Time for Eternity

by Susan Squires

  What was there to think about? She couldn’t ask the wicked duc to save Madame. He’d just end up throwing Françoise out of his house in the middle of the night for daring to importune him. And yet, she must. What other way was there to help her friend?

  “You are not well, mademoiselle?”

  She glanced up to feel his eyes boring into her. That only made her headache worse. “I … I have the headache.”

  He sighed, and looked … bored. “Then perhaps you’d better retire to your room.” He snapped his fingers, and even without pulling on the bell rope, the door opened.

  Jean stuck his head in. “Your grace?”

  “Escort Mademoiselle to her room. Perhaps her dresser can find a vinaigrette.”

  All he wanted was to get rid of her. He would never help Madame. She rose, gave a brief curtsy, and stumbled from the room.

  “I put your valise in your room, mademoiselle,” Jean called after her. “I’m afraid the rabble stole your purse.”

  She hurried up the stairs, wiping her cheeks, wanting only the refuge of her room.

  Henri pushed back from the table. In one moment of weakness he had saved her and now he was stuck with the chit until he could rid himself of her. Let that be a lesson to him. A headache. The oldest excuse in the book. He took his glass and the decanter to the window. The dining room looked out on a little garden with a pear tree in the center, surrounded by geraniums.

  Though he had to admit, she’d had quite a day. The house she was living in burned down. She might even have considered it home. Her friend arrested. She’d almost been arrested herself. Which was tantamount to a death sentence. And then she’d been claimed as a ward by someone she knew very well was not the benevolent type. Perhaps there was some excuse for her retreat into that old favorite of women who didn’t want to deal with life.

  Actually, he had expected only the annoying timidity of a very young girl who knew nothing of the world. She was innocent. It amused him to watch her struggle to shock him with his own reputation. But her comment about secrecy being attractive was surprisingly perceptive.

  Too bad it would be at least a week until he had an opportunity to pack her off on a barge to meet the Maiden Voyage in Le Havre. He could just hand her over to Jennings now and let him keep her in the warehouse down by the Seine. But … Jennings and the crew, for all their loyalty, were rough company for a virgin girl of twenty-one. They’d probably frighten her to death. She had enough spirit to try to escape what she would believe was a kidnapping. Would he give orders she was to be locked up for as much as a fortnight?

  He sighed.

  That meant he was stuck with her. All this drama made his own head ache.

  Sacredieu. He was stuck with a crying female in the house. He could hear her even now with his preternatural hearing. Well, he had no time for Mademoiselle Suchet. He had work to do. And it must be done before three so he could put in an appearance at a gaming house or two before dawn. Lord, but she had put him on edge. Maybe what he needed was to feed tonight.

  Drummond waited with his cape and his tricorn, his cane and his gloves. His valet took one look at his face and his own countenance went blank. Wise man. Henri made sure his pace was leisurely as he crossed the chessboard floor and the servants shut the door behind him.

  Five

  Annette was waiting for her in her room as Françoise stormed in. The girl’s eyes went wide. “Why, whatever’s wrong, mademoiselle?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Would Mademoiselle like to get into a dressing gown, or is she planning to go out?”

  “I’m going to bed. I have a headache.” Tomorrow morning she’d visit Madame then spend the rest of the day at placement agencies for household help. There had to be something she could do to earn her bread that didn’t involve lying on her back.

  But she had to find a way to help Madame LaFleur too. If the duc wouldn’t help, it was up to her. An image flashed through her head of the great, evil machine that stood in the northwest corner of the Place de Revolution, looking like a mouth open wide with its blade hanging at the ready to devour its next victim. And it did devour many victims every day, to the intense enjoyment of the crowd.

  She put her hand to her mouth to steady herself.

  Her eyes fell on an oddly shaped valise lying by her dressing table. “What is that?”

  “Ooooh, mademoiselle, did Jean not tell you? He saw you drop this at the edge of the park, so he brought it in for you. He snatched it from the crowd. Shall I unpack it?”

