Chapter Twenty-Three: Bedridden, Bothered, and Bewildered
The local middle-aged doctor, Monsieur Guérin, finished rewrapping Babette's knee in new bandages. "You said you were… racing, mademoiselle?"
Having changed into a nightgown and negligée prior to receiving his medical attention, the lady he addressed pursed her lips, embarrassed but at the same time trying to stifle her instant indignation at his disapproving tone. "Oui, monsieur."
He glanced at her over his spectacles. "I suppose this is a lesson learned. Consider yourself lucky. A collision into a tree at that speed could have smashed your kneecap beyond repair."
She managed to turn her growl into a sigh. "I am well aware, doctor."
In a modest effort to be consoling, he gave her a smile. "I wouldn't worry now. Take the time to rest and you should be good as new in a couple weeks."
Babette blinked at him. "Are you saying that I cannot walk on this leg… for two weeks?"
"Two or three," he replied firmly, "if you and your family are diligent in your care."
As her heart sank and jaw tightened, M. Guérin began packing his tools into his leather case. "I understand that being confined to this room—as nice as it is," he had to admit, apparently just noticing its tasteful décor, "… for that long is not ideal. I will always recommend fresh air when recovering from any illness or injury, but do so wisely and cautiously. Anything to aggravate the injury will cause greater pain and force you to give it more time to heal properly."
A lump had formed in her throat as he spoke, so she merely nodded in response.
"If you so desire," he added, a bit more of that kindly bedside manner poking through, "I do carry wheelchairs at my shop."
Babette looked up at that, and her chest loosened ever slightly. "I will keep that in mind. Merci."
"You're welcome." Guérin inclined his head respectfully. "Mademoiselle."
She acknowledged it in kind and watched him depart. Her father and mother, who were staying vigilantly by the door, followed quickly after him. Babette could still hear their voices after they had shut the door.
'Keep it elevated,' she recalled, eyeing the pile of soft feather cushions under her left knee. 'Refrain from moving the leg yourself at all times. Compress it to prevent movement and further swelling. Drink feverfew tea twice per day to reduce inflammation of the joint. And above all…'
"Lie still," she grumbled. She hadn't even been confined to a bed for an hour and she was already sick of it.
The simplest thing to do now was to take a nap. Babette wanted to laugh at the mere thought. How could she possibly rest? She was antsy and alert, as though the adrenaline of the accident was still coursing through her veins, and she knew why: She had unfinished business.
She needed to speak with Lumière.
The more time that passed, the more she invented ways in how she could possibly apologize to him. She had to make amends and know for certain where they stood. But she wasn't able to seek him out. She had to wait for him to come to her.
Babette slid further into the pillows at her head and faced her bedroom door. Was he just behind those doors, listening alongside Nicolas, Augustine, Étienne, and her parents? What if she tried calling out—?
Ridiculous! She rolled her eyes at herself. Oui, let the entire maison know I want to speak privately with the man who is not my fiancé while I lay prone in a bed. How much of a fool am I?
Pulling a downy pillow over her face, Babette groaned into it. Perhaps she really was exhausted.
Her sigh was heavy with defeat. Might as well try to follow the doctor's advice…
After seeing to Ciel's comfort in her stable, Lumière soon realized he had to keep himself either busy or moving. He opted quickly for circling the scenic grounds on foot. Despite the beauty of the flower beds, parterres, statuary, and surrounding landscape, he gazed at it all without seeing any of it.
The moments had been so brief yet so significant. The last of them—that single glance from her over her father's shoulder—had, despite all his efforts the past dozen days, unleashed what had been a quiet adoration of her, like the poetic form of courtly love, into an overwhelming ardor for the one he longed to call his own. It had broken through his barriers with such fervor that if she were to stumble upon him while he was in this state—if she were able to, that is… he didn't think he would be able to keep himself from sweeping her into his arms.
They had reverted so nicely to how it almost had been during their time together at Château du Lac. All the nostalgic longing for it he had been repressing had bubbled to the surface of his mind, where it currently refused to be swayed. If he returned to the manor at this point, he knew he would crack. Then he would give away not only himself, but Babette's innocent lies. For his sake, hers, Nicolas'… everyone's, he had to remain unshakeable and unwavering.
