A small voice called out to her. “Mademoiselle de La Bouhaire, is it you?”
Sérolène stopped in the middle of the muddy thoroughfare, now almost deserted due to the weather and the lack of horse and coach traffic. She looked toward the direction of the voice and recognized the face of nine-year-old Charlotte de Rigaud de Vaudreuil, daughter of Louis-Philippe de Rigaud, Marquis de Vaudreuil, who was second in command of the French Navy in the Americas.
Sérolène made her way toward the young girl, who stood with her own governess near the center of the wide avenue. “Mademoiselle de Vaudreuil? Why whatever on earth are you doing here?”
“I am so very glad you remember me, Mademoiselle. I had so much fun the last time we saw each other at the Governor’s ball. Is Mademoiselle Éléonore with you as well?” Charlotte asked, just as Éléonore ran out to join Sérolène, leaving Madame Tarnaut alone inside the shop to settle the bill for her new hat.
Sérolène nodded toward the shop. “Here she is now. How fortunate we are to encounter you here, as we were just on our way back to our coach.”
Charlotte and Éléonore began to chat merrily. Sérolène stood with patience while they became reacquainted, glad for some diversion from her own heavy thoughts. The rain began to come down in earnest, turning the street into a sticky quagmire.
**
Nicolas sat astride the dappled-grey mount which was his favorite, his leather cloak pulled close around his shoulders against the weather. He was several blocks further north along the same avenue in which Sérolène stood, but he did not know they were so close. He had accompanied Francis to town, and now waited for his brother to conclude his affairs with the clerks and lawyers so they could at last be on their way home.
Nicolas’ mood was surly and impatient He rubbed his eyes. They were red from lack of sleep, and rubbing them didn’t help. It just made them sting. The day matched the dreariness of his mood, but he didn’t mind the rain. Better they should all be drowned in misery than be mocked by a clear blue sky. For days he had thought of nothing else but the sweet kisses stolen from the lips of the Vicomtesse de La Bouhaire. With each passing moment, the weight of his longing increased until it felt as if it would burst through his chest. But it seemed that nothing could be done about it.
Still, Nicolas longed to see Sérolène again, but it was impossible to arrange a meeting. He wondered if he should ask Francis to help him, but decided against it. What if his brother thought it too dangerous or unseemly an affair? After all, the vicomtesse was cousine to Julienne. Francis might forbid Nicolas to see Sérolène. Then what would he do? I should be completely undone!
Nicolas’ agitation was felt by his horse, which pranced and pawed nervously in place. Francis emerged from the clerk’s office with his valet in tow. The lackey was carrying a large bundle of documents under his arm.
“There you are at last, Francis. Is it possible for you to have more notes or papers? Surely not all those are required to marry?”
“Ah, you’ve reminded me of something. Forgive me, but with all the preoccupations of late, it completely slipped my mind. I’ve had this letter I’ve been holding onto for you,” Francis said.
The comte removed the envelope Sérolène had given him from the pocket of his waistcoat and handed it up to Nicolas.
“Who is it from?” Nicolas asked, puzzled but hopeful nonetheless.
Francis snorted with laughter. “Come now, Nico, can you not guess? If you cannot, then you should either be taken for a child or pitied for a fool.”
Nicolas frowned at his brother’s teasing. He motioned his own valet to his side.
“Julius, open the parasol so it doesn’t get wet,” Nicolas barked with annoyance.
Before his valet had time to comply, Nicolas tore the envelope open with impatience. His eyes raced over the page, going first to the signature and then reading each line with increasing amazement. He finished the letter, carefully refolded it, and returned it to its envelope, which he placed securely in his waistcoat pocket.
“And?” Francis asked.
Nicolas turned his mount in a quick pirouette, and then raised her up on her hind legs, leaning forward into her neck until he was almost vertical to the ground. As her front legs descended, he urged the mare forward in a standing jump, both fore and hind legs kicking out as he did so. It was a signature measure of both his extreme exuberance and the superb qualities of his horsemanship and mount.
