Chapter Twenty-Nine: When One Door Closes…
Lumière stared at his writing, palm at his temple and concentration knitting his forehead. He had finished crafting the menu for the garden party this coming weekend sooner than he had thought, but with the amount of intense focus he had put into it, he shouldn't have been surprised.
The written word came almost as easily to him as those spoken, but in this instance, for this one letter…
With a growl, he snatched up the parchment and balled it between his hands before tossing it into the pile that had developed beside his desk. His teeth ground together as he slumped back into his chair. He was about to drop his head into his hands but caught himself at the last second. Sighing, he grabbed the rag next to his pen and wiped at his ink-splotched fingers. That would have been more irritating than humorous to have to wipe his face of his hands' imprints before heading to the kitchen. He went to his water basin to clean off what remained.
This was turning out to be hopeless. He was costing himself valuable parchment from his attempts, but he didn't know what else to do. Almost three weeks had gone by since he had returned to work, and his letter-writing efforts had gone on for nearly as long with no success, but he had to keep trying. Maybe this time, dinner would help clear his head for another more productive run of it.
A rare feeling of defeat crept in, but he couldn't let it linger. Sending this letter was not only the right thing to do, it was courtesy.
Glancing at the clock, he saw it was a little early for him to head down, but that was fine. He didn't want to be idle any longer.
Lumière left his chambers and made his way to the kitchen. As he strode down the castle's many hallways, his mind continued to play with proper wording for his next endeavor authoring a decent correspondence. How could he put it delicately without seeming unfeeling? He wanted to be honest and straightforward so as not to feel like he was dancing around the subject, but he didn't want to sound brutal. Would a gradual lead-in be better or-?
"Lumière, are you home?"
He looked around to see a gaggle of maids giggling at his surprise. Stifling an annoyed grimace of being caught walking these halls unseeing, he put on a smile and said, "Clearly not if I failed to acknowledge you fine ladies. How dare I become distracted by my own musings! My sincerest apologies," he offered with a gallant bow.
"You're forgiven," Véronique pardoned with a wink.
"What kind of musings?" Simone asked, wearing a coy smirk, and her colleagues voiced their curiosity.
"Nothing that deserves more attention than any of you, and I can assure it shall not happen again."
They waved and began to continue on their way, making teasing claims that they would hold him to his promise.
Michelle blew him a kiss. "See you in the kitchens."
He pointed an authoritative finger at her, but grinned to lighten it somewhat. He wasn't Cogsworth, after all. "Do not be late."
Michelle dismissed the idea with a roll of her eyes and a huff, but Lumière wasn't offended at all. If he was finally discouraging her need to continue her advances, then it was for the better.
He hadn't walked ten more steps in the direction of the kitchens before Michelle herself rushed to block his path, a pout solidly on her lips and her arms crossed.
I hoped too soon, he thought, suppressing a groan, but he decided to tease, "You are taking my advice then?"
"You're still mooning over Babette?"
He blinked to recover the whiplash of such a question. The way his heart palpitated at the sound of her name, and the fact that it was on Michelle's lips of all people, only made him bristle.
He took a deep breath through his nose to steady himself. "Mind your next words carefully, chérie."
Michelle's expression faltered. He didn't think she had ever heard any term of endearment from him sound like a threat before. "Fine," she muttered. "She's still a touchy subject. But think of how long it has been!" She leaned in slightly to anxiously whisper, "Do you not want to move on?"
Managing to keep his voice even, he answered, "To have the desire, and to have the ability, are two very different things, neither of which I wish to discuss." He stepped around her. "Now if you'll excuse me…"
"But—" Michelle's lip trembled, which she normally faked, but this time, Lumière couldn't tell if it was sincere. He didn't give himself pause to wonder, but still, she called at his back, "It is like you are holding out hope that she will return!"
His feet stalled on the carpet, and Michelle took that moment to plead, "She's long gone, Lumière. She was never even one of us."
He met her gaze, and he could see how she wanted to avert her own, but she stood her ground. "That is where you're wrong. Despite her lineage, she was, in every way."
She scrunched up her nose stubbornly. "I am only relating to you what we were all thinking."
"Who? You and the rest of the maids?"
Michelle seemed to shrink a little, and he realized how derisive he had sounded. He almost checked himself, but her lips pursed like she actually did regret her words.
