A/N: Clarice and Erik continue their adventures in various parts of Renaissance Europe, their course now turning them north, towards home: France, and a certain loathsome villain makes his appearance, turning up on their tail yet again…
Chapter Fifteen –
Anywhere With Each Other
Alone in her silent house, Jacqueline Boisvert sat in her chair with her embroidery hoop in her lap, stitching calmly as she softly hummed an old French countryside tune. She had long been the only resident of the Boisvert manor, after her husband's unfortunate death in the far-off city of Milan, and although she bore the new reality of her life as a widow quite well, in times of unreserved truth, she longed to hear the voice of a certain now seventeen-year-old soubrette calling her name down the corridors of the seemingly lifeless house…
"Aunt Jacqueline! Aunt Jacqueline!"
The lady of that name hardly reacted to what she thought was simply a phantom of her own imagination, not stirring from her chair beside the fire. Then, more insistently—
"Aunt Jacqueline! Oh, where are you, dear? I'm here – we're home!"
Suddenly, there was a sound of a door being thrown open and then clattering footsteps, running down the wooden floorboards towards the drawing room in which she sat; Jacqueline stood up, freezing where she was, staring at the door across the chamber from her as if she had been turned into stone by those very real sounds. The voice called her again, closer this time.
"Aunt Jacqueline!"
In one swift flurry of skirts and waving arms, the lady of the house had bustled across the room and flung open the door, opening her arms just in time to receive the speaker of those words, who threw herself – both laughing and crying, all at the same time – into the embrace of her beloved aunt.
Jacqueline was so torn between disbelief and overwhelming joy that she could only hold her returned niece close and squeeze her eyes shut, as tears of happiness welled in her vision.
Clarice looked absolutely stunning, even more so than when Jacqueline had last seen her – clothed in a fine silk gown of dusky lavender with a billowing cloak of a much deeper shade of purple to accompany it, her hair half-piled onto her head and half-streaming down her back in a glossy raven cloud, she was a vision of loveliness. The girl herself was too busy embracing her aunt to notice anything else, and together they spent the first joyous moments of their reunion in obvious familiarity and bliss.
The man who stood in the doorway, behind Clarice, watched them with a satisfied, gentle smile curving his lips.
Elsewhere in the house could be heard the voices of other people – footmen calling out to one another as they unloaded the luggage that the pair had brought with them, and the house's other occupants, none other than Clarice's best friend Chloe and Mme. Colbert, greeting them and giving orders.
The Boisvert manor seemed to have come alive once again, and now fairly shimmered with the arrival of the returned travelers. At length, Clarice and Jacqueline finally pulled away from one another, and Jacqueline placed one hand on her niece's soft, rosy cheek, seeing how her green eyes sparkled with pleasure and contentment, her face flushed a beautiful, velvety shade of rose.
"Claire!" Jacqueline said, a mixture of awe and jubilation in her voice. "Are you really here – is this actually real, can it be true?"
"I am, it is, and it can!" Clarice replied, a bright smile lighting her features, and she threw her arms around her aunt again, holding her close. "We've come back, Aunt Jacqueline – we've come back, and now everything will be perfect, from now on! You will never believe what news I've got for you…"
And then she stepped away from her aunt, her hand sliding down to take Jacqueline's, pulling her insistently towards the door. For the first time since the arrival of her unexpected visitors, Jacqueline saw clearly the man who was with her niece, and she stopped short in their progress to the door, her brown eyes flicking first from his masked face to his fine traveling clothes, to the exuberant young girl who stood smiling at them both. The man swept her an elegant bow, confirming what Jacqueline had already guessed about him.
"Mme. Boisvert, I am honoured to have finally made your acquaintance – your niece has told me much about you, and it is a pleasure to see you face-to-face at last."
Clarice then addressed her aunt, saying, "Aunt Jacqueline, may I present Erik: the Count d'Auberie?"
Jacqueline found herself hard-pressed indeed not to stare, gaping like a fish or a dumbfounded child, at the famed nobleman, who seemed quite personable and warm-hearted as he smiled and reached out a hand to take hers, bowing once again.
