Chapter 5

I should not be doing this.

Marcel flicked a non-existent speck of dust from the pristine folds of his extravagantly lacy cravat and frowned at his reflection in the small mirror that was all his room afforded.

I should definitely not be doing this.

On the other hand, who was to know? He wore a mask and would assume an English accent. If his French intonations seeped through, his costume would provide an excuse—he sounded French, because he was Louise XIV, the great French king. In any case, who would expect to see the duchess’s chef dressed as le Roi-Soleil and dancing with her guests?

One guest. Or not a guest. A member of the family, rather.

For just one dance with her, I will risk all.

He doffed his tricorne hat as he bowed, the red-dyed ostrich plumes tossing gently.

Cissie Pearce had found the costume and had encouraged him to dare the masquerade. “What harm can it do? And don’t you worry none about the supper, Mark. You have it all ready, and I can watch your people.”

Was it a costume? Or something a former duke had worn? A white silk shirt with hugely puffed sleeves gathered to lacy cuffs, gold breeches tied below the knee over red stockings, a richly embroidered knee-length waistcoat, open from the waist, and, over it all, an ornately brocaded robe that just missed sweeping the ground as he stood. The cravat, buckled shoes, and a carved walking stick with a gold tip made up the rest of the costume. The wig had been in a different part of the attic but worked well enough: black, curly, and long enough to drape across his shoulders.

He answered the tap on the door cautiously, removing his hat and opening just wide enough that the visitor would see nothing but his head. It was Cissie, and he opened wider to let her in.

“Well, look at you.” Cissie was all admiration, clucking over the fine lace and the perfect fit of the shoes. “Let’s see you with your mask on. There. You’re that fine, Mark. Now be off with you, and don’t worry about a thing. Ain’t nobody up here but us, and if you go out down the main stairs, no one will know any different, but you’re a guest of the house.”

Swept along on her confidence, he found himself approaching the rooms where a bare three hours earlier he had been one of the servants setting up for the duchess’s costume party.

The rooms were full of kings and queens, gods and goddesses, Roman soldiers and cavaliers. Ah. There she was. One solitary shepherdess hovering in the supper room, keeping watch over the comings and goings of the servants.

The fates favored him. In the next room, the musicians began to play a waltz. Did he dare dance it as the current mode was in Paris? Yes. Ladies were taking the floor in the arms of their partners. Within minutes, he could be embracing his dear mademoiselle, albeit only on the dance floor. His breath caught at the mere thought.

Mademoiselle Grenford looked up as he approached, tipping her head a little to one side as she waited for him to speak.

“May I have the honor of this dance, fair shepherdess?” he asked.

She furrowed her brows for the briefest of seconds. “I do not dance, sir, but I will find you a partner—”

“Not dance? When your costume is made to swirl on the dance floor, and the music begs—nay, demand—for you to pay homage?” A slip there. He had pronounced homage in the French way.

Her eyes widened, but she said nothing, merely—oh joy—placed her gloved hand in his and allowed herself to be conducted through the doors to join the waltz.

They began slowly, his hands resting tentatively just above her waist, and hers placed lightly on his shoulders. He honored the respectable distance due to a maiden, but as they began to circle one another in the dance, his legs shifted past hers and could not avoid repeated touching.

Turn, turn, and turn again. The candles of the chandeliers seemed to whirl above them, the other dancers disappeared, and he and Mademoiselle Grenford were alone in the ballroom. She swayed and dipped and twirled with him, light as a feather but far more substantial, a delight to his hands, his arms, and his legs.

Her eyes fixed on his, her face flushed, she murmured, “Monsieur Fournier, what are you doing here?”

It was a dose of cold water, jerking him back to reality. Would she rebuke him? Tell the duchess?

“One dance,” he managed, almost begged. “I promised not to importune you, Mademoiselle, but I thought… In costume, no one would know if I stole one dance.”

Somehow, his feet kept moving, they kept dancing, round and round and round, their legs shifting past each other’s again and again, their eyes still locked.

She smiled, a benison beyond his deserving. “This dance is not a theft, Monsieur, when I give it willingly.”

“Give?”

He was in heaven. He was no longer dancing; he was floating several inches about the ballroom floor. She knows me even in my disguise. She dances with me willingly.

His heart was too full for speech, and she said nothing more as they continued around the floor, oblivious to everything except the music and one another.

