Chapter 2
“D id you stumble off a cliff out there?” drawled Lord Zephyr Briarwood, peeping one eye open as he sat basking in the sun like a cat, desperate to soak up every last ray.
Jean-Luc scowled. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” Zephyr replied, opening both eyes, “you look dazed, as if you have been brained. Whatever has brought such a thing on, my dear cousin, for you have never looked thus before?”
Jean-Luc let out an exasperated breath, dug his gloved hands into his deep pockets, and trudged towards his cousin.
“I met someone,” he said.
Zephyr suddenly sat up straighter in his chair, his boots crunching in the elaborately raked gravel before the house. “Met someone?” he queried as his brows shot upwards. “Do tell every detail.”
It was a frustrating line of conversation.
Jean-Luc should have gone round the back of the house and come in through the servants’ entrance. But the truth was there was really no safe entry into the house. There were Briarwoods everywhere.
He adored his family. They had saved him and his two sisters when they had been completely undone by the events in their homeland. It had been no small thing, escaping France with the aid of Achilles, his cousin.
Achilles had made it possible for him to flee the country with his sisters. Part of him had longed to stay, refusing to admit what was truly about to transpire, but Achilles had driven the dangers home, convincing him that he had to leave or see his sisters’ blood spilled.
The Briarwoods had welcomed their French cousins with open arms upon their arrival in England.
So, though he wished to retreat from Zephyr’s curiosity, he did not. He strode over to his cousin, lowered himself into the wooden chair beside Zephyr, and stuck his booted feet out, eyeing the small fire blazing away in the cold air with a pot atop it. “And what is that, may I ask?”
“Hot chocolate,” Zephyr said.
“Hot chocolate?” he stated, rather pleased by his cousin’s simple decadence.
“Well,” Zephyr replied, lifting his tin mug in salute, “I have come fully armed to combat winter. First, we are here upon the Isle of Wight and the sun is out. It is not warm, of course, but it is better than where my brother’s estate is. Hot chocolate is another tool in my arsenal. Would you care for a cup?”
He found his cousin to be extremely resourceful, especially with the aid and support of his family. Jean-Luc was desperately glad that the man had done all he could, not necessarily to shake off the gloom which came to him after Christmas, but to acknowledge it and to do all he could to make peace with it and prevent it from growing too fiercely.
They had all decided to come away from the Duke of Westleigh’s estate in the months of January and February. The Briarwoods went everywhere together. Unlike most English families that seemed to wish to spend little time together.
Jean-Luc was decidedly glad that he had the Briarwood anchor to keep him secure in a world that was tearing itself apart.
“I will indeed take a cup,” Jean-Luc said. “Thank you.”
Zephyr leaned forward, took up a tin cup with aplomb, and poured a steaming cup of hot chocolate.
“Here. This will set you right.”
Jean-Luc took the mug in his hands, cupped it, and took a sip. The rich liquid burst past his lips and washed down the back of his throat, and he did feel a remarkable moment of comfort.
Surely, it was magic that the combination of warmed milk and chocolate could improve one so immediately.
He clung to these little comforts.
Small moments of comfort, he had discovered over the last years, were really the only thing keeping him from sliding into the abyss of complete and total loss.
It wasn’t really surprising. Most of the escaped aristocrats he’d met felt something akin to it. There was a deep gaping hole in all of their souls because they all understood that their lives would never be the same again. The world had been altered entirely from what they had known and expected. They had escaped when thousands had not.
And when one had that kind of strange experience of the world, it was hard to go through society with any sort of peace. But with the help of his family and travel, Jean-Luc had come to a semblance of acceptance. He was not a ball of rage as he had been at first, railing against the fate of the French class that he had been born into.
It had happened. Blood had filled the streets of Paris. Thousands had died. Innocents had been killed, along with those who had indeed made the poor people of France rise up in desperation.
Regular French people had been slaughtered for having minor connections with aristocrats. Others had been killed for wishing for actual equality for all.
The revolution, which had started out as a needed and admirable endeavor, had descended into carnage.
Even after all these years, even with acceptance, he could not quite find contentment. It was difficult. The truth was that he was sad most of the time, and he felt a particular kinship with Zephyr, though their sadness stemmed from different sources. Both of them did their best to mask it with a sort of joie de vivre. After all, what was the point of walking around miserable all the time? It did no one any good.