His face in his hands, Lumière stopped against a nearby tree and muffled a scream. He wanted to rip his hair out.
Leaning the back of his head against the trunk, a thought occurred to him: Maybe… he didn't have to endure this for another week.
Could he depart from this ridiculously poor excuse of a holiday early, without arising too much suspicion?
He could easily maneuver a white lie about the château needing him to return on short notice. Once Angélique's reply arrived, it would provide the perfect evidence of him receiving correspondence, and then he could fabricate its contents to say whatever he wished.
Of course, he didn't want to do any of that. But by all that is holy, he stressed, I cannot go on much longer. What else could he possibly do?
He imagined Angélique would send a letter back to him immediately after reading his, so hopefully, he only had to keep his composure for a few more days.
A few more days, he reasoned. That is it. And then…
Then what?
He had been incredibly keen on overcoming his feelings for Babette from the start. It had become even more imperative after he realized she was the woman his friend had raved about so articulately in that fateful letter barely over a week ago. Lumière wished he had the necessary will to move on. Rather foolishly, he used to think he did. Now he was less certain of that than ever before.
Whatever the outcome will be, he concluded as he resumed his walk, nothing can be done until Babette has admitted the truth to Nicolas, if only the fact that she worked at the château and not a convent. He deserves to know that much.
Lumière didn't know exactly how long he had been outside, but he knew that when the sun was almost at the tops of the trees, it was time for dinner.
He threw the last smooth stone he could find across the pond that sat at the far corner of the main grounds, watching the water's surface ripple and expand until they had reached its edges. As much as he still wanted to stall, the time had come to show his face again. If he didn't head in now, he was sure Nicolas would fetch him himself, and Lumière knew he wasn't in any way ready to be confronted by his friend yet.
He soon heard the voices of the de Créquy and Chantemerle coming from the large parlor down the hall and hesitated. Was he properly composed, or did he mimic the look of a beaten dog? He corrected his posture and straightened his shoulders. As in every aspect of his life, he must keep up appearances.
Nearing the parlor, Mme de Créquy's flabbergasted voice could be clearly understood: "What do you mean you didn't see how it happened? Where else could you have been?"
"Maman," came Nicolas' tired response, "you heard as well as all of us here. She and Lumière had decided to race."
"A race in the middle of a forest," the countess scuffed. "Does that sound sensible to you, Clarisse?"
"Heavens, no!" Babette's mother exclaimed. "I have no idea what could have possessed that child to ride at that speed! She has hardly ridden in years. But thank goodness we can expect a full recovery!"
Lumière released a breath he didn't know he was holding. Those last-uttered words were enough to spur him into the fray.
As he rounded the doorway, the eyes of Nicolas, Clarisse, and her husband René, immediately turned to him. He managed to smile back. "I hope I am not unwelcome."
Augustine perked up. "There you are! Where on earth have you been hiding?"
"Hiding? I was in plain sight if you only looked out a window," he teased.
"I thought you were in the stables," Nicolas prodded.
"At first," Lumière confirmed, ignoring the skeptical look his friend tossed his way. "But had I returned inside, I assumed that I would have been in the way."
Augustine furrowed her brow. "Oh, nonsense! You would never be in the way."
"I don't know…" Étienne voiced dryly. "That corridor was rather crowded."
Beside him, his wife waved at him to shush, which only made him smile, as she disclosed, "Well, you certainly missed the excitement in here!" But Étienne denied her statement just by his expression alone.
Lumière tucked away the smirk that crept up as he sat in the armchair between their hostess and his friend. "So I gathered."
An uncharacteristic wave of timidity hit him before he managed to ask, "Did… I hear correctly that mademoiselle will fully recover?"
"Oui, in a few weeks," Nicolas informed. "She will remain here in the meantime."
"Absolutely," his mother encouraged. "We made sure she was comfortable in our guest room on the ground floor."
"It's perfect, and so very generous," Clarisse admired.
