The Unfortunate Son (26 page)

“Beatrice has created a perfect little garden with such pleasing colors,” said Bertrand, opening the gate.

Louis walked ahead and looked about the garden.

“Interesting,” he said.

“Interesting?” said Bertrand. “What sort of praise is that? You don’t find this to be a lovely garden?”

Louis smiled. Beatrice was quiet. He explored the garden, examining the plants. He stopped at a black-barked sapling with yellow-green leaves.

“A mirabelle?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered Beatrice.

“Well?” asked Bertrand. “Don’t you find it pretty, my friend?”

Louis turned to Bertrand. “Oh yes, this garden is pretty, Bertrand. And the colors are pleasing. But—”

“
But!
But what, Louis?” asked Bertrand, disappointed.

“It’s pretty enough, but, really, this garden is all about fragrance. From the honeysuckle on the gate to the lavender growing alongside rosemary hedges.” Louis walked about, pointing. “Between the stepping stones, Beatrice has planted at least two kinds of thyme, and that’s verbena over there and sweet woodruff here under the tree. My every step crushes leaves and adds more scent. Those rose beds are edged with sweet alyssum. It’s lovely to see, but it
smells
marvelous.”

Bertrand took a step back and rubbed his forehead. He marched about the garden, leaning over, leaning down, sniffing, snuffling.

“Fragrance?” Bertrand muttered, and turned to Louis. “Fragrance?”

Louis nodded. Bertrand turned to Beatrice. She nodded. Bertrand grinned and shook his head. “So
I
was too wooden-headed to understand this garden? But not Louis. Oh no.
He
got it right away.”

Beatrice watched Louis. He was leaning down to smell a flower when she finally spoke.

“Louis?”

“
Louis?
” Louis looked up and smiled. “Not
my lord
?”

“I was going to write to you,” she said.

“Write to me? Whatever for?” he asked.

“I wanted to apologize—”

“You’ve been avoiding us, Louis,” said Bertrand. “We haven’t seen you for weeks.”

“You thought I was angry?”

“Yes,” said Bertrand. “We both did.”

“No,” he said, with a sidelong glance at Beatrice. “Just busy.”

He walked a little farther into the garden.

“And afraid,” he added.

“Afraid?” asked Bertrand.

Louis leaned over to snap off a verbena sprig; he crushed the leaves between his fingers and held them to his nose.

“All spring and summer I’ve listened as Beatrice insisted that Luc was my brother. To have a living brother? At first I was enthralled. But then, as I thought about it, I didn’t want to believe her. Think, Beatrice. This would be my father’s most monstrous crime, against his own son, against my brother, and against the innocent child of a servant. I might even learn that Father was responsible for the death of my mother.”

Beatrice said nothing, but she remembered what Blanche had said—that there had been rumor, that Louis’s father had indeed committed this heinous act.

A noticeable wind had picked up, and Beatrice felt her skirt fill, and loose strands of her hair whip her face. Cadeau whined. Louis stepped toward her just as a blaze of lightning turned everything white. They all looked up at the sky.

“Don’t worry. It’s just heat lightning,” said Bertrand.

The sky was banded with a luminous violet, and the tree leaves showed their silver undersides. The air was hot, but this wind was cold.

Suddenly, the heavens thundered.

“Run!” shouted Beatrice.

Cadeau broke into a gallop, and Beatrice gathered her skirts and took off with Louis sprinting at her side. They reached the house just as the sky opened. She laughed and coughed and caught her breath. Louis had just reached out to brush a loose curl from her eyes when Bertrand stomped into the house. He was soaked.

“Ruined,” he said, wringing the hem of his tunic. “This silk is ruined. And my shoes?” he asked, lifting one foot to display the sodden leather. “Hopeless.” He looked up. “And you two, dry as can be? Well, I’m glad for Beatrice’s new dress, anyway. You must excuse me, but I need to change.”

Bertrand sloshed off. Beatrice stepped into the hall, and Louis followed. The room went white with another burst of lightning, and this time the thunder followed immediately. Rain sheeted along the windowpanes. Louis walked to the window to watch. Without turning, he spoke.

“Beatrice, I never stopped the search for Luc,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said.

“And I sent my steward to speak with Blanche.”

Beatrice took a step toward Louis.

He continued. “He’s a gentle man. I hope Blanche will be comfortable enough to talk openly with him.”

“Louis, whatever you learn—”

He turned and faced her, “About Luc?”

“And about your father—”

Louis sighed and nodded.

“You aren’t to blame for his deeds.”

He pressed his knuckles against his mouth, stepped toward her and said, “I don’t want to give you a false hope, but there has been another report from Africa. I do not know if Luc has been found alive, but expect I shall know more soon.”

Beatrice took a deep breath that puffed out her cheeks. “I have always hoped …thank you.

Louis smiled at her. “Will you ever come to the castle? To see the room with Mattie’s fish?”

Beatrice looked at Louis and smiled. He put his hands together as though he was praying.

“Please,” he said.

Beatrice nodded.

A WEEK LATER, a servant brought a note from Louis inviting Beatrice and Bertrand, Mattie and Pons to the castle. It was a gentle horse ride on a bright September morning. Throughout the countryside, reapers were swinging their sickles and leveling the last flaxen fields of wheat. The leaves on ripening grapevines striped the hillsides with yellow. Cadeau bounded along, circling widely around Beatrice’s horse.

“I’m starting to enjoy riding,” said Pons proudly, patting his mount on its withers as the castle towers came into view.

“I’m not,” said Mattie. “But it’s better than walking.” She looked up at the sky and pointed to a high-soaring bird.

Beatrice looked up as the bird dipped and cried. She turned to Mattie.

