Phantom Night Owl...this chapter is for you. I know what it is like to stay up 'way too late reading because a story won't let you do anything else! I couldn't ask for a bigger compliment! And H4G, Hicdracones...thank you both for your constant and consistent encouragement! I am running short on 'prewritten' scenes, so can't promise the next update will be near as quick as the last five chapters (hey...that was 36K words!). But...never fear...I know where I'm going with all of this.
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Chapter Fifty
Back firmly against the bole of a fat gum tree, I sat basking, squint eyed, in the mid-morning sun, feeling inordinately thankful just to be alive. A breeze tickled my cheek, wonderfully warm upon my skin, carrying the scent of cooking food, hot laundry and overheated human bodies. My hunger was assuaged; I had purchased a large skewer of grilled chicken, with pieces of onion and squash and carrot, laid upon hot panbread off a street vendor some time ago. I had eaten every morsel without use of either serviette or a good hand washing first. A large water jar sat between my outstretched legs, half empty.
At this moment I felt...safe. Whole. Untrammeled by worry or care.
Dressed in my brothers' clothes, my hair scraped up beneath a shapeless, felt toque, every visible inch of my face and hands were scraped bloody or begrimed. I felt confident no one would mistake me for an English spinster on the run from foreign madmen and French police. To further muddy the waters I had assumed a grunting, brutish French-Cockney patois if addressed, acting patently disinclined to prolonged discussion. Looking at my black-rimmed, ragged nails and the long, bloody scratch that crossed the back of my greasy hand, I probably made a very appropriate choice.
Perhaps I had gone insane whilst trapped in the endless channel of the aqueduct, for surely there was no way I would have tried this masquerade otherwise. Yet, it had become necessary very soon upon arriving at the commons across from the Vioux Lyon market district. After purchasing my food with a few of the coins I found in my trousers pocket, two young men loitering nearby had given me far too much attention. Whilst slinking across the peninsula I had discovered I had lost my Sheffield somewhere in the miles of aqueduct. The only weapon I possessed was the knife at my right hip.
How fortunate that I'd had older brothers willing to school me on avoiding unwelcome attentions of every stripe. I pulled the sgian dubh from its scabbard, and proceeded to use it liberally during my leisurely meal, admiring the way the light flashed off the inlaid silver in the handle. Just as visible was the lethal shape and sharpness of the blade; I was very careful when taking meat directly off the blade with my mouth. Once finished, the sgian dubh was carefully wiped down upon my disreputable trousers, and then kept visible whilst I carefully cleaned my ragged, bloody nails.
I was ever so glad to see the men moving on, apparently unwilling to face the wicked little knife. It's job done, I slipped it into the scabbard at my hip, and rose to walk off my full belly and locate a public garde'loo. France was very progressive about public toileting…much more so than England, and despite a disgusted look from the next user at my appearance, I was greatly relieved, although two centime poorer.
As the day progressed, more people arrived, strolling in groups. Musicians wandered about, playing accordion, violin, guitar, and sometimes gathering as a group to play, 's'il vous plaît' cups at their feet.
Toward late afternoon the 'bohemians' arrived, taking over the concrete floor at the front of the park, setting up their cheap pasteboard tables and folding chairs to surround the floor completely. Musical instruments were tuned, an Italian lute, Indian sitar, and a beautifully painted mandola being the most unusual. The women were dressed in costumes wicked and outrageous, but colorful and likely comfortable.
Two women joined the gathering musicians, one dressed in scandalously thin Grecian drape with flowers wreathed about her head, carrying a lovely violin. Her companion was handsomely attired in tight bottle green silk breeches and tailcoat, gold-cloth waistcoat, snowy froth of lace at throat and wrists, her arms about a cello. There was no mistaking either for anything but female.
They were received by the heretofore all-male musicians with kisses and good-natured teasing, both obviously well known and accepted. An attentive young man opened their wooden folding chairs, whereupon they sat to tune their instruments, chatting with fellow musicians and passing acquaintances. I was, for just a second, envious of their carefree existence, free to dress and express themselves without even the slightest nod to convention.
