Cecile Bouchette led an ordinary life. She was brought up in a relatively poor family in a suburb at the outskirts of Paris. When she was sixteen, she fell in love with a stable boy, who had an usual passion for the upbringing for horses, and they married. Twelve years later, she and her husband had built a small empire for themselves, enough to support them and their young family comfortably.
She was a practical woman and she took after her mother in many ways. Being the eldest of her siblings, Cecile was a maternal figure to them, especially after their mother had passed on. She was outgoing, generous, compassionate and she helped anyone and everyone who was in need. Wherever she went, her matriarchal reputation followed her and everyone felt instantly at ease and comforted in her presence. To many, Cecile was like a Saint. She never judged anyone even if she was blunt in her observations. She only ever meant to paint a situation as it was, as she believed that there was always power in knowing where one stood at the present.
Cecile had no mean bone in her body but she discovered early on that her comforting presence allowed her a certain privacy with people. They willingly told her things without her ever having to ask. And as her circle of acquaintances and friends grew with the business of her husband, this ability came in handy. She knew the habits of the nobility well and she knew which of them needed new horses at which times of the year, which greatly advanced her husband's trade. But more so, she was privy to the raunchiest and latest gossip from the court to elsewhere throughout France and the women in the village or random travelers would come to her specifically seeking entertainment or information.
But in all the stories that she had come across in her life, in all the scandals, the strange happenings and comings and goings of people, she had never met anyone as eccentric as this young lady who, by mere chance, ended up at her farm. And she never pictured herself to be in a situation where she would be standing over another woman in such an obscene manner, her legs on either side of her waist while the other woman lay on her back. The latter was busy fixing – yes, fixing - the underworkings of their farm's mill, her face tainted with grease and coal.
"The wrench, if you please," she called out from underneath her. Cecile obeyed.
"Thank you. If you look here, you could see the bolt that was damaged from the pressure. And this is where the new piece would fit in. Did the boy bring them from the village?"
"Yes, they're all here."
An hour or so later, the two women stood outside the mill as Marianne, or Katherine, as she called herself, pulled on the lever. They held their breath.
Nothing happened.
She jolted the lever a bit more and… Crack! The mill creaked and it began to turn, slowly at first and then picking up until reaching its appropriate speed of churn.
The two women jumped up and down in enthusiasm, squealing in joy and triumph.
"What in the world…!" the voice of a man came behind them.
"Look, darling! Isn't it wonderful?"
"How did you…?"
"Katherine fi-…"
But Marianne cut her off, "I went and fetched a different locksmith. He only just left. You just missed him."
He looked at her suspiciously. A different locksmith, was it? There was no other locksmith in the village. But he preferred not to ask any other questions, to the relief of everyone.
...
Dinner that night was a glorious affair and any misgivings Bertrand Bouchette had about their new guest completely vanished when he laid eyes on the dinner table.
Under the careful – and patient – instruction of Cecile, Marianne assisted in the preparations. For the first course, they had prepared squash and leek soup garnished with fresh chives and parsley. To accompany the soup, they had baked loaves and baguettes that turned out to perfection: crispy on the outside and moist on the inside. For the second course, they had beetroot salad with chopped onions, a generous helping of freshly ground black pepper and some pickled vegetables from the previous season.
But the star of the party was the main course: Roasted ham marinated in a fruity house-made red wine, and garnished with dried rosemary and garlic cloves.
As an accompaniment, there was a generous helping of peas and potatoes, along with a delicate wine to wash it all down.
….
Owing to the generous amount of food, Cecile sent her husband to the nearby estate of the Comte de Beaugrand to fetch her sister, who worked as a maid in their manor.
Any nervousness Marianne harbored in regards to meeting a new member of the family completely disappeared when a young woman, who was much shorter than her sister and of such pleasing countenance ran through the door towards her. She was all smiles and excitement and her eyes, a familiar grey-green twinkled relentlessly as if she was alight. Her youth and energy were just invigorating and infectious.
"I've heard so much about you I was sure we would be friends instantly!"
Her sister playfully slapped her bottom with a kitchen rag and pulled her away from Marianne to remove her bonnet for her.
"You have barely heard anything and do leave the young lady alone," Cecile scolded her. "You will overwhelm her with your uncontrollable glee. Besides, that's not the way of a lady ought to behave."
"Well good thing I'm not a lady," the latter snorted with laughter as if she had just said the most scandalizing thing in the world.
Marianne couldn't help but laugh too.
"I'm Emilie, by the way," she beamed at her, ever more encouraged by Marianne's laughter.
"I'm M – Katherine," she quickly corrected herself. A pang of guilt and sadness went through her mind. Guilty for having to lie to these people who had been so kind to her. And sad that she wasn't able to share herself completely with them. They made her feel right at home and she desperately longed for that. For home.