  She was just about to say that it was nothing of hers, when a strange frisson of familiarity rippled down her spine. Maybe it was hers. “No. No, thank you. I’ll take care of that.” She turned around. Annette unbuttoned her dress and unlaced her stays. What was in that valise? She almost knew. It was just at the edge of her mind … Like a word you couldn’t quite remember.

  Annette handed her a lovely night rail, delicate and embroidered, an almost sheer peach color. Exactly the garment the kind of women Avignon entertained would own. At any other time she would have refused it. But now she just wanted Annette out of the room so she could examine the contents of that valise.

  Annette laid out the luscious robe that went with the ensemble and bowed herself out. Somewhere downstairs a door thudded shut. Françoise went to the window and drew aside the draperies. Outside, the Place Royale was quiet. The mob had moved on for the night. She couldn’t see the sidewalk under the arcade from here. But she could hear the click of heels. And then a figure strode from beneath the arcade at an angle into the darkness of the square, twirling a cane as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

  Hateful man. At least he was out of the house, probably until dawn.

  She picked up a candelabrum and took it to the dressing table. The valise was very strangely constructed. It was not closed with a metal clasp. Instead it had a long line of what looked like interlocking metal teeth that ran across the top. At one end was a metal pull tab. She had never seen anything like it. Still, the implications were clear. She took hold of the tab and pulled it a few inches down the line of metal. The little teeth unlocked. Amazing. She pulled it back. They closed. It seemed almost diabolically clever. The leather was soft and buttery. It was the same color as a well-worn saddle, deep chocolate. Gingerly, she pulled the tab again—this time all the way across the top.

  She peered inside. Hmmm. She pulled the gaping mouth apart and held up the candelabrum. Metal glinted. Goodness! Was it … ? She reached inside and pulled out a leather scabbard. From one end a hilt protruded. The grip was blunt, made to fit a man’s hand, and covered in strips of new leather. It was very clearly a sword, though unlike any she knew. Men carried rapiers—thin and deadly. She drew it out. This was perhaps two feet in length, wide, gleaming. It had a … brawny feel to it. Obviously it had never been used.

  I am meant to use it.

  The thought made her gasp. The very idea of cleaving flesh with an instrument so heavy and sharp made her stomach turn. And whom was she meant to use it on? She gave a nervous chuckle. She wasn’t strong enough to cleave and hack with the sword anyway. A wave of disappointment shot through her at that—almost tristesse for lost strength. That was strange. She’d never be strong enough to use a weapon like this.

  An image flashed through her mind of herself, raising the sword high.

  The duc came out of the shadows and, her heart in her mouth, she brought the sword down at an angle. The thud of the blade into flesh reverberated up her arm. Blood bloomed on the duc’s white cravat.

  She gasped and shook off the image. Her stomach rolled. What was she thinking? Was she mad? She would never try to kill the duc, or any man, no matter how despicable. She shoved the sword back in its scabbard, shaken. Her imagination was getting the better of her.

  Steady yourself, she admonished. Think of something else.

  She reached inside the bag and pulled out … clothing? She held a scrap up to the light. It was shiny and black and … str
etchy. Leg holes. Oh, dear. Could this be an undergarment? She blushed just to think of it. Why, it would hardly cover anything. There was no slit between the leg holes. You’d have to take it entirely off to use a chamber pot. She stretched the fabric again. Like a stocking. Was it … knitted? Impossible. The fabric was fine and silky.

  The bag held other stretchy undergarments. Another, also black, was obviously meant to hold one’s breasts. It would leave your midriff entirely bare … Who would ever wear this?

  The duc’s mistresses, of course. This was clothing for a prostitute.