"Like I said, no trouble at all," Augustine assured with a benevolent smile. "She is always welcome."
There was only a brief lull before René spoke up, his eyes on the maître d'. "M. Lumière."
The servant met the count's gaze and swallowed. "Oui, monseigneur?"
"There is still some confusion as to how my daughter's injury came to be. Would you care to elaborate on the details for us?"
"Ah, yes," Augustine affirmed. "Please do! Nicolas is rather less than helpful."
Nicolas rubbed his eyes. "Because I was not involved."
"It is true, madame," Lumière vouched. He nervously licked his lips before saying, "I will confess that… I was the one who proposed a small race, and I regret with all my heart that the thought even crossed my mind, truly. I am sorry to have been the cause of any pain, especially from an injury of that nature."
M. and Mme de Chantemerle watched him for a moment, which made him want to avert his gaze, but he was almost afraid to. The thought that they might recognize him from the Christmas Eve ball had suddenly occurred to him, and all they probably recalled was that he had returned alone with Babette after having almost been gone an hour away from the ceremonies, doing Dieu knew what. He hadn't even considered how they might react to him turning up in their midst so coincidentally. He couldn't imagine they would find his presence convenient.
Then his worries were abated by the countess's gentle expression. "We can see you mean well," Clarisse observed soothingly, "and though you take the blame, we know no one is really at fault. But we appreciate your willingness to besides."
Lumière noticed then that she had Babette's eyes—or rather Babette had hers. "You are too kind, madame. Merci," he replied with a respectful incline of his head as his heartbeat doubled. "Still… if only I had listened to Nicolas' warning."
He saw the viscount glance at him out of his peripherals.
Though a bit risky in this circumstance, Lumière was confident Nicolas would play along, just as he did earlier on their ride with Babette. They have been composing details and adding them to their stories on each other's behalf for years, whether it was to impress their respective women of interest or save one another from a worse punishment after they had been caught in their shenanigans.
Hopefully, by doing this, Nicolas would snap out of the indecisive stupor that had left him incapacitated during their little jaunt.
"Warning?" Augustine repeated.
"Oui, madame," Lumière smoothly answered. "Though mademoiselle took to the idea once I suggested it, Nicolas not only refused to participate but warned against it." With a shrug, Lumière added, "This may have even persuaded me to heed more of his advice in the future."
Nicolas stifled a snort. "I doubt that."
"Oh, ye of little faith!" his old valet admonished under his breath.
"Forsooth, ye of much nerve," Nicolas fired quietly back.
They exchanged looks, and Lumière knew his friend understood what he was doing, if reluctantly. Not to mention, Lumière had succeeded in making the corner of his mouth lift, and that was all he needed to be reassured.
Clarisse had gone on to note, "Knowing my daughter, she would have gone on to do as she pleased despite the better judgments of others." She looked to Nicolas with admiration. "We appreciate your efforts nonetheless, monsieur."
"Of course, madame," the viscount replied, though Lumière could see Nicolas' ears were starting to flush. "Her safety is as much a concern and priority to me and my family as it is yours."
"A lofty claim, indeed," René observed, his dark eyes analyzing.
"And one that truly shows by your actions," Clarisse gracefully addressed to the rest present as she patted her husband's hand. "You have already done so much for our dear girl."
"Speaking of which," René voiced, his gaze softening slightly, "it should be mentioned what the doctor had commended of Babette's bandages when he first saw them."
"Oh, yes!" Augustine beamed at the former valet. "Lumière, the good doctor paid you such a lovely compliment on how you wrapped Babette's knee—despite how awful it left her petticoats, but…" She waved away the thought. "What are nice clothes to wear without the health to walk in them?"
"He said the injury would have been severely aggravated from the ride otherwise," Étienne added, before his wife had successfully managed to drift to another topic once again. He gave the maître d' a fatherly nod of approval. "Quick thinking, mon fils."
Lumière supposed it was his turn to blush; He blinked in surprise at the praise, a chuckle escaping him. "Well, I—" He cleared his throat. "I… only did what was necessary. Instead, I wish I had been able to do more for her."
