La Flamme (Historical Romance) (13 page)

"I have changed," Sabine admitted, "but what about my brother, Marie? Suppose someone recognizes him?"

"Richard has almost doubled in height, and for all anyone will know, he is a French lad."

"Yes, I suppose so," Sabine agreed reluctantly.

"Sabine," Jacques said in a soft voice, "we would do nothing that would put you or Richard in danger."

Marie nodded in agreement. "We are a family," she said. "If it is your wish, then you can remain with us even if you take no part in the plays, but you cannot remain a boy, for you would fool no one."

Jacques had been staring at Sabine's hair. "You need a name worthy of your beauty." He stroked his beard in thoughtfulness as he circled her. "I know what we shall call you—you shall be known only as, La Flamme!"

"Tis fitting," Marie said, turning to Ysabel, who had just joined them. "Do you not think so?"

"It will suffice," Ysabel agreed.

No one bothered to ask Sabine what she thought of the new name, and Jacques seemed so pleased with himself that she didn't want to object.

"This is the day Monsieur de Chavaniac dies and La Flamme is born," Jacques said, marveling at his own brilliance.

Sabine watch her brother as he raced across the meadow in pursuit of a brightly colored butterfly. "I will think on what you have said and let you know my decision tonight. I want first to speak to Richard about going to Paris."

Sabine went directly to her wagon and opened a trunk. Rummaging through the clothing, she found a gown that she had not worn in over a year. It was made of soft pink linen with white lace at the high neck. She quickly undressed and pulled it over her head. The gown was too tight across the bust, and so short that it showed her ankles. Even so, she whirled around the small wagon, feeling very female.

She went outside in search of Richard. When she found him, he was curled up beneath a wild blackberry bush, his lips stained purple from the berries he'd consumed.

When Richard saw his sister, he sat up, his eyes filled with amazement. "Sabine, you're a girl!"

She took his hand and pulled him to his feet. "And you, Richard, have juice on your mouth. Walk with me to the brook so you can wash."

They walked hand-in-hand while she tried to think how best to tell him about Jacques's plan for her. "Richard, how would you like to go to Paris?"

"I would rather go home," he said, "although I don't really remember much about it."

Sabine sighed. "We cannot go home just yet. Would you mind so much if we went to Paris with Madame and Monsieur de Baillard?"

"Will Ysabel come too?"

"
Oui."

His face was creased in a serious frown. "Then I shall go to Paris for a time."

Sabine stopped before the brook and reached into Richard's pocket to remove his handkerchief. Bending to dip it in the mirror-bright water, she paused and stared at her reflection. She ran her hand down her face and touched her red hair. She was stunned by what she saw. Marie and Jacques had been right—she had changed.

"I look so different," she said in wonder.

"Are you going to stay a girl this time?" Richard asked, taking in her transformation matter-of-factly. "I like you better as my sister."

Sabine laughed and wet the handkerchief, then began dabbing at his face. "Yes, you imp, I will remain a girl." She stepped back and dropped into a curtsy. "I am off to Paris, where men will lay wreaths at my feet, or so Marie assures me."

Richard looked puzzled. "Why would you want them to do such a silly thing?"

She tousled his hair. "So I can engage a tutor for you before you take on more Bohemian ways. And so we can live in a proper house. 1 grow weary of living in the cramped wagon. Wouldn't you like to sleep in a real bed?"

"Will we ever go home, Sabine?"

She hesitated only a moment. "Yes, one day."

"Make it soon."

She took his hand and they walked back to the encampment. She often thought of England, and she wondered how the people of her father's village were faring, but there was no way for her to obtain the news she craved.

Hatred still smoldered within her when she thought of Garreth Blackthorn, but she kept it under tight control. The day would come when she would return England and expose him, but that time was not now— she would know when it was right to go home.

Richard glanced up at her. "Your hair looks different. What did you do to it?"

"Do you like it?" Sabine asked.

"Yes, I do. You are beautiful."

She smiled down at him. "So says my champion."

Sabine did not know that her movements were graceful. She could not see that the red of her hair brought a rosy glow to her face. And no matter what Marie and Jacques told her, she was still not convinced that she was beautiful.

There was a dull ache in her heart. The future was bleak and uncertain, the past too sad to dwell upon. She would hold on to Richard, and together they would survive!

