Destiny's Kiss

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “He said it was delicious?”

  Agathe’s smile dimmed as she folded her arms on the table. “Why do you sound surprised? Yves has commented several times that I should take cooking lessons from you if you’re half the cook Philippe boasts you are.”

  By pouring two cups of water for tea, Lirienne hid her astonishment. She never had guessed that he bragged about her. This was even more confusing. She was beginning to believe he was afraid to be alone with her. But that was absurd. Wasn’t it?

  “I could not wait to tell you that Yves has given his permission for Mr. Jacobs to call on me,” Agathe said as she took the cup Lirienne held out.

  “Jacobs? I don’t think I know him.”

  She sipped and smiled. “He has a small farm north of here along the river. Yves hired him to repair a harness he had bought secondhand in Wilkes-Barre. Lirienne, he’s the nicest man.”

  “But if you marry him, you’ll never be able to return to France.”

  “We aren’t like you and Philippe, Lirienne. You hope to return to your château, but Yves and I have decided to stay here. Our queen will be joining us, and we’re safe here.” Her smile wavered. “And we do not need to answer to Monsieur de Talebot.” Suddenly she giggled as she whispered, “And guess what?”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Jacobs is teaching me English.”

  “Is that all?”

  Agathe’s cheeks reddened more. “Don’t tell Yves, but Mr. Jacobs kissed my hand. He told me he wanted to greet me just as folks do in France.”

  Keeping her gaze on her cup, Lirienne hoped Agathe could not guess how much she wished to stay here in Azilum, too. Philippe spoke only of how it would be to go back and reclaim Château de Villeneuve. As Agathe prattled about her new beau and his upcoming call, Lirienne smiled. To think of a gentleman calling to spend an hour or two in conversation or perhaps to take a walk along the common area was beyond her imagination. Her courtship had lasted only minutes, her betrothal a few hours. Her smile faded as she wondered how long her odd marriage would endure.

  Hunching into her cloak, Lirienne closed the door behind her. Supper was ready, and Philippe had not come in yet. She wondered if he was down by the river. He had mentioned that Monsieur de Talebot had asked him to do some mapping of the shore, so it could be decided where to put the wharf the settlement wanted to build in the spring. Azilum needed a wharf, so everything that was shipped up the river did not have to be toted through the current to get it to shore. Not that it mattered now when the river was frozen closed.

  She took a single step off the porch before she heard her name spoken in an imperious tone. She frowned. Monsieur de Talebot became more impossible with every passing day, complaining about the settlement, the weather, their neighbors. More than once, she wanted to remind him that many of Azilum’s problems were because he had not kept a closer eye on what happened before they arrived.

  Her eyes widened when she realized that he was not calling to her. He was standing in front of the Suchards’ house, wagging his finger in Agathe’s face. She was backing away from him with an expression of horror.

  “What more could you do to bring shame onto the de Talebot family?” he roared, so anyone walking through Azilum could hear his callous words. “First you act as if de Villeneuve’s wife is your friend. She’s so far below even you! Now you are welcoming that American farmer to slobber over you.”

  Agathe almost cowered. “But, Monsieur de Talebot—”

  “Are you gainsaying me? What does a mere laundry maid like you know about anything?”

  Lirienne had heard and seen enough. Stepping between Monsieur de Talebot and Agathe, she put her hand on her friend’s arm. She turned to Monsieur de Talebot. “I thought you better than this, sir.”

  “What?”

  She was glad her comment had surprised him. She needed him off-guard as long as possible. “Monsieur Fortier would never have spoken like this in public to one of us.” She forced a light laugh past her rage. “Nor can I imagine Philippe being so gauche. Such behavior is …” She tapped her chin. “It is so common.”

  Monsieur de Talebot sputtered, but did not say anything she could understand as he turned on his heel and walked away. The sound of her laugh spurred his steps across the road. Maybe he would think twice about abusing her friend again. She sighed. Things were never settled that easily.

