The Honorable Officer

by Philippa Lodge

  He did not know if he would have been able to keep his hands off Hélène’s lush breasts if she had been in his bed. Relieving his aching erection alone would have felt like cheating.

  After dinner, Jean-Louis retired to Dom’s library to write some letters. He walked in on Aurore, seated on a hard, little chair, leaning her elbows on her knees, pale-faced and panting.

  “Mon dieu!” Jean-Louis’ heart accelerated in panic. “What is it? Are you all right? Is it the baby?”

  He carried her to the short chaise longue and laid her on her side. When he rose, saying, “I shall get Dominique for you,” she clutched at his hand and told him no.

  “But if you are…if he…” stammered Jean-Louis.

  “It is only a bad twinge,” said Aurore, swallowing convulsively, her face still pale and her brown eyes huge and filled with tears.

  “You will not travel with us tomorrow,” said Jean-Louis.

  “I will,” she said. “It is only a twinge. Everything is fine. The baby is moving even now, see?”

  She held Jean-Louis’ hand to her belly, and he snatched it away, shocked by the intimacy of the gesture.

  “Have you never touched a pregnant belly, Jean-Louis?” she asked, a teasing light returning to her eyes.

  “I was away for most of Amandine’s pregnancy, and she would not have wanted me to, anyway. Ondine was born while I was in Perpignan.”

  “And the boy?” asked Aurore. “Wasn’t he born just a few months after you came north to help us?”

  Jean-Louis stood abruptly and walked to the window. His stomach churned as he contemplated what to say. “We argued.”

  Aurore was silent for a moment, then gasped. He turned back, expecting her to be doubled over in pain again. She wasn’t. She instead stared at him with wide eyes. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, pushing down the anger and shame.

  “You should have said something,” Aurore said, taking a lacy handkerchief from her pocket and dabbing at her eyes.

  More than asking for help, more than feeling weak, Jean-Louis hated pity. He turned back to the window.

  “Was it Ménine’s baby?” Aurore asked.

  Jean-Louis feared his heart would break right in his chest. He cleared his throat. “She thought it was.”

  “Oh,” sighed Aurore. She sniffed and spoke more bitterly. “To think I was kind to her when our paths crossed. If I had known…”

  There was a long silence. Jean-Louis was trying to not think of his late wife’s ugly laugh when she told him she was going to claim the baby died and have it spirited away so Jean-Louis could not claim it. Then she pretended contemplation as she said no, perhaps she would have the child raised alongside Ondine. Surely Hélène would be happy to have two babies to waste her life on.

  Hélène. Just her name eased his heart.

  He turned back to Aurore, who was still dabbing her eyes. “So it is three of the five de Cantière children who have been unhappy in love.”

  Aurore looked up at him, startled. She narrowed her eyes and counted silently on her fingers.

  “I still wish I had hit Dominique at least once for how he treated you. I was close to calling him out when…” He stopped himself. He was not going to tell his sister of seeing her husband leading a rather notorious lady off to bed.

  Aurore sighed. “I am glad you didn’t. He did come back to me, after all.”

  Jean-Louis snorted slightly, not really able to laugh. “I would have ended in prison or worse.”

  She smiled, her eyes dancing though still watery with tears. “Or he would have killed you.”

  “No, he knew what he was doing was wrong. And I am much better with swords.”

  She smiled, and he smiled fondly back. “I am glad you did not call him out, but you should have run Ménine through.”

  “So bloodthirsty, my pretty little wife,” said Dominique from the doorway.

  Jean-Louis turned to see him grinning. He hadn’t heard much of their conversation.

  He noticed Aurore’s wet eyes, pallor, and that she was half-reclining, because his face went cold. “Aurore, are you all right?” Dom strode to her side and dropped to one knee next to the chaise.

  “Only a twinge.” She caressed his cheek. “Jean-Louis is overprotective.”

  “She was doubled over in pain. She is only now regaining her color,” said Jean-Louis.

  Dominique looked panicked. “There are still four months. We should go to… No, we must not travel. Is there a midwife in the village? A surgeon in Poitiers?”

  Aurore raised her other hand and set it on her husband’s other cheek. “We shall return to Paris tomorrow with everyone else.”

