Amelia was no stranger to poetry, having taken several college courses specifically on the subject. “But Robert Frost…”
“Has not been born yet?” Victor finished. “No, I believe he is yet a twinkle in the stars above.” He lifted his fingers skyward with a light sigh. “It will be a decade following the Great War before he appears in this world.”
I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know. I don’t—
No, but I need to know. The answers lay curled around his tongue, just waiting for my nudge.
Not now. Not yet.
“I need to get back,” she said in haste. This was becoming her go-to get-away-from-Victor card, and it was ridiculous, but she could only handle so many pieces of the puzzle for one day.
I’m here for a purpose. I was the one who insisted this. That purpose might very well be right in front of me, and I’m pulling up the covers to block it out, like a scared child.
“Of course,” Victor answered, a gentleman again. He rose and offered a hand, which she took, once again in a daze. He kissed the top. “You needn’t be afraid of me, Amelia. Not now or ever.”
“I’m not,” she insisted, realizing it was true.
“No,” he whispered, reading her. His smile from earlier returned. “You aren’t.”
No, she thought, as she ran toward the house, away from Victor, away from her questions, toward even more. I’m really not, but I should be.
But I am afraid of what it might mean.
XIV
The formal invite for dinner was delivered by a young girl with better manners than most of their hosts had shown. Jacob turned over the calling card—an odd choice to deliver to someone under their own roof, he thought—and before he could read the words, A Return for Our Dearest One, the girl fled.
Amelia, recently returned from an excursion flushed and in strange humor, looked up from where she sat reading a poetry book left for decoration. “What is it?”
“An invite for dinner.” He read further down the page. “You said you hadn’t seen their younger son, Fitz?”
Amelia nodded and set the book aside.
“You didn’t see him because he wasn’t here.”
“Where was he?”
Jacob shrugged, not thinking of the invitation at all but how he’d earlier glimpsed his wife and de Blanchefort in the back garden. Laughing. “No clue. But he’s returned.”
“Odd.” Amelia rose with a stretch, raising her long arms over her head. “I think I’ll nap. This place makes me so tired.”
This place, or one man in particular? The familiar surge of bloodlust appeared, the urge to fight, to take something essential from his opponent. Victor brought it out in him in a way no other man ever had, not even Oz.
Then, if Amelia seemed more relaxed since they arrived, and it was somehow attributed to this de Blanchefort fellow, should he not shake his hand and offer thanks instead? Did Jacob’s own jealousy matter, if Amelia became more of herself because of his company?
He didn’t have an answer.
I know you’re hurting, he wanted to say. Not a moment passes that I don’t see him, too, Amelia. We both walked away from that cabin with less.
Any words he could find ran the risk of hurting her. Of unwinding whatever protective barrier she had wrapped tight around her heart to keep herself moving forward.
Regardless of what was transpiring between Amelia and Victor, Jacob’s trust in her was not in question. But what had been shaken was the foundation of their marriage, and while neither of them were to blame for this tragedy, moving past it had nothing to do with assigning fault. Amelia searched for a way through by seeking answers from the past. Jacob relied on the passage of time, which was said to heal everything, eventually.
So he said nothing, allowing their third afternoon in a foreign time to pass without discussing the topic that pressed on both their minds, the storm they might never escape.
Jacob arrived at dinner grateful not to be subjected to meeting more people, but his pleasant mood faded when Victor de Blanchefort and his father, or at least the man calling himself his father, joined them.
“What are they doing here?” he muttered to himself, only to realize he’d said the words aloud.
“They’re staying here for a week or two,” Amelia explained, smiling at the girl who poured her wine. “Business with Charles.”
And you know this, how? “Lovely.”
As if on cue, Victor smiled at them both from across the table, his eyes lingering a moment longer on Amelia. He stopped short of licking his lips.
“I’m sure they’ll stay out of our way.”
Can we switch back to talking like this for a bit?
Amelia bit into a wedge of bread, turning her eyes toward the head of the table, away from Victor, in an almost deliberate manner. We need to be careful that we don’t get caught not paying attention. They might figure us out. You forget they’re Deschanels, too.
I haven’t forgotten.
Speaking of paying attention… I think that may be the missing son come home.
Jacob turned to see a young boy of perhaps twelve enter the dining room. His age was only discernible from his height because his face, from the rotund, blushing cheeks to his wide eyes, bespoke of the unblemished innocence of a toddler. With his bouncy blonde curls, he could have been a chubby cherub in an Italian frieze.
“Fitz! You’re well enough for dinner after all!” Ophélie cried in genuine delight. Before she could spring from her chair, Brigitte shot her a paralyzing stare.
“Hi, sister,” Fitz answered back in a small voice. His eyes darted around the room in a programmed manner, with the air of someone who had been given heavy sedatives. Or lobotomized. Jacob wondered what kind of boarding school they’d sent him to.
“Well, have a seat, child,” Brigitte barked. She pointed at the empty chair between Jacob and Ophélie. “You’re not on display!”
Fitz moved to his seat with a dazed expression while Charles folded his napkin distractedly. When Ophélie smiled at her baby brother, the one he offered in return had all the sincerity of a serial killer.
