No Brighter Dream: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 3
Read No Brighter Dream: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 3 Online
Authors: Katherine Kingsley
Tags: #FICTION/Romance/Historical
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Copyright © 1994 by Julia Jay Kendall
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First Diversion Books edition October 2013
ISBN:
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To all the Keepers …
of the Flame, of the Dreams,
and of the Heavens
Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my god.
Ruth 1:16
September 1854
Saint-Simon, France
“
A
ndre! Andre, Jo-Jean, wait for me!”
Genevieve’s shout floated across the meadow and Andre abruptly stopped and turned. “Genevieve!” he called, waving. “Come on, Jo-Jean and I are going to watch Alain Lascard open the beehives.”
She ran toward them, beautiful Genevieve, her long blond braids flying behind her, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth, her porcelain cheeks lightly flushed with pleasure. Andre’s heart turned over at the sight of her. He couldn’t imagine a world without her in it. There
wasn’t
a world without her—she was everything to him.
“You finished your lessons early,” she said when she reached them, out of breath. “I went all the way up to the chateau and Monsieur Dumont said you’d already left.”
“Sorry,” Andre said with a smile. “We raced through Latin today, so old Dumont let us go. I’d have fetched you from the village, but you know how your mother is about letting you out with me, now that I’m old enough to be considered dangerous.” He pulled a leer.
“Oh, you’re dangerous all right,” Joseph-Jean said. “About as dangerous as a fly.”
Andre glared at him. “Just because you’re a year older, you think you’re—”
Genevieve punched Joseph-Jean’s shoulder. “Stop it, both of you, before you end up rolling on the ground. You might be a year older, but Andre is bigger than you are. You’ll get hurt if you tease him.” She grinned.
Joseph-Jean playfully tugged one of his cousin’s braids. “Andre takes life too seriously. He needs a good tease now and then. Come on, let’s see if Monsieur Lascard manages to get stung.”
“Don’t be mean, Jo-Jean. Poor Monsieur Lascard always swells up if the bees sting him. I can’t understand why he insists on keeping them.”
Andre took Genevieve’s hand. “He enjoys himself. Anyway, if he gets stung, Papa will fix him. Papa can fix anything.” His heart swelled with pride. Not all sons had fathers who could work miracles.
“Well, I wish he would fix my mother’s head,” Genevieve said, entwining her fingers through Andre’s. “She says I spend much too much time with you.”
“Wait until we’re married,” Andre said, lifting their clasped hands and kissing the pale, fragile skin of her wrist. “Then you can spend all your time with me, and she won’t be able to say a thing.”
Genevieve’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know, Andre … she knows that I love you more than anything in the world, but still she says I’m not for you. I’m only a simple village girl.”
“Nonsense,” Joseph-Jean said, giving Genevieve’s shoulder a squeeze. “Just because Andre is a duke’s son shouldn’t be any reason to interrupt the course of true love.”
“Exactly,” Andre said with satisfaction. “It comes along once in a lifetime if you’re lucky. We are luckier than most, finding each other so early in life.”
Joseph-Jean rolled his eyes. “I can see where this is headed. I’m going on ahead. There’s no point being around the two of you when all you do is gawk at each other.” He hoisted his ever-present sketch pad in a wave of departure.
“Go then,” Andre said, sending him off with a laugh. “We’ll be with you in a moment.” He turned back to Genevieve and rested his hands on her slight shoulders.
“I wish you wouldn’t worry so. We have plenty of time to bring your mother around to the idea—I still have three more years of schooling here and then university to attend before we can be married, so that’s seven years to convince your mother that you will make me a perfect wife.”
He looked up at the chateau sitting above them, the vineyards running down the hillside heavy with fruit, laborers moving among the rows, preparing for the harvest as they had every autumn of the last fifteen years when his father had returned to the land and brought it back to life.
Oh, how he loved Saint-Simon. It was in his blood, as fixed a part of his existence as Genevieve. He couldn’t wait until his school days were over and he could work at his father’s side, helping him to manage the estate. He and Genevieve had such a bright future ahead.
He smiled down at her. “There are times I can’t believe how blessed I am,” he said. “To have you, two wonderful parents, Jo-Jean the best of friends, the land—what more could anyone ask?”
“And sometimes I think you live with your head in the clouds,” Genevieve said. “You don’t think about the realities of life, Andre. What do you think your parents are going to say when you tell them you want to marry me?”
“They’ll be overjoyed,” he said. “Why wouldn’t they be?”
“I think you’re wrong,” she said, her eyes reflecting her worry. “They probably have already picked out someone for you to marry whose blood is as blue as yours.”
“My
parents? Are we speaking about the same people? They don’t give a snap about that sort of thing, and you should know it.” He grinned. “Anyway, look at them. I’ve never seen two people more in love. Don’t you think they’ll want the same for me?”