Part Two:

La Flamme

14

1634

Lord Stephen Meredith was getting drowsy from the rhythmic swaying of his coach as it traveled over the rough road toward Paris. It had rained earlier in the day, but at mid-afternoon it had cleared, and a bright sun now shone down on the French countryside.

Stephen had inherited his father's title upon Lord Meredith's death six months earlier. His stepmother, Eugenia, had finally gotten what he thought she deserved. She had married an ailing old man, thinking he would soon die and leave her a wealthy widow. But Stephen's father had lived long enough to despise his unfaithful wife.

After her husband's death, Eugenia declared to anyone who would listen that she had wasted her best years on a husband who left her only a country house outside a small village. Worse than that, it was a three-day journey from the London she loved. She also became enraged upon discovering that she would only receive a yearly income of twenty pounds, which was less than she was accustomed to spending on hats. Her constant demands for money had sent Stephen fleeing to France for a respite.

Three years ago, he had inherited a small estate outside Paris from the grandmother on his distaff side. At one time he had considered selling it, for he'd had no interest in the chateau until now. He found it charming and had been staying there for the last two months.

At first he had enjoyed the peace and solitude of the French countryside, but this morning he had awakened feeling restless and needing a diversion. So, he was off to Paris.

As the coach slowed in the city traffic, Stephen glanced out the window with interest, wondering how he would pass his time. At the moment, the rage in Paris was a play at the Escredil Theater. It appeared that all of Paris was at the feet of some actress called La Flamme. Perhaps after dining, he would just see this La Flamme for himself.

The audience was roaring with laughter by the end of the first act, and Stephen applauded louder than anyone, although he couldn't always understand what the characters were saying since he was not proficient in French. Nonetheless, he was in love. La Flamme was the most enchanting creature he'd ever seen. He wanted to talk to her and tell her how he admired her, but how would he communicate with her? After the final act, he waited in front of the theater, hoping for his chance to speak to her. Judging from the large gathering of people, who were all pushing and shoving to get near her, he doubted he would be able to attract her attention at all.

At last, La Flamme emerged with a servant walking at her side. She moved through the crowd, speaking to admirers as they made a path for her. When she neared Stephen, he stepped forward and spoke in faltering French.

"
Mademoiselle La Flamme, vous
..." He struggled with his words, "er,
laide... a ... faire... peur
."

Sabine came to a shocked halt, and stared at the man in astonishment.

Stephen thought she would pass him by without a word. But suddenly she smiled, and then musical laughter escaped her lips. To his relief, she spoke to him in heavily accented English.

"Monsieur, you must take care, or you will turn a woman's head with such talk."

"I had to tell you how wonderful you were," he said sincerely.

Again she laughed. "Your French is not very good, is it, Monsieur?"

"Not very, I'm afraid."

"I am relieved to hear that because what you said to me was not a tribute."

He searched her eyes, feeling a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. "What did I say?"

"You said, Monsieur, that I am frightfully ugly."

His face reddened. "Mademoiselle, please forgive me! I promise you it was not my intention to ... I only meant to ... I think you are beautiful!"

Sabine was looking at the Englishman closely, all the while trying to pretend indifference. She felt her heart thundering inside her breast. What was Stephen Meredith doing in Paris? He seemed not to know her— was that possible?

Gathering her courage, she met his eyes. "I will ignore the first compliment, Monsieur, and accept the second."

She turned to leave, when he spoke. "Please, Mademoiselle, there is no reason that you should speak to me again, but I wonder if I might introduce myself to you."

By now the crowd had moved away, and she turned back to him. "That would be acceptable." She had to know if Garreth had sent him, or if this was but a chance meeting.

"I am Lord Stephen Meredith, from England."

Her hand tightened inside her muff. "Have we met before, Monsieur?"

"I can assure you that we have not. I would remember if I'd ever met you."

Sabine let out a relieved breath. She remembered the day he'd come to Woodbridge with Garreth, and how gallant he had been. She had never forgotten how he had defended her on her wedding day when others had ridiculed her.

"It is always agreeable to meet someone from England, Lord Meredith. Are you in my country alone?" she asked, hoping Garreth had not accompanied him.

"Yes, quite alone," Stephen answered, hardly daring to hope that La Flamme was interested enough in him to find out if he was married.

Sabine turned to Ysabel, who had been patiently waiting, not knowing that this was a man from Sabine's past.

"We will leave now, Ysabel."

