Amour: Historical Romance (Passion and Glory Book 1) (12 page)

“Is it true, the terrible things Maman says about Madame de Blaise and your brother?”

Julienne saw Francis bristle. She hurried to explain herself. “I don’t think the same as Maman. Please believe me that I don’t. I just—well, I’ve been told only one side of things. If I’m to be your wife I must know the truth, so I may properly defend your interests as my own.”

Francis sighed. He kissed Julienne’s forehead to show he was not upset with her, then paused to gather his thoughts.

“I suppose your question is a fair one, and in truth, the best answer is to visit our estate and become better acquainted with Madame de Blaise and Nicolas yourself, so you may come to your own conclusions, though I have no doubt you will in the end see things as I do. I do not know what Madame de Salvagnac had or has to say. All I can tell you is what I know and what I have experienced and felt.”

Julienne lay her head on Francis’ shoulder again, waiting for him to continue.

“With regard to Nicolas, the answer is quite simple. He is the best of brothers and the best of men. The more you come to know him, the more you shall see the truth of my words. If he has a fault, it is purely a noble one. His sense of honor runs so deeply and so strong, at times it blinds him to anything else. As for Madame de Blaise, I was eight years old when I lost my mother to yellow fever. For two years following her death I was the most miserable and introspective of souls. When my father met my future stepmother, I of course resented their happiness at first, but from the beginning she was unwavering in her determination to be a mother to me despite my resolve to resist her,” the comte began, sweeping away the cobwebs of time from often bitter memories.

“Did you know my brother was born in the middle of a hurricane?”

Julienne shook her head.

“No. I did not know at all.”

“The Devil’s Storm of 1765. He almost died and so did Madame de Blaise, and it was my fault. My father was away at the time on Martinique, and Madame de Blaise wanted to send me further inland from the Cap to avoid the worst of the storm. I refused to go, and I ordered my valet to have the carriage take me to our house in town, where I was determined to ride out the tempest on my own. The storm struck the Cap with such force, the shutters were blown off and the whole place shook to its roots. I cowered in a closet, certain the entire house would collapse in upon me.”

“You must have been so frightened!” Julienne exclaimed.

“I was both terrified and appalled at my own stupidity. Too young to know what a force a real hurricane was, too stubborn to leave and seek help. But when things were darkest, when even the light of the sun was blotted out by black clouds, and all I could hear was the roar of the wind like the sound of some great terrible beast, I heard Madame de Blaise calling my name—calling out for me. I got up from where I was hiding and ran out to her. It was the first and only time I called her Maman.”

“She’d gone out in the storm to find you?”

“She had. I’ll never forget the sight of her, clothes torn from braving the tempest, arms bleeding from the many cuts she had taken from branches and other debris tossed up by the powerful gusts, her belly full to bursting with the child she carried. She had everything to gain from letting me die where I was, but instead of leaving me to my fate, she risked her own life and the life of her unborn child to rescue me from my own foolishness. She gave birth to Nicolas not five minutes later than she found me, squatting in the wine cellar, into which refuge we fled as the eye of the storm passed over us. I remember my brother’s first cries as he entered the world. I helped swaddle him as we all lay huddled together, a single lamp providing the only light we had. I felt so ashamed at what I’d done, knew how angry my father would be with me when he found out, but she pulled me close to her, even as she held my newborn brother in her other arm, calling me her dear Francis and smothering me with kisses more precious to my heart than gold. It was then I remembered the true meaning of a mother’s love—of beauty, of honor, of truth.”

The comte stopped there. The emotion carrying away his voice. Julienne wrapped her arms around him, touched that he had shared so much with her.

“Was Monsieur de Blaise very cross with you?”

Francis shook his head.

