Much to my disgust I am still employed, and I do believe someone higher in the municipal chain of command said something to my new boss and harasser. She still delights in making my workday miserable, but does so at the expense of appearing petty and extremely silly to the other in the office. Shhhhhh! Yes…they KNOW!
I will post 'em as fast as I do, not any faster. Realize that I write and rewrite convulsively and sometimes it takes a couple 3-milers with the dog to get the words correct.
Feedback is always nice.
Chapter 28That afternoon I received a note from Abrigaun stating he would need my presence the following forenoon as we would be making revised arrangements for travel. The tone of said missive was completely unremarkable; no 'Passionately Yours' above his signature, or obvious tear stains.
No matter...at dinner I put the note upon the table for all to see after reading it aloud to those of the party who sat about the table with me. Bouchard eyed it darkly, then snapped his eyes to mine, wherein we shared a few moments of mutual brooding. He had an gloriously colorful contusion ringing his left eye that went from the zygomatic up along the supraorbital beneath his dark brow. It was a ruddy-purple, edged in ocher, and contrasted vividly with his pale complexion. Combined with the scabby double scratch down his right cheek, and the scarring above that, one would think he'd run afoul of a wildcat possessing a serviceable right cross.
Eventually we both realized those around us had become utterly silent; Anna and Thom were watching us with unabashed curiosity. I dropped my eyes to my plate, and said, quite clearly, "If anyone would care to come along tomorrow, I would welcome their company."
Apparently no one did.
Feeling quite put out, I finished my meal and adjourned to my room, to pull on riding boots, Ulster and scarf. Thus prepared for muddy, cold, wet weather I strode, head high, past my faithless companions, and out the suite doors. I sought the solace of those who truly appreciated my company, at least as long as I had apples and molasses cookies stuffed in my pockets.
Taking the servant's stairs as they terminated at the back of the hotel near the kitchen…I needed apples and cookies…I passed the Gadreaus carrying the evening's dishes down. When I informed Emanuel of my decision to visit the horses, he scowled, saying, "You should not go out alone, Mademoiselle Butler. It will soon be dark!"
I patted my side, where my pistol rested, saying "Oh, pooh!" Anna giggled shyly, repeating to her brother, "oh pooh!' She really was a strange young woman… Thus unhappily reminded I still had decisions to make, I ducked my head and escaped down the stairs, leaving the Gadreaus…and hard decisions…behind.
The heavy wind and hard rain had eased, and despite visible damage to those things manmade, had left a scrubbed look to the world in general. The wide expanse of red-bricked stableyard was free of the usual muck piles and debris, although several large downed tree limbs had been piled near the edge by the street. Everything possessed an unearthly glow, no doubt due to the sulfurous light of the overcast late afternoon. Most surprising was the warmth; I quickly shed my heavy coat and scarf, laying them over an empty stall door, safe from Aminta's investigating lips.
Checking that water and hay were both fresh, I doled out treats and preliminary scratches. I pulled Aminta from her stall to clean the mud from her legs and pick out her feet...I did not wish to have that knocked off into her bedding. Returning her to the large box stall, I pulled on my shabby grooming gloves, fetched the grooming box and began working the tangles from her mane and tail with a wide-toothed steel comb until her mane rippled free, below her elegant neck and her tail hung straight to her pasterns. After cursory brushing to remove the muddy scuffs across her wide back and belly, I began scratching her withers and girth line using my gloved fingers like a rake; Aminta pretend 'groomed' my hip with her lips, swaying her body to bring the itchier places to my fingers.
True bliss for both of us, I admit it.
Eventually John began nickering and giving me calf's eyes, begging shamelessly for like attentions, finally resorting to hanging his head over the adjoining wall to nudge me with his prehensile horsy lips. His retreat was just as inevitable, compelled by a jealous Aminta's teeth. After several such skirmishes, the mare was becoming quite agitated defending 'her' pleasures from usurpation, and twice I narrowly avoided being stepped upon when she whirled to launch attacks at John.
Disgusted, I snapped at the gelding, "Damn you, John! Can you not wait your turn?"
