Chapter Seven: Getting Acquainted
Three Months Prior…
January, 1740
With it only being a twenty-minute carriage ride from Château de La Clayette to La Bazolle, Babette hardly felt she had time to mentally and emotionally prepare herself. Thoughts of Lumière still buzzed around her mind, with all of their conversations, his compliments, looks of adoration, the way his hand had fit into hers, the sensation of his lips…
Babette shut her eyes, the moving image of La Clayette vanishing behind her turning black. She wasn't ready. This wasn't nearly the right time. If only she could say something, make up some excuse that her parents would deem acceptable.
But they are oh so excited, she reasoned. Across from her, Clarisse was positively glowing, and René had caught on to her optimism fairly quickly and maintained a quiet eagerness himself.
There was nothing she could say or do that wouldn't reveal what had happened with Lumière, and the possibility of dampening her parents' excitement felt like too high of a cost. This was what they deserved after having endured her time spent running around alleyways and taverns with boys for all of her teen years.
Her parents had rounded up her silence to nervousness, so they thankfully weren't questioning her apprehensive demeanor, but what she showed seemed only to be a tiny fraction of how she truly felt.
Terror. Terror was a perfect description.
The squeak of gates opening caught Babette's attention as the carriage sidled through the bare parterres and around the empty fountain to park at the manor's front doors.
Her stomach flipped as the coach lurched to a stop. She clutched at it, but her hand could only grip the stiff boning of her stays. Anxiety spiked through her as she was washed by a sudden wave of claustrophobia. I cannot do this, she conceded to whatever deity was out there. Let me out, let me faint, I will do anything!
Seeing her brow and mouth contorted in pain, her father reached across the coach to take her hand. "Babette, ma petite, what's wrong?"
She was startled at René's touch and looked to him, her pained expression morphing into innocent surprise. "Wrong?" she repeated, mustering a small smile. "Nothing! I only… suddenly feel the nerves…" She let her voice drift off, still trying to calm her stomach through her stays.
Her mother took her other hand and patted it, her eyes bright. "You're all right, dear. We are right here with you."
René nodded in assurance and helped her rise from the carriage after his wife. Babette took a deep breath of the mid-January air, filling her lungs to their capacity. Luckily, her maid, Bernadette, had tightened it while her chest had been expanded so she could be sure to breathe a little easier.
Babette wore a modest, pinstriped navy dress of wool, unadorned by the traditional flairs and ornaments of her class. A blast of cold wind caused her to pull her cloak more tightly around her, covering her exposed collarbone as she trailed behind her parents to the doors, the only sound of snow crunching underfoot. They opened as they walked up the steps, greeted most pleasantly by a servant. Babette took one last breath of the clean, crisp air before stepping into the foyer.
Their introductions were typical and rather uneventful. During the meetings that occurred over the next couple weeks, the vicomte and Babette were under constant parental supervision. They would stay mostly silent as their parents exchanged polite pleasantries and relevant stories at dinners and in the parlor room. As Babette would try to look apt in attention at their parents' less-than-thrilling conversations, she could sense the vicomte's occasional glance in her direction.
The very moment they had seen each other, she had glimpsed a look of wonder on his features, and she pursed her scarlet lips at the memory. What sort of expectations had he devised? It didn't matter that her parents had explicitly said he gave no mind to her reputation; it still pursued her. Any man would have concocted fantasies of her from all of the stories that had spread throughout the aristocracy, whether they minded her history or not. How could this one be an exception?
Crème de la crème, her mother had said. What if it had all been an act for her parents, just for the chance to meet her? Perhaps his parents were suitable enough, and seemed as honest and benevolent people as her parents, but parents did not always account for their children. Babette herself was a prime example of that.
She took another deep breath. This was the same kind of panic that had taken her over on Christmas Eve. This is not the end, she assured. If she wasn't happy with him, this wouldn't be the end. Her parents would make sure she was happy first.