  “No, you will stay here,” said Jean-Louis. “I hate to divide the guards between us, but I will not risk you and your baby.”

  “Dom should go with you,” said Aurore.

  “I will not leave you, Aurore,” said Dominique. “I am sorry, Jean-Louis, but either you stay for a few days until we know Aurore is well, or you go without me. I also hate to split the guards, but Aurore will not travel until a midwife sees her. Even then, we will travel by slow stages.”

  “And we will move on, draw the threat away,” said Jean-Louis. “We need to get to Paris and discover who is behind this. I need to get back to the army.” He had spent weeks now trying to ignore the gathering doom of his supposed desertion.

  “Travel hard and fast, then,” said Dom, his eyes still on his wife. “With fewer guards and everyone healthy, it will be best. The roads are nearly dry, though there is no guarantee it won’t rain or snow.”

  Jean-Louis watched Dom and Aurore as they touched each other gently, reassuring and seeking reassurance. He was glad he had never called Dom out. He felt his eyes tear up again and had the urge to find Hélène. He slipped out of the library and quietly shut the door, only to turn and nearly run into her in the hall. She stepped back, blushing deeply and dropping her eyeglass to the end of its ribbon.

  Overwhelmed with desire, Jean-Louis stepped forward and kissed his wife’s still-open mouth, pulling her against his body, which begged for her attention. He pressed her against the wall, flattening her skirts against her as he held her in place with his hips. She clung to his neck and gave a little noise of surprise before she relaxed and moved her tongue tentatively against his.

  He pressed his erection insistently against her, then remembered her menses and stepped back abruptly.

  She lost her balance and clung more tightly to his neck. “Did I hurt you?” He eased himself away from her, letting his coat hang along his front.

  She looked angry for a moment, he thought, then looked sad. “No.” She brushed her hands down the front of her dress, molding the fabric more closely to her legs.

  He very nearly told her how much he wanted her, but his first wife had used his desire to try to destroy him. Every bit of desire disappeared at the thought of Amandine.

  Jean-Louis bowed sharply to his new wife and strode away.

  “Jean-Louis,” she called after him, her voice so soft he could pretend he hadn’t heard.

  He went and found his brothers and his aide-de-camp to tell them of the change in plans. Only when deep in conference with Fourbier and his coachman and groom did he realize he hadn’t thought to tell Hélène not to go into the library.

  ****

  Hélène was frustrated. Jean-Louis had kissed her senseless in the hallway before walking off stiffly, as if angry. Since Ondine had been much happier on Sunday, Hélène had hoped to sleep in her husband’s bed. She delayed getting into her own bed, expecting at every moment to hear his tap at the door. Eventually she got in with Ondine and fell asleep, still waiting.

  They were on the road before dawn on Monday, moving quickly with frequent changes, Jean-Louis and his brothers riding alongside the guards and grooms on horseback, everyone armed and alert.

  At noon, it was Henri who helped her down and offered his arm to her, leaving Emmanuel to swing Ondine down awkwardly and carry her into the inn,
both of them staring as if the other were a strange species. Jean-Louis asked if she was well, and then gobbled his food and went to talk to Fourbier, who was keeping an eye on the carriages.

  Throughout the afternoon, the gentlemen took turns riding in the carriage with Hélène, Ondine, and Charlotte. Jean-Louis spent his turn writing letters, Henri stared out the window, and Emmanuel answered in monosyllables, shifted uncomfortably in the seat, and took a nap. At least Fourbier conversed with her and entertained Ondine, though he seemed pensive.

  Hélène wished for Aurore’s company or for more lively conversation with her new husband, who seemed cross, even with Ondine, who again regarded him warily.

  They kept going well after dark, until finally Hélène heard Jean-Louis call a halt. He handed her down from the carriage himself. When her legs wobbled from fatigue, he cursed and carried her into the inn. Fourbier and an innkeeper led them up to their room as soon as Jean-Louis set foot in the door. He set her on the edge of the bed and kissed her forehead before disappearing. Henri appeared a moment later with Ondine in his arms and Charlotte trailing behind.

