21. Chapter 21
Chapter 21
F abienne scooped a pair of elbow-length gloves from the drawer and rushed to the mirror to do one last check; she was running late for the Christmas ball already. The gloves fit nicely with her gown: a simple, ivory-colored silk in a subtle floral damask pattern, with short puffed sleeves and a scooped neckline—not too demure, but still far from revealing. The trick wasn’t in the gown—it was in the dark red petticoat, decorated with rows of black lace and ribbons at the hem. It would be hidden most of the time, but if she swung the right way, someone could catch a glimpse. The idea had been popular in New Orleans, but she never got to do it for any of those balls.
A golden shine in the jewelry box caught her eye. The dragonfly pin. She turned it around in her hands, the colors of the wings shifting between greens, blues, and purples. Gorgeous.
I could watch the dragonflies all day.
Picked this up in Hartford, so you might as well have it.
Ironic, how she was missing two years of her memories, but couldn’t even deal with the ones she had. It’s a piece of jewelry. It doesn’t carry any guilt. Only you do.
She put it in her hair.
The spacious working room of the Sanitary Commission has been transformed into a ballroom. Lights from two massive chandeliers glistened on the floor so polished one could barely distinguish it from the mirrors covering the inner wall. Despite the cold outside, the room had already grown stifling from the many candles and dozens of guests.
Caddie joined Fabienne by the window. “Everyone is having fun dancing.”
“I have danced. Twice,” Fabienne said.
“But you’ve also spent an hour playing cards.”
“Can’t I pick my preferred entertainment?”
“Is that why you’ve been so gloomy all evening? Because you’ve had exactly the entertainment you wanted?” Caddie lifted her eyebrows.
“I haven’t been gloomy.” But every time she danced, a slew of memories followed.
That one time Papa stepped away from work and taught her how to dance to a tune from a music box, her little feet on his, moving together.
The dancing in the square at the village festival in fall, enveloped in the perfume of freshly harvested grapes.
That ball in New Orleans when she and Marion tried to follow Aunt Dionne’s flirting-with-the-fan instructions, but ended up laughing at each other.
“I’m fine,” Fabienne said. “And no, I don’t have a temperature.”
“Didn’t think about checking.” Caddie smiled. “I’m going back to the cards.”
Fabienne started, but Caddie stopped her. “With the rest of us antiques . You stay here and dance.”
Fabienne moved closer to the window, wistfully looking at the reflections of the twirling pairs.
Someone bumped into her. A young woman with green eyes and a dress to match stared at her as if struck by lightning. Her companion, a black-haired young man, bowed to retrieve Fabienne’s fan. “My apologies, ma’am.” He steered the woman away before Fabienne could thank him.
Her eyes followed him. Something about him seemed familiar. The voice… where had she heard it before?
“Why aren’t you dancing?”
She spun again, back to the window—do it twice more, and she could claim to Caddie she had danced. “Why does everyone—” She stopped.
Brayden stood not far behind her, dressed in his usual elegant evening clothes, stark black except for a white silk waistcoat and tie.
“You’re here.” Her fingers numbed, and she nearly dropped the fan again.
“Surprised?” He plastered himself off the wall. “Annoyed I’d ruined your entertainment?”
Each word was a little cut into a ball of happiness that spread in her chest the second she saw him. He came back. He was fine.
And he hated her—deservingly.
“I merely didn’t expect you.” She tightened the grip on her fan, strode to a group of chairs, and sat.
“It seemed only prudent I’d come. Keep a good public face.”
“I meant, I didn’t know you were back.”
“The train was delayed. Otherwise, I’d be home before you— what are you wearing?” He stared incredulously at the exposed edge of her petticoat, where her skirt had hiked up on the side.
Her heart did a skip. Maybe she should have let Caddie check her temperature. “I wasn’t sure if it would be too provocative for you prim and proper people.”
He continued to stare.
“One would think I’d shown you my ankles,” she mused.
“I’ve seen your ankles. I don’t think they’d be too shocking for me.”