Many different things to say crossed his mind, but he shook his head tiredly instead. It wasn't worth it.
When he resumed his walk, thankfully—and surprisingly—she didn't follow this time. But upon noticing who was coming toward him, Lumière understood why.
Cogsworth eyed him with something the maître d' could only deem as fascination. "I'm not seeing things, am I?" He checked his pocket watch. "You're heading to the kitchens fifteen minutes early? Again?"
Remarkably, Lumière felt his shoulders relax. "And refusing to be distracted, oui," he had to point out with a more sincere smile than he had given the maids before he saluted him. "And I beg your pardon, but that includes you, too, mon ami."
"Just one minute, since you can certainly spare it," Cogsworth insisted, having to grin himself, but a skeptical brow had risen. "So, this is… a new habit of yours, is it? Or am I being settled into a false sense of security?"
"Perish the thought! I would not be so cruel as to toy with your peace of mind!" Lumière paused, then added with a smirk, "At least, not in this regard."
"Hmm… I have still not grown accustomed to this newfound dedication, especially coming from you," Cogsworth admitted, and Lumière shrugged, granting him that. "But… I must commend you. Your holiday seems to have done wonders."
Lumière did his best to keep the sudden dull ache he felt his chest from showing in his expression. "You could say that."
"Well, keep it up! Please!" Cogsworth exclaimed as he resumed his way down the corridor. "It's a marvelous change from before!"
Lumière took a moment to appreciate the majordomo's words, which was a shock in itself. He never thought he would feel heartened so much by a compliment from Cogsworth. He was still Lumière's superior, and though the maître d' would loathe to admit it aloud, he admired the fussy Englishman from time-to-time. Lumière would not ever wish to be in his shoes, and the fact that Cogsworth bore it as well as he did, despite the… well, more than occasional meltdowns, was quite miraculous to be sure.
And look! I managed to keep myself preoccupied, he congratulated himself as he strode into the kitchen. For the next couple hours, he was a free man from his own mind, and he was determined for it to be so.
The downside to meals was that when he needed them to last, they always came to an end too quickly. As Lumière set foot outside the dining room, reflections on the letter swooped in on him like birds of prey. He just had to get the wording right tonight or he might go mad.
He sat at his desk, determined to put down the phrasing that he had been piecing together on his commutes to and from his room. As he was laying it down on paper, he was beginning to waver in his resolve. Perhaps when it was fully written it might come together.
The clock ticked and even rain began to batter his windows, but as his scrawl took form anew, he never paid either of them heed. In fact, he was so intently focused that a mere knock on his door made him jump. His hand jerked and a very inelegant tail appeared halfway through the word, unable.
He stared at what was nearly the end of a fully written piece of parchment in a blank shock.
"Lumière?"
A spike of anger threatened to pierce him, but he caught himself and took a deep breath instead. Maybe he could salvage this and copy what he thought worked, like this had been the penultimate draft. Just one more try and it could be worthy of being read.
He went into his desk drawer for a blank sheet and laid it next to the other, which he began to read over intensely.
"Bon Dieu…"
The voice was now right behind him. He spun around to see Angélique wide-eyed and staring at the floor to the left of this desk. It became clear only by stepping further into his room to see past where he sat that there was a considerable pile of his failed attempts beside him.
He didn't expect himself to feel self-conscious, so his tone came out a touch defensive. "Can I help you?"
Her gaze of dismay went right to him. "What on earth are you trying to write? The amount of parchment here could form a book."
He maintained eye contact but tried to smoothly and discreetly scoot the blank page over his letter. "I do not recall saying, 'entre,' at any point."
She blinked at what sounded like indignance. Crossing her arms, she pointed out, "Since when have you ever minded my visits?"
"I am allowed my privacy, am I not?" he bit back.
Angélique stifled an impatient sigh, but a hint of a growl still came through. "I only wanted to check on you. You have been far too distracted lately." Glancing at the balls of parchment on his carpet, she added, "And now I see why."
Like a firm mother, she held out her hand. "Let me read it."
He balked at the suggestion and slid his arm more protectively over his letter. "It's private."
She gave him a deadpan stare before nodded to the messy heap of his failures. "Clearly, you need a second opinion."
With a scowl, he snapped, "Your opinions of me, I do not exactly seek out."