“He would have been if he had found out the truth, but Madame de Blaise never told my father what really occurred the day my brother was born. She only said she had gone out to check on her father and the carriage had gotten stranded in the storm, forcing her to take refuge in the Cap. Her own father was killed the same day as my brother came into the world. His house collapsed in on him less than a league from where we had taken shelter. I always feared she would hold me in some way responsible for having prevented his rescue, but she preferred to credit me with saving her life and my brother’s as well. There’s much more, of course. But this, Mademoiselle, is all you really need know of the character of Madame la Marquise de Blaise.”

“I promise you, Francis, I will learn to love her and Nicholas as dearly as you do.”

It was a vow sincerely given. Though she did not yet love her husband to be, she respected him, and hoped to learn to love him some day. Today they had made a good start. Perhaps in time, she would learn even more to further cement the earnestness of her oath.

“I thank you for your assurances, Mademoiselle. I have no doubt that soon enough, you will deem yourself to have adjudged wisely, and well.”

*

Éléonore was very pleased to try on hat after hat as she amused herself in the most fashionable dress shop in Cap François. She was watched over by her Governess Madame Tarnaut, and Sérolène. The vicomtesse was distracted and out of sorts. A mood she had been more prone to assume as of late. She plucked at the fringes of her blue and white
polonaise
, while Éléonore amused herself trying on hats and looking at bolts of fabric for a new dress.

“What about this one, Lena? Do you like the pink ribbon or the yellow one?”

“Yellow. It suits you better, Elli,” Sérolène replied.

Though the prospect of coming into town to shop was something Sérolène usually looked forward to, her disposition was unusually reserved. Even Éléonore’s attempts to draw her into their usual dress-up games, using the many spools of the store’s expensive fabric as their props, provoked no real enthusiasm.

“What’s the matter, Lena? I thought you liked this place. Don’t you want to try anything on?” Éléonore asked.

“No, Elli, not today, but you go ahead. I’ll watch you, if you’d like.”

Sérolène manufactured a smile to encourage her young
cousine
, who grinned and sauntered off to occupy three fawning shop attendants. The assistants were all too eager to cater to the whims of their wealthy and noble patrons. Smiles produced money, and they had plenty to give.

While Sérolène moped and Éléonore played, their governess watched them both from her perch in the corner of the shop. It was time to have a talk with the vicomtesse. That much Madame Tarnaut could see. Never had she remembered her charge being in such an extended state of melancholy. The vicomtesse was of an age where the eddies of emotional turbulence occurred all too often. And one needed to look with care into what was generating the disturbing current. 

“Come sit with me, Mademoiselle. You can well observe young Éléonore from this vantage point,” Madame Tarnaut prompted.

Sérolène obediently crossed the room to sit next to her governess. She tried to manufacture a smile in an effort to appear more cheerful than she felt, but the middle-aged former nun was not so easily fooled. She had been with Sérolène too long not to be able to divine the vicomtesse’s moods. Something was amiss, and she aimed to find out precisely what.

Nearly forty years old with no children of her own, Adorée Hélène Tarnaut had spent more than half her life in the convent, first as a pupil, and then as a lay sister. She was a handsome woman, with brown eyes and matching hair, and a face which exuded both trust and compassion. The education of young girls was her life’s work, but although she had a devout religious calling, she preferred to fulfill her mission outside the walls of the convent. She had known Sérolène since the vicomtesse was born, when she had been engaged by the late Vicomte and Vicomtesse de La Bouhaire to care for their only child. Sérolène had grown much attached to her governess after the tragic early death of her parents. Madame Tarnaut had then followed the vicomtesse into the Salvagnac household where she was placed in charge of all the children. As Madame Tarnaut watched Sérolène and her young
cousine
amuse themselves, she reflected, with more than a little regret, that these two young girls especially, were the closest experience to children of her own that she would ever have.

“What ails you, my dear child? Such a long face is not the visage of the happy girl I’ve been accustomed to seeing.”

