Chapter Two #3
‘But is she someone you would want to marry?’ Catherine persisted. ‘Someone you could love?’
Alain’s thoughts flickered to Danielle, how long he had craved her smile, her touch, how just being near her was so filled with sparkling excitement. ‘What a romantic you are, Cat. How could I possibly know that about Mademoiselle Jaubert right now?’
Catherine scowled. ‘I am not romantic. I see how life truly is. We must all survive. But we do see every day with our parents how it is when two people are bound only by duty and convenience. You deserve so, so much more.’
It was true, their parents rarely conversed now, rarely sat in the same room.
Their father, his health fading more every day, hid in his library while their mother took tea in the drawing room with one or two old friends.
They were united only in their memories, their names.
Alain never wanted that, not for himself, and especially not for his sisters.
With money, they could find a wider circle, greater matches.
They counted on Alain to ensure those things, never talking to him about it, always expecting he would follow their dictates.
‘I told you, Sandrine Jaubert seems a very kind, gentle sort of lady. And I’m not at all sure we’re to be married, anyway. ’
Catherine glanced around at the peeling wallpaper, the chipped banisters.
‘I am too young to find a good marriage yet, or so our parents say, so I fear all their hopes are on you. If only I could do this myself! I know I could find someone with enough wealth for all of us, someone who could take care of all of us.’
‘Or me!’ Francoise cried. ‘I could marry a prince who would take us all to his castle, where it’s always warm and there are lots of cakes. And pretty hats.’
Alain hugged them, his heart so full it would surely burst. He owed them anything in his power he could give.
No matter what his own dreams were, of travel, self-sufficiency, love.
‘No, no. I only want you both to marry men you love, truly and deeply.’ And he knew, in that moment, with a fierce certainty, he would do anything at all to make sure of that for his sisters.
He would even face a Medusa in her cave.
And Sandrine was very, very far from a Medusa.
The drawing-room door opened and his mother stood there, outlined in firelight. Even on warm evenings, his father needed the flames to keep the ever-present damp away, to ease his aching lungs. His mother looked so small there, so frail and yet so proud in her shabby gown, her plain cap.
‘Alain,’ she said, in her softly accented voice, impossible to read. ‘You’re home at last.’
He stood quickly before she could notice Catherine and Francoise lurking there, letting them escape up the stairs. ‘Forgive me for my tardiness, Maman. I only need to wash and dress, and I’ll be ready in a trice for the marquise’s card party.’
She waved this away, her sapphire ring gleaming. ‘It is of no matter. Do come and sit with your father and me; we must talk.’
He moved slowly down the stairs, towards the open door, remembering the dreadful tales of his parents’ friends marching proudly to the guillotine. He almost laughed at himself for being dramatic, but the look in his mother’s eyes sobered him.
His father sat in his favourite, faded brocade chair near the fire set in the small grate, wrapped in cashmere shawls.
He had once been a handsome man, indeed the d’Alencys had been spoken of as one of the loveliest couples at Versailles, and his hair was still dark, his eyes a vivid pale blue.
But he was thin, pale, the bones of his face sharp through his skin. He spent his days in dreams.
The room was not large, but it was filled with bits and pieces his parents had rescued from better days, porcelain, portraits of ancestors, embroidered cushions.
Balanced on a small card table was his mother’s most prized possession after her ring, a Sèvres tea set, rimmed with gold, painted with vivid garden flowers. And there was a decanter of wine.
The comtesse sat down on a narrow settee across from her husband, and gestured Alain to sit beside her. The room was silent for a long moment, filled only with the crackle of the fire.
‘Monsieur Jaubert has just left us,’ his mother said. His father stared into the flames.
Alain wished he could have some of that wine. ‘So I heard.’
The comtesse sighed. ‘Catherine. Of course. That girl would have been such a useful spy for the likes of Queen Catherine de Medici.’
Alain laughed to picture it, despite the heavy atmosphere of the drawing room. Catherine would indeed have been a fine spy, slipping around the chateau corridors, listening behind tapestries, luring people in with her angel-looks. ‘Not her fault; I saw the carriage leaving.’
