Chapter 29
The next day Grandfather had business in Montsoreau. Brielle rose late, chiding herself for her laziness, only to find Bleu missing. Had they gone away together?
“Non, Mademoiselle,” the steward told her. “Monsieur Galant is occupied with the grape harvest.”
France’s vineyards seemed to hold an ongoing fascination for him. Was he missing the Rivanna’s change of seasons so this sufficed? Sorry she hadn’t accompanied him, she supposed she would hear about it secondhand.
Here there were so many distractions that kept them apart.
Though autumn was waning, fair weather continued, ideal for riding or being outdoors.
And now that the masked ball had concluded, invitations were arriving for soirées and veillées and other seasonal entertainments, the social calendar full into the new year.
Would they still be here?
Grandfather seemed to take it as a matter of course. Lately when he spoke of the future it was with the certainty that she’d never leave. As if her coming here closed a door and left her no room for anything else. Had she given him that impression? Had Bleu?
Restless, she went out into the gardens she now knew by heart, seeking the landing.
Early afternoon, she took a seat on a stone bench by the chateau’s water gate, watching the glide of passenger boats, barges, and fishermen in both directions.
Likely Bleu had taken a bateau that ferried between towns and villages. Heaven only knew when he’d return.
Today, empty of engagements, allowed her to sit in a puddle of sunlight, her hat shading her features, her ungloved hands in her lap.
Her thoughts returned her to late summer when they’d left Virginia and how lush the harvest had been, how blue the river beneath a cloudless sky.
Was Titus still busy with the ferry and horses? Did he miss them?
Time ticked on, the sun slanting west. Her patience was soon rewarded as she looked downriver, spying a bateau with Bleu at the bow, speaking with a batelier. Once docked, he jumped onto the landing and the boat resumed its watery journey, leaving them alone.
Gloriously alone.
She turned toward him on her bench seat, the unfeigned joy on his face bringing her to her feet and nearly into his arms. Removing his hat, he took her hand, brushing his lips against the back of her fingers as they stood there by the river in a moment of perfect peace and privacy.
He lapsed into English. “You look … happy.”
“Happy to see you.”
“Non, before that. You were smiling as you sat there.”
Was she? “If I close my eyes I can pretend I’m by the Rivanna instead.”
“You’re still dreaming of Virginia.”
“I think of it often.” Somehow he and Virginia had become fiercely intertwined. “And I’ve finally, after much thought, decided on what to call your house.”
She had his full attention. “A name?”
“Oui … Belle Rive.”
“Beautiful shore?” His obvious pleasure doubled her own.
“Orchard Rest isn’t the only handsome house along the Rivanna.”
“Belle Rive it is, then.” He glanced at a passing toue full of passengers. “Nadine sent a message yesterday saying she is growing weary of Nantes.”
“So she’ll return to Virginia?”
“In time,” he replied vaguely.
“Grandfather said the grape harvest is nearly at an end.”
“La vendange, oui.” His Acadian patois was becoming more classically French the longer they stayed. “The wine has been barreled and will now age before it’s fit to drink.”
“Do you plan to plant vineyards on those hills of yours back home?”
He chuckled. “Wine will never replace tobacco as king in the colonies. And if I stay here much longer I’m in danger of becoming a sot.”
“Oh? You imbibe far less than the usual Frenchman.” She’d noted his restraint with pride. “Not even champagne compares to Virginia cider.”
“Agreed.” He led her through the gate past the sentry and into the gardens. “Your grandfather has offered Brittany or Normandy cider from the cellars here.”
“Let’s try some, then.”
Their orangerie doors were open, the table they’d last sat at waiting. The chateau was as finely tuned as a clock. Once seated a footman appeared to bring the requested cider—and a tray of other delicacies too. But Brielle’s mind wasn’t on the food or even the coveted cider.
Just Bleu.
Bleu took a long drink, savoring the richness of France’s best apples, the tang equal to Virginia if not Acadie. “Centuries old cidre de pomme.”
Brielle studied him as if noticing the slight lament in his tone. “I think you’re missing cidermaking on the Rivanna.”
He nodded. “Acadians have a special tie to their orchards.”
“Sylvie and Will wed in an apple orchard, non?”
“An orchard in full bloom.” Even years later the memory stayed vivid. “Spring … late May.”
