Katie was breathless by the time she reached the Esplanade des Invalides. Brioche barked in joy at the rapid pace they had set from the large, four-story house Gerrit had let for them several blocks away in the Faubourg St. Germain. Now, her dog tugged at his leash as Katie slowed to survey the gravel tree-lined walks before her.
Just as on the day before, several old men hunched over their canes in their shuffling stroll across the grounds. Others sat in their metal wheeled chairs, their arthritic limbs covered in woven blankets.
“Yes, Brioche, we’re going, be patient, darling.” She allowed him to lead her. Perhaps he’d go exactly to the spot he’d run to yesterday.
“Slow down, we’re already where we are supposed to be.” In vain, she tried to halt him but instead he led her at a run down the sloping park toward the River Seine.
Before they reached the quay, he slowed and began sniffing the area under the large trees. Her hopes lifted; it certainly looked like the spot where they’d met the young soldier yesterday. They took a downturn as she realized not even an old veteran sat in the shade of the chestnut trees.
She squinted and looked around the entire park. The few men in wheelchairs were too far away for her to distinguish their faces clearly. Most wore hats so it was impossible to see their hair, though she had noticed most Frenchmen were dark-haired.
With a sigh, she began traversing the entire area again, scanning every face she passed.
Upon returning home yesterday, she’d so wanted to tell her sister Hester about meeting the soldier, but for some reason she had said nothing of the encounter to Hester or to her brother-in-law, Gerrit.
Katie usually wasn’t secretive. Quite the contrary. With two sisters, she was used to imparting and receiving confidences. There were no people in the world she trusted more than her older sister, Hester, and her younger sister, Adele.
Katie’s footsteps slowed as she pondered the reason for her silence, her glance continuing to study each face she came across.
But none of the French veterans’ faces remotely resembled the sharp lines and planes of the mysterious young man’s pale visage—a face whose strong chin and deep-set eyes hinted of the virile, dashing young soldier he must once have been. His manner, too, belied his present aspect. Katie wrinkled her forehead, attempting to puzzle it out. He spoke with the arrogance of a count and yet dressed like a pauper.
If she had confided in her older sister yesterday, she could almost hear Hester’s voice and imagine Hester’s kindhearted smile. “There you go again, Katie, looking out for every defenseless creature. But have a care—we’re in a foreign country, a much larger city than Bangor.”
She glanced down at Brioche, who for once was walking obediently at her side. He was the latest evidence of this tendency. No sooner had their ship docked in Le Havre, than her heart had gone out to the thin, mangy dog who had whined after her as she’d walked along the quay.
Gerrit had laughed when she’d finally stopped to pet the dog who’d kept following them. “Very well, let’s find it something to eat, but I warn you, I won’t have its flea-ridden fur in our rooms tonight.”
Since then, Brioche had become her faithful companion.
After a fruitless hour traversing the entire park, Katie gave a sigh of defeat. Some of the old veterans out taking the sun were beginning to stare at her. “He’s not here,” she told Brioche as she slowly surveyed the esplanade one last time.
She petted the dog and fished out a treat for him. “There, that’s for being such a good sport about it and helping me look for Monsieur Santerre.”
Her shoulders slumped as she tugged Brioche’s leash and walked away from the trees. She hadn’t realized until now how much she had looked forward to seeing the poor young soldier.
She took out her pocket watch and glanced at it. Perhaps he would arrive as soon as she departed. That would be just the way! But she couldn’t wait any longer. She needed to get back to dress. Gerrit was going to take them to some salon. He seemed to know so many people, even though he was British and his country had been at war with France for ages until the final fall of Napoleon two years before.
But then Gerrit was a nobleman himself, even though no one meeting him in America would know. He’d had a difficult enough time living down the infamy of being a redcoat for anyone to inquire beyond that.
Katie hurried away from the esplanade and into the streets of the Faubourg St. Germain, resisting the urge to look back one last time to make sure she hadn’t missed the dark-haired soldier.
