Letters to Lissie

by Katy Rose15

After waiting for two years, Ben is finally able to fight in the war for independence, leaving behind a worried and smitten Felicity. As the years go by, they keep in touch through letters, sharing their hopes, dreams, and fears, growing up together though apart. They had always been close. Could a close friendship lead to something deeper?

16. Chapter 16

Chapter 15

As the month crawled by, Felicity began to grow a bit bored. After a while, there really wasn't much to do on a ship. She had brought along her father's collection of Shakespeare for reading material, but every time she read it, every Hamlet, Romeo, Lysander, or any other lover became Ben in her mind, which made her pinch herself, and finally she decided that Shakespeare was only hurting her emotionally as well as physically, so she gave up and reread Gulliver's Travels. She and Jean Luc got to know each other quite well just in that month, and talked about anywhere from younger siblings to Caleb and Elizabeth. By the time they finally arrived in France, she knew nearly everything about him, right down to how he celebrated his fifth birthday. The day they arrived was a relief to Felicity; a month on a ship could start to drive a person crazy, especially when there wasn't much to do.

After they got off of the ship, it took them another two days to reach the Beaumont residence. It was late when they got there. Despite how tired she was, Felicity was nervous. How would they react to her? These were wealthy, upper class people, and French, no less. The fact that they were Elizabeth's inlaws was little consolation, considering that she had never met them herself. Neither had Caleb, really, at least not since he was a little boy. She stared up at the house in awe. It was an old brick house with ivy creeping up the side. It had huge windows, and was a good three stories high. It was almost as grand as the Templeton's manor back in Williamsburg. The property was huge, at least from what she could see. She could see a large stable a hundred feet away, and she could see the beginning of a large vineyard way in the back. She saw a grand garden on the side of the house, which she imagined would be a place where she would be quite content. Now, however, she could only gape. Jean Luc seemed to read her mind. "Do not be nervous," he said. "They will love you." She could only manage a weak smile. He led her inside the manor, which seemed even more grand on the inside than out. The foyer was large and airy, with a grand marble staircase in the corner. A large chandelier hung in the middle of the ceiling, which was decorated with images of angels. She stood in the grand doorway, her mouth hanging half open. She stayed in her trance until Jean Luc gently pulled her over to let the servant through with their trunks. "Papa?" he called. A second later, an older looking man emerged from the door straight across the room. He was shorter than Jean Luc, and his hair was gray (perhaps it was a wig; she couldn't tell). A pair of circular spectacles rested on his nose. He was a bit heavyset, but looked like a jovial sort of character. His face lit up when he saw his son. "Jean!" he exclaimed, rushing over and hugging Jean Luc tightly. Jean Luc smiled and hugged him back, truly happy to see his father again. Monsieur Beaumont then drew away and studied his son. The two chattered in rapid French for a moment, and Felicity stood politely off to the side, hands folded neatly in front of her, waiting to be introduced. Jean Luc then looked at her and smiled. He took her hand and brought her forward. "Papa," he said in English. "May I introduce Miss Felicity Merriman, the young lady who has so generously agreed to tutor the children for a few months, as well as a close friend of Caleb's fair wife, Elizabeth. And, Miss Merriman, this is my father, Alexandre Beaumont." Felicity dipped into a shy curtsy. "Bonsoir, Monsieur," she murmured. Monsieur Beaumont smiled and kissed her hand politely. "Enchànte, Mademoiselle," he said. "And welcome!"

"Merci," she said with a soft smile. "I am very glad to be here."

"The pleasure is all ours," he said. He had a very heavy French accent, heavier than Jean Luc's. Then, three little heads poked through the banister of the grand staircase. Jean Luc saw them and grinned. "Ah," he said. "And of course…"

"Jean Luc!" they cried, running down the stairs to meet their brother's embrace. There were two little girls, identical, with curly blonde hair and green eyes. They were probably about ten or so. The boy also had his sisters' curly blonde hair, though his eyes were brown, and he had freckles. "Sommer Sprossen," she thought, then pinched herself yet again. The girls hugged Jean Luc's waist tightly, and he lifted the boy high in the air. They all chattered in rapid French, then one of the girls looked at Felicity. "C'est la gouvernante?" she asked, pointing at her. Jean Luc nodded with a grin. "Mais oui," he answered. The boy looked at her. "Parlez-vous français?" he asked. Felicity also smiled and knelt to their eye level. "Oui," she answered. "Bonsoir, Monsieur, mademoiselle. Je m'appelle Mademoiselle Merriman." The three gawked at her, in awe of the American lady who spoke their language. "This is Christophe," said Monsieur Beaumont, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder. "And these are the twins, Jeanette and Isabella."

"Like the Christmas carol," added Jean Luc.

"Clever," said Felicity, wondering how on earth she was going to tell them apart. As if reading her thoughts-again-Jean Luc said, "The shorter one with the birthmark is Jeanette, and the taller one is Isabella."

"Thank you," she whispered. Then Monsieur Beaumont said, "You two must be exhausted, though I insist on hearing about your trip in the morning. In the meantime, Adèle will show you to your chamber, Mademoiselle."

"Merci," she said as the maid appeared.

"Follow me, s'il vous plaît," said Adèle. Felicity bid the rest of them bonne nuit and followed the maid upstairs.

