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 lig
htness 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.”
Manu stammered something about horses and provincial life.
Fourbier sighed. “I have yet to convert any of you de Cantière men. Such a shame. All of you with your striking beauty—you blonds as well as the darker ones like Henri and your father. At least your sister takes my advice—the divine Comtesse de Bures! The life in her smile! And your niece—Ondine argues with me about shades, and she is sometimes right. Such an apt pupil. What an eye! And elegant bone structure! But the gentlemen prefer to be a little dull. Though I suppose your modesty makes you hidden jewels.”
****
A dramatic chord sounded on a harpsichord as he wandered past the music room. Inside, a lovely, blonde lady curtsied to a gentleman. When she rose from her curtsey, the man said, “Ah, non, Mademoiselle. The right foot must slide further across. Your shoulders are not square, which means you haven’t gone far enough. Try again.”
His bright clothing proclaimed him a dancing master. “Now. Your Highness, may I present Mademoiselle Ondine de Cantière, daughter of Monsieur le Colonel de Cantière, late of Your Majesté’s Army, granddaughter of Monsieur de Cantière, Baron de la Brosse. And then you go.”
Manu stared at his niece—his nearly grown niece whom he hadn’t thought of as anything other than a baby. She executed what looked like a perfect curtsey.
“Ah, non.” The dancing master sighed, even as the girl was half-kneeling on the floor. “Slowly and gracefully. The little stops and starts do you no favors. Have you even practiced since last week?”
The girl rose up with a jump rather than a graceful swirl. “Of course I practiced! I thought my limbs were going to collapse. I ached and shook every single night.” The girl’s voice was full of fury and tears. “It’s not fair!”
She turned to stomp out of the music room. Manu was too surprised to step out of the way. She stopped short and scowled, narrowing her eyes. She was so very young. Still a little girl. He slid his foot back and bowed, his hand over his heart in his best courtly bow. “Mademoiselle Ma Nièce,” he murmured as he rose.
She sank into a royal curtsey that even Manu’s inexperienced eye could see was better than the one she had done a moment before. “Monsieur Mon Oncle.”
When she rose again, the dancing master also bowed to him and was about to praise her when she launched herself forward and kissed Manu on both cheeks. He was pleased she was learning her exuberance from Aurore rather than patterning herself after her own mother.
“Is that Papa’s coat? Did Fourbier tell you it looked all right? He picked out the fabric for this gown, and none of us ever would have chosen it, but the subtle pink and blue stripes, he said, would bring out my blue eyes and my pink cheeks. Maman said he was absolutely right.” She grabbed Manu’s hand and pulled him toward the dancing master. “Will you dance with me today? I’m to have a lesson, and you’ve danced at court. Haven’t you?”
“Once or twice.” He had hardly been to court since he was thirteen and thought he might have danced a few years ago when he was about eighteen, but he was sure he’d made a hash of it.
“Monsieur Brun, my uncle will dance with me today.”
Manu backed away. “I…ah… It’s likely to be more of a lesson for me than for you, Ondine. You might learn how to pretend nothing is wrong when your partner turns the wrong way.”
The girl’s eyes narrowed dangerously again. “Then you’ll have to do it all correctly, won’t you?” Ah, there was the temper of her birth mother.
They danced for over an hour, until Manu felt he had mastered the steps if not the grace of the gavotte and the minuet. The dancing master criticized his walk and his bow, his hand movements and the tilt of his head. By the end, he was as angry as Ondine had been at the beginning of the lesson. She, on the other hand, relaxed into the music and earned nothing but accolades from Monsieur Brun and smiles from Hélène, her stepmother.
The dancing master heaved a sigh and shook his head. “Send a note if you wish to schedule another lesson before you go to court, Monsieur. If you wish to dance at the palace without more practice…may Dieu have mercy on your soul.”
Manu stifled a snort of laughter and looked at Ondine, whose eyes widened, believing the dancing master’s dire prediction for just a moment before she caught Manu’s eye and giggled.
“Practice your curtsey, Mademoiselle,” the dancing master ordered before he and the accompanist swept from the room, bowing and murmuring goodbyes.
Hélène sighed. “He will be back on Saturday to work with Marcel and Diane, if you’re still here, Manu, and wish to join them.”
Manu looked at his sister-in-law in disbelief. She giggled, and he shook his head, grinning.
“Well, thank you for the dance, Mademoiselle Ma Nièce. I think now I am going to go talk about horses with your brothers.”
