Katie was whistling, her free arm swinging at her side when she left the count. Praise You, Lord, for giving me a way to help the poor man! She had been so afraid he’d spurn her offer of reading to him. Her face burned with shame, remembering his remark when she’d presented him with the tart. Like your dog, I must have a treat.
She had seen at once that he was a proud man. Thankfully, the Lord had given her the inspiration to ask his help with her French, so that her offer of reading to him wouldn’t sound like an offer made out of pity.
“Mademoiselle, please, I beg of you, slow down,” her maid panted behind her.
“Oh—I’m so sorry, Marie-Thérèse.” She slowed her steps immediately, having quite forgotten her maid. What a bother to be shadowed by someone all the time. In Bangor she went about freely.
“I am not used to having to walk so much. Most young ladies would take a coach to visit their gentlemen friends...but then who in her right mind would call a cripple—un aveugle! a blind man!—her amour?” The maid’s words were said in a low mumble but Katie caught enough to get the gist of it. She looked in amazement at the woman. Could all maids be so insolent? Or, did Marie-Thérèse really think her so ignorant of her language?
“Excuse me, Marie-Thérèse, do not speak of the soldier so.” Her voice trembled with fury. She could not remember when she had last been so angry. “He is a—” oh, how did one say “veteran?”—“a brave soldier who has fought for your country. Do not show such—” What was the word for “disrespect”? Oh! It was so frustrating not to be able to express oneself clearly. “Do not speak so! And furthermore, do not call him my ‘amour.’ He is not my lover.” The word made it sound as if her friendship had something illicit to it.
The young woman’s eyes widened and her steps faltered. Then, her lips in a pout, she looked straight ahead of her and walked on. “I beg your pardon, Mlle. Leighton,” she said it “Leh-ton,” with a very nasal sounding “ton,” “but I am not used to having my legs walked off. I do not mean to give offense, but I am très fatigué—”
“I am sorry you are tired. I shall not ask you to accompany me again.”
The two continued in silence. In a moment, Katie had forgotten the maid once again, her thoughts turning back to the count, for she was convinced that he was indeed a titled gentleman.
She pondered his story, finding it so tragic that he had no one to defend him. He’d said his family had a farm—but if his father had sent him and his mother to England, didn’t that imply he was a gentleman of some means? It didn’t matter to her in the least how much money he had, but the thought that he’d been left penniless and unprotected in the world broke her heart.
And to be called a madman! He certainly acted like no madman to her. An embittered, cynical young gentleman, two things that were certainly understandable given his circumstances. To have lost so much. She wondered how old he was. Twenty-five, six, seven? Certainly not as old as thirty.
And that servant of his! Pierre, an insolent, uncouth fellow. Did he respect his master as he ought? She recalled Monsieur Santerre’s hesitant request that she tell Pierre about their appointment the next day. Was he afraid his own request wouldn’t be obeyed? Was the poor soldier at the mercy of the burly manservant, who’d looked at her with sly mockery in his black eyes when she’d told him of their plans for the morrow?
She’d had to lift her chin and stare him down until he’d given her a “bien sûr, mademoiselle,” albeit with what seemed exaggerated deference.
Katie shrugged aside the recollection. The important thing was that Pierre had agreed. Her thoughts returned to Santerre.
To have lost his faith on top of everything else. That would be too much to bear. She vowed to visit him again as soon as tomorrow. She’d have to go out early to a bookshop, or perhaps there would be a copy of Molière’s plays on the bookshelves at their mansion.
Her mind busy with thoughts of her new friend, Katie arrived at the Hôtel LeClaire in no time at all.
When she stepped into the spacious mansion they called home for the time they would be in Paris, Hester was waiting for her in the marble foyer. “There you are at last.” She glanced at the maid. “I’m glad you have Marie-Thérèse with you at least. You know we’ve been warned again and again that the streets of Paris are not safe.”
Katie removed her bonnet and then bent to undo Brioche’s leash. “Yes, but ours seems to be such a pleasant neighborhood. It certainly looks safe enough. Surely nothing can happen to me here in the vicinity, especially with Brioche by my side.” She rubbed his back. “You’ll protect me, won’t you, dear?”
With a quick curtsy, the maid left them. Katie had to convince her sister she was safe, for she was determined not to take Marie-Thérèse with her again.
