The Honorable Officer

by Philippa Lodge

  “Non, Monsieur.”

  “Then we must expect him to come in search of it,” said Jean-Louis. “Perhaps he has not been bought off to turn a blind eye to an assassin. Perhaps he did not set the fire himself and then shoot at my daughter and my cousin.”

  He paused and watched the young guard’s eyes widen. Fourbier and Hardi nodded, their expressions fierce.

  “In the meantime, I’ll go speak to Condé.” He tugged at his coat, adjusted his saber, and threw his cloak over one shoulder.

  The young soldier took up a post directly outside the tent where Mademoiselle Hélène and Ondine were dressing, his hands shaking as he held his musket, eyes darting around frantically. Good lad. Jean-Louis made a mental note to have Fourbier hire the boy for future duties.

  He was back only half an hour later, still stinging at the Prince de Condé’s set-down and at his inability to say what he really thought to his superior officer without garnering a worse reprimand. He had been given two days to make the trip to Dijon and back. Any more than that and his career was in the balance.

  That was the order of a man who had led a revolt against the king—his own cousin—when the king was just a boy. The prince then defected rather than face justice. Not only defected, but served as a general for the enemy. And Louis XIV had forgiven him and put him in charge of his armies. Ridiculous.

  Jean-Louis’ division still needed him to sort out the injured and dead. His lieutenants needed him to guide them. His superiors were relying on him. Condé, though a brilliant military mind in his own right, relied on him to plan.

  His daughter had nearly been burned and shot.

  Jean-Louis knew more about loyalty and family than Condé ever had.

  All was ready when he came back to his campsite. Hardi reported that Jouvet didn’t know any more about Danoit than the young guard had.

  “Darton, I shall need a new tent and a new table,” snapped Jean-Louis. “And stools and all the rest. A cot. Fourbier will be with me, so you are to supervise the others.”

  Darton scowled, but bowed deeply. The old cook had resented the younger Fourbier since he joined his staff a year before.

  He turned to Hardi. “Would you allow my men to pile our things in your tent until he has one ready for me, please?”

  With that, he said his goodbyes and climbed up into the carriage, where Fourbier, Mademoiselle Hélène, Ondine, and—to his surprise—the girl, Charlotte, waited for him. He stared for a moment at the girl, weighing the need to take another dependent with them against Mademoiselle Hélène’s right to have someone to help care for Ondine. He nodded and took his seat. The sun blazed orange and rose through the clear, frosty air, reminding him of his entry into Auxonne less than a week before. He had been sure it was a simple trip and he would deal with the problem in a few minutes.

  Chapter Four

  The worst of it was that Fourbier liked Mademoiselle de Bonnefoi. She was pitiful and incompetent, but he had met many young ladies who would have fainted dead away or shrieked for help rather than cutting through a tent wall. Or planning and executing an escape for herself and a child.

  She was kind and intelligent. Naïve, but rational. Sweet.

  His sister had never been sweet, though she was polite to their clients and gentle with her children. She even knew how to calm her husband’s temper. Mostly. She bore her bruises with stoicism and flung herself between the brute and the children. Fourbier had flung himself in front of a small child—and his sister—more than once himself.

  Fourbier sighed, then flashed a grin at Mademoiselle de Bonnefoi, who glanced at him, lorgnette raised from the book she was reading.

  Since he would never win the colonel’s affection—it had been a lost cause right from the start—he would forward this lady’s chances of marrying. She was already enamored of the colonel. Who wouldn’t be? A dark place inside him chuckled with glee that his colonel would have a weak wife. Fourbier would still be indispensable.

  ****

  The ride to Dijon felt as long as the ride all the way from Paris, Hélène thought as they crested another hill. Though the day had dawned brightly, it soon clouded over, and a cold rain now pounded on the roof of the carriage and spattered around the curtains, damp and cold seeping into their bones in spite of blankets. Ondine couldn’t contain herself, as usual, but with five people in the carriage, she couldn’t bounce like she would have liked. As a result, she shrieked in frustration far too often.