Her bedchamber seemed larger than the parlor back home. The bed looked as though it could sleep three people, easily. The bedspread was white lace, and the curtains matched. A dark mahogany dressing table was directly across from the bed, and a white ornate mirror rested on top of it. Next to it stood a large clothes press, also a deep mahogany. The walls were painted white, and in the southeast corner of the room was a little sofa and fireplace. Directly across from it stood a pair of long French windows. She pulled the curtains back. Even though it was dark, she could see the outline of the small trees. She saw the vineyard, which stretched seemingly endlessly into the night. She smiled and drew the curtains again. She then looked up at the ceiling, where biblical scenes were carved out. How she wished she had Nan here to share this glorious room! It was the room of royalty. She then opened her trunk and dug out her nightgown. It was a mess, but she figured that she could iron and put her clothes away later. As she rummaged through it, her hand hit something hard. With a frown, she pulled it out, and then laughed when she realized it was her old doll Susanna. There was a note tied to her leg, written in Nan's elegant script. It read:
You didn't forget about me, did you, Lissie? If Nan or Polly can't come with you, at least I can, can't I?
Felicity laughed again and shook her head, then held the doll close to her heart. Somehow, her tiny silk dress was very comforting. It reminded her of home. Nan may have been prim and proper, but she did have a sense of humor. Still holding the doll, Felicity changed into her nightgown and climbed into the soft, heavenly cloud that was her bed.

She awoke the next morning to the curtains being thrust apart and sunlight hitting her closed eyes. Her eyes fluttered open to reveal Adèle, the maid. "Bonjour, mademoiselle!" she said cheerfully, pulling the covers back. "It is time to rise!" Felicity sat up. "Hm?" she asked sleepily. Adèle slipped Felicity's nightgown over her head, which she had not expected. Her hands flew to her bare shoulders, partly out of embarrassment and partly out of coldness. Adèle folded it and put it on the nearby chair. She then took the wash basin and pressed a warm, wet cloth to Felicity's face and neck. Next she took her underthings and started to slip them over her head. Finally, she reached for the gown, the simple blue one Felicity had laid out the night before and buttoned her up. She then pinned up her stubborn hair flawlessly and pinned a pinner cap on top. "There," she said. "And now Mademoiselle is ready!" Felicity just blinked, not quite sure what had just happened. "Um-Madame," she said. "This is very kind of you…but I am capable of dressing myself."

"Oh no, no, mademoiselle!" said Adèle. "You are the guest! You must not do anything for yourself! Please, do not rob us of the pleasure of serving you!" Felicity raised an eyebrow, hardly thinking it a pleasure, but she didn't object. After all, if someone was willing to serve you to your heart's content, you can't say no, can you? "Merci," she said finally. "That is very kind of you."

Felicity made her way down the marble staircase and into the grand dining room. Monsieur Beaumont and Jean Luc were already seated around the table. They smiled when she came in. "Bonjour, Mademoiselle," said Monsieur Beaumont. "I hope you slept well?"

"Very, thank you," said Felicity, sitting next to Jean Luc. He smiled at her again.

"I hope you are hungry," he said, gesturing to the plethora of food in front of them. She nodded and helped herself to a slice of ham. Soon the children came downstairs, sleep still in their eyes. They reminded her a little of William and Polly. Throughout the meal, Monsieur Beaumont asked about the trip, the colonies, Caleb and Elizabeth, and Felicity's family. She explained that she had three little siblings and that her father owned a general store. She mentioned Penny and Patriot, and she told about Elizabeth's and Caleb's romantic affair from a few years ago. She explained all of the messy details that went with it, then told how she and Elizabeth had been friends since they were nine. In telling about her life, however, she tactfully left out any mention of Ben. Jean Luc didn't notice, which was just as well. No one needed to know about their…affair, for lack of a better term.

After breakfast commenced her first lesson with the children. It wasn't much of a lesson, however; she set the day aside to get to know them better. Christophe was indeed seven, and his sisters were eleven. She learned their interests, which included pretty dresses, dancing, tea parties, horses, pretend sword fights, and climbing trees (you, the reader, can no doubt figure out whose interests were whose). She learned their favorite foods, colors, subjects, and games. She learned their hobbies, their birthdays, their likes, and their hates. The children seemed shy at first, but within ten minutes were talking her ear off, chattering rapidly about this, that, and the other thing. They asked about her family and where they lived and what her father did. They ranted about their own father and older brother and gossiped about the servants, which were good, which were bad, and which were having an affair with one another. Felicity didn't always catch what they were saying and had to ask them to repeat, but finally she gave up and resorted to smiling and nodding. By the end of the morning lesson, she was able to see that Jeanette was the more outgoing of the twins, while Isabella was more reserved. Christophe was even more talkative than both of them put together. He was very curious about America, and specifically about his cousins there. "What is it like in America?" he inquired (in French, naturally) "Is it really wild?" His eyes were wide with curiosity. Felicity laughed. "Not at all," she said. "Tis quite civilized. People live in small cottages on farms, and they live in good-sized houses in town. Some own large plantations in the countryside. There are stores and taverns and jails and doctors and lawyers and blacksmiths and carpenters and butchers and printers and every other occupation you can think of! There are big mansions where lords and ladies live, and where I live, there is a palace where the royal governor used to live. Until the war came, and he and his family fled back to England."

