Natalya
Special Author's Cut Edition
Beauvisage Novel #2
by
Cynthia Wright
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 1991, 2011 by Cynthia Wright Hunt
Cover by Kim Killion
eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com
Thank You.
For Bertrice Small, my colleague and faithful friend of 30 years. Love always to a true original & huge talent.
And for our dear friend Tom E. Huff (aka Jennifer Wilde), who lit up every room he entered and every page he wrote, and whose memory continues to light my heart.
Prologue
Unbidden guests
Are often welcomest when they are gone.
Shakespeare (1564-1616)
St. Briac-sur-Loire, France
March 27, 1814
"Soon it will be dark, m'sieur," the man in the black cloak said gruffly. "Here is payment for the ale you've served me. Now, kindly direct me to the chateau."
Brogard, the diminutive, white-haired proprietor of Le Chat Bleu, peered at the stranger. Other patrons, thirsty after a day's labor in the vineyards, were arriving and waiting to be served. "I don't like to send a man I don't know up to the chateau, although I owe M'sieur Beauvisage no allegiance. His father is the marquis, strictly speaking, but the elder Beauvisage has been in America for decades, and besides, we have no aristocrats in France anymore." He winked almost imperceptibly. "At least not at the moment."
"Vive le roi!" slurred a man seated at the next table.
The stranger glanced over sharply. "Is it true that Louis the Eighteenth is returning from England to assume his brother's crown, and that Napoleon is expected to relinquish his power in a matter of days?"
"Where have you been, my good fellow? Locked in prison?" Brogard demanded, with a hearty laugh. "Those rumors have been circulating for weeks!" He paused again, assessing the man before him. Late thirties probably, educated, and most likely English, though he spoke French with ease. Yet something was not right. The stranger had an air of... danger, Brogard decided. He was tall and powerfully built, an imposing physical presence in the rustic taproom with its low, beamed ceiling. Something had brought the fellow low—he was unkempt and appeared half-starved. And the light in his gray eyes sent a chill down Brogard's spine. It was the look of a hunted animal, although the innkeeper sensed that this was a quarry that would fight back savagely if cornered.
"I cannot tarry another minute," the stranger said, with mounting impatience.
"Will you not at least confide the nature of your business with Nicholai Beauvisage? You're a stranger to me, m'sieur, while I've known the Beauvisage family for thirty years. I don't know whether you are friend or foe!"
"I assure you that I bear no ill will toward your revered Beauvisage. Now, I must insist that you tell me how to reach the chateau. Nightfall approaches, and a storm is brewing over the Loire. If you will not tell me the way, I'll ask elsewhere. Pretty girls are often more forthcoming." The stranger smiled thinly.
"D'accord," Brogard agreed, with a sigh. "I will walk with you to your horse and direct you."
They emerged onto the crooked rue de Juin, in the middle of the little village that staggered down to the golden banks of the Loire. Shadows were lengthening along the narrow, ancient streets as ominous clouds gathered overhead. Brogard turned and pointed out the roads that would take the stranger to Chateau du Soleil, which perched on a hillside a fair distance west of the village. There was a gatehouse at the end of the drive, Brogard said, but admittance was usually easy to obtain, unless the Beauvisages were entertaining or away.
"Tell the gatekeeper that you are a friend of the family," he advised. "He probably won't question you, though he ought to. You certainly look suspicious enough. Ambrochette is a kindly sort, and very fond of his afternoon wine. He probably won't rouse enough to think much about you. His wife is as fat as a cow, and a harridan as well, so no one blames him for drinking the way he does. If my wife—"
"I appreciate your help," the stranger interrupted. He studied his route, shading his eyes against the setting sun. "Beautiful." His voice was barely audible as he gazed at the white stone chateau's airy towers, turrets, and pinnacles, bristling against the green background of the forest of Chinon. It looked like a fantasy.
The sound of distant hoofbeats roused him, and he stared down at the stone bridge that spanned the Loire far below them. Two men were rapidly approaching on horseback. One fellow had vivid auburn curls that glinted in the patchy, fading sunlight, while his companion was remarkable only for his steed, a black-maned gray.
Brogard saw the light intensify in the stranger's eyes. "Do you know them?"
"I realize that you have no reason to trust or believe me, m'sieur, but I give you my word that those two men are thieves, intent on robbing me of my life. I hope to find a means of escape from my predicament through Nicholai Beauvisage. If you care at all for justice, you will tell those men that you have not seen me." The man swung onto his stallion, black cloak swirling out behind him, and added, "I must warn you, though. They will say that I am an escaped prisoner, a murderer, and an enemy of Napoleon."
The stranger flashed Brogard an enigmatic grin, then rode off up the steep cobbled lane, bound for Chateau du Soleil.
Part 1
Thus I live in the world rather as a
spectator of mankind than as one of the species.