"Why? Because I'm not afraid to tell you the truth? I thought you were above needing your ego fed."
A sardonic smirk lifted a corner of his mouth. "Oh, I am never above that."
Her lips hardened into a line briefly before she reasoned, "Lumière, I am trying to help. Just hand me the letter."
"Non." He sounded like a petulant child, but he didn't really care.
Either way, she was unphased. "Then read it aloud to me."
Admittedly, that idea only made him more uncomfortable, and it apparently showed on his face; she then lowered her offense with a sigh. "Can you at least tell me who you are trying to write to?"
His eyes immediately went to the floor. He swallowed before he answered, "Nicolas."
Angélique didn't appear to expect this answer as much as whatever she'd had in mind, but she nodded. "I see." She hesitated, but then asked gently, "Is it… about Babette?"
At the mention of her again, he felt tension fly to his neck and shoulders. He thought he would be beyond receiving looks of pity after he had returned from his holiday, but he was right back to where he'd been… probably even worse off. It made him want to scream.
Keeping his eyes away, he swiped the letter off his desk and held it out to her. "Here," he grunted.
He saw her slightly jump at his abruptness, but on second thought, as insecure about it as he felt, having her read it rather than having him explain it was much less torturous. He didn't quite catch the concern she wore as she carefully took it from him, but he felt her step back to take a seat on his bed.
Lumière sat in silence as she perused his writing, but he tried not to think on that part. Truthfully, he tried not to think of anything. Instead, there was a discarded effort of his on the top of his desk, so while he waited, he unfurled a piece of it that was blank and proceeded to draw what he thought were random strokes. They turned out to be the makings of an eye, almond-shaped and long-lashed. Without adding another mark, he could imagine the visage of the loveliest and rarest form of whom that eye belonged.
He discarded the sketch, but it did not discard the sharp pang that had bloomed in his chest; his subconscious seemed to enjoy kicking him when he was down.
When Angélique finally spoke up, it was almost a relief. "I see where I interrupted your train of thought."
His voice sounded muted. "Was it better that you had?"
She furrowed her brow, struggling with the thought. "I… don't know. There… is not an easy way to put into words what you are trying to say. You are very concerned about sparing his feelings, that is evident, but…" She grimaced. "I do not see how you are going to save le vicomte from being hurt entirely. You are telling him you will not be able to go to his own wedding, all while dancing around the fact that you harbor feelings for Babette." She shook her head slightly. "You should have taken my advice."
He jutted a finger at her and his timbre regained its strength. "You are speaking of things you do not understand. Telling Nicolas would have put Babette herself at risk. He would have tried to find a way for Babette and I to be together, as impossible as it would be, because that is exactly how his mind works. He is always putting the happiness of others before his own. I would not take the chance either of them has at happiness just to relieve myself of a secret that can go nowhere."
His sigh was heavy. "What I feel for her is my burden to bear, and I will pay the toll as I must to ensure they are wedded without guilt over what I may be going through. I will put on a face when I see them next, after they are wedded. But…"
His features were resigned yet determined, but pain sat deep behind his eyes. "The ceremony itself… I am not ready. I will not be ready in time to witness it. I know this."
She watched him for a moment, her gaze discerning. "I can tell how exhausted you are. Putting up a front for as long as you have will do that."
He rubbed his eyes before sweeping that hand through his hair, undoubtedly loosening some of it from his cue, before he shrugged. "I have accepted that as my fate." He looked up at her, his eyes like iron. "But the letter. Anything else I could do to improve it?"
"Well, I would prefer you not to have to lie to your own friend."
He swallowed down a sense of failure. "As would I."
She pursed her lips. He could tell the whole situation bothered her, but also that she wished she could offer more. He wished she could, too.
"I guess… I would be as concise as possible," she offered. "Your meanings become too convoluted when you are trying to predict how he will react to your words."
He sighed, conceding as he took back his letter and turned to face his desk. "Point taken. Merci."
In a way, this was a dismissal, but Angélique remained seated. He could feel her eyes on him, continuing their quiet search. "Were the invitations already sent out?" she inquired. "For the wedding, I mean."
Lumière shook his head. "I mean to send this the week the wedding is scheduled. I… could not rest until I was sure I had a well-written excuse for when it arrives. My prediction is I will not be in as sound of mind when the time comes as I am now."
