Chapter Twenty-Four

I awoke with a sense of optimism, quite at odds with the prevailing weather; it was windy and cold, Dame Winter apparently reluctant to release her grasp.

I took my time with my morning toilette: fussing at my hair with indifferent results, pulling at my skirt and shirtwaist to improve the fit. A glance in the mirror revealed no change; disgusted with my vanity, I draped my paisley shawl around my shoulders and joined the gentlemen.

Dietré and Thom were both at table finishing their breakfast, Dietré having stepped into the breach left by my missing housekeeper and houseman and fetching it from the hotel kitchen. Bouchard was standing at the piano, leaning over the keyboard to write in one of my sketchbooks, a cup of coffee at his elbow. He looked quite casual, with his vest half-undone, sleeves rolled to the elbows and neckcloth loose. I stood for just a moment, admiring the homey scene with the thought that it could be just this way in Italy…

Upon stepping through my door I was greeted with a rolling crescendo that spiraled up the keys to end in a sparkling finale. Both Chanson and Xavier rose from their chairs, Dietré wearing a ill-concealed grin, as Bouchard assumed an oratorical stance, hand upon his heart, to intone roundly, "It is the east, and Juliet is the sun."

I stopped, and laughed. "Juliet? Oh, surely, not…more like, "What hempen homespun have we swaggering here?"

Scowling mightily, Bouchard's voice took on a thrillingly dark edge, "You dare destroy my scene, Mademoiselle?"

"Well, obviously I have missed most of the performance, sirrah!"

The show was obviously over, as Bouchard's voice assumed a warm, jesting timber. "Never would I have considered you the lay-abed type, Mademoiselle." Bouchard began a very simple tune, playing left-handed, while tapping upon the sketchbook with the right.

Looking at the watch pinned to my collar I could not help but sigh; it was a quarter past eight. I poured a cup of tea, selected a well-crisped slice of toast from the sideboard, and found a comfortable spot on the divan that faced the piano. "I've been known to sleep in quite late in the morning, Monsieur. It goes with the life of immoderate dissipation I lead." I smiled and ate toast.

Chanson chuckled.

Bouchard did not appear to be amused. "I need you. I have needed you all morning. Naturally, I would not dream of rousing you from your rest…" Slanting both eyes to me, his lone eyebrow tipped in denial…naturally he had considered doing just that…

"Oh, no, surely not. However, I am here now, and we do need to attend to your wounds. As soon as you are ready, allow me…"

"I have already attended to my injury, Madame." Bouchard turned his face to show me the slick shine of the freshly medicated wounds.

I blinked in surprise. "I see…but you did not have the…the anti-suppurative cleanser and herbal antiseptic…fresh linen pads..."

"I fetched them from your room." Turning back to the keyboard, he twiddled two keys whilst writing in the sketchbook.

"You were in my room? Whilst I was asleep?" Why did I suddenly feel hot all over. "Bouchard…I would ask you refrain from coming into my room when I am…"

"Madame, did you arise at a reasonable time, perhaps I would not have need to come into your room while you are still abed." His expression had become insufferably smug.

"Perhaps there is a difference of opinion as to the meaning of 'reasonable', Monsieur!" Casting a narrow look in his direction, I shoved the remaining quarter-slice of toast past my teeth and chewed vigorously, reining in my ire…which was, after all, more embarrassment than honest anger. "However, I am happy you have attended to your wounds, and apologize for being unavailable to do that for you. I am, after all, a nurse…"

"Hmmm…yes." Dropping the pencil Bouchard began humming, lightly moving his fingers over the keyboard.

"So…I am here! In what capacity did you need me?"

As if in answer, Bouchard again sat upon the bench, and began playing a straightforward, uncomplicated piece, more an accompaniment than a full composition…. Bouchard sat back, closed his eyes and began to softly sing…"Les étoiles de soirée sont toutes allumées…" How lovely…

There was a loud rapping at the suite's wide double doors…

Breaking off with a crash of chords, Bouchard cursed robustly. Rising, I dusted my skirt and bodice of breadcrumbs, and ran to see who it was visiting so early in the day, making shushing noises to my ill-tempered patient. Pulling open the doors, I suffered a momentary paralysis, staring stupidly at the trio who stood in the hall.