It was not until the gentleman with the accordion arrived that the musicians settled, and after an animated discussion concerning musical selection, and the communal nodding of heads upon agreement thereon, launched into the first of their novel renditions of the standards. Soon the concrete square was full of couples spinning to the waltz and mazurka, polonaise and Spanish zarzuela.
Easels appeared at the edges of the crowd as the artistic worked at their craft, smearing paint and pulling pencil and charcoal across pristine canvas or fine paper to capture the colors and movement. Poets and writers, pedagogues and preachers, men and women who appeared very rich...or very poor, gathered to dance, or clap to the music, ogle the women...
These people were no different from the political, religious and sexual misfits who were all the crack in London in Soho and Chelsea Square when I lived there.
I watched the dancing, listened to the music, and kept a wary eye to anyone who moved too close. I was exhausted; I had given up the idea of finding a quiet place to nap. As more people congregated on the commons, the rowdy 'sleeveen' lurked at the edges, ready to take advantage of the drunk or inattentive. I had not seen the two men who had shown such interest in me earlier, but did not delude myself in thinking I could totally relax.
There too were the gentlemen in conservative attire, unmistakably French plainclothes policemen, who wandered the square constantly. So far I had not rated above a cursory scan.
I was invisible.
Of course, it said something for the crowd that filled the commons that I could be so, here among them, dressed in clothes that were scuffed and torn, muddy, bloody from my many wounds, and smelling strongly of kerosene oil and earth.
My entire body was one continuous bruise. I had been hit in the head by stone chips flying back from gunfire. I did not discover this until I encountered the sticky, matted hair, and coagulated blood covering my right ear and jaw, and left cheek, many hours later.
Upon reaching the end of the corridor down which I had escaped Hashim and his friends, I had panicked, resorting to pressing my hands upon the embossed designs that covered the otherwise smooth stone barrier. Next thing I knew, I had fallen into a large, deep, muddy hole, a trapdoor simply materializing in the floor beneath my feet. The mud broke my fall…for which I was thankful...but had exacted a terrible toll upon my hips and elbows as they took the brunt of the fall.
I had blisters and burns on the fingers of my right hand from the several attempts needed to light a kerosene lantern with damp safety matches. The lantern was found by way of falling upon it whist wobbling about in total darkness, trying to comprehend what annex of Infernos I had subsequently entered after falling into and climbing out of the muddy hole.
The lantern was metal, sans glass covers, fortunately, and did not break from my poor frame falling upon it. I had sworn at it a great deal, even upon realizing it was…Praise God!…a lantern full of kerosene oil.
I suppose it had its revenge upon my ungrateful person by refusing to wick up until the fourth match tried was but a ghost of a flame licking avidly at my fingers. It also developed a tendency to become extremely hot after being lit for more than a few minutes.
Once I had successfully lit the lantern, careful exploration revealed I had landed in an old aqueduct, (an extrapolation from Erik's notations) faced with clay tiles and thick stone. When standing, my head made painfully solid contact with the ceiling as it appeared to be 5 feet and a varying few inches, and less than 4 feet wide. I could stand only if I bent over in a most uncomfortable fashion. The lower walls were smoothly coated with a thick, abrasive limestone buildup from the water that had, no time recently, flowed through it. The channel went in only one direction as I found the opposite direction dead-ended within a few yards into a wall that looked suspiciously recent to my eyes.
I never found the aperture from which I had arrived; I did find the muddy hole, and the ceiling overhead was rough, unbroken stone. No matter, I was not going to stand about and await the next person to fall through. I set off into the aqueduct, eager to leave all things underground far behind, anticipating a quick jog through to open night sky and sweet freedom.
Hours later I was to remember such thoughts with numb despair.
Because the lamp became a hazard to carry when lit, I snuffed it when I was actually moving. I therefore nearly knocked myself out when I walked into a large stone projecting down through the ceiling. As I had already tripped and fallen upon hands and knees several times from encountering such obstructions from the sides into my path, this broke the monotony.
The farther I traveled through the aqueduct, the more often I encountered (painfully) places where the ceiling or sides were caving in, which did nothing to bolster my failing optimism.
