She drew in a breath and he felt his heart lift as she turned to smile at him, a true, genuine smile that made his own breath catch in response.
"This is where my family comes from," she exclaimed and he looked at her in surprise. It had never occurred to him that she hadn't been born and raised in Roscoff. She was looking around with excitement and ran to one of the ostlers who was busy unhitching the tired horses.
"Monsieur, excuse me but are we close to Allaire?"
"Oui, mademoiselle," the man replied without looking up. "It is perhaps an hour's walk that way," he added, throwing an arm out and pointing at a road leading off at an angle to the inn.
"Oh," she said with a sigh that illustrated all too clearly her disappointment. "I would so liked to have seen it."
Alex smiled, it was too wonderful to see her happy again, if somewhat wistful. "Well, it is too late tonight, ma mie. It will be full dark shortly, but perhaps tomorrow?" She looked up at him in astonishment.
"Mais, we won't 'ave time before the carriage leaves."
Alex shrugged, knowing he was being foolish, they really couldn't afford the extra expense but ... "There will be another carriage ... if it means that much to you?"
"Oh!" For a moment she forgot herself and ran to him, hugging him tightly and kissing his cheek, apparently before remembering that she had promised not to behave in such a way. She blushed and her eyes cast down. "Forgive me, Alex, I forgot. But I do thank you, very much. It does mean a lot to me."
She turned and walked away from him and he cursed his own stupidity. She was behaving just as she should, as he would hope she would, and yet he missed the sudden hugs and the way she would wheedle her hand into his, as if he might not notice. Good God but he was a fool.
Chapter 9
"Wherein a curtain is drawn back to reveal the past, a tragic story and a lonely Comtesse come to light."
"You have never told me anything of your family," Alex remarked as they walked the lane that led to Allaire, early the next morning. The fields were heavy with dew though at least no frost, and they skirted the puddles that filled the scarred and overgrown path.
Céleste looked up at him, and quickly away again. He felt there had been something worrying her today. She was clearly excited to see where her mother had been born, but he sensed there was more to it than that. She was nervous; he could see the anxiety in her eyes and tension in her posture. He stopped in his tracks, forcing her to turn and look at him.
"Won't you tell me what's wrong, ma mie?"
She shook her head and smiled at him, though the smile didn't reach her eyes. "There is nothing wrong."
"Don't you trust me anymore?" he asked, foolishly quite unable to keep the sadness from his voice.
She frowned at him and put her hand on his arm. "Of course I trust you, Alex! As if I would not? You are the only person I trust in the 'ole world, surely you know this?"
He smiled and nodded, but couldn't help but observe he was the only friend she had in the world too.
They carried on walking, passing small stone cottages on occasion and a farm off in the distance with cows lowing on the horizon, but no one was in sight and Céleste didn't seem inclined to stop, so he assumed she was walking with some particular destination in mind. They carried on for another half an hour until a large and beautiful building came into view. It was in obvious disrepair, no doubt a victim of the Revolution, or the war that had followed it. It was a Château, built in the style of a grand Manoir with a courtyard and a chapel, and surrounded by an enclosure wall.
"A beautiful place," Alex remarked, meaning it. It was an idyllic setting and the building itself had great charm, full of the romance of days gone by. He looked around to see Céleste's eyes full of tears.
"Ma mie? What is it mignonne?" he asked in alarm. Despite all of his best intentions he reached out and took her hand, squeezing it gently. "Céleste, won't you tell me what's wrong?" He looked around at the Château and finally understood. "Is this where your mother was born?"
She nodded, apparently too emotional to speak and Alex imagined that perhaps her mother had been in service here, but then the Revolution had come and thrown everyone's lives into disarray.
"They 'ad to run, during la terreur. They never saw this place again."
"I'm so sorry," he said, reaching out and caressing her cheek with his hand before he could consider his actions. She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch, and then seemed to remember that this was no longer allowed, and moved away from him.
"Do you think we could go inside?" she asked staring up at the building with such longing that it tugged at his heart.
He looked back at the Château with its broken windows and air of decay. It was obviously abandoned and there was no one here so ...
"Why not," he replied, smiling, and keeping her hand clasped in his he drew her behind him, seeking an entrance. They circled the building and Alex found where part of the high wall had been destroyed, leaving a pile of rubble and a large hole. He helped Céleste pick her way over until she stumbled and then swept her up, and if he enjoyed the feel of her in his arms he did not allow himself to linger, or to pull her closer when he set her on her feet again.
As he watched her run from empty room to empty room he was glad he'd prolonged their journey, and damn the expense. He would carry her the rest of the way home if necessary. It was worth it to see the delight in her eyes at discovering the place her parents had called home. They made their way up the staircase with care, alert for rotten timbers, but it all seemed sound enough and they reached the next floor without mishap. Suddenly Céleste fell silent once more and he felt the change come over her as she walked into a large, bright room. The sun was shining in and he could imagine how it must have once looked, decked out in all its finery.
