourd. A line of storm clouds rumbled behind them, and the oppressive humidity of the day thickened with the tension of oncoming thunder. Manu focused on reaching Paris.

  He had hoped they would arrive at his father’s townhouse before the rain, but the storm broke at the city gates. He stopped their cavalcade only long enough to hustle the maid into the coach with the admonition to secure the curtains and not vomit. Mademoiselle de Fouet stared at him in glassy-eyed surprise for a moment.

  “Just twenty minutes, if we don’t get bogged down in mud,” he assured them.

  The men pulled cloaks from their saddlebags, and the party forged ahead, rattling over cobblestones, picking their way through torrents of mud and filth in narrow alleys, the wind whipping the deluge directly into their faces.

  They arrived at Manu’s father’s house with a flash of blue-white light and a great clap of thunder. The horses whinnied but were too tired to misbehave. The coachman pulled up to the back door of the house to bundle the two women out.

  A manservant ran out of the house, waving his arms at the footman who opened the carriage door.

  Manu urged his horse over and swung down. “What’s wrong? We need to get the lady inside and the men and horses out of the rain.”

  “The baronesse is not here. Mademoiselle de Fouet cannot stay without a chaperone. She is a real lady.”

  “A real lady,” he repeated stupidly.

  The housek
eeper stepped out, and Manu turned his anger on her. “Why is my mother not in residence? She was meant to be here. I have ridden from Poitou to see her.”

  “She stayed only one night—arrived Monday after spending Sunday in an inn and left this morning. Her maid said she would have traveled on Sunday if she could.”

  His mother’s friends at court were rigidly religious, as long as they could have their priest absolve all their sins of bearing false witness or gluttony or adultery. Still, it wasn’t the housekeeper’s place to comment. Or the maid’s. In fact, it seemed odd the maid had said anything.

  “So she has gone to court?” he asked, still not fully understanding what had happened.

  “She had a letter when she arrived. The king is expected in Versailles this week.”

  Manu looked down at his clenched fists and grunted in frustration. She couldn’t wait for him in Paris? And now they would have to double back toward the west. They could have reached Versailles hours ago and been done. “Mademoiselle de Fouet is ill again. We have to get her to bed.”

  The housekeeper sniffed haughtily. “We always thought she was a good girl.”

  “We brought a maid, and we expected to find my mother here. I would have been here yesterday on horseback if my mother hadn’t left the girl behind.”

  Manu was whining. And justifying himself to a servant. One of many who helped raise him when his mother had been out every evening, ignoring him. The housekeeper was strict but fair and given to pinching a boy’s cheeks and giving him treats. He scratched his head, dislodging his hat.

  “Your brother the colonel is at his home with his wife. It’s only a short ride.”

  Luckily, very few of the men had unsaddled their horses, so they pulled out into the dark Paris streets, lanterns lit on the coach and men carrying lanterns at the front and rear of the cavalcade.

  They couldn’t get much wetter than they were. He only hoped no one else would catch a fever.

  ****

  Someone spoke, and she nodded.

  Her blanket scratched her neck. Someone rubbed her hands.

  She rocked and swayed again.

  Carriage.

  Dark.

  There was shouting, and then a man swore and lifted her. He smelled like rain and horse. The light brightened and warmth touched her face. She tried to open her eyes. Her hands touched wet leather, and she gripped it, sure she was falling. She jounced around, then heard more voices. The man carrying her called for water. A woman asked what happened.

  Catherine sank into a soft mattress, women murmuring around her as they undressed her.

  “Pale…”

  “Cold…”

  “Malade.”

  “De Fouet.”

  “Baronesse…”

  “Manu…”

  She tried to lift her head. “Manu?”

  A voice spoke in her ear. Marie. “Monsieur Emmanuel went out. Don’t worry, Mademoiselle.”

  “Stop. We must stop for the night.” That was what she tried to say, anyway. Her voice sounded like groans even to herself.

  “Oui. Sleep, Mademoiselle.” A different woman’s voice.

  She slept.

  ****

  No matter what he said about traveling fast, Manu always took a day to recover. The heat followed by cold rain was likely to kill them all.

  He awoke early, used to being up at dawn to exercise his horses. He rolled over expecting his window at home before the foul taste in his mouth reminded him of drinking brandy with his brother the night before. Jean-Louis’ house. Jean-Louis’ wife’s house, since Jean-Louis was very clear that even though he officially owned everything Hélène brought to the marriage, he considered himself its—and her—caretaker, with all benefits accruing to her and to their children. Rain spattered against the windows, and Manu drifted off again.

  He awoke sometime later to the murmur of voices in the next room. He couldn’t hear rain, but when he opened a shutter, it was so gray it was hard to tell the time. He shivered in his thin shirt and drawers.

  He found unfamiliar clothes hung neatly over the back of a chair. They must be Jean-Louis’, as the coat was blue. Henri, his other brother, always wore black or brown, though with occasional touches of color since he had taken up with Fourbier. Besides, he was thinner than any of the rest of them. Manu flexed his biceps, sure he was bigger than Henri.

  In the hall, he raised his hand to knock on Mademoiselle de Fouet’s door but was distracted by movement down the hall. A blond head disappeared into an alcove. Then he heard a high-pitched “Non!” A boy stumbled into the hall, pushed by unseen hands.

