By Fire and by Sword (8 page)

So much planning and now everything was falling apart; her center could not hold. She needed something to hold on to, something to retain her equilibrium. No longer rich with hope, she was alone with nothing to do but weep and curse her fate.

It was raining when they stepped outside, and she was thankful for that, at least, for it would hide the tears that began to spill in spite of all she did to hold them back.

In defiance of her despair, she managed to compose herself long enough to give the
comte
her hand, even though she was sick at heart.

“Thank you, Monsieur le Comte, for a lovely evening and dinner. And please accept my apology for intruding on your privacy with my humble, albeit persistent request. I can only say in my defense, that I am an educated woman of good breeding and genteel manners, but there are things that can happen in life that push you from your center and leave a person with little hope of saving herself. You are most fortunate that you have never in your life been in such a desperate situation that you were forced to go beyond the bounds of etiquette and propriety to humble yourself in your desperation. It humiliates and damages one’s pride and dignity to be forced to put more faith in begging than in prayer, begging, as a dog would do for scraps. You have no idea what it is like to be without hope. I compliment you on your steel reserve, and your iron will. I pray the dark shadow of fear never wraps itself around you, for you cannot imagine how the fear of one evil can lead you into an even worse one. I hope you never have to dread each hedge and tree you pass and wonder if the breath you now draw will be your last.”

With her head held high, she stepped into the carriage, and pulled the door closed behind her.

“I am strong enough to bear this misfortune, and I
will overcome even this, and be stronger in the doing of it,” she promised herself as the carriage sped into the darkness.

There are two levers for moving men—interest and fear.

—Napoléon Bonaparte (1769–1821),

French general, emperor. Quoted in:

Ralph Waldo Emerson,
Representative Men
,

“Napoleon; or The Man of the World” (1850).

D
isheartened, she returned to Madame Guion’s, and was disconcerted to see through the window that Jean-Claude was sitting in his favorite chair by the fire. She was certain he was waiting in the salon for her to return home.

Not now, please God, she thought, for I cannot speak of this evening to anyone, for the pain of it bleeds throughout my being, like the puncture of a foil, straight, deep and lethal.

She needed time alone, and quiet surroundings where she could nurse her wounds, still so raw and burning, and Jean-Claude was such a blot on the beauty
of silence. She did not want to discuss anything with anyone, especially one of the Guions’ household, for they would never understand the strongest minds are the ones heard least.

She stepped into the foyer and paused to close the door with a soft click, followed by the snap of the turned lock. Although she did not know why she bothered to close it carefully, for Jean-Claude would hear even the slightest whisper of her silk slippers upon the floor.

She stepped farther into the room, and thought it odd that Jean-Claude, with so much self-centered energy did not immediately leap from his chair upon hearing her enter.

She walked quickly to the doorway, which was a few feet from the stairway. After a quick glance into the salon, she went limp with relief. Jean-Claude, whom she prayed earlier would develop a sore throat, was actually asleep. It was the first scrap of good fortune she had experienced since coming to Paris.

The next day, she lived and relived the harrowing appeals she had made to the
comte
, feeling like a desperate beggar who flings all pride and self-respect to the wind.

By the second day, she knew she had to move beyond this disappointment and reorganize herself, so she could come up with a new plan. After all, there were other fencing masters in France. All she had to do was find the right one.

But saying is easier than doing, and by the passing of the second day, Kenna was still despondent over the results of her attempt to convince the Comte Debouvine to come out of retirement and take her as a pupil.

It was agonizing to leave the house on the third morning, but she had to do so in order to escape Madame Guion’s prying. The only beneficial part of it was she found a good
sempstress
, and was fitted for a dozen gowns to be made from what the
sempstress
called “rich Renaissance fabrics and colors”—cut velvet, damask and silk in the colors of burgundy, teal, dark blue, deep gold, ruby, onyx, russet, carnation, maid’s blush, silver, and a sumptuous gold-and-garnet silk. She also selected day dresses, several riding outfits and was fitted for undergarments, which went beyond torture. She did, however, refrain from telling the
sempstress
that the women in Scotland did not wear so many torturous devices.

The fourth day Kenna spent shopping for hats, gloves, fans, parasols, fichus, shoes, boots and shoe buckles. And then it was all done—everything purchased, gowns ordered, and nothing left to do but go back to Madame Guion’s and decide how she would find a new fencing master.