Brielle looked to her empty cup and held it out to him. “I wish I could have been there, too.”
He poured her more. “She’s teased me about doing the same ever since.”
She looked up and held his gaze. As if she knew she was his every thought. As if she discerned his overwhelming feelings for her. He was having a harder time trying to hide it.
She looked away so wistfully his heart wrenched. “Grandfather has asked me to stay.”
The cider’s sweetness soured. “I thought he might.”
“He’s aging. Lonely. I’m all he has, his last link to my mother. He wants to see me marry and enjoy his grandchildren in the time left to him. He wants the chateau and all the land on the Loire to be mine—even his Paris townhouse and property should I wish it.”
It was more than he’d expected—and more than she had, clearly.
“All this makes me beholden to him. How can I say no?”
It was all he could do to keep silent and not sway her decision. Their looming separation carved such a hole inside him it defied speech, yet hadn’t this been his intent? To reunite her with her family and let things play out?
She pushed a strand of hair behind one pearl-studded ear. “And the marquis has asked to court me.”
His composure shattered. “The buccaneer?”
She nodded, resigned. “Le marquis de Chevreuse.”
A nobleman, not merely a masked guest. “Do you want to be courted?”
She hesitated. Confusion crossed her face—and a rare exasperation. She held his gaze so entreatingly she seemed to be asking him to make decisions for her. “I feel … perplexed. Taken aback.”
His own perplexity reared its head. He looked away from her to see the comte emerging from his private barge onto the landing. He raised a hand in greeting, making straight for the orangerie.
Brielle watched his approach, still pensive. “I told him I would give him an answer after Noel. After I spoke with you.”
“There’s still time to weigh all of this,” he said quietly. “For now, let’s make our being here memorable.”
The next night the Verdigris Salon rattled with dice and the shuffling of cards.
A great many guests gathered to enjoy a rainy evening of games as the weather turned chill.
Autumn seemed to have fled taking all lightheartedness and beauty with it.
In some inexplicable way Brielle felt cheated, confined to a gilded cage that kept her from what she truly wanted.
What was winter like along the Rivanna?
She sat near the flickering hearth, playing jeu de l’oie with several ladies.
She’d never been one for games though whist, trictrac, marelle, piquet and lansquenet played out all around her.
Betting began and gold and silver coins crossed half a dozen tables like bon-bons.
Oddly, it brought back the Rose and Crown and all its dark memories.
Though far more refined than a tavern, the sounds and smells seemed the same—ceaseless laughter, chatter, spirits, and tobacco smoke.
Bleu sat at the table nearest her, teaching Grandfather and the marquis and another man how to play Waltes.
He’d packed the Mi’kmaq game in his luggage which had become something of a favorite among captain and crew on the voyage here.
The decorated ivory dice, cup, and wooden counting sticks seemed more art, returning her to his Canadian heritage—and Sabine Broussard.
Had she made it safely to Acadie?
Paying little attention to her own game, Brielle watched Bleu under lowered lashes, tracing all the beloved contours of him, his profile so striking in the candlelight her stomach swirled. Occasionally he would look up and meet her eyes though he seemed wholly immersed in the game.
Sometimes le marquis de Chevreuse would turn his dark, heavy gaze on her.
As the evening wore on his playing seemed more personal.
He, at least, seemed intent on impressing her.
Grandfather’s back was to her as he helped with counting and scoring, his pleasure palpable that all seemed to be genuinely enjoying the game.
“And the prize, gentlemen?” Madame Bellamy asked from another table as she moved her token forward on the board. “We are playing for a jade broach. And you?”
Bleu paused from rolling dice as Chevreuse shrugged narrow shoulders. “Un baiser?”
A kiss?
The marquis winked, his intensity shifting as his gaze slid from Madame Bellamy to Brielle. Her stomach tightened as she returned to her own game and tried to focus to no avail. A quarter of an hour ticked past—nearly midnight—and dice were still rattling, scores tallying.
She’d never been kissed.
And kissing the marquis was not what she wanted. To equate such intimacy with something as trivial as a game prize left her half ill. Kisses weren’t made for crowded, smoky, wine-sated rooms but private places. Let him kiss someone else if he won.
Her heart was wholly taken.