“Tell me about her,” Zephyr all but demanded.
“How do you know it is a her ?” he returned, eyeing the rich liquid in his cup.
“Of course, it is a her,” Zephyr said with surprising delight. “Anyone who looks as you do has met a her and a significant her too.”
The only thing to do was to take all the mystery away from the circumstance so that Zephyr would cease.
Jean-Luc drew in his breath and said casually, “Her name is Miss Nimue Cheverton. She is clearly a local. She likes books. And from what I can tell, she must enjoy walking.”
“Ah, wonderful,” Zephyr enthused, leaning back in his chair as if the world was coming to rights at last. “She’ll make a splendid addition to the family.”
Jean-Luc choked back a laugh. “I am not marrying her. I am not that sort of Briarwood,” he replied.
“What do you mean by ‘that sort of Briarwood’?” Zephyr countered, his brows drawing together. “Is there any other kind of Briarwood except the ones that my brothers and sisters are? And you and your sisters?”
Jean-Luc shook his head, knowing he was on shaky ground with this. “Your little family is singular.”
“You are part of that little family,” Zephyr reminded him patiently.
“Yes, yes, I am a Briarwood,” he agreed swiftly, taking a quick drink, then turning his gaze out to the gardens, which did not yet show the first promises of spring. “Briarwood blood runs through my veins, but I have never sought a soulmate. I don’t believe one exists. I don’t think I shall know the moment I see her. Do you understand? That is not the sort of person I am. I am French.”
“You have always advocated for romance in the past,” Zephyr pointed out, clearly perplexed.
Jean-Luc laughed boldly. “I have! I advocate for other people’s romances, of course.”
Zephyr rolled his eyes. “Do not be so difficult. Embrace love.”
“No,” Jean-Luc said patiently and without self-indulgence. “I will be a terrible husband. I do not have the capacity for it now.”
Zephyr rolled his eyes. “That is what so many say.”
“Please, my statements are not frivolous,” Jean-Luc replied carefully, not wishing to bring the tide of his own sorrows up to wash over his cousin. “I understand that the history of your brothers and sisters leads you to believe that when one meets an interesting person, one should instantly fall in love with them and marry them. But that is not my path.”
Zephyr actually paused, cleared his throat, then nodded. “Of course, of course. It is not your path. I shall not attempt to convince you.”
“Good,” Jean-Luc replied, though he found Zephyr’s attitude quite suspicious, for the man was clearly humoring him. “She is an interesting English miss, but she is not for me. She deserves a boring little Englishman who will never wake in the night pouring sweat…”
He could not finish that thought, nor did he wish to.
Zephyr let out a slow breath. “People do not deserve boring people, Jean-Luc, especially not people who like to go for long walks and love to read.”
“I beg your pardon, but I disagree. People who love books often wish to have uninterrupted lives,” Jean-Luc said firmly, “and I am one of them.”
Zephyr put down his cup on the gravel and raised his hands. “I shall not argue with you. I can see you are insistent on believing what you say.”
“Because it is true,” he gritted.
Zephyr remained silent for a moment, gazing out at the garden, then blurted, “So, when are you seeing her next?”
Jean-Luc let out a note of frustration. “She has invited me to come and visit her family and read books with them.”
Zephyr let out a slightly devilish laugh. “Has she? How splendid. When will you go?”
“I’m not going,” Jean-Luc said.
“Why not?” Zephyr demanded, his back straightening.
“Because I will not fit in there. I am a French aristocrat in exile.”
“Bloody hell, Jean-Luc,” Zephyr said. “Part of what you say is true. You are a French aristocrat in exile. But as far as I can see, you fit in very well wherever you go.”
Because he tried to show the world that his spirit had not been conquered by the revolution, even if so much else had been.
Jean-Luc blew out a long breath. “I do not need to go about this island invading the homes of locals. I am happy to walk about and read my books and do the best that I can to enjoy this life and spend time with our family.”
“You’ve never been so dour before, Jean-Luc,” Zephyr said.
It was true. Even after escaping the revolution, he’d held a certain gratitude for life. He tried to enjoy it and laugh at the foibles of humanity, even as his anger simmered below.
But it was growing harder. Not because he was growing older, but because instead of things improving as he had hoped…they were, in many ways, getting worse for the world.
