The Honorable Officer (3 page)

He sat across the table from the lady and his daughter and waved Fourbier to a chair. The innkeeper’s wife entered with a servant bringing bread and jam.

They ate in strained silence. He complimented the woman on the delightful sausage; it had been weeks since he had eaten properly, even though he knew he ate better than his soldiers. “Well, Mademoiselle Hélène, I would like the rest of the story of how you came to bring my daughter to a war.”

Hélène looked down at her lap, blushing. “I do not know how I had the strength to do it, but I was so frightened for Ondine. I didn’t feel safe with my aunt and uncle Ferand.”

“You said there was a fire? And your uncle thought it was nothing serious?”

“He said it was just a dropped candle, but there was a great deal of smoke under the door of the nursery. And Ondine had not drunk her milk. She did not want it—if a child who is not even three does not want something, there is no point in forcing—and so we gave it to the cat that sleeps in her dressing room.”

Jean-Louis scratched at his head, confused. He encountered his damned wig, though, and didn’t dare disarrange it any more than it already was so brought his hand back down to the table.

Mademoiselle Hélène turned to the serving girl. “Lily, could you watch Ondine for a short time while I speak to the colonel in the hall?”

The girl agreed, glancing fearfully at Fourbier, who nodded. Jean-Louis followed Mademoiselle Hélène into the dark, cramped hall.

“I did not wish to frighten Ondine. She understands most of what we say, though she doesn’t speak clearly yet.” She dragged her hand along the wall until they were ten feet from the breakfast room.

Jean-Louis leaned against the opposite wall, glancing out a tiny, wavy window to where his carriage was waiting. He wondered again if this was a horrible waste of time.

“You see, Ondine did not drink her milk, but the cat did. When the smoke started, Ondine cried for me to save the cat, but I found it on the floor under the bed, vomiting and twitching. I took up Ondine and opened the window and called for help as I stepped out onto the ledge.”

“The third-story ledge by the nursery?” His heart wrenched.

“Yes. I knew I could walk along it to the balcony two windows down. Amandine used to climb out to escape lessons. The ledge is wide enough to walk on, if one is careful. I had Ondine in the shawl I use to carry her when she gets tired on walks. She stayed very still.”

Jean-Louis stared at Mademoiselle Hélène for a long time after she stopped talking. She was looking in his direction, but not meeting his eyes. He would not have thought her so bold as to walk along a ledge or speak an entire sentence. “Tell me the rest. Why your uncle did not agree there was a threat. Why you chose to leave anyway.”

She sighed and looked down at her twisting hands. She was nervous, not bold at all. “He said the cat must have breathed smoke. The fire was put out very quickly. They were already throwing water on it when I came back in through the schoolroom. We were hardly in, though, when the window broke.”

“Broke?” he snapped. “How?”

“I’m not sure. The window, which is like a narrow door, really, jerked out of my hand and shattered,” she said. “And then I heard a
crack
.”

His heart stuttered. He swallowed. “Like a gunshot?”

“I don’t know. I thought it might be, but my uncle said I must have broken the window. I am clumsy.” She blushed and looked down.

Jean-Louis rubbed the spot between his eyebrows, the spot where every headache started. “How did you determine this was a threat against Ondine?”

She brought her head up, her jaw set. “We’ve had someone following us on walks. I started to bring a footman along because I thought I saw someone lurking in the trees. One time, in the village, a man darted out and tried to grab Ondine, but I held on and the footman chased him away. No one knew who the man was. My uncle said it was surely just a joke, but I found it extremely upsetting. But when the fire was set—because I believe it was set and not just an accident with a candle, as he said—I had to get Ondine away.”

There was another long silence as Jean-Louis wondered about Mademoiselle Hélène’s ability to properly assess a kidnap or murder threat, especially as she surely could not see well enough to identify anyone. He sighed.

“Was I wrong, Monsieur?” Her voice squeaked. “I was so frightened for Ondine. I didn’t know to whom I could turn, but since you are her father, I thought you would know what to do. She’s…she is the most precious thing in the world to me.” Mademoiselle Hélène’s voice broke. “I know I am not her mother, but I feel as though I am.”

