“Oh, but I mean to go to Paris to court to seek a husband,” Autumn replied frankly. “Certainly no one of importance lives in the provinces,
Oncle.
I am an heiress, you know, and will accept only an aristocrat of good family with his own wealth, so I may be certain he doesn’t wed me merely for mine, and will not love me.”
Philippe de Saville laughed heartily.
“Mon Dieu, ma cousine,
she is like every other woman in this family. Outspoken, and most frank.
Ma petite,”
he then said to Autumn, “your mama will explain the situation to you, but for the moment there is no real court in Paris because of our civil disturbances. Within the next year, however, that will change. In the meantime you will partake of society here in the region, and you will not find it lacking, I promise you.” Rising, he directed his next speech to Jasmine. “Come to Archambault for the twelve days of Christmas, but come before, on St. Thomas’s Day. My sisters will probably come to see you before then, so they may begin their plotting.” He bowed to both women and then took his leave.
“No court?”
Autumn looked crestfallen.
“Perhaps it is better that you make your debut into society here first,” the mother soothed her daughter, secretly relieved. Autumn couldn’t know it, but court was such a bother, and the French court was more formal and devious than England’s court.
I don’t know if I have the patience for this sort of thing anymore,
Jasmine thought.
“I like Oncle Philippe,” Autumn said with a smile.
“You will like his sisters too,” Jasmine promised, “and they will be most valuable in introducing you into society here. You are related by blood through your great-grandfather de Marisco, whose mother was the second wife of the Comte de Cher and great-grandmother of Oncle Philippe.”
“I never knew I had a French family on your side, Mama. Papa would occasionally mention his uncles in France. Where are they?”
“Nearer to Paris. Eventually we shall meet them when the young king reaches his majority and the country is safe.”
“I will need new gowns if I am to go to Archambault,” Autumn said slyly. “You would not want me to appear a poor and unfashionable Scots cousin, Mama.”
Jasmine laughed. “We will wait until my cousins Gaby and Antoinette arrive, which, if the weather remains pleasant, will certainly be in a day or so. They will know just what to do.”
“May I ride this afternoon?” Autumn asked her mother.
“Of course,
ma bébé,
but remember, do not stray far. You do not know your way yet,” Jasmine cautioned.
Autumn loved the horse she now rode. He was a tall and slender black gelding she had named, simply, Noir. She had changed from her gown into dark green woolen breeches lined in silk to protect her delicate skin from chafing; a white silk shirt that tied at the neck and had full sleeves; and a dark leather jerkin with carved ivory buttons edged in silver. Her boots, which fit to the knee, were of brown leather. The afternoon, while cool, was not cold, and so she wore no cape or cloak.
She followed a trail behind the gardens beyond the low stone wall into the woods. The trees were now bereft of their leaves, which had fallen and dried. They made a pleasant crunching noise beneath Noir’s hooves. Soon the chateau disappeared behind her. About her in the branches, the rooks chattered companionably to each other as they preened. Autumn followed the trail until she came to a brook that rushed swiftly over a rocky streambed. Stopping, she debated whether they might cross it without injury to herself or the horse.
“It is not safe,” a voice suddenly cut into her consciousness.
Startled, Autumn looked across the water and saw a man, dressed as casually as she was, sitting beneath a tree, while his own horse browsed nearby. “How do you know?” she demanded of him. “Have you tried?”
“The bottom is uneven, mademoiselle. It would be a pity for such a fine animal as the one you ride to break his leg and have to be destroyed,” the gentleman said.
“But I am curious as to what lies beyond this brook,” Autumn said, wondering who the man was. Probably a poacher who didn’t want her to know what he was up to, and so was attempting to scare her off.
“The water is the dividing line between the lands belonging to the chateau of Belle Fleurs and the lands belonging to the Marquis de Auriville,” the man said. “You would be trespassing, mademoiselle, should you cross over,” he told her.
“Who are you?” Autumn said boldly.
“Who are you?” he rejoined.
“I am Lady Autumn Rose Leslie. My mama owns Belle Fleurs, and we have come to live here, for England is not a happy place now.”
