Amour: Historical Romance (Passion and Glory Book 1) (13 page)

“The general belief about Madame de Blaise, is that her mother was mostly or in part a
Nègre
. The mere suspicion of such a thing makes her untouchable from the point of view of all society of quality. You would do well to remember this, no matter who or what her father was. It also stains any progeny of hers with equal measure, despite the marquis’ bloodlines. Do I make myself clear?”

Madame Tarnaut watched Sérolène closely for a reaction. Sérolène looked away so her governess would not see the roiling emotion beneath the placid surface of her blue-grey eyes. She wouldn’t confess anything to her governess now. Not if she took sides against Nicolas and refused to help her.

“I believe I understand what you wish me to know, Madame. But what has all of this to do with me?” Sérolène asked, her tone a mixture of resentment and defiance.

“Precisely, my dear. It does not concern you, nor should it ever concern you, as the particular branch of the Montferraud family tree to which I am referring has been pruned from all decent society. You are young and impressionable, and your aunt merely wishes you to understand the realities of the world. Is this understood?”

Sérolène gave the nod which was expected of her, but it was as empty of meaning as she was of feeling. She began to feel both downhearted and ill.
Why hasn’t Nicolas responded to my letter? Just one word from him and my heart would be at ease, no matter what anyone else says. It’s been several days now since the Comte de Marbéville promised to deliver my note to him. Is it possible the comte could have forgotten his promise? Or, worse yet, could Nicolas have so easily forgotten me?
Could some of the awful things my aunt said about the chevalier and his mother be true?

The vicomtesse began to waver. The seeping poison of doubt had entered her mind and was leeching onto her spirit. She wanted to get out of the shop, to go back home—or better yet, to go to the home of the Marquis de Blaise to confront Nicolas, so she might at least determine once and for all if he loved her in any manner approaching the desperate, aching way she knew she loved him. The shop felt like a vice, squeezing out what little hope she still clung to. Sérolène was frantic to be out of it and away from the attentions of her governess.

“Can we go now, Madame? I’m afraid I’m feeling rather ill. I think perhaps it was something I might have eaten.”

Madame Tarnaut motioned to Éléonore to follow them as Sérolène made her way out into the street, blind and deaf to all but the troubled musings of her heart. One of the lackeys waiting outside opened a parasol to cover her. Sérolène looked up at the sky. It was drab and grey, like her mood. Sérolène made her way across the street to the waiting coach. The lackey followed along, keeping her dry.

“Stay and wait for my
cousine
and Madame Tarnaut,” Sérolène ordered. 

Sérolène took the parasol from the lackey and turned away from him. The last thing she wanted now was company. She began to cross the street, ignoring the mud and the horse manure which soiled her expensive shoes and the hem of her gown. She sighed, her heart in utter turmoil.
Oh what does it matter? What does anything matter?

A small voice called out to her. “Mademoiselle de La Bouhaire, is it you?”

Sérolène stopped in the middle of the muddy thoroughfare, now almost deserted due to the weather and the lack of horse and coach traffic. She looked toward the direction of the voice and recognized the face of nine-year-old Charlotte de Rigaud de Vaudreuil, daughter of Louis-Philippe de Rigaud, Marquis de Vaudreuil, who was second in command of the French Navy in the Americas.

Sérolène made her way toward the young girl, who stood with her own governess near the center of the wide avenue. “Mademoiselle de Vaudreuil? Why whatever on earth are you doing here?”

“I am so very glad you remember me, Mademoiselle. I had so much fun the last time we saw each other at the Governor’s ball. Is Mademoiselle Éléonore with you as well?” Charlotte asked, just as Éléonore ran out to join Sérolène, leaving Madame Tarnaut alone inside the shop to settle the bill for her new hat.

Sérolène nodded toward the shop. “Here she is now. How fortunate we are to encounter you here, as we were just on our way back to our coach.”

Charlotte and Éléonore began to chat merrily. Sérolène stood with patience while they became reacquainted, glad for some diversion from her own heavy thoughts. The rain began to come down in earnest, turning the street into a sticky quagmire.

