The Chevalier (Châteaux and Shadows) (28 page)

Three weeks without Catherine.

He said goodbye to the widow he had carried on an affair with in Poitou, though he strongly suspected she had found someone else while he was gone. He gathered his clothing and books from the house, but since he had never filled it up, it didn’t make him sad to leave it behind. The housekeeper and some of the servants who would stay on the land had become his friends, it was true, but they were more used to caring for an empty house than an occupied one, after years of semi-neglect.

Three weeks. Three and a half weeks. Twenty-four days without Catherine.

But he was now approaching his father’s lands.

A groom rode up to him at the head of the string, where he was barely restraining himself from galloping. “
Allez
, Monsieur. Hurry home.”

Manu stared at him for several seconds, before twisting in the saddle and untying the lead mare’s rope. He watched as the groom secured the rope to his own saddle, muttered, “Merci,” and took off at an angle across country, letting Vainqueur canter a little before pulling him back to a trot. The poor stallion had been walking and trotting for ten days with only a break on Sunday.

But now he was past Cédric’s house, and his father’s house was visible at the end of the lane.

“Catherine, Catherine, Catherine,” beat the rhythm of Vainqueur’s canter and of Emmanuel’s heart.

****

Anne, the baronesse’s maid, had tried to reduce the severity of her questioning by accusing the witch who had helped her of selling poison to courtiers and their servants. Witchcraft wasn’t illegal, but poisoning, of course, was.

The messenger who brought the news that morning had also brought Catherine’s mother’s brooch and her otherwise empty purse. The money she’d had when Anne took the purse was gone. Catherine wondered where it had all gone in the few hours between the theft and the maid’s arrest. The amount was tiny by court standards, but huge for a maid.

Catherine touched the smooth opalescent oval of her brooch with one finger before savoring the cold ridges and bumps of the ornate design in the silver surrounding it. She turned it over to read her mother’s name engraved on the back. She sighed and picked up her comb to try to get her new, fashionable curls to behave.
One last try before Manu gets here.
Her heart beat faster, and she smiled at herself in the tiny mirror.

Someone pounded on the door, making Catherine jump. This was no gentle tap of a servant. “Mademoiselle? He’s been spotted.” The baron’s voice.

Catherine dropped her comb.

She was out the door of her room and rushing past de la Brosse, down the stairs, and out the big front door. She paused at the top of the stairs and looked down the lane. No one. Something moved in the sheep pasture to the west. There was a huge bay stallion coming toward her at a slow canter, Emmanuel standing in the stirrups, flowing with the horse’s stride. He slowed Vainqueur to a walk and opened the gate—the horse was tired or he would have jumped the low fence.

Manu waved his hat—he had seen her.

Her heart beat as fast as Vainqueur’s hooves.

They came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, and Manu grinned as he swung down. He ran up the short staircase two at a time and pulled her against him wordlessly, wrapping his strong arms around her, then sliding a hand up to cradle the back of her head as she pushed her forehead against his strong shoulder. He stank of horse and sweat and dust: the sweetest smells in the world, and ones which brought tears to her eyes. Her arms around his waist, she ran her hands over the back of his dirty coat and squeezed.

“I have a feeling, my Catherine, we shall become as embarrassing as my sister and Dominique.” His voice was soft and rushed through her veins like fire.

She pulled away far enough to look up into his face. “How so?”

He kissed her deeply, questing in her mouth with his tongue, which tasted of onions and ale. Her body reacted instantly, wanting his touch, not caring who saw them. She thought of the time she had spent on her coiffure as Manu’s fingers ran up her scalp, dislodging the combs. Then she thought of nothing but him.

Someone cleared his throat behind her, but Manu kept kissing her as he slowly turned them both around to give his father his back.

The baron laughed, and soon Catherine and Manu had to pull apart to laugh, too.

Here’s a sample of the next book in the series:

Henri et Marcel

by

Philippa Lodge

Châteaux and Shadows, Book Four

Chapter One

Paris, France, 1678

Monsieur Fourbier, known in his youth as Marcel LaTrappe, rapped smartly at the accountant’s office door.

“
Entrez!
” called the man inside.

Marcel swung the door open and jolted to a halt.