Marcel stepped back when the music ended, dropping his hands from her waist to her hands, unable to resist touching her for a moment more. “Thank you, Mademoiselle. Thank you more than I can say. I will leave now, but you have given me food for many happy dreams.”

“No.” Mademoiselle Grenford folded her fingers around his and tugged him to follow her. By chance, they had stopped at the most poorly lit end of the ballroom, close to the corner where a door let on to a servant’s passage, and it was to this she marched determinedly, with Marcel bobbing after in her wake.

No. Not that door. She was opening a door onto the terrace, and in moments, they were outside.

“I do not want it to end,” she said. “Will you not consent to sit and talk with me for a little?”

Consent? Did she not know he would consent to the guillotine for her sake?

“But you will be cold! Here.” He struggled out of his heavy robe and wrapped it around her, but she protested when she saw his arms unprotected by no more than the silk of his shirtsleeves.

“We shall share it,” she proposed as she guided him through an arch into one of the hedged gardens and then to a hidden stone seat tucked into an arbor that in summer would be fragrant with roses.

It is a dream. I am asleep in my bed and dreaming of sitting here in the duchess’ garden, sharing a robe with my mademoiselle. It is a dream, and I hope I never awaken.

She had commanded talk. What could he talk about? “Did the tenants like their gifts, Mademoiselle?”

They were wasteful, the aristos, with much food left after every meal. Mademoiselle had agreed it should go to those in need, and she and the duchess had asked for some of the finer dishes to be saved for the gifts traditionally given to the poor on St. Stephen’s Day. Marcel had taken great care with the selection and the presentation in baskets.

For a time, he listened, commenting just enough to keep her talking as she told him about the trip she had made yesterday with the duchess and some of the other ladies.

“You have a generous heart, Monsieur,” she finished. “That is what my father used to say. Some give reluctantly out of duty. You can tell those with generous hearts because they take pleasure in the happiness of those who receive.”

He shrugged. “I have been hungry, Mademoiselle. When I was a little boy, after my family fled France, we had very little. I do not forget.”

“Will you feed the poor of London with the leftovers from your Ordinary once you have it?”

“Did the excellent Cissie tell you of my plans? But she is wrong, you know. I do not plan a French Ordinaire, Mademoiselle. Say, rather, Extraordinaire. As they have in France. Un restaurant, Mademoiselle, with the finest cuisine listed on a menu from which patrons can choose, an excellent cellar, a quiet setting—perhaps with music playing, prompt and efficient service. A place where gentlemen would be proud to bring their guests or could dine alone without the expense of keeping a kitchen and a chef.”

Now it was his turn to spin out the words, while she asked quiet questions, her eyes turned up to his in the light of the quarter moon.

“And so I take work wherever I can find it, Mademoiselle, and one day, I will have sufficient money, and Fournier’s of London will open for business,” he finished.

Marcel fell silent. The moon would set soon. They would need to go in while it still gave enough light to find their way without falling into one of the moats or ponds. He did not want the dream to end.

Mademoiselle echoed his thoughts. “We need to go. It will be full dark when the moon goes down.”

Marcel stood reluctantly, and she stood with him, still in the warmth of his coat.

“It is cold, Monsieur,” she said. “Keep the robe around us both until we are inside.”

So he put his arm around her to help them walk in harmony, and—oh, magical night—she put her arm around him. Marcel said nothing as they walked slowly back to the house. He was soaking up the warmth of her, the curves of her, the way she fitted neatly under his arm.

He could not resist. Even one of God’s saints would have done it, and Heaven knew, Marcel was no saint. As they rounded the corner that concealed the door, he stopped and used his other hand to turn her toward him. Naturally, she looked up.

Her lips were as sweet as he had imagined, and she did not draw back and slap his impertinent face. Far from it. She pressed herself into the kiss, and though she was untutored in the art, she learned quickly. Marcel was left reeling when at last a burst of noise from inside the ballroom intruded, and they parted.

“Mademoiselle—” he began.

“Don’t.” Mademoiselle put up a hand to stop his mouth, and he kissed her fingers. “Don’t spoil it by apologizing.” She stood within his arms, but he could feel she was poised to flee, and he had no idea what to say or do.

A moment, and it was too late. She stretched up, gave him a swift peck on the lips, and slipped away from under his robe. Marcel watched, his hand touching the lips she had so favored as she opened the door and returned to the party.

It is over, then, but more, so much more than I ever imagined.

He would not go back inside. He would find his way to his kitchen and become a chef once more. And this night would be forever a jewel to carry in his heart.