Here's another chapter for you.
I am currently working on an additional chapter for my FLASH fic PTSD, plus wracking through my brain trying to come up with new chapters to update my other stories!
Hope you like this one.
A week had passed. Felice was stationed in her new occupation as an apprentice baker to Madame Raebourn, while D'Artagnan found his way every day to the hotel of Captain de Treville, where he learned the customs of the musketeers. The two of them would wake early and eat breakfast with the musketeers. Porthos would teach pugilistics to Felice for, as he pointed out, she was such a small thing that she must learn to defend herself properly. Of course, nearly everyone seemed small compared to Porthos. Athos would show D'Artagnan horsemanship. Then D'Artagnan would escort Felice to the bakery, and he would ride Buttercup to his academy. In the evenings when they returned home, Athos would teach Felice hand signals while D'Artagnan fenced with Aramis and Porthos. The older warriors were determined to toughen up the young people so they would be much better prepared to defend themselves.
D'Artagnan had not spoken of or to Constance since the day she'd revealed her engagement. But she had hardly left his thoughts! When he wasn't practicing his fighting or his lessons, his mind would wander to Constance. He would wonder what she was doing today, what dress was she wearing, how was she serving the queen today, when would she be sent on an errand from the palace again? Would he be able to see her again? Honestly, he was grateful for the new routines that occupied his days now. The drive and speed of dueling, the urgent need to keep his senses sharp, and his flexes acute, gave his frustrated energy a much needed out.
D'Artagnan would leave a small, personal note in the letters that Felice wrote to their parents. He wished he could speak to his father for his newfound predicament. He needed his father's wise words on supposedly unrequited love. But, for now, he would seek out Athos on the subject.
The bell atop the front door of the bakery dinged. "Ahh, there is another customer!" Madame Raebourn chided. "Will you please tend to their wants, child? I am simply covered in dough."
"Of course, ma'am." Felice nodded, and hurried to the front room. "Good day, Mademoiselle. How may we serve yo-Constance!"
"Bonjour, Felice." Constance gave a small, timid curtsy.
"It's been a while. How are you?" Felice asked politely.
"Very well, thank you." Constance said, keeping her eyes down.
"Uhm...can I help you?" Felice asked awkwardly.
"Yes, I need five dozen cakes and biscuits. Here are the flavors." Constance answered, placing a sheet of paper on the counter.
"Five dozen, you say!" Felice's eyes widened. "May I ask when is the deadline?"
"In four days' time."
"Ahh. Alright. I will speak with Madame Raebourn. Is this an official order from her majesty?"
"Yes. King James of England is sending one of his highly praised ambassadors to attempt a discussion of peace, between England and France. He will be arriving in four days."
"Oh my!" Felice whistled. "I see! Well then, we shall get right to it. I shall inform Madame Raebourn at once! Excuse me." Felice curtsied, then hurried into the large, steaming kitchen in the back of the shop, that smelled beautifully of breads, tarts, and biscuits freshly baked in the oven. "Madame!" She exclaimed. "See here! Lady Constance has sent an official order from her majesty, Queen Anne."
"Indeed?" Madame Raebourn straightened up from her kneading, wiping her doughy hands on the white apron and hugged her rotund middle. "And what is the occasion?"
"A representative of England, from King James himself!"
"Good l-!" Madame Raebourn gasped when she read the contents of the letter. "Five dozen cakes and biscuits, on top of all our other orders? Not to mention the usual stock that I keep available every single day!"
"Why, Madame! By your manner of speaking, I would think that this is the first time Queen Anne has ever required your services." Felice remarked.
"Not at all, child. Only that…"
"Constance said that they are to be ready in four days."
"Four days? Oh, thank goodness!" Madame Raebourn puffed in tremendous relief. "That certainly puts a different light on it, doesn't it? Tell Lady Constance that we shall not fail! The Queen's wish is our command."
"I will." Felice nodded and hurried back to the front room. Constance was still there, standing forlorn in the corner, staring at a platter of cheese rolls. "You are still here. Good! Tell her majesty that it shall be done!"
"I, I will." Constance murmured.
"Constance, is something wrong?" Felice asked tentatively.
"I...how is your brother these days?" Constance asked, avoiding eye contact.
"He is alright." Felice sighed. "Training with the musketeers under Captain de Treville keeps him happily occupied. Although...when he is not practicing his lessons, he does appear quite distracted, and troubled."
"Oh, I am sorry."
"Constance, do you love him?" Felice asked before she could stop herself. Constance gaped at her, looking positively mortified.
"What?!" She sputtered.
"I know it is none of my business, and we hardly know one another. But your engagement-yes, D'Artagnan told me of it-effects my brother so. In other words, indirectly, it has become my business." Felice said guiltily. "Do you love the man you are to marry?"
"He is a good man." Constance answered quickly.
"That is not what I asked you, mon ami."
"He runs a steady business. He is well to do. And he has not been discourteous."
"But do you love him?"
Constance met her gaze and her petite little lips trembled. "Even if I did," she admitted, "I am already bound to an agreement."
"But you are not an aristocrat. You are not a royal. A lady in your position could turn down a proposal if she chose to." Felice pointed out.
"I gave my word." Constance corrected her.
"But you love D'Artagnan. Do you not?" Felice asked cautiously.
"I...I...I do not know." Constance shook her head.
"Oh, forgive me, Constance!" Felice begged, grabbing her friend's hand. "I have overstepped my bounds and poked my nose where it does not belong. It is only that, my brother's heart is at stake, and I do not want to encourage him if there is no hope to be given him."
Constance chewed her lip. "Then you do not hate me? For causing him heartache?"
"Please just tell me the truth." Felice persisted.
"I do not love Monsieur Bonacieux!" Constance blurted out. "He is a courteous man, but he is many ages my senior. And he seems to cherish his business more than he boasts of us becoming man and wife. He is not an evil man, do not mistake my words. But no, to be honest, I do not love him." Her shoulders slackened, as if a weight had been lifted from her body.
"Perhaps things may change." Felice suggested.
"You say that because you are a country girl. I say that with no offense intended, only facts. In Gascony, the laws of marriage I imagine are much more lenient. But here in Paris, they are not so easily changed once one has set the arrangement."
"As I said, perhaps things may change, Constance."
Not an evil man, Constance? Hmm. We shall see...