"Mademoiselle Butler! I am here! And see who I have met in the hallway!"

"Yes, I see..." Montague Abrigaun's elegantly caped coat dripped water copiously upon the hallway's deep rug, and I had no doubt his fine hat was utterly ruined. Emanuel and Anna seemed to hiding behind Abrigaun's tall form.

"Who is that, Aislyne?" Bouchard's temper was fraying badly for this early of a morning. Did he not sleep well last night after all?

I swung both doors wide, inviting Abrigaun and Gadreaus to enter to the relative warmth of the suite. The Gadreau's immediately scurried to the small room Anna occupied, wherein she sat on the bed, and Emanuel upon a chair by the door. I accepted Abrigaun's waterlogged hat, pulling his coat off his shoulders to forestall further dripping, hanging them upon the coat stand by the door.

I stopped by Emanual, but it was Anna's eyes that met mine; I was surprised to see an expression of fear…near despair reflected there. She quickly dropped her gaze, and pulled her cloak closer about her shoulders. I turned to Emanuel, only to find him with his face buried in his hands…he appeared so small…so very tired. A heavy weight settled betwixt my shoulders, much the same as that which sat upon Emanuel's, I should imagine.

Abrigaun had moved to stand beside the piano bench, watching Bouchard…who remained seated on the bench, humming, marking on the pad, and occasionally tapping out a few notes. In short…anything but politely acknowledging Abrigaun's presence. I headed for Monty, thinking to coax him over to Chanson and Xavier, desperate to forestall the inevitable scene. I had no more than laid my hand upon his arm to draw him away, but Monty turned swiftly on his heel, and seizing my shoulders, pulled me close to noisily buss both my cheeks. "Mademoiselle, you are a vision! Travel with you agrees, it is quite obvious!"

With a gasp, I jerked free of Abrigaun, and opened my mouth thinking to refute at least half of his statements, only to be interrupted by several dissonant chords played 'colossale fff ', followed by a thunderously rolling crescendo moving down in minor key. Feeling assailed at every side, I turned to Bouchard to request a moment of peace that I might catch my scattering wits. His eyes were waiting, hard as glass; his expression that of icy contempt. He turned back to the keyboard, the sketchbook and pencil again in play.

Oblivious to everything, Abrigaun grabbed Bouchard's shoulder, declaring, "Monsieur I am here to rescue you yet again!" He backpedaled quickly however, when Bouchard abruptly stood, twisting violently from beneath his friendly hand, shoving the piano bench over in the process. Leaning right-side forward into Monty's confused face, Bouchard snarled, "I do not require 'rescue' Monsieur! Indeed, you are on a fool's errand if that is your purpose in coming here." With that Jerrod bared his teeth in a wolfish grin, his eyes spitting malice, "Lay a hand upon me again, and you shall forfeit it!"

Shocked, I stared at Bouchard; he again met my gaze, and this time his expression was that of incandescent fury under iron control. "Madam Butler; "Thou art like the harpy, which, to betray, dost with thine angels face, seize with thine eagle's talons."

Snatching the sketchbook from the top of the piano, Bouchard strode to his room, and slammed the door behind him.

I felt as if I had been kicked by a horse. Unfortunately far too much of my emotions played across my silly face, eliciting a clucking noise of sympathy from Abrigaun. He placed a gentle hand over mine, which were busily pulling at each other, to say, "Our friend Bouchard, he is not yet gentled, I see."

"No. I rather think he is not, Monsieur Abrigaun." I stared at Abrigaun's gaudy striped vest, complete with tassels and a large enameled pin through his wide silk cravat, and then thought to ask him, "Monty, why are you here?"

He raised an eyebrow, "But mademoiselle, I am here to help! It was my understanding you were in this place stalled indefinitely. I have come to do what I can to start us all to Livorno. We will be changing itinerary and will go by another route to Italy."

"Do you mean for us to go south? I had thought… But, it seems the long way 'round."

"Mademoiselle Aislyne, the mountain passes...they do not clear for weeks. You cannot stay here, in Lyon, and so, yes, it is south we must go."

Chanson and Xavier were utterly silent at the table, listening for all they were worth. The silence from the Gadreau's was just as telling.