"What a lovely name! How ladylike! And look at your hair," gasped Emilie as she ran her fingers through it, a look of absolute wonder on her face, "My God! What a strange color, isn't it, Cecile?"
Her sister rolled her eyes, "Stop this ridiculousness at once."
"But truly! What color is that? It's not fully red but it's not brown either and I wouldn't call it brassy," she continued to examine her. Marianne blushed.
"Leave her alone!" Cecile tore her sister away and wisely announced, "It's actually a dark mahogany auburn."
Her sister gasped in delight, "How exquisite! Can you imagine having dark mahogany auburn hair, Cecile?"
She danced around the kitchen, taking Marianne's hands in hers. "Oh, how wonderful! Instead of having this dull dark hair like mine," she held a lock of her hair limply in her fingers to show her new friend.
"I think your hair is quite beautiful," Marianne replied.
"Don't humour her, Katherine. She's fishing for compliments."
"No, I'm not!" Emilie cried out, indignant.
The excitement continued throughout dinner. The mood was gleeful and spirited. Even Bertrand, with a little help from the wine, seemed a lot less like his neurotic self and more talkative and friendly. It had only been a couple of days, but she felt as though she had known this family forever. Marianne couldn't help but stare at young and spirited Emilie. The color of her eyes, the shape of her face, her animated expressions. There was a remarkable resemblance between her and young Peter who was gleefully munching on his peas and potatoes with no care in the world. And there was a resemblance to him. The whole sitting even wreaked of his presence. As if he was there, telling a story, laughing, helping himself to more and more servings of this divine food. Or maybe she wished he was there. This felt like just the thing Porthos would enjoy and wouldn't it be lovely if they had shared this together? If he was here with her? If, after all this, they had gone out for a stroll and then back to their room and made love?
Her heart sank with these thoughts but thankfully, her spirits quickly picked up with Emilie's incessant questions and exclamations and other declarations that could elicit nothing but mirth.
Marianne watched the interaction between the two sisters with utter amusement and a hint of envy. The bond between them was simply unbreakable. They knew each other inside out. They knew how to tease each other, how to compliment each other and she could tell that they were there for each other through thick or thin. Marianne folded her arms about her as she suddenly felt all the more conscious of her own aloneness. She took another sip of wine and rejoined the conversation.
"Didn't you say the Comte de Beaugrand and his wife were looking for a governess?"
"They are. Oh, the last one was absolutely terrifying. How glad I was when she left," exclaimed Emilie and proceeded to tell a most shocking yet funny story about said governess.
"I think Katherine would do well for the position," said Cecile casually.
The table went silent. Marianne blinked. A position? As a governess? In a household of a Comte? She hadn't had time to think about her situation or make up a new plan. To return to Paris was dangerous and to go home could also be dangerous. At least for now. But if she disappeared for a while and left the impression that she was lost or dead, then no one would come looking for her. Then, she could finally go home. Yes, that sounded like a good idea!
Emilie's eyes shot wide open and she exclaimed, "What a TREMENDOUSLY wonderful idea! Of course! We shall work together, then. Oh! We could even share a room!"
The table suddenly shook as Bertraned Bouchette's fist slammed next to his plate.
"Enough," he said calmly, "No one is going anywhere until we arrive to the bottom of this matter. I cannot have my reputation compromised, Mademoiselle, should I recommend you to the Comte and then we make discoveries about you."
"What kind of discoveries could you possibly mean?" cried Emilie, scandalized at the allusion.
But Marianne understood. "You think me a dishonorable woman, monsieur?"
"Bertrand!" hissed Cecile. Trust her husband to ruin her perfectly concocted plans of slowly and painlessly extracting information.
"Well, what else should we think, Cecile? A young woman shows up one night on a Cardinal's horse. In the middle of the night no less, with blood stains on her dress and a wounded arm. She's either a whore or a wanted criminal, or a witch."
Emilie gasped with all her breath.
Cecile's face turned the color of beets and Marianne could tell that he just accorded himself the brunt of his wife's temper.
"I am neither a criminal nor a witch, Monsieur. Nor am I, as you say, a whore," she answered him disdainfully.
"Please, Mademoiselle, you do not have to justify. Bertrand did not mean…" began Cecile.
"No, he is right. What else could you possibly think?" she stood up and left the table.
...
Cecile smacked her husband on the head while Emilie went after their guest.
"You can't leave things well alone, can ye!"
"Cecile, we worked hard for what we built," he said calmly, taking her hand in his, "I can't risk any possibility of ruin for us."
"Which is precisely why we can't go around accusing young ladies of the nobility of being criminals or, or…" Cecile couldn't utter the word.
"I may have gone a little far and rather tactlessly."
