Author's Note: What was once 32 chapters has become 20! I am still in the 'rewriting' stage of this story; however, I will soon move into new territory. The 'original' last 15 chapters had taken a somewhat…action-filled turn, and seemed to take away from the central story. I tell you this because it means I will be composing afresh…and that can be a time-consuming business. I don't have that kind of time usually…it may take me two weeks to put out a chapter, especially as long as these are.
I beg for your patience…I thank those who do leave feedback with honest gratitude.
Chapter Twenty
"Mon Dieu, Mademoiselle...Hurry! Emanuel just said he was going to kill Bouchard!"
Tossing twice the going rate in cash at the cabby, I grabbed my skirts, and leapt into a run, my mind spinning down the list of regrets. I am sorry I did not think to take Bouchard safely along on our errand. I am sorry I did not fire the Gadreaus' immediately upon Anna's initial mischief. I am sorry I could not protect you better, Jerrod!
I heard Gadreau screaming "What did you do to my sister! Anna, what did this…this… beast...do to you?"
His sister?
Anna began screaming terrible names. I recognized a bit of gutter French, a few quaint euphemisms for baser sexual activity. Such things as I learned at Nettles from listening to our older French patients.
I did not hear Bouchard. Nevertheless, Anna was definitely yelling at Bouchard, so he could not yet be dead.
Having reached the door I turned the knob and yanked so hard the chain stay was snapped it from the door. I nearly ran over Anna, half-reclining on the floor, naked below the waist, her legs spread wide, as was her foul, screaming mouth.
Everything stopped the moment I burst through the door…
I instantly assumed the worse, that she had been successful in her assault, and looked to Bouchard, who sat on the chaise, one hand pressed to his groin, one clutching his right cheek, his expression…frozen. And terribly pale. Upon turning to catch my guilty expression, his became even harder, colder and his eyes went dark and empty.
Oh God, I have failed him…he must loath me.
Looking at Emanuel, I saw he had the old Colt Army double barreled pistol in his hand, aimed at Bouchard. His hand and the gun were wobbling in a most alarming way.
"Put it away, Emanuel. We do not know what happened here, do we?" I was guessing, naturally. For all I know, he had walked in on these two in flagrant.
"Mademoiselle! This…bâtard fétide has ruined my sister! Ruined her!"
"Put the gun down, Emanuel, or I will shoot you." I said it calmly; he looked to my right hand, which held the Sheffield, still pointed at the floor. He let the barrel of the Colt droop downward. Stepping over a drop-jawed Anna, I stood directly before Bouchard, blocking Emanuel's threat, much to Jerrod's disgust.
"Get away, Butler. Move! I would rather he just shoot me anyway…" His voice was a hard rasp, yet emotion added a wide quiver that frightened me terribly. He pushed himself forward on the chaise and started to stand.
Stepping back, I reached behind me to shove him firmly back onto the chaise. "Dammit, Bouchard, I will shoot anybody who needs shooting! Stay put or I will sit on you."
Anna unaccountably giggled. "Sit on him!" she crooned, in clear English.
I turned to the woman, who seemed without shame, wondering if she had come unhinged. She continued to wave her knees about in a manner shocking to even me; she was not hurt in any way I could see. Disgusted, I snapped, "Get up, Anna, and go get dressed." She ducked her head, and asked Emanuel what I had said to her; he told her, his answer an abrupt snarl.
Carefully, she pulled her legs beneath her, and with a coy look to Bouchard, rose in one smooth, graceful action. Straightening her morning coat to cover herself completely, she shook her hair back, turned, and walked away to the front exit. We all remained unmoving until the squeak of the door announced her exit.
Emanuel put the pistol on the floor, lifted his hands up and away from his sides and backing to the table, sat down heavily. I quickly collected the pistol, and finding it uncocked, broke the breech and emptied both shells into my hand and pocketed them.
I turned back to Bouchard, who still sat, unreadable as a wall. I had never seen this particular look on his face and my anxiety soared…he was looking...through me. There was a newspaper at his feet, lying as if merely dropped from his hands. His clothing was in disarray as if he had not finished dressing, and his hair was still slickly wet. Visibly shaking, his posture had degenerated in the past few minutes to that of a scared little boy, arms wrapped about his middle in self-comfort. Almost I reached out to him, to offer mine...but I knew that being touched right now would not be any comfort to him at all.