"It is…a pleasure – my lord!" she choked out, and Clarice finished, "And, Erik, may I have the pleasure of introducing to you my aunt, Jacqueline Boisvert?"
"The pleasure is mutual," Erik stated, exchanging a quick look and smile with Clarice, tactfully ignoring the shock and awe on the older woman's face.
Jacqueline abruptly remembered her manners and with some amount of
difficulty cleared off the cowing surprise that she had felt upon first coming
face-to-face with her niece's mysterious employer and, apparently,
benefactor. She curtsied deeply,
lowering her eyes, and replied, "I welcome you to my home, milord – and thank
you so much for bringing my niece to see me."
Again, Erik glanced out of the corner of his eyes at Clarice, grinning
brilliantly and suavely, his most refined and courteous nobleman's air about
him.
"I could not very well keep her away from you for all of these months without acceding to the demands of my conscience and bringing her back to see you, milady. I only hope that you will forgive the enormous delay of a visitation. We've had some…ah, very interesting ordeals to keep us from coming to your fair city in the past months."
Clarice reached out and gently tapped him on the chest, shooting him a mock-disapproving glare with her sparkling green eyes, and turned to her aunt.
"Please don't let anything that he says alarm you, Aunt Jacqueline dear – it is what passes for humor at court."
The tall, darkly garbed Count bowed once again, his eyes taking on the same sparkle as that that was in Clarice's gaze. "But of course!" he said, lightly, "And I hope that I might exchange much more than simply humor with you, in the way of verbal discourse, while we are here."
Clarice once again took her aunt's hand, leading the bemused lady out of the drawing room and into the hall, taking her towards the courtyard where a large, finely-built carriage now sat, its footmen scurrying about like dragonflies over a lake in summer as the six sleek-limbed and noble-tempered dappled gray steeds that pulled it waited patiently for the unloading to be finished.
The young girl was almost bubbling over with excitement and talkativeness, and who could truly blame her? She had much to tell her aunt of the months' past!
"Aunt Jacqueline, you'll never believe your eyes when you see all that we've brought: there's things from Milan – Genoa – Spain! Oh, that was the most incredible place!" she said, going to retrieve something out of the carriage, talking to her aunt all the while, as the much amused Erik stood to one side and simply watched her.
"There were such exotic baubles in the market, and so many strange, foreign people, in every direction, as far as the eye could see! And just you wait until I tell you what we're to do about the shop…"
Jacqueline visibly started at this, and she was about to ask what Clarice could possibly mean by her words when there was a sudden flurry of movement from the side wing of the house in which was located the kitchen, and then two familiar figures came hurrying out to the courtyard, calling Clarice's name and hallooing as they waved frantically.
Seeing them, the girl stepped back to the ground, out of the carriage, and stepped forward, arms held out, as Chlöe and Mme. Colbert came to greet her. The three women collided in a joyous embrace, all talking and laughing at once, and then the housekeeper, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief only briefly before she turned from the two young girls, extricated herself from the knot and rounded on her employer, wrapping him in an enthusiastic bear hug as she exclaimed, "Anyone in the world can call me a sentimental old fool now if that be their desire – but oh, my lord, it is so good to see you again! Safe and sound – both you and the young Miss!"
Erik stumbled back a bit at his housekeeper's initial onslaught, looking for a moment as if he had half-expected her to be attacking him for yet another breach in protocol towards his lovely young companion.
"It's – good to see you as well, Mme. Colbert!" he said, a bit breathless as her hold on him was rather tight.
Mme. Colbert released him, her hands going for her hanky again, and she daintily blew her nose, then beamed up at him: her eyes traveling to Clarice as well, as she said, "Well, it's as I said – any person alive can call me foolish and sentimental, but it doesn't make me one whit less glad to see you two, returned and perfectly sound! But I'm making a scene here: come, let's get your things inside, and then you can all enjoy one another's company – you've not had your tea yet, have you? Very well then; come along now…" And she turned back towards the house, Jacqueline following in her wake, as Clarice briefly fixed her friend with a long, pointed look, frowning a bit.