"War?" asked wide-eyed Isabella. Felicity nodded."For our independence from England," she said. "Your country helped us win. Your brother, even! For a few years, he was away in the navy." The girls' faces lit up in remembrance. "He was fighting in a war?" asked Jeanette, and Felicity nodded again. "That is why he was gone for a while," she explained. "That war was the most frightening thing I've ever seen, and I hope to never see anything like it again. It was a nightmare at home, even for those of us who weren't fighting."

"What was it like?" asked Christophe. She sighed. "Horrifying," she replied. "That's the best way I can describe it. It ruined people's houses, towns, and worst of all, lives. It took our loved ones away from us. Even if they returned home safely, they had seen so much that it scarred them for the rest of their lives. Emotionally, not just physically. They didn't always have food, and their clothes were tattered rags. Some didn't even have shoes! And back home, it wasn't much better. We didn't always have food either, and we had to fear for our lives just to go outside." The children gaped at her for a second. Then Isabella said, "People here don't always have a lot to eat either. Especially in Paris. Not because of war, though." Felicity frowned. She always pictured Paris to be a lovely, elegant city, not a starving, poverty-stricken one. "Why don't they?" she asked. Isabella shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "Papa once said something about them not being able to work and higher food prices."

"Hm," said Felicity. "Well, unfortunately, there is poverty everywhere in the world, isn't there? Let us just be thankful that we aren't one of them."

"Even in America?" asked Christophe, and Felicity nodded sadly. "Even in America," she said.

"Are our cousins poor?" asked Jeanette. Felicity bit her lip and chose her words carefully. "They are not wealthy," she said. "But I wouldn't call them 'poor'. You see, Caleb and his brother Zachary own a carpentry shop together. It was their father's before he gave it to them. They have a steady income, and Caleb is able to provide for himself and his wife and, down the road, I imagine children." They smiled. "What are they like?" asked Isabella.

"I don't know the family very well," said Felicity. "But they seem like gentle, loving people, even if they don't have much money." She then smiled. "Caleb is a lovely man," she said. "He works hard, and he is good at what he does. He's funny, too. Whenever his wife gets mad at him for whatever reason, he turns on this charm that somehow softens her and makes her forget what she was angry about."
"How old is he?" asked Jeanette.

"Twenty-two," Felicity answered. "His wife is nearly eighteen."

"What does he look like?" asked Christophe.

"He's tall," said Felicity. "He's tall, and he's blonde. He's got light blue eyes, and a gentle smile. He looks a little like Jean Luc, actually."

"And his wife?" asked Isabella. "What is her name?"

"Elizabeth," said Felicity. "She was my best friend growing up, and she still is. If it weren't for her, I wouldn't be here. She's petite, and she's also got blonde hair and blue eyes. She's English, you know." This got their attention even more. "Then why is she in America?" asked Christophe. "And married to a Frenchman?"

"They moved from London when she was nine," she explained. "And Caleb is an American. He's just got a French mother." Jeanette frowned. "Still," she said. "I didn't think Americans and the British liked each other. Why would she marry an American?"

"Tis a long, romantic story," said Felicity. "One that I will tell another time." The children's faces fell. "Oh, tell it now!" they begged. "S'il vous plaît, mademoiselle?" She laughed. "Another time," she promised. "For now, girls, go get your needles and thread. I'd like to see your samplers."

Felicity settled into French life easily. In the weeks that followed, she grew very close with the children and enjoyed their lessons. She worked with them on topics from penmanship and dancing to math and history, all the while teaching them English. Within a week, all three children could say, "Hello, my name is Jeanette/Isabella/Christophe. What is your name?" Every evening after supper, Jean Luc liked to take her on strolls in the vineyard, which she found lovely. She became accustomed to being served like a queen, and even started to dress the part. Often, aunts and cousins nearby would stop in and play dress-up with the "sweet, darling American girl." They made a pet out of her, exchanging her plain American clothes for elaborate French gowns and styling her hair elaborately. Wool and cotton were exchanged for chiffon and silk. Her black, heavy shoes were replaced with tiny brocade slippers that pinched her toes tremendously, though she didn't say anything about it. Painted, beaded combs took the place of simple hair pins. By the time they were finished, Felicity hardly recognized herself. She tried French wine and French cheese and escargot, which she found out were snails after she ate them (this did little to impress her). She started to feel like a cultured young lady instead of a gawky, horse-loving little girl. She soon had a womanly charm and wit about her that somehow is only found in France, and by the time the first party was had, she had became everyone's chèrie.

One Sunday afternoon, Jean Luc offered to take her to Paris for the day. Naturally, she accepted. The city wasn't exactly what she had expected. The houses were crammed together, and the streets were dirty. The stench of rotting food filled her nostrils as they walked through the marketplaces. At the same time, the scent of freshly baked bread wafted out of bakeries. She saw hungry, ragged children playing in the streets, and a weary looking mother calling them from a shabby looking front porch. As they walked along, she saw bakeries and butchers and milliners and every other kind of shop one could think of. As Jean Luc took her inside one of the bakeries to get some bread, she couldn't help but notice how sparse the place was, save for a few well-dressed patrons. After they left, they had not been walking five minutes before a ragged man pulled on Felicity's arm, begging her to spare a piece of bread. Jean Luc hissed, "No, now come along," and once he pulled Felicity away, she started to feel sorry. After they were a safe distance away, she said, "Pardon me, Jean Luc, I'd like to see something." He nodded. "Don't go far," he said. She agreed and turned the corner to where the beggar was. She knelt down and broke off a piece of the bread. "Monsieur," she said, slowly offering it. The man's eyes lit up. "Merci, mademoiselle!" he said gratefully, scarfing it down. "God bless you!"
"And you, sir," she said quietly before going back to join Jean Luc.

