Redemption: Supernatural Time-Traveling Romance with Sci-fi and Metaphysics (22 page)

Some afternoons, however,
Isabelle can be found at home, practicing her singing or chatting with Lucie,
and it is here that one of Babette’s messengers finds her with an invitation to
a deer hunt.

“A hunt?” Isabelle looks at the
messenger in surprise. “For deer?”

“Indeed, milady. There is
excellent hunting at this time of year.”

“On horses?”

“Of course.” The messenger
pauses, noting the look of concern on Isabelle’s face. Then he leans forward
and says, in a low voice. “My mistress told me to let you know that Albert will
be there.”

Isabelle hesitates, not wishing
to seem to keen, but then nods. “Very well. Please tell Babette I would be
delighted to attend.”

Thankfully she has been out
riding several times on one of Jean-Pierre’s horses, a beautiful chestnut that
is the perfect size for her. The last time she rode it, she did quite well and
even enjoyed the experience a little, though she was sore for a day afterwards.
It had all been Lucie’s idea, who pointed out that riding builds up your thigh
muscles, which can come in handy in the bedchamber!

So, a few days later, she mounts
the horse once more and sets out for the hunt.

As she approaches the meeting
point she sees that quite a crowd has already gathered.

What fun
, she thinks, with only a
little flutter of nerves.
So many new
people to meet, not to mention the lovely Albert, of course. Now where is
Babette?

Spurring her horse on, she soon
finds her friend who trots out to great her, mounted on an impressive grey
horse with a beautifully braided mane.

“Wow,” she says as she draws up
alongside. “You look stunning!”

Isabelle looks down as if to
remind herself what she is wearing, a blue-white velvet outfit especially
designed for riding, with a tall, feathered hat covering her fair hair. “Thank
you. As do you.”

“Come on,” says Babette, steering
her horse back to the main gathering. “We’re heading off shortly and I’ve got
someone I want you to meet first.”

The person in question is
Babette’s uncle, Paul, Albert’s father, who reminds Isabelle slightly of the
Marquis both in age and in looks. No sooner have they been introduced however
than a shrill blast on a horn signals the start of the hunt. Immediately people
spring into action, spurring their horses in the direction of the sound.
Isabelle is about to follow when a large black stallion pulls up alongside her.

“Well, this is a pleasant
surprise.”

Isabelle turns to see Albert
sitting proud and handsome on his horse, dressed in a jacket and riding
breeches of deep blue. Her heart leaps, but she betrays nothing in her face,
instead simply giving him a curt nod.

“Not afraid of the action,
Isabelle?” he asks her with a glint in his eye. “The hunt can be… hot.”

Although she feels the desire for
Albert stirring inside her, she replies without a hint of concern. “A hot hunt
is good hunt, is it not? Anyone who’s afraid of action, shouldn’t go hunting!”
And with that she kicks her horse into
a trot, leaving Albert staring after her.

The hunt is indeed hot. The
blazing sun lances through the trees and the forest floor is littered with
obstacles, pot holes and fallen tree stumps, and keeping up with the others
proves hard work. At one point a small herd of wild boar come charging through
the undergrowth, upsetting a number of the horses.

Well, this is not as much fun as I hoped it would be,
thinks Isabelle, holding on tight and gripping her mount with her
knees, feeling the sweat on its neck and the motion of its muscles as it
negotiates its way through the forest.
At
least Albert is here. It gives me a chance to work on my far more important hunt!

It is late afternoon before the
hunt is over, when a large stag is trapped by a group of the riders and taken
down with a single arrow through the heart. Isabelle looks at its lifeless form
as it is carried into a grassy glade and finds herself saddened to see so
magnificent a creature, its branching antlers strong and wide, killed for
nothing more than fun. The sight of it hardens Isabelle in her own hunt for
Albert’s affection.
I too can catch a
great quarry,
she tells herself.
Can’t
I?