"This was my mother's room," she whispered. Alex frowned and looked around. This was clearly the grandest bedroom, but he said nothing. So what if it was or not, if it comforted her to feel she had seen her mother's room, then all the better. "See, she said you could see the lake and over the courtyard. Oh, oui, and look, that is where the fountain was and ..." She stopped and turned to him grinning. "Maman said she carved hers and papa's initials together, the first time he kissed her!" She flew across the room to an oak door that clearly led into some kind of wardrobe and opened it, running her hands over the old wood and falling to her knees to search the very bottom, until she cried out in delight. "Voila!"
Alex crossed the room to look at the initials carved deep into the wood and frowned as he put the pieces together, and with his heart pounding he asked Céleste. "What was your mother's name, mignonne?"
She looked up at him and he could see trepidation in her eyes, and then she raised her chin, looking almost defiant as she spoke. "She was Louise-Marie de Lavelle." She waited, silent and he felt she was waiting for him to laugh or tell her she must be mistaken, but he reached his hand down and raised her up again.
"And so," he prompted. "You are ..."
"Célestine de Lavelle," she whispered. "La Comtesse de Valrey."
For a moment he stared at her in astonishment, surely she was daydreaming? But then he began to piece together everything that had seemed so very unusual about a girl who'd been born in the gutter. Suddenly her educated mind, her grasp of English, her vocabulary and the pretty accent all made sense. He bowed to her and raised her hand to his lips with great solemnity. "Enchanté, Comtesse, it is an honour to make your acquaintance."
He looked down at her and found her eyes shining. "You believe me?" she said, her voice quiet and tremulous. "You don't think I make it up?"
Alex shook his head. "You would never do such a thing. You are too honest for your own good."
"Only with you," she whispered, blushing a little and he chuckled in response, unaccountably pleased.
"Perhaps that is just as well," he replied. "Then," he added, looking around at the lovely old Château. "This is your home." It seemed fitting somehow, the place had
suffered and lost much in the course of war and conflict, but it had lost none of its beauty.
She shrugged and walked away from him. "No, it was never mine, I 'ave never even seen it before today, though I 'ad imagined. Maman would often talk of it," she said, sounding wistful. "But I am just Céleste not Célestine, born in a slum in Roscoff not a Château in Allaire, and working in a whore house." She shrugged, such a hopeless gesture that he wanted to change the past for her, as well as the future. "It is all gone now, and there is no point in wishing it was otherwise." She turned and looked at him with such longing in his eyes that it took everything he had not to cross the room and take her in his arms. "I 'av wished for many things in my life but ..." She turned away and her words were barely audible. "They never come to me."
Alex knew she was speaking of him, and his heart both soared and ached. It was foolish and impossible and something she would realise she was better off without in time; but the title, her home, everything she had lost ... that he could do something about. That he could change.
"It is your birthright, Céleste, if you are truly the Comtesse, then this belongs to you." He walked a little closer to her. "Tell me, do you have any evidence, anything that would validate your claim."
She nodded. "There are papers, Marie gave me before she died. She said they prove who I am."
He smiled and reached out, taking her hands in his. "Then I promise you, I will return this place to you. It may take a little while mind ..." he added, looking away and frowning as he considered everything involved in such a task. He turned back to find her watching him.
"I don't need a Château, Alex," she said, her voice soft.
He sighed, and shook his head not pretending to misunderstand her meaning, the soft look in her eyes was only too easy to read. "I am too old for you, ma mie. Too old and far too wicked," he said in a joking tone and tried to laugh but found he couldn't. "I want you to have everything, mignonne. You have had such a hard life. I want only that the rest of it be everything you deserve."
She moved closer to him and reached out, the gesture hesitant and unsure as she placed her hand over his heart. "But I only want you," she said, her voice small and pitiful.
He smiled though his heart felt pulled tight, as though it were held in an iron clamp. "That is because I am all you have right now," he said, his voice firm, as much to repeat the sense of it to himself as to her. "But once you take your rightful place in the world you will be surrounded by handsome young men, all desperately in love with you and throwing themselves at your feet. And then you will be relieved you didn't tie yourself to a dull old man before you had even set a foot outside the door of your experience."
"You are not old," she protested in annoyance, and he smiled for real, pleased at any rate, that she did not find him so.
"And how old are you, Céleste?" he asked, almost hating to hear the answer.
She frowned as if working it out. "I will be eighteen in ... three weeks."
"Ah, well that we must celebrate," he said, forcing another smile. "But I am thirty six, exactly twice your age, nearly twenty years your senior! Think how decrepit I will appear to you in another ten when you are still a mere twenty eight." He made light of it, though his chest felt tight with the effort, but she just snorted and shook her head.
"Bah!" she replied dropping her hand from where it rested against his chest. "I give this for your young men," she said snapping her fingers. "And I know you will not be decrepit," she said, casting an appreciative eye over him that made his blood heat beneath his skin. "You will still be strong and fit and ..." She sighed and shook her head, turning away from him. "Oh, Alex. If I thought you wanted me I would fight for you. But I don't want to make you angry again."
Alex closed his eyes and was glad she was turned away from him, for if she had looked at that moment she would have seen all too clearly how much he wanted her.
"I was never angry, mignonne, but it isn't right, and I won't let you make such a mistake. Besides, you are la Comtesse de Valrey, and far above my humble ambitions."