  Hélène and Charlotte got Ondine ready for bed, then helped each other with their dresses and climbed into the small bed, where they shivered between the cold, rough sheets.

  A quiet knock sounded, and Hélène went to the door, fumbling in the darkness.

  “Who’s there?” she asked.

  “Jean-Louis,” was the answer. She opened the door a crack and peered out, hoping he had come to invite her to his room. Instead, he held out a small box.

  “I’m sorry. I meant to give you these this morning,” he said. “A courier came early, and I shoved these and my letters into my traveling bag.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Open the box,” he ordered. Then he smiled.

  Her heart stuttered, as it always did when he smiled. She blushed and took the box from him. She had to stuff the lorgnette into the pocket of her robe to untie the pretty ribbon, so she had only a dim impression of a glint of glass in the box.

  “Put them on,” he said.

  She fumbled in the box and discovered it was eyeglasses—two pieces of glass with thick frames and wooden rods to pass over her ears. He held the box as she took the new glasses out and slipped them on. She blinked as everything came into focus, then lurched back as Jean-Louis stepped forward. He froze. “Excusez-moi. Did I startle you?”

  She felt lightheaded, even slightly dizzy as everything curved and wavered when she turned her head. She stumbled, but he grabbed her arm. The box thumped to the floor.

  “Are you well?” he asked.

  “They are… Oh! I will have to get used to them. I have not seen from both eyes at once since before I was ten.” She found herself laughing in spite of the strain of the day.

  He sighed, so she looked up at his face. The movement almost made her fall over backwards. She giggled as his other hand caught her. “I feel as though I’ve had too much wine.”

  He frowned down at her, and she sobered. She probably looked ridiculous. She probably looked like a giant insect. “I shall have to try them tomorrow, when there’s more light,” she said, lifting her hand to take them off.

  He gripped her hand and kissed her fiercely. He stopped too soon, though. “You are very beautiful when you laugh,” he said in a low voice. He kissed her hand and walked away.

  Just a few steps down the hall, he turned back. “Is there a lock on your door? I did not hear you unlock it.”

  She looked at the latch. “Non, Monsieur.”

  “Put a chair against the door,” he said, his brow wrinkling, maybe because she had called him Monsieur. “We have rooms on either side of yours, so if there is any trouble, cry out loudly and we will come.”

  “Bonne nuit, Jean-Louis.” She smiled at him.

  His face relaxed into a soft smile, and he bowed slightly to her.

  She stumbled around in the dark, trying to remember where the chairs were. She tripped over one, failing to be quiet, then dragged it to the door.

  She removed her robe and climbed back into the bed, curling around Ondine, hoping to not wake her but needing to warm herself with the girl’s heat.

  “Col-ell Papa va bien?” Ondine’s voice was sleepy.

  “Oui, chérie. Everything’s all right,” said Hélène, only then realizing she was still wearing her new eyeglasses. She removed them and waved her hand around until she found the table next to the bed. She wished she could see them in the dark. She didn’t suppose there was a decent mirror in the inn. She wondered if she looked as silly as she felt with dim images curving and swooping into her eyes. But Jean-Louis had said she was beautiful—very beautiful—when she laughed. It made her want to laugh more.

  ****

  The rest of the journey was equally frustrating to Jean-Louis. By starting early every morning and traveling late when the weather was good, they were in la Brosse in only five days.

  Emmanuel had become moodier as they went and Henri more waspish. Fourbier had circles under his eyes and still walked oddly but was riding much better, and voluntarily. Jean-Louis kept finding him and Henri arguing in whispers. They would jump apart and glare at him and each other.

  They pulled into the drive of their childhood home, the country estate of the Baron de la Brosse, Jean-Louis hoping against all hope his mother was not at home and his father was. The servant who opened the door, apparently having heard the commotion, said neither of his parents were there, but his eldest brother had arrived a few days before.

  “Excellent,” said Henri. “Tell the heir that the spares are all here.”