She had borrowed writing paper from Madame Guion to write the Comte Debouvine, but now that she would be writing to other fencing masters, she needed to purchase her own paper, and that meant one last stop, to view
le stock d’un marchand—papetier de Paris, Louis Richard
, or in her own tongue, to view the stock of the paper merchant of Paris, Louis Richard.

It was half past four o’clock in the afternoon when she left the shop of Louis Richard and returned to Madame Guion’s. She arrived almost on the hour for dinner, where she was beset with obstinate questions from both Madame Guion and Jean-Claude. Were there ever two more opinionated, stubborn and boorish people
born into the world, than these two? she wondered. When she could take no more, she begged to be excused from dessert, in order to take a powder for her head as she felt as though “someone had taken an ax to her brain.”

Kenna did not have a headache, but she was exhausted from her long day, and on edge from all the questions during dinner, so she removed her clothes and put on her dressing gown and lay down to take a nap.

She had no concept of how much time had passed, when she was awakened by someone knocking on the door.

A moment later, Madame Guion called out her name loudly, “Lady Kenna, you have a letter from the Comte Debouvine.”

Kenna cracked her knee on the bedpost as she sprang from the bed. She was still rubbing it when she opened the door and stared at the white vellum in Madame Guion’s hand.

She took the letter and looked it over, recognizing the
comte’
s loopy handwriting as she looked at first one side and then the other. “When did it arrive?”

“Only moments ago…delivered by the
comte’
s own groom, it was. I am sorry to wake you, but I thought it might be important. Were you expecting a letter from him?”

Kenna gave her a puzzled frown as she read her name on the envelope. “No, I was not expecting a letter from the
comte
, and have no idea what it could be about.”

She started to close the door, but Madame Guion’s ample being was in the way, and she did not look like
she was budging anytime soon. Kenna said, “Thank you for bringing it up to me, madame. I will read it after my head feels better.”

Madame Guion opened her mouth, then hesitated, as though she was contemplating saying something more but thought better of it. She closed her mouth and took a step back. “Do let me know what the
comte
has to say,” and then, as if realizing just how prying her comment was, she tried to soften it somewhat by adding, “That is, I do hope you will share any news of general interest.”

The woman’s curiosity was insatiable, and Kenna felt Madame Guion was meddling in her private affairs, but she was too gracious to say such. “I will tell you of anything of general interest, rest assured…and thank you for bringing it to me.”

She closed the door and turned back into her room, where she paused in front of the mirror. The woman staring back at her had a visage she did not know; a pale face that had taken on that quiet, delicate beauty of death, lifelike and yet so intensely still.

She seated herself on the bed and tore open the envelope, and was shocked to see it was another invitation to dine with the
comte
tomorrow night. After he signed his name with a flourish, the
comte
had penned an addendum:

“I do hope you will decide to dine with me, Lady Kenna, in spite of the way our last evening ended, for I have something of the utmost importance to discuss with you.”

The utmost importance
, she thought, and found it unlikely
the
comte
would want to discuss anything with her, and certainly not something of the “utmost importance.”

Try as she might, she could not think what they could discuss. And she knew full well he had not changed his mind, nor would she ever forget the way he had politely said, “
Je suis désolé.
I am sorry. I have had several requests from others like you, hoping to change my mind, but it is firmly made up.”

Oh yes, the Comte Debouvine would most assuredly come out of his recent retirement now…just long enough to take up the foil and stab her with it.

As a last resort, she thought it might be that he had some names of possible fencing masters she could contact.

It wasn’t much, but it was all she had to look forward to.

It was almost nightfall when Bastien Lievin, the Comte Debouvine, stood in the midst of the magnificence of the
salle à manger.
The ornate chandeliers were not lit, and only a single candelabra cast a dim shadowy light that fanned out across the floor, to where the table was set for two.

As he had been doing for the past few days, he was thinking about the Scottish lass he dined with a few evenings ago—an evening much the same as this, with pale light shining through the glass doors that led to the gardens, accompanied by the musical notes of the fountain.

The sound of those last few words brought a smile to his face, for he remembered how she had commented
on the lovely sound of the fountain that serenaded them. “Such lovely golden notes that capture me with silver hooks,” she said, and he found it quite odd that he had never really taken any notice of the fountain when he had dined in here before.