Though they each rarely offered their thoughts to discussions, what the vicomte voiced would catch Babette's attention, because his views contradicted normal aristocratic opinion; they were sensible, and extremely self-aware. He began to sound less and less like the man she feared him to be.
After about a week, as lunch ended one afternoon, they all stood to head to the parlor, but as both pairs of parents left the room, Babette felt a gossamer touch on her shoulder.
"I don't wish to be impertinent," the young Vicomte de Drée, Nicolas, assured in a whisper, his brow furrowed earnestly. "But I had the hope that… perhaps we could properly introduce ourselves without our parents' supervision… Well, without their expectations intimidating our conversation." At Babette's surprise, which he took for hesitance, he added fretfully, "If the thought makes you uncomfortable, forget I said a word of it—"
"Non," Babette interrupted with a small but easing smile. "I would like that."
His frown spread into a grin before he nodded, visibly relaxing. "If you would follow me then, mademoiselle."
She did as bid and mimicked his path as he called to his parents. "Mère, père, madame et monsieur, if I may, Mlle de Chantemerle and I request a slight change of pace. Perhaps I could show her more of the manor, with your permission."
Mme de Créquy smiled at her son before looking at her husband, shrugging. "I see nothing wrong with it if Monsieur and Madame de Chantemerle feel the same."
"Of course," Clarisse replied, her efforts to keep her excitement reined in only visible to Babette and René, who in turn expressed uneasiness for a fraction of a second, but remained silent. "I am sure we could spare them one night of our talk of politics."
"Then our permission is unanimous," Augustine de Créquy established, glancing keenly between the betrothed pair. "We will be in the salon if you need us."
"Merci beaucoup," Nicolas replied with a respectful bow to the counts and countesses, and Babette mutually thanked them with a curtsey.
But she managed to catch Nicolas' father, Étienne, sneak a wink to his son, and she couldn't help but blush at the possible implications. Do not get ahead of yourself, she chastised. How cynical her imagination had become.
Being in the thick of winter, Nicolas and Babette remained inside La Bazolle as he showed her around its interior, giving tidbits of historical significance and short anecdotes of his family.
Babette had accepted the tour despite her instincts, fully understanding that she had to get to know him eventually. Based on a week's worth of observations, Babette could see Nicolas had a quiet personality, and with their parents in the parlor room downstairs, he was unlikely to corner her. She hated that she was thinking this way, but she couldn't help but be overly cautious with all that she had experienced. Besides, she wasn't ready. This was all too much for her right now. Why on earth couldn't her parents see that?
He could probably tell she was keeping herself reserved and withdrawn while trying to be polite, and instead of matching her countenance, Nicolas tried to provide energy for the both of them. His descriptions contained a subtle charm and humor that Babette couldn't help but pay attention to. Somehow, though, she began comparing his storytelling to Lumière's. She did her best to shake the thought away while they travelled the halls.
As she saw more of the manor, Babette marveled at the simplicity of the rooms' designs. They didn't as strictly follow the extravagance and ostentatiousness of the Rococo style she was familiar with. La Bazolle reminded her of her own home even, as her parents preferred a tasteful and more modest approach to their home furnishings.
They wandered into a gallery, the deep red walls lined with portraits of all of Nicolas' relatives, esteemed or forgotten.
Nicolas hesitated as he glanced around warily at the scads of paintings. "Well, these are almost all of my relatives, by blood or marriage, dead or alive, and so on." He looked to her with uncertainty. "We can move past this room if you like. I don't wish to bore you with all of the extraneous details of my family history. I have heard that is the very last thing you want to talk about at the start of a courtship."
Babette grinned genuinely, to her own surprise. "I am sure that contains at least a shred of truth, but believe me, you have not managed to bore me yet, and I doubt you really could."
He brightened at seeing her smile before turning his gaze to his shoes. "You flatter me. I would attempt to deny it but you have not given me reason to. You are a marvelous listener, you know."
Babette shook her head, becoming embarrassed. "No, no, monsieur, please. I have not been doing you proper justice."