Henri de Cantière, the accountant at the furniture manufactory where Marcel worked his artistic magic, Marcel’s friend, lover, and confidant, sat up perfectly straight in his chair, his jaw clenched, his skin pale. He shivered once before getting himself under control.

Marcel narrowed his eyes. “Are you all right?”

Henri raised his eyebrows and tipped his head back to look down his nose at him. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

Marcel pressed his lips together. Surely Henri knew that Marcel knew something was wrong. It felt like a slap when he lied. For the moment, Marcel dropped the matter, though he pursed his lips. “Jean-Louis wants you to sit in on my conversation with the baron’s majordomo.”

Henri scowled fiercely. “
Mon dieu
. Why? He is selecting purples for his aunt’s tea room. This is your part of the business.”

Henri’s fashion was sober, utilitarian black and brown. Marcel was always designing brightly colored waistcoats for him to create a bit of contrast, but had never tried to put him in purple. Even if Henri liked purple, which he didn’t, it would make his skin appear sallow. And yet he didn’t need to sneer at purple, did he? Another slap.

“The colonel is conscious of the baron’s budget, even if the majordomo isn’t.” Marcel still called Henri’s brother by his military title, having been his
aide-de-camp
many years before. He had never got out of the habit because he didn’t feel as though he were close enough to call him Jean-Louis. He was debauching the colonel’s brother, after all.

Henri often found it amusing. Today, though, he remained unnaturally still. “You could show him less expensive fabrics.”

Marcel recoiled in mock horror. “It is my job to create the perfect room. It is your job to stop me.”

Henri smiled thinly. He gripped the ornamented pocket flap of his coat
with his left hand and stood. He used his right hand to pick up the account book he kept for the baron, one of their best customers.

As he tucked it under his left arm, Marcel came around the desk and placed a hand on Henri’s chest. “What is wrong with your arm?”

Henri frowned. “An odd twinge. It is nothing.”

Odd twinge
was more than he had confessed to over the last few days. Marcel glared at him, but the sound of footsteps in the hall made him step back and smooth his expression. “To work, then.”

Henri gestured for him to precede him. Marcel narrowed his eyes in warning. They would talk about this later.

****

Three hours later, the baron’s majordomo and housekeeper finally left the showroom, having dithered and dickered and exclaimed over velvet, brocade, embroidery, every possible shade of wood, and an endless parade of
purple purple purple
for the baron’s mother.

Pain gripped Henri’s shoulder and neck and shot arrows into his skull. He had calculated and recalculated the cost as the details changed and Marcel waxed enthusiastic, adding musket balls to the arrows.

I might vomit.

Jean-Louis had slipped into the meeting long enough to gratify the majordomo and housekeeper’s pride at speaking to the famous colonel. He bowed himself out to attend to other business. Henri envied him his ability to delegate. Though Jean-Louis claimed to be overseeing his children’s patrimony, it was his face, his leadership, and his connections which had dragged the furniture manufactory out of looming bankruptcy ten years before. Everything had nearly been lost, including Jean-Louis’ wife Hélène and his daughter Ondine, when a former partner tried to blackmail, coerce, and murder his way into sole ownership.

Henri’s accounting skills had found pilfered money, some of which had been regained after a long lawsuit. His strictness with prices and expenditures made them profitable. Without Marcel, though, they would be trying to sell furniture fit for army camps and hovels, not graceful, intricate, colorful furniture to rival the royal furnishers’ best efforts.

Marcel directed two workers in gathering up the bolts of fabric and carrying out a huge, nearly completed desk to be inlaid with bronze. Henri bent over his scribbled notes as if he were verifying the figures and instead squeezed the twitching muscles of his left bicep.

Jean-Louis spoke behind him. “How was it?”

He set his hand on Henri’s left shoulder. Henri’s vision went fuzzy, and he jerked away with a grunt. His panting was the only noise in the room except for a buzz of his ears.

Jean-Louis’s blue coat appeared in the corner of his eye, followed by his brother’s narrowed blue eyes. “What happened?”

Henri sat up, clutching his left arm to his belly. “What happened when?”

Jean-Louis glowered down his nose. “What happened at Versailles? Our brother, Manu, was injured. You rode out with him to retrieve Mademoiselle de Fouet. Three days later, you came home, saying Manu was over his fever. I don’t remember hearing of any accidents, and yet you are injured.”

