The Chevalier (Châteaux and Shadows)

by Philippa Lodge

  “Have you been working on the list, mon fils?”

  Manu startled. “List?”

  “The one of potential brides?”

  “I’ve only been here since Saturday.”

  “So you mean to say you haven’t, alors?” His father chuckled. “Have you even looked at the list? Some of them have a farm as dowry or enough money to buy one. For your horses, you know.”

  “I’ve…”—been flirting with Mademoiselle de Fouet, been trying to speak to my mother, been fencing with young gentlemen, some of whom hate me—“…been busy.”

  “Trying to find your way around is a big challenge in this maze. You’re like me; you navigate by the sun, eh? You could walk for miles in here and change direction a hundred times and suddenly, you’re coming through a door and there’s a wall of windows and you’re facing west when you thought you’d been heading north.”

  “Oui. Précisément.” Manu hadn’t quite thought of it by those terms; he had just felt lost. “Mostly, I have to follow smirking footmen around. Or Mademoiselle de Fouet and the baronesse point where we’re going. ‘Turn left here. Go up these stairs.’ Most of the time, though, I leave through the closest door and come back inside.”

  His father shook his head. “No good when it rains, believe me. It took me years to find my way around. Then they redecorate things when I’m gone, and I’m lost again.”

  Manu grinned, and his father clapped him on the back.

  “So do you have the list? I have an extra copy in my things, but until my writing desk is unpacked, I won’t find it.”

  Emmanuel sighed and went to get the list.

  ****

  “Well, which one is DesTruites?” Catherine heard Monsieur Emmanuel’s father murmur.

  Normally, she would never have heard anything Monsieur de la Brosse said, as she was usually seated next to his estranged wife, as far from the baron as possible. This evening, though, the baronesse had sent her to get her fan and her shawl, apparently unable to decide if she was cold or hot as they listened to an opera. Fortunately, the king was not in attendance, so the baronesse could sit instead of standing. She had napped longer than usual that day, and her hands were shaking.

  After only a moment’s surprise, Catherine knew DesTruites meant the family, not the feminine for “destroyed,” which she still expected her reputation to be. She glanced at Monsieur Emmanuel, who watched her as she slipped through the crowd. She glanced around to be sure the Vicomte d’Oronte and his friends were not in view. Monsieur Emmanuel bowed politely to her, and his father followed suit as she curtsied and scurried from the anteroom.

  She was in dark brown, so could dash through the dark hallways without exciting much notice. Unfortunately, her luck ran out just as she reached the servants’ stairwell leading to their rooms. Her hand was on the discreet handle when a voice said, “Oh, what excellent luck. It’s Mademoiselle de Fouet herself.”

  D’Oronte.

  She turned to face him, her back to the door. He was in the alcove on the other side of the wide hallway with two other young men in huge wigs. Light from distant candles glinted on gold buttons as he stepped uncomfortably close to her.

  She curtsied. Catherine felt a chill sweep through her. Fear, anger, disgust. She kept her head down, though, as he bowed.

  “I would like to offer an apology for our misunderstanding this afternoon, Mademoiselle.” His voice was low, almost sweet.

  She barely managed to contain her shiver. Misunderstanding? She wanted to shriek. Instead she muttered something indistinct and began to turn away.

  “I was just writing a poem for you.”

  She brought her head up but couldn’t look into his face without wanting to slap him again. “In the dark?”

  “Well, I memorized what I had so far and was reciting it to my friends. They’ve offered some criticism. I have now just to go and write down what they said.”

  She glanced at his friends, who were whispering to each other. She couldn’t see their faces, just little glints of light on their blond wigs and sparks from the gold and silver of their cuffs and rings.

  “I very much look forward to reciting it to you tomorrow. Will you walk with me in the morning?”

  She suppressed a shiver. “I walk with the baronesse every morning.”

  “Dine with me at midday?”

  Never. “I dine with the baronesse and her friends. And with your grandmother.” Maybe a mention of his sweet grand-mère would remind him she was not friendless. Even if his grandmother would never see the bad in him.

