The Chevalier (Châteaux and Shadows) Read online

  He was nearly halfway around the room and sweating profusely when he spotted his mother’s pinched profile when she turned her head to the lady next to her. He saw Mademoiselle de Fouet seated behind his mother’s high hat, leaning from side to side to see the actors. A ripple of laughter went through the front rows of the crowd, the ones who might conceivably be paying attention and able to hear the dialogue. Manu drew in a sharp breath when Mademoiselle de Fouet looked at the gentleman to her right and smiled demurely. He took a moment to study her graceful neck with just a few curls bouncing against it. She said something to the gentleman, and Manu had an irrational rush of jealousy. The man turned and revealed himself as an ancient, longtime friend of the baronesse’s, who frowned at Mademoiselle de Fouet and turned sharply back to the actors. The Comte of…something. D’Yquelon, maybe. One of his mother’s particularly pious friends. His son was the worst hypocrite of Manu’s acquaintance, giving lip service to piety but leading a debauched life. Manu glanced around and wondered how many more hypocrites were around him.

  “Psssst!” Someone hissed behind him and he looked over his shoulder. Some gentlemen about his age standing against the wall waved him out of the way. Ah. There was d’Yquelon’s son across the room. Manu nodded, but the man didn’t appear to see him, which was fine, since Manu remembered he didn’t like the man. Manu looked around for d’Yquelon’s godson, Lucas de Granville, whom he did like, as he slipped toward the wall to find an empty spot between glittering coats and puffed, beribboned sleeves which nearly steamed from the heat. He regretted not paying for gold braid on his dark red coat. He blended all too well into the burgundy curtains.

  Still, he watched the back of Mademoiselle de Fouet’s head as he shifted from one foot to the other to alleviate the discomfort, wishing his handkerchief were at the very least embroidered instead of plain, brownish linen. He fanned himself with it anyway, trying to copy the other gentlemen’s elegant wrist movements. Every now and then someone in the cluster of young men would stare at him before turning back to his friends.

  Finally, the play was over, and Emmanuel hadn’t heard more than the shouted parts. His shirt was stuck to him, his face red, his nicest coat smelled like his armpits, and his feet were swollen. He wondered why anyone would do this evening after evening when they could be riding. Or strolling in the gardens. Or making love.

  His gaze went to Mademoiselle de Fouet, and he pushed away from the wall and tromped toward her as directly as he could through the buffeting crowd. At last he arrived next to her just as some older gentleman was helping the baronesse to her feet. She swayed slightly, and Manu was distracted from Mademoiselle de Fouet long enough to hold out a hand to steady his mother, who didn’t thank him. But it was also just long enough for the decrepit man next to Mademoiselle de Fouet to hold his elbow out to her and Manu to miss his chance.

  “What took you so long?” His mother’s voice carried rather too well as the people around them turned to see who was receiving the latest tongue-lashing.

  “I was in the back and didn’t want to interrupt the performance.” Not that he had seen or heard much at all. Or cared.

  His mother introduced him around. Or rather, she supposed he already knew everyone, though it had been years since he had seen them. It was Mademoiselle de Fouet who came to his side and reminded him of names and steered him toward one person after another. He felt great relief at finding himself face to face with Lucas de Granville. He had been raised by his godfather, the Comte d’Yquelon, and was pious but not hypocritical as far as Manu knew. He didn’t behave badly in private, unlike d’Yquelon’s son. Of course, de Granville could have changed since they had last seen each other some three years before. Manu felt awkward, but de Granville seemed sincere in hoping to speak with him again soon.

  Mademoiselle de Fouet stuck to his side as most of the crowd cleared away.

  He sighed loudly. “I’m exhausted.”

  Mademoiselle de Fouet chuckled slightly. Manu’s heart leapt.

  His mother, though, raised one eyebrow and glared. One of the old men chortled. “You young men don’t know the meaning.”

  “I think the travel and excitement would have been enough,” said Mademoiselle de Fouet in a syrupy voice, “but the carriage accident was certainly de trop.”

  “Carriage accident?” one sharp-eyed lady asked. “Were you driving, young sir?”