Henri shook his head. “Nothing happened. My shoulder hurts, but it is nothing.” He was a good liar, but his hands trembled, and he felt cold sweat prickling his face. He was pretty sure he was pale.

Jean-Louis stared at him for a while longer, his face stiff, waiting for Henri to confess to something. Henri stared back at him until Jean-Louis shook his head and turned away. He paused in the doorway. “Take the rest of the afternoon off. Go home and rest.”

Henri shook his head and winced as it sent a shock through his arm.

“I’ll send Fourbier home soon, too. You’ve both earned your salaries today. Besides, with Hélène’s confinement imminent, I’ll be leaving everything to the two of you soon.” Jean-Louis nodded politely and strode toward the workshop.

On his return to his office, Henri leaned gingerly back in his soft chair, sharp pains radiating from his neck as he tipped his head back. For a moment, his neck froze, and he considered calling out for help, but with his one working hand, he managed to ease his head forward. He was only thirty-four and shouldn’t feel like he was a hundred.

****

Marcel was not given to violence, though he carried a dagger in his boot. In fact, he had been vastly relieved when, in the army, he had talked a
capitaine
into hiring him as his aide-de-camp, taking him away from patrols and battles. Even in a war zone, Marcel had been mostly peaceful as he managed the household. He was quite good at managing a household.

He was also given to waving his arms as he rhapsodized about color and form. He selected cloth not only for the furniture manufactory but for his adopted family’s clothing.

To his chagrin, most of Henri’s family wasn’t very interested in
la mode
and
la couleur
. The exception was Ondine, who was just thirteen and always had something to say about her mother’s gowns and her father’s
justaucorps
. If she had been a boy and not destined to marry a noble, he would have hired her as his assistant in the factory. He smiled at the bolt of pale pink satin in his hands and thought of the girl’s pink cheeks. Perhaps he would pay for a length of this fabric and stitch Ondine a pillow. He would try out a new flower pattern he was thinking of putting on seat cushions.

Marcel was a peaceful man, but honestly, his lover was going to drive him to violence. Since Henri had returned from Versailles three days before, he’d been more grumpy than usual. Marcel had awoken each night to Henri tossing and turning or getting up to wander through the house. When Marcel caressed him, Henri flinched. When Marcel asked what was wrong, Henri snapped.
Odd twinge. My shoulder hurts, but it is nothing.

The meeting with the baron’s majordomo had distracted them both for a time, Henri no crankier than usual about figuring costs for new furniture and recovering the baron’s mother’s existing chairs. They would pack the samples into a carriage the next day to present them to the dowager and get final approval. Someday, the baron would order from them for his own home. Or better: for his Versailles apartments. But for now, he was outfitting all the ladies of his family one by one. What Marcel really wanted was to make dresses for ladies.

Something was wrong with Henri. Marcel felt crazy. Something hurt inside Henri, but was the pain only physical—something wrong with his arm? Or was he angry?

Perhaps—and this frightened Marcel more than the other options—Henri had found another lover. He had been gone a few days, but what if he had met someone else? What if seeing his youngest brother falling in love had changed Henri somehow? Marcel would have to leave, not Henri. Henri was the colonel’s brother. Marcel didn’t have enough money saved to start up his own atelier in the style he wished: clothing fit for nobility.

Marcel locked up the fabric storeroom. There was a small fortune in silk inside, symbols of luxury for their clients and of success for the de Cantières. He smiled to himself, still in wonder after ten years as the creativity behind the factory’s success. Then he frowned; without the de Cantières, he wouldn’t be successful. He would be dead on a battlefield, most likely, or begging for work like so many other soldiers, prematurely older than his age of thirty-eight.

The workmen were leaving for the night, so he joined their ranks, talking to the aging craftsman who did the bronze inlay. Others of the workmen edged away, which always hurt Marcel’s feelings. He was never sure if it was because he was one of the bosses—and a demanding one at that—or because of his not-really-a-secret relationship with Henri. Probably the latter. For ten years, he had figured it was only a matter of time before one of the workers informed on them to the police. So far, they had been lucky. Or the workers were unwilling to endanger their livelihood. Or they had no proof.