Catherine sat and looked down at her hands, folding herself back into her invisible shell in the matter of a second before glancing up at him. “Yes, I am the companion.”
“You’re better, then. I’ll take you to my mother on Monday. Leave Monday, anyway. I don’t suppose you can ride to Paris? We could make the trip in a day.” He fidgeted with the justaucorps, tugging at the coat’s buttons and sleeves. It was two inches too short to be in fashion.
She sat up straighter, curling her lips into her governess sneer—just respectful enough to keep from being sacked, but disdainful enough so her interlocutor would know he had overstepped. “I can ride, but am not sufficiently folle to wish to make such a long journey on horseback or in a single day. It is much too hot. Especially as I am still recovering from the grippe I caught from your mother.”
“Ah.” The man raised an eyebrow, much like the baronesse at her most condescending. “That’s too bad. Long journeys are all the more tedious when they take twice as long as they should. I decided I would ask, though I assumed your answer. We’ll borrow my father’s traveling carriage, unless mine arrives this evening. It’s more likely to arrive Monday after we’ve already gone. Or Tuesday.” The young man looked around again. “Where’s my family?”
Not down yet, idiot, she wanted to snap. “I’m sure I don’t know, Monsieur…” She was sure this must be Emmanuel, the youngest son, the baronesse’s pampered, rebellious darling.
He stared at her with a pained expression before he bowed deeply, waving his hand in intricate swirls. Mocking her. “Emmanuel de Cantière. Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle de Fouet. I have read much about you in my mother’s letters. All the highest compliments, of course.”
Catherine nearly laughed. Compliments from the baronesse? Two could play at this game. She rose from her seat and curtsied deeply enough for the king himself, like she had curtsied to her imaginary beau. “Enchantée, Monsieur de Cantière.” She rose slowly and elegantly but kept her head slightly down. “I have heard much about you from your mother,” whom you have neglected to visit in three years, “who dotes on you,” except when she’s lumping you in with the rest of the family, all of whom she despises.
When she raised her head, de Cantière was staring directly at her. A hard scowl marred his face even though she hadn’t said the bad parts out loud. He shrugged. She realized the shoulders of the coat fit him too tightly, while the waistline swung loose. The long coat wasn’t even his own. It must have been his father’s justaucorps, because underneath it looked like Monsieur Emmanuel was all muscle. The baron was not fat, but he was a great deal more comfortable. She felt a momentary attraction and a momentary burst of shame for thinking cruel things, but she nodded, and her opinions were gone. She returned to her chair.
No point in being attracted to him, even if he were the baronesse’s favorite. Besides, his face was nothing special, with the scowl of a brooding, spoiled child. Once one was a penniless companion, one might be a companion forever. She was resigned to it for the time being. She would escape to her property in Normandy one day and live alone. Then she would be free.
There was a clatter in the hall, and the sounds of the front door opening and closing, then the comtesse’s voice coming closer as she descended the front stairs in haste and a man’s voice answering.
“Dom’s back,” Monsieur Emmanuel said, glancing at the door as the voices in the hall spoke at the same time. Silence fell rather suddenly. He glanced over with a half-smile which made him the handsomest man Catherine had seen in a long time. “They’re kissing. After all, they haven’t seen each other in three long days.”
She looked down at her hands, blushing slightly. How long had it been since she had been kissed? Eight years?
The Comte and Comtesse de Bures were known to embrace in any slightly private alcove or quiet corner of a garden. The baronesse’s circle sometimes made comments, mostly to goad the baronesse into condemning her only daughter’s behavior. Catherine had barely seen the comte and comtesse on this trip, since she had stayed by her patroness’ bedside while the baronesse was ill, then took to her own bed when she fell ill herself. Then the baronesse left her behind, breaking the news of her departure through her maid, Anne. The maid had smirked at Catherine, who could hardly open her eyes.
“Come say hello to Papa.” The comtesse was coming to the drawing room.