Joseph Addison (1672-1719)
Chapter 1
Chateau du Soleil
March 27, 1814
High in one of the fanciful white towers of Chateau du Soleil, Natalya Beauvisage was writing a novel. Her scarred desk was positioned to afford her an ideal view through the three narrow windows that pierced the wall, and she spent much of her days dreamily appreciating the luminous beauty spread below the chateau.
It was a long way from Philadelphia, where she had lived until traveling to Europe nearly six years ago at the age of twenty. Natalya might have grown used to her surroundings, but she refused to take them for granted. The Loire Valley was, she'd decided, unquestionably the most beautiful place on earth. The river itself swirled over blond sand, past light willows, shimmering poplars, and vineyards that spread over voluptuously curved hillsides. The valley's magical element was its golden, pearlescent light, which washed the soft landscape as if it were a watercolor.
As a writer, Natalya reveled in the history that saturated the Loire Valley. She had grown up in a newly formed, headstrong, idealistic country. America was still raw in many ways. France, on the other hand, was redolent with history and style. Each day Natalya found herself looking out over a meandering river where centuries exchanged memories across the banks. Rumor had it that this very chateau had been the inspiration for Charles Perrault's "Sleeping Beauty," but she had stopped believing in fairy tales a long ti
me ago.
Times had changed, and Natalya was certainly a far cry from the damsels who may have languished in this very tower, waiting for brave knights to ride up and carry them off. She had dreams, certainly, but they did not center around the appearance in her life of a handsome prince. With her usual sense of dramatic originality, Natalya had chosen dreams that she could pursue and realize all by herself.
Shaking her head, she smiled and looked back down at the last page she meant to write that afternoon. The approaching twilight seemed to be in league with a spring storm. Purplish clouds burgeoned against a glowing sky, and the light was waning by the moment. When fat raindrops began to pelt the leaded-glass windows of the tower, she put down her pen, stored her day's work in the top drawer of her desk along with the other one hundred seventeen pages of her manuscript, and left the tower study.
Lisette Beauvisage heard the soft tapping of Natalya's footsteps on the circular stone staircase that led from the tower to the family quarters. Peeking into the corridor, she called to her, and when Natalya came into sight, Lisette gave her niece a radiant smile of greeting.
"I'm just about to soak in my bath and sip tea. Won't you share a cup with me and chat for a few minutes?"
"Gladly," Natalya replied, her face alight. "I do crave conversation after a day in the tower. If I hadn't seen you, I would have been forced to converse with the tapestry in the gallery!"
Laughing, she followed her aunt into the spacious bedchamber that had been refurbished at the turn of the century. The white paneled walls were now lightly embellished with gilded wood relief, and the windows and bed were hung with draperies of soft powder blue. Lisette had chosen furnishings from the Louis XVI period, which featured rich, inlaid woods and classical lines. Two paintings of sylvan woodland painted by Lisette herself adorned the walls, and vases of daffodils splashed the room with yellow. Her delicately etched porcelain bathtub had been moved from her dressing room to a spot before the hearth, where a fire blazed cheerfully.
"Doesn't that look heavenly?" she asked, gesturing toward the bath. A maid was just pouring in the last pitcher of steaming water. "I love to bathe in front of the fire when the weather is gloomy." She turned to the maid, a petite young black-haired girl named Marie-Helene, and spoke in French, requesting tea for two and some cakes. Then she shed her silk dressing gown and stepped into the bathtub.
Natalya reclined on a chaise and smiled. "I hope that I am half as beautiful as you are twenty years from now Auntie."
"I'm sixteen years older than you, not twenty, but if that was a compliment, I accept."
At forty-two, Lisette Hahn Beauvisage had long been secure in her beauty. Her elegant, willowy figure and lovely face, offset by pale golden tresses, had changed little over the years. At twenty-one, when Lisette had been the proprietress of Hahn's Coffeehouse in Philadelphia, she had cared little for her appearance and was in fact eager to dissuade men from admiring her. Since Nicholai's entrance in her life, however, Lisette had come to appreciate all her gifts and take pride in her feminine attributes. She had mellowed, although she continued to cherish her rights as an individual. True, she respected her husband and secretly thrilled to his masculinity, but that did not prevent her from insisting she stand with him as an equal in their marriage. Her children had grown up watching her not only work alongside their father, but also pursue her own love of painting. Her feelings and moods were known to be as valuable as his, and she believed that this was a great lesson for their children.
"I dreamed last night that Adrienne came home from London," Natalya remarked, accepting a cup of tea from Marie-Helene.
Lisette gestured for the maid to set her tea on a side table, then returned to the task of lathering her arms. "I wish that my daughter could come home. This horrible war makes travel so dangerous that we're afraid to let her join us even for holidays."
"Don't forget that the war is the reason you sent Adrienne to school in London. Uncle Nicky seems safe enough here, probably because he came before the French Revolution and has won the loyalty of the locals. But it's hard to know how Adrienne would be treated if she tried to carry on a normal life here." Natalya sipped her hot tea and smiled. "She's much more outgoing than James. After all, at seventeen... well, she's a young lady and needs the company of others her own age, while James is perfectly content to stay at home where it's safe. As long as he can play the man alongside his father, and have his horses and books, he's happy."