Genevieve slipped her arms around him and rested her cheek against his chest. “Andre, be sensible. You are already an English marquess, and one day you will be a duke in that country as well as this one. You will have many estates, and you have an important bloodline to continue.”
“And you are saying that I cannot continue it with you?” He cupped her face in his hands. “Genevieve, I
love
you. No dukedom in the world is more important than that.” He gazed at her intently, willing her to believe him. “You are my heart and soul, and that will never change. So please stop letting your mother fill your head with nonsense.”
“You are only fourteen, very young to make such an important decision,” she persisted.
“Don’t be silly. I know my own mind, just as you do.” He stroked her delicate cheek with his thumb. “It’s no good trying to be sensible. I’ll never love anyone but you, I swear that to you on everything I hold sacred.”
“And you know that I feel the same,” she said, gazing up at him, her eyes, the exact color of cornflowers, filled with the love that had transformed them both that summer.
Andre’s heart beat faster just looking at her. “Well, then,” he said. He lowered his head and kissed her soft lips, and they trembled under his.
“You see,” he said hoarsely, breaking off the kiss, his senses swimming. “God wouldn’t have given us to each other to love if He didn’t mean for us to grow old together.”
“Oh, Andre … Maybe you are right. Maybe it will all work out.”
“Of course it will. I’d give you the moon and stars if I could, but you’ll have to settle for a couple of dukedoms. Now put your worries behind you—fresh honey is waiting.” He merrily pulled her off in the direction of the hives.
He had no way of knowing that in seven years time Genevieve would be dead, his world would be shattered, and he would turn his back on God, his parents, and France, vowing never to return.
March 1864
Constantinople, Turkey
J
oseph-Jean strode through the Great Bazaar of Stamboul, looking for Andre. He’d finally managed to collect the
firman
from the pasha that would be their passport for the next eight months of work—a trip he was not particularly looking forward to, given Andre’s frame of mind.
“Make way, make way,” he said, skirting a peddler shouting at the top of his lungs and waving his arms about in a dangerous fashion. A vendor nearly knocked his hat off with the tray of cakes he was carrying on his head, and he had to swerve to avoid the boy running past him with a hanging silver tray that held glasses of tea.
He could barely think above the cacophony of noise coming from every direction. Groups of veiled women bargained in the streets, men sat cross-legged on carpets in front of their shops, smoking narghiles, merchants haggled, and donkeys wandered down the streets, weaving around people clad in ornately woven vests,
chalvars,
red fezzes, and turbans. The variety of color and costume alone was enough to boggle the mind. It was a madhouse.
Still no sign of Andre, who had most likely concluded buying supplies. Joseph-Jean thought for a moment. Andre might like climbing about in the middle of nowhere for months on end, but he also relished cleanliness.
Joseph-Jean headed out of the bazaar and straight to the hamam. Minutes later, draped in nothing but a sheet, he followed a Turk through a low stone door into the huge, domed main chamber. Shafts of light from small windows high above cut through the heavy mist like silvery ribbons, dimly illuminating the interior.
Sure enough, Andre was lying on the raised marble slab in the middle of the room, with a magnificently mustached Turk clad in a scanty loincloth busily scrubbing off layers of Andre’s skin with a coarse mitt.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Joseph-Jean said. “Not a bad idea, considering what we’re in for.” He started to wash in one of the stone basins against the wall, then sat down to steam while he waited his turn to be scrubbed and pummeled and pounded.
“Did you have any success?” Andre asked, turning his head.
“I got it,” he said. “The pasha finally pulled himself together. We can leave at first light. I’ve alerted the dragoman, and the horses are ready.”
Andre grunted. “It’s about time. I suppose it was the set of silver plates that finally did it.”
“Well, there was a lot of bowing and scraping and extremely flowery language that went on, so I’d assume so. There’s nothing like handing around a little baksheesh to get what you want.”
“I just love bribery,” Andre said dryly as the Turk flipped him over and proceeded to de-breed his front side. “Now shut up, Jo-Jean, and leave me to my pleasure. As you say, there’s going to be little enough of that where we’re going.”
Joseph-Jean cupped his fist on his chin and watched, since there was nothing better to do. Eventually the Turk rinsed Andre down, rolled him onto his front again, filled a chamois bag with soap suds, and then deluged Andre with it, slapping him rhythmically with a horsetail. He then settled into massaging what was now Andre’s very clean, very smooth skin.
Yet even in a state of what should have been the utmost relaxation, Andre’s face appeared taut and strained. Joseph-Jean worried for him.
