Distant Fires

by D. A. Woodward

  A man of tall, well-built stature bent from the coach, lifting his eyes to Louise, with a kind of intensity that she could feel rather than see. His greying shock of thick wavy hair was tousled from the ride, and as he moved toward her with some hesitancy, her eyes began to focus.

  Strange, but he somehow looked familiar... Did she know him? She extended her hand as she would any visitor in greeting, but as he neared, the colour gradually drained from her face in astonishment, which was beyond her imagining...

  Chapter 14

  It began with a sensation in her legs, a feeling that she was about to tumble forward, as the image presented itself, playing havoc with her sensibilities. The apparition swam before her ... That unforgettable face ... Tanned, angular … too deeply impressed in her unconscious mind ever to mistake.

  “I am sorry if I startled you.” he was genuinely alarmed by the inadvertent effect he was having on his mistress. “Duchesse de Béarnais, may I introduce myself. I am Comte Leger, Gilbert, and brother of Comte Armand Leger...if there is anything I can do...”

  The words were unable to touch her consciousness as she began to fall, sliding against him, while he shot out to recover her. Yelling for a footman to hold the door, he raised her into his arms, and lifted her into the first available room off the hallway, where he spread her on a settee, and set the servants off for some brandy and cold compresses.

  Waving off the curious, he told them to resume their tasks, closing the door, cursing himself his stupidity, at appearing unannounced.

  The maid returned with the brandy, then left.

  After a number of minutes and several sips, she began to come around, and as he again identified himself, the flush of overwhelming disappointment, was the first sensibility to assail her.

  “I suppose I should not have come,” he murmured, in embarrassment and regret. “You see,” he offered, by way of explanation, “months ago, when I received the note through your solicitors, my wife was extremely ill. I apologize, for my imprudent appearance.”

  Ah, now the pieces fell into place! Among the few small items belonging to Armand, which Louise had kept, was a small portrait of his mother. Wishing to give it to a member of the family, she had her lawyers make contact with his only surviving heir, Gilbert, and when the latter failed to respond, thought no more of it.

  “Since then,” he continued, his expression darkening with the pain of recall, “my wife has passed away. I thought...that I might join you, but I see now, the error in my arriving in such a manner... It was indeed, presumptuous of me. You must forgive my thoughtlessness; I do not plan to stay. I have arranged a room in town.”

  She entreated him with her eyes, and her pity was genuine. “Not at all. You are very welcome and I hope you are in the mood for a fete. But first, may I offer you my condolences, Comte.” She looked away, “I know only too well, the pain of such loss”.

  “Please,” she continued, “I beg you to forgive my appalling behaviour, you see, the brightness in my eye caused me to think that I was seeing a ghost from the dead,” he smiled, less amused than in an attempt to mask his sadness. When he did, his eyes lit with a kind of rarefied spirit. “You refer, of course, to a resemblance to my brother. Yes, although there are several years between us. As children, we were often mistaken for twins.” He voice became low and sorrowful. “I am aware that you knew my brother very well, at least, through your late husband the Duc. The circumstance, under which they were lost to us, will always be, very painful. I am sorry to have caused such a reminder. It was a careless act, and I do ask that you overlook my stupidity.”

  She managed to smile slightly; feeling almost awed by the handsomeness of his face, and the depth of his attention.

  “Then, shall we begin again? She asked.

  He nodded, as she sat up fully, and proffered her hand. “Enchante, Comte.” She began in measured tones. “I must say I am startled by the resemblance. Your brother spoke of you with affection... I felt that we had already had the pleasure…of course, had the proceeds from his estate in the colony not been handled between lawyers, we should not have been prevented meeting at an earlier date.”

  Rising unsteadily from the seat, she continued: “I fear for the moment, I am wont to attend to my other guests, but please, do enjoy your stay. I hope we shall have an opportunity under slightly better circumstances, to share a few moments.”

