Duty to the Crown

by Aimie K. Runyan

  Claudine placed the silver-plated hairbrush back on the vanity with a shaking hand. You must go to him and do it now.

  She gave her reflection a stern look and rose to cross her bedroom. Few women would be so bold as to knock upon her husband’s bedroom door and ask for his favor, but she knew he was past asking. Too many excuses and rejections.

  She padded across the hallway and rapped decidedly but softly at the door. Please, God, let him be kind.

  “Is everything all right, Claudine?” Laurent asked, his eyebrows lifted at the sight of his wife at the bedroom door. Not “my dear,” “sweetheart,” “darling” . . . just Claudine.

  “Yes.” Though perhaps not for long. “Might I come in?”

  Laurent stepped aside and made way for her to enter the room.

  Claudine paused for a moment to take in the candlelit room. The furnishings were dark, sturdy, and masculine, much like Laurent himself. The bedding and tapestries favored threads in deep reds and gold hues that made the room seem warm despite the chill.

  “Please, sit down,” Laurent said, gesturing to a plush chair by the fireplace, formal as though he were welcoming a maiden aunt into the parlor.

  “I hope you don’t mind me barging in like this.” Claudine became acutely aware of how sheer her nightdress was as she sat before him. He kept his eyes respectfully on her face, but she could sense they wanted to explore the rest of her.

  He’s your husband. He can look all he likes. And if you didn’t want him to, you should have worn your dressing gown.

  “Claudine, you’re my wife and this is your home. You’re welcome in any room in this house whenever you like.” Laurent pulled a second chair close to hers and patted her hand affectionately. The first gesture he’d dared show in weeks.

  “Laurent, I know I haven’t—that we have yet to—” Crimson crept up from her navel to the tip of her scalp in the matter of a moment.

  “Consummate our marriage?”

  “Precisely.” She rubbed the velvet of the chair with her pinky, unable to look into his face, but grateful he’d voiced the issue when she could not. “I wanted to tell you there’s good reason.”

  Laurent scooted closer to the edge of his seat but refrained from offering any verbal encouragement to continue.

  “You know that I had been terribly keen on Victor St. Pierre. What I hadn’t told you is that I let him . . . that is . . . we . . .”

  Speak, you fool! He deserves the truth. Not your stammering.

  “On the night of his ball, not an hour before he announced his engagement to another woman, he persuaded me to let him . . . have me.” Now that the truth was spoken, never to be unheard, she let out a jagged breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

  “I see” was Laurent’s only reply.

  “It only happened the one time. I was foolish enough to think it was me he was planning to propose to. I never would have otherwise. But I knew that once we . . . once I let you . . . you would know the truth. And then you’d hate me. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “Claudine, of all the things I am capable of, I don’t think hating you could ever be one of them.”

  “I want to be a good wife, Laurent. A proper wife to you. If you wish to set me aside it’s your right. I should have told you before.” Try though she might, the lump rose in her throat as she thought about what that future would hold for her. She would spend the rest of her days on a remote homestead, no chance of a family. Cut off from Zacharie forever. Not seeing Laurent, the loss of which stung more than she realized it would. Enduring his condescending gaze if they ever crossed paths. Seeing him married to another woman. She hadn’t expected the twinge of jealousy in the maelstrom of emotions that besieged her.

  “Yes, you should have.” Laurent sat back in his chair, his brow creased as he looked down at his interwoven fingers.

  “It was dishonest.” The truth spilled from Claudine’s lips and she could no longer dam it up. “I hope you will come to forgive me, in time.” Claudine leaned forward to smooth a wayward lock of his dark tresses. She lowered her hand slowly to caress his check, but he stilled her hand with his own.

  “There is nothing to forgive,” Laurent said, standing. With three strides he was back at the bedroom door holding it open for her. “Thank you for telling me the truth.”

  It was a dismissal.

  Claudine did not look at his face as she left the room and kept her countenance until she shut the door to her own bedroom behind her. The moment the door clicked shut she slumped against it, slowly sliding to the floor, and let the tears come forth in a torrent. She bunched up the hem of the nightdress and bit against her howling sobs. She would not let him hear. She would not give the staff the satisfaction of knowing she was an unfit mistress to the house of Robichaux.

