The journey took longer than Etienne had anticipated. He had underestimated his stamina and Tom was forced to make more frequent stops. One day they had to stay at their inn all day because of rain. The next day the poor roads were mired in mud.
Etienne had days to think about his return home—too much time. What had been inconceivable at first—the death of his father—lost its harsh edges. Gratitude set in that his father hadn’t known of his condition—hadn’t seen him in his pitiful state.
But how he longed for one last conversation with his sire. His visits with his father had been few and far between in those last years of the war and during the short Peace of ’14, and when they were together, relations had been strained. Etienne could see the influence of his stepmother, Celeste, and Marcel upon his father. He also witnessed Marcel’s debauchery in Paris, of which his father was ignorant, but when he ventured to tell him, his father didn’t want to hear of it. Celeste accused him of slandering his brother.
For she insisted on calling Marcel his brother as if the two shared the same blood. Whenever he repudiated the claim, Celeste would use his reluctance as proof of his uncharitable nature.
“You see, Armand,” she’d say to his father, “how little familial feeling Etienne has. It is unnatural. He cares more for his emperor than for his own family.”
So Etienne spent less and less time journeying home when on leave and his father came less and less to Paris, disliking the capital and its political intriguing.
Etienne’s thoughts of the past vied with his thoughts of the present, thoughts which consisted mainly of Katie.
His head rested on the squabs as the coach bumped and jostled along the rutted roads. Tom described the countryside to him, familiar territory to Etienne. Signs of destruction were evident from the wars of the past decades, most of which occurred during the revolution when royalists fought the revolutionaries.
So much waste and loss of life...for what, he asked himself now. Did France have a future?
His thoughts grew more and more somber the closer he drew to Sevigny.
Finally, they arrived at a village near his native one and Tom directed the coachman to an inn Etienne remembered. They had decided it would be better to remain where Etienne would not be recognized until Tom could discover the “lay of the land,” as he put it.
“Much could have changed since you last was ’ere, sir. It’s best I scout around a bit and find out what’s what.”
Tom spoke only a few words of French, but the inns saw many British travelers taking a tour of the continent now that the countries were at peace, so an Englishman would not seem out of place.
Etienne waited impatiently until Tom returned the next morning from his first foray to Sevigny-le-Rideau. Tom filled him in as they shared a meal together at an outside table of the inn. Etienne enjoyed the feel of sunshine on his face after days in the carriage. The smell of the vineyards, of forest, and flowers came to him—all familiar scents from his boyhood.
“Well, it seems there’s only the lady of the ’ouse in residence,” Tom told him as he guided Etienne’s hand to the food set out on the table before him.
Etienne broke off a piece of bread and chewed, nodding as Tom recounted what he’d discovered.
“You ’ave some magnificent digs there at that château. No wonder your stepfamily wants it.”
“It has been in my father’s family for some generations, since the fifteen-hundreds when an ancestor bought it from a local nobleman and rebuilt much of it.”
The sound of wine being poured into glasses reached Etienne.
“Quite some place.” Tom smacked his lips and the glass thudded on the table.
“Are there many servants? How does the place look? Well run?”
“I wandered around a bit, keeping my eyes open for anyone. Some of the outbuildings seem a bit in need of repair, but the fields look good. I’d say there will be a good ’arvest, as I’ve seen all along this journey. The area seems very fertile.”
“This is one of the most—if not the most—fertile region of France,” Etienne told him. “Besides the vineyards, it produces much of the grain and a variety of fruits and vegetables for the rest of the country.”
“I wouldn’t mind living in a place like this, not at all.”
Etienne smiled. “Perhaps you will some day.”
“Let’s try and get you your château back first.”
Etienne felt around for his glass and lifted it. Tom’s glass clinked against his and the two drank. “Amen to that,” Tom said.
* * *
The next morning, Etienne asked Tom to drive him to his château.
“D’you think that’s wise? To come openly, I mean?”
