Chapter 208 Not Just Any Book
Andre supped from his cup of coffee listening intently to Lady C explain of her wishes to visit Paris. Though he was astounded, nay, shocked, that she'd found his suggestion so agreeable, his surprise was usurped by in what detail she'd laid out their plans. There were allowances for detours here and there that she thought might be of interest to him as well as herself. It was almost as if his accompaniment would closer resemble that of a family member than of a servant or aide. They'd be gone a total of two and one half weeks; the longest he assumed, she'd ever been away from her manor since she'd occupied it after her father's death. Lady C had clearly outlined what was to be done in their absence, and what was to be prepared for their return. By his estimation, she intended to return with quite a large supply of goods, taking in the pleasure of selecting them herself at all the finest purveyors.
Andre had always admired her use of gesture, the way she held her hands when she spoke; the way in which she looked someone directly in the eye when she spoke to them. She sat, her spine rigid, her chin slightly elevated but not in a snobbish but rather a regal way, her shoulders square. It was her normal repose whenever she spoke of something of a serious nature. He'd never seen anyone quite like her outside of the Royal court; he genuinely admired her.
"Now, as to who shall tend to our needs whilst we travel. I rely on you Andre to select two members of our staff to accompany us. They're to be instructed to bring with them several of their formal garments. I've no doubt they shall need them for dinners, and other such formal occasions."
Lady C stood abruptly. "Now Andre, do send in the maid once more. I've a trunk to pack, and you've some to do as well." She supped from her cup, and then abandoned it as she moved toward her dresser. "We shall depart by the lunch hour. Do have the kitchen staff pack several baskets for us, as well as prepare a light tea before we depart."
Andre stood, ready to offer his acknowledgement and pleasure.
Lady C glanced up, walking over to Andre, a serious yet vulnerable look in her eye. "It has been a great long while since I've traveled…" she paused, "I am not all that accustomed to moving about in the hustle and bustle of great throngs of people of whom I've made no acquaintance. Chauesser is the great exception. There people are respectful and considerate. I do fear that a City the likes of Paris will not be as warm or gentle. And certainly not so with being all the busier with Dickens' passing." She reached out and touched his arm. "Do know sir that I shall rely on you much as a mother would a son, and implore you to not find offense if I am from time-to-time abrupt and ill natured during our journey. I've no doubt I shall adapt, but it may take some time to do so."
Andre came forward, taking Lady C's hand, lifting it placing a gentle kiss on her knuckles. "It shall be both a pleasure and an honor dear lady for me to accompany you. You have my word that I shall do all that a son wouldst so do for a mother. It is the very least I am to do in order that I may repay your kindness in allowing me to travel with you." He lifted his head, gently releasing her hand. "And might I add that it is a splendid thing that you do for yourself to visit Paris. It is truly a City to behold, full of interesting things and curious people. Though they are much more impersonal than Chauesser to be sure, they are hardly as rude as some Cities." Andre paused, then offered further words of encouragement.
"Though it is a sad happening that draws us to a visit there, I think you will find that it will be both refreshing and rejuvenating." He smiled at her, staring into her eyes for a short while before adding. "Lady C, I've long been in your faithful service, and both admire and respect you as my employer, and the benefactor of the City of Chauesser. But, as time has progressed, and with the loss of my own mother, might I say that being in your employ has provided much comfort to my heart, and what fortunate thing it would be that I might find myself the son of such a lady." He looked at her once before he bowed his head.
Lady C found herself nearly speechless, having not expected such emotion from Andre. She knew him to be rather stoic like herself. She blinked. Perhaps his outpouring was her fault as she had herself begun this discourse. She nodded at Andre, one last glance exchanged before he departed, the door closing behind him.
She turned walking over to the window. Oh that she'd had opportunity to raise their son. Might he be as fine a person as this young man? A tear ran down her cheek. She brushed it away, returning to her packing. Why she would torture herself so, she did not know any longer. She could no sooner alter her past, reclaiming both her son and her lover, than she could capture the moon or the sun. It was an elusive dream that would haunt and taunt her forever she was certain. She sighed sorrowfully. She would make the best of their travels to Paris. Perhaps it would be as Andre said "rejuvenating", one could only hope so.