Francis laughed, knowing his brother often preferred to express himself through his horse. “That good, is it?”
Nicolas rode up close to his brother, leaning across the saddle so only the comte could hear him. “She loves me, Francis! By God, she loves me!”
Francis raised his eyebrows, a multitude of questions poised on his lips.
“Look out, Monseigneur!”
A runaway four-horse team and wagon came careening around the corner. Francis jumped back out of the way, alerted by the shout from his valet. The speeding wagon nearly turned over as its wheels lurched and skidded through the mud. Only the alertness of Nicolas’ mount saved him from being clattered into as his mare pranced out of the path of the oncoming juggernaut. Spurring his horse, the chevalier galloped off in pursuit.
“I’m going after it!” Nicolas shouted.
“Nico! Come back. It’s too dangerous!”
The words were swallowed up by the rain. Nicolas’ grey mare was already flying on the wind in an effort to catch the runaway wagon. Despite the muddy conditions, the wagon gathered more speed as the horses raced straight and headlong down the main avenue.
“Come on, come on!” Nicolas cried, encouraging his mare forward. He never gave her the whip. She was too swift and willing to ever need it.
It took him just a block to come alongside the team’s rearmost horses, but he needed to grasp the bridle of the lead horse in order to slow it and bring the others under control. He could hear the screams and shouts of passersby as they realized the danger in their midst, but he paid them no mind, all his attention centered on the rhythm of his mount as he pulled even with the team leader. Now to grasp the bridle. A blur of pale blue and white flashed across the edge of his vision. Nicolas looked up. The sight before him stopped his heart.
A small group was clustered near his beloved. All of them were just seconds away from being trampled by the runaways.
“Séro!” Nicolas cried out in warning.
He knew it was already too late. I’ll never slow them in time. I’ve got to turn them instead! Nicolas released the reins and stood up in the saddle. Then, with the invincible audacity of youth, he leapt for all he was worth.
***
Sérolène heard the shout. The cry pulled Sérolène’s attention away from her friends, and she was suddenly aware of her wider surroundings. She felt the rumbling of the ground beneath her feet and the approach of a relentless thudding and churning which seemed to grow louder with every second. She turned toward the sound just as her governess emerged from the shop.
The piercing wail of Madame Tarnaut’s warning scream froze the vicomtesse and the others in her party in place, the effect entirely the opposite of what was needed as the runaway team and wagon surged toward the group. Sérolène stared directly at the oncoming horses, their mouths flecked with foam, eyes red and wild. For a fleeting second she dreamt she saw Nicolas’ face amidst the surging mass of beasts.
Sérolène clasped Éléonore to her in a final protective gesture, the pretty white parasol in her hand falling away into the mud. Too terrified to move, she closed her eyes and waited to be trampled to death.
“Dear God, please don’t make it hurt.”
Nicolas’ leap had carried him across the back of the closest lead horse, and he clung to the manes of the front pair of animals to prevent himself being thrown beneath the harnesses and crushed underfoot. Catching the reins of both horses in each hand, he managed to get a foot on the bracing harness to steady himself, but his extra weight and exertions on the reins
did nothing to halt the pace of the speeding juggernaut. He looked ahead, everything seemed to move in slow motion. Suddenly the world was quiet and still. He saw Sérolène’s face before him framed in white, so beautiful, like an angel at the gates of heaven beckoning him onward. He felt oddly at peace, as if his body was already rising upward. A part of him was tempted to succumb to the enticing calm, just let his grip loosen, and join her in death.
Breathe me with life! The words from Sérolène’s poem flashed across his mind. Nicolas commanded the burning muscles of his arms and legs to ultimate effort, filling them with the last reserves of his courage and strength. Jerking violently on both reins with all his remaining power, he demanded the runaways submit to his will.
“Turn, damn you! Turn!” he roared.
