The Chevalier (Châteaux and Shadows) (7 page)

Marcel? Marcel, Jean-Louis’s oldest boy, ten years old. Or almost ten? Manu couldn’t remember. He was born a scant nine months after his parents wed in haste. Just a few months after his cousin, Dario. He wondered if they were friends. Manu had hardly seen him since the boy was five, but he was the right age and looked like a miniature of his father—and of Manu.

The boy bowed elegantly, his face as solemn and serious as his father’s. Manu bowed back, suppressing a smile. He remembered being young and treated his nieces and nephews with gravity.

“Welcome, Uncle Emmanuel.” The boy looked him over. “Is that Papa’s new justaucorps?”

Manu brushed imaginary lint from his sleeves as he admired the royal blue, conservatively decorated wool. “It does appear new, and I assumed it was your father’s, yes.”

“It looks quite well on you. Uncle Fourbier will approve.”

Manu couldn’t help but smile. But then he frowned. “You have been spending a lot of time with Monsieur Fourbier, then?” Fourbier was Henri’s lover. While the family treated Fourbier like a brother, Manu had his doubts about the suitability of letting the children spend time with the man.

The boy nodded. “He came with us when we picked out fabrics for our new coats. He supervised the tailors until they threatened to quit. He won’t let Papa and Maman wear just anything, you know.”

That did sound like Fourbier, who was a former tailor, Jean-Louis’ former valet, and the fabric buyer for the furniture manufactory.

“And how are you today, Uncle Emmanuel?” the boy asked earnestly.

“Quite well, Marcel, thank you. And you?”

The boy stood up straighter. “Father says I’m soon to go to the country to train with Uncle Dominique. I hope to be an officer in the army. Papa was a colonel!”

“I know, Marcel. And a very good one, too.” Manu had to remember he had been only a few years older than this boy when he went to train with Dominique. So young.

The boy beamed. A high-pitched voice bubbled from the alcove, and Marcel leaned his head in that direction, never breaking eye contact with Manu. “And may I present my brother and sister to you, Uncle Emmanuel?”

“I believe I have met them before, Monsieur Marcel, though it has been a long time.”

Marcel waved his hand like a magician, and a girl dragged a tiny boy out of the shadows. They both had their blond heads down, and their cheeks—what Manu could see of them—were rosy pink with blushes. As shy as their mother. He liked Hélène, but she wasn’t the type of lady who attracted him. The little boy’s thumb went into his mouth. The girl pulled it away.

“Uncle Emmanuel, may I present Diane? She is only seven.”

The girl curtseyed neatly, head down. Manu had to reach far, far down to take her hand to bow over it. If they were going to play at formality, then he was going to use his very best manners.

“And Cédric.” The second boy had been named for his oldest uncle. “He is three, and he’s a little stupid.”

The smaller boy’s head shot up, a look of shock on his round face. He punched his big brother in the chest before fleeing with a wail. Just in one glimpse of Cédric’s face, Manu could have sworn he was looking at a younger version of himself. How many times had Manu felt little and stupid compared to his bigger, brighter, more dashing siblings?

Manu shook his head. Now he was being stupid. “He seems to have understood you, Marcel. He cannot be very stupid.”

“Oh, he understands, but his letters sound wrong when he tries to speak.”

“He is only three, you said?” Manu raised an eyebrow at the older boy, who looked down. “I seem to remember when you were three you had an adorable lisp and a precious stutter.”

Adorable? Precious? Manu sounded like a nursemaid.

Marcel scowled, too old to be remotely adorable. Manu wanted to grin. “I am going to see how Mademoiselle de Fouet is. I do not yet know if she is contagious, so I will come see you later.”

He bowed to them, and they scurried off. The girl looked back over her shoulder and smiled tentatively. He nodded his head. He wondered briefly where the oldest sister, Ondine, was. She was probably too grown up at twelve or thirteen to hide in alcoves and scamper around the house.

He tapped on Mademoiselle de Fouet’s bedchamber door, and it was immediately opened by Marie. Her eyes were sleepy, but she smiled as she curtsied to Manu.

“Is Mademoiselle de Fouet better?”

“She’s awake, Monsieur, but not up yet.”

“I am not up yet because they are holding me down, Monsieur Emmanuel.”

He wasn’t sure if it was weakness or a plea he heard in her voice. Or humor.

