Spring Fires (5 page)

"I suppose you're exhausted," Alec murmured.

"What an understatement. This seems a fantasy, Sacha. It's as though I've been asleep for a decade. It sounds ridiculous, but I think I expected all of you to have remained frozen in your good-byes to me all these years. No changes..."

Alec chuckled at Nicky's self-deprecating tone and expression.
"You
are the one who has changed, little brother."

"Do you think so?"

"Completely. It's eerie."

Nicholai dismissed this with a shrug and drained his glass. "I suppose I grew up. Boy turns man..."

Anne Bingham could be seen steering her cousin through the crowd. She had already found three separate excuses for Ophelia to speak to the dashing, mysteriously returned Beauvisage, but obviously another tactic had occurred to her.

"I wish the door to your hidden passageway was in this parlor rather than the other one," groaned Nicholai.

"It's impossible to talk here, but we do have years of conversation to catch up on. What do you say to a late breakfast or lunch tomorrow?"

"I say yes."

"I'll burst in and rouse you around eleven?"

Nicholai grinned. "I look forward to it. Old times,
mon frere."
As Anne's fingers closed over his arm, Nicholai glanced sideways to see Alec give him a smile of evil glee before leaving to dance with his wife.

"Mr. Beauvisage," coaxed Anne, "as we have said, my cousin Ophelia is English. We have just found ourselves
filled
with questions about France. Isn't that so, Ophelia?"

The girl nodded with frantic brightness. Fascinated and amused, Nicholai watched her, thinking that she bore a striking resemblance to a wood thrush.

"Unfortunately, ladies, there is very little that I feel at liberty to discuss. I left the country immediately after the king was guillotined, and any number of events may have transpired during the intervening weeks."

"Now, Mr. Beauvisage, aren't you being the least bit evasive? We heard you promise to take tea with the president not ten minutes ago, assuring him that there was a great deal of information you could share about France. You mustn't tease us—Ophelia would adore a deep conversation with you, for she's very quick about politics. Couldn't you possibly come to Mansion House for a quiet supper this week?"

"You are very kind to invite me, but I've just arrived in Philadelphia tonight and I can't possibly accept social engagements yet." He mustered a polite smile.

"Poor Ophelia is so disappointed, aren't you, dear?"

"Honestly, sir," Ophelia spoke up, "I would adore a long conversation about the inherited traits of the Bourbons—"

Mayor Powel, who had known Nicholai since childhood, elbowed in at this point. Young ladies with prominent surnames sidled up to receive introductions to the handsome mystery guest. Nicholai could scarcely snatch a moment alone with his parents, though he did manage to stop long enough to get his house key and promise his mother to come for supper the next night.

Finally, with one strange girl trying to coax him into the crowd of dancers while another tugged at his other arm, Nicholai was on the verge of saying something rude. He firmly excused himself and headed out into the chilly, blissfully quiet garden.

With near-savage relief, he shrugged out of his coat and untied his cravat. When he reached the kitchen building, he opened the door without a knock, rather relishing the prospect of Lisette, with her unembellished beauty and fresh honesty.

"My God!" she cried. "I'm so glad—I was about to search for Pierre—I must get home. You will take me. Hurry!"

She was wearing her pelisse and making an enormous clatter as she tossed one bowl into another.

"What the devil is going on?" Nicholai demanded.

"My father!" She was shrill now, her great blue eyes glittering. "The boy—he just rode in and brought me the message from the CoffeeHouse. Papa is much worse! Will you help me with these, please?"

He moved quickly then, taking her dishes and catching her elbow in his other hand. The horse he'd ridden to Belle Maison was in the stable, so all they needed was to borrow a chaise and leave word with the stable boy to explain to Alec. He'd help Lisette and save himself from that party all at once.

Minutes later, Lisette clutched Nicholai's hard-muscled arm as he tooled the chaise on a wild course over the moon-silvered Germantown Road, south to Philadelphia.

Chapter 5

March 26, 1793

Lisette's fatigue was replaced by a strained energy,
spiraling up from some inner reserve. Gone was the cool, self-assured girl Nicholai had bantered with; in her place was a tense daughter, wild-eyed with worry.

Reaching the outskirts of Philadelphia, he tried to ask a few tentative questions which she answered tersely. By the time the chaise drew up behind the CoffeeHouse, he had a rude sketch of her past, her current life, and her father's deteriorating health.

His own life in France had hardened him to death and unspeakable tragedy. He'd seen friends lose their ancestral homes and hide shamelessly like rabbits, not to mention those whose heads were dropped into baskets by Madame Guillotine. He could empathize with Lisette, but his own emotional armor was a great help now, for he could guide her along as a silent, strong stranger. That was precisely what she needed most.

Nicholai's eyes were sharp with interest as Lisette led him through the back door, into the darkened keeping room where a low fire crackled in the stone hearth. She was pulling off her pelisse and yanking furiously at her apron strings, which he moved to untie. Touching her, even the cotton dress that nipped her small waist, gave him a start. As she pulled the apron forward, her long curls tossed toward his face and he inhaled their vanilla fragrance.

A tiny flight of steep wooden stairs led upward and he followed her silently. A large frizzy-haired woman ran to meet them on the landing, dry eyed but obviously stricken. She ignored Nicholai, instead gripping Lisette in a crushing embrace as the two of them went down the gray-shadowed hallway.

Disconcerted, he went back down the stairs and into the noisy, smoky CoffeeHouse proper. The man in the caged bar, earlier a cheery sort, was now subdued, but found a brandy for the stranger when Nicholai produced an extra two shillings. Carrying his drink, he went back to the stair landing and sat down to wait.

* * *

"Oh, my papa..." Lisette's voice was a tiny plaintive wail. "Please, Papa. I love you so..."

