VII
Downstairs, Athos hurried through the still-warm kitchen and out the back hallway without bothering to collect a cloak. He slipped and slid across the sleet-covered lawn mentally rehearsing a stinging castigation for whichever minion had left the stables doors standing wide open to the elements.
His slanting path took him to the edge of the door before he realized there was activity in the spacious interior turn-around. His efficient staff was rubbing down two steaming horses, even as a hatted and cloaked individual worked at untying saddle bags with clearly frozen fingers.
"Athos!" a familiar feminine voice rose above clanking pails, the hubbub of orders and the curses of the man trying to remove the saddle bags.
"Constance? But ..." Athos found himself enclosed in a freezing embrace. "I was just ..."
"It started snowing in Paris this morning," Constance interrupted. "First babies are notoriously unpredictable. I was worried we wouldn't make it if the storm worsened." She drew back to beam at the former garrison captain. "How is Sylvie?"
"And then it did, get worse that is." d'Artagnan gave up on the knotted leather ties and came to shakes hands, then pull Athos into another chilly hug. "How is Sylvie?" he repeated.
"She's well. I can't believe you're here. I was just coming down to send a messenger with a letter to Aramis asking him to let you know Sylvie said its time." He looked toward his stable master. "I need to append a note and I will bring this back, but no need to get it off tonight after all." He collected his manners and shepherded his guests toward the still open barn doors. "Did it take all day to make the trip?" The ride to Pinon was usually no more than three or four hours, depending on the state of the roads.
"It was close to sun high - if there'd been any sun - by the time we were able to leave." d'Artagnan clamped his chattering teeth together as he pulled his shivering wife against his side. "So, no, not much longer than usual, but it was a long, cold trip."
"I am sorry it was so awful, but I cannot be sorry you are here," Athos said, leading them back out into the yard. "Gervaise, send someone up with their things when you can." He put out an arm as Constance slipped. "Careful."
"The lad can collect your letter again, too, when he brings the things up," the stable master lifted his voice to call after them.
Athos turned to acknowledge the suggestion. "Thank you, I will have it ready." He grabbed d'Artagnan as a bit of iciness tried to snatch the Musketeer's feet out from under him. Constance hauled on the other arm, though all three nearly went down in the process.
A sneaky circling wind suddenly gusted in their faces, driving them back the few yards they'd managed to gain, then snuck around behind to shove them forward like skaters on a pond. Athos moved around d'Artagnan to slide an arm under Constance's elbow and between them, the men grounded her lighter weight, stomping their boots through the thin crust of ice for better purchase.
They gained the back hall with lungs heaving from the elemental battle and took a moment to catch their breath before staggering down the rest of the short hallway to the kitchen.
"Sylvie readied one of the chambers for you in anticipation and we have hot water constantly on the hob, just in case, so d'Artagnan and I can wrestle it up for bathing." Athos went hunting pails for the job as d'Artagnan began unwrapping his wife.
"Careful, don't break off my nose," Constance cautioned, her voice muffled as d'Artagnan unwounded a knitted scarf stiff with ice.
"I'm more worried about your toes." Her husband knelt to pull off her boots as she braced herself on his soaked, leather-caped shoulder.
Pails located, Athos found hot pads and lifted the kettle off the hob to begin filling a quartet of vessels. "I am more grateful than I can articulate that you are here already." He left the pails by the fire and went to valet d'Artagnan out of his wet clothing. "Sylvie said another week or two, but the baby was very active tonight. He - if it is a he - appears to be turned ready for birth."
d'Artagnan tossed his hat to land on the ancient cabinet beside the fireplace. "Then it was worth every minute we fought to get here. But I would like to get Constance warmed up as quickly as possible." He grabbed a pair of pails, motioning his barefoot wife to follow their host who was already headed toward the main staircase, and trudged up behind her.