Jean-Louis turned his back on the weeping lady. Tears had always been his weakness. How many times had his late wife lied to him through tears? And how many times had his mother warped his childhood with a delicate show of tears after a display of temper and spite?

He had escaped the family home at ten, for which he had been grateful. At the time, he had been horribly homesick, even with his brother and Dominique, the heir to the Comte de Bures, as companions in Dom’s father’s château. The two older boys were both heirs to lands and titles, besides being bigger, stronger, further advanced in their studies, and already friends. He had worked hard to prove himself their equal, and soon surpassed them, though they would never admit it.

He shook his head and turned back to Mademoiselle Hélène, who dabbed at her eyes.

“Can you be ready to leave within the hour?” he asked her.

Her mouth dropped open in surprise. He had surprised himself. He had planned to tell her to stay where she was or return to her uncle’s house, not to come with him.

“My aide-de-camp will find you a tent and blankets and so on. Our campaign in Franche-Comté is nearly over, if the battle at Dole is any indication. The Spanish forces know they have no reinforcements coming, and the people have welcomed us, for the most part.”

He wondered constantly if this sector of the War of Devolution was of any use at all, except to kill a few soldiers and civilians and to impoverish the countryside. There were already mutterings among the officers that once they won the county it was to be used as a pawn in the king’s posturing with Spain, which had signed a treaty with Sweden, England, and the Netherlands.

She sat up straighter. “I can have our things ready very quickly. We did not bring very much with us. I did not…”

“I did not expect to believe you at all, Mademoiselle Hélène.” His voice was harsher than he had meant it to be. She cringed. “I still do not, but will feel better knowing exactly where Ondine is. I will write a letter to her grandparents, saying she is safe with me.”

“Oh, please, do not…”

He interrupted. “I would much appreciate it if you would stay with her and care for her as you have done. She would be much distressed without you, I am sure.”

“Oui, Monsieur,” Mademoiselle Hélène said, somewhat breathlessly. “Only I would feel safer if my aunt and uncle did not know where she was.”

No one who was not at least a colonel ever contradicted Jean-Louis. “She is in my care, and you will be too. There is no threat, Mademoiselle Hélène. I should send her back, but just in case you are correct, I would rather keep her nearby.”

Mademoiselle Hélène looked up at him with a sweet, small smile, like he was some sort of hero, and for a moment he felt like one. He turned away and went to give orders to his servants, spotting the innkeeper’s wife at the end of the hall. “Thank you for your assistance with my daughter, Madame. Please let my valet know what is owed you.”

He only caught a fleeting glimpse of the woman’s surprise before nodding to the groom, who opened the door for him. “Stay and help them get ready. Find out if they have blankets we could buy. Find out where she gets the sausage; I’d like to take some back with me. Keep an eye out for trouble. Don’t let anyone near my daughter except our own men.”

****

After the bustle of getting ready, the ride in the cramped carriage proved painfully awkward. Hélène’s presence probably made it dull for everyone else, too. She sighed as she glanced out the window, appreciating the smudge of bright blue sky and the glimpse of bare, brown tree branches, even though she could not see the details. Ondine shifted next to her. The girl had insisted on riding next to the door, which forced Hélène up against the hard muscles of Monsieur
le Colonel de Cantière in a way that made her leg tingle and her face flush.

Of course, Jean-Louis de Cantière had always made her tingle with excitement, even when he had been married to her cousin, Amandine.

The rear-facing seat was taken up with a dozing groom and the neatly-dressed aide-de-camp, Fourbier, who had—inexplicably—smiled in delight when she peered at him through her heavy lorgnette. He announced he had some wonderful ideas already for a gown for her. The
colonel groaned and told him to make a sketch and to not bother them with ribbons and lace. She smiled at the aide, who smirked as if it were a joke.

Ondine wiggled again on the soft seat, and Hélène turned her attention to her. “Do you need to go
pipi
?” she whispered.

“Oui,
Tata
Nénène. Monsieur Papa Coll-ell say no stopping,” said the girl in her usual loud voice.

“Shhhh, chérie. If you need to make
pipi
, then we must stop. Your papa will understand.”

She felt
the
colonel’s sigh more than heard it. He nodded to Fourbier, who knocked on the trapdoor. The coachman opened it, and they were soon stopped.