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Pyotr had sat for such a long while that he'd fallen asleep. He startled, a horrified gasp rising from his chest; he felt like he was in a great tomb. Sitting up, blinking, he tried to regain his faculties. He tipped his head to one side, stretching his neck to listen; he heard nothing. As his breathing returned to normal, he slowly began to rise, standing on the crates to lift the door just enough to glimpse the overturned crates that lay scattered about. He closed the door slowly, fearing only that the creaking of the wood would betray him. He sat back down on the crate below. He'd wait. Now that he was awake, and knew it to be the full light of day, he had need to be all the more cautious. For if found now, goods in hand, surely he and Sebastian would both be hanging by their necks in some prison abandoned for eternity.
He sighed, settling himself with his coat propped beneath him as a means of comfort. There was something to be said for the need of patience in his particular profession.
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Nadir turned his head quickly, hearing the rap on the door. His neck screamed of the pain, a shot of intense warmth running through the protesting muscles. He'd been so deep in thought, so focused on his work, that he'd nearly lost perspective of where he even was.
"Come in!" he called out, rubbing at the back of his neck, then stretching his arms far above his head. He looked down at his cup of coffee. It had lost it's warmth, and appeal. He fully expected that it would be one of the kitchen staff, come to refresh his coffee, and perhaps bring a bit of an early tea for him. The biscotti had been devoured hours ago, and his stomach now had begun its characteristic low rumble. He returned to his work, the blotter rocking back and forth over his last words.
He listened as the door opened and closed. The sound of the teapot rattling on the tray as it was placed on the small table behind him, reaffirmed that he'd been correct. "Thank you," he didn't look up. "I'm sure to be taking my dinner here as well, if you'd be so kind to make such…" he startled. A gentle hand on his shoulder and a soft brush of lips across his cheekbone told him who it was that paid a call on him, and it was most certainly not a cook.
"I trust the writing is going well?" she said inquisitively, as she came to rest on the divan just off to the side of his desk. "I should think this to be quite an honor?" He eyes were roaming Nadir's face. He looked tired and worn, but pleasantly spent.
"Antoinette!" He smiled, rising to take her hands in his, kissing her lightly on the cheek in return. "I'd rather thought you'd still be cross with me." He said, a playful tone in his voice as he watched her pour a cup of tea for both of them.
"Cross with you good sir? On the contrary," she walked toward him as he reseated himself at his desk. She smiled, patting her hand on his shoulder before walking back to the divan. "I shan't be cross Nadir, though I dare say a certain someone who was expecting your presence may not well receive an empty carriage!" She took a sip out of her cup.
"Ah yes, our mutual friend indeed. Yes, he would be most vexed if a carriage containing nothing but shipped goods arrived, no friend in sight, but you see, I'd delivered a note to the carriage driver, who wouldst have been driving me, last evening before I retired. One of Monsieur Courtland's household has surely been dispatched to retrieve me. When they arrive, they shall be given my note of most apologetic regret." Nadir nodded, lifting the cup toward Madame Giry as if he were toasting her.
She smiled at Nadir, "I do think he shall regret missing the funeral, though it would hardly be practical for him to attend," she said glancing down. "Furthermore, Erik would have not only condoned, but likely would have encouraged you to do this most noble work Nadir."
She shifted her weight standing to walk around the desk, running her hands along the open volumes splayed across his desk. "He was indeed a talented man." Her eye took on a reflective glaze. "A talented life cut short, in the midst of the very bloom of his creative genius." She lifted one of the volumes into her hands. "It is a shame, a true bitterness of fate really that things turn as they do. For some a life of forty years would give opportunity for due diligence in order that they might accomplish all that they were born to. At the end of their fortieth year, death would not deprive us of anything more than their company. But for a man such as this…" she thumbed through the pages of the book. "A life of a hundred years might not have been sufficient, and his death even then would have left the world wanting of more."
Nadir looked at Madame Giry in utter amazement. He laid his pen down, walking around the desk, taking her hands into his. "My dear Antoinette, you've happened upon the very words I shall use to describe, in splendid brevity, the very thought I struggled to capture!" He leaned forward placing a kiss on her cheek, a childish grin crossing his face. "You do not mind if I borrow tour words do you my dear?"