Sylvie came out to investigate the commotion and began to sob at the sight of her bedraggled friend. "Don't mind me," she said, laughing through her tears, "I'm just so grateful you're here! Come come," she took the shivering queen's Musketeer by the arm, "ours is the warmest chamber in the house just now, we'll get a fire going in your room but you must bathe in ours."
"Good idea." Athos diverted into their bedchamber with his buckets, d'Artagnan following.
"No no, don't hug me!" Constance drew back, then leaned in to kiss Sylvie on both cheeks. "I don't want to soak you as well. Athos is already as damp as we are."
"That's probably because he didn't bother to put on a cloak before going out, silly man. Oh I'm so glad to have you here! But you need not have tackled this storm to come so soon, it could have waited a day or two yet."
"As I told d'Artagnan before we started out this morning, we couldn't take the chance of getting snowed in." Constance, who had been in the habit of sleeping in the same room as the returned war heroes and Aramis, was already stripping off her dress.
"This is likely to blow over quickly, too early in the season for a major storm." Athos had hauled a copper tub before the fireplace and poured his buckets into it. "But we are very grateful for your presence," he echoed, again, stepping behind Constance to maid her as efficiently as he served his wife.
d'Artagnan formed the impression Athos was seriously worried; the man was never effusive. Despite his frozen fingers, he stepped up to take over from the comte.
Sylvie laid dressing gowns out on the bed and set the towels she'd collected on the hearth. "We'll leave you to your ablutions and pray neither of you come down with lung fever as a result of this mad dash. I can't believe you're actually here. We have so much to catch up on, I want to hear about everything first hand; the palace, the garrison, Aarmis and the queen!" She hugged Constance again. "But I will stop chattering at you and let you get warmed up."
Athos escorted her back to the haven they had abandoned only a short time ago, where he tucked her beneath a warm lap robe on the sofa, built up the dying fire, and went to scrounge food for their unexpected guests.
Warm and dry and fed an hour later, a little bit of catching up accomplished over hot soup and bread served in the sitting room, Constance burrowed in against her husband's side. They were housed in a newly restored chamber two doors down from Sylvie and Athos. The furnishings were sparse still, but the room and the sheets had been warmed and the dancing fire reflected a pale gold wallpaper Constance admired a great deal. "Wouldn't this paper look lovely in our new quarters at the garrison?" It was a rhetorical question, she expected no answer. While her husband could spot a brigand three streets away, he cataloged room furnishings only when extended guard duty left him standing in one place long enough to become bored. "I know you had reservations this morning; I appreciate that you did this anyway."
d'Artagnan stroked a hand over her still damp hair as he curled around her like a cat. "Neither of us are delicate flowers. You wanted to be here, I could make it happen. Besides," he yawned, "I was as anxious to see them as you. I am, however, too tired to pursue our amorous activities tonight. Can we resume our quest in the morning?"
"Mmmmm," Constance murmured sleepily, "me too. But I will expect you to make your best effort at it before you leave."
"Deal," d'Artagnan breathed into her sweet-scented neck.
And slept while the storm blew itself out as Athos had predicted, giving way to a brilliant crystalline moonscape only Pinon's master was awake to witness. He beheld the dark beauty of the night from their bed chamber window as he paced anxiously, grateful the d'Artagnan's had had the foresight to come without waiting for a summons.
Restored sunshine, however, bathed the morning quest, hushed laughter an accompaniment to the promised tender lovemaking.
"Did you notice," d'Artagnan remarked, rolling them both over so he could pop out of bed to poke the slumbering fire back to life, "Athos looks like his soul is less pinched."
"He looks like a man who's found unexpected nourishment in the roots he's put down." Constance propped herself on her elbows as her spouse slid back under the covers, pulling them over their heads to cocoon the warmth.
"It's obvious he belongs here. In a way he could not have before."
"Before the war?"
d'Artagnan wrapped an arm around his wife and drew her back down to pillow her head on his shoulder. "I was thinking of the time when his tenants kidnapped him and dragged him back here."
