Amour: Historical Romance (Passion and Glory Book 1) (14 page)

Men began to pour out of nearby buildings, converging en masse on the twisted wreckage of wagon and horses. Madame Tarnaut ran out into the street, clasping Éléonore and Sérolène to her tightly. She said a prayer of thanks as she embraced her charges, finding the affirmation of divine will in the simple press of flesh against living flesh.

The plaintive neighing of a horse caused Sérolène to look up. A beautiful and well-saddled dappled-grey mare walked aimlessly around the perimeter of the disaster. The horse pawed the ground in agitation. Sérolène disengaged herself from the arms of her governess and walked toward the unsettled horse. She knew the insignia on the saddle blanket. The light rain caressed her face like salt-less tears, flooding her senses with a deepening dread she found impossible to shake.

Sérolène’s heart clenched in panic. “It’s the Montferraud crest.”

His face! Did I only dream it, or was it real?
Sérolène wandered toward the chaos of the wreckage, drawn toward the center of the disaster, though every fiber of her young being recoiled at the ghastly scene. Two of the horses were dead, legs and backs broken, one disemboweled on a broken spar of wood and bleeding profusely onto the ground. The other two screamed and writhed in pain, trying to stand though each had more than one shattered limb. Sérolène put her hands over her ears to try to shut out the death cries of the animals, which intermingled with frantic human shouts. Men worked their way between overturned barrels, crates, and boxes. Some of the contents of the containers had spilled onto the muddy earth, making for a scene of almost complete disorder. A dark premonition pulled her forward toward a dense pile of wreckage. At the center of the heap, several men worked with frantic effort to overturn the shattered remnants of the wagon, its broken, splintered wheels making the effort all the more treacherous and difficult.

“There’s someone trapped underneath!”

“It’s the hero who turned the team away. I saw him leap across and mount the lead horses!”

“Mademoiselle de La Bouhaire, are you all right? You must come away from there, it’s no place for a lady.”

Sérolène turned to stare into the face of the Comte de Marbéville. She pointed toward the grey mare now under the control of Francis’ valet. “Monsieur de Marbéville, how relieved I am to see you! Your horse seems to have gotten itself lost.”

Francis looked at Sérolène with grim directness. “I wish it were mine, Mademoiselle. But that is my brother’s horse. It was he who gave pursuit to the wagon. I pray to God his courage has not at last gotten the better of him.”

Sérolène stared dully at Francis as the sweet taste of relief turned to bitter ashes upon her tongue. She took Francis’ arm with trepidation, shuffling closer toward the center of the catastrophe. They both watched helplessly while a crowd of men struggled in desperation to free a body from the heavy wreckage.

“He’s still alive! Quick, fetch a doctor!”

“Does anyone recognize him? Brave soul! Did you see him leap and mount the runaways?”

“Surely he saved several lives today! Brave hero! What audacity!”

Francis turned toward Sérolène. “Please wait here, Mademoiselle.”

The comte went forward to take charge, commanding his lackey to have a suitable stretcher made to carry his brother, then sending Nicolas’ valet Julius off to find a doctor at once. When Francis reached Nicolas’ body, he gasped in horror. It seemed impossible Nicolas could have survived the force of the accident. Nicolas’ torso and lower body were covered in blood, as was his face, down which a continuous stream of gore ran from a gaping wound above his forehead.

Despite Francis’ warnings, Sérolène had followed along close behind him. She stopped when she saw the motionless body which had now been freed from the wreckage. She halted in place as she recognized the long muscular legs, the well-built torso which was now twisted at so odd an angle, the arms flung wide as if beckoning her into their embrace. There was blood everywhere, so much that it seemed one body could not possibly have been the sole source of it all.

Sérolène willed herself to look at the gore-covered face. As soon as she saw it, her mind was forced to accept what her heart still refused to believe. It
was
Nicolas.
Her
Nicolas, lying bloodied and motionless on the ground.

