The Chevalier (Châteaux and Shadows) (18 page)

“I…” He pulled a paper from his waistcoat pocket and scanned it quickly. “Yes, I suppose so.”

She looked down again, striving not to laugh. If only she could remember why she knew the sonnet. She had heard it before. Or read a bad-tempered critique of it.

Bad-tempered. Ah
. She hesitated. “I am afraid, Monsieur d’Oronte, I am not vivacious and sharp-witted as, say, Célimène.”

His grip on her hand tightened. She was glad they were headed back toward the palace, because she thought she might have to run away from him. “Neither am I one to encourage the affections of many men at once, like Célimène in the play. I have to admit, though, the sonnet does make me think of genius.”

He smiled at her, relieved.

Comic genius.
Her hint about Célimène hadn’t quite worked. So much for subtlety. She quickened their pace, walking in silence until they reached the wide lane which led straight from the palace to the Grand Canal. She turned left, back toward people and safety.

She sighed. “It’s a pity you don’t know me better, Monsieur d’Oronte.”

He looked puzzled but forced another smile. “I am trying to remedy that. But your natural demureness has made it difficult. We are talking now, are we not?”

“Ah, yes, of course.” A few steps farther and they would be in view of the next little path in the hedges. She was fairly certain d’Oronte’s friends had followed them down. She had spotted men darting into the side pathways. “But what you do not know about me, Monsieur, is when I do speak, I speak my mind.”

He did not reply.

“How did Molière say it? Ah, yes. ‘A gentleman ought at all times to exercise a great control over that itch for writing which sometimes attacks us.’ ”

D’Oronte clutched her hand until it hurt.

She yanked away. “And, ‘In the frequent anxiety to show their productions, people are frequently exposed to act a very foolish part.’ ”

“One would think you would be flattered, Mademoiselle, if anyone cared to read you poetry at all.” D’Oronte glared, pretense gone.

She really should have been flattered. No one had ever written a verse in her honor. Of course, d’Oronte hadn’t either. He had lifted it word for word from Molière, who wrote it badly so he could mock it. “One would think, Monsieur, you would be more subtle about choosing a poem to read. You might choose a sonnet that was not the object of farce. You would find out if the lady you wished to flatter was familiar with the theatrical works which had been presented
in the last few days
at court.
Le Misanthrope
isn’t much loved in court circles, but everyone knows it. Even stupid girls with small dowries.”

She pulled away from him and had taken only a step when he said, “One would think, Mademoiselle, that in light of your guardian’s poisoning, you would seek protection from as many powerful friends as you can.”

She froze. “Are you insinuating I had something to do with the baronesse’s poisoning?”

He smirked again. “Of course not. I am only thinking others might suspect you. You are always in the baronesse’s presence. Surely she has left you some sort of legacy. Who truly wishes to be bound to a lady like that forever?”

She felt the blood running from her head. Fear and anger swirled inside her. “I can only protest my innocence, Monsieur, and have faith the culprit will be found out.”

He grabbed her arm, fingers digging in. “It would be wiser to ask for my protection. The baronesse herself knows justice is not always served when the culprits have powerful friends.”

Anger surged to the fore, and she pulled away from him. “So if I were to lift my skirts, let you do as you wish and give you your dalliance, you would be absolutely sure I would never be arrested as a poisoner.”

His eyes darted away.

“You have a courtesy title, Monsieur. Would your father make the same promise? Would he countenance you marrying a lady accused of being a poisoner? Because I’m not seeking to dally with you or anyone.”

His gaze jerked back to her, and he scowled.

She had known from the start he did not seek to marry her. If she had believed it, she might have tried to like him better. Still, it hurt a little.

“At least your grandmother would never think me a poisoner. She can hardly believe anyone would do anything wrong, and she has always been my friend. Would you truly wish to dally with a poisoner who had escaped justice? Would you ruin an unmarried woman’s reputation if she had both the motive and opportunity to poison you?” She stood up very straight. “I should thank you, Monsieur. Merci.” She curtsied.

He automatically bowed, though he clearly had no idea why.