"I'd forgotten that." Constance turned over and shoved the covers back down so they could breathe again. "Will you release him from his promise?"
"To return to the garrison?"
She poked him in the ribs. "What other promises did you manage to bind him too?"
"To be honest, I'm not sure I even bound him to that promise." d'Artagnan stretched as his wife sat up and scooted to the side of the bed. "However, I'm not releasing him from any obligation he might feel himself under."
"You know he would come if you called. Release him from any obligation and you will know he comes out of love." Constance had thrown on the borrowed dressing gown and was gathering up their dried clothing from the chairs set with their backs to the renewed blaze on the hearth.
d'Artagnan gave the idea some consideration. "You're right."
"Of course I am." Constance rounded the bed, dropped d'Artagnan's clothes on top of him and bent to kiss him. "Athos will appreciate the distinction as well. Lace me up?" She scrambled into her shift and first petty coat and turned, holding her stays to her waist, her back to d'Artagnan, who rose with alacrity to help. "Not too tight, I thought we might be up in the night, but it may well be today. Sylvie has the look."
"I wish I could stay." d'Artagnan, finished with his job, flopped back, arms spread-eagled. "Come back to bed, I love it when you're half dressed."
"You just love it," his wife chided with a laugh, escaping reluctantly when he sat up and grabbed for her. "We'll have to find someone to take over if Aramis is to come for the christening," she said briskly, slipping on one of the half boots she'd pulled out of the one bag d'Artagnan had allowed her to bring.
d'Artagnan turned to watch her hop about as she drew on the other. "Do you suppose Jean Paul might be willing to take charge for a few days?"
Constance, her hand on the door latch, stopped. "You would let him?"
"He's a one-armed bandit, but he is an honest one-armed bandit."
"The cadets respect him."
d'Artagnan shoved to his feet to pull on his small clothes and britches. "I'm well aware I'm the only one who doesn't like him."
Monsieur Jean Paul Segal was a particular favorite of Constance's among the raggle taggle band of returned soldiers she'd recruited. d'Artagnan had disliked him at first sight. Probably because he had initially come upon the man flicking at a dangling bit of his wife's hair, then smoothing it behind her ear since her arms had been full of an immense basket of carrots.
"He is a wicked flirt, but he's harmless." Constance held her place a moment longer before uttering softly, "Thank you. Jean Paul will appreciate the distinction too." Her husband's concession was one of those unexpected gifts he occasionally gave her; more priceless than rubies or diamonds.
She was traversing the length of the corridor when Athos appeared at the top turn of the stairs lugging a huge kettle of steaming water.
"Why didn't you wake me?" Constance hurried to open the sitting room door for him.
"Sylvie wouldn't let me," he grunted, hefting the kettle through the door. "I've sent for the midwife though."
"You've been up all night," Constance tsked, as she closed the door behind them, following Athos into the beautifully appointed sitting room.
Athos set down the heavy pot by the bed chamber door and put a finger to his lips before whispering, "She says she's not in labor yet, but her water broke early this morning. She finally fell asleep toward dawn. Come," he motioned back through the room, "I can put together something to break your fast."
"Oh no," Constance replied in an equally hushed voice, "I'll find food and bring it up. You go stay with Sylvie."
Athos ran both hands through his hair as he blew out a breath. "Shouldn't she be in labor if her water broke?"
"Sometimes it happens that way, sometimes it takes a bit longer. Her body knows what she needs and right now its rest."
The world's former most-entrenched-misogynist pinched the bridge of his nose. "I would rather face a battalion of cannon."
Constance closed the distance between them, sliding her arms around his waist. A bewildered Athos was so endearing she could not help but hug him. "It will be fine, I promise."
"Do not make promises you are unable to keep." Despite the gruff pronunciation, Athos was grateful for the human contact and hugged her back tightly.