"You and your high expectations," Nicolas remarked with a teasing shake of his head.
His friend surrendered to that with a smile and a shrug, but a question was still nagging him to be asked. He felt the squirming of nervousness but remained as composed as could be. "May I ask how severe the injury is?"
"Her knee is sprained," Clarisse answered. "But the doctor predicted she should be able to walk again in a couple weeks. Until then, she is confined to bedrest."
What he was inclined to say was how much Babette must loathe the idea of not being able to leave bed, but that felt much too presumptuous when he was not supposed to know her well at all. His next notion was to empathize with her circumstances, but that might come across as insincere.
He was already having to withhold his love for her, but even showing a bit more of caring and compassion for her seemed to be crossing a line.
Unable to voice a reply, Lumière swallowed his well-meaning intentions and nodded in understanding.
As they moved from the grande salon to the dining room, the topic soon drifted to various other things, all of which Lumière did his best to participate, yet the thought of Babette injured and alone in another part of the house persisted. If only he could follow the natural instinct to take care of her and keep her company, but he knew that would not help either of them. The less he saw of her until he departed La Bazolle, the better for them both.
These same musings pursued him as he dismissed himself from post-supper drinks. He had already completely swathed himself in his melancholy thoughts before his name was called not only once, but twice.
"Monsieur Lumière?"
Raising his head, the maître d' was pulled back into the present as the voice who addressed him was not a de Créquy.
Stopping to turn at the foot of the staircase, he tried to keep his brow from knitting with confusion at the sight. "Madame la Comtesse… How may I serve?"
Despite his efforts, Clarisse must have caught his fleeting look, for she began fiddling with the wedding band on her finger and released a slightly awkward laugh. "Oh no, there is no need for that," she said, smiling. "I only… wanted to thank you."
His eyes widened, briefly stunned, but pleasantly so. Grinning back, and with hand over his heart, he replied, "You humble me, madame. I appreciate your graciousness beyond words, though I feel… it is hardly deserved."
Her eyes twinkled admiringly at his response. "Except, it is well-deserved. But you are very welcome."
Glancing secretively behind her, she then came a step closer and lowered her voice considerably. "To be clear… I am referring to more than just today's events."
It took a moment for Lumière to comprehend her meaning. "Oh," he finally said. "I… have done my best, considering the circumstances. I am only thankful I was not so easily read."
"Of course, of course!" she urged. "Truly, I cannot express my gratitude enough for the lengths you must have gone to… well, you know." Her expression became meek, challenging the standards of all countesses. "Nevertheless, I did not expect a third party to become involved. My word, what are the odds, after all?"
"Not quite in our favor, I would guess."
His smile grew as she lightly laughed. "I suppose not! Our strokes of luck have been rare, but… significant." Her gaze became tinged with conjecture. "Were you a friend of hers, at the time?"
"Oui." A corner of his mouth remained lifted as he answered, "And she may always consider me a friend."
Her next words were full of meaning. "I hope she knows how fortunate she is. If not, I will remind her." The countess then inclined her head. "Merci encore, monsieur."
Though rendered speechless, he humbly bowed before he watched her head down the corridor. He resumed the path to his quarters only after recovering from his awe.
It was infuriating enough that Babette could not remove herself from a bed that was not her own, as comfortable as it was. But how would she keep her sanity if she could not even shift from lying on her back? She itched to move at all, yet her injury made it impossible.
On top of that, what could she possibly do? All of the activities to do in a bed—by one's self, anyway—was reduced considerably to nothing but reading. Though it was a nice pastime, Babette had much less of an inclination to do so; She had trouble processing prose and poetry alike when all that she could think about was how she had no other option, which immediately made her want to do anything else. Out of desperation, she even asked to borrow a recorder from the music room. Despite its potential for some stimulating amusement, that twenty-minute experiment proved unsuccessful; She almost chucked the woodwind instrument like a dart at the wardrobe.