He luckily didn't ask what she had been doing. The two walked along for a while in silence. Then Felicity asked, "Jean Luc? Why are there so many poor people here? There seem to be more so than in a typical city."

"No money," he explained. "France has spent a tremendous amount helping America in the war, and now because of it, food prices are getting higher as well as unemployment rates. Not to mention the fact that we commoners have to pay a hundred percent of the taxes here, so tis no wonder why many are so poor."

"Even you and your family are commoners?" she asked. He nodded.

"Unless you are clergy or nobility," he said. "You pay taxes. We are just lucky enough to be able to live like nobility."

"That doesn't seem very fair," she remarked.

"It isn't," he agreed. "But it is what it is." "Has anyone tried to rebel against it?" she asked.

"Perhaps a few," he said. "But nothing serious."

"Do you think it could turn into a serious rebellion?"
Jean Luc shrugged. "I do not know," he said. "It has been this way forever, and I believe it always shall. I think that the money issue will get better with time." She said nothing. "The part that bothers me," he went on. "Is that many are poor and are starving in the streets, as you have seen, and at the same time the king and queen and lords and ladies and dukes and duchesses get to sit in their elaborate palace, completely oblivious to their subjects."

"Do you not like the king and queen?" she asked.

"All in all, I don't think they are too bad of rulers," he said. "France has had worse, I will tell you that much. But I feel as though they are ignorant of the outside world. Honestly, I really do not think they do much for anybody. But then again, has any king or queen?"

"How long have they been in power?" she asked. Jean Luc thought a moment, then answered, "Since 1774, which was nine years ago, I think? He was only twenty when he took the throne."

"That's awfully young," she said. "No wonder he didn't know how to run the country."

"I do not think I could," he said. "Even if I were fifty. And why the interest in French government?"

"I'm just curious," she said. "In the colonies, the king of England was absolutely loathed. I was just wondering how the French felt about their king."

"Some love him, some loathe him," he said matter-of-factly. "Our family is somewhere in the middle." They were quiet for a while. Then Jean Luc pointed and said, "There is the cathedral of Notre Dame." Felicity looked up at the huge cathedral. "My goodness!" she exclaimed. "That makes the grandest church in all of the colonies seem like a log cabin!"

"It is about six hundred years old," he said. She did a low whistle. "That was before anyone knew that America existed." He frowned a little. "You can whistle?" he asked.
"Of course," she replied, whistling a more shrill one. "Can't you?"

"Yes, but I do not think it is a very becoming habit," he said. "Especially for a lady." She just rolled her eyes. "Neither is rolling your eyes," he said. "Now come. I will take you inside."

After her day in Paris, she finally got the chance to write home. It had been two months since she had left, and she was really starting to miss them. In her neatest handwriting, she wrote:

My dearest parents and siblings,
France is wonderful. That is all I can say. Everyone here is ever so kind; Monsieur Beaumont treats me as if I were his own daughter. And Jean Luc's aunts have made a complete pet out of me, dressing me in all sorts of finery that you do not see in the colonies. When Monsieur has a party, I never feel out of place! William, I think you would laugh if you saw me.
The children are such a joy to teach! There are twin girls, Jeanette and Isabella. They are eleven. They have a younger brother, Christophe, who is seven. I teach them everything, from dancing and stitchery to math and history, all the while teaching them English. They are coming along quite well, if I do say so myself. I like to think that Miss Manderly would be proud of me.
Today Jean Luc took me to Paris. It wasn't exactly what I had expected. It was smelly and dirty and poor, at least most of it was. Tis no wonder, either. Commoners have to pay a hundred percent of taxes here, which means that only nobility and clergy are exempt from it. I don't think this is a good system, but what do I know about running a country? All I know is that people typically don't like being taxed. He did take me to the cathedral of Notre Dame, which was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Tis over six hundred years old! We went inside, and this overwhelming sense of holiness comes over you immediately. I truly felt as though I were in the presence of God, more so than I ever have. The city itself is older than the hills; Williamsburg is not even an infant compared to it! Jean Luc says that Ben Franklin has been in the city for quite some time now and is wishing to return home. Tis nice to know that I'm not the only American in this foreign land. We also rode past the château de Versailles. To say that the old governor's palace in Williamsburg is the American version of it would be a big understatement.
The Beaumonts' manor is beautiful, as well as the vineyard. I have my own room, which is even larger than our parlor, I think. Oh Nan, I wish you could see it! Jean Luc takes me on walks in the vineyard nearly every evening. And I even have a maid, who actually dresses me in the morning. Is that service or is that service?
As for the food…the cheese is le crème de la crème. So is the wine and the bread. But they actually eat snails! I didn't realize what they were until after I ate them.
To be frank, it is lovely here. I am treated as royalty, even though I am only the governess. The property is beautiful, and the people are charming. I think I would be content to stay here forever. I miss all of you. Give my Penny and Patriot a kiss for me, will you?
All my love,
Felicity.