  She would play the part until Laurent decided to end the charade.

  * * *

  The following morning at breakfast, Claudine took her place at the table, waiting for Laurent to scream at her. To drag her by the hair and fling her into the street. Instead, he chatted with her companionably as he had done every morning since they married. This is worse. If he raged at me, at least I’d know he cared. Hatred might be painful, but his indifference is insufferable.

  “And what have you planned for today, my dear?” Laurent asked. Oh please, anything but idle chatter! Call me a whore and cast me out, but don’t make small talk.

  “I had thought to pay a visit to Rose.” Claudine invented plans out of thin air. While visiting Rose had been on her list of things to see to, it had in no way been a fixed plan before now. She had to find some occupation to take her from under his nose.

  “How thoughtful of you. I’ve heard she’s not been in the best of health or spirits with this child. Your visit will cheer her up.”

  “I hope so.” I’d like to bring some joy to someone today. “I’ll take her some of Elisabeth’s almond tarts. I know they’re her favorite.”

  “Excellent notion,” he said, pushing his chair back and rising from the table. “Have a lovely visit. Don’t hurry back.”

  No, don’t hurry back. Stay away and keep your sullied self out of my home. Claudine shook her head at her ungenerous thoughts. There was no sense in putting the hateful words in his mouth before he took the opportunity to say them himself.

  Less than an hour later, Claudine knocked at Rose’s door, basket laden with pastries and needlework, armed for a solid day away from the Robichaux house. The manservant escorted her to the parlor, where both the lady of the house and her husband found some repose.

  Rose, plump with child, lay with her feet propped up on a decadent-looking settee opposite the fire, a small gown coming to fruition in her hands. Henri sat in an armchair trying, and evidently failing, to concentrate on a novel. He looked very little like his uncle Alexandre. His hair was a much paler shade of brown than his uncle’s, his skin swarthier, too. While the elder Lefebvre was tall and lean, Henri was shorter and more muscular. In truth, Claudine always thought he looked like he was built to work a farm, not manage one.

  “Perhaps I’ll leave you ladies to your conversation?” Henri suggested, setting the book on the small table by his seat with an air of relief. “I believe I can trust our young Madame Robichaux to keep my wife from overexerting herself?”

  “Of course,” Claudine said with a smile, hiding a wince at his use of her title. “I’ll keep her happy and entertained for as long as you need.”

  Henri offered her a smile and bounded out of the room before anyone contrived a reason to call him back.

  “Poor Henri. He feels as though he has to entertain me at every moment, else I won’t take the bother to rest. He’s been so sweet about it, but it drives him mad.”

  “He’s the sort who can’t bear to be idle,” Claudine agreed. “It’s not a bad quality in a man.”

  “Not at all,” Rose agreed. “But he’s hardly restful company if he can’t sit still for more than a few minutes at a time.”

&nb
sp; “True. But soon you’ll have another delicious baby and his worry will be over.” Claudine busied herself setting a pastry in front of Rose on her table and pouring some spruce beer the maid had brought for them.

  “Elisabeth is a miracle worker,” Rose declared with her first bite into the flavorful tart. “From simple ingredients like flour, water, and yeast she makes heaven on earth.”

  “I’m glad your appetite will allow you to eat,” Claudine said. “Emmanuelle was sick for so long when she was expecting Zacharie.” With a tug at her heart, she realized it had been weeks, maybe as much as a month or two since she’d spoken her sister’s name aloud.

  “Thankfully, that hasn’t been a problem this time,” Rose said, sampling one of the buttery confections. “You’re a dear to come visit me. Though I sense your visit isn’t completely altruistic.”

  “You’re too perceptive for my taste, always have been,” Claudine said, clucking her tongue.

  “Then get on with it. I’m languishing for want of news.” Rose sat up a little straighter on her settee, folding her hands on her lap in anticipation.