“Can this be?” Jim sauntered to their corner. “The prodigal son returns again!”
“Oh, I don’t know about prodigal,” Brayden said. “How have you been?”
“I should ask you that. At some point when I’m not interrupting.” Jim’s eyes darted from Brayden to Fabienne. “Did he send a message? Because I’m certain he didn’t.”
“No, he did not.”
Jim turned to Brayden. “Caddie will be angry, you know.”
“And here I was, thinking I’d make someone happy by being home for Christmas,” Brayden bit off.
“Yes, definitely interrupting,” Jim murmured to himself. “I just remembered. I promised Lorraine the next dance.” He scurried away with speed barely below running.
Fabienne laughed to release some of her nervousness. “I wonder if he’ll walk up to some poor unsuspecting woman just to get away from us. Yes, there she is.”
“You mean Lorraine?” Brayden leaned to look past some dancers, to where Jim was talking with a petite blonde.
“Wait, that’s her?” Another couple passed, and Fabienne stood and leaned as well, accidentally getting closer to Brayden. “She’s real?”
“Of course she is. Lorraine Thompson. Lovely young lady.”
Fabienne couldn’t help it and laughed out loud. “All this time, I thought she was an excuse. Or a joke.”
“Caddie likes to tease Jim because he’s not brave enough to go up to Lorraine and start courting her. Or he wasn’t until now.” Brayden turned, his face ending inches away from hers.
Fabienne froze; a musical note dragged. Her mouth went dry and—was Brayden looking at her lips? She thought he did, for a second, before he looked away.
“Mrs. Tatham told me you baked pies for the ball. The charity.” He turned his attention to the dancing couples.
“I did. How do you—”
“I tried one of them. The leftovers. She wouldn’t let me ‘sneak away again with an empty stomach’.”
“Even though you’re supposed to eat them here,” Fabienne said with a smile. That sounded exactly like their cook. From the corner of her eyes, she caught Brayden smiling, too—and then he sobered.
“What happened in October?” he asked.
“I—I don’t—“
“Don’t you think you owe me one straight answer?”
She gripped the back of a red-and-gold upholstered armchair. “Perhaps you’d have gotten one if you hadn’t run off.”
His voice lowered. “You told me to go.”
“Not to go back there !” Maudit , she needed some alcohol for this. She started for the side of the room, where they were serving punch, only to have something pull her hand. A bright pink, sticky string stretched from her gloved finger to the back of the chair.
“What the…” With her other hand, she tried to pull the thing off. She separated it from the chair, but it still stuck to the fine satin of her glove. “What is this?”
Brayden inspected the remainder on the chair. “Some sort of rubber, it appears. Or gum. Unusual.”
“Great,” she grumbled. The thing spread on more fingers as she plucked at it. “It won’t come off.”
Brayden grabbed her hand and tugged on the glove. He slipped it off her hand, rolled it, and tucked it into his pocket. “There. Now it’s off.”
He still held her hand—her now bare hand. His thumb rested on the sensitive inner side of her wrist. He brushed her skin, and the first fiery wave spread across it to her core.
Fabienne pulled her hand back and hugged her waist. “I should go.”
“Already?”
“I’m lacking a glove. What am I supposed to do, snatch one from somebody else?” She clamped her mouth shut. Great job. Might as well tell him it’s a frequent occurrence.
“I’ll go with you.”
“Snatching gloves?”
“Home.”
“You just arrived. Don’t be disturbed on my account.” She headed for the door.
Brayden fell in step with her. “I’ve hardly arrived and you’re storming off. Consider how that would look to others.”
“And it’s any better if we both—”
He raised an eyebrow.
“ Tant pis. ” She gestured to a servant to retrieve her cloak and wrapped herself tightly in it. Outside, cold pressed hard, and snow had painted the ground white. Save for the roof above their heads, the inside of the carriage wasn’t much better.
“I’ve ordered the house to be kept warm,” Brayden said. “Here, take this.” He unfolded a blanket resting on the seat.