  She rummaged around and found two more sets of … well, whatever they were. One in off white, and one in pale pink. She also found a shapeless shirt, knitted but not nearly so fine, that would come to mid-thigh. She looked at it closely. It had, for some reason, tiny pictures of sheep jumping over a moon, each with a nightcap on. Underneath were containers. She took one out. It was shaped rather like a bottle, but it wasn’t made of glass. Whatever it was made of was opaque, colored a bilious shade of lavender, with writing on it. It gave to her touch and smelled strange. That made her start. “Pureology” it said on one side. What did that mean? “Serious colour care. Anti-fade complex. Pure volume shampooing.” She turned it over. Tiny writing covered the other side. The first paragraph was English but her eyes were drawn to the French one below it.

  “This unique moisture-rich formula is free of harsh colour-stripping sulfates and salts. It pumps up your fine, limp hair and keeps the colour fresh. To use, wet hair. Lather, Rinse. Repeat.”

  It was soap! Whoever heard of a liquid soap? Handy though, for hair.

  She peered into the bag again and saw lots of other containers made of roughly the same material—maybe ten of them. She pulled out several. There was another Pureology-lavender one, but this sloshed in a very different way. The liquid inside was more the consistency of water. There was no cork or stopper. How did one get into it? Wait. A little half-moon on the top of the bottle looked like it could be pressed. The top popped up, revealing a small hole. She sniffed. It smelled almost like alcohol, medicinal.

  She shook several other containers. They all sloshed like the second one, no matter what was written on their outside. Experimenting, she found that some had tops that twisted off. The medicinal smell of the liquid inside was overwhelming. She quickly capped them up. Medicine? Someone must be very sick.

  What a strange valise. Prostitute’s clothes, a sword, hair soap, and lots of … medicine?

  Who would use this motley collection? And such odd things in themselves: bottles that gave to the touch, clothes that stretched without appearing to be knitted. They seemed the accoutrements of a lewd sorceress of some kind. She heaped the contents back inside.

  Why hadn’t the servants brought the valise to the wicked duc? How had the footman thought she had dropped it? She had never seen this strange case in her life.

  Yes you have.

  The feeling was so strong it washed over her in waves. Nausea swept over her. She hung her head for a moment until the feeling passed.

  This was ridiculous. She was in dire straits. A kind old lady was in prison and likely to be executed. She had lost her livelihood and might end in a brothel, if she didn’t fall prey to the wicked duc first, or anger him so that he abandoned her to the tender mercies of Robespierre and his supporters. She had no friends in a world gone mad with suspicion and bloodlust. Things were bad. But she had to get hold of herself.

  She stared at the bag. It seemed squat and almost evil sitting there, its contents spilling out. She cocked her head. Her hand reached for the sword handle. The leather strips were rough.

  Use it.

  She dropped the sword as though it were a coal from the grate. What was happening here? It was almost as though she had heard the words inside her mind. Shaking, she pushed the sword into the bag with the very tip of one finger and pulled the little tab. The metal teeth closed together, sealing it. She should march down right now and return this valise to the footman.

  That would be a mistake that would change everything from now until forever.

  She felt the knowledge in her bones. It was the strangest feeling. How would it change things? Was the dreadful thing she’d been worried she’d have to do tonight all about this valise and its contents? She wasn’t going to use a sword on anybody, least of all the duc who was the only thing standing between her and the guillotine.

  This thing was evil. She should get rid of it.

  A stab of pain shot through her head. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t get rid of the valise when she wasn’t sure about the consequences. Mother Mary, she wasn’t sure of anything.

  Maybe your purpose can wait until you try to save Madame …

  The pain eased. She looked around. If she couldn’t get rid if it, she still didn’t want anyone else finding it. The wardrobe? Annette would look in there. Her dressing room?

  In the end, she stuck with the tried and true and shoved the valise under the bed, right under the headboard. Then she doused the candles and crawled up under the duvet. She was sure she wouldn’t sleep a wink tonight in a house like this, waiting for its owner to come back from whatever debaucheries he was indulging, with such a thing stuffed under her bed.

  Thoughts whirled in her head. The fire and Madame Croûte shouting for her death. The full feeling she’d had all evening. The feeling of déjà vu that wouldn’t go away. And then the image of her cleaving the wicked duc’s neck with the sword. Was that a vision? It had seemed so real. But she would never do something like that. She hoped. Was she going mad? And now she must get Madame out of prison, or her friend would go to the guillotine. How, if the wicked duc wouldn’t help? And who would hire her?

