Finding Gabriel (36 page)

In contrast to the garden’s bursting energy, the working-class districts remained hushed, cautious, and subdued; they braced themselves for more bloodshed, more war, and more sieges. While Napoleon had improved many aspects of the city, a great deal of Parisians had resented his tight, suffocating rein. Regardless, the white flag of the monarchy had been hauled down from the balcony before his arrival, and in its place flew the tricolor.

The trees’ skeletal limbs shivered as a gust of wind dashed through them. Melting ice hung from finger-like branches and glistened in the frail afternoon light. It was late March, and despite the flowering trees and melting snow, it seemed that spring had never come. The world remained cold, bitter, and dreary.

A marching band roamed through the teeming square and filled the garden with elaborate music. The roar of drums shook the ground like thunder.

Holding onto Jacques’s forearm, Ariah clasped Emmaline’s hand as they moved through the noisy crowd. The band’s tune reminded her of a funeral march – and every hair on the back of her neck stood erect. Laced within the excitement lurked a disquiet undercurrent. Indeed, Jacques’s handsome features were drawn taut, his steps slow and hesitant as he battled the wooden leg.

He would have rather stayed behind, she knew well – but this was an important moment, and as a former veteran, it was his duty to attend the emperor’s homecoming. She, too, felt claustrophobic – as if she were drowning within a sea of noise and inward sorrow.

Nearby, Miriam and Marius waded through the excitement, their arms securely looped together. Ariah’s despair briefly faded as she stole a glance at her sister’s cheerful face. Miriam’s eyes sparkled with adoration; grinning, she held tight to Marius’s arm and leaned into his strong body. He paused, bowed his head, and whispered something into her ear. Miriam threw her head back and laughed, though the sound was lost to the surrounding excitement. Weeks ago, Miriam would have never dreamed of attending such an event. But it seemed Marius had stripped away her barriers and fears, allowing her to enjoy life’s simple pleasures without restriction. With Marius at her side, her stutter faded away almost completely, and she welcomed the world with open arms. Her smiles had become a common occurrence – and each one appeared greater than the last.

Jacques drew away and limped toward a passing vendor. A frail baker rolled his cart to a halt. His ruddy cheeks glowed as he adjusted his poofy white hat. Jacques met Ariah’s eyes, then signaled Emmaline over with an insistent wave.

“Go on.” Emmaline’s hand hesitantly slipped free. Jacques was kind and gentle enough – yet their relationship remained platonic and strained.

He fished a handful of sous from his coat and placed them in the baker’s grubby palm. A smile stretched Emmaline’s mouth as she selected a steaming pastry. She devoured it within seconds, and icing caked her lips.

Jacques grabbed hold of Emmaline’s sticky fingers and returned to Ariah’s side. Keeping pace with Miriam and Marius, they continued maneuvering through the bustling crowd. Then Jacques spotted a group of former comrades. He quickly darted in the opposite direction – but it was too late. Smiling wide, the uniformed men waved and enthusiastically gestured him over.

“Shall I join you?” Ariah asked.

“No,” Jacques replied, his voice stiff with agony. “Enjoy the festivities. I shan’t be long.” He forced a smile, though tension was apparent in every line of his face. Ariah softly grazed his shoulder and awarded him a reassuring squeeze. Then he swallowed deeply and limped toward the group of men.

“Come along, darling,” Ariah said to Emmaline. She tapped on Miriam’s shoulder and yelled over the hustle and bustle. “Can you watch Emma for a moment?” Miriam nodded, smoothed down her skirts, and grasped Emmaline’s hand.

Ariah seized the opportunity to search for Gabriel. Fairly holding her breath, she pressed through the crowd and scanned the countless faces. Men in military garb whizzed by, children flocked in compact groups, ladies strolled onward … but Gabriel was nowhere to be found. And yet she
felt
his presence. She sensed his nearness, as if it were a tangible thing. Perhaps she was losing her sanity – but she suddenly
needed
to find him.

If not, she’d surely perish.