  They smiled, and she felt herself warm to him, as she slipped an arm through his, parting with him at the door, and hastened out to greet the liveried coaches, and their important personages, her mind still focused on the gracious charm and precipitate magnetism of an uninvited guest.

  ……………….

  Her dreams for a pleasant coming out ball for Shanata, seemed slated for success, but unbeknownst to her, the difficulties began, soon after the music commenced.

  Much as she assumed the opulence and expense of the event would out-dazzle, many of the visitors spent more time ogling the guest of honour—like some curious exotic, in the hope of observing a breach of etiquette—than they did exercising their feet on the ballroom floor; a fact, not lost on Shanata, who appeared poised and polite, beneath the pressure of their punctilious gaze.

  Few people stopped to speak with her, preferring to mingle with each other or stare from the sidelines, but it was not until she heard a woman say to her daughter: “Look at her, giving herself airs and graces... Who does she think she is... No matter how you dress her, she is still a savage posing as the daughter of a noblewoman... The Duchesse must be mad…” that the full measure of their regard came crashing home, and she fled the room in unshed tears.

  Not since she was a little girl had she had been forced to see herself as someone “different” in a negative sense, and it vaulted to the fore memories of that pain and alienation.

  Other than her tawny colouring, was she really so unlike her mother? What did the woman mean by “posing as the daughter of a noblewoman?” Sometimes she had flashbacks, which hastened her to a land of tall trees, rivers, and the shadowy faces of the distant past, but she quickly pushed them to the background, away from the reality of the present. She remembered, only vaguely, a fire, and the feelings of terror and isolation.

  The necklace remained as a tangible connection with that past, but that was all. This woman, Louise, was her mother, she whom had guided her, nurtured her, when there was no other warmth to be had in the strange world into which she had been thrust.

  Since then, she had done everything in her power to honour and please her, and on this special night, it had taken all of her will to withhold her natural exuberance, and supplant it with the cool, calculated movements, which Louise had taught were the hallmarks of a lady.

  Knowing that even in this, she was judged to be a failure, added to her injury. She so wanted her mother to be proud.

  Now, she found herself crying in the deserted gallery, unwilling to return to the disapproving eyes, and the confusion and self-doubt that they engendered.

  “I trust I am not disturbing you.” a young gentleman emerged from the shadows. He had a long face with a somewhat large nose, a pale complexion and slim physique. His clothing was neither as fashionable, nor colourful as the other male guests, and as he looked at her, he wore a curious, but cheerful expression.

  “I had heard that you had a rather extensive collection of tapestries in your gallery, and I thought I might take a look,” he continued, amiably, shining a lantern, along the wall, and staring up with interest. The poorly lit corridor enabled her to mask her distress, but she nonetheless turned her head to shield her reddened eyes from view.

  “I wonder, were you aware of the age of these relics.” He inquired, endeavouring to scrutinize the intricate fabric. “I would venture, that several of yours are a good deal finer than mine, yet mine would surpass for antiquity... They have, of course, been in the family for centuries...

  “Oh,” he said, peremptorily, setting the lantern on the side table. “Please, excuse my rud
eness...” He added, rather abashedly, with a precisioned bow, “I am the Duc de Lorraine ... My Christian name is Eduard.”

  The name was familiar. He dispelled her inner query.

  “My estate lies east of here.” He smiled shyly; in a way that changed his overall countenance, and made him appear delicately handsome.

  “We are practically neighbours. I must say, your fete is very grand,” he ventured, with a bit more reserve.

  “I am not, shall I say, well acquainted, with such affairs.”

  This explained his demeanour which seemed somehow remote, unused to the company of others. Did he view her as someone he must speak to out of politeness, or mistake her, in the dim light, for another? A thought struck her. Why did he regard the wall hangings as “your” tapestries, unless he was aware of her status in the household, and whom she was?

  He pre-empted her queries before she had a chance to present herself.