“I know we are used to going about with much more freedom back home, but we are in a city ten times the size of Bangor, I’m sure,” Hester said quietly as the two walked up the wide circular marble staircase. “They have been through so much upheaval with revolution and war that there are many people in want. And so many foreign soldiers still about since the occupation of the Allied armies.” Hester shuddered. “Those Cossacks fill me with dread every time I see them coming down the street in groups. Their loud laughter makes me feel they’d swallow me whole if Gerrit weren’t at our side.”
Katie’s sister stopped on the staircase and gave her an earnest look. “You know Gerrit and I would never forgive ourselves if anything happened to you while you were in our care. Mama and Papa entrusted you to us.”
Katie grasped her hand. “I know. And nothing bad will happen. I am never far from home. I have only just walked the few blocks to l’Esplanade des Invalides, and that in broad daylight. Oh, Hester, you should see the poor old soldiers there. My heart breaks.” Should she tell Hester about the young soldier? Perhaps Gerrit could help him. But then again, Gerrit had fought for the other side and in the same battle. How would Monsieur Santerre react?
Hester gave her a fond shake of her head. “Oh, dear, don’t tell me you have found some poor soul whose plight moves you? You’re here to enjoy yourself for a few months and not to take some charitable case under your wing.”
The impulse to confide in her sister died within Katie. Perhaps some other day.
As if sensing her disappointment, Hester smiled and patted her hand. “Come, we must begin preparing for this evening’s ball. Gerrit will be home soon. He says there are a few young gentlemen he has promised to introduce you to.”
With a sigh, Katie followed her sister up the stairs, her spirits sinking at the thought of another long, drawn-out evening in the midst of the fashionable world.
* * *
Etienne stared sightless in the direction he believed Mlle. Leighton to have taken when she’d bid him adieu.
Then, giving him no time to savor the visit, Pierre jostled his chair and jerked it forward. “Are you ready to return to your room, Monsieur le Comte, or do you want to continue here mooning after your lady love?”
“Quiet, you ignorant oaf.”
“What have we here, eh, monsieur?” Abruptly, the chair halted and Pierre came around. Before Etienne could stop him, his hand swooped down and took up the pastry Etienne had forgotten he had in his lap. He heard the crinkle of paper. He reached out his hand, but Pierre only chuckled, telling Etienne he had moved the parcel just out of reach.
“Give me that, you insolent fellow!” In vain he swung his arm out, dropping it back down to his lap when he realized how futile the gesture was. Pierre would have his fun. The best thing was to sit grim-faced and silent until the man tired of the game.
“Let me see what the young lady has brought you.” The paper crinkled some more. “Ah, a tart. How luscious it looks, with strawberries and candied pineapple under a glaze.” Then Pierre breathed in deeply. “Food for the gods.” The paper was unwrapped some more. “Let us see...Pâtisserie St. Germain. One of the best shops in Paris. Perhaps I should hint to the young maid to bring me something on her next trip. She was a feisty thing. That was a good ploy, foisting her off on me.” He chuckled.
Again, the manservant breathed in deeply. “It smells mouthwatering. I can almost taste it—”
Etienne couldn’t help reaching up again but too late. Pierre smacked his lips. “Heavenly. Luscious.”
“Cochon! You swine!” Etienne swore at him, his fist thrashing the air.
“Oh! Now look what you’ve done!” Even though Etienne hadn’t touched it, his ears picked up the soft thud of something dropping. He clenched his hand in a fist.
“What have you done?” he asked his manservant in a deadly quiet tone.
“What have I done?” Pierre exaggerated the shock in his voice. “It is what you have done, Monsieur le Comte, who can’t see what’s right in front of you. You have made me drop the young lady’s delectable pastry. What a pity. It is now only the pigeons who will enjoy the luscious fruit and custard concoction.” With what sounded like a kick of his boot, Pierre laughed. “There! Enjoy the spoils, you hungry birds.”
Etienne’s anger threatened to strangle his windpipe but he said not a word nor made any further motion. Tears of rage pricked at his eyes but he would not bring his hand up to wipe them away.
Dear God, how much more could he take?
* * *
Katie stared at herself in the large oval glass at her dressing table. Marie-Thérèse had just finished doing her hair and left the room. At least the maid was competent and Katie could understand why she’d come so highly recommended.
