Chapter 25
Aweek—une semaine—passed far too quickly and they left Nantes, if only for a few hours.
As they boarded a barge on the River Loire, Brielle held tight to her mother’s jewelry box, her damp palms beneath her buttoned taffeta gloves the only indication of her skittishness.
She looked to her flesh-and-blood anchor in his finely tailored buff and black garments, his hair carefully coiffed back with black silk ribbon, a new tricorn hat decorated with blue braid pulled low across his brow.
Appearances were everything, or so their attire seemed to say.
Bleu regarded her with concern and undisguised admiration.
Elegantly clad from tip to toe in a new Indian chintz frock and matching hat, she felt far removed from the colonial she’d been.
When he sat down beneath the fringed canopy beside her their cologne collided in a fragrant rush, his faint masculine Eau de la Reine d’Hongrie and her effusive feminine Eau de Millefleurs.
“Chateau de Villandry isn’t far being on the lower Loire.” Bleu spoke quietly, both of them facing forward, the oarsmen expertly steering the long vessel. “I have made discreet inquiries … prepare to be enchanté.”
“’Tis bon, then.”
“Royal. The gardens are renowned.”
“To think my mother fled this.” Already she was awed by the landscape unfolding on both sides of them as the serpentine river swept them forward. Extensive vineyards covered rolling hillsides, the laborers tending them thick as bees.
“October is the harvest,” he told her. “The region’s wine is shipped to the colonies and beyond. Muscadet, especially.”
Quaint villages sprouted like mushrooms, each centered around a tall-spired church while orchards and gardens boasted the last of the season’s blooming.
What must they be like in the lushness of spring or midsummer?
On top of rises and along the very riverbanks sat chateaux, fairytale castles like those she’d only seen in paintings or read about in books.
She was unprepared for all the beauty and grandeur—and her own bittersweet reaction to the sights and smells and sounds of her mother’s former life.
“All this makes me forget what I want to say once I meet the comte,” she said a bit breathlessly before abandoning English. “Monsieur, je suis l’enfant unique de Josseline Vérany, votre fille. Je suis venu d’Amerique pour vous rencontrer si vous me permettez l’honneur.”
Spoken in her most flawless if halting francais, practiced so many times she could nearly say it in her sleep, and Bleu had not helped her. The words had come from her heart, crafted by her newfound wish to have a family, to know where she came from if only in part.
Overcome, she reached out and took his large hand in hers, a clasp of friendship in that moment. He squeezed her gloved fingers, his profile stoic though she sensed the tumult of his own thoughts and emotions beneath.
Within half an hour they swept round another watery bend to a poplar-lined bank, a warm wind stirring the tall trees and her hat ribbons.
The barge slowed, the oarsmen poling toward a stone dock.
An ornate iron fence was in back of it, immense ornamental gardens and pebbled walkways visible through its scrolled design.
Bleu handed her onto solid ground and Brielle stood transfixed, her gaze rising to a chateau of white stonework, glittering windows, and a steep slate roof.
Ornamental vines softened the stony exterior with turrets she quickly numbered eight.
A liveried porter stood by the fence and Bleu approached him, speaking in low tones while she waited.
“Entrez,” the man told them, opening the gate.
Once admitted, she and Bleu began a slow walk along an avenue of manicured lime trees and box hedges, past a splashing fountain, occasionally pausing to admire flowers laid out in geometrical, color-coordinated squares.
Hectares and hectares of gardens, each seeming to have a theme, pebbled walkways connecting them.
Bleu plucked a creamy cabbage rose from a flowering bush and presented it to her like a seasoned courtier.
“You are bold, monsieur.” She breathed in the exquisite blossom’s fragrance. “I have a feeling we’re being watched from a hundred windows.”
“By an army of servants, oui.”
“To think my mother once walked these grounds …”
A footman stood by a chateau door, clad like the porter by the river gate.
Bleu walked ahead of her to speak to him in low tones.
What he said to gain entry was a mystery but the door opened and they found themselves in a marble corridor, cool, shadowed, and still.