“Oh my poor love!” Sérolène wailed in anguish.

Four simple words. Words she would never remember uttering, as she fainted dead away and her head thumped against the ruined spar of an axle brace.

“Mademoiselle!” Francis shouted.

The comte rushed to Sérolène’s side. Her hat had been knocked from her head by the fall and her hair had tumbled out of it. Francis lifted Sérolène in his arms and carried her toward her coach. Madame Tarnaut rushed toward them in alarm. Éléonore held onto the hem of Madame Tarnaut’s skirts as she ran. Both she and her governess were crying.

“Our estate isn’t far from here. We must get her to a doctor at once. She struck her head as she fell,” Francis explained.

The comte lifted Sérolène into the coach with care. The footmen had to open the roof of the cabriolet so that he could lift her inside.

“Madame, I must now see to my brother. I shall send my valet with you as guide. Go with as much speed as you can and we will meet you at Caracol.”

Madame Tarnaut nodded once and pulled Éléonore up into the coach with her. As soon as Francis’ valet was aboard with the driver, they headed off as fast as the horses could take them.

Francis turned back toward the wrecked wagon. A makeshift stretcher had been fashioned for Nicolas. The church was nearby. They would take him there first. He looked more in need of a priest than a doctor. But perhaps they might find both.

“Quickly boys, take him to the church!” Francis ordered.

The men picked up the litter and began to trot off. Francis mounted his horse and rode after them. They went only two blocks before Francis saw Julius galloping toward them, waving his arms frantically to attract their attention.

“Follow me, Monseigneur! Doctor Boisvert is in a house just near Place de Clugny. They’re ready to receive the chevalier. Hurry!”

It was three blocks away. West down Rue Espagnole for two and then left on Rue Taranne. The men ran all the way, determined to save the brave boy who had risked everything to protect defenseless women and children. It took them almost five minutes to get there. The doctor was waiting as promised and they hustled Nicolas inside.

They carried Nicolas into the main dining room and lay him down amidst the leavings of the mid-day meal. Boisvert had been paying a visit to a friend. Julius had come upon him by chance, shouting for a doctor as he had galloped up and down the streets.

Boisvert had already taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Francis stood nearby as the doctor began to assess the condition of the patient. Boisvert shook his head as he examined the extent of the wounds, then dictated a series of crisp orders to his own valet.

“Send to the garrison for help. I’ll need my assistants and a hospital wagon as well. We may need to operate and I haven’t the tools to do it here. Bring a priest with you when you return, in case we have need.”

Francis looked ashen. “I am the Comte de Marbéville and this is my brother, the Vicomte d’Argentolle. Is there anything I can do? Please Monsieur, do everything you can to save my brother.”

Boisvert already had Nicolas stripped to the waist and was busy cataloguing the damage. He had bandages and towels brought to clean Nicolas’ head and torso, so the real extent of the injuries could be taken. Once he was sure of what needed to be done, Boisvert turned back to speak to the comte. More than his career could be made if he were to save the life of the man lying on the table. To have the Marquis de Blaise and his sons as patrons would be an immense benefit. But in order to gain it, he had to save the chevalier. Failure was unthinkable.

“Send your man to your estate and tell them to make a bed ready. If we can stop the bleeding from the wound to his head, I believe your brother will survive. He is very strong. No broken bones as far as I can see. It will be several days before we know for certain. That will be long enough to see if there are any serious internal injuries.”

Francis summoned Nicolas’ groom, who stood watching at the back of the room. “Julius ride home and see that things are prepared. I shall stay here with my brother.”

Doctor Boisvert nodded toward a pile of bandages which he had fashioned from his host’s table linens. “Now, Monsieur le Comte, if you want to help save your brother, please take off your jacket and lend me a hand. I hope you have a strong stomach. We have plenty of bloody work ahead of us.”

