Etienne kept his voice steady though his heart was thudding once more. “I am nothing but what you see before you.”
“There must be some way to prove who you are. You say you had no family to vouch for you?”
“You sound so disbelieving.”
“I suppose I do.” There was a smile in her voice. “I have quite a numerous family, you see, and find it astounding there would be no one left—not even one soul—to look for me—and look after me.”
“You are fortunate indeed.” He smiled thinly. “You forget the Revolution. Many died on the guillotine. Those who didn’t managed to emigrate. But then, I cannot imagine someone not wanting to claim you to themselves.”
She said nothing, and he hoped he hadn’t embarrassed her with an unwanted compliment. So, he gestured with a hand. “Enough about myself. I have become resigned to my fate as the poor, mad count, to be pitied and shoved aside like a dog. Speaking of which, where is that mutt of yours?”
“Resting quietly by your side, as if you were his owner.”
He cocked his head and heard the sound of the dog’s breathing. Reaching down, he connected with his shaggy fur and petted him. “Ungrateful wretch, to disdain your own mistress so easily.”
“He is actually quite loyal considering I’ve scarcely had him a fortnight.”
He lifted an eyebrow in surprise then remembered she had said something about having named him. “Tell me about it.”
“Well, we—my sister, brother-in-law, and I, that is—had just disembarked from the ship at Le Havre when a dirty-looking dog began to follow us. Each time Gerrit, that is, my brother-in-law, tried to shoo him away, he whined. Whenever I looked behind me, there he’d be. Finally, I begged to allow him to come with us.
“Of course, he had to stay in a stable for the first few days as he was washed and fed. But ever since then, we’ve adopted Brioche and he has been a most loyal dog indeed.”
“He’d better be!” He rubbed the dog’s fur. “You hear that, you foundling? You’d better stick close to your new mistress, if you know what is good for you.”
“He is a very good dog, gentle and smart. I have been teaching him tricks.”
Etienne grinned, remembering the first day. “Yes, I refused to shake his paw. I apologize for taking offense so quickly. Perhaps we can rectify matters, if Brioche would permit me again?”
“I’m sure for a treat Brioche would be delighted to comply.” He heard movement and then her sweet voice. “Come, Brioche, up, boy!” It sounded as if she were patting her hand against herself. “Yes, that’s it. Now, come, take Monsieur Santerre’s hand. Come, boy,” she coaxed.
With a sound between a whine and a bark, the dog came near. “Hold out your hand, monsieur.” With a start, he realized she was talking to him and he did as she bade. The next second a warm paw was placed into his palm. He squeezed it involuntarily.
“Good boy,” came Mlle. Leighton’s voice full of enthusiasm. She was near him once again, her flowery scent reaching his nostrils over the smell of dog. “You’re such a good boy. Monsieur Santerre will give you your treat.” She placed something hard into Etienne’s hand, and, tentatively, he held it out to the dog.
A damp muzzle and a wet tongue touched his palm and the biscuit was gone. Etienne heard the satisfied crunch.
“There you go. You may lie back down and continue your nap.”
When Etienne heard that Mlle. Leighton was once again seated, he said, “Tell me more about your life. Where in America do you come from?” He cleared his throat. “For how long are you in France?”
All of a sudden, the thought of her leaving struck him, leaving him with a profound despair.
How could life be so cruel as to bring an angel into it only to have her leave him again and make his existence all the more unbearable for having known the pleasure of her company?
Mlle. Leighton gave him no time to dread the thought of her departure. “We come from Maine,” she replied right away. “The Maine Territory, that is, bordered by the British colonies of Lower Canada and New Brunswick to the north and west. My family and I live in the city of Bangor. Perhaps you have heard of it?”
He shook his head. “The only thing I know of Maine is that it is a province of France.”
“Yes, French explorers to America first named the region where I live. Bangor has become the premier lumber city in the Americas. Our ships come laden to Europe with lumber for your houses. Until recently, travel was interrupted by our war with Britain.”
“Yes, a war I know well.”
“At least we were allies.”
He expected another question and when she said nothing more, he found himself volunteering, “I entered the military academy here in Paris when I was fifteen.” He jerked his chin to the side. “In fact I received my training not far from here at L’Ecole Militaire, the military academy, just beyond Les Invalides.”