His eyelids, like crinkled parchment, fluttered but remained closed. Lisette wet a cloth with water from the pitcher and touched it to her father's dry lips, and the gentleness of her touch bespoke her love. She held his hand, concentrating on its feeble warmth. As long as he was breathing, she could stave off the terror of being alone. Her father meant so much to her! Not only did she adore him because of the unselfish love he had given to her all his life, but his presence sheltered her from the world. Even if she did all the work, Ernst Hahn was there, supporting her, approving, and serving as the symbol of the CoffeeHouse to the city of Philadelphia. If he died, Lisette would be losing a great deal more than the precious love and company of her kind, gentle father. As she listened to the rattling echo of his breathing, cold panic swept over her.

"Papa... you must try—try to get well...." Tears dripped onto his blanket.

Pale blue eyes opened, mirroring her sorrow.
"Liebling,
forgive me. If I had been more courageous after we lost your mother, I might be strong today."

"
No
! Look at me." Now she was vibrant. "Have I turned out so badly? How can you say that? I hope that people will know what a fine person you are by knowing me, because I learned all about living from you...."

"I could have done more...."

"Papa, I love you! I will not let you berate yourself. You have done your best—this CoffeeHouse stands as proof of your hard work—and you are a wonderful, caring man."

Smiling a tiny bit at her ferocity, Ernst Hahn turned his head toward the lovely hand that held his and brushed a kiss across it. "You are beautiful... and you have developed a strength far more durable than my own." He stopped suddenly, wincing with pain, and had trouble getting his breath. "Lisette, you have so much..."—he panted briefly, and tears prickled her eyes—"...so much to give. Pleae, I want—you—"

She watched his face contort with the effort to say these last words, but they were lost. Lisette felt one last squeeze of his dry fingers before they went slack.

After several long, stunned minutes, Hyla Flowers came up from behind to comfort the girl, but she pulled away. "No! Please—I don't want to think about it yet—"

"Baby, come out into the hall. You can't stay in here. Stringfellow and I will see to your papa now; you needn't worry about a thing."

Lisette was on her feet. "I have to go out for a while. Thank you for taking care of Papa..."

"But—sweetheart." Hyla followed her down the hallway. "Where will you be?"

"Mr. Beauvisage?" Lisette was calling. "Could you come downstairs with me?"

Hyla watched as the devilishly handsome man stood up and took Lisette's arm. Was this one of
those
Beauvisages? "Dear girl," she admonished sharply, "have a care!"

Lisette wasn't listening. Every muscle tensed, she gripped Nicholai's arm and murmured, "Please... take me away. I can't bear any more...." As she stepped forward, her knees buckled without warning.

Effortlessly, he lifted her up and carried her out to the chaise, and Lisette basked in the ensuing sense of unreality. This was a perfect escape: a stranger who would take her away from Papa, the CoffeeHouse, and everything that made her hurt inside.

Minutes later, she was being lifted into strong arms and carried again, through a dark walled garden. A key clattered in a lock, then Lisette found herself in a moonlit marble-floored hallway.

"Cherie,"
Nicholai whispered absently,"sit in here. I must light the fire, some candles—" He looked around in wonder.
"Bon Dieu!
It has been so long..."

As he arranged and lit the fire, she became aware that she was in a small, cozy study at the back of Nicholai's house. Obviously the house had been cared for in his absence. Holland covers enveloped the sofa and chairs, but even the desk, books, rug, and tables were virtually spotless. The room's colors were terra-cotta and molten gold, highlighted by the patchwork walls of books. Exquisite brown-and-cream delft tile faced the fireplace.

Nicholai reentered the room but paused in the doorway to look at his guest, wondering what to do with her. Glassy-eyed, Lisette faced the fireplace, arms folded and knuckles white as her hands gripped the sleeves of the sky-blue dress.

"What can I do?" he asked simply, crossing to her side. "Lisette, you must give me a clue. Would you like a drink?"

She nodded suddenly and whispered, "Yes."

Nicholai found his decanters full, clean glasses turned upside down in a curve around them. He poured a small portion of brandy for Lisette, but she drank it down, wincing, before he could sit. "More, please," she said, and he complied, pouring a glass for himself as well, then settling down beside her on the sofa.

"I wish that I knew what to say," he ventured, because he did not. "I've seen so much death myself these past months that I've become reconciled to it as a natural part of life. It's inevitable... and the way the world turns today, it seems that we're all just lucky for what we can get."

She turned toward him, her own eyes wide with utter pain. "Papa had a hard life. After my mother died, he never really found happiness again. Too much work—for my sake—"

"You must not blame yourself. I didn't know your father, but I feel certain he wouldn't want that."

Abruptly, she pressed her fingers to her eyes. Nicholai watched as her lovely face crumpled, quivering, then slowly smoothed out again. When her hands went down, she looked at him evenly.

"You are right, of course. I'd rather not discuss this anymore, but if it's not too much of an imposition, I would like to stay here for a bit. You must be eager to look around your home—and I would like to see the rest of it myself."

Nicholai stared at this gracious stranger for the briefest instant before taking his cue and responding in kind. "I insist that you keep me company for as long as you like, Lisette, and it would please me enormously to show you my home. Are you hungry? If I know Maman, she's kept the larder stocked with a few staples. My sister, Danielle, and her family use this house when they visit Philadelphia."

Lisette stood up straight and smoothed her wilted frock. "Well, that accounts for it... I wondered—ten years of standing empty!" She smiled like a china doll. "I don't believe I can eat right now, but perhaps a bit more brandy..."

Taking her glass, he wondered if he were actually asleep and in the midst of some eccentric dream. "Are you so accustomed to drinking brandy?"

"As a matter of fact, I rarely even take a glass of wine, but I must say I feel fine. Don't worry, Mr.—"