Redemption: Supernatural Time-Traveling Romance with Sci-fi and Metaphysics (18 page)

Chapter Seventeen

“G
et away!” Isabelle pushes a man away from her shelter as he waddles
too close. She recognizes him as the fat, lecherous man who had been eyeing her
up the previous night. The man backs away.

“Come on, missy,” he says, flecks
of spittle collecting on his lips. “I can show you a good time.”

She looks at him in disgust and
shakes her head. “Get away!” And with that, she emerges from her shelter and
walks off, leaving him staring after her, a look of disappointment on his face.

What a despicable man
, she thinks as
she weaves through the other makeshift shelters that litter this area of the
city.
This is exactly why I need to get
out of this place, away from the filth of the slums. I want a proper man, a man
who will help me
. The handsome face of Henri and his
elegant
hand with the
lace cuffs pops
into her mind.
A
man with good manners and proper status. A gentleman.
She stops at a
junction in the road as she decides which way to go.
And I know where to try my luck!

The sun has already set,
releasing darkness into streets of Paris. The people of the city’s daytime are
in their homes, settling down to sleep, but the people of the night are just
emerging. As Isabelle follows the line of the river towards Notre Dame, she
glimpses darkly-dressed people lurking through the poorly-lit streets and hears
an occasional shout or harsh laugh from alleyways.

A large man suddenly lurches from
the darkness. In one hand he clutches a nearly empty brandy bottle and the
other is held out in an attempt to balance his drunken steps.

“Evening, my dear,” he says, his
voice slurred and Isabelle backs away from him. “It’s alright, my sweet,” he
adds, stumbling towards her. “Don’t be afraid.” He lunges forward as if he is
going to grab her, though in reality he has just tripped over his own foot and almost
collided with her. The stench of his breath
—
garlic,
brandy and bad teeth
—
fills her nostrils and she hurries away along the street, keeping
close to the nearby houses, as though looking to them for protection.

The harsh world around her fills
Isabelle with fear, the darkness of the street, the threat of muggers, even the
freezing puddles and the thought of rats worries her, but her greatest fear is
of obscurity.
What might this night
bring? As always, it’s full of danger and the possibility of not making it to
tomorrow alive. And the thought of being with a man, of having sex… I’ve heard
stories, disgusting stories. And yet I can’t go on as I have. I need to break
free from this miserable way of life. I must!

Out of the darkness looms the
massive bulk of Notre Dame, perching on its island. Isabelle crosses the river
here, trying not to look at the handful of couples busily engaged in amorous
activities in the cathedral grounds. The grunts and moans unnerve her for a
moment as she considers where she is headed.

Once on the north side of the
river, she makes her way to Rue Saint Denis, an area well-known for its
nightlife, and especially for the higher class of ladies offering their
services. She has been here before a few times, when out begging with her aunt,
but she was never allowed to hang around. Her aunt would always pull Isabelle
along, away from the hungry gaze of men for whom a young girl like her would no
doubt be a tasty treat. Tonight, however, she does not hurry along the street,
but finds a place to stand between the groups of women who are busy touting for
clients.

“Oi!” Isabelle turns at the shout
and sees a large, busty woman approaching her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Isabelle stares at the woman,
amazed that any man would ever sleep with such a creature. Her mass of ginger
hair is clearly a wig and beneath it her face is powdered white, with cheeks
and lips painted on in bright red.

“Don’t just stand there gawping,
girl,” she shouts, despite the fact she is only a couple of feet away. “I asked
you a question!”

Isabelle frowns. “Not that it’s
any of your business… I’m looking for a man.”

“Well, why don’t you sod off and
look for one someplace else. There here is my patch, for me and my girls.” The
large woman points a fat finger at the cluster of women behind her. They are
all looking at Isabelle with unconcealed scorn.

“I don’t see why.”

“You don’t have to see why,” the
woman shouts, causing flecks of spit to land on Isabelle’s face. “All you have
to see is this hand.” She raises the plump
hand in
question.

“What about it?”

“It’s going to rip that pretty
skirt off your scrawny little ass unless you get a move on. Go on! Get!’

Isabelle steps back into the
street and begins to walk away.

“That’s right!” shouts the woman
returning to her group. “Keep on walking!”

Angry and disappointed, Isabelle
turns to shout something back and is surprised to find a horse standing right
in front of her.

“Sorry,” she says, looking up at
the rider. “I didn’t hear you approach.”

“Not at all, young lady,” said
the rider, a well-dressed, middle-aged man. “It is I who must apologize for
creeping up on you like that.”

Isabelle turns away, but the man
calls out to her.

“What is your name?”

“I’m Isabelle.”

“May I offer you a ride,
Isabelle?”

Isabelle looks up at him again,
unsure exactly what he is after. “A ride?”

“Certainly,” the man smiles at
her. “I have food and wine back at my warm house. Will you not accompany me?”

She considers this for a moment,
understanding what he is asking, what he is really after.

This is definitely more than an invitation for food and wine. He’s
quite old, probably old enough to be my father. I have to ask about money
first. And a warm house and the promise of food sounds wonderful.
She looks up at him and says, “Fifty livres, monsieur.”

She readies herself to negotiate
over the price, which seems enormous to her. But the man simply nods his head
and reaches down to help her up onto his mount.

Fifty livres,
she thinks in amazement,
taking his hand and half scrambling and half being pulled up onto the horse.
That’s a whole month of begging, on days
when people are feeling generous! I’ve never even seen that much in my entire
life! Even if there is no food and the house is cold and horrible, it’s got to
be worth it for fifty livres!

Isabelle has never been on a
horse before and, as she sits side-saddle just above the creature’s rump, she
grasps the man around the waist, afraid that she might fall off. The
cobblestoned street seems a long way down!