“I have not been there. Perhaps I shall visit it on one of my walks.”
“As long as you don’t wander the streets alone.”
Her voice held a smile. “I told you I was not alone.”
He frowned but before he could admonish her further, she said, “You were very young to leave home.”
He shrugged, remembering the circumstances that had precipitated his departure. “It is normal for a young man to leave at such an age, at least in my circle. By the age of seventeen, I was enlisted in a regiment on my way to Berlin.”
“I cannot imagine my younger brother seeing active combat at that age.”
“You have a brother?”
Again, he heard the affection in her tone. “Yes, Jamie. When Gerrit—my future brother-in-law then—first came to Bangor, Jamie wanted to know all about the fighting. He hated the thought of someone as brave and dashing as Gerrit being on the other side, a redcoat, but after he got over that, all he wanted to hear was about the military campaigns. Poor Gerrit hardly wanted to talk about it.”
Etienne could well understand that. To keep himself from unpleasant memories, he focused instead on Mlle. Leighton’s obvious devotion to her brother. As a child who’d only known a stepbrother, he could hardly imagine that kind of closeness between siblings.
“So, you made the military your career?” she asked.
“Yes. France was at war. All the men in my family have had a military career until they...retire to take care of the family...farm.” He didn’t want to go into details of his family’s landholdings, so he chose to give her the impression of a small farm.
“As a boy, I longed to bask in the glory of our military victories under our beloved Napoléon.” His tone held the irony of age and experience.
She gave a small laugh. “How odd.”
He drew his eyebrows together in puzzlement. “Odd?”
“That my new brother-in-law should be an officer in the British army and you fought in the French. Until a couple of years ago, you were on opposite sides.”
“Your brother-in-law is an officer?”
“He was. He is now an American citizen and works for my father’s shipping and lumbering firm.”
He relaxed only slightly against the chair back. “Where did he fight?”
“He doesn’t like to talk of it much—that is why I hesitated to ask you anything. But from what I understand, most of his service was on the Spanish Peninsula...and of course, in that last battle at Waterloo.”
“He was at Waterloo?” he asked, a pulse beginning to beat at his temple.
“Ye...es. Why, what is the matter?”
He tried to relax his features, but the images refused to go away. He’d managed to silence them for longer and longer periods of time, but one mention and he was back in it again. “I...too...was there.”
“Oh...” she breathed. “It was there you said you were left for dead!” There was silence, then, “I’m so sorry.”
He jerked his hand across his forehead, pushing away the long forelocks. “Tell me what your brother is doing on these shores now,” he attempted in a more normal tone. “You said he came on business. How is it that he has brought along his wife and sister-in-law—” The phrases came out abrupt and he took in a lungful of air, willing himself to slow down.
“It’s a wonderful story, if you care to hear it,” she said with tender amusement.
He leaned back in his chair, grateful for her sensitivity in veering away from the subject of battle. His fear that he would frighten her away gradually abated as his breath steadied once again. “I would love to hear it.” He couldn’t help a short laugh. “After all, I have all the time in the world.”
“Well, it all began when my father, who is British by birth, by the way—”
He swallowed with difficulty. “He, too, is British?” Did those who had condemned him to a living death now figure everywhere in this angel’s life?
She laughed. “He is very much a staunch Yankee and would find it insulting to be called British. He came to the shores of America as a very young man and made his fortune in Maine.”
Once again, he eased back. “He is rich?”
She gave another laugh of delight. “He is rich in more ways than monetarily!”
He shook his head, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“His faith isn’t in earthly wealth. He attributes all his success to God’s favor and lives his life to be a blessing to others. He has taught us to do the same.”
“Ah.” His lips twisted. “A religious man.”
“I wouldn’t call it religious.” She paused as if searching for the right words. “I would say for him it is a close bond with his Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. He walks with Him and seeks to glorify Him in his daily life, even when it comes to doing business.”
Etienne waved away this explanation, more interested in the concrete details of this man’s life. “And how did he achieve success in the colonies?”
“In shipping and lumber. Of course, it was difficult during the recent war, but the Lord provided. Now that the peace is real, business is booming once again. Europe seems insatiable for our lumber.”