"You chastise the wrong one, Butler. You have spoiled that mare."
Heart hammering, I whirled at the sound of Bouchard's voice. After a moment spent gathering my wits, I was able to respond coherently, if not at all politely. "What are you doing here, Bouchard?"
"It would seem Emanuel possesses that which you and I do not: common sense. I am here to protect you from the attentions of the disreputable riffraff that hang about." Bouchard entered John's box, grabbed the large gelding's halter, and firmly pulled him from Aminta's reach. Hanging his hat and coat upon the stall door, he gestured toward the wide horse brush in my grooming box.
I dropped it into his waiting hand, and making no effort to hide my irritation, snapped, "Emanuel presumes too much. I am fine...I need no one's protection!"
Bouchard ignored me, proceeding to give the big bay a vigorous grooming. I watched resentfully until he disappeared below John's back to work at his belly. Once he had reappeared farther back along John's side, Bouchard stopped, looking a trifle pale, to lean against the far side of the stall.
No stranger to black eyes, I knew how painful they could be until the initial swelling subsided. No doubt this flush of activity was making it throb like a rotten tooth.
Bouchard's low growl broke into my thoughts...and I realized I had been staring...
"Do you find this impressive? No doubt Chanson has grown in your estimation." Bouchard thrust forward his right side...a move that was not quite what he'd intended, I'm sure. I firmly repressed a smile, saying, "That would be an odd thing to give merit. No, I am quite content believing Dietré a peaceable man by nature, and his action…," here I made a gestured reference to Bouchard's black eye, "…predicated by self defense, not a pugnacious temperament."
Bouchard's expression flattened; he turned away to rub one hand along the bay's topline, stopping to give due attention to John's withers. When the gelding twisted his head about in appreciation of Bouchard's efforts, the man's lips drew up in a grin.
It was very difficult to remain angry with anyone who found pleasure in giving such delight to one of God's lesser creatures. Looking away, I stripped the grimy leather gloves from my hands and slapped them against the side of the stall. "Far better had I hit you, Bouchard, and saved poor Chanson a great deal of misery!"
Bouchard's response was delivered without pause in his vigorous scratching. "No one shall be hitting me in future, Madame."
"Agreed, Monsieur. And I reiterate: Chanson feels he acted in self defense." I scraped a spot of mud from Aminta's shoulder, then looked across at the dour man in the adjacent stall. "I certainly hope your friendship with Dietré was a price you were willing to pay for this unnecessary drama. I believe he is quite put out with you."
With that Bouchard seemed to diminish just a bit, and his chin sank to his chest. "Yes, I suppose he is." Abruptly, he moved, grabbing John's halter and passing neatly beneath the gelding's neck to the near side. Turning his back to me, he began grooming the gelding's barrel and wide back. After a long silence, I realized our conversation was at an end.
I turned away to let myself out of Aminta's box stall, ignoring my spoiled mare's demands for more attention. I would return to the hotel, walking away as quietly as possible, as surely Bouchard was far too busy to notice my leaving. Having put my grooming box away, less the brush now being applied to John's glossy hide, I moved to fetch my long coat, thrown over the stall door next to Aminta...
"Butler!"
I whirled, loudly retorting, "'Miss Butler,' if you please!"
I was given a guarded look; Bouchard enunciated carefully, "Miss Butler. Please…I ask that you do not leave yet." Without further explanation, he returned to John's grooming.
Bouchard spent the next quarter hour fussing with his horse, whilst I wandered the stable, petting the barn cat and the fat, white cart pony. As I watched two of the kitchen girls fan themselves by the hotel's back entrance I debated the idea of going back to the hotel despite Jerrod's request (demand!) I stay. And I would have...but for the hint of desperation I had felt in his voice.
The failing light meant a drop in temperature, and the chill persuaded me to wrap my large wool scarf about my shoulders. Hugging it beneath my crossed arms, I stared at the burgeoning lights of the hotel, lost in mindless review of the day's amazing, infuriating, depressing events.