"And once we reach Marseilles, do we proceed then...by ship?"

Abrigaun practically glowed, his grin radiant with good cheer. "My dear Aislyne, you are so very clever! Naturellement, it is by water then to Livorno, and then..."

Xavier practically leapt from his chair, moaning, "il y aura des pirates. Ils nous étriperont tous comme poissons!"

I caught the one word...pirates...from Xavier's diatribe. Chanson silenced the poor boy by grabbing him by the shoulders and setting him back into his chair. "Hush, Thom."

Abrigaun laughed saying, "Ne soyez pas idiot," whilst patting my shoulder. "Pirates are like ghosts and goblins; they exist only to scare little children. There is no reason to be frightened! Pirates? Bah!" Abrigaun snapped his fingers, grinning hugely.

I looked at Xavier's rolling eyes, Chanson's flagrant suspicion, and to the bent back of Emanuel Gadreau, whose face was now in his hands. I avoided the slightest glance at Bouchard's door, afraid I would begin to wail as if an overwrought toddler. Upset and thoroughly unnerved by the relentless destruction of what had began as a wondrously peaceful morning, I turned, meaning to just go to my room, perhaps to slam the door behind me as had Bouchard.

I had, however, had quite enough drama for the morning. I was seriously considering throwing Abrigaun and the Gadreau's out of the suite and invading Bouchard's room. What I would dare do once there, I had no idea, but the thought he would doubtless throttle me was strangely attractive. Better that…far better that!…than to suffer his sovereign contempt.

My chest was tight…a warning I had recently learned to give due attention.

I quite realized I could not throw anybody out, much less my employer's representative who was, after all, only here to aid in our progress. It was Monty's continual use of the word 'we' that was concerning, as was Thom's fear of sea-travel. The Gadreau's were a much bigger problem, because I knew there was only one thing I could do to protect Bouchard, as well as keep order among our party. I was reluctant, however, to do so, and ashamed to admit I was quite willing to pass that particular chore to Abrigaun.

Finally, I had to admit the very idea of reboarding the Pullman cars for an extended trip to the south of France carried its share of stress. I had never before fully appreciated the luxury of near-absolute quiet, nor that of complete stillness beneath my feet; states of being I would never again take for granted. The thought of again being contained in those small rocking, clack-clack-clacking boxes...

I found myself nearly panting…

I needed to get out of the suite and away from these people…yes, to abandon my post or go stark-staring mad! I turned to find Abrigaun, Chanson and Xavier all watching me. Abrigaun made as if to move to me, but I held up my hand, my expression so fierce it served to stop him.

I would have to prevaricate, then…anything to find a bit of time and space. Whatever it took…

"Monsieur Abrigaun," I declared firmly, "you will need to excuse me, as I…have an appointment this morning. I cannot cancel as it is…ah…concerning these stitches, as well as a vexing cough I have not been able to shake." Seeking a sense of verisimilitude, I coughed daintily into my handkerchief.

Chanson appeared thoughtful, then grinned, poking Xavier when he looked as if he wished to speak.

Monty's expression was instantly solicitous, and he moved forward to clasp my struggling hands against his chest. "You are to see a doctor, Mademoiselle? But the weather, it is no place for you! The cough, it will become a fever of the lungs! Surely the doctor, he should come here…"

Extricating my hands from Abrigaun's clasp required some violence, exacerbated by a hotly stinging conscience. "Nonsense. I have a hackney…ah, fiacre called, and…I must go! Chanson, please insure Monsieur Abrigaun is comfortable until my return. Oh, or…perhaps Monsieur Abrigaun, you would rather go to your rooms…you are staying here in Le Corbusier, yes? And Dietré, keep an eye on…ah…things, yes? I will…be back…", I was in my room, putting on my suit coat, stabbing hatpins through my hat, gathering my long coat, scarf, gloves and bag. I looked regretfully at my new leather half-boots; they would be utterly ruined upon their first contact with standing water… Sighing, I left my room, pulling the door shut behind me.

"I am very sorry Abrigaun. It was such a shock to see you, the time…the appointment slipped from my mind…" I all but ran through the suite, stopping only to pat his arm.