"Tactlessly! What an understatement! You…"
Cecile stopped short when Marianne walked back in the kitchen, Emilie trailing behind her. She sat back in her seat and took a deep breath. Emilie ushered the children out of the room.
"My uncle and I were guests of the Cardinal's for the past week or so during the events of the Royal Convention," she began. Emilie sat down, wide-eyed. She couldn't believe she was in the presence of someone who knew the Cardinal Richelieu in person! And not just that, she had actually been invited to stay at his residence. The Cardinal's residence! How exquisite!
On her part, Cecile couldn't help but think of one thing: if this young woman had been at the Cardinal's, then she must have inevitably made the acquaintance of a musketeer or two. They would certainly not hold back their attempts in courting someone as beautiful as her – her figure must certainly have aroused the interest of these men, thought Cecile, especially after having seen her in the nude.
"Unbeknownst to me, my uncle had agreed with the Cardinal to have me married to his lieutenant, who is an odious man."
"The Comte de Rochefort?!" They all cried unanimously.
Marianne was taken aback. She suddenly regretted saying anything at all. She should have just run away again. Or made up another story. Good God! Was Rochefort known all over the country? Didn't the Cardinal have other lieutenants or special soldiers like the three musketeers? The three Red Guard or something similar? Gerard had been right about her. She was naiive and ignorant beyond anything.
There was no use denying it. She nodded slowly, looking down at the table.
"So, you ran away!" cried Emilie, wide-eyed.
Well, not exactly, thought Marianne. She decided against telling them the part about the Iron Mask and the attack. At least for now. She nodded to Emilie's statement.
"Oh, how brave of you!"
"Not brave!" cried Bertrand. He had risen up and was now pacing. He was in a panic. "W-we can-cannot possibly be harboring the runaway betrothed bride of the Come de Ro-Rochefort!" he was stuttering and almost at the point of pulling out his hair. Imagine the ruin! To discover that he was hiding the fiancée of one of his richest customers. Blast! Everything he worked for would be destroyed in a blink. They would be penniless and outcasts from all good society forever. And oh, the shame that follow his offspring!
"Calm yourself, Monsieur Bouchette," Cecile snapped at him. She was used to these bouts of neurotic displays on the part of her husband's.
"The Comte de Rochefort is a wealthy and important man, I cannot imagine why any woman would refuse this marriage," she said in the same tone, addressing Marianne.
"I…do not love him!" replied Marianne. And he was unkind to me, Marianne thought, remembering the last encounter she had with him when he had painfully gripped her wrists and forced her to kiss him against her will.
Emilie came to her defense, "And he's an odious man, Cecile!" The reputation of the Come de Rochefort preceded him, it seemed.
Emilie turned to Marianne, "There was someone else you loved, wasn't there? Oh, there always is in these stories!"
Marianne blushed deeply and averted her eyes, which seemed to only encourage the former. "There was! How utterly romantic!" she swooned.
Even Cecile was now intrigued. She shooed her husband out of the room and instructed him to take a walk, as she took her seat at the table.
"A musketeer, perhaps?" she prodded her.
Marianne closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Oh God. Nothing in her life and thorough education had ever prepared her for an examination like this. Should she lie? Tell a different story? What story would she tell, anyway? She didn't have much of a repository in her head.
"Perhaps," she said, feeling defeated.
Emilie was about to exclaim something when Cecile laid her hand on her shoulder to quiet her down a bit.
"Did he love you?"
"I thought he did." She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She could feel her heart getting heavy once more.
"Did he know, about your engagement?"
Marianne nodded.
"Was he violent to you?" Cecile asked kindly, stretching out her hand and taking Marianne's in hers. She nodded at her injured arm.
Marianne shook her head, "It was an accident. We quarrelled and… it was an accident," she repeated.
"Well, you just wait until my brother is home for the Holidays. We shall tell him who it was who hurt you and he will certainly give them a good beating!" Emilie had reached across the table and taken Marianne's other hand.
"Shush, Emilie! We won't do such a thing."
"I won't shush. Porthos always sticks up for those who cannot and I am sure he will be very upset to learn what has become of Katherine."
Marianne was now as pale as a sheet and her jaw dropped open.
"Porthos…?" she whispered.
"Yes, he's our brother! He's also musketeer of the King and he's…"
"Enough!" cried Cecile, quieting the outburst of her sister.
The room was shrouded in silence for what seemed like an eternity. Cecile closely observed their guest. She was utterly immobile, like a statue, except for the up-and-down movement of her chest.
Could it really have been Porthos? But what did he have to do with the wound on her arm? Her heart sank. It couldn't have been him. She was sure of one thing, though: there was certainly a connection and she intended to find out the exact details. In the meantime, if there was any chance that Porthos was in love with this young lady, she owed it to her brother not to send her back to Rochefort.