  “I believe you are our guest of honour this evening, the daughter of our hostess, the Duchesse. We met a number of years ago. Your mother brought you to our estate, on...on...the death of my parents...you were a youngster then. Time, it seems, has erased that image.”

  It was not uttered in an impertinent way; merely a frank appraisal, yet it somehow made her feel valued. She recalled the visit, but supposed that, being young, she had been less interested in her host than her surroundings. He left nothing more than a vague impression.

  So, he had known who she was, and treated her as mistress of the manor. She was beginning to feel better. She wanted to offer something, to share with him some conversation or pleasantry, but the voice of her mother, resonated up the staircase, stifling further comment.

  “If I might beg your leave, Monsieur, I believe my mother is in need of me. It has been a pleasure.”

  She began to leave, but he startled her by reaching out and touching her on the elbow.

  “I realize that my invitation may be somewhat precipitous but we are neighbours. Do you not think it rather timely...that is...” he floundered, shyly, “I wondered if you and your mother might share my table next Thursday week. Would that be agreeable?”

  She wasn’t certain what to make of this fellow but he had treated her with respect. She was wont to say no.

  “Thank you Monsieur. I shall discuss it with my mother at the nearest opportunity and send word if it can be arranged. Now, if you will excuse me.” She smiled, and with a curtsy, hurried down the stairs and into the ballroom, where her mother met her at the doors.

  “Where were you, my child? I was about to send the servants on a search party.” Louise asked with less impatience than concern. Her eyes became wide with circumspection as she noticed her flushed expression. “Is something the matter?”

  A moment later, Eduard re-entered the ballroom.

  “Maman, do we know that man?” She whispered, as he took his place away from the revellers beneath the shadow of a far wall.

  “Why of course,” she replied, with a puzzled look, “his name is Eduardo De Loraine ... From the D’Vere estate. Why do you ask?”

  “He informed me that we had met before. He seems a curious man. Can you tell me more about him?” she asked, steering her mother to a quiet corner.

  Louise was inquisitorial, and patiently obliged. “I met his parents many years ago when I first married. They are an old and titled family. I understand, the elder Duc de Lorraine, was a personal friend of the king. The duchess was old when she had Eduard. He was their only child.” She indulged him unmercifully, I’m afraid. He had only to show an interest in something—than it was his.” she said, fanning her face, “She once bought an entire menagerie of wild beasts, to celebrate his saint’s day.” she laughed a bit derisively, then changed her countenance. “Tragedy struck while he was still a very young man. His parents were killed on a return trip from the capitol when their coach overturned. That was shortly after we arrived again in France. I took you to pay a condolence call which you may not recollect. He inherited, of course, extensive deeds and titles...the richest in the region, but in due course, closed himself off from all but his own management. It was said; he had given himself over for a time, to a cloistered life of dissipation. I invited him this evening in the knowledge that he would likely not attend. It comes as no small surprise to find him here,” she laughed, rather ruefully. “But, why do you ask?”

  “I saw him in the gallery. He asked if we might sup with him next Thursday week. He is very pleasant. Now that I know more about his life, I do feel sorry for him. Would you find that agreeable?

  She supposed it would be fair to reciprocate, “I will give it some thought.”

  Shanata remained pensive, covering her mouth with a fan. “Maman,” she asked after some delay, “Do you know if he was ever married or...betrothed?”

  Louise felt a wariness at her burgeoning interest, “Neither,” she uttered simply, thinking, If truth be told, he is the most eligible bachelor in the region, though rumour has it that he is married to the bottle.

  Monsieur Leger edged over to where they stood. He had heard the disparaging comments about Shanata, and mistook Louise’s countenance for putting on a brave face,

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Monsieur?” she said, changing the subject. Turning to her daughter in an effort to elude his unsettling nearness, she spritely added,

  “Either my eyes deceive me, or I have yet to see you dance.”