"I never make promises I can't keep. Sylvie is young and healthy and better prepared for this than many women in her condition," Constance said, giving him a saucy wink. "Had you married an aristocrat, you would have far more reason to fear." She let him go, rising on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "It will be fine," she repeated. "Go be with your wife for as long you can, no midwife worth her reputation will let a man remain in the birthing chamber. They pass out too often."
Athos lifted an eyebrow but made no verbal response. Now was not the time to announce that he had assisted Aramis in more than one birth, and learned to do it on his own during the war. He had been witness to incalculable grotesqueries; the aftermath of battle had left many a village bereft of even the crudest form of human kindness. One did not walk away from a laboring woman no matter which side of the war she supported.
Here, he would make his stand when the time came.
d'Artagnan was coming down the corridor as Constance slipped out of the sitting room.
"Already?" he asked, sneaking another kiss. They were, after all, still newlyweds for all intents and purposes. Stealing kisses in public places yet produced that little thrill of illicit exhilaration.
"Soon," Constance predicted as she took d'Artagnan's arm and they descended the stairs.
Someone claiming to be a cook Athos had not mentioned appeared with the midwife, carrying a large ceramic dish that already smelled heavenly. She confiscated the apron Constance had been about to don and set to work.
The midwife took herself off up the back stairs, though unhurriedly.
"The Master don't know it yet, but his lady wife'll be busy with the young'un; they're gonna need a cook," the woman stated matter-of-factly. "I'll be takin' over the job."
"I'll inform the comte," Constance offered, attempting to hold back the grin threatening to take over her face. "With the ice melting so quickly now, the return journey won't take as long, will you stay and keep Athos company?" she queried her husband as she stirred chocolate shavings into the milk she'd already warmed.
"I expect Athos won't need any company, you'll have to have him bodily removed from the chamber. And I'm not volunteering. He may not have used his sword since he's been here but I'd lay good money it's been hanging somewhere in that bedchamber for awhile now." d'Artagnan, sitting at the long kitchen table, the eggs he'd been cracking having been whisked out of his hands, looked at his wife quizzically. "Do you expect me to leave you alone when our time comes?"
Constance tilted her head. "I hadn't thought that far ahead, I suppose. It's ... just not the done thing."
"And when have any of us ever done the done thing?"
The self-appointed cook snorted. "Most women don't want their husband's seeing - or hearing - them in the throes of labor."
Predictably, d'Artagnan had a ready answer to that as well. His wife had engaged in more than one fracas that involved swords, pistols and a great deal of foul language. "I've already seen her red-faced and screaming." Prior to his demise, Marcheaux had been the most frequent recipient of Constance's verbal harangues.
Cook smacked d'Artagnan with a spatula. "Mind that tongue or she won't be lettin' you near enough to be makin' any babies, boy."
"Ouch," d'Artagnan offered for form's sake, rubbing at the spot on his head. "Mark my words: I will be just as difficult to dislodge as Athos is going to be." He rose, reaching for their outer clothes that had been left by the kitchen fire. "But I'll stay, just in case I'm proved wrong. The garrison won't fall apart in a day. I'll go bring in some wood."
He spent the morning chopping more, since as expected, Athos did not appear below stairs. Then refilling buckets of water from the well for cook who took over the job of washing soiled linens as labor began and then progressed. He pegged sheets and towels out on a clothesline in the windswept backyard and slid quite naturally into the old familiar routine of farm chores. Those kept him occupied away from the mansion, though a particularly piercing scream occasionally smote his ears as he hauled timber and posts to shore up the listing paddock fence, then set to work on the roof of the hen house. Even in the stables where he lent a hand mucking out stalls he could not block out the teeth-clenching sounds.
d'Artagnan hadn't realized he'd been grimacing until Gervaise had cuffed him out of his trance with a gruff, "Babies are worth it."