  Midmorning, Ondine transferred to her father’s lap, where she slept against his chest under his heavy cloak. Charlotte drowsed against her right side, but Hélène had come to rely on Ondine’s tiny body to keep her warm as they dozed in the carriage. Fourbier flourished a soft blanket and a smile, and Hélène pulled it over her and Charlotte, but still shivered.

  She was considerably warmed, though, at the soft, wondering expression on the colonel’s face every time he peeked down at Ondine.

  They woke Ondine up at a coaching inn when they changed horses and got something to eat. Hélène was tempted to let her sleep but knew the little girl would have to go pipi and didn’t want to find a tree for her in the icy rain.

  Once they had all settled into the coach again, Colonel de Cantière asked, “Will you be safe with the Widow Pinard?”

  Hélène replied immediately. “Of course.” She had a great deal of confidence in the older lady, her former governess.

  The colonel shook his head. “Does she have male servants? Guards? Are her doors and windows sturdy? I will leave you Fourbier, I think. And maybe the groom.”

  “I would be honored, Monsieur.” Fourbier’s smile looked strained to Hélène.

  “Madame Pinard doesn’t take in male boarders, Monsieur, except children,” said Hélène, feeling more worried.

  “They shall guard the entrances, sleep by the doors, go out with you, even in the back garden,” said the colonel.

  Hélène nodded. He had it all figured out, which was more than she did. She had thrown herself and Ondine on his mercy because she didn’t know what to do, after all.

  “Why did you not believe me before this morning?” She put her hand over her mouth, sorry she had questioned him.

  The colonel shifted uncomfortably on his seat. “I…I was not sure you had correctly interpreted what happened. It did not seem a likely story. You would not have believed it, either, n’est-ce pas?”

  Hélène turned her glass toward Fourbier, who pursed his lips at his colonel’s words. “I thought Fourbier believed me, at least.”

  Fourbier shrugged. “I thought you were truthful, Mademoiselle. Very upset. Not hysterical…”

  “Hysterical?” Tears sprang to her eyes. “I am never hysterical. I haven’t based decisions on hysteria since I was ten.”

  She still cringed when she thought about the year her parents died and how she had tried to run away from her aunt and uncle’s house to go home. They had found her two streets away and told her someone else owned her house and the money had gone to pay her parents’ debts. Just thinking about that time made her feel a little hysterical, to tell the truth.

  The colonel stared at Fourbier, his eyebrows raised.

  “Désolé, Monsieur,” said Fourbier, bowing his head. “I did not mean to let her know you thought her…” He threw up his hands. “Ah, merde.”

  Hélène swung her monocle toward the colonel. “You thought me hysterical?” Her voice wobbled.

  He frowned as his eyes darted away from her. “You seemed levelheaded when I spoke with you. I assumed you had misinterpreted the fire and breaking windows and so on.”

  “And the dead cat?” she demanded.

  “Dead cat?” he asked with a scowl.

  “The cat that died of…” She glanced at Ondine, whose lower lip trembled, either because they were arguing or thinking of her missing cat. “P-O-I-S-O-N. My uncle said it was the smoke.”

  The colonel’s face cleared. “Oh, yes. I thought it the weakest link in the story. No, the wind
ow breaking was weaker. Without having seen it myself…”

  Hélène dropped her eyeglass to her lap and looked out the window at the grayness of the wet morning. She took a deep breath and clenched her hands together to keep them from shaking. “So why did you take us with you to the siege? Especially after telling me at Dole it was too dangerous?”

  When the silence stretched on, she lifted her lorgnette to see Fourbier smirking. De Cantière looked terribly uncomfortable. “I am not sure myself.”

  He didn’t seem like the type to make such a decision based on a whim.

  He rolled his shoulders. “I…well, I wasn’t sure there was a threat, but…” He sighed. “D’accord. I hadn’t realized how much I missed Ondine. I had only your letters about her, as her grandparents did not write me except asking for money for her. I hadn’t seen her in a year. When I saw her in Auxonne, I realized she had changed a great deal, and it…” He swallowed. “I did not like that she didn’t know me.”

