In-between the lines
By JeanTre16
Chapter Four
Delivery
Early the next morning d'Artagnan knocked softly on her door and whispered, "Jacques are you up?"
Opening the door just enough for him to see that her transformation was already underway, she stepped back to let him in.
He saw that she already had the red gown on. It fit her quite well. D'Artagnan could do nothing but respond with a delighted smile at the sight of her wearing the dress that he had picked out for her. He relished the sight and surmised it would definitely leave a lasting impression.
"Stop drooling and help me with this pathetic wig," she ordered.
Taking note that she acknowledged his looks of approval, he brushed off her sharp comment to receive the handful of hair she held out to him. He smiled lightly, and pressed a little further. "I never did tell you what my favorite color hair was. Aren't you curious?" he asked, happily surveying her appearance as she sat in a chair before her full-length mirror.
Glancing up at him, she sarcastically said, "Let me guess, red, like this dress you picked out."
"No." He paused as he stood beside her and placed the wig down in her lap. "What makes you think that?" he asked softly as he took her hair in his hands to help her tie it back. But absentmindedly, he began to run his fingers through it instead. Since their run in with the exiled king of England, a stimulating side of his female comrade that d'Artagnan had not seen before had surfaced. And it was beginning to have an effect on him.
Jacqueline fumbled for words, "I, uh…" But she could find no words at the moment. She was much too distracted by his gentle combing of her hair with his hands. It felt nice and she felt herself flush. Then suddenly, realizing what was happening, she became nervous and wanted to run.
Watching her affected expression in the mirror, he added, "I'm more of a brunette kind of man."
She turned her head to the side and shyly took hold of his hand to push it away from her hair. "D'Artagnan, don't…" she whispered. Normally, she would have snapped at him for such behavior, had it not been for the caring side of her male comrade she had seen surface during her recent infatuation with Charles II.
Coming back to his presence of mind, he shook off the allurement of the moment and replied, "Sorry…I'm sorry." He stood back and tucked his hands under his arms, allowing her to pull her own hair back. When she had secured the wavy soft strands, he trusted his hands to leave their confinement and helped her place the blond wig over her head.
With the wig in place, she stood up and grabbed the gaudy feather fan she had purchased on a whim for the occasion. Taking one last look in the mirror, she straightened her bright gold necklace and nodded in self-approval. "Well, this is it. Here I go. Pray that this works," Jacqueline said in an up-beat tone and walked toward the door.
Calmly perceiving that her nerves were frayed in trying to be someone that she was not, he took it upon himself to help her think clearly. "Wait—" d'Artagnan stopped her "—aren't you forgetting something?"
Furrowing her brow, she stopped and considered. "No. I don't think I'm forgetting anything," she answered, and turned to give him a quizzical look.
D'Artagnan pulled a letter from his vest and held it out to her.
"What's this?" she asked.
"Your letter," he answered, as if she should have known better to even ask.
"Letter?" she inquired. "Why do I need a letter?"
Taking in a deep breath, he went over to her desk and pulled out a sheet of fresh parchment and set it out. "Obviously, Leponte—" he directed his mocking at her alter ego "—knows little about proposing to a woman." Smirking, he continued, "Come here and sit down. Let me instruct you." As he spoke, he returned to where Jacqueline stood and handed her his letter. Having done so, he went to retrieve the chair from in front of the mirror and place it by the desk.
Aghast at his inference of educating her counter self in making a proposal, the clueless woman followed his lead and sat down before the blank sheet of paper. "Now what?" she asked, smartly.
"Open it," he instructed in dumbfounded awe at her lack of grasping the obvious. He took a seat halfway on the edge of her desk—one leg on and dangling, and one leg off with his foot on the floor. "Open the letter you have in your hand and read it." He gestured indifferently at the letter she held, and then eagerly watched for her to open it out of the corner of his eyes.
