VII
VI
Beyond the heavy, velvet drapes veiling the sitting room windows, a late autumn storm pattered sleet against the glass, though its cold fingers did not disturb the warmth of the cozy room.
Autumn's swirl of copper-colored leaves graceful as court dancers had given way to lusty winds and cold drafts. The evergreens were fluffing their branches and shoving out tiny bumps that would grow into pinecones the size of a man's hand. Or so Athos said. Sylvie had never lived in the country before, this fall had been her first experience with Mother Nature's extravagant change of seasonal raiment.
The mistress of the house raised her needle again, but only to anchor it in the fabric enclosed in her tambour frame. The small dress she was embroidering floated down to cover the hill of her belly as her gaze wandered over the sitting room attached to their bedchamber. Sylvie caught her breath silently lest she disturb her husband's concentration. Her revolutionary heart could not help but feel a little guilty at the surrounding luxury, but it did not keep her from enjoying the sense of security, she, who had grown up in refugee camps across France, had never known.
The master suite had been the first rooms to be restored. They had moved from the servants quarters as soon as the new bed from the carpentry shop had been assembled in the sleeping chamber. A few mornings later, Sylvie had woken to a dizzying array of fabrics spread over every available surface in the chamber.
She had once accompanied Constance on an errand for the queen, to a fabric warehouse Constance's former cloth merchant husband had frequented. The display in her bedchamber had been just as dazzling, despite its far more limited scope. Her husband had appeared with a pot of chocolate and warm, flaky pastries he had gone to the village to fetch and kept warm over a hot brick from the kitchen fire.
Copious tears had flowed over his thoughtfulness, and Athos, having finally mastered a response to tears had crawled back into bed to hold her and rub her aching back until the flow had ceased and curiosity had enticed her to rise and explore.
Sylvie had spent the day choosing fabrics for old and new furniture. Much that had been destroyed by the fire had been rebuilt, Monsieur Glasson being a deft hand with mallet, plane and chisel, and a master craftsman when it came to furnishings and fixtures. What had been salvaged had had considerable smoke damage, in addition to the following years of neglect, but Sylvie had refused to be cajoled into discarding it. One of her projects, a restored sideboard of great antiquity, resided now between a pair of windows on the west-facing wall, upon which sat a large Chinese vase flaunting an array of seasonal flora. Athos was pleased to call it her arrangement of sticks and twigs, though he did so with that instructive twitch of the lips that informed his humor.
Another day he'd taken her up to the attic to potter about among the oddities his ship captains had collected over the years from foreign ports of call. A treasure trove of rugs from the Orient had been carried down, beaten, and scattered throughout the house, their exotic jewel tones the foundation for each new restoration.
The Persian rug stretching the length of the sitting room had been the inspiration for the deep autumnal greens and russets of the elegant, upholstered furniture gracing the room.
Sylvie had noted her husband's surprise with delight, when upon its completion she had finally allowed him to enter this room that had quickly become a mutual haven. She, who had never had curtains to put up, nor more than a pallet to throw a blanket over, had created a retreat suited to both their tastes.
In one of the numerous old trunks in the attic she had unearthed, and had the estate carpenter frame, the original architectural renderings for the mansion. In that same trunk, she'd discovered a series of water color paintings of the house and surrounding gardens, depicted in each of the four seasons. Athos had identified them as his mother's drawings and spent a long time in front of the montage she had created between the end wall windows, though he had not allowed himself to be drawn on the subject of any memories they had evoked. Someday, she'd thought as she'd watched him study the beautiful sketches, he would share the reasons for his silence.
Watching him now, the scritch scratch of his quill harmonizing with the crackle of burning wood, she thought she might burst with the swelling of satisfaction in her soul.
The great hearth broadcast autumn's scent, red and orange flames leaping about in the fireplace like the ancient souls of wood sprites. Its light gleamed upon the horse hair sofa Sylvie had just run her hand over, and played against the deep hunter green of the wing chairs flanking the andirons.