“I think there is no other way. I shall return and see how the Countess St. Honoré receives me. What can she do? She cannot deny me my home.”
“Very well. I’ll be at your side if anyone tries anything.”
Etienne couldn’t help a smile. Celeste was not a violent woman. If she did anything it would be through the courts.
An hour later, after Tom had helped Etienne dress and get into the carriage, he informed Etienne when they were driving through the gates of the Château St. Honoré.
Etienne knew the drive was long. He envisioned the acres of vineyards and wooded areas they were driving past. His heartbeat thudded in his chest and his palms felt damp as the moment of arrival approached.
“’Ere we are, sir,” Tom said when the carriage came to a stop.
A few seconds later, Etienne heard the door open and a Frenchman addressing them. As Tom struggled in his French, Etienne spoke up.
“Please tell your mistress that Etienne d’Arblay has arrived. Tom, can you get my chair ready?”
“Of course, sir.”
Tom jumped down from the carriage and in a few moments, Etienne heard the crunch of the metal wheels on gravel. Then Tom was back in the carriage and lifting Etienne down.
He’d become accustomed to this routine no matter how much he disliked feeling so helpless. But he gritted his teeth and ignored his sentiments.
Tom wheeled him forward as Etienne directed him by memory.
“That’s all right, sir. Looks like a footman ’ere is showing me the way.”
“I wonder if any of the servants will recognize me,” Etienne mused aloud.
“So far it don’t look it. They’re all staring at us as if we ’ad two ’eads apiece.”
Tom lifted him up and directed a footman to carry his chair up the steps into the château. He settled him back in his chair and wheeled him across the marble floor of the entryway. They turned, as if into a room. “There we go, into an anteroom, by the looks of things. Guess we’ll ’ave to cool our ’eels here till we see if your stepmama is going to receive you.”
They waited what Tom said was a quarter of an hour before someone returned. “Madame will see you in her private quarters if you would follow me, s’il vous plaît.”
“We certainly please,” Tom muttered as he began pushing the chair anew.
They paused after a moment. “What is it?”
“We’ve come to some stairs. Don’t know ’ow ’e expects me to wheel you up this massive staircase by meself.”
Of course. Celeste’s sitting room was a floor up and down the east wing. Did she not know Etienne was lame? “That’s all right. Can you carry me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Etienne braced himself once more as Tom lifted him.
He huffed up the stairs then marched down a corridor.
“I’m sorry about this.”
“Not at all. You still don’t weigh enough, thank the good Lord,” Tom said with a chuckle.
“You make me feel as if I weigh no more than a child.”
“At least you’ve got some muscle on you now and aren’t just skin and bones like you were when I first saw you.”
A door opened and the servant murmured for them to enter.
The door shut behind them.
Tom set him down in a velvet chair and whispered into his ear. “She’s sitting before you on a settee, looking like a queen.”
“Thank you.” His mind remembered the layout of the room.
“Celeste,” he said when he heard no one speak.
“Etienne.” Her low voice came to him and his muscles tensed. How long since he’d heard that tone that displayed no other emotion than hauteur. “You have returned.”
“Yes. To my home.”
“Marcel has been managing this estate since your father passed away. He has brought it back from near ruin after the war.”
“I was told that my father wanted nothing to do with me. Now I find out my father didn’t even know I was alive. I was left to rot at Les Invalides.”
“I know nothing of this. I understood you had perished at Waterloo.”
She must be lying, but what could he do to refute her? He clenched his hands to keep from losing his temper. “As you can see I am alive if not whole and have returned to resume my place in my father’s house.”
A sound of disbelief issued from her throat. “To be nursed and waited upon, I should say instead.”
“I have brought my own manservant, so I will not be a load for you, madame.”
“Very well...for now,” she added in a lower tone which Etienne almost didn’t catch.
“You may take him to his room,” she addressed Tom. “Jean, show him to the west wing.”
