The apartment door opened on Monsieur Emmanuel, driving all thoughts of de Granville from her head. His dusty brown coat hung on his shoulders, a long, narrow box tucked under his arm. He bowed to the ladies and gentlemen and mopped his brow with his cuff. His arrival did what hers never did: stopped conversation.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Emmanuel! Get cleaned up. It is nearly time for dinner.” His mother’s anger masked her impatience, Catherine knew, but felt a twinge of mortification for her patroness anyway.
He looked down at his dusty, suede breeches and rough boots. “I’m going to wear this to ride this afternoon.”
His mother grew even colder. “Dinner, Emmanuel.”
He lowered his head like a child, which was exactly how his mother had spoken to him. But she glimpsed his face as he lifted his head again. He was clenching his jaw, containing harsh words, not responding to his mother’s rudeness. She caught his eye and nodded slightly, approving of the way he didn’t argue.
“Were you fencing with my grandson this morning, Monsieur Emmanuel?” Madame Philinte looked thrilled to see him, which was better than the snide, amused expressions on the other faces.
He pulled his eyes away from Catherine’s. “Yes, I was, Madame. He is an excellent fighter, though he favors the Italian style, which I find too hesitant.”
“Oh, he is! He’s rather the best fencer among the young men, I believe. At least it’s what he told me. What do you think?”
Anger and amusement merged in Monsieur Emmanuel’s face, and he struggled to hide both. Catherine was sure she was the only one who could read his expression. She smiled encouragingly when his eyes darted to her.
“He is quite good, Madame. I can learn much from him about the Italian style, I am sure.”
Catherine almost giggled. Would it kill him to compliment d’Oronte?
Monsieur Emmanuel’s gaze cut to her again. She blinked her eyes slowly and looked up at him through her lashes. He tilted his head and frowned a question.
He bowed to the group again and looked around. “Where’s my trunk?”
“I had the maids drag it into the closet.” The baronesse waved vaguely toward the end of the room.
Catherine watched as he swung his coat from his shoulders and edged along the wall, easing past the baronesse’s friends, to the closet. Such broad shoulders. Such strong legs.
He glanced back from the door and caught her eye. He shook his head in exasperation.
****
He had totally forgotten to walk the right way, hadn’t he? And he was covered in dirt, disreputably dressed, and unsure of what the Vicomte d’Oronte was up to. It didn’t look good. In fact, it looked like he was going to make things harder on Manu through his influence with the young noblemen. But when Mademoiselle de Fouet had looked up at him flirtatiously, he had for a moment thought she might desire him. She was probably mocking him. He had floundered around for something nice to say about d’Oronte to his grandmother because Madame Philinte had always been kind. Then he’d stumped across the room like a peasant.
The thought that he was more worried about Mademoiselle de Fouet’s opinion than the others’ brought him up short, dripping water from his face and neck down his bare chest and into the waistband of his drawers. He wondered if he could convince her to dally with him before she left the court—if she really meant to leave for Normandy. He would be discreet and not let her reputation be ruined. Perhaps that was why she had talked about dalliance the night before—to invite him to dally. Or maybe not, since he mostly blundered around, shouting. No matter what he did, someone in his mother’s or d’Oronte’s circle might still ruin Catherine. Mademoiselle de Fouet.
Manu sighed and turned his thoughts to dinner.
****
The baronesse went off for her sieste after a Sabbath dinner of cold meats. Every day, she claimed to read her prayer book but fell asleep for an hour or two. Catherine rushed to her room and had Marie help her into the riding skirt Madame DesCroart had sold to the baronesse along with the mare. They had to pull hard on the cords to cinch in the waist, and discovered it wasn’t quite long enough, but Catherine didn’t care. By the time she came out of her room, yanking her sun hat on and doubling back for her riding mask, Monsieur Emmanuel was pacing in the tiny drawing room in his smelly old clothes.
He took her arm and dragged her toward the door. “Let’s go.”
