Chapter Two #2
Alain thought the spot reminded him of his school days at Lycée St André, a small establishment in Kent established by Monsieur Aurac, another French emigre who had once taught royal princes and ducs and now instructed the children of his exiled countrymen.
It was a refuge behind its impeccable white walls, run as closely as Monsieur Aurac could along the lines of Ancien Régime, a replacement for home and family.
Now those schooldays were far behind, and he had to find his own path. But one thing from St Andre always haunted him. Danielle. It had been thus since they were barely more than children.
Danielle Aurac was the granddaughter of their schoolmaster, a rare beauty, a lady who had the pure, ivory, classical cameo face of a Renaissance princess in a Fra Angelico painting, and of equal serenity and mystery.
Ever since Alain first saw her on his arrival at school, he’d been lost. She seemed so kind, so gentle, so adored by everyone, and as they grew older the feelings only blossomed.
And, miracle of miracles, she seemed to feel the same about him.
At first, when he left school and decided he should seek some career, he dared hope that one day they could come together.
He would build his own fortune, make a home for them.
Surely, once his family had settled more into their English life, they would be charmed with Danielle just as he was, and they would see how such a future could be made.
His love had blinded him back then. Danielle had no money and his parents would not give up their old ways, their old dreams; he could not go into trade, not find a career to support himself and Danielle. The comte and comtesse would not countenance such a thing.
Hope had faded slowly, though, when it was all he could hold on to, all he had.
They wrote to each other, reassured each other in wild, fleeting hopes that a solution would be found.
Now the first glimmer of a new, bizarre, daring hope was taking shape—an alliance with Sandrine Jaubert where they could help each other.
It could not be perfect, could not be what they once longed for, but it was a way he and Danielle, and Sandrine too, could gain much of what they wanted.
Alain, tired and pensive after his ride, turned down his parents’ street as the sun was beginning to slide from the sky, leaving streaks of lavender and gold behind in that quiet moment before the evening’s theatre performances and balls began.
They wouldn’t be happy he was so late; his mother had told him at breakfast they were invited to cards at the home of the Marquise de Brillac, and he could not be late.
The Marquise had once been lady-in-waiting to the queen herself, and such connections had to be carefully maintained.
But he could not quite care, he had so many other things to consider, plan.
Gallia was moving as slowly as Alain himself after the long day of escape amid the sun and fresh air.
To be free after the shadows and unhappiness of his family’s home was always exhilarating.
But now the wide sky was receding behind the small townhouses in their identical rows, the shuttered shops, the overgrown patches of garden.
He saw as he came around the corner that he need not have hurried anyway, for his family wasn’t alone.
An elegant dark blue barouche, far grander than any usually seen in the neighbourhood, complete with uniformed coachman and footmen, drawn with stunning matched greys, sat outside the d’Alencys’ door.
Alain drew up to study it for a moment, just as their neighbours did from behind their front windows.
The house’s door opened, and Alain’s mother, the comtesse Celeste, appeared with a stout gentleman in an old-fashioned wig and fine, bottle-green superfine coat.
His mother seemed so small, almost bird-like next to him, so dainty in her plain blue muslin dress and high-piled, silver-streaked dark hair, her head held high, a small, reserved smile on her face.
The man beamed down at her, speaking quickly, enthusiastically as she gave the littlest of nods.
She held out her hand, the long, pale fingers adorned only with the sapphire ring once gifted to her ancestor by Louis XIII, and the man bowed over it.
The comtesse watched, perfectly still, perfectly expressionless, as he climbed into his fine carriage and that magnificent equipage sailed away, leaving the street as quiet and nondescript as before.
Alain waited until the door closed behind his mother before he moved, taking Gallia to the stables at the end of the street.
He was still in no great hurry to return home, for he was quite sure that man, his strange visit, had something to do with him.
That something was sliding beyond his control, something was about to change.
As he stepped into the small hallway, with its chipped tile floor and unfashionably dark wallpaper, everything seemed silent. The drawing-room door was closed, the evening light from the high, dusty windows hazy.
‘Psst! Alain.’ A whisper floated down from the narrow staircase that wound its way up from the left.