I could see exactly what had happened...
Oh, God.... I felt the burn of unshed tears, but ignored them, digging deep for self control.
Dietré was standing at the door, his eyes wide on Emanuel, who was now weeping silently. "Mademoiselle Butler, what do we do?" Dietré looked as shocked and upset as I.
"Dietré, stay with Jerrod. I think he may be in shock. Reassure him...somehow!"
Chanson nodded. "I will get him a cup of coffee!"
I turned to the little man who sat, head in hands, at the table. "Emanuel, please join me in the front Pullman. We need to talk."
******
Anna refused to talk to me, or to leave the center of her bed, still dressed in the shamelessly transparent chemise and nothing else. After giving me one long, smoldering glare, and she began haranguing Emanuel in high-pitched French. Emanuel listened stonily for a moment, and apparently having reached the end of his patience, barked her name once, wherein she subsided. It was nice to know that someone could ultimately control her.
***********
"You cannot tell me Anna did not initiate this...attack!...upon my patient! She has been stalking him since her first hour upon this train! And now I find she is NOT your wife...but your sister..." I hissed and fisted my hands in frustration.
"Mademoiselle, please. Anna is a good girl. She would never...."
"That is absolute…merde…and well you know it, Emanuel!"
We had been talking in circles for twenty minutes, and I imagine Anna was all ears. Yet she did not come out and admit her actions, or even defend herself! Instead, she left her brother to do so; there was no doubt his heart was not in the task. Even as he repeated, "Anna is a good girl..." for the tenth time, he was shaking his head: no, no, no.
Once he had run out of 'good Anna's' virtues to recount, I again firmly stated, "She would and she HAS. SHE attacked Jerrod Bouchard. Why else would she be in her chemise, naked beneath, in the cattlecar before noon! You and I both know...."
"HE dragged her there for his...his...." The little Frenchman was nearly inarticulate in his desperation. He was beginning to intensely dislike this pushy Irish baggage and her uppity ways.... I put both arms across my chest and looked at him calmly. I would wait until he arrived at common sense....
Emanuel raged on in French, in English, pointing his finger toward the back of the car and Bouchard, slapping the table, raising his hands to heaven. Then...he sighed, and again dropped his head into his hands. "Yes, yes, yes, Mademoiselle. Even I, her brother, could see what had happened."
He turned his head to give one resentful glare at the sleeping alcove where his sister continued to hide. "Anna has always been the one to...to grab what she wanted."
The vivid picture resulting from this statement was not one I particularly enjoyed. Poor Bouchard. Poor Emanuel…
As he would say… "Zut, zut et zut!"
Having accepted the monstrous reality that his sister had thrown herself upon Bouchard, Emanuel Gadreau immediately began to mend fences.
"Mademoiselle Butler, I apologize for my sister, for the...eh...trouble she has caused this morning, and I pray for your understanding for my deception in passing Anna as my wife. I beg you to understand...I could not leave her in Paris alone. She is a very good housekeeper, although she has worked only for ladies before, and has therefore been able to...to keep out of trouble. However, her last situation ended several weeks ago when the elderly lady died, leaving Anna without employment. She was tossed out the door without a sou…without a recommendation! She was staying with me while she sought another position...." His shrug said the rest.
"Did de'Chagny's steward not know she was your sister, not your wife? He hired her, so surely...?"
"Mademoiselle, why would you think they would know if I were married, or that Anna was my sister?" His look was gently chiding.
"Oh, Emanuel…" I too wanted to drop my head into my hands and have a good cry. There was no time for that, now. A thought struck me, "Oh, heavens, I know you did not share a bed with your sister! Where have you been sleeping?"
"Mademoiselle, the floor is quite comfortable once you become weary enough, yes?"
I cast him a rueful look, unable to stay angry at the man. "Emanuel, you are a good brother."
"Mademoiselle, what will happen now? To Anna, and to me?" He turned away and moved his hand across his face, but not before I saw tears streak down his brown cheeks to drop upon the front of his tunic.
"I cannot answer that question immediately, Emanuel. I will need to think. However… whatever I decide, we are moving to a hotel today. I ask that you and Anna pack what you will need, and I can now arrange for separate rooms for you."