A tall, bewigged man came toward them, his step brisk, his expression unreadable.
He stopped to confer with the footman before showing them into a chamber as sumptuous as the gardens.
“Le comte de Sancerre is currently out riding,” he said, introducing himself as the estate’s steward. “While you wait, I will arrange for refreshments to be brought.”
“Merci.” Together they thanked him and stood in silence as the door shut behind him.
So, Grandfather still lived. She turned toward Bleu who was already looking at her as if weighing her reaction. She reached into her pocket for a hand fan. Though the room wasn’t hot her skittishness was making her so.
Refreshments were brought on a silver tray and set down near a tall vase of damask roses.
The presentation was so perfect she hated to disturb it.
Orgeat to drink, fresh-picked fruit, madeleines, nutmeats, bread and chèvre.
Neither of them seemed inclined to eat, but out of an unspoken respect for their host Bleu sampled everything while Brielle managed a few sips.
“I’m glad he’s out riding. It gives me more time to collect myself.” She took another drink of the oversweet orgeat. “Did you tell the servants who I am?”
“I merely said you are a relation.”
“Now that we’re here, I’m remembering bits and pieces of what my mother told me, namely that her father was formidable and may have viewed her departure as a betrayal.” She looked toward a closed window, craving fresh air. “Growing older may have sharpened his temper.”
“We’re about to find out,” he murmured, looking up at the ornate ceiling. “And I have no doubt you’ll handle it with your usual grace.”
“I don’t want to disappoint you … or myself.” As it was, she wanted to fall headlong into his arms, run back to the barge, and return downriver to Nantes. “I have little else but your prayers and presence to steady me.”
“You’ll face him alone, understand.” He held her gaze, compassion in his eyes. “Such a private moment should be between the two of you and no one else.”
She nodded, hearing footsteps in the hall. “You’ll be right here, waiting, no matter what.”
It wasn’t a question but he answered it anyway. “I’ll be waiting, oui. For however long it takes.”
“Mademoiselle …” The unsmiling steward reappeared, gesturing for her to follow. “Le Comte de Sancerre has returned and awaits you in the Grand Salon.”
As Brielle’s footsteps faded, Bleu sensed she was beginning to move far beyond his reach.
The realization tugged at him so hard he found it hard to breathe.
Atop the mantel the gilt clock’s hands seemed to freeze.
His gaze roamed the vermillion damask walls where everything appeared to be in a state of splendid perfection devoid of even a speck of dust.
The vaulted ceiling was a masterpiece of stucco, an expansive fresco of the heavens complete with angelic beings in gold leaf. A crystal chandelier hung at the room’s center, its crystals scattering light from a wall of windows.
His own humble house along the Rivanna seemed a hovel.
Once a source of pride and satisfaction, it now filled him with a dismay bordering on disgust. How had he ever thought it would be good enough for a bride—Brielle?
Now, having set foot in Chateau de Villandry, he would carry the comparison to his grave.
With a start he realized she’d forgotten her jewelry box. She’d set it down to take the glass of orgeat and forgotten it. Perhaps it wasn’t needed. The portrait on its lid proved her to be her mother’s daughter beyond all doubt.
Restless, he moved to a window triple his height, autumn sunlight streaming through spotless mullioned panes. A chair rested by the ledge. He dare not sit down. He was not a small man, and the gilded seat looked to have been built for a nymph or ethereal fairy.
Everything here seemed dreamlike, so far removed from the world he knew it made him strangely weary.
Even genteel Virginia seemed a scattering of dust, Canada raw, endless wilderness.
He didn’t belong here. His immaculate, tailored clothing—the powdered wig he refused to wear—the garish buckled shoes on his feet all seemed laughable.
If he’d been cast in a farce he couldn’t feel more ridiculous.
He was playacting on behalf of Brielle. To reunite her with her family.
To ensure her rightful place. His qualms about her grandfather’s reception were small.
One look at her and he would capitulate in a breath.
It had happened to him the first time he’d met her.
Enchanteresse.