Katie reached up a hand and felt the curls encircling her face. She relived the experience of having Monsieur Santerre “read” her face that afternoon. His touch had been feather light and not disrespectful of her in any way—much less vulgar than the way old Mr. Henley’s had been that time back in Bangor. She still shuddered when she thought of that evening, his strong, calloused hands gripping her, his hot, tobacco-laden breath choking her—
She shook away the memory, preferring to remember the French soldier’s sensitive fingers. It was as if he’d been memorizing her features.
Even though he couldn’t see her, he had still closed his eyes as his fingers had skimmed the contours of her cheeks. It had given her the opportunity to study his face up close as well.
She’d noticed then how long and inky black his eyelashes were against the pallor of his skin. They gave the rest of his face a vulnerable quality. His eyebrows were thick and slightly arched. He had a prominent nose. His cheekbones were too hollow, but his jaw line and chin retained their strong outline, revealing to her what a handsome gentleman he must have been before his injuries. His forehead was high, though a thick, straight lock kept falling forward in a cowlick.
The way he touched her—in reverence, she almost ventured to say—made her feel beautiful. How she hoped he didn’t take away the wrong impression of her. She couldn’t bear that!
Being the middle daughter, she always thought of herself as in-between. Not too much of this, not too much of that. Just plain Katie, she called herself.
She traced the outline of her chin. Her face was round, not like Hester’s perfect oval, or Adele’s delicate heart-shaped face. Hester’s eyes were an interesting hazel, deep brown depths with hints of green. Adele’s were perfect blue, like their brother, Jamie’s.
Katie had inherited washed-out gray.
Hester, tall and statuesque, looked elegant and ladylike even when she wore a pair of their brother’s trousers. And Adele was medium height and perfectly proportioned, curvaceous in all the right places, with a small waist and everything delicate and ladylike about her.
Katie, on the other hand, was petite and had to fight the extra layer of padding that always seemed to cover her body. Neither buxom nor plump, yet how she wished her waistline were narrower or her wrists a bit slimmer.
With a sigh, she stood up. Feeling sorry for herself was not going to make the coming evening go by any faster...
She descended the staircase to find Gerrit and Hester already in the front salon waiting for her.
“There she is, my beautiful sister-in-law.” Gerrit approached her with a smile.
As always, he looked handsomer than any man of her acquaintance, with his black hair and his deep-as-the-sea blue eyes, which twinkled as if he were always secretly laughing at the world.
“I hope I haven’t kept the two of you waiting,” she began, feeling self-conscious in her fancy French gown, as if she were trying to fool the world with something she was not.
“I was enjoying the moments with my dear wife.” He turned back to Hester. “We were having a private moment of celebration, but we’d like you to join us.”
She looked at each in surprise. “Private celebration? I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Not at all,” he said as Hester murmured, “Of course not.”
Gerrit looked into Hester’s eyes. “Shall I tell her or shall you?”
Hester smiled up at him and Katie felt that special bond between them. It made her feel suddenly lonely, although she knew they never intended that. Just the opposite. They always tried to include her, even when she felt this was their delayed honeymoon.
“We’ll both tell her,” Hester said at last with a small laugh before turning to Katie, her arms extended. “Katie, we have some wonderful news.”
Gerrit, his arm around his wife, smiled at Katie. “I think what she’s trying to say is that in a few months, you are to be an auntie.”
She looked from one to another, “An auntie? Oh, my goodness!” Realization dawned and she looked at Hester for affirmation. Hester nodded vigorously, her cheeks pink. She knew her sister had longed for a child in the year they’d been married.
“Yes, it’s true. We’re expecting a child.”
“Oh, my.” With a suppressed cry, Katie ran to her sister and the two embraced. She could feel Gerrit’s hand on her shoulder. She turned to him to offer her congratulations and he hugged her, too.
“That’s such wonderful news.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, you will have a little Frenchman or maiden, perhaps!”
“Yes, it’s very possible. I don’t want Hester to travel until we are sure she is up to it.”
“That’s why you’ve been feeling a bit under the weather, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose so. I didn’t realize it myself until only a few days ago. But I’m feeling very fit at the moment.” Hester picked up her shawl and beaded reticule. “Come, we really should be going.”