“Neither is France, mademoiselle. You have merely exchanged one civil war for another, I fear,” he said as he arose from his place and stretched lazily. He was a very handsome man with a long face.
“Are you a poacher?” she asked him, not doubting for a moment that he would lie if he were.
“No, mademoiselle, I am not a poacher,” he said with an amused laugh. How ingenuous Lady Autumn Rose Leslie was, he thought.
“Then who are you?” she again asked him, thinking that he really was very tall. Every bit as tall as her brother Patrick.
“I am a thief, mademoiselle,” he replied.
Not in the least nonplussed, she countered, “What do you steal, monsieur?” He was obviously mocking her. He didn’t look like a bandit at all.
“Hearts,
cherie,”
came the startling reply, and then the man turned, caught his mount and, vaulting into his saddle, blew her a kiss as he rode off.
Astounded, Autumn watched as the man and his horse disappeared into the trees on the other side of the stream. She suddenly realized that not only was her heart racing, but her cheeks felt hot. It was all very confusing. Taking his advice, Autumn turned Noir back toward the chateau. If the lands on the other side of the brook
did
belong to someone else, then she really did not have the right to ride there unless she gained the owner’s permission first.
When she returned to her home she sought out Guillaume and asked him, “To whom do the lands beyond the brook belong?”
“Why, to the Marquis de Auriville, my lady,” he answered. “Why do you ask?”
“I was curious,” Autumn said with a little shrug. “I considered crossing the stream this afternoon but then worried I might be trespassing.”
“It is a good thing you did not attempt it, my lady,” Guillaume said. “The streambed is very rocky and uneven. Noir could have been injured. I am glad you are so careful with him. He is a fine mount.”
The very next day the Comte de Cher’s two widowed sisters, Madame de Belfort and Madame St. Omer, arrived at Belle Fleurs shortly after nine o’clock in the morning. With small shrieks of glee they rushed into the Great Hall, chattering nonstop.
“Jasmine!
Mon Dieu, cousine,
you have not changed at all! You have the figure of a young girl, despite all those children you produced for your husbands! And your hair! It is still dark but for those two little silver chevrons on either side of your head!” Gabrielle de Belfort kissed her cousin on both cheeks and plunked her plump figure down by the fire, gratefully accepting a goblet of wine from Adali. “Adali, you are an old man. How could this have happened?” She smiled at him.
“Time, madame, I fear, has finally caught up with me,” he said, returning her smile. “You, however, remain summer-fair.”
“Very
late
summer,” Antoinette St. Omer said dryly. “Bonjour, Jasmine. You must cease wearing black as soon as possible. Your skin is too sallow for it. Jemmie, I’m certain, would agree with me. Where is your daughter? We have come to inspect her so we may plan how to help you marry her off. Philippe says she is lovely.”
“Adali, go and fetch Autumn. Tell her her
tantes
have arrived.” Jasmine turned to her two cousins. “I have told her she is to call you both
tante,
as she has begun to call your brother
oncle.
We are seeking a husband, but first I think Autumn could use a bit of society, for she had none in the wilds of Scotland. By the time she was old enough for it, England was embroiled in civil war.”
“There will be plenty of festivities at Archambault shortly, and Philippe loves to entertain despite his widowed state. It was really he who planned all the parties, even when Marie Louise was alive. She was best at running the house and giving him his sons,” Antoinette said. While her sister was plump and short of stature, she was tall and spare, with her father’s dark brown eyes, and iron gray hair that was fixed in the latest style of short curls.
“Oh, yes,” Gaby interjected. “Philippe gives marvelous parties! Everyone in the entire area, and even beyond it, wants to come. Fortunately none of the vineyards is owned by any of the grand nobles, so we have escaped the war, and our young men have remained at home.” She shivered delicately. “War is such a nasty and dirty business. I do not know why men want to play at it. I truly don’t!”
