by L. B. Joramo
~*~
The same young girl who had given us welcome escorted us to the dining room. Everything was a haze until I saw him. The corridors to get to him, I don’t remember what they looked like. What my sister and mother had discussed as we traversed to him, I would never be able to recall. I just saw him: Jacque.
He was talking and laughing with a small group of men at a table. He stood beside the table, and turned with a happy smile to my sister and mother. I had straggled behind, unsure of my own reaction at seeing him, and when I finally emerged from my sister’s back, I saw him stagger—or was that my imagination? I could have sworn he swayed. His eyes began to darkly glow blue. His lucent gaze quickly skipped down my body, dipping for a brief pause at my chest, but then he closed his eyes. In another moment his face grew austere. Opening his eyes, he turned into a smiling statue. He righted himself and bowed deeply at us three. From the moment of his sway to his bow might have only taken a second, so it might have been only my dreaming mind, making up the scenario that he was so affected by me. I was deep in blue.
My mother was the first to curtsy, then my sister, and I did the same. Monsieur Beaumont made brief introductions for the men he spoke with. They were all French dignitaries of some sort, their titles were very vague-sounding, and I thought that was on purpose. Knowing Jacque to be a spy I wondered if the men were his employers. But it was while listening to them conversing to Jacque that I became alarmed. They were speaking about their King Louis, and how he wished to dine with Jacque. That, I did not think, would not be customary for a King and his spy. Unless Jacque was a very efficient spy, which he might be. But then again, I’d guessed he was he was working in espionage.
It was while I was pondering over Jacque’s skills that I overheard one of the men excuse Jacque in order to join my party and had called him, “Monsieur le Mar–.”
Jacque had interrupted with a nervous laugh, and instructions that he was merely a son of liberty while in the British Americas. He bade his au revoir, and ushered me to a seat, pulling at my arm aggressively as if he were saving me from hell’s horse carriage.
Monsieur le Mar—That was the beginning of a title. Jacque was not a mere spy. He was an aristocrat. No. Worse, he was a nobleman. Monsieur le _____ was similar to calling Jacque a lord.
Good Lord.
A lord?
I could only guess that the Mar—that had been interrupted—was for Marquis. Jacque was not just any nobleman, but a very high ranking one. I swallowed, not noticing at first that Jacque sat directly beside me, my mother and sister on the opposite side.
The room was a blur, and I held my breath. Jacque acted every bit a workingman with minimal laces worn on his person and no wig on his head, as well as rough calluses like a man who’d labored all the days of his life.
I shook, my mind twisting in thought, so I hardly heard my sister inquire about his health and how he liked Boston.
Monsieur Beaumont cleared his throat, and I felt him faintly touch my leg with his own, then quickly draw it away.
“I love Boston, of course. It is such a . . . always-moving, always-something happening town. Do you like Boston, Miss Hannah?”
“Oh, yes.” Hannah smiled and winked at me. “I saw on the way in that there appears to be a new fabric store. I intend to strong-arm my sister into taking me there.”
“Your sister does not like to go to the fabric stores?” Jacque asked. His dark blue gaze slid to meet mine, but then hurried back to my sister.
Hannah shook her head and looked down at her freshly poured red wine. “No. Not our Violet. Violet does not like to visit the shops.”
“A woman who does not like to visit the shops? I did not know there was such a woman.”
Hannah giggled and nodded, then pointed her freshly sipped glass at me. “That creature, the mythological non-shop visiting woman, sits right beside you, Monsieur Beaumont. She’s the one blushing at our conversing about her as if she were not here.”
I smiled and brayed a laugh, then held a napkin to my trembling lips, and tried again for a more dignified sound.
Jacque’s leg touched mine again, even through all the fabric of my skirts. “Are you well, Miss Buccleuch?”
I glanced at him, feeling angry, betrayed. My mother and sister began bickering about Hannah drinking the wine, while I thought about aristocrats. No, nobility. Damnation, why was I irritated at that? Because, I had to admit, that I had thought he was something akin to me, my class, which was not much. I had envisioned him farming, and leaning against a moldboard plow, wiping the sweat from his brow, and petting his oxen. I had pictured a man who was born into certain hardships such as had I lived through, and I was vexed that I had misjudged him.
