Precious Things (6 page)

It was a relief in a way as she'd never quite mastered the knack of talking to strangers. On the rare occasion she accompanied Father to social events, he insisted she remain tethered to his side. Indeed, Aimée was so used to her own company that she tended to feel awkward and unable to speak, too stiff and quiet to find more than a few words to pitch into the frightening chasm of silence. Other girls were free to roam about the rooms, giggling and chatting, but next to Father Aimée felt struck dumb, throat stoppered so tight it almost felt filled with cork. Even if she did manage to say a word, she invariably disconcerted people. They seemed to find her too intense, or too questioning. People thought her odd; she could tell from their strange looks and whispers.

Perhaps Father is right to procure a husband for me now. I'd never find one on my own
.

Aimée watched the dying light burnishing the ancient mirror above the mantelpiece. She had been about to do something, what was that? She'd forgotten. Faustine's interruption had set her mind wandering . . . Father would be late, and there was still an hour or so before darkness fell. Perhaps she could squeeze in a last ride with Onyx after all – a farewell to her beloved horse.

Aimée hastened to her room, shutting the door before gathering a fitted jacket and a riding crop she'd found in Maman's things long ago and kept hidden under her bed. The lapels of the jacket were stiffened with embroidery she'd laboured over for months – a skill that her mother should have taught her, the task falling to Nounou instead – with dark thorny vines curling up about a tan suede collar, symbolising the briar roses covering Sleeping Beauty's forgotten kingdom.

Winding through the château's narrow passageways, Aimée made her way downstairs to the basement kitchen, where a dish of stew sat simmering on the stove untended. Slipping into the yard beyond the herb garden, Aimée rushed towards the stables.

Onyx had been a gift to Father from a wealthy neighbour following the recovery of his eldest child from fever. Father had insisted on sending his personal physician to care for the boy, and the man had been pitifully grateful. When Father neglected to make use of the noble black Friesian from the Netherlands, Aimée conceded it a stroke of luck and secretly claimed the great animal for herself, making use of Father's collection of books on animal husbandry and riding.

Aimée only ever rode Onyx to the edges of the property, circling more than once in the early mornings or after dinner in summertime when the days were hot and long. The estate was large, and when Father was away she could be gone for hours. When he was home, however, she would never risk it. Aimée hadn't asked his permission – she already knew what the answer would be. ‘Horse riding? I think not. Stay indoors. Your health.' So she'd circumvented his disapproval by never seeking his opinion, and the staff had never betrayed her.

In the same way as reading was solace for her mind, riding was a balm for her body. Her only other enjoyment in the long, lonely days. The physical exercise always calmed her and left her muscles burning with a deep, satisfying ache. Aimée wondered if this would be her last ride, if Bernard would forbid her as well . . . It was hard to believe she might never know the wind in her hair again. A surge of sudden anger lengthened her stride as she hurried across the grass.

I might as well die
, Aimée thought, blinking back hot tears.
Never to ride again!

At the stables, Aimée led Onyx out into the yard. Claiming Maman's old saddle from the shed and a stool, Aimée made ready to climb atop the Friesian. Hearing the crunch of heavy footsteps on dry leaves, she swung around in surprise.

‘Let me help you with that,' murmured Gaston, materialising unexpectedly from the shadows.

Does he watch me the way I watch him?
Aimée wondered, her breath catching in her throat. Could that be possible?

Cradling the arch of her long boot in interlaced fingers, Gaston hoisted her easily onto the back of the massive stallion. Aimée looked down at his dark curls.
I could touch them
, she thought, summoning all her efforts to stay her hand. Settled high above Gaston's broad shoulders, she sat stiffly on Onyx's majestic back. Her heart thundered away in her chest.

‘It's almost dark,' Gaston said, testing the saddle straps around Onyx's belly.

‘I won't be long,' replied Aimée, short of breath.

Perched on the side-saddle astride Onyx's ebony back, Aimée watched Gaston check the lower pommel, making sure her leg was secured in place by the long leather strap. A curl of hair fell across his face, and his brow furrowed deeply in concentration. When his hand glanced against her leg, a jolt shot straight through her body. Gaston didn't seem to notice. Checking the harness again, he pulled it tighter and looked up. For a moment, their eyes locked. Aimée felt the heat rising in her.

With a curt nod of thanks, she coaxed Onyx into a trot. She was shaking. Looking back, she saw Gaston framed momentarily against the warm glow of the stables, then watched him turn away. She could hardly believe that after tomorrow she would barely see him, or only on visits home – how often would that be?

With the chill wind whipping stray hairs across her face, she galloped towards the edge of the field, jumping the gate with ease. The fences were almost invisible in the encroaching twilight. Aimée pressed on towards the horizon. She thought about Gaston. Had she seemed rude or strange?
Of course I must have
, she told herself, feeling ill.
I am like that with everyone
.
Soon Bernard will truly see the defective woman he has married.

After a few minutes of hard riding, she slowed the stallion to a canter. When she reached the end of the field past the orchard, she pulled him to a stop. She turned to look at the dark, hulking shape of the château looming up on the hill behind her. Was Gaston there watching her, or had he returned indoors? She sucked at the air with ragged breaths, aware of the stand of trees, all too close, that signified the border of the estate. If she kept going, she could be gone – free at last. Aimée tensed, the reins tight in her gloved hands, poised to urge the horse forward, but then slumped in the saddle. How would she live? With no money, no skills, and no idea how to make her way in the world? With a sigh, she pulled on Onyx's reins and pressed him back towards home.