“Power does not appeal to my sister,” Madame St. Omer said with a wink at Jasmine. “Ahh, here is the child. Come forward, girl, and let me see you. I am your
Tante
Antoinette St. Omer, and this is your
Tante
Gabrielle de Belfort.”
Autumn hurried into the Great Hall to join the three women. She curtsied prettily, saying as she did so,
“Bonjour, tantes.
I am happy to meet you.”
Madame St. Omer, who had not sat down since she entered the hall, took Autumn’s chin between her thumb and forefinger, turning her head first this way and then that. “The skin is good, in fact excellent,” she pronounced. Reaching around, she drew the thick braid into her hand and fingered its ends. “The hair is a good color and soft, yet not fine.” Releasing the plait, she stared critically at Autumn’s face. “The bones are good, the forehead high, the nose straight, the chin in proportion, the lips perhaps a trifle wide.” Then she gasped.
“Mon Dieu,
child! Your eyes are different colors! One is the marvelous turquoise of your mama’s, but the other is as green as a summer leaf. Where on earth did you ever get eyes like that?” Obviously overcome, she sat down, finally accepting the wine the footman had been waiting to give her and swallowing down a long draught of it.
“I owe my green eye to my paternal grandmother, Lady Hepburn,” Autumn said with a chuckle. “I have always thought that my features, being so unique, would fascinate the gentlemen,
tante.
Do you know, or have you ever known a girl with such a feature as my eyes?”
“I have not!” Madame St. Omer answered, “but you may very well be right,
ma petite.
What others might see as a defect may very well prove bewitching to a suitor. You are shrewd, Autumn Leslie, and that is the French in you!” She turned to her sister. “Is she not lovely, Gaby? We shall have such fun planning her wardrobe. . . .” She stopped, turning back to Autumn. “You have jewelry,
ma petite?”
“I have jewelry,” Jasmine spoke up before her daughter might, and her two cousins nodded.
“Oh, what a winter it is going to be,” Madame St. Omer said, pleased. “There are several eminently suitable gentlemen who would make excellent husbands for your daughter,
ma cousine.
Gaby’s late husband was related to one: Pierre Etienne St. Mihiel, the Duc de Belfort. And then there is Jean Sebastian d’Oleron, the Marquis de Auriville; and Guy Claude d’Auray, the Comte de Montroi. These three are the creme de la creme in our area. All have their own estates and are very well endowed financially, so you need not fear they are fortune hunters. Even at court you could not find better matches.”
“Are they handsome?” Autumn wanted to know.
“Oui,”
her aunt said. “I suppose they are, but
ma petite,
it is not a pretty face you must consider first, but a man’s character and his purse. Jasmine,
ma cherie,
have you a priest in residence?”
“No, ’Toinette, we do not,” came the reply. They were in France now, and she would revert to the faith of her childhood, although such a thing had never made a great difference to her. Still, she had been baptized a Roman Catholic and taught by her cousin, the Jesuit Father Cullen Butler. He had died the year before on her former estates in Ulster, a man in his mid-eighties.
“Your Guillaume has a son who has just been ordained,” Madame St. Omer told her. “This would make an excellent living for him. You must see to it, Jasmine. Your daughter, I suspect, has been raised a Protestant,
n’est-ce pas?”
“Aye, but she was baptized in Ulster shortly after she was born by both a priest and then a minister,” Jasmine said.
“But she does not know her catechism, I am certain. If she is to wed a respectable Frenchman, she must be taught these things.”
Jasmine nodded. “You are right,” she said slowly. “I shall speak to Guillaume immediately. There is a small chapel here in the house somewhere. We will reopen it, and the priest can hold mass each day.” She laughed softly. “How pleased Father Cullen would be.”
“We will bring our own tailor tomorrow,” Madame de Belfort said. “Autumn must have several pretty new gowns for her visit to Archambault. As I recall there is a storeroom beneath the hall, Jasmine. I will wager you will find the materials your grandmother bought stored away there. If not, we shall send to Nantes for some, but
la petite
must be shown to her best advantage. There are, after all, other young, unmarried girls in the region who are fishing for husbands. She will have serious competition.