Chapter 9
Nine
Alix swam slowly toward wakening, trying to make out where she was without lifting her eyelids.
She could feel soft cotton against her cheek and her body seemed to be ensnared in yards of fine linen.
She was, she realized with a start, in a bed.
For a fleeting moment she hoped her flight from the chateau had been a dream and she moistened her lips to call Solange for some cocoa and buttered rolls.
The stale taste in her mouth reminded her of the previous evening.
She’d been drinking wine with Rafe, quite a lot of wine it seemed.
And now it was morning, and the painful feeling across her eyes must be sunlight slicing through partly opened curtains.
She tried to turn her head away from the brightness, and immediately wished she hadn’t.
Pain radiated through her head like a giant hand clasped over her scalp.
If someone could promise that they’d remove her head that very instant, she thought bitterly, she’d welcome the guillotine.
Why, oh why had she drunk so much? Her mother had always told her to pace herself with water.
“A drunken woman is an unappealing sight,” the comtesse would say, pacing the room and rapping her hand with her fan for emphasis.
“Wine loosens the tongue, coarsens the manners, and swells the eyelids the following morning.” Why did mothers always have to be right?
She comforted herself that at least her mother hadn’t seen her performance last night.
Alix winced. She’d called Rafe an ass.
Then she cringed. Had she also told him he was attractive?
And he’d kissed her.
An agony of embarrassment swept through her more painfully than the hangover as she remembered how she’d kissed him back.
Drinking and carousing, what would her father have said?
He’d have said it was typical female behavior, she thought sourly.
Instead of keeping her mind focused on escape, she’d been distracted by a man.
An experienced, womanizing man, judging by his kisses.
Well, there’d be no more of that, she thought, nodding firmly and sending waves of pain ricocheting around her skull. She groaned out loud.
“Ah, I see you’re finally ready to rise, mademoiselle,” piped a cheery voice.
Gingerly raising her head, Alix peered across the room.
Jervis was sitting in front of the fire, vigorously shining her shoes.
When he saw her look up, he put them down and rose.
As he did so, Alix noticed a smart navy blue walking dress draped over the chair next to him, along with several neatly folded white bundles that she took to be undergarments.
“Care for a bite to eat? Lisette in the kitchen can whip you up a nice fluffy omelet if you’d like, or would you prefer a bit of cold ham?”
The thought of food sent an unwelcome undulation through her stomach. “No, thank you, monsieur,” she said weakly.
“Ah come now, that’s no way to start your big day.
” Jervis eyed her stricken state thoughtfully.
“The captain warned me you might have a bit of a hangover. I’ve taken the liberty of mixing up a bit of something that should help.
Here, try this,” he said, thrusting a large crockery mug filled with a brown liquid under her nose.
Alix eyed the cup suspiciously. “What is it?”
He ignored her question, urging, “There’s a good girl, just toss it back, one big swallow.”
Suspecting she couldn’t feel much worse, she tried tossing it back. A thick cool slime, with a slightly bitter taste slid down her throat, nearly rebelling before it reached her stomach. “Good Lord, Jervis,” Alix grimaced, “what was that awful stuff?”
“Raw egg, rosemary, and ale,” he responded proudly. “A traditional Jones family recipe. Should have you feeling better in just a bit.”
“If I don’t die first,” she moaned.
Jervis chuckled. “You won’t die. Besides you’ve got too much to do today. Hurry up then, up and out of bed, get yourself dressed.” Taking the emptied mug from her hand, he left the room before she could inquire just what exactly was planned for the day.
She lay back on the pillows, Jervis’s home remedy weighing heavily in her stomach.
At least, she thought grimly, it seemed to have stopped her belly from lurching about.
Slowly, very slowly, she sat up, cradling her head as if it might unexpectedly detach.
Let this be a lesson to you Alexandre Charlotte, she berated herself.
And then another memory from the previous night skittered across her brain; she’d actually congratulated him on having all his teeth.
She shuddered. She must keep her mind on the task at hand.
Madeleine was in London; she must get to London.
