She nodded. “Wild and free.”
His brow furrowed, and she wondered what she’d said to take away the light in his eyes. “I will meet you downstairs in twenty minutes.”
She nodded. He was right, of course. With the recent shooting on his land, trespassers of any kind were unwanted. Those Arabians might mean someone had access to his property. A matter he would surely discuss with Security Chief Bryant.
She wouldn’t think about that now. Today she wanted to have fun.
Turning to the armoire, she pulled out her favorite pair of jeans and a cardigan.
She found him waiting in the study. She walked straight over to Khan, who was sitting up for once, tail wagging.
“Hello, boy,” she crooned, stroking his shiny black coat.
Khan rolled all one hundred eighty pounds over onto his back. She laughed and stroked the exposed belly.
“The dog’s gone soft.” Roman ushered her out of the study.
“Jealous?” she asked.
“To the core.”
They made their way to the stables beyond the garden on the south lawn.
When the horses were saddled, he helped her up onto Blue Belle, a gray roan. He jumped on Titan, a huge black stallion and led the way over the green.
They cantered over a field bright with buttercups and passed through an orchard.
“This is beautiful country.” She breathed in the fresh air of the woodlands filled with Scotts pine and silver birch.
“We’ll soon be able to have a picnic lunch at the hidden dell.”
She glanced at Roman, but his expression was unreadable. He spoke as if she were staying here in England. Their work together would soon be completed and she would be going home to New York, to Penrods. She had been working so hard for so long that being in England was a vacation, for she could hardly consider this assignment work.
The more time she spent with Roman, the more chinks there were in her armor.
She shook that frightening thought from her head. Over-thinking again, she couldn’t help it. Old habits are hard to break.
But she wanted to believe in him. She rode to this rendezvous just as determined as that daring soul inside of her. She was human, after all.
She knew who was to blame for what she felt…the woman inside her who loved him.
Mon Dieu…I’m in love with my dream lover!
She kept her eyes on the way ahead, but only saw herself at St. Clair Manor in the drafting room with Roman, completely satisfied and at peace as the years rolled by with a mechanical pencil in hand.
They went single file across a stone arch bridge and rode along the path of the River Wharfe. Passing a cabin in a small grove of trees, they turned down a path into the woods.
The wind lifted her hair from her shoulders when she turned toward Roman to see pride written on his face. He loved this land.
She had missed so much of her life working at Penrods. She wanted to do so many of the things she had given up for work.
The hope growing in her heart made her giddy. She smiled that anything could make her lose control, even for just a few minutes. He did this to her.
When they came to a clearing, she nudged Blue Belle ahead of Titan. “Do you want to have some fun?”
He arched a brow. “I thought you would never ask.”
She laughed aloud. “The first one to reach that huge tree across the meadow gets to choose the setting for the ruby and diamond trio.”
“You’re on.”
She was already flying past him on Blue Belle.
“Hey! That’s cheating!”
“Oh, so sorry, I forgot to say ‘On your mark, get set, go!’” Her laughter trailed behind her.
She grinned as Roman gave her a head start. Blue Belle would never outrun Titan, but she didn’t even thank him for the favor. She was halfway there when Roman galloped across the field. He was trying to overtake her, the brute.
“Amelie! Stop!”
“Come on, Blue Belle! Come on, girl!” she said with her head close to Blue Belle’s mane.
She was almost at the ancient oak, which reached for the sky with its thick, twisting branches. The tree was as wide around as the hunting lodge in the distance.
Auburn curls flashed in the sunlight.
She sat up on Blue Belle. The woman came out into the open, long skirts flowing, directly in Blue Belle’s path.
“Turn back.”
The words reverberated in her head.
“Pull up! Pull up!” Roman shouted behind her.
She pulled on Blue Belle’s reins, but it was too late. The woman was too close.
And then she saw it. A thick rope was strung between the two trees that Blue Belle’s hoofs were about to meet in the path.
Blue Belle surged ahead. When her front hoof connected with the rope the mare neighed in surprise, digging her hooves into the soil, trying to maintain her balance.
Amelie screamed as she pitched forward, sailing through the air, upended.
One moment the grass was over her head where the sky should be, and then she was plunged into darkness.
Part 2: Remembrance
Captain Cardiff and Jacqueline
Chapter 1
Château de Vaujours, Asnières-Sur-Seine, France – May 18, 1789
“Jacqueline…Jacqueline…” Someone called from a distance.
“Jacqueline, are you all right?” The girl said in anxious French, shaking her. “Open your eyes.”
Amelie’s head hurt too much to comply with that request.
“Don’t move. I will get help.” The girl ran off. “Papa! Papa!”
She lay with her eyes closed, other pains in her body making themselves known now. Her left ankle throbbed and her arm felt like it was on fire.
Her only comfort was the sweet smelling grass beneath her. It was soft and giving. It would be nice to just lay here and go to sleep, but the sound of river water teased her.
A horse whinnied softly. A furry muzzle bumped her head, which rang with the jolt.
“Ma chérie!” A man’s voice and heavy footfalls pounded in her head. A hand touched her cheek.
