The Honorable Officer

by Philippa Lodge

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  He ran his hand over her hip and onto her stomach, moving her back more firmly against his front. He shivered at the pleasure of touching. This was what he had missed for years. This was what he’d had with Amandine for only a short time before she insisted on separate bedrooms. Then he was transferred hundreds of miles away with no warning. When he visited—because she never traveled to see him—she was passionate in bed, but shoved him away as soon as they were both satisfied.

  Here, with his sweet, soft Hélène, was more than what he’d had with Amandine. His first wife had never loved him. Hélène looked at him like he was a hero, and though he knew he was not, he wanted to be one for her. He wanted her to worship him, to be true to him. He was never going to share her. Not that he had wanted to share Amandine. By the time he found out she had a lover, his heart was already hardened against her, bruised but not broken. Hélène would not break his heart.

  No, he would never fall in love with her, so she would not be able to break his heart. Just in case she ever wanted to. But she would be faithful only to him. She was loyal to a fault. She would be the mother to all his children.

  Hélène was asleep, her body relaxed against his, her breathing slow and regular.

  He settled against her further, sliding his arm under her head. He scooted his hips back as his body reacted again. Jean-Louis wondered sleepily if she would scream if he tried. She would probably let him take her again, whimpering in pain and fear, but he would feel even more guilty than he already did.

  He finally fell asleep, thinking of how many more nights he would have with her before he had to go back to his command. If he had a command to go back to. He was too tired to worry about his future in the army.

  ****

  Hélène awoke, far too hot and sweaty. She tried to roll over and was stopped by a large, naked body instead of a tiny, clothed one, which jolted her awake immediately. Mon Dieu, I am naked!

  She clutched the sheet to her chin and squinted at her husband. Jean-Louis was snoring, his head tilted back too far to be comfortable. She thought of tipping his head forward or making him roll to his side, the way she did with Charlotte, but she was too embarrassed to talk to him if she accidentally woke him up.

  She smiled, warm and content. Her private places ached terribly, and she remembered the stark pain and fear of the night before. She wondered if it was normal to feel sticky down there. She lifted the sheet to look and found a small patch of blood. She hoped the servants had put down something to absorb blood so it hadn’t ruined the feathers in the thin down mattress which rested on top of a more prosaic wool-packed mattress. Once, when she was fourteen, she had started her menses in the night and her aunt had made her take all the feathers out of her mattress and sort them and scrub the stains out of the ticking. She had been very careful since then.

  She slipped out of the bed, then stumbled around until she found her nightdress. She pulled it on before going to the washstand and rinsing her nether regions with cold water. Someone had already been in to stoke up the fire, and once she found her lorgnette, she realized there was also a pitcher of warm water by the fire.

  “Bonjour, ma belle,” said Jean-Louis from the bed, his voice husky and deep.

  She whirled around and looked at him through her glass. He was disoriented and goggle-eyed, and she stepped closer to him to pat his hand where it rested on the blankets. He held on to her and sat up while pulling her down to kiss her gently. The sheets slipped down to show his strong chest, covered with hair darker than the blond of his head. She looked down to where his belly disappeared under the covers before he said, “Here is the rest,” and sat up further, shoving the covers down to the tops of his thighs.

  She put her free hand over her mouth at the sight of his… his… What was it called? His penis—she knew the word, but there had to be a nicer way to refer to it. It was sticking up from his body, and he chuckled again. She turned away, blushing in confusion.

  Before she knew it, he was standing behind her, kissing the back of her neck.

  “One of the things I love about you,” he said, “is that you are innocent.”

  She blushed and looked down toward her feet, shoving her lorgnette into her pocket. “Ignorant,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “Ignorant. I am almost twenty-four, and this was… Why did my aunt and uncle not want me to marry?”

  He strode to the fireplace and picked up the pitcher of warm water, then poured some into the washbasin and scrubbed his face. She had the urge to pull the lorgnette from her pocket to look at his back and his…buttocks. There was surely a nicer word for those, too, and not the cute ones she used with Ondine. She resisted the urge, though, and he turned toward her again. She turned away because she couldn’t look at his…front…again.