Walking bent to allow for the ten inches I apparently had on the original designer was torture. I took the precaution of keeping one arm curved about my head, and the other holding the lantern forward before my knees as a bumper. I cannot say I was thus saved from further knocks and scratches. There were times when I would just catch myself actually going to sleep as I crept forth; there were also a few when I did not catch myself quite soon enough, hence the dozens of cuts and scrapes on my hands, elbows, face and knees.
The aqueduct was bone dry, the muddy hole I had initially fallen into being the only place I saw any sign of moisture, despite the sound of water being frequently heard in the walls. Within hours, thirst became a constant companion, accompanied by the vast hollow feel in my gut. Thoughts of fat, juicy orange slices become a maddening specter at the back of my throat.
Although it is impossible to be accurate, I estimated I spent over 19 hours creeping through the channel, thirsty, hungry, exhausted and cold to my bones. I had napped...it never felt as if I had actually slept...several times when I could not safely take another step. I dreamt of beds, food, flowing water. I dreamt of Erik, calling my name, his hands reaching into the dark. I wept, hope both flagged and flogged by such dreams.
Finally I ran into a stone wall…quite literally. Lighting the lamp for what would be the very last time, I sat for several minutes, lost in bleak apathy, my belief in the eventual end to this ordeal fading. Staring at the massive stone-and-mortar barricade, I was reminded of too many other such barricades in my life: unexpected, impenetrable, and final.
I gave up. S'truth I did. I felt as if I had been a lifetime crawling about in the dark only to come to this…the end. There was no way I was crawling back, as I had lost the will to go another foot. Defeated, I sat on the floor, too drained and dehydrated to cry. I set the lit lantern some distance behind me, and lay down, accepting death.
After the passage of minutes or hours (I cannot say which) it felt foolish to remain lying in the gravel and dirt of the channel floor whilst still feeling very much alive. I stood…and gave the largest stone in the center of the barrier one ugly tempered kick...
...And had to throw myself backward when it, and several other sizeable stones shifted and fell into the small space I had just vacated. Once dust and stone had settled, I moved back to the barrier and inspected the damage. It was disheartening to note the result was a deep crater in the thick wall, not a hole. I pushed cautiously at the center, and it disintegrated outward, taking a head-sized rock with it. This was immediately followed by an inrush of fresh, greenery-scented air.
The kerosene lamp immediately died, the flame having grown smaller and weaker in the past hour. I froze, my antipathy for utter blackness having grown substantially in the last double-score of hours. Frantically pushing my face closer to the inlet of fresh air, I was thunderstruck, eyes watering with delirious joy at the sight of…stars! Quickly testing the remaining stones surrounding the breach, I cautiously stuck my head at the opening, to see a half-circular field of millions of bright, blessed stars! Whether fading in a predawn sky or appearing in late evening I could not tell, but still sparkling reassurance I had reached the end of my ordeal, if I could but get past the thick barrier of rocks and mortar.
Frantically, I began an attack upon the thick barricade using fallen rocks as battering rams, pounding upon stones above and below the crater to loosen them and bring them down, with mixed success. I had obviously kicked loose the 'soft spot'; those remaining were in no hurry to relent. Ultimately enough gave way under my barrage to create an opening I could slip through. I had several large rocks land on my toes, and one caught my chin when I did not move back fast enough, but these were minor hurts, bearable as long as nothing broke and something large and heavy no longer barred my escape.
Many of the outer stones fell out…and the accompanying din was unnerving. When I first put my head out to ascertain what was beyond the barrier, there was a framed circle of sky upward…and pitch black below. By the time I could pull myself through the hole, grasping the solid, stacked rock wall above me, the growing light revealed a well...filled with trash, broken wood and rusted, twisted metal, apparently bone dry. I had broken into a dry well that was now a trash midden. What appeared to be a ship's mast leaned against the wall, beside where I climbed, the wood ragged and splintered along its entire length. The thought of having to grab it should the rock wall prove weak or loose was daunting, but better that than to fall on the jagged metal and broken wooden posts below.