The pain became a persistent pulse, a throbbing ache which burst through the soothing black cocoon of unconsciousness, each wave stronger than the last. Sérolène came awake. She sat up in an unfamiliar bed, disoriented and alarmed. The bed was enclosed in a curtained canopy for privacy, but as she glimpsed at the room beyond the half open drapes, nothing about it was familiar. She knew almost all the rooms in her uncle’s estate, but she’d never seen this one before. Alone in the darkness of early evening, a wave of panic struck as she realized she wore only her underdress. How had she been undressed and delivered here? Where was her governess? What had happened to her? Where was she?

Sérolène was too frightened to call out or move from the bed. She fought back tears of alarm as she tried to remember what had occurred. In the distance she heard the sound of a whinnying horse. She remembered the beautiful dappled-grey, walking in circles in the mud. Red mud. Tinted with the color of blood. Nicolas’ blood.
The accident in the Cap!
Her hand flew to her mouth as she let out a startled cry.

The door to the room opened. A woman dressed in a pale green gown, entered and approached her bedside, carrying a candelabrum with her. The gown was exquisitely fitted and tailored, with patterned swirls like pale yellow clouds. She was so beautiful, Sérolène wondered if she were at the gates of heaven, and the vision before her an angel sent to act as herald.

“Awake at last, my dear vicomtesse? We were so very worried about you. Your
cousine
and Madame Tarnaut were beside themselves with concern. Does your head still trouble you? Francis said it was a severe blow you took when you fainted. I suppose given the circumstances, it’s a small miracle you have just that sole misfortune as a complaint.”

The woman’s voice was as striking as her aspect, a chorus of rich mellow tones full of kindness and warmth. The stranger seated herself on the edge of the bed, close to Sérolène. Her eyes were a magnificent pale green. A hand reached out and began gently stroking Sérolène’s forehead. Sérolène leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. The pain began to ebb away, and her anxiety subsided along with it.

“That does feel much better, Madame.”

The angel leaned forward and pressed her lips to Sérolène’s forehead. It was the natural act of any mother. The touch upon her brow made the vicomtesse feel so safe. She lay back, staring up at her visitor, tumbling willingly into the vibrant and soothing pools of green. Sérolène only knew of one other pair of eyes as striking as the ones she peered into.

“Oh. I’ve forgotten my manners, haven’t I? You must be wondering where on earth you are and who I am.”

Sérolène nodded. “Yes, Madame.”

“I am Madame de Blaise. You’re at the estate of the Marquis de Blaise, near Caracol. Everyone is at supper at present, but I worried you might be alarmed to find yourself in such unaccustomed surroundings. So I waited close by in case you should awaken.”

Nicolas’ mother!
I should have guessed who she might be from those extraordinary eyes.
Sérolène continued to stare at the marquise, as if trying to fathom the totality of her entire life with a single gaze.

“What is it, child? You are among friends. There’s no need to be afraid,” Madame de Blaise said.

“I’m sorry, Madame, I didn’t mean to stare so. And I’m not afraid anymore, now that you’re here and I know nothing untoward has happened to me. It’s just…well, I had no idea anyone could be as beautiful as you are.”

The marquise smiled at the compliment. It was a thing of radiance, though the turn of her mouth was ringed with sadness. Sérolène was moved by such poignant otherworldly beauty. When the marquise smiled it seemed a mystic thing, imbued with magic to wash away the troubles of all who beheld it. She supposed she could spend hours just gazing upon such a face.

“You are very sweet to say so, my dear child.”

Sérolène reached out for the marquise’ hand. Only after she’d grasped it did she realize how forward she was being. They hardly knew each other, after all. But it had seemed the natural thing to do, and the marquise hands were so long and refined. And almost as large as her own. She was drawn to them, as she was drawn to the marquise herself.

“You have such beautiful hands, Madame. Everything about you is so perfect. If my mother were still alive, I should wish for her to be exactly like you.”