Catherine rose. The Comte de Bures, tall, regal, and handsome, came in with his diminutive wife hanging from his arm—his arm clad in dirty leather. “I should go get cleaned up and changed for dinner.”
“Oh! Papa isn’t down yet. But here’s Manu.” The comtesse beamed at her brother. “Is that Papa’s blue coat? You look like a little boy playing dress up, except for those shoulders, Manu.” She gave her brother a quick hug and squeezed his arms—drawing Catherine’s eyes again to the powerful breadth of the man—before stepping away so her husband could embrace Monsieur Emmanuel. “And here’s Mademoiselle de Fouet, Maman’s companion.”
The comtesse was less excited to see Catherine, no matter her earlier encouragement. The smile didn’t dim, really, but her eyes were wary. One of the regrets Catherine had about becoming the companion to one lady after another in her father’s circle of friends—the baronesse’s circle—was the wariness with which others treated her. She had little influence over the circle of sharp-tongued harpies, but people avoided her. She had not been able to help the worthy people who approached her hoping to gain influence within the circle. Catherine had learned to nod in false agreement and stay silent and invisible.
Most of the time, Catherine was grateful she didn’t have to live on her small stipend far away from court. She sorely missed her land and especially the sea, which was so near to her home in Normandy she could smell it when the wind was right, but that place was rented out. The income went directly into savings for the time in the dim future when Catherine would stop being a companion to some grande dame and would be a grande dame. Or a grande demoiselle, since the property wasn’t much of a dowry. And besides, the gentlemen who did notice her were of the sharp-tongued, devious sort themselves. The kind, friendly gentlemen—the sort she preferred—stayed far, far away.
****
Emmanuel needed to stay far, far away from Mademoiselle de Fouet.
She was in his mother’s company most of the time, and before that had been companion to one after another of Maman’s cruel friends. “De Fouet”—“of the whip”—was perfectly apt as her family name. He remembered the girl’s father as a loud, angry man who preached uprightness, spread vicious gossip, and was rumored to have affairs.
Manu had a moment of pleasant surprise when he walked into the drawing room to see the tall, thin woman, her hips swaying invitingly. He imagined for a moment slipping his hands around her narrow waist and kissing the back of her long neck. He was even more surprised to see her curtsey to the painting of the hill above Jean-Louis’ house in Poitou and then swish her narrow, plain skirts around as if she wore a fine gown with a train. When he saw her pale face staring at him in shock, he decided she must have given in to whimsy.
Whimsy? From someone associated with his mother? From this sharp-tongued girl?
The arrival of his sister and Dom had broken the tension. Aurore still spoke to him as if he were a boy and not a twenty-five-year-old man, but she loved him with all the fierce affection she had been forcing on him for more than a decade. Aurore babbled pleasantly to Mademoiselle de Fouet about some entertainment at court a few weeks before, when King Louis XIV had returned from the Dutch front. Manu called to a passing servant for a glass of wine.
As he turned back, Aurore was weighing him with a sparkle in her eye. Mademoiselle de Fouet looked at her hands again, her cheeks slightly pink. He spread his hands in silent question.
Aurore asked sweetly, “Won’t you see to getting us some wine, too, Manu?”
He blushed—he was glad his face was browned from the sun because the blush probably
didn’t show as much, though he felt its warmth—and turned to call after the servant. He turned back to the two ladies. “I…”
“You’ve spent too much time without the company of ladies, Manu.” His sister’s voice was laughing but chiding. “You should see to our needs before your own.”
His blush heated, and he thought about the peasant widow he was having an affair with at home. In five years of only leaving his horse farm when absolutely necessary, he had lost his polite manners.
Maman would be appalled.
****
Supper was a trial. Catherine had a headache and her stomach churned, but she had to be ready to travel in two days so as to not be an inconvenience. The baron seated her at his right hand and was faultlessly polite: much too polite for an informal family meal. He probably saw Catherine as an extension of his wife, who draped only the lightest of veils over her hostility toward him, so he danced around her accordingly.
At the end of the meat course, he leaned back in his chair. “Leaving Monday, Manu?”