  Agathe grasped her hands. “Thank you, Lirienne. When he speaks to me like that—” She gulped back a sob.

  “I know. It’s as if nothing’s changed.” She shuddered as she thought of having to face Madame Fortier here. Madame Fortier, like Monsieur de Talebot, would refuse to acknowledge that things were different here in America. “Don’t let him hurt you, Agathe.”

  “I wish I could be like you. The hateful things he says don’t seem to bother you.”

  “He was never my master.” Lirienne smiled. “I must go and get Philippe before dinner is cold. He must have lost track of time while he was down by the river.”

  “Go! I must get dinner done before Mr. Jacobs calls.” Her giggles returned. “I don’t want him to know I’m not a good cook like you.”

  As Agathe hurried into her house, Lirienne walked toward the river. Shadows crawled out of the trees, and the moon was an icy curve, waiting for its chance to claim the sky after the last glow of sunset.

  She glanced over her shoulder, sure she had heard someone behind her. The path down to the river was empty. It must have been the clatter of bare branches from the forest. Reaching the river that was sculpted in ice, she saw a set of footprints along the bank. They must be Philippe’s. Maybe she should speak to him about Monsieur de Talebot. If he could persuade Monsieur de Talebot to treat all his neighbors with kindness … She sighed. Azilum was doomed if they did not set aside the past. If—

  Lirienne cried out in horror as the snowbank gave way beneath her. Before she could halt herself, she had slid several yards out onto the river. Her hip ached. She winced as she drew up her knees to stand. By the morrow, she would have a bruise to go with the pain.

  She stopped as the ice cracked around her. Not daring to move, she watched lines etch through the ice, spreading out around her like the pattern of shattered glass.

  She called out, “Help! Someone! Anyone! Help!”

  The ice cracked more.

  Slowly she stretched her hand out toward shore. If she could grasp the root of a tree or a dead bush … Her fingers caught only cold air before falling to the ice. The ice broke under them, water oozing up.

  She drew her hand out of the water, then dropped it back into the freezing current as even that motion sent more cracks slicing through the ice. Holding her breath for as long as she dared, she then released and gasped it for another shallow one while edging her fingers out of the water. She could see the current swirling under the ice. If the ice collapsed, she would be sucked beneath the sheet before she could take a single stroke.

  Her knee broke through, and she screamed. She got no answer then or as she continued to shout while the sunset faded. Every passing minute brought more cracks along the ice. How much longer would it last? Trying to suppress her shivers, she slowly discovered, as the moonlight scattered across the ice, she was not so cold. She rested her head on her folded arm. The water rushing below was a low drone, urging her to slip into sleep where all her dreams still had a chance of coming true.

  Lirienne raised her head when she heard shouts from the shore. Lights from lanterns sprayed onto the ice.

  “She’s here, Philippe!” That voice she recognized.

  “Yves!” she called. “Help me!”

  “Don’t move,” he yelled.

  “Ma petite?”

  She turned her head to watch as Philippe slid down the hill to stand by the water’s edge.

  “Philippe, help me!”

  “Catch this.”

  The end of a thick rope struck the ice in front of her. It crashed through the ice and into the water. Her fingers ached to reach
it. She couldn’t.

  “Let me try again!” he shouted, pulling the rope back toward shore.

  The ice cracked, the sound like a gunshot in the darkness. “Hurry!” she cried.

  “Here it comes!”

  She gasped when the rope struck her right between the shoulder blades. It draped over her arm. She cautiously drew it down to hold the end. “I have it.”

  “Tie it around you.”

  She started to obey. As she moved, the ice capsized. She screamed as she fell into the river. It washed over her head, trying to pull the rope out of her hand. She fought the current to grab it with her other hand. Don’t pull yet! She wanted to scream that as she forced her hand up to the rope. If it was pulled out of her fingers, she would be lost.