What daring she had, not only to leave Scotland and travel to Paris alone, but also to ask him to come out of retirement and instruct her. Somehow, she had managed to make it all sound so perfectly natural. As though he was asked to instruct women on a daily basis.

He still thought it absurd and a bit incongruous that she not only had the nerve to
want
to be instructed, but also to ask him to do it. And yet, how many times when the absurd had been prevented the noble was also stifled?

He was curious as to why such a beautiful woman would make such an out-of-the-ordinary request. She wanted to become skilled in the use of the foil…whoever heard of such?

Oh, he would grant that there had been a few women warriors scattered throughout the pages of history, but that did nothing to promote her request. He almost regretted not asking her why she wanted to learn to fence, although she did give him some hint when she indicated she was in grave danger—but, from whom, and why?

To ask such a question would have been out of line for a man of his position.

He picked up his brandy and retraced the steps he had taken that night when he showed her around then
château, then took her to the Fencing Gallery. He recalled her delight in being allowed to see it, and the way she walked along the display of swords and rapiers, with a rapt look upon a face so radiant he wondered if her destiny was akin to that of Joan of Arc, who was divinely summoned to take up the sword and lead the forces of the true French king into battle.

Like Lady Kenna, she had been audacious in her actions, for she had declared to the English,
“Allez-vousen en Angleterre,”
go away to England, or she would
“bouter vous hors de France,”
drive you out of France.

And she had shocked many when she donned the suit of armor the king had made for her, and carried a sword and a banner. Although she never killed anyone, she did expel prostitutes from the camps at sword point, and on more than one occasion, she gave them whacks across the back with it.

But unlike Joan of Arc, he knew the cause Kenna had taken up was not a religious one, but one of her own survival.

And that one fact intrigued him, especially when he added the spice of her spirit and determination to fight her own battles. To do this, she had shown great courage and strength of character: admirable qualities, both.

He felt a sudden sense of emptiness and loss for his long-ago decision to never marry again, after the death of his wife and his sons. He counted the years, and realized Kenna could have been his daughter. He imagined how his life would be different with one such as her, so full of life and determination, filling the château with her vibrancy and joie de vivre.

Aah…to have such a daughter.

And what would you do if she wanted to learn the use of the foil? Would you send her away in humiliation
?

He finished the brandy and chastised himself for such thoughts. Yet he did wonder, what would he do if Kenna was, in fact, his daughter?

A woman taking up the sword…did she really think this was a skill needed by a woman of her position? But, she did say she had taken lessons from her brother’s fencing master for years, with her father’s approval.

He considered that for a moment. She was tall and slender, and from what he could tell, she was limber and supple, and she was hungry….

“
Pardon moi
, Monsieur le Comte, but Lady Kenna Lennox has arrived,” Gaston said. “Shall I show her in?”

“Yes, by all means,” the
comte
said, anticipating her entrance into the
salle à manger
, for he knew she would be as despondent as she had been when he saw her last. Yet the moment she swept through the door, swathed in emerald-green silk, with magnificent pearls gleaming against alabaster skin, he knew she was a woman who recovered, or covered, her emotions easily.

She could almost read his mind, could hear him thinking as clearly as if he had spoken the words: this is a woman of strength and resilience, not a woman who had gambled and lost, and I am a man who admires
strength and resilience, for the ability to spring back quickly after being wounded, humiliated or defeated should be utmost in the mind and character of anyone who picks up the foil.

Excellent
, she thought,
for that is precisely what I wanted you to think.
“Good evening, Monsieur le Comte. It is an unexpected delight to be invited back to your lovely château, and I am honored once again with the pleasure of your company at dinner.”

“The honor and pleasure is all mine, Lady Kenna.”

“I must admit, Monsieur le Comte, that I am most confused as to why you invited me here tonight.”

“Suffice to say, you have my attention, Lady Kenna. Now you must capture my interest.”

“I am not sure how I should go about doing that,” she said.

“Just be yourself. And may I say you look absolutely ravishing tonight? Were I thirty years younger, you would be in grave danger of being seduced.”

She laughed. “I shall make a point to wear this dress more often then, if it draws such a reaction.”

“Oh, it does. Believe me. When gauging a woman’s beauty, the eye never fails, no matter the age.” He came closer, and she offered her hand, which he kissed in that charming manner that only he was capable of executing with such flair, and after he had finished, he kept her hand in his and, pulling it through his arm, led her to a comfortable chair by the fire.