Nicolas stopped her with a meaningful look. "Believe me, you have. Listening to me ramble about this place is certainly no easy task, and you have inquired or commented on every room I've shown and story I've told."
"Perhaps," she shrugged, "but that does not mean I retained much of it."
"If you were required to take an evaluation on my speeches afterwards, then that might have been a problem." Babette hummed a laugh as he added, "Anyway, I can certainly tell the difference between listening and pretending to listen."
"Still, I have never been complimented for my apt attentions. So thank you."
"Non, thank you," Nicolas humbly insisted. He gestured to the door. "Shall we?"
She looked around the gallery, realizing she was not only more comfortable, but rather curious. "Well… how about this: You choose one portrait of the relative you most prefer."
He nodded, seeming impressed. "Compromising already, are we? Très bien." Only briefly sweeping the series of paintings, his eyes landed on one that appeared to be an obvious choice for him.
He led Babette to a portrait of a lady wearing a beaded steel blue gown with a fur-lined sash of cerulean embroidered with golden fleur-de-lis. The soft waves of her tresses were pulled back, and looked as though they could have been brown before she had powdered them. Small, curled tendrils framed her forehead above her blue eyes. As with all paintings of women at the time, the lady seemed demure and approachable, which Babette couldn't help but question. She had yet to meet an aristocratic woman whose disposition came even close to their portrait.
"Allow me to introduce you to Renée-Caroline-Victoire de Froulay de Tessé, Marquise de Créquy."
When Babette gave him a look of sympathy, Nicolas replied with subtle wholeheartedness, "I could not agree with you more."
They both released a chuckle before he resumed, "She is technically my cousin by marriage, but I hold her in such esteem that I call her 'Tata Victoire.' Her visits are rare, but when she does grace us with her presence, she would relive all of the gossip and tales of what it is like in the court of Versailles in such detail. Truly, her memory is flawless. She can recall entire conversations verbatim! Not only that, her commentary on the goings-on of court life has brought me to tears from my laughter alone. She is an absolutely fascinating woman, and I do not say that lightly. Her husband, on the other hand…" He waved his hand in a comme ci, comme ça fashion. "He is not quite as charming. But she loves and respects him, so he must have some merit to his character he prefers to hide."
"How old is she?" Babette asked, noting the prime youth of Victoire in her portrait.
"Presently, she is of thirty-five years, about fifteen years older than this portrait of her."
I wonder how much Versailles has aged her. Babette wished she could ask but thought it could be misconstrued as disrespectful… in normal circumstances anyway. Would Nicolas take it as rude?
"Well, she sounds like a woman I would like to meet," she safely though sincerely concluded.
"If ever she happens to grace La Bazolle with her presence, I will make sure you are the first to know outside of it," Nicolas promised.
He graciously gestured towards the gallery's exit and Babette complied.
As they moved out into the hall, a delicate silence permeated between them, both in their own reveries. Babette was still wondering on how much she was allowed to say. After three months of being comfortable enough to speak her thoughts aloud, it was leaving her feeling handicapped having to watch what escaped her mouth. What was considered inappropriate, and what was not saying enough? Her tight dress began to feel like a prison again.
Nicolas came away from his thoughts before she did of hers, though hesitantly. "Have you been to Versailles?"
Babette erased the lines between her brow before meeting his eyes. "Not since for several years."
Granting a small smile, he nodded. "It is probably best seen through a child's eyes. As an adult…" He could not successfully hide his grimace.
A wry grin crossed her lips. "Is it so terrible?"
"I don't wish to impress my opinions on you, but… it is definitely—"
"A pit of snakes?" she reflexively uttered while he insinuated concurrently, "A place of politics."
Babette looked to Nicolas in alarm, but his reaction was merely of surprise.
Now self-conscious, her cheeks grew warm. "I thought… I'm sorry, that was… frank."
"No, no, please, there is no need," he hurried to assure, a touch of wonder reaching his hazel eyes. He gave a conceding shrug. "You are certainly not wrong."