The beasts at last gave way before the greater force of Nicolas’ desperate pull. The horses veered sharply. The lead right horse caught a hoof in the mud and its foreleg snapped like a twig, taking it down and pulling its side partner with it. The rear pair continued on, unable to halt their momentum, surging into the back of the leaders before they too tumbled over, causing the wagon to swerve from its fatal course and fly up in the air, carrying with it horses and everything attached as it hurtled end over end before finally careening into the wall of a building. The contents of the wagon and everything attached to it were scattered with an ear-splitting clatter. Then the street was still. The gentle pattering of the rain, the only sound.
Sérolène was stunned to be alive. She could still feel the hot breath of the horses on her skin, smell the strong musk of horseflesh in her nostrils, so close had they been to carrying her away. She looked down at Éléonore, then at the ground around her feet. Her parasol, which was no more than a foot or two away, lay broken and trampled in the mud. Silently, she gave thanks to God for the miracle of her survival. The awareness of light, sound, and sensation came flooding back. The galloping thump of a heartbeat echoed loudly in her ears. For a moment Sérolène shivered like a windblown leaf, as the retreating specter of death rushed past, to look elsewhere for souls. She clasped Éléonore close, then turned to look toward Charlotte and the young girl’s governess, who were also untouched by catastrophe.
Men began to pour out of nearby buildings, converging en masse on the twisted wreckage of wagon and horses. Madame Tarnaut ran out into the street, clasping Éléonore and Sérolène to her tightly. She said a prayer of thanks as she embraced her charges, finding the affirmation of divine will in the simple press of flesh against living flesh.
The plaintive neighing of a horse caused Sérolène to look up. A beautiful and well-saddled dappled-grey mare walked aimlessly around the perimeter of the disaster. The horse pawed the ground in agitation. Sérolène disengaged herself from the arms of her governess and walked toward the unsettled horse. She knew the insignia on the saddle blanket. The light rain caressed her face like salt-less tears, flooding her senses with a deepening dread she found impossible to shake.
Sérolène’s heart clenched in panic. “It’s the Montferraud crest.”
His face! Did I only dream it, or was it real? Sérolène wandered toward the chaos of the wreckage, drawn toward the center of the disaster, though every fiber of her young being recoiled at the ghastly scene. Two of the horses were dead, legs and backs broken, one disemboweled on a broken spar of wood and bleeding profusely onto the ground. The other two screamed and writhed in pain, trying to stand though each had more than one shattered limb. Sérolène put her hands over her ears to try to shut out the death cries of the animals, which intermingled with frantic human shouts. Men worked their way between overturned barrels, crates, and boxes. Some of the contents of the containers had spilled onto the muddy earth, making for a scene of almost complete disorder. A dark premonition pulled her forward toward a dense pile of wreckage. At the center of the heap, several men worked with frantic effort to overturn the shattered remnants of the wagon, its broken, splintered wheels making the effort all the more treacherous and difficult.
“There’s someone trapped underneath!”
“It’s the hero who turned the team away. I saw him leap across and mount the lead horses!”
“Mademoiselle de La Bouhaire, are you all right? You must come away from there, it’s no place for a lady.”
Sérolène turned to stare into the face of the Comte de Marbéville. She pointed toward the grey mare now under the control of Francis’ valet. “Monsieur de Marbéville, how relieved I am to see you! Your horse seems to have gotten itself lost.”
Francis looked at Sérolène with grim directness. “I wish it were mine, Mademoiselle. But that is my brother’s horse. It was he who gave pursuit to the wagon. I pray to God his courage has not at last gotten the better of him.”
Sérolène stared dully at Francis as the sweet taste of relief turned to bitter ashes upon her tongue. She took Francis’ arm with trepidation, shuffling closer toward the center of the catastrophe. They both watched helplessly while a crowd of men struggled in desperation to free a body from the heavy wreckage.
“He’s still alive! Quick, fetch a doctor!”
“Does anyone recognize him? Brave soul! Did you see him leap and mount the runaways?”
“Surely he saved several lives today! Brave hero! What audacity!”
Francis turned toward Sérolène. “Please wait here, Mademoiselle.”
