A Sister's Quest

A Sister's Quest

A Novel

Jo Ann Ferguson

For Charis
,

Your love of romance is an endless inspiration
.

Chapter One

Zurich, 1814

“
Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques, dormez-vous
?”

Michelle D'Orage counted the tempo with her hand, but her thoughts were not on her students. As she stood in the plain room and watched the little girls in their black gowns, she sighed. Tomorrow would be the sixth anniversary of her mother's death and almost her fifth year of teaching at St. Bernard's School for Girls. She had spent most of her life at this school, first as a student, now as the language teacher.

Startled when she realized the song had ended, she instructed, “Again, but together this time.”

Compliantly, the little girls obeyed.

Michelle wandered around the long tables. Usually she was amused by how the ones closest to her sang with extra enthusiasm, but today she barely took note. As she paused by the windows overlooking
Zurichsee
, she stared at the mountains rising from the lake's far shore. To the west was France, the place where she had been born. A place she had not visited since her mother had brought her to Zurich before her first birthday.

“Fraulein?”

She turned to discover that the girls had finished again. Laughing, she said, “Forgive me. My mind is not on Brother John today. Why don't you wash up for dinner?” As they scrambled to their feet, she admonished, “Remember. Frau Herbart expects polite young ladies.”

At the headmistress's name, the girls slowed. Their treble voices lingered in the room as Michelle collected the books. Most days the students picked them up, but she was as anxious as they for classes to be over for the term.

“Michelle?”

“Come in, Elfie.” She smiled at the rail-thin woman in the doorway. In the black gowns all the instructors wore, Elfie's pale skin looked lifeless, but her blue eyes sparkled.

“Is there something in the air?” Elfie asked in her surprisingly deep voice. “My students had no interest in embroidery today.”

Michelle chuckled. “I gave up all attempts to practice French verbs, because they can think only of the holidays next week. We sang.” She did not add that she was as unsettled as her students.

“They will come back from holidays forgetting all we have taught them. We have to retrain them how to stand in line and to take turns at the washbasin.”

“Listen to yourself. You have been here too long!”

“Not as long as you, Michelle.” She gathered up a stack of workbooks. “And you never take a holiday.”

If only she had a place to go … With her mother's death, she had lost her only family. Mayhap other D'Orages lived in France, but she had no idea where. Her mother had never spoken of the days before the French Revolution had left her a widow with an infant daughter.

“Now that the war is over and Napoleon banished,” Michelle said, “I can travel.”

“First to Paris?”

“Why would I go there first?”

“Weren't you born in Paris?”

“I believe
Maman
once mentioned that I was born along the Loire.”

Elfie stared. “She never told you where?”

“I am sure she did. I just forgot. After all,” Michelle continued with a smile as she blew out the lamp on her desk, “what does it matter? Zurich is my home.”

“You cannot bury yourself here at school for the rest of your days.”

“I'm not burying myself here.” She tied her straw bonnet beneath her chin. Drawing the door closed, she walked with Elfie down the narrow corridor. A single lamp lit its length. The long war had made it difficult to obtain even basic necessities. “Where are you going for the holidays?”

“Home.” She smiled. “My brother Edel will be there.”

Michelle took her friend's hand. “I am so happy for you.”

“Mama is thrilled. She has promised delicacies to stuff both of us.”

“She is always trying to fatten you.”

“She fears I eat nothing here.”

“I could write a list for her of all you eat, but it would take too long!” Michelle laughed. Hugging her friend, she repeated, “I am so happy for you.”

“Be happy for Edel. He survived the French conscription.” She grinned. “Why don't you come home with me? Edel has asked to meet you.”

“Me? Why would he want to meet me?”

Elfie giggled. “Because I told him about your ebony hair and dark brown eyes and how you look beautiful even in these horrible gowns we wear.”

“Elfie!”

“'Tis the truth. These are even more hideous than what we wore as students.”

Before Michelle could reply, another voice said, “If you have a complaint, Fraulein, you should come to me.”

“Frau Herbart!” squeaked Elfie, sounding as young as a student.

The rawboned headmistress was even taller than Michelle. With her steel gray hair pulled back in a bun, she was an imposing sight. Only those who knew her well dared to approach close enough to see the warm twinkle in her blue eyes.

“Elfie, I would speak with Michelle alone.” Her resonant voice had the strength of a storm wind.

Nodding, Elfie left after giving Michelle a sympathetic glance.

Frau Herbart opened the outer door and waited for Michelle to precede her. Michelle looked at the sun, which was setting the western sky ablaze. She took a deep breath of the scent emanating from the pines edging the garden. She wondered if anything could be as wonderful as the familiar sight of the gray walls reflecting back the day's last light. The classroom building, the dormitory, and the teachers' quarters overshadowed Frau Herbart's small house. This was Michelle's familiar world.

“You have not spoken of staying at the school during the holidays,” the headmistress said as she came down the steps to the stone walk. “Do you have other plans?”

Michelle hesitated. She loved being at St. Bernard's, but her life had been one quiet day after another, save for the brief times when
Maman
had taken her to live in the apartment on Fraumunsterstrasse in Zurich.
Maman
had never explained where she was going when she returned Michelle to school.
Maman
kissed her farewell and simply left. Michelle wanted to capture some of that spontaneity, to spend time following whims and seeking adventure.

But how could she explain this to Frau Herbart? Michelle doubted if the headmistress had ever had a moment of doubt or a yearning for excitement.

“Mayhap you have plans,” Frau Herbart said. “If so—”

“I have no plans.”

