“My dear Marguerite… how can one not bring God into the midst of a conversation that changes life,” he said just as quietly, keeping an eye on her father as he heard more footsteps resound within the hall.
Now what, he thought as he raced to find the right words to say.
“And as for her reputation, morals, and background,” he continued, “what makes you an expert in whether they are questionable if she knows not any French, English, or Spanish. You have been around her a mere few hours, and those, with bias in your eyes. She speaks to you with kindness from the heart, though you know not what she says, and you betray her gentleness to her face in ways she cannot understand.”
Behind him, Sir Gaspar heard his sister clearing her throat as she approached.
“Is everything quite alright in here,” she asked, moving toward Galya’s side and offering her a hand. In silence, the women stood, tears running down his guest’s face, and silent rage chiseled into the face of his sibling.
“Yes, quite,” he told her, his heart climbing into his throat for what felt like the hundredth time since the confrontation began. “The Chevreuls were just saying goodnight. We will discuss this again in a few days, after everyone has prayed and I, for one, have fasted.”
Sir Mason’s eyes glittered in the low light for a moment, his face scrunched up into a scowl.
“Actually, we were saying goodnight, and that we shall be leaving as promptly as the sun rises. There will be no decision but my own. Marguerite,” the man said rather loudly, his voice echoing once more within the confined space, “there is no point staying with someone who wishes to even consider marrying someone with no name, no history, no way to communicate. He has chosen in his heart already to follow the viper, and we shall have nothing more to do with this.”
“But Father, the scandal…”
“We shall not be arguing or discussing it, Marguerite. My word is final. And it pleases me to no end that I shall have you back home again, at least until the right sum is brought for your hand.”
“Father, I…”
“Nothing more,” Sir Mason said. And then, to Sir Gaspar’s astonishment, he grabbed the young woman by her shoulders and shook her.
“Nothing more.”
Twenty Five
Salem, Oregon… June 9, 2020
Arthur watched as his cellie, Maplethorpe, was escorted away by a pair of guards, perplexed at what was happening.
He’d been with him the whole day… how did they think that Maplethorpe could have gotten into the medical supply?
It made no sense.
The man took no vitamins, no medications, and rarely left the cell other than for a class, chapel, or mealtimes. He detested yard time, and went outside only to use the phones or hit the canteen.
It was almost as if Maplethorpe was paranoid of interaction… whether it was between himself and other inmates, or chemicals with his body. The only ones he opened up to, for some reason, were Arthur, the chaplains, and his mental health doctor.
There had to be a misunderstanding… otherwise, it was a set-up.
But why?
And who would be so upset with Maplethorpe to set him up, if that were the case?
“Listen, man,” he called to the guards. “I be tellin’ ya he didn’t do nothin’. You two knows as well’s I do he don’t take no meds or nothin’.”
Officer Montana turned to look him in the eye, just for a brief second.
“This is none of your concern, Reynolds. Stay out of it. You don’t want to end up back in the hole for insubordination and arguing with an officer. Just quiet on down, and we’ll do the investigating... it happens to be part of our job.”
The words were said flatly… there was neither threat nor humor in them, and Arthur wasn’t sure what to make of them. Finally, unsure what to say in reply, he merely nodded as the officer returned his attention to Maplethorpe and escorted him away with the assistance of a second guard with whom Arthur was less familiar.
Arthur listened as men from some of the other cells began heckling his cellie, and his skin prickled.
In all the time Maplethorpe had been his cellmate, he hadn’t once gotten himself into trouble. He stayed mostly to himself, and kept his hands clean, whereas Arthur had gotten into five fights in the same time period, ending up in the hole.
During that time, Maplethorpe had defended him twice in such a way as to prevent altercations from occurring, and thus saved him from further humiliation. Both of the man’s interceptions were related to the music Arthur heard; music that came and went that nobody else seemed to be able to hear… Maplethorpe included.
When he’d asked his cellie about it the first time, the man had shrugged. “Well, I don’t think you’re crazy; I just think you’re gifted and have no idea what to do about it.”
The memory of that compliment held for a moment before it slipped away on the tide of insults that invaded his memory.
Insults from his father, from his brother; insults from teachers who always thought he was no good. Insults from a couple of the guards when they escorted him between buildings, calling him slow and ignorant; saying he’d messed up too much to be useful to society. Insults from Paxton, and insults from other cellies before him.
Arthur stood there, paralyzed by his thoughts… paralyzed by his memory… until all of a sudden, there was peace washing over him.
The Scriptures his Mama, his sisters, and Mark had sent him began to chase away the insults invading his heart and mind. And then, as he was sitting down at his desk to try to draw, the music he’d heard more and more frequently during his time behind bars began to play.
For once, he didn’t try to interrupt or stop it, but sat with it there, in his presence, as though someone were singing him a lullaby and he was a young child again, untouched by the hatred of humanity.