Madame Tarnaut smoothed the front of her
robe à la polonaise
with her right hand, picking off a piece of stray thread, which had wafted down onto the dark folds of her skirt from one of the bolts of cloth Éléonore had been playing with. Though she was no longer a nun, and had therefore abandoned the costume of her order, she preferred to dress in a similar manner, at least as far as choice of color. Invariably, she appeared only in black, dark blue, or various shades of grey. She could be stern when required, but it was not natural to her temperament. Discipline was achieved with a mixture of coaxing, sweetness and the occasional inoculation of guilt.

“It’s nothing, Madame, nothing at all, really.”

“Well, it must be a very big nothing to fill you with such melancholy. Might I ask if it has anything to do with Madame de Salvagnac’s lengthy inquisition some days ago, following the visit of Monsieur de Marbéville?”

Sérolène’s face showed her surprise. “You heard the conversation with my aunt, Madame?”

“When one has spent as much time as I have in the quietude of the convent, one develops very good habits of hearing. Yes, my dear, I overheard.”

Sérolène eyes pleaded for a sympathetic hearing. “I don’t understand why my aunt displayed such choler with me, Madame. After all, wasn’t it she who said we should be on our best behavior for our guests? What did she observe of my conduct with Monsieur d’Argentolle to merit such stern pronouncements as she took against me, or the chevalier?”

“Perhaps it was not your comportment she was concerned with, but the behavior of Monsieur d’Argentolle? She may have learned something at Madame de Talonge’s to put her on her guard.”

“But why, Madame? The chevalier seemed the perfect gentleman to me, both in his manners and his actions. I don’t understand why my aunt should adopt such a fervent dislike for him, particularly when he is soon to be her own nephew by marriage,” Sérolène reasoned.

Madame Tarnaut noted the heat with which Sérolène had responded in defense of the chevalier, behavior not at all in character for the vicomtesse, who was known for her dry and often cerebral form of discourse. For the first time, Madame Tarnaut began to consider if perhaps Madame de Salvagnac had been right in cautioning her niece against the company of the handsome but tainted young man. She glanced up at Éléonore who had asked for three hats and another roll of fabric to be brought out so she could inspect them, before turning her attention back to the vicomtesse.

“May I ask what you know of Monsieur d’Argentolle’s background?”

“I know he is the son of the Marquis de Blaise…and Madame de Blaise,” Sérolène said.

“And what do you know of Madame de Blaise?”

“Do we speak now of truth, Madame, or of slander and innuendo? For of the former I know but very little, and of the latter much more than I believe I should care to know.”

Madame Tarnaut regarded Sérolène with a wary eye. The vicomtesse was exceedingly clever. As her governess, Madame Tarnaut was aware of this fact more than anyone. But what they spoke of now was no trivial matter. Despite the deep affection she felt for Sérolène, when it came to the reputation of her charge, no indulgence could be permitted. For a woman of quality, there was no quarter asked or given when it came to defending one’s honor. Any spark of willfulness had to be brutally stamped out, before it grew into a conflagration of potentially dreadful consequences.

“We speak of a mixture of both, Mademoiselle, for such is the nature and the fact of reputation. Regardless of whatever fine qualities Madame de Blaise might possess, the single most important trait from the point of view of decent society is the one which she cannot with surety, lay claim to.”

Sérolène kept her eyes downcast on the floorboards beneath her feet. “And what trait do you speak of precisely, Madame?”

“A white mother.”

“Her father was from a noble Norwegian house, Madame…”

“You seem to know a good deal more about the marquise than you’ve admitted. But who was her mother? From what noble tree did
her
ancestors descend? The lady is dead, and her daughter does not know, or perhaps will not say, so the truth cannot or will not be divined now, but despite the marquise’s silence, the purity or corruption in one’s blood comes through in appearance, no matter how subtle,” Madame Tarnaut pressed on.

Madame Tarnaut straightened her back, directing her sternest gaze upon the vicomtesse. Sérolène started to say something, but when confronted with the tangible reproach of her governess, instead remained silent and sullen.
This correction will not be easy to administer, though I can see and hear how necessary it is
.