Desperation strangled her throat. She elbowed her way past an elaborately garbed dandy, frantically searching the vast ocean of faces. Heart beating against her rib cage, she spun in circles, praying for a glimpse of Gabriel’s towering form.

Please, allow me just a glimpse.

Every person blurred together in a nauseating swirl of colors and movement. And none of them was her Gabriel.

Bile crept up her throat in a sickening burn. Gasping for breath, Ariah pressed a hand to her stomach and counted to five to soothe herself. Then several men in navy greatcoats ensnared her attention. She surged forward, almost tripping over herself in the process, and latched onto one of the soldier’s arms. He spun around full circle, and a pair of bright blue eyes stared down at her.

“Mademoiselle? Are you quite all right? Is something amiss?”

Ariah’s heart sank. “Oh. Pardon me, monsieur. I’m perfectly fine. I just – I mistook you for someone else.”

Tears burned Ariah’s gaze, and the knot of despair tightened. She briefly closed her eyes and conjured an image of Gabriel.
Mon Dieu.
She was lost without him. Lost within a world of chaos – and with no hope to be found.

Defeated, she rotated on her heels and continued her journey back to Miriam and Emmaline. Each step caused her legs to throb, and her kid boots seemed to be filled with lead.

He’s here … somewhere. I feel it with every beat of my heart.

Not watching where she was going, a lady wailed as their bodies collided. Ariah whispered an apology and continued moving forward, though the world around her appeared to remain completely still.

He’d been gone for days. For Emmaline’s sake, she needed to pull herself up and out of this hole. Ariah inhaled a deep breath, hastened her steps, and strode forward with renewed purpose.

She stopped dead in her tracks. The very air shifted directions while icy fingers raced up and down her spine.

I am being followed.

There was no doubt of it.

A quick backward glance confirmed her fear. A tall, auburn-haired man beelined through the crowd, his eyes firmly planted on her every movement. From her vantage point, he was nothing more than a blur of color. And he was coming straight for her.

Her labored breaths misted against the frigid air. She felt the urge to scream, to cry out – but fear sealed her throat shut and strangled all words. By habit, she fondled her skirts for the dagger – then remembered it was tucked away in her dresser drawer. The instinct to fight or flee seized hold. Shouldering past men, women, and children, she gripped her skirts and increased each stride.

A passing carriage screeched to a halt and nearly rode her into the pavement. The driver hollered a foul curse as the two horses bucked their hind legs. Breathless, Ariah leapt to the side before continuing to race forward.

She exhaled a sigh of relief when Jacques and his fellow comrades finally came into view.

But amidst the commotion, no one noticed the hand that suddenly clamped over her mouth – nor the arm that wound around her waist and reeled her into the nearby shadows.

•

Mon Dieu.
Geoffrey could hardly believe his eyes. It truly was her, his little Ari.

“Geoffrey …”

Geoffrey tried to speak, but all words died on his tongue. The sound of his name, spoken by Ariah’s soft lips, seized hold of his mind and body. Her delicate features reflected each shifting emotion, leaving nothing unknown: recognition, shock, apprehension, and finally outright horror.

Hardly believing she stood centimeters away, Geoffrey ignored her revulsion and edged closer. He’d swept her alongside one of the buildings, away from the commotion; they were mostly secluded, save for the occasional wanderer. The distant roar of music and voices faded into background noise. Geoffrey perceived only Ariah – his sweet, little Ari. He devoured every detail, every feature … the luscious golden mane of hair, her sapphire gaze, and supple porcelain skin. She was more stunning than ever, boasting an enticing blend of softness and icy determination. Though there was a new fierceness in her gaze, and arctic shadows deepened those blue depths.

“Ari …”

Her breaths shortened to erratic pants, and when he attempted to graze her skin, she recoiled against the wall. Revulsion filled her eyes, and Geoffrey felt his heart harden. Her slender torso expanded and deflated with labored breaths. She shot forward, attempting an escape. He cursed aloud and latched onto her slender waist. Then he hurled her against the wall with more force than intended and propped a hand on either side of her body. She resembled a cornered, wounded beast … a beast who was about to be devoured by a hungry predator. Geoffrey felt himself soften the slightest bit.

