Trousseau answered in Gallandic and said something unmistakably commanding.
The butler nodded and motioned for us to enter. He led us into a darkly paneled room lit by a dim, gas powered chandelier. A silk rug woven in rich hues muffled our footsteps. The rooms smelled of tobacco smoke and old paper, much like my father’s library.
The captain took hold of my shoulder and directed me toward one of the velvet settees in the room. Two more seats like the one on which I sat faced each other across a small, low table covered with a white lace cloth. Several other chairs, high backed and covered in leather or stiff brocade, squatted around the room. An imposing desk hunkered in the corner.
“Would you care for tea?” The butler asked in Inselgrish, pausing as he made his way out of the room.
The captain shook his head. “No, just get Thibodaux. I do not care to linger here any longer than necessary.” He removed his tall black cap and carried it in the crook of his right arm. A long saber rested ceremoniously at his hip and extended down to his knee, reaching to the top of his tall black boot. He noticed me examining him, turned, and gave me a knowing sort of sneer.
I dropped my gaze and studied my hands folded together in my lap. In the prolonged silence, the ticking from a clock on the fireplace mantle grew louder, keeping rhythm with the blood pounding in my ears. Questions multiplied in my head until the barricade of my lips could no longer hold them back. “Can you tell me nothing?”
Captain Trousseau canted his head and pursed his lips. “It is not for me to say. I was given instructions and I have carried them out.”
“But who is Thibodaux, and what does he want with me?”
“Do not ask so many questions,” he said, turning his back to me.
The clock ticked three hundred more times—I counted each one—before the butler returned and held open the door for a large man whose well-fed belly protruded before him.
“Captain Trousseau, I see you’ve performed your duties with great efficacy as usual. Martin will see you out.” Thibodaux spoke in an unexpectedly high-pitched voice that made him comical, but I didn’t dare laugh, even if I had felt like it, which I didn’t.
He bowed and grasped Captain Trousseau’s hand, exchanging a small envelope during the gesture. Trousseau nodded, tucked the envelope in a pocket as he swept his cap back on his head and followed the butler out of the room.
Ruelle Thibodaux turned and studied me for several more ticks of the ominous mantle clock. Small eyes peered at me above a bulbous nose and plump cheeks. His corpulence masked his age, but his dark gaze indicated wisdom and experience. Although not a handsome man, something about him struck me and grabbed my attention.
“M’lady,” he said, “would you prefer to be addressed as Grace, or maybe Evelyn Stormbourne, or shall I go on and refer to you as Lady Thunder, your rightful title?”
My mouth fell open. I choked and wheezed. To be known so thoroughly by someone so utterly strange.... Thibodaux read my confusion, the way my jaw hung open like a gasping fish, and he uttered a sound that came out rather like a giggle in his feminine voice. I felt no inclination to join in the levity.
“Your father never spoke of me at all?” He frowned, pouted, and batted his eyes at me.
“N-no,” I stuttered, straining to get the word out past my comatose tongue.
Thibodaux shrugged, which tightened the fabric of his already straining suit coat. “It’s probably just as well. And I presume you’ve never heard of Le Poing Fermé?”
I shook my head and stared, still dumbfounded.
“Ah, that is probably also just as well. You undoubtedly have many questions, but I am in no mood to play your tutor today. I have much business to attend to. Martin has prepared a room for you. He will see to your needs.” Thibodaux paused and scanned me from foot to head and back down again. “I’ll have the maid find something more suitable for you to wear. The Fantazike stink is thick upon you.”
With that, he sashayed from the room, moving with surprising delicacy for a man of his size. Martin waited for me, but kept his eyes lowered while I tried to pick my jaw back up from the floor.
“M’lady, if you will follow me,” Martin said when I recovered my composure.
“I’m probably wasting my breath, asking you for information, aren’t I?”
“Yes, but the room that Monsieur has selected for you is comfortable and private should you need some time to collect your thoughts and recuperate from the events of the afternoon.”