July turned into August, and the weather was hot. The children were progressing nicely, and though she could hardly believe it, Felicity was halfway through her stay. One warm evening, she and Jean Luc strolled through the vineyard, as was their nightly routine. "I sometimes wish I could stay here forever," she said at one point. "Everything here is so wonderful."

"I am glad you like it," he said. "I was hoping you would. Is it nicer than America?"

"Tis more elegant and refined," she said. "Though I don't agree on your ways of government." Jean Luc laughed. "If the king and queen have a son," he said. "You will have to marry him. Then you will be queen and can make whatever rules you like."

"No, thank you," she said. "If they had a son this year, then I would be eighteen years older than my husband. I prefer someone who is a bit older than me."

"How old?" he asked. "Forty?"

"No," she laughed. "Not forty. More like twenty, or twenty-five at the oldest." He smiled a little bit, and she did likewise. "Don't you get any ideas, Jean Luc Beaumont," she half-teased. "This is strictly a business relationship."

"A man can dream, can he not?" he retorted with a grin.

"Dream all you like," she laughed. He just smiled and took her hand, which truthfully made her a bit uncomfortable. His soft hand caressed hers, and she couldn't help but notice that he had unusually soft and white hands for a man. Without meaning to, she thought of Ben's. His were dark from the sun and were usually callused from working. She missed his rough hand in her own. Then she pinched herself yet again (she was going to be in about five bandages by the time she got home). She would not burden herself with thoughts of Ben Davidson on this trip. She dropped Jean Luc's hand. "Don't you just love summer evenings?" she asked. "They're warm and clear, and the fireflies and crickets are out." He put his arm around her and pulled her close, which again made her slightly uncomfortable. "With you, they are even better," he murmured. "I know that I have only known you for a short time, yet I feel like I have known you forever."

"And why is that?" she asked.

"I do not know," he said. "Perhaps you just have that effect on people."
"Perhaps," she agreed. He looked at her with a fixed gaze, and before she knew what was happening, he leaned in and kissed her. His lips were soft, and as both of their eyes closed, she couldn't stop thinking, "Benjamin! Benjamin! Benjamin!" And with this thought, her mind reversed itself so that for the moment, she was at home in the stables, kissing her simple Virginian instead of in a French vineyard with a wealthy Frenchman. Her fantasy was short-lived, unfortunately. When she remembered herself, she pulled away sharply. Jean Luc looked confused. "What is wrong?" he asked. She blushed. "Nothing," she stammered. "It's-it's just not proper."

"Nobody is out here," he pointed out. "What is wrong with just a kiss?"

"Nothing," she said again. "I'm sorry, Jean Luc, I-I can't. We can't. I must go." And she hurried inside without another word.

She lay in bed that night, troubled, and feeling hypocritical. She was hurt because of Ben, yet she turned around and did the same thing he did to Jean Luc. Luckily, an argument didn't follow, but still. It made her feel bad. And speaking of Ben, why could she not for the life of her get him out of her head? Why did she love him? "He's not worth anything," her brain said. "He doesn't want you, which is just as well. Look now. You've got the perfect French gentleman here who is definitely interested in you, and if you play your cards right, you could end up with a wealthy French husband."

"You don't love him," argued her heart. "You love Ben. It doesn't matter if he doesn't have anything. That is why you can't stop thinking about him."

"Well, stop," said her brain. "Love Jean Luc instead."

"The heart loves who it loves," said her heart. "You can't just turn your love off for one man and turn it on for another."

"Jean Luc is the smarter match," said her brain.

"Ben is the real one," said her heart. Felicity closed her eyes and pinched herself extra hard, then gave up. What was the use? She obviously couldn't stop thinking about him.

The next morning during the children's history lesson, Jean Luc came in. "Am I interrupting?" he asked good-naturedly. Felicity smiled a little. "Not at all," she said. "We were just learning about Joan of Arc. Care to join us?" The children looked at him eagerly. "As tempting as that sounds," he said. "I am afraid I must steal mademoiselle for a moment."
Felicity frowned. What did he want with her? "I'll be right back," she promised the children. She stepped out into the hall. "What is it?" she asked. He ran his hand through his hair. "Listen," he sighed. "I am sorry about last night." Her face softened. "Oh Jean," she murmured.
"I know, I am too bold," he interrupted. "Girls I have kissed enjoy it, and then you pull away so suddenly…it caught me off guard, is all."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to."

"Then why did you?" he asked.

"I don't know," she replied. "I was just being stupid, I suppose. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you or anything."

"You did not," he assured her.

"Good," she said. "Now if you will excuse me, I must get back to the fifteenth century." He grinned. "Proceed, mademoiselle," he said. She just smiled and rolled her eyes.

Later that afternoon as she worked with the girls on their samplers, Jeanette said teasingly, "I think Jean Luc likes you." Felicity smiled a little. "And why is that?" she asked. The twins giggled. "He looks at you funny," said Isabella.