When Nicolas came in with a few book recommendations in hand, however, how could she refuse to peruse them? His manner was so sweet, if slightly more withdrawn than what it had been in recent weeks, but it seemed to be improving… at least, that was what she would like to think. He could talk excitedly about his favorites, and Babette would have been content listening to his own synopses rather than read the novels themselves.
But he always left her to her own devices, probably thinking it was what she wanted so she could dive right into the pile of books he had left on her nightstand. She began reading them more out of obligation than by desire, and even then, they were unable to grip her. Nicolas seemed to like melodramas and romances more than she had originally noticed, and if she had to be honest, those were the very last genres she wanted to become immersed in. She had gotten a rather large dosage of both without the help of fiction.
In between that, her parents' visited La Bazolle for a couple hours every day. They came before dinner to spend time in her room, and in that time, the de Créquy would join them. This certainly helped in making her feel less like a nuisance and unwanted invalid.
But it didn't last; Renaud would arrive at the door, announcing that dinner was served. This was the cue for Babette to return to her depressing seclusion. Both families congregated out while a servant brought her dinner on a tray. When the occasional boisterous laugh from the dining room would find its way down the hall to her open door, and she would be eating alone in her room, her knee still pitifully sitting on a tower of cushions, that came to be the part of her day she dreaded most of all.
During that time especially, she would glance at the door more often than usual in the ludicrous yet ever present hope that a certain maître d' might rescue her from the storm clouds of her misery once again.
After all that he had learned about himself, Lumière should have known that keeping his distance from a wounded Babette was going to challenge the strength of his resilience. Was it as heartless to stay away as it felt? It must just be him, because the logic of avoiding one another seemed so sound; If he saw her again, it would only serve to reignite those tender feelings for her afresh, feelings that needed to be dismissed, or at least abated enough to look on her in a light that did not ignite his passions.
But would he ever? Did he even have the capacity?
On the fourth day since that unfortunate ride, and after trying to subdue his restless mind on the harpsichord, Lumière returned to his room to find a sealed note next to his washbasin.
He immediately snatched it up and popped the wax to see Angélique's graceful hand.
Oh, Lumière,
If I had known what a disaster of a holiday yours would turn out to be, I would have kept my mouth shut that fateful day! Dearest Babette—engaged! I cannot even imagine it. And of all the messieurs in France… My heart goes out to you, mon ami.
I am astonished Babette has forced you to keep such a cruel position as this, though you have heard claim from le Vicomte she has shown signs of heartbreak. Something else is at work, but I believe I may know what it is.
Babette is not the kind of person who takes pleasure in lies and secrets. She has condemned any acts related to gossip and duplicity openly to me more than once, and as you know, she has a marvelous candor that defines her words and actions. When she is forced to withhold, it affects her deeply. That is why I believe this has caused her to resent you, though you may not deserve her scorn. With your presence, you have brought with you more secrets she must keep from the man to whom she is betrothed as well as her family, and perhaps even reminded her of secrets she must keep from you.
You have asked me for a solution, but the most I can offer is this: The three of you must be honest.
If Babette has not done so already, you must help her tell the truth to le Vicomte. Both of you will not find relief until you have confessed what you both have been hiding from the start. I understand your friend may not react well to this news, but the sooner it is said, the sooner you all can heal from the deceit, whether it was innocent, accidental, or neither. The less you wait, the less damaging the effects of all this will be.
If you care as deeply for le Vicomte and Babette as I know you do, what you fear will not come to pass. Love evolves over time, and it is possible for what you feel for her now to change into something platonic and pure. Even so, it cannot alter the bond of brotherhood you have with le Vicomte unless you both allow it.
I hope this has helped. I cannot imagine there is enough time for another round of letters before you return. Please, use the time you have left wisely.
All my love,
Angélique
P.S. Mrs. Potts was in the room when I opened this letter. She also sends her love and regards to you and Babette… and her approval of all I have spoken of in this reply. If that is not enough of the "woman's touch" you have asked for, I do not know what is.
He huffed a laugh at her final words, admittedly glad he could still laugh at all, but the rest of her letter troubled him, even as he set it aside.