With that, I headed to the cattlecar, seeking Bouchard, and wondering what I could do to mend his shattered trust in me...
******
I found both Bouchard and Dietré sitting on the back deck of the cattlecar, smoking cigars and drinking what appeared to be my remarkably diminished bottle of Scottish whiskey. Noticing my suspicious eye upon the bottle, Dietré assured me, "For medicinal purpose only Mademoiselle. Jerrod was indeed in a bad way." He hugged his generously filled glass to his chest, his expression quite serious.
I looked to Bouchard, or his profile, rather, as he studiously refused to look at me, only his glass of whiskey. Well, I could not blame him. For all he had been through, and now this...
I cleared my throat, and quietly said Bouchard's name. He stiffened slightly but did not turn.
Clasping my hands, I said, "Bouchard. Jerrod...I am sorry. Please tell me you will forgive me. I did not think when I left you here..."
"Mademoiselle, I believe we have addressed your failure to think before." His voice was surprising in its casual tone. He nodded, saying "I am, however...encouraged at Anna's integrity. Obviously, the woman was honest enough to tell you exactly what happened."
He lifted his glass, but did not drink, nor yet look at me. Instead, he shook his head slowly, saying, "Have you any idea how I…felt…upon seeing that look of reproach and disappointment upon your face, Aislyne? No doubt you expected no better behavior from a 'monster' such as myself, yes? I am the fool to ever assume you might think better of me." He took a rather large gulp of the whisky, his hand quivering.
Shocked at his words, I stared at his profile, unable to speak for several seconds. My silence finally pulled his eyes to mine; his slight lopsided grin finally freed my tongue. "What are you saying, Jerrod? That I thought you...that I believed YOU....? No sir, you are wrong! I did not…"
Bouchard's whisky glass shattered against the front wall of the last cargo car. I was still watching pieces fly past my head and 'ping' as they hit the Pullman's wall behind me when I felt myself picked up by my collar and slammed against the Pullman, Bouchard's face an inch from mine, his breath hot on my chin. I heard Dietré's exclamation...his glass dropping to the deck. Vaguely I saw him reach for Bouchard, but my attention was on the man whose body pressed mine hard against the metal wall behind me...whose hands were now at my throat.
I told Dietré "Leave us, now!"
"But Mademoiselle! Bouchard! Please!"
I screamed, "Go away, Dietré! I order you! I can..." …and then my voice quite disappeared, silenced by the pressure Bouchard applied above my larynx, as my hands grappled ineffectually at his unyielding grip. His lips pulled back from his teeth, and a low snarl issued from somewhere behind them. His glare locked upon my unflinching gaze, and I watched as battle was engaged in the vast shadowed ocean of his eyes...the haze of madness athwart the spark of awareness. I felt the furnace heat from the black fury gnawing away at his soul along my entire length.
I had done this to him, something far worse than foolish Anna ever could. He believed I had thought him capable of forcing Anna…that he had been the aggressor…a raging monster! I was staring into the contorted visage of the Angel of Death…and then of Jerrod Bouchard…his eyes accusing, then widening in wounded despair and resignation.
His thumbs released, his grip becoming but a loose collar. I tightened my hands over his, squeezing them about my throat.
"Bouchard," I whispered, "go ahead...and do it. I deserve it...although...not for the reason...you assume. I knew immediately…Anna came after you! I never thought you…"
Now gasping for breath, I could feel the bronchial structures low in my throat knot, squeezing closed. Still I kept his hands pressed hard beneath my jaw.
"I deserve it…for leaving you...without protection from her. I have failed you." I was crying, silently...breathlessly.
How close had he come to falling over the edge, beyond any help? How could I have been so arrogantly thoughtless!
I had left him without any protection…no Chanson…and misjudged Anna's cunning and Emanuel's anger. What if he had been shot…murdered…while I wandered Bellecour, lost in my own tragedy? I felt the sobs push past the pressure in my chest, and each one was a buckling agony. Nevertheless, I deserved it, entirely deserved it.
His face, now strangely distorted, dissolved into a watercolour sheet... His eyes, filled with frenzied distress, were the last thing I saw.