Her beautiful Flamme was waiting for her as soon as they stepped outside, as was Monsieur Emmanuel’s horse, his brother’s huge gray gelding. He sighed loudly while she petted her mare for a minute or two—she had remembered to bring her own carrot—then allowed Monsieur Emmanuel to give her a leg up into her sidesaddle. She nudged her horse forward, and her heart beat faster in exhilaration.
A few minutes later, they were trotting in a wide lane between tall hedges, nodding to acquaintances. Or rather, she was nodding to acquaintances and Emmanuel was nodding as she told him their names. They caught a glimpse of the Apollo Fountain; finally, they arrived at the Sailor’s Gate that opened into the larger park.
Catherine glanced over her shoulder to see Emmanuel slow for a moment. She looked forward and urged Flamme to a slow gallop. She heard a rumbling of hooves behind her, then a laugh. She urged Flamme on until she was running full tilt, just a nose ahead of Emmanuel’s big gray.
Catherine laughed, and the sound was whipped from her mouth. All too quickly the Grand Canal appeared in front of them, and they reined up together. Catherine turned, laughing, and Monsieur Emmanuel grinned back. They cantered slowly along the rim of the southern arm of the Grand Canal, neither asking if the other wished to go farther.
“If we take the first wide path, we’ll soon be at the far end of the Grand Canal,” she said.
He nodded. “They had only started digging it when my father sent me to my sister. Maman and I only came here once before. It was a small hunting lodge, really, in 1666.”
“Small?” She raised her eyebrows mockingly.
He chuckled. “Nothing like it is now.”
She nodded and looked forward to where several riders trotted their horses along the path. They couldn’t gallop again right away or they would risk crashing into the others.
They trotted for just a minute before he said, “Maman and I were here when Dom was shot with a crossbow.”
Catherine stared at him. “Shot?” She knew the story—everyone did—but it was only spoken of in whispers.
He continued to stare straight forward, glowering. “Someone spread rumors Dom was involved in a treasonous plot. But I guess they couldn’t wait for the rumors to do their damage, because they—two bastards of the Baron de Lucenay…” He shook his head.
“I don’t think I know the baron…”
“He’s gone. In exile since then. Before you came to court. The bastards are dead—one killed in the assault to retake the château and the other hanged. The legitimate heir’s in exile with his father, stripped of lands and titles. Maybe they died in the Netherlands, or they might someday come back and stir up trouble.”
Catherine remained silent for a few minutes, before offering a diplomatic: “Your mother never told me what happened.”
“My mother!” Emmanuel snorted softly. “When Dom was lying in a bed and everyone thought he would die or lose his arm, she said Dieu would take him if he was a traitor. When the news came the next day that mercenaries had taken the château-fort by force and my sister’s safety was unknown, my mother shrugged. She said if something happened to Aurore, Dom could find a fertile wife.”
Catherine’s gut clenched. She would give anything to have a family, but her patroness failed her children over and over. “The baronesse has always been loyal to her friends.”
Emmanuel glared at her.
Catherine sighed and looked down at her leg, looped as it was over the saddle horn with her pretty green riding habit stretched across it. The riding habit, saddle, and horse the baronesse had given her. She felt guilty for her disloy
al thoughts. Finally, she blurted out, “She feels abandoned by her family. By you.”
Emmanuel pulled up his horse just at the corner where she had suggested they turn to ride to the far end of the Grand Canal. He looked down the deserted path before turning to her. “I am weary and have more novenas to say as my penance from my confession this morning.”
He turned his horse back the way they had come. “I cannot leave you out here by yourself, Mademoiselle. I believe we can return more quickly by the Saint Cyr road?”
She nodded numbly.
****
“Were you riding with a groom yesterday, Mademoiselle de Fouet?”
Such a seemingly innocent question, posed by the handsome young gentleman in a shiny, blue coat who offered his arm to Catherine after dinner on Tuesday. That this was a close friend of the Vicomte d’Oronte surely made the question much less innocent.
“I spent the whole day yesterday with the baronesse, paying calls. I didn’t go riding.”
“It must have been Sunday, then, we saw you ride by?”