"Get on with it, Butler." I pulled my backside through the barrier, clinging to the side of the well, very thankful it was roughly laid, thereby presenting easily found hand and toeholds. The climb out was not all that far, but I was trembling with the physical stress nonetheless. I climbed into the pre-sunrise, light enough to discern I was in the backyard of a rough-looking alehouse. It must not have been currently open to business, as nothing stirred in the vicinity. About the neighborhood birds twittered and called, not yet ready to leave their night roosts, and a rooster crowed repeatedly, reminding me again of why I hated chickens. Just as clear in the air was the sound of ships' bells ringing the time...5 bells, or 6:30. Apparently I was within yards of the docks along the Saône.
Exhausted from the climb, I found a small whisky barrel on end, sitting under the trees that surrounded the alehouse yard. While considering what I should do next, I gingerly assessed state of my hair and face. I made an assumption of how I looked, and was resistant to appearing in public as a walking murder victim. How inevitable I would suffer an attack of vanity now.
Putting my hands up to my head, I investigated the mess at the right side over my temple, where I had been hit by a ricochet of rock snapped from the hypogeum wall by a bullet. Scalp wounds bleed easily and copiously; the hair upon that side was stiff and sticky, hanging down my back, or stuck to my jacket and the skin before my ear. I gingerly tried unsticking it from my face and clothing to pull it back into a queue. My fussing reopened the wound, caused pain and cursing, yet did nothing to improve my appearance. Of course, you could also say I had not impacted it overmuch.
Dame Providence again pressed fickle blessings upon me, as I happened to look up while crawling to the center of the overgrown rank of trees that marked the boundaries of the ale house yard. A ragged, weathered bit of cloth hanging forgotten from a tree branch proved to be a toque, a type of shapeless watch cap popular in France by the wildly patriotic or those of the criminal class. A vigorous shaking and inspection found it vermin free and fairly clean, although this particular specimen tended to rip if pulled down on one's head too vigorously, a lesson I needed learn but once. After an additional few moments spent spitting upon my sleeves and wiping at my face, neck, and ear, and a thorough shaking and scrubbing at my clothes, I was able to envision my appearance sufficiently improved to safely rejoin society. I did decide to keep my head down, however.
This, then...the commons across from the old market area of Vioux Lyon ...was where I 'landed', hoping I would see Erik communing with other secretive men, or walking about with a violin. I had languished the entire day here, waiting for what came next.
Which appeared to be...nothing.
The musicians were beginning to wander away; first the French horn, then the Italian mandola, both of which were played by rather conservative types anyway. Next to go were the flutist, and the viola player. The turban-wearing Indian sitar player was looking about as if considering his options, and several others looked undecided also. The wholesale desertion of his orchestra did not sit well with the gentleman with the accordion, who became loudly impolite to those who chose to go home to their supper instead of playing the evening away. There was laughter among the audience; obviously this was part of the performance.
Shadows grew long across the commons and the crowd thinned.
After the third long set, more musicians rose to stow away instruments and make their farewells. I walked the perimeter of the floor, trying to keep awake and aware, vigilant for faces friendly or not. I would soon need to give up and seek what lodgings I could, using a bit of the French currency I had stuffed deep within my coat's hidden pockets. The problem would be accessing it covertly; the garde'loo was out of the question now the crowd had thinned and traffic in that direction was nonexistent. I had not been thinking too well, after all…
Upon yet another circle about the area, two familiar faces stepped into view...one of the men immediately moving to my left, the other stepping in front of me. Alarm snapped me from my sleepwalking daze; turning so I could keep both in view, I stepped back against a table, knocking chessmen and small drink glasses willy-nilly, much to the displeasure loudly expressed by the well-lubricated occupants.
The man on my left then did something ridiculous: grinning, he stuck out his arms, as if inviting me to come get a hug. The other man was moving into my right, grabbing for my arm, no doubt worried about the knife at my hip. Reacting on pure fear and instinct, I turned to the man on the left...his arms still ludicrously held out as if herding an unruly cow…and using the flat of my hands shoved hard upon his undefended chest, sending him careening into a large number of well-dressed partiers seated immediately behind. I felt the other man's hands grab at my sleeve and shoulder, he cursing volubly in French. I whirled upon him, snarling gutturally in Gaelic, which seemed to surprise him enough I was able to jerk away. I dived into the remaining musicians and their entourage, keeping my head down, slipping between round bellies, musical instruments and tall backs, pushing when necessary. Strident reproaches against the pursuer whom I had shoved were echoed by those whom I jostled in my retreat from my attackers.
