The Honorable Officer

by Philippa Lodge

  Jean-Louis rose to his feet and walked to Bernard. “As it happens, one-third of the factory was always my wife’s.”

  “Your wife is dead. My Amandine…” said Bernard.

  “No, Bernard. I am his new wife,” said Hélène, holding her bodice closed. “And one-third of the manufactory was always mine, even though my uncle hid it from me.”

  “I only found that out a few months ago,” said Bernard, trying to roll over to his back. “And you are not married.”

  “We were married almost two weeks ago in Poitiers,” said Hélène, “but I never would have married you, even if we hadn’t been.”

  “I am sorry about that, Madame,” said the priest.

  He wiped his brow, seated on a chunky, armless chair, his rumpled, dusty black robes spread around him. “They told me you would say anything to get out of it. It wouldn’t have been the first time a girl tried to avoid the marriage arranged by her guardian.”

  Hélène scoffed. “Of course I would have said anything to get out of it. Bernard has always been cruel. And my guardians have been stealing from me ever since my parents died.”

  Her aunt and uncle protested from the other side of the room, but Henri stepped between them and her and crossed his arms.

  “Of course they have,” said Bernard, his tone sneering even as he lay on the floor. “Your uncle has terrible business sense. The company’s been gradually losing business ever since your father died. He rejects everything my father wants to change.”

  “Was your father drunk when he told you that?” demanded Hélène, surprising everyone, including herself with her bitter tone. “I doubt he’s been inside the factory in years.”

  Just then, a great many horses clattered into the street in front of the manufactory and, within moments, two men rushed in, swords in hand. When they saw everything was calm, they held up their hands to halt those behind them and sheathed their swords.

  The Baron de la Brosse, Jean-Louis’ father, stepped in after them, a jaunty grin on his face. “Ah, excellent! I thought you might have finished with the little problem by the time we got here, but I wanted to be sure.”

  Jean-Louis bowed before taking his father’s hands. “Thank you, Papa.”

  His father smiled broadly at him. “Now that was not so hard, was it? Asking for help and receiving it gracefully?”

  Fourbier finished lacing Hélène up and helped her stand. “You shouldn’t tease him, Beau-Papa,” she reproved.

  The baron grinned and took her hands. “And you, ma fille. I hope all is well with you? And where is my granddaughter?”

  “Manu has her outside,” said Hélène.

  “I’ll ask him to bring her in,” said Henri, bowing slightly.

  “Ask, not tell.” The baron’s eye twinkled with amusement. “What a polite brother our Henri has become.”

  Within a minute, Manu wove through the crowd of guards standing in clusters inside and outside the manufactory, clutching a bundle of cloaks and blankets. He shoved the bundle at Jean-Louis. “She has eaten all my biscuits and won’t stop asking for you two.”

  Jean-Louis lifted her, and a blanket slid away so Ondine’s arms could go around his neck. Hélène sighed at the sight of the two people she loved most together.

  “Oui, chérie,” Jean-Louis was whispering to his daughter who was babbling in his ear. “Everything’s all right now.”

  “Tata Nénène?” Ondine said, leaning back, making him bobble her slightly.

  “Right here, ma petite chérie,” said Hélène, reaching for her niece.

  “Maman Nénène now,” said Jean-Louis.

  Hélène held the girl close. Her daughter.

  ****

  Fourbier was sure no one else noticed that Henri didn’t return. He saw Henri outside, speaking earnestly to a large man, apparently a member of the Paris Guard. They were several yards from the other men, separated by the crowd of horses that blocked the street, their heads bent toward each other in a way that spoke of old acquaintance.

  Henri stood up straight suddenly, angry or offended. As he turned back toward the factory, the other man grasped his sleeve, pleading. Henri listened.

  Fourbier recognized the impassioned pleading of a lover when he saw it. The man was taller than Henri and his shoulders broad. My last lover was bigger and stronger than me, Henri had said.

