by Maggie Dove
“You must be jesting, Bertrand. Threatening us with those awful barking ponies,” Jean-Claude replied, insulted. “This is no longer your home. It belongs to your brother. Giselle is with child, and soon Alain will have his own heirs to support. How long do you expect him to support you? Surely, you can see the wisdom in what we are proposing. Are you willing to wait until Angelique turns thirty for her inheritance? There’s no guarantee you’ll strike it rich in New Orleans.”
“I said get out!”
Jean-Claude released an exhausted breath. Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, he signaled for his brother to take over.
“We will never allow you to take her to America,” Pierre cut in. “She’s accustomed to a pampered life. In America, she will only experience hardship.” His tone softened as he gave Henri a sympathetic look. “She will never adjust, my friend. Mark my words, sooner or later, she’ll resent you. Maybe not at the beginning, but ultimately she’ll hate you for taking her away from here.”
“Yet you don’t mind if he whisks her off to God knows where—against her will,” Henri cried, nostrils flaring and eyes glaring contemptuously as he pointed his forefinger at Nicholas.
“Calm yourself, Henri. It will only be for a year. It’s merely a temporary arrangement. She’ll come back to you. Their marriage will not be consummated. He gives his word. It shall be in name only. Angelique will be yours in a year.”
Henri gave out a skeptical grunt. “Hah!” He banged his fist on the desk, scattering documents and envelopes to the floor. “What guarantee do I have of that? You expect me to believe Angelique does not stir his blood?”
Jean-Claude ignored him. “Angelique’s inheritance will be used to bring about the merger,” he continued rationally. “Once the year has passed, the marriage will be annulled. By then, the monies will have been invested. Our enterprise will be secured, the annulment will not affect it in the least, and Maman will no longer have a say in Angelique’s future.”
“Splendid, just splendid. What am I to do without her for an entire year? Answer that! While your sister is multiplying her assets, you expect me to sit patiently and twiddle my thumbs?”
“No, on the contrary, Lord Kent has made quite the generous offer. He will arrange to send you to his father in London. Under the earl’s tutelage, you’ll be given the opportunity of becoming an apprentice in the family venture.”
“Zut!” Henri exclaimed, waving his hand away from his chest and over his head in anger. “He can keep his grand gesture. I spit on his titles and his lands!” He spat on the rug, emphasizing his point. “She loves me, not him. His wealth and position will not change that.”
Nicholas’s jaw tightened, but he chose to ignore the obvious slight. Without a display of emotion, he put down the St. John book and walked over to the desk. Towering over the Frenchman, he stared into Henri’s anxious face.
“I’ve had enough. Now sit down,” Nicholas said tightly, placing his hand on Henri’s shoulder and pushing him back down on the seat.
“I’m quite friendly with my competition. I can assure you, Bertrand, there is not a single ship, mine or otherwise, that will take you and my fiancée to America.” Tossing Henri a pen and paper, he instructed icily, “Now be a good boy and write a letter to Angelique explaining your decision to go to America without her.”
“I shall do no such thing!” Henri leapt up to grab Nicholas by the throat, but the Montclair brothers restrained him, forcing him to sit back down. “I would never deceive her in such a cowardly manner. It would cause her too much pain. Why must she be kept in the dark? Why can’t we tell her the truth?”
Pierre smiled. “Henri, you know how pig-headed Angelique can be. She refuses to marry Kent. As long as she has it in her mind to elope with you, she compromises the merger and her future. We have no choice but to keep her in the dark,” he informed. “Believe me, it hurts me to do so, but you’ll both thank me in a year. Anyway, she will know soon enough. Lord Kent will tell her everything the moment she is wed to him and the merger is secure.”
“Damn your English soul to the devil, Kent! What guarantee do I have you’ll …”
“Write the letter, damn it,” Nicholas demanded, “or I shall not hesitate to take her as my wife in every sense of the word. Which is it, Bertrand? England with my father or America under lock and key while I savor my wife’s delights, night after night. If that were the case, I may just be tempted to keep her after the year is over. I’m waiting, Bertrand … which one is it?”