West wing? “That is not my room.”
“Marcel has been using your room and I do not wish to move his things.”
“Where is Marcel?”
“In Paris. I shall send for him. He shall decide whether you are to remain here or not.”
The next moment she repeated her instructions to the footman and the footman addressed Tom to follow him.
“Very well,” Etienne said to Tom, as he did not wish to create a scene. He would wait until he could confront Marcel.
* * *
Etienne fumed as he sat in another bed immobile. He didn’t know where the footman had led them. He hadn’t been able to follow where Tom had wheeled his chair.
He pounded the edge of the bed. Where was Tom?
As if in response to his question, the door opened and the familiar voice called out, “’Ow d’you fare, mate? They treat you all right?”
“Yes, but where am I?”
“I had a time trying to find my way back to you. The servants aren’t very cooperative. I had to look in every door I passed. It did give me a good layout of the castle, though.”
“Where am I? Is this the west wing?” he repeated, unable to suppress the impatience in his tone.
“Near as I can make out…” Tom’s voice came as from the opposite side of the room, “this is the west side of the ’ouse by the way the sun’s traveling overhead.”
The wing farthest from the main quarters where his own room and that of his parents had been located. “This is the least-used wing. It’s rarely opened up, even for guests, since there are plenty of rooms in the east and south wings.”
“Looks like the madam wants you out o’ sight.”
What had he gotten himself into? How could he do anything? Etienne’s fingers worked at the fringe of the bedcover beneath him. He sat fully clothed atop it.
His thoughts turned to his dear Katie. Only memory of her love kept him going. “Would you do something for me?”
“Anything, sir.”
“Would you help me write a letter to Katie—Mademoiselle Leighton—letting her know we have arrived safely? I don’t want her or her family to worry about us.”
“O’ course, sir. Let me see if there’s any pen and ink in this room.”
His footsteps sounded on the floorboards then ceased though his mutterings came to Etienne. “’Ere’s a desk...let’s see if it’s stocked. Yes, some paper, an inkwell. Dry. No matter, let me bring our own things. They ’aven’t brought up our bags, I see. I’ll be back in a trice, sir. You sit tight.”
“Yes.” He didn’t remind Tom that he could do little else.
He sat in silence after Tom’s departure. Gradually faint sounds of birdsong reached him so he didn’t feel completely alone.
He could almost be back at Les Invalides. Had he come full circle?
At last Tom returned. Etienne had dozed off but roused at the sound of the door opening. “Who’s there?”
“Just I...” Tom heaved. “With your bags. Not a servant offered to ’elp me. Sorry lot.”
“They must all be new. My father’s servants would not have behaved so.”
“No matter. There,” Tom said with a thump, “that’s the last of the lot of our bags. They ’aven’t told me where I’m to be put, but I’ll scout around a room as near this as I can find and set up camp,” he said with a smile in his tone. His voice showed he’d drawn near the bed.
“All right, sir, ’ere is pen and ink. Let me just ’ave a seat and write what you dictate.” He dragged a chair over.
“Thank you.” The important thing was to reassure Katie. Etienne didn’t want her or her family feeling they must come to his aid. He would succeed in what he had come to do. Tomorrow he’d have Tom take him to the village and they would visit a lawyer and would go to la mairie—the town hall—if necessary.
His spirits lifted at the thought of activity. “Very well. Chère Katie,” he began to dictate.
“’Old on there, let me get this French down properly...”
* * *
That evening Tom brought him up a tray of bread, cheese and a glass of wine—“All they’d let me take from the larder,” he said. “We’ll get something in the village tomorrow.”
“Did you find a bed chamber for yourself?”
“Right next door. I’ll hunt down some linens. There must be some chambermaid I can sweet talk into showing me where they’re kept.”
“Have you seen any signs of Madame d’Arblay?”
“Not a hair.”