Sérolène’s reward was another charmed smile. Sérolène felt so at ease. She wanted to lean against the marquise, to feel herself gathered into the sanctuary of a maternal embrace. But that would perhaps be going too far, and she didn’t want to spoil things.

“May I ask how I came to be here, Madame?”

The marquise’s gaze turned serious. Sérolène could see she was troubled, but not defeated. Wasn’t that a hopeful sign? Could it mean that Nicolas was still alive? She had to find out what had happened to him and if by any chance, she could see him.

“Francis had you sent directly to our estate, given the shortness of the journey and the general worry over your condition. When you arrived with your governess, your young
cousine
seemed quite overwhelmed. She cried and cried for you. I believe she feared you dead because you could not be roused, even with smelling salts. Madame Tarnaut deemed it best to convey her home at once, but the doctors were adamant that you could not be moved. That is how you came to be entrusted to our care. You’ve been here nearly three days now. I undressed you myself and sent your clothes to be laundered. At times you awakened, but you were disoriented and not fully yourself. I fed you when I could. But I’m not surprised you don’t remember. Your doctors advised that you might suffer from headaches and spells of dizziness because of the blow to your head, so you must rest and avoid all excitement for at least several days, and you are not even to attempt to travel until you are completely free of headaches. Your
cousine
Julienne is due to arrive soon to keep you company. I thought her presence might reassure you,” Madame de Blaise explained.

Sérolène pushed herself up to a sitting position on the bed. “Thank you for all you have done, Madame. I am deeply grateful for your many kindnesses.”

“Not at all, my dear. Do you feel yourself well enough to take some nourishment? Would you like me to have some soup sent in for you?”

The vicomtesse hugged her knees to her chest, suddenly self-conscious about her lack of outer garments. “I would prefer to stay with you, Madame, if I may. I feel well enough to stand. At least I believe I do. But I have nothing to wear save what I had on.”

The marquise stroked Sérolène’s cheek. She apprised the vicomtesse with the measuring gaze of a tailor. “I believe you and I are almost the same size. If you feel well enough to join the rest of us for supper, perhaps we can find one of my gowns to suit you?”

“I do, Madame. Thank you….”

The vicomtesse looked down at her toes. As far as the marquise was concerned, she and Nicolas were only the most remote of acquaintances. How could she uncover the details of what she wished to know without revealing the secret love she had so carefully concealed from everyone? Sérolène had never been a being of artifice or guile. She stared up at the marquise and the thing she wanted to know most of all tumbled out of her all at once.

“I saw Nicolas…I mean the Chevalier d’Argentolle, lying in the street. It was so awful. Please, Madame, I must know of his fate. How fares my…how fares the chevalier?”

It wasn’t a casual inquiry, asked out of courtesy or any other form of politeness. The urgency of the plea shone in the vicomtesse’s gaze, and the marquise could sense that Sérolène more than ached to know her answer. When she at last gave reply, her hands trembled, betraying the true extent of her fears.

“My son was badly hurt and still needs to rest after what happened, though he was conscious for a brief period once he was brought here yesterday. Dr. Boisvert was with him all night. He said the first two days are the most crucial in such cases. We have just passed that first threshold and by God’s mercy… my son yet lives. The doctor believes the worst danger is behind us now. Nicolas is young and strong, and we are all hopeful that he will make a full recovery, though only time will tell.”

Sérolène embraced the marquise, upon hearing the welcome news. “Oh, I’m so glad, Madame! Please, may I
see
him?”

The marquise held the vicomtesse in her arms.
How is it possible that this sweet and fetching young child could have any claim on my Nicolas?

The marquise stroked Sérolène’s back to soothe her, then took the vicomtesse’s face in her hands and tenderly pressed her forehead against Sérolène’s. “Not just yet, my dear, but I promise you will soon. You’ve not had a proper meal since your accident. Perhaps we should get you something to eat first?”