Henri was torn, but the deadly calm of the Englishman’s tone froze him into submission. He took one look at Nicholas’s granite features and shuddered, acknowledging for the first time that the viscount made an insurmountable adversary.
The man meant it. He would take Angelique and make her his. He knew he had no weapons with which to fight this battle. Left with no other option but to capitulate, he grabbed the pen and began to write the letter to Angelique. When he finished, he handed the letter to Nicholas.
“Merde! So help me God, if you touch her, monsieur, I will personally kill you!”
The letter safely secured within his grasp, Nicholas assured him dryly, “You need not worry, Bertrand. I’ll have no part of the deceitful chit. In a year’s time, I’ll be only too happy to give her back to you intact. You have my word, and that, monsieur, is your bloody guarantee.”
Chapter Six
The wedding was only a few hours away, and the entire household was in a frenzy. Maids, valets and butlers dashed madly in all directions, attending to the last minute preparations as Victoria Montclair pointed her forefinger and shouted commands. Temporary staff, hired solely for the event, hurried about wide-eyed as they followed the mistress’s screeching instructions.
The château’s gardeners, assisted by colleagues borrowed from neighboring estates, carried huge flower arrangements assembled to adorn both the chapel and courtyard where the wedding reception would take place.
In the courtyard, Hrolf, the head gardener, wiped his sweaty brow and grunted orders at his men as they placed the three largest centerpieces at the rectangular head table located by the south wall and allotted smaller, less spectacular centerpieces to the twenty draped round tables scattered throughout the enclosed area. Inside the château, Rupert and Rollo, Hrolf’s sons, placed floral arrangements at key locations, specifically selected earlier by Victoria.
Josephine, the cook, and her many kitchen helpers carted dishes and silverware from the pantry to the courtyard. Large ovens warmed the delicacies to be served during the reception. The pastry kitchen was a cloud of saccharose mess as two pastry chefs, covered in powered sugar and flour, adorned the five-tier wedding cake with lifelike roses, petaled in fluffy, creamy meringue.
In the château’s chapel, two altar boys assisted Father Ignace in the preparation for the Mass, while an anxious organist rehearsed the wedding march. At the south lawn, the twenty violinists contracted to entertain during the reception attempted to tune their instruments, while trying to ignore Madame Montclair and the surrounding chaos.
* * * *
“Ma Petit! Why are you still in bed? Wake up, chérie, this is your wedding day!”
Grumbling, Angelique stirred to find Tante Mattie flapping her arms in the air and making her way toward the bed. “Tantie, go away,” she begged, yawning, while covering her face with a fluffy pillow. If only Tante Mattie would go away, she could return to Nicholas—Nicholas!
“Tantie—I’ve overslept!” Angelique moaned, wiping the sleep from her eyes, struggling to sit up.
Tante Mattie smiled. “Calm down, chérie. There is plenty of time.”
Reassured, Angelique plopped back down on her mountain of frilly pillows.
“Bien, I wouldn’t want to be late for my own wedding,” she said, giggling. “What would the English think?”
She heard a soft knocking at the door and Anna and Marguerite entered the room, followed by Justine.
“Is that the dress? Oh, Angelique, it’s
perfect!” Anna exclaimed.
“Ma belle fille, what a lovely day for a wedding!” Justine took Angelique’s hands and kissed her cheek, while Tante Mattie led Lady Marguerite and Anna to the full-length mirror for a closer inspection of the wedding dress. “Are you happy, chérie?” Justine whispered. “Tell me that you are happy.”
Smiling, Angelique whispered back, “Oui, Justine, I am happy. I truly am.”
“It is no longer against your will, chérie. Is that what you are trying to say?”
