The Honorable Officer (8 page)

“And the dead cat?” she demanded.

“Dead cat?” he asked with a scowl.

“The cat that died of…” She glanced at Ondine, whose lower lip trembled, either because they were arguing or thinking of her missing cat. “P-O-I-S-O-N. My uncle said it was the smoke.”

The colonel’s face cleared. “Oh, yes. I thought it the weakest link in the story. No, the window breaking was weaker. Without having seen it myself…”

Hélène dropped her eyeglass to her lap and looked out the window at the grayness of the wet morning. She took a deep breath and clenched her hands together to keep them from shaking. “So why did you take us with you to the siege? Especially after telling me at Dole it was too dangerous?”

When the silence stretched on, she lifted her lorgnette to see Fourbier smirking. De Cantière looked terribly uncomfortable. “I am not sure myself.”

He didn’t seem like the type to make such a decision based on a whim.

He rolled his shoulders. “I…well, I wasn’t sure there was a threat, but…” He sighed. “
D’accord
. I hadn’t realized how much I missed Ondine. I had only your letters about her, as her grandparents did not write me except asking for money for her. I hadn’t seen her in a year. When I saw her in Auxonne, I realized she had changed a great deal, and it…” He swallowed. “I did not like that she didn’t know me.”

Hélène sighed at this powerful man, brought low by his tiny daughter.

He looked directly at Hélène, straight into her lorgnette. She was suddenly very conscious of how silly her face looked with the one, giant eye, how Amandine had laughed every time she used the lorgnette in public.

She started to lower it, but the colonel brought the glass back up to her eye. His hand was warmer than hers, even through their gloves. “I also thought you were…you were much more interesting than I had known. I enjoyed your letters because they were about Ondine, but I had not thought much about you, I am sorry to say.”

She blushed hotly. He released her hand, and she looked away, first at Fourbier, who stared out the window with a frown, and then at Charlotte, who gaped at her. Ondine bounced on her knees on the seat, humming a song, bored with the conversation.

Hélène was not sure if she should be offended the colonel had never thought much about her or flattered he wanted to know more now. Possibly he only wanted to know more about her so he could decide about returning Ondine to her grandparents. She could not let that happen; surely she wasn’t imagining the danger.

****

They arrived in Dijon a little after midday and went straight to Madame Pinard’s boarding house near the center of the city.

Jean-Louis was silent for the last hour of the trip, after the humiliating, too revealing conversation about hysteria and being intrigued by Mademoiselle Hélène. Once the coachman and groom had decided there was no threat in view, they descended on a surprised Widow Pinard, who embraced Hélène warmly amidst sharp questions.

They were hardly inside the door when Madame Pinard, at least forty and not terribly rich but with the upright bearing of an officer, said, “I have heard from your aunt and uncle Ferand. They are most displeased with you. You did not say in your letter you left without their permission. I got a letter from them yesterday. They are writing to everyone who knows you, trying to find if anyone has seen you. They know we correspond regularly, after all. I have not written back yet, but be sure I will.”

“Please, Nonni,” said Hélène. “Do not write back, or let the colonel help you decide what to write. We have had a most upsetting morning.”

“You knew Madame Pinard before coming here?” asked Jean-Louis, frowning. He had misunderstood the relationship. “Then how…”

“Nonni was our governess, mine and Amandine’s. Surely Amandine mentioned her,” said Mademoiselle Hélène.

Madame Pinard huffed a laugh. “I would be very surprised if she did, except to complain about reading, complain about calligraphy, complain about everything but dancing. Complain about that, too, I suppose.” She looked abashed. “
Je suis désolée
, Monsieur. I am sorry. I should not speak of your late wife in such a way.”

He stared at her for a moment, cold settling in his chest at the thought of his late wife. “I cannot remember if Amandine spoke of her governess. It is I who am sorry, Madame, for not understanding your relationship with Mademoiselle Hélène.”

He turned to Mademoiselle Hélène. “You cannot stay here. The threat has followed you already into an army camp. If they know you at all, they will look for you here.”

“Threat? Has something else happened, then?” asked Madame Pinard, her hand to her heart.