* * *
The next day it rained, so Katie had to swallow her disappointment at not being able to return to the esplanade. As she gazed at the gray skies and steady downpour, she wondered what the soldier did when he could not go out to enjoy the sun. She pictured his smile and felt doubly sad. She wouldn’t be able to alleviate his suffering even a little that day.
A quick walk around the block to exercise Brioche was her only relief. Even in the rain, it was a lovely quarter. Thick tan stucco walls hid delightfully formal gardens. She never tired of peering through the black wrought-iron gates at the emerald green squares of perfectly clipped grass between carefully swept gravel walkways. Often a sculptured fountain marked the center of the garden, its cascading water filling the area with its tinkling sound. Birdsong abounded in the precisely pruned trees, cone-shaped bushes, and rectangular hedges planted in geometric patterns along the walkways.
But Brioche wouldn’t let her linger. With a tug on his leash, he signaled he’d spied something more interesting. Off he went, barking at another dog being walked by a liveried footman.
Katie halted by her favorite pâtisserie. She’d already sampled the custard-filled tart covered in raspberries. Maybe today she’d try the ruby-red currants covered in a glaze.
Her thoughts returned to the dark-eyed veteran. Perhaps he’d enjoy a pastry? Who knew what kind of fare he had at the old soldier’s home.
She would bring him a tart on the morrow, she decided.
* * *
To her relief, the following day dawned warm and sunny. After breakfast, she and Hester went to a dressmaker’s to be fitted for gowns. This was a new experience for Katie. Back home, they always made their own gowns, copying fashion plates their father brought home from London or Boston. She soon discovered that here in Paris, being fitted for a gown meant going to a fashionable modiste to be pinched and trussed into corsets that were too tight and gowns whose necklines were too low and sleeves too short and materials too thin.
“Mademoiselle, you must desist with the croissants if you hope to fit into my creations,” the seamstress said as she fastened the back of a gown, whose muslin was so thin it seemed transparent.
Before Katie had a chance to reply, the slim, dark-haired seamstress came around and began to adjust the neckline. Katie’s hands came up automatically to stop her as the woman tugged the neckline lower.
The woman slapped Katie’s hand away. “What are you doing? You cannot hide your creamy bosom. It is the focus of the gown.” She finished her adjustments and stood back to allow Katie a view of herself in the full-length glass.
Katie smoothed down the skirt, staring at herself. The gown was made of a pretty yellow muslin with light-blue embroidered flowers running the length of it. “Oh—” She sucked in her breath as the modiste cinched the blue ribbon around the high waist of the gown. “Can you loosen it just a bit?”
The woman complied only a fraction then fiddled with the tiny capped sleeves before turning to Hester. “Voilà! A lovely morning gown, n’est-ce pas, madame?”
Hester nodded, an approving smile on her lips. “Indeed. Katie, you look lovely.”
“Thank you.” Katie slowly turned around, viewing herself from every angle. She had to admit the gown looked very pretty, flattering her complexion and brown hair. A wide ruffle edged the hem, which just grazed the top of her ankles. As she faced the mirror again, her hands came up to the neckline, uncomfortable with its low cut. Her bosom wasn’t large; she was just unaccustomed to having it half on display.
Hester smiled in sympathy from her seat. “You can always tuck a light scarf into your neckline.”
The modiste glared at her. “And ruin my gown! Absolument pas—certainly not!”
Katie frowned at her sister, who was fanning herself. “Are you all right, dear? You look awfully pale.”
Hester smiled wanly. “I’m fine. Just a little queasy. But it will pass, I’m sure. Perhaps if I have a cup of chocolate or one of those deliciously rich cups of coffee and a croissant, I shall feel completely restored. I noticed a small café next door.”
“Yes, that sounds lovely.” Katie gave a guilty look at the modiste.