"You are being generous," Babette clarified, quite flustered. "I spoke out of line. I had thought you were—"
"Oh, I was about to!" Nicolas insisted. "Really! You only spoke aloud what I was too reserved to say."
"I am only repeating what I have heard," Babette calmly resolved. "I have no place in speaking harshly about Versailles at all." Not here, and not now. Dieu, what an idiot! she berated herself. Why couldn't she keep her big mouth shut when necessary?
Babette was too turned away to notice, but the faint excitement that had filled Nicolas' character receded. "Perhaps, but… if it is any consolation, they will never hear of your criticisms from me."
His attempts to soothe were to no avail, as Babette's own self-chastisement was dominating her attention. A hopelessness had settled in her stomach, and her mortification made her want to flee this entire circumstance. Avoiding his gaze, she brusquely advised, "It's getting late. We should return to the parlor."
Helpless, Nicolas silently agreed before he led the way to retracing their steps.
On the carriage ride home, Babette was determined to stare out of the window in the hopes of avoiding any probing questions from her parents, especially her mother, though it was in vain.
"Babette?" Clarisse repeated. "Look at me, chère, when I am asking you a question."
Inwardly cursing her mother's curiosity, Babette feigned mild surprise. "Quoi?"
Clarisse sighed. "Did you hear anything I said?"
Oui, but I was not answering for a reason. "What were you asking, Maman?" she inquired with the most patience she could muster.
With a bit more emphasis, Clarisse reiterated, "How was your time with Nicolas today?"
Clarification that I cannot be a noble. "It was… informative."
Babette saw her father raise a skeptical eyebrow, but he said nothing. She prayed he didn't choose tonight to analyze her implications and truthfulness behind her words. She would much rather forget what happened that day than have René go through it with a fine-toothed comb.
"'Informative?'" Clarisse checked, the word having caught her off-guard.
"He gave me a tour of the manor," Babette reminded as though it were obvious, granting, "It is a very beautiful estate."
Her disappointment was plainer than Babette would have liked, though it should have been expected. "Is that all you have to say? Honestly, Babette!"
"You want me to disclose our conversations?" the young viscountess pretended to realize. "Is that not an invasion of our privacy?"
"So now you two have privacy?" René dryly inquired. "When just yesterday, you could hardly manage to look in his direction?"
A spike of indignation went through her, but Babette kept her poker face intact. She turned back to the window.
René opened his mouth to call her attention again, but Clarisse took his hand, shaking her head at him. She knew his intentions were for her to receive the response she had initially asked for, and to get the respect she deserved from her own daughter, but Clarisse also knew this was René's attempts to detract from coddling Babette, a habit he was struggling to break without there being a radical difference. Still, their girl was acting awfully ungrateful in her circumstances.
They had spent almost every day of every week searching amongst the barons, counts, and marquises in the province, traveling its lengths for miles to discuss prospects. They had to preach their lie of Babette's confinement to a convent while promoting her breeding, as much as they had wished that speaking of Babette's personality would have mattered to any of them. It was a sheer miracle that they had found one who asked about what she was like. After answering the young de Créquy's questions and agreeing to meet for dinner the day after, not to mention his family's estate's proximity to their home, Clarisse and René had known at once that Nicolas was all they could hope for.
Why couldn't Babette see it on her own?
She had definitely grown, but she wasn't herself. Babette hadn't been herself since her return from le Château du Lac. She was compliant and respectful to an extent, but she was able to use those traits to her advantage in providing equivocating answers. The passion and fire that she had always kept kindled now seemed to have cooled rather dramatically. Perhaps this was the result of her experience as a servant, of a new world view.
What bothered them the most was that they knew Babette was hiding things, particularly her feelings. Her responses were logical and within reason, as well as detached. Did she miss being at le Château du Lac? Could an attachment there become established during that short time? The Chantemerle could make no sense of it, especially when they had asked Babette these same questions, and her reply had been, "Non, my place is here."
