Divine Fire

by Melanie Jackson

  “Seeing this, I can almost believe it. May I?” Unable to wait any longer, she gestured at the small chest.

  “Please.”

  Carefully she laid the locket aside and picked up the first parchment in the pile. She untied the faded silk ribbon that secured it and unfolded the document carefully. Her hands were shaking.

  “These are well preserved, but I must make copies for you to work with. We can’t risk damage to the originals.”

  Beneath her, as Brice continued to ignore him, Mace rolled back onto his stomach and then resurrected. He retreated quickly toward the fireplace, where he curled into a small ball and settled in for a nap.

  The parchment in Brice’s hands proved to be a letter from Ninon to the Marquis de Sévigné. Brice translated quickly.

  “ ‘Love! I feel thy divine fury! My trouble, my transports, everything announces thy presence. Today a new sun arises for me; everything lives, everything is animated—’ ”

  “ ‘Everything seems to speak to me of passion, everything invites me to cherish it.’ ” Damien finished the paragraph, demonstrating his familiarity with the material. “One of her few flights into romantic fantasy. They’re not all like that, though. Many are essays for her pupils—lessons in love, the curriculum in which you are interested. There is also a fascinating and different account of her meeting with ‘the dark man.’ I shall be especially interested in what you make of that.”

  Brice sank down on the alpaca rug in front of the fire. The tremor in her hands spread fast and her quaking knees refused to hold her up anymore. Mace made a small noise, asking if she was all right. “Essays? There are essays?”

  “Feeling faint again? Buck up, my girl. You’ll need your strength for this next lot. They aren’t exactly ‘insert tab A in slot B’ illustrated instructions of lovemaking, but they are pretty graphic even by today’s standards.” Damien set the box down beside her and gave both Brice and Mace pats on the head. Brice was too stunned to protest. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  “I can’t believe it. Essays.” Brice rubbed her face, as though she could scrub away the shock.

  “They’re intelligently written too—she had such a clear, fresh voice. And since the affairs of men and maids have changed very little in the intervening centuries, I believe that it would make an excellent modern-day entry in the sexual self-help book category if it were ever published—which I think it should be. It’s a pity Ninon isn’t here to see that it happens. I think it is something that would please her.”

  “I’m trying to be her voice,” Brice said, still a little dizzy. “God knows I’m trying.”

  “And I think you’ll succeed. Perhaps to a greater degree than you ever expected,” Damien added cryptically. “But you’ll have to dig for the answers. She won’t surrender her mysteries without a fight.”

  Chapter Seven

  On the night of her eighteenth birthday a stranger was announced and, being much alone, Ninon received him though he gave the servants no name. The man who appeared before her was very strange—old and yet ageless.

  “My visit surprises, perhaps terrifies you. But be not afraid. I have come on this night to offer you a gift, one of three things: either highest rank, or immeasurable wealth, or eternal beauty. But you must choose which without delay. At the count of seven the opportunity will be gone forever.”

  “Then I choose eternal beauty. But tell me—what must I do for such a great boon?”

  “You must sign your name on my tablet and never tell a soul of our secret compact.”

  Then, when Ninon had done as he said, he told her, “This is the greatest power that a person may have. In my six thousand years roaming the earth, I have only ever bestowed it on four mortals: Semiramis, Helen, Cleopatra and Diane de Poitiers. You are the fifth and last to receive this gift. Look for me before eighty years have passed. When you see me again, tremble, for you shall have but three days to live. And remember that my name is Noctambule.”

  —An account of the meeting between the Devil and Ninon de Lenclos

  Ignite me, O fire of isolation!

  It hath not been long since I felt thine ice

  and my soul’s ticklish tears upon my cheek.

  I have burned before and stayed unscathed,

  despite the draw of death…

  —From Le Chevalier sans Paix

  Love never dies of starvation, but often from indigestion.

  —Ninon de Lenclos

  “Good God! She didn’t really plan to sleep with four hundred and thirty-nine monks, did she?” Brice demanded out loud, shocked by what she had just read. “Surely she just said that to piss off the queen.”

