Chapter XLIX...in which Athos and Charlotte have a heart to heart talk, and Porthos finds himself asking Denise to dinner.

CHAPTER XLIX

Porthos was rummaging through a trunk at the foot of his bed when he heard a soft knock on the door. "Come in!" he called out, sure it was Aramis or d'Artagnan. "But a word of warnin'-if you have taken my spare shirt, there will be hell to pay!"

He turned to see Denise, framed by the soft light of the winter sun. Her glossy black hair flowed loosely over her shoulders, and her grey eyes shone in amusement. "I believe I may be the culprit—do you recall asking me to mend this?" She held out his shirt, freshly starched and laundered. The crisp linen was folded precisely, and the repair on the tear in the front of the shirt was flawless.

Porthos, a bit flustered, stood up. "Apologies. I thought you were one of the other men. I mean, obviously you are not a man, but when you knocked—" He found himself fumbling for words as he looked down at her. She was so petite as to appear delicate, but had a merry sparkle in her eyes that he sensed was due to a very keen sense of humour. The big man stopped and cleared his throat, then grinned. "What I am tryin' to say is, thank you so much. It looks brilliant—I can't even tell where I tore it. I completely forgot that I gave it to you. I know you said you would mend it for free, but please let me pay. You went to the trouble of bringin' it back, after all."

"It was quite an arduous journey, especially as I am currently housed in the next building." Her tone was teasing, and she smiled at him impishly. "No charge. It was my pleasure. Madeleine really enjoyed her time with you. Thank you for being so kind to her."

"Well, if you won't accept payment, please let me take you to dinner tonight," Porthos urged her. "I know a great little inn that is quiet and close by.

"Madeleine did ask if she could spend the dinner hour with Serge learning to make his famous beef stew, so I will be alone for dinner. It would be lovely to have some company."

A grin spread across the big man's face. "Good. Six o' clock?"

"It's a date," she replied, preparing to leave.

He placed his hand on her arm, staying her for a moment. "Before you go, I have to tell you that you have a lovely little daughter. She is sharp as a tack—in fact, she has already named all the chickens, and has plans for what she is going to ask Serge to cook with the eggs she gathers in the morning."

"That's Madeleine." Her voice was wistful. "She is so much like her father. He was a man who loved life, and lived it to the fullest. Nothing ever slowed him down for a second—until he got sick with a summer fever. He was delirious in six hours, and dead within eighteen. I never got to say a proper goodbye." Her eyes misted. "Even now, four years on, it still hurts."

"I am so sorry," Porthos said softly, taking her hand. "You have done a remarkable job as a single mother."

"I have not done it alone, believe me. My mother has been a rock. She lives with me, and helps care for Madeleine when I am inundated with sewing projects."

"You are lucky to have your mother." Porthos' face was wistful. "Mine died when I was five."

"And your father?" she asked gently.

"Never knew 'im." He raised his eyes to hers a bit defiantly. "But my mum did the best she could when he left us. I only wish she had lived so I could have cared for her the way she did for me."

"So we have both been scarred by loss," Denise observed, lost in thought. She finally came back to the present, smiling ruefully. "Sorry. My mind wandered off. Thank you for the invitation. I'll see you at six."

As she bid him farewell and closed the door, Porthos sat down on his bed, wondering why he suddenly felt so nervous.

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When Charlotte returned to Athos' quarters, she took a deep breath before knocking on the door. As far as physical and moral courage, the musketeer was quite possibly the bravest person she had ever met. There was no doubt, though, that his marriage to Milady had left him a broken man. Even now, he was clearly haunted by the memory of their time together.

She had heard Aramis and Porthos jokingly allude to Athos' drinking habits on multiple occasions. Charlotte had discounted the comments as teasing, as she herself had never seen Athos drunk except for the night he had come to the apothecary shop. Even then, he had been in control of his faculties, and had remembered everything the next day.

However, now she wondered if there was a degree of truth to the banter. She recalled Aramis' words to her about Athos-He is finding you more addictive than the wine he is so fond of. If he indeed drank heavily at times, he was likely in much more emotional pain than his stoic manner let on.

Now or never. Charlotte knocked loudly, and heard his voice bid her to enter. As she crossed the threshold and shut the door, she noticed that he was holding a cloth over his eyes. Someone has been here.

"You had a visitor, it seems."

His voice was detached. "Yes, d'Artagnan stopped by. Constance is planning to tell her husband tonight that she is leaving him, and she asked d'Artagnan to be there in case things get—heated. He wanted some advice."

"I see. What did you tell him?" she inquired.

He took the cloth off his eyes, and she was pleased to see that his eyes were now able to open halfway.

"I told him to be honest, and to support the woman he loves. Basically, exactly what Aramis urged me to do earlier." Athos paused, then continued, his voice filled with remorse. "Charlotte, you were right. I have not been completely open with you, and I doubt that I have resolved all my emotions over the breakup of my marriage. How could I have? I thought she was deaddead by my hand-until last year, when she suddenly appeared in my life again."