"Both Mme. Colbert and Chlöe…here? Erik, when did this come to pass?"
He shrugged with a bit of a somewhat sheepish grin.
"Oh…I'd sent Mme. Colbert word that I wanted her to come here and keep your aunt company, look after her and help her in any way that she saw fit, quite some time ago – after…your uncle."
He seemed uncomfortable mentioning the incident, and Clarice quite understood: it was surely humiliating enough for him to know that he had been accused of cold-blooded manslaughter, which was something totally outside of his character, and then to have to recall the episode with another party – Chlöe – about. So she simply nodded, quelling her surprise at the realization that he had been looking after her family – her widowed aunt, and her! – for quite some time, without ever having mentioned it in the most unreserved of moments.
Erik smiled at her once more, the expression faint and soft on his lips this time, and then he bowed to the two young women and left them, going into the house. Then Clarice turned to Chlöe, fixing her confidant and handmaid with the same pointed gaze that she had just looked at the Count with.
"Chlöe," she said, in a tell-me-the-whole-truth-and-nothing-but-the-truth tone, "You never mentioned to me in all of your letters that he'd done that."
Chlöe's warm, friendly eyes became slate-blue crescents as she smiled at Clarice and replied, gaily, "You silly thing – that was because you never asked!"
"Oh, you!"
Laughing, Chlöe made a dash towards the house, avoiding Clarice's playfully exasperated cuff towards her arm, and then stopping and winding her friend and mistress's arm through her own, leading her off towards the grounds that surrounded the house. They walked through the kitchen gardens and the flowerbeds and the water garden, coming out to the very edge of the rolling green hills that made up a good part of the Boisvert estate.
When they had come here, Clarice stopped suddenly: gazing out with distant emerald eyes into the far-off horizon, seeming to have left reality and traveled into the world of memory and imagination. Chlöe stood in silence beside her for a moment, and then she ventured, "Claire?"
"It's amazing, Chlöe…" Clarice said, her voice soft and reflective. "I never thought that I would ever leave this place, all those months ago…and then I never thought that I would want to return to it, either – you would understand if you knew what it was like, here…"
Chlöe's eyes were knowing and compassionate, and she nodded, simply. Clarice sighed deeply, seeming as if she had just freed herself of an enormous, pressing load that had weighed heavily on her shoulders for quite some long time, and straightened, her air becoming resolute and strong: determined and at peace with her own self.
"Life has a way of turning out much differently than we think…"
She paused.
"It never ceases to surprise us…"
* * *
That afternoon, after tea, when Mme. Colbert and Chlöe had disappeared from the drawing room with the dishes and leftover scraps from the much-welcomed repast, the plan of attack was laid out and battle lines were drawn—
For Clarice and her Count were going to war.
With Jacqueline's blessing and Godsend, they sallied forth into the landscape of Rouen, heading determinedly towards their destination: the city itself, and, more specifically, Le Petit Rêvasse. And when they reached the store, Erik placed one hand firmly on the door and pushed it open, bringing Clarice inside after him by the hand: yellow eyes scanning the rooms beyond with a relentless, calm tenacity. Clarice's fine, young features reflected much of the same: they were here for a purpose, and they would not be dissuaded from victory.
Not now: not when they had come so far.
This afternoon would see the defeat of evil before the sun had set.
"Mme. Toussaint?"
His clear voice rang cold and compelling against the wooden rafters in the ceiling, against the plain plastered walls, and there was a rustle of too many starched taffeta underskirts from the next room, and then Mme. Arnaude Toussaint had made her grand appearance. She straightened abruptly upon seeing the tall, masked man who stood in the center of the shop: glaring down at her with cold, authoritative eyes of a bizarre yellow.
Then, looking past him to the smaller, paler figure that stood at his side, almost in his shadow, the conniving landlady's beady, shrewish eyes narrowed at the sight of her most indestructible enemy: none other than a seventeen-year-old orphan, an artist by the name of Clarice Boisvert.