“Not so fast. I’ve waited nearly eight years for this moment. I mean to cherish it.”

“What … what do you want from me?” Her voice was venomous, and rage flashed in her lovely eyes.

Geoffrey barked a humorless laugh. Emotions escalating, he shook his head and melded his body against her curves. Christ’s teeth, she was so warm … so close. “You. You are mine, Ari. You always have belonged to me.”

“You are a monster.”

What she did next stunned Geoffrey. In a practiced, decisive movement, she kneed him square in the groin. Pain surged through his body, and the wind was knocked from his lungs. He crumpled at his midsection as shades of red flashed behind his eyes. Anger filled him – and he rejoiced at the familiar emotion. Anger he could use to his advantage. Anger was an intricately forged weapon that had protected him since he was a boy. It had guarded his heart against the mother he’d never known, guided him through years of abuse and torment, and kept him motivated when Ariah had left him alone in the world.

Anger was his friend … his only friend.

Ariah cried out and darted toward the busy square – but Geoffrey was worlds quicker. He wound his fingers in her curls and yanked her backward. Her scream was lost to the celebratory thunder, and satisfaction flushed through him. He slammed her body against the stone wall and latched onto her chin – forcing her to meet his potent glare. She winced as the jagged wall ground against her back, though she indicated no other trace of weakness. Then, to his astonishment, she met his eyes without hesitation – and the hatred he found there sent chills down his spine.

“Let me go.” Her voice was hauntingly cool and composed. Her breathing picked up pace once more – and he eyed the delicious curves of her breasts that were buried beneath a modest neckline.

“The child – the little girl. She is my fuckin’ daughter, is she not? And don’t you dare lie to me.” He swallowed and clenched both hands into fists. “You owe me this much.”

“There’s nothing of you in her,” she spat, her eyes narrowed in disgust. “And I owe you absolutely nothing. You stole from me for years. You robbed me of my innocence. I gave you my trust blindly! You – ” Tears filled her eyes, her voice constricted, and the words faded into choked silence. Suddenly she looked like a girl of twelve years again. Nostalgia flooded Geoffrey’s chest in a fierce storm. His grasp on her chin faltered as his fingers grew numb and heavy. Then his hand fell away and clenched into an unyielding ball. His nails dug into his palms until blood surfaced. Ariah’s breaths emerged in wheezed gasps. She looked pale
 … 
close to fainting.

He steeled his emotions and reflected on those lonely, desolate years of searching. He’d searched for Ariah for over seven years. Damn it to hell if he’d let her go now.

A glint of light caught the corner of his eye. He gazed downward at her ring.

A fucking
wedding
ring.

Muttering a vile curse, he seized hold of her wrist and read the band’s inscription aloud. His fingers encircled her wrist in a viselike grip. She uttered a cry and somehow managed to thrash free.

“
Putain
. We were supposed to brave the word together.” Geoffrey seethed as he battled to control his breathing. “Instead, you fuckin’ abandoned me. You left me alone and raised my child with another man. My child, my own flesh and blood!”

A long, pregnant silence expanded between them. After what seemed a lifetime, Ariah lifted her chin and gazed deeply into his eyes. His chest constricted at the emotions he found there: pain, heartache, and mirrored darkness.

“I had loved you, Geoffrey.”

Heart pounding, he stepped away from her in shock. And without another word, Ariah wiped away her tears, shoved past him, and left him alone once more.

The streets grew unusually quiet and still that evening – as if Paris was holding her breath. Fear and suspicion predominated everything. No opulent carriages graced the cobblestone walkways. Ladders were propped against the sides of buildings so workmen could efface any Bourbon emblems.

Gabriel entered the café shortly after nine in the evening. Darkness enveloped the moderate space, alleviated only by the sconces that lined the room. The flickering illuminations licked at the plastered ceiling and walls with the force of the devil’s tongue, tossing thick shadows in their wake. Dust motes fluttered midair and glided through those eerie shafts of light.