I rose to my feet, crossed the room to Martin’s side, and devoured the pittance of sympathy he had thrown me. “I guess I don’t have any better options, do I?”
Martin raised his eyes to mine for the briefest instant. He looked away and shook his head. “No, m’lady. You do not.”
***
My bedroom window looked over an ornamental garden filled with statues of nubile young bodies in athletic poses. A fountain in the center gurgled, spitting out silvery water that reflected the moonlight. I had tried opening my window when Martin first left me alone in the room hours ago, but it wouldn’t budge. When I tried the door, I found it bolted. Too bad I had never tried my hand at picking locks like the dexterous Morello, but I had never lived in that kind of household. We never kept secrets at Fallstaff, or so I had believed. Lately I had come to suspect my father had kept many things from me.
True to his word, Thibodaux sent a maid to the room I now occupied—a chamber furnished with a scrolled, wrought iron bed covered in a silk duvet dyed a dusky sapphire that matched the rugs and brocade drapes. The maid presented a bundle of clothing to me, but as I opened my mouth to refuse them, the master of the house arrived at my door. He wore a formidable glower—quite a feat for his fleshy features.
“Before you refuse,” he said, “and I can see by your impudent stance and that livid look on your face that you indeed intend to refuse, I will tell you that you have little choice in the matter. You will find something appropriate to wear for a dinner in my home this evening. Guests are attending and you will be presentable.”
“Why should I?” I asked, feeling wholly unaccommodating. It troubled me that this man knew my alias as well as my true name and inheritance. I intended to have the truth from him before I offered my cooperation.
“Because if you do not,” he said, “you will find your accommodations much less hospitable and my temper not so agreeable.”
“I’m not afraid of you.” It sounded childish, even to me. In truth, Thibodaux petrified me.
He giggled again. “Child, you are so terrified that I can hear your knees knocking together.” His expression turned severe. “Do as I say. I have the power to make you regret it if you cross me.”
He turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving me with a shuddering maid.
Placating Thibodaux’s temper until I better understood his capabilities seemed a smart idea. Perhaps cooperation would lead me to answers. Also, if it allowed me out of the room, then joining him for dinner might present an opportunity for escape.
The maid and I plowed through a stack of gowns, none obviously suitable for my dark hair and ruddy skin, until we came across a royal blue dress that caught the light and shimmered in a way that reminded me of my Thunder Cloak. At the thought of it, my knees went wobbly, and I plopped down on the edge of the bed, letting despair wash over me in a moment of self-pity.
The maid did not speak my language, but patted me sympathetically before taking my hand to lead me to a mirror in the attached dressing room. She held the gown before me and my reflection revealed how the color complimented my hair and eyes. I had no sense of Gallandic fashion, so I couldn’t say how long the dress might have been stored based on the style, but it smelled of camphor and dust.
“Alright,” I said, nodding. “Let’s get this over with.”
The maid understood my capitulation and wrangled me into layers of stays and undergarments. In all my years, I had never worn anything quite so complicated. Father rarely spent his funds
on sumptuousness like balls and state dinners. After his death, we never found much excuse to host guests, and Gerda had never insisted on dressing me more femininely, the gods bless her.
The maid refused to allow me to see myself as she arranged my hair, but after I slipped my feet into a pair of too-small slippers, she tugged me back to the full length looking glass and watched as I stared at the strange woman in the reflection. She did not resemble the girl in the mirror at The Silver Goose at all.
The dress could do nothing to mask the prominent jaw and chin I inherited from my father, but the corset sucked things in and pushed things up to give me a novel and feminine allure. The blue in the gown’s material made my skin seem fine as poured cream, and the maid had combed, curled and pinned my hair into a mane of glossy, chestnut ripples that cascaded over my bare shoulders.