  “Ah, no. It was my father’s carriage and his coachman. The road was wide enough to get around the farmer’s cart, but a wheel slipped in the mud.”

  His mother wore a gleeful look. “Was it Charlot? The baron really will have to sack him this time.”

  Manu bristled. “I feel responsible. It was too muddy and too narrow. I should have told the farmer to back up farther instead of trusting the space was wide enough.”

  A few of the cronies sneered, and his mother laughed.

  Mademoiselle de Fouet squeezed his arm. “The coach only needs an axle, and we weren’t much delayed. There were no extra horses, so Monsieur Emmanuel took me up behind him on his horse.”

  Manu glanced at her, surprised she hadn’t yet told the baronesse. He wasn’t some sort of hero. “We were only two leagues from here.”

  The men began to debate the spot where they had crashed, asking the name of the nearby villages and declaring that stretch hazardous. Mademoiselle de Fouet tugged at Manu’s arm and whispered, “The baronesse holds a grudge against Charlot the coach driver.”

  “What for?”

  She shrugged delicately, drawing his eyes to the pearly brooch tucked right against her cleavage, and he wished her neckline were lower. “He refused to do her bidding back when he was a groom, apparently. The baron forbade her to leave, so Charlot wouldn’t hitch up the horses.”

  Manu looked at her in confusion. “When was this?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She looked truly sorry not to be able to tell him the circumstances.

  “Remember, De Forges?” The Comte d’Yquelon, who had sat next to Mademoiselle de Fouet during the performance, chuckled. “De la Brosse said the baby was too puny still. Wanted him coddled a bit more, eh?”

  The baronesse pointedly ignored them. Emmanuel looked at her with confusion as her friends laughed at her. Unkind friends. Were they talking about him?

  De Forges sneered. “She came up to court without him, spitting fire.”

  Mademoiselle de Fouet squeezed his arm again, then leaned against him and began to speak of how cool it would be in the gardens. Soon, the group was weighing the benefits of a bit of cool air against the dangers of night breezes.

  Emmanuel looked down at his companion. “I think your cheeks look pale in this heat, Mademoiselle. Maybe we should risk a moment of night air before we return to my mother’s apartments?”

  She stood up straighter and narrowed her eyes at him.

  He narrowed his eyes, too. “Just tell me if it’s simply not done. I want some air and thought you might want some, too. But if you don’t, tell me.”

  He realized he had spoken too loudly when one of his mother’s friends chuckled.

  “She’s not likely to contradict you, Monsieur Emmanuel,” said a lady whom Manu remembered from when he was little, who had been kinder to him than most. “She was my companion before she was your mother’s and never once corrected me, even when I could have used it.”

  He glanced at Mademoiselle de Fouet, the young lady who had contradicted him over and over. She looked away. “Would you accompany us, Madame Philinte? Just outside the doors for a moment to get a breath of cool air. Not so far as to risk getting your shoes dirty.” And certainly not caked in mud as he and Mademoiselle de Fouet had been earlier.

  He led them, one on each arm, so supremely self-conscious of stepping in the right way he was hardly watching where they were going. The terrace doors were open, so he stuck his head out and looked around before leading them. Which was probably the wrong thing to do, as it made him look nervous, but he wasn’t about to lead ladies into
an ambush. He wished he had his sword. Though what sort of ambush might be there, he didn’t know, since there were Swiss Guards in the shadows and Mousquetaires riding by on their black horses. He thought briefly of establishing a line of black horses just to curry favor with the Mousquetaires.

  Perhaps he had retained the family wariness, since his brother-in-law Dominique had been shot with the bolt from a crossbow when shooting at targets in the grounds of Versailles. The training at Dom’s château-fort was old-fashioned, not only because they taught students to fight with broadswords and fencing foils, like gentlemen, but because they trained guards—probably even some of these Mousquetaires—to be ever-vigilant in protecting others from every possible threat.

  Manu couldn’t see past the torches ringing the fountain in the center of the terrace, but the area was clear to the top of the stairs on either side. There were a few nobles idling around, seeing and being seen, but mostly chatting and flitting their handkerchiefs and fans.