Ideally, honesty would appear to be the best option. It was certainly the most ethical. And how could it not seem the singular course of action when it was all anyone really deserved?
Only… it was not that easy.
The truth in this circumstance was messy and convoluted. Telling all of the truth would be disastrous. He and Babette would still have to glaze over how they had mutually confessed to being in love with one another, because if Nicolas knew that fact, everything would change. His friend's conscience would be torn apart. He would believe himself to be stealing away Lumière's true chance at happiness.
No, they had to spare him from all of that.
Another problem with that suggestion was that it would involve collaborating with Babette on how to lessen the blow of their lies to Nicolas. He rebelled against the very idea because, not only would it go against his attempts to stay removed from her company, but how would they even manage to meet alone and discuss such sensitive information?
Well, there is one way…
He shoved the thought aside; He didn't have to resort to such lengths. No matter what the contents of her letter said, this was the chance he had been waiting for. Now he could go to the de Créquy, claim he must regretfully cut his visit a few days short, and escape La Bazolle until this all blew over.
Although… there were still so many unknowns he was unable to predict: Would Babette eventually admit the truth about working at the château rather than a convent to the de Créquy? If so, how much would she tell? Could Lumière count on her to do so before he came to visit again? When he returned in another year, would the current problem they're facing remain? Would she and his best friend be wedded by then?
Most of all, would Lumière's love for her persist as strongly in a year as it did now? Or would it be for a few years? Or a decade? Or for life?
He sat frozen on his bed, staring at the patterns in the carpet unseeingly, when a knock on his open door recovered him from his petrified state of mind.
Despite it all, seeing Nicolas in the doorway helped him breathe again.
The viscount raised a curious eyebrow at him, a smirk on his mouth. "What has merited such stern contemplation from you?"
Lumière managed to reply with an ease that surprised even him. "Oh, some of the great mysteries of humanity, of course."
"Such as?"
"Such as 'What could Nicolas possibly be doing at this hour?'" He gestured grandly to his friend as he stood. "I must be improving! How may I be of service?"
Nicolas smiled knowingly at this response so indicative of him, and replied, "I was passing by on my way to sit with Babette."
"Ah, oui," Lumière said with a one-sided smile, nodding in approval. He had to exert himself more than was usual to add, "Quite the doting fiancé you are! I am sure she appreciates your attention most of all."
Nicolas mustered a smile, shrugging humbly, before he asked instead, "Have you been to see her yet?"
Lumière's modest grin faded. "N—Non, I… did not want to intrude."
"Intrude? And you're supposed to be an expert on hospitality!" he lightly chastised with a shake of his head. "Mon ami, you know better than that."
With a stubborn frown, the maître d' corrected, "The rules of hospitality do not all apply when I am a guest. Besides, I am sure my company is of no interest to her."
"Well, she has asked after you, and seemed disappointed you had not come in to see her. She even asked me yesterday if you had already returned to du Lac."
Lumière blinked at this news. "She has?"
Beaming, Nicolas nodded slowly. "It seems she has finally warmed up to you."
With a forced nonchalance, he replied, "An act of chivalry practically guarantees it."
Nicolas' brows furrowed. "Guarantees what?"
"You know…" Lumière stalled, grasping at whatever he could to find words that were credible enough. "Just as a patient does with their nurse. There forms a kind of… infatuation."
The viscount rolled his eyes at this, but then leveled his stare at him, realization upon his features, "Is this why you've been avoiding her? Because you think she became 'infatuated' with you that day?"
Lumière's eyes widened. He had been wracking his brain for days to fabricate a plausible excuse for his estranged behavior, and here was Nicolas, handing him one on a silver platter. It almost seemed too easy, too ripe to accept it.
But he was a man of opportunity: He grimaced guiltily. "Ah… I was afraid to admit to it, but… alas, it is true."
"A bit overcautious," Nicolas noted. "But I suppose your heart was in the right place."
Lumière smiled, reassured. "That is what matters most, oui?"
Nicolas appeared to begrudge him that answer. "In this case, I can agree. But come!" he teased, giving his friend's shoulder a brotherly slap. "The lady awaits!"