"And he kissed you," added Jeanette. Felicity's smile quickly turned into a frown. "How do you know about that?" she demanded. The girls tittered. "He is not a very good whisperer," said Isabella. Felicity narrowed her eyes. "Were you eavesdropping earlier?" she asked. Isabella pointed to her twin. "It was Jeanette's idea!" she accused.

"It was not either!" Jeanette protested. "You were just as curious as I was!"

"Tis very rude to eavesdrop on people's private business," scolded Felicity, surprising herself on how much she sounded like her mother. The girls paid her scolding no heed. "So," said Jeanette with an impish grin. "Do you like him?"

"I like him as a person, yes," answered Felicity.

"And as a beau?" giggled Isabella. Felicity laughed a little. "Sorry to disappoint," she said. "But no, not like that."

"He likes you like that," said Jeanette. "Well, that is his own business, isn't it?" said Felicity.

"If you married him," said Isabella. "You wouldn't have to leave."

"But then I wouldn't see my family again, now would I?" said Felicity. "The people I love."

"Do you have a beau in America?" asked Jeanette. Felicity bit her lip. "In a way," she said slowly. Both girls' eyes widened, and they grinned. "Tell us!" Felicity sighed. "Tis complicated," she said. "I don't really want to talks about it."

"Please?" they begged. "We won't tell!" She sighed again. "Fine," she agreed reluctantly. "He's not exactly my beau. I don't really know what you would call him. He is my father's apprentice. I have known him since I was nine years old. He has always been a good friend to me, though he is five and a half years my senior. And right before I came here, he kissed me and told me he loved me." The girls gasped and grinned. "What's his name?" asked Jeanette.
"Ben Davidson," Felicity answered softly. "And do you love him?" prodded Isabella. Felicity nodded slowly, and the twins looked at each other with delight. "What does he look like?" asked Jeanette.
"Well," said Felicity. "He's tall, he's very tall, he's got short dark hair and dark brown eyes, and he's got a very gentle smile, though he doesn't smile very much anymore."

"Why not?" asked Isabella.

"He fought in the war," Felicity explained. "It left him rather sad. He's got this awful scar under his right shoulder where he was hit with a bullet. He nearly died from it."

"He sounds brave," remarked Isabella.

"He is," Felicity agreed. Then she smiled a little. "He's got these heavy eyebrows that he always knits together when he's confused. I think his most distinct feature are his eyes. When you look into them, they've got this faraway look in them, a deep, haunted look that makes you wonder what he's thinking. They're the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen." The girls grinned at this. "Will you marry him when you go home?" inquired Jeanette. Felicity's face fell. "No," she answered quietly. "I don't think that will ever happen."

"Why not? Do your parents not approve?" asked Isabella.

"They do," she said. "They love him as their own son."

"Then why?" asked Jeanette. Felicity sighed. "There are…circumstances," she said. "It's better not to think about him."

"But I thought you loved each other," said Isabella. "Shouldn't it be as simple as that?"

"I thought the same thing at first," Felicity said softly. "But love is not simple." The girls' faces were somber, but then Felicity clapped her hands and said, "Well, enough of this nonsense. Let's work on your dancing. Your father is having that party in a few weeks. It may come in handy."

Said party rolled around quickly. It was a night in mid September, a month before Felicity and Jean Luc would have to leave. That afternoon, the aunts and Adèle got her ready as well as the other young ladies who were guests of the house. She had a bath, her freckles were bleached with lemon juice, her hair was set in rollers to give it a looser, softer curl, and her elaborate ball gown and underthings were starched and pressed. Her gown was a deep ruby red, adorned with black lace on the sleeves and gold down the front. The skirt was big enough to hide Polly under, she guessed. The corset was far more restricting than she was used to. To match, a necklace with a ruby and diamond pendant was lent to her. It settled perfectly just above her low neckline. The fan was also red and black lace, as were the silk slippers. One of the other girls, Genevieve, twirled her hair up so that it piled on top of her head like all of the other fashionable ladies. She added all sorts of ornaments to it, making it nearly as heavy as a wig, and probably looking just as ridiculous. But it was the fashionable thing to do. Felicity felt ridiculous when she looked in the mirror. Too pale, too made up. Too tight of a waist, and too much of her bust exposed than she was comfortable with. Too looking like a doll. She could barely recognize herself, and she figured that everyone back home would probably laugh at her, even her mother. But all the other girls and the aunts and Adèle agreed that she looked stunning. And when they went downstairs, all of the male eyes in the room were on them. So she tried to flip her mind to that of the French and not think that she looked ridiculous, no matter how so she felt.

The party (which was more like a ball) was elaborate, as Monsieur's typically were. For a "simple party", it was nearly as grand as the Templeton's balls back home. There was all types of food and drink, and naturally, music and dancing. To Felicity, by now this was another aspect of life in France. Monsieur Beaumont held one of these at least once every two or three weeks. She was asked to dance a couple of times, mostly by Jean Luc. She always agreed. Some of the men were handsome and charming, some were not. She laughed and danced, being merry all the while, happy for the first time in a while. She didn't think of being quiet and docile. Not until it was pointed out. She had gone to get something to eat when she saw Jean Luc talking with Marie, one of the visiting girls. Ladies never eavesdrop, but her curiosity got the better of her, and she listened in to their conversation. What she heard proved the old saying true: curiosity killed the cat. The cat being her pride, not to mention her feelings. "I'm sorry you still have to put up with her for another few months," said Marie.