I must be hurting him,
she thinks, but
the man says nothing. Instead, he lets out a small chuckle and pats her hand
kindly.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t
let you get hurt.”

“Thank you, sir.”

For the rest of the short
journey, they do not speak, and eventually the man draws up outside a large,
stately home, whose front lawn is lit by a number of ornate torches. A servant
in a leather apron hurries out to hold the horse as the rider, whose name
Isabelle suddenly realizes she still does not know, dismounts and offers a hand
to her.

“What is your name, monsieur?”
she asks, taking the hand easing herself slowly to the ground.

“I am Jean-Pierre Lacroix,” he
says with a slight bow. Straightening up, he gestures towards the house. “Welcome
to my home, Isabelle.”

The door is opened by woman.

Oh no! His wife is here!
Isabelle
panics for a moment, staring at the woman. She is older than Isabelle,
somewhere in her thirties. In return the woman stares back at her with a look
of contempt.

“Good evening, milord,” she says,
turning to look at Jean-Pierre as he steps into the entrance hall. “May I take
your coat?”

He shrugs it off and she takes
it, hanging it in a nearby cupboard. “Lucie,” he says, “Isabelle and I are
going through to the dining room. We will require food and wine immediately.”

With another scathing glare at
Isabelle, the woman, Lucie, walks away.

Well, she’s obviously not his wife. She must be his housemaid
, thinks Isabelle, following Jean-Pierre through a doorway.
Thank goodness for that!

“Please, sit,” says Jean-Pierre,
gesturing to an ornate dining table, but she just stands, looking around the
room in wonder. Although she has been in a handful of houses during her sixteen
years of life, none of them were as plush and inviting as this one. In one of
the walls is a large fireplace, where a log fire burns with a warm glow.
Everything is tidy and well kept. “Please,” repeats Jean-Pierre, still holding
a hand towards the table.

“These are beautiful chairs,”
says Isabelle, choosing one to sit in.

“My wife chose them.” A sad look
passes across his face. “She died a year ago. It’s only me and my two boys here
now. And the servants, of course.”

As he mentions this, Lucie walks
in carrying a large tray loaded with food. Without even glancing at Isabelle,
she places a plate of bread and another of sliced turkey on the table together
with a bottle of wine and a jug of water. Isabelle stares at the food, amazed
at the sight. She has never sat down to a meal of this size and she suddenly
realizes just how hungry she is.

“Please eat, my dear,” says Jean-Pierre,
waving the housemaid away and, as Isabelle helps herself to the food, he pours
some of the wine into a pair of intricately patterned silver goblets.

This is amazing,
she thinks.
The house, the food and everything. And
though he is pretty old, he’s not ugly or anything.
She steals a glance at
him as she bites into a piece of bread and sees him smiling warmly at her.

“Here,” he says, picking up a
goblet and passing it to her. “Have a little wine, my dear.”

Isabelle hesitates, her hand
halfway to the goblet, as she has never had wine before.

Jean-Pierre gives her a
comforting smile. “It’s alright. It is perfectly safe.”

She takes it and, not knowing how
to drink it, gulps at the red liquid. Almost immediately she starts coughing,
having just managed to swallow the wine first so she didn’t spray it across the
table. The liquid burns her throat and stomach, though not unpleasantly, and a
warm glow spreads across her cheeks. A sudden tiredness comes over her and her
arms and legs feel strange somehow, as though they do not quite belong to her.
As she yawns, Jean-Pierre lays a hand gently on her wrist.

“Perhaps you would like a bath to
help wash off the concerns of the day. Lucie!” the housemaid hurries in at his
call. “Prepare a bath for my guest and ensure she is given the finest oils and soaps.”
Turning back to Isabelle, he continues, “Go with Lucie, my dear. She will bathe
you and get you ready for bed.”

“Thank you,” says Isabelle,
rising to leave, and thinks,
a bath! I
have never even dreamed of such a luxury. A quick splash in the freezing Seine
is the best I can hope for, but a real bath. . .

It is all she could imagine and
more; the steam, the smells, the oils, all of it like some wonderful dream.
Lucie, still seeming to ignore Isabelle, busies herself filling the large
ceramic bathtub with steaming hot water from a boiler and tempering it with a
few splashes from a cold water cistern. Then she approaches Isabelle and begins
to pull at the laces of her bodice.

“What are you doing?” says
Isabelle, backing away from her in confusion.

Lucie gives her a stern look. “I
need to undress you for a bath, girl. Unless you want to go in wearing these
filthy rags. They could probably do with the wash.” She sighs. “Just stand
still and let me get you out of these clothes.”

This time Isabelle stands still
as Lucie undoes the laces and takes off the bodice, before stripping off her
skirt as well. As she does so, Isabelle notices the woman’s lips wrinkle in
disgust. Finally, when Isabelle’s clothes are in an untidy pile and she is
standing with her arms folded across her chest to cover her breasts, Lucie
tells her to get in the bath.

The water is wonderfully warm and
as she lowers herself into the tub, Isabelle feels an amazing sense of
relaxation and peace. She lays there, the heat of the bath filling her up, and
wants to stay there longer, but Lucie returns carrying a large brush, a metal
comb and a bar of soap.

For the next few minutes,
Isabelle’s whole body is subjected to vigorous scrubbing.

Well this isn’t as relaxing as I’d hoped
, she thinks.
I’ll be lucky
if I have any skin left after she’s finished with this brush!
But then the
combing begins. “Ouch!”

“Don’t make such a fuss,” says
Lucie, dragging the comb through the tangles of her hair. “You don’t want to
look like a street urchin for his lordship, do you?”