He'd run into Constance, literally a couple of times, coming and going from the kitchen, but he did not see Athos until dusk began shadowing the corners of the restored front room where d'Artagnan had retreated to pace as evening had begun its slow crawl into night.
d'Artagnan did not hear Athos, only saw him as he turned at the fireplace end of the room and observed the comte leaning wearily against the entryway into the room.
"We have a son. Sylvie is resting comfortably. And I -" Athos pushed off the wall, "am exhausted." He sank onto the nearest chair, upholstered in a midnight blue velvet to match the draperies in the room. A very different room than the one they'd spent the night in after Aramis had sewn up Porthos' shoulder. "You'd think I'd done the thing myself. God I could use a drink."
"You look like you did it yourself." d'Artagnan changed direction, heading for a mahogany sideboard set against the middle of the inside wall. From among the selection of decanters he picked up a carafe and poured water into a fragile goblet. "Congratulations." He handed the glass to Athos who drank it down in one go.
"I thought I was terrified before." Athos slumped back, goblet dangling from his fingers, and closed his eyes. "I am suddenly responsible for a small person. What if he turns into my brother? What if he grows up to be another Grimaud? Or worse yet, someone like Marcheaux?"
d'Artagnan poured himself a goblet of very fine cognac, if the delectable scent was anything to go by. "You are tired." He canted his head as the sound of a wailing baby wafted down the staircase. "Or insane," the Musketeer captain added ironically. "No child of yours would ever grow up to be like any of those men."
"They're cleaning Sylvie and the baby up and changing the sheets again." Athos got up to refill his glass and drank down two more glasses of water in quick succession. "You did not know my brother." He was finding it difficult to breathe.
"I don't need to; I know you. Athos?" d'Artagnan grabbed an arm when the comte swayed. "Maybe you should sit back down."
"I am a murdering, drunken sot and I am ... a father." Athos sat again.
"You were a father this morning, too, and yesterday, and the day before that." d'Artagnan steered clear of the murdering, drunken sot declaration. Athos was having a momentary lapse; it would pass. "You've been a father for the last nine months. This is not news."
"If you mean to imply nothing has changed, you are the one who is daft." Athos bent over his knees, sucking air. "I cannot make another decision for the rest of my life without asking myself - how will this affect my son?"
d'Artagnan, momentarily struck dumb, opened and closed his mouth. "They grow up eventually, and at the beginning here, it will just be like new territory," he said finally, pulling back from the fright of realizing he was embarked upon the same path. "Maybe a bit daunting at first, but we quickly developed routines that allowed us to cover new ground quickly and efficiently. It will be the same here, you'll see."
"I am just getting used to being two instead of one, and now I am a trinity without the spiritual connections." Platitudes were not getting air into his lungs, nor quieting Athos' racing heart.
d'Artagnan, finally recognizing the signs of full-fledged panic, sank to his knees in front of his brother. "Listen to me." He circled his free hand loosely around the back of Athos' neck and bent to rest his forehead against the bowed head. "Breathe - just breathe." They'd all been through this before: on the battlefield; in field hospital tents; in their own tent more often than they cared to remember, when nightmare days had given way to nightmare-filled nights.
"In ... out." d'Artagnan set a slow, steady cadence drawing in air and letting it out. "Just breathe," he repeated quietly, moving to circle his hand between the tense shoulders. "I happen to know you're going to be great at this job. I have firsthand experience." He lifted the hand with the wine glass in a staying motion as he heard Constance's footsteps.
Constance shuffled backwards on tiptoe, bunching her shushing skirts in her fists. Athos had been a trooper in the birthing room, grounding Sylvie in the moment, breathing with her, letting her wring his hand with bruising force. At one point, even sliding in behind her to let her use his hands as leverage to push. Witnessing battlefield atrocities did not grant immunity when one's own loved ones were in danger, though Sylvie had never been in any danger. Her labor had progressed fairly rapidly for a first baby and with an ease Constance envied.