  Damien’s lips twitched. Probably because of the word pissed. Polite as he was, it wouldn’t ever be part of his intentional daily linguistic fare.

  “I’m not sure. She might have made good on the threat—if the monks were worth it, of course. She did not lack courage and she did not believe in hell—at least, not the ‘hell ever after’ the Church talked about.”

  “Hmph! I guess I wouldn’t blame her if she had done it. Listen to this brainless, sexist drivel from the queen’s confessor,” Brice demanded, and began reading aloud from one of the letters. Damien obviously had read through it already, but he listened attentively as she related first the priest’s opinion and then Ninon’s words about the slavery of marriage to an unintelligent man, in passionate if oddly accented French.

  He responded, “It was an attitude of the time—this belief that women could not know honor or courage or reason. I think it is why Ninon so often dressed as a man.” He spread his hands as he spoke. His words were measured and old-fashioned, as they often were when he talked about Byron or Ninon. Unknowingly, he seemed to need to discuss them in the language of their own eras. Brice found it fascinating. But then, pretty much everything about Damien fascinated her.

  “Hogwash.” She wanted to say bullshit, but didn’t since her host set such an example of restraint.

  “Yes, I agree. But, considered inferior, women were expected to submit to a man’s will. And given the difficulties that faced any independent women and their children, many wanted to submit, since it was the lesser evil. Marriage at least had the benefit of social acceptability. And a wife was harder to cast off than a mistress.”

  “But not all men thought this way. Nor all women,” Brice argued, holding up Ninon’s letter. “Even in those dark days, some knew better.”

  “Of course. But as a rule, the exceptions to the community standards were punished harshly by society, which above all things loves the status quo.” Damien grinned suddenly. “And understandably so. It is my experience that independent women can be fatiguing. There’s nothing like them to disrupt a man’s well-ordered life.”

  “I know. But it pisses me off. What a waste of so many lives. Their thoughts and dreams quashed before they ever blossomed—and all because of their gender.” Then Brice thought about what Damien said regarding independent women, and that she had tacitly agreed by not speaking out against it at once, and glared at him. “Don’t joke about it. You’ll be burned in effigy if anyone hears you making remarks about independent women. Of course, you’re probably roasted regularly anyway.”

  Damien blinked at her words, and Brice pointed at the newspaper. It was folded open to his latest review. He laughed.

  “Alas, it’s true! Hell hath no fury like that of a writer scorned. You’re in good company with your views of women’s bondage, though. It annoyed Ninon too. You can see it even in her most circumspect writing. To us it seems obvious, but remember that she was questioning what was the accepted philosophy of her day—what was the given, divine truth.”

  “I know, and that’s what’s so amazing. I think I can see why Byron was fascinated by her. It wasn’t any sort of sexual fixation. Forget all that Don Juan, the great mythic lover stuff,” Brice said, reaching for the last scone. They had missed lunch and were both hungry. Since Damien had been being a pill about her gender, she didn
’t offer to share. Busy with the scone, she didn’t notice how Damien’s eyes widened at her words.

  “Aside from her mind, which was keen, she shared another common trait with him.” Brice slathered on lemon curd with a lavish hand.

  “Yes?” Damien cocked his head. “Her love of intellectual freedom perhaps?”

  “That, too, of course. But I am thinking of something subtler. They didn’t make a big fuss about it, but neither of them could abide cruelty—especially not when it was directed at the weak. Neither ever took pleasure in another’s suffering. Not even that of their enemies. And they were not judgmental—which is not to say that they lacked judgment or moral fiber,” she added. She waved a hand, searching for the best way to explain what she thought. “They just didn’t feel that everyone had to make the same choices they did. They believed that people should be allowed to find their own intellectual paths whatever those happened to be. Nor were they afraid of the opposite sex, because they understood the genders very well and allowed for the differences. That made them far more forgiving of the world than the world was of them.” She frowned, and her voice became soft. “I wonder if they were ever lonely. They were rarely alone, but…well, you know what I mean. It’s the path not taken and all that.”