*****
The point of strangulation, done correctly, is to collapse the delicate structures at the larynx completely. Thereafter, the victim will asphyxiate due to the airway restriction from the continued swelling of the damaged tissues. It makes for a good kill because you can escape quickly while your victim continues suffering for an additional minute or two. There is no recovery, and it is a damnable way to die, by my observation.
I would never knowingly hurt Aislyne Butler. Killing her is not my intent, although I must restrain myself mightily for a few moments while staring into her eyes...her eyes! Does she not know what she does to me...calling out to that...that thing which tortures my sleep...
I am angry at her perfidy in taking the side of Anna, the sideshow harlot. I wish to yell at her, to extinguish her pity, to punish her for her doubt, to scare the very bejesus out of her, oh yes, that I certainly want to do! However, I end up holding her against the wall with my body pressed hard against her, my hands barely flexed about her neck, glaring into her guilty face. And the entire time I am wishing I was murderously enraged instead of feeling this enormous sense of abandonment and infinite despair.
She whispers, "Do this, Bouchard...I deserve it" and she tightens her hands over mine in an effort to make me choke her! I do not argue…but I do not tighten my grip. She is gasping nonetheless, her face pale. She says, "I knew immediately…Anna came after you! I never thought you…"."
Her gasping has become loud and painful to hear. Her eyes lose focus...and because she can no longer speak I must read her lips; "I failed… I left you...without...protection. Forgive me."
And I realize then what she means.
She never thought I had attacked Anna. She knows Anna came after me. And now the fool woman is offering herself as payment for my wretched virtue. Her suffering as atonement for my...rape?
This woman is insane, I tell you.
Naturally, I remove my hands from anywhere near her throat, and start to step away, yet she continues to gasp, and is now slipping down the wall, her eyes huge upon mine. I slide my arm around her back, and then must catch her completely as she sags toward the deck, her body convulsing as she fights to draw breath. I hold her, reassuring her, begging her to calm down so she can breathe.
Dietré, who obviously does not take orders well at all, sees she is not suffering from strangulation, but from overwhelming emotion. He thinks I have frightened her into a seizure. I am thinking it is an asthmatic emotional reaction to her perceived crime of failing to protect me…! From Anna!
Eventually she passes out, and by then I am holding her in my arms, cursing the fact I cannot stop bawling and trembling like an over-stimulated child in reaction to the events of the entire morning. Butler, however, is now breathing freely.
Dietré's hands are gentle on my shoulders. "Give her to me, Bouchard. You have frightened her near to death. We need to get her to a doctor."
His voice is not angry, accusatory. He just states the facts. I again assure him I have not scared her as Butler does not frighten. I am adamant on this point. I do not give her to him.
****
In Heaven there is music. At this moment, an angel is playing Chopin's Nocturne Op 9 #2 on the piano. I wonder if it is not Chopin himself...surely a composer of such beautiful music would be in Heaven...and I want to investigate. I am dressed in white fog....a long weightless sheath, with long bell sleeves that hide my hands, and my feet merely move the gown forward...I do not see them. I feel weightless, limb-less, insubstantial...
Everything is white. The floor is white, the walls are white...I cannot differentiate the few furnishings in the room from the walls and floors because they are white. There are no shadows and the light seems to come from...everywhere, even from the furnishings themselves.
I find myself walking along a wall, using my hands to keep from falling over chairs and tables, benches and a sudden chaos of small boxes...all intensely white...that litter my path. Vaguely I struggle to step past and not on the many objects that are strewn across the floor.
Clair de Lune by Debussy now fills the air. Remembering my original intent was to see if Chopin was playing the piano I ask myself, "Do I wish to see if Debussy is also here, playing his music?"
Yes, of course I do.
Carefully, I follow the sound of the piano, as the music swells and rolls, like the ocean at rising tide. For one moment I actually see the walls as cliffs, and the floor becomes a sweeping ocean, breaking upon the white cliffs, white foam and mist rising... It is upon realizing that I must walk on the floor that unfortunately has now become ocean that everything becomes solid again beneath my feet. I continue walking.
A doorway looms ahead, wide and arched with a point cutting upward at the apex of the arch, and white arabesques cut into the wall around the door; very ornate, very exotic and foreign. As I approach there is a dark object coming into view, a piece of furniture, with one heavy leg visible.