Madame Giry was blushing. She'd never thought herself to be eloquent, and certainly not worthy of quoting. There were many great and diverse minds who would so aptly put a wonderful depiction of this author's life into words. "Nadir, I must humbly decline, for I'm not gifted in being……."
Nadir laughed, shaking his head. "My dear, you are at once a talented ballet mistress and an eloquent speaker. Brevity is indeed a gift when you are to consider how precious little space will be afforded this display. Your very words embody the opinion of many of his faithfuls."
Nadir pecked her cheek once more before he returned to his work, feverishly penning the thoughts before the aura of the moment escaped him."
Madame Giry rose to leave him to his work, setting her cup on the tray.
Nadir's eyes did not move from his work, but his arm stretched out his hand into the air, "do stay dear Lady, do stay."
Madame Giry's heart was filled with familiar warmth as she moved forward lightly running her fingers gently along his palm. They'd grown so comfortable with one another, that even silent presence provided a sense of comfort to the other. Slowly her hand left his as she walked over to the tray pouring herself another cup of tea. The books on Nadir's desk beckoned her like old friends. She lifted a copy of 'Oliver Twist' caressing the spine. Yes, surely Erik would approve most heartily of Nadir's endeavors.
The room was silent save the telltale sound of a writer's pen making its tiny etched strokes on the parchment. The raven-black, indelible ink staining the surface of the ivory page in familiar characters and symbols, thus recording forever the author's work. They will be later read and comprehended by people whom the author may never meet, or perhaps whose life may not even begin before the author's ended. Thus was the purpose of a true historian. They did not live and toil for their own benefit, recognition, or flattering commendation. They live to record thoughts, feelings, truths, and suppositions so that future generations might understand the time in which they lived, with flawless clarity. There was the occasional pause to re-ink the pen in the well before the sound returned.
There was the soft tone of Madame Giry's thumb sliding across the corner of the page as she turned and smoothed it into place as she read. The small crackle of the fire in the fireplace lit only to take the edge off the damp coolness in the air. It was not unspoiled silence, but one full of near silent things that assisted in Nadir's concentration. He'd grown rather fond of Madame Giry's companionship, and though he longed to see Erik and Christine, the thought of an afternoon spent with Madame Giry such as it were, was an entirely pleasant delay.
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Lucien scrambled about. The bread was baking in the oven. He had several pots simmering on the stove. His clothes freshly pressed, the bottle of wine on the table. Now he would tend to his bathing and grooming. It would not be long and the woman would arrive for her visit.
He sighed, a mental shift would be needed to complete the transition from the man who'd been scrawling enflaming words under the protection of a nom de plume, to the man who was employed as propsmaster by the Opera Populaire. Nothing would provide a better catalyst than a hot bath and a snifter of brandy.
Having poured in the last of the hot water from the stove, he slipped his feet into the steaming fluid, wincing from the warmth more suitably described as hot. Once submersed his muscles would thank him for it, but now, his skin protested until it took on a strange sort of numb. Yes, this is where he could gain the focus that he needed to entertain this guest.
Soon they'd be at the end of their arrangement and she'd either choose to continue to come of her own volition, or she would once more blend into the staff as if he'd not existed at all. Whatever she chose, he was thankful she'd kept her word, for it meant so very much to him.
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Nicole moved toward the door of her bedchamber, leaning up against it to listen. The hour for a normal breakfast had come and gone. Her hunger was getting the better of her, and soon she feared her stomach would make such terrible clatter that it would sound like a wild animal had crawled into her room! If she were hungry, she knew well that her mother would be as well. She'd settled in her mind that she'd venture out slowly so that John Paul would have opportunity to surprise her if he was still inclined to do so.
Slowly she began to open the door, taking note at once that her mother's door was ajar. Her brow furrowed. Had her mother ventured out leaving her to sleep? But then she heard it. Quiet conversation with a bit of muffled laughter.
