Sarah stepped back to admire the fitting. Matilde went to inform the marquise that the gown was ready to be inspected. Sarah led Sérolène back into the marquise’s bedroom. The vicomtesse stood in the middle of the marquise’s large open bedroom, while Madame de Blaise took a quick turn of appraisal around the vicomtesse.
“My, you do look splendid. There’s just one touch missing. Fetch my sapphires, Sarah.”
Sarah hurried off to fetch her mistress’ jewels. She returned a few moments later with a rectangular velvet box which she opened slowly and with care for the marquise to inspect. Madame de Blaise lifted up a splendid sapphire and diamond necklace on a silver chain, then approached Sérolène to do the fitting herself.
“Madame, I couldn’t possibly. They’re much too beautiful for me to wear,” Sérolène protested.
The marquise smiled with indulgence as she stepped behind Sérolène to fit the jewels around her neck. “Do let me be the judge of such things, dear child. Has no one made you aware of what a striking beauty you are? If so, I am indeed surprised.”
The marquise fitted the necklace, then had Sarah hand her a matching pair of earrings. She inserted them into the piercing holes in Sérolène’s ears, then stood back to admire the effect.
“Now come. Let’s look at you.”
The marquise led Sérolène toward an ornate cabinet which Sarah opened to reveal a full-length mirror. Sérolène beheld herself in disbelief. Was the fairy-tale princess staring back from the looking glass really just her own reflection? Madame de Blaise ran her fingers appraisingly through Sérolène’s hair, which had not yet been afforded the same indulgent treatment as the rest of her.
“You see, both the gown and the sapphires become you. They pick up the color of your eyes. Now we’ve just your hair to contend with, but here you are fortunate. In the absence of my usual hairdresser, Matilde is something of an expert in these matters.”
Sérolène’s expression revealed her doubts that her coiffure could be altered with the same degree of success as her wardrobe. She’d never worn such fine clothes at home, nor had she ever been given real jewels to wear. Seeing herself already so transformed, however, she decided to submit without complaint.
The vicomtesse was led to a comfortable seat in Madame de Blaise’s dressing room and served a warm bowl of soup with white bread as Matilde readied all the implements required to dress Sérolène’s hair. The style to be attempted was called the Euridice[v]. The process of creation involved more than forty separate steps to fashion the intricate and high coif. The natural hair was combed out and used as a base, over which false hair pieces, hair rolls, donuts and rats, were layered, placed, and pinned to create height, adorning curls and volume.
Madame de Blaise gave advice before she left to see about the meal and make arrangements for the vicomtesse to be seen again by the doctor. But she promised to return to observe and guide the finishing touches herself. An hour had passed before Matilde began to apply the final rolls to the back. All the while, Sérolène sat with forbearance, more eager than impatient, to see the final product. Madame de Blaise at last returned, giving her opinion at once.
“You look splendid, dear child. Just a little while longer now. I just received word that Mademoiselle Julienne has arrived. Once her things have been settled in, she’ll be joining us at table. The men have finished their supper. It’ll just be us ladies. I’m sure you’ll be pleased to be reunited.”
“I’m very glad to hear such happy news, Madame. Perhaps I might also be allowed to pay a visit to Monsieur d’Argentolle on our way to supper? I’m sure I owe him my life, and I should sincerely like to express my deepest thanks for his bravery,” Sérolène said in her most persuasive and submissive voice.
Madame de Blaise was a woman of strong intuition and her feelings told her there was much more to the vicomtesse’s request than just a wish to follow common courtesy. What did Nicolas really mean to her, and she to him? I expect there’s only one way to know.
“I suppose we might stop for a brief moment to inspect his condition, though I caution you, he is unlikely to be awake or in any way returned to himself,” the marquise warned.
Sérolène took the marquise’s hand, kissed it, and then pressed it to her cheek with fondness. “Thank you ever so much, dear Madame!”
Madame de Blaise watched the vicomtesse in the reflection of her mirror as Matilde put the finishing touches to her hairdo. What a delightful child. If something tender has been made between this charming angel and my Nicolas, I can scarcely object, though the when and the how still escape me. She’s so sweet and genuine. Why I already adore her myself.
