The Ivory Key

by Rita Clay Estrada

  He grinned. “Ah, but my Hope, you have no idea how wonderful a beating can be.”

  Her look became indignant. “I want to keep it that way, too, Armand. It might have been done in your time, but in my time women don't stand for it.”

  He smiled as her meaning became clear. “I will never be hurtful.”

  “Then you will never punish.”

  “And you will never misbehave.”

  They smiled at the same time, realizing how ridiculous their conversation had become. Then came another realization: they were bound together by some powerful connection that let them share their thoughts. Even their hearts.

  “You seem very content,” he murmured, kissing the auburn hair on top of her head as his sun-browned hands played games across the softness of her back.

  “Only because I am, and you know it.” She chuckled softly.

  “Good.” His voice was laced with satisfaction.

  “Conceited.”

  “Yes. And it is well deserved.”

  She chuckled again, only this time she raised her head to look into twinkling eyes. “Every inch the Frenchman.”

  “What else could I possibly be, chérie?”

  Laughing, she touched his mouth with hers, then sat up, pushing her hair away from her face. She reveled in the touch of the sun spiking through the trees to bathe them both in soft green light that seemed almost magical. They still touched, were still connected, and it felt so very, very right. “Nothing else. For you it would be impossible to be anything but the French aristocrat. You fit the part all too well.”

  His hands began to explore her waist appreciatively, his blue eyes memorizing the path his hands were following. They examined the flatness of her stomach, then wandered slowly up to cup her breasts. “Does that please you?”

  Her laughter dissolved. “Yes. Oh, yes,” she said solemnly, as if making a vow. “You please me so much it frightens me.”

  She felt her heart tearing into a thousand different pieces. Her eyes closed as she sought to block out the pain that looking at him represented now. But it didn't work. The pain—myriad blades stabbing into her midsection—was agony. She opened her eyes again and bent over him, touching her lips to his in silent supplication.

  For the next week they didn't discuss the problem of solving his murder, as if the subject were taboo. Hope was frustrated by her inability to work on the mystery, but there was nothing she could do except to give Professor Richards time to answer her letter. That fact made it easier to relax and enjoy Armand's company without feeling guilty.

  Nevertheless, thoughts lingered in the recesses of her mind, haunting her at odd moments, day and night. The old, tarnished brass chest at the foot of his sleeping bag was a constant reminder. Occasionally she could see shadows cross his face, and she knew he had the same thoughts.

  She lived with him in the tent at the top of the hill, always falling asleep before he began his ‘disappearing act’. She knew that it was cowardly, and that it was a form of denial. Her heart yearned for him to stay with her, to love her, but her mind was too wise to believe he would.

  At the end of the week, Hope finally broached the subject they had both been avoiding. As she spoke, she stared at the ground where a picnic lunch was spread. “I should have an answer from the professor I told you about. The one who's studying the history of the families in this area. He might have a lead,” She bit into a sandwich as if to force the words back down her throat.

  He sighed with relief. At last she was discussing it. He examined his sandwich with a jaundiced eye. The bread was a dark rye with little seeds on it, and he wasn’t at all sure it was healthy. Didn't anyone make good French bread, or was this supposed to be a substitute of some sort? He bit into it, wishing there were more foods he recognized.

  As her silence continued, his brows raised. “When?” he asked around the gluey concoction that insisted on cementing his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

  “At the end of the week.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing!” she snapped. “I just thought I'd inform you that I'm leaving, just in case you should miss me and wonder where I was.”

  He swallowed, then set the sandwich carefully on its wrapper. It should have been fed to the English in times of war. They would never have been able to issue orders with such a concoction in their mouths. “I will miss you. Hope, but not this food,” he said disgustedly, knowing that would distract her. Besides, it was true.

  She couldn't help her grin. “It was invented by an English lord, the Earl of Sandwich. I understand he was a rake and a gambler. Inventing the sandwich was the only good thing he ever did.” Armand's expression challenged her last statement, but he didn't reply. “I'll also do some grocery shopping,” she promised.

  His answering look conveyed disbelief that the menu would improve over what she had been feeding him. Her grin dissolved into a giggle.

  Reluctantly, he began laughing, too, the delightful sound tugging at Hope's heart. “Do you think you might find a small steak of beef and some potatoes? Perhaps some beans? A mushroom or two? One perfect onion?”

  “Perhaps,” she replied teasingly.

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “About two or three days. I need to gather all the clues I can, and I also have to look through some newspapers from the late eighteen hundreds for any articles on Minnesota before it was a state.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair, his brow furrowed. “I did not realize it would be so long.”

  She reached over to touch his thigh, her hand resting there gently. “But it's necessary. This way I won't have to make so many trips. I'll be back as soon as I can,” she promised.

  “I know.”

  Reality once again infiltrated their intimacy, to chill the very air around them. Hope sought desperately to dispel it, but she didn't know how. “Armand, talk to me. About anything. Please.”

  “All right, chérie,” he said calmly, wrapping the rest of his sandwich in waxed paper. “I shall tell you of my first days at court.”