  “I am not awake enough to tell you everything I think of your aunt and uncle,” he said harshly.

  She sighed. They had been her only family for so long. She wanted to defend them, but the more she was away from them, the less she could.

  He was suddenly in front of her, his…penis still sticking out. He lifted her head and kissed her gently on the lips. “I hope you will forget everything they ever told you,” he said softly, “and listen only to me.”

  “They did say nice things sometimes,” she said. “And they kept our governess, who is now the widow Pinard, even though Amandine disliked her. Their judgment isn’t completely wrong.”

  “They spoiled Amandine and were cruel to you.” He turned around to search for his drawers and shirt, which were no longer where he had dropped them on the floor, just as her nightclothes had been draped over a chair.

  She nodded, but since he had his back turned, she cleared her throat and said, “Yes.”

  “And they told you lies about your vision and your lorgnette. And about your looks. And they dressed you badly, while spending a vast fortune on silks for your cousin. And…” He paused. “No, I shouldn’t say anything without proof.”

  “What is it?” she asked, frightened.

  “I think—well, Dom agrees—they must have taken your inheritance when your parents died.”

  Her mouth gaped. She nearly defended them, unable to believe her own family would… Finally she said, “My parents had a lot of debts.”

  “Yes, but the company—your mother inherited a third, didn’t she? You should have been earning income equal to theirs.”

  Lifting her lorgnette to her eye again, she said, “I think they sold my parents’ share of the company when they sold the house I grew up in. They told me about the house, so I assumed they sold my parents’ part of the business, too.”

  Jean-Louis shook his head as he pulled on his robe. “Sold it to whom? Are there other investors than the Ferands and the Ménines?”

  Hélène sighed, thinking about her years and years as the poor relation, constantly reminded she was there only out of charity. She had tried to make herself useful, of course. When Ondine was born and she had someone to care for, she was truly useful. She was also already half in love with Jean-Louis, as she had been since they first met. If she could gain his approval by caring for his baby, she would. Even after Amandine’s death, she never thought she would be here, married to him. She held her breath to hold back panic. Married!

  Jean-Louis stepped in front of her and put his hands under her elbows. She lifted her face to look at him and he kissed her forehead, bumping his jaw against her lorgnette. She put her hands around his neck as he kissed her lips.

  She was weak in the knees, but his arms held her tight.

  She could feel the hard part of him pressed against her again, and he stepped back quickly. “Tonight, mon âme, we will explore each other with candles lit.”

  She blushed so hard her whole head was hot and her ears buzzed. Yet her stomach churned. It had hurt so much. And her courses had started. Unless the blood was just from her virginity. And she didn’t dare mention the blood.

&n
bsp; “I heard a thump and whispering in the hall. I am sure Ondine is awake,” Hélène said.

  He kissed her again, putting lingering kisses on the corners of her mouth.

  “I could do this all day,” Hélène admitted.

  Jean-Louis stepped back, smiling. “Go, chérie. Get clean and dressed, and I will meet you downstairs for something to eat with my…our daughter.”

  She sighed happily. She had a daughter now.

  ****

  By midday, Jean-Louis was frustrated. His wife had been struck dumb. It was sweet to see her blush, but he wished she would show a little more interest in him and not slip out of any room he entered.

  Just after midday, though, their plans again changed suddenly and her innocence was the least of his worries. A guard called out that riders were approaching, then that they were friendly.

  Jean-Louis stood on the front steps of Dom’s manor house as Henri and Emmanuel swung down gracefully from their horses. Fourbier eased himself down, his face expressing all the words he would not utter with ladies present. He staggered to the door and bowed slightly.

  “Jamais,” Fourbier muttered. “Jamais encore. Never again. I could hardly walk this morning, and they talked me into riding back.”

  Henri and Emmanuel exchanged sly grins, and Jean-Louis scowled at them.