Gerrit offered his wife his arm, before turning to Katie and doing the same. “Are you ready to dazzle the French fashionable world?”
She shook her head at her brother. “If they are dazzled by someone like me, then I pity them!”
He only chuckled.
“Where is it we are going this evening?” Hester asked when they sat in their luxurious coach traveling over the cobblestone streets of Paris.
“We are crossing the Seine to the Right Bank to the neighborhood known as the Faubourg St. Honoré. A faubourg originally meant a suburb,” Gerrit explained. “Now, it merely denotes certain neighborhoods of the city, since it has grown much beyond its original walls.”
“How do you know so much of Paris and so many people?” Katie asked him.
“When the British invaded the city in 1814, we soldiers were stationed here for some months. It was a time of victory celebrations, a victory that proved somewhat premature, but we didn’t realize it at the time, hardly imagining that Napoleon would succeed in escaping Elba and mustering his troops once again.”
Katie leaned forward in the dark carriage, intrigued by the history that included the young French count at Les Invalides. What had his life been like before he was wounded? “Napoleon’s soldiers must have been very loyal to follow him a second time,” she said softly.
“Yes, it was amazing how loyal they were. After the devastation he inflicted on Europe and the decimation of a generation of the young men of France, he still commanded their devotion.” Gerrit shook his head. “By then, his Grand Army consisted mostly of boys—they nicknamed them his army of ‘Marie-Louises,’ after his young second wife. It made the carnage of Waterloo all the more tragic.”
The same place Monsieur Santerre’s life had as good as ended. “Were there...many casualties?”
Gerrit looked out the carriage window at the dusk. “They say there were upwards of fifty thousand.”
Both she and Hester drew in a sharp breath.
“Yes,” he said with a grim nod. “It is beyond imagining. Almost a fifth of the population of the entire Maine Territory.” After a moment he added, “If you think that is horrendous, consider that the emperor’s campaign into Russia cost him almost half-a-million souls.”
No wonder neither Gerrit nor poor Monsieur Santerre wanted to recall the war. What they must have endured. Katie gripped her reticule, wishing she could think of another way to help the young count. “Did you...ever...meet any French soldiers?”
Gerrit seemed to shake away the awful memories and turned to her with a slight smile. “Yes, a few. War is strange. Sometimes, when you are waiting for a battle to begin, you will even call out to the enemy if they are close by. During one Christmas, both sides agreed to lay down their arms for the evening, and we could hear each other’s celebrations and see the light of our bonfires.”
Could Gerrit and Santerre have been that close to each other across the battlefield of Waterloo?
With a start she realized their carriage had arrived at its destination. As she took a footman’s hand to descend, she gazed up at another imposing hôtel. It, too, was set back from the busy street behind a pair of black and gilt wrought-iron gates. Dozens of coaches already crammed the cobblestone courtyard before the mansion.
When they entered its splendidly-lit interior, Katie stared around her, never ceasing to be amazed at the magnificence of these homes. The foyer alone seemed larger than her entire house back in Maine. Everything was marble and gilt. Chandeliers reflected the candlelight off their dozens of crystal facets.
Gerrit took both Hester and her by the arm and led them up a red-carpeted, curving staircase.
“Oh, my,” she breathed again as they entered the ballroom. The high ceiling mimicked the very sky itself. It was painted pale blue with puffy white clouds. Chubby babies with wings, some holding golden harps, seemed to float above her. She supposed they represented angels.
As she walked around the ballroom on Gerrit’s arm, she kept glancing up at the ceiling. Funny, it was not how she would have pictured heaven, if that indeed was what it represented.
For her, heaven seemed more like the infinite expanse of deep blue cloudless sky over the dark green pine and fir forests that faced her when she stood in the field behind her house. Or, perhaps the limitless indigo ocean during her Atlantic crossing, their ship so tiny and fragile against its never-ending, rolling waves.
An orchestra was playing a stately tune and several sets of dancers were already carrying out its measured steps. Katie watched, marveling at the dances so different from the country ones she was used to. Like porcelain dolls, the ladies and gentlemen appeared supremely refined and elegant, turning, bowing, stepping forward and back with unmatched grace.
