Lavender in Bloom

by Lily Velez

  “Oh, you mustn’t look so surprised. Surely you didn’t think yourself the first. We dealt with the initial incident accordingly, however, and saw to it the ordeal never became more than it should. We’ll do the same now.”

  She adjusted the folds of her pelisse and held herself even higher. The garment gave off the same rigid airs as did its wearer, as if Noah faced not one but two adversaries. “My husband has spent his entire lifetime constructing the empire he now heads. It demanded an uncompromising work ethic, a sound mind, and dogged determination. But in the end, he built his fortune, a fortune that Jeremie now stands to one day inherit. Would you truly deny him that?”

  Noah was still reeling from her opening statements. He grasped at the half-formed words trying to take shape within his mouth, attempting to steady his rebellious pulse all the while. He told her it wasn’t his intention to deny Jeremie anything. He’d asked nothing of him. And besides, “He says wealth means nothing to him.”

  “Spoken like a child,” was her counter. “Jeremie has never been in want of anything his entire life. A life of passion above security is no more than a romantic notion to him, a symptom of youth, a nonsensical ideal young men cling to in their adolescence. But then those young men grow up. They come of age, they marry, and they assume their place in society. As Jeremie’s mother, it’s one of my foremost duties to guide him in this. After all, a mother only wants what’s best for her child, only wants his utmost comfort.”

  “And his happiness?” he challenged, surprising himself.

  At this, she laughed. “His happiness? Happiness is a poor man’s companion. Those who hold great responsibilities in this world know that life is never without sacrifice. A man’s purpose is to labor with his hands, provide for his family, be fruitful and multiply. Should happiness naturally result from those actions, then very well. But it’s certainly not meant to be his foremost motivation. How selfish a race we’d be then.”

  She clasped her hands before her, lips thinning as she impaled him with her formidable gaze. “Now your sister is hardly the salt of the earth, but at the end of the day, she’s of the fairer sex, and a young woman of Jeremie’s choosing, however ill-judged his selection. He’s proposed marriage to her, and the announcement will soon be made within our social circle. He’ll take her as his wife before the year is out. And so whatever dalliance it is you’ve had with my son will come to an end now. From this day forward, he’ll devote himself to his wife, to his family, and to his role as a Perreault, and many years from now, when his hair has grayed and his skin has wrinkled and he’s begotten a host of children and grandchildren, he’ll excuse this summer as nothing more than the actions of his misguided youth, and you as a completely unremarkable ghost of the past.

  “So I caution you: keep your distance from Jeremie. I won’t have a farmer’s son of all people endanger the reputation of this family. And believe me this, should you have ever doubted it at any point: our desires are always met, regardless of what measures may be required.”

  31

  The engagement party proved to be a festive celebration. The chateau became a zoo of people, and Noah couldn’t walk half the length of a single corridor without being bombarded by complete strangers.

  They were all dressed in their finest formal wear, as if they’d been called to a king’s dignified court. The women donned evening gowns of charmeuse with elegant trains stretching long behind them like shimmering rivers of fabric, and ostrich feathers protruded from their headpieces. The men issued a statement on their wealth through their patterned, silk vests, the ruffled jabots fastened to the front of their neckbands, and their trimly tailored velvet coats.

  Even Camilla conveyed sophistication and gentility through her attire. She looked every bit a Grecian princess from antiquity, a gold fillet tied over her hair, a gown of white satin with a slender silhouette upon her frame, and a massive, navy shawl draped over her shoulders as if she held the very ocean itself. The items had been offerings from Madame Perreault, and in them, Camilla could fool their guests into believing she was a part of their world and always had been.

  She’d remained attached to Madame Perreault’s side all evening, being introduced to intimates of the family, exchanging pleasantries, exuding charm and warmth with every conversation. She thrived amid all the fanfare and flourish, acting as if she were already Jeremie’s wife. She’d mastered her craft these last days, there was no doubt. Earlier, she’d even instructed her siblings on the proper etiquette to uphold during such events, as if they were feral children who’d never before interacted with ladies and gentlemen.

  Noah simply kept company with Genevieve and Margaux, who, if they felt underdressed or out of place, didn’t seem bothered by it. They were content to people-watch and listen to the airy compositions performed by the small orchestra. Their mother and father were significantly more social, eagerly speaking with an assortment of guests, proud to claim the bride as their own daughter. According to Margaux, they were taken aback by the Perreaults’ hard nature but open to forgiving it, believing event-planning could strain the wits of even the saintliest gentlefolk. Then again, second chances had always been their way.

  Noah wanted to caution them on their clemency. The Perreaults didn’t bother themselves with such things. He wasn’t even entirely sure they were familiar with the high virtue of kindness.

  As if to prove his point, Margaux stepped beside him and asked, “Why does Madame Perreault look your way now and again with such hostility?”

  Madame Perreault’s baneful gaze had been inescapable all evening, so convinced was she that Noah would approach Jeremie before her army of guests. He hadn’t, and he wouldn’t. A ring of well-wishers had surrounded Jeremie and Camilla from the moment the event had begun, for one, and secondly, defiance for defiance’s sake wasn’t particularly in his nature. Especially not when Madame Perreault’s words had haunted him still long after their conversation, afflicting him like pins driven under his fingernails.