  Grabbing the rope, she lifted herself hand over hand along it. She heard cheers as her head bobbed above the water. By the time Philippe and Yves had pulled her ashore, she could not talk past her chattering teeth. Her clothing froze as Philippe lifted her out of the river.

  “Ma petite,” he moaned, pressing her close. He lifted her into his arms. She put her arms around his neck and rested her head against his chest. The frantic beat of his heart was a song she had thought she would never hear again.

  “Thank goodness, we got here in time, Philippe,” Yves added with a grin. “You could have lost her for good.”

  “I’m never going to let that happen.”

  Her own heart thumped with happiness as she looked up at his face that, even in the shadows, was lined with fear. Maybe he truly meant what he’d said.

  Lirienne sat on the bench and knitted the instep of a stocking she was making for Philippe. Since her fall onto the ice a week ago, he had insisted that she rest, but she was tired of knitting while she watched the other settlers rushing about with their work.

  On the floor, Philippe smoothed a board for the fence, the sound of the planer cutting into the wood creating an undercurrent to the click-clack of her needles. He had been lucky to get all the posts in before the ground froze. These planks would close off the last of the barnyard, even though it was still empty.

  When he cursed, she looked up in dismay. He dropped the knife and held up his left hand. The blisters along his palm had broken and were bleeding. “It’s impossible! I’ll never be a carpenter.”

  “By the time you finish this fence, you’ll have plenty of experience.” With a smile, she rose and filled a bowl with warm water. Sprinkling salt into it, she put the bowl in front of him. “Soak your hands for a while. It will help.”

  When he hesitated, she lifted his left hand and plunged it into the water. He yelped. “What are you trying to do? Torture me?”

  “It will help with the healing and toughen your skin.”

  “I thought my hands were tough from all my riding, but I guess I was wrong.”

  She chuckled as she tousled his hair. “You are doing different work here. When you started riding, you must have had to get your hands used to the reins.”

  “That was a lifetime ago.” He looked up at her. “Do you ride?”

  “No, but I worked with Papa to keep the reins soft to protect—” She looked away, not wanting to speak the Fortiers’ names.

  “At least, I’ve finished helping Vachel with his fence,” Philippe said when the silence stretched between them. “Now he should be coming to help me.”

  “He’s going to help you?”

  His wet finger against her cheek brought her to face him. Gazing into his blue eyes, she said nothing, afraid words would mar this moment when she stood so close to him.

  “Why do you despise Vachel so much?” he asked, his voice a hushed whisper. “Without him, we would have starved in Philadelphia by now.”

  “I know.”

  “But?”

  Stepping away, she said, “I don’t like him. He is cruel to Agathe and Yves.”

  “That has nothing to do with us.”

  “Agathe is my friend. I don’t like to see her belittled.” She sat and picked up her knitting. She shuddered as, from the woods, came the howl of a wolf. It was a lonely sound, but the greatest loneliness was the life she lived within these walls with a husband who refused to explain why he was shutting her out of his life.

  Philippe stood and, carrying the bowl, sat on the bench beside her. He put his hands back into the water as he said, “I didn’t realize that was why you avoided Vachel.”

  “And I don’t understand why you avoid me.”

  “I’m not avoiding you.” His gaze slid away from hers. “I’m not the gentleman of leisure I was in France. Here work keeps me busy.”

  She recognized this change in conversation. It had happened so often before. Whenever she tried to cross the wide moat he had created between them, he did this. She had two choices: let the conversation change or suffer the silence.

  “How long will it take you to finish the fence?” she asked, knowing talking about his work was better than being closed out completely.

  “Too long. As I’ve told you, I’m no farmer.”

  “There must be something else you can do.”

  “I can give up the two hundred acres we have and return to Philadelphia to live off charity.”

  She shuddered at the idea of going back to that snobbish society. Again she would be an outcast. In Azilum, she had friends. “I’d prefer to stay here.”

  “As I would.” He winced as he flexed his hands and put them back into the water. Then he smiled. “Until we can return to Château de Villeneuve. Some evening soon, while we dine in the château’s great hall, we shall laugh about our misadventures in Azilum.”