**

Nicolas sat astride the dappled-grey mount which was his favorite, his leather cloak pulled close around his shoulders against the weather. He was several blocks further north along the same avenue in which Sérolène stood, but he did not know they were so close. He had accompanied Francis to town, and now waited for his brother to conclude his affairs with the clerks and lawyers so they could at last be on their way home.

Nicolas’ mood was surly and impatient He rubbed his eyes. They were red from lack of sleep, and rubbing them didn’t help. It just made them sting. The day matched the dreariness of his mood, but he didn’t mind the rain. Better they should all be drowned in misery than be mocked by a clear blue sky. For days he had thought of nothing else but the sweet kisses stolen from the lips of the Vicomtesse de La Bouhaire
.
With each passing moment, the weight of his longing increased until it felt as if it would burst through his chest
.
But it seemed that nothing could be done about it.

Still, Nicolas longed to see Sérolène again, but it was impossible to arrange a meeting. He wondered if he should ask Francis to help him, but decided against it. What if his brother thought it too dangerous or unseemly an affair? After all, the vicomtesse was cousine to Julienne. Francis might forbid Nicolas to see Sérolène. Then what would he do?
I should be completely undone!

Nicolas’ agitation was felt by his horse, which pranced and pawed nervously in place. Francis emerged from the clerk’s office with his valet in tow. The lackey was carrying a large bundle of documents under his arm.

“There you are at last, Francis. Is it possible for you to have more notes or papers? Surely not all those are required to marry?”

“Ah, you’ve reminded me of something. Forgive me, but with all the preoccupations of late, it completely slipped my mind. I’ve had this letter I’ve been holding onto for you,” Francis said.

The comte removed the envelope Sérolène had given him from the pocket of his waistcoat and handed it up to Nicolas.

“Who is it from?” Nicolas asked, puzzled but hopeful nonetheless.

Francis snorted with laughter. “Come now, Nico, can you not guess? If you cannot, then you should either be taken for a child or pitied for a fool.”

Nicolas frowned at his brother’s teasing. He motioned his own valet to his side.

“Julius, open the parasol so it doesn’t get wet,” Nicolas barked with annoyance.

Before his valet had time to comply, Nicolas tore the envelope open with impatience. His eyes raced over the page, going first to the signature and then reading each line with increasing amazement. He finished the letter, carefully refolded it, and returned it to its envelope, which he placed securely in his waistcoat pocket.

“And?” Francis asked.

Nicolas turned his mount in a quick pirouette, and then raised her up on her hind legs, leaning forward into her neck until he was almost vertical to the ground. As her front legs descended, he urged the mare forward in a standing jump, both fore and hind legs kicking out as he did so. It was a signature measure of both his extreme exuberance and the superb qualities of his horsemanship and mount.

Francis laughed, knowing his brother often preferred to express himself through his horse. “That good, is it?”

Nicolas rode up close to his brother, leaning across the saddle so only the comte could hear him. “She loves me, Francis! By God, she loves me!”

Francis raised his eyebrows, a multitude of questions poised on his lips.

“Look out, Monseigneur!”

A runaway four-horse team and wagon came careening around the corner. Francis jumped back out of the way, alerted by the shout from his valet. The speeding wagon nearly turned over as its wheels lurched and skidded through the mud. Only the alertness of Nicolas’ mount saved him from being clattered into as his mare pranced out of the path of the oncoming juggernaut. Spurring his horse, the chevalier galloped off in pursuit.

“I’m going after it!” Nicolas shouted.

“Nico! Come back. It’s too dangerous!”

The words were swallowed up by the rain. Nicolas’ grey mare was already flying on the wind in an effort to catch the runaway wagon. Despite the muddy conditions, the wagon gathered more speed as the horses raced straight and headlong down the main avenue.

“Come on, come on!” Nicolas cried, encouraging his mare forward. He never gave her the whip. She was too swift and willing to ever need it.