Peeking at my argumentative sister and mother, I made sure they were saturated in their conversation, then whispered, “Marquis, is it, Jacque?”
His eyes widened as if I had striped him naked in front of the crowd in the dining room. He held his breath for a moment, then let an eruption of air pensively invade his lungs and exhaled. His beautiful dark eyes became startling blue, and he checked around the dining room once more.
“What of titles,” he whispered. His hand fluttered between us, then dropped when he confessed, “I . . . am only a man, Violet.”
“Oh.” I nodded exaggeratedly. “Yes, I’m sure.” I pursed my lips.
His eyes cut to my sister and mother who seemed to be arguing now about a nice white wine versus a headache inducing red. Then, quite surprisingly, he clutched my hand, pulling it to his lap under the table—his callused palms holding my hand between his.
“I am. Truly. Just a man. A weak, suffering man. I am no different than any other.”
Through gritted teeth, I whispered, “How can you say that? You’re French royalty.”
He shook his head, then shrugged. “On my mother’s side and my father’s I can trace my heritage back to two knights who fought in the first crusade for their king. What of that, hmm? Just because of my heritage I am given a title. Non, I must earn my titles as Rousseau and Descartes and so many other philosophers have laid claim. I have to earn people’s respect. I am no royalty that believes God granted me this life. Non. That is another man’s philosophy to explain why men are created equal, but never treat each other as such. I abhor men who believe that Divinity seeks out titles for men, which is why I’m not popular in court.”
I huffed a fast laugh, then shook my head, confused.
“Do you hate me, being born a nobleman?” His whisper was strained, filled with sorrow, almost to a breaking point.
With a tremulous hand, I reached for both of his that still held my one, and held fast while my sister and mother discussed the importation of silk.
“Never.” My own whisper was ragged. “Of course not. I could never hate you. I love your speech. It rings of Rousseau and justice and, Lord, I love Rousseau.”
He softly chuckled and rummaged for a grip on both my hands. After finding his hold, he whispered, “You were angry with me? For being a born a Marquis?”
“No.” I looked down, noticing the way his flat stomach breathed rapidly. “Well, perhaps at first, but that was not entirely why I was . . . warm with you.”
“You were angry with me for not confessing sooner—”
“We are each other’s confidants, after all.” I looked up into his blue, blue eyes.
He held a small, proud smile.
I looked away quickly, aware I had said too much.
His thumb began to rub the knuckle of my first finger. My God, why did that feel so wonderful? Something strong bubbled from very low in my stomach, and wrenched its way through to my chest and heart. I wondered if my corset would burst at the magnitude of my breath and how my breasts ached. My skin felt hot and prickly, but all the same, I so wanted Jacque to keep touching me.
“In time, I fear, I will confess everything to you,” he whispered even closer to my ear, his hot breath on the naked skin of my neck.
&n
bsp; My body smoldered and screamed of a fire within and branded my skin with his name written on my blazing cheeks. Still, I said, “You fear? Is my confidentiality in question?”
“Never, mon ami. Never.”
“My goodness, but the two of you are enraptured in a deep conversation. Might I dare to inquire as to the topic?” My mother softly laughed.
I looked up and tried to retract my hands from his. Just before I was released from his grip, Jacque clutched at my fingers, holding me still.
“We were discussing the stand-off between the British Regular soldiers and the Salem militia that happened last month.” Jacque said.
“Heavens, that does call for lowered voices then. Here, I was thinking Monsieur Beaumont was confessing some love poem in French to my daughter, but, of course, my dark-haired child discusses battles. So, what do the both of you think of that stand-off?”
I swallowed as Jacque’s finger caressed one of my own.
He began with his voice very low. “There will be another search made by the Regulars for cannon and powder and any other firearms, Miss Buccleuch believes. I have to agree with her prediction; although, I worry about what may happen next.”
Somewhere between caressing my fingers and my mother’s inquisition I had lost my mind and the usage of my mouth.
My mother nodded. “We all worry about what might happen next.”
She looked over at me, my fingers still tangled with Jacque’s. She tilted her head and let her smile widen. Could she know that I was drenched in a glowing midnight blue? Could she see it encompassing me? I was so in blue.
Chapter Seven: Torn to Pieces