“Oui, I want to marry Nicholas. I really do. But I’m all nerves,” Angelique confirmed with a jittery sigh. “Until now, I wasn’t much interested in my wedding … not the dress or any of the arrangements. Oh, Justine, I’m so glad you are here in France to attend my wedding.”
“My dears, the ceremony will commence in less than two hours.” Lady Marguerite smiled patiently as she walked toward the bed. “We must not cause Father Ignace any delay.”
Anna grimaced at her mother’s words. “Never mind the priest. My brother abhors tardiness,” she warned. “Believe me, Angelique, you don’t want to make his temper flare. Whatever you do, don’t keep him waiting on his wedding day.”
“Angelique,” Lady Marguerite interrupted, giving Anna a stern look. “Nicholas does indeed have a temper, but I doubt he’ll ever remain angry with you for long. He’s so much like his father, and I’ve been capable of managing Edmund all these years … temper and all.”
Angelique’s face warmed suddenly, recalling the kiss Nicholas had given her the night in the courtyard. “I’ve seen his temper, and it does not frighten me.”
Marguerite smiled. “It pleases me to hear that, my dear.”
Tante Mattie called for the chambermaids and requested they bring a tub of hot water. Once the tub was placed in the bedroom, she reached into her skirt pocket, producing a tiny crystal container. “Toujours l’amour!” she exclaimed as she poured its amber-colored contents into the water and filled the room with a glorious essence.
“Tante Mattie, what on earth did you pour in the water? It smells divine,” Anna uttered, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply.
“Jardin de Gardénia—the scent is alluring, n’est pas? I trust that tonight your brother will find it alluring as well?” Tante Mattie dimpled.
Anna giggled wickedly. “Angelique could smell like King Albert’s spaniels and my dear brother would still find her alluring. I fear he won’t last the ceremony. I’ll wager he pounces on her before the priest pronounces them … ouch!”
“Anna!” Lady Marguerite cried out, horrified, releasing the grip from her daughter’s arm. “Must you be so … so … vulgar? Look at the poor darling’s face. You have embarrassed her, and you most certainly have embarrassed me.”
“Excuse me, Mother, but has he ever behaved so romantically?” Anna persisted stubbornly. “I’m sorry Angelique, but—”
Angelique was not paying attention to the conversation. Her mind was elsewhere. While Anna begrudgingly apologized, Angelique daydreamed about how wonderful the coming evening would be as Nicholas’s wife, how it would feel to sleep in his bed and have him make love to her. Tante Mattie had explained it would be painful. She did not care. Tonight, she would not have to fight him off. No more shame or remorse for feelings she could no longer hide.
After an hour of endless primping, Angelique was finally ready. A miracle, she thought, considering the fussing and bickering amongst the four women. They had argued at length about the style in which she should wear her hair, the accessories and adornments she should use. Angelique selected a lovely antique brooch to wear at the base of her neck, which had originally belonged to her maternal great-grandmother, and a pair of pearl earrings given to her as a wedding present by her future mother-in-law.
This mayhem had seemed exasperating to her, but once the ladies stood back to inspect their handiwork, and the four of them gasped in admiration, Angelique felt an overpowering urge to stand before the full-length mirror. “Mon Dieu, is this really me?”
“Oui, chérie. It is really you,” Tante Mattie replied proudly.
The women gathered around her. “I’ve never seen a bride more lovely in all my days,” Lady Marguerite declared.
Tante Mattie had surely surpassed herself using her sewing talents to make Lorraine’s wedding dress perfect for Angelique. The exquisite gown of cream-colored satin was embroidered with lovely seed pearls. The neckline was high; the bodice fit tight around the waist and long sleeves rose to a point on the shoulders, making her appear quite regal. Her hair was swept into an elegant chignon at the nape of her neck; her head adorned by a magnificent crown consisting of hundreds of tiny pearls and remarkably small creamy white roses. From the crown flowed a lace veil, which draped gracefully around her arm and fell to gather at her side.