It took him just a block to come alongside the team’s rearmost horses, but he needed to grasp the bridle of the lead horse in order to slow it and bring the others under control. He could hear the screams and shouts of passersby as they realized the danger in their midst, but he paid them no mind, all his attention centered on the rhythm of his mount as he pulled even with the team leader.
Now to grasp the bridle
. A blur of pale blue and white flashed across the edge of his vision. Nicolas looked up. The sight before him stopped his heart.

A small group was clustered near his beloved. All of them were just seconds away from being trampled by the runaways.

“Séro!” Nicolas cried out in warning.

He knew it was already too late.
I’ll never slow them in time. I’ve got to turn them instead!
Nicolas released the reins and stood up in the saddle. Then, with the invincible audacity of youth, he leapt for all he was worth.

***

Sérolène heard the shout. The cry pulled Sérolène’s attention away from her friends, and she was suddenly aware of her wider surroundings. She felt the rumbling of the ground beneath her feet and the approach of a relentless thudding and churning which seemed to grow louder with every second. She turned toward the sound just as her governess emerged from the shop.

The piercing wail of Madame Tarnaut’s warning scream froze the vicomtesse and the others in her party in place, the effect entirely the opposite of what was needed as the runaway team and wagon surged toward the group. Sérolène stared directly at the oncoming horses, their mouths flecked with foam, eyes red and wild. For a fleeting second she dreamt she saw Nicolas’ face amidst the surging mass of beasts.

Sérolène clasped Éléonore to her in a final protective gesture, the pretty white parasol in her hand falling away into the mud. Too terrified to move, she closed her eyes and waited to be trampled to death.

“Dear God, please don’t make it hurt.”

Nicolas’ leap had carried him across the back of the closest lead horse, and he clung to the manes of the front pair of animals to prevent himself being thrown beneath the harnesses and crushed underfoot. Catching the reins of both horses in each hand, he managed to get a foot on the bracing harness to steady himself, but his extra weight and exertions on the reins did nothing to halt the pace of the speeding juggernaut. He looked ahead, everything seemed to move in slow motion. Suddenly the world was quiet and still. He saw Sérolène’s face before him framed in white, so beautiful, like an angel at the gates of heaven beckoning him onward. He felt oddly at peace, as if his body was already rising upward. A part of him was tempted to succumb to the enticing calm, just let his grip loosen, and join her in death.

Breathe me with life!
The words from Sérolène’s poem flashed across his mind. Nicolas commanded the burning muscles of his arms and legs to ultimate effort, filling them with the last reserves of his courage and strength. Jerking violently on both reins with all his remaining power, he demanded the runaways submit to his will.

“Turn, damn you! Turn!” he roared.

The beasts at last gave way before the greater force of Nicolas’ desperate pull. The horses veered sharply. The lead right horse caught a hoof in the mud and its foreleg snapped like a twig, taking it down and pulling its side partner with it. The rear pair continued on, unable to halt their momentum, surging into the back of the leaders before they too tumbled over, causing the wagon to swerve from its fatal course and fly up in the air, carrying with it horses and everything attached as it hurtled end over end before finally careening into the wall of a building. The contents of the wagon and everything attached to it were scattered with an ear-splitting clatter. Then the street was still. The gentle pattering of the rain, the only sound.

Sérolène was stunned to be alive. She could still feel the hot breath of the horses on her skin, smell the strong musk of horseflesh in her nostrils, so close had they been to carrying her away. She looked down at Éléonore, then at the ground around her feet.  Her parasol, which was no more than a foot or two away, lay broken and trampled in the mud. Silently, she gave thanks to God for the miracle of her survival. The awareness of light, sound, and sensation came flooding back. The galloping thump of a heartbeat echoed loudly in her ears. For a moment Sérolène shivered like a windblown leaf, as the retreating specter of death rushed past, to look elsewhere for souls. She clasped Éléonore close, then turned to look toward Charlotte and the young girl’s governess, who were also untouched by catastrophe.