She nodded. "In this circumstance… probably best to be prepared."
He said nothing, and instead, stared at the words he had written as though he were reading it over, but in reality, he wasn't seeing any of it. He had moments where despite how useless it was, he would think back on how he had even arrived at this point in time, deceiving both his closest friend since boyhood and his friend's fiancée with the idea that he didn't unequivocally love her with all his heart, body, and soul. He had tried to pinpoint when and where it had all begun, but his feelings for her had come on so slowly, there wasn't a chance he would be able to solve that mystery. There had been so many moments where she had not only enchanted him, but completely baffled him, even frustrated him. She had fought with him, scolded him, then teased him, shared her strikingly similar views on the world with him, and eventually… kissed him, over and over in that time alone with her now lost forever, all while carrying this burning, passionate fire for life inside her.
With the number of delightful and not-so-delightful women he had come across in his lifetime, he had been convinced there wasn't one alive he could be so enraptured by, only for there to indeed be such a lady, and to turn out she could never truly be his. For years and years, he had lied his way out of trouble and freely juggled a multitude of women and their hearts. Was this meant to be justice? Was this a righteous sentence deemed by the powers-that-be?
This chasm of hopelessness in his stomach widened. Why couldn't he just let her go?
He leaned his forehead into his hand, covering his eyes and breathing deeply to stem the oncoming of tears. How desperately he wanted to collapse and yet couldn't. Life went on, and it wouldn't wait for him to catch up if he did. He could only compare this kind of loss to when his father had passed away, but… in many ways, this… thing with Nicolas and Babette was much worse. With his father, he had closure, even if there were still days when Lumière missed him terribly, with all his wisdom and dry sense of humor, even his annoying ability to predict Lumière's actions, as spontaneous as Lumière used to think he was.
No, the horrendous love triangle Lumière had unwittingly become a part of had no end. There would be no closure. He would live on, and so would they, married, while he probably died a confirmed bachelor, just as he always had bragged about. He never imagined the thought of that would leave him feeling so worthless.
He then felt a hand on his shoulder while another was taking his hand off his desk. "Viens, stand up for me," she gently coaxed.
He didn't want to move, but he had no reason not to do as she bid: He slowly rose, letting her grip assist him. Then she was pulling him close into… a hug.
Blinking at this uncharacteristic show from Angélique, he waited for an explanation, but one never came. She merely… rubbed his back in the soothing way of a friend or… sister.
He let the pressure that had built itself up inside him out in one fell breath, and he embraced her back. Dieu, he felt so broken. In truth, he hadn't been held like this in months. Not until this moment did he realize how much he had truly craved this kind of contact. Since Babette had left the château, he must have been suppressing the need.
He allowed himself to take to this willingly, as strange as it felt at first, but before he knew it, he had buried his face in her shoulder, just letting himself bask in the comfort of being held by another person.
She stilled then, still holding him but not as strongly, and he knew this long was about as much as she could handle, even if for him, it felt a little too soon.
He lifted his head and Angélique pulled away to be at arms' length. "You may deserve plenty of things, but… this is not one of them. Do not hesitate to come to me." Her stare unwavering, she iterated, "You're going to get through this. Comprends?"
That prompted him to grin, even if it was small. "As you command, mon ange."
She nodded and released him, mirroring what smile he had. "Bon."
She made her leave, and he slowly returned to his desk. He heard the door open, but when he didn't hear it shut immediately, he looked up to see her facing the hall before she suddenly turned her head toward him.
"I understand what you're going through… somewhat," she admitted. "I miss her, too."
Her blue eyes flitted to him and he recognized a familiar bit of longing in them, but then she blinked and speedily added, "Perhaps it is not comparable to what you feel, but… still."
Yet he wasn't offended in the slightest. In fact, he agreed, "She is your equal."
This time, when her eyes met his again, they were piercing and steadfast. "And she is yours."
Lumière froze at her words, but they weren't exactly… painful. It was a reassurance more than anything—a confirmation that he hadn't been completely out of his league. It was even… a compliment.
Angélique had already shut his door when he came to his senses, and he breathed a laugh. The two most critical perfectionists he had ever known, both giving him praise on the same day. If he could appreciate anything in his current state, that fact alone was it.
Three days had gone by since agreeing to the plan. It was time… at last.