I saw daylight, so to speak, nearing the opposite side of the dance floor and turned to check on my pursuers, only to be yanked to a violent stop by a hand at the neck of my coat. My chin was now in forcible contact with a formidable set of sharp knuckles atop the fist holding my collar.
Hauled upright from the sneaking crouch I had assumed to make myself less visible, I stared astonished into the infuriated face of the Grecian violinist.
"Why are you sneaking about like a thief, boy? How many pockets have these dirty hands emptied! Ugh!" Although she spoke in French, a general waspish regard as she scanned my person made no secret of what she thought of the scrawny, filthy flotsam she had nabbed. Her accent and manner were that of outraged British superiority, and her French slow and less than fluent...perfectly understandable to me.
Staring with fascinated revulsion at my gruesome hair, its sticky, plastered state noticeable even stuffed up into a cap, I was taken aback at the fierce intensity of that examination; I was several inches taller, yet I was now up on my toes at the end of her fist.
The woman opened her mouth to deliver an additional set down…blinked and steely blue eyes narrowed and fastened upon mine, full of suspicion.
Her eyes never leaving mine, my captor spoke loudly, in English, "Nell, we are done here. Gentlemen, I thank you for yet another pleasant evening." I was allowed to fully regain terra firma, yet she kept my coat collar within her fist, and was, in fact, cranking me down to her height. I reached up to drag her hand away, and heard someone say behind me, "Mademoiselle, me permettent à ce détritus de prendre."
I twisted frantically within the constriction of my coat collar, still held tightly in the woman's fist, and found my two pursuers standing, hats in hand, at a short distance away, but certainly far too close for me. Stepping forward, one...he of the big grin...clapped his hand upon my shoulder, his fingers digging tightly for a good hold. The other addressed himself to the Grecian harpy whose eyes never left my face.
We all jumped when she began screeching in butchered French, "What? What will you do to our Thomas, you ill-bred criminal! Unhand him or I will scream for Inspector Darrieux! Help! Help me!"
Several other men immediately moved toward us, and I felt the hand on my shoulder drop as Monsieur Big Grin's partner began making conciliatory noises, his hands waving about in rapid denial. My new rescuer released my collar and shook her fists at my attackers, and voice throbbing with ersatz terror, shouted, "They threatened us! Where is Inspector Darrieux? Somebody find him! He needs to arrest these villains!"
The two villains, however, threw off restraint, and took to their heels. Watching them slip through the shadows under the trees, I told myself it was my turn to run…but was glued to the spot, my feet leaden. I turned to my rescuer, wherein she dropped her hand and began firmly shaking my arm, speaking to me as if I were simple.
"Thomas, our chairs and instruments if you please. Here, let Wooten place the chairs for you, then take my violin. Just so. Here is the cello…remember...hug about the middle, not the neck. Nell, do not forget the parasol." An obliging gentleman folded the wooden chairs and slipped them over my arm onto my left shoulder. I was handed a violin case on my left, and the cello on my right. Then, burrowing a hand into each of my elbows, the two women towed me along, without a word said between them.
Aware my attackers were likely watching…perhaps even following, I could not break away without leaving myself open to them again, yet I was without a clue as to why these women had included themselves in my problem. And where exactly were they taking me? It made no sense!
As we walked the path through the commons, my new champion kept the farce in play, saying archly, "Now Thomas...you must learn to stay close to us when we are at the park. You are a fool, indeed! You attract riffraff as a dog fleas! Nell! We must talk to the French police concerning the criminals who trouble the evening concerts!"
"Nell", nodding her head, patted my hand presently clasping the violin case. I kept my head down.
Once we reached the pedestrian walk that ran beside the Rue de Republic, both women moved a stride ahead, to link arms whilst they chatted of music, musicians, and other events. Having pulled me from the clutches of my pursuers neither seemed to give me another thought once we had left the commons.