René and Clarisse both hoped that this courtship with the quiet and sensible vicomte would lift Babette's spirits and open her up again. Maybe in time, her cold manner would be warmed by the de Créquy heir.
Dread and frustration boiled inside Babette as she watched both her and Nicolas' parents shut the doors of the parlor. Clarisse and René still smiled mischievously as they left the two of them alone, unphased or even encouraged by Babette's poisonous glare.
Just as Nicolas had shown her around La Bazolle two days before, her parents had offered Augustine and Étienne a tour of their home, le Château de La Clayette, and they couldn't have replied with more enthusiasm.
Damn them. Being left alone again with the vicomte was the last thing she wanted. Babette hadn't fully recovered her ego from their most recent meeting, and frankly felt discouraged about the match altogether.
The life of a spinster was beginning to have some serious appeal.
Both young nobles sat in adjacent armchairs with half of their backs to the hearth. Babette was leaning on the chair's arm away from Nicolas with hands tied in a vice. Nicolas mirrored her, and like Babette, had found a pattern on the rug to stare a hole into. The only sounds between them were the crackling of the fire and the constant muffled tapping of Nicolas' anxious heel.
Finally, after a few glances in her direction, Nicolas cleared his throat. With the way Babette cringed, she might have heard a not-so-distant gunshot.
"Mademoiselle," Nicolas addressed firmly and clearly, pushing himself up in his chair. Babette refused to meet his gaze, but that didn't seem to matter. "Upon my honor, I would apologize profusely for having caused you any offence, especially with how abruptly our last meeting ended, but…" His voice softened. "I have done enough analysis on it to believe that is not the reason you have retreated behind your walls. But please, correct me if I'm wrong."
Babette slowly straightened in her seat, and though she turned her face towards him, she still refused to look at him. "No. You are not wrong to assume that."
When he remained silent, she closed her eyes briefly and quietly sighed. She could not be cold and sharp with him when he was speaking so gently, especially when it was true that it hadn't been his fault.
But she couldn't muster any more words, and silence overtook them. She felt his burning gaze on her profile, could almost hear his mind whirring.
"I… Your parents informed me of your stay in a convent these past few months, so I can understand that this all… may seem rushed."
Babette almost started at "convent," but had to remind herself that this was the story her parents had concocted to restore her reputation. Yet another part to play, she reflected bitterly. To her chagrin, she was becoming a talented actress in her own right.
The thought of it made her stomach twist painfully.
"It is," she bluntly murmured.
Nicolas nodded almost encouragingly. "And it shouldn't. This entire… meeting—courtship is… awkward and uncomfortable as it is without feeling secure… and prepared for it."
Now Babette couldn't help but look at him. It was as though he had managed to explain some of her feelings more succinctly than she ever could have.
Could he possibly feel the same way?
Their eyes still had not met, for now he was staring at the doors.
Babette relaxed and rubbed her knuckles as she straightened in her seat. "Am I alone? In thinking that way?"
He fixed his hazel eyes on her and immediately assured, "No. Nor will you be the last."
The startling warmth she found in his response, that seemed to also penetrate her cheeks, made her avert her gaze.
A brief hesitation preluded his entreaty. "Mademoiselle, erm… M—May I call you Babette?"
Her name on his tongue sounded almost alien to her ears. Since she might as well become accustomed to it, she looked at him to consent with small nod.
The tension in his shoulders seem to ease ever so slightly. "Well… I would like to propose we… perhaps meet at another time, once you are feeling more at ease with our… getting acquainted."
His phrasing was causing a corner of her mouth to lift in a smirk. She couldn't decide if it was funny or endearing. Either way, she was in the presence of a true gentleman, and one that she hadn't expected to ever come across in all of her dabbling with his kind.
Besides, to postpone a courtship to respect her feelings of insecurity? Unable to count the times she had to pedal through her irritation and discomfort as a count's daughter, Babette could not recall such a thing ever occurring, to or outside of her.