Blanca, are you seeing this Stepford shit?
What on earth did they do to that poor kid?
Maybe Brigitte had him tied up in the attic with the baby we heard.
I have a feeling if we try to find out, we’ll end up with a worse fate.
Jacob didn’t disagree, but he wasn’t keen on sitting back and observing Brigitte’s reign of terror with benign complacency, and he knew Amelia wasn’t either.
The first course was served on the same earthenware Nicolas still used in their present day dining room, a blue Spode pattern Amelia told him was called The Girl at the Well. He found he’d rather eat the plate than what they served upon it: roasted, cane-sweetened chicken with sweet potato, also heavily-sugared. Jacob took a bite and felt an imminent toothache approaching.
This is diabetes on a plate.
I think we already agreed their goal is to kill us.
The easy, if somewhat tenuous, mental exchange with his wife lifted Jacob’s spirits but also left him hollow. That they could only speak so casually in the presence of others made it somehow a consolation rather than progress. He already knew if he tried this back in the room, she’d claim to be tired and avoid any talk that might dive even an inch under the surface of what they were both feeling.
“Is the chicken to your liking, Lord Donnelly?” Brigitte inquired with a knowing smile.
“Very,” he said, working on the unprocessed remains of a cane stalk that had, magically, made it to his plate. “I love the opportunity to try different foods than what we’re used to back home.”
“Bland foods, you mean,” Jean said, turning up his nose. “I’ve never had such plain dishes in all my travels as the scourge they served in London.”
“Jean,” Charles warned.
“It’s all right,” Jacob said. With a wink at Jean, he added, “We could afford to add a few seasoni
ngs.”
The expression he got in return was as hostile as the one Brigitte had permanently plastered on her pinched face.
I don’t suppose he and I have any chance at friendship.
Amelia grinned into her wine. Probably for the best.
“I like chicken,” Fitz said, eyes vacant.
“You are a chicken,” Jean said, glancing at his mother.
“I like chicken, too,” Ophélie offered her little brother with a chuck on the shoulder.
“May I, as well, throw in a vote for chicken?” Victor added. His eyes twinkled with mischief.
Jean dropped his fork with exaggerated emphasis. The sharp clang rang over the dining room. “Wonderful. Everyone likes the goddamn chicken. Can we talk about something else?”
“We might venture to finally learn a thing or two about our visitors,” Brigitte said, fixing her intensity on Jacob and Amelia. “Seeing as none of us were aware of their impending arrival, nor do we know anything about them.”
“Lord Donnelly and I had a fine discussion yesterday afternoon,” Charles offered, but Brigitte didn’t even acknowledge his words.
Amelia smiled pleasantly. The effect was dazzling against the storm cloud of Brigitte, and Jacob felt a burst of pride for his wife. “Lord Donnelly and I are happy to answer any questions you have of us. Ask away.”
Uhh. Now you’ve done it.
What else should I have said?
We still haven’t matched notes on our story.
Really, would planning have helped us any? And it isn’t as if we’re in different rooms where they can separate and quiz us. We’re sitting right next to each other.
I don’t have the best feeling about this.
“How are you, specifically, related to the Deschanels?” Brigitte asked. “Or did you already brief my husband with this?”
“We haven’t,” Amelia answered, still smiling. “But I’ll be happy to walk you through it now.”
Praying over here.
Chill, Donnelly. I’ve got this.
“Go on, then.”
“We’re actually related by marriage,” Amelia explained, replacing her wine glass after a sip only Jacob could see was larger than appropriate. “Monsieur Deschanel, your aunt Dominique was a Lalande before marriage, and I am a second cousin of her daughter-in-law.”
Damn, girl. That was good. I’ll bet they don’t even know how to do that math.
“Aunt Dominique,” Charles mused. “Have you spoken with her of late? She was very good to me in my formative years.”
“Not recently,” Amelia said. “It was through her daughter-in-law we learned of Ophélie, and she had promised to write ahead and announce our arrival. It sounds like that didn’t happen.”
Brigitte’s lips were a thin, white line. “It did not.”
“We’re looking at land in Louisiana, as I mentioned,” Jacob chimed in, already less tense. They were over the largest hurdle, it seemed. “And hoped our visit with you might lead to better education on making that happen.”
Charles brightened. “It’s no wonder you had such sage advice on how to handle my own real estate quandary. How wonderful. Just splendid, Lord Donnelly. I’ll help in any way I can.”
“I can also offer advisement,” Marius added, his first words of the night. Beside him, Victor buried obvious amusement in his wine glass.
“Remind me again,” Brigitte said. She’d abandoned her food entirely. “The name of Dominique’s daughter-in-law?”
Amelia frowned. “Oh, um…”
“The Madame de Lalande?” Jacob said.
“Deschanel now, remember,” Amelia corrected lightly.
Brigitte’s eyes narrowed. “The madame has no name?”
“Of course she has a name.” Charles chuckled with a twitch of nervousness. “But I hardly think this is pertinent. Our guests are here now, and we have much to show them. To think, a lord and lady sharing the riverlands with us. What a fortuitous friendship, for both of us.”