“You can have it.”
“I’ll be fine.” He waved his hand. “And while we’re giving things, I have this for you.” He fished a letter out of his coat pocket. “I was thinking of leaving it under the tree, but…”
“What?” Her pulse quickened. The letter only had the words ‘For Fabienne’ written on one side.
“It’s a letter from your aunt.”
“Dionne?” She ripped the envelope apart, too engrossed in seeing the contents to bother scolding Brayden for a soft laugh that followed her action. Inside was a sheet, scribbled in a tiny writing using all the available space. She tilted the paper to catch a bit of the light and make out the signature. Dionne. “How?”
“I was able to get to a contact in New Orleans. I wrote her a letter, explaining who I am. I told her you’d be happy to receive news from her.”
Happy? Her heart was ready to burst. Dieu merci , what was this evening? “She’s fine?”
“As far as I know. Along with that novel”—he pointed to her letter—“she sent a short note for me, a few words of thanks and general politeness.” He tilted his head. “I assume the Yankee-bashing portion is contained in your letter.”
He’d done this for her. Despite what she did to him. “Thank you. I… I didn’t get you anything. For Christmas.”
“That’s what I get for not announcing my arrival.” Brayden shrugged, then leaned toward her.
Fabienne’s breath caught.
He tucked the blanket closer around her. “There.” His hand brushed over hers before he moved back to his seat.
Fabienne suppressed the strangest urge to leap into his arms, and cleared her throat. “How long are you going to stay this time?”
“A few days after the New Year’s. If you won’t mind.”
“I—uh—it’s fine. There are worse things than having you around.”
“Was that almost a compliment?”
“Almost,” she admitted with a small smile.
The carriage drifted along, finally arriving home amidst heavy snowfall. They ran to shelter and burst into the hallway, shaking off their outer clothes and rubbing their hands to get warm. Mrs. Beasley awaited them.
“Could you send up some tea?” Fabienne asked her. “Or anything warm.”
Brayden seconded that.
“I need to get out of these shoes.” Fabienne wiggled her soaked slippers and headed up the stairs.
Brayden followed her. “I don’t think you can call those ‘shoes’.”
“Yes, but it hurts less if I step on your toes during dancing. Imagine if we were all stomping around in boots.”
“A lady doesn’t step on anyone’s toes.”
“A lady doesn’t.” Fabienne threw him a glance over her shoulder and caught his smile in response. So reminiscent of the ones he used to give her in the past. Did he remember how they’d first met? Not her most ladylike moment.
They stopped at their respective rooms. In the awkward silence, she wondered—should she wish him good night, or should she say something else, or—
“You should get changed before you catch a cold.” Brayden nodded in his version of “goodnight” and disappeared into his room.
“Yes,” Fabienne said to the empty hallway, and felt like an idiot.
The fire in Fabienne’s room had gone out. She poked the coals, stirring up a few sparks, and lit it anew, but it would still take a while to warm the place. In the meantime, she changed into the warmest nightgown and robe she could find, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and moved to the window, pulling the curtains aside. The snowfall continued in lush, heavy flakes, the ground completely covered—the most snow she’d seen so far. She sighed contently. Something about it brought an innate quietness to the world, a sense of peace, and perhaps a touch of loneliness.
Noises came from Brayden’s bedroom. The screech of a chair, opening and closing of drawers. It was comforting hearing them again, knowing he was home. As if pulled by a force, she tiptoed to the wall between their rooms and pressed her palms against the wallpaper.
A light rap on the door threw Fabienne out of her half-dreamy state.
“Your tea, ma’am.” Tess crossed the room and set the tray on the desk. “This will warm you up nicely.”
The maid poured a cup for her and set it aside, leaving the teapot and another empty cup on the tray. Fabienne’s thoughts jumped to the adjacent room.
“There you go, ma’am,” Tess said. “I’ll take this to Mr. Marshall.”
“I can do it,” Fabienne blurted. “It’s, uh, it’s late and I don’t wish to trouble you further.”