Nicolas was resting now and the marquise wouldn’t’ have him disturbed. Not even for so fine a reason as this bright and pretty thing, with eyes so blue and serene. Like the skies over her native Odda.

“I believe I
would
like to join you for supper if I may, Madame. I suppose I
am
feeling a bit hungry. And after we have eaten, perhaps I might also prevail upon Madame’s kindness, to then grant my wish.”

Madame de Blaise smiled at Sérolène’s obedient persistence. The vicomtesse wasn’t going to give up without a fight. The marquise admired tenacity, in life and in love. It was a characteristic she herself possessed in abundance.

“Perhaps you might indeed, my dear. Now come with me; my
chambre
is quite near. Shall we go and see if we can find something suitable to fit that charming figure of yours?”

Madame de Blaise rose and offered Sérolène a supporting arm. She guided the vicomtesse through a series of short corridors until they reached a bright bedroom suite decorated entirely in varying shades of yellow. The walls were covered with a very fine wallpaper adorned with hand-painted vases and flowers, and there was a large, canopied bed at the end of the room, framed by full-length portraits of Madame de Blaise on one side and Monsieur de Blaise on the other.

“It’s such a bright and beautiful
chambre,
Madame.” 

“I am pleased you like it, my dear. Come, my wardrobe is this way. I’m sure we’ll discover something just right for you.”

They reached a tall set of double doors, which the marquise pushed inward to reveal a large walk-in enclosure. Madame de Blaise rang a small bell which rested on a wall sconce just inside the door. Within seconds, her two handmaids appeared in answer to the summons. The maids brought candleholders with them, and proceeded to light the two large candle stands in the center of the space, so that there was ample light.

Sérolène aahed in wonder. “It’s splendid Madame, I’ve never seen so many varieties of colors and patterns.”

The marquise gave Sérolène a tour of the large space, pointing out where things were, and how it was all arranged. There were dozens of gowns hung along the walls on hooks, arranged by color and by function. Two large wardrobes and four long chests along the head of the T also contained more folded dresses, underdresses, stockings and accessories. The inside back wall of the enclosure had built in shelves which stored a variety of hats. Most were stored in individual boxes, others sat in the open. 

The marquise led Sérolène to a section of very fine dresses on the left of the T-shaped enclosure. “Here are the suitable evening gowns. Go on, choose whatever you’d like. My maids will then help you to bathe and dress.”

Madame de Blaise watched Sérolène run her fingers across the luxurious materials of each gown. Though Sérolène paused to consider several dresses, she seemed unable to decide upon a suitable choice. The marquise pulled out the skirt of a pale lavender gown with a pattern of flowers, bees, and hummingbirds stitched in silver thread.

“Would you like to try it on? The lavender is delightful and matches your eyes exceedingly well.”

“Yes please, Madame. If you think I might do it justice.”

Madame de Blaise turned to address her maids. “Take this one, the
polonaise,
and the indigo as well. Bring her some new stockings and my lighter stays. Bone, not iron. While you see to her bath and toilette, I’ll inform everyone that our guest is at last awake.”

Both handmaids curtsied as the marquise took her leave. One was taller and darker than the other, with skin the color of coffee grounds. She took down the three dresses to be fitted. The other ushered Sérolène to the adjoining bath room, where she directed the vicomtesse to stand on an ornate oriental rug. As soon as the taller maid entered the bath, the two began to attend to the vicomtesse by promptly lifting Sérolène’s underdress up past her waist and then over her head. Embarrassed at standing stark naked before strangers, the vicomtesse used her arms to try and conceal the trinity of her most intimate treasures. The display of such modest innocence however, greatly amused the marquise’s pair of maids.

“Mademoiselle is too pretty to be shy!” the taller of the maids opined.

Sérolène wasn’t sure if she were being complimented or teased. She eyed the maid who had spoken with doubt. Sérolène’s evident lack of belief in the fullness of her own charms prompted the other maid, who was lighter complexioned and half a head shorter than the other, to offer an opinion as well.