  Fourbier wished for a view of the man’s face, though it was likely he was more handsome than a short, thin tailor, too. He strode into the factory and found a corner to sulk in. He knew the colonel and his wife and daughter might need him, but he couldn’t bring himself to worry about them, surrounded as they were by family and a dozen loyal servants.

  He glanced up from his boots as the Guard led Ménine and his thugs out. An old man, Ménine the elder, from the look of him, arrived and departed.

  Fourbier tried to think about the shine on his boots and how he needed new ones, really. But all he could think was that Henri had not returned. That man outside must be his old lover, or maybe another potential one, though that would be a coincidence, that his old lover and his prospective one were both Paris Guards. His old lover was also his possible future lover.

  “Tomorrow, Fourbier,” the colonel said next to him, jolting him to attention. “If you are still leaving my employ, I believe tomorrow will be the last day.”

  Fourbier nodded, gritting his teeth in silence.

  “In the meantime, could you make sure that the manufactory’s account books are delivered to my wife’s lawyer’s office? I shall be going over them at the first possible moment. I’ll need Henri for that.”

  The colonel took a few steps and signaled to Henri, who had just entered the factory, his expression stormy but determined.

  “Are you still taking Fourbier?” the colonel asked.

  Henri stared at him. Fourbier looked away, not able to meet his lover’s eyes, not when he didn’t know where he stood.

  The colonel scowled. “Was that Paul-Bénédicte? Your old valet?”

  Henri’s eyes narrowed. They all knew “valet” was a code word for lover.

  “Because if you are playing with Fourbier’s heart, Henri, I will not forgive it,” the colonel grumbled, cheekbones pink.

  Fourbier’s heart seized.

  Henri stepped back, his eyes darting from the colonel to Fourbier. He composed his face and raised an eyebrow.

  “I hoped to hire you to oversee the accounts and Fourbier to oversee the artistic side of things, here at the manufactory. I would want the two of you to be on amicable terms,” the colonel said.

  Henri’s gaze darted to Fourbier and then away. “I was amazed at how little it hurt to see Paul-Bénédicte.”

  “And Fourbier?” asked the colonel, standing up straighter and thrusting out his chin. After a year and a half, Fourbier knew his stance was bluster. “Not just for the factory, but because you are both my friends.”

  Henri considered him for a long time before glancing at Fourbier and saying, “We shall see what we shall see.” He walked away.

  Fourbier wished he could melt into the floor. Had he been rejected?

  The colonel turned toward him, his nose even higher.

  Fourbier shook his head. “I’ve made my intentions clear.”

  He bowed and exited as quickly as he could, waiting outside until the family was ready to leave and then riding with the coachman.

  ****

  The details of his brother’s affair were more than Jean-Louis wanted to know.

  He turned and saw Hélène, bedraggled and dirtied but sitting in a chair, holding his daughter—their daughter, as Ondine was more hers than his—and singing a song, his father standing beside them, smiling fatuously.

  He wanted Hélène fiercely and wondered how long it would be until Ondine had a nap and he could get his wife alone.

  “Come along; it is nearly noon,” he said, striding toward them.

  His father frowned. “I had a message this morning with an appointment for tomorro
w. Condé has come up to see the king, and we are to meet with them.”

  Jean-Louis was just as frightened and nauseous as he had been with each attempt at kidnap or murder. He had faced cannons and muskets and bellowing men with swords with more aplomb than he felt at this moment. He took a deep breath. “Thank you, Papa.”

  “I shall go with you, of course,” said Hélène.

  “No, it’s not necessary,” Jean-Louis said automatically.

  At Hélène’s sad expression, he closed his eyes. “Though I would like your support.”

  “You don’t think I would be a detriment? Because I am too awkward?” she asked, her eyes on the floor.

  “Of course not,” he said. “I was thinking only that I did not wish you to be uncomfortable. And I might embarrass myself.”

  His father laughed and clapped him on the back.

  Hélène smiled with relief, and he felt a wave of desire wash over him again.

  “Come along, my wife. Come along, my daughter,” he said, lifting Ondine from Hélène’s arms. “We shall go home.”