  “At the king's court?”

  His surprise was evident. “But of course. Where else is there a court?”

  Hope smiled. “But of course. Go on,” she urged.

  Before he began, Armand leaned back, propping himself against the fat tree trunk behind him, and Hope rested against him. He wrapped his arms around her waist. “Now, where was I?”

  “In court. How old were you?”

  “I had just reached my manhood, about thirteen, I should think.”

  “Manhood?” She twisted her neck to stare at him. “How did you know? Or is it a ceremony?”

  His chest moved with his chuckle, vibrating through her back and quickening her heartbeat. “There was no ceremony, my sweet. It was just a statement of fact. I was then old enough to make babies.”

  This time she understood, but played the innocent anyway. “But how did you know? Had you tried?”

  His arms tightened around her waist. “That, my love, is none of your business. I knew. That was sufficient.”

  Hope gave a mock sigh. “Okay, continue.”

  He kissed the top of her head as consolation for his refusal to elaborate. “My father decided that my brother and I—Francois was fifteen and pretended to be very much older then—should see Versailles and begin to appreciate what being a member of the French nobility meant.”

  “Sounds like a true Frenchman,” Hope interjected sarcastically, not admitting how impressed she was with the palace itself. She had been there several years ago and knew of the golden splendor he had experienced so personally.

  Her comment flew right over his head. “Of course. We rode in my father's carriage, and the journey took four days from our estate. By the time we finally reached the road to the entrance of Versailles, both my brother and I had given up any pretense of being grown-up and blasé. The palace was a glittering masterpiece of white and gold blazing in the sun, just as our king did, with a heavenly l
ight. There were people everywhere: nobles, merchants, servants, soldiers, peasants, and the most beautiful women I had ever seen in my life. Over three thousand subjects lived there. It was a city unto itself.”

  He stopped. Hope opened her eyes and twisted around to stare at him again. “Go on. What else?” she asked quietly, almost afraid to intrude upon his thoughts. But her mind had already conjured up the scene he had described, and she wanted to visualize the rest.

  He looked down at her for a moment, but it was as if he was seeing something, or someone, else. Then he smiled. “Our coach went through the huge black iron gates tipped with gold and stopped at a porte cochere, one of the many entrances. There, Papa gave us our final reminders on courtly behavior, which we promptly forgot. Francois and I poured out of the coach, looking for all the world like two overgrown pups. At that moment, I raised my head and stared down the covered hallway leading to the interior of the palace. My breath was taken away at my first glimpse of the most beautiful woman I had ever seen coming down the hallway toward us.”

  “Who was she?” Hope's voice was barely a whisper. She could feel his shrug as he continued.

  “Just one of the many courtesans who made up the court. She was about seventeen or so, whose sole purpose was to give the noblemen of the court a sweet and heavenly time. Her family estate had been confiscated when her father was sent to the Bastille. She had the choice of living as she did or finding herself alone, begging on the streets of Paris.” His voice changed, taking on a slight edge. “She made her choice, this clever woman, to occupy beds that were warmer and softer than the filthy cobblestone streets.”

  “Did you fall in love with her?”

  “For a little while,” he answered. A rock dropped into the pit of Hope's stomach. “I must have followed her around for days, begging for favors—a look, a smile, a pat on the head. I am sure I much resembled an overly tall fawning lapdog. Even in those days I was taller than most of my peers. My mother used to say I was a throwback to a German princess my great-grandfather married. I understand she was so tall that the top of his head came only to her breast.” An indolent smile brushed his lips as he remembered himself in those days, all arms and legs and eagerness.

  “What happened?”

  “The usual thing. After a week of my pestering her, she took me to her bed and taught me what being a man was all about.” His voice was so matter-of-fact, so normal, that she felt instant rage that he should be so cavalier about his experience.

  “And was it everything you'd expected it to be?” She bit off each word.

  His arms tightened around her as he chuckled. “At that age, ma chérie, anything is heaven! Yes, it was more than I had dreamed, and then some. But, looking back, I am sure the best part was that my brother never shared Marie's bed. He had to settle for someone else.”

  Hope swallowed hard to ease the lump in her throat. “And did you miss her after you left?”

  “I am sure I did, but I had so much delightful, newfound knowledge that I was anxious to return home and try it out on some other maidens. Marie was merely the person who first taught me the wonders of lovemaking, not the first one to teach me to love.”

  “I see,” Her voice was a bare whisper, her jealousy blotting out everything else.

  “I do not think you do, ma chérie. Marie was at Versailles for that one reason. Surely there are women around today who serve the same purpose, are there not?”

  “Yes. But I don't know them, or anyone else who does,” she finally admitted.

  “Because no one speaks of using such women, does that mean that they do not exist, or that they do not serve the young men of today?”

  “No.”