  He let out a little huff of impatience. “I believe you are trying to avoid me, Mademoiselle! After dinner we could go for another ride.”

  “I am riding with Monsieur de Cantière tomorrow and am again promised to the baronesse. In fact, she sent me back to our apartments for a shawl, and she is likely shivering by now. You will have to excuse me.”

  She curtsied, and he bowed—barely more than a bob of his head—and she grabbed the door handle behind her and slipped through the servant’s door.

  “Mademoiselle.” He spoke from behind her in the dark.

  She didn’t close the door, and surely he saw it wavering, slightly open. “We will speak tomorrow, I am certain. I wish to see you, and I generally get what I wish for.”

  She tugged the door shut and went up the dark, narrow stairway, shivering at his words.

  ****

  “Who are you looking for, Manu? Did you see Monsieur Pavelot?”

  Emmanuel turned his attention to his father. “Just looking around. Dom and Aurore are by the terrace doors.” And Catherine de Fouet was nowhere in sight.

  “Well, I’ve just spotted Pavelot. Come, before the intermission’s over. I don’t see his daughter, but she might be sitting.”

  With another glance at the door Mademoiselle de Fouet had left through, Manu turned and followed the baron, who had only started the introductions when there was a shout and a trumpet fanfare and everyone stood and began to bow and curtsey. Manu followed suit, wondering what was going on.

  When his father rose from his bow, Manu did the same, glancing up finally at…the king. He leaned to the side as his view of Son Altesse, Louis, was blocked by a lady’s hat with enormous plumes.

  “Don’t stare, boy,” his father whispered. “You look like a peasant up for a festival.”

  “I haven’t seen him since I was thirteen,” he whispered back. “I used to think he looked just like Dom.”

  His father chuckled. “Dom was one of his ménin, his companions, when he was a boy. Dom and Cédric used to practice his haughty stare. And Dom’s great-grandfather—I think maybe the great-great-grandfather—was Henri IV’s general. Some sort of cousin, too.”

  “Dom’s never mentioned it to me.” Manu felt like he’d missed something, like he didn’t know his family as well as he thought. Maybe they didn’t trust him with their confidences.

  The baron shrugged. “It’s not really something to brag about, except to his own children. His father talked about it, back when we were young and riding out to war with Louis XIII. Dom’s father went all the way to Nantes for a bride because she was a descendant of Henri IV’s father, Antoine de Bourbon, King Consort of Navarre. And she had a good dowry. Lovely lady. Beautiful.”

  So his father had an opinion about Dom’s mother, someone who should be an old lady but instead was dead. Manu felt again like he didn’t know his family.

  He glanced at the king, who settled into a throne-like armchair. The queen settled next to him, washed out and pale in her glittering gown. Madame, the king’s big, red-faced sister-in-law, sat just below them, and two other ladies, duchesses, settled on low footstools. Footmen hastily cleared away the remaining chairs.

  A footman banged a heavy walking stick on the floor three times and the opera resumed.

  Still no Mademoiselle de Fouet. And he hadn’t seen the Vicomte d’Oronte all evening.

  With everyone standing and his father whispering to Monsieur Pa
velot, Manu could neither see nor hear much of the opera. He stepped back until he could see the door Mademoiselle de Fouet had left by. Finally, he spotted her and sighed in relief. She must have slipped in at the end of the intermission. She barely caused a ripple as she passed through the crowd. He could see her every few feet making her way to his mother. He eased sideways until he could see the back of his mother’s head and Mademoiselle de Fouet hovering slightly behind her.

  Then, as a soprano chittered away like a finch, his mother staggered a step to one side and swayed into the gentleman next to her. He glowered, but held out one hand, whether to hold her up or fend her off was unclear. Manu shoved through the dozens of people between them, heart pounding. Mademoiselle de Fouet dropped everything and wrapped her arms around the baronesse, barely holding the smaller, older lady upright.