Part Three:
Breaking Through
Twenty Six
Paris, France… June 10, 1702
King Louis pulled his wife aside, hoping to spend a few rare moments alone with her in conversation.
It had come to his attention through her guard, Maurice Beausoleil, that some of the other guards had been plotting with those in England against the life of James Francis Stuart, and that – for now, at least – they had been foiled.
Françoise, busy speaking with her niece, Françoise Charlotte, glanced at him, startled, as he began pulling her across the stone walk toward the steps into somewhere more private.
“What… whatever are you doing, Sire,” she asked him, her voice trembling. “I was conversing with my niece, if you couldn’t tell.”
Her face was flushed, and Louis briefly wondered if it was from being removed from conversation, or for some other reason he should well know about.
“We have other matters to attend to, you and I – matters that young Françoise Charlotte need not be privy to. Avez-vous attraper mes sens, Mon Cher,” he whispered to her as he continued holding her arm, making his way up the stairs and through the door.
He pulled her all the way to her private chambers before stopping.
They were no longer intimate often, he and Françoise… not in a physical sense. They would go months with much passion, and as many months without it.
There was more to their relationship than that, or so he hoped, after all his years of carousing. She had become more docile, more withdrawn, taken in by the Quietism of Madame Guyon and François Fenelon. She loved her chocolate when it was here, and they took advantage of its properties, but when she no longer ate, and only he, it strained him not to be near her; strained him to remain faithful, even, at times.
But adultery had too high a price; he knew that now, and so he waited for the ebb and flow of Françoise’s temperament and wishes to come ‘round again as she saw fit, praying it would be more often, rather than less.
She spoke to few people anymore, and most of the time, it was by sheer necessity. As he released her arm, Louis hoped she would realize this would be
one of those times. He had prepared himself for this moment, indulging in a hot glass of chocolate mixed with milk and vanilla. Prepared in the event that she might be open to sharing time together; that she might want his company.
“I understand that three of our guards have committed treason, or attempted it,” he said, clearing his throat; trying to clear his mind of his secondary intent. “Did you have knowledge of this?”
Françoise sent a hand to her pearls, her fingers worrying them like a rosary. “Treason, my Lord?”
“Oui…. Treason.”
“Why, I… I’m sure I don’t know what you speak of,” she said, walking to the window, facing away from him.
He pursued her, and turned her back around to face him. The lines in her face made her no less beautiful than when he’d said his quiet “je ne,” to her before the priest.
“I wouldn’t be angry with you, my Dear, if you knew; just that you hadn’t trusted to tell me,” he said, feeling the heat rising between them.
“Well, I-”
Her eyes fled from his, looking down. She flushed a moment, then went pale.
“So you knew? Beausoleil confided in you prior to telling me, his King?”
“Yes, my Lord,” she said, her hand running over the pearls more vigilantly, her face blanching even further.
She knew better than to hide secrets from him, and yet she persisted in it?
What had he ever done to deserve such disrespect? What was it that caused her to recoil from him so when it came to serious topics?
“I have called a meeting with these guards who are suspect, and made sure a letter has been written on my behalf to Queen Anne. This appalling behavior – the incorrigible ignorance of those men, on both sides of the line – it isn’t fitting for this family, even if she does see nothing wrong with it,” he whispered fiercely, hoping nobody was close enough to hear their words.
“Well, I-”
“Is that all you can say, Françoise? “Well, I-?””
“But Sire, I… you haven’t given me time for words to proceed forth from my mouth in defense of dear Monsieurs Beausoleil, Bonhomme, and Monet. More, granted, Beausoleil than the others, but…”
Her eyes slid sideways… a glance out the window. Louis snapped his fingers to gather her attention back, and grasped her hands to still them, bringing them down to her sides.
“Beausoleil, I know, and Herbert Monet, I’m familiar with, but who is this… Bonhomme character? Is he in our employ,” he asked her, grunting at the thought of there being a guard with whom he was not familiar.
He pulled her toward the couch and gestured for her to sit. Reluctantly, she did so, and he followed suit.
“Yes, my Lord. If you recall, he is one of the two men who witnessed the disappearance of…”
Ah, yes. Edward’s disappearance.
As if he needed another reminder of the man’s betrayal, intentional or not.
Treason was treason, as far as Louis was concerned, and Edward was as guilty of it for abandoning a marriage he and James had set up as the guards who were trying to kill James’ son. The thought of him turned Louis stomach sour, and any thoughts of lovemaking were quickly curbed.
He had previously hoped that with their moment of honesty, he and his wife would also share a moment of vulnerability. No such option now.
“Oui, oui, I recall now. As if I should ever forget,” he muttered, retaining his hold on her hands. “So he is among those who have helped keep our young James Francis from the grip of death?”
“Indeed, my Lord. He has.”
Twenty Seven
Perpignan, France… June 10, 1702
Sir Gaspar awakened in a frothy sweat; his heart pumped wildly, and his hair flopped lazily into his eyes, obstructing his view.