Etienne tried to sleep after Tom had left but he’d dozed so much in the afternoon, he felt wide awake now. He’d become accustomed to more activity over the course of the day since his recuperation at the Hawkes’ residence in Paris. When Katie wasn’t taking him out or reading or conversing with him, Tom was helping him do exercises, or he was sitting or dining with the family.
What seemed a long time—maybe a couple of hours, Etienne couldn’t be sure—the door opened. “Tom?”
“Tom is occupied.”
Etienne tensed, not recognizing the masculine voice—or did he? It sounded vaguely familiar. A voice he had not heard in some years. He remained silent, waiting for the man to identify himself.
“Etienne, don’t you recognize me? I am chagrined.”
Marcel. It had to be. Yet, what was he doing here? Wasn’t he in Paris? Hadn’t Katie seen him there? When was the last time she had seen him? It had been when he was sick, not since, he was sure. How did he know that Etienne was here?
“Marcel.”
“Yes, my brother.”
“You are not my brother.”
“Ah, you pain me with your coldness.” His stepbrother’s footsteps indicated he was moving into the room. “Here Maman has welcomed you and given you a bed even though we all thought you dead.”
“You knew I was alive, moldering in that dungeon.”
“What did we know? All we knew was that a simple soldier by the name of Etienne Santerre had been brought to Les Invalides. My stepbrother, Etienne d’Arblay, died on the field of Waterloo. If not quite a hero’s death—having been felled by the explosion from an ammunition wagon and not by enemy fire—at least he had died and not had to face the charges of treason following Bonaparte’s ignominious end at St. Helena.”
“You know very well I am Etienne d’Arblay.”
“I know no such thing. What matters it?” His voice denoted he was near the bed, and the sound of his palms rubbing together underscored the finality of his words. “The world knows that Etienne d’Arblay died at Waterloo. Would you defame your father’s honor by resurrecting him? I think not.”
Etienne made a sound of disgust. “What do you propose to do, keep me hidden away here at the château?”
“That is exactly what I am proposing. If it worked at Les Invalides, how much more should it here, deep in the country?”
“You cannot be serious.” Even as Etienne dismissed the absurdity of the notion, his heart contracted. Would they dare? How could they? Too many people knew...
Katie, her family. But would he drag them into this? He pounded his fist into his hand. He had vowed to keep her out of this.
But inside he quaked in fear at his stepbrother’s soft tone. He knew how deceptive that tone was. He would not be incarcerated again.
“Where is Tom?” he demanded.
“Tom is...indisposed, shall we say?”
“What have you done with him?” Etienne hated that his voice rose, sounding almost shrill. He had to contain his fear.
“He is, if not comfortable, adequately cared for. That is all you need know.” Marcel’s voice hardened a fraction. “You will remain here and be a good patient, if you wish no harm to your valet.”
“His employer will come look for him in due time,” Etienne warned.
“We shall cross that bridge at that time. In the meantime, be a docile patient and your friend will fare well. For your present needs, I have brought you your old manservant. I am sure you will appreciate having someone who knows your requirements.”
Before Etienne could begin to surmise his meaning, a new set of footsteps approached his bed.
“Bonjour, mon ami.”
Pierre’s hateful tone reached him from near the bed. A wave of nausea swept over Etienne. It couldn’t be.
“What? No greeting for your old manservant, the one you mistreated yet who stayed with you like a faithful cur?”
Etienne’s rage was so great that no words would come. Pierre’s employer was Marcel. He should have known. The pieces began to fall into place. Finally he trusted himself enough to speak and addressed himself to his stepbrother. “Was that why you sought out Mademoiselle Leighton, Marcel?”
“You are astute, mon frère.” Marcel laughed softly. “A sweet demoiselle but not my taste, as you must be aware.”
Etienne ground his teeth, wishing he could see so he could punch his stepbrother in the face for his supercilious tone. “No, I didn’t think so. She is too good for the likes of you.” As soon as he’d said the words, he regretted them. He didn’t want Marcel to know he could irk him.