  ****

  It was only midday when everyone returned to the baron’s townhouse, elated, angry, giddy, thoughtful, celebratory, laughing, shouting, tearful, and many other words Fourbier could think of. The staff fed them a simple meal, but no one cared, declaring they would have a fine feast after the colonel met with the king the next day.

  Fourbier ate a few mouthfuls in the kitchen, then slipped upstairs and tidied the colonel’s bedchamber. He would take his old job back if Henri… He couldn’t think about it without wanting to cry.

  The door burst open, and he whirled to find the colonel and Madame de Cantière dragging each other into the room. They stopped short when they saw him, and Madame rushed to him, kissing his cheek and thanking him for everything.

  The colonel, though, shooed him out abruptly and turned back to his wife with a naughty smile. Fourbier had a moment to appreciate his colonel’s happiness before his own uncertainty overwhelmed him again. He closed the door with a soft click.

  As he turned to go, someone grabbed his upper arm. He spun to face his attacker and found Henri, his chin up and head back as far as the colonel’s had been.

  “Come.” Henri’s voice was rough.

  Fourbier couldn’t take his eyes from the man’s face as he tugged him into a room two doors along. Fourbier had barely glanced around when the door thumped closed and Henri pushed him back against it, crowding him, staring into his face from a few inches away.

  Fourbier could smell rosemary and ham on the other man’s breath and wanted to taste it. But Henri looked angry, so Fourbier didn’t move.

  “I’m not playing with your heart, Marcel.”

  His breath whooshed out, and the heart in question beat faster.

  Henri growled low, heating everything in Fourbier’s body. “I believe in faithfulness. I don’t forgive a breach of trust easily. And I am definitely—what did Jean-Louis say?—I am definitely taking you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hélène trembled silently at Jean-Louis’ side. Le Grand Condé, Jean-Louis’ general and the king’s cousin, complained while Jean-Louis stood up straight and his chin went up. Condé and the king hardly spared her a second glance, but she was hard-pressed to not throw herself in front of her husband to protect him.

  Her husband sometimes blanched, sometimes reddened under the criticism—and praise—of his general. He apologized for dereliction of duty but explained the circumstances of the plot. When Condé berated him for not asking for help from his fellow officers, Jean-Louis did not have a ready answer. He apologized and said he had every confidence in his fellow officers’ ability to conduct the mop-up of Franche-Comté without him and in his lieutenants and sergeants to maintain discipline. He had not, however, seen that any other man could have taken to heart the protection of his daughter.

  Le Baron de la Brosse held her hand in silence, concentrating on every nuance of the dressing down. The Grand Condé paused and glanced at his cousin, the king. He thrust his chin out and opened his mouth to go on.

  Hélène squeaked out, “May I…”

  The king met her eyes, and she could hear nothing but the buzzing in her ears. The baron squeezed her hand, but it was Jean-Louis turning toward her that gave her confidence.

  “May I speak in my husband’s defense? Please?” She wasn’t sure how the words were audible, as her throat had constricted, but the king nodded slightly. “Since I am the one who brought the trouble to him?”

  The Prince de Condé narrowed his eyes at Jean-Louis, then, when the king didn’t object, sat back on his low chair and finally deigned to look at her.

  She was sorry she’d said anything. She squeezed the baron’s hand, then dropped it, not wanting to look weak.

  “I believe, Votre Altesse and Votre Altesse…” How was she supposed to address the prince? She went on. “I believe there are two good solutions. I am biased, but…”

  On the way over, Jean-Louis and his father had complained of the disloyalty of the Prince of Condé when King Louis was a child. She shook the thought from her head. If the king had forgiven his cousin, then she didn’t have the right to accuse him again.

  “The first: that my husband return to the army, but forfeit the spoils of the Franche-Comté campaign. As Prince Condé has said, he relied heavily on Jean-Louis in matters of strategy in this and other campaigns. He completed the bulk of his duties.”

  There was a long silence as Condé scowled, having not remembered he had praised Jean-Louis as an essential officer whose only fault was to leave for a few weeks when there was no fighting.