All around the glade, servants
hurry backwards and forwards laying out chairs and a vast array of food that
looks more like a banquet than a picnic. As Isabelle takes a seat between
Babette and her uncle, she notices Albert sitting down opposite her. To her
delight, as his father spends the entire meal flirting with Isabelle and paying
her endless compliments, Albert glowers from across the glade, his face filled
with unconcealed jealousy.

“Well, my dear,” says Babette,
leaning across to whisper into Isabelle’s ear. “It seems your arrow has hit the
target!”

Chapter Twenty

W
hat’s
keeping him?
Isabelle
wonders as she paces around her room in frustration.
It’s been six days since the hunt and still no word from Albert. Maybe
Babette was wrong. Maybe I missed my target after all.

Her thoughts are interrupted by a
knock at the front door and she hurries from the room, reaching it even before
Lucie. She flings the door open to see a smartly-dressed messenger who produces
a pink envelope and holds it out to her.

“A letter for you, milady,” he
says.

Isabelle takes it and, staring
down at the paper in her hands, shuts the door without a word.

“Well, it looks like you have an
admirer, my dear,” says Lucie, peering over her shoulder. “I bet you it’s
scented.”

Isabelle lifts it to her nose to
smell it, coughing almost immediately. “That’s a bet you’d win. It’s definitely
been scented!”

“Yes, with a whole bottle of eau
de toilette, I shouldn’t wonder!” Lucie pauses as her friend sniffs at the
envelope again. “Come on then. Open it!”

Running a finger under the front
flap, Isabelle finds a single sheet of pink, expensive-looking paper with a
short message written in a fine, elegant hand.

“It’s from Albert,” she says.

“Of course it is,” says Lucie, as
though this was obvious to her. “What does it say?”

“My dearest lady,” reads
Isabelle, running a finger across the page as she does so. “Ever since we first
met only a handful of days ago I have found my thoughts turning and returning
to you time and again. You have enchanted me, Isabelle, my love, captivated me
with your eyes and stolen my heart with your beauty. You are Venus, a pearl
from the sea. You are Aphrodite, born from the watery depths. I bow before you.
What else can I do? I bend my knee to you and beg of you to write even a single
word in response. Only then will I know peace again, only then will I be free.
Albert.”

As she reads it, Isabelle begins
to feel weak. She wants nothing more than to fulfill her dreams of being with
such a young, elegant and attractive man as Albert. All her previous lovers
have been so much older than her and, above all, she longs for a real romance.
Her body aches with love for his strong young body, to touch him, to hold him,
to join together with him. As she remembers his handsome features and how noble
he looked on his black stallion, a dreamy smile creeps across her face.

“Ahem.”

Isabelle snaps back to the
present, suddenly remembering where she is. “Sorry,” she says. “I drifted off a
little there.”

“I’m not surprised,” says Lucie. “But
remember what Babette told you. You’ve got to play it cool. That’s the way to
really catch a man like Albert.”

“You’re right, of course. Please
could you fetch me some writing things and we’ll see if I can send poor Albert
a great response.”

After much consideration, and
several discarded sheets of paper, Isabel finally settles on writing: “Dear
Albert. Thank you for your kind words. However, they are only words and words
are nothing more than wind. They amuse, but they do not arouse the female
senses. Instead, it is concrete actions that fan the flame and awaken desire.
Are you a man of action, Albert? Or merely a man of words? Isabelle.”

Albert’s reply arrives before
Isabelle has had time to sit down for lunch. No scented envelope this time,
just a messenger with a single request: “Meet me by the fountain in the Jardin
du Luxembourg one hour before sunset.” She is so excited she has hardly any
appetite for lunch and just sits there poking the food around her plate,
dreaming about the meeting. The rest of the afternoon passes at an interminably
slow pace, the seconds dragging past and the sun barely moving in the sky.

At last, it is time, and she
hurries to the Jardin du Luxembourg, slowing down at the last street to ensure
she looks neither rushed nor out of breath.

Can’t have Albert thinking I’m too eager!