“You obviously believe I am innocent. No matter your disappointment—I do not wish to be your mistress, I did not appreciate your attempt at poetry, and I am rather less stupid than you thought—you believe I am innocent. You would never invite a poisoner to spend time with you,
n’est-ce pas
? Tell your friends, who are standing in a cluster behind this hedgerow, you believe me innocent of all charges. You would bet your own life on it.”

D’Oronte was angry and red, but nodded briskly.

She turned toward the hedge. “Good day, Messieurs. I depend on your help, too.”

Then she turned toward the palace and strode away as fast as she could without exciting the notice of passersby. Not that there were many people around, since the clouds were low and dark.

She labored up the enormous marble staircase to the parterre and around the Latone Fountain, thinking if she were a goddess, she would turn people into frogs, too. She glanced up and saw Monsieur Emmanuel, the Comtesse de Bures, and their sister-in-law, Madame de Cantière, the heir’s wife. She felt a lightening in her belly—or maybe a tightening of desire—at the sight of Emmanuel, his strong shoulders silhouetted against the dark gray clouds. She told herself it was a burst of relief at the sight of friendly faces. But they were also the baronesse’s family, so maybe they were here to accuse her. She paused and looked up at them again. They had only just noticed her, and the comtesse waved cheerfully. Emmanuel’s eyes darted all around. He’s looking for trouble, she thought. She had left trouble in the hedges.

The ladies stopped where they were, but Monsieur Emmanuel muttered something and started down toward her. She lifted her skirts and climbed as fast as she could, though she was out of breath and her legs burned.

They met in the middle, and Emmanuel gripped her hand tightly. He bowed and kissed the back of her glove. The fear and anger of the last half hour lifted away. Their eyes caught and she forgot to breathe. She thought of the day before, when she had been miserable, and how different it was to have this strong, awkward man kneeling before her instead of d’Oronte with all his facile charm.

“Mademoiselle de Fouet,” Madame de Bures called from just ten or twelve steps above them. “I was wondering where you were. We stopped by my mother’s rooms, and you were already out. Manu insisted we come looking, but here you are, perfectly healthy. I know my father occupies himself with Maman’s needs and hired someone to watch her food and drink. But if you were poisoned too, even accidentally, I hope he is watching over you. The man my father hired, I mean.”

Catherine and Monsieur Emmanuel were nearly to the top of the staircase, and the other two ladies climbed back up the few steps they had descended.

Madame de Bures went on, her arm laced through her sister-in-law’s. “And poor Marie, the maid? She is so frightened she will be accused, though she only met my Maman a few weeks ago. I suppose she’s been cleaning our father’s country home for a few years already, hasn’t she? Think of the stories she will tell when she gets home. Unless you wish to keep Marie? She seems very fond of one of Manu’s grooms, did you know? But anyway, I don’t know if she’s old enough to leave her family. She says she had never been out of la Brosse, and I felt remiss for not even taking her over to our château-fort. Though, really, I don’t know why we would think to take all the young maids and footmen a day’s ride away just for the joy of it. The footmen do have more opportunities for travel, especially as our father likes Dom to train them to defend the family.”

Catherine was only barely listening as she leaned on Emmanuel’s arm, catching her breath. She breathed in deeply and smelled the scent of horse and the faint perfume he used. She didn’t even know if it was perfume or if he only cleaned himself with pure alcohol. Maybe his servants washed his clothing in some sort of scented soap. She shook her head at her wandering thoughts.

****

Emmanuel’s thoughts were not wandering so much as heading in a single direction.

Mademoiselle de Fouet had looked like a warrior marching up the stairs. Yet there was something vulnerable and frightened about her; she had almost been running. If d’Oronte was the one who had brought her out here, then she was running from him. Manu hadn’t spotted anyone on the parterre at the bottom of the stairs. Had the vicomte tried something inappropriate again?

He wasn’t positive there had been anything inappropriate in the ride the day before, but Manu had wanted to run d’Oronte through anyway. Manu hadn’t gone out to practice fencing that morning, having stayed up late to be questioned by a musketeer captain.