Although her eyebrow quirked, Frau Herbart's voice remained even. “Would you be interested in a temporary position during the winter holiday?”

“What type of position?”

“I think it would be best if Count Vatutin explained himself.”

A dozen questions sprang into Michelle's head, but asking would gain her nothing. Frau Herbart had said this gentleman would explain, and that was the way it would be.

“Thank you,” Michelle murmured when Frau Herbart opened the door to her house.

Warmth surrounded her. The headmistress's home was filled with comfortable furniture instead of the utilitarian cots of the teachers' quarters. A lamp spread a welcoming glow, and the snap of embers on the hearth recalled the winter days Michelle had spent with
Maman
.

Michelle took off her bonnet and placed it on the table near the door. Following the headmistress into the parlor, she saw a tall man next to the settee. His back was to them, so she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders without his seeing. Many times in the past five years, she had met a student's parent in this cozy parlor. She could not recall a student named Vatutin, but the man must have some connection with one of the children. No one came here otherwise.

“Count Vatutin?” prompted Frau Herbart.

He turned, and his emerald gaze appraised Michelle candidly. The lamplight gilded his golden hair and full mustache. His severely sculptured face would draw any woman's eyes. When he smiled, her breath caught, for that smile seemed uncomforable on his lips. She wondered if he usually wore a frown.

Wearing her own strained smile, Frau Herbart said, “Count Vatutin, I would like to introduce you to our mistress of languages, Fraulein Michelle D'Orage.” Turning to Michelle, she added, “Michelle, Count Alexei Vatutin.”

Although the imperious tip of his head suggested she should dip in a curtsy, Michelle held out her hand. He bent over her fingers but did not raise them to his lips. She drew her fingers away, disturbed by his cool touch when her palm was damp with sweat.

“'Tis a pleasure to meet you,” she said into the silence.

“I appreciate your seeing me at this hour, Fraulein D'Orage,” he replied.

“You are Russian!” Michelle gasped as she recognized his accent. Heat climbed her face at Frau Herbart's admonishing glare, which was aimed in her direction.

Count Vatutin's smile did not waver. “I can guess what you are thinking, Fraulein, but my nation and what is left of yours are no longer enemies. I hope the future can herald a long friendship.”

Her eyes narrowed. Words came facilely to him. With these few, he had made her look want-witted.

“I believe we all hope for peace,” Frau Herbart said.

“No sane person wants war.”

Surprised at his fervor, Michelle was curious whether he had fought in the war, but she asked only, “May I inquire why you wished to see me?”

He chuckled. “I was told you possessed much common sense. I can see that is true.”

“Please sit,” Frau Herbart said, motioning to the white settee. “I shall ring for brandy if you wish, Count Vatutin.”

“There is no need.”

“Will you sit?” She smiled at Michelle. “Fraulein D'Orage has had a long day of teaching, and I suspect she would appreciate sitting while we discuss what has brought you here.”

As if he were their host, the count gestured for Michelle to sit. She chose one of the chairs opposite the settee. When he sat facing her, she clasped her hands in her lap while Frau Herbart brought a tray from the sideboard. The headmistress avoided her eyes. Frau Herbart must have known Count Vatutin was calling this evening. Why had she said nothing to Michelle before now?

Frau Herbart set the tea tray on the low table between them. “Would you pour, Michelle?”

“Of course. Count Vatutin, do you take sugar or cream in your tea?”

Instead of answering her, he said, “Frau Herbart, I had hoped you would not go to this trouble.”

“St. Bernard's School for Girls is proud of our history of hospitality,” the headmistress replied in her clipped, correct voice.

“Then I shall not do anything to tarnish your kind traditions.” He smiled at Michelle. “Both cream and sugar, if you please, Fraulein. One enjoys the simple pleasures that have been so long denied.”

She wondered if the tea would freeze in the pot as his stare, which was alpine cold, focused on her again. Pouring tea, she held a cup out to him with a smile as frigid as his. A flicker of some emotion she could not decipher raced through his eyes. She tried to imagine this elegant man in his splendid clothes fighting in the war, for she had no doubt what his cryptic words meant, and realized she could very easily. He would be a terrifying, crafty enemy.

Michelle handed Frau Herbart a cup. The headmistress gave her a rare smile. If it was meant to reassure her, it failed.

Frau Herbart said, “Count Vatutin, I would like to know why you are anxious to hire someone with Fraulein D'Orage's qualifications.”

“Yes, her qualifications.” He turned to Michelle, his smile vanishing.

She fought not to flinch. He slanted toward her, and his eyes slitted. He seemed to be searching for something. Only Frau Herbart and years of lessons at the school halted her from asking if his peculiar stare was a Russian eccentricity.

“The answer is simple, Fraulein D'Orage,” Count Vatutin said, again smiling as he relaxed against the settee. “I am on my way to Vienna to take my place at the Congress. I need someone fluent in several languages, especially French, to serve as my interpreter.” His green eyes fixed her with another uncompromising stare. “Exactly what are your qualifications for this position?”

Irritation scored her. He need not ask as if daring her to prove her worth. If all Russians were as haughty as Count Vatutin, it was no wonder the Allies disdained them. She raised her chin. “Of course, I speak German. It is our primary language here at St. Bernard's. In addition, I am fluent in French and Italian. Also I can manage English with some difficulty.”

“Do you speak Russian?”

“No, my lord.”

Looking back at Frau Herbart, he asked, “How long can you spare her?”

“We have a holiday for several weeks.”