I therefore started in surprise yet again when Jerrod's voice cut through my ruminations, and he materialized from the dark of the stable, his open coat rendering his white shirt an apparition without form. I spun about, my hands held stiffly before as if in defense…only to have them clasped tightly and pulled to his chest. Shaken and embarrassed, I stood stiffly while he stared quite rudely into my face. Unfortunately, the longer we stood so, the harder my heart pounded, and quicker my breathing.
His mouth flexed, as if contemplating a word…or a cutting observation. I closed my eyes, no longer strong enough to hide my disorder should it be the latter.
"Mademoiselle Butler…Aislyne. Please…" His voice was deep, with an edge of tension.
Startled, I opened my eyes to look into his face…only to drop them to the fine linen of his shirt, unnerved by his expression, and focused instead upon the fair skin of his throat, laid bare in his dishabille. I watched fascinated as the pulse beat strongly below his right ear and he swallowed several times, obviously in the throes of strong emotion.
"Ma chère ami, I wish…I wish to apologize. I wish us to forget this day…to…" His thumbs were at my wrists, circling…smoothing...
For just a second I felt overwhelmed…his words…the warmth in his voice…his touch… My voice quavered terribly, yet automatically I would assure him, "You need not apologize, Jerrod. I realize…"
I was suddenly pulled a good deal closer, his large hands having swept up my arms to bracket my shoulders tightly. My reflection within his eyes was ringed in luminous, fiery green, and his voice was angrily strident. "Do not treat me as if my behavior is excusable because of my…my inadaptément, Miss Butler! My conduct was the result of…petty conceit and foolish assumption! Of believing you brought Abrigaun here…that you had invited him! I thought you wished…" Jerrod's face twisted, and I was hit with the intangible force of his helpless confusion …and another, quite elusive something that pulled the very air from my lungs. Gasping at the raw emotions, I pulled back.
Bouchard released me…all but threw himself from me, backing away and turning so that his face was hidden by dark hair and lifted collar. We both remained so, frozen in the moment, or perhaps frightened by the violent emotions that swirled about us. I shared his sense of vulnerability, of having no compass for the unfamiliar place we both occupied at this moment.
Blindly I sought something to say, a graceful retreat from the emotional ledge I teetered upon…and fell upon my secret weapon against any strong emotion: humor.
With a shaky laugh I said, "Trust me in this, Bouchard…I would have rather walked to Italy then to have invited Abrigaun to join us." When this elicited no response whatsoever, I added, quietly, "Furthermore, I would never have asked Abrigaun here without first talking with you."
Perhaps he was surprised...or rather more likely he doubted my words; fluidly he heeled about to set me again as subject to his piercing regard. I never flinched…it was the truth, afterall…
He dropped his eyes, growling, "I realized that…much too late." I refused to react to this revelation.
I could see him well; loss of my night vision had not yet manifested as an inevitable curse of my advancing years. Pulling his fingers through the long sweep of hair that would otherwise hide his right cheek, his expression became vaguely... sheepish. "I was of the impression you and Abrigaun…I see he is quite taken with you, Mademoiselle." He spoke with deceiving mildness, but I felt his anxiety. Felt it…
He continued, his manner still detached. "And perhaps you find his attentions...flattering…"
I shook my head, my eyes never leaving his. "No. I do not."
"Mademoiselle…Aislyne…" Again the sense of tightly-held emotion, the restraint apparent upon his face…in the very set of his shoulders. "Can you find it within you to…to forgive my boorish, ungentlemanly…" He stepped toward me; I met him halfway.
I could not stop my hand from lightly cupping his right cheek, soberly adding, "unreasonable?…"
"…Yes, of course…unreasonable…treatment of you this morning?"
"I have…rather, I can do that, my dear Bouchard."
"I am...I am humbly grateful." Searching for mockery, I found none in his face…only open relief, and the sense of his distress evaporating.
I shook my head ruefully, saying, "This apology is unnecessary.…" I slid my hand to his shoulder, shaking him slightly, to say, "I am not..."