It had been three years since Genevieve had died, and nothing had changed. If anything, Andre had become more withdrawn with time. He had not recanted a single one of the terrible accusations he had made to his father that awful night. Nor had he ever spoken of his father or Genevieve again. He stayed at Saint-Simon only long enough to see her buried, and the next day he left for Constantinople, taking Joseph-Jean with him.
They returned briefly to England once a year, where Andre kept a house in London. He didn’t visit his godparents, the Earl and Countess of Raven, with whom he had once been very close. He didn’t visit his grandfather, the Duke of Montcrieff, with whom he had never been close, but whose title, lands, and fortune he would inherit. He only consulted with other scholars, mostly historians and archaeologists, handed over each year’s work to the trustees of the British Museum, who funded his expeditions, and left again.
It was as if all the life had gone out of him when it went from Genevieve, leaving him nothing more than a shell. He concentrated on his work and he was brilliant at it. But people had taken to calling him “the black marquess,” not only because of his coloring and his dress, but also because he never smiled.
He had transformed himself from the warm, generous person he was by nature into someone cold and curt, a man without emotions.
It was a tragic thing that a love that had burned so brightly and given Andre such happiness had equal power to destroy him. For no matter how good Andre was at concealing his feelings, Joseph-Jean knew the terrible depth of his pain.
He wondered how long Andre could continue like this.
April 1864
Cragus Mountains
“I’m going to have a wash before dinner,” Andre said, putting away his journal and stretching. It had been a long, chilly day and the night was bound to be even colder, but he was determined to brave the freezing water of the stream nonetheless.
He knew he ought to have become accustomed to all manner of hardships by now, living outdoors from April through October, but the one thing his body refused to adjust to was the punishment of the cold. He was determined to force it to. Discipline was the key to survival—although there were times that he wondered why he bothered with survival at all.
“Don’t hurry,” Joseph-Jean replied. “Tonight’s meal won’t be any better than last night’s. It’s the same old goat.” He stirred the foul-smelling stew, then clapped the lid back on the pot.
Andre regarded the pot with disgust. “God, I’m tired of slop.”
“If you hadn’t thrown Hamid out on his ear ten days ago, we wouldn’t have had to worry about it. You’d think you’d know better after wandering all over Asia Minor. This is ridiculous, Andre. We really can’t do without
a
dragoman.”
“I couldn’t stand another minute of his complaining,” Andre said, pushing his camp chair back. “He behaved as if he’d never crossed a mountain pass before.”
“I don’t think he had, not one like this. The track’s not safe for man or beast.”
“I don’t think that entitled him to call me a madman, the insolent devil.” Andre rummaged in his pack, looking for his soap and towel. Privately, he had to agree with Jo-Jean. It was ridiculous trying to navigate the pass on their own, as well as inconvenient to be without a servant. But he wasn’t about to admit to his own stupidity. Jo-Jean already had enough to berate him for without added ammunition in the form of Hamid’s dismissal.
“You know, I do believe it was the appearance of the lions that finally did it to him,” Joseph-Jean said, grinning. “And if I’m honest, they nearly did it to me as well.”
“At least you kept your pants dry, unlike our friend. Damn! Where’s the blasted soap gone?”
Joseph-Jean glanced down at him. “How should I know? I’m lucky if I can lay my hands on any of my own belongings.”
Andre looked away, a stab of pain tearing at him as a trick of light turned Joseph-Jean’s eyes the exact shade of Genevieve’s cornflower blue.
It happened often, a sudden expression that crossed Jo-Jean’s face or a familiar gesture that brought Genevieve acutely to mind. He sometimes wished Jo-Jean looked like someone else entirely, instead of sharing his cousin’s fair hair and blue eyes, her wide smile. But it couldn’t be helped, and he supposed in the end it made little difference. He lived with the pain every waking moment as it was.
He finally found his towel and tossed it onto the ground, still digging for the soap. “The things I do for England,” he muttered.
“Never mind England. Look at the things I endure for you,” Jo-Jean replied. “At the pace we’re going, you’re going to have the entire province mapped and every last ruin cataloged by autumn.”
“I’ll settle for having the Xanthian ruins finished by November,” Andre said, pulling the soap out. “I suppose Charles Fellows made my work easier by sending so many of the sculptures to England, although this scholastic habit of removing artifacts from their original site is one I cannot abide. At least Frederick Lacey left things where they belonged.”
“Except for himself,” Joseph-Jean said dryly, referring to Lacey’s unfortunate disappearance near Anatalya twelve years earlier. “And that’s another reason we need a dragoman, Andre. We don’t want to lose another fine scholar to bandits. I have to confess, I personally don’t much like the idea of being set upon, especially with only one of us carrying a weapon.”