I stand in the doorway and see it is a black grand piano, in the 'harp' style, so glossy it is nearly painful to look upon, not unlike a well groomed Thoroughbred standing in bright sunlight. Sitting on the piano's bench is a man dressed in black, his hands also encased in black gloves, with sleek, black hair combed backward from his face, a wave breaking at his collar. A black close-fitting mask covers his face, from hairline to chin, ear to ear, with only holes for eyes, dark and indefinable. The man is looking down at his hands, which are flying over the keyboard. I have never seen anyone play in such a manner...so fast and sure are his strikes, so nimble his fingers. The man sways to the music, he tips his head back and I know his eyes close in rapture, as he experiences the music he plays. I do not know the particular composition he is playing, but I want to tip my head back and close my eyes, too. It is wild and vivid, and compels me to draw closer to its master.
The man is now bent over the keyboard his fingers lightly brushing the keyboard...barely kissing the keys, 'piano'...and the music wraps around me, soft and seductive, a houri's veil, pulling me closer. I am next to the man, and my arms long to wrap around him, to hold him, but only to comfort me. I need to be held by this man. I put my arms about him, and plead for his embrace in return, but he does not stop playing. Heartbreak, like a blow to the chest, bends me over in agony. I begin sobbing with the anguish of my forsaken heart, my forehead against the man's shoulder. He continues to play, apparently unmoved.
The music is now forceful and played forte, affecting my emotions painfully, and I want it to stop. I stand and pull the mask off the man who has become a pounding agony to my ears…and without missing one note of the horrid music, he turns his face up to mine.
I look into the face of the Angel of Death. I begin to sob and scream in terror...
*****
I was shaken awake by a pale Dietré, with Bouchard standing at the door behind him, both looking drawn and anxious. I had certainly taken a toll on my fellow travelers, had I not? And my patient? He would now need help to recover from ME.
"Mademoiselle! What troubles you? Are you unwell?" Dietré looks ready to keel over in a faint.
The dream faded away to ominous shadows, and dragging myself from its dark spell, I patted Dietrés arm, "No, no, I am fine now, Dietré. I had a dream, a very…bad dream..." I could not stop from looking to Bouchard, and his eyes widened then dropped, and he turned away. Zut alors!
Looking at Dietré…at Bouchard…I knew something had happened, but I could not remember... Sitting up, I drew my hands through my hair, pulling and tugging to awaken myself completely. Sliding my eyes back to the man by the door, I realized it involved Bouchard…and I needed to talk to him.
Now.
I smiled reassuring into Chanson's worried face and whispered, "Dietré do you suppose Bouchard and I might have a few moments...alone?"
Dietré looked vastly relieved, which was interesting. "Yes, yes, of course, Mademoiselle!" Chanson whispered to Bouchard, then quietly offered to close the door. Naturally I demurred... Bouchard did not seem happy the door stayed open, however. In fact, it appeared to have doubled his anxiety, and he looked away, refusing to move closer, or turn directly toward me.
Wondering if my appearance was the cause, I then noticed my attire...or lack thereof. It must have been apparent what I was thinking.
Speaking to the headboard far behind me, Bouchard said, "The nurse was concerned your tight...ah...clothing might be the reason for your continued unconsciousness. She removed them."
"That was thoughtful of her." No doubt she had been scandalized to find I wore no corset! "Obviously someone found my sleep gowns. Anna?"
Turning back to the general area, Bouchard's face assumed an ugly twist. "Certainly not. I knew where they were. I hope the selection I made is...appropriate?"
Chin to ankles, and down to the wrists. Yes, it would do, nicely appropriate for the old maid. "Yes, perfect. Thank you, Monsieur."
I idly considered the idea Bouchard was the Angel of Death in my dream. Dressed in black... with a mask, playing the… "Were you playing the piano just now?"
They do say noises in the background become part of one's dreams...
Surely not what he expected me to ask. His brow dropped and the look he slanted toward me was... concerned. "Why, yes, Mademoiselle. And I want to thank you for the thought. I understand you had it expressly delivered for my use?"