"Oh, she's not so bad," said Jean Luc. "But she's so awkward!" said Marie.

"Look at her. She is trying so desperately to fit in the rest of us, and she's overdoing it!"

"She has certainly dressed the part," Jean Luc pointed out.

"Only because we dressed her," she said. "Otherwise, she has no style at all! She had planned to wear a simple dark green gown with only a bit of lace on it tonight, and she planned to just put her hair up in a bun!"

"She did dress rather plainly when she first came here," he agreed.

"She is too modest," she said. "In her clothes, at least. She was uncomfortable with the low neckline on her gown; as if she had anything to show!"

"That's true," he agreed. "And that is the one thing a man notices about a woman."

"And that is as it should be," said Marie. "Everyone knows that a lady is quiet and keeps her views to herself. She is supposed to just look appealing. But apparently, your American has got it backwards."

"How so?" he asked.

"She has no problem putting her two cents in mens' debates," she said. "She thinks that they will actually listen to her. As if she were one of their friends. Yet she worries over being over-exposed in revealing clothes. Why does she think we wear them? A man notices a woman by her body, not by her insights on politics or whatever."

"So you don't think she knows her place?" asked Jean Luc.

"She speaks her mind too much," said Marie. "She tries to fit in with the rest of us too much. She should know to keep quiet and speak when appropriate. Yet as much as she tries to join men's conversations, she has no idea how to flirt!"

"I know," agreed Jean Luc. "I kissed her a couple of weeks ago, and she pulled away very suddenly, saying that it was 'not proper'. And we were completely alone, too."

"You see?" she said. "She is too modest in the wrong ways. Tis really too bad. She is a pretty girl. She just doesn't know how to work it to her advantage. Her hair, for example. It's long and curly and a nice auburn, though blonde would be better. Yet she doesn't know how to manage it. She wears it up in a bun every day and does nothing fancy or stylish to it."

"She did tonight," he pointed out.

"We did that," said Marie. "And she thought it was too heavy. A woman's hair as well as her clothes and manners define her place in society."

"She has good manners," he said.

"Yes," she agreed. "And she does have a gentle, quiet way of pointing out her opinions. But she shouldn't let them out, period. And as for her clothes and hair…"

"They do say that a woman's hair is her crowing glory," he said.

"And hers could be," she said. "If she put more effort into it. A woman is nothing without good hair. That is just how society is."

"Besides," he said. "A woman's hair is another thing a man notices."

"Exactly," she agreed. "If a woman can't style it the right way, she takes all the fun out of it for the man later on that night. He can't let it down and run his hands through it and cover her with it. And if it is too plain in the first place, then no one will take much notice of her. And then no one will lie with her."

"Well-to-do women are good for one thing," he said. "And if she doesn't have a good body, then she can't do it."

"Precisely," agreed Marie. "And that is the way it should be."
Felicity felt her face grow hot. The French certainly were…blunt. And again with the whole cattiness and society! It was even worse than in Williamsburg. In Williamsburg, women weren't seen only as objects of sexual appeal. Was that all they were here? Only good for intercourse? Perhaps the wealthy French were not as classy and refined as they had once seemed. And if modesty was wrong here, then she didn't want to be right.
"I just don't think that she belongs in this kind of society," continued Marie. "I suppose it is that 'American charm'."

"She does come from a respectable family," said Jean Luc. "At least by American standards."

"Just the same," she said. "I would not get too close to her. You deserve a lady, Jean. One who would honor and serve you, not try to have a serious discussion with you. If you stay here with me, you would have one."

"What makes you think I'm not coming back?" he asked.

"Well," she answered. "You have been defending her, and you did say that you kissed her."

"That means nothing," he said softly. "I was just feeling her out, to see if she had any potential."

"Does she?" asked Marie.

"What do you think?"

"No?"

"That is correct." He then leaned in and kissed her. She kissed back, and from what Felicity could see, they seemed to be getting pretty into it. In her humble opinion, they looked disgusting as his hands felt Marie up and down. Felicity cringed. She really hoped that she and Ben hadn't looked that ridiculous. When Jean Luc pulled away, she heard him whisper, "I will return as soon as I can, Marie, for you if nothing else." And they kissed again. Tears stung Felicity's eyes. She wiped them away. Why was she crying? Out of anger and hurt. How could they say such things about her? Especially Jean Luc, who she thought was her friend? Apparently here, you weren't friends with members of the opposite sex. You were their sexual partner for the night. And not having a discussion with a man? What had Marie just done? A flirtation? People here had no shame, at least not for the right reasons. She looked around her, and seeing that no one was watching, slipped out of the ballroom, then once up the stairs, broke into a run down the hall to her bedchamber.