“Ma petite! Claude, what happened?” A woman’s frantic plea.
“Simone, take her hat,” Claude said. He gently pulled something off her head.
The darkness inside her closed eyelids brightened. Someone touched her forehead lightly and she winced at the stabbing pain.
“We were riding along the banks and she fell from Anouk,” the girl said.
Amelie squeezed her eyes shut against the confusing words.
“Jacqueline, open your eyes,” the man named Claude pleaded.
Slumber was just a dream now. Curiosity got the better of her.
Slowly, she opened her eyes.
The middle-aged man kneeling over her wore his faded brown hair in a ponytail. His green eyes were concerned, and looked vaguely familiar to her. “Mon Cœur, that was quite a fall. Let me get you back to the house. Margaux, take her arm.”
They each took an arm and supported her weight as she stood. She winced at the lancing pain in her ankle.
Margaux’s eyes, the same color as the gold-netted scarf holding back her hair, brimmed with tears as she took hold of a bloody arm.
Her own eyes stung with unshed tears as she leaned against Claude.
“Jacqueline, you are bleeding.” The older woman named Simone stroked her forehead. Black hair intertwined in an elaborate wire netting, which lifted her hair about a foot high above her head. Her gown brushed the grass.
“My name is Amelie.” She introduced herself in her native French, which seemed more appropriate among these strangers. They all spoke the language.
Claude exchanged a worried look with Simone.
Amelie turned a fearful glance toward the girl they called Margaux, who began to wail.
“Where am I?” She forgot her question when she tried to put weight on her left foot, and then nearly blacked out with the pain.
Claude murmured sympathetically and picked her up. He carried her across the lawn.
She looked up at their destination. There was a mansion in the distance, but not the one where she was staying.
What is the name of that place? She couldn’t remember.
The limestone building boasted regal Corinthian columns. Sunlight sparkled in the many mullioned windows. There were carved stone balconies with French doors on the second level.
Her vision blurred as three people came out of the mansion. She held her head as they hurried down wide stone steps and ran across the parklands.
“Comte St. Clair, what has happened? Mademoiselle! Are you well?”
She wrapped her arms tighter around Claude’s neck.
The women had on long black skirts and the man had on a black waistcoat. Something about the way they were all dressed bothered her, but her head ached so and thoughts were hard to hold onto.
“Jacqueline fell from Anouk.” Claude swept past them. “Serge, take Tatiana and Anouk to the stables.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
Bells tinkled, and Amelie stared over Claude’s shoulder.
Serge held the reins of a matched pair of Arabians. The horses nickered as he spoke to them in comforting tones. Each horse was outfitted in soft leather saddles with gold braiding and tassels with gold bells.
“I’ve seen them before,” she said. “I saw them riding along the banks.”
Claude exchanged a worried glance with Simone. He carried her up the steps, shouting orders to the waiting servants inside. They passed through an elegant foyer and across a grand hall with black and white ceramic tile.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the large gilt-framed mirror hanging above a lacquered table. The shoulder seam of the green riding habit was torn and hanging, the folds of the long skirt draped over Claude’s arm.
“These are not my clothes. Where are my clothes?”
Her hair was twisted into a topknot, though disheveled, and covered in green silk netting. There was an angry bruise on her forehead.
Claude carried her up a stone staircase. Simone went before them down the hall.
She looked around the room with its elegant yellow-gold furnishings as Claude placed her on the bed upholstered in silk pompadour.
Simone sat on the edge of the bed and held her hand. Margaux sat on a chair in glum silence.
“The doctor will be here soon, Jacqueline. Lay still and rest.” Claude slowly took off the riding boot, but she still felt the shooting pain up her leg.
“Does this mean we cannot go with you to the King’s ball, Maman?” Margaux looked ready to cry again.
“Your sister is ill, ma chérie. We will not know the extent of her injuries until Dr. Gautile arrives. We shall have to see how she feels later.”
Sister? The Comte and Comtesse were her parents?
They called her Jacqueline. The name made her head hurt more.
Her heart hammered to a crescendo between her ears along with the sequence of sights and sounds, which had enfolded since she had returned.
Returned from where?
She fought to hold onto the fast dwindling bits of awareness. Closing her eyes, she laid her head against the pillow.
Dr. Gautile arrived to examine her. He spoke to the Comte and Comtesse while he cleaned and dressed the wound on her forearm.
“There are no broken bones, but Mademoiselle Jacqueline has sprained her ankle. She must remain in bed for at least a week.” He looked her in the eye, addressing her for the first time. The familiarity in his tone made it clear they had met before. “You will not take your walks to the Seine for at least that long, Mademoiselle.”
How many fathers do I have in this fantasy my addled brain has concocted? She thought. She wanted to ask what walks he referred to, but could not find her voice.
The physician eyed her forehead. “Fortunately, there is no concussion, but the head and shoulder pain, hmm…well, we shall see after a few weeks.”
Margaux gasped. The girl was the only one not looking at her forehead, which made her want to see what they were all eyeing.
She glanced toward a hand mirror on the nightstand. Simone discreetly shook her head.
Doctor Gautile said, “Now you must tell me what you remember.”