"Dead by your hand?" Charlotte whispered, her voice disbelieving. "That is just not possible. You are not that kind of man."

"Charlotte, you think you know me," he replied wearily, closing his eyes and turning away from her. "But you don't—not at all."

Sliding into bed next to him, she wrapped her arm around him. "Then tell me," she said softly. "Tell me everything there is to know."

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Some time later, Athos had finished the long and complicated story. Charlotte had remained silent through the first rough sketch he gave her of the events, then asked him go more into depth with the story.

"I can only imagine how painful it is for you to relive all this," she murmured, combing her fingers through his hair in an attempt to relax him. Charlotte could feel that his muscles were taut with tension, and his voice had become emotional at times. "But if I am going to have to face this woman at the trial, and if we are to have a future together, I need to know everything there is to know about her and about what happened between the two of you." No matter how much it hurts to hear you talk about loving another woman.

When he had answered all her questions, he sighed and kissed her hand. "I think the thing that I find most disturbing is that she truly fooled me—and Thomas paid the ultimate price for my gullibility. As I told you, when I met her, she presented herself to me as the innocent youn sister of the village priest. I only found out after Thomas' death that the priest was not her brother, but her lover. As a sixteen year old novice in a convent, she had seduced him, and they had fled the cloister to live together."

"I suppose you were the next rung for her to climb on the social ladder?"

Athos grimaced. "And it was my strong sense of morality that sealed my fate. Any other nobleman would have simply seduced her or taken her by force. But I was so gullible—I was completely captivated by her. It is difficult to explain, but I had never met anyone like her. She seemed so pure and guileless—and she was beautiful, there's no doubt about that." His voice became faraway. "But there was a whole other side to her—a side she convinced me that I alone had the ability to bring out in her—the earthy, passionate…" He stopped. "I really hate talking about this, especially with you. You must think me a reckless man who is easily duped."

She laid a finger on his lips. "No, I do not. I think that you were very much in love with a woman who is an impressive actress. You are correct in saying that most men would have just seduced her. But you are not like most men-honour is everything to you. Athos, you trusted her because you had lived in a world where a man's-or woman's-word was everything. The concepts of chivalry and honesty were instilled in you from birth. It would have never crossed your mind to suspect that she was anyone other than who she presented herself to be. No one on this earth is perfect. We are all human—we all make mistakes. They hurt, but we learn from them. We pick ourselves up, and we go on—battered and bruised, but we go on-and we are stronger for it."

He was quiet for a moment, then murmured, "But Thomas did not get a chance to go on. I did, while he lies dead in a grave these five years. Five years when he might have married, had children…"

"Athos, listen to me." Charlotte's voice was compassionate. "You cannot blame yourself. Thomas would not want you to suffer for the rest of your life. Is this why you drive yourself so mercilessly, and apply such impossibly high standards to yourself? Standards that you would never expect the others to live by? I have heard Porthos and Aramis speak of it. You sleep the least, train the longest, and drink the hardest. If you think that will help you to atone for what you believe is your role in your brother's death, it will not—it will only lead you down a path to a lonely life and an early death."

The musketeer had hitherto remained impassiv, but at the last sentence, his eyes began to fill with tears. Charlotte kissed his forehead, then pressed on. "My love, the key to saving you from self-destructing is within your reach—but it will require you to do perhaps the most difficult thing possible-to forgive yourself. I will help you in any way I can, but I cannot make it happen. You must show mercy to the man who lived those tragic events five years ago. You must realize that it was only strength of character, not some innate flaw or brokenness, that set into motion your marriage and the events that followed. You wanted to do the right thing by the woman you loved—a woman whom you believed was pure and honest. How was that wrong, or foolish?"

"I wish I could believe that," Athos said hoarsely, staring at the ceiling. "I want this all to go away, Charlotte. I just want to believe it never happened."

"As do I when I think of my father's death. But we cannot go backwards in time, Athos. We can only go forwards, and live the best life we can, surrounded by the people who love us and want us to be whole. Aramis, Porthos, d'Artagnan, Captain Treville—they all want that for you—and so do I." She smoothed the damp hair back from his forehead, and sat quietly, waiting for him to speak.

He swallowed, then looked at her, his blue eyes filled with emotion. "What twist of fate put you in my life? There was a string of events that happened entirely by chance…I should never have been on guard duty on Christmas Eve. I would never have been shot if I had been one second slower blocking Aramis from the path of the bullet. If you father had not been out—if Treville had chosen another apothecary shop…" His voice trailed away.

"All the stars must have been in alignment," Charlotte whispered, her eyes misting as she thought of how lucky she was to have had her path cross his on that fateful evening.

"Perhaps," he said softly. "Or perhaps it was just time for me to find love again."

The emotion was strong in this chapter, but I hope it rang true. I'd love to hear what you thought...

Next time...more of the boys and their women.