Beauty

by Sadie Johnston

  Tristan was preparing another porcelain expression when the young woman turned around and he nearly swallowed his tongue. It was the woman from the forest! She was...

  “Tristan, may I present to you my fiancée, Constance Marie de Marin,” Jean-François said but Tristan barely heard him. It was the first time in the many years he had worn it that he was actually grateful a mask covered nearly half his face. It gave him less expression to keep still.

  “An honor, mademoiselle.” He bowed his head.

  No recognition flickered in her eyes, although he saw a glint of curiosity behind her own façade. “It is a pleasure, Marquis,” she replied with equal formality and a small curtsey.

  Now her hair was done up in a fancy knot and dripping curls. He missed the lazy, loose waves it had fallen in when he’d seen her in the forest. The fine dress cinched her body to an uncomfortable width. It’s was a wonder women didn’t break in half.

  The true wonder about her, however, was that she didn’t even seem to notice the mask. It was only natural that people would be uncertain, or would wonder, but there was no hint of it in her expression. She looked at him as he imagined she would look at any new person, though perhaps she was more impassive than most.

  Morangis and Moncan began to talk. It was something about the politics of the province, and Tristan feigned interest but barely heard the words. What did he care? Here she was, standing before him. He studied her, as covertly as he could.

  She never met Morangis’ eyes when he directed a comment in her direction, which was not often. Her aunt spoke to her instead and they discussed fashion, of some sort, but she replied little. She treated her aunt with casual disinterest, like fashion bored her, but whenever Morangis spoke to her... That was another matter entirely. Jean-François did not seem to notice, but Tristan did.

  Her body stiffened slightly and a brief spark of fiery disdain flashed through her eyes, but it seemed like Tristan was the only one to see it.

  Constance flinched when Morangis touched her arm and took the first opportunity to move her arm out of his reach. There were certainly no signs of the sort of affection that one would expect from a couple planning to marry. Even if it was arranged, if it was business, there were no signs of acceptance. There was emotion there, but it was dark and hateful.

  She loathed him.

  Was this what she had spoken of? Was this the terrible thing she was being forced to do, which had made her so intolerably miserable she felt compelled to rush into the forest and hope to be killed? What did she know about Comte Morangis that Tristan didn’t? It was true that he was no fan of his host, but he hadn’t known anything about him that would inspire the kind of disdain he saw in Constance’s manner.

  How could anyone make her marry him, when she so obviously felt this way?

  Why was he the only one able to see it?

  Constance just wanted to go home.

  She knew that she was at the mercy of her aunt and uncle, and they would not depart earlier than was polite by the standards of others. No one in society could think for themselves and those who tried were put down. She was stuck here until society dictated that she could go home, and she accepted this fate with what grace she had.

  Worse still, her aunt hadn’t let Constance out of her sight since they arrived. Perhaps she was afraid that her niece would climb out the window and make a run for it. And, in truth, she very well might have.

  The only intriguing aspect of the evening was Comte Morangis’ friend: a Marquis of Vivarais. Although no one had said so, she imagined that he was here to hunt their Beast, like every other thrill-seeking noble in the country. News had reached Paris, after all, which meant that everyone would know it. And why shouldn’t they? It was the great mystery, and had been for nearly three years now.

  The Marquis du Lyon was undoubtedly just another one of these men, who saw the challenge but not the blood left behind. Still, he was not without a mystery of his own and that was enough to draw Constance a little out of her own mind, the only place she had to hide.

  From the hairline on the left side of his forehead, down over the bridge of his nose and covering his right brow, cheek bone, cheek and jaw, but leaving his lips mostly free, he had a mask made of white satin perfectly tailored to the hard lines and angles of his face. The visible side was a very handsome man with subtly chiseled features and the most fascinating almost amber brown eyes. His long hair, neatly tied back, was the same shade of golden brown.

  His clothing was well made and spoke of riches that could employ better tailors than Gévaudan had access to.

  Despite this intrigue, however, he had one glaring flaw. He was a friend of Morangis, and any friend of his would be none of hers. So no matter how curious she was to discover what he hid under that mask, or how appealing she might find his features, she did not intend to show him any warmth or interest. It would do no good for Morangis to see her do so, because then he might think she would show him the same. That wasn’t going to happen.

  “Constance.” It was Morangis, offering his hand to her. “Would you do me the honor of a dance?”

  She knew she couldn’t say no. It wasn’t in his nature to ask, but the company of so many demanded that such mannerly dictates be followed. The same would be said of why she had to say yes.

  “Certainly, Comte,” she said, putting her hand in his with reluctance. The feel of his skin touching hers was enough to make her entire body crawl into itself and disappear, but she had been raised well. She kept it to herself and let him lead her onto the floor.

  He held up one hand and slid the other around her waist. It was never past what was appropriate, but it was still too familiar for her. She straightened her back, trying to lean away from him but she didn’t have far she could go. They joined the slow milling throng of dancers. He didn’t try to engage her in conversation and she didn’t try either.

  Morangis smiled at her. She didn’t smile back.

