The Chevalier (Châteaux and Shadows) (5 page)

He’d spent the three hours since they left his father’s home turning his mother’s illness over in his mind. Did influenza strike her harder than the others because she was getting old? He wished he lived closer to her, wondered why she would leave without waiting for him to arrive, wondered if Mademoiselle de Fouet was truly devoted to her. Wondered if Mademoiselle de Fouet was devoted to anything but her own self-interest. If she was like the baronesse’s circle of acquaintances, each of whom was more self-serving than the next, then Manu wasn’t sure he wanted to know her.

Except to bed her, the insidious voice in his head said.

He hopped down from his horse in time to open the carriage door at the inn and hand Mademoiselle de Fouet down. She rushed past him into the
auberge
with nothing more than a nod.

He was disappointed. Next time, he would let a footman hand her down.

They had all the horses sorted out, and still she and the young maid hadn’t emerged from the inn. Manu stomped inside, ready to shout.

He found Mademoiselle de Fouet leaning over the maid, holding out a crust of bread and talking softly as the girl dabbed at tears. Manu couldn’t think of a time when his mother had showed so much care toward a servant. She hadn’t even waited for Mademoiselle de Fouet to recover from her illness before leaving. His sister would be this concerned. Aurore had treated Michel like a brother even before she knew he was one. She had sat by Manu’s bed every time he had a fever when he lived at the château-fort. His mother had never once done so.

“Come,” Manu called out. “We need to be three leagues further by midday.”

Mademoiselle de Fouet stood up, her face sour. “In case you have never traveled with ladies, Monsieur de Cantière, you should realize we need to stop more often to refresh ourselves. The burden of skirts and petticoats means we take longer to do so.”

Manu scratched his head. “Refresh?”

Mademoiselle de Fouet raised her eyebrows.

Oh, she was talking about relieving herself. Manu looked away and cleared his throat.

“Marie is still feeling ill, in spite of being horribly hungry. I have bought her a piece of bread to nibble. Now you must wait until her stomach is settled before we move on.”

“But the horses are fresh, and we have several leagues before…” He trailed off, knowing the argument lost, given the lady’s expression.

Mademoiselle de Fouet sighed and looked down at Marie, who said, “I can still nibble this on the coach box. I really am much better, Mademoiselle.”

She looked up at the lady with trepidation and yet admiration. Manu wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “All right, then, if you’re ready, Mademoiselle?”

She didn’t even glance at him as she passed, her head held high. Though they were ready to start again, Manu felt he had lost the argument, especially when he saw Mademoiselle de Fouet smiling and accepting a hand up from a footman, who bowed before closing the carriage door. The same footman boosted the maid up to the coachman, and the girl laughed.

Manu knew what it was like to be left out. He had grown used to it. It didn’t make it easier.

He rode next to Jacques, his groom and friend, chatting idly for the next two hours, at which point Mademoiselle de Fouet called a halt at a ratty inn instead of at the nice one he had hoped to reach by midday. He announced they were going to change the horses an hour further on, but anyone who needed a rest or something to eat or drink should do so quickly. Very quickly. In fact, anyone who could eat while traveling would do so.

Mademoiselle de Fouet raised her eyebrows again and called for a table for herself and her maid.

Manu sighed and told everyone to get dinner while the horses rested.

****

Catherine was bored silly. The carriage’s motion made her queasy, though not ill enough to stop. If she tried to read or write or hem her new chemise while in motion, she would be begging to get out, probably to vomit on the side of the road. The open sides of the coach let dust billow in, but if she closed the heavy curtains she would get even sicker from not looking out and from the oppressive heat. The maid was sweet, but Catherine didn’t long for her company so much as for anyone to talk about absolutely anything. Or someone to sit with in silence.

She imagined what it would be like to travel with a husband, someone witty and tender. What did happily married couples talk about in a closed coach? She smiled at the empty space beside her, imagining her former fiancé there. She still had a miniature of him somewhere, but his face had faded from her memory.

If anyone glanced in and saw her smiling at the air, they would stop the coach to check her for fever.

It didn’t mean she appreciated it when Monsieur Emmanuel climbed into the carriage in the middle of the afternoon and sat across from her with a thump, sighing heavily. “Jacques’ horse is too tired to go on to the next change, so I’ve put him on mine.”