As the sun dips low over the
nearby roofs, it bathes the gardens in a pink glow, reminding her of the
scented envelope. There are few people to be seen, most of them walking, but as
she nears the fountain she spots the solitary figure of Albert standing tall
and proud, a triangular velvet hat accentuating the handsome features of his
face and his blue jacket and knee breeches overhung with a long, elegantly
embroidered coat in the same material
.

“Good evening, my dear,” he says
as she approaches and he holds out a lace cuffed hand to her. Isabelle places
her own into it and he bends forward to kiss it gently. “Thank you for coming
here.”

“Indeed, monsieur,” says Isabelle
curtly. “Let us hope it was worth my while.” Her face suggests she suspects it
may not have been. It’s a good look, one she practiced in the mirror before she
left, and it covers her true desire. His, however, is written all over his
face, a hungry longing as he looks her up and down. Her sensual figure is hidden
beneath a beautiful black dress and a white jacket from the finest designer in
Paris, trimmed with luxurious ermine from the distant lands of Russia.

Albert holds out an arm to her. “I
certainly hope so. Shall we walk?”

She takes the proffered arm and
together they traverse the gardens at an easy pace. Here and there they catch
sight of other couples, but otherwise the place is silent and deserted.

“I am told,” says Isabelle, after
exchanging the usual pleasantries, “that you and your dear father are favorites
of His Majesty King Louis. Have I heard correct?” She sneaks a glance at
Albert’s face and is delighted to see a flash of concern at the mention of his
‘dear’ father.
This game is much easier
and more fun than I had imagined!

“This is true,” he says. “His
Majesty has indeed favored our family. But you know how these things are, such
royal grace is changeable. Today’s favorites can become tomorrow’s outcasts at
His Majesty’s slightest whim.”

“But you are favored at present?”

“Yes,” Albert nods his agreement.
“At present.”

“And would you be so bold as to
ask His Majesty for a favor?” Isabelle asks, keeping her face as serene as
possible, though she feels her heart thumping in her chest. “A favor for a
friend?”

“And whom might you be talking
about, milady?”

“Why, for me, of course.” She
frowns up at him as though she thinks him simple. “I am looking for a place in
the King’s Court.”

Albert raises his eyebrows in
surprise. “You are?” He stops and turns to face her, then a smile creeps across
his face. “I see. Well, I could certainly try, milady. It will not be easy, of
course.”

“Don’t worry, Albert,” says
Isabelle, placing a hand on his chest and looking up into his eyes. “Your
efforts will be greatly rewarded.”

His breath catches in his throat
as he gazes down into her face, stunned by her beauty and the warmth of her
body as it draws against his. “I assure you, milady, I will move heaven and
earth to please you.”

~

Albert is as good as his word
and, a few weeks later, Isabelle receives another letter, shrouded in a scented
pink envelope. She tears it open, almost damaging the paper inside in her
eagerness to see what news he has to impart.

“Careful!” says Lucie, though if
anything she is just as excited for her friend as Isabelle is. “What does he
say? Is it good news?”

“Give me a moment!” says
Isabelle, still opening the letter. “Right. He says, ‘My dearest Isabelle, as
requested I have spoken with His Majesty. I waited until he was in a good mood,
having just celebrated an evening at the opera, and he has agreed to meet with
you. In three days’ time, at sundown, you are to present yourself in His
Majesty’s private chambers. I have done all I could, milady, and I look forward
to receiving the reward for my labors. Yours, now and always, Albert.’”

As the echo of the words dies
away, Isabelle and Lucie do not move, but stand staring at nothing, spellbound
by the news.

I can’t believe it
, thinks Isabelle.
I daren’t believe it! His Majesty, the King
of France and Navarre wants to meet me. Me! A girl from the slums and streets.
It’s more than I could ever have dreamed!

“Wow!” says Lucie, breaking the
silence. “Here’s your chance to make it to the top. And you can make it, I know
you can. But be aware, my dear, never forget that life in the King’s court can
be everything one day and nothing the next.”

“Yes, that’s what Albert was
saying.”