Mademoiselle Hélène explained the events of the night, leaving out a great deal of the danger and, more tellingly, her own heroics in slashing through the tents to save the girls.

While she spoke, Jean-Louis went to the window and glared at the few passersby. He had to find an alternate plan, quickly. He couldn’t leave them here. He knew it when he left the camp, it was true, but he hadn’t figured out how he would send them to his property in Poitou. He didn’t feel safe sending them without him.

He waved at Fourbier, who stood in the hall. “Fetch me my writing desk.”

He would send Mademoiselle Hélène and Ondine to his sister’s husband, who was visiting his own property in Poitou. Dominique de Bures would take charge of them, and his sister Aurore would make them at home. It was only the journey he was worried about. It would take a week or more. Perhaps if he sent Fourbier and the groom with Hélène…

And with Ondine, of course.

Fourbier set the traveling desk on a small table and fetched a chair.

“Monsieur le Colonel,” said Hélène from where she sat with the distraught Madame Pinard. “Where should we go?”

“I will send you on to Poitou. My sister and brother-in-law are there. I must…” He stared at her for a long time, lost in thought.

Really, the army only still needed him in Franche-Comté to supervise the troops during the occupation, which would likely be brief and pointless. He hated pointless. The area would be traded back to Spain. The pawn had advanced across the board and would be traded for a more important piece.

He loved strategy, the fire of the battlefield, and men moving as he directed them. He mourned each life lost—most of them, anyway, although not so much the hardened criminals whom he wished he could keep in cages—but never in the heat of battle. He was a master chess player. Someday he would supervise the entire battle, plan it from start to end, triumph with as little blood spilled as possible. He hoped the battle would mean something, bring a lasting peace or at least an important territory.

He blinked and returned to the present. The two ladies looked at him expectantly. He realized he had not finished his sentence. “
Désolé
,
Mesdames
. I am more fatigued than I realized and am thinking of too many things at once.”

He took out his pen and ink and tapped at the edges of the paper, lining up the small stack. He wrote, “
Ma chère soeur
,
mon cher frère
,” and then sat back in his chair.

It wasn’t like him to waste time in thought. He knew his mind. Usually.

Asking his family for help was worse than asking anyone else. He had worked hard to escape from Cédric’s shadow, to be better and stronger than his fun-loving older brother and his best friend, Dominique. Maybe he was too serious because it made him different from them. Cédric had been born happy and friendly, the reflection of their father the baron, sharing his booming laugh. He loved being around people and talking. Even as a child, Jean-Louis had wanted to be alone to think.

But this wasn’t getting his letter written.

Why could he not think of the words he needed? He didn’t know how to go forward. He got up and strode to the window again, only vaguely aware of the others. He stayed back a few feet, trying to remain indistinct to anyone looking in. He glanced at the houses across the narrow street. There were shadows of people behind two windows, but all was quiet. He leaned forward to see the upper stories through the thick, warped glass. The window exploded around him and a bang echoed up and down the street. He staggered back, sitting hard on the shard-covered floor.

“Down! Get down!” he shouted over Ondine and Charlotte’s screams.

Mademoiselle Hélène slid off the high divan, pulling the widow with her. Ondine was already on the floor, where she’d been playing with some sticks. She stood up. He shouted, “Stay there, Ondine! Don’t move!”

The little girl was already running across the room to Mademoiselle Hélène.

Years of ducking below parapets and low walls served Jean-Louis well. He shook glass from his clothing as he scrambled, doubled over. He grabbed Ondine and carried her to the door, which banged open on a white-faced Fourbier. He shoved Ondine into Fourbier’s arms. “Check her for glass. Close all the curtains.”

He turned back to the ladies, who crouched awkwardly amidst long skirts and shards of glass. He yanked the curtains closed over the broken window, but remained bent down as he walked to them.

“I will help you first, Madame Pinard. Take my arm. Bend down as much as you can.”

The lady stumbled across the room, clutching the front of her dress and shawl, her face horribly pale.

“I’ll be right back, Hélène. Stay still,” he said.

He left Madame Pinard in the hall on a chair and stepped back into the room just as there was another bang, another shattering of glass, and curtains swung inward, with a hole suddenly torn in them.