She blinked at him. She licked her lips and cleared her throat of dust. “And you want to ride in a coach with me without a maid or chaperone?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Surely you’re not going to lecture me on propriety, especially with all the curtains open. Once we arrive in Paris, you can plead ravishment to my mother and she will make sure we marry.”

Catherine narrowed her eyes back at him. In spite of the spark in her chest at the idea of marrying Monsieur Emmanuel, she was never going to marry. If she did, her husband would either be a country gentleman with no notion of court life or a titled rich man who would dote on her. Not a fourth son who stank of horses and owned nothing.

He was handsome enough when he bathed and wore proper clothing. But even rough and dusty he caused a lump in her throat. His plain suede breeches pulled across the powerful muscles in his thighs, and his shoulders seemed to fill up the space above the entire rear-facing bench. She loved horses, even if she never rode one anymore. Perhaps an
affaire
, though it would be risky. Without family and powerful friends, it was too easy for a dalliance to become the start of a young lady’s slide into life as a mistress. Or exile and poverty.

So no dalliance, at least not until she had enough saved to live comfortably on her own land. Monsieur Emmanuel tempted her more than any man had since her fiancé’s death. She wondered about the state of her soul if she was so easily tempted.

She looked out the window, watching the dust rising and wishing she were alone again so she could let cool water dribble into her cleavage as she had been doing all afternoon. She dabbed perfume on her neck and let it run under the edge of her bodice, savoring the intense coldness as the alcohol evaporated.

Monsieur Emmanuel stared at her neck where a droplet tickled. He caught her eye and turned sharply away.

She dabbed more along her collarbones and let it drip a bit, too.

His eyes darted to her neckline, and he squirmed in his seat.

She had not felt this power over a man in years. Even the few who had tried to seduce her hadn’t seemed susceptible to her charms but were interested in her out of boredom or for her connections to the baronesse and her cabal.

Perhaps a dalliance, after all.

****

Emmanuel kept his gaze on the outriders. Not that he had any reason for concern: they were his father’s men. He had trained with some of them at Dom’s château. After the events of twelve years before, when evil men had taken over the château-fort and held Aurore prisoner, the family scrutinized and trained their guards and servants more carefully than ever. He glanced at the sleeping Mademoiselle de Fouet, wedged into the corner, her head flopping, and wondered if his mother had told her anything about that particularly dark episode in the family’s history. Much of it was common knowledge, but even Manu didn’t know exactly what the bastards had done other than scar Aurore’s face. And still no one knew who had tried to kill Dominique with a crossbow bolt.

Mademoiselle de Fouet snorted inelegantly and turned her head to place it cheek-first against the padding of the carriage, which looked extremely uncomfortable.

Manu swung himself around to sit next to her, leaning against the other side. He eased her over until her head rested on his shoulder, his arm around her waist. It was too hot to be pressed against each other, but there was nothing he could do about the heat.

****

He woke with a start when the coach slowed and the heavy, hot lump on his shoulder pulled away. “Jeannine?” he grunted. The soft fabric wrenched out of his sweaty hand.

“What are you doing?” demanded a lady’s voice.

Mademoiselle de Fouet. Not pretty Jeannine from Poitou.

He blinked and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then grunted as he rotated his wrist and bent his elbow until the pins and needles started.

“Well?”

“Well what?” he asked.

“What were you doing?” Half her face was wrinkled and red, which almost made him smile. Almost. The rest of her face scowled at him.

“You looked uncomfortable, so I was your pillow.”

Her face flushed deeper red. “I am sure I was just fine.”

He shrugged. “Riding backwards doesn’t do my stomach any favors.”

“So it really had nothing to do with me.” Her eyebrows shot up, her dark brown eyes opened wide.

He grunted in frustration. “I could have sat over here without trying to help you. The seat isn’t extremely wide, but it’s certainly enough for us each to huddle in a corner.”

She let out a
hmph
and smoothed the wrinkles from her clothing, then wet her handkerchief from her wineskin and pressed it against her hot, wrinkled cheek. She took a few swallows of watered wine and stared fixedly out the window as they pulled into the inn. Manu climbed out first to hand her down, and she marched off to relieve herself. Or just to escape him.