“A kiss?” Madame Bellamy eyed Chevreuse shrewdly. “From which lady, monsieur le marquis?” When he didn’t answer she continued, “Not Mademoiselle Farrow, surely, since you must first get past her ange gardien.”
Low laugher filled the room and Brielle had to smile.
So, they thought Bleu her guardian angel?
As for the ladies jeu de l’oie, Madame Bellamy soon won the broach and they disbanded for refreshments before returning to watch Waltes.
The unusual game continued tensely, Bleu and the marquis so focused it seemed they weren’t aware they were surrounded.
As the wooden platter of dice came down a final time with enough force to rattle and rearrange them, Bleu leaned back in his chair as the comte declared the winner.
“Monsieur Galant, vous avez triomphé!”
A titter erupted from the ladies. Brielle clapped, unsurprised yet pleased Bleu had won and by doing so removed her from the unwelcome attentions of another man.
The marquis’s smile was thin as Bleu rose from the table without a word and went to a sideboard where he poured champagne into an engraved glass before a footman could do so.
“Will you not claim your prize, Monsieur Galant?” Chevreuse asked, his words more taunt as his gaze returned to Brielle.
“A kiss is not a trifling thing given as some offhand, haphazard prize.” Bleu turned back around and faced him. “It is from the heart. Sacred. To be expressed in secret.”
For a telling second his eyes met Brielle’s and her heart held still.
Had he ever kissed a woman? Might she be the very first?
Madame Janvier looked at him admiringly. “For all your férocité, Monsieur Galant, you are a true romantique at heart.”
Another round of games began. Bleu sat down with Grandfather to play chess while Chevreuse joined several other gentlemen at piquet.
Hiding a yawn behind her extended fan, Brielle went to a near window, wishing an end to the evening.
She took a deep breath, her pulse hardly settling.
Bleu’s heartfelt words wooed her as only he could do.
They were of the same mind about intimate matters as well as the mundane.
At last the clock struck two and the company traded the salon for the terrace, walking toward the landing where their transport waited. Soon winter would force them to their carriages and river traffic would dwindle.
Brielle walked with the ladies to the river, torches illuminating their path. Uncomfortably aware of the marquis, she stood by the water gate as their guests boarded the boats to depart.
“I wish, Mademoiselle, to show you Chateau d’Ussé,” Chevreuse told her. “Especially my renowned grottoes given your penchant for gardens.”
She managed to smile, not wanting to encourage him nor be rude. Though Grandfather had told her Chevreuse wanted to court her he hadn’t shared his own feelings about the matter. Nor had she expressed hers. So much about French etiquette eluded her—courting customs foremost.
“Say you’ll come upriver so that I can give you a tour,” he told her.
He was standing so close she took a sudden step back.
The last boat had departed, all but Chevreuse’s at the end of the landing, a poleman snoring in the bow.
Alarm jarred her at being alone with him.
Grandfather had been here a moment ago but now no one else stood in the shadows but the two of them.
Surely it wasn’t sensible to tarry with so inebriated and enamored a man—
“Ah, a private moment at last. You’ve been such a temptation to me all evening—your lovely gown, the enchanting way you talk with your hands and move about a room.” His fingers encircled her wrist like a bracelet. “You play the flirt even if you don’t mean to …”
He continued murmuring, his impassioned French eluding her. She caught only the barest, most alarming words. Temptation. Coquette. Desire. His wine-soured breath made her recoil.
“Pardon, monsieur …” She started toward the chateau, trying to pull free. “I must return to the house now.”
“Not until we are finished here.” He pulled her against him with both hands, the buttons of his frock coat pressing into her bodice and the soft, exposed skin above it. “Say you’ll come upriver—”
His slurred words ended as he was knocked backwards with such force Brielle felt the blow.
Her arm felt wrenched from its socket as the marquis let her go.
He stumbled only to be hit again as Bleu shoved him further from Brielle and off the landing.
The river’s splash wet her skirts as she whirled and faced Bleu, the hard lines of his face terrifying by torch light. She’d never seen him so livid.
The poleman, now wide awake, held out an oar to the marquis who flailed about like a drowning river rat. With a last, dismissive glance, Bleu took her arm as gently as the marquis had been harsh and escorted her from the landing and back to the chateau.
She wanted to kiss him then and there.