Gerrit was soon greeting people and introducing them to Hester and her. A large number seemed to be young gentlemen, and she wished Gerrit wouldn’t worry about having her meet eligible bachelors. After a few minutes of stilted conversation in French, they either moved on with a polite bow and murmured “excusez-moi’s,” or worse, asked her to dance. She would curtsy and refuse as politely as she knew how, until Gerrit approached her.
“How is my favorite sister-in-law enjoying herself?”
She couldn’t help smiling at his kind flattery. He was always so attentive. “Fine. You needn’t worry about us.” She glanced at her sister. Gerrit had found her a chair at Katie’s side.
She sighed, happy for Hester. She didn’t think the Lord had anyone special for her the way her sister had Gerrit.
Ever since that odious widower, Ebenezer Henley, had pursued her, finally catching her in the dark pantry and kissing her with those awful kisses, his rough, unshaven cheeks scratching her, Katie had shied away from all thoughts of finding someone special who would love and cherish her the way Gerrit obviously did her sister.
Katie still shuddered thinking of that evening in her own home. No matter how much she had protested and pushed against the middle-aged farmer, whose arms were as strong as iron crowbars, he had only held her tighter, insisting they would be married anyway, so what did a few stolen kisses matter?
Her denial that she had ever accepted his proposal fell on deaf ears as he plastered her with wet kisses.
If her brother had not rescued her at that moment, who knows where it would have ended! She had suffered nightmares for some time afterwards.
But what had been worse than any physical abuse was how the odious man had spread lies about her afterwards. He’d made it plain to others that it was she who had led him on, encouraging his suit, then spurning him when he’d proposed, thinking herself too good just because she was Leighton’s daughter!
Never was there anything further from the truth.
Since then, it had been as if she had the plague. Not one unmarried man had singled her out during the sociables her parents held in their home for her and Adele.
She half-suspected that was why her family had pushed her to come to Europe, though, of course, their stated reason was that as Hester had made the trip two years before, and Katie was the second born, it was now her turn.
“Your looks belie your reply, dear sister,” Gerrit said in amusement.
“Oh—” she started out of her tumultuous thoughts. “I’m sorry. I must have been a million miles away.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Back in Bangor?”
She smiled ruefully. “How did you know?”
“Something about that faraway look. But come, I know the perfect remedy for homesickness.” He beckoned to the dance floor. “I think it’s time you made your official dancing debut.”
She took a step back, already shaking her head. “Oh, no...I don’t think so...”
He smiled that wicked smile her sister must have found irresistible. “Now, Katie girl, don’t be scared. I shall show you myself.”
“No, I couldn’t possibly follow these steps. They are much too intricate.”
“They are not as difficult as they look. Come.” He took her arm after assuring himself that Hester was comfortably seated.
“I’m fine, dear. Go on.” She smiled her encouragement to Katie. “Let him show you the steps. He’s a fine dancer.”
She couldn’t argue with her sister. She’d already seen how well he danced back in Maine. But those were simple country dances.
As he lifted her arm, settling into position opposite another couple, he whispered, “Don’t worry. Two couples will execute the figures first, and then we shall follow. If your sister could accomplish it in England, you can do so here in Paris.”
As the measured notes of the music began, she watched the two couples on the other sides of their square perform the dance steps.
Afterwards, when she and Gerrit and the couple opposite them took their turn, Gerrit proved a superb dancer and apt teacher. For the first time it occurred to her that this had been his world—albeit across the channel in England—until quite recently when he had left it all behind to come to the Maine Territory to Hester. How much he must have loved her.
And their love seemed to grow deeper with each passing month.
“What are you looking so solemn for? Not my dancing, I hope?” He winked down at her as he promenaded her across the small square.
She blushed and forced herself to smile. “Of course not. I was just thinking that you are so accustomed to this world.”
He gave an indifferent look around. “A gilt ballroom? A few dozen perfumed and pomaded people who are only interested in their own lives?”
She blinked. “You don’t see the grandeur of these surroundings?”
“Oh, yes. The ballroom is beautiful. But the people are no different than people anywhere. More autocratic and haughty perhaps, but with all the same concerns and pettiness of humans anywhere. Don’t be intimidated by the exterior trappings, Katie.”