  Many years from now, when his hair has grayed and his skin has wrinkled and he’s begotten a host of children and grandchildren, he’ll excuse this summer as nothing more than the actions of his misguided youth, and you as a completely unremarkable ghost of the past.

  Marriage. The reality of it all struck him hard, leaving him winded. For a time, it’d seemed completely implausible. Laughable, even. Camilla as Jeremie’s bride? A farce at best. Now Jeremie’s mother and father had extended their blessing, albeit reluctantly. Now dozens upon dozens of their social equals filled the reception room, all standing witness to Jeremie and Camilla’s engagement. One day—and that day would be soon—Jeremie and Camilla would exchange vows. They’d become husband and wife before God. They’d spend the rest of their lives in holy matrimony until death parted them.

  Noah’s throat strained with a sharp pinch. He brought a flute of champagne to his lips and forced the drink down, the liquid heating him.

  And believe me this, should you have ever doubted it at any point: our desires are always met, regardless of what measures may be required.

  It’d been a clear threat. His only question concerned the exact nature of those measures. Madame Perreault had silenced Jeremie in the corridor that evening. “Remember what’s at stake,” she’d said, and the admonishment had been enough to rein Jeremie in. Noah didn’t know what it meant. Monsieur Perreault had already threatened to deprive Jeremie of his inheritance, but that hadn’t discouraged him from pursuing his interests. What had it taken to break him now?

  I won’t have a farmer’s son of all people endanger the reputation of this family.

  His chest broiled. The way she’d issued the words, as if Jeremie had fraternized with carriers of the Black Death, or with a coterie of cutthroats and debauchees. She’d insulted his family from the start, first with her behavior toward Camilla and then with her disregard for the others after their traveling so great a distance by her own invitation.

  Noah’s family didn’t live extrav
agantly. They didn’t surround themselves with opulence such as the Perreaults knew, but they had taken Noah in when his own blood had betrayed him. They’d clothed him, fed him, sheltered him, educated him, protected him. They’d called him son, brother, and never with a moment’s hesitation. When Madame Perreault had practically held her son captive in a life he despised, Noah’s family had loved him always, indubitably and without fail.

  Madame Perreault could deride him with her social callers; she could insult his commonness and lack of savoir vivre. The words would blister at first, but the pain would fade in time. He wouldn’t, however, stand for his family being treated cruelly. They deserved far better.

  “Noah?” Margaux pressed.

  He shook his head and told her he thought it was simply the way Madame Perreault looked at every one, as if attempting to determine whether their existence was worth an iota of her acknowledgment.

  Later in the evening, the guests called for a dance, and Jeremie took to the room’s center to describe a country dance he’d learned during his time in England. “It’s called ‘Hole in the Wall’, its music written by one Henry Purcell from the seventeenth century,” he said, and then he invited men and women to join him so that he might teach its choreography. He indicated a melody to the orchestra, which they parroted easily, a portion of their musicians already familiar with the music.

  After a fair demonstration of the dance’s steps, Jeremie encouraged more guests to come forth and participate for a more formal go-around.

  “Please don’t be shy,” he said. “We’re all friends here.” The guests laughed.

  “There’s no reason why Camilla should have all the fun this evening,” Margaux said then, grabbing Noah’s hand. “Let’s join.”

  Noah’s knees locked at once. He pulled back.

  “Just one dance, and I promise I’ll leave you be after that.”

  “I can’t,” he said. More that he had no desire to. Better that he and Jeremie should continue pretending the other didn’t exist.

  “Why not?”

  He shook his head, his way of communicating he had no worthy reason.

  Emptyhanded as he was, Margaux insisted, pulling at his hand again.

  “I’d really rather not.”

  “You’re not feeling unwell, are you?”

  He told her that wasn’t it, then realized he’d missed an opportunity.

  “One dance, Noah. Please? For your favorite sister?”

  He sighed. What a comfort Margaux had been since her arrival. Even if he hadn’t confided in her, her presence alone had brought him peace. A dance was a small price to pay to demonstrate his gratitude. After a few moments more of her pleas, he eventually relented, worn down.

  She grinned and pulled him along so that they could join the lineup in time for the dance’s start.

  It was performed in two lines, with men and women facing each other across the divide. Margaux squeezed herself between Camilla and another woman, who touched a hand to her chest at the uncouth intrusion. Camilla frowned at this show of impertinence, as if she were the eldest and her siblings a brood of untamed rascals.

  Margaux ignored them both, too overcome by her enthusiasm. “Noah, over there,” she said, pointing to the spot he was to assume, which was at Jeremie’s right.

  The two young men regarded each other tentatively

  “There’s more room at the end of the line,” Noah told Margaux, hoping to reason with her.

  “Nonsense. We’re family to the newly-engaged couple. We should be right where they are.”

  With no rebuttal prepared, he straightened his coat and slowly crossed the divide, taking his place beside Jeremie, the arm nearest him scalding. He dared not look for Madame Perreault’s face among the herd of onlookers. Her poisonous stare would most definitely incinerate him. He focused only on Margaux. She would be his anchor.