Manu bowed elegantly to Ondine, who gave her best curtsey yet, and left her and her maman sitting side by side, the girl chattering cheerfully.
On the way up to the nursery to collect the boys, he wondered if being a doting uncle made him soft and ladylike. His brothers and Dominique were doting fathers, and none of them could be called ladylike, even in the finest court clothes with rows of lace. And they all knew how to dance and walk with a glide in high heels. He practiced the pointed-toe sweep of a walk followed by a dramatic pose. He grimaced. He didn’t mind dancing, since it meant touching hands with a pretty lady, but walking like he was in a ballet made his legs hurt.
Mademoiselle de Fouet probably knew how to dance. What was her first name? Constance? Calypso? Ca-something. He stopped the first maid he came across and asked her for news of Mademoiselle de Fouet.
****
“I really think it was the heat.”
Ah. Mademoiselle de Fouet was finally out of her room. It had been two days, and the rain had finally eased to a dark drizzle. Manu paused in the hall just out of sight of the ladies in the drawing room.
“I didn’t cool my face with water.”
Hélène’s voice was a low murmur in reply, but Manu heard his name.
“It’s certainly not Monsieur Emmanuel’s fault. I’m not used to be being pushed to travel so far, but I’ve traveled many times in the summer and know better than to let myself get so hot. I take care of myself. It’s my own fault.”
Manu felt a rush of guilt anyway. She’d had all the symptoms of being overheated, but he hadn’t wanted to look too closely, preferring to travel as fast as possible as long as she wasn’t defying him at every turn. He didn’t like being responsible for other people, especially when they disagreed with him. Life was simpler on his farm, where he was in charge. Even in disagreements with Jacques and the other grooms, they all had the same goals in mind: to breed, raise, train, and sell horses.
Horses, he loved. He could select the horses he liked best and turn them to his will. Within reason. The horses with strong personalities weren’t always interested in pleasing a mere human. Men were too powerful. Women too difficult.
Manu walked softly back to the end of the hall and deliberately bumped into a little table, rattling the lantern on it, then strode up the hall, making a little extra noise. There was no point in letting Mademoiselle de Fouet know he had overheard her. He wasn’t sure if it was because it absolved him of guilt or because it made him feel guiltier for not paying attention. He had been trying to prove he was right about traveling fast, he supposed. H
e instead proved traveling fast was bad for her health.
He stepped into the drawing room and bowed to the two ladies. Hélène’s face lit up with pleasure, and he felt a swelling of love for his sister-in-law. Since he had saved Ondine from kidnapping some ten years before, Hélène had been his champion within the family, second only to Aurore. Aurore should have doubted him after he had left her unprotected in the fight for the château-fort, but she never blamed him.
Hélène lifted a hand to her thick eyeglasses and rebalanced them on her nose. “Oh! Have your trunks caught up to you, Manu? I don’t recognize your coat as one of Jean-Louis’.”
Manu kissed her hand, then did the same to Mademoiselle de Fouet. “As a matter of fact, my carriage arrived at Papa’s townhouse this morning. The men brought my things over.” Alas, his horse, Vainqueur, was still in la Brosse, resting from his long journey. His father would bring him up to Versailles in a few days. He ached to see his favorite stallion, his baby.
Hélène smiled sweetly at him. “It’s very handsome. Did you have it made in Poitiers?”
He looked down at the wooden buttons on the front of his rather plain navy blue coat and honestly couldn’t remember. “I believe so. It’s more an everyday justaucorps.” He didn’t even look at Mademoiselle de Fouet, but he thought she was judging him. “I have some nicer ones for court, you know. Not silks and gold and all, but fancier than this one.” He had never really cared, but his mother had driven into his head from the youngest age that one must look one’s best at court. Oddly enough, his father and brothers agreed, though in a more subtle fashion. Hidden jewels, as Fourbier said.
“Well, have Monsieur Fourbier look them over. We don’t go anywhere without Fourbier’s approval.” Hélène’s smile was teasing, though her statement was close to the truth.
Mademoiselle de Fouet said, her voice sharp, “Are you ready to go to Versailles?”
He scowled at her, and she looked away. He hadn’t seen her since he’d invaded her bedchamber, worried about her, two mornings before. He had made a point of inquiring about her health with the servants and Hélène.
The Chevalier (Châteaux and Shadows) Page 6