For the moment I was willing to shuffle along behind them, playing the fool 'Thomas', certain I had no other choice. Although far too tired to consider it 'curiosity' I could make certain assumptions about the two women who had decided, for whatever reason, to help me.
Catching their names from the farewells at the Commons, I gathered the Grecian-draped woman was 'Olivia'. Her demeanor that of a dame-school education, a silver-spoon blue-blood, doubtless her sire sat in the House of Lords. I remembered too many of the male version coming to my father's London stables seeking 'prime cattle' to pull their flimsy curricles, reeking of 'seigniory and Oxford, to look down their noses at my father, while lusting for the superlative horses he bred and trained.
Nell was quiet, kind, and despite her fashion sense, deferred to her partner.
Both were probably British citizens, and despite their dress, both obviously 'gently-bred'.
Olivia's golden brown curls falling unbound past her white shoulders was perhaps a bit young for a woman of her maturity...I guessed her to be not terribly younger than I. Her choice of attire was anything but 'proper', outlining legs, rear, and full, uncorseted breasts, and exposing nearly entire her shoulders and arms with the occasional clear view of her legs to the knee while she walked.
'Nell' I belatedly realized was Olivia's sister; their facial structure was identical. She was dressed near as scandalously as her sibling, although showing no actual flesh. Her breeches molded her body from waist to hose, and the matching coat looked painted on, without a wrinkle. The high froth of lace at neck and wrists, and tall collar points against her cheeks looked most uncomfortable. Her hair was but a cap of dark ringlets, cropped in a style that was all the rage with the demimonde of Paris. It was quite attractive…I had admired the look on other women before…but taken with her style of dress, it made me…uncomfortable.
In actuality, both looked silly, but I kept that observation to myself. I was not in a position to be making such judgments, now was I?
I walked behind them feeling lost and just a tad resentful; after a quarter-hour the chairs dug into my shoulder horribly, and I was afraid I would soon drop the cello. It was a beautifully cello, and I most certainly did not wish to do so, but my hands were becoming cramped and my shoulders an agony. I cleared my throat, doing so as gruffly as possible, and stopped walking.
Both women turned to look at me. I set the cello peg upon the pavement, and rolled my shoulder, adjusted the chairs…a clearly pained look upon my face.
"What…do you need help?" Olivia's expression was arch, faintly outraged… surely the servant class did NOT protest their lot!
"S'il vous plaît," I growled. Nell looked amused and started towards me; Olivia snorted most ungraciously, and grabbed her sister's arm, stopping her. She then walked back and relieved me of the violin.
"There…surely you are man enough to handle that, Thomas!" Sniffing, she turned and tugged Nell back into a walk.
I wondered if having saved me and named me, that I was now and forevermore, 'Thomas'. Sighing, I shifted the chairs and cello to opposite sides, and set out after them, praying for patience and strength to see them home. Then I would figure out what I should do…
At last we turned a corner, heading down a lane of large residences set on relatively narrow plots of land, most appearing to be in somewhat shabby repair. The women eventually stopped at a rusty gate before a tall, second empire-style residence, complete with mansard roof and paired columns supporting a round portico entrance. The sound of a piano being played badly drifted from a window. Nell pushed the gate open, and held it as I shuffled through with my awkward armful. Olivia came through last, closing the gate and fiddling there for some few moments.
Nell pulled me about, saying, "This is Grantham House. This is where we live." She gently removed the cello from my arm, patting me upon the arm. Turning to her sister, she pulled the violin case from her, and said, "Olivia, do not be mean."
Nell walked to the door, which immediately opened, a footman relieving her of both instruments at her entrance. There was a glimpse of butler and marble walls before the glossy doors shut.
Now was the time to leave, I told myself. Following Olivia up to the wide entrance, I relieved my shoulder of the chairs, leaning them gently against the closest pillar, and turned to my rescuer. I dipped my head, preparatory to making an elaborate bow…
"And how long do you think to pull off this charade, Miss Butler? Do you realize how close you came to being just another unknown corpse floating down the Saône?"
