Upon Your Return

by Lavender, Marie

  * * * *

  As her nursemaid brushed her hair before she returned to bed, Fara stayed the woman's hand. In the vanity mirror, she made eye contact with her. “Rosalie?”

  She frowned. “Oui?”

  “Do you remember my parents?”

  The woman nodded. “Oui, quite clearly.”

  “Tell me what you remember.”

  “Oh, Mademoiselle. They were the only two people I ever took pleasure from being employed. They never asked the impossible and always gave gifts to the servants every Christmas.”

  She smiled. “Oui, that would be like them. They treated you well then?”

  “Not just I, Mademoiselle. I do not think they could have disliked anyone.”

  “And my uncle?”

  “Ah, Monsieur Bellamont was not their favorite, but he was family and so, of course, they tolerated him.”

  She nodded. “I know you could not have known my mother very well. But, do you think she might have married my father for anything less than love?”

  “Never, Mademoiselle. Those two were a pair, practically made for each other and inseparable. Your mother's heart was as giving as your father's. Of course, they quarreled, but afterward, Madame always loved Monsieur. It was the look in their eyes, bébé. There wasn't only passion. They truly cared for each other. It is a rare thing to see when a gentleman can marry a lady for love.”

  Fara smiled. “Oui,” she agreed.

  Chapter Six

  Several days later, Fara was pondering the same idea. Indeed, it was a beautiful thing, love. And it was something she had always believed in despite the sways of society. How could she marry a stranger? How could she marry anyone without love? And did she really have a choice?

  “What are your plans for the day, niece?”

  Distracted, she shot him a look beneath the cover of her lashes. Her uncle had nearly caught her daydreaming at breakfast. “It is Monday. I am going to the market with Rosalie and Pierre so that I may plan the week's meals.”

  “Oui, that is what you…” He seemed to be half-listening to her. He was really focused on his papers, on business.

  She sighed. “Why, oncle…would you rather I do something else? As lady of the house, I plan the meals and organize the household. I keep tabs on the servants.” She set down her croissant. “Would you rather I check the stables or pay my regards to our neighbors? Visit, shall I?” She made an effort to disguise her sarcasm.

  “No, chère. If it is on your agenda only. You may visit as well, perhaps even with your ami, Helene. Her father is reputable, I've heard. Do not bother with the stables though. I make those rounds as often as possible. You know your duty, Fara. Go to the market as planned.”

  “Oui, oncle. Do you have plans?” An eyebrow lifted and he looked at her as if she was a dimwit and didn't realize that he was running a respectable business. She cleared her throat. “I only mean…shall I be expecting you for dinner and are there any guests you feel I should invite?”

  He smiled in relief. “Actually, my business is taking me out of town. I will be staying in Nantes with a client. It is a timely process, I'm afraid, and I will be leaving shortly. However, I would like to come home. I will notify you if my plans change so that you may expect me tonight.”

  “Of course, oncle.” She excused herself to leave the table and readied herself for a trip to the market.

  Hours afterward, as she pushed through a crowd of men and women with her maid and her driver Pierre lugging two baskets behind them, Rosalie pointed to an amber-colored fruit. “From Spain, Mademoiselle. Shall we?”

  Fara halted in her step and examined the fruit. She imagined a delicious platter she could persuade her cook to prepare. Orange-glazed lamb. “Oui, Rosalie. We will make the purchase.” But as she turned to speak to the peddler, she heard someone yell across the way. A man raced toward her in deliberate haste. She tensed in fear. “Pierre--”

  He reached her before she could call to her driver for help and stopped abruptly. “I'm sorry, Mademoiselle. I did not mean to startle you, but I was sent…are you Mademoiselle Bellamont?” It seemed like eons until he caught his breath.

  “Oui. What is it?” She looked down and in his hand he held a piece of parchment. Oncle, she thought. He had changed his mind after all. “You're a messenger?”