He nodded slowly. “And how did your British brother-in-law come into the picture?”
She giggled. “You might say the tide dragged him in.”
He quirked an eyebrow in question.
“In a way he was very like my father, although the two would have denied it most vehemently when they first met. Gerrit had nothing left in England after the war, although he was not a pauper like my father. He was an aristocrat, like you, except that he was a younger son. He says that in England that is almost as good as being a pauper.”
He smiled humorlessly. “Yes, it is true. The laws favor the oldest son alone...unless of course, he dies.” Or, as good as dies, as in his own case. He wondered how Marcel was enjoying his wealth.
“But I doubt very much if Gerrit would ever have thought of coming to America if he had not met and fallen in love with an American on his own shores.”
His attention was once more arrested by her story. “Your sister.” He rubbed his forefinger thoughtfully under his lips. “She was in England?”
“Yes, my father took Hester, my oldest sister, with him on his first trip to London after the peace in ’15. Even though my father is not overly fond of his birthplace, my mother thought it important that Hester see England and partake of a bit of the season, as the British put it, before settling down in our corner of the world. Both my parents wanted her to simply enjoy herself for a time. As the eldest, she has always been the second mother, taking care of us younger sisters and my baby brother, when mother is called away—”
“Called away?”
“She is frequently visiting someone sick or taking care of them if they have no one. One of us may accompany her if it is not a grave illness. We have few doctors in the area, so we must help each other out as much as possible.”
“I see. It sounds like the wilderness I have always imagined. Are there many Indians?”
“We have had no Indian wars for many years. It was mainly when we were still a colony, long before I was born, that the Indians were a danger. The French and British would use them against each other in their constant border wars.”
“How old are you, mademoiselle, if you do not think it an impertinent question? You must forgive me, for as I cannot see you, I can only imagine you in my mind’s eye from what I hear or smell.”
She laughed. “I hope I don’t smell bad.”
“Not at all. You wear a scent, something that reminds me of flowers.”
“Oh—” She sounded flustered. “Yes, it is a toilet water my sister gave to me when we first arrived. France is famous for its perfumes, is it not? I believe this one is from the lily of the valley.”
He nodded in recognition. “Ah, yes, muguet, that is the fragrance I have noticed when you’ve come close. My mother used to wear something similar.”
“Oh,” she said softly.
“She died when I was but eight.”
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was filled with sympathy. “It must be awful to lose one’s mother at such a tender age. I cannot imagine my life without my mother and father.”
He didn’t tell her that there were worse ways to lose one’s parents than by death. To know his father was still alive and had disowned him out of shame and disgrace—that was much harder to live with. At least his mother had died loving her son and proud of him.
He shook aside those morose thoughts and focused on the other thing he wanted to impress upon Mlle. Leighton. “My other sense is touch.”
“I imagine that is the primary way you ‘see.’”
He held up his hands. “My fingertips have become my eyes.” He paused only an instant, but afraid of losing his nerve, and even more fearful of remaining in ignorance, he ventured, “Might I ask something of you?”
“Of course you may.”
He clasped his hands together, not wanting to appear too eager. “I can only imagine what you look like from your voice. But if I could...feel your face, I could have a much clearer idea of what you look like.”
“Oh, I am very plain, sir. You would be sorry you had asked such a thing.”
“No, I am sure not, not from your voice.” He almost said “sweet voice,” but restrained himself in time. “If you would but indulge me in this one thing, it would help me very much. It is frustrating to hear and not see.”
“I understand. Then of course you may read my face. Would you like to do so now?”
His heart a veritable roar, he said quietly, “If you wouldn’t mind.”
“Very well.” He heard her approach. She barely made a sound, but his ears were attuned to the slightest rustle of her skirt. And then he smelled the flowery scent of lily of the valley. And then—sweet Heaven—she had touched his hand with one of her own and was bringing it up to her face.
He lifted his other hand, hoping she didn’t see it tremble, and as diffident and timid as a young lad—he who used to be quite confident with the ladies—touched her cheeks. She released his hand and he was free to explore the face beneath his fingertips.