And Dieu, is it a tempting offer…
But her parents… What would be their reaction? To admit she was uncomfortable would undoubtedly arise more questions, questions that she had been avoiding since her return home, and questions that she would rather not provoke.
No. Her parents didn't need to know.
"Monsieur, you are—"
"Wait, wait," he interrupted apologetically. "Please, do me the same honor. Call me Nicolas, I insist."
Babette held a brief smile, and the new name trickled from her tongue. "Nicolas… you are most considerate in your offer but… I do not feel I should accept it, because…" she added, as she saw Nicolas open his mouth to speak. "… if you even propose we give ourselves time, then… that shows that you are either very perceptive, or that you might be voicing your own feelings."
The broad, boyish grin he gave her suited him well; he appeared even handsomer than a second before. "I believe you have just claimed yourself as the perceptive one of us."
His smile made the corners of his eyes crinkle, making it all the more contagious.
"Personally," Nicolas resumed softly, "I am not opposed to taking our time, that is if you aren't either?"
"Non, not at all!" Babette hastily replied, relief untwisting the knot inside her. "I welcome that, in fact. But…"
When she pursed her lips, he prompted, "Yes?"
"Could we… keep this arrangement between us?"
Noting her grimace, he bared a lopsided smile. "If your parents are anything like mine, they are more than eager to have the cause of church bells be for your wedding, no?"
Babette stifled her exasperation. "So we have that in common?"
"To the misfortune of us both."
They both chuckled, and at a mutual glance between them, it seemed the ice had cracked.
"Well, I have been well-taught in the art of subtlety," he informed with the slightest mischief, "so if this happens to leave this room, then it will be the walls' fault."
"Or because of a nosy staff," she added under her breath.
He eyed her with a wry grin. "Nosy staff? Should I be worried?"
As though on cue, they heard two knocks on the door before her majordomo strode in carrying a tray of tea and pastry. He glanced up at them as he set it on the low table before them, pardoning rather innocently, "I do not mean to intrude, but this is of the master and mistress' request."
Babette cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "Merci, Henri."
After Henri bowed out of the parlor, matching her pout with a smirk, Nicolas observed with fascination, "What was that look I saw exchanged?"
She waved it off. "Nothing. He only likes to tease me."
If he says a word to my parents… But she paused in imagining revenge on her old friend and rival to prepare the tea.
Nicolas reached out and grazed the top of hers while insisting, "Please, allow me."
She retracted her hand like she had touched a hot flame, but tried to cover up her surprise by placing both hands on her lap. "Thank you," she curtly replied.
It didn't appear her shock at his touch went unnoticed, but resumed anyway as he poured only one cup, "It seems we have something else in common."
Furrowing her brow, she inquired, "What?"
"There are some members of my staff that enjoy teasing me as well. Sugar?" he offered.
"Oui, two spoonfuls." As he handed over her cup, she had to comment, "If… you do not mind me saying so… you seem like the very last person that could be teased."
Nicolas laughed. "I had thought so for a while, too. But my old valet found a way, and he found one rather easily. In fact, he found many... too many to mention." He offered a shrug. "It has kept me humble, if all else."
"I believe Henri has had the same intentions for me," she noted. "I cannot deny its efficiency."
He relaxed a bit more in his armchair. "I can only speak from personal experience, but he would not tease you if he didn't care about you. I imagine your parents tend to do the same?"
"Yes," she confirmed with a smirk. "And yours?"
"They do," he grumbled, and Babette hummed a giggle. "They can be quite incorrigible when given the right incentive."
"We seem to have survived the fray without many casualties," Babette astutely observed.
"We are not out of the woods yet, Babette," he reminded forebodingly, but his expression said otherwise and made her smile.
"C'est très vrai," she admitted.
As she took a sip of her tea, she then noticed the tension had melted from her neck, along with her cold shoulder. She couldn't deny Nicolas' approachability, and it felt like one she could begin to trust, one without danger of getting hurt.
Perhaps he could be the friend she so desperately needed.