The desk where Athos sat letter writing was of polished mahogany, the depths of the wood catching the firelight and reflecting it back.
My dear Aramis,
You are ever incorrigible. Do not make me regret suggesting to her majesty that she consider a more ecclesiastical man to fill the post Tréville's untimely death left vacant. Nor encouraging you to rethink your position on refusing the job. However, you may collect my pauldron if d'Artagnan wishes to bestow it elsewhere, it is only taking up space and gathering dust here in our sitting room.
My sword is likely rusting away as well; it has not been out of its scabbard since we arrived here in Pinon. A year ago my sword and I were inseparable, I slept with the damn thing. And could never have imagined the path I am on now. Strange, the unexpected twists and turns along this journey.
d'Artagnan tells me you are settling into your new role with your usual wit and charm, winning over the contentious crowd of coattail hangers-on you inherited from Tréville, in addition to the irritating council the king left in place. I have neither your patience with the fribbles, nor your ability to incessantly wheedle the opposition into compliance just to shut you up. The queen made the right choice; there would have been blood decorating the walls of the Louvre within hours had she refused to allow me to decline her request.
I can well imagine what use you are putting those hidden passage ways to. Do not become complacent, those tunnels and passageways are known to more than just the palace staff. Likely more treason has been plotted inside the Louvre than out; be vigilant, lest you entertain an enemy unawares. You must know by now, the very walls of the place have ears.
As for politics, do not think ... Athos raised his head, as if he sensed Sylvie's gaze upon him. "You are warm enough?"
"Do you know you are everything I did not know I wanted in a man?" Sylvie waved him down when he would have risen to come to her side. "No no, finish your letter. I know Aramis is haranguing you for not writing directly."
She withdrew her needle and began again the delicate pricking in and out that drew pictures with thread upon the cloth as she had been learning to do from the village washer woman. Madame Herriot could see entire flower beds filled with buzzing bees and tiny hedge hogs decorating the hem of a skirt. As yet, Sylvie saw only a single flower at a time, but she was leaning to embroider her internal vision as she worked on the tiny clothing. The scalloped hem of this dress was slowly growing a border of blue bells and scotch bonnets, as she was sure their child would be a boy. She might get away with dressing him in flower beds and bees until he could walk, though likely not much longer if he took after his father.
"Will you ask Aramis to tell Constance I would welcome her presence any time now."
Athos, who had returned to his letter, looked up sharply. "Is it time then?"
"Soon," Sylvie said serenely, fluffing the little skirt again. "Finish your letter, I will not give birth in the next day or two, but do not be dilatory in sending the letter off. The midwife said a week or two at the most when I saw her today."
"So soon?" Athos suddenly felt a bit dizzy.
"You would not say that if you carried around this elephant of a son of yours, my lord. Now if you please, finish your letter so we may retire and you can rub my back. I find it aches abominably by the end of the day."
Athos returned to the letter to pick up the thread of his thoughts again, muttering about inventing a pen that would hold ink without requiring frequent trips to the inkpot.
As for politics, he picked up where he'd left off, you are well aware of my dislike, though now that you have pointed out what an excellent hostess Sylvie would make, I will be obligated to lay the matter before her. You are right, it would give her a much broader platform from which to present her persuasions.
She has never held the queen accountable for Marcheaux's depredations upon her person, though I should have recognized his intent the moment those broadsheets dishonoring the queen appeared on the streets. I am not sure she would accept the queen's patronage again, though. My Sylvie is rather proud of her ability to forge her own path. It may well be the reason we deal so well together, we are as alike in that preference, as two peas in a pod.
