Hey, everybody. I'm starting to get really excited about this story. Starting with this chapter, I think things are really going to start happening. So here it is. Enjoy.
Clarise accepted her uncle's outstretched hand and allowed him to help her down from the carriage. Once safely on the ground beside her aunt, she took the opportunity of surveying her new surroundings. The sky was a perfect, clear shade of blue, without a cloud to be seen, and the sun was blazingly bright, beyond anything she had ever seen in Britain. Before them sat the house, a beautiful large structure of sandstone brick. It was situated on a bluff, with a ravine tumbling down to the sea behind. A flight of rickety wooden steps had been built into the hillside, leading down to a stretch of white sand beach below. To Clarise's mind, it was heaven on earth.
"Oh, Aunt Kitty, it's beautiful," she breathed, "Thank you so much for inviting me here!"
Her aunt, a petite woman who was the personification of elegance, smiled at her benevolently. "It is our pleasure, Clarise. We are very glad to have you."
Fifteen year old Ella Fitzwilliam, Kitty's eldest daughter, tugged at her cousin's hand. "Come on, Clar. I want to show you your room."
"And I want to see it. Lead the way!" The two cousins dashed up the front staircase in a whirl of skirts and shawls, leaving Mrs. Fitzwilliam to stare after them. She could tell that Clarise was still upset about Mr. Wyndham, though she tried to hide it and very nearly succeeded in doing so. But surely she would forget about him, especially now that she was here, amidst all the beauty and society that was the south of France in the summertime. There were plenty of young men nearby who would be happy to see that she did. All Kitty could hope, as she took her husband's arm and followed the girls inside, was that Clarise would let them.
Meanwhile, Clarise allowed Ella to lead her through the entranceway, up the front staircase, and down a long corridor before finally stopping in front of a closed door. Her cousin opened it with one swift turn of the knob and ushered her inside. The room was large and airy, with tall windows looking out towards the sea. It was furnished with a four poster bed, wardrobe, writing table and dressing table, and was very similar in general appearance to Clarise's room at Pemberley, though not nearly so large.
"Oh, Ella, it really is lovely!" she exclaimed, dropping her bonnet on the bed and crossing over to the windows. From the second floor, she could tell that the bluffs on which the house sat looked out over a sort of half circle of sand and water. Bathers lined the shore, and Clarise wondered if there were perhaps a more private beach were she could go to be alone. She asked her cousin if such a place existed.
"Why yes," she replied in a startled voice, "It's around the corner of the near side of the cove. But why on earth would you want to go there? The crowds are always too much fun to miss."
"I didn't say I wanted to, Ella," she gently admonished her, "I was just curious, that's all. Would you mind terribly if I took some time to write a letter to my mother and tell her I've arrived safely?"
"Oh no, not at all," the other girl said brightly, "I'll see you downstairs later." And with those words, she left the room, pulling the door closed behind her.
Clarise sat down at the writing desk and took out a sheet of paper and a pen. But no sooner had she written the date, June 14, than she grew restless and stood up again. She didn't feel like being still. She felt like being daring, like being outside in the fresh summer air. On a whim, she decided to go find the beach Ella had told her about.
The family's trunks had been delivered the day before, and opening the wardrobe, Clarise found that her clothing had already been unpacked. She riffled through her dresses impatiently before she finally found the one she wanted, an old linen thing that had once been red but had now faded to a rosy pink. She had brought it because it would be perfect for taking a dip in the sea, if not worn over hoopskirts. As quickly as she could, Clarise wriggled out of her traveling dress and into this old one. Sorting through her hatboxes, she found an old straw bonnet trimmed in artificial roses and tied its ribbons beneath her chin.
Now came the difficult part. She opened the door a crack and peered out into the hallway. All appeared silent, and with several cautious glances to ensure it remained that way, she stole off down the corridor in the opposite direction from which she had come. After passing several closed doors, it occured to her that she didn't have the slightest clue where she was going. But no matter. She was in the mood for an adventure, and shrugging her shoulders blithely, she continued walking until she came to a narrow, dimly lit staircase on the left side of the corridor. The servant's staircase, she concluded, and she followed its twisting confines until it ended somewhere near the kitchens. From there, she tiptoed down the passageway for some distance before she discovered a door which, when opened, presented her with a view of the side yard. She was almost there.
As silently as she could, Clarise followed the wall of the house until she came to the corner, then cut across the lawn. She descended the stairs slowly and gingerly, for they were quite unstable. And then she was there, really there. The sand was deserted as far as she could see to the left, but there were crowds of people only about ten or fifteen yards away to the right. She went to the left, fighting the urge to take off her shoes and stockings and feel the sand between her toes as she did so.
Eventually she came to a bend in the bluff, which was marked by a sort of screen of dunes. Hitching up her skirts, she climbed nimbly over them and slid down the other side. What she saw there brought a smile to her face. Soft white sand stretched away into the distance before her, completely deserted. It was bordered on the other side by another wall of dunes. Someone had long ago built a wooden pier, now dilapidated, that stretched far off into the water. Clarise wanted to run down it and jump off the end, but she restrained herself. It was hard though. The sun was so bright and clear, and the water such a brilliant shade of blue that she just wanted to be a part of it.