“Can that be a gull?”

Mattie nodded.

“Here?” asked Beatrice.

“I never saw one so far from the sea,” said the old woman. “It’s the boy, I think.”

“Luc?” asked Beatrice, watching the bird disappear over the hills.

Mattie nodded. “His spirit. He’s come to see that we are all well.”

Tears filled Beatrice’s eyes.

“He’s with us. And he knows we are safe. It’s a good sign, Beatrice,” said Mattie.

“But he’s gone?” asked Beatrice, her cheeks wet.

Mattie nodded.

They continued in silence. Riding through the castle walls, despite her tears, Beatrice noticed the transformation. Flowers and shade trees filled the dreaded courtyard, and water splashed and flowed over the tiers of a grand new fountain in the center. Louis and his dog stood in the doorway. The dogs jumped at each other and were off at a run, chasing each other around the garden.

“Welcome,” said Louis, smiling. He wore a silk tunic of the same blue but a darker hue than the new dress that Beatrice wore. When he noticed her tears, he said, “What a fool I am. It’s too hard for you to return here, Beatrice.”

She shook her head and wiped her eyes. “No. It was something else.”

Louis exhaled. He was holding a perfect white lily, and he handed it to her.

“Come,” said Louis, taking her other hand and helping Beatrice from her horse. “I can’t wait for you to see the tower room.”

Bertrand hung back and climbed the stairs with Mattie and Pons. He turned to Mattie and said, “You know, the count is in love with Beatrice.”

“You think that’s news to me?” asked Mattie.

“It’s news to me,” said Pons.

“Of course it is, Brother. If it doesn’t swim, you don’t understand it.”

“How does she feel?” asked Bertrand.

“Good sir, she is
your
niece. You ask her yourself.”

“But the tears?”

“The tears were about Luc. She knows he is gone.”

Bertrand nodded.

The steward stood at the entrance to the room; he smiled at Beatrice but said nothing. She and Louis waited for the others to reach the top of the stairs.

Then Louis turned to Beatrice and said, “Beatrice, this room …well, I—”

“Open the door, my lord,” said Mattie, her hands on her hips.

With that, Louis made a slight bow to Beatrice and nodded to his steward who unlatched the wooden door.

Beatrice stepped in. Colored sunlight flooded the room,
and Beatrice walked into the center, held out her arms, and twirled around and around. The blues of the windowpanes flickered on her hands and arms and turned the white lily aqua. Two small windows were ajar, and the suspended fish swayed above her.

“Now you really
are
a mermaid,” said Mattie, loosening Beatrice’s hair so that it cascaded around her blue dress.

Beatrice laughed and spun around.

Pons scratched his chin. “It’s a wonder.”

Bertrand patted Louis on the back and said, “Well?”

Louis held up his hand. They heard a peculiar vibrating sound.

“I have a surprise,” said Louis. “For Beatrice. For all of you.”

A bald little man playing a peculiar drumlike instrument danced through the doorway and into the room. He was dressed in a shirt of saffron silk with short ginger pants and bright green leggings. He capered about the room, pirouetting around each person. Then he stopped playing his drum, turned toward the door, and clapped his hands. The steward entered carrying a large cloth sack that he deposited in front of the little man. The little man rummaged in the sack, muttering to himself; he withdrew a small string-tied packet that he tried to hand to Pons, but the old man stepped back, and the little man yammered at him in a foreign tongue.

“It’s all right, Pons,” said Louis. “He has a gift for you.”

Pons took the package and turned it over and over.

“Open it, Brother,” said Mattie impatiently.

Pons nodded and began to unwrap the square package. Inside was a hinged leather box. He slid the catch with his thumb, opened the box, and removed an ivory bowl with a glass cover.

“What is this?” Pons asked, displaying the ivory bowl.

“It’s called a compass,” said Louis. “See the little needle? See how it dances? It will always pivot and point to the north.”

Pons shook his head. “Magic?”

“No, not magic. But extraordinary,” said Louis with a half smile.

Pons nodded and turned the bowl, watching the needle spin. “Never in my life!” he said.

Meanwhile, the little man dragged his sack to Mattie and pulled out a flat bundle that he handed to her. She took the package and opened it. Inside she found a beautiful crimson cape. The lamb’s wool was soft and tightly woven, and she smiled broadly at Louis as the little man danced across the room to Beatrice. He bowed deeply and presented her with the biggest parcel, a thick long roll tied with ribbons of orange, green, and yellow. First she untied the ribbons, then Beatrice unrolled the sackcloth wrapping, dropping it on the floor. She shook out a bright yellow silk dress and held it up against her chest.

“But how?” Beatrice asked Louis. “How did you know?”

Louis smiled and turned to the doorway.

In stepped a tall blond gentleman wearing a buttercup-yellow silk tunic. A handsome gray-and-red bird sat on his shoulder. The gentleman put his arm around Louis’s shoulders. The two stood linked, one with dark hair, one with gold, both with the same extraordinary blue eyes, the same remarkable smile. Together they bowed to Beatrice: the count and his brother, the boy with one ear.

My thanks to: The encyclopedic Janet Pascal for her knowledge and vigilance.

My divine literary agent, Jill Kneerim, for her patience, wisdom, and humor.

My masterly editor Joy Peskin for her relentlessness and her vision.

Thanks also to my early readers: AL, AR, BK, CF, EP, GA, GL, JG, LH, MJ, MS, MT, PM, and VB, as well as to Maddy, KP, Anna & Richmond, JS, and Anonymous for inspiration and education.

And especially, with love, I want to thank CBL, WHGB, NBL, GEB, FBL, and SFS.