While Babette sat at her vanity, she recalled what she had asked her father right before he had left her chambers that night:
"Papa… are you certain this is the only way?"
"It pains me to say it, but oui. It would be worse to wait, and this way, your departure will be quiet. No one will be the wiser for days, perhaps weeks. It is for the best. I promise."
She wanted to believe that so badly, especially with how she was just within hours of seeing her beloved, but… at what cost?
Watching her own eyes in the mirror, she took a deep breath. Unfortunately, it didn't do much to steady her. Her insides still quaked and trembled from this concoction of excitement, nervousness, and fear. It would all go into motion the moment she walked into the breakfast parlor. Whether she was fully prepared or not, the time was now.
She fiddled with her now ringless fingers. The day before, a servant had been sent out on a usual errand to also discreetly return Nicolas' engagement ring, safe and sound. Her father had really made sure everything was tied up neatly so she could fly the nest unfettered. Though thrilling, it was a… terrifying thought.
As the viscountess mused on the lack of weight on her finger, literally and rather figuratively, Bernadette placed the last pin into Babette's chignon. "There," she announced, calling her mistress out of her thoughts, but not soon enough for her maid not to notice the apprehension on her face. Then Bernadette rested her hands on Babette's shoulders and gave her an encouraging smile through the mirror, her voice soft. "Are you ready?"
Babette bit her lip before she answered, "I want to be."
Her maid's smile widened. "You are going to be fine, mademoiselle. More than fine."
"How—" Babette stopped herself, but she truly couldn't keep herself from asking, "How do you know?"
"Because," Bernadette assured, "you are following your heart."
Babette almost snorted. "That did not turn out so well for Tristan and Iseult. Or Romeo and Juliet. In fact, death seems to be a common theme in this circumstance."
"Those are just stories!" Bernadette said, chuckling. "Life can work out much differently than one concocted by an author. Imagine if Greek myths had really happened!"
"Heaven forbid!" Babette laughed with her, but as soon as it faded away, her eyes became earnest. "But truly… do you… do you think I am doing the right thing?"
"Babette," her maid addressed firmly but benevolently, capturing the vicomtesse's full attention. "This is what you want, is it not?"
Her voice came out as a whisper. "More than anything."
"Then that is all you need to know. You have an opportunity to experience true happiness… something not many of us are given, or even see in our whole lifetimes. You must take it." Bernadette gave her shoulders a heartening squeeze. "And do not worry. Everything will be taken care of. We are all on your side."
Babette struggled to breathe from the unexpected emotion that arose, but she then nodded vigorously as she stood. She turned to her maid and, holding out her arms, drew her into a hug. When she managed to form words, she whispered, "Merci… merci beaucoup, Bernadette."
"De rien, maîtresse," she replied, beaming as she withdrew. "It has been the greatest honor and privilege serving you. Late nights and all."
Babette had to giggle as she took up her maid's hands. "I am so happy to have found a friend in you. I will miss you dearly, chérie."
"As will I."
Babette blinked as it slowly dawned on her. "Wait… Oh, Dieu."
Bernadette grew worried as well. "What is it?"
Shocked at her own carelessness, Babette stared, wide-eyed. "What will happen to you when I'm gone?"
"Oh!" The maid breathed again, grinning at the question. "The master has confirmed I will still have employment here. I will simply return to cleaning, perhaps until I find another position as lady's maid elsewhere."
Babette sighed with relief. "Dieu merci! I am so sorry to have not considered that when deciding—"
"Please, mademoiselle, there is no need! This is an enormous change for you as it is. I am not in the least bit offended. I am just so lucky I work for such a caring and generous family."
Bernadette hesitated, but said anyway, "I want to tell you, before you leave… you have been… an inspiration to me. It has made me think…" She bit her lip, a smile peeking through. "I… have run into Marc—from Paris?—a few times in the square while running errands and, mademoiselle… my heart flutters so badly at the sight of him, and the way he looks at me just…"
She didn't need to say anything for Babette to know, and she grinned broadly at the sight. "Has he…?"
"Non, I think… he is too nervous. I was wondering…" Bernadette took a shaky breath. "Would it be too bold if I… ask him about… a courtship?"
"Bernadette," Babette said with such eager weight. "You would be my hero."