The comte went forward to take charge, commanding his lackey to have a suitable stretcher made to carry his brother, then sending Nicolas’ valet Julius off to find a doctor at once. When Francis reached Nicolas’ body, he gasped in horror. It seemed impossible Nicolas could have survived the force of the accident. Nicolas’ torso and lower body were covered in blood, as was his face, down which a continuous stream of gore ran from a gaping wound above his forehead.
Despite Francis’ warnings, Sérolène had followed along close behind him. She stopped when she saw the motionless body which had now been freed from the wreckage. She halted in place as she recognized the long muscular legs, the well-built torso which was now twisted at so odd an angle, the arms flung wide as if beckoning her into their embrace. There was blood everywhere, so much that it seemed one body could not possibly have been the sole source of it all.
Sérolène willed herself to look at the gore-covered face. As soon as she saw it, her mind was forced to accept what her heart still refused to believe. It was Nicolas. Her Nicolas, lying bloodied and motionless on the ground.
“Oh my poor love!” Sérolène wailed in anguish.
Four simple words. Words she would never remember uttering, as she fainted dead away and her head thumped against the ruined spar of an axle brace.
“Mademoiselle!” Francis shouted.
The comte rushed to Sérolène’s side. Her hat had been knocked from her head by the fall and her hair had tumbled out of it. Francis lifted Sérolène in his arms and carried her toward her coach. Madame Tarnaut rushed toward them in alarm. Éléonore held onto the hem of Madame Tarnaut’s skirts as she ran. Both she and her governess were crying.
“Our estate isn’t far from here. We must get her to a doctor at once. She struck her head as she fell,” Francis explained.
The comte lifted Sérolène into the coach with care. The footmen had to open the roof of the cabriolet so that he could lift her inside.
“Madame, I must now see to my brother. I shall send my valet with you as guide. Go with as much speed as you can and we will meet you at Caracol.”
Madame Tarnaut nodded once and pulled Éléonore up into the coach with her. As soon as Francis’ valet was aboard with the driver, they headed off as fast as the horses could take them.
Francis turned back toward the wrecked wagon. A makeshift stretcher had been fashioned for Nicolas. The church was nearby. They would take him there first. He looked more in need of a priest than a doctor. But perhaps they might find both.
“Quickly boys, take him to the church!” Francis ordered.
The men picked up the litt
er and began to trot off. Francis mounted his horse and rode after them. They went only two blocks before Francis saw Julius galloping toward them, waving his arms frantically to attract their attention.
“Follow me, Monseigneur! Doctor Boisvert is in a house just near Place de Clugny. They’re ready to receive the chevalier. Hurry!”
It was three blocks away. West down Rue Espagnole for two and then left on Rue Taranne. The men ran all the way, determined to save the brave boy who had risked everything to protect defenseless women and children. It took them almost five minutes to get there. The doctor was waiting as promised and they hustled Nicolas inside.
They carried Nicolas into the main dining room and lay him down amidst the leavings of the mid-day meal. Boisvert had been paying a visit to a friend. Julius had come upon him by chance, shouting for a doctor as he had galloped up and down the streets.
Boisvert had already taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Francis stood nearby as the doctor began to assess the condition of the patient. Boisvert shook his head as he examined the extent of the wounds, then dictated a series of crisp orders to his own valet.
“Send to the garrison for help. I’ll need my assistants and a hospital wagon as well. We may need to operate and I haven’t the tools to do it here. Bring a priest with you when you return, in case we have need.”
Francis looked ashen. “I am the Comte de Marbéville and this is my brother, the Vicomte d’Argentolle. Is there anything I can do? Please Monsieur, do everything you can to save my brother.”
Boisvert already had Nicolas stripped to the waist and was busy cataloguing the damage. He had bandages and towels brought to clean Nicolas’ head and torso, so the real extent of the injuries could be taken. Once he was sure of what needed to be done, Boisvert turned back to speak to the comte. More than his career could be made if he were to save the life of the man lying on the table. To have the Marquis de Blaise and his sons as patrons would be an immense benefit. But in order to gain it, he had to save the chevalier. Failure was unthinkable.
Amour: Historical Romance (Passion and Glory Book 1) Page 11