Oh, that he might see! But that pleasure denied him, he would read every nuance of her face with his tactile sense. Ever so slowly, he felt the contours of her cheeks, soft as down. He had known they would be so. She must be quite young indeed. His fingertips reached her earlobes, delicate curves, then her temples. Wispy curls brushed against his fingers and he ventured higher to her scalp.
“What color are your locks?” he asked in a bare whisper. “They are curly,” he said. His fingers ran into the ribbons and straw of her bonnet.
“Ye...es. But they are n...nothing special, just a dull brown.” Her low words sounded breathless now, and he wondered if his touch were having the same effect on her as it was on him.
“M...my sister Hester’s are b...beautifully thick and straight and my...my...younger sister, Adele’s, are thick and wavy.”
He took a springy curl and wrapped it round his forefinger. “I would judge they are beautiful curls. Would you—could you remove your bonnet?”
He waited, his breath held, until he heard her work at the ribbon under her chin. He let out his breath with relief at the soft swish of the bonnet being lifted away from her hair. He wasted no time, afraid Pierre would be back at any moment. With both hands, he ran his fingers over her silky locks. “I feel no hairpins. I trust I am not destroying your coiffure. I know most ladies would find this unforgivable.”
“It’s all right. It is not dressed in any special way.”
He followed the satiny tresses until his fingers bumped into a small coil of hair at the nape of her neck. His breath stilled, realizing their position. If he moved her any closer to himself, he could touch his lips to hers.
So forceful was the thought, it nearly undid him. The very thunder of his heartbeat must be audible to her. He dared not move. Slowly, he brought his hands back to her face. He must memorize it before that blackguard Pierre returned. This way he could dream of it the rest of the day and night as he lay upon his cot. “Your forehead, nice and wide...your eyebrows soft arches...your eyelids and lashes...” he murmured.
Velvety-smooth round cheeks, a narrow nose that tipped up slightly at the end. And then her lips, soft, yielding to his touch, they parted a fraction as his fingertip ran over them, and he had to use every ounce of self-control not to draw her to him. He forced himself to continue. “A nice curved chin and smooth neck.” He went no farther but dragged his fingertips back to her cheeks. With a sigh of resignation and unfulfilled longing, he let her go. “Thank you, Mlle. Leighton. You have given me more than you know.”
With regret, he heard her move away. “I...I’m glad I was able to oblige.” She cleared her throat, her voice becoming firmer. “But as you see, my face is nothing out of the ordinary, so I truly hope you will not imagine something that is wholly unlike me.”
He didn’t bother to argue, convinced she was being modest and liking her all the more for that trait. Clasping his hands loosely in his lap, he strove to make his own words sound matter-of-fact, when in truth, his heart was still beating wildly and his fingertips resonating from the encounter with her skin and locks.
“P...please continue with your story of how your sister married a British soldier. No—wait, you never told me how old you are, Mlle. Leighton.”
“I shall be twenty-one at the end of the summer.”
“Ah, your majority. When is your birthday?”
“On the thirty-first of August.”
“I hardly know which day it is. I hope you will be here and that you will allow me to help you celebrate it. That is, of course, if your family does not keep you occupied the entire day.”
“Today is the sixteenth of May. I would be honored to share my birthday with you,” she said quietly. “Perhaps you could spend the day with us,” she added more brightly. “If...if you are permitted to...leave this place.”
His heart soared as he realized she would be in Paris the entire summer, then he frowned at her last words. Did she think he was a prisoner?
“What is it? Have I said something wrong?” Concern was evident in her tone.
“No, of course not. It is just that I am free to go anywhere anyone wishes to take me. But I did not mean to imply you must invite me to your celebration.”
Her laughter dispelled his worry. “Oh, you needn’t fear on that score. Hester and Gerrit want me to meet as many people as possible on my trip. So, it will be a relief to be able to bring a guest of my own for a change.”
“Even a blind and cripple one?” He couldn’t help the bitterness creeping into his tone.
“Oh, they would never judge you by that—”
“Anyway, we shall see. Come and tell me more of your history.”
“Let’s see, where was I?” She thought a moment, and he was content to sit in her presence. “Yes, my father decided to bring my eldest sister with him to London. There she met a soldier—an officer—much decorated from his career, and of course, with the final victory at Waterloo, he was a hero indeed. I’m sorry—”
He waved away her apology. “It is all right. The British beat us and he was lucky indeed if he survived Waterloo unscathed.”