Matilde stepped back and lowered her clipping scissors. She gazed in satisfaction at her handiwork. Sarah ooohed in approval.
“There, Madame. It’s finished.”
“Matilde, you’ve outdone yourself. She looks splendid. Come my dear, stand this way so you can see properly what Matilde’s talent and your beauty has accomplished.”
The effect produced by the marquise’s gown and the new high coiffure was remarkable. Gone was the frightened young doe who just a short time before had quailed with panic in her bed. In her place was a great lady of France, a perfect model of the regal elegance of the court. The marquise smiled in delight at the success of her efforts, as did Sérolène, who thanked both Matilde and Sarah for their labors with an embrace for each.
With Sérolène’s transformation complete, Madame de Blaise led the vicomtesse down the hallway from her chambers toward Nicolas’ sickroom. When they arrived, there were two attendants standing watch outside the door. Each bowed at the approach of the mistress of the house and the door was opened inward to allow the marquise and her guest to pass. The marquise entered the room with Sérolène trailing just behind. Nicolas’ valet, Julius, rose from his seat near the bed to pay his respects with a bow, the prone form of the young chevalier visible in outline behind the drawn satin curtains of his bed.
Sérolène studied everything with care, determined to affix each aspect of Nicolas’ intimate enclave in her mind. The room was small but tidy and would be considered austere by almost any standards. Everything in it appeared more utilitarian than expressive, with the only prominent furniture being a writing desk, two chairs, and a small wardrobe. The sole portraits adorning the walls were miniatures of Nicolas’ parents and brother and two large paintings of the hunt, in which the horses were rendered in superb detail. Near the head of the bed was a wooden stand holding three magnificent dress swords. Sérolène committed as much detail as she could to memory, as Madame de Blaise turned to address Nicolas’ valet.
“Has there been any change in his condition, Julius?”
“No, Madame, though he has been resting peacefully. On occasion he calls out in his sleep. Just a single word, but I can’t make any sense of it.”
Madame de Blaise raised her eyebrows in curiosity. “What does he utter?”
Julius shook his head in bewilderment. “Séro.”
Sérolène flushed pink. She turned toward the prone form of Nicolas, her face aglow with love. Madame de Blaise noted at once both the change in the vicomtesse’s coloring and the apparent reason for it.
“Thank you, Julius. Draw back the curtains please. You may then wait outside until I call for you.”
The valet drew the curtains, then took his leave. He shut the door softly behind him. Madame de Blaise turned toward Sérolène with very particular interest.
“I suppose Séro is what he calls you, my sweet child?”
Sérolène felt the warmth from the flush of blood to her cheeks. “I believe so, Madame.”
The marquise caressed Sérolène’s cheek, then planted a gentle kiss upon each one. “Well, my dear. It appears from my son’s own lips you have earned a singular position of consideration. Go on and take your rightful place.”
Sérolène curtsied deeply to show her appreciation, then turned and approached Nicolas’ bedside. She paused a moment to glance at her belov
ed before taking the seat Julius had occupied. Sérolène was torn as to what to do. The rules of propriety demanded she should remain circumspect toward Nicolas in the presence of the marquise, but now that the object of her longing was so close, the dictates of common etiquette seemed wholly pointless.
Coolness, reason, false modesty and everything else of pretense which held her separate from the soul she was so desperately drawn to, held no authority over her now. To Sérolène these were but things to be overthrown. Love! Wild, scalding, glorious, lawless. Love was the thing which governed her heart. It was the unmaker of tyrants, the leveler of rank, and the jester to make mockery of kingly reason and decree. Like a mighty whirlpool, love drew her down. Closer, closer, until she slipped into the eddy of life’s most glorious obsession, and in being utterly lost, at last found her true self.