Tess gave her a quizzical look, then nodded and exited the room.
Leaving Fabienne with a bunch of tea and a sliver of doubt. She shook her head. It was just tea. Grabbing the platter, she decidedly strode into the hallway and to the next door. She knocked and waited for the “Come in.”
Brayden was luckier: his fire was nicely lit and gave a light glow and much-desired warmth. He was standing by the fireplace and turned as she entered.
“Ah, thank you—Fabienne.”
“Why, it was of no trouble.” She smiled, his surprise giving her some of her wits back. “Tess delivered this, but I thought I’d let her rest and bring the tea myself.” She put the tray down at the desk between the windows.
“How gracious of you.” Brayden joined her. He’d discarded his jacket and the tie, and the uppermost buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a patch of skin below his neck. Hypnotized by the spot, Fabienne forced herself to look away. What was wrong with her tonight? Why had she come here?
“… a cup?” Brayden said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Tess didn’t bring you a cup?”
Fabienne looked down. In her strange frenzy, she’d left her cup in her room.
“I… I wasn’t feeling like tea.”
“You ordered it.”
Mon Dieu. Had she forgotten her brain, along with the teacup? “I… forgot it.” She turned on her heels, but he grabbed her hand.
“Wait, please. I don’t know whether or not you want tea, but would you care to join me?” He motioned to the two armchairs by the fireplace. “It’s just that… it’s quiet, isn’t it? The evening.”
“It’s the snow,” she said. “It gives you that feeling.”
Brayden looked out of the window. “Might be that.”
“I’ve never seen snowfall like this. We rarely get it in Provence. Only on top of the faraway mountains.”
“What about last year? Didn’t it snow?”
Oh. Right. Her eyes followed a few snowflakes, illuminated by the light below.
“Fabienne?”
“I’m sorry for October,” she said. “For my behavior. I…” He knew some of her history—why she hated soldiers. But he didn’t know of everything that's changed for her while he was away. Nothing had changed for him.
“It wasn’t all you,” Brayden said. “I admit I become rather rash in my decisions when they’re bound to a quarrel between us.”
His tone was light enough Fabienne dared to smile. “Then I’ll have to be very careful. It’s cold outside.”
Brayden chuckled—a light, pleasant vibration that sent shivers along her skin. “You wore the dragonfly pin tonight.”
She turned to him. His fingers trailed the sleeve of her robe, but he appeared unaware of doing it.
“I hoped…” For what? His return, or for him to stay away? For clarity? For peace? For the pull in her chest to stop, for an easy decision, for—for—
He said her name again, his voice almost a whisper. He stepped closer, their bodies almost touching now, the heat between them palpable. The fire crackled.
She couldn’t do it anymore. Stay away. Because beneath everything she’d done to him, old Brayden was still there.
She cupped the sides of his face, leaned forward, and kissed him.
***
There was only a brief moment of surprise for Brayden, a jolt of lightning as their lips connected. Fabienne lunged into the kiss with urgent determination. He nibbled gently at her lower lip, teasing her to let him in. Slowly. The scent of honeyed tea lingered as they explored each other with their mouths. He slipped one hand to the back of her head, intertwining his fingers with the silky black locks; the other held her waist, keeping her close. A pleased sigh escaped her throat, and in that moment, there was nothing more bewitching than that small sound, nothing more enthralling than the lush curves of her body, pressed up against his.
Continuing the kiss, Brayden spun them around and moved toward the bed, leaning Fabienne on the bedpost. He led a feather-light trail down her neck and across the collarbone.
“Brayden,” she whispered, her breath hot and teasing by his ear. “The tea is going to get cold.”
He pulled back just enough to look at her face, flushed from desire. “Do you care?”
Her lips quirked in the tiniest, most delicious smile he’d ever imagined. “Not really.” Her hand sought his and led it to the bow that held the neckline of her nightgown.
Brayden paused, if only to savor the moment. She was back. His Fabienne was back. “Good,” he said, and lowered her onto the bed.