If she should decide she wishes to accept your challenge, we will return to Paris and set about creating sycophants of our own. Given the court's insatiable appetite for the new and unconventional, it should not be a difficult proposition. And by the time they realize we are merely a Musketeer and his refugee wife, she will have them eating out of the palm of her hand. I hope you know what you would be potentially unleashing, for Sylvie will not tamely spout any rhetoric you try to feed her. She knows her own mind and will be tireless in sharing her ideas if you loose her upon Paris.
But first, we must have this baby. I would bring this letter myself and collect Constance, but I do not want to leave Sylvie here alone at this time. She is asking that I request you send Constance as soon as possible though. The midwife here is competent, but this business apparently requires the presence of a trusted friend and I would give my wife that comfort if at all possible.
We both send our thanks and gratitude to the king and his lady mother for their benevolent gift. I did not think, at the beginning of this journey, that I would be awaiting the arrival our child with such anticipation. Your words - that I am the first among us to experience this - produced a wealth of sorrow in me, Aramis, for I am not the first. And that taints my joy.
But yes, you made laugh out loud - quaking in your boots indeed. My lady wife merely smiled complacently at the sound as she has been assiduously retraining my sensibilities.
The sounds of hammer and saw can be heard from dawn to dusk, though the house will not be completely restored by the time our child arrives. However, I do not think we will have to resort to tents on the lawn to accommodate the lot of us. And we will be elated to host everyone. Sylvie is well aware this child will inherit far more familial bonds than most when it is born. Being an only child herself, she is thrilled to be included in our enlarging tribe, as you have dubbed us, and delighted to know our child will have a plethora of adults to turn to should we prove inadequate as parents.
You will have noticed that I have not addressed your blatant accusation of favoritism. I will say only that you are First Minster of France and Porthos, a general. d'Artagnan is merely a captain.
Your servant,
Comte de la Fère.
Athos capped the inkwell, dried the end of the quill and set it in the cunningly carved quill holder presented to him by Bertrand Collier. He had not paid much attention to Monsieur Collier's sly smile as the man had presented it, until he'd discovered the ring he had ceded to the mayor's care, in the bottom of the holder. He picked it up from its spot on the desktop, lifting it so it caught the light and reflected its own glittering fire deep within. Though it still did not grace his finger, he had been considering the ramifications of assuming the title again even before Aramis' letter.
Sylvie was watching him again, her guileless face, soft with the rounding of pregnancy, revealing a breathtaking tenderness.
Athos rose, tossed the ring carelessly down on the desk where it bounced twice before rolling to its side, and crossed to take a seat at the far end of the couch from his wife. "Come," he invited. "I have been distracted from my evening duties, allow me to redeem myself."
Sylvie, already in her night clothes, set her embroidery hoop on top of her basket, bent sideways - the only way she could bend anymore - to move the basket to the floor and stretched out on her side. Her protruding belly met a folded blanket perfectly graded to provide support without pressure, her cheek pillowed on her husband's thigh and a large warm hand slid over her shoulder. Strong fingers began to knead that spot in her back that ached with unabated ferocity. Curling her hands beneath her chin, she sank into the bliss of momentary ease, sighing her satisfaction.
"Athos?"
"Mmmmm?" he murmured, his busy mind completely focused on providing surcease.
"Is it my reticence holding you back from resuming the title?"
"What?"
"I asked..."
"I heard what you asked. What makes you think I am even contemplating it?"
"Do you not know by now that I can read your mind?"
"Witch."
She heard the smile in his voice. "You might consider discussing the pros and cons with me. I am reasonably intelligent and might bring a new perspective to your dithering." Sylvie turned over in time to see that eyebrow wing up in combination with the reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. She coiled up to wrap her hands around his neck and draw him down for a kiss.
"I am not a ditherer," her spouse stated unequivocally a hairsbreadth from her lips, tongues mating in a dance as old as creation.
"Not usually," Sylvie agreed on a little pant of regret that they could take this no further. "So what keeps you from making a decision one way or the other?"