As if reading her thoughts, her sister laughed. “You mustn’t worry. Your figure is fine. And with all the walking you’ve done since we arrived in Paris, you are in danger of becoming much too thin.”
Katie gazed doubtfully at herself in the cheval glass, thankful for the current style of high-waisted gowns with a loose skirt to hide one’s waistline.
As soon as the fitting was over, they went to the café. They laid aside their parcels and sat at a small round table only large enough to hold the demitasse cups of coffee in their small saucers.
Hester ate her half her croissant before sitting back with a sigh. “I must have been hungry. I feel much better now.”
“I’m glad.” Katie bit into her flaky pain au chocolat. The chocolate-filled pastry with the croissant-like crust had quickly become one of her favorites. Sometimes, when she arrived at the bakery at the right time, the chocolate was still warm and runny from having just come out of the oven.
“What are your plans for this afternoon after our French lesson?” her sister asked her.
Katie gulped a mouthful of coffee, feeling almost guilty as she assumed a casual tone. “I thought I’d take Brioche for a walk.”
“Again? You know one of the footmen would be glad to do it for you if you are tired.”
They had more servants than she’d ever seen in her life, but Gerrit had assured her they were helping them by hiring them. “Times are tough since the war. Believe me, Katie girl, people are grateful for any job they can get.”
Still, Katie had a hard time accustoming herself to asking for assistance with anything. Telling herself that was the only reason, she said, “I like walking Brioche myself.”
“Would you like me to go with you?”
Her sister’s voice didn’t hold too much enthusiasm, and Katie realized she must still be tired from so much traveling. Usually, she was more energetic than Katie herself, who was known as the homebody in the family. Her father and mother had insisted she come on this trip to Europe so that she would get out and see the world a little.
“No, that’s all right, Hester,” she said. “Why don’t you lie down after our lesson?”
“Yes, I think I shall,” her sister replied, “but you know, I really don’t think you should be out alone. Why don’t you take your maid?”
Katie twisted her lips. Her new French maid intimidated her as much as the modiste, the way she looked at her wardrobe as if it lacked even the most essential pieces and shook her head, muttering in French as she brushed her clothes and put them away.
“Please, Katie, it would give me peace of mind.”
Katie sighed, unable to deny her sister. “Very well, I shall take Marie-Thérèse.”
Hester smiled in relief. “Good! And don’t go too far. You don’t want to be late. Remember, we have the ball tonight. You should probably take a short nap, too, before we go out this evening.”
Katie’s heart sank. Dear Gerrit was striving to introduce her to society and she didn’t want to disappoint him. But she knew it was a wasted effort. She had none of her sisters’ flare for either wit or unconventionality. She was just plain, simple Katie. “I’ll be back in time. I’m going to the Esplanade of Les Invalides.”
Hester raised her eyebrows. “What’s so interesting there, a monument?”
Katie stirred her coffee with the tiny spoon, avoiding her sister’s eyes. “N—no. It’s just a nice open area where Brioche can run.”
Thankfully, Hester seemed satisfied with her reply, which was almost the whole truth.
* * *
That afternoon, following a light lunch and an hour’s French lesson, Katie was free. She fixed Brioche’s leash to his collar and told her maid she was ready to leave.
For a little while, she strove to make small talk in her limited French with the maid. But once again, she found it hard to understand the young woman’s rapid responses.
“Let’s go to l’Esplanade des Invalides,” she told Marie-Thérèse. “It’s good for walking—” she gestured to her pet—“le chien.”
The maid pursed her lips and said something of “les vieux soldats”—old soldiers—with a scornful toss of her head. Katie pressed her own lips together and looked resolutely ahead of her. How could someone not feel compassion for those who had fought for their country?
Although the war had brought devastation to much of the European continent, Katie’s part of the world across the Atlantic had not remained untouched. The British had invaded their fair city and been quickly routed by Bangor’s homegrown militia.
“Come, I need to—to purchase something—” With more gestures than words, Katie turned down the street that held the pâtisserie, a quaint shop with a large wooden signboard in the shape of a lattice-topped tart hanging over the door.