She sent up a quick prayer for a similar delivery and retreated to the kitchen where d'Artagnan delivered Athos a few minutes later, with instructions to feed him before he passed out.
The new cook, swinging a last kettle of hot water over the hearth, informed the master of the house, "You'll be bathing, too, afore you be holding that new babe," as she put a full plate in front of him. "An' you'll be clearin' that if'n ya know what's good for ya."
"Too late, I've already held him. I know you," he said, frowning. "You are Madame Paget; wife of Old Adalard."
"Aye, and your new cook."
"We don't need -" Athos took a bite of baeckeoffe and blinked. " I know this dish. It's Alsatian."
"Met Old Adalard back during one of the last wars, didn't I. Would'a been right afore the turn of the century. Married up when his service ended and 'e brought me here from Alsace. You might not need a cook, but your lady wife does. Won't be able to run this place by yourselves anymore, what with a babe needin' constant attention. I'll get some maids inta' help with the heavy work of cleanin' 'n laundry and such. A babe 'bout triples the laundry output if ya didn't know that already."
Athos blinked again. "There are many things I suppose I have yet to learn about babies. You are right, Sylvie is not going to have time. You have my full authority to hire whomever you think is necessary to run this place."
Cook's nod had all the elements of a signed contract. "Right then, I'll get to work on it first thing in the mornin'." She waved Constance to the table as well. "Bein' as it's informal tonight, you'll eat here in the kitchen, same as the master. Tomorrow, you'll eat in the dinin' room."
"There is no dining room yet," Athos interposed smoothly. He held up a hand when cook sputtered indignantly. "I will move up its priority. Especially as we will be having house guests for the christening in December. Where did d'Artagnan disappear to?" He needed to step up the schedule on further bedchambers as well, in order to accommodate everyone.
Madame Paget removed the apron, hanging it on a hook by the fireplace. "Then I suppose you'll be eatin' in the kitchen until then. There's a tray set in the inglenook for Eveline, midwifery's hard work, and another to be sent up for the comtesse when she's rested enough to want to eat. Birthing babies is even harder. And that," she indicated a covered plate set on the table opposite Constance and Athos, "is for Monsieur d'Artagnan. I will be back in the morning."
The door opened as she reached for the latch. Madame Paget and d'Artagnan danced for a moment, each attempting to give way to the other, until d'Artagnan stepped back, holding the door open. "You first, Madame," he said, bowing as he swept off his hat.
"He was out in the stable," Constance replied, as d'Artagnan closed the door behind the departing cook. "Aramis could not rearrange his schedule to do more than look in on the garrison project. d'Artagnan is worried it will grind to a halt, or worse, if he is not there to oversee things. He meant to return this morning, but I persuaded him to stay. I'm going to take Eveline and Sylvie's food up." She rose, taking her plate to the dry sink.
"Give me a minute and I'll carry that up." d'Artagnan offered, reaching to take the heavy tray his wife had loaded with Sylvie's and the midwife's dinner.
"No need, I've got it." Constance whisked past him, turning so he could not simply take the tray from her.
d'Artagnan just shook his head. "I stayed because Constance was certain you would require distraction." He discarded his outer garments, toed out of his boots as well, and padded over to the table. "She didn't believe me when I told her you would be beside Sylvie the whole time. But I had a productive day. You have enough wood to see you through the next couple of weeks, the chicken coop is finished and the kitchen garden has been put to bed for the winter."
"You are supposed to be an honored guest, d'Artagnan, not my farm laborer."
"I am a friend who saw a need and filled it. Besides, I needed something to do since you didn't need shoring up." d'Artagnan addressed his plate of food before digging in. "You've got a gem in Madame Paget, be warned, I will make every attempt to steal her when we can move out of the palace. I don't want Constance bearing the load of cooking for the entire garrison when we're able to start recruiting again.