  “Laurent and I . . .” Claudine felt the sting of tears and battled through them as she recounted it all—her inability to do her wifely duties and how she had confessed to Laurent the entirety of her dealings with Victor at the St. Pierre ball—all of it in one tidal wave of confession.

  By the time she was finished, Claudine was seated on the floor by Rose’s settee, doubled over with her head on her knees. Rose gently stroked her hair, making motherly, encouraging sounds, but never interrupting Claudine’s litany.

  “He pretended as if I’d said nothing this morning,” Claudine repeated, leaning her head against the edge of the settee, trying to keep the churning bile in place. “He dismissed me from his bedroom. He must despise me.”

  “My dear, Laurent Robichaux, of all people in Christendom, is probably the least capable of despising anyone. You’re simply imagining how you yourself might react, rather than truly paying attention to his words and actions. I’ll say this, while I’m glad you’ve dulled that razor-sharp tongue of yours a bit, your backbone is good for him to see.”

  “So you don’t think he hates me, but that he’s a fool not to?” The tears cool on her hot cheeks, Claudine looked up at her beloved teacher.

  “That’s not what I said,” Rose said, visibly stifling a chortle. “You must learn to listen, my dear. I think Laurent may indeed be hurt by the truth. He may just need some time to adjust his thoughts on the matter. I’m sure he appreciates that you’ve finally owned the truth.”

  “A bit late,” Claudine said, wiping the brine from her face. “The information would have done him more good before we were married.”

  “Perhaps, but it’s a done thing now.” Rose leaned back to her original position, looking weary from sitting up overlong. “He’s a good man, Claudine. He will learn to look past it all, I’m sure.”

  “How can you be convinced?” Claudine asked. “He could cast me out this moment with the clothes on my back and nothing more and no one would think ill of him once he divulged the truth. What’s to say he won’t be pleased to be rid of me?”

  “Darling—”

  “Good men have cast out wives before. You can’t deny it.” Claudine buried her face in the plush settee cushion next to where Rose sat. Good settee, be a dear and swallow me whole. It will spare me the pain of returning home only to be turned out by my husband.

  “No, no, I can’t,” Rose admitted. “But you must not act like a woman defeated. You have spoken your piece, apologized, and now you must wait. Wait, and hope that he will forgive your folly.”

  “I hate waiting, I hate that he holds my fate in his hands. It’s so incredibly unfair.”

  “It is, my darling girl. But so is the fate of being born a woman. We are placed on a higher pedestal than man. We have further to fall when we stumble.”

  “It’s unfair,” Claudine repeated.

  “Many would disagree with you, sweet girl,” Rose said, reprising her caress of Claudine’s wavy brown locks. “But I am not among them.”

  * * *

  A few hours later, Claudine left a rapidly fatiguing Rose in Henri’s care. She tried to contrive an errand to keep her from home, but with an insincere curse of her efficient staff, she could think of none. Furthermore, the brisk February air and blanket of snow dispelled any desire she had to delay her return when she began the trek, and she was happy to find the warmth of her foyer a quarter of an hour later.

  In the nursery, Nanny Simon diverted little Zacharie with small wooden animals that Claudine’s father had sent for the boy. Each of the Deschamps children had their little menagerie, and it seemed his grandchildren wouldn’t be deprived of the tradition. Claudine took a spot near the fire and warmed her hands so she wouldn’t shock the baby with her cold skin, but he was crawling up in her lap before the job was done. Despite the cold hands that enveloped him, he rewarded her with a lopsided grin punctuated with bubbles of spittle in the corners of his bow-shaped mouth.

  “Sweet, darling boy,” Claudine cooed, burying her face in the soft skin of his neck. Please, God, don’t take him from me. “Nanny Simon, please go enjoy some rest. I’m sure you’re in need.”

  “With pleasure, Madame Robichaux.” Nanny gripped the side of her solid chair to lift herself off the floor after a bit of struggle and grunting. “You seem a bit out of sorts, if I may say so, madame. Is there anything I might help with?”

  “No, my dear lady. Not a thing.” Just care for my boy if his father sends me away. Not that I need ask it of you. “Enjoy your afternoon. I plan on being here for quite some time. I’ll call for you when you’re needed.”