He ground his teeth and then explained, “I’ve never been so certain that the tide of hell that seems to be coming is unavoidable. The truth is I find it incredibly difficult to bear.”
Zephyr’s good humor dimmed.
Jean-Luc immediately regretted his honesty. But the only way that he or Zephyr could survive their senses of melancholy was to be honest.
Zephyr nodded. “I can’t argue with you on that point.”
He thought of the Briarwoods and their optimism, an optimism he had held too. He thought of the Dowager Duchess of Westleigh, with her kindness, strength, and love, and her determination to help others defeat the darkness within. But he was no longer so certain that the Briarwood optimism was warranted.
“Frankly, I do not think it wise to embrace any sort of foolish ideas of it all working out,” Jean-Luc dared to admit.
Zephyr paused, a strange emotion traveling over his face before he said softly, “It is going to work out in the end.”
“For whom? For Napoleon Bonaparte? He concerns me. What he is doing…” Jean-Luc gritted, the heat of his blood rising, not towards Zephyr, but towards the growing madness of things in Europe.
Zephyr’s mouth pressed into a thin line before he said grimly, “I cannot disagree with your concern regarding that man and his seemingly excellent martial skills.”
Jean-Luc had been watching the rise of the Frenchman for the last few years, the way he was inspiring great loyalty in his men and defeating armies. The fact was Napoleon Bonaparte was an exceptionally talented soldier, and something in Jean-Luc’s gut told him that the man was on the verge of changing the world. Jean-Luc could feel it in his bones, and he didn’t like it because there was something not quite right about the French warrior. In his experience, men like that, figures that seemed greater than the common man? They often did things that caused utter carnage.
He’d seen it in men like Robespierre, and Marat, and half of the people who’d led the French Revolution, who then turned on everyone else and killed anyone they disliked.
Yes, those kinds of men killed their friends, killed their allies, killed anyone who disagreed with them.
So while much of Europe seemed to admire the man, Jean-Luc could not join them.
The truth was that war was here, and it was going to grow. The chaos of great unrest was coming, and Jean-Luc could not unsee it. It had permeated his being, and he did not know what to do with it. And so, he had come to the conclusion that he truly should just keep himself to himself.
It would be far better for everyone else, including the young English miss with her books, no matter how appealing he found her. She had been utter perfection sitting on that rock with her blond curls waving in the breeze, her cheeks red with the chill of winter, and her eyes glinting with a love of books that could not be denied.
She’d even looked at him for a moment as if he was quite a pleasant surprise in her life.
Much to his dismay, he had enjoyed the effect he had upon her. But the world was no longer simple. It never would be for him, and he refused to pretend that it was.
“It would be a great insult to turn her invitation down,” Zephyr said slyly. “You are, in a way, representing the duke, my brother, on the island.” Zephyr paused and gestured with his fingers in the air, slowly spooling out his logic. “And if she made an invitation to you to visit her family, it will get about that you didn’t come and that we are all terrible, terrible snobs.”
“That is blackmail,” Jean-Luc snarled, extremely irritated because Zephyr was not wrong. “It is manipulation!”
“I know,” Zephyr said, clearly quite pleased with himself. “I’m good at it. All of us Briarwoods are, including you.”
“Merde,” he snapped. “I will go. I will drink a cup of tea. I will listen to their prattle about books, and that will be it. One visit. That is all, and I will have offended no one and nothing more will be expected.”
“Well done,” Zephyr proclaimed before he took a long, clearly satisfied drink of hot chocolate. He then plopped the tin cup down on the small table and stood.
“I never should have sat down with you in the first place,” Jean-Luc grumbled.
“I was having a wonderful little bask,” Zephyr said. “It’s true. But this conversation has done me a world of good.”
“Why?” Jean-Luc gritted.
“Oh, I’m definitely not telling you that. You’ll figure it out on your own, my dear cousin.” Zephyr tugged on his cuffs and smiled as if the world was actually coming to rights rather than coming apart. “I think it’s time to go find my wife.”
Jean-Luc watched his beloved but exceptionally irritating cousin depart to find his marvelous wife.
He couldn’t imagine being that damned happy, especially when plagued by winter melancholy like Zephyr. No, such happiness was not for him. The French understood the complexities of the world in a way the English never would.
And he was glad. At least that way, he knew what was coming now. How he wished he had known before. But he’d never be caught unaware again.