Enjolras left the following week for a month-long campaign trip across the countryside. And it seemed like the longest month of his life. He wasn't sure what it was exactly that caused the days to drag, couldn't find a reason for the melancholy that plagued him… He had a small but excellent team that traveled with him, comfortable lodgings and fair weather along the way. He'd even hired a campaign manager, at Cosette's behest.
"I'm perfectly capable of wooing a crowd on my own," he'd told her when she had brought up the idea. Hadn't she been there during the June Rebellion? Hadn't she heard his speeches, seen the passion they inspired?
"Yes, but do you really want to be bothered with the details of a trip this big?" She was bending over a table in his study, meticulously arranging flowers she'd picked from the garden in one of his mother's ancient vases. A Roman ceramic sculpture that had sat in a corner collecting dust for decades, now set amongst his stacks of books, freshly polished and full to the brim with white delphiniums. "If you hire someone to book your rooms and university halls, to plan your schedule, and manage the distribution of your brochures, you'd have more time to do what you do best: writing and giving your speeches."
Cosette stepped back to admire her handiwork, placing a hand on her hip.
"There, now isn't that lovely?"
The sweet smell from the flowers assaulted his senses and he frowned at this newest, unwelcome addition to his study.
"I don't understand how you sit in this stuffy room breathing in the same air all day long." She moved to one of the windows and pushed a glass pane open. "France is so wonderful in the springtime, don't you think?"
She had a certain way of ending her sentences with questions, as if constantly trying to invite him into conversation. He was never sure whether she actually wanted him to answer such questions and so, usually did not answer. A soft breeze blew in, lightly ruffling the pages he'd been working on. He grabbed a paperweight and placed it atop the pages. Who did she think she was, coming into his study and, and…changing everything around?
"So what do you think?" Cosette asked, turning back to him.
He lifted a brow. "About the flowers?"
"The campaign manager. Will you consider it?" She stood with hands clasped behind her back, wearing that same plain, muslin gown she always did when she went to work in the garden, her hem stained green and brown, bits of petals and leaves clinging to the fabric. Enjolras had tried convincing her to leave the tending of the flowers to the gardeners and groundskeepers, worrying what his servants would think of him if they saw his young wife out there, dirtying her pretty, slender hands. Yet she absolutely insisted, asking him not to take this small joy away from her.
"I suppose a campaign manager would be a wise investment." He mumbled, unable to argue with the points she'd made.
And he couldn't deny it even now, for Guillaume was doing a splendid job. Everything was going perfectly; the crowds were responding well and his notoriety was spreading from town to town.
"The people love you, monsieur!" Guillaume proclaimed. "They're all amazed at the eloquence of your words, at the novelty of your ideas. After this tour and a dinner with a few influential delegates, you're practically guaranteed a spot in Parliament come next spring!"
The news should've filled Enjolras with pleasure and a renewed sense of purpose. Yet, strangely enough, satisfaction seemed to elude him. His days were filled with traveling, delivering speeches on stages, giving lectures in halls. He spent his evenings working late into the night, writing and preparing and memorizing. He'd often wake up the next morning with stomach growling and realize he'd forgotten to eat dinner the night before.
If Cosette were with him, she would remind him to eat. She would make sure he got enough rest. Heavens, she would probably throw open a window to let the sunlight in or pick a flower and tuck it into the front pocket of his coat.
She seemed to occupy his thoughts more and more with each passing day, to his own surprise.
Enjolras thought of their first days after the wedding, when he'd told her to make herself comfortable, to feel free to take charge of the estate and make things how she wanted them to be. I don't wish to intrude, she'd simply said. He recalled her attempts at invisibility; the light footsteps throughout the halls, soft knocks on the door of his study, hushed conversations with the servants, quiet chewing in the dining room during their dinners. She wandered the manor like a ghost, trying her best not to leave any trace of herself, not to bother him in any way. He supposed he should've paid attention then and been more intentional with helping her plant roots in her new home. But he'd been so busy with starting up his work that for a while, she really had been out of sight and out of mind.
Then one day, Cosette discovered the gardens.
Vast and decaying, she took to its untrimmed mazes and overgrown bushes like some sort of Grecian dryad. It seemed that in the act of bringing things back to life, she'd found her very own purpose for living. After that, there was no ignoring her. Suddenly, she was everywhere. Humming as she waltzed from room to room, her bell-like laughter and lilting songs trickling into his study as she worked alongside the servants outside in the gardens. He was running into her in the hallways, catching the scent of her on curtains, finding a mug of warm tea waiting for him whenever he entered his study, constantly tripping over the rambunctious stray kitten that she'd found and subsequently adopted…There were traces of her everywhere he looked.
Even on this trip.
She'd left her touch by way of the extra coat and spare ink pots and quills she'd snuck into his luggage. He thought of her every time he rode past a field of wildflowers, wondering if it would be silly to ask the driver to stop so he could pick a bouquet to bring home to his wife. They'd stop in a certain town and he'd walk past a shop that sold silk gowns. He'd think of that stained, fraying muslin frock she wore and get the sudden urge to walk into the shop and buy a dress in every color they had, wondering if Cosette would smile at such a gift or laugh at him and say she had no use for such fineries.
Did she even care for silk? Perhaps he should get her something practical. A linen apron she could ruin to her heart's content whilst pulling weeds or planting fruit trees. Some nice, durable gloves. Maybe a woolen coat since she so liked taking walks in the evenings?
He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.
As much as he tried to immerse himself in work and take delight in the reactions of the crowds and comfort himself with Guillaume's promises, the ache in him still lingered. He thought of Cosette. He thought of his future as a politician, a future his father had done everything to secure for him, a future he'd once run away from. He thought of the group of friends that had left him behind, wondered why God had chosen him alone to survive. What sort of mark was he destined to leave on this world? What if, despite all his noblest intentions, he was destined to fall prey to power and greed like all the rest of the crooked lot of bourgeoisie he came from?
Enjolras sighed heavily. It was going to be a long month.