He glanced up to see his younger sisters peeking down at him from between the banisters: Catherine, who had been a baby when they left France and was now a young lady of rare, delicate, porcelain-like beauty, and Francoise, the surprise arrival after the d’Alencys settled in England.
She was only thirteen, and should surely be asleep in the chamber the two girls shared at the top of the house.
But, as usual, she had to follow Catherine wherever she went, and Catherine had to know everything that was happening.
Alain looked to the closed door, and heard nothing beyond it. He hurried up the stairs to sit beside his sisters.
‘It looks as if we had a caller,’ he said.
Catherine slid closer to him, resting her golden head on his shoulder. She was so very pretty, so intelligent and curious, she deserved something better than their shabby house, their small circle. ‘For the last two hours at least. We didn’t get to meet him.’
‘He had such a lovely coat,’ Francoise sighed. She always pored over the fashion papers, yearning for silks and bows. ‘I wish I could wear such a green!’
‘And he had a yellow cravat,’ Catherine said, mock-swooning at the horror. ‘I was shocked Maman let him through the door!’
‘She must have a good reason,’ Alain said.
Catherine glanced away, fidgeting with a fold of her white muslin skirt. ‘I wouldn’t know…’
Alain gave her a nudge. He feared he knew all too well what that reason was. ‘You know everything that goes on everywhere, Cat-kins.’
‘It was Monsieur Jaubert,’ she whispered. ‘He came to call about you, of course.’
That was quick work, but not so surprising.
Alain had just met Mademoiselle Sandrine, though he knew he shouldn’t be too surprised.
Madame de Fleurieu would no doubt have reported all about last night to his mother.
It was so typical of his parents to disregard his opinions, his desires, sure they always knew best. He swallowed his fury and smiled at his sisters; they didn’t deserve his ire.
‘No wonder there’s no fuss over my lateness this evening.
They must have been most engaged in conversation. ’
‘Indeed. Papa said you would only be in the way, and things should be quickly settled,’ Catherine said. ‘That was before they closed the door, and we could only hear a word here or there.’ She stamped the toe of her faded slipper. ‘So unfair! I am not a child now.’
Francoise’s grey eyes were huge in her freckle-dotted face. ‘Are you really to marry that man’s daughter? And will we all have such carriages afterwards?’
Alain hugged them close. How precious they were, his little sisters!
How much he longed to help them, protect them.
Give them carriages and beautiful clothes.
His parents knew how he detested the idea of marrying for money, how he wanted to prove his own worth!
He could surely look after them all, if given time
But time was not on their family’s side at all, he feared. ‘You must have heard a soupcon more than a stray word or two.’
Catherine and Francoise exchanged a quick glance. ‘There are such draughts in this house, you know, Alain. Sound quite carries. Maman has rather changed her tune about people like the Jauberts, hasn’t she?’
‘Indeed,’ Alain murmured. She had used to sob about their lost home, their lost way of life, and declare that such petit-bourgeois shopkeepers now lorded it over comtes and marquises. Now they had to admit they needed those ‘shopkeepers’. ‘But I think we see why her melody has shifted.’
Catherine tilted her head as she studied him. ‘So you are to marry Mademoiselle Jaubert?’
Alain thought of Sandrine, of her shy smile, the way her unexpected warmth and sensitivity had unexpectedly drawn him near. ‘I’m not entirely sure about that. It is a possibility.’
‘But do you even know her?’ Catherine asked. ‘Can she possibly make you happy?’
Francoise’s eyes welled, as if she was about to burst into tears. ‘You have to marry a stranger? Oh, no, Alain! Not for a carriage!’
Alain kissed the top of her head, an impossibly tender ache flooding through him at how much he loved his sisters, how much he owed them. He felt he was being torn in two, his own longings warring with his duty to his family. ‘She’s not a stranger, sweet poppet. I met her at our godmother’s ball.’
‘Was she terrible?’ Catherine whispered. ‘I hope she did not look like her father!’
Alain laughed, thinking of Sandrine’s wood-sprite face and soft, chestnut-gold curls. ‘She did not look at all like Monsieur Jaubert, from what I could see. I wasn’t able to spend much time with her, but she seemed kind and intelligent. She likes art, and fashion, just as you do, Francoise.’