She suddenly had a sickening, twisted feeling in the very pit of her stomach: a sensation that told her that today was not to end well for her.
Or her plans.
Clearing her throat in a pseudo-calm, business-like manner, she attempted to fix her gaze on the dark figure before her, trying not to show that the sight of his glowering black mask had vastly unnerved her.
"Oui – and how may I help you, my good sir?"
Erik brought out the rent deed to the shop, the one that Clarice and Jacqueline had signed, in all good faith that the landlady would deal fairly and uprightly with them in all of the time that they would be its tenants, and displayed it for her, silent and glacial. Then, he said in a voice that brooked no arguments, "This is the deed to the shop that you signed with Clarice and Jacqueline Boisvert, is it not?"
Mme. Toussaint, the feathers in her preposterous bonnet quivering only ever so slightly. Clarice noticed, from her position slightly behind Erik's left shoulder, that the landlady's eyes had begun to bulge a bit, and that she had become quite pale. She only barely stifled a triumphant snicker behind one hand. Mme. Toussaint, the cold, cruel, grasping, tyrannical old battle-ax of a proprietor, was paralyzed with fright!
Erik put the deed away, replacing it back in the deep pocket of the billowing cloak that he wore; it swooped out like the wings of a gigantic bat whenever he moved, making him seem all the more intimidating – if such a thing were at all possible!
Never once releasing the landlady's beady eyes from his own hard yellow gaze, he then asked her, "And did you sign it in good faith with Mme. and Mlle. Boisvert?"
Mme. Toussaint now seemed to turn a sickly shade of green.
Oh, he's got her – she's squirming.
"Y-yes – of course!" She laughed, short and nonchalant, although the sound of it was a trifle forced and hard. "Why would I ever be tempted to do otherwise?"
If Erik had been playing intimidation games with her before, if only to see just how she might react in the face of true firmness, he now cut directly to the chase.
"Madame, you lie – you obviously did not sign this deed in good faith with Mme. and Mlle. Boisvert, for you have made attempt to deal with them in an unceremoniously odious manner as of late, accusing them of breaching the contract on their rent and evading a proper level of incoming revenue. It was quite clear all along that they had done no such thing, wasn't it?" His voice turned the words into a sneer, dripping with scorn and icy derision. "And yet you sought to cheat them out of what was, quite possibly, their only means of supporting themselves – not ceasing in your treachery even when you had heard report of the death of the only man of their house! Do you deny it?"
"No! I mean – yes, of course I do! This is absurd, sir, and I will ask you to remove yourself at once from this establishment before I find it necessary to summon the law-officers of this fair city!"
Mme. Toussaint darted quickly behind the store counter, looking as if she were a weasel caught between a rock wall and a pack of well-trained bloodhounds, the foremost of which bore a pair of burning, Hadean yellow eyes.
Erik only laughed: coldly and clearly.
"No, I am afraid that that simply cannot be done," he said, "For, Madame, if you will now permit me, I would fain make you known to an associate of mine – M. du Monde."
And the tall dark man turned slightly, sweeping one long arm wide to gesture to the third person to enter the shop: a medium-sized, slender, dark-haired and pale man of some thirty years of age, who stood at the back of the party, quiet and attentive. Mme. Toussaint stared at him for a moment of broad consternation, and then she attempted to laugh the whole situation off again, as she lifted one too-much-plucked eyebrow and guessed, sarcasm dripping from her tones now, "Your bodyguard?"
Erik's lips twisted in a show of dangerous amusement.
"My solicitor."
And Mme. Toussaint's face went completely ashen...
Finally, Clarice stepped forward: facing the landlady who had been the bane of her young life for so long boldly and confidently, green eyes piercing into the conniving woman's very soul and refusing to let her escape their gaze.