She walked silently to her mother's door, peering in through the small bit of space left from the door being ajar. At first she could not make out what on earth it was that John Paul and her mother were huddled over, but then her face grew a deep shade of crimson. It was the trunk. She closed her eyes. She wondered how much time they'd spent going over the items in it. They were the intimate, humorous, painful, details of her years on earth. They ranged from her first snips of hair, cut away only because it fell into her eyes, to her first lost tooth, to the first set of shoes she'd worn, to the very first story she'd written, the first picture she'd drawn. Her first pair of gloves, her first invitation to a ball. There had been so very much stored in that trunk, some of which she'd never wished for a single soul to have ever seen it, and there they were, huddled over it. Her mother appeared rather animated, and John Paul very interested in every amusing detail.
She shook her head. They both sat with a cup of coffee in hand, no doubt he'd gone to wake her first, and they'd lost track of time. She glanced over at the table, it was still set, and the loaf of bread sat in the center. A sheen on its crown from the butter that had been melted over it to keep the crust soft. She glanced back toward her mother's room. Her options were few. She could sneak out into the kitchen retrieving an apple and coffee, or she could stumble into her mother's room, appearing not to have noticed all of the preparations in the rooms behind her. The latter seemed to provide the best opportunity for preserving John Paul's feelings, and it would certainly be the most expeditious she decided.
She knocked lightly on her mother's door, trying to give appearance that she'd not noticed his presence. "Mother?", "oh, I am terribly….what is it that the two of you…."
Her mother began to laugh. Though it was somewhat weaker than it had been months ago, it was never-the-less genuine. "Dearest Nicole, do come in. I was just showing John Paul some of the precious treasures from your youth."
Nicole smiled as her mother and John Paul glanced at her; both pairs of eyes had a mischievous glint in them. John Paul extended his hand to Nicole, bidding that she join them sitting on her mother's bed. Nicole moved toward them, her hand reaching out for his. Her stomach made a great loud gurgling sound, causing her to flush yet again. "Forgive me…" she said, a great embarrassment in her tone.
John Paul stood, as if shaken from a stupor he'd fallen into. "I have been a most remiss house guest." He walked toward the door. "If you ladies would do me the honor, I'd love very much for you to join me in the kitchen for…a meal." The tops of his ears turned red, as well as the tip of his nose, as he looked at his watch realizing the hour. "You must be starved my dear!" He rose embracing Nicole.
He extended his arm, bent at the elbow to her mother, Nicole's hand already in his. "Now dear ladies, I've a bit of breakfast, though I dare say at this hour it will be more suitably called an early tea." He smiled, leading them to the table, pulling out their chairs for them. As he slid Nicole's in beneath her, he leaned down, placing a delicate kiss on her cheek. "Good morning my dear," he whispered in her ear.
Nicole blushed heavily; her mother tried not to notice. Her hand rose to cover her cheek. Just a week before, they'd sat at that very table, a mere collection of souls brought together by circumstance. Today they were family, though not yet by law, they felt one all the same. She smiled as John Paul returned to the table with copious plates of food. "Now my dearest ladies, this is the first I've prepared a meal for anyone other than myself, so do forgive me if it is not quite as palatable as the dishes you prepare. I do beg your tolerance if I might." He smiled at Nicole as he removed the domes from the serving plates. "I've been quite an observant student, but I dare say looks and taste may be two diverging opinions in this case."
The woman began serving the food onto their plates. Soon the prayer had been said, general compliments on the taste and texture had been made, and John Paul's obviously latent culinary skills exposed and massaged.
"I shan't think I could eat another bite." Nicole's mother said, looking down pitifully at all that remained on her plate. She lifted her dainty china cup from the saucer, pressing it delicately to her lips. "This was a most pleasant and unexpected surprise good sir." She reached over and patted John Paul's hand. "In fact, it has been a most pleasant morning." She smiled, glancing back and forth between John Paul and Nicole. "If you do not mind, let us see to the dishes, and then I should like very much to retire for a brief nap."
John Paul did not even look at Nicole before he responded. "You've not to lift a finger dear lady, if a rest is what you seek, it is what you should do first. There is no use in tiring yourself prematurely. This afternoon, providing on the good fates of the weather, perhaps we could go for a stroll, or a carriage ride." He felt himself growing eager to discuss the details of what sort of wedding the two of them envisioned. Soon his father would be in Chauesser, and such news would be better received if a firm plan were in place.