If she made it to London, she reassured herself, surely her life would resume its normal, steady course.
Swinging her feet over the side of the bed, she wobbled over to the washstand like a toddler testing her legs.
She filled the basin with water and splashed some over her face.
Peering through the droplets hanging from her lashes, she spotted the navy traveling gown.
She needed to get dressed. Crossing to the chair, she lifted up the gown and examined it more closely.
The material was a fine quality. The style was understated and elegant.
Undoubtedly, this was not the first time Monsieur Harcrest had selected garments for a woman’s wardrobe.
Alix shed the chemise over her head, then looked around for her stays, locating them on the mantle.
She picked them up and examined them, saw that someone had clumsily stitched her papers, money, and gems back in.
She wrapped the garment around her waist and tried in vain to tie the strings in the back.
It was no use, she was in too much agony to twist around.
She could either wear them slipping and sliding about, ask for assistance, or do without.
Deciding to do without, she pulled some money out of the garment, then tossed it into Rafe’s trunk.
She pulled the fine wool dress over her head and tied the burgundy and blue sash tightly about her waist. She had just finished arranging the lace fichu over her shoulders and was smoothing the tight-fitted sleeves when she heard a light tap at the door.
“It’s me, mademoiselle,” Jervis said, “just checking to see if you need anything.”
Alix cast a look about the room then called back, “Have you a hairbrush? My hair’s a knotted mess.” She heard Jervis rustling about, then he knocked again and entered, a silver-backed hairbrush monogrammed with the letter M in one hand and a steaming cup of mocha in the other.
He looked her up and down. “There now, mademoiselle, you’ve certainly made a good start of it. I knew my tonic would do the trick. If you’d like, I could fix your hair for you. Used to do it all the time for my mother when I was little.”
It was strange, but reassuring to think of this sharp-eyed little man as a child. Alix accepted the cup and his offer and sank into an armchair by the fire.
Jervis began gently tugging at the tangles.
“You’ve got lovely hair, mademoiselle,” he said.
“I was born and raised in the Americas, you know.” He worried at a particularly snarled knot.
“So I understand how hard it can be, packing up and leaving everything familiar behind.” He resumed brushing.
“But sometimes a fresh start is just what you need.”
Alix took a sip from the steaming cup and allowed herself to relax under Jervis’s ministrations, barely listening to his chatter.
A stray thought flitted through her brain and she frowned.
Had Jervis said something about a “big” day?
She considered asking him, then thought the better of it.
It was inconceivable that Rafe Harcrest could get a license, post the banns and find a priest all in one day.
Marriage, what an absurd idea. This was neither the time nor the place for a marriage.
Jervis put down the brush and began to twist and pin her hair. “There’s a lot you can learn about yourself when you plunk down someplace new.”
Distracted, Alix picked up the brush, noticing for the first time the M engraved on the back. “Jervis,” she asked, “what does the M stand for?”
Jervis paused, then replied in a rush, “The M? That’s for the captain’s father, the brush belonged to him.”
Alix noticed his stumble, and pursed her lips.
Rafe’s father indeed. More likely a pretty remembrance of some woman, Margot, Marguerite, Marianne.
No doubt, some common hussy. Monsieur Harcrest was mistaken if he thought she was going to blithely join their ranks.
Thinking of Rafe reminded Alix of a question that had been niggling at her.
“And just where is Monsieur Harcrest this morning?”
“Oh,” said Jervis breezily, “he’s gone over to the H?tel de Ville to get the marriage license.”
Alix jerked forward so suddenly that one of the tresses Jervis had been pinning slipped loose. “A marriage license?” she yelped, her head feeling as though it would split. “But surely he can’t get a marriage license on such short notice?”
Jervis chortled and recaptured the stray lock.
“Oh, mademoiselle, welcome to the new France. It’s an amazing thing, wouldn’t have believed it myself if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.
All you have to do to get married in Paris these days is walk into the municipal offices at the H?tel de Ville, announce your intentions, fill out some forms, get some stamps, then show up for the ceremony at the Place de la Grève. ”
Alix put her aching head in her hands.