"Yes, indeed, Madame," she said, in the same calm, cold voice that the Count had just used, coming around him as he fell back, watching her with exulting pleasure written across the visible parts of his face and gleaming in his eyes. "M. du Monde is the personal attorney of the man who you now see standing before you, who is none other than the Count d'Auberie."
Mme. Toussaint gave a tiny squawk, and Clarice smiled in fiendish glee at the reaction.
"You have heard the name, perhaps? I see. Now, I think that we have several things to discuss as to the ownership of this fine establishment…or do you still insist on calling in the local law-enforcement?"
* * *
"Oh, Erik, we've done it – we've limed her! Heavens above, did you see the look on her face when you told her that we could have her clapped in the city gatehouse before she could so much as squeak in protest? It was precious!"
Clarice crowed these words in utter triumph as she fell onto the narrow, hard bed that took up most of the space in the tiny second-floor garret room that was in the Petit Rêvasse, cackling in unashamed delight at the victory that they had just won over the mean old ogre of a landlady who had for so long plagued both the girl and her aunt with her unreasonable demands.
Her companion, Erik, came up the stairs behind her and stood in the doorway, leaning one shoulder up against its frame and looking across the room to her with a gentle, fond smile etching into one side of his mouth. Clarice shook her head, laughing as she gazed up at the ceiling of the building – the shop that was now hers, and her aunt's, for all of time, without any question or contest. Then, she rolled over slightly, propping herself up on one elbow, and looked at him. Her green eyes were merry, lighting her face with an extraordinary beauty.
"Erik, Erik…" she said, with admiring tenderness. "How can I ever thank you enough – how can I ever repay you? Is it even possible? How could I ever do anything to even slightly pay my eternal debt to you for what you've done for me today…for us?"
Rousing himself from his lounging position in the doorway, he came across the room and stood beside the bed, looking down on her as he moved two fingers to gently stroke the worn, quilted coverlet that had been spread across the bed, running them across its surface near to her face. Clarice gazed up at him, her eyes soft and happy.
"I think you already have…" he said, at length.
Then he went to the window that the bed sat to one side of and looked out. The sun was quickly setting in the horizon beyond, staining the sky with golden-orange and tangerine-red; it had rained that afternoon, a late summer thunderstorm and rain shower, and now the air was close and damp with humidity, as steam rose in almost visible clouds from the soaking wet ground, filling the air with the scent of earth and growing green things. All was quiet.
Clarice stood and came to stand beside and slightly to the back of him, her eyes following his to gaze out the window momentarily. Then, after glancing at him briefly, she slipped her arms about his waist, resting her cheek against the curving, hard plain of his broad, strong back: the dark silk of his cloak cool and sleek against her flushed cheek. Feeling her slender, soft arms about him, he closed his eyes: suppressing what might have almost been called a deep, painful shudder.
Mistaking his reaction for revulsion at her touch, she reluctantly let go of him, stepping away and averting her eyes to the dusty wooden floorboards. As soon as her hands had left him, he turned – abruptly rounding on her – his yellow eyes flicking to meet hers, as his lips parted slightly. He stared at her for a moment, and then he stepped towards her, coming so close to her that they were touching, and gathered both of her hands into his, raising them so that they rested against his chest.
Looking deep into her eyes – the windows of her soul – he breathed in deeply, and murmured her name: "Clarice…"
Click.
Slam.
Crash.
"Careful, you blundering idiot!" a voice hissed, from downstairs in the main room of the shop. Both Erik and Clarice froze where they were, stiffening with horror, and the voice continued, speaking in the same hushed, infuriated tone, "Do you want the whole blasted village to know we're here? Pick that up and follow me – and for the love of all that is holy, don't touch anything else!"
Another deeper voice grumbled an incoherent, although scarcely sincere, apology, and the pair in the garret room faintly heard the click of booted footsteps moving across the floor below them. Erik's head swiveled from the open doorway, which led up from the rooms below to the garret room, to face Clarice: his skin becoming deathly pale, his eyes wide and dark.
The Marquis de Mercier!