  Jean-Louis felt a twinge of guilt. In addition to his careful saving and investing of the rewards and ransoms he had received from wars, he was set to inherit the property in Poitou, cutting out his younger brothers. Perhaps Emmanuel could still be an officer; if so, Jean-Louis hoped to train him, not sure if being his brother would be a help or a hindrance in training the grumpy boy. Unless Henri found a lucrative career where his honesty and sharp wit were appreciated more than they had been in the Treasury offices—a career in which his homosexuality would not be counted against him—he would be dependent on the family forever. Jean-Louis was prepared to hire Henri to manage his estate, but that would probably embitter Henri even more.

  Cédric bustled out, a huge grin lighting up his face and his arms open wide. Emmanuel was closest, so Cédric rather ruthlessly tugged him into a hug and kissed his cheeks, then said something to make the boy laugh and blush. He turned to Henri and pounded his back, making Henri wince. He came to Jean-Louis next, where he was standing next to the carriage, about to open the door, and hugged him hard.

  “Well, petit frère?” Cédric said with a laugh. “How goes the adventure? And see? Asking for help has not yet killed you. Have Aurore and Dom gone on to the château? And what about your daughter? And Mademoiselle de Bonnefoi?”

  Unable to answer so many questions after a week of travel, Jean-Louis opened the carriage door and held his arms up to Ondine. He kissed her on the cheek and handed her to Cédric, who took her, grinning.

  “You are so big, my little niece! I am your Tonton Cédric, in case you do not remember me. It has been a very long time, hasn’t it? Welcome!”

  Ondine regarded him with her huge, blue eyes for several seconds before kissing him on the cheek. Cédric chuckled happily and swung her to his hip.

  Jean-Louis reached up and helped Hélène out. She squinted at the steps, still adjusting to her eyeglasses. She stumbled as Cédric laughed and held out his hand to steady her.

  “You have brought her! Excellent!” he said.

  Jean-Louis squeezed Hélène’s hand. “I have married her.”

  “Ah? Oh?” said Cédric, awestruck for about two seconds. “Papa will be sorry to have missed it. Bon Dieu! I am sorry to have missed it! Do tell me, Mademoiselle—no! Madame de Cantière! Do tell me how my brother is treating you.”

  Hélène blushed prettily as she l
ooked at Jean-Louis, whose heart beat fast. “He has been very kind,” she said softly. “He had Fourbier commission these glasses.”

  “I was not going to comment on them, Madame. May I call you Hélène?” Cédric said, bowing over Hélène’s hand. “You are my sister now. Ah! Where is Aurore? You did not answer, Jean-Louis.”

  “Still in Poitou,” said Hélène, speaking softly yet. “She was having pains, and no one wanted her to travel.”

  “Except her, of course,” added Jean-Louis.

  “Oh, dear,” said Cédric, a cloud of worry passing over his face. They had all pitied Aurore her many miscarriages and the baby who died at birth. Cédric perhaps felt it most deeply, as he considered himself the protector of the whole family and Dom was his closest friend.

  He soon smiled again, though, and held his elbow out to Hélène. He shifted Ondine on his hip with ease that came from carrying his own children everywhere, and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. Ondine giggled and launched into some story about a dog, to which Cédric replied, though he surely did not understand Ondine’s chatter more than anyone else. Or perhaps he did. Jean-Louis had a guilty twinge—he was fairly sure Cédric listened more closely to children than he did.

  Jean-Louis watched his wife go in, anticipating the night. Surely her menses were over? Finally, they were in a place where they would be safe. He shook his head and wondered if this house was safer than any other house. He hoped his father had gathered more information from Hélène’s aunt and uncle. He felt as if he were starting to see the whole chessboard but wasn’t quite sure where his opponent’s queen and castles were lurking.

  Fourbier cleared his throat at Jean-Louis’ side. “Monsieur le Colonel, I will oversee the unloading.”

  “Merci, Fourbier.” He strode toward the house.

  After greeting Cédric’s wife, Sandrine, and seeing their four boys in the nursery, they left Ondine to order them around and Charlotte and the boys’ nursemaid to supervise while the adults had dinner.

  Hélène sat next to Jean-Louis, and he amused himself by touching her hand to make her blush. She wore her blue wedding dress and her heavy eyeglasses. He enjoyed watching her face light up as she looked around the room or watched servants entering with platters. She would stop eating every so often to stare at something or someone.