  He wanted nothing more than to take off his heavy coat and waistcoat, maybe even his shirt. He yanked at his cravat and loosened it slightly, then turned his face toward an erratic breeze and was glad he wore neither wig nor hat. He sighed and closed his eyes.

  After a minute, he realized the two ladies were silent. He turned to where they were looking at him expectantly. He felt stupid again. “What do you want me to do? Suggest a topic? Take you for a walk in the dark?”

  Mademoiselle de Fouet glanced at the older lady, who smiled at him. “Maybe just a little turn around the terrace, dear. And you can tell me more about your carriage accident.”

  “I can hardly believe Mademoiselle de Fouet didn’t tell you everything already. She was inside when it slid. We lifted her out before hauling the carriage back onto the road, which is when the axle broke. My father’s going to shout.” He cringed at the thought.

  Mme Philinte looked worried. “From what I’ve heard of him, he shouts at everything. Your poor mother.”

  Manu stared at Mme Philinte. His father was a cheerful, jovial man, who rarely shouted at anyone. Except, it was true, his estranged wife, but even with her, he tended to speak in a deadly precise murmur, not a shout. Manu had been exaggerating; he was likely to get the deadly murmur as well, and was still worried about his father’s anger. As the truth burned inside him, Manu bit his tongue rather than defend his father to people who were set against him.

  The silence weighed heavily, but because of it Manu heard the group of men coming up the stairs from the lower garden. He swung around and saw them just as they reached the top. It was the group of young men he had stood near during the play. The one in front looked Manu over, found him lacking, and swaggered to them, the others trailing behind.

  He swept his hat from his head and bowed gracefully to Madame Philinte. “How are you this beautiful evening, Grand-mère?”

  She greeted the young man indulgently and held out her hand. A few of the other young men greeted her, jostling each other for the honor of bending over her hand, flirting. She went pink with pleasure.

  “And who are your companions, Grand-mère? I would have introduced myself to the gentleman after the ballet, if I had known you knew him.”

  “Oh, you know my dear friend, the Baronesse de la Brosse. This is her youngest son, Emmanuel. He hasn’t been up to court since he was little. His father took him from his Maman.”

  It took a moment for Manu to figure out Madame Philinte’s disjointed speech. He scowled at the half-truth. “My father took me to be tutored and trained by my brother-in-law.”

  He’d had a governess when he was with his mother, but she was only responsible for getting him to read his prayer book and keeping him presentable in case his mother called for him. When he arrived at the château-fort at the age of thirteen, there were boys of ten who knew more mathematics than he did. He could ride a horse fast but poorly and had no idea of swordplay.

  “This is my grandson, the Vicomte d’Oronte. My daughter’s boy, you know. Heir to the Comte de Mans.” Mme Philinte beamed radiantly at the young man. “And this is the baronesse’s companion, Mademoiselle de Fouet. Do you remember when she was my companion? You were rarely up at court that year—two years ago? Maybe three—and always busy with your friends.”

  The young noble barely glanced at Mademoiselle de Fouet, not least because Manu had stepped in front of her. He didn’t wish to block her from the conversation, but to protect her from the young gentlemen who stared at her chest and cast significant glances at each other. He stepped out of her path and took her limp hand just for a moment to lead her forward to greet the young men. She barely glanced up at the men as they were introduced to her and Manu one by one. Manu had to force himself to not wrinkle his nose at the overwhelming stench of perfume and armpits.

  He recognized a few of them from when he was a child, but he was never going to remember all the names, especially since they all had the same style of curly, blond wig. He thought a few of them might have their own hair styled in big, curly puffs and couldn’t imagine sitting still for someone to curl his hair. He focused on d’Oronte, who lingered when his friends wandered away talking about a card game.

  D’Oronte focused on Mademoiselle de Fouet, even though his grandmother was talking at top speed to him and he was answering and smiling and nodding. “Should we stroll, Grand-mère?” the vile seducer said, giving Manu his back as he held his arm out for Mademoiselle de Fouet and his grandmother, leaving Manu to walk behind them alone.