“Bonjour,” she called out as she pushed open the door, the tinkling of the bell above her announcing her entry.
It took her a few moments to select the right pastry among so many jewel-like samples on display. She settled on a tart artistically topped with bright-colored fruit. She exited the shop with her small parcel clutched in one hand, her dog’s leash in the other, all the while ignoring her maid’s questioning look.
They walked the rest of the way in silence. Katie breathed a sigh of relief when they finally arrived at the beautifully laid-out park. She tried not to make it look as if she had a definite goal in mind. But her gaze swept across the various tree-shaded alleys, focusing for an instant on the original spot of her encounter. Seeing no one there, she swallowed back her disappointment and began a circuitous route around the park.
“Brioche needs a good walk today after yesterday’s rain,” she said. It was the truth, even as she scrutinized every face of the veterans they passed along the way.
Once again, most of the men sitting in wheelchairs or shuffling around on canes looked old and grizzled. Very few younger men were there, making her feel again all the sorrier for the blind invalid. Did he have no family to care for him?
After walking down each path, she had no excuse to linger. Marie-Thérèse was now beginning to drag her feet, muttering under her breath. Regretting her decision to bring her maid along, Katie swallowed back an impatient retort and looked once more around the vast area. If she had been alone, she would not have hesitated to make one more tour of the area.
Deciding she must return so that Hester wouldn’t worry, Katie heaved another sigh at the prospect of the ball. Everything was so much more formal here. As she resigned herself to the evening of stilted conversation and sore feet—which came from standing so long, and not from dancing—her gaze came to rest back on the original spot of her encounter.
Someone sat there now in a wheelchair. Her heartbeat sped up as she noticed his dark hair and wiry frame. Surely—was it? Could it be?
How had she not noticed him before? Yes, it was Monsieur Santerre! And that was the burly manservant—Pierre—standing before him. Yes!
Without a word to her maid, Katie redirected her steps. Only halfway there, Brioche began to bark and strain at his leash. She decided to risk letting him go and see how the soldier would react to her dog this time. Would he remember him?
The man turned sharply in the direction of the bark. Katie’s heartbeat was hammering as she held her breath to see what Monsieur Santerre would do.
“Qui est là?” Marie-Thérèse demanded behind her as she struggled to keep up.
“It’s no one...someone I spoke to the other day,” Katie tossed over shoulder without slackening her pace.
Would he remember her? Would he be happy to see her again? Katie realized her mistake. See? Poor man, he could only hear her.
* * *
“Were you hoping to find your lovely angel once again?”
Pierre’s sly tone insinuated itself into Etienne’s thoughts. How dare the man use the same word to describe Mademoiselle Leighton as he had! He had no right to call her an angel! The man was nothing but a devil incarnate.
“You think she has remembered you?” Pierre laughed, a low guttural sound, and spat. “She has probably found another young man by now, one with sight and limbs.”
Hatred filled his soul so deep, Etienne thought for certain Pierre could feel its poison. He clenched his fingers around the arms of his chair, but realizing Pierre would see the telltale sign, he loosened his hold and relaxed his breathing. Someday he would kill this swine...someday...
He caught the sharp bark of a dog and his whole body stiffened. Could it be Mlle. Leighton’s dog? Could it be? Were his ears deceiving him? Perhaps it was the bark of another dog—
But Pierre’s insidious laugh added to his hope. “If I am not mistaken, I see a mutt I recognize—”
The next second he felt the dog’s hot panting breath and wet nose against his hand. He reached out with both hands and grasped the dog’s head. A long-muzzled dog, his fur soft and curly. He pictured a large poodle.
“Where is your mistress, eh?” he asked softly. “Or are you lost? Have you wandered away from your mistress, you naughty dog?” He remembered mademoiselle’s scolding the other day.