Clarice felt as if she was about to be violently sick. Their worst enemy, whom they had thought they had left behind in Milan: along with all of their most bitter troubles, had come to Rouen, and was now standing directly below them, in all likeliness accompanied by yet another – or several – of his rough-and-tumble lackeys! And they were trapped!
What were they going to do?
"Mumble mumble grunt?"
"No, you dullard, I don't want you to go out back and see if they left that way – that hideous, fat old cow who was just here said that they hadn't the keys to open that door, which locks from the outside for some reason or another! No, they're still somewhere here, in this shop, and I aim to find them…no matter what it takes."
Behind her, Clarice sensed – rather than heard – Erik make a sound of utter, dire hatred somewhere deep in his chest, and she backed further away from the door, into him: wanting for his warmth to calm and reassure her, to let her know that they would find some means of escape, that they would not be caught here, like rats in a trap, by the Marquis de Mercier and his cronies.
Suddenly, more conversation from downstairs.
"That doorway over there – what's beyond it?"
"Mumble mumble mumble."
"Of course…"
Clarice's eyes turned on Erik with absolute terror and panic in their emerald green depths – those two words could only mean one thing—
In the next moment, the Marquis and his companion would come up the stairs to the garret room…and they would be found!
Abruptly then, his hand clamped down on hers and he was moving towards the window. Clarice stiffened in horror, remembering how the hinges on the thing were rusty with disuse – if he were to open it…
But then he slid the window open without a sound, and, almost before she had realized what he was doing, he had stepped out of it, onto the sloping roof below, and was hurriedly beckoning for her to climb out and join him there.
Clarice was not stupid or witless enough to protest; she knew what danger was when she saw it – or rather, heard it. So without a single noise to betray her movements, she slipped out of the window, letting him put his hands about her slender waist and assist her down, and then they both ducked under the broad awning that was made by the window seat above them.
Then, they held their breath…
And waited!
Eternity might have passed in those next horrible moments of waiting and fear – she wouldn't have been able to tell whether it was three seconds or three lifetimes that had gone by. All she could think to do was remain absolutely still, her head buried in the chest of her dearest friend and closest comrade, and hope – and pray – that they would not be seen by the two men who were inside of the shop. The seconds slipped by…
Creak!
Then, impatiently, from inside, "Well?"
"There's nowt to see out there, m'lord – they must've flown the coop before we were ever here."
"I think I told you before that I could really not give less of a care for your idiotic pretensions. Now look again."
CREAK.
Their hearts beat as one, furious and loud.
"Still nothing?" Wryly.
Silence.
A sigh. "Oh for the love of…out of the way."
Silence.
"You're out there – I can feel you…you can't hide forever!"
A jerk on her hand, a loss of balance, clattering footsteps, a rush of pure terror, a shout from the window – "NOOOO!"; a shriek of pure rage, more footfalls from behind them. They were running, helter-skelter, reckless and lightning fast, down the sloping roof, heading for the roof of another building nearby, one which was connected to the Petit Rêvasse, part of one long chain of shops in the outskirts of Rouen. She could only follow behind her companion as he half-dragged, half-carried her along with him, dashing away from that roof as if all is Chiron himself had left his river to fetch them away, and was now giving pursuit.
Suddenly, Erik stopped and looked down; there was a gap in the roofs before them. Clarice glanced back and saw two figures fast gaining on them – one, whom she recognized all too well—
"Erik!" she cried, looking back to him.
"Jump!" was his only reply, and then, grabbing her arm with one hand, he made them do just that – right off of the roof, and into an extremely convenient cartload of dense, prickly hay that was passing through the alleyway underneath them just at that moment.
Suddenly, two other bodies hit the hay, at almost the exact time as them, and Clarice, struggling to unbury herself from the mounds of golden livestock feed that now threatened to entirely impede any further escape on her part, felt rough hands grabbing at her, laying hold of her hair and wrenching it until she shrieked, angry and defensive, with the pain.
She began to fight like a wildcat, kicking and striking out and scratching, and whomever it was that happened to have made the mistake of grabbing her abruptly let go of her with a furious exclamation that made her ears burn, reeling back after she had raked her well-manicured weapons of nails across the first stretch of skin that was made available.