His dreams had been so vivid, at first he thought he had lived them. He swept his hair back, surprised by the amount of moisture it contained.
Had he ever awakened so rudely from such a wonderful dream?
All he remembered was Galya, stepping from the mirror into his arms, and telling him in a profusion of French just how much she wanted to marry him.
In the dream, she wore sandals on her feet, and her hair was braided; in it, she wore a beautiful gown of the most royal purple…. It fit her trimly, as had the tunic she’d actually emerged in, but the shape of it was more flattering to her small, rounded form.
In the dream, she had allowed him to hug her, which hadn’t happened in reality. But he could hear her heartbeat and see the smile in her eyes as he kissed her, in his dream, and he had told her how much he would delight in her as his wife.
With a sigh, Sir Gaspar tried to hold close the reverie, but it vanished quickly. It was still dark outside, and the moon shone through his window bright. He took care to get up quietly, walk toward the window, and look out over the lawns.
Today, he would say goodbye to Miss Marguerite Chevreul and her father.
Quite possibly forever.
He had wanted to do what was right by Miss Marguerite, and still follow his heart. It had seemed all too easy that Sir Mason had made his decision for him… but what would the repercussions be when he went to court?
He could lose his title, or even the support of the King. Was he prepared for that outcome?
Was Galya worth the risk to his future?
If his dreams came true, she would be worth the risk, and more. She would become his wife. Not today, but when she knew what she was saying… what she was doing.
It was so odd that twice now, he had given his heart, and twice he had come back from the brink.
Of course, he knew now that Miss Roisin could never have been what he was looking for; she had been a pretty face, a fascinating voice, an interesting tale to tell people. He had not loved her, but had been enamored with who he hoped she could become.
But he loved Miss Marguerite.
He was sure he did.
Didn’t he?
He detested her behavior the night prior, but words said in anger weren’t enough to remove one’s love, were they?
That would be callous… as callous as her words had been, and as heartless. And he wasn’t a heartless man.
So why was it that on the verge of marrying her, he found he knew her so little? Why was it that Galya had stumbled into his life and altered his plans for happiness, only to be someone he may well be happier with, given the right circumstances?
The twittering of birds awakening sounded in the night, and he tried to focus on them. Concentrate on the birds, he told himself as he pulled a chair close to the window. Stop beating yourself over the head with thoughts of women, and concentrate on the birds.
As he sat there looking from the window, hearing the faint sound of the river nearby blending with that of the birds, his eyes began to droop.
Within minutes, he was asleep again.
Marguerite Chevreul pouted as she watched her father’s footmen place her trunk in the carriage. Tears were forming at the corners of her eyes, and she reigned them in with force.
She did not dare raise a gloved hand to her face, for fear Father or Sir Gaspar were watching.
Daybreak had barely commenced, and here they were, ready for yet another long trip; this time, not just to Paris, where they’d left from, but all the way back to Angers. And it was a trip she never thought she’d have to make again… certainly not so soon. Possibly once she’d borne a child or two and they were old enough, she expected to get as far as Paris to meet her father there someday, but much later than now.
To return to Angers in the same unmarried condition as when she left?
It was a disgrace!
Anger welled within her not for the first time that morning, even as she tried to capture a yawn from escaping.
Sleep well, she did not.
“Marguerite, why are you not already in the cabin ready to go,” she heard her father bellow from above.
Really? Was Papa going to bellow in the early hours of the day, and out a
window, nonetheless?
It was rude.
It was embarrassing.
It was uncivilized, and may well even up the score on reputation should word get out of it.
She glanced up to see him waving his arms at her to approach the carriage, and so, with hesitant steps, she did.
What was the use of arguing?
She’d lost the man she loved after all, hadn’t she?
Twenty Eight
Pendleton, Oregon… June 10, 2020
Lovan Quimby made his way up the steps of the prison, signed his name and who he was there to see, claimed a locker for his backpack, and collapsed into a chair.
While he was thankful he could stay with a friend of his grandmother’s in order to get here early in the morning, he didn’t relish being here at all. He had asked his girlfriend if she’d come, too, but her parents had said, no, she wouldn’t be coming.
He had seen the sigh of relief in her face, even though it hadn’t come from her lips.
She hadn’t wanted to come, and really, could he blame her? He only asked her because he didn’t want to come alone.
And yet, here he was, alone… a thirteen year old facing his father’s hatred and fears.
Alone to face the man who had raised him, at least for a little while, on his own; alone to face the man who had become a living nightmare to him one day after another until it was too late, and he’d finally landed in prison on a more permanent basis.
When they’d lived in California, his father had been in and out of jail, but never for more than five months at a time.
When Lovan asked him why he wanted to spend time there instead of with his own son, Quentin had wept and said it wasn’t that he didn’t care or want to spend time with him, but that “there are some things a man gotsta do, Lovan. When you be older, you’ll come to realize. I know you will.”
The Angels' Mirror Pack 2: Books Four through Seven Page 16