She sat down with her back against a dune and began to think. She was glad to be here, really she was. Her unhappiness had nothing to do with her aunt and uncle's invitation, and everything to do with Mr. Wyndham, or Mr. Lewiston, as she supposed she must now call him. She had loved him; she really had. His proposal had made her the happiest woman in the world, and then it had all been ripped away from her in an instant. Even now, the thought of his deception made her so angry that she involuntarily twisted the fabric of her skirt between her fingers.
She ought to have known that he would only be after one thing from her: her fortune of twenty-five thousand pounds. Really, she was astonished with herself for not seeing that fact until it was too late. It was common knowledge that her father was extremely wealthy and that anyone who married a Darcy would have immediate access to money and connections. Right now, Clarise truly didn't know how she would ever again be able to trust any young man who seemed as if he liked her. How was she ever to know whether it was Clarise Darcy they liked, or just Clarise Darcy's last name and thousands of pounds?
With that thought, she looked up, and to her astonishment, saw a figure approaching from the dunes opposite her. As it drew closer, she could see that it was a man, quite tall and broad shouldered. Inwardly panicking, she hastily pulled on the shoes and stockings that she had discarded while sitting there, grimacing at the feel of sand in her shoes. By the time the stranger reached her, she had stood up and dusted off her skirts, trying to look as ladylike as possible.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle!" he hailed her, and Clarise's heart involuntarily flipped when she got a good look at him. He towered over her, easily surpassing six feet, with dark curly hair and eyes like flint. His clothing was simple: a pair of tan pants and a white shirt damp with perspiration, but the way the shirt clung to his muscular chest and shoulders sent little shivers up and down her spine. It was weird; she had never had that reaction to anyone before, not even Mr. Wyndham.
"Bonjour, monsieur," she replied, hardly daring to lift her eyes to his face, even though she was dying to. For the first and probably last time, she inwardly blessed Mrs. Regis, the cranky old governess who had taught her French.
"And what is your name, pray tell?" he asked in that language, smiling.
Clarise hesitated, not really sure that she wanted him to know who she was. But yet, she still wanted to know him. And then it came to her. As Miss Clarise Darcy, she would always run the risk of being valued for her fortune and nothing more. But what if she wasn't Miss Darcy at all, what if she wasn't even British? It would be a longshot, and quite risky, but she thought she could do it. She could, and she would, fool this man into believing she was nothing more than a French girl with the kind of fortune most men would be indifferent towards. It would be her own sort of social experiment. "Marie Archambeau," she replied, hoping that he wouldn't notice the way her cheeks flushed as she said it, "And yours?"
"Jean," he replied, then seemed to pause before adding, "Dubois. Jean Dubois."
She curtseyed. "I am pleased to meet you, Monsieur Dubois. Do you come here often?"
He returned her curtsy with a polite bow. "Likewise, mademoiselle. And as for your question, I believe I come here tolerably often, but not nearly so much as I would like. It is beautiful, is not it?"
"Oh yes, quite beautiful!" said Clarise enthusiastically.
"To turn your own question back on you, do you come here often?" he asked her.
"And to reply as you did, not nearly so often as I would like." It was not a lie, she insisted to herself, it was just not the complete truth.
He grinned. "Perhaps we should both of us make the journey more often."
His meaning was not lost on Clarise, and she suddenly felt very shy. She also realized just how long she had been gone, and knew that if she did not appear in the drawing room soon, Ella would come looking for her. "Perhaps, monsieur. I know I should like to. But not now, for now I must go."
Mr. Dubois bowed again. "Then I will excuse you, and hope to meet you again soon."
"I think I should like that," said Clarise softly, and then she turned and walked away, hoping she didn't trip and fall as she rescaled the dunes. Happily, she didn't, and she was soon safely on the ground again on the other side. After pausing a moment to catch her breath, she hurried down the beach and up the steps. No sooner had she reappered atopt the bluff than she saw Ella hurrying across the lawn towards her.
"Clarise!" she exclaimed when they had reached one another, "I didn't expect to see you here. Where in the world have you been, and what on earth are you wearing?"
"Oh, I just went for a little walk down on the beach," her cousin replied nonchalantly, ignoring the reference to her attire. She didn't mention Mr. Dubois. For some reason, she felt extremely shy of talking about it, even with, and perhaps especially with, Ella.
"You always were strange, Clar, but I dare say this is odd even for you. Well, anyway, come inside and put some normal clothes on. You and I and Mama and Papa were invited to dine tonight with the Fergusons."
"Who are the Fergusons?" asked Clarise as they turned their steps toward the house.
"Oh, just two of the most wonderful people in the world! Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson are both so nice, and Mama tells me that Mr. Ferguson's younger brother is staying with them, and that he is rumored to be very handsome!"
Clarise laughed. "In that case, then, I can hardly wait." Ella spent the time until they reached the house talking excitedly about the Fergusons, the as of yet unseen brother, and how exciting the evening was sure to be, but Clarise scarcely heard her. She was lost in her own thoughts, and as might be imagined, those thoughts were all about Mr. Dubois. She had never seen anyone so handsome. And he was nice, too! For a moment, she did feel a little bad about lying to him, but the sensation passed quickly enough. It wasn't as if anything could ever happen between them anyway. He was French and she was British. She would probably never even see him again.
There you go. What did you think? Oh yeah, two quick things before I let you go. One, I don't claim any real knowledge of the south of France. Everything I know comes from watching the Tour de France on TV, so I apologize if my description is in any way inaccurate. Second, I realize it may seem odd that Mr. Dubois introduced himself by his first name. I think you'll find out in the next chapter why he did that. Until then...