Erik, meanwhile, had managed to fight himself to his feet, only to glimpse a blurred sight of the Marquis de Mercier as he launched himself across the cart to tackle him, throwing the both of them into the heaps of hay.
Thwack!
His knuckles made good, hard contact with the younger nobleman's cheekbone, and threw him off. Erik stood and caught sight of Clarice's pale lavender gown in the hay, and he reached forward, grabbing a chunk of it and pulling. There was a passionate bout of thrashing underneath the golden stuff, and he threw himself into it, searching for her – and it wasn't until he was almost sprawled on top of her that they found one another.
Gasping as he hauled himself backwards, face reddening uncontrollably beneath the mask, he reached out a hand: "Come on!"
Together they scrambled on their hands and knees to the edge of the cart, and then fell as one out of it, landing hard on the cobblestone road below just as the driver of the cart exclaimed in complete surprise and turned around, having finally become aware of the commotion that the four people who were fighting in the back of his cart were making amongst themselves.
"Sorry – drive on!" Erik yelled as he grabbed Clarice's hand and pulled her after him once again. They dashed across the street and into an alley, hearing the Marquis's voice – high-pitched and enraged – shrieking behind them, "They're escaping – get after them, YOU UNBELIEVABLY STUPID SOD!"
If the situation hadn't been so desperate, Erik might have been tempted to stop right where he was and have a good long laugh at his enemy's expense and humiliation – but as for the moment, all that he could do was continue to run.
Through the alleys, across several streets, and even in and out of some stores they fled, never once looking behind them for fear of losing valuable distance between the two of them and the Marquis and his cohort. They were causing a great ruckus in the city – but neither of them really cared, or even noticed.
Suddenly, they were at a canal that ran through the city: dashing over a bridge that spanned the dark, silky waters.
Erik looked down into them for a split second, glanced behind them at the road that they had just come off of, and made a single spur-of-the-moment decision: putting both himself and Clarice over the railing, he gathered her hand in his once again, looked at her, and spoke.
"Deep breath!"
And then they jumped.
The Marquis and his companion heard a splash, and the arrogant young nobleman shouted in fury, rushing forward with a fresh burst of speed, as his lackey began to lag behind. He pounded onto the bridge and ran to the railing, peering over its edge and into the rushing waters of the canal, which led out of the city and into the unsettled lands beyond – far from the city of Rouen. Again, his quarry had escaped him.
His shriek of rage ripped through the peaceful afternoon air.
"NO!"
* * *
Half an hour later – and several miles downstream – the two extremely bedraggled figures of the Count d'Auberie and Clarice Boisvert hauled themselves out of the waters of the river that they had cast themselves into to avoid being taken by their shared worst enemy, the Marquis de Mercier.
One arm flung about her waist, Erik helped Clarice pulled herself up onto the water-sodden, muddy shore and then they lay there, her back curving up against his chest, his arm still draped over her waist. Both were breathing hard.
Then Clarice raised her head – only slightly, and with much effort, at that – and looked up and over her shoulder to him, her eyebrows raising slightly into her forehead, her skin pale and cold, mud and peat moss smeared across her cheek.
"So…" she said, shivering slightly with the cold. Around them, the French forest was silent but for its normal sounds of birds singing and taking wing, insects buzzing after the afternoon's storm, and the wind blowing through the tree leaves and undergrowth. She could smell his dampened cologne, faint on the wet air. "Life never ceases to be an adventure with you, does it?"
He let his head flop down to rest, in exhaustion, in the curve of her neck and shoulder, and she dropped her head back down to the ground, closing her eyes.
"No, ma belle…I think that I can assure you it doesn't."