  Damien sighed. “They often were lonely, I should think. It takes brave people to truly befriend crusaders—especially in an era when society was so willing to destroy people for having aberrant views. Friends would have been few and far between.” Damien looked her in the eye. “Not that things have changed that much. We still do that with the misfits and rebels.”

  “ ‘But it was only a thin veneer of morality that cloaked their less wholesome deeds,’ ” Brice quoted softly as she looked out the window. She was glad that they couldn’t see where the World Trade Center had once stood. “The ton was made up of such bloody hypocrites. And they were all so cruel.”

  “Yes.”

  “Things have changed—for most of us,” she said softly, arguing against Damien’s stated assumption that people still were hypocritical and repressive. “Fanaticism of this stripe is the exception, not the norm. At least in the Western world.”

  Again, for some reason the observation seemed to affect Damien, who nodded in polite agreement but looked away. His troubled gaze suggested that he saw something painful in his past. She wondered what it was. He turned back to her and said suddenly: “Have you ever made a wassail bowl?”

  Brice blinked. Damien had a way of surprising her with strange non sequiturs. She didn’t understand how his brain worked sometimes, but it nearly always led somewhere fascinating; she was quite willing to follow.

  “No, I haven’t actually. I’ve read recipes, of course.”

  “Well, come along. Time for a hands-on history lesson. We are going to make Byron’s favorite wassail bowl.” Damien stood up quickly. “I do hope we have dark ale in the house. That’s the start of all excellent wassails.”

  Mace made a small complaining noise from under the desk.

  “Soon,” Damien promised the dog. He explained to Brice, “This is the time of day when Mace and I ride the service elevator down to the basement, where we have a visit with the janitor. It turns out that Mace has a real taste for thrill rides. We’ve tried the regular elevators, but they are too tame. Mace prefers the near free-fall of the older deathtrap.”

  “I see,” Brice said. But she didn’t. She couldn’t imagine finding any pleasure in an elevator, let alone one that could be classed as a thrill ride.

  The kitchen was fabulous, which was only to be expected. What was surprising was that Damien seemed to know his way around it. For some reason, she had thought that there would be a cook in residence, and maybe even a butler and footmen.

  “Obviously, this was designed by a man. The counters and cupboards are so tall,” Brice commented as she ran a finger over the professional range.

  Damien turned, smiling broadly, and somehow she wasn’t shocked when he put his hands around her waist and boosted her onto the counter as though she were a child of four.

  “Usually there is the cook—Mathilda Jones—but I gave her the week off. Her family lives in California.” Damien plucked out some crab apples from the bamboo bowl on the marble counter. “Where is the sherry? We need that, and lemons too.”

  He went to the door and stuck his head out.

  “Karen,” he called. “Where is the sherry?”

  “Have you tried your desk drawer?” His secretary’s dry voice floated back down the long hall.

  “Damn! She’s right. I left it there for Mace.”

  “Mace likes sherry?” Brice felt herself smiling at the sheer ridiculousness of the notion.

  “Every evening at five,” Damien confirmed, turning the oven on and throwing the small apples into a white baking dish.

  “Shall I go get it?” Brice asked. “Mace will share with me, won’t he?”

  “Would you mind? Second drawer on the left. Tell Mace I’ll return it promptly.”

  Brice nodded and slid off the counter before Damien could lift her down. She hurried back to the library.

  Pulling open the second drawer of the desk, she found the tall, skinny bottle. She also found a sheet of folded paper with Lord Byron’s signature on it. She froze.

  Could it be a letter? The draft of an unknown poem? A piece of his memoirs?