Gabriel anxiously speared his fingers through his hairline, straightened out his greatcoat, and examined the café. A cluster of men occupied one of the tables. The latest edition of the newspaper was sprawled open while they immersed themselves in a heated political debate. Snippets of conversation fell upon Gabriel’s ears. People regarded the returned emperor as either “that Corsican monster” or “France’s savior.” Reflecting on his meeting with Napoleon, Gabriel shook his head and edged toward the center of the room.

A prostitute was perched on a nearby chair, her insipid gaze mirroring the café’s dreary state. Shiny red hair hung past her shoulders in voluptuous waves. She adjusted her posture at Gabriel’s entrance, allowing the shawl to slip from her shoulders. But as the left side of his face came into vision, she shrank in the chair and hastily glanced away.

Sighing deeply, Gabriel scanned the wooden bar. The single-file row of seats were empty, save for one.

The man was clearly of the working class; he wore his unfortunate status like a badge. Blood stained the torn material of his coat, a smoldering cigar was balanced between chapped lips, and yellowed teeth secured it in place. White smoke veiled his distraught features as he filled his lungs to their limit. He stared forward – though he appeared to see nothing. He looked lost. Grief stricken.

Gabriel averted his eyes and dropped onto a stool several meters away.

“To drink, monsieur?” the barkeep said in a dull, lifeless voice. A faded dishrag was draped over his shoulder, its material heavy and soaked through with sweat.

“Brandy.” A waterfall of amber liquid was poured inside his glass. Gabriel outstretched his hand when the glass reached the halfway mark. “No more.”

A high-pitched squeak shattered the silence. The stranger rotated on his stool and examined Gabriel with a leveled gaze. Shoving the cigar aside with his tongue, he lifted his glass, tossed back his head, and drank down the alcohol. Then he signaled Gabriel with a cool wave. His mouth cracked into a sardonic grin that revealed several missing teeth. Bloodshot eyes ran across Gabriel’s destroyed face and blemished greatcoat.

Clenching his hand, Gabriel downed a mouthful of his brandy and battled not to be offended by the blatant gesture.

“Another medal earned in the emperor’s honor, I take it?” the man said with a slur, pointing at Gabriel’s deformity.

Gabriel swirled the brandy before bringing the glass to his lips. “One might say that.”

The man leaned forward and outstretched a weathered, dirty hand. After a moment of hesitation, Gabriel grasped on and gave a firm shake. “Name’s Geoffrey Lucier.”

The name left a sour taste in Gabriel’s mouth as he thought of
another
Geoffrey.

“Colonel Gabriel de Laurent.”

Geoffrey saluted Gabriel in a clumsy gesture. Then he sucked on the cigar and polluted the air with lush smoke rings. They swirled upward, decorating the atmosphere with a variety of designs.

“Well, Colonel … you look like a man who’s been to hell and back.”

Gabriel shot Geoffrey with a sharp look – though he found himself softening at the pain in the man’s eyes. He wanted someone to talk to, he realized, and Gabriel craved the same form of interaction. Being around Ariah and her family had altered him. He could no longer live in dark seclusion. Ariah had shown him light, comfort … and without those things, he held no hope of surviving.

“I could say the same about you.”

Gabriel studied Geoffrey’s vacant expression and haunted stare. An abrupt wave of empathy tugged at his chest. The man was nothing more than a drunk, filthy stranger – and yet he felt like a kindred spirit in his presence. Gabriel could see memories buried within the man’s eyes … remnants of a wasted love, pain, and loneliness. Indeed, Geoffrey stared forward, unblinking and unmoving, as if he was watching something unfold within his mind. Gabriel knew that sensation, how it felt to be haunted by past ghosts, to relive moments a thousand times – only to slide back into a cold reality. Gabriel raised the glass to his lips, threw his head back, and breathed a sigh of relief as the alcohol slipped down his throat. It heated his body like a blanket, and he settled into the comforting warmth.

Intense conversations rose from a nearby table. Two men, clearly belonging to the bourgeois class, argued above their splayed newspaper. “The people act like a beaten mongrel, I tell you,” one of the workmen shouted. “A beaten mongrel who continuously returns to his abusive master.”