  Hélène sighed at this powerful man, brought low by his tiny daughter.

  He looked directly at Hélène, straight into her lorgnette. She was suddenly very conscious of how silly her face looked with the one, giant eye, how Amandine had laughed every time she used the lorgnette in public.

  She started to lower it, but the colonel brought the glass back up to her eye. His hand was warmer than hers, even through their gloves. “I also thought you were…you were much more interesting than I had known. I enjoyed your letters because they were about Ondine, but I had not thought much about you, I am sorry to say.”

  She blushed hotly. He released her hand, and she looked away, first at Fourbier, who stared out the window with a frown, and then at Charlotte, who gaped at her. Ondine bounced on her knees on the seat, humming a song, bored with the conversation.

  Hélène was not sure if she should be offended the colonel had never thought much about her or flattered he wanted to know more now. Possibly he only wanted to know more about her so he could decide about returning Ondine to her grandparents. She could not let that happen; surely she wasn’t imagining the danger.

  ****

  They arrived in Dijon a little after midday and went straight to Madame Pinard’s boarding house near the center of the city.

  Jean-Louis was silent for the last hour of the trip, after the humiliating, too revealing conversation about hysteria and being intrigued by Mademoiselle Hélène. Once the coachman and groom had decided there was no threat in view, they descended on a surprised Widow Pinard, who embraced Hélène warmly amidst sharp questions.

  They were hardly inside the door when Madame Pinard, at least forty and not terribly rich but with the upright bearing of an officer, said, “I have heard from your aunt and uncle Ferand. They are most displeased with you. You did not say in your letter you left without their permission. I got a letter from them yesterday. They are writing to everyone who knows you, trying to find if anyone has seen you. They know we correspond regularly, after all. I have not written back yet, but be sure I will.”

  “Please, Nonni,” said Hélène. “Do not write back, or let the colonel help you decide what to write. We have had a most upsetting morning.”

  “You knew Madame Pinard before coming here?” asked Jean-Louis, frowning. He had misunderstood the relationship. “Then how…”

  “Nonni was our governess, mine and Amandine’s. Surely Amandine mentioned her,” said Mademoiselle Hélène.

  Madame Pinard huffed a laugh. “I would be very surprised if she did, except to complain about reading, complain about calligraphy, complain about everything but dancing. Complain about that, too, I suppose.” She looked abashed. “Je suis désolée, Monsieur. I am sorry. I should not speak of your late wife in such a way.”

  He stared at her for a moment, cold settling in his chest at the thought of his late wife. “I cannot remember if Amandine spoke of her governess. It is I who am sorry, Madame, for not understanding your relationship with Mademoiselle Hélène.”

  He turned to Mademoiselle Hélène. “You cannot stay here. The threat has followed you already into an army camp. If they know you at all, they will look for you here.”

  “Threat? Has something else happened, then?” asked Madame Pinard, her hand to her heart.

  Mademoiselle Hélène explained the events of the night, leaving out a great deal of the danger and, more tellingly, her own heroics in slashing through the tents to save the girls.

  While she spoke, Jean-Louis went to the window and glared at the few passersby. He had to find an alternate plan, quickly. He couldn’t leave them here. He knew it when he left the camp, it was true, but he hadn’t figured out how he would send them to his property in Poitou. He didn’t feel safe sending them without him.

  He waved at Fourbier, who stood in the hall. “Fetch me my writing desk.”

  He would send Mademoiselle Hélène and Ondine to his sister’s husband, who was visiting his own property in Poitou. Dominique de Bures would take charge of them, and his sister Aurore would make them at home. It was only the journey he was worried about. It would take a week or more. Perhaps if he sent Fourbier and the groom with Hélène…

  And with Ondine, of course.

  Fourbier set the traveling desk on a small table and fetched a chair.