Bernadette's surprised laugh rang true, but Babette urged, "I mean it, with all my heart! And… that is the sweetest thing anyone has ever told me. You should follow your heart just as much. I want to see you as happy as I hope to be."
"You will. You absolutely will! He is such a good man, Babette." With a smirk, Bernadette added, "Perhaps a dangerous one, with the way he teases, but… he is perfect for you."
Babette admittedly blushed a bit at her words but couldn't keep herself from smiling anyway. "I will never be half the maid as you, but I am so glad to have a standard to live up to. Thank you for everything. And bonne chance! Will you promise to write to me?"
"Of course, mademoiselle."
"Bon." Babette gave her another hug in farewell, but also to help steel herself a bit more for what awaited her downstairs.
Babette gripped the railing as she walked carefully down the main staircase. Her main focus was on her breathing purely to keep her heart from racing so much. She tried not to think about what she was really doing. Only on the steps that must be taken.
At the edge of the doorway, she faltered, but she bolstered to herself, Think of where you will be in a few hours! You will be free from your bonds to society, your rank, from pretending altogether! You will be surrounded by hard-working, good, honest people who care about you, your well-being, and what you have to offer besides beauty, charm, and a child-bearing body. And most of all… you will be able to reconcile with him, and be near him every day… or as much as he will allow. You will be granted the time to make amends… for as long as it takes.
She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. She could do this.
And she stepped into the parlor.
Her mother, at seeing her, jumped up with a brilliant smile. "Bon anniversaire, ma douce fille!"
Babette almost tripped over the rug at her greeting. It was?
"Oh!" she exclaimed. Was that what Bernadette had said when she had come to her room this morning? She had thanked her without even registering it, she had been so caught up in her musings.
Any planned words she'd had flew from her head. "M—Merci, Maman."
Clarisse took her hands. "Here, come sit! I had your favorite made!"
The smell of nutmeg and cinnamon wafted to Babette in that moment, and she registered the plate of pain perdu and peach preserves on the table. "Oh," she moaned. "Ce semble délicieux!" Looking to the servants who had made and brought it out, she beamed at them. "Thank you."
They said nothing, but their smiles spoke volumes. She sat down to her meal as they bowed and curtsied out of the room.
Clarisse took up her tea, but then her eyes swept her daughter's outfit. "Ah, yes. You're going riding with Nicolas today, aren't you?" she recalled.
Babette had already eagerly taken to mixing the simple syrup of the peaches with the bread and taken a delectable bite. She was glad she had an excuse not to speak immediately so she could regather her thoughts, but she took note of the disappointment that had crossed her mother's expression. "Oui," she said. "Is there… something wrong?"
"Non, non, of course not," Clarisse waved away with a laugh. "I am happy to hear you're making arrangements with him on your own again."
Some of her nervousness was forgotten as Babette lifted a knowing brow. "Maman… what is on your mind?"
The comtesse tried to look innocent as she sipped from her cup, but Babette kept eyeing her with skepticism. Her mother resigned to her with a sigh. "I just thought it such a lovely morning to… tend to the garden, since it is finally nice and dry after the rain we've had. I was going to ask if you would like to join me."
Babette's heart seemed to drop slowly off a cliff. With how wretched she suddenly felt, she regretted having ever pried. Keep it together! she urged.
Bracing herself, she answered with as much encouragement as she could muster, while praying what she said was true, "Perhaps… another day. One just as fine as this one."
"Oui," Clarisse answered adamantly. "We certainly shall."
She took to looking out the window beside them to said garden, and Babette ate in silence, her mind frantic with things she could say, things she wanted to say, and some of which she couldn't. "I'm… sorry we still have not managed to work on le jardin together."
"Well, we have had a fairly wet spring," Clarisse reasoned. "That means there shall be plenty to do in the summer."
Babette managed to mirror her smile, nodding in agreement before returning her attention to her petit-déjeuner. She was almost afraid to continue conversing for fear of giving something away, but on the other hand… this was the last time she might be speaking amicably with her mother for a long, long time… if at all ever again.
She swallowed her last bite and set her gaze on Clarisse; she wasn't going to let this opportunity pass her by either. "What have you managed to plant?"
Clarisse's eyes brightened and Babette grinned at the sight like it was a reflex. Her mother set down her tea as she said, "You remember the lilies we planted in autumn?"