“And you think that idiot Hamid would have been any good at chasing off bandits? Chances are high that he would have run screaming in the other direction and left us to our own devices.” He slung his towel over his neck. “Put some tea on, would you? I’ll be right back.”
He walked down to the stream, stripping off his jacket and shirt and splashing water on his face and chest, shivering involuntarily. It was unbelievably icy, coming directly down from the snow-covered peak of Mount Massicytus.
He suddenly felt a prickling at the back of his neck, as if eyes were on him. Slowly straightening, he looked around. But there was nothing to be seen but sparse forest and the clearing in which their tents stood. Deciding he was imagining things, he bent back to the stream to finish his rudimentary and torturous bath, then dried himself and shrugged into his clothes, quickly returning to the warmth of the fire.
“Ready?” Joseph-Jean asked, pouring steaming black tea into cups and putting one directly into Andre’s shaking hand. “You’re looking a little blue around the gills, my friend.”
“I’m frozen solid,” Andre said, cautiously sipping from the cup, taking a moment to savor the warming effect of the tea. “I ought to have washed in the damned cup. Never mind, we’ll be in Xanthos in about a week.”
“And then it will be hotter than Hades. Here, sit down. The stew’s ready.” He ladled it out onto two plates and added sliced bread.
Andre dipped his fork into the mess and tasted it. “Christ,” he said, making a face. “This is truly disgusting. You draw a great deal better than you cook.”
“I warned you,” Joseph-Jean said, forcing down a mouthful. “My God, what I’d give for a servant who could prepare decent food. Promise me, as soon as we reach civilization you will hire someone?”
“I swear it on my life,” Andre said. “Just so long as it’s not Hamid. Speaking of which…” He put his fork down and sat up straight, looking around the clearing again. “You don’t suppose the fool followed us, do you?”
“Over the pass? Are you mad? He rode as fast as he could in the opposite direction. Why?” He reached for his pistol.
“I thought … oh, never mind. I’ve had an uncanny feeling that someone’s been watching us, but we haven’t come across any sign of civilization for days.”
“And I, for one, can’t wait until we do,” Joseph-Jean said, relaxing and shoving the pistol back in its holster. “And not just for the benefit of some decent food. I find it bleak up here.”
“Cold, yes, but bleak? I hadn’t noticed.” Andre threw the rest of his bread toward the bushes and pushed his plate away, the stew half-uneaten. “Here, do you want any more of this? I can’t bear another bite.”
“You must be joking. Go on, get back to work. I’ll wash up.” Joseph-Jean cleared the table and started toward the stream with the plates.
Andre went back to writing, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was nearby. His intuition had always served him well, even when logic spoke against it.
And then a movement caught the comer of his eye. Indeed, his intuition had proven correct. A small brown hand snaked out of the bushes at the edge of the clearing in the direction of the packs they had unloaded.
Furious at this attempt at thievery, he rose and softly skirted around the backside of the bushes. All to be seen was a bottom clad in baggy
chalvars,
thin little legs, and the worn soles of a pair of sandals.
Andre leaned down. With one hand he grabbed the
chalvars
and with the other the back of the boy’s shirt. In one easy movement he hoisted him skyward.
“And just what do you think you’re doing?” he asked in Turkish.
The boy uttered a strangled cry and struggled wildly, arms and legs flying everywhere. Andre abruptly dropped him, and he landed on his bottom, a whoosh of air exploding from his lungs.
He stared at Andre with wide eyes. “Effendi—I meant no harm!”
“Oh? And what were you intending on doing with my pack?”
“No, no—it was not your pack I wanted. Only what you had discarded.” He stood shakily and pointed, his bony little body trembling with fear.
Andre looked. There on the far side of the bush was the hunk of bread that he’d tossed away.
“I am not a thief,” the boy said, his chin going out. “I did not think you wanted it.”
Andre’s gaze raked the child. His clothes were ragged and he was far too thin, his dark eyes enormous in a small square face, his thick dark hair unevenly hacked. Andre thought him no more than twelve at the very most. “Your name?” he demanded.
“Ali, effendi.”
“And your village?”
“My people are gone. The plague took them.”
Joseph-Jean, alerted by the commotion, came quickly up from the stream, pistol at the ready. The boy gave him a look of alarm and put his hands out before him imploringly.
“Put it away,” Andre said. “He’s harmless, just a hungry child.”
Ali swallowed with relief as Joseph-Jean lowered the pistol.
“What are you doing up here on your own?” Andre asked. “Surely you know it’s dangerous?”
“I have walked from the plains of Dembre, effendi. I am going to Izmir.”
Andre stared at Ali. “You have
walked
from Dembre?”
“Yes, how else? I have no animal. But I should have gone through the valleys instead. I thought it would be shorter to come this way.”
“Good God,” Andre said softly, amazed the boy had survived this far.