Abrigaun's expression was faintly stiff…and normally I would have tried to smooth things between us…he was, after all, more than just my employer. I shot one more apologetic look in his direction …and pulled open the double doors to the hall.

"Oh…wait…Mademoiselle Butler! I have something I must give you before I leave!"

I turned, meaning to ask he give…whatever it was…to Chanson. The words remained unsaid...

Letters.

"I have a letter from Madame de'Chagny, and this very fat one here from your friend at the hospital…" Abrigaun's smile became teasing, "Of course, I can hang on to them for another time." He tucked them against his vest, as if to stuff them back into his inner pocket.

I walked back to where he stood and carefully leaning forward I kissed his cheek. His hands, one of which held the letters, moved toward my body as expected …and away from his vest pocket. I stepped away, and murmured, "Thank you, Monty," and before he could again tuck them out of my reach, I tugged both envelopes from his fingers. "I will have them to read whilst I await my appointment."

Abrigaun's laugh carried a hint of frustration, but he said, "I am sure you will enjoy them, Mademoiselle. The Vicomtess was most anxious to share with you her good news."

I nodded, and practically ran out of the suite, closing the doors and fleeing down the hallway to the wide front stairway.

**************

Standing in the hotel atrium, I realized how difficult it would be to actually leave the building.

Outside the wind sent rain in vast sweeps across the flooded boulevard and sidewalks, making the trees dance and shudder. The gutters and ditches were full, having become foaming, whitewater cascades, and thunder rumbled sonorously from a flashing, forbidding sky. Many businesses about the hotel had brought down their awnings before the wind tore them away. Most were not open for business, accepting the effect the harsh weather had on business. Although it was not past 9 o'clock in the morning, the streets were empty, the sky dark with impenetrable clouds.

Sighing, I looked back to the wide hall leading back to the stairs…back to the suite…

A young man in the hotel uniform appeared at my side. "Madame…Est-ce que je peux vous aider?" Behind him I saw the hotel manager…a hirsute, forbidding specimen…watching closely, his thoughts on a lone woman standing in his hotel lobby patently obvious.

Smiling, I showed the bellboy and the judgmental manager my room key, saying, "I thought to visit the pasterie across the street for a cup of tea and a sweet. I had no idea the weather was this appalling! Perhaps there is somewhere quiet here within the hotel where I might read my letters and enjoy my tea in relative peace and solitude? I nodded to the manager at the desk when the boy turned to him, shrugging. The man snapped two words to the boy, sending him trotting off in another direction, then sternly waved me to the desk. Lifting my chin, I approached him where he stood, staring down at me.

"Madame…I didna' catch your name?" I could not stifle my smile…he was not French, but a Scot. There were many Scots in France…

"I am Miss Aislyne Butler. I am with the de'Chagny party in Suite 400."

"Does Monsieur de'Chagny know you are wanderin' about the hotel, then?" His wide, bearded face actually bristled with indignant censure, as his hairy brows met and wrestled above his nose.

The Scots were all chauvinistic barbarians, were they not? I raised one eyebrow, giving him a dead-level stare for a heartbeat or two. "I am no servant, sir, nor feckless female requiring a keeper. I am a British citizen here in France on medical assignment with the de'Chagny family. Obviously it is far easier to find insults than a quiet cup of tea at the Hotel Le Corbusier…" I nodded briskly, and shoving my gloves into my pocket, prepared to return to the suite.

The manager's face rearranged totally, every hair fell flat, his eyes round with regret. "Here, here…Miss Butler, I 'umbly beg your pardon…I only thought…"

I glared at the man, allowing some small part of my overwrought state to show, growling "It was readily apparent what you thought, sir!" Even as I snarled at the man, I chided myself, 'Unpin your ears, Aislyne! The man is just doing his job!'

Sighing, I held up my hand, saying, "I am sorry for being such a trial…but all I wish is…"

"Yes, yes…a cup of tea." His head canted and he pounded one fist gently upon the counter, his arrestingly blue eyes never leaving my face. Then, grunting in sudden decision, he walked from behind the desk, tapping a nearby young clerk to watch the desk on the way around to the gate, saying, "I've to deliver this young lady to the tea room."