She had no more time for conversation, too busy focusing on the moves of the dance. As Gerrit took her arm and led her around, she was more convinced than ever that she would never feel at ease in such a world.
Only when the final notes were played could she relax. Her shoulders ached with the tension of concentrating on each movement. Gerrit bowed over her hand. “You were fine. All you need is some practice, which I’m certain you will receive this evening if you give some of these young gentlemen half a chance. Now, I shall fetch you both some refreshment,” he said as he returned her to her sister. He looked with solicitude at Hester, who smiled up at him. “How are you feeling, love?”
“Never better. Off with you.”
“At your service.” With the bow and click of heels from his military training, he left them.
Katie watched his departing back, thinking how Monsieur Santerre must have appeared not so long ago, straight and tall in his uniform.
When Gerrit returned, he not only carried two cups of lemonade for her and Hester, but he brought another young Frenchman in tow.
“I’ve been telling Monsieur de Bérenger how much you enjoy dancing back home across the Atlantic, and he is more than willing to help you practice the French minuet and quadrille.” He smiled as he handed her a crystal cup.
“Oh, dear,” she said, genuinely distressed as she curtsied to the gentleman. “I hope Gerrit—Monsieur Hawkes—has not exaggerated my abilities.”
The dark-haired young man bowed over her hand. “No matter, mademoiselle. I should be happy to take you on the dance floor.”
She sipped half her refreshment, stalling for time, but the young man merely waited. Finally, she set her cup down near a planter. Gerrit took his wife’s hand to lead her out as well. Katie was forced to turn to the young man, straightening her shoulders and taking a deep breath. “Very well, monsieur, if you are willing to risk sore feet, I am ready.”
He gave her a puzzled look. “Sore feet?”
She attempted another word. “Pain—douleur.” She indicated her feet.
“You have pain?”
Katie shook her head and attempted to smile. “No—never mind. It is not important.”
He bowed and took her arm.
She stumbled a few times during the course of the dance, but Monsieur de Bérenger quickly guided her through. She replied to his questions in French in short replies, her brain too focused on her steps to be able to form complicated answers in a foreign language.
By the time the long dance was over, she could feel her curls sticking to her forehead. Gerrit and Hester had not yet returned, so she took up her cup of lemonade once more.
Monsieur de Bérenger stood at her side.
“I’m fine. You don’t have to stand with me,” she said when he made no attempt to move away or address a word to her.
He bowed. “It is quite all right, mademoiselle. I shall await your companions.”
Seeing his two feet firmly planted on the ground, she gave a small nod and turned to watch the dancers. Her tension grew, however, with each passing moment that he stood there like a statue.
She breathed a sigh of relief when Gerrit and Hester finally returned after dancing two sets.
Monsieur de Bérenger bowed to her. “Good evening, Mademoiselle Leighton.”
“Good evening, Monsieur de Bérenger,” she replied with a tilt of her head. Even though she was glad to see him leave, she was also annoyed that he made no attempt to pretend he’d stayed for her sake at all.
Thankfully, Gerrit made no remark. Katie would have liked to disappear into a quiet alcove for the rest of the evening. Instead, Gerrit found her a chair and placed it beside Hester’s.
Katie suspected Hester would have continued dancing if she hadn’t felt compelled to sit beside Katie. She knew it would do no good to tell her she didn’t mind sitting by herself, so she contented herself with watching the dancers.
After another set, a middle-aged gentleman with an old-fashioned powdered wig bowed before her. “Would you care to accompany me in this dance, mademoiselle?”
Katie’s heart sank. She smiled wanly and murmured some excuse of accompanying her sister.
Would it be as in Bangor, where it was the older, widowed farmers and merchants who sought her out, while the younger men had gone after Hester and Adele?
Not that she begrudged her sisters the attention. She was happy for them, especially for Adele, who seemed to thrive on being the belle of the ball.
All Katie had yearned for was one special person who would see her for herself. She didn’t aspire to attracting the notice of anyone handsome or dashing, just some honorable, unassuming young man who didn’t see her solely as someone to take care of his motherless children and keep house for him.
Her gaze traveled over the fashionable young men in their dark jackets and knee breeches and white cravats, her thoughts returning to the count. Would Monsieur Santerre have attended this kind of ball before he’d been so brutally maimed? Was he indeed a count?
He had never answered her question.