  For an hour.

  D’Oronte kept directing the conversation back to Mademoiselle de Fouet and leaning his head down to hear her murmured answers. Sometimes Manu listened in. Other times, he practiced his courtly, sweeping walk, mimicking d’Oronte, who seemed to be born to swish and sway. After a long while, Mademoiselle de Fouet looked over her shoulder at him and smiled slightly, so he went to her, but before he could offer his own arm, d’Oronte said, “Oh, I am sorry, de…Cantière, was it? I didn’t realize you were still here.”

  “I’ll take Mademoiselle de Fouet back to my mother’s apartments before I retire.”

  “To bed early? I’m sure I can see her there if you need to sleep.” D’Oronte smiled—insincerely, in Manu’s opinion—at Mademoiselle de Fouet and his grandmother.

  Manu felt like a little boy being shoved off to bed. He answered carefully, “I’m sure it’s up to Mademoiselle de Fouet.”

  “I’m used to seeing myself up with just a footman.” Her voice sounded sweet and timid, but when she glanced at Manu, she arched her eyebrows and shook her head slightly.

  He didn’t know what she meant, so he didn’t persist in talking, just in walking next to her.

  Finally, Madame Philinte declared she was sleepy and asked her grandson to walk her upstairs.

  “Bonne nuit, Mademoiselle.” D’Oronte swept her a low bow and kissed her hand. He bowed more shallowly to Emmanuel. “Mademoiselle, if you are not busy tomorrow after dinner—”

  “We’re going for a ride together,” Manu interrupted. “She has a new mare: a gift from my mother.”

  Mademoiselle de Fouet looked at the ground, seemingly demure, but turned her head just enough to glare at him out of view of the others. He smiled at d’Oronte smugly when she murmured she did not want to break her word. D’Oronte pressed her in hopes of walking together in the morning, but she said she was promised to the baronesse.

  “Do you like to fence, d’Oronte?” Manu asked.

  D’Oronte curled his lip slightly. “My friends and I often practice in the morning, yes.”

  “Would you mind if I joined you? I have been raising horses in Poitou without an able opponent for some years now and could use the practice.” Since he still practiced sometimes alone, Manu was fairly certain he wouldn’t embarrass himself. Maybe.

  D’Oronte narrowed his eyes, then finally agreed and told him where and when to meet them the next morning. He made a second, more effusive goodbye to Mademoiselle de Fouet, then left.

&nbs
p; Emmanuel directed her indoors, walking fast. She had to trot to keep up, but it wasn’t until they were in a long corridor, empty of everyone but a few sleepy footmen that she yanked on his arm and whispered, “Slow down.”

  “Sorry. Just wanted to get far away from d’Oronte before he started crawling up your skirts.”

  “Up my skirts?” Her voice rose in outrage. She glanced around and continued more quietly. “I thought he was a kind gentleman.”

  “Kind? He’s the sort of gentleman who keeps a tally of the girls he has flirted with and another of those he has bedded. He likely compares notes with his friends.” Manu might not have had much experience at court, but the same sort of man existed at every level of society.

  “He was with his grandmother! He flirted, but not in any sort of odious way.” She lifted her skirts and strode up the hall.

  She was magnificent. And irritating. “Well, don’t encourage him. Or let yourself be trapped in a dark corner with him.” Manu shuddered at the thought of that bastard touching Mademoiselle de Fouet.

  “Maybe he’s looking for a wife.” She spat out the word.

  “His father’s choosing a wife for him. She’ll be sixteen at the most. Her father will be titled and she’ll have a generous dowry. In fact, he’s probably been betrothed from birth. He’s not looking for a wife.” Manu was angry and doing his best to not shout and disturb any of the nobles getting ready for bed in the rooms they passed.

  Mademoiselle de Fouet slid to a halt. “Are you jealous, Monsieur?”

  “Jealous? Of course not! Completely ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. D’Oronte may flirt politely when his grandmother is watching, but he’s not a gentle, nice boy. He and his friends are the types who seduce maids, gamble away fortunes, drink too heavily, and whip their horses.”