“Quite possibly, yes.” And it was Monsieur Emmanuel with her, as this smirking Monsieur, heir to a title, must know. She wondered who had reported to d’Oronte. And why.
“Ah. Mademoiselle de Fouet.”
Here was d’Oronte himself, bowing over her hand. She blushed nervously and tried to become invisible as she pretended to listen to the conversation. She glanced around and caught Monsieur Emmanuel’s eye as he approached his mother. He hesitated for only a moment, frowning at the gentlemen with her before nodding and turning away.
She hadn’t spoken to him since a muttered “Au revoir” at the end of their ride. Both nights, he had come into the apartments after she was asleep and was gone or just leaving when she came out of her bedchamber in the morning. He slipped in silently when she was sitting with the baronesse. He bowed politely and asked after his mother’s health but didn’t even look at her. The baronesse answered she was well, even though her skin was damp and gray. Hadn’t he said he was leaving on Monday? Yet it was Tuesday and here he was. She had gleaned from Madame Philinte that he had fenced every morning with the young gentlemen. Lucas de Granville confirmed it, saying Monsieur Emmanuel had been giving him lessons.
D’Oronte claimed Catherine’s attention again and asked if she would like to go for a ride with him. The love of riding her beautiful Flamme warred against spending time alone with d’Oronte. “We’ll have to stay within the gardens, Monsieur. I am tired today from the heat, and the baronesse is ailing. I do not like to be far from her.”
“I’ll be sure my grandmother visits her.” D’Oronte shrugged. “It’s not as hot today as it was on Sunday.”
She bowed her head further. Someone had definitely reported she had gone riding with Emmanuel.
“Shall I call for you in an hour, Mademoiselle? I’ll order your horse for you?”
She glanced up at him. “I’ll be ready.”
He smirked horribly. “Good. Until then, Mademoiselle.” He bowed sharply before he and his friend strolled away.
****
Emmanuel really had meant to leave on Monday. And on Tuesday. He could intercept his family on the road, and take Vainqueur back. Ask Papa to sell the mare.
D’Oronte was still not polite, but they had fenced each morning, evenly matched. Emmanuel’s long-ago lessons were coming back to him, but he was no closer to besting the smirking git. Was d’Oronte going easy on him? Or was his increasing skill inspiring d’Oronte to improve, too?
Manu was bored with fencing, just as he always was after a few days. He’d rather be training horses, brushing down the new foals to get them used to humans, breaking them to the longue line and the saddle. Riding across his own fields—his father’s fields, controlled by his brother, never to be his—on a horse he was training to saddle. Or driving a young team along a deserted stretch of road. Or firing musket blanks over the heads of the young ones to get them used to the sounds of war.
Or, best of all, riding his own horse, his beloved bay stallion, Vainqueur. Jean-Louis’ big gray was a really good horse—serious and steady and quick to action. He was slowing with age, just like Jean-Louis himself—Manu smirked, tempted to tell Jean-Louis that when he returned the horse. But Manu’s own horse obeyed the rider’s slightest whim and was good-tempered with humans, though bossy with other horses. He could have sold Vainqueur five times to nobles in Poitou but wouldn’t even entertain offers. Other than Jacques, his guard and groom, Vainqueur was his closest friend. Maybe even including Jacques. He wondered how Jacques really was, so far from his home in Poitou. They’d only spoken briefly in the stables since their arrival three days before, and Manu missed him.
After midday dinner on Tuesday, where he had watched Mademoiselle de Fouet flirt with d’Oronte, Manu went down to the stables. He talked to Jacques as he brushed the big gray down. He was just mounting when a groom took Mademoiselle de Fouet’s horse from her stall and began to saddle her.
“Is Mademoiselle de Fouet going riding alone?”
The groom didn’t know. He just knew he was to make sure the mare was saddled and another groom would lead her to the palace. Manu paid the groom’s tip—probably more than Mademoiselle de Fouet would have given him—and took Flamme’s lead. The head groom rushed over to keep him from stealing Mademoiselle de Fouet’s horse. Manu scowled and told him since the lady and the horse were under his mother’s patronage, he wouldn’t mind at all delivering the horse.