  “Oui. I was to give you this. I could not find you at your residence. I was told you were in town.” He handed her the slip of paper.

  She took it. “Merci, Monsieur.” She looked down and on the paper was a handwritten note:

  We regret to inform you that your uncle, Michel de Bellamont, has passed on. Our physician here in Nantes claims that it was a natural death. We are sorry for your loss, Mademoiselle Bellamont. If there is anything else we can do, please feel free to ask.

  The text blurred before her eyes. No, he was coming home to dinner. He wasn't dead, couldn't be. She read the message again. She knew no one would lie about such a thing. Suddenly, Fara could no longer feel the earth beneath her feet.

  “Mademoiselle!”

  Everything went black.

  * * * *

  They would carry his coffin through the town. It was the tradition of La Rochelle. Fara dressed hurriedly in the only black garment she owned, donning a black bonnet to cover her hair for she wasn't to show any female attributes when in mourning. She made her preparations with a resolve that had come over her as soon as she had woken from her spell on the street. It was odd that she had done that; not many things made her faint.

  She would be alone now with a future as uncertain as the swells of the sea. Rosalie, fussing about her in the usual way, informed her that the procession approached. As quick and appropriate as she could muster, she and Rosalie left the house, falling into the lines of people. Fara did not want to walk with them, but it was the way it was done. They would walk all the way to the cemetery at the end of the long, winding road. Musicians fell into the line, creating a mournful melody. It was a familiar tune, but one she could not place. Surely she had heard it as a young girl. It carried a lilting tone, but somehow melancholic. As the funeral procession continued, Rosalie had dropped behind Fara in the processional. She felt alone again. It was hard to believe her uncle was gone, that part of her life was over in a sense. Fara trembled with the onset of grief.

  A hand on her shoulder caused her to turn and look up into the tanned and chiseled face of her savior. She gasped and stillness came over her. She almost forgot about the funeral procession. But, no, he didn't want anything in particular; she could see it in his eyes. He was only there because of her, and he didn't want anything in return. She nodded and looked ahead to the procession. He knew her place and wouldn't keep her from doing what was required. She felt the heat from his body; his presence was the only comfort because still her uncle was dead and she'd loved him despite his set and offish ways.

  At the cemetery, words were spoken by a priest, but Fara heard none of them, just as she had heard none of the words spoken by the man at Mass the day before. Since the news of her uncle's passing, the world had somehow gone silent or at least slowed down. Instead of words, she heard voices forming sounds without meaning. There was a continuous strain of noise muted by the roar in her head, a roar that chimed the finality of her life. When it was time for her to approach the coffin, she did in an obedient way, briefly touching it and releasing the bouquet of bougainvillea in her hand, a flower she had come to love since her parents' deaths. The roar did not cease, not even when the lines of people began to pull away from the cemetery, not even when she stepped away and started to make the path back home. At the entrance, a tall figure blocked her way.

  “What are you doing here?” she hissed through set teeth. They had said goodbye. She did not understand why he would try to confront her. Two sides of her being warred with one another; the one that wanted to see him and the other that said she should not be with him in public.

  “I am here to escort you back to your home. There are matters of es
tate to discuss.”

  “Estate? You are not family!” She knew her tone increased and she looked around to be sure that everyone else had left the cemetery.

  “No, but at the moment, chère, I am your only protector. So do accept my offer with gratitude.”

  He left her no choice in the matter...society left her no choice. She let him take her hand and assist her into a carriage. When they arrived at the house, Grant made sure she was comfortable before he took his leave respectfully. His comment about discussing matters of estate had obviously been a way to keep her mind off of things. For a moment, she felt guilty for being harsh with him.

  * * * *

  Two days later, a man came to the house. Rosalie informed her of his presence and his request to speak with her. Fara had been absently brushing her hair before her vanity, staring into space. She did not know how long she had been in her room doing just that. Since her uncle's death, her mind had been in a lull, almost absent. She looked briefly in the mirror, noticed the pale cast of her face. She shook her head. It hardly mattered what she looked like; she was in mourning.