"Yes, well…It was down in the lobby, looking sadly unloved, though it was in tune. I requested it be brought up here. I thought we all needed some civilized entertainment. You will have to provide it, however." I gave him a teasing grin, and pretend-played a keyboard on the pillow across my lap....
He continued to look anxious, his mounting concern for the headboard apparent.
I sighed loudly, and gave the pillow a good thump in frustration. "Oh, Jerrod, come now. I am not going to spontaneously explode or change into a rabid flying pony before your eyes."
That won his full attention. He finally looked at me…
"Mademoiselle, whatever are you talking about?"
"Oh, well...you look as if I could wiggle my nose and turn you into a toadstool, should you do the wrong thing." I scrunched up my nose, as if experimenting the affect.
Boucard's expression lightened just the tiniest bit. "Madame Butler, you are mistaken. I pride myself on always doing the wrong thing, as you have doubtless observed!" Delivered in true throbbing oratorical manner…but his eyes remained troubled.
"We will work on that, then. It does alleviate the tedium of travel, however." Pushing my hair back behind my ears…it having fled all containment as want to do…I peeked teasingly at Bouchard.
He remained by the door, still obviously uncomfortable. It did nothing for my ego to think he wished to be anywhere but where he was; but indeed, I reminded myself it should not be otherwise. Sighing, I clasped my hands primly upon the pillow on my lap. "I do not wish to cause you further discomfort, Bouchard; you look miserable standing there. So, please…do tell me what happened, and then you may flee to your piano." I waggled my fingers at him, but could not keep the smidgen of bitterness from my voice.
Stepping away from the door, expression outraged, Bouchard's thunderous response nearly sent me off the side of the bed in surprise. "Damn it, Butler, I wish to know how you feel! You quite frankly scared the...Hell out of me, which is more than I can say I did to you!" His voice rose in volume and his face turned until I was looking at one painfully bloodshot right eye. "Moreover, you have been unconscious for nearly…two…hours!"
Bouchard was now in a temper. Oh, good. At least he was not looking miserable.
"Dear man, maybe not unconscious, exactly….I certainly do feel rested! No aches and pains. I guess I just took advantage of a good, long nap, hmmm?" I grinned at him, unable to contain my relief.
He scowled mightily, but said nothing. Ah, well…
"Fine, be that way, Monsieur! But please…would you tell me what happened to me? I remember a glass of whiskey exploding...and nothing after that. Did you really throw a glassful of my lovely whiskey at the cargo car?" I tut-tutted at him.
The anger had faded as fast as it bloomed, and his face now twisted in despair as he loosely hugged his chest. "Do you remember the contretemps with...the Gadreau's?" His left cheekbone flushed brightly. "Dietré and I sitting on the back deck of the Pullman...and..."
With growing wretchedness, I did. "Oh! Oh, Bouchard, I am so sorry. I...I did not..."
And was shocked to speechlessness when he strode across the room, grabbed both my shoulders and shook me, albeit gently. "Stop it, Butler. No, we will not replay that scene! You are no sorrier than I." His eyes searched mine, and I had no idea what it was he sought…but he seemed suddenly reassured, the anxiety evaporating from his face. Releasing me with the tiniest of squeezes, he pulled a chair to the bedside and sat, pulling my left hand into both of his.
Overwhelmed, I felt a terrible ache fade and disappear.
We stared out the windows for a few moments, collecting ourselves.
Bouchard touched my wrist, bared by the wide bell sleeve of my bed gown. "I asked the doctor to check your stitches. It is not yet time for them to be removed. He was most impressed with the healing you've done despite the injury."
The scar was obvious, but it looked to be healing well. His thumb swept the palm of my hand several times, and I could not stop a shiver of reaction. Embarrassed, my eyes flashed to his face, afraid he'd seen it, only to find him watching me closely.
"Well...ah...yes, actually. I figured I would pull the stitches once we are settled here, in few days...I am assuming this is the Hotel Le Corbusier. A doctor? You had a doctor look at me? Was I that... Oh, Bouchard, it was not anything you did, you know that, do you not?" I took a deep exploratory breath, feeling the residual tightness in my chest.
"So, what was it? I am at a loss to understand why you became so upset." His eyes darkened, so full of questions; again, I was given a searching look. I dropped my eyes, hiding what he might see there.
