by Leda Swann
He could not believe that she had grown cold towards him. If he had offended her, he would beg her pardon on his bended knee. If however, she was truly sick and had refused him admittance to save him the worry of knowing...
He felt his heart constrict at the thought. So many diseases lurked in the streets of Paris, waiting to pounce on the unlucky. He would not rest easy in his mind until he was assured of her good health.
There was a wedding party outside the church. A Musketeer of his own company, though he didn’t recognize the face. He’d met few of his comrades as yet. Besides, he wasn’t in the mood for making male friends. He wanted only to be with his Francine.
He glanced idly at the bride. She and her blonde attendant were both pretty enough, he supposed, though nothing compared with Francine. Still, he envied his fellow Musketeer his happiness, wedding the woman of his heart. How he would love to wed his beloved. If only she would agree to elope with him and live with him forever in a cottage in the country far from the King and his court. He would even turn farmer again for her sake...
A movement at the door of the church caught his eye and he raised his eyes slightly.
By God, but here was a woman to rival Francine, if such a blasphemous thought was possible. Her hair was as black as the wing of a raven, falling in a riot of curls to her shoulders. A few red roses were scattered through her hair, looking just as if Nature had sprinkled them there in homage to her beauty. Her skin was the golden color of pale honey fresh from the hive, her lips were full and red, and her eyes...
He looked again at her eyes. They were so full and rich and deep, deep brown – the color of the rich soil of his home. He could stay and look at her eyes for ever.
Her eyes met his and he could have sworn that he caught a glimpse of fear in them. Her face turned a shade paler and she put a hand against the wall behind her to steady herself. She shut her eyes, looking as though she were waiting for an axe to fall on her head.
He gazed at her in puzzlement. Now that he thought about it, her face did look vaguely familiar, but he was sure he had not met her before. He would not forget such beauty in a hurry. If he did not know her though, why did she look like she had seen a ghost at the sight of his face?
She opened her eyes again, those rich, deep eyes that held such a promise of mystery and desire in their depths. Relief seemed to flood through her body at his lack of recognition. Without once taking her eyes from his face, she moved on backward through the church doors and out of sight.
He could not think why she had seemed so scared of him. He racked his brains to dredge up any recollection of her face, but came up blank. He was sure he hadn’t met her before. His face was not one that usually inspired fear in women – quite the opposite in fact. He was vain enough to think that most women found his features pleasing. At any rate, quite a few of them had told him so and on the whole he preferred to believe them rather than not.
He slowed his pace and cast an eye at the sun. He had set out early for Francine’s morning levee, preferring to cool his heels over by the palace instead of pacing endlessly up and down in his own chamber. Plenty of time remained before she would even start to receive her morning visitors. He would chase up this raven-haired beauty and discover just what it was about him that had so startled her.
The church was dark inside. The walls seemed to exude coldness and damp and a sense of gloomy foreboding that even the colorful patterns of light cast by the stained glass in the windows failed to expel. Not even the familiar scent of incense wafting in the air could warm the interior. He shivered. Out of all the beautiful places in the world that God might adopt as his own house, he found it had to believe that He had chosen such a dank and dreary dwelling as this church as his abode on earth.
He crossed himself as a guard against such blasphemous thoughts, bowed his head in front of the statue of Our Lady, and wandered towards the altar, his eyes swiveling this way and that, searching for the beautiful woman who had caught his eye.
A glimpse of red made him turn his head around. Ah, there she was. Up towards the front and over to the side, kneeling low in the pew, her head bent in prayer.
He entered the pew, sliding across to where she was kneeling, her face hidden by her hands. There was no mistaking that she was the same woman. The red rosebuds in her black hair gave her away.
He sat beside her for some minutes, unwilling to disturb her at her devotions, but she did not move. The silence between them grew more and more tense, until it was so thick he could almost feel it pressing in on him.
Her shoulder twitched. She knew he was there, waiting for her. She was ignoring him, hoping that he would leave her alone, but he would not be put off that easily.
He reached out his hand and plucked a rosebud from her hair. “You must want something very much,” he whispered into her ear, “to be asking God for it so sincerely, and at such length.”
She did not move her head. “Go away. I am saying my prayers.” Her breath turned into steam in the cold air.
He settled himself as comfortably as he could next to her on the pew. The wooden bench was hard enough, but the thin cushion on it gave him some relief.
She turned her head a little to see what he was doing, and he smiled at her in return. She put her head back into her hands. “Go away,” she hissed out of the corner of her mouth. “I do not wish to be disturbed.”
“There’s no hurry. I shall wait until you have finished.”
“I do not want to talk to you.”
“It’s a funny thing, isn’t it, but that is exactly why I want to talk to you.”
There was a quick movement and the next thing he knew, a knife had appeared in her hand. The point of it was aimed perilously close to his groin. “Whatever you were thinking of, don’t try it. I am armed.”
He grinned. He could not imagine such a beauty sticking a knife into his side. “So I see.”