  Shanata had no wish to tell her mother about the incident with the woman and her daughter, or that people stared and no one had asked her to dance. That fleeting moment with the Duc had restored some of her confidence, but now that she was back among her guests, the realization that she had been made to feel different, like she didn’t belong in her own surroundings, had risen again to the fore.

  “Monsieur Leger, I believe you have not yet met my daughter. May I present Shanata.”

  “Such incomparable beauty is rare enough to find within one family. Your loveliness is only matched by the radiance in your mother’s eyes.” He bowed, grandly.

  “May I have the honour?”

  Brightening noticeably under the glare of his obvious charm, she looked to her mother for assurance, and was returned a broad smile.

  Placing her hand upon his, she curtsied and was escorted like a princess, through the disdainful crowds, past the proud eye of her mother and the admiring gaze of an unsuspecting suitor, to her place of privilege on the dance floor, and her first dance as a young woman.

  .........

  The dying gasp of Henri Benoit had become nothing more than an obtuse memory, as Nicholas drifted in and out of consciousness, thrashing with the fever and ever present gnawing in his lower extremities. Days elapsed, through which he was overtaken by the pain and clamour that filled his senses. In that time, he remained unaware of his surroundings and the circumstances which caused him to be placed there. Only the palliative effect of human touch upon his suffering reached his awareness on any level, and through it, the bearers of that touch, the silent, faceless, angels of mercy, who seemed to keep constant vigil.

  When the fever finally broke, he found himself lying on a bed of pine boughs and animal hides, in a dark and cavernous room, peopled with activity. The air was heavy with the odour of cornmeal, cedar, and smoke; the only source of light came from the cook fire in the middle of the dirt floor. A hole in the roof indicated night had fallen.

  He praised his good fortune for having been saved by a friendly tribe, and wondered how far he was situated from the garrison. Over time, the events preceding the altercation came filtering back...the deceit of his so-called wife...the death of a foolish man...the untold misery of another. He’d have the marriage annulled when he returned. Good riddance to her! In a way, he felt sorry for Benoit. He was lucky to have escaped an emotional commitment to her unlike that poor sod! He had fallen for her ruse, done his duty, and now it was over. She would be lucky to find a friend or a franc to give her a helping hand once he was through with her...r />
  A pair of ebullient youngsters rushed to his side. He instinctively closed his eyes, wondering what they might do. They tugged lightly on his beard then began to mould and press his cheeks and lips into different expressions. He wondered how many times this little play had been enacted since he first arrived. He was about to open his eyes to scare them off, when he heard a woman come from behind and whisk them up into a sleeping alcove his head. Others then followed, several at a time, their nimble feet scurrying across the dirt floor and up the bedpoles to tiered pallets that flanked the walls. Soon, visibility was reduced to the glowing embers of the fire. A hush fell upon the shadows.

  Despite the long convalescence, he was bone weary and beset by intermittent pain throughout his body. He felt the presence of someone coming towards him. He opened his eyes a crack but having no wish to startle her with his sudden awakening, feigned sleep. He felt her bony hands examine his upper body, prodding his skin, but as she turned her attention to his leg, an excruciating pain tore through his midsection, causing him to twist and barely contain a yelp.

  Removing something, she cleansed, and then reapplied a vile smelling concoction of unknown origin, which he took to be a poultice, and having renewed his discomfort, she left.

  He lay there, listening to the breathing, groans and gas that intermittently broke the silence.. It began to rain and the hole in the roof was closed. The rain gained momentum; a steady rhythm pummelling the rooftop like a feral heartbeat.

  After a time he began to feel a bit better, but any attempt to move his legs brought an immediate gasp.

  He began to hear something a whispering that grew louder. It was a low monotone of a female voices close by his ear. So many questions he wished to ask...where was he? There was so much he needed to understand.

  He realised now they spoke a familiar dialect. He felt compelled to communicate, to let them know that he was aware and grateful for all they had done.