  “Very good, madame.” The kindly woman did not look convinced at her mistress’s assurances, but did as she was bid.

  For a long while, she sat and held the sweet child in her arms, drinking in his scent and memorizing the exact pattern of his riot of black curls. He was able to sit on his own and crawl with some success, but he was still content to let his aunt cradle him for as long as she desired. These days were numbered, and Claudine knew to cherish them.

  “My own sweet boy. I love you. . . .” She rocked back and forth watching his eyes grow heavy with the swaying motion. “I don’t know how many days we have left together . . . nor if I’ll ever be able to cradle any little brothers or sisters for you . . . but thank you for letting your auntie hold you for now, my love.”

  “May I intrude?” Laurent asked from the doorway, waiting for Claudine’s acknowledgment, as was his custom. Claudine looked up from Zacharie’s face and wiped away the tears she hadn’t known were there.

  “Of course. It’s your home.” And only you know how much longer it will be mine. Her arms wrapped tightly around her nephew as though Laurent might grab him from her embrace at any moment.

  “Please don’t take him from me, Laurent. I beg you.”

  Laurent dragged the spare chair next to Claudine’s and wrapped his arms around her and the child. “My angel . . . I would not dream of separating our family.” Emotion caught in his throat and he buried his face in her hair. Claudine adjusted the baby so that her body more easily melded to Laurent’s. She’d never noticed how he smelled of fresh leather and heady spices.

  He’s not sending me away. I can stay. She placed a kiss, ever so gently, on the soft skin of his neck. I will repay your generosity. Your kindness.

  “I’m so sorry, Laurent. I should have told you sooner,” she whispered sometime later.

  “Indeed you should have, but perhaps you were wise,” Laurent said, gripping her tighter. “If I had known how St. Pierre used you, I can’t promise my temper would have held. But knowing that you’re mine helps me to keep things in perspective.”

  “I didn’t want to hurt you. I hope you know that.”

  “I confess, these weeks I had no idea what was going on in that head of yours. I can only imagine how uncomfortable you must have been. Here in our own home
. The thought of you in distress hurts me deeply. I know I haven’t helped matters today, but I just needed some time to consider the matter.” Just as Rose said.

  “I can well understand you needing some time. It was no small confession.” Claudine felt she could afford to be sympathetic now that she knew she wasn’t going to face the world alone.

  “We need never speak of it again,” Laurent said, sitting up and kissing her temple and twirling one of his son’s curls with his thumb and forefinger. “He ought to call you ‘Maman.’ I don’t wish to erase Emmanuelle from his life, and I want him to know about her . . . but it doesn’t seem right for a child to grow up without someone to call his maman.”

  “Many do,” Claudine said, her voice hollow, kissing Zacharie’s smooth brow and placing him in his crib.

  “Not in this house.” Laurent stood from his chair and held out a hand for Claudine. Little Zacharie’s eyes were shut fast in sleep and did not stir as she pulled the soft woolen blanket up to his chest. Claudine asked the maid who was sweeping nearby to listen for any fussing from the nursery while she worked so Nanny Simon could still enjoy another hour to herself. Laurent took Claudine’s hand and led her down the corridor in the direction of the master bedrooms.

  “It’s only midafternoon,” Claudine said as they stood outside Laurent’s bedroom door.

  “Yes, my angel, but I think we’re far overdue for our wedding night, don’t you think?” Laurent opened the door to his cozy bedroom, the fire already blazing several hours before it normally would have been lit. The bedcovers were turned down, inviting them to spend the afternoon wrapped up in their warmth.

  Laurent kissed her neck as he freed her from her clothes. With shaking hands, she helped Laurent from his, waiting for him to take what he wanted.

  The image of her tall, dashing prince vanished as Laurent placed her gently on the bed and began to caress her. She drank in his clean scent and rubbed her fingers on the soft skin of his back that had never been tanned from a hard day of labor or sport in the sun. He is not young and dashing . . . but he is good. He is kind. He is mine . . . .