She jabbed it a little closer until the point of it was tickling his very manhood. “I am not afraid to use it.”
Had she been a man and his enemy, he would be in a cold sweat by now. As it was, he admired her spirit. “I do not doubt it. But would you emasculate me just because I find you beautiful and wish to make your acquaintance?”
“You think I am beautiful?” She sounded quite stunned and the hand holding the knife wavered a little.
He made a pained face. “I would find you infinitely more beautiful if you would desist from pricking my parts with your knife.”
She moved the knife a scant inch away, removing him from immediate danger of skewering.
He adjusted himself a little, making sure that everything was still in one piece. “Ah, that’s better.” A slight prick, but no lasting damage. His most immediate concern now out of the way, he looked in her face. “Yes, I find you very beautiful. You can hardly be surprised by it. You must look at yourself every day in the glass. You can hardly have failed to see your own beauty.”
She shrugged. “No man has ever told me I am beautiful before.”
He could not believe that he was the first to appreciate her grace. All the men she knew must either be blind or too tongue-tied to speak to her at all. Or maybe, he thought with a smile, they had been concentrating too hard on her knife to be able to look at the rest of her. That had to be a distinct possibility. “Dare I hope that you will look kindly on me then, the first man brave enough to tell you so?”
“No.”
He shook his head and waggled his forefinger at her. “That is not the right answer. I have told you, in all sincerity, that I think you truly beautiful. Can you not show that you are witty as well as beautiful and come up with a charming reply in your turn?”
She raised her head and looked him straight in the eye, almost as if she had decided she had nothing left to lose. “Certainly, if that is what you wish. I think you are very beautiful also.”
He was strangely flattered at this compliment from a complete stranger and he felt his ears grow hot. “Men cannot
be beautiful. Only women.”
“Nonsense. You have fine curling hair down to your shoulders, and a complexion as fine as any woman could wish for. Your shoulders are broad and strong-looking, and you fill out your breeches,” she looked down at his calves as she spoke, “more than adequately.”
He could not be quite certain whether or not she was mocking him. “So why did you turn pale at the sight of my face?”
She shrugged. “You must be imagining things. I did no such thing.”
“And why did you run into the church to avoid me?”
She turned her head away from him, shivering a little in the cold air. “I wished to say my prayers. May a woman not say her prayers in church without being accused of trying to avoid strangers in the street?”
“I am not a stranger to you, though. You have seen me before, I am sure of it.”
“And what if I have?”
“I am curious to know more about you.”
“There is nothing to tell.” She rose to her feet and looked pointedly down at him. “If you will be so good as to move, Monsieur, so that I may depart?”
He rose to his feet, blocking her escape. “Tell me your name before you go.”
“Why do you ask?”
“So I may know who to look for.”
She smiled at his words, but the smile did not reach her eyes. “My name is Miriame. Miriame Dardagny. But I warn you, you will never find me if I do not want to be found.”
He had not finished with her yet. He reached out and touched a lock of her glorious black hair, curling it around his finger. “How can I make you want to be found?”
She hesitated and then looked up at him. She was tall for a woman, but still she had to tilt her head back slightly to look into his eyes. “I am not sure you can do that. Even if you could, why should I give away my secrets? Men never treasure what comes to them too easily.”
He tugged gently on the lock of hair around his finger. “Tell me one of your secrets – a secret desire that you have. Give me some clue how I can make you want to be found.”
“I will give you one clue,” she said, staring straight into his eyes. “I do not like to feel trapped. If you try to coerce me into anything, you may not live to regret it.”
At her rebuke, he moved out of the pew, freeing her to go where she would. “Then if I cannot come to you, will you come to me instead?” he asked, following her down the aisle towards the back of the church.
They had almost reached the door to the church when she answered him. “I will be here in the church a sennight from now. You may find me here if you so wish.”
“I have your word on that?”
She shook her head. “No, I do not give you my word. You will have to come here and take your chance that I am worthy of your trust.” She pushed open the door of the church and walked out into the sunshine. “Fare thee well. Do not follow me or I will know for certain that you are not worthy of my trust and I shall not return.”
How had she guessed that he had been planning to follow her, just for a short distance, to see what direction she was headed in. With such a threat as that, he would not risk even so much as looking in her direction. He bowed low. “It shall be as you desire, Mademoiselle. Your wish is my command.”
A low laugh was the last he heard from her as she walked away.
Francine. He had almost forgotten about Francine as he had talked with the mysterious stranger. He felt a momentary pang of guilt at trifling away the moments he could spent at Francine’s side. Still, he could not totally neglect his affairs for the sake of Francine, for all that he adored her and would give his life for her.
He had a sneaking suspicion that the mysterious Miriame knew more than she was telling him about the attack on him in the street. Where else could she have seen him before? Why else would she threaten him and hide herself away? He would keep the meeting with her in a sennight’s time, and hope to find out more.
He strode out of the door of the church, took the steps two at a time, and hurried down the street. For now, he was on his way to visit Francine. Mysterious strangers would have to wait.