"For the moment." Lisette's tone was wry. "Have you noticed his voice getting deeper, or the fact that he's grown two inches since Christmas?" She sighed. "Already fifteen... He'll be ready to go off in search of female companionship, if you take my meaning."
Natalya closed her eyes. "James seems remarkably sensible to me. Perhaps he'll listen to his cousin Talya and be wary of romance. Life can be so enjoyable without the complications of affairs de coeur."
Stifling an impatient response, Lisette turned her head to regard Natalya. How innocent she looked! Except for her eyes, which ranged from aqua to turquoise like her father's, she was the image of her mother, Caroline. They had the same delicate features and honey-colored hair, the same slim gracefully-curved figure. She had every gift necessary to attract men, but she seemed oblivious to her own charms.
Lisette couldn't help sighing as she noted the concealing white cashmere shawl that Natalya wore over her pale peach chemise frock with its fashionably low neckline. At twenty-six her niece showed no inclination to marry at any time in the near—or distant—future. She insisted that she was now able to make her own way in the world, as an author, and therefore had no need of marriage.
"What was the meaning of that sigh?" Natalya queried, looking up at her aunt.
Lisette laughed. "Oh, I was just meddling in my own mind again. Worrying about you, wishing you'd fall in love and marry and—"
"Live happily ever after?" she finished. "Why don't you be honest, Auntie, and admit that if you hadn't met Uncle Nicky, you probably wouldn't have been married at twenty-six, either! You'd have gone on supporting yourself at the coffeehouse, determined not to settle for some bland barrister simply because society preferred that you have a husband." She was leaning forward now, eyes dancing mischievously. "Can you deny it? I'm absolutely right, aren't I?"
"You needn't behave as if I have been matchmaking at every opportunity. Why, it's been more than a year since I even invited a man to dine with us." She put on an innocent expression, and Natalya giggled in response. "And you're right. Perhaps it's the mother in me. You're completely enchanting, and I can't help wishing that you had someone to love...."
She sought to divert her aunt's attention. "Perhaps, if I can ever arrange to go home to Philadelphia, I might meet the man who will change my mind." She sighed. "It's just astonishing how much I miss home. Today, as I worked on the character of the mother in my new book, I was struck by the most overpowering longing to be with Maman. The thought of seeing her and Papa and Kristin, of coming in the front door of Belle Maison, sleeping in my old bedroom, visiting Grandmama..." She paused, her voice catching. "I yearn for it so, it brings tears to my eyes."
Lisette sipped the last of her tea. "I miss Philadelphia, too, and I don't blame you for wanting to go home after nearly six years. You know that Nicholai is exploring every possible way to get you back to America, but—"
"I know, there is a war on." Natalya's eyes blazed a brilliant turquoise. "It is frustrating that I cannot travel where I please!"
"Sometimes I cannot help wondering if part of the reason you're so determined to sail for home is the fact that everyone tells you you cannot," Lisette said mildly. Stepping out of the bathtub, she wrapped herself in a thick towel.
"I'll find a way," she insisted. "And I'm not motivated by stubbornness, or a whim. Something inside"—she pressed a hand over her heart—"tells me it's time. It's the same inner voice that bade me leave Philadelphia and travel to Europe after my twentieth birthday!"
Before she could frame
a tactful reply, Marie-Helene appeared in the doorway.
"Madame, there is a stranger outside, insisting that he speak to M'sieur Nicholai." The little maid's eyes were wide with trepidation.
"M'sieur Nicholai and James have not yet returned from their ride to Saumur?"
"No, madame."
"Well, I'm sure that they'll be back momentarily. It's started to rain, hasn't it? You must ask our visitor in, give him a drink, and assure him that M'sieur Beauvisage should arrive home within minutes."
Marie-Helene looked pained. "Madame, this man is... a stranger."
"Whatever do you mean by that?" Lisette was losing patience. "If he is a friend of my husband's—"
"He does not look like any friend of M'sieur Beauvisage's that I have seen before. He looks almost—dangerous...." The maid began to wring her hands nervously.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Natalya exclaimed, "I'll go down and deal with the man!"
Standing, she drew her shawl close around her slim shoulders and hurried out of the room. Marie-Helene scuttled along behind, head down. They descended the curving, white marble stairway, Natalya's fingers skimming the rail of the intricately carved, black wrought-iron balustrade. At the bottom stretched the chateau's long gallery, magnificent with its floor of black-and-white marble squares and its renaissance tapestries.
Through the gallery's long windows Natalya could see the stranger who struck such fear into Marie-Helene. Clad all in black, he stood inside the arched doorway to the chateau's east wing. A slight breeze billowed his cape and caused him to lift his head, giving Natalya a glimpse of a rakish, dark, bearded face.
Baby hairs prickled along the back of her neck, a novel sensation that startled her.
Natalya Page 1