  “And your second outcome, Madame le Colonel de Cantiere?” drawled the king, his shrewd eyes belying his power, even as he relaxed negligently in an ornate armchair, one finger resting elegantly on his chin.

  “That my husband sell his commission and relinquish the spoils of the Franche-Comté campaign, and his departure will be a simple parting of the ways, if you do not have immediate need of his services.”

  The king stared at her, his expression impassive, for several long seconds, letting his gaze travel to Condé and then dart to Jean-Louis and the baron before returning to her. She felt the blood drain from her face. As she met the king’s eyes, she wished she weren’t wearing her spectacles. She wished also that she had a nicer court dress and a wig, because her hair was still streaky from the henna. The full weight of speaking to the king pressed down on her, and she shivered. Jean-Louis slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her against his side, which was a good thing, since her knees wobbled.

  The king smiled slightly at her before turning his head to his cousin. “Condé?”

  Condé closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Well, de Cantière. You know I have always liked you and relied on you.”

  Jean-Louis loosened his grasp on her and bowed stiffly.

  “And to drum you out, make an example of you, execute you…”

  Hélène restrained the gasp that rose in her throat. She almost jumped forward but was stopped by the king’s amused glance. Amused? How could he be amused?

  “The Franche-Comté campaign’s outcome was assured before you left. And you did beg in person and later in a letter to be excused because of the danger to your daughter,” said Condé, “and to the lady who is now your wife.” He nodded curtly at her without meeting her eyes.

  There was a long, silent wait as Condé studied his hands.

  “If I may, cousin?” said the king.

  As if a king needed to ask his cousin for permission to do anything. But Condé looked faintly relieved.

  “I think le Colonel de Cantière should choose his own future,” said the king, leaning back with a serene smile. “One of the two options your wife outlined. In the army or out, Monsieur?”

  Jean-Louis frowned, just when he should look relieved. He bowed his head to stare at the floor. “May I consult with my wife, Your Highness? And my father?”

&nbs
p; The baron beamed and held his hand out to Jean-Louis. Hélène gripped Jean-Louis’ arm with anxiety and relief and…and she didn’t know what other feelings.

  “What would you like me to do, my wife?” asked Jean-Louis in a low voice.

  She blushed. “I couldn’t presume to tell you.”

  “Of course you could, ma fille,” said the baron. “You just neatly maneuvered a prince into a corner while the king smiled at you.”

  Hélène looked at him in shock. “It was merely what we discussed before the meeting.”

  “Ah, but you stated the options out loud and concisely. Very affectingly, too.” The baron shrugged. “And you have Jean-Louis’ best interests at heart.”

  Hélène could hardly think. “Would I stay with you, wherever you went?” she asked in a squeaky voice. “And Ondine?”

  Jean-Louis smiled, finally. “Of course, mon âme. As close as would be safe, anyway.”

  “Then…then you should ask your father,” she said. “I would be happy either way.”

  “It doesn’t really concern me.” The baron shrugged again. “I never meant for you to spend your entire life in the army. That’s why I promised you the Poitou property and married you to an heiress.”

  Jean-Louis sighed deeply. “If Ondine and any future children are to inherit the factory, I will need to make it prosper. I would do my duty to my country. And yet, I wouldn’t like for my wife and child to live in encampments.”

  The baron smiled. “Most decisions are not irrevocable.”

  “You didn’t believe me at first,” said Hélène. “And yet you protected me and Ondine. Once your opinion changed, you acted. You could return to the army once the factory is running well, or if another war starts. Or you could leave the army later if the factory needs your help.”

  Jean-Louis’ eyes crinkled as he smiled. “We are equivocating.”

  He turned to the king, who was talking in a low voice with Condé. When he bowed low, Hélène dropped into a curtsey and only rose when Condé acknowledged them.

  Jean-Louis cleared his throat. “Thank you, Your Highness, Mon Général. I am not one for gambling, and my recent actions were some of the riskiest of my life. It is only with your compassion for me and my family that I have the opportunity to make this decision.” He went on in a flowery, respectful vein for another minute before stopping suddenly.