Beyond paradise (36 page)

He kissed her forehead and gazed earnestly into her eyes. "Sylvie, I have what I need."

"But—"

"This time was just for you." He kissed her once more, this time sealing her eyes closed, and then leaned over to turn out the lantern.

Sylvie was astounded, and wanted to tell him how rare and special he was. But he knew that because she had left her whole life behind to be at his side—and she was too sleepy and dizzily in love to repeat herself. She breathed heavily against him, exhausted by her release. It felt like time to go to bed, yet it was already morning. She could feel the sun against her eyelids. "I mustn't fall asleep," she said with a yawn.

"What's that?" It was hard for him to understand her when she was yawning.

Sylvie sighed before repeating herself. "I said I mustn't sleep."

"You're wrong," he whispered, squeezing her tight. "You should sleep. You've been through a lot. I want you to sleep."

"But I ... I really should.. ." She yawned once more, snuggling deeper against him.

He kissed the top of her head. "Sleep," he repeated.

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''Sleep until it's over. 1 want the next thing you see to be the glittering lanterns of the Parisian gardens."

"Parisian gardens." A sleepy smile came over her. "That sounds so nice."

"It will be nice," he promised her in a whisper. "We'll take promenades, go to coffee houses, sleep until noon, and never work another day. I'll put a harpsichord in our parlour, and you can learn to play. You'll have women friends and jewels and a soiree every Christmas. Your family can visit us just as soon as they recover from hearing the news. Ten years or so ought to do it. We'll hire carriages and picnic in the countryside. We'll. . ." He looked down and saw that his fairy tale had put her to sleep. He smiled warmly and played with a strand of her silken hair.

What was so effective about his fairy tale, he imagined, was that it would actually come true. Barring any more pirate attacks—he shuddered—he and Sylvie would arrive safely on French shores with chests full of gold and livres. They would pose as wealthy strangers from Martinique, and though Sylvie's noble status would be unknown, they would live a good life. He would have the woman he loved. He would have fine possessions and live a life of ease. Perhaps, he thought, glancing at Sylvie's belly, he might even get a daughter or a son some day. So he had won, hadn't he? He had proven that he was a man like any other, that he deserved to live as well as any. That he was whole. Hadn't he? Blanchet's cold face surfaced in his mind's eye, mocking him. "I've won," he told the mirage. "Be gone. I've proven you wrong." But no matter how long he thought about it, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that it must be over, it still seemed that the old man in his thoughts was laughing.

Thirty-five

Six months later .

"Mamanl" Chantal flew through the door of their shack, her golden hair in a perfect tangle, her bonnet nowhere to be found, and a piece of parchment flapping about in her hand.

"Don't run!" cried her mother. "How many times have I told you—"

"But Mamanl It is Sylvie! The ship has come in—it's a letter from Sylvie!"

Madam Davant threw down her scrubbing cloth and hurried to her daughter. "Come in here!" she called to her husband. "Hurry!" But she could not wait for him before unrolling the parchment. She yanked it from Chantal's hand as though the girl had all but disappeared, and began to read frantically. "Wait, no," she said, stopping herself. She looked into Chantal's wounded sky-blue eyes and took heart. She had wanted to be the messenger, the bearer of good tidings. It was not fair to deprive her. Nor was it fair, she'd had to remind herself over and over during the course of the long months, to dwell on

Elizabeth Doyle

the daughter who was gone when one who needed her still remained.

"You read it," she told Chantal, whipping the parchment under her nose. "Read it out loud to us."

Monsieur Davant stormed in, nearly catching his wig in the doorway. "What is it?" he demanded.

"A letter from Sylvie. Now, hush. Chantal will read it to us."

"Maman," she said, blushing, "I'm not sure I can. There are a lot of long words in it"

"That's why you have a tutor. Now read."

Monsieur Davant wrapped his arm about his wife's shoulders, quaking at the thought of hearing from Sylvie. "Is it in her penmanship?" he muttered.