  Whenever she could, she let her gaze drift to the crowds. Looking for a rescue perhaps? If so, she was disappointed. She briefly glanced to her aunt and uncle and saw them speaking with du Lyon. What could they have to talk about? Perhaps just society babble, or the newest scraps from the royal court. He was undoubtedly familiar with it. With clothing that fine, she was sure he must be a regular in Paris.

  How odd, then, that he would converse with such rural people as her aunt and uncle, or even Morangis, though he spent his share of time in the capital as well.

  She did not let her gaze linger anywhere too long, lest he ask or think he had cause to be jealous. That certainly wasn’t something she needed. She kept her eyes straight ahead, examining the buttons of his jacket and counting the fibers in the cloth, wondering about those who made it. Disliking stitchwork as much as she did, what must it be like to do it for a living?

  Then again, if she would be allowed to make her own decisions and live the life she chose, perhaps an existence of needles and thread wouldn’t be so bad.

  The music ended. There was a bow and a curtsy and Constance returned to her family with a quiet ‘thank you.’

  Chapter Six

  After enough people had departed to consider the party over, Tristan made his gracious exit. He hadn’t seen Constance again after her dance with Morangis and he couldn’t think of a time when he’d ever seen a body as tense as hers had been.

  He had to clear his mind. It was a stupid thing to do, ride out into the forest in the middle of the night without more than his usual armament, but he did it anyway. Maybe he would see the Beast and would kill it with one remarkable shot. It would be a tale to tell and certainly would distract him from everything else.

  Tristan had come to Gévaudan to find a beast, and instead he had found a beauty. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had gained his interest like she had. There were certainly plenty of girls back home who would be interested in him, but only in the money and the rank. His family name would be a good conquest for anyone he wed, but she
likely wouldn’t be interested in seeing behind any of the masks.

  This worked out well since he had no interest in showing any of them such things. He kept them at arm’s length. Despite his parents’ insistence that he should be thinking about marriage, he kept it that way.

  Suddenly, though, there was this girl. Sad and broken, yet when she let those go, there was something inside that he wanted to know more. But how? That was the hard question.

  Without even realizing it, he ended up in the clearing. He was coming to think of it as his. He was coming to think of it as theirs. Would he see her again? Would she come back? She had sounded like she wanted to, but what she wanted didn’t seem to mean much in terms of what she got. That was the tragedy. Then again, didn’t they all have their roles to play? It was true, but his did not compare with hers. He didn’t know what hers was, but he could tell it was something that cut deep.

  A soft noise cut through the darkness and reached his ears. He frowned and drew nearer, realizing that it was the sound of weeping.

  It was Constance. She was crying.

  Under his foot, a twig snapped and her head jerked up. She looked around slowly. “Is that you?” she asked and who else would she be talking to?

  “Yes,” he replied, leaning against a tree and gazing at her in the way he couldn’t at the party just hours ago.

  “Oh.” She sounded disappointed.

  Her disappointment cut him deeper than he would have expected. “I’m sorry if I interrupted you.” His words held more bitterness than he had meant, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  Sighing, she shook her head. “It’s not that,” she said. “I had hoped you were the Beast.”

  “Again?” he asked. “You should not be doing such things like wishing for death. It cannot be so terrible that there is no way out.” Don’t make promises that can’t be kept.

  “What would you know?” she spat. “My evening was miserable. Parties are bad enough. I hate being stuck in the midst of so many people, but being at Comte Morangis’ is even worse. He had me dance with him, and what choice did I have? Even if I would rather have danced with a bear, or the Beast.”

  It wasn’t his business, but he had to ask. “What is so terrible about Morangis?”

  She was quiet for a long time. “I don’t want to talk about that. It’s not something that should be spoken of, but I cannot stand him. I cannot marry him.”

  “There must be some way out,” Tristan said quietly. “Are there no other suitors?” The idea of anyone marrying her was surprisingly painful.

  “It is a small province, and I have turned away the only ones there were,” she said in a small voice. “It was foolish, but they were fools. I didn’t want to be married to any of them and chained to them for life. Girls here have duties and are discouraged from having desires. I let my wishes decide for me and now I’ve no choices left. This time, my uncle felt he had to agree because there were no other options.”

  This time? “You are hardly a spinster,” he pointed out. “Perhaps someone will come along, if there is a little more time.”

  Constance laughed bitterly, wiping the corners of her eyes. “There is no more time. The arrangements have been made. I will be married in a few months.” She sighed again. “I imagine tonight was a good example of what my life will be like. I’ll speak little and be spoken to less, except when he wants something. Socialize with his friends.” Errant curls had fallen over her forehead and she brushed them away.

  “Like that Marquis du Lyon,” she continued. His breath caught. “Yet one more of his powerful alliances he likes to brag about. He seemed nice enough, I suppose. My aunt and uncle found him charming, but he’s a friend of Morangis’. He can’t be trusted.”

  Tristan grimaced. “Perhaps he is simply a prisoner of society as well,” he defended himself while trying to keep from giving himself away. “Perhaps he doesn’t know anyone else and has to stay there as his only option.”

  She shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible, but it doesn’t seem likely.”