...Only to be cut off when he gathered my hands in his, expression pleading, "Please tell me…assure me…you are not merely placating the madman to whom you have been shackled, Madam! I realize I behave abominably, I have no control over my stronger emotions. But I need your honest friendship, Aislyne…I need your… companionship." The slightest hint of humor lingered about his lips, yet again I felt the desperation behind his words. Without thought, I found the fingers of both hands had firmly entwined with his; looking down I marveled at the intimacy to be found in holding his long, elegant fingers in such a way.
"I am not sure what you are asking me, Bouchard. But…if you mean that I should not…abandon you in terror of your...sensitive nature, put your mind at ease. I do not find you at all intimidating, or frightening. You are a soulfully expressive man, not a stick in a frockcoat, and I…I quite admire that about you." Meeting his doubtful look with a bit of attitude, I added, "Even at those times I might wish I was not the primary addressee!"
His lips quirked and I could not stop my own smile. Pulling my hand free, I again touched his face…drawn to the side shadowed by the long wing of his dark hair. "And never think I am 'shackled' to you. I was given the chance to walk away from this immediately after our first meeting at the Rois. You do recall that meeting Bouchard?"
His lips stretched into a faint smile. "I remember quite well, dear lady. With fondness I recall the colorful scolding laid upon one witless boy vicomte. A pity none but you and I understood a word." His smile became a grin…
Laying two fingers across his lips, I shook my head. "Had I any idea you knew what I was saying, I would have…well...I was greatly irritated by the man's pecking and pulling at me. I did so wish to speak to you…and..." I could no longer ignore Bouchard's growing amusement. "Go on, then. Laugh at me. However, what I was referring to, Monsieur, was your behavior. Why, you had both de'Chagny and Abrigaun convinced they were sending me into dire peril"
Bouchard seemed taken aback, his laughter arrested. "No…really? I had no idea either had the wit to realize it." We stared at one another for a moment, wherein I elected to believe Bouchard was not being serious...and continued.
"Nonetheless, I chose to take the assignment as your nurse-companion despite your…shocking behavior at the Rois. Both de'Chagny and Abrigaun did their best to convince me I would be far happier to forget the assignment and return home. However,"... I tipped my chin assertively,..."I was not to be swayed."
Bouchard seemed troubled by this, and pulling my free hand from his collar, again trapped it within both of his, where the fingers of my right hand were still entangled. "Ah, sweet lady, they were right."
I opened my mouth to declaim this judgment, but was stopped by his expression. I knew his next words even before he spoke.
"If given that choice today, you would still…take the assignment?"
I nodded, saying, "I would". The sudden welling of emotion within rendered further speech impossible; I dropped my eyes to hide it.
Someone cleared their throat nervously a few feet to my left, then said my name.
I froze, snapping my gaze to Bouchard…who appeared to have expected our company. "Dietré, would you be so kind as to fetch the Mademoiselle's coat from the stable? You have frightened her into paralysis."
Having regained my senses, I sputtered, "What…no! I was merely…"
He laughed quietly, and smoothly pulled his fingers from mine, to then tuck my hand about his arm, and turn us toward the hotel.
Voice cool, Chanson responded, saying, "I will fetch Mademoiselle Butler's coat…' and adding in French, "…This I do for the Mademoiselle." He marched off toward the stable, the small lantern he carried flashing erratically across the cobbles of the yard.
I mourned the loss of friendship between these men.
We awaited Chanson at the hotel's back entrance, neither of us speaking. Bouchard kept his eyes forward, his expression thoughtful, yet his hand stayed atop mine, his fingers tap tap tapping to silent music only he could hear. At the sound of Chanson's approaching boots, Bouchard released me, and taking the coat from Chanson's reluctant hands, put it in mine, saying, "You do not mind if Chanson and I have a moment, Mademoiselle?"
Chanson stepped back, his expression cautious…but I could not help but smile at the look in Jerrod Bouchard's face. Nodding at Chanson, I said, "I will bid you both good night, then."
I stopped just inside the wide kitchen entry, as if to shift my heavy coat upon my arm; the sound of Bouchard's deep voice…pitched again to that of humble apology…restored a great deal of my wellbeing. I ascended the stairs with a far lighter heart.
**************
Upon hanging my heavy Ulster in its place in the wide closet in my room, my fingers encountered one slim letter addressed in a light, feminine hand, and an abnormally thick packet covered on one side in Louise' firm, looping script.