He felt like an idiot when Mademoiselle de Fouet glared at him. Manu swung down from the gray and let down Flamme’s stirrup without more than a bow to her and the smirking d’Oronte.
“Did Mademoiselle de Fouet invite you along on our ride?” It was rather obvious from his tone that the vicomte would never do so. “Or are we meant to give you a tip?”
“I was already on my horse when the groom came to prepare Flamme. I saved the groom a trip and felt it would oblige the demoiselle to see a friendly face.” Not in the least because he wanted to remind d’Oronte that the lady had friends.
If he did come along as a chaperone, he would be sure nothing untoward happened. He trusted Mademoiselle de Fouet to stay in sight of others, but agreeing to go on a ride with d’Oronte…
Maybe she thought the vicomte was courting her. Manu wanted to ask pointed questions of the vicomte’s family, but he didn’t know them, except for Madame Philinte, who was even more scatterbrained than she had been when she sneaked him sweets when he was little.
Besides, it wasn’t up to Manu to check over Mademoiselle de Fouet’s suitors like a father or brother. Was he jealous? He didn’t want to be, but he was.
He waited silently with the couple, listening to the vicomte chatter pleasantly about the weather as another groom trotted up the long path from the stables, leading d’Oronte’s horse—a rather pretty Arabian, slim and flashy but not powerful. Manu wondered if the beast was for short distances, because it would be useless for travel. Then he felt inadequate because his own favorite, Vainqueur, was built with a utilitarian, military look about him, much like the gray he was riding. From what he had seen in the stables, a gentleman’s riding horse should be only barely taller than a lady’s pony.
Besides, he didn’t even have any of his own horses with him to show Mademoiselle de Fouet what he was capable of as a breeder.
To show the whole court. Of course. Not just Mademoiselle de Fouet. He shook his head.
D’Oronte turned his back on Mademoiselle de Fouet to mount his own horse from the block, so Manu bent down for her to step into his hands. She had on boots, and Manu was disappointed he did not get to see or feel her ankles. He helped her settle her skirts and nodded to her as he backed away.
“Ah, bien. De Cantière makes a good groom, then? I could hire you to brush my horse.” D’Oronte chuckled at his own joke.
Mademoiselle de Fouet looked at her hands where they rested on the reins. She whispered, “Merci, Monsieur Emmanuel.”
M
anu watched as she and d’Oronte rode away. Mademoiselle de Fouet glanced back at him once before turning back to her pretty mare that was prancing in eagerness.
He led his horse to the mounting block and heaved himself up into the saddle. He had thought of riding alone up to the end of the Grand Canal, where he hadn’t gone with Mademoiselle de Fouet two days before. He very nearly rode right back to the stable and left Jean-Louis’ gelding there, but the big gray was tossing his head and stamping, eager to run, too.
Manu turned back past the stables, out the big gates of the palace, and over the cobblestones of the town. Once out the other side, he spurred the gray to a canter and rode two leagues back to where they had left his father’s carriage.
The innkeeper rushed out. “Oh, Monsieur de Cantière! We sent a messenger not an hour ago! The turner fitted the last spoke this morning.”
Manu paid the blacksmith and the turner and the innkeeper, and arranged for his father’s servants to bring the carriage to Versailles the next day. He rode back to Versailles, deep in thought about the letter he still needed to write to his father about the carriage; he hadn’t wanted to announce the coach was broken without also saying it was fixed.
Over an hour later, he was about to dismount at the Versailles stables when he saw a carriage—no, two carriages—coming down the Saint Cyr road from the west, glittering in the sunlight, dust rising from the wheels and the horses’ hooves. He hesitated for a few seconds before he was sure. His family had arrived. Relief and guilt and happiness and irritation swept through him, and he frowned. He dismissed the groom who was ready to help him down and waved at his brother Cédric as he went past, then rode up to the palace beside the rear coach, the children shouting out the windows at him.
The Chevalier (Châteaux and Shadows) Page 11