  Hands trembling, but not hesitating, she slipped the sheet out of the drawer and unfolded it carefully. It was a poem, Le Chevalier sans Paix. She scanned a few lines, amazement growing as she read:

  Warm, salty splashes on oars

  deeper and deeper they sink, trying—

  praying desperately to banish the flames

  which light the poles; the sails have torn

  free, flapping about thy shoulders

  and yes! You are there my love—

  She looked again at the name. She checked, but there was no date. What was even stranger, the paper seemed very modern. It was of good quality, and it showed no signs of age. None.

  The hairs at the nape of Brice’s neck began to rise.

  There was a leather book underneath the paper. It was tied shut with a faded blue ribbon and looked promisingly old.

  “Did you find the sherry?” Karen asked from the door. “His lordship grows restless. He is a good chef, but not a patient one.”

  Brice jumped and let the paper slide back into the drawer. She closed it quickly.

  “Yes. It’s right here.” She hoped that, if she was flushed, Karen would blame it on her being stooped over and not on guilt from being caught snooping.

  She patted the curious Mace on the head. Her hand was unsteady.

  “I wanted to tell you how much I love your dog. He must be good company.”

  “Better than my ex, that’s for sure,” Karen said, retreating from the room. “Though he is a bit disloyal. He seems to like my employer more than me.”

  “It’s probably the brioche and sherry.”

  Karen’s voice was fond. “Quite likely. You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but Mace is quite a glutton.”

  “It’s the company,” Brice suggested. “I’ve been eating like a pig since I arrived.”

  “Fortunately,” Karen answered, turning away, “neither you nor Mace show it.”

  Giving her cheeks and brain a moment to calm, Brice walked slowly back to the kitchen.

  What could that leather-bound book be? Probably nothing—heck, it didn’t have to be a journal at all. She was crazy to imagine it was Byron’s memoirs. By all accounts, those had been loose sheaves of paper anyway. And Damien had already shared his greatest Byronic treasure with her. Also, Ninon’s letters and portrait were priceless; why would he hold out on her about this?

  He wouldn’t. She was just being greedy and wishing for the moon.

  “Got the sherry?” Damien asked as she re-entered the kitchen. “The apples need to marinate in it while they roast.”

  “Yes, sorry I was so long. I stopped to pe
t Mace. I think he expected some sherry, but I didn’t see any glasses.” It was only a small lie.

  “We’ll give him some wassail instead. He likes that too.”

  “I take it that Mace isn’t afraid of the long-term effects of alcohol.” Brice boosted herself back onto the counter and watched Damien quarter lemons on the cutting board. When he motioned to her, she took over chopping.

  “Not from fine wine and ale,” he agreed. Opening the oven, he poured sherry over the hissing crab apples. He then went to the stovetop where dark ale was heating in a glass pan. “He has also been known on occasion to touch the demon rum.”

  “I like rum myself. It’s a component in many of my favorite summer drinks. I love trying silly-sounding beverages that come with paper parasols.”

  “Don’t we all? Not that this is at all a frivolous beverage.”

  “Of course not,” Brice agreed without smiling.

  “Now, one of the other keys to good wassail is only using glass when you heat the ale,” Damien said, assuming a lecturing voice. “Metal pans alter the flavor.”

  “I’ve heard the same about mulling wine,” Brice commented. “Is this enough lemon?”

  “One more,” Damien answered, looking back at her small pile. “And now it’s time to add the honey. One must never let the ale actually boil.”

  He poured in a generous dollop of honey and then began squeezing lemons into the brew. Lastly, he upended the sherry bottle and poured the rest of the golden spirits into the pan.

  Brice watched Damien work, liking the way his long fingers made everyday gestures acts of grace. She smiled a little at his lecture too. In spite of his unvarying politeness of expression and his puttering in the kitchen like a contented hausfrau, Brice was willing to bet that in other situations he was alpha male all the way.

  What remained to be seen was whether he liked alpha mates, or if he had to dominate everything. The fact that he used charm first didn’t mean anything except he wasn’t stupid or a bully. What was the saying? Violence is the thinking man’s last resort, and the ignorant man’s first. Damien was—above all things—a thinking man.