Athos leaned back with a sigh, though his fingers continued their ministrations. "The benefits appear to be all to us. What would the estate gain by my resuming the title? How will it affect the villagers? And oh-by-the-way, Aramis wants us to return to Paris and take our place in the political mêlée'."
She turned back on her side, nuzzling her nose against that thickly-muscled thigh as she wrapped her hands around it and rolled her cheek down. "I do not understand why you think the benefits would be all to us. You know you would be in the saddle morning to night seven days a week. I see very little benefit to me in that arrangement, or our child, though the estate would regain a master whose knowledge and understanding is far broader and richer than the mayor's. I mean no disrespect to Mayor Collier, he has done a wonderful job in your absence, but when this war is over, the estate will need to move in a different direction. Its oversight will require someone whose vision is not limited to Pinon. And the villagers are anxious to regain their superiority over neighboring estates. As for Aramis, his political ambitions are not our concern."
She had reduced his weighty cogitations to six short sentences.
"Aramis points out you would make an excellent political hostess. You could do much to change the lives of the refugees."
"Perhaps you have not noticed that I am very happy here, husband?"
"Are you? Really?" Athos moved the hand not kneading tired, strained muscles to rest on Sylvie's belly. The baby was kicking high up under her rib cage; it had turned then, head down; there was no way this child was going to wait a week or two. He had best get that letter off to Aramis tonight. "I know you have made friends here and that you do not hate it. But would you be willing to make this our permanent home?"
"Your legendary perspicuity has deserted you; you must be tired." Sylvie squeezed her hands, giving his thigh a little hug. "Do you know that the love of this land is steeped into your bones? I think you forgot that for a time, or deliberately denied it, but you are the essence of the heart of this estate. You have broken it's hold over you, but it still tells you its secrets, it speaks to you in a way the mayor will never be able to hear. It does not matter whether or not you ever put on that ring again, you are master here with or without it. Everyone but you knows this."
She pushed off the sofa and his arm came around her bulk to help her up. Sylvie snuggled into the curve of his elbow, laying her head against his collarbone as she rested a hand over his heart. "I will admit I feel guilty sitting here in the lap of luxury when there are so many in need, but my obligations - no, let me rephrase that - my inclination right now revolves around husband, home and hearth, and babies. The revolutionary has not disappeared, she is just quiet at the moment, but while she thinks I would make an excellent political hostess as well, she understands now is not the time."
Athos leaned to rest his chin on the top of her head. "I am astounded at my own brilliance."
"Oh?" Sylvie willingly played along with these little humorous forays Athos occasionally ventured.
"At taking up with you, then getting you pregnant so you had to marry me."
"A close run thing, my lord, since you were still married when you got me pregnant."
"It pays to have friends in high places."
"I would have happily lived with you for the rest of our lives, born you a passel of children even without the auspices of marriage, scandalized the neighborhood for awhile." She petted the patch of chest hair his loose shirt afforded her access to. "But eventually they would have come to conclusion we were to meant to be together."
Athos captured that wandering hand and kissed the tip of each finger. "See? Brilliant."
Sylvie laughed, as he'd intended, and stretched to kiss him again. "I love you."
"And I you." Athos sealed the exchange with a last kiss and swept his lady into his arms. "To bed with you, Madame, our son needs a great deal of rest." He kicked the door open between the sitting room and the bedchamber, bent to let her pull back the covers and slid her neatly between the sheets before bending to kiss her on the forehead. "I will join you shortly, but I want to get this on the road."
"It's not necessary to send it tonight," Sylvie protested, though a deep, unexpected twinge undermined the authority of her delivery. She held in her gasp until the door closed, hands involuntarily cradling the mound of her belly. She'd attended enough births to have a good handle on the process, but it was very different when it was happening in her own body rather than an external event happening to someone else.
Purposefully she relaxed into the feather mattress, breathing deeply though the sustained pain. "We are not quite ready for you to make an appearance. I need you to wait just a few more days, little one, but we will see each other soon."
TBC