Stepping down from the elevated area behind the counter, the manager strode to where I stood; he still topped me by a few inches, although he was perhaps just as surprised at my height. We stood for several moments, sizing each other up, until he relaxed and introduced himself as James Crombie with a polite nod; I reciprocated, repeating my name, and adding, "lately come from Brighton, England to care for the uncle of the Vicomptess de'Chagny."

The niceties dispensed, he offered his arm, saying, "I will escort you to the tea room…which is exactly what you seek, Miss Butler." He led me past the first corridor, and along the wide hall which I would see ran the length of the hotel.

I immediately noticed Mister Crombie was given respect by all who passed us as we moved through the hotel. Maids curtsied, footmen bowed, and several gentlemen passing through from the restaurant nodded in recognition.

Crombie shared that he was, indeed, a Scot, and characterized himself as 'a fool in France' seeking his fortune.' "There's none to be found in Edinburgh where I grew up, an' I've lately come to see there is little more to be found here. I am considering going to America. It is said a man can do vera' well there, if he is of a mind to do so. So, tell me, Miss Butler, have ye' heard anything of that sort?"

Turning to me, he appeared quite serious; as Mr. Crombie's whiskers had the unfortunate affect of hiding most of his face entirely, I could only suppose it was no rhetorical question. "I cannot say I have any personal familiarity of the United States, Mr. Crombie, as neither I nor any of my family have been there. However, I have read that it is there you will see a true egalitarian society come to realization, as it is the common man who drives the government and industry. That a man is judged by his contribution to his community and society as a whole, and not by his ancestors' names. Why, it is whispered in some circles that women are already demanding suffrage…and may well have it within my lifetime!"

Mr. Crombie rolled his eyes toward me, and I chuckled quietly. "I quite like the idea of that last one, Mr. Crombie, even if you do not."

"Miss Butler, I am totally neutral on the subject, being male."

"Yes, of course. I do believe you would be an excellent candidate to become an American…speaking from only a few minutes acquaintance, however." I smiled, as did he. Rather, his beard assumed a curved aspect in the area where I assumed his mouth would be…

"Miss Butler, you have been most encouraging. And if I may be so bold, why do I think I hear a bit of the home country in your voice? Are you Scottish? Or perhaps lowland bred?"

"It is a bit of Irish…and of Scot too. My father was a Scot by birth. My mother was Irish. I am surprised, as I've been told I'd lost my mother tongue unless in a temper."

"Aye, well, then I willna' pester you further Miss Butler, as I can hear the burra' clear as day." He pointed to an ornately arabesque'd double arch ahead on our right, saying, "This will be the tea room."

Upon passing beneath the heavily gilded entry, we were met by Madame Roquette, to whom Mr. Crombie passed me, but not before he'd kissed my hand, and declared, "You'd make a bonny American, Miss Butler." His grin may have been well hidden beneath the bushy beard, but the sparkle in his eyes was unmistakable.

I could not help but laugh, but my cheeks were hot. "I'm too long in the tooth to go haring across the sea to America, Mr. Crombie, but I thank you for the compliment."

"Enjoy your quiet and cuppa', Miss Butler."

"Tapadh leat, Mr. Crombie." (Thank you – Scottish Gaelic)

"Taing Mhόr, Miss Butler." (You are welcome)

My composure restored by the homely conversation with a fellow Britain, I was greeted warmly by Madame Roquette, who whisked away my Ulster and hat to a small rack behind her desk. Quite frankly gawking, I found the tea room remarkable, having never seen anything like it before. The panoramic view of the storm-harried landscape did nothing to detract from the light feeling of the interior. It was a large, airy room facing the southwest, with a high, ash-planked ceiling, and three walls of oversized mullioned windows, nearly floor to ceiling. Palm, fig, and fur trees in giant pots were clustered in the corners and exotically hued vines crept over and about the minimal stone walls that supported the windows. Planters of delicate ivies, tropical plants and vines, and local garden flowers banked the windows.

Madame gave me a short tour; the room was divided into respectably-sized, private 'salons' by six-foot partitions of wood lattice with espaliered roses, rhododendron and bougainvillea providing even more privacy. There were six salons, one row of three immediately before the center wall of windows, one row closer to the inside, directly off the modest restaurant. The outermost set of salons were open to the center wall also, wherein the set by the restaurant were closed on all four sides. Overlapping entries made casual viewing of the occupants impossible.