  Manu swept his mother into his arms. She weighed almost nothing and most of it was petticoats. He turned and began to push his way toward the terrace, nobles dodging out of the way of his mother’s head and feet.

  “Up to her apartment.” Mademoiselle de Fouet was right at his shoulder.

  “The cool air will revive her.” He continued toward the door where he had spotted Dominique and Aurore a short while before, but Mademoiselle de Fouet tugged at his arm.

  “Everyone’s talking. If we get her upstairs right away, we can keep them from talking a second time when we take her up. We can call a doctor on the way.”

  Dom appeared beside them. “Go up.”

  His father pushed through the crowd, and before Manu knew it, he had taken his wife into his arms and left through the closest exit. Manu followed.

  Mademoiselle de Fouet grasped his arm on the stairs. “With all the chatter and hysteria this summer about poisoning, we have to get a doctor right away.”

  Manu stopped. “Poison?”

  “Shhhhhhh!” said a voice behind him. Dom and Aurore were there, Aurore waving one hand at him to keep moving.

  “What did you mean by poison?” he whispered to Mademoiselle de Fouet.

  “Lots of rumors. A few arrests. Haven’t you been paying attention?” She didn’t sound bitter, just tired.

  “I’ve been here only three days and was worried about staggering around in funny shoes and not getting myself run through by your beau every morning, Mademoiselle de Fouet. I’ve told you I don’t listen to spiteful gossip.”

  She glanced at him, her mouth pursed. “Even the tamest gossip probably has roots in something. Not all gossip is spiteful. Some is news. Some recent deaths have been due to poison.”

  “Among my mother’s group?”

  She shook her head. “That’s a good point. Even so, Madame Philinte always has good news. Or doesn’t believe the bad.”

  “And you, Mademoiselle?” For some reason, this felt important. Like his future rode on her answer.

  “I listen, Monsieur Emmanuel. I listen and learn how not to be the subject of gossip. I am safe.”

  Manu shook his head, disappointed.

  Down another corridor and up another set of stairs and they were at the baronesse’s apartments. Manu was surprised his father knew where his mother’s rooms were. He probably had learned his estranged wife’s location to best avoid it.

  The maid opened the door, then stepped back with a look of horror. He thought it was at her mistress’ condition, but he soon realized it was at his father’s presence. She looked even more frightened when she saw Dominique and Aurore, then rushed off to open her mistress’s bed.

  They crowded into his mother’s bedchamber, where he had not set foot in the days he slept on the drawing room floor. He was surprised to see the only furniture was a shabby bedstead, one chair, and a small mirror. At least the feather mattress appeared thick and comfortable. The small landscape paintings from when he was a boy were missing. He used to sit in her room alone and dream of riding his pony—the one he would surely have someday—through the fields and forests.

  “Did she sell her dressing table?” Manu asked, then wished he hadn’t.

  Mademoiselle de Fouet scowled at him. “I believe she left it in Paris.”

  “She sold it,” the maid whispered.

  “If she was having money troubles, she could have asked me,” the baron grunted.

  Maman was too proud to ask for anything. She complained constantly, but she didn’t beg.

  Manu’s father bent over the bed, rubbing his wife’s hands. Dom pulled the chair across the tiny room, and the baron sat. “Her hands are so cold.” The baron’s voice was choked with tears.

  “Papa.” Aurore’s satin train rushed and swished against the floor. She put her hand on their father’s shoulder, and he sat up straighter.

  Manu couldn’t stand to look at his father’s tears. He was also confused by them. His parents were not even friendly.

  The baron swallowed. “She’s so thin. Thinner than a few weeks ago in the country. How long has she been ill?”

  They all looked around, none of them having the answer. Finally, Mademoiselle de Fouet stepped forward. “About a year. She had her first fit a year ago. She refuses to see the surgeon.”

  “I sent a footman for one already,” said the baron, his eyes still on his wife’s face.

  “Because she’s asleep, she won’t know. She won’t answer his questions when she wakes.”

  Manu wondered where the maid had gone.

