Chapter 30
The next morning, Brielle came downstairs to find a black-coated gentlemen leaving Grandfather’s study. He passed without a glance at her, following a footman to the main entrance. Finding the study door closed, she knocked lightly.
“Entrez.”
Bleu stood with Grandfather by the hearth.
Rarely did she venture here, preferring the salon with her mother’s portrait or the library or her own suite.
Rain spackled the windowpanes, ushering in a deeper chill that seemed to announce winter was at hand—and Noel.
Though she wanted to see how the French celebrated Christmas, she most wanted Christmas along the Rivanna River. An Acadian celebration.
“Bonjour, mes chers messieurs,” she said with a smile as Grandfather motioned her inside the mahogany-paneled room.
Bleu met her eyes, no doubt thinking of last night’s riverside debacle, too. In hindsight, she found the memory comical. The blow backwards—the river’s satisfying splash—the frantic poleman who’d had to fish the humbled marquis out of the water.
But no one seemed to be smiling now.
“Have I missed something?” she asked, looking from one to the other. “I just saw someone leaving …”
“Comte de Villeneuve.” Grandfather motioned to the settee that fronted the hearth. “An unwelcome guest, I’m afraid.”
Bleu stood to one side of the robust fire, hands clasped behind his back. He looked as calm as he’d been furious last night, in stark contrast to Grandfather who appeared unusually ruffled. Settling on the sofa, Brielle smoothed her petticoats, waiting for one of them to elaborate.
“Not all Frenchmen, even noblemen, behave as gentlemen as you found out last night,” Grandfather began, taking a seat beside her.
“Chevreuse is more arrogant than gallant. The man you saw leaving my study is his second who, in his stead, has formally issued a challenge to Monsieur Galant to defend his honor which was somewhat dampened by being thrown into the river.”
“A challenge?” Brielle wanted to scoff. “For defending my honor from his rude, ungentlemanly conduct of last night?”
Grandfather frowned. “Oui, a duel.”
Brielle looked at Bleu, warmed by his defense of her by the river, believing it bespoke his feelings for her. “You didn’t accept.”
He lifted his shoulders. “I … delayed.”
“Deuling is illegal but proud nobles still persist.” Grandfather shook his head in disgust. “There is nothing so foolish in North America, neither Canada nor the colonies, to my knowledge.”
“People are too busy trying to stay alive—survive—than endanger themselves with ridiculous dueling.” Brielle spoke so vehemently Bleu regarded her with surprise, even a new tenderness.
Was he remembering her tavern days? How fearful she’d been? How hungry at times?
“Now seems a good time to say I want nothing more to do with the marquis nor have I ever wanted him to court me,” she finished.
“There are others …” Grandfather left off.
Bleu’s wry half-smile seemed to say I told you so as Grandfather continued.
“You have several admirers, those who are waiting in the wings, so to speak, but …”
But Bleu.
She knew the gist of his thoughts without his finishing. Bleu was enough of a presence to deter even the most ardent suitors. What had Madame Bellamy called him?
Ton ange gardien?
If not for Bleu, she might have been harmed by the foppish Chevreuse who’d been so staggeringly drunk. And now he had sent his second with a ridiculous challenge that had nothing to do with her but his wounded pride and rather public humiliation.
Perhaps now was the time for them to return home. Though the Rivanna River settlement hadn’t been hers for long, the memories too few, it still felt like home, every thought of it embroidered with longing.
“So what does this dueling entail?” Bleu asked as the corner clock struck eleven and she remembered she had a pressing engagement.
“If you accept the challenge, you must select a second then choose your weapons.” Grandfather looked to the hearth as the fire popped and showered the marble tiles with sparks.
“Duels are often conducted at dawn in secret locations to elude the authorities. Your seconds and a surgeon would accompany you. Ground rules would be laid.”
Brielle’s ire overrode her usual composure. “Ground rules for idiocy that has been outlawed?”
“Sheer idiocy, oui. Nevertheless, the duel must be conducted honorably, no matter how dishonorably it began,” he explained, his expression darkening. “You begin by saluting your opponent then take your positions. The fight might be quick or prolonged, the first to draw blood the victor.”
Brielle looked hard at him as if it could curb this complication. As for Bleu, he continued to regard her grandfather stoically, even calmly, as if they were only discussing foul weather.
“I wonder which weapons Chevreuse prefers,” Bleu murmured.
“It matters not whether he prefers pistols or rapiers, Monsieur Galant,” he replied. “You are twice the man he is. I fear you will kill him.”
His chilling tone gave her pause. Long ago Bleu had nearly killed Sylvie’s future husband—an enemy soldier—in Acadie. The details were unknown to her, but she’d always sensed something feral about Bleu despite his surface civility. She’d witnessed only a fraction of that by the river last night.
Perhaps Bleu should leave, not because she feared for his safety, but because he was free to come and go as he pleased.
He had no ties to France. French codes of honor didn’t apply to a man who was from another continent, his own moral codes so far above Chevreuse the entire matter was ludicrous, even laughable.
She believed the marquis was as avaricious as he was a rake.
Perhaps he suspected Grandfather was poised to leave everything to her which surely spurred his pursuit.
“Chevreuse is a fool,” she said quietly but with disgust, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. That was the effect the French fop had on her. And she felt wildly and irrationally protective of Bleu who was more than capable of fending for himself.
A footman appeared at the door and for a moment she feared the foolish second had returned. “Your carriage waits, Mademoiselle.”
Bleu looked at her in question.
“I’m to have tea at the Pavillon downriver,” she said, wishing otherwise. Sometimes society was too much. And to leave with this matter in limbo …
“Wear a warm wrap, petite fille, as the day is cooler than yesterday,” Grandfather cautioned. “Those clouds moving in from the west portend a storm. If the weather turns inclement it would be wise for you to stay on at the Pavillon.”
She kissed him farewell, not making any promises.
She wanted to do the same with Bleu as she looked back from the doorway and met his gaze.
Such a long look he gave her, as if he was memorizing every detail of her with a quiet intensity that held unspoken devotion.
If love could be communicated in a look …
Had he communicated his here and now?
Downriver, Brielle sat amongst the other demoiselles in their brightly colored dresses to enjoy conversation, tea, and hot chocolate.
The Pavillon was a small manor house owned by their countess hostess.
Lovely as her circumstances and company were, Brielle was having a hard time following their effusive, rapid French, her thoughts returning to Bleu.
Away from him, she merely seemed to be biding her time till she saw him next.
“And you, Gabrielle …” Her hostess turned toward her. “What will you wear to the duchess’s winter fête? Your gown at the masked ball was ravissante!”
Thunder nearly overrode her answer as the young ladies flew to the salon’s windows to watch the storm Grandfather had predicted. Brielle stayed seated as lightning lit the afternoon darkness in brilliant flashes, rain slanting down in silver sheets beyond the glass.
The storm outside mirrored the tumult inside her.
How would this matter with Chevreuse end?
A dozen different outcomes played in her mind but Bleu’s last look at her stayed uppermost. Odd how easily she forgot exchanges with others but not a word with him.
There always seemed to be an undercurrent of something more between them, albeit unspoken, a feeling too deep for words.
She felt it hours—days—after and missed him with every speck of her being.
Sitting here in this frivolous room making frivolous conversation when someone she disdained had the temerity to call him out seemed a punishment.
Yet here she sat, unable to return to the chateau because the coach’s horses couldn’t be risked in the storm.
She could only sit and pray for a way out of their present predicament including an end to the storm within and without.