She snorted in disgust. "Non, I am only Céleste, it is just a name and one that has never been mine. I do not care for it, only that I promised Marie I should get it back one day."
"And so you shall," he said, smiling at her. "Tell me about Marie," he asked, desperate to move the conversation onto safer ground before his resolution crumbled.
"Marie was my mother's maid," she said, looking out at the enchanting vista of soft rolling hills, of fields and verdant woodland beyond the window. Smoothing her hand over the rough stone of the grand window surround she imagined her mother standing on the exact same spot as she spoke. "She ran away with my parents. They were given word that the authorities were coming for them and so they ran. Papa joined the army under a false name and so they 'id from Madame la Guillotine. For a while I think things were not so bad, but then when I was eight Papa was killed and Maman tried to go on but ..." She shrugged, though there were no tears, just the harsh facts of her life that she had become accustomed to. "Poor, Maman," she said. "She was born to be beautiful and 'ave lovely things and be adored. The new world was too ugly for 'er, and when Papa went ... she did not want to stay with all the ugly things, and so she killed 'erself. After that it was just me and Marie."
"Oh God, Céleste," he whispered, appalled that things had been so much worse than he'd feared. He didn't know what to say and was too afraid if he made a move towards her he would take her in his arms and all his good intentions would have been for nothing. But Céleste just shrugged again, as if it was of little consequence.
"It is 'ow things are."
"Your father," he asked with trepidation, though he knew what she would say. "How did he die?"
"In the war, shot in some battle with the English, I do not know where."
"Céleste," he said, feeling helpless. "I am so sorry, my God it's a wonder you don't hate me."
"Why?" She looked up at him in surprise. "You did not kill him, Alex."
"No," he said, his voice cautious. He didn't want to spell it out, but he wouldn't lie to her either. "But I've fought in the wars against your country."
She gave him a sad smile and nodded. "And so did millions of others. You did not kill Papa, and 'e did not kill the men who stood beside you. Emperors and Kings and Generals, these people make wars and put weapons in people's 'ands. You defended your country as my father defended La France, and that is all."
He felt humbled by this view, by her acceptance of his country's part in the conflict that had caused her such pain, and could find no words to express how he felt. He knew all too well if he told her what was in his heart he would say too much, and so he said nothing.
Chapter 10
"Wherein dreams and fantasies bring both pleasure and pain in equal measure."
Céleste made her way back down the grand staircase, imagining her mother sweeping down in some gorgeous dress, swathed in jewels with her father waiting for her. He would have looked handsome and fine, looking at Maman with adoration, as he always had. Right up until the last time he said goodbye to them. She wondered what life would have been like if she had been born here. Would it really be as idyllic as it seemed in her mind? Of course not, it was just a silly day dream, she knew that. Life was hard, life pushed and pulled you this way and that, and took everything away, if you didn't hold on as tight as you could.
She cast a glance back at Alex and caught her breath. He was striding down the stairs and looked so much more like a nobleman than she ever would a Comtesse. She smiled, believing she could imagine him as a brave Knight from the old tales of chivalry and battles. He was so tall and broad, with that thick black hair and those cool grey eyes that could be so hard and intimidating to those he disliked, but he never looked at her like that. When he looked at her his harsh features softened, that mouth that looked as though it could be cruel would curve into a smile that seemed to be for her alone, and she would feel her insides melt and her skin ache with longin
g.
She had thought that he smiled that way for her because he desired her as much as she did him, but she could see now she'd been wrong. He thought of her as a silly child, someone to be spoiled and petted and kept safe. His reaction to her clumsy advances the other morning had illustrated that clearly enough. He had been so angry with her. She never wanted to see him angry with her like that again. The whole day she had been terrified, convinced that he would leave in the night and she would wake to find him gone. She would never risk that again. Better to love him from afar than never to see him again.
They walked out into a grand hall and she remembered her Maman's tales of the extravagant balls that had been held, of the dancing and laughter, the beautiful dresses, wine and food ... It all seemed so improbable, so far from her own experiences it may as well have been a fairy tale.
"May I?"
She turned with a frown to see Alex smiling before executing a very elegant bow and holding out his hand to her.
"I don't understand?" she replied, perplexed.
"Well," he said. "This is a ballroom isn't it? We should dance, it is only fitting."
She laughed, surprised by his fanciful idea, it seemed so out of character. "But there is no music."
He shrugged and took her hand, apparently allowing no protests.
"It matters not."
But she had one problem that would matter. "Alex, I--I don't know how," she replied, blushing and feeling foolish.
"Well then," he said, with a matter of fact tone that put her at ease once more. "It is about time someone taught you. So you take my hand, and we stand side by side, like so, and then we take two steps forward and raise up on your toes. And then two steps back again, and up on your toes." She watched him and copied his moves. "And now take my hand, and turn, like so ... and ..."
She watched him in fascination, moving in the manner he indicated, and savouring every touch of his hand against hers, and most especially the slide of his hand around her waist. At times they stepped towards each other, so close she could almost kiss him and then he would step back again or move past her, leaving her breathless. He moved with such grace and she felt bewildered by him.
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