Love Entwined (13 page)

She looked up at their destination. There was a mansion in the distance, but not the one where she was staying.

What is the name of that place?
She couldn’t remember.

The limestone building boasted regal Corinthian columns. Sunlight sparkled in the many mullioned windows. There were carved stone balconies with French doors on the second level.

Her vision blurred as three people came out of the mansion. She held her head as they hurried down wide stone steps and ran across the parklands.

“Comte St. Clair, what has happened? Mademoiselle! Are you well?”

She wrapped her arms tighter around Claude’s neck.

The women had on long black skirts and the man had on a black waistcoat. Something about the way they were all dressed bothered her, but her head ached so and thoughts were hard to hold onto.

“Jacqueline fell from Anouk.” Claude swept past them. “Serge, take Tatiana and Anouk to the stables.”

“
Oui, monsieur
.”

Bells tinkled, and Amelie stared over Claude’s shoulder.

Serge held the reins of a matched pair of Arabians. The horses nickered as he spoke to them in comforting tones. Each horse was outfitted in soft leather saddles with gold braiding and tassels with gold bells.

“I’ve seen them before,” she said. “I saw them riding along the banks.”

Claude exchanged a worried glance with Simone. He carried her up the steps, shouting orders to the waiting servants inside. They passed through an elegant foyer and across a grand hall with black and white ceramic tile.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the large gilt-framed mirror hanging above a lacquered table. The shoulder seam of the green riding habit was torn and hanging, the folds of the long skirt draped over Claude’s arm.

“These are not my clothes. Where are my clothes?”

Her hair was twisted into a topknot, though disheveled, and covered in green silk netting. There was an angry bruise on her forehead.

Claude carried her up a stone staircase. Simone went before them down the hall.

She looked around the room with its elegant yellow-gold furnishings as Claude placed her on the bed upholstered in silk pompadour.

Simone sat on the edge of the bed and held her hand. Margaux sat on a chair in glum silence.

“The doctor will be here soon, Jacqueline. Lay still and rest.” Claude slowly took off the riding boot, but she still felt the shooting pain up her leg.

“Does this mean we cannot go with you to the King’s ball,
Maman
?” Margaux looked ready to cry again.

“Your sister is ill,
ma chérie
. We will not know the extent of her injuries until Dr. Gautile arrives. We shall have to see how she feels later.”

Sister? The Comte and Comtesse were her parents?

They called her Jacqueline. The name made her head hurt more.

Her heart hammered to a crescendo between her ears along with the sequence of sights and sounds, which had enfolded since she had returned.

Returned from where?

She fought to hold onto the fast dwindling bits of awareness. Closing her eyes, she laid her head against the pillow.

Dr. Gautile arrived to examine her. He spoke to the Comte and Comtesse while he cleaned and dressed the wound on her forearm.

“There are no broken bones, but Mademoiselle Jacqueline has sprained her ankle. She must remain in bed for at least a week.” He looked her in the eye, addressing her for the first time. The familiarity in his tone made it clear they had met before. “You will not take your walks to the Seine for at least that long, Mademoiselle.”

How many fathers do I have in this fantasy my addled brain has concocted?
She thought. She wanted to ask what walks he referred to, but could not find her voice.

The physician eyed her forehead. “Fortunately, there is no concussion, but the head and shoulder pain, hmm…well, we shall see after a few weeks.”

Margaux gasped. The girl was the only one not looking at her forehead, which made her want to see what they were all eyeing.

She glanced toward a hand mirror on the nightstand. Simone discreetly shook her head.

Doctor Gautile said, “Now you must tell me what you remember.”

She shook her head, which almost made her black out.

“Mademoiselle Jacqueline, do you remember how you fell from Anouk?” Dr. Gautile prompted her.

“I am having a nightmare.” She held on to the nearest hand, Simone the Comtesse. Warm, very real.

The Comtesse’s other hand covered hers. “What do you remember,
ma chérie
?”

If she answered, she might be pulled further into this…whatever this was.

As it is, the doctor’s ruddy jowls were too real as was the shooting pain in her arm.