“Yes, it was by God’s grace that he sustained no lasting injury. I’m sorry. I seem to be putting my foot in my mouth a good deal.”
He said nothing for a moment, struggling with the thought of one who’d escaped the battle whole. “It was the day my life ended, even if my heart kept beating.”
The next moment her warm hand covered his. “Oh, don’t say that. God is still with you. He has something for you. He would not have saved you if He didn’t have a reason to keep you on this earth.”
He was reluctant to give her his real opinion of her faith; it would be too rude and she had been too nice to him. As if she sensed his antipathy, she removed her hand, saying, “I know that I cannot possibly understand what your life must be like. I only know that God does know and understand.”
She fell silent a moment and then continued, speaking more slowly. “You yourself must see how inexplicable it is that one man should live and one should die when the two can be standing side by side on the field of battle.”
He could find no reply to this. Hadn’t he puzzled over it time and again after each battle, when he’d ridden away unscathed while a brother in arms had perished? And yet, with each battle, the odds had grown greater. He had enough battle scars to prove it...until that final battle which had felled him worse than death.
“The Lord must have woken in a particularly ill-humor that morning, or simply felt out of patience with His creation that He decided to inflict punishment upon us in apparent random slaughter.”
“Oh, you mustn’t blame God,” she entreated. “Doesn’t it merely show the depravity of man?”
He gave a short humorless laugh. “Now you do sound like the Protestants from Geneva.” But he shook aside his bitterness, not wanting to alienate her. Already he felt the mournful absence of her hand over his.
The next second her voice came out in a rush. “Oh, my goodness! I didn’t realize it was so late. Hester expects me back.”
A spurt of jealousy shot through him. To be loved and wanted. “You have an engagement this evening?”
She sighed. “We must attend a ball.”
He gave a short laugh. “You make it sound like an execution.”
She laughed, lightening the mood once again with its trill. “In a way it is for me. I feel I die a little death each time I must attend one.”
He raised his eyebrows. “How is that? I used to recall young ladies begging their parents to take them to a ball. Have times changed so much?”
“I...I just am not that comfortable at these crowded functions. Gerrit has been trying so hard to make sure Hester and I meet people and are invited everywhere. I try to be pleasant but my French is not so good, as you heard for yourself that first day, and...and I’m not good at meeting strangers.”
“I am sure you will be the belle.” How he wished he could reassure her. If it were his old life, there was much he could have done to make her time in Paris as pleasant as possible. Suddenly, he thought of a way—which would also guarantee that he’d see her again on a regular basis. “I can help you with your French, if you would like.”
She didn’t reply right away and he felt himself flush. She was probably trying to figure out how to refuse politely. The next moment he heard her bring her hands together. “Would you do that?”
He waved a hand, trying to appear casual. “But of course. That is, if you would like me to help you. There is little else I can do from this chair.”
“That would be wonderful!” Before he could think what to say, she added, “Oh—that reminds me, there is something I wanted to ask you.”
He waited in anticipation. “Yes?”
“Do you—I mean, before you lost your sight—did you like to read?”
He blinked in surprise at her question. “Yes, very much. I read a great deal, as a matter of fact.”
She cleared her throat and he wondered at her hesitation this time. “Do...you ever have anyone...I mean there at Les Invalides, read to you?”
He made a disbelieving sound. “Those people? They can’t be bothered with a lunatic who is rude to them more often than not.”
“That is too bad. I enjoy reading, too. Papa brings us the latest novels each time he comes back from a trip to London. Of course, we read the Bible each evening but then take turns reading one of these novels aloud and sometimes more serious works. But I enjoy the novels best. I’ve read all the British novels published ‘by a lady,’ as she calls herself. Have you heard of them? Even the Prince Regent is a fan.”
He shook his head. “I have not read as many English novels in recent years, being on campaigns. There is so much great French literature,” he said in defense of his country.
“Yes, you are right. I would love to read some more in French. I was wondering if you would like me to read to you? At present my sister and I are enjoying Guy Mannering by the author of Waverley. It is quite entertaining. I could also read to you in French, if you can stand my poor accent.”