  The music formally began and, with it, the dance. Noah’s body was stiff as he bowed along with the other men, the women curtsying. As the dance ensued, as Noah watched Jeremie and Camilla meet between the lines to join their hands, he couldn’t stop thinking about the life they’d eventually share with one another. They’d inherit this very chateau one day and host engagements just as this. There’d be music and food and dancing and laughter.

  Throughout it all, years from now, would Jeremie remember the things he’d spoken at the lake? Would he remember his conversations with Noah on the farm? Would he remember the book of poetry he’d given Noah and the horseshoe Noah had given him in return? Would he remember the crown of lavender upon Noah’s head, the lingering glances over supper, the story of a prince’s sacrifice told around a bonfire?

  Already, Noah was sweating. It was as if the entire room had caught fire, and he couldn’t understand how no one else felt the blaze of the flames. Focus on Margaux, he told himself. He reached for the satin fingers of her elbow-length glove when they closed the space between them.

  “You’re doing just fine,” she whispered quickly before they parted, assuming his distress stemmed from self-consciousness.

  If Margaux believed he could survive this unpleasant social ritual, then he would. Or so he told himself. Except that the part of the dance he’d most dreaded had now come upon him. Each couple was to presently join hands with their immediate neighbors, the four of them then walking in a circle counterclockwise.

  The girls easily clasped hands as was expected of them. Then Jeremie extended a hand to Noah, and Noah had to stop himself from drawing back. He didn’t move.

  “Noah!” Camilla hissed. He was embarrassing her. The other couples were already turning in their circles while his own quartet remained stationary because of his faltering.

  Realizing his hesitancy would only draw attention, he surrendered his hand.

  The contact lasted but a few breaths, for no more than a string of heartbeats easily counted. But for Noah, it was an eternity. It was a moment on his hill back at the farm, where time stretched impossibly, dropping a person into a pocket full of forevers. It was yesterday, today, and a multitude of tomorrows, and most of all, it was Jeremie. His skin ever so warm, so soft. It was his poetry and books, his curiosity and joy, the kindness in his eyes and the way Noah’s name sounded when it left his lips. It was all these things, and all these things kindled a spark in Noah.

  Would Jeremie remember how he’d set his hand upon Noah’s in the bookshop that evening, how Noah had let him? And what about all the bold declarations he’d uttered without shame or apology? Would all that truly be nothing more than a distant memory to him one day, errors of a youth better left forgotten?

  Eventually, they released hands, and for a time, they were parted as couples regularly changed positions and made their way up and down the lines. Noah continued to focus on Margaux, but his thoughts ran rampant. That a touch should so move him. He was unsettled, a man unraveling. He told himself it meant nothing. He insisted that whatever had arisen between them had long vanished, couldn’t possibly be resurrected. He reminded himself of the risks, of the dangers.

  In the end, he couldn’t stop himself, Monsieur and Madame Perreault be damned. He let his eyes wander across the line of couples until they found Jeremie.

  Jeremie’s eyes were waiting for him.

  Again and again, with every turn and reverence and centerward step, Noah looked, and each time, Jeremie’s eyes were there to hold him. The glances were brief. They filled the space between seconds. But they spoke with beautiful, striking profundity. They were a thousand words in a single look.

  They became the only ones in a room that had grown deathly silent. There was no orchestra, no audience. There hardly existed a chateau. The entire world, the entire universe at large consisted of none but Noah and Jeremie, Jeremie and Noah, and the current between them grew stronger yet, more ardent, beyond unstoppable.

  Near the end of the dance, when all couples had returned to their original neighbors, Noah’s bones were just short of dissolving. The four went through the sa
me motions one final time, but in this instance, when Noah and Jeremie had to join hands, Noah didn’t hesitate. And this time, as they turned in a circle, it happened.

  Jeremie squeezed his hand. A reassurance. Another profession. A message in secret. And then he signed it by smoothing his thumb slowly, delicately across Noah’s knuckles.

  Noah’s heart stopped, then started, then stopped again, making him catch his breath. The music came to a close and the women curtsied as the men bowed.

  Noah had only briefly lowered himself before he hurried from the reception room, cutting like an arrow through the surrounding crowd.

  “Noah, where are you going?” Margaux called after him.

  He didn’t pause to answer. He didn’t even look back. He needed to get as far away from this space as possible. For he’d finally been able to place the terrible ache in his chest that had plagued him for days.

  It was heartbreak.

  32

  He found sanctuary in the stables. The sweet smell of hay greeted him upon entry, conveying him back to his family’s farm. It was more than relief. It was deliverance. Emancipation. He stepped to the stalls his family’s horses occupied and entered one.

  The horse, recognizing him, came forward, pressing its mouth into Noah’s palm, its whiskers like soft, errant threads on a well-worn blanket. Noah stroked its wide and strong convex nose, swatted a fly from the forelock between its ears. The horse and its companions looked healthy, comfortable. Their accommodations had been more than adequate. The stables were clean, the air fresh, the temperature agreeable—neither hot nor cold as dusk dissolved into night.