‘You met his daughter, I believe,’ his mother said. ‘What did you think of her?’
That she was unexpected. That she was a woodland fairy. Under other circumstances, another life, he might have thought of her differently. ‘I would hardly imagine it matters what I think.’
His parents glanced at each other. ‘We must all do difficult things to protect the family, I fear,’ his father said.
‘Look at what happened to our friends in the terrible upheaval of our home! I do fear Mademoiselle Jaubert may prove as inelegant as her unfortunate father. When I think of what should have been—the match our son could have made! The Princess Royal should not have been above the reach of a d’Alency! And now…’ His voice caught on a cough.
The comtesse poured out a glass of wine and passed it to her husband. ‘The shame of it all.’
Alain felt a flare of anger for Sandrine Jaubert, who had been so gentle, so sweet. A rush of fury for himself, at having his dreams so disregarded, so ignored. ‘She was not vulgar in the least! She was cultured and intelligent. A bit shy, but perfectly mannered.’ And pretty, too.
His mother’s head tilted. ‘You liked her enough?’
‘As well as any other young lady in London, I dare say.’ She was not Danielle, of course; no one else could be. But Danielle was beyond him now. His own dreams were beyond him.
‘That is all for the best, then, for I fear we must receive her, and all her family,’ the comtesse said. ‘We may even have to claim a—a close connection with them. If you agree, naturellement.’
As if he had ever had a choice. His life had never been his own, and he knew what he owed his sisters now, owed his name. He had to swallow his pride, find a way to move ahead. ‘And I’m sure we will be rewarded well enough for the connection.’
‘Don’t let their vulgarity rub off on you, Alain,’ his father snapped. ‘You will one day soon be the comte, the head of this family. We have been robbed of our rightful place in the world, but not of our dignity.’
‘I am sure Mademoiselle Jaubert will soon learn our ways,’ the comtesse said doubtfully. ‘And we can soon find some country home, somewhere she can live quietly.’
‘Where an heir can be produced, a continuance for our line,’ his father rasped on another cough.
‘So her money will pay for her prison?’ Alain gritted out.
His mother shook her head, her eyes closed, as if she was suddenly deeply weary.
‘You have been reading those dreadful romantic novels Catherine so enjoys. A pretty country estate is no prison. The Conciergerie was a prison. We will all live there, where your father can have the fresh air he requires, and your sisters can prepare for Society. Where we can be free of…’ She held up her hand before Alain could argue.
‘And yes, the Jaubert dowry will help us gain those things. Will enable our survival. And so we will be kind to her, always.’
Alain’s hands curled into tight fists, barely holding back his anger, his burning sense of the unfairness of the situation for all of them, especially the sweet Sandrine.
But he knew how the world really worked, knew his mother was right.
There was no time for him to travel and try his dreams of earning a fortune.
His father was ill, his sisters growing up.
They needed him. And maybe, just maybe, he could help Sandrine, too.
Give her some room to find her own freedom.
His mother seemed to sense his thoughts, his anger and his resignation. For had it not been she, for all his life, who had taught him the importance of duty? She gently touched his hand. ‘I know that you love your sisters, cher, that you want all that is fine for them, all their beauty deserves.’
‘Oui, Maman,’ he muttered. He did love Catherine and Francoise; he loved his parents, too. He had to help them if he could. He couldn’t be careless forever. His dreams of making his own way in the world, making his own fortune—there was not time for them now.
‘And you say this girl seems well-mannered, genteel,’ she said. ‘I am sure we can make her one of us, that we can find a way forward together. I should not wish to ask this of you, but we must. We must beg you now to help us, my son. Help our, your, family.’
Alain glanced at his father, so frail now, so helpless, and it felt as if a heavy iron mantel descended onto his back.
The past and the future were cut off, and he and Sandrine were left together on the far side of it.
He didn’t know yet how she felt about it all, but he knew what he had to do.
He hoped fervently they could find a way together, an accommodation for them both.
‘If Mademoiselle Jaubert will have me,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘I would be happy to ask for her hand.’