After removing her mud-splattered coat in the outer boot room, Aimée went upstairs to her dressing room. Faustine had left Maman's snowy wedding dress, freshly laundered and pressed, hanging from the armoire, ready for tomorrow's ceremony. The crisp damask skirt, loaned much volume by the layers of translucent voile petticoats, and the train of the dress fell to the floor. The bodice was a masterpiece of exquisite craftsmanship: diamond-shaped panels inserted with handmade pieces of organza-lined French lace. Ribbons crisscrossed the waist and bust, and the snowy velvet-covered buttons cinched the puffs of fabric at each sleeve. Only the neckline was imperfect. Its frayed edges looked ragged, as if the collar had been wrenched away with violence.

As Aimée stood looking at the dress, taking it in, the air seemed to fizz with portent.
The gown is awaiting its collar
, she thought.

She closed her eyes, and it came vividly back, the story told to her again and again by Nounou. There it was, the scene in her head: at the foot of the château's central staircase, Maman lay by its marble steps in her blue cotton nightdress. Already cool to the touch, her left leg jutted out sideways at an unnatural angle. An aureole of blood formed an awful crown around her dark head. Kneeling beside her, Father gripped at Maman's hand, his face a living death mask. Maman's eyes remained open, staring up towards the roof, unseeing and glassy.

The servants had encircled Maman and Father. Their heads bowed, they stood quietly, their eyes on the ground in respect for their master's silent grief. Maman's groom, Terence, whom she had brought with her to the château upon her marriage, stood just outside the circle, tall and strong, his arms sinewy and hard from years of training horses. Tears coursed down his face.
The servants loved her
, Nounou said.
Amandine was always kind to them.

Maman fell down the steps in the middle of the night, Nounou told her. Her death a tragic accident. But why did she leave her bedchamber without even a candle to guide her way? Wouldn't Father have heard her leave their bed and urged her to take the lantern? And how had she hit her head? Secretly, Aimée felt responsible. She must have called out, in a nightmare, and her mother had sprung out of bed to comfort her. But why did she falter at the staircase instead of reaching her room?

Aimée slid to her knees before the dress and held it to her face. She envisaged Maman, stroking her cheek, her hand as soft as the satin of the dress, whispering words of comfort.

‘Maman, help me,' she whispered into the dress's folds. But her mother remained silent.

Aimée sat back on her heels, feeling hopeless and desolate. Until that moment, she hadn't even realised she'd forgotten the sound of her mother's voice.

The next morning Aimée awoke in the darkness before dawn, feeling painfully stiff from her feverish ride the evening before. She had tossed and turned most of the night, Gaston's dark face filling her dreams.
Today
, she kept thinking each time she woke.
Today I will be married.

Just then, a thought came to her like a blow – she was suddenly wide awake. The book of poetry, she still needed to return it. Throwing a gown over her nightdress, Aimée lit a candle and hastened to her sewing parlour. The candle flickered and glowed, glinting off the shadowy sequins and satin folds of her mother's wedding dress. It hung like an empty ghost where Faustine had left it, awaiting the collar's attachment.

Aimée felt beneath the cushion of her chair and sighed in relief. It was still safely hidden: the Rossetti. But it needed to be returned to the library, she couldn't risk leaving it behind. Even the thought of Father discovering her secret, long after she'd left, filled her with anxiety. And much as she wanted, she couldn't take it with her. Her face flushed as she thought about a chambermaid unpacking it from her valise. Or what if Bernard discovered the slim volume and asked her about it? No, it had to be returned. She could slip down now, take the key and be done before any of the servants were awake.

As she padded downstairs, clutching the book against her chest, a thought occurred to her – so audacious and striking in its simplicity that she almost stumbled, clutching at the banister for support. Her head and heart were bursting with the force of the idea. It seemed impossible to go, to leave the château, without saying something. Gaston must know how she felt. Fate would decide the rest.

Aimée summoned up her shaky courage.
I can do this
, she thought.
I must.
She ran as lightly as possible up the staircase, heading towards the servants' quarters. It was still so early. Even the kitchen staff were asleep, and the corridors were still and quiet. Finding the door to his room, she scratched against the wooden surface with her nails.

A rustling came from inside. Aimée heard the sound of movement.

‘
Attendez
. . .'

Aimée shivered at the deep timbre of Gaston's voice, thickened by sleep. She could just imagine him patting down his unruly curls and checking about before answering the door. Smoothing the blankets on his bed. Aimée's heart filled to bursting in her chest – she could barely breathe.

The thin panelled door opened a cautious inch. Gaston wore a white nightshirt, open to reveal his nut-brown chest. His mouth opened in astonishment. He opened the door wider.

‘Please,' Aimée whispered. ‘Let me in.' Not waiting, she brushed past him. There was a rushing in her ears, and her throat forced itself closed. She was here, but now Aimée couldn't bring herself to talk. Her words deserted her.

‘I . . . I . . .' she stammered.

Gaston crossed the room to hand her a glass of water from the nightstand. ‘M'mselle, calm yourself.'

Aimée gulped at the glass too quickly, then wiped her mouth with her hand. How could she say it? Her courage was gone. She remembered the book, still clutched in one hand. Wordlessly, she handed it to him. Gaston would understand. Pressing the volume into his palms, she searched his eyes. Confusion flashed across them but he looked down, taking in the book. A spark of recognition flared. She saw his slight grin.
So he knew! He knew how she felt!
Aimée was flooded with relief. His fingers brushed hers and in that moment a spark of lightning cracked through her entire body.

‘Don't worry, m'mselle,' Gaston said softly. He placed the book on the bed. ‘Of course I'll return it. I won't tell – your secret's safe with me.'

A stab of disappointment. Aimée gazed up into his eyes, trying to communicate her love, but she could not place the look that met hers.