Jacqueline shook her head with uncertainty and blinked as she un-creased the tri-folded letter to read it aloud. Holding it up, she smugly began, "To my dearest—" there was no name inserted. "Your unchallenged, highly esteemed character and breathtaking beauty have captivated my soul to its core…" Suddenly realizing that it was a serious betrothal letter she was reading, she paused, her affronted attitude turning to one of interest toward its author. Now there was a side to this fickle man she hadn't anticipated, she thought.
She read on, silently for a moment, and couldn't help finishing in a heightened voice of wonderment. "I offer all that is mine to you, including the privileges bequeathed to me by my heritage, unrestrained. I ask nothing in return but the grace of your acceptance. Humbly yours, with the sincerest of heart—" and once again there was no name. She looked up from the letter to d'Artagnan, and said, "That's pouring it on thick, don't you think? I mean, for Leponte." Noticing his jaw drop at her insinuation, she questioned, "Did you write that? Or did you have Ramon write it?"
"No, I didn't have Ramon write it," he answered, deeply annoyed that she would think that. "And do you think I'm that incapable of writing a heartfelt letter?" He crossed his arms.
"I didn't say that," Jacqueline defended herself, wondering where his defensiveness came from. She had only been teasing him.
"A true gentleman always accompanies his engagement with a letter. Leponte is a gentleman, is he not?" he asked, abrasively. Then, with the exiled man in mind, he defensively added, "Verbal commitments are cheap and can conveniently be broken later."
Jacqueline sat up straight and looked at d'Artagnan. She understood his criticism to be aimed at Charles II. There was no question that he had suffered in the dungeons for the actions of the man she had allowed herself to be affected by. She couldn't blame her comrade for disliking the man, but it sounded like his objections ran deeper than mere distaste—he was challenging the man's character. Was this the real issue behind his response to her criticism? She wondered.
In a difficult moment of dealing with his inner emotions while keeping his feelings to himself, d'Artagnan pinched his brow. He had promised to watch over Jacqueline, and in retrospect, he felt he had nearly made a mistake in that regard. He vowed he would not let it happen again. She had suffered enough at the hands of manipulative men. Thus he felt a growing responsibility to take more interest in making her life a little easier. And presently, that meant helping her get rid of Mireille.
With the focus of shaking Mireille on his mind, he redirected her attention. "Look, forget what I just said. All you have to do now is copy that over in your own…that is Jacques' own handwriting, and you're good. Show that to Mireille, and you're done with her." He lifted the quill from her pen rest and handed it to her.
Taking the pen, she dipped it into the ink and began to transfer his words, line for line, over onto the fresh sheet of paper. "Who'd you write that for? Was there someone special?" she asked, making cautious conversation, while not wanting to look him in the eye.
"I knew you needed a letter so I wrote it last night," he answered without any more explanation. Suddenly he had grown awkwardly quiet, considering that perhaps he had opened his heart to a little too much vulnerability. He couldn't take it back, but he could stop more from being exposed. Despite his strong feelings of attraction for her, he still was uncertain what to do about it.
After copying the letter over into 'Jacques'' handwriting, she blew on it to dry the ink before folding it.
"Do you mind?" D'Artagnan, still standing beside her, held out his hand and pointed to the original letter he had written. He determined that if he had his letter back, he would in some likeness have his heart back.
Noticing his focus on reclaiming his letter, she picked it up off the table, held it out to him, and then quickly pulled it back out of his reach. Enjoying the upper hand she held over him in possessing his coveted letter, she smiled and teased, "Are you going to save it for someone?"
Coolly looking down at her sitting in her gorgeous red dress, he leaned over to snatch his letter from her grasp and tauntingly answered. "You'll have to wait and see."
As she rose from her chair, she paused and shared one last face-to-face, close-up glance with d'Artagnan. There was more going on between the lines than either was willing or ready to admit to. Blushing at the playful twinkling in his eyes, she brushed by his stationary stance. Then, walking out the door, she went to deliver herself from the bondage of Mireille, the wash maid.