Gabriel sighed, pressed two fingertips against his temple, and nursed away what promised to be a splitting headache. He shut both eyes, and the men’s overlapping words transformed into a distant blur. His thoughts trailed back to Ariah – and he felt a storm of unshed tears surface. Her delicate features appeared within his mind … real enough to reach out and touch. His fingers snaked around the glass as he erupted with the urge to destroy something.

“Bonaparte is a determined wretch.” Gabriel’s eyes snapped open as Geoffrey mumbled between long drags. White smoke sheathed the man’s haggard face and rose in swirling coils. “I’ll allow the fool that much.” He glanced over his shoulder and raised his glass to the arguing men. They momentarily paused, then returned the gesture and settled back into their debate. “Enlighten me now, Colonel. You must have some words on the matter,” Geoffrey said, his own words becoming increasingly slurred with each drink. He leaned forward and tapped one of the greatcoat’s dangling ornaments. “You’re decorated like one of the damn German Christmas-time trees.”

Gabriel shrugged his shoulders and ran a pinky finger along the glass’s rim. Quite suddenly, he felt vulnerable and naked without his signet ring. “Napoleon has a soldier’s heart, if nothing else. Since birth, the heat of the battle has been in his blood.”

Geoffrey nodded and absently picked at his filthy fingernails. He adjusted his slouched posture the slightest bit. Then he took an intense drag of his cigar and shook his head. He blew the smoke inside his glass, fogging the clear sides and stirring the liquid to life. “Half a fuckin’ world away, he might have watched his entire legacy wither and die … he could have watched as it turned to ashes and burned out forever.” The words were slurred and clumsy, though spoken with conviction and heart. “But no. Not our noble emperor. He risked everything for his legacy – the one thing he cherishes most. I tell you, a lesson is to be learned there.” Shoving the cigar to the corner of his mouth, Geoffrey elevated his glass and drowned the last of his words.

Gabriel’s thoughts returned to his meeting with Napoleon. Of course, it wasn’t so simple. Bonaparte was not a man to act out of impulse; he behaved strictly from precise, calculated thought. He was a master chess player who always thought three moves ahead. He’d received news from his agents of Paris’s discontentment and re-seized the throne while the iron burned hot. The only risks he ever took weren’t really risks at all. And there lay the power of his genius.

“He’s never been one to run and hide,” Gabriel said in a low voice. “On the battlefields, he always fought in the thick of it – beside his men, wherever he was needed most.” Rotating the glass between his thumb and forefinger, Gabriel returned his glower to the stranger.

A twisted half laugh, half sob emerged from Geoffrey’s lips. “Damn. I’ve spent my whole life in exile, wasting away in a one-man purgatory, living with nightmares and bitter regrets. Everything – the entire fuckin’ world – is nothin’ more than a reminder of her … of what might have been.” He paused to take a long drag of his cigar. A smile split his mouth in two, exposing the yellowed stumps of his teeth. “I might have found what I’ve been searchin’ for all these years. A home to return to. A place in the world. And damn it to hell if I’ll let it slip away now.” Bowing his head, he turned to Gabriel and raised his glass in a mock toast. “Here’s to chasing our legacy. Long live the emperor, eh?”

And as their glasses tapped together, everything became very clear to Gabriel.

•

Sitting in the rocking chair, Ariah attempted to rein in her anxiety with little luck. It was late, yet no rest was to be found. After the celebrations, Marius had taken Miriam out for supper and dancing, allowing Ariah, Jacques, and Emmaline a moment of solitude. The hearth had burned down and now offered only a few glowing embers. Ariah’s eyes ran across the novel’s lettering, though each word blurred into the next. But she was too exhausted to light a candle. Far too exhausted and plagued with fear. Geoffrey’s words echoed through her mind in an eerie requiem.

We were supposed to brave the word together. Instead, you fuckin’ abandoned me. You left me alone and raised my child with another man …

Terror closed around her throat. After nearly eight years, her nightmares had come true.

Dear God, why had she ever stayed in Paris? Why hadn’t she and her sister run farther away?
Because of Jacques,
her mind whispered,
and my father’s memory – something I could never part from.