She shook her head, which almost made her black out.
“Mademoiselle Jacqueline, do you remember how you fell from Anouk?” Dr. Gautile prompted her.
“I am having a nightmare.” She held on to the nearest hand, Simone the Comtesse. Warm, very real.
The Comtesse’s other hand covered hers. “What do you remember, ma chérie?”
If she answered, she might be pulled further into this…whatever this was.
As it is, the doctor’s ruddy jowls were too real as was the shooting pain in her arm.
No, she would not answer. If she did not answer, maybe they would all just go poof in a veil of smoke, never to be seen again.
“Jacqueline fainted and slid from Anouk’s back,” Margaux blurted out.
Her mind latched on to Margaux’s words, but no matter how hard she tried to remember the time before the fall remained a vast nothingness.
Doctor Gautile had more questions. “What is the year? When is your birthday?”
She could not answer. Stinging tears welled in her eyes.
“Ma petite, you must rest.” Simone pulled the coverlet over her.
“I will return tomorrow,” Doctor Gautile said in his brusque manner. The Comte and Comtesse St. Clair followed him out into the hall.
Feeling dull from a dose of laudanum, which had a very real, unpalatable taste, she closed her eyes. Before she succumbed to sleep, she sat up and gathered her courage for a question.
“Margaux, what is the date?”
Margaux took her hand. “Today is May eighteenth.”
“And the year?”
Margaux’s eyes widened. She glanced toward the open bedroom door before whispering, “You know very well the year is seventeen eighty-nine. Oh, you must feel better, Jacqueline!” The girl began talking excitedly about the upcoming ball at Versailles.
The prickling sensation moving over her skin reinforced the wrongness of the year. The fact that she had no other in mind to reference finally caused tears to flow.
Margaux walked to the door and inched it closed. She returned to the chair at bedside and picked up a book. “Please don’t cry, Jacqueline. I will read to you from your beloved English poet Milton’s verses. That will make you feel better.” She began to read poetry aloud.
Amelie closed her eyes and prayed to wake up from this nightmare before drifting off into a troubled sleep.
Chapter 2
Château de Vaujours, Asnières-Sur-Seine, France – May 22, 1789
Sunlight played against her closed eyelids, brightening the darkness until she could no longer ignore it.
Jacqueline opened her eyes.
Golden rays shined through the window onto the plush Aubusson carpet. She sat up and then held her head until the spinning sensation stopped.
“Amelie.” She rolled the name on her tongue. For the most part, memory of her home and family had returned, but now she could not remember what the name Amelie had meant to her a few days ago. It was a happy name, and undoubtedly belonged in a happy life. A life she would rather have. She sighed, flexing her ankle.
She had been relieved to see Dr. Gautile yesterday, for he had taken the bandage off her ankle and given her instructions for mild exercise.
What the doctor did not know was that she had been performing this mild exercise every day since the riding accident. She was tired of flexing her ankle. Today, she would go out and finish her painting of the Seine even if she had to use a cane to walk there.
Her empty stomach clamored when she saw the covered tray Isabelle left on the satinwood table.
Jacqueline got up gingerly. She was now able to put her full weight on the ankle. Sitting at the table, she sipped a cup of hot choco
late and watched the quiet, swirling waters beyond the expanse of terraced green outside her balcony window.
Perhaps she and Margaux would ride Anouk and Tatiana later, if they managed to get away from Maman for a few hours.
After breakfast, Isabelle helped her dress. The maid had artfully concealed the fading bruise on her forehead with cream.
She found Maman and Margaux downstairs in the red and gold salon.
“Ma chérie, are you feeling better? How is your ankle?” Maman took her hand and helped her to the sofa.
“Much better today.”
Maman lifted her chin and examined the bags under her eyes. “You are still not sleeping well.”
She moved out of her mother’s grasp. “The ankle leaves me restless at night.” There was no reason to upset Maman by telling her of the nightmares. Her mother would only worry more and she was tired of being a prisoner in her room.
Maman placed on her lap a gaily-wrapped box with a floppy satin ribbon. “Another gift from your intended.”
Jacqueline placed the box on the sofa beside her.
Margaux looked up from her needlepoint. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
“He sends keepsakes and roses as expected from a beau.”
Maman sat down next to her. “The Marquess cannot wait to see you again.”
“He has waited quite some time already. I have not seen him since we met at the King’s ball months ago.”
Maman remained silent, but Jacqueline could not end her rebellion.
“I should have known Papa had already made his decision. The Marquess and I danced together that night, the first and last dances of the evening.”
Maman picked up her needlepoint. “The Marquess of Alsborough has close ties to the English king.”
“Am I to sacrifice my happiness for good relations with France’s allies?”
Margaux’s jaw dropped. “Would you rather the forty year-old Marquis Chambert?”
“Jacqueline, you would have no one,” Maman sighed, giving her a pointed look. “I managed to persuade your father from the Marquis Chambert’s suit. Do not forget that your father allowed you to turn away the Comte Lefèbvre as well. At least you and the Marquess of Alsborough are close in age. You are twenty-one years old now and I can do nothing about the Marquess’s suit.”
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