"Duly noted. And I thank you for your assistance. Sylvie's need trumped the chicken coop, though it was on today's list of chores. It would have been spring before the kitchen garden received attention."
"It will do better having been turned and mulched while it lies fallow."
"I am well aware, but there are only so many hours in a day."
d'Artagnan stopped channeling Porthos and put down his fork and knife, eyeing Athos across the table. "This isn't the garrison; you can't run the estate singlehandedly. You have people willing to work and the resources to pay them. If it makes you feel better, pay them well, but pay them, Athos. Stop pretending you're a commoner."
"Is that what you think I'm doing here?"
"I think you feel guilty because you abandoned the estate and left your people to fend for themselves. I think you're trying to prove you're worthy of their fealty by acting like one of them. They don't want you to be one of them. Their comte is a Musketeer, a captain in the king's elite guard."
"Former captain; for the former king," Athos inserted when d'Artagnan drew breath.
"With a reputation as the finest swordsman on the continent. They don't want you to be one of them," d'Artagnan repeated, "they want to bask in your reflected glory, they want to brag that they work for the Comte de la Fère, who is also Athos of the King's Musketeers."
"Now the People's Musketeers."
d'Artagnan rolled his eyes. "It would make Sylvie's life far easier." He'd saved his best ammunition for last. "What's changed since you first wrote six months ago?"
"Did Aramis put you up to this?"
"Put me up to what?"
"He is attempting to direct Sylvie's revolutionary leanings toward politics."
"Oh. That. He did mention it would be beneficial if you resumed the title." d'Artagnan dismissed Aramis' political ambitions with a shrug. "You know I would not side with Aramis in this, at least not to further his church career."
Athos toyed with the remainder of the food on his plate. "You're right of course. I do feel guilty for abandoning the estate and the people here."
"It didn't turn out so bad. The estate certainly appears to be in good heart."
"Does that make what I did right?"
"Athos, guilt has informed your entire life. You claim you're no disciple of the church and yet you're a slave to it. Buy an indulgence, say a few Hail Mary's and be done with it."
"Would that I could," Athos returned dryly. "An Indulgence merely alleviates such temporal punishment in the afterlife as the monetary expression of guilt absolves."
"Slave," d'Artagnan repeated with a sad shake of his head.
"If I do not teach my child every choice has a consequence, I will be remiss in my duties. Nor can I make my way merrily through this life disregarding the destruction my own choices have left in my wake. There must be some restitution. I am attempting to make a start at it here."
"I do not see much destruction here," d'Artagnan murmured obstinately, clearing his plate with the remainder of a baguette.
Athos huffed a sigh. "You judge me as a friend, were you my enemy you would see me very differently."
"You count the people of Pinon as enemies?"
"That is not what I meant."
"Well," d'Artagnan reflected, "I suppose if I were to look at you through the eyes of Grimaud or even Marcheaux or Feron, you are a fiendish enemy."
"And now you are channeling Aramis."
"In this, he is right. Guilt is as useless as self-pity. Stop wallowing in it and get on with your life, Athos. The people of Pinon do not want another laborer among them, they want the prestige of working for the Comte de la Fère. They want the trickledown effect the privileges of pedigree accompanying your rank bring them. In your sanctimonious need for penance, you are denying them the very thing they covet."
That eyebrow winged up. "I'm not inclined to revert to that life again."
"I see," d'Artagnan said gravely, narrowing his eyes. "You believe if you take up the title again, you will abandon all good sense and ... what? Divorce Sylvie and take up again with Milady? Return to the arms of the Madame Joos' that populate every court in Europe? Travel about enhancing your reputation as Europe's finest swordsman by murdering every ridiculous youth who challenges your skill?" He paused. "Or do you mean you do not want to bear the responsibility again, for so many lives and livings?"
"Did I say I missed you? I must have been dyspeptic."
d'Artagnan grinned. "Porthos makes it home regularly enough that I only miss him a little. There are days when I see too much of Aramis, but you I've missed indecently. Though I release you of any obligation I may have put upon you to return to the garrison."