“It’s true. Just keep it in mind.”
She takes Isabelle’s hands in hers. “But for now, we need to make sure you make
the best impression possible. You’re going to see His Majesty the King!”

Almost every waking moment of the
next three days is spent getting ready for the meeting, commissioning a new
dress in the very latest fashion, ensuring her hair is just so and her nails
are perfect, planning her makeup and perfume, and trying out different
accessories, such as hats, stockings,
brooches
,
gloves and
ribbons
. When at last the time comes for her to head to
Saint-Germain-en-Laye, the result of Isabelle and Lucie’s work is evident. She
looks so stunning that, although she is nervous about having a private audience
with Louis, she is confident that she can make an impression on him. After all,
he is, as Lucie reminds her, only a man.

~

A smartly-dressed servant shows
Isabelle into a writing room, in the middle of which is a desk so vast that it
would hardly fit in any room at Jean-Pierre’s house. However, it is not that
desk that captures Isabelle’s attention but the man sitting at it, writing
something on fine parchment with a long, elegant quill. This is the Sun King,
Louis the Fourteenth, supreme ruler of France and Navarre, alone in this room
with Isabelle. Isabelle stands just inside the door, watching him. He is
wearing a black and gold jacket with lace pouring from its cuffs, a jabot tight
around his neck topped with an exquisite gold broach. This evening’s wig is a
mass of black curls beneath which his powdered face looks tired, making him
seem older than his thirty-seven years. When at last he is finished, he lays
down his quill and looks up to acknowledge his visitor.

“Very good evening Your Majesty,”
says Isabelle, parched with excitement and making a deep reverence. The King
gets up from the table.

“Very good evening to you,
milady. You may rise, my beauty,” he says, walking across the expanse of carpet
and giving her an appraising look. “I have seen you before, have I not? Remind
me.”

“It was here in the palace, sire.
I sang for you.”

“Ah, yes. The angel with the
beautiful voice. I remember you.” He walks around her, taking in every inch of
her dress and her figure. “You are a pretty little songbird then. What else you
are capable of?”

“Whatever you desire, your
Majesty,” she replies, then remembers a phrase she heard Lucie use with the
Marquis. “I am at your service.”

As the King completes his circle
and stands once more in front of Isabelle, he steps close and pulls her against
him with one hand. With the other he lifts up her chin and
bares
her bright, white teeth. She breathes in. His body is a mixture of
perfume, powder and something else belonging to the world of men. He puts his
mouth on hers, and lowers her, gently to the floor, pulling up her skirts on
their way down.

When they’re finished, she feels
a cold breeze blowing from the door’s slot and a sharp pain from the corsetry
bars jabbing into her back. The King, his wig still perched on his head, but at
a rakish angle, sighs with satisfaction as he climbs to his feet.

“Mademoiselle,” says His Majesty,
once his clothes are on and his wig is back in place. “The French Royal Court
is in desperate need of good singers, such as you.”

Isabelle curtsies and pulls at
the bottom of her corset, which is still slightly uncomfortable. “Thank you,
Your Majesty.”

“Now, I welcome you into my
palace. I will give an order for you to be set up with a room of your own.”

~

I can’t believe it, thinks
Isabelle and she travels back to Jean-Pierre’s house for the last time. I can’t
believe how well my plan has worked out, thanks to my wonderful friends! Oh, I
shall miss dear Lucie… but I am certain we can still keep in touch even when I
am a lady of the Court.

Despite this resolution, it is a
tearful farewell as Isabelle’s things are loaded into Jean-Pierre’s carriage a
few days later.

“Thank you, my friend,” says
Isabelle, her arms wrapped tightly around Lucie. “Thank you for everything.”

“It’s been wonderful having you
here,” says Lucie through her tears. “I have loved every minute of it. Don’t be
a stranger!”

“I won’t, Lucie. I promise.”

Jean-Pierre opens the carriage
door to help Isabelle inside and, for a moment, she glimpses a sad, somewhat
lost look on his face, but when she looks again, he is smiling at her kindly.