  After the news from Rosalie, Fara nodded to her nursemaid and went downstairs. She stepped into the salon. A stout man stood near the fireplace. She thought she recognized him from some business he had consulted with her uncle about in the house. “Monsieur, you requested to see me?”

  His gaze swept her face and ended there. “Oui, Mademoiselle. I am René Lumas. I am your uncle's lawyer.” He took a deep breath. “There is business to discuss. It seems you have been mentioned in your uncle's will.”

  “Regarding?”

  “Regarding your future, of course. I'm sure he meant to provide for you in the event of something like this…”

  She approached the man and sat on a nearby chair. “I…I could not be sure. You see, my uncle was a difficult man.”

  One eyebrow quirked upward, yet he nodded. “I am aware, but surely your uncle had a sense of propriety where his family was concerned.”

  Of course, she thought, so long as his proprietary actions benefited him alone. The lawyer watched her with apprehension, and she saw that countering his assumption would only annoy him. She forced a tight nod and a murmured agreement. “Is there some way I may help you, Monsieur?”

  He frowned. “You wish to compensate me?”

  She flicked her hand with an air of dismissal. “Nothing of the sort. I only wish to know if there are legal matters to discuss.”

  “I see. No, that will not be necessary. I will return on Tuesday afternoon next week to read the will, and anyone who applies to your uncle's wishes will be present as well.”

  “Are there many others, Monsieur?”

  “Only a few. I must be going now.”

  “That is all?” At his curt nod of dismissal, she countered, “Shall I show you out?”

  “No, Mademoiselle, that will not be necessary.” He began to exit the salon before she touched his arm.

  “Monsieur?”

  “Oui?”

  “Did my uncle…that is to say, might he have addressed the estate in his will?”

  “I cannot answer that. You will know the pertinent information on Tuesday just like everyone else.”

  “I see. Well, thank you, Monsieur.”

  “Oui. It is a pity, Mademoiselle, that such a grievous event caused this meeting.”

  “Indeed, a pity,” she agreed as he left the room. Was he truly regretful? He had spoken so matter-of-factly and avoided all of her attempts to gain any information about her uncle's property. The man probably thought she had no business being concerned. As if she was a mere possession.

  Fara clenched her fists, frustrated. All she wanted to know was the truth and if she still had a right to live in her uncle's house. Or would she be thrown out if the will stated otherwise? She did not know, and she doubted that anyone believed she should know. She wondered if she had a life here after all.

  * * * *

  That night, she mulled over it. What if her uncle had not paid up on the house? She would have to leave, and where would she go then? Her uncle had been the epitome of responsibility; however, it had been known to happen to good people before.

  She had known people in the past who had to leave their residences because the primary member of their family had not paid all of the expenses, and in his unfortunate passing, had left his family in need. What if that happened to her, and worst of all, to the servants? Where would they go? Hadn't her uncle provided for them too?

  That night, she cried wholeheartedly for the first time…for many reasons. Her uncle's absence, her difficult situation, and the uncertainty of life.

  Rosalie must have heard something in her own quarters on the lower level of the house because she appeared not long after, comforting her. “There, there, bébé. Twill' be all right.”

  She cried softly into her nursemaid's lap. “They will take the house, I know it!”

  “Shh. Certainly not before you are wed…”

  “Oui? And who am I to wed?”

  “Who else? Your fiancé, Mademoiselle. I'm certain Monsieur Bordeaux will still wed you.”

  No. Nicholas Bordeaux could have nothing to do with her after her uncle's death. Surely she could have a choice about her future now.

  “Mademoiselle, you have a guest…”

  She struggled to sit up. “What do you mean, Rosalie?” Her tear-numbed eyes adjusted, and she saw him in the doorway. It seemed he would not take no for an answer.