Once I was tucked comfortably within my bed, pillows piled behind me and the large lamp turned up, I broke the wax seal pressed upon the back of Christine de'Chagny's letter.
March 29, 1884
Dear Mademoiselle Butler,
As I am writing, my son and husband are napping. I am feeling entirely well, although perhaps a bit tired, but certainly I am well recovered from the birth of my darling son. I hope I am not imprudent in telling you how richly this child has blessed my life. I feel very safe in saying Raoul would agree entirely.
At your suggestion, (I am told), Raoul stayed with me during our son's birth. We both felt this experience strengthened our bond to one other, as well as Raoul's to his son. Aaron has a father eager to watch him grow day by day. I am deeply in your debt, Mlle. Butler.
Similarly, Mademoiselle Nicollier has been a blessing beyond my humble ability to express by ink and paper. She has given me a safe place to lay my troubles, and provided guidance when I certainly had no one to whom I could speak frankly. And again, I am in your debt!
I know you have my Angel in your care, and for this reason I have found peace…as well as blessed sleep. Please write me if you feel comfortable doing so, and let me know how he prospers. I have no doubt he will soon find his proper place in the world, as he is richly blessed. He has his great talent and the heart and soul of a gentleman. And now he has You. I know that within the year Paris will be hearing of a musical genius, a man of great talent, living there in Tuscany. My Maestro spoke so often of wishing to share his music with the world, and I have faith this will happen for him at last.
I have one request, my dear Mlle. Butler, although it is your decision if it would help, or harm my Maestro. Could you please convey to him this which I would tell him myself if I could!
Please--please tell Monsieur that I await the day he will again remember me as 'mon bébé', and 'ma petite' chanteur' ! Tell him my affection for my Maestro has never changed, and that I include him in my prayers every evening, just as when I was a child and we said them together. Tell him I have never said 'goodbye', but instead, 'until we meet again.' He will understand!
With your help I refuse to believe anything but that my Angel's happiness is assured. God bless you!
Respectfully,
Christine
Vicomtess de'Chagny
Maison de'Chagny, Mouton, France
Wiping my eyes and nose, I belabored myself for mawkish sentimentality over a few lines from Christine de'Chagny. I was happy the lying in had gone well…had never a doubt Simoné would bring the young couple through the birth of their child in good form. However, it was a trifle depressing to realize Christine de'Chagny was never far from thoughts of her Maestro, and still hoped he would someday resume his role as a father-figure in her life. I had no idea how Bouchard felt about the young woman who still loved him so deeply, or if he, too would ever wish the relationship mended.
I folded the two sheets of elegant paper and slipped them into the envelope with its faint whiff of Christine's floral scent. Looking at the large packet sent by Louise, I felt a vague unease…almost as if the contents were something unexpectedly ominous and disturbing, and not at all the amusing potpourri of news, private confidences, and comically bizarre editorializing that had heretofore assured her letters were high entertainment. After a moment's consideration, I put the packet, along with the letter from the Vicomtess de'Chagny, in the basket that served me so well as a carry-all, beneath my travel quilt. Tomorrow I would investigate the mysterious bale from Louise. Tonight I was tired, and longed for untroubled sleep.
Naturally, once I had turned down the lamp and settled upon my pillow, I began to consider how…and when…I could deliver Madam De'Chagny's private message to Bouchard. Perhaps we would have time for a ride tomorrow afternoon so I could do so away from other ears. The thought of a ride was attractive, the future beyond that was not.
Too soon we would again be aboard the Pullmen, rattling down the length of France, if the request to the stationmaster was approved. We would then pack everything from the railcars on board of a passenger ship…at least, that was my plan. I sincerely hoped the several days spend aboard the ship would be as comfortable and peaceful as the one I had just spent aboard the steamer that brought me across to France.
I remembered again my thought this very morning of how pleasant it would be…could be…once we were settled in the de'Chagny villa in Livorno. Of course, that was before Abrigaun had wedged himself amongst us for the remainder of the trip to Livorno.