* * *
Of course, when they arrived home, walking in quite a different direction than whence they had gone earlier that afternoon – both tousled, still slightly damp from their adventure in the river, and worn to the bone with exhaustion, Clarice having the Count's heavy, long cloak draped over her shoulders in his attempt to make her comfortable – they were in for some explanations. Jacqueline, Mme. Colbert, and Chlöe had all expected them home within the hour of their departure to the shop, and when the two at last showed up at the Boisvert manor again, after a full three hours absence, they were greeted with a passionate display of righteous feminine anger.
Where had they been, and what on earth had they been doing?
The three women were given a much scaled-down story of what had truly happened, artfully created by the pair on their long walk back from the forest riverside, and then both Erik and Clarice were bundled off by their highly-displeased compatriots, and forbidden to so much as speak to one another until the next morning, or there would be all the world to pay.
Clarice had her hair thoroughly washed and combed out by her aunt, who plied her with so many questions as to her whereabouts that afternoon that she thought she would die of desperation to escape to bed before it was all over, and her bath administered to her by a silent Chlöe, who seemed – after the first initial outburst of displeasure – to be rather amused at the whole affair.
Erik was more fortunate: he could, at least, escape Mme. Colbert and her questions, since he was a full-grown adult in his own right, and her employer to boot! After ordering one of the servants who had accompanied his housekeeper in her journey from his castle to bring him whatever was leftover from dinner, and telling Mme. Colbert that she was entitled to no more of an explanation than he had already given her, the elusive nobleman shut the door to his room: throwing a towel over one shoulder as evidence to the fact that he very much desired to simply wash up and go to bed.
Jacqueline did not leave Clarice until she had thoroughly expressed her disapproval of this latest deviance from proper behavior, but then she finally left the girl to her room and the carefully sanctioned care of her handmaid. Chlöe brought in a tray of dinner – a thin broth with fresh vegetables scattered in it, a sliver of blackberry tart, and part of a breast of baked chicken, along with a cup of tea and a slice of bread – and set before Clarice, who ate it silently and reflectively.
Then she sat at the foot of the bed and watched her for a long while, wordlessly, until Clarice finally set her spoon down and looked at her, squarely.
"You don't need to censure me as well," she said, reprovingly.
Chlöe smiled, her dimples showing as her slate-blue eyes sparkled merrily.
"Who said that I was censuring you, sweet Claire?"
Clarice pushed a slice of carrot that was in her soup around with her spoon, eyeing it as if it had a mind to jump out of its dish and betray her, for a moment before she muttered, "That's just it – you weren't saying anything, but the look in your eyes are enough to tell me what you're thinking of me right now, and I tell you, it isn't so."
"I wonder." Chlöe said, standing up, and Clarice raised her head abruptly, two spots of indignant scarlet appearing on her cheeks, green eyes blazing.
"Chlöe! What do you think happened?"
The other girl shrugged.
"Consider it – you walked up, wet and dirty, at a much later time than we had expected, from a totally different direction than you had left in. What else would one have to conclude but that you'd both been out adventuring, and hadn't breathed so much as a word about it to any of us?"
" 'Adventuring' meaning kissing passionately behind someone's barn!" Clarice retorted, irefully, and Chloe's eyes sparkled all the more.
"Your words, not mine, my dear."
She sat down again at the foot of the bed, folding some of her mistress's freshly washed clothing. Then, after a moment of silence, she looked up at Clarice, grinning at her knowingly.
"Now, I know that that was not what you were doing, and you know that that was not what you were doing, but neither you nor his Lordship the Count are saying, so I'll simply leave it at that. 'Tis not my place to pry – or judge."
"Then you believe me?"
Chlöe gave her a mock-offended look.
"Belike!"
The two were silent again. Then Chlöe added, "But you wouldn't have minded it if that were the truth now, would you?"
And all Clarice could do was turn a bright, telltale red and hide her face as Chloe's friendly laughter rang cheerful and loud in the gabled room.
* * *
A/N: So, obviously, other people are taking notice of the *ahem! cough cough* rather deep attraction between Erik and Clarice…but what will come of it? Will we ever see these two together, having realized their true feelings for one another? (Let me ask you another question: when have I ever written otherwise? There you go…) To the next chapter, shall we?