He sighed as he watched her brown skirts swish from side to side.

****

Another day of this torture.

Catherine sent Marie the maid scurrying to find out where they could refresh themselves while the horses were changed. She paused in the inn doorway and looked around at the clean, tidy dining area. Whatever was cooking smelled wonderful in spite of her faint nausea at being bounced around.

She heard a step behind her and turned to see Monsieur Emmanuel.

“We could stop here for the night,” she blurted out.

He rolled his eyes and sighed. “We have five hours of daylight yet and can cover ten leagues more. There’s a perfectly nice inn where we will dine and sleep.”

“We’ve been traveling for ten hours already. Surely we’ve gone farther than that.” She was rather desperate to stop jolting around. “When I rode out to la Brosse with your mother, we took it in three days.”

Monsieur Emmanuel shrugged. “If I weren’t traveling with you, Jacques and I would make the entire trip in a single day. Do you think I’m not tired of traveling, too? I would be in Paris tonight, see my mother, spend a day with her, and then travel back.”

“One day with your mother is enough after you haven’t seen her for three years?”
Ungrateful child.

Monsieur Emmanuel shrugged again. “She chose it, not I. I’ve been to my father’s home and visited Dom and Aurore several times since I moved to Poitou. I was even in Paris, but she wrote to not come see her at Versailles. She apparently doesn’t wish to see me even now.”

His blasé manner made her stare in surprise. Perhaps the baronesse was an ungrateful mother. Catherine shrugged, trying to pretend her patroness’s neglect of her family didn’t bother her. No matter what the baronesse said about any of them, they had been kind and considerate to Catherine while she was in the baron’s country home.

And maybe Monsieur Emmanuel wasn’t the neglectful one. He might be confused and bitter, but he had rushed to his mother when she was ill and was even now anxious to reach her.

Catherine felt a wave of guilt for slowing him down, but also a strange sort of tenderness for the devoted son. It was just as well she didn’t know what to say, because Monsieur Emmanuel walked away to speak to the inn’s proprietor.

****

When the sun was low in the sky, they pulled into yet another inn yard. Catherine was exhausted, starving, in desperate need of a chamber pot, and, as if that weren’t enough, had a headache and felt sorry for herself. A footman handed her down, and she and the maid rushed into the inn. Marie giggled as they rushed out the back door to the privies.
Outdoor privies for a lady! And Monsieur Emmanuel calls this place perfectly nice?

Her outrage was outweighed by her fatigue and hunger. “Eat well tonight, Marie, and then only bread and tea in the morning.”

The girl nodded solemnly as the innkeeper led Catherine to a small table in a secluded alcove. “There’s no private dining room?” She addressed the innkeeper, but glared at Monsieur Emmanuel.

“I am sorry, Madame. The only private sitting room was already taken when Monsieur de Cantière’s rider arrived a few hours ago.”

“Mademoiselle,” she corrected absently. She could imagine a request from lowly Emmanuel de Cantiere might be superseded by someone of higher rank. Her knees and hips wobbled, and she wondered if her grippe was coming back. A footman rushed to pull her chair out for her. She leaned back, effectively hiding in an alcove, relaxing her rigid posture as much as her loosely laced corset and stomacher would allow, and breathing deeply. She savored the sounds of people talking rather than the constant rumble of the coach.

“Marie, if you’d like to sit with your uncle and the men, you’re excused,” came Monsieur Emmanuel’s voice.

Catherine yanked herself upright and forced her eyes open. “You dismiss my maid?” She hungered for another person’s presence.

Monsieur Emmanuel looked her straight in the eyes, then took in the rest of her face. She was probably pale, but his stare made her face burn with embarrassment. He glanced over his shoulder at the table of guards and grooms. “Should I sit with you?”

Of course you should, as the only other person of rank, you idiot.

He seemed to understand her sour expression and turned away to talk to his servant, Jacques. He pulled out a chair—the one in full view of the main room—and sat. As he glanced over at his men, she realized his long hair was wet and combed rigidly back into a queue. Instead of washing, many of the nobles at court put on more perfume when they smelled, so the smell of a human was a relief, even if he did still smell of dust and horses.