  “Then forgive me my transgressions, Hope,” he said as he smoothed her hair, his voice soft and sincere. “I was a boy, and I needed guidance in pleasing women. She was my teacher. It was all over the day our carriage left the courtyard on our journey home.” He kissed her temple, his breath warm against her skin. “However, that was not the story I was about to tell you. I was going to describe the treasures of the Versailles—the paintings and furnishings, not the woman and intrigues. There was one painting there that I will never forget. It was a portrait of a young woman with a mysterious smile. Someday I will describe it to you…”

  “Another time,” she murmured, pretending sleepiness. She had seen the Mona Lisa.

  “Another time,” he repeated, sighing. There was no need for memories when Hope was in his arms.

  Silently they lay there together, each caught up in their own thoughts. The sun slowly began its descent and fired the sky with pastel beauty.

  They were poles apart on so many things, Hope mused. His story should have been just one more example of how mismatched they were. But when he held her like this and she could smell the sensual, musky scent of him, feel the tight muscles of his legs next to hers, his touch on her arms and breasts, she didn't think about his Versailles having existed more than two hundred years ago. Those sensations were here—now.

  Before allowing her eyes to droop shut, she wondered briefly why his erotic tale had made him seem even more real to her. A ghost telling about a life that had taken place hundreds of years ago should have made the gap between them wider.

  Her last thought was that people hadn't really changed over the years. They were still the same…

  Armand stood on the crest of the hill and watched Hope's small boat head toward the other end of the lake, aimed toward what Hope called an automobile. He picked up the double spyglass she called binoculars and focused them on the swift craft, his eyes scanning her face carefully for confirmation that she would return.

  The gurgle of the boat's motor echoed eerily across the lake. His hands clenched the glasses tighter as his Hope grew smaller in the distance. He closed his eyes a moment, letting the glasses hang by the strap around his neck.

  Hope. Hope was everything to him. She was more than his femme, his love, his confidante. She was as sweet as a wildflower and as prickly as a briar patch. She was his églantier, his own sweetbriar. He felt as if she were the other half of his soul. She was Faith—all grown up.

  Yes, he had loved Faith, but in many ways it was a protective kind of love. He would have sheltered her from the world and its sorrows, because she had not been strong enough or competent enough to endure the realities of pain and hardship. Though he had known that, he had pressed her to make a decision, to marry him or stay with her father.

  He had never known what her choice had been. But he had had niggling doubts about her being at their arranged meeting place the night they were to leave. The truth was that he hadn't trusted her loyalty to him enough to assure himself that she would choose him over her father.

  If her mother had allowed her to grow up, instead of coddling her like a little porcelain doll... If her father had treated her more as a woman than a commodity, or a property to be sold to the highest bidder, it might have been different.

  But now it was Hope who consumed his thoughts. She took care of him, protected him, kept him safe and well. She had taken the lead because he could not. Confined to a shelf of an island that barely allowed him access to four feet of water, he had been the one who needed sheltering, not Hope.

  He wanted to rail against the gods for doing this to him, to scream at the elements for forcing him to live past his time, never to find the peaceful rest others had. Yet he wanted to thank the same gods for giving him this opportunity to love a woman as worthy as Hope.

  His lips moved in silent prayer. If he had only one wish, it would be that the gods be generous and give him one more chance, so that he could spend whatever they deemed to be his life with Hope. Hope had become his douceur de vivre, his sweetness of life. She was more his life and love than he had ever dreamed possible.

  Faith had been his first chance for happiness; Hope his second chance. Mon Dieu, but he needed one more so that he could live a normal, loving life with the woman who meant everything to him. A third chance...
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  Hope offered up a prayer to the bright blue sky. She stood at the entrance to the post office and opened the letter from Professor Richards; it had been delivered to her box that morning. Immediately, she found a telephone and a quarter, and dialed the professor's number. It took a little more than a minute to make an appointment to see him. All the way to his house, Hope told herself to calm down and not to pin all her hopes on his research. But that was practically impossible.

  Professor Richards was a delightful example of an absentminded professor, but sharp brown eyes peeked out over his bifocals. In his late sixties, he was thin to the point of gauntness, and his slightly stooped shoulders made him look as if he had been hunched over a desk all his life.

  “These men were here for quite a while, then, according to the fur records?” he asked over the piles of papers on his desk.

  Seated across from him, Hope leaned forward eagerly. “Yes,” she said, handing him the names and copies of the fur-trader's ledgers she had picked up at the library. “I've already consulted these sources.”

  He glanced at the papers, then put them to one side. “I’ll see what I can do, my dear. I have copies of some family records that might help. You know, private letters, bibles. They're undocumented, of course, as far as historical accuracy goes, but then most things were in those times.” He leaned back and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Most people kept journals or sent letters, but more often than not, they exaggerated more than the best of fishermen.” He wrung a smile from her before continuing, “But if I have the names, I'm sure to run across information of some kind.”

  “Thank you, Professor Richards. I'd appreciate anything you can find.” She stood and held out her hand. “I'm staying at the hotel in the east end of town. The telephone number is on the corner of that paper.”

  He unfolded himself out of his chair and offered her an absent handshake. Obviously his mind had already drifted somewhere else. “Goodbye, my dear. I'll give you a call if I find anything,” he said before sitting down and shuffling through his papers once again.