Tears spilling over, she slammed the door and locked it. Adèle had already laid out her nightgown on the bed. Felicity tore off the suffocating gown and underthings and jewelry and slipped into her familiar, loving nightgown. That felt better. She took out the ornaments in her hair and shook it loose. The now mussed curls tumbled down her back. She started to comb them and bind them in a braid. She had just started when she looked at herself in the mirror and paused. Her face was red, and her eyes were wild. She closed them, then opened them again. They seemed calmer. She thought again of the gossip between Marie and Jean Luc. She thought again of all of the rules of society. How one's clothes and hair were so important. If your clothes weren't right, you were shunned. If your hair wasn't right, you were shunned. If you didn't have nice hair or a nice bust, you wouldn't attract a man, you wouldn't lie with him, and you were shunned. At least here. She hated how women were viewed as nothing but sexual toys. They were to hold a man's interest for the evening, a week or two if she were lucky, before he moved on to the next one. She had no voice. Men laughed at her opinion, and women shook their heads at it. She then studied her hair. "A woman is nothing without good hair," Marie had said. "That is just how society is." Felicity, at that point, had had enough of society, at least that of the French. In a fit of defiance, she dug for the pocketknife Ben had slipped her before she left (and when they were still speaking) he had said to use to protect herself, just in case. She had laughed at him at the time. Now, however, it may come in handy. She undid the half started braid and shook out her hair. She looked at it and sighed. It did look pretty. But she was trying to make a point here. Before she could change her mind, she opened the blade, closed her eyes, and in one fluid motion, made a straight, clean cut across her hair. She let out a small gasp the second the blade sliced through the last strand and the hair fell to the floor. She cracked her eyes open, then opened them all the way. Where it had once reached halfway down her back, her hair now just brushed past her shoulders. Slightly stunned by what she had just done, she fingered it gingerly. She pulled it back in a ponytail and examined it. It still worked. She twisted it into a bun. It was a bit more stubborn, but it still worked. She let it down and studied it. It was shorter than most girls' hair, but it was still long enough to work with without looking masculine. She smiled a little. It felt much lighter and more freeing. And she hadn't done too badly of a job cutting it, either. She got rid of the cut off hair, braided her remaining hair (which was a shorter and stiffer braid, but it too still worked), then crawled into bed, satisfied with her handiwork.

She couldn't rest, though. Not because of regret of cutting her hair (if anything, she regretted not doing that years ago). She was finally beginning to have her first real bout of homesickness. It was late, around three in the morning (and the party was still going on!) She didn't know why she felt sad; maybe it was because of that conversation that night. She felt as though Jean Luc had betrayed her, and he had. She had never liked him in a romantic way, but now that she knew that he thought she was trying too hard and especially that she had no 'potential', she felt abandoned. Her only companion had betrayed her. Yes, now she had the children and Monsieur and even Adèle, who had become a good friend, but on the ship for a whole month? She couldn't exactly avoid him. She now longed for her father's store, its familiar smell of soap, linens, spices, and leather. She missed the warm kitchen, the scent of Rose's baked goods filling the whole house. She missed her mother's gentle chastising, the cozy parlor with its warm and inviting fire, William and Polly's bickering, and Nan taking all the covers at night. She missed the stable with its familiar, comforting scent of horses. She missed the warmth of Penny's nose and Patriot's mouth it engulfed the apple that had been in her hand. She missed Elizabeth and their gossips. Most of all, she missed Ben. As she lay in bed, she longed to be held in his arms. She longed for his kiss. His hand holding hers. His warm touch. His gentle smile that could light up a room. Right now, she wanted more than anything for him to be next to her. And the part that made her long for him the most was the fact that she couldn't have him. And hard as she tried, she could not get him out of her mind. "Benjamin," her heart kept crying. "Benjamin. Benjamin." As she thought this, she frowned and sat up. She could have sworn she heard his voice. Then she shook her head and lay back down. She was losing her mind. Wait-there it was again! She sat up. "Felicity," she could distinctly hear his voice call. "Felicity. I love you."
"Ben?" she whispered. "Benjamin?" She got out of bed and slipped to the window. "Benjamin?" But the night was silent. She shook her head again and crawled back into bed. What was she thinking? Ben wasn't here; he was in Williamsburg. She really must be going crazy if she was hearing his voice. She lay back down and closed her eyes. "Benjamin," she whispered. "Benjamin. Benjamin. I love you."

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, another troubled soul lay in his bed, unable to sleep. Ben Davidson looked up at the ceiling and sighed. It was a chilly September night, which made his stable loft cold as well. He pulled the extra blanket around himself and rolled over to his side. He had felt bad about what he had said to Felicity ever since the words had flown out of his mouth. And he couldn't even apologize because there was now an ocean between them. He wondered if he would ever see her again. He wouldn't blame her if she wanted to stay in France with Jean Luc. He wasn't lying when he said that he loved her more than Diana and all of the other girls he had liked put together. He felt a deeper, more soulful connection to her than he had with anyone else in his life, even Diana. Deeper and stronger than he had ever thought he would get. He closed his eyes. He wanted her home, to be able to hold her and kiss her and love her. He wished she were next to him now, to touch her cheek, her hand. To hear her laugh, to see her smile. And because of his own stupidness, he had lost her forever. It was then that he could have sworn he heard her voice. He sat up. There it was again! "Benjamin," he heard her voice call. "Benjamin. Benjamin. I love you." He frowned and went to the door. "Lissie?" he called softly. "Felicity?" But the night was silent. He shook his head and went back to bed. She was thousands of miles away! He was imagining things. He rolled over and pulled the covers up to his chin. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. "Felicity," he whispered. "Felicity. Felicity. I love you."