"Mademoiselle, before you go," Stephen said hurriedly, "... may I... call on you sometime?"

Sabine hesitated only a moment. "If you would like, My Lord, you may come to my home Friday next. I am having a small gathering, and you would be most welcome."

His face brightened. "I'll be there." Then he looked puzzled. "But where do you live?"

"Come backstage tomorrow night and ask for Jacques. He will see that you have directions."

Stephen could hardly believe that La Flamme had spoken to him, let alone invited him to her house. He was most fortunate indeed.

When Sabine was seated in her coach, Ysabel questioned her. "Why did you invite a stranger to your home, and an Englishman at that?"

"He is not a stranger. He is a friend of Garreth's, and stepson to my husband's mistress."

"Is there not danger in this,
ma petite
?" Ysabel asked with a frown.

"How better to learn about Garreth than to become a friend to his best friend? I will use Stephen Meredith to gain knowledge of my enemy—is this not cunning?"

Ysabel stared at her for a long moment. "As long as you remember it is also dangerous."

"I never forget that Richard and I live beneath a cloud of danger."

Sabine became extremely fond of Stephen. He was what Thea would have called a worthy gentleman. He was honest and caring, and he made Sabine laugh with his wonderful sense of humor. She was cautious with him, never asking about Garreth or his stepmother, although they were uppermost in her mind. She waited, hoping Stephen would speak of them himself.

A month had passed since their first meeting, and now Sabine was becoming concerned. Stephen was beginning to have special feelings for her, and she did not want to hurt him.

The night sky was alive with stars as Sabine stood with Stephen in the garden of her home. The sound of merrymaking came through the open doorway.

"I love it here, Stephen. Paris sparkles like a beautiful jewel,
non
?"

He looked at her, his eyes openly admiring. "Not nearly as beautiful as you, La Flamme."

"Stephen," she said gently, "I treasure your friendship, for I have so few real friends. I would not like our friendship to be spoiled."

"You are saying that we can only be friends?" he asked, striving to hide his disappointment.

Sabine felt remorse because she had shamefully used him. "I am saying that you are my dear companion—and that's all we can ever be to each other."

He was quiet for a long time, just gazing up at the stars. "Then I shall consider myself fortunate to be your friend."

Sabine felt his pain and was sorry. "Friendship is often deeper and more enduring than love, Stephen."

He smiled down at her ruefully. "Perhaps in a few years, or even a few months, I'll see the wisdom of that statement, but not at this moment."

She touched his face as her eyes misted. "Perhaps you should return to England, Stephen."

"Yes, perhaps I should."

Sabine avoided his eyes, knowing that she must now use him again to find out about Garreth. "Have you many friends in England?"

"Yes, I suppose. I have many friends, but only one who is like a brother to me."

"Tell me about him."

He was reluctant to speak of Garreth, even with La Flamme. "You would probably like Garreth—all women do. But he is unaffected by adoration." He looked down at her again. "He is not unlike you in that."

"So your friend Garreth likes the women,
oui
?" she asked.

"It's more that the women love him. At one time he lived a cavalier life, but something happened to change him, and now he is much too serious. He rarely goes to London, and he never appears at Court. Garreth chooses to remain at Wolfeton Keep, in virtual seclusion."

Sabine tensed. "What happened to change him?"

Stephen grimaced. "He was imprisoned in the Tower after being falsely accused of the death of his young wife and her family."

"How dreadful," she said, hoping that Garreth was still suffering for the crimes he had committed.

"Garreth hasn't said so to me because he refuses to talk of it, but I believe that he blames himself for the deaths—especially his wife's."

Sabine tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "What a pity."

"If you knew Garreth, you would understand how he could take another's guilt and make it his own."

"Has he not remarried?"

"There have been women, but—" Stephen threw up his hands. "I should not be boring you with this."

"I was not bored."

He took Sabine's hands and gazed for a long time into her eyes. "I shall miss you."

"And I you. Will you return to Paris soon?"

He smiled, thinking of all the things that could never be between the two of them. "Of course. I try never to stay away from my friends for long."

"Perhaps," she said, daringly, "you should bring your friend, Garreth, to France. No one takes life seriously in Paris."

"What a splendid notion. Perhaps I shall." He raised her hand to his lips. "Will you think of me while I am away?"

"As with any good friend, I shall think of you often." As Stephen walked away, Sabine realized that she would miss him dreadfully, for he had brought with him a touch of England and home.