Nicole settled her mother into her bedchamber while John Paul tended to dishes from their meal. Nicole came out of her mother's room to find John Paul drying the last dish, putting it into the cupboard.
She went to John Paul, suddenly feeling as though she'd an ally with whom she'd discuss everything. It would be complicated for her, having been self reliant for nearly the length of her life. She'd a dilemma she'd need his advice for. There was the matter of the bag and books she'd found. Though they'd had a most pleasant morning, it burned in the back of her mind that she'd been utterly remiss in seeing to their delivery, and was entirely certain she'd not be at peace with herself until she'd returned them.
"There is a matter I'd like to discuss with you, if you would not mind an interruption." She was still unfamiliar with this new interaction, not being entirely sure how to approach, how to touch, how to be proper yet convey her affections. She stood before him, hands folded neatly in front of her as she watched him lay the linen towel over the side of the sink to dry.
John Paul turned toward her, smiling. Sensing her hesitation he came forward slowly looking down into her eyes as he placed a gentle kiss on her cheek. Carefully he lifted her hand and put it in the crook of his arm leading her out into the sitting area by the window overlooking the pines in the yard behind their dwelling. It was as far as they could venture for privacy. He sat down with her, somewhat closer than he would have done so prior to their engagement, and yet the idea was as new to him as it was to her. They'd learn so very much together.
"Now Nicole, what matter do you have need to discuss?" He said calmly, imagining it would have something to do with her mother, or their wedding perhaps. Or, even a question about his father whom they'd barely discussed.
"John Paul I've something of the man's that I've had since the evening he rescued my grandmother, though at first I'd forgotten I had it, but now I've found it again and it causes me great distress. A hero to be unrewarded is nearly unheard of, but for even what goods he had to be taken from him, is certainly no way to return the indebtedness that I feel for him." Nicole looked down at her lap, entirely certain she'd confused John Paul. She rose, "here, let me show you." She disappeared into her bedchamber.
At first John Paul's instinct was to follow her. But now, since his intentions had been made known, he'd not enter her room without escort. He sat back down waiting for her to return. He wondered whatever it would have been that she'd held those long months since the storm.
Nicole returned, small bag in hand. She sat down, putting the bag between them. "It should be known that though I did suffer through the temptation of opening even one, I did not." Nicole laughed nervously. "Though I did have quite a moral dilemma about it really." She glanced down at it and then at John Paul.
John Paul turned his head, looking down at the bag. He assumed she'd brought it out to show him, but would leave the actual discovery up to him. He reached inside and withdrew a strange leather volume, the oddest shade of scarlet he'd ever seen, with a distinct lock that truly only kept out the unimaginative. He took it into his hands, turning it over and over again in his hands, as his mind raced.
He turned most seriously toward Nicole. "Where did you have find these?" He looked at her in earnest?
"They were in the man's satchel." Concern grew on her face as she watched John Paul's brow furrow, and if she'd not known better. She'd have thought him to have suffocated for not an issue of air entered or left his lungs. "John Paul, whatever is it that causes you such despair?"
He shook his head just slightly looking deep into her eyes. "I've seen books exactly like these." He smoothed his hand over the worn colored leather. "They are most unusual are they not?"
Nicole nodded her head. She'd thought the same, for she'd never seen any others like them.
John Paul turned to sit facing Nicole. He took her left hand into his. His fingers caressing the ring on her finger. "Nicole, yesterday, when I'd gone to retrieve this ring, I realized I'd tucked it into a place you and I had yet to venture, that of the small collection of trunks that my grandfather had, of old letters, medical journals, and the like." He inhaled. When in my haste, I'd tucked the ring in the trunk I'd paid little mind as to what I'd pushed aside, quickly pushing books over the small box, leaving it there since I arrived." He looked at Nicole, a hint of some recognition beginning in her eye. "But yesterday, when I'd gone to retrieve it, of course I was in a much different state, actually looking at what I moved lest it be fragile or of some particular importance. Among the other volumes stored in that trunk, was a dozen, nay, maybe more, of books, though in much better condition than this one. It was the color that first drew me in, and I'd inspected the back, look here do you see this symbol?"