  She couldn’t think …

  She was talking to Avignon. Just talking. And it was the most frightening experience she’d ever had. Her soul trembled as she watched his mouth. She couldn’t hear what he was saying. The cut-glass tumbler he held caught the light and gleamed. The glass was evil. She knew it, and the man who held it even more so. And then he stared at her and deliberately dropped the glass. It shattered in a thousand evil pieces. One separated from the others, and defied gravity to bounce back up and cut his hand. Blood, bright red, bloomed on his wrist. She reached out …

  Françoise started up, clutching her hand to her chest as though to trap it. She gasped for breath as fear washed through her. What kind of nightmare was that? She was afraid of a glass?

  She shook herself back to reality. She was in the wicked duc’s house. Dark shapes of the furniture huddled in the corners. It was so stuffy in here. No wonder she couldn’t catch her breath. She rose and went to the window where a lighter sky peeked through the draperies. She pulled them back. The trees in the wide park across the street were alive with birds. Their sleepy calls foretold the sun. Already servants scurried to be first at the market. Wagons rumbled through the side streets. Horses were being exercised on the tracks in the huge park. The city exploded with noise and smells though the day had hardly begun. This was the Paris she knew. And loved. Paris had been so foreign and so overwhelming when she had first come from Lady Toumoult’s estate in Provence. But now being here seemed right and true.

  Then she saw him below her. One figure that stood out among the others, if only by its insouciant, strolling gait as it moved out of the darkness across the park.

  Her lips drew together in a thin line. It could only be the wicked duc. She had risen early many times to watch for his return and dream that he gave up his depraved ways for the simple girl he loved more than life itself. How stupid that felt now. She didn’t even like him.

  Well, she needn’t like him. What she needed was for him to intercede on behalf of Madame LaFleur. She was afraid to ask him. He might just throw her out. But what choice did she have? She watched him disappear into the arcade below her window.

  There was no time to dress. Avignon would be on his way to bed. She pulled on a scandalous cherry-red dressing gown. Hurrying dow
n the hall, she tried to think of some argument that would weigh with him.

  There he was, just coming up the stairs. Even now, with her mind fully on Madame and her plight, the coruscating energy around him made her feel a bit light in the head.

  “Your grace.” She dropped a hurried curtsy.

  He looked resigned. “You’re up early.”

  She stepped to the top of the stairs, blocking his path. She could look him in the eye from here. Those eyes were impossibly dark. Yet, they were not flat black as one would suppose if one only saw them from a distance. Silver-gold flecks floated in them. Really, they were quite the oddest eyes she’d ever encountered. They looked like the night sky, gleaming with stars. No one would ever suspect that his eyes held such depths unless they were close enough to see them as she did now. A lover perhaps, an enemy. And she, what was she? She should have been surprised at his eyes, but she was not. She knew those eyes, had always known them.

  She almost forgot herself. It was that easy to get lost in those eyes. “I … I wanted to talk to you about Madame.”

  He raised a black eyebrow. She’d never seen an expression so disdainful. “Another time.”

  “You helped me—”

  He grasped her upper arms and set her firmly aside. His touch burned her even through her dressing gown. He froze, his hands locked about her arms. She looked into those dark eyes and saw a flame ignite there. Did that touch affect him as it did her? She felt again that she had always known him. Or that she had never known him at all.

  “Your grace, will you take some refreshment before you retire?”

  Both Avignon and Françoise jerked toward the sound of Gaston’s voice. The servant glanced from one to the other. A look of surprise crossed his face before it went blank.

  “I am going directly to bed.” And with that, Avignon set Françoise aside and pushed past her. Her breasts brushed his right arm. He jerked his head around to look at her, as though arrested by the effect of that touch. She could say nothing. Her tongue seemed cloven to the roof of her mouth. The man could make her womanly parts ache with just a touch.