“What I believe to be pertinent and what you believe to be pertinent does not need to be in accord,” Brigitte seethed, leveling a heated glance his direction. “I do not think it unreasonable to discuss the name of the woman who provided the reference that brought them halfway around the world to our doorstep.”
You don’t know the name? Jacob asked.
No! I was banking on them not knowing anything about Dominique’s daughter-in-law. I don’t even know if she has one!
What do you want to do? Continue to bluff? Poison them all and make a run for it?
Victor folded his hands over the edge of the table, eyes moving between them, observing with great interest.
If the bluff fails, I guess we need to find some hemlock.
“Catherine,” Amelia answered, attempting her best show of false confidence. “Though I have not called her that since we were girls. Even in private, she is Madame Deschanel to me.”
“Catherine,” Brigitte repeated, enunciating each syllable as she rolled the word around.
“I’m an acquaintance of Madame Deschanel myself,” Victor interceded, surprising everyone at the table. “Catherine, as it were, is a lovely host and woman and we are due for another visit to their chalet.”
Amelia froze. The look she wore evolved from shock to withering gratitude. Jacob wanted to reach across the table and choke the satisfied grin from Victor’s face, even if he had lied to protect them.
“A small world, indeed,” Charles said, clearly relieved to have the matter settled.
“Yet somehow not ever big enough,” Brigitte added. Nothing would satisfy her, Jacob realized. She had already cast her verdict when they arrived.
She doesn’t like us at all, Amelia said. I think it’s curious, seeing as it doesn’t feel earned.
I think she knows we aren’t who we say we are.
Well, yeah. Brigitte just tried to humiliate us in front of her family and guests to prove that point.
But they have guests all the time, many of whom are probably high-born, and I doubt she treats them like back-alley criminals.
We don’t sound or act like their other guests. It’s only a matter of time before a real Brit comes along to demonstrate that.
There’s no reason to be immediately suspicious of guests unless they offer a reason. Brigitte acts as if we’re here to pillage the gold.
But how much could she really know, Jacob?
I have a feeling we’re going to find out.
Mercifully, the conversation shifted to Jean’s studies and his upcoming second Grand Tour, which they learned had been postponed.
“Why is that?” Amelia asked.
“Duties at home demanded it,” Jean replied, hawkish eyes trained on his sister.
What duties could a fifteen-year-old really have? Jacob wanted to ask. He felt a need to poke the bear, knowing the answer, but after the fire drill earlier, he didn’t want to risk diverting the attention back to him and Amelia.
“And you will be a married man in short order,” Charles added. He avoided his wife’s death glare. “Bonapartie has agreed to the marriage earlier than planned, given the political uncertainty in the South. And should it come to war—”
“Papa, you’re no better than the chin waggers in the men’s parlors!” Jean exclaimed. “War. As if we do not have better means to solve problems.”
“You’re too young to understand the complexities of our world,” Charles countered. “It is not as simple as fight or don’t fight. You have no concept of what is at stake, and what the North would take from us if we let them.”
“Jealous fiends,” Brigitte hissed. “I would see every last one of them dead in the fields.”
“We would be better met to come to a compromise, Madame,” Marius said in a calming, reasonable tone. Jacob could not help staring whenever the man spoke, checking for signs of his true age. There were none, except in the way he chose his words only when he deemed them particularly important. “Seceding will solve one problem but rev
eal many others.”
“You can’t reason with heathens,” Brigitte said. “They know only one language: blood.”
Charles sucked the food from his teeth, measuring annoyance with his wife. “Something will happen, one way or another, and soon. We can no longer abide the disrespect, and they cannot keep their envy at bay.”
Jean rolled his eyes. “Fighting would be futile for Northerners. They would lose everything. The war would be over in a week!”
“I believe it is you, son, who has been listening to men’s parlor discussions.”
“Are you going to rattle on about their factories again?” Jean laughed. “What good are factories when we have numbers and honor? Your grand ideas, Papa. You forget that they are the aggressors.”
“Must we speak of war over supper?” Ophélie asked.
“Fight!” Fitz barked in a hollow exclamation. His eyes remained dull and listless. He may as well have been a marionette, with someone overhead pulling the strings.
“Your father is right,” Marius said as he rose abruptly. “Alas, I am an old man, and it is time for my retirement.”
Amelia and Jacob exchanged a look.
“Accept my apologies for my son,” Charles said, standing to escort him. “He forgets himself.”
Jean twisted his lips.
“Without the idealism of our sons, it would only be us, the world-weary,” Marius assured him and excused himself.
Victor moved to follow suit, but his father gently nodded an encouragement to stay. He sat again.
“Well, you’ve driven one guest away with your war rhetoric,” Brigitte chided, pushing her chair out. It crashed into the servant, rattling the dishes on top. “How many more before the night has ended?”
She was gone before Charles could respond.
Jean ran after her. “Wait, Maman.”
With a heavy sigh and a mumbled apology, Charles followed her as well.
Jacob and Amelia were left with Victor, Ophélie, and the strangely unresponsive Fitz.
The Secrets Amongst the Cypress Page 11