Monsieur Emmanuel stiffened, probably reading criticism into his father’s words. His mother had said he was quick to take offense. “If Mademoiselle de Fouet is ready, and we can borrow a traveling carriage, monsieur. Mine is still somewhere along the road. The grooms are bringing my horses along in slow stages.”
The baron blinked at the “monsieur” but didn’t insist on being called Papa. “Of course, mon fils. I would advise you wait until Tuesday or whenever your own carriage has arrived.”
“My carriage is significantly less comfortable than yours, mon père.” Calling him “Father” didn’t really count as affection when said with that tone of voice. Was he complaining about being impoverished? He owned a carriage, and not many people did. Or did the carriage belong to his father or one of his brothers? There were undertones Catherine didn’t understand. Not understanding led to embarrassment, and she couldn’t have that.
“I’d like to see Maman for myself and return to Poitou as soon as possible. Maybe before Dom and Aurore go down in a few weeks.” Monsieur Emmanuel slouched back in his seat, his eyes intent on his father.
He’d rather be anywhere but with his family, wouldn’t he? The baronesse had complained several times about how her youngest son had abandoned her for his father, but he seemed to have abandoned everyone else, too.
The comtesse changed the subject, asking Monsieur Emmanuel about traveling conditions from Poitou. The comte and the baron discussed the hay harvest. Catherine wondered idly if her tenant had planted hay on her land. She wondered what profits he was making and if she could raise the rent to accelerate the moment she could retire from court.
****
When Mademoiselle de Fouet slipped from the dining room with a murmured “Bonne nuit,” Emmanuel saw his chance to escape, too. His stomach still burned with fear from the moment when the majordomo had announced Maman had gone and he had gone weak. He had to get to Paris to see his mother for himself.
At the top of the stairs, before turning down the hall to his usual room, he stopped and stretched, feeling the borrowed justaucorps strain over his arms. He untied the cravat—also borrowed—and rolled his shoulders. Before leaving for Paris, he probably should wait for his carriage to arrive with his better clothes.
Mademoiselle de Fouet barged out of a door to his right and came to an abrupt halt when she saw him. In the orange light of the sunset in the window at the end of the hall, her face looked softer and sweeter.
“Do you need assistance, Mademoiselle?” He was too tired to think, much less to think of something biting to say.
“A maid to help me prepare for bed, Monsieur.” He saw dark circles under her eyes despite the thin veneer of face powder. He imagined wrapping his arms around her, seeking and offering comfort. Her mouth primmed up until she looked just like his mother. He imagined her punching him in the nose.
He shuddered.
“Would you mind sending for a maid?”
Emmanuel realized he was staring. “My apologies, Mademoiselle. I am exhausted, too.”
He turned away, hoping to see a manservant or someone—anyone—at the bottom of the stairs.
“Monsieur de Cantière,” she said behind him.
“Oui, Mademoiselle?” His temper was tugging at the reins.
“Your family would like to speak to you.”
Emmanuel scratched his chin. “Right now?” He had just left his family.
She looked sad instead of cross. “I’m saying it wrong. Your family loves you and wants to take care of you. They would like to speak with you without you trying to score hits. Or whatever it was you were doing.”
“My sister and brother-in-law are wonderful people, Mademoiselle de Fouet.” Dom had taken him in and taught him discipline and fierce protectiveness. Aurore had loved him as his mother never had—with open arms, approval, pats, and humor.
“Your father, too,” she whispered.
He flinched. “Mon cher papa has nothing to do with me or the way I was raised. As a child, I saw him once or twice a year. Even when I was thirteen and he tore me away from my mother, he sent me to my sister. He never brought me home, never taught me…anything.”
Mademoiselle de Fouet’s eyes were large and dark in the half-light of the hall. She looked sympathetic and…sweet? “He…he argued with your mother.”