As if in retaliation, he would not allow me to pull my hand from his.
I had no wish to discuss the reasons. I had made enough mistakes in the past week, and making a total fool of myself was not going to be added to the list. I threw off the covers from my gown-covered legs with my free hand, and made every appearance of being ready to leave my bed.
"Where are Emanual and Xavier? And how are the horses? I cannot spend the day like this. Where is the rest of our party, Bouchard?"
Sighing, his eyes never leaving my face, he shook his head. "Mademoiselle, please do not be jumping out of bed while I am sitting here. The door is open, and if you look through it, you will see everyone is presently in the sitting room adjacent. We cannot locate the French National guardsmen, although a note is posted on the cars for them, giving our direction. The horses are both in a paddock behind this Hotel, with a large grassy 'paturage' available to them, along with several picturesque brown cows."
Carefully I asked, "And where is…Anna?"
He looked down upon our hands, still clasped; I felt as if he were considering how much to say about that subject. "She is...here." He was began fussing mightily with my hand, having turned it over to massage the back with both of his large thumbs. It felt very nice, but I could see he was merely doing it to dissipate stress...
"Yes? And…Jerrod…you do realize why she must stay here...for now?"
For a moment, I believe he wanted to dispute it, but he said "Yes." Still holding my hand, his face assumed the Sphinx-Bouchard expression, and he stood. "Mademoiselle, I will allow you to dress." He kissed my knuckles, laid my hand upon the counterpane carefully, and walked quickly to the door. He pulled the door shut behind him without looking back.
Placing my recently kissed hand against my chest, I closed my eyes. I felt as if I had just run a race…my heart was pounding. Did he know the affect he had upon this old lady, the worst of which was that I did not feel like such an old lady these days.
Firmly I reminded myself of all that had happened between us. I was a plain, dry, bony old maid. Not exciting in the least bit…stuffy, in fact. At no time had he ever shown anything that could be construed as…gentlemanly interest. I was a cipher, the companion. It could be said I was his sisterly confidant. But that was all. That was all! He was still…safe.
The entire morning had been an ordeal, for both of us. It was time I got up and joined the real world.
*******************************
My personal luggage had been brought from the Pullman, and was already here in the room, fortunately. After freshening my face and body with a cool wash, I chose a lighter day dress and put my hair in a loose chignon. I opened my door to find Emanuel and Anna investigating the servant quarters, located off the entry to the suite. Anna would be acting 'chaperone' and lady's maid for me, as discussed with Emanuel earlier in our trip. I hoped Emanuel understood it was temporary…unless she was able to prove herself under control.
Bouchard was back at the piano. He had turned it so it faced out the large bay window, leaving his back to the room. He played softly; I did not recognize the music.
Dietré and Xavier rose immediately upon my entering, and informed me they were both 'awaiting my orders.'
"To do what, Dietré? I suppose we must all keep ourselves busy. Are you comfortable with the accommodations? I could not imagine you would want to be up here on the 4th floor..."
"No, no, Mademoiselle. In fact, Xavier is not fond of the elevator, and the stairwell makes me nervous. However, I thought there was something more we should be doing."
That was a thought. "Since your job is security, Dietré, you and Xavier should probably work out a schedule of checking on the Pullman cars at least twice a day. Just to stop in to see they are still there."
Dietré nodded, "Yes, Mademoiselle, we will do that."
I looked at the Gadreau's and then pulled Dietré a bit out of their view. "And Dietré, you, especially, will need to insure Bouchard is never left alone with Mademoiselle Gadreau." I nodded my head towards the servant's room.
He smirked, and I rolled my eyes. Men could be such 'banbh (pigs), really...
"I understand what you mean, Mademoiselle. She is a forward little piece, is she not?"
Again with the smirk, Dietré? I looked back at Anna, who was now sitting on the bed, scowling, as her brother filled her ear with 'do-nots'.
"Yes. 'Forward' is the word. And she is not to be alone with Bouchard...," I sighed heavily, "…unless he damn well requests it, Dietré. Am I being clear?"
I had shocked Dietré...his larynx bobbed several times whilst he swallowed whatever profane exclamatory reaction I had provoked. He settled on a chuckle, and a scratch of his close-cropped pate. "Sacré Dieu! Begging your pardon, Mademoiselle, but I would not want Emanuel to hear you talk like that." We exchanged amused, albeit guilty, looks.