A glint of a smile came and went as a shadow passing over the moon on the comte's well-schooled features. "I made no promises."
"I considered it implicit." d'Artagnan rose, picking up Athos' plate as well as his own. "I wish to meet your son, my lord, does he have a name yet?"
Athos plucked the plates from d'Artagnan's hands. "Hubert." He scraped the remainder of his food into the slop bucket and put both dishes in the sink on top of Constance's.
"After Sylvie's father. He would be honored." d'Artagnan hastily wiped down the table with a damp cloth, tossing it in on top of the dishes.
"Hubert Olivier de la Fère," Athos appended, leading the way up the back stairs.
d'Artagnan's newly raised fears of fatherhood and responsibility were instantly allayed as he stepped into the bedchamber. Constance was just closing windows that had been thrown wide, despite the cold, the freshening wind having blown away any remaining reminders that this chamber had just served as a birthing room. A compensating fire filled the massive hearth corner to corner, it's compensatory blaze taking the chill off the room. Wall sconce candles had been lit in addition to the candles in holders littering every flat surface in the room, leaving only the friendliest of shadows gossiping in the corners of the large chamber.
A bassinet, cunningly crafted to rock between two posts ornately carved to resemble fat, wooly sheep, was set cheek by jowl to the side of the bed Sylvie occupied, the soft smile on her face reminiscent of a da Vinci portrait d'Artganan saw every time he entered the main apartments of the Louvre.
Sylvie lifted her arms as d'Artagnan bent to hug her. "I would rise to greet you, but Eveline and your lady wife have decreed I must spend the rest of the evening in bed. It is not so hard a job as many make it out to be," she whispered in his ear. "Constance will be fine."
d'Artagnan kissed her cheek, murmuring, "She does not know that I know." He straightened to peer down at the new soul that had stolen his friend's very breath away. "He does not look so daunting," he observed wryly, reaching down to caress a tiny hand.
"Funny how that works." Athos seated himself at Sylvie's bed-clothes-covered knees, bending over the cradle too. "His toes are no bigger than Sylvie's fingernails. It takes only the palm of one hand to cradle him and yet he's like a master work of art, perfect in every way."
"Even the tiny boy parts." Sylvie laughed. "Oh go on, you were thinking it," she said, smacking her husband's shoulder when he turned his penetrating gaze on her.
Athos's face was so used to smiling these days, those oft seamed lips parted instinctively. "Even the boy parts," he agreed. "I am in awe that we created this thing lying here. That it - he," the proud papa amended, stroking the back of a curled fist smaller than a walnut, "is bits and pieces of both of us, and yet, at the same time a blank slate."
Constance wrapped her arms around d'Artagnan from behind, resting her chin on his shoulder. "Sylvie guessed already, so I suppose I should tell you we're expecting our own work of art in seven months or so."
For a moment d'Artagnan found he could not breathe either. He'd thought so, but confirmation stole not only his breath but his sanity, too, as his chest expanded with a kind of fevered joy that made his eyes water and his throat close.
"Breathe," Athos parroted dryly, rising to hug them both. "It appears felicitations are warranted all around."
Sylvie beamed her pleasure. "We must make a point of seeing one another often enough that they become best friends," she said, sitting up to hug Constance and then d'Artagnan again. "I am so happy for you my dear, dear friends."
"And on that note, we will retire and allow the two of you to get to know your new son. Sylvie, if you have any complications in the night, do not hesitate to send Athos for me."
"I promise," Sylvie agreed over the startled wail of a babe missing the warm, watery home he had been compulsorily expelled from.
Constance ushered her still tongue-tied Gascon from the room and down the corridor. His hands were icy when she shoved him playfully onto the bed in the guest chamber, though it did not take long to warm him thoroughly.
TBC