Nicole stared at John Paul, completely bewildered by the conversation.
John Paul continued, "Goater's was a lace company which started in 1821 in Nottingham. You might recall they were the first company to create embossed replicas of their lace so that they would not need to carry precious samples with them." John Paul looked at Nicole; he needed to further explain. "You see, this book was a tool that lace salesmen used to pin their samples in, see here this little hole at the top of each side, it runs the whole way through."
Nicole examined it with interest, still uncertain where the conversation would lead.
"Nicole, when my grandfather first came to Chauesser, his business was small. He had very little in the way of belongings, and even less money with which to start his practice, so he sold lace the first few years that he was here. He actually made quite a little money at it, being the only Goater's salesman in the area for hours around. He made enough to purchase the small equipment he needed, to furnish his office, and tuck a bit away in savings for a rainy day."
Nicole smiled at John Paul, thinking him to be quite mad.
"You see Nicole, my point is this. My grandfather had these particular books to use as a salesman for displaying lace samples. Once he was finished with the lace business, practicing as a physician only, he had compiled quite a number of these books. Knowing my grandfather, he was a frugal man, and likely re-used the books rather than to discard them."
Nicole's eyes began to light up.
"You see Nicole, the point is that somehow your new friend Monsieur Courtland and my grandfather were somehow connected. There is no other plausible explanation for the reason that Monsieur Courtland would have books that were identical, unless he too were a saleman of lace which is highly unlikely given his age. We shall have to inquire how he knew my grandfather, and by what means he came to possess the books, for there can be no other explanation than that my grandfather had given them to the man himself."
Nicole stared at John Paul. "My grandmother was convinced that she knew Monsieur Courtland, calling him by another name…I do not recall just now. Perhaps this man's father knew your grandfather?"
John Paul smiled. "You are both brilliant and beautiful my dear Nicole, that would explain a great deal indeed. We shall have to see to finding the man and returning the books to him. It is only what is right." He smiled again. "I should like very much to speak to someone who may have known my grandfather, or have heard about him."
He shifted on the divan. "Nicole, perhaps we can inquire at the mercantile. I understand that his staff return regularly to retrieve things that were ordered from Paris, and to tidy up the yard about their house. We could somehow plan for a visit to see him to return them."
Nicole was already nodding in agreement. "Do you think mother could make the journey? We've really no where else to leave her."
John Paul smiled, I'd neither leave her behind nor cause her peril. We shall find a way for the three of us to journey to see him. It would be a most interesting journey.
Nicole nodded, leaning into the crook of John Paul's outstretched arm. Having a companion with whom one could share such things, would indeed be an answered prayer.
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Erik lay listening to Christine talk of her childhood, as enamored with her descriptions as he had been when she'd spoken of them on what they now affectionately called their honeymoon. He admired how her eyes lit up when the thought were happy ones, and how they took on a more serious depth when she spoke of things that were either sad or unfortunate. She possessed both the genuine emotion, and the confidence to portray what she felt whenever they were alone, and it was all the more endearing to him each passing day.
"You see Erik, if our children are half the mischief makers that Meg and I were, we shall need additional pairs of hands to care for them!"
Erik ran his fingers mindlessly through her hair just looking down into her eyes and listening. "Are your tired Christine?"
Her uttering ceased as she turned her head on his arm, rolling over to look more fully into his eyes. "Tired is most certainly a changing thing. But, no, at the present, I am not tired." She ran her index finger up and down the center of his chest, tracing each rib before reaching the bottom and starting all over again.
"Good, then I've a surprise for you my dear, something I am certain will cause you to smile." He kissed her collarbone, rising, taking her hand into his. "Come, let us get you dressed in a comfortable gown." Erik said with a smile.
Christine was smiling widely. "My dearest husband, whatever is it that you have planned that you shan't be telling me of it straightaway?"
Erik simply smiled all the more. "You shall see my dear," he kissed her other shoulder, gently dropping the dress down over her head, he leaned forward and kissed the tip of her nose, "you shall see."