  Marcel? Marcel, Jean-Louis’s oldest boy, ten years old. Or almost ten? Manu couldn’t remember. He was born a scant nine months after his parents wed in haste. Just a few months after his cousin, Dario. He wondered if they were friends. Manu had hardly seen him since the boy was five, but he was the right age and looked like a miniature of his father—and of Manu.

  The boy bowed elegantly, his face as solemn and serious as his father’s. Manu bowed back, suppressing a smile. He remembered being young and treated his nieces and nephews with gravity.

  “Welcome, Uncle Emmanuel.” The boy looked him over. “Is that Papa’s new justaucorps?”

  Manu brushed imaginary lint from his sleeves as he admired the royal blue, conservatively decorated wool. “It does appear new, and I assumed it was your father’s, yes.”

  “It looks quite well on you. Uncle Fourbier will approve.”

  Manu couldn’t help but smile. But then he frowned. “You have been spending a lot of time with Monsieur Fourbier, then?” Fourbier was Henri’s lover. While the family treated Fourbier like a brother, Manu had his doubts about the suitability of letting the children spend time with the man.

  The boy nodded. “He came with us when we picked out fabrics for our new coats. He supervised the tailors until they threatened to quit. He won’t let Papa and Maman wear just anything, you know.”

  That did sound like Fourbier, who was a former tailor, Jean-Louis’ former valet, and the fabric buyer for the furniture manufactory.

  “And how are you today, Uncle Emmanuel?” the boy asked earnestly.

  “Quite well, Marcel, thank you. And you?”

  The boy stood up straighter. “Father says I’m soon to go to the country to train with Uncle Dominique. I hope to be an officer in the army. Papa was a colonel!”

  “I know, Marcel. And a very good one, too.” Manu had to remember he had been only a few years older than this boy when he went to train with Dominique. So young.

  The boy beamed. A high-pitched voice bubbled from the alcove, and Marcel leaned his head in that direction, never breaking eye contact with Manu. “And may I present my brother and sister to you, Uncle Emmanuel?”

  “I believe I have met them before, Monsieur Marcel, though it has been a long time.”

  Marcel waved his hand like a magician, and a girl dragged a tiny boy out of the shadows. They both had their blond heads down, and their cheeks—what Manu could see of them—were rosy pink with blushes. As shy as their mother. He liked Hélène, but she wasn’t the type of lady who attracted him. The little boy’s thumb went into his mouth. The girl pulled it away.

  “Uncle Emmanuel, may I present Diane? She is only seven.”

  The girl curtseyed neatly, head down. Manu had to reach far, far down to take her hand to bow over it. If they were going to play at formality, then he was going to use his very best manners.

  “And Cédric.” The second boy had been named for his oldest uncle. “He is three, and he’s a little stupid.”

  The smaller boy’s head shot up, a look of shock on his round face. He punched his big brother in the chest before fleeing with a wail. Just in one glimpse of Cédric’s face, Manu could have sworn he was looking at a younger version of himself. How many times had Manu felt little and stupid compared to his bigger, brighter, more dashing siblings?

  Manu shook his head. Now he was being stupid. “He seems
to have understood you, Marcel. He cannot be very stupid.”

  “Oh, he understands, but his letters sound wrong when he tries to speak.”

  “He is only three, you said?” Manu raised an eyebrow at the older boy, who looked down. “I seem to remember when you were three you had an adorable lisp and a precious stutter.”

  Adorable? Precious? Manu sounded like a nursemaid.

  Marcel scowled, too old to be remotely adorable. Manu wanted to grin. “I am going to see how Mademoiselle de Fouet is. I do not yet know if she is contagious, so I will come see you later.”

  He bowed to them, and they scurried off. The girl looked back over her shoulder and smiled tentatively. He nodded his head. He wondered briefly where the oldest sister, Ondine, was. She was probably too grown up at twelve or thirteen to hide in alcoves and scamper around the house.

  He tapped on Mademoiselle de Fouet’s bedchamber door, and it was immediately opened by Marie. Her eyes were sleepy, but she smiled as she curtsied to Manu.

  “Is Mademoiselle de Fouet better?”

  “She’s awake, Monsieur, but not up yet.”

  “I am not up yet because they are holding me down, Monsieur Emmanuel.”

  He wasn’t sure if it was weakness or a plea he heard in her voice. Or humor.

  “May I step in just far enough to see you, Mademoiselle?”

  Mademoiselle de Fouet was propped on a mountain of pillows, her face as white as the pillowcases. He bowed. If he could be formal with his nephews and niece, he could show politesse to a lady.

  “Are you well, Mademoiselle?”

  She blinked sunken, glassy eyes. “Much better, Monsieur. When do we leave for Versailles?”

  “Ah. You heard my mother left?”

  “I was confused this morning when Marie told me where we are. Especially as Madame le Colonel is pregnant and won’t visit me in case my illness is dangerous. Not a very effective chaperone.”

  “She sleeps in the next room over, so she can listen for trouble.” Manu smiled at Mademoiselle de Fouet’s frustrated expression. He wanted to hold her hand and reassure her, but crossing the room to her would lack propriety. “And the answer is: if the weather clears today, I will leave for Versailles tomorrow morning. You will stay here and recuperate. We will reunite you with my mother when we are sure you are well.”