"Then you should remind Emanuel that he needs to keep his sister under his eye. That will mean we have Bouchard doubly protected. Her behavior certainly precludes him shooting Bouchard for his behavior!"
"Mademoiselle, you do see things differently, do you know? So we are protecting Bouchard from Emanuel's brotherly outrage, not Anna's....er...." He burst out laughing, and shook his head.
I waved my hand at him. "However you wish to look at it. The end result should be the same. Bouchard does not suffer for Anna's lack of...restraint." I felt my face heat and this time Chanson kept his smirk well controlled.
He however, did have one additional concern. "Mademoiselle Butler, I need to ask this...do you feel...ah...safe? I mean, do you want one of us to stay with you and keep an eye on...things?"
I was afraid I knew what he meant. I glanced at Bouchard's swaying back with an inquiring raise to the brows, and Chanson returned it with a frown. "You do not feel threatened by him, do you Mademoiselle? Because, I can assure you, the man for all his feather ruffling, thinks the world of you."
To blush was humiliating. "You are mistaken, Dietré. Bouchard knows that without me, he has no freedom. I am just his…armed nanny!" I hoped, grimly, that I did not sound bitter…
Dietré expression gave nothing away; no doubt he had realized he was wading into deep water. "Mademoiselle, I would be worried about...er...." He turned his face to look at Anna Gadreau as she fussed with the things she had in her luggage, carefully laying them out on the small bed in the servant's quarters. Emanuel spoke earnestly to her leaned across the bed, trying to get her attention. Dietré continued, "She was furious when Bouchard carried you into the car, especially as he was somewhat…distressed...over upsetting you so badly. She swore several times to 'make you sorry'."
I turned my back to the Gadreau's and thought about Anna's character. "I cannot say I am too worried about threats from Anna Gadreau. She is a child in so many ways...I wonder that she really understands what she says."
Dietré looked doubtful. "I would feel better if Xavier or I went with you when you go out. Anna...scares me for the very reason you mentioned. I do not believe she understands...many things."
"Dietré I will do as you ask, unless, of course, I am able to drag Bouchard away from the piano. I do believe Anna will be minding herself for a while, especially as Emanuel has sworn to keep her in line."
Dietré did not seem impressed with Emanuel's ability to do so.
"Dietré the fact she is here at all is because I cannot be without a chaperone if Bouchard is to share this suite. Nor am I ready to send away my housekeeper without a replacement."
Looking into Dietré Chanson's open brown eyes, I was again struck by his decency and lack of guile. I patted his arm. "Dietre, do you ride?"
He seemed nonplussed by the change of subject. "Yes, I do Mademoiselle. I spent several years in the French mounted guard prior to going to work for de'Chagny. In fact, I was with de'Chagny's elder brother in Prussia..." His face recalled for me what a calamity that was. Dietré was older than he looked.
"Fine, perhaps we ought to hire a couple of likely mounts so you and Xavier can accompany us when we ride."
Dietré nodded his head and looked at me expectantly. "Bouchard will be riding?"
"Oh, I expect so. At least, I have been informed he rides well."
Dietré again nodded his head. "Very well, Mademoiselle, you have but to let us know. Xavier and I will be either in our quarters, or in the public room. With your leave, we will go find a meal."
"An inspired idea! I think I will go visit with the 'maid' about our meal. I am feeling a bit peckish myself." I could not stop myself…I grabbed Chanson's arm, giving it a companionable squeeze. "Dietré let me know if you need anything to insure you and Xavier are comfortable."
Dietrés smile was warm, but he snapped his gaze toward the piano, and then back to mine, waggling his brows. I turned to find Bouchard watching us, his expression enigmatic. He immediately returned to his piano.
Tapping Xavier on the shoulder, Dietré and Thom nodded respectfully and set off for their quarters.
I turned and watched Anna Gadreau as she sat bouncing on her bed, smiling and talking to her brother, as if nothing had happened this morning. I wondered at the woman's intelligence and mental state. She was obviously lacking something. Emanuel's eyes shot to mine and he shrugged.
I was wishing that I could be as unconcerned about things I had done in my past.