  “Monsieur le Colonel,” said Hélène from where she sat with the distraught Madame Pinard. “Where should we go?”

  “I will send you on to Poitou. My sister and brother-in-law are there. I must…” He stared at her for a long time, lost in thought.

  Really, the army only still needed him in Franche-Comté to supervise the troops during the occupation, which would likely be brief and pointless. He hated pointless. The area would be traded back to Spain. The pawn had advanced across the board and would be traded for a more important piece.

  He loved strategy, the fire of the battlefield, and men moving as he directed them. He mourned each life lost—most of them, anyway, although not so much the hardened criminals whom he wished he could keep in cages—but never in the heat of battle. He was a master chess player. Someday he would supervise the entire battle, plan it from start to end, triumph with as little blood spilled as possible. He hoped the battle would mean something, bring a lasting peace or at least an important territory.

  He blinked and returned to the present. The two ladies looked at him expectantly. He realized he had not finished his sentence. “Désolé, Mesdames. I am more fatigued than I realized and am thinking of too many things at once.”

  He took out his pen and ink and tapped at the edges of the paper, lining up the small stack. He wrote, “Ma chère soeur, mon cher frère,” and then sat back in his chair.

  It wasn’t like him to waste time in thought. He knew his mind. Usually.

  Asking his family for help was worse than asking anyone else. He had worked hard to escape from Cédric’s shadow, to be better and stronger than his fun-loving older brother and his best friend, Dominique. Maybe he was too serious because it made him different from them. Cédric had been born happy and friendly, the reflection of their father the baron, sharing his booming laugh. He loved being around people and talking. Even as a child, Jean-Louis had wanted to be alone to think.

  But this wasn’t getting his letter written.

  Why could he not think of the words he needed? He didn’t know how to go forward. He got up and strode to the window again, only vaguely aware of the others. He stayed back a few feet, trying to remain indistinct to anyone looking in. He glanced at the houses across the narrow street. There were shadows of people behind two windows, but all was quiet. He leaned forward to see the upper stories through the thick, warped glass. The window exploded around him and a bang echoed up and down the street. He staggered back, sitting hard on the shard-covered floor.

  “Down! Get down!” he shouted over Ondine and Charlotte’s screams.

  Mademoiselle Hélène slid off the high divan, pulling the widow with her. Ondine was already on the floor, where she’d been p
laying with some sticks. She stood up. He shouted, “Stay there, Ondine! Don’t move!”

  The little girl was already running across the room to Mademoiselle Hélène.

  Years of ducking below parapets and low walls served Jean-Louis well. He shook glass from his clothing as he scrambled, doubled over. He grabbed Ondine and carried her to the door, which banged open on a white-faced Fourbier. He shoved Ondine into Fourbier’s arms. “Check her for glass. Close all the curtains.”

  He turned back to the ladies, who crouched awkwardly amidst long skirts and shards of glass. He yanked the curtains closed over the broken window, but remained bent down as he walked to them.

  “I will help you first, Madame Pinard. Take my arm. Bend down as much as you can.”

  The lady stumbled across the room, clutching the front of her dress and shawl, her face horribly pale.

  “I’ll be right back, Hélène. Stay still,” he said.

  He left Madame Pinard in the hall on a chair and stepped back into the room just as there was another bang, another shattering of glass, and curtains swung inward, with a hole suddenly torn in them.

  He raced across the room and lifted Hélène, much as he had on the night of the fire, and carried her out.

  Once in the dark hallway, he set her down and removed his gloves to use them to brush shards of glass from her.

  He said, “The shots couldn’t have been more than a minute apart, which means he has more than one rifled musket, though why he didn’t take both shots within seconds, I do not know. Maybe he was waiting for a clear shot on the second one and got frustrated.” He eyed the shards of glass on the wooden floor of the hall.

  Mademoiselle Hélène’s hands gripped his arm, making him fumble his gloves. “They were shooting at you,” she said in a squeaky voice. “They couldn’t have mistaken you for Ondine.”