  “Shall I inquire to Pierre why he was not escorted to the library, why we were not informed of his presence? At this hour? Really it is not proper, mistress.”

  “No, leave us,” she ordered her nursemaid. The woman left the room, frowning. Fara pulled her dressing sacque closer to her bosom and drew a hand across her eyes to stem the flow of tears. She took a deep breath, aware that her heart was hammering itself to death.

  “I am sorry to have caught you at a time like this. I know your uncle's death has been hard for you.”

  Recovering from her emotional turmoil, she took a deep breath. “Oui.” She frowned. “Capitaine Hill, it is unlike you to enter a lady's boudoir uninvited.”

  “But can you really know, chère, what I am capable of?”

  “Perhaps not. Yet there are rumors of your bedside manner…”

  “Perhaps they are only rumors then,” he said softly as he sat on a nearby chaise.

  “Oui.” Fara shook her head. “Why are you here, Grant?”

  “That does not matter. What will you do now without an escort, Mademoiselle?”

  Oui, her uncle was dead and she had no one to look after her. But, why should he care about that? “Are you to fill the position, Monsieur?” she countered with a grin.

  “Perhaps with your permission. Is it so funny?”

  “Only that you feel you must concern yourself with my affairs.”

  “Have I not done so since that first night in the harbor?”

  “Oui,” she replied. “But you are still in my boudoir--”

  “Would you have me leave then--”

  “Without permission…” she finished.

  “Ah,” he exclaimed softly. “Then, Mademoiselle, may I enter your boudoir?”

  She considered it, but with a smile playing on her lips, she answered, “No, Monsieur. You may not.”

  He stood quickly and approached her, lifting a hand to gently touch her cheek. “You are a tease, Mademoiselle. You like playing with men, I think.” She frowned as he turned to leave. “Adieu, Fara. I shall see you on Tuesday.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He glanced back. “Tuesday. The reading of the will.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “I have my ways.” He made his exit, whistling a sailor's tune through the dark hallways outside her bedroom. She heard the front door close.

  She groaned. Why did he feel obligated to attend the reading of the will? That was her business. His interference in her life was certainl
y not helping matters these days. It being Thursday, however, she only had the weekend to prepare for what might happen. She couldn't begin to imagine what the will would say; mostly she feared what was on that piece of paper would change her whole life. Losing her uncle had been enough of a shock; losing everything would be devastating.

  * * * *

  May 23, 1863

  On the following Tuesday, the library was busier than ever before. People mulled around in obvious anxiety about the will. The activity there was not so unfamiliar though. Every once in a while, her uncle conducted business in the house, but only in the library. During the times that he had associates over, she would hear stern tones and chuckling from time to time through the thick door. She had not been allowed to attend his meetings though. The men had most likely discussed political goings-on and business issues. But today, business was a legal affair. Politics were removed from the scene entirely. And the tone was grave, indeed.

  Fara was aware of the tall man who stood by the doorway of the library, but she averted her gaze. He might feel he has a right to be here, but I'm not obligated to acknowledge him. He had somehow become her shadow at every possible moment, and she was tired of the way he took control of situations when he thought she had nowhere to turn. The man's looks aside, she did not need Grant to direct her affairs as he saw fit. Michel de Bellamont had assumed that role since he'd taken her in as a child. It was enough to endure over the years. She did not need that any longer. If society expected a man to act as her escort, she would heed it. But, in no way did she want just any man to believe he could steer her through life as well.

  She was alone. She could take care of herself now. Her uncle had been her only caretaker after her parents' deaths and there was no one else who could take over. She was eighteen. Surely some exception existed that allowed even a lowly woman to find the means necessary to support herself without resorting to another man's assistance. Perhaps she could become a seamstress and be employed by the milliner. It was the only skill, aside from a slight knowledge of the pianoforte, which her mother had bestowed upon her before her sudden passing.