Stunned I froze mid-bow. Returning upright to look down at the decidedly incensed face of Olivia, I shook my head. "I'm only trying to keep ahead of…those who mean me harm."
"Or in jail? You do realize La Sûreté Nationale are now involved in an intense manhunt…or woman-hunt…for you? You are being accused of capitol murder!"
Numbly, I nodded.
"Then why are you still here in Lyon?" Her ire was increasing by the second, and her volume with it. I eyed her carefully; she seemed ready to take swing at me…she had her fists clenched tightly.
"Miss…ah…Olivia, I thank you for removing me from a very ugly situation. But…I beg your pardon, I do not owe you an explanation." My mother's training rose unbidden, and I curtsied, feeling foolish at the same time. I turned, heading for the gate…
"You are waiting for the man…the de'Chagny's uncle, are you not? Well, you waste your time. He is gone, left Lyon, well on his way to the south coast and Italy." She surveyed my person again, then drawled, "Do you look this way intentionally? Or have you had some grievous misadventure? I cannot imagine you would wish anyone to recognize you…" her hand made an encompassing sweep, "…thus."
She oozed English superiority. I waited for the inevitable smirk to appear…
No, I would not allow her to push me. "You are mistaken. Monsieur Bouchard is certainly not traveling to the south of France." I hoped my sudden doubt make no appearance in my voice. "I will find him. And the original idea was that nobody recognize me." I sighed deeply, and looked the woman hard in the eyes. "Yes, I have had a…difficult…time. I am, in fact, exhausted, dirty, bruised and bloody. I have spent the last…two days avoiding those who wish to either imprison or k…kill me…" Tears and bitterness closed my throat.
Gritting my teeth, I looked upward, forcing my emotions deep. After a moment I looked again at the supercilious woman before me. "I have no patience with your fine sensibilities, Olivia."
This time I bowed deeply, and turned away. I made it to the gate...
"Do not be so pathetically noble, Miss Butler. You are waiting for a man who has used you and doubtless moved on. You would do better to stay here, with me, while we get you sorted out and safely back home."
I laughed without any real amusement and kept working at the gate. It appeared to be…padlocked.
"My full name is Olivia St. James de Nassau, Countess of Grantham. My husband is the Earl of Grantham, James de Nassau."
My frank assessment of her present costume and expression of disbelief were grossly overplayed. "Then I most humbly request My Lady unlock...this...dammed...gate, s'il vous plait!" I rattled it angrily, and turned to glare at my tormentor. Olivia crossed her arms, and shook her head.
"There is no way your sister would allow me to live if I were to let you outside that gate in your present state, Miss Butler. Beyvin has been worried sick since your disappearance from the Hotel Corbusier."
At the mention of Beyvin, I gave up fumbling at the gate, and turned to stare at the woman, whose expression had changed from one of stiff intolerance to that of reserved compassion. THAT I could not take. I felt sudden, unaccountable tears running down my face.
"H...How do you know Beyvin?"
"Why she and Van Cliffe are frequent guests here, and our entourage' during racing season would not be the same without them. Lady Van Cliffe is counted among my dearest friends, Miss Butler."
Perhaps it was the lack of solid sleep. Maybe it was the madness of being trapped in an underground channel for an entire day. Then again, it might have been the shock of finding the world as I once knew it still connected to the one I inhabited now. Beyvin...whom I hadn't seen since...
Olivia de Naussau continued and though I heard every word, it seemed to fade in and out...in and out...
"Please accept this offer of respite, and let me contact Beyvin. She and Van Cliffe are at the British Embassy this evening, dining with Lord Lyons, the British Ambassador...very likely trying to extricate you from this mess you have landed in. Meanwhile we will tend your hurts, and provide at least one night's safe rest here at Grantham House. You shan't find it outside that gate."
Weak and sick, I sat down, right in the middle of the flagged pavement, and wrapped my hands about my poor, battered face, my heart breaking even as relief swept over me. I wasn't weeping, exactly...perhaps I was grieving the loss of my dream of love, even as I was welcoming rescue.
Somehow I did not think I could have both.
~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~
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