"Yes, yes. I looked at it. Now, go on, Chantal. Read."

The girl stood up straight and cleared her throat. "Dear Maman, Papa, and Chantal I love you all very much and miss you terribly ..."

"Stop," said her mother, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath to absorb the first taste. "All right," she said, clutching her ribs, "all right. Go on."

Chantal cleared her throat once more. "I am sure that Captain Tremblay has told you by now what transpired. I confess a piece of me is grateful that I need only face you in a letter, after all I have done to disgrace you"

Her mother stopped her with a raised hand this time. "Were we that bad?" she whispered to her husband.

"I don't know," he replied, kissing her tightly pinned hair. "I don't know."

"Mmmm, goodness. Ugh. All right, go on, Chantal."

This time, she looked rather irritated at having been interrupted for a second time when she was working so hard on her reading skills. But she continued.

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The only comfort I can offer you is that I am happy, though I feel rather selfish in supposing that would lend you peace of mind after all of the hardship I have wrought. Maman, Paris is just as you have always de-bed /'/. Jacques and I live in a hotel, near the Luxembourg Gardens. It is so luxurious that I am afraid to touch anything lest I break it. I often forget that it is all mine!

At night, the streets are alight with lanterns, and couples stroll arm in arm for as far as the eye can see. It is truly not of this earth. We visit the theater nearly every night, and then drink cocoa in the Saint Germain des Pres before retiring. You would not believe my hair if you saw it. It is so tall I can barely make it through a door! It is necessary, though, as I have been astounded by how concerned the women, and especially the men, are with their looks! Working to keep up with the fashions of Paris is quite a burden.

Maman, you told me that there were carriages everywhere in Paris, but you didn Jf tell me that some of them are pulled by women and children! It is appalling, yet I do understand it. The servants here make next to nothing and desperately need the work. On a related note, crime here is just terrible. It is not safe for a lady to walk alone, which I regret. I hate having to ask Jacques to escort me everywhere, but that is the way of a city. I do miss the freedom of living where nobody cares what I wear or whether I have company.

Chantal, are you taking good care ofMonique? How I miss her, but not at all in comparison to how much I miss you! I wish I could see you. I imagine you are taller now, and even more lovely. I will tell you a secret, Chantal, if you promise not to remind me of it.

Elizabeth Doyle

You are much more beautiful than I am. I have always been envious.

Maman, / do miss your cooking! Our servants do their best, but they cannot challenge your expertise. You will be interested to know that many of the most popular soups are made with rose water nowadays. You might wish to try this, as it has a pleasing outcome.

'Tapa, sometimes I think I hear your footsteps in the night, and that I am a little girl again, that I might awaken and race out to meet you in the kitchen for a stolen late-night supper. How I miss those days. And how I pray that you remember them fondly.

"Ask the ship's captain for a package, which should have accompanied this letter."

Chantal looked worriedly at her parents.

"I was so excited about the letter, I just ran."

They shook their heads disapprovingly, but she went on.

// contains money. I want you to have it, not as a gesture of reconciliation but as thanks for days gone by. There is no way to send it back, so please take it. I love you all. I miss you terribly. But I am very, very happy.

Your daughter and sister always, Sylvie Dupree

Chantal looked proudly at her mother, who rested a weary head upon her husband's shoulder and sighed. The spouses' eyes met with tenderness and relief. "Well," she said, "at least

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she is alive." He squeezed her emphatically. "Go," she told her daughter, "go find Captain Tremblay, and show him the letter. I'm sure he will want to see."

Chantal raced out the door, suspiciously eager to fulfill her quest. But her mother was too overwhelmed to think anything of it. "She feels terrible," she told her husband.

"Yes, well, she really did cause us a lot of grief."

"She should not have eloped, it's true. But does she really think us so heartless that we would not forgive her? Especially as she