At the door to the palace, they split into two groups of two instead of a long line of four. Somehow, Aurore latched onto Mademoiselle de Fouet, and Manu held his arm out to Cédric’s wife, Sandrine. They dawdled behind, Manu watching Catherine’s elegant, straight back and hearing her get a quiet word in edgewise every now and then. The two ladies laughed, and he smiled.

Sandrine tugged at his arm. “How are you, Emmanuel?”

His mind bounced around from the accusations of the night before to Mademoiselle de Fouet and d’Oronte and over to his father’s list of brides. He shrugged. “Bien. And you?”

“Cédric is devastated. We all are. He made the baron tell the boys because he was afraid he would cry.”

The upset within the family had begun just after dawn, with two nephews standing over his bed, arguing if they should wake him and then nagging him to tell them what was going on. He sat with them while the baron gathered all the grandchildren. Little Françoise clung to her grandfather’s neck, and the three boys tried to look stoic but were uncharacteristically subdued. Manu sat with them, arms across their narrow backs as they leaned against him, shivering.

Manu stared at her in amazement. They had all been shocked, but Cédric hadn’t looked more than serious, certainly not devastated. And the baron had cried a little anyway.

“We were up very late talking. But he didn’t look half as upset as you and the baron. I wish you—both of you—had someone to talk to.”

Manu’s gaze went to Catherine, but he shook his head. She was closest to his mother and was probably at the top of the list of the accused.

“Talk to your father.”

“What is this about him trying to reconcile with Maman?” Manu blurted out. Other than the shock of poison, his parents’ relationship had been the biggest—or at least strangest—surprise.

Sandrine tightened her grip on his arm. “I had no idea. But it makes sense. We didn’t know why she came all the way to the country, because she doesn’t unless he summons her or there is some scandal in the family. When we all sat down to dinner together, your father was jovial and your mother polite. I could tell they were biting their tongues from time to time, both of them, to keep from saying something awful.”

“Has my father broken with Michel’s mother?” Manu whispered. It was an open family secret that the baron still supported the mistress who had caused the rift in his parents’ marriage. She lived in the village by Dom’s château-fort, so Manu had seen her when he lived there. He had never got to know her, since kind feelings toward her son—his half-brother, Michel—left him feeling guilty enough without becoming friendly with his mother’s rival.

Before being seduced by the baron, the mistress had been his mother’s companion.

Much like Mademoiselle de Fouet.

He wondered why his mother was willing to let another young lady into her household. Other than maids, she hadn’t had a companion for as long as Manu remembered. He looked at Catherine, still nodding at Aurore’s chatter.

Sandrine took the stairs so slowly Manu wondered if she was tired or if she was hoping to let the others get further ahead. She sighed when they got to the top and the other two were already down the hall and going around the corner. They stopped for her to catch her breath.

“Merci,” she said.

“
De rien
.” He bowed slightly and held out his arm.

“I don’t think he has,” she whispered.

Emmanuel had to think about what the last question was. He knit his brow. “How does he expect Maman to forgive him if he still has a mistress?”

“I don’t think the baron expects to reunite. They are merely trying to be friendly again. To stop fighting.”

Manu stopped.
What if they’re both trying to get me married off
? he thought.
What if they’re working together
? He winced at the two stubborn forces who had shaped his life, both pushing in the same direction. Or both pushing against him, smashing him between them. Or pulling in opposite directions, like a criminal being drawn and quartered. He shivered.

By the time they reached the baron’s apartments, the midday dinner had been served and Manu was in a foul mood. Mademoiselle de Fouet ate only the first course before slipping away to return to the baronesse. Manu missed her as soon as she left.

****

“Madame de la Brosse?”

Catherine slipped into her patroness’s bedchamber. The baronesse opened her eyes to glare. She sat nearly upright against a huge mound of pillows. She waved her hand weakly and Catherine came closer.

“Did you dine?” And what if someone was still trying to poison her? Catherine shivered at the thought of this small, frail lady—this extremely grouchy force of nature—dying.

The baronesse winced. “Garlic.”

“And asafetida. Are they drawing out the poison?”

The baronesse shrugged. “The surgeon didn’t even want to tell me I was poisoned. It was my husband who told me this morning. He wanted me to think of who might want to kill me, other than him.”