“Find a tree,” snapped the colonel.

Ondine shivered against Hélène, who opened the door. The aide helped them down and led them away from the edge of the road, Hélène stumbling over roots and Ondine clinging to her skirts. She helped the little girl with her heavy petticoats and warm drawers, and then relieved herself, also, not knowing when they would stop again. Finished and their skirts put in order, she called to the aide, who helped them back to the carriage and up the steps.

Once settled again, this time with Ondine on her lap, wiggling with suppressed energy, she said, “Would you mind if we sang, Monsieur? Ondine has a pretty voice.”

She was very proud of Ondine, who could carry a tune quite well. And singing could sometimes tame the girl for a short while.

The colonel grunted his assent, so they sang, “
En passant par la Lorraine
.” Or rather, Hélène sang the words and Ondine sang something like the words, with a lot of “
dondaine
” and “
la-la-tou-la-tour-la-laine
.” The valet hummed at first, then sang along softly in a nice, deep voice.

When they finished, Ondine clapped her hands and slipped from Hélène’s lap to climb up next to Fourbier, who asked, “Do you know ‘
Ne pleure pas Pernette,
’ Mademoiselle?”

Hélène did not know if he was addressing her or Ondine and so answered, “We both do, Monsieur Fourbier. It was…” She caught herself before saying it was one of her cousin’s favorites, which was why she sang it with Ondine. She lied, instead, feeling her cheeks heat. “It was one of my favorites as a little girl. My mother taught it to me.”

It wasn’t quite a lie, because she had liked it as a child. She had also wept to it as a young lady, when she thought herself doomed to disappointment forever because her “Pierre,” though not doomed to be hanged, was promised to her cousin and forever out of her reach. No one had promised she would marry the son of a prince in his place. She had been rather pathetic: much too dull to attract attention, especially when thrown into society with her cousin. She had sat at the edge of more than one ballroom and drawing room, unable to see the people. She supposed it was a blessing in disguise, because she would surely have seen they were not looking at her except to sneer, just as Amandine said.

They sang, and Hélène struggled to keep from laughing as she always did when singing with Ondine, as the girl always got lost in the “
tra-la-la
” and “
ee-er-ee-er-on
.”

She turned her head and realized the colonel was looking at her and not at Ondine. At least his head was turned in her direction and, in the bright light of the sun streaming in, she thought his mouth might be smiling. She blushed and turned away, hoping he wasn’t laughing at her.

When they finished singing, Ondine climbed across to Hélène’s lap and announced she was very, very hungry. The valet got down their lunch, but Ondine wanted to stop. The girl became more shrill in her insistence, and Hélène feared a tantrum.
Please
,
not on the first day
. She begged the colonel to stop. He sighed but called for a halt to let Ondine run around.

“I’m very sorry,” said Hélène to the colonel. “She’s so little she cannot sit still long. I am used to living by her schedule, but I don’t know if we can travel as quickly as you want.”

He remained by her side, watching as Ondine ran through a field, jumping every so often. Hélène could see the dark forms of the groom and valet following her like shadows.

“Birds,” said the colonel.

She jumped in surprise. “Pardon?”

“She is chasing birds. I didn’t know if you could see them.”

Hélène blushed. “Thank you.” She didn’t like people to notice her problem, even if they meant to be kind. She didn’t even know if he meant to be kind. He had never said a cross word to her, but he hadn’t thought about her at all, probably.

He nodded and looked out over the field. After five minutes of silence, he clapped his hands. “Everyone in. We have to keep moving.”

As Ondine ran back to her,
the colonel said, “The army is moving north to Grey, and I am meant to rejoin them there.”

“We’ve traveled for only about two hours, haven’t we?” Her stomach twisted in guilt. “And we’ve stopped twice.”

“We are nearly to Grey.”

“Ondine will want to nap,” said Hélène. “At least I hope she will. She might be too excited.”

He nodded and turned away as Ondine danced up and held out her hands to Hélène to be picked up. Hélène took her hand instead, not wanting to stumble while carrying the girl. “We have a long ride, still, chérie.”

“Don-deen no like long ride,” said Ondine, her lower lip jutting out.