Pierre, curse his soul, stood silent, as if guessing how much Etienne wanted to know if Mlle. Leighton was anywhere nearby. The dog remained at Etienne’s knee, and he wished suddenly he had something to give him. A “treat,” the young lady had said.
Before he could break down and ask Pierre anything, he heard a hurried footfall and the soft, rapid breathing as of someone out of breath.
And then her sweet voice—nectar to his soul!
“Hello! Please forgive Brioche his rude behavior. He hasn’t been bothering you, has he, Monsieur Santerre?”
He shook his head and smiled, the first smile of pleasure he’d given in two years, it seemed. “Not at all. He was merely announcing your arrival like a good servant.”
She laughed—joyous sound! “I’m glad you think he is a good servant.”
He heard her approach closer, then her voice coming from somewhere around the level of his knee. “Good boy. You found Monsieur Santerre for me. Here’s a treat for you. That’s a good dog.” She continued murmuring endearments to her dog, who panted eagerly, then Etienne heard only the crunch of a treat between the dog’s teeth. But all that faded into the background as his nostrils caught the soft, flowery scent of Mlle. Leighton as she approached his chair.
He clasped his hands together to keep from reaching out to her. “I was just thinking I wished I had a treat to give him.” How normal and calm his voice sounded, when his heart was like the bang of a kettle drum to his ears.
Her sweet laughter caused his soul to soar. “I can bring you some, so you’ll have them when you see him. Oh—that reminds me—I brought you something—un cadeau—a present,” she said in her accented French. And then she touched him, her hand guiding his as she laid something—a paper parcel—onto his lap. Her flowery scent intoxicated him as she bent near him, so he could hardly focus on the object. All he could think was that she’d said she’d bring him some treats—that meant she planned to come again!
“Here, let me help you open it—or perhaps you’d like to save it for when you return? It’s only a pastry.”
His fingers cautiously felt the wrapping and he couldn’t help a dry laugh. “Like your dog, I must have a treat.”
Her stillness told him at once he had said something wrong.
“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t think of it that way at all.” More slowly, she continued, and he could tell that she had taken a step away. “Please forgive me.”
He couldn’t bear the hurt and embarrassment in her tone. He stretched out a hand, careful to balance the parcel on his knee. “It is I you must forgive. I fear I’ve become quite uncivilized and rude in my present circumstances.”
And then her hand was in his—warm, soft, gently pressing it. “No, that’s quite all right. There is nothing to forgive.” A smile lit her voice. “I passed by my favorite pâtisserie and thought you might like something. I fear I can hardly pass it by without stopping in. But there are so many to choose from. I’m not sure what kind you like...”
He enjoyed the lilt of her voice so much he hardly listened to the words. But in the silence that had followed, he became aware of another sound. He tilted his head, straining to hear. Another person’s rapid breath. “There is someone else here?” he asked more sharply than he intended. He hated being a spectacle.
“Oh!” Surprise edged the one word. “Yes, it’s only my maid, Marie-Thérèse. She accompanied me on my walk.”
“I see.” Relief that Mlle. Leighton had not ventured out alone mixed with annoyance that now they had an audience of two—his manservant and hers. His lips lifted at the corner, an idea forming. “Pierre, take Mlle. Leighton’s lady’s maid for a stroll about the esplanade.”
More silence greeted his words and he imagined Pierre was considering his request. Then to his surprise, Mlle. Leighton was the one to speak up, addressing not him, but his manservant. “I know Marie-Thérèse is tired from our walk. If you would be so good, Monsieur Pierre, to escort her to one of those benches in the shade?”
“Mais oui, mademoiselle,” he agreed with more alacrity than he ever did to Etienne’s orders, evident pleasure in his voice.
“But first,” Mlle. Leighton continued, “if you would push Monsieur Santerre’s chair down beside one of those benches by the river? That way I could sit down as well.”
“Of course,” Etienne said immediately. Why hadn’t he considered her, having to stand beside him all the while? What a dolt he was becoming. At least it meant the young lady intended to stay for a visit. “Pierre, you heard her!”