Sérolène stood and leaned across the open expanse which separated her from Nicolas. She pressed her forehead against Nicolas’ own with exquisite tenderness. Her lips followed next, first against his brow, then slowly down until her lips joined with his own. Hot tears flooded her cheeks and fell onto his, anointing them with the salty-sweet tribute of combined grief and joy. She had never felt so happy, and at the same time, so filled with grief. For she had put him here in this sick bed. The wounds he bore, the pain he endured, it had been for her. He had made a promise in the dark to love and cherish her forever, and already he had made good on his oath. And how she loved him for it, and for the way the purity of his devotion made her feel. Ever since she had met Nicolas, her spirit resonated with an unfathomable lightness of being, as if her soul had somehow touched the face of God.
Madame de Blaise observed the encounter from the foot of the bed in astonished silence. Nothing could now be left in doubt as to what the vicomtesse’s feelings were for Nicolas. But did his feelings match her own? Did he, in his weakened state, even know that she was there?
“Séro…”
The marquise had her answer.
And so did Sérolène. The way he spoke her name, how she loved the sound—part appellation, part caress, all supplication. No one else in the world called her as he did. He had brought the word into existence for her alone. She rewarded him with another press of her lips upon his.
“I’m here, my dearest Nico.”
Nicolas turned his head, his eyes were pained and feverish. “My darling, you are safe? Then at last my rest shall be tranquil.”
Sérolène raised his hand and pressed it to her lips with complete devotion. “I am safe thanks to you. Thanks only to you, my dearest love. Rest now. I promise I shall stay by your side until you are well.”
Nicolas groaned. Sérolène caressed his face. The tips of her fingers stroked his brow with tenderness. She whispered to him the last verse of the poem she had written. Wanting him to know how deeply she felt for him, and that her feelings were as true as his own.
“From dawn till dusk I wait, my love, my heart wants only you.”
Nicolas managed the briefest of smiles. “Your love and your words breathe life into me, my angel.”
Sérolène held Nicolas with her gaze. He returned it for a brief interval, and then his eyes began to close. He slipped away from the world again, sinking back beneath the veil of oblivion.
Madame de Blaise covered her mouth with her hand. She gathered the vicomtesse around the shoulders, pressing her lips to Sérolène’s temple with a mother’s caring affection. How well she seems to love my son, and his love appears equal to her own. But how is such an attachment even possible?
“What was that for, Madame?”
“For what you did for my son.”
Sérolène’s voice was thick with regret and apology. “I’m afraid he’s done ever so much more for me than I have been able to do for him, Madame. It’s partly my fault that he’s lying there.”
“Don’t you dare blame yourself for what’s happened, dear child. You are as sweet as you are guiltless. On this I must insist.”
The marquise’s voice was firm but filled with compassion. Sérolène gazed at the marquise to absorb every fine detail of the marquise’s exquisite countenance. She wanted to retain the image of such noble perfection forever.
“What troubles you, my dear? Why do you look at me so?”
Sérolène lowered her gaze. “Pardon me, Madame…it’s just. Well, I’ve never met anyone so beautiful. Or so kind.”
“Careful now, my sweet young angel, or you’ll cause me to love you as dearly as Nicolas seems to.”
Sérolène embraced the marquise. “I do so hope you will, Madame.”
Madame de Blaise returned the embrace, then drew the curtains of Nicolas’ bed shut. Placing a comforting arm around Sérolène’s waist, she guided the vicomtesse from the room. Anyone observing them in so close a state of resemblance and familiarity, would have assumed them to be mother and daughter.
“Come, let us make our way to the dining room. You must not neglect your own health. I’m sure your cousine will be delighted to see you again and to know you are recovering well. Do not fear for Nicolas. Julius will stay with him and the doctors will be back in the morning to examine him again…and you. I’m looking forward to us getting to know each other much better over the coming days, dear child. Much better indeed.”