Marcel’s laugh grew deeper. “Yes, a pity. For it would have been amusing to take her away from you...”
“She would never look at the likes of you!” Again, he couldn’t hold back his tongue.
“I don’t know about that... Perhaps when you are out of the picture, I shall renew my acquaintance with her. I shall tell her a sad tale of your demise and elicit her sympathy.”
“She will never believe you! She will seek out the truth.”
“Ah, but will she discover it? And in time, the memory of you will fade and I will be there to offer a sympathetic shoulder. We shall go to your gravestone together and put roses on your tomb. I shall be sure to shed a tear for my dear frère.” Marcel sighed.
Etienne couldn’t help himself. He lunged forward in the direction of Marcel’s voice. The next second Pierre’s strong arms pinioned his behind him. “Watch it, you cripple!”
“Yes, my brother, watch yourself. If you value your life, or that of your servant, you shall submit meekly to Pierre’s ministrations.”
“I thought you intended my death,” Etienne spat out.
“A lot depends on your behavior, mon cher. I shall leave you to your ruminations now—and to Pierre’s gentle care.” With a final laugh, Marcel left him.
The echo of his boot heels upon the parquet floor died down. Etienne remained tense, knowing Pierre was in the room. What now? What torture did his former manservant have in store for him? What forms of revenge had he thought of over the last weeks?
“You thought you could slip away from Pierre, did you not?” Pierre’s rough voice read his thoughts. “That young miss wouldn’t give up but insisted on storming the gates of Les Invalides until she found you. Her interference saved your miserable existence and forced me to flee. But Pierre wasn’t far. I saw where she took you.”
Etienne listened intently to each word, needing to glean whatever information Pierre let fall, to discern what was truth and what was a lie or a half-truth.
“What have you done to Tom?”
“You needn’t worry about that uncouth Brit. He is where he will be no trouble to anyone. As for you—” Pierre’s garlic and wine-laced breath fanned Etienne’s face—“worthless cripple. You had better not give Pierre the slip again or you will regret it.”
* * *
He was truly alone. More alone than he’d ever been in his life. If he’d thought his existence in Les Invalides a living hell, that had been paradise compared to his situation now.
There he’d been ignorant of what was his. A helpless pawn in his stepmother and stepbrother’s plans, but blissfully ignorant. If he didn’t provoke his servant, he could at least expect a short outing each day.
Now, his enemy had been unmasked. He knew how dangerous Marcel was. Etienne’s life hung in a delicate balance and in truth, he didn’t know why he was still alive. Perhaps Marcel didn’t dare kill him outright, for fear of Katie Leighton’s family and their knowledge of his existence and identity.
His brother came only once more to visit him in his prison room. Etienne could tell by his questions that he desired to know as much as possible of Etienne’s footing with Gerrit Hawkes. But this time Etienne was prepared and kept silent.
Marcel’s only power over Etienne was Tom’s well-being, until Marcel leaned over him and whispered before leaving, “Have a care, mon frère. Think how easily your dear Katie could have an accident in Paris. The streets are so dangerous. A carriage or wagon can swerve onto the sidewalk on those narrow rues. A cutpurse can whip out a knife. A stone can fall from a monument above one’s head. And you know how independent that sweet angel is, going out by herself against the advice of her family.”
Etienne’s heart was in his throat, choking off his breath. His angel—how dare Marcel use that term with Katie! His dear sweet angel was in mortal danger and had no idea.
Fear gripped him, fear unlike any he’d ever known. Not since his first battle as a new recruit. Then he’d been able to overcome it with the rush of adrenalin once the fighting had begun.
But this fear was born of his absolute helplessness. What could he do against so many? He was unable to see his enemy, unable to move. He could do nothing to protect those he loved.
What could he do sitting here alone and forgotten in the abandoned wing of le Château St. Honoré?