  “He rides quite well,” said Henri, “for someone with no experience.”

  Fourbier bowed to him and staggered bow-legged into the house with as much dignity as he could muster. Jean-Louis knew he could arrange his own hot bath.

  Turning to his brothers, he decided not to say what he was thinking about their mockery of his most faithful servant. Henri’s eyes still lingered on the door, though Fourbier had slammed it. “What did you find? Who hired these men?”

  “The one they caught escaped,” said Henri, dragging his eyes from the house to Jean-Louis’ face, pursing his lips sourly. “Two other men came and set a fire at the back of the inn where he was held. They have no other plan, it appears, but fire. The innkeeper got everyone out, and the man disappeared in the chaos. All we learned was that he used to be a soldier and did not know who hired them. He only knew another of the men—whose name he would not give—received letters and wrote letters and they were to kill or capture the blonde lady and the little girl.”

  Jean-Louis gritted his teeth against a wave of nausea. His wife. His daughter. “And where would they take them if they captured them?”

  “To Paris. There was a house in Paris where they would go to hand them over,” said Emmanuel.

  “And get paid,” said Henri.

  “So they were wealthy enough to have horses and carriages and inns for several weeks, in anticipation of being paid?” said Jean-Louis.

  Emmanuel shrugged, but Henri said, “I hypothesized that there was someone with deep pockets in Dijon who gave them a good deal of coin to follow you. The man agreed, though he never held the purse, never knew how much was in it. But after they lost you, it only took them a few days to find your trail, and from there, red-haired Protestants in Catholic villages were easy to spot.”

  Jean-Louis said a word he would never say around women.

  “Come in and make the report to Dom, and we will decide what to do next,” said Jean-Louis.

  “Merci, notre frère, for inviting us in from the cold,” said Henri sarcastically.

  Jean-Louis clapped him on the shoulder and did the same for Emmanuel. “Merci, mes frères.”

  “It is nothing, mon frère,” said Henri, smirking.

  Feeling a slight stinging in his eyes—he was not going to cry, was he?—Jean-Louis could not let it go, and he said, “No, it is everything.”

  Henri’s face became serious, and he squeezed Jean-Louis’ arm for a moment before going into the house. Emmanuel was obviously embarrassed by the exchange, and Jean-Louis patted him on the shoulder again, marveling at how his youngest brother was nearly as tall as he was.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Take the lace from my waistcoat, Fourbier. The ribbons from the sleeves of the coat. Hélène will appreciate them more than I do.”

  Fourbier didn’t bother to sigh dramatically. He chose instead to ignore the colonel, who had burst into the bedchamber to demand his maps and then paced as Fourbier set down the bodice he was taking in and embellishing for Madame de Cantière to fetch the maps from the small coffer.

  It was only by chance that Fourbier was in the colonel’s room at all, since up until then he had done his sewing in the nursery. He shouldn’t have been sewing on a Sunday, and doing so still caused him a great deal of guilt. Even though he no longer followed his father’s strict Calvinism, he still thought he should take the day off.

  But he was seeking employment for his idle hands.

  He was hiding.

  After the first panicked hour on horseback the day before, riding had settled into a sort of low-grade terror, much like the feeling he had once an assault was well underway on a battlefield. How did anyone enjoy bouncing around high off the ground? Why had he agreed? Why had he not mentioned he didn’t like horses and had never ridden one?

  He knew why he had gone: Henri de Cantière. He wanted to impress the colonel’s handsome brother. His inadequacy on a horse had drawn the ire and impatience of Emmanuel, the snotty little boy, because they had taken two hours to make what could have been an hour’s ride. Henri rode next to Fourbier, giving him advice on his hands and his seat and laughing with his eyes, but not out loud, each time Fourbier almost fell off.

  Once at the colonel’s property, Henri steadied him as he swung down, holding him upright when his legs went out under him. In spite of the pain, something else inside Fourbier had burned even brighter at the feel of the strong arm pulling him against a muscular chest.