“Angelique, Nicholas won’t last!” Anna exclaimed gleefully. “He simply won’t last the ceremony—ouch! I’m sorry, Mother. It is just that … well, look at her,” she persisted, rubbing her arm as she moved away from Lady Marguerite and began to adjust Angelique’s veil.
Beaming, Tante Mattie handed Angelique a bouquet of long-stemmed, creamy white roses and opened the bedroom door. “It is time now, ma petite,” she announced, motioning for Angelique to exit with a sweep of a hand. “There is an impatient bridegroom awaiting you in the chapel. We mustn’t be late.”
Seconds later, poised at the railing, Angelique took a deep breath before descending the marble staircase. She looked over her shoulder at Anna, who was trailing behind and carefully assisting her with the veil. “Anna, please hurry,” she said, attempting a levity she did not feel as they walked quickly through the hallways. “I don’t want him angry.”
“Slow down, you’re going to tear the lace! He’s not that much of an ogre,” Anna teased, trying to hurry her steps. “In fact, I would say he’s pretty wonderful.”
Angelique smiled in spite of her nerves. I know, she admitted silently, her heart pounding madly against her chest as they approached the chapel doors.
* * * *
The fragrance of burnt incense filled the gothic sanctuary. Organ music echoed from the steep, high ceilings. Sconces with flickering candles illuminated the walls, while thousands of lovely white blossoms amid flaming candelabras bedecked the altar.
Packed to capacity with members of the Loire’s elite, the chapel resembled a celestial flower garden. Floral arrangements composed of white roses and orchids graced the end of every pew, lining both sides of the center aisle from the rear of the chapel to the altar. As the wedding march reverberated from the balcony, heralding the commencement of the ceremony, everyone stood. All heads turned to the entrance door.
Entering the chapel on Jean-Claude’s arm, Angelique smiled nervously at the familiar faces turned her way. The admiration she saw in their eyes and the flattering remarks she heard as she passed each pew, did little to ease the butterflies in her stomach.
The rest of the world ceased to exist once she gazed upon Nicholas waiting for her at the altar. He looked magnificent in his long gray frock coat, white waistcoat, and striped gray trousers. In less than an hour, she would be his wife!
Angelique squeezed Jean-Claude’s arm a little tighter when she noticed Alain and Giselle staring at her with grooved brows and disapproving expressions on their faces. For a fleeting moment, she thought of Henri and felt a tiny pang in her heart. But the opinions of Henri’s family held little significance once she reached Nicholas and their eyes met.
Pierre, standing as Nicholas’s best man, exclaimed in a low whisper, “Ahh, très belle! Angelique, you look beautiful! Oui, mon ami?”
Angelique hardly heard Pierre as she stared deep into Nicholas’s eyes. Nicholas was going to be hers … only hers … now and forever!
After the celebration of the Mass, an inspiring rendition of the Ave Maria, sung by Marianne D’Amaury, resounded from the balcony as Father Ignace performed the nuptials. Following the priest’s instructions, Nicholas took Angelique’s
hand and awkwardly slipped a gold wedding band on her finger. “I do,” he pledged hoarsely.
* * * *
The medley of colored hats and parasols resembled a field of posies in full bloom as ladies in their finery, accompanied by gentlemen with top hats and elegant morning coats, assembled in the courtyard. Uniformed waiters poured champagne while maids carried large silver trays filled with every imaginable hors d’oeuvre.
“Victoria, I must compliment you, chérie!” Justine exclaimed, trying to be heard over the music and laughter. “You’ve outdone yourself. It’s a glorious day for a wedding. Why, there isn’t a cloud in the sky.”
Victoria smiled and nodded in acknowledgement. “Oui,” she said cheerfully as she watched her guests enjoying the reception while they ate, drank and mingled amongst themselves. “The sun is shining brightly on my good fortune.”
“You have done right by Angelique. I’m sure that your dear Julian would be proud of you, chérie.”