  “Misadventures?”

  He held up his hands. “Me trying to build a fence should bring a lot of laughs.” His tone grew serious. “I have no interest in leaving here a failure.”

  “You aren’t a failure.”

  “No? Who puts food on our table? Who, thinking I wouldn’t find out, has arranged to sew for half the men in the village? Not Philippe de Villeneuve.”

  She smiled. “You are the one they come to when they wish to discuss the future of Azilum. I provide for the present. You provide for the future. I thought marriage meant we were a team.” Pointing with a knitting needle, she said, “Look! There’s food in the kettle over the fire. In the larder, we have more. We have clothes and some furniture. What more could we want?”

  Lirienne regretted the question as soon as she spoke it. Grief tightened his face. Not only for the life he had left behind in France, for, as if he shouted, she could hear his thoughts. Perhaps because they were hers, too. She longed for children to give them a reason to work for the future.

  He cleared his throat. “I must find a way to be more useful in Azilum. The skills I used in France are quite useless here.” With a grin, he asked, “Do you think anyone needs to learn to dance? I may not be as accomplished as a dance master, but I could turn you about the room quite well.”

  “Not me. I don’t know how to dance.”

  “No?” He rose and waved his hands to dry them. “Come here, Lirienne. I’ll teach you.”

  Laughing, she put the nearly finished stocking on her lap. “Now?”

  “Why not enjoy ourselves for a moment?”

  “Yes, why not?” Happiness was honey-sweet as it poured through the empty caverns of her heart.

  When she stood, he pushed the table to one side of the narrow room.

  “What do I do?” she asked.

  “You’ve never danced?”

  Memories, which seemed as fragile as a dream, washed over her. One single night she had given in to the lure of music and whirled about in mindless abandon. Then, only the melody had been important, for she had been part of it. As she focused her eyes on Philippe, she wondered if dreams could really come true. Maybe …

  “I’ve never danced as the nobility dances,” she answered.

  “Then, my dear Vicomtesse de Villeneuve, it’s time you learn.”

  When he outlined the steps of a minuet, she laughe
d. “That sounds complicated.”

  “It’s easier to understand it when you walk through it. Of course, it would be easier if we had music.”

  “I remember—I mean, I know a song that might be the right rhythm.”

  A quizzical expression drew his dark brows toward each other, but he only asked her to sing it. When she obeyed, he took her hand and repeated the instructions beneath the melody she slowed to match the pace at which he moved. It took only a few minutes for her to learn the simple steps.

  “You sing beautifully, ma petite.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  “I don’t compliment you often, do I?”

  “I—” She could not tell him how Agathe had mentioned his comments to the others. Holding out her hand, she asked, “Can we try it again?”

  Holding her skirt up at the proper angle, she whirled with him through the steps, together and apart and together again like birds circling through a summer sky. She curtsied at the end, and he brought her to her feet. Her gaze rose along the front of his simple shirt and past its broad collar to his chin. Higher it went past the sensuous line of his lips and the undeniable aristocracy of his nose. Her breath faltered over her thudding heart when she met the passion blazing in his azure eyes.

  “Sweet Lirienne,” he whispered, “pretty, intoxicating Lirienne.”

  Her hand slipped along his arms which encircled her waist. When one of his hands tilted her chin up, she twisted her fingers through his hair. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, his mouth descended toward hers. A soft moan escaped from her lips in the second before he brushed them as lightly as a butterfly’s wings. The tip of his tongue tasted them, lingering at each corner. With her breath rapid and shallow, she pressed closer, for she needed his hard body against her. His fingers slid up her back, each touch bringing her against him and firing the craving which demanded satisfaction.

  Lirienne cried out a soft denial when he released her and reached for his cloak. “Philippe, please don’t go”

  “I must.”

  “Stay. We can talk or dance or do whatever you wish.”