Emmanuel felt the bitterness rise inside him—an untamed horse with the bit in its teeth. “My father is very good at arguing with my mother, Mademoiselle. He seems kind and jovial until you get to know him. I was another bone for them to fight over, wasn’t I? Once he had turned everyone else against her, he had to have me too. And now Maman has you instead of one of her own children. Don’t get too attached, Mademoiselle de Fouet. When she dies, she will still have nothing to leave to any of us. It all rolls back into the estate and goes to my oldest brother. Even the land he said he would leave to Jean-Louis he is talking about giving to Cédric’s second son. Nothing for me, nothing for you.”
Mademoiselle de Fouet looked like she had been slapped, but only for a moment. “Is that the problem? She has no property to give you? Is that why you are distant? And why you haven’t seen her in three years, Monsieur Emmanuel? Do you love your family only for what they can give you when they die?”
Emmanuel felt that punch right in the belly. He stepped toward Mademoiselle de Fouet and growled, “My sister is a better mother than the one who bore me. It took her years to have her own son, but she never stopped treating me like I was hers even after he came, even when I was unkind. My brother Jean-Louis is my landlord in Poitou and charges me less than the going rate. My brother-in-law gave me the seed money and a prize mare—a beautiful chestnut Ardennais, daughter of a stallion Jean-Louis rode on campaigns. My mother ordered me whipped when I did not perform up to her standard. My father has promised me a dowry when I marry. A dowry. As if I were a little girl with stars in her eyes, dreaming of a handsome husband.”
Mademoiselle de Fouet looked like she might cry.
“What happened to you, Mademoiselle? Did your father promise you a dowry that never materialized? And a handsome husband?” Emmanuel felt his conscience twinge. It was unkind to rub an old maid’s face in her status.
“My fiancé died a week before my parents,” she hissed. “There were debts.”
His stomach fell. He had known Mademoiselle de Fouet was impoverished, but nothing else about her.
She turned away, her shoulders high and tight. She grabbed the door handle before her and glared at him. “Find a maid for me. I am waiting.”
She went into her room and shut the door gently behind her.
Manu’s ears buzzed from his anger. He decided it would be petty to not help, so he stumped down the stairs and shouted for a servant.
Chapter Two
Emmanuel sat as far as he could from Mademoiselle de Fouet in the old stone church in his father’s village. He stood and knelt and stood and sat by rote, muttering in Latin in the right pla
ces, the words coming back to him from the thousands of masses he’d attended before he went to live on his own. He stayed in his seat when the others got up to take the host from the priest.
Afterward, he held back until most of the other people were gone, as he didn’t like being jostled, but he found himself trapped next to her in the crowd of peasants filing out of the church. He had never felt he deserved the polite bows of his father’s farm workers and servants, having never spent much time in la Brosse, but he nodded politely in return. He clenched his jaw and looked everywhere but at Mademoiselle de Fouet.
“I saw you didn’t take the Eucharist, Monsieur de Cantière.” Her expression was bland, but her eyes didn’t quite meet his.
“I have been traveling all week and prefer to confess to my own priest.” Back in Poitou, he rarely went to mass and was rather lax about the confessional. It weighed heavily on his soul from time to time, though not heavily enough for him to spend the time saying the rosary and praying in penance. He received the sacrament no more than three or four times a year on important feast days. But the subject of his soul was a private conversation between him and the priests.
He cleared his throat. “I saw you came early with those who still needed to confess. I can’t imagine a lady such as you having many sins.”
“The state of my soul is between me, the priest, the saints, and Dieu.” Her eyes narrowed dangerously, but she finally looked at him, which he liked more than he should.
“Wrath, Mademoiselle?” He smiled, deliberately baiting her, though she had echoed his own thoughts.
She blinked and looked away. “Wrath, envy, greed. The priest told me I should not count my recent illness and recovery as sloth. I’ve never had trouble with gluttony, except on rare occasions.”
“But pride?” Manu was sure she had more than her fair share.
She glanced at him with a tiny smile on her lips. Her pink, plump lips. “Sometimes it is all I have.”
The Chevalier (Châteaux and Shadows) Page 2