  A half hour later, with Maman still unconscious, the court surgeon arrived, dressed in satins and gold and attended by two proud assistants. The family was shooed out of the baronesse’s bedchamber and left to wait in the drawing room amongst the plethora of chairs.

  Cédric and his wife Sandrine were summoned from their chambers, the grandchildren left in the care of nannies. Aurore sent a message to Jean-Louis and Henri in Paris to tell them the baronesse had fainted and they feared for her life. Manu was surprised to learn they had visited her in la Brosse during her earlier attack.

  The baron started pacing as soon as the surgeon went in. He stopped at the far end of the room and sighed deeply. He turned on one heel and faced the rest of them. “We are trying to reconcile.”

  Manu drew in a deep breath of pain, much like Jean-Louis’ smallest son after crashing down the stairs before he howled in pain. Manu didn’t howl. He didn’t even know why he wanted to howl.

  “That’s why your mother came to the country. I wrote her, and she thought… Well, I don’t want to tell you what she thought. We argued, but mostly because she wanted to leave and I was frightened for her health.”

  Manu’s head swam; he was barely listening. He had been a pawn in their game for so long, and they were changing the game. Neither had much use for him when he was a boy, but now they had each other. He was half relieved that they would leave him out of their quarrels, but half hurt because without him as their go-between, he didn’t know how he would fit.

  A hand squeezed his. Cédric’s wife, Sandrine, smiled at him from where she leaned against Cédric. He didn’t think he had ever touched Sandrine except in perfunctory greeting, so he held onto her hand for only a moment. It probably would have frightened her if he’d gripped it. Though with a huge crowd of rowdy sons, she couldn’t be very timid in private.

  The baron was still talking. “…and we promised to talk more when we both got to court.”

  One of the surgeon’s assistants strode out of the bedchamber, looked down his nose at them in passing, and slipped out into the hallway.

  Mademoiselle de Fouet crept out, and Manu jumped to his feet, surprising the others, who rose, too. He held out his hand, because she looked distraught.

  “I’m not to say anything. The surgeon will talk to everyone at once.” She pulled away as Manu approached, and sat on a small chair in the back of the room. Manu sat near her, watching her from the corner of his eye. She dabbed at her eyes and trembled.

  The only sounds were the others shifting in their chairs, and footsteps, and voices out in the hall.

  Finally, the
surgeon came out.

  The baron jerked to his feet. “Is she awake? Will she recover?”

  The surgeon motioned for everyone to sit. He looked around at all of them, his eyes narrowed. “The Baronesse de la Brosse has been poisoned.”

  Manu shot to his feet. “Who? How?” He advanced on the surgeon. “Are you sure? Who would do that?”

  The surgeon waved him away.

  Dom tugged at Emmanuel’s sleeve. He yanked his hand free and remained where he was.

  The surgeon said, “Generally, in cases like this, it is someone who stands to inherit. Or someone who wishes to be free. Or someone who hates their victim—anger, jealousy, revenge.”

  The baron shrugged. “It’s not about inheritance. She has a stipend, and she had only a tiny dowry. I can afford to support her; she’s not a drain on the estate.”

  “But do you wish to be free of her, Monsieur de la Brosse?” The surgeon’s sneer turned Manu’s stomach.

  Had his father claimed he wanted reconciliation to get closer to his wife to kill her? Manu shuddered.

  The surgeon’s assistant slipped back in, followed by two Mousquetaires in bright blue capes, who glanced around the room. Manu’s heart pounded and his blood rushed in his ears.

  The surgeon said, “I have heard the baronesse has many enemies. She has been having these spells for a year, as Mademoiselle, uh…”

  “De Fouet.” Manu’s voice sounded strange and loud.

  He looked over at Catherine de Fouet, and she glanced up at him, agony in her face.

  “Yes, Mademoiselle de Fouet. She has also been ill recently, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Oui.” The baron sounded out of breath.

  “So did she poison herself, to avoid suspicion, or was she a second victim? Possibly an unintended one?”