At Babette's confirmation, she pointed out the window to a section of the garden relatively near the trees arranged along its edges. "You can't see them too well from here, but contrary to what they told us at the market, the seeds did take for this season! They are blooming marvelously!"
Clarisse went on, naming the species she was keen would do well, some she had uprooted and moved in hopes of them doing better, and those she aspired to bring to the garden next. Babette listened and followed where she indicated attentively, a faint smile residing on her lips the entire time. Her mother really did light up a room, most especially about her passions. She didn't look to be one who would kneel down in the dirt and dig her hands into the soil, but that was one of the qualities Babette admired her for. She wasn't dainty nor believed herself to be above doing a task on her own. If she wanted to do it, she would do it, and there was no point in arguing with her about it.
Babette had never considered herself to be anything like her mother, but perhaps there was at least one trait she had inherited from her, and it was something she was proud to have in common.
She had long finished her meal and was sipping the last dregs of her tea when she felt rather than heard her father approach. "Bonjour, Papa," she greeted as she stood.
"Bon anniversaire, ma petite," he answered, opening his arms to her, and she happily filled them.
"Merci," she replied with a chuckle, still surprised her birthday had snuck up on her like this. When she withdrew, she looked up to see René giving a telling look to her mother, as though there was a silent conversation occurring. She glanced warily between them, a corner of her mouth lifting. "What is going on?"
Clarisse sighed, as though giving in. "Your father is insisting we give you your gift now."
René was trying not to look triumphant, but a secret smile was clearly present. "I certainly am, chère, but… Babette, you may decide."
They both looked to her, and she knew she didn't truly have a choice, but it only made it all the more convincing. "If I am to be kept in suspense, I will have trouble thinking of little else all afternoon, even with Nicolas for company… and especially with what I am seeing," she added, drawing a finger between her parents.
Her father didn't hide his success now, and Clarisse rolled her eyes but had to laugh. "I am assuming you have it with you?"
"Naturally." And he brought a velvet-lined box out from behind his back and offered it to Babette.
She glanced between them as they took it and they exchanged silent excitement with each other. "Hmm…" she mused. "Whatever it is, it must be good."
She slowly opened the box for effect, but then her jaw dropped. It was a string of pearls and matching earrings. A single pearl connected by a small collection of black gems hung like a pendant.
"Do you like it?" Clarisse entreated, visibly nervous. "We know you like the simpler designs, and we wanted to give you something you could wear almost all the time. Pearls go with nearly anything."
Babette felt a trembling in her breath and hand. "Elles sont très belles," she professed, and hurried to give her mother a strong hug. "Thank you, thank you, merci beaucoup!" She kissed her cheek as she withdrew, her laugh weak from the strength of her feelings but sincere to a fault. "I am so incredibly spoiled."
Clarisse's smile had widened, clearly heartened by her daughter's reaction. "There is nothing you have been given that you did not deserve. You have earned every last bit of it."
Babette knew that if she tried to speak her voice would break, so she simply nodded.
Her mother sighed, gazing up at her. "I know that this… all of this has been difficult for you." She then swept a lock that had fallen out of place behind Babette's ear before she gripped her hands firmly and lovingly. "I couldn't be prouder of how you've grown. You are a woman now, ma chère."
A pressure was building behind Babette's eyes as she digested her words. She couldn't shatter —not now—but the weight of the sky seemed to press even harder on her shoulders in that moment. Then that assured voice made its presence known again: Bear it a little longer… and then you are free.
She took a slow, deep breath again, and her breath was barely higher than a whisper. "That… means the world to me, Maman. Truly."
"Of course, chérie. And I mean every word," Clarisse murmured back.
Babette didn't know what to think or feel, else she be overwhelmed, but she didn't let go of her mother's hands, not until René placed his hand on her shoulder.
"The carriage is ready," he informed. "Let's not keep poor Nicolas waiting, shall we?"
The ladies grinned at his teasing tone. "Of course not," Clarisse agreed. "The sweet boy deserves punctuality at the very least."
Babette mustered a laugh to her own surprise. "He does."
Her mother smiled at her with more love and pride than Babette was used to being witness to… Or did it just seem like it?
"Enjoy your gallop!" Clarisse said as she stood from the table. "And feel free to take dinner there if they offer."