A Squall in Summer
The news of Nicolas’ extraordinary act of heroism raced through the principal cities of the French Indies. While the chevalier recuperated in the cocoon of his family’s estate, his selfless act of sacrifice was on everyone’s lips, eclipsing even the clamor surrounding his brother’s recent engagement. In one rash, brave moment, Nicolas had covered his name in glory. In every salon, from St. Domingue to Martinique, the case of the Chevalier d’Argentolle was taken up and discussed. Gentlemen debated his merits, ladies enumerated with favor, his gallant attributes. No one seemed to remember the “questionable” circumstances of his heritage, and those who did, didn’t dare to raise such matters now. The fickle wheel of public opinion had turned and Nicolas was enveloped in a shining gilded halo. Even the contrived scandal of his father’s second marriage seemed forgiven, if not wholly forgotten.
The Vaudreuils were the first of the great families to throw their support behind the Montferrauds. Admiral Vaudreuil and his family owed Nicolas a great debt for saving the life of his daughter Charlotte. The Vaudreuils issued a public letter of thanks and privately invited all of the Montferrauds to dine with them as soon as it should be convenient. After more than a decade of stringent enforcement, the siege of social ostracism upon the Marquis and Marquise de Blaise had at last been lifted.
Others soon followed the Vaudreuil’s example. The Comtesse de Talonge came with the Comte d’Argout, the Governor of St. Domingue, to visit Nicolas’ sick bed. The Governor was so charmed by his first meeting with the marquise, that he invited the entire family to the Governor’s Mansion, as soon as Nicolas was well enough to attend. Madame de Talonge also invited the marquise to her salon and spread the word among her intimates that the Marquise de Blaise was a gentle, discerning and most splendid creature. The comtesse also proclaimed the rumors concerning the marquise’s heritage to be wholly false and impossible. An opinion which carried much sway in the influential shadow worlds of the salons.
The Governor’s appearance, and Madame de Talonge’s intriguing, sparked a groundswell of similar visitations which soon became a deluge. Each day, the courtyard at the Montferraud estate was filled with the parked carriages of well-wishers. Many new introductions and friends were made. No one cared that they had only come when the social weather had been at its fairest. Everyone was charmed and indulgent and conveniently forgetful. The heated feelings of the past, the disparaging voices and opinions—it all seemed so quaint and foolish now.
Nicolas was still too ill to receive visitors, but that didn’t deter them from coming. Once it became a fad to go to the Blaise estate, it mattered only that one had made the trip. Most who made the pilgrimage were received with courtesy, given r
efreshment and then sent back on their way, never having come anywhere near the chevalier’s bed. The most fortunate—those whose prior claims of friendship granted them a greater degree of access to the private rooms of the château, were sometimes rewarded with a brief escorted trip to the hero’s sickroom to look in upon him, usually as he slept.
To aid in his convalescence, the chevalier had been moved from his private bedroom to a larger suite of rooms, with several attached anterooms and parlors to accommodate all those responsible for his care. The outer suite of rooms was as far as most were allowed entry. These chambers were occupied at most hours by at least one physician and several nurses. The inner rooms and Nicolas’ own chamber were the exclusive preserve of the doctors, the family, Sérolène and her cousine Julienne. But it was the vicomtesse, often joined by the marquise, who could be found most often at Nicolas’ side, whatever his state of wakefulness.
Those who gained entrance to the chevalier’s suite might have speculated upon the identity of the fair nurse, taller than most men, who so often kept close company with the wounded man, but the identity of the raven haired rose was a closely held secret that none in the household would divulge. Introductions were not offered. Inquiries discrete and otherwise were not responded to beyond the bland admission that the lady was a cousine to the future Madame de Marbéville and on very close terms with the chevalier.
Well-heeled curiosity seekers were not the only ones to visit the sick bed. The Baron de Salvagnac had also come in person, the day after Julienne arrived, to express his thanks to the Montferrauds for a daughter and a niece delivered safely from danger. The baronne however, feigned illness and refused to accompany her husband. Even worse, she chastised him for going. But the baron was a man of finance. He knew a debt when it had been incurred, and he went anyway. The baron missed meeting the marquise, who was absent during his visit, but was pleased to find his niece recovering well from her ordeal and looking more radiant than he’d ever seen her. Though at first he had not recognized her.
Amour: Historical Romance (Passion and Glory Book 1) Page 13