  “You aren’t going to swoon, are you?” Henri murmured, and Fourbier had very nearly done just that.

  Henri had taken the lead in questioning the captured arsonist, being large, intimidating, and cool-headed. Fourbier tried to copy his negligent sprawl, but every muscle in his legs and back was seizing up, so he had to walk around. Once in the colonel’s house, Fourbier swallowed his pride and begged for a liniment from Madame Grenier, the housekeeper. She had hardly smirked at all, which, considering their rivalry, surprised him. She smiled when he kissed her cheek after she came back with the little pot. Perhaps she had needed a way to care for him instead of taking orders from him.

  The ride back in the morning, after the arsonist had escaped, had been beyond torture—his sore muscles kept cramping, and the other men pushed on much faster than the day before. Emmanuel whined to be allowed to race ahead. Henri’s jaw was tight and his words few.

  Fourbier was glad to have some of the liniment left when they arrived at the Dumouton estate.

  After the colonel strode out, clutching the maps, Fourbier sat delicately on the edge of a chair and picked up the bodice. He couldn’t even sit cross-legged, tailor-fashion, without great discomfort.

  Not five minutes later, someone tapped at the door. Fourbier called out, “Enter!” thinking it was a maid or a footman.

  Henri de Cantière slipped inside and closed the door softly.

  Every nerve in Fourbier’s body went on alert. He shot to his feet, staring down at the bodice unseeingly.

  Henri cleared his throat. “Are you well, Monsieur Fourbier?”

  Fourbier nodded. “Quite, thank you, Monsieur de Cantière. Trying to catch up on…tasks.” He waved his needle, feeling silly.

  “Are you sore? I hope you didn’t do yourself any harm.” Henri’s shoes appeared in Fourbier’s vision.

  “Nothing permanent. I am pleased to have a day of rest, to be honest.” His chuckle sounded like a wheeze.

  The silence was long and heavy. Fourbier rolled the needle between his fingers.

  Henri cleared his throat again. “I’m pleased to hear it, Monsieur Fourbier.” He walked away.

  Fourbier lifted his head to watch the man’s back the few ste
ps to the door. “Just Fourbier.”

  Henri paused, his hand on the latch. He didn’t turn back. “Pardon?”

  “Just Fourbier. I took just one name when I abandoned my old one. It is both first and last.”

  Henri glanced back over his shoulder, and Fourbier looked down at his work, feeling a blush rise.

  “Is that what your family and friends call you, then?”

  His stomach clenched. “I have no family or friends.” Except the colonel, who saw him as a tool when he didn’t see him as a burden.

  Henri narrowed his eyes. “You should call me Henri.”

  Fourbier nodded, his neck stiff. It’s what I’ve been calling you in my head, he thought. Presumptuous.

  Henri pulled the latch, and the door began to open. Fourbier lifted his head and admired the wide shoulders, not wanting Henri to go but not knowing what to say to make him stay.

  “You could call me Marcel,” he blurted out. No one called him Marcel anymore. He missed his sister and mother with a desperation that struck like a dagger.

  Henri turned back. Fourbier met the man’s hazel eyes, which considered him gravely for several breathless seconds. Henri nodded perfunctorily and turned to the open door, then back again to Fourbier. “I forgot to say, Marcel: my sister sent me up to fetch you. She doesn’t think Jean-Louis can plan a journey to Paris without you.”

  Henri smiled just slightly, and Fourbier’s heart eased.

  “I will be right down. Please tell the colonel and the comtesse…Henri.”

  When Henri’s smile broadened, Marcel barely held back tears.

  ****

  After making plans for their trip to la Brosse and then to Paris, Jean-Louis spent Sunday pacing, sometimes around the house, checking in with servants, guards, and grooms, who were on high alert, sometimes up and down the stairs, stopping in to see Ondine and Hélène wherever they went.

  Hélène, pale and embarrassed, had muttered the night before that her menses had started. He had invited her to share his bed anyway, but she opted to sleep with Ondine, who had been agitated all day.