The image in the mirror left me breathless. Maybe it was only the corset pinching my lungs. Either way, I had to admit I was impressed. The maid babbled excitedly. My time with Malita taught me much about body language and tone of voice, so while I couldn’t translate her words, her smirk and the proud set of her shoulders revealed her self-satisfaction. Thinking of Malita sent a pang of worry shooting through me. If the Fantazikes hadn’t already fled Pecia by the time I escaped Thibodaux’s house, then I would try to reunite with Malita and reassure myself of her wellbeing.
Martin knocked and warned us of the late hour. “Dinner is to begin shortly and my master bids you join him in the parlor.” He didn’t wait for a response.
Although grand, the house was not so big that I couldn’t find my way to Thibodaux on my own, especially when I followed the flow of voices stirred in conversation. I paused at the parlor’s threshold, uncertain how to proceed. The parlor, as it turned out, was the room in which I first encountered Thibodaux. Presently the room encompassed a small crowd—five or six men and almost as many women all dressed in elegant eveningwear. They cooed at each other like pigeons while Martin refreshed drinks and passed a tray of canapés.
“Ah, our special guest has arrived at last.” Thibodaux’s peculiar voice rose above the din of all the others. He appeared at the doorway and stretched a hand toward me, willing me to take it so he could draw me into the room at his discretion.
The strangeness of the affair so overwhelmed me that I didn’t at first notice the fair haired, silver eyed gentleman standing behind my host. When he stepped into the open and greeted me, my heart lurched into my throat and took up permanent residence for the rest of the night.
“Hello, Grace,” said Jonathan Faercourt. “I understand you’ve been looking for me.”
Chapter 25
“Jackie.” I choked on his name. A sickening dampness broke across the backs of my knees and the nape of my neck. “What are you doing here?”
He stepped forward, gathered my hands in his, and brought one unresisting set of knuckles to his lips. “I might ask the same of you, but I know something of your last few hours which is more than you can say for me.”
“Will you tell me what’s going on?” I whispered.
Everyone in the room watched us, and I was reluctant to start a commotion. Although I had every right to stomp my feet and demand answers; fear, uncertainty, and the unexpected reappearance of Jackie nearly paralyzed me. How many more shocks could I stand in one day?
He leaned in, putting his lips to my ear. The warm sugar scent of rum accented his breath. “We will have more time to talk after dinner. I am anxious to have you to myself. Do you have any idea how delicious you look?” He leaned back and gestured to the other occupants of the room. “Shall we make our way to the dining room?”
Spinning in a cyclone of confusion and dread, I latched onto the only remotely familiar thing. I grasped Jackie’s hand, desperate not to lose his connection. He seemed to understand and escorted me to the table. He pulled out a chair for me, and to my relief, took the seat next to mine. Martin served the first course, but I had no appetite for food, only for information.
“This man, Thibodaux, he knows me. I mean, he knows me.”
“Of course he does,” Jackie said. “I’ve told him all about you.”
“But, how do you—?”
Jackie placed a finger over my lips, silencing me. “I said we would speak of this after dinner. Please eat, Grace. It’s rude if you don’t at least taste it. Ruelle has one of the finest chefs in the city.”
Jackie turned away to take a bite from a dish of thinly sliced, rare beef. It smelled like blood and my stomach bubbled unhappily.
“My name isn’t Grace,” I hissed and stabbed a fork into a fluffy pink mound on my plate that smelled of salmon.
Jackie paused, his fork centimeters from his lips and a sudden coldness wafted from him.
His luminous eyes turned to steel. “Then please eat, Evelyn.”
I looked away, frightened by his sudden harshness. At some point during the dinner, Jackie thawed and introduced me to the people sitting near us at the table. My head felt stuffed with cotton, and everything came at me through a narrow tunnel. I mumbled things in reply, but had no real notion of what I had said.
The idea of escape flashed through my mind again. The dining room was set off the main hallway that led to the front door. I might have had a chance to run for it, even if it meant leaving Jackie behind with many unanswered questions. As if reading my thoughts, he placed his hand on my knee under the table and squeezed, almost painfully.