“May I step in just far enough to see you, Mademoiselle?”

Mademoiselle de Fouet was propped on a mountain of pillows, her face as white as the pillowcases. He bowed. If he could be formal with his nephews and niece, he could show
politesse
to a lady.

“Are you well, Mademoiselle?”

She blinked sunken, glassy eyes. “Much better, Monsieur. When do we leave for Versailles?”

“Ah. You heard my mother left?”

“I was confused this morning when Marie told me where we are. Especially as Madame le Colonel is pregnant and won’t visit me in case my illness is dangerous. Not a very effective chaperone.”

“She sleeps in the next room over, so she can listen for trouble.” Manu smiled at Mademoiselle de Fouet’s frustrated expression. He wanted to hold her hand and reassure her, but crossing the room to her would lack propriety. “And the answer is: if the weather clears today, I will leave for Versailles tomorrow morning. You will stay here and recuperate. We will reunite you with my mother when we are sure you are well.”

Mademoiselle de Fouet sat up straight, her expression stubborn and angry. “I am eager to rejoin your mother as soon as possible.”

“If I do ride out tomorrow, the roads will still be muddy. In better conditions, it would be a quarter day’s drive in the carriage. It’s not even six leagues.”

“
Quand même
, I should come with you. The baronesse will need me.”

Manu bit back a retort—hadn’t Mademoiselle de Fouet said during the journey that the baronesse didn’t need her for anything? Her rosy cheeks were feverish, not blushing.

He shook his head. “Quand même, my mother would be quite angry with me if I put you in danger of another relapse by bringing you to Versailles now.”

“I am well enough, Monsieur Emmanuel. I will be sitting in a coach, not pulling one.”

They smiled together at her wit, the moment of harmony stretching between them. “Anyway, it looks as if it will rain all day. If it does, I won’t leave either.”

Her eyes widened in mocking surprise. “Are you no longer in a hurry, then, Monsieur Emmanuel?”

He looked around the room, not sure how to answer. “My mother didn’t wait for me either at my father’s country home or here in Paris. Even if she didn’t know for sure I was coming, she could have waited for an answer of some sort. I have traveled for more than a week. The roads into Versailles are terrible when they’re wet. In fact, if the king is not already there, he might get distracted and decide to stay at the Louvre for a while longer. It might be my mother who will be hurrying back here when the roads clear.”

Most of all, he was tired of chasing his mother, who would not welcome him. He thought briefly of his father’s list of eligible ladies who might be desperate enough to marry a fourth son with nothing but a few horses. If he was to have any success with any of them, he would keep it a secret from his mother and all her entourage.

His mother would welcome Mademoiselle de Fouet. He wondered if his mother had some idea of pushing him together with the lady. And he wondered… “Why did Maman leave you behind, Mademoiselle?”

****

Catherine’s heart sank. She leaned back again on the pillows, deciding on an answer. She gave the most honest one: “I don’t know.”

“Had you argued with her? Contradicted her?” Monsieur Emmanuel smirked slightly. They both knew the baronesse did not stand for contradiction.

If the baronesse dismissed her outright, her circle of friends would refuse to help Catherine, not only because they followed the baronesse’s lead but because it would be awkward to take her in. She had moved from one patroness to another smoothly because one fell ill and another was going to be away from the court for a long time. “Would it make you happy if she got rid of me because I was contrary?”

Something—Gloating? Or was it anger?—flashed across Monsieur Emmanuel’s face, but he sighed and rubbed his mouth. “It would have nothing to do with me, Mademoiselle de Fouet.”

“Not even to make you glad you weren’t the only one your mother rejected?”

He was angry. Why was she goading him? She opened her mouth to apologize, but Monsieur Emmanuel turned his back.

“Don’t forget: my mother rejects everyone eventually, Mademoiselle.”

She had been with the baronesse for years and never
ever
forgot. The lady had far too much power over her.

He stepped out into the hall, and turned around, his face neutral and polite again. “I wish you a speedy recovery, Mademoiselle de Fouet. I will keep you apprised of my movements. Today, I think I will visit my brother’s manufactory and play with his children. I’ll dine with my family this evening.”

Catherine stiffened. Was he mocking her? Or rubbing it in that he had a family? Even without his mother he had brothers and a father, all of whom seemed to love him.