"Mais oui, Maman," Babette replied dutifully, but a lump was forming in her throat. "Goodbye."
"Au revoir, darling." On Clarisse's way out of the breakfast parlor, she touched Babette's cheek, her thumb tracing her cheekbone. "Have a wonderful time."
Babette felt the sensation of a scream build, and somehow, the self-control her parents had bred into her truly came to be her saving grace. How was her own mother able to look into her eyes and not see what she was feeling? Was Clarisse's felicity over her daughter's engagement glazing her view? Was this the blissful result of her ignorance?
There was a pang in her chest she could barely identify. Speak! "Merci. I will."
And Clarisse's gaze moved on to face the day, and with the impeccable walk and posture of a woman of the best breeding, she left the room.
Babette was immediately pulled into her father's ever-reassuring gravity, her arms finding him of their own accord to grip him like a lifeline. She clenched her jaw and pursed her lips so tightly as to muffle the sound of oncoming sobs.
"Babette," René whispered, rubbing her back. "Deep breaths, my love. Deep breaths…"
She clung to the order and obeyed with all her might. He was right. She had to pull herself together. This wasn't the end. The rift would be healed. Once her mother came to see this was the best decision for Babette and their legacy, she would forgive them in time. She would.
With one last shaky sigh, her father led her outside where the carriage waited and a stable boy sat astride her horse, Harmonie. "Your luggage is inside, so it will be a touch cramped," he said. "But you are all set to depart."
Babette was still, awe having overshadowed her remaining bleak and dismal thoughts. "I…" She stared up at him. Why on earth did words seem so impossible this morning? "I do not know what other father would have done all of this. It is…" An airy giggle rose up, making her cheeks hurt from the smile it produced. "It is probably the craziest thing that any father has ever done, and I am… truly, the luckiest girl in the entire world."
René clearly found her smile contagious. "You are. And I certainly am worthy of being committed to an asylum. But it is a price I'm willing to pay in order for you to find your own place in this life. Montaigne says, 'Our great and glorious masterpiece is to live appropriately,' to live as it suits us as individuals. Times are changing; the value of freedom is growing, and most of all… I want you to benefit from it. I am just thankful to be in the position to grant you yours." He cupped her face tenderly, his gaze unwavering. "You, ma petite, are all I could have hoped for in a child and more."
Babette's eyes were welling with tears of joy. "Je t'aime, Papa," she breathed before she clasped him in a tight hug.
He gently rocked her from side-to-side as he kissed into her hair. "Je t'aime aussi… toujours."
Looking up at him, she promised, "I will never forget to write."
"Non, you won't," he confirmed with a humored grin. "Or I will assume the worst and come knocking on that château's door, guaranteed."
Her eyes sparkled with their familiar mischief. "Then I know how to make you come visit me."
"And you will receive a firm scolding for it," he replied in kind before kissing her forehead one last time and handing her into the open carriage. "I'll not keep you any longer. Bon voyage, Babette."
Her foot on the step, she squeezed his hand. "Au revoir, Papa. I will never be able to say it enough, but… thank you… for everything."
With utmost seriousness and sincerity, he answered, "You deserve every part of it. Remember that."
Getting choked up again, she nodded and let him urge her into the carriage. Marc shut the door, giving her a delighted smile, which Babette gaped at.
With a laugh, the footman simply answered, "Master allowed me to see you off, mademoiselle,on your maid's behalf."
Babette was still processing the sweetness of the darling gesture as he went to his place at the back of the carriage and knocked on side to cue them go. The coachman shook the reins and began to follow the drive and proceed to its ruse of heading to La Bazolle instead of south to the castle. All the while, Babette never stopped waving to her father, not before he was out of sight.
Her heart was beating rapidly in her chest. It was happening. Le Château du Lac and its inhabitants awaited her. The man she was certain was her âme sœur awaited her. The pain of leaving behind all she knew still remained, but hope for the future burned hot and bright in her chest.
Then Babette's eyes widened and her breathing seized. She opened the door as it was moving and stuck out her head. "Firmin!"
The graying coachman immediately pulled the horses to a stop. "Oui, ma'amoiselle! What be the matter?"
"Keep heading to La Bazolle! I have to see Nicolas."
Yes—I'm still here! And only have ONE MORE CHAPTER! Stick with me a little longer and I hope to make it up to you! Thank you so much!