He raced across the room and lifted Hélène, much as he had on the night of the fire, and carried her out.

Once in the dark hallway, he set her down and removed his gloves to use them to brush shards of glass from her.

He said, “The shots couldn’t have been more than a minute apart, which means he has more than one rifled musket, though why he didn’t take both shots within seconds, I do not know. Maybe he was waiting for a clear shot on the second one and got frustrated.” He eyed the shards of glass on the wooden floor of the hall.

Mademoiselle Hélène’s hands gripped his arm, making him fumble his gloves. “They were shooting at you,” she said in a squeaky voice. “They couldn’t have mistaken you for Ondine.”

He froze, mind whirling. “They might have thought I was you.” His throat closed up. “Or maybe they hoped to leave Ondine defenseless.”

She whimpered and gripped his arm more tightly. He cupped her cheek, his rough fingers sliding across her silken skin. He almost forgot the danger they were in. Her huge, blue eyes darted around his face. Her mouth was open, panting in fear. He was already starting to step toward her, to claim a kiss for his heroics, to steady his own nerves, when Fourbier cleared his throat.

Jean-Louis stepped back, shocked at what he had almost done, angry at Fourbier for witnessing it and for interrupting.

“Ondine and Charlotte are in the kitchen, Monsieur. Charlotte is dandling the little girl on her knee, playing horses. Ondine does not have any scratches, and only a few bits of glass were on her clothing.”

“We all have to change.” Hélène sounded calmer than she looked.

Mademoiselle Hélène
, he reminded himself, taking another step back.
Not Hélène
.

“We should all get the glass-covered clothing off and shake it out and brush it, to be sure there aren’t any bits working their way through,” said Jean-Louis.

“Madame Pinard has suffered a bad shock. Her maid and our groom are putting her to bed,” said Fourbier.

“Oh! Nonni!” Mademoiselle Hélène turned toward the stairs.

“Change your clothes first, Mademoiselle,” said Jean-Louis, maintaining his fierce expression by force of will as he thought of Mademoiselle Hélène slipping out of her loose bodice. He was probably blushing as much as she was.

A maid led Mademoiselle Hélène up to a room, and another was dispatched to find Ondine and take her up.

“Fourbier, my trunk,” said Jean-Louis.

“And a bag with a few changes, Monsieur.” Fourbier frowned.

“
Merde
,” said Jean-Louis with a sigh. A
few
changes? “You guessed I would not be going back?”

“I shall have the coachman bring in the bag, Monsieur. And the small trunk.” Fourbier’s dark eyes glinted slyly.

“I shall need a dispatch rider to take a letter to Condé,” said Jean-Louis. “And another to Fontainebleau and de la Brosse, as my father could be in either place. Does Madame Pinard know any trustworthy messengers?”

“I will ask, Monsieur,” said Fourbier.

Jean-Louis rubbed the spot between his eyebrows where the headache was already threatening.

Fourbier turned back at the other end of the hall. “Where do we go next, Monsieur?”

Jean-Louis sighed deeply. “I don’t know.”

He was fairly sure Fourbier understood him. Fourbier always understood him. He didn’t know where his life would lead him now, much less where they should go to keep Ondine and Hélène safe while they discovered who was trying to kill them.

****

Hélène giggled nervously as she led Ondine up the hall. She had found lice in the girl’s hair along with a few tiny pieces of glass, and washed her hair carefully. Since the colonel announced they would leave at nightfall, they had plenty of time to bathe. She had washed Charlotte too and combed her hair—the lice were much more plentiful on her, the poor thing.

Nonni promised to get a doctor in about her heart once Hélène left. She was sitting up in her bed, watching Hélène bathe Ondine, making suggestions.

Hélène washed her own hair, too.

As they came around the corner into the small dining room, Hélène lifted her glass to her eye. The men looked up one by one and then looked at each other and again at her and Ondine.

Fourbier laughed with delight and leapt to his feet. The coachman and groom rose. Monsieur le Colonel followed last, but Hélène didn’t feel slighted because he was looking at her henna-red hair with his mouth slightly open. He glanced at Ondine, and his gaze caught on her now-flaming hair. He smiled, sending her heart fluttering.