“If the roads are dry, I will travel tomorrow. Without you. It might be the next day or the day after, but unless this is the deluge itself, I hope to be in Versailles by Saturday. I will assess your health every day, to know if you can travel with me.” He paused, and then his voice was polite again. “If I go alone, I will come back within a few days to escort you to my mother.”

She nodded, not knowing if he was looking at her. She was responsible for the return of her symptoms. She should have eaten and drunk more, opened the curtains wider. She was grateful that he would come back to accompany her.

The door didn’t close, so she looked up.

“However it works out,” he said in a low voice, his expression sad, “you will be free of me within a week or two, maybe sooner. I must return to my horses in Poitou.”

He bowed to her and pulled the door closed.

She wanted to call out to him to come back, that she had no desire to be rid of him, that she rather liked him. But he was gone, and Marie was pouring watered wine and urging her to nibble on bread.

****

“Are you wearing Jean-Louis’ coat?” Henri’s eyes swept down Manu and lingered on his feet. His lip curled. “Not his boots, I’m sure.”

Manu felt like an angry fifteen-year-old. He always did when he spent more than a few minutes with his next-oldest brother’s sharp tongue. “It is. I keep chasing after Maman and getting farther away from my carriage and trunk—and my good boots. They will catch up eventually.”

Henri leaned back behind his paper-strewn desk in his tiny office at the factory. He grimaced. “Far be it from me to disparage your boots,
mon frère
, but you should talk to Marcel about the breeches.”

He chose to take a deep breath and not make a comment about Marcel, though as with most of the family, he still called him Fourbier, the name he had chosen when he started a new life. But Manu glanced down.
What is wrong with my breeches?
They were the nice ones he had carried in his saddlebags. Jean-Louis’ manservant had cleaned and pressed them.

“And you’re still raising horses?” The tone was carefully neutral, but Manu was sure there was a sting hidden inside it.

Many nobles raised horses, but most just dabbled, throwing money at dubious bloodlines and never seeing their fine horseflesh except when gambling on a race. Or riding in a race themselves. Usually drunk. Manu hated the men who rode races drunk; if they didn’t kill themselves, they often killed their horses.

“It’s nearly as bourgeois as running a factory, mon frère.” Manu felt a stab of satisfaction as Henri winced. Then he felt a stab of guilt. He was prouder than any noble should be of his newly bourgeois big brothers, who ran the furniture manufactory with military and economic precision. And with style, thanks to Fourbier. They might never rival Le Brun, who dictated furnishing style to the king and court, but their furniture was similar enough to catch the eye of wealthy courtiers and the upper bourgeoisie. They were still expanding, still gaining fame and hiring men to do intricate carving and women to embroider. And still getting rich.

“Ah, there you are, Emmanuel!”

Manu turned to see Fourbier at Henri’s open office door. He breathed a soft sigh of relief and heard Henri do the same. Their brewing battle would not be fought in front of someone determined to make peace.

“Have you seen the cabinet for Madame de Solanges?” At Manu’s negative reply, Fourbier grinned. “Come!”

When Manu stepped out of the office, Fourbier begged him to wait a moment and closed the door for a minute’s private conversation with Henri. When he came back out, he glued a grin on and clapped his hands. “Alors
, mon petit!
”

Emmanuel chuckled as the much shorter Fourbier had meant for him to do. He had been taller at fifteen—the year they had met—than Fourbier ever would be, but the man had an outsized personality, which made him seem larger: always shining, always on stage.

“
Allons voir
the cabinet. We shall see it. But here is a set of four chairs in embroidered velvet we made on speculation. We expect to sell them to the next noble who walks in; they are perfect!”

Fourbier pointed out the details in the carving and the embroidery, the strength of the joints, the lightness of the design. They moved on to the cabinet, which glinted with bold carved swirls, bronze inlays, and tiny painted flowers that glowed in the dim light from the display room windows. Manu’s breath caught.

When they moved to the fabric storeroom and Fourbier waxed poetic, Manu’s mind began to wander.

“Ah, but do you like blue? That is, I know, the colonel’s coat, but with a little work, it could fit you instead.” Fourbier pulled down a roll of blue fabric which rippled and shone. “Perhaps in satin, though. With little gold buttons and just a glint of gold at the cuffs. Then gold satin for the breeches and waistcoat.”