It appeared I had my choice of salon, as the tearoom was utterly devoid of patrons. I requested the center window salon for its excellent view out the windows, finding the slight chill off the glass refreshing. Immediately a young man was dispatched to the kitchen with my request for tea, which was delivered within a very few minutes. Soon enough I found myself thoroughly alone, with the weather-tortured view out the window as my only entertainment.

There was a full garden outside, with boxwood hedge maze, English topiary, rose canes espaliered to elegant Italian plaster walls, and glistening white shell walkways all about. Today, of course, anything not nailed down was halfway to Switzerland.

Outside the sky was again growing darker and heavier. I expected any moment it would rupture and the wind-driven rain would become an overwhelming cloudburst, flooding the garden beds and walkways, obliterating the view out the wide windows to that of a watercolor mélange. At this rate, the only spring flowers these showers would bring would be water lilies!

I sat for several minutes looking out at the shivering landscape, watching the wind scour the shrubbery and flowerbeds. The letters resting in the pocket in my suitcoat weighed heavily against my hip and yet I was reluctant to read them immediately, like a child who holds off the best part of their dessert to be the very last bite.

Louise's letter would bring me reassurance…through her optimism, her innately positive way of seeing life…and her innocence, as ready to believe the very best of all, no matter how squalid and sordid they appeared. Louise and I were very different, yet in one thing quite alike: neither of us comfortable with the lives allotted us from birth. We both had decided early on we were not willing to subjugate our lives to the dictates of the Church, society, or even our own bodies.

Thinking of Louise, why, yes...I did feel better.

I would save her letter, then. I could read it later…perhaps before I turned down the lamp for the night. The envelope was quite fat, no doubt the pages full of news from home and stories from her work, as well as of Rudolph, her reclusive Duke. Still, it was an amazingly fat packet…

I pushed it deeper into my pocket. The Vicomtess' letter could wait too. Her happiness could only push my own unsettled state into greater contrast.

I was ruing the fact I had not a book… something soothing, heavy with descriptive and devoid of emotional content…a Burton travel log or perhaps the doze-inducing memoirs of Robert Walpole. Something peaceful…what I would do for a hour of peace, of liberty from this heretofore unknown state of emotional turmoil. I could not remember a time in all my years when I had been pulled in so many directions at once, more tormented by the words "I want!"

And, as if that were not enough for one to bear, I was most unhappily homesick. I missed my freedom! I mourned the solitary hours, the busyness of the days that kept my mind engaged. I missed my cat, my mare, my piano, my small peaceful apartment above the library.

I missed my LIFE.

These days there were too many hours of forced inaction, allowing the sly, ugly voices opportunities to invade my conscious state. I had long ago developed the ability to screen them all out by keeping my full attention focused outside myself, keeping physically and mentally engaged, painting, playing, riding, working. Now…I had nothing but the excruciating slow progress across France, dealing with the constant stress between the three individuals I was fated to spend the most time with.

Today's gossipy internal discussions seemed well-populated but single-minded; endless, unfailingly cruel 'advice' with a sub-audible chorus of hysterical laughter. And remarkably, a new voice now joined the ranks, the warm tenor hideously out of place among the usual chorus of spike-edged, squalling chant. The words it chanted were hurtful, deeply personal, and therefore quite effective: 'Thou art like the harpy…'

Dropping my hands onto my thighs, I allowed my back to lean into the wicker and wood chair, tipping my head back onto the cushion to relieve my aching shoulders. I closed my eyes and began the 'magic breathing', allowing the anxieties and stresses to slip down my body and along the conduit of my arms, and out of my fingertips. Each breath taken I allowed solace for my wounded heart, peace for the inner spaces, and perfect silence fill me. Gradually I relaxed, my shoulders easing and jaw loosening, as I forced that voice with the others, the hurtful and hateful, beneath consciousness, until I heard and felt nothing but my own heart beating, and the inhalations and exhalations of my breathing. And there I lingered within the beauty of perfect peace, alone and alight…until I absolutely knew I had to come back...

I was no longer alone...