He gave a dry bark of laughter. “Your French cannot be worse than Pierre’s. He can hardly read more than two words before he is stumbling over one.” He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “That is one thing I have missed, being able to read.”
“That is what I thought. W—would you like it if I brought a book in French and read to you? You would help me with my French.” She laughed. “My tutor will be most pleased.”
“You have a tutor?”
“Yes, she comes in every afternoon for an hour’s lesson.”
His mood slumped. She didn’t need his help with the language.
She gave a nervous laugh. “You could help me perfect my pronunciation. Mlle. Taillefer would be most grateful.”
His spirits rose again. “Very well, and if is not too much trouble, you can read to me one of your English novels. That will help my English.”
“I would be glad to do so, although, I must say your English needs no improvement. How do you come to speak it so well?”
“My father sent my mother and me to England for a few years during the worst excesses of the Terror. I was a young child, so it was easy to pick up the language of my British nurse.”
“That explains it.” After a moment she asked. “D—did your father survive the Terror?”
He nodded. “He had always worked for reform in our country and he welcomed the revolution. He was appalled at the turn it took under Robespierre and Danton and the handful of radicals who came to control the Convention. Thankfully, it lasted but a year, a time he spent in the provinces, where it was calmer.”
“That’s good.”
He cleared his throat. “How long are you to be here—I mean, if you have hired a teacher?” He held his breath, awaiting her reply.
“I’m not sure, but for some months at least. It depends on Gerrit’s business, of course. He is trying to set up an office for my father’s company and the voyage across the Atlantic is so strenuous that it would make no sense to stay only a short time.”
Some months. The relief he felt was so profound he could scarcely draw breath. And now there was a legitimate reason to see Mlle. Leighton again. “In that case, I would be honored to supplement your French lessons.”
She clapped her hands. “That would be wonderful. I shall begin right away. Is tomorrow too soon?”
He shook his head, trying to appear composed. “No, tomorrow would be fine.” It wouldn’t be soon enough. Would that she would stay with him the entire afternoon.
“Is there a book you can recommend for me?”
He pondered which writer would be best for her to begin with. “Have you read our great playwright Molière?”
“No, although we are going to see one of his plays tomorrow night, I believe.”
“I see. You are kept very busy in the evenings.”
“Yes, I think Gerrit is afraid I shall be bored. Since he is occupied with business affairs during the days, he tries to fill our evenings with engagements. I have ceased trying to convince him that I am truly a homebody at heart.”
“I imagine there is another reason as well.”
“What is that?” She sounded genuinely curious.
“Perhaps he is seeking a husband for you?”
He waited, his hands gripping the arms of his chair, for her reply. Would she play the coquette as many young ladies were wont to do, or deny such a thing too vehemently, signaling there might already be someone claiming her heart?
But she said nothing.
“What is it? Have I embarrassed you?”
“No-o.” The syllable was drawn out, as if in a sigh. “I just don’t know how to reply. I don’t believe that is his intention. And if it is, I don’t think it will meet with success.”
“Why ever not?”
“I am neither comely nor charming enough to attract one of your French gentlemen. They seem very proud to me. And even if I did, I don’t believe I would wish to be part of their world. It seems very far removed from mine. I don’t think I’d care to settle so far from my own home.”
“I see...” He didn’t know whether to be pleased by the fact that she was not interested in any of the French gentlemen she had met or disheartened that she could not imagine remaining in France. He drew in a long breath, returning to the topic at hand. “I used to have all of Molière’s plays, but I’m afraid I have none of my books anymore—and they would be useless to me now, so I hate to have to ask, but if you could procure one of his plays—the one you will be seeing, if you wish. Otherwise, I recommend Le Misanthrope.”
She repeated the title, as if committing it to memory. “Very well, I shall obtain it.”
“One last thing.”
“Yes?” she asked when he didn’t continue right away.
“If you could mention our—ah—meeting time tomorrow to—ah—Pierre. It would—” How to explain Pierre’s sadistic treatment? “Er, serve to remind him to bring me out on the morrow.”
“Yes, of course I shall.” Her voice sounded somewhat surprised but she asked him no more of it, for which he was grateful.