  He wanted to tell her it was him and that he was no friend of Morangis, but he couldn’t get himself to step out from behind that tree. If he told her now who he was, she would flee. He could only imagine that she would be horrified to learn she’d been sharing her feelings with a friend of the man she loathed. And yet he wanted her to know him. He wanted to step out into that clearing.

  Tristan felt like a coward. He was able to camp alone in the woods with murderous monsters roaming free, but was terrified of this little slip of a woman?

  “I have to go home.” She tore the decision out of his hands. “Thank you for listening.”

  Her gratitude just made him feel like a heel, as well as a coward.

  Chapter Seven

  20 May 1767

  After a poor night’s sleep, Constance spent some time in the sitting room after a light breakfast. She would have preferred to spend all her time in her personal sitting room, but she sat out here occasionally to keep her aunt from chastising her. It wasn’t like her tasks were any different, but it made her aunt happy to see her out of her rooms, so here she was with a book open in her lap.

  The sound of footsteps approaching drew her attention. It was the heavy-heeled step of a man and when she looked up, her stomach sunk to see that it was Comte Morangis. She briefly considered fleeing, but it wasn’t an option. Even if she could have born the impropriety of it and her aunt’s wrath, he blocked the doorway and she didn’t see a way past.

  “Comte Morangis.” She nodded politely.

  “Constance,” he returned with a small smile. He kept his eyes on her as he moved down the two steps into the sitting room and took a seat, tapping the riding crop in his hand over his knee. “What is it that you are reading?”

  She had to wonder if he really cared, but she held it up so that he could read the cover.

  “It doesn’t really seem like a fitting book for a young woman’s education,” he said.

  “What books would you consider fitting?” she asked, knowing that she didn’t really care. Constance was certain she already knew the answer and didn’t like it.

  He smiled again and she knew she was right. “I don’t see much point in books being any part of it. Everything she needs to know she learns from her mother, or aunt, as the case may be.”

  Constance forced a smile. “We are all entitled to our opinions, Comte.”

  She watched the brows rise on his face. “Do you disagree with mine?”

  “I like to read.” She didn’t say she disagreed with him, but she didn’t say she agreed with him either. She was lying enough these days and wasn’t keen to do it again just to appease his ego, but neither did she want to make him angry.

  He looked like he was going to retort, but apparently decided it wasn’t worth his time. He pulled a letter from his jacket pocket and began to read, ignoring her completely now.

  Seeing this as her opportunity to escape, she closed the book and held it to her chest as she stood. “Good morning, Comte,” she bid him farewell as she left the room.

  In her haste, she forgot about the steps out of the room and caught her foot on the edge, falling against it. Pain blossomed in her ankle and her shin, and she cried out. Putting one hand out at the last moment saved her face from the same fate.

  Morangis didn’t look up from his reading as she pulled herself onto the step. Jeanne, who happened to be passing through the hall, did see her and hurried to help her to her feet. The maid cast a venomous look in Morangis’ direction as she assisted Constance back to her room.

  Tristan had a bag packed and was getting ready to go into the forest again, ostensibly for some hunting. He also planned to spend time near the clearing in the hopes that Constance would return, giving him the chance to speak with her again.

  Before he could make it out of the house, however, he heard Morangis behind him.

  “Tristan! Heading out hunting again? I’m going to begin to be insulted and think that you do
n’t enjoy my company.” He smiled thinly.

  “You shouldn’t think such things,” Tristan replied with a blank smile of his own. “But I did come here to hunt, so it seems prudent that I spend most of my time hunting.” It seemed obvious to him, but he didn’t count on others always seeing things the same way. And he couldn’t reveal his other reasons.

  Morangis clapped him on the shoulder. “Come now,” he said. “You must have come for more than just sitting in the forest. There are many interesting sights in the province and interesting people to meet. Let’s spend a few days focused on them. There will be plenty of time for hunting later.”

  It wasn’t an idea that thrilled him, but Tristan struggled to find a way to decline that wouldn’t be outright rude. “You may not say that if someone else catches the Beast while I have been socializing.” He put on his best jovial expression.

  Waving a hand, Jean-François went on, “Then we shall all rejoice that the Beast has been killed, in truth this time, and not worry about who gets credit for it.”

  Smooth, Tristan thought. Any argument on that point would make him seem very callous indeed. “True,” he agreed, because it was the only graceful way out of this verbal quagmire. “I would, of course, be interested to learn more about Gévaudan during my stay. I am at your disposal.”

  “Good, good,” Morangis said as the pair turned to head into the house.

  Tristan called for Gregoire to take his things and see to the dog. It looked like Tristan’s day wasn’t going to go quite as planned, but perhaps he would have a chance to slip off into the forest before long. The only person in the province he was really interested in getting to know better was Constance Marie de Marin.

  Chapter Eight

  24 May 1767

  Four days with nothing more than a silent forest had brought Constance’s already feeble mood down even lower, so it came as nearly a death blow when her aunt introduced her to the seamstress. The three of them spent the afternoon discussing fabric and Parisian fashion until Constance wanted to take one of the seamstress’ needles and drive it into her own eye.