The next second his chair was jerked forward.
“Careful, monsieur.” Mlle. Leighton’s voice indicated she was walking close beside his chair. “You don’t want to knock the pastry out of his hands.”
No fear of that as Etienne had clutched it tightly the moment Pierre had pushed the chair forward. But he allowed Mlle. Leighton to scold Pierre.
“There, that is perfect,” she said when Pierre had stopped again. “I will signal when I am ready to depart. Please keep my maid in my sight.”
Then the two were leaving, Pierre turning on all his charm, and the woman’s laughing voice floating back to them.
“Do you think she will be all right with your manservant?”
Etienne shrugged. “I believe so. Pierre is an uncouth, disagreeable, disobedient servant I wouldn’t trust with a dog, but since you are keeping them within your sights and it is broad daylight in a public place, I think all will be well.”
Her laughter took him by surprise; he hadn’t meant his remark to be funny. He found himself smiling for the second time that day.
“How did you ever obtain such an unsatisfactory servant?”
He shrugged. “I had little say in the matter. The fact is more that he obtained me. He found me left for dead on the battlefield, stripped of all valuables and weapons. He dragged me to a farmhouse where I was feverish for weeks, I am told. You can understand that I remember little of what transpired.”
“And you survived!” She sounded awed.
He shrugged. “Pierre nursed me back to some semblance of life and then brought me here. Don’t ask me why he didn’t just leave me abandoned, so there must be some ounce of humanity in him, though I have seen no glimmer of it since.” He shook his head. “I often wonder why he bothered. He did me no favor in saving me. Perhaps he, too, had nowhere to go, and Les Invalides affords him a place to live.”
“I’m sorry. You...have no family he could have brought you to?”
The pastry in his lap forgotten, he began to knead his hands as he did when he became agitated. He willed them still. “No. No one.” No one who cared to acknowledge him, at any rate. Odd how after two years, the pain of admitting it still lanced through him. He sighed, hating to talk of the topic.
“And there is no one...no friends or distant relatives?” Disbelief permeated her tone.
“As far as the world is concerned, I have ceased to exist. Pierre says it is better that way, since my life would have been forfeit after Napoléon’s second abdication.”
“Why ever so? I should think you would be viewed as a hero.”
“Any officer having renounced his allegiance to the king to follow the emperor once more, when he escaped from Elba, was accused of treason. Those who didn’t die on the battlefield have fled the country, I am told.”
“Oh, my, it must have been awful. I didn’t realize...and no one who knew you has tried to find you since?”
“You don’t know what the aftermath of a battlefield is like. Chaos and carnage.” He didn’t tell her the worst of it. Better that everyone believed him dead. His lips twisted. “Besides, who would want to take in a blind cripple who requires nursing all the time?”
The sympathy in her silence was almost palpable.
He made a sound of dismissal. “Anyway, it is all history now.” He settled back in his chair, his hands touching his parcel once more. “I am quite settled here at Les Invalides. What more can a penniless, blind, cripple want? They feed and clothe me, I have my own manservant, unlike the other inmates—excuse me, pensioners—and I have my own cell—room—and do not have to sleep crowded with a dozen others in a row of beds.”
“At least you are able to count your blessings,” she said gently, no mockery in her tone.
He cleared his throat, trying to think of something pleasant to say, afraid with his sarcastic diatribe he would either scare her away or bore her to death. But she spoke first. “What do you fill your days with?”
He couldn’t help a breath of disgust. “Not much of anything. Go mad. They think I’m mad anyway.”
“Why ever so?”
“Because when Pierre first brought me here, I behaved as a lunatic, protesting against being put away when I had my very own cha—” He’d almost said “château,” but stopped himself. He cleared his throat. “My home. They only laughed and called me the mad count with delusions of grandeur.”
“Then it is true. You are a count,” she said with conviction.