Miriame walked back to Courtney’s apartments in a daze. Jean-Paul Metin, her sworn enemy, had told her she was beautiful. Last night he had tried to murder her in the street. This morning he had told her she was beautiful.
She had not changed in herself so much in those few hours in between times. All that had changed was his perception of her.
Perception was a more powerful force than she had realized before now. She had always hidden her sex underneath her rags, counting on no one breaching her disguise, until hiding her sex had become second nature to her.
Now, for the first time she understood how powerful it could be to reveal her true nature.
Metin thought she was beautiful. He had told her so, and had even seemed surprised that she had doubted his sincerity.
She looked at herself in Courtney’s looking-glass one last time, smoothing the red velvet dress over her waist and hips. She did not know what to think. She was still getting used to the idea of looking like a woman at all.
Courtney had already taken off her green dress and laid it aside in the wardrobe. She came up behind Miriame and grinned at her in the glass. “Don’t tell me that we have converted you not only into wearing a dress, but into actually liking it?”
“Am I beautiful?” She hadn’t meant for the question to slip out quite so baldly, but it was important to her. Was it possible, was it conceivable that Metin was telling the truth? Did her find her attractive?
Courtney put her head on one side and thought about it for a moment. “You’re don’t have the kind of beauty that is most fashionable right now: white skin, pink cheeks, golden blonde curls, and a sweet simper to show your good nature.”
She tried not to let the disappointment show in her face. How foolish she had been to think it was possible, even for a moment. She looked nothing like that. Metin could not possibly think she was beautiful.
“You have a different sort of beauty altogether,” Courtney went on. “Darker, more mysterious, quite exotic. You make the fashionable look ordinary. You have so much more character. A touch of spice, and more than a hint of danger. If I were a man, I would think you were more exciting than a whole chamber full of fashionable beauties.”
“Are you serious?”
“Never more so.” She gave another grin. “As I said before, for a gutter rat, you clean up pretty good.”
Miriame was about to make another rude gesture but she stopped herself just in time. “Can I borrow this dress if I ever decide I want to look like a woman again?”
Courtney hugged her. “I knew it. You like wearing a dress and looking like a woman after all. You are not a complete Musketeer – you have a woman’s heart and soul buried under that jacket and breeches of yours.” She hurried to her wardrobe, pulled out a handful of others in a profusion of colors: burnt gold, deep green, and a blue the color of midnight and started piling them into Miriame’s arms. “These ones, too. They will suit you very well.”
Miriame stood open-mouthed at Courtney’s generosity. “What shall I do with them?”
Courtney hugged her. “Take them with you. Wear them when you can. Learn how to feel like a woman again.”
She gathered them to her chest, tears misting her eyes. She didn’t know whether she liked looking like a woman or not, but Metin seemed to like it well enough.
Much to her surprise, she liked Metin well enough in her turn. That was enough for her to try wearing a dress one more time.
Francine had once described to him what a morning levee in her chamber was like: the crowds of people, the noise of chattering, talking, laughing, even brawling on occasion, the smells of perfume and candle wax, the light and glitter and color, the very romance of it all.
Now that he was here at one of them, he failed to see any romance in it at all. Indeed, he wondered that Francine could bear it at all, let alone have to put up with it for every da
y that she spent at Court. The very thought was enough to give him the shudders.
The outer chamber was hot and crowded and so noisy that he could hardly hear himself think. He pushed through the crowds of painted and perfumed courtiers with growing impatience, making his way to the front. How false and unreal they all were: close-cropped, curled black wigs or curled white wigs that fell to their shoulders, white painted faces with red painted spots on their cheeks, and mincing high-heeled shoes. Not a one of them would last a whole day as a soldier, or as a laborer back on the farm where he grew up. They were more like a child’s playthings than real people.
Finally the door to the inner chamber opened and there was a surge forwards towards the inner sanctum. He found himself squeezed in the middle of the crowd, his ears ringing from the excited, high-pitched chatter that assaulted him on wall sides. The noise and the crush was more than could be borne. He employed his elbows with good effect until he had cleared enough space around him so that he could at least breathe.
A couple of burly footmen stood at the entrance to Francine’s chamber to control the flow of the crowd and prevent a riot. Just as Metin had struggled and pushed his way to the door, they stopped the flow. “Chamber’s full now,” one of them grunted. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
Metin was having none of it. He forced his way past the footmen, quelling them into submission with a furious glare. Nothing and nobody was going to prevent him from seeing Francine this morning.
The footmen evidently saw the determination in his face. They let him by with hardly a grumble, revenging themselves on those who tried to follow after him by shoving them viciously backwards and out of the way of the now-closing doors.
There she was at last, his Francine, sitting enthroned in her bed, her head resting on a mound of pillows. Her blonde curls were spread out around her head like a halo, and a shawl of sky blue, the same color as her eyes, was spread out over her beautiful white shoulders. In one hand she held a cup of chocolate. As he watched, she took a dainty sip of her chocolate and ran her tongue over her red lips to catch the last drops.