“I do wish you would relax,” he hissed. “You have more jitters than a hive of angry bees.”
He didn’t take his hand away, and I resisted the impulse to stab his fingers with a fork and dash for the door. I wondered how far I would get in my ridiculous shoes and unforgiving corset.
When the meal finally concluded, the men made way for the parlor for cigars and port wine at Thibodaux’s behest. Jackie declined and our host nodded at him knowingly. Jackie pulled me to my feet and led me to the rear of the house. He showed me a small door that opened into the courtyard I had spied from my room.
In any other situation the setting would have brought to mind romantic thoughts. Blossoming flowers scented the cool night air. The moon’s soft beams caressed the spray from the fountain, flashing in tiny explosions of light. Jackie led me to a bench hiding under a thin trellis of wisteria as if he knew this place well. He motioned for me to take a seat. I complied to keep from inspiring any more of his ire, and because I was starving for whatever information he could feed me.
“I know you feel hurt and betrayed right now,” he said after settling close enough for our hips to touch. He swept a strand of his luminous hair behind his ear and offered a slim smile. “It’s true I’ve known who you are. I’ve known it from the day I first met you.”
“But, how...?” I faltered. “How did you know I would be there, in Thropshire, at that creek?”
Jackie inhaled a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then released it through his teeth. “I’ll explain everything, I promise.” With his fingertip his pushed a loose curl of hair from my cheek and tucked it behind my ear. His touch made my skin crawl. “But please, first, tell me how you came to Pecia. What happened that night of the storm on the LaDonna, and how did you find yourself among the Fantazikes?”
“Tell me one thing, first,” I said. “Please.”
He nodded, his silvery eyes peering into mine.
“What about Gideon? What happened to him?”
Jackie closed his eyes and swallowed. “I cannot say. I believe that vile man who had planned to kidnap you, Praston was his name, must have waylaid your guardian—and yes, I know Gideon wasn’t your brother. The captain had the ship searched thoroughly, but we found no signs of him.”
If I hadn’t already taken a seat, I would have crumpled to the ground, but it didn’t stop my heart from imploding. Cold, harsh, and sudden grief devoured me. The world I had begun to make for myself after fleeing Fallstaff, though shaky to start with, had come crashing down once again. I felt as if I was afl
oat in a vast ocean, equal to the night I fell overboard the LaDonna.
“Oh no,” I sobbed and buried my face in my hands as shudders wracked my body. “No, no, no.”
Jackie’s arm slid around my shoulders and held me while I cried. He pressed his lips against the hair at my temple. “Did you love him so very much?”
I didn’t have the heart to push him away. I needed someone else’s strength for the moment, and Jackie’s would suffice, even if he had lied to me.
“He was a good person,” I said. “My father trusted him to protect me and he did. He left everything and risked his life for me.”
“I regret your loss, but I cannot regret you, Evelyn. I have you to myself, now. I don’t plan to let you go.”
With those words my sense of self returned, and my grief for Gideon receded. “What do mean?” I rose to my feet and wiped my face, rubbing away tears. Jackie rose beside me and tried to pull me into another embrace, but I pushed him back. “Were you part of the plot to have me out of my home? Did you have a hand in destroying Fallstaff?”
“What happened to you was bigger than any one man or one purpose.” He dropped his hands away, letting me win my little rebellion. “When your father died, he left a void. I only want to see it filled and you put in your rightful place.”
“But I can’t do that this far away from Inselgrau. The Stormbournes have ruled there for hundreds of years.”
“The days of the Stormbournes as rulers ended when your father died,” Jackie said. “The power of your kingdom relied on the people’s belief in you, and they don’t believe anymore. Your ancestors were gods. What’s left now is only a pale shade.”
“Don’t say that.” I bunched my fists at my sides. “My father ruled the storms. I watched him do it. He had power. Someone must still believe.”
“What your father had was merely a shadow of his fathers before him, and what you have is even less.”
Heir of Thunder (Stormbourne Chronicles Book 1) Page 19