What would Jacques say about Geoffrey’s reappearance? Once Ariah was certain Emmaline was asleep for the night, she would have to confide in her husband. The very thought summoned another wave of anxiety. With a deep intake of breath, she set the novel in her lap and slid a hand inside her pocket. The signet ring’s cool metal brushed against her fingertips in a reassuring touch; thinking of Gabriel, she drew in its energy as if it were a palpable thing.

I need you, Gabriel. I need you more than I can say.

Her movements ceased at the sound of heavy, dragging footfall. Jacques appeared in the archway, exhaustion plainly etched into every line of his face. Ariah withdrew her hand at lightning speed. She felt incredibly naughty – as if she’d just been caught stealing sweets before suppertime. Jacques’s mouth ticked at the corner while he struggled to hold back the beginnings of a smile. Then he leaned against the doorjamb and studied her expression for several weightless moments, as if committing every one of her features to eternal memory.

“So many nights I yearned to see you again, looking just like this.” He pushed away from the wall and balanced on his walking cane. Ariah felt the heat rise in her cheeks as he came forward, his gaze bearing deeply into her own.

She finally brought herself to speak. “And I yearned to see you again, too.” Then, regarding his faux leg, she added with a sympathetic smile, “Though not like this.”

He chuckled lightly, and for a moment, the young man she’d first met years ago resurrected before her eyes. She tucked a curl behind each ear and met his gaze. “Is … is Emmaline asleep for the night?”

Jacques nodded. She swallowed as he tentatively reached out and cupped her chin in the curve of his palm. He outstretched his other hand in offering. Ariah placed hers within his own, tensing as his fingers curled about her hand. Then he gave a gentle tug and pulled her onto her feet. Obliging, she placed the novel on the nearby end table.

Ariah fought to focus her energy on the noble gentleman who stood before her – yet thoughts of Gabriel swarmed her mind and body. Jacques’s hands rested on either side of her shoulders, slipped down the length of her body, finally finding their place on her hips. Even through the material that separated them, his hands felt strong and sure. His gaze was riddled with agony and insecurity. He was clearly aching for the slightest measure of human comfort. He needed some form of reassurance – no matter how shattered or forced. Frustration shot through her body and weighed heavily upon her heart. Why couldn’t she love him as he deserved to be loved? Jacques was good, kind, and honest … and yet he was not the man she burned for.

He is not Gabriel de Laurent.

“Ariah,” Jacques’s whisper was strained and thin – an agonized plea. Then he released her body, limped over to the far corner, and fetched the painting of Gabriel from the floorboards. Shaking his head, he exhaled a long breath and lowered the canvas to the planks. “I shall never be him. But I promise to be good to you … to your daughter and sister.”

The words were too much to stomach. Ariah pressed a fingertip against his lips, silencing his voice. “You always have been.”

“Ariah, I’ve loved you for years. You know that. And I don’t expect to have it returned. After all, we can’t choose who we love. Such a thing is not so simple.”

“There’s nothing more confusing, I’m afraid.”

Silence descended. He scratched the back of his head and surrendered to a light chuckle. “You remember how we used to sneak into your father’s shop and play house? In the middle of the night when the entire world was fast asleep?”

“Why, of course,” she said, her thoughts dissolving into warm memories. She leaned against the mantel and examined Jacques’s softened features. “I shall never forget.” Reaching forward, she playfully tugged on his sleeve. “Tell me – why did you humor a little girl’s imagination, Jacques? You were nearly seventeen at the time!”

“It was our own secret, safe corner of the world,” he said with a shrug. “And I loved sharing it with you.”

And without another word, he fetched the water basin from the table and then opened the door and stepped into the black of night.

•

Jacques waded through the impenetrable darkness. The need for fresh air overwhelmed him. He ached for a warm bath … a chance to wash away the chill that gripped his bones. His boots pounded against the pavement and echoed eerily in the night. The wooden leg was an unbearable burden, and each step burned more than the one before it. He paused, set down the basin, and shut his eyes.