No, she would not answer. If she did not answer, maybe they would all just go poof in a veil of smoke, never to be seen again.

“Jacqueline fainted and slid from Anouk’s back,” Margaux blurted out.

Her mind latched on to Margaux’s words, but no matter how hard she tried to remember the time before the fall remained a vast nothingness.

Doctor Gautile had more questions. “What is the year? When is your birthday?”

She could not answer. Stinging tears welled in her eyes.

“
Ma petite
, you must rest.” Simone pulled the coverlet over her.

“I will return tomorrow,” Doctor Gautile said in his brusque manner. The Comte and Comtesse St. Clair followed him out into the hall.

Feeling dull from a dose of laudanum, which had a very real, unpalatable taste, she closed her eyes. Before she succumbed to sleep, she sat up and gathered her courage for a question.

“Margaux, what is the date?”

Margaux took her hand. “Today is May eighteenth.”

“And the year?”

Margaux’s eyes widened. She glanced toward the open bedroom door before whispering, “You know very well the year is seventeen eighty-nine. Oh, you must feel better, Jacqueline!” The girl began talking excitedly about the upcoming ball at Versailles.

The prickling sensation moving over her skin reinforced the wrongness of the year. The fact that she had no other in mind to reference finally caused tears to flow.

Margaux walked to the door and inched it closed. She returned to the chair at bedside and picked up a book. “Please don’t cry, Jacqueline. I will read to you from your beloved English poet Milton’s verses. That will make you feel better.” She began to read poetry aloud.

Amelie closed her eyes and prayed to wake up from this nightmare before drifting off into a troubled sleep.

Château de Vaujours, Asnières-Sur-Seine, France – May 22, 1789

Sunlight played against her closed eyelids, brightening the darkness until she could no longer ignore it.

Jacqueline opened her eyes.

Golden rays shined through the window onto the plush Aubusson carpet. She sat up and then held her head until the spinning sensation stopped.

“Amelie.” She rolled the name on her tongue. For the most part, memory of her home and family had returned, but now she could not remember what the name Amelie had meant to her a few days ago. It was a happy name, and undoubtedly belonged in a happy life. A life she would rather have. She sighed, flexing her ankle.

She had been relieved to see Dr. Gautile yesterday, for he had taken the bandage off her ankle and given her instructions for mild exercise.

What the doctor did not know was that she had been performing this mild exercise every day since the riding accident. She was tired of flexing her ankle. Today, she would go out and finish her painting of the Seine even if she had to use a cane to walk there.

Her empty stomach clamored when she saw the covered tray Isabelle left on the satinwood table.

Jacqueline got up gingerly. She was now able to put her full weight on the ankle. Sitting at the table, she sipped a cup of hot chocolate and watched the quiet, swirling waters beyond the expanse of terraced green outside her balcony window.

Perhaps she and Margaux would ride Anouk and Tatiana later, if they managed to get away from
Maman
for a few hours.

After breakfast, Isabelle helped her dress. The maid had artfully concealed the fading bruise on her forehead with cream.

She found
Maman
and Margaux downstairs in the red and gold salon.

“
Ma chérie
, are you feeling better? How is your ankle?”
Maman
took her hand and helped her to the sofa.

“Much better today.”

Maman
lifted her chin and examined the bags under her eyes. “You are still not sleeping well.”

She moved out of her mother’s grasp. “The ankle leaves me restless at night.” There was no reason to upset
Maman
by telling her of the nightmares. Her mother would only worry more and she was tired of being a prisoner in her room.

Maman
placed on her lap a gaily-wrapped box with a floppy satin ribbon. “Another gift from your intended.”

Jacqueline placed the box on the sofa beside her.

Margaux looked up from her needlepoint. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

“He sends keepsakes and roses as expected from a beau.”

Maman
sat down next to her. “The Marquess cannot wait to see you again.”

“He has waited quite some time already. I have not seen him since we met at the King’s ball months ago.”

Maman
remained silent, but Jacqueline could not end her rebellion.

“I should have known Papa had already made his decision. The Marquess and I danced together that night, the first and last dances of the evening.”

Maman
picked up her needlepoint. “The Marquess of Alsborough has close ties to the English king.”

“Am I to sacrifice my happiness for good relations with France’s allies?”

Margaux’s jaw dropped. “Would you rather the forty year-old Marquis Chambert?”

“Jacqueline, you would have no one,”
Maman
sighed, giving her a pointed look. “I managed to persuade your father from the Marquis Chambert’s suit. Do not forget that your father allowed you to turn away the Comte Lefèbvre as well. At least you and the Marquess of Alsborough are close in age. You are twenty-one years old now and I can do nothing about the Marquess’s suit.”

Margaux gave her a pleading look. “We will plan our trousseaus together.”

Maman
placed the box back on her lap. “
Ma chérie
, open it. It will put you in better spirits.”

Jacqueline fingered the floppy satin ribbon, wishing she were not the eldest daughter.

Margaux had already begun planning her, as yet unconfirmed wedding, to Marchese Falco. Margaux and the Marchese had so much in common; love, for one thing. All need be done now was for her to marry, and Margaux’s wedding plans would go forward.

Jacqueline pulled the ribbon.

Maman
leaned forward. “
Magnifique
!”

“
Oui
,” she murmured, lifting the necklace from its satin bedding. “I have never seen the like.” She turned the necklace this way and that and delicate rubies winked in the stylized dragon’s eyes. Such an intricate design was also found on the pendulum earrings and bracelet the Marquess had sent her over the last few months.

Maman
helped fasten the clasp at her nape. The dragon fell warm between her breasts and she felt the heat of the fire in her nightmare. Orange flames licked at her skin…

Margaux squeezed in beside her on the sofa, jolting her out of the daydream. Her sister fingered the unusual dragon bracelet she’d put on this morning. “
Voila!
Now you have a set!”

“I cannot speak for his character, but the Marquess has exquisite taste in jewelry,”
Maman
said. “Now, your father’s guest arrives today. What shall we plan for the evening meal?”

They discussed a special menu, and then the conversation turned to the upcoming nuptials.

They could very well spend the morning going over plans for the trousseaus. Her plans to get out of the château were quickly slipping away.

She pasted an attentive smile on her face and thought of how she would paint the sunlight on the Seine.

* * * *

Captain Roman Eric Cardiff sat in the parlor of the Château de Vaujours as the brass hand of the ormolu clock on the mantle came to rest on the fourth hour.

The Comte St. Clair enjoyed a good relationship with King Louis XVI; however, relations were not good enough to save his head. The Comte was a member of the Estates-General, the emissary of a king with a huge financial crisis. He was in a tight spot.

Noblemen like the Comte St. Clair were not in high regard these days. With all his holdings and title deeds, there was nowhere in France the Comte would be able to hide when the people had had enough of King Louis’ guidance.

Roman had friends in places the aristocracy would never dare to go. A myriad group of lawful and lawless characters who’d had the pleasure of a visit or two to La Force Prison or the Bastille. They had no love for King Louis and would see him guillotined, but they trusted Roman and would be of assistance in the Comte’s cause.

He absently tapped his fingers on his knee. How long will this favor take? He wanted to be home in Yorkshire after a long voyage.

“Captain Cardiff, it is good of you to come.”

He stood to shake the Comte’s hand. The worry lines tracing the Comte’s brows never quite smoothed with his smile. “Comte St. Clair, it is my pleasure.
The Raven
had just returned to England when I received the urgent message from King George. He sends greetings.”

“It has been too long,” the Comte said.

“One year,” Roman said. “And very different circumstances.”

“Yes, I am afraid so.” The Comte sighed. “Please, come with me.”

He followed the Comte out of the parlor across the grand hall to the study.

The Comte gestured toward a leather settee and then sat behind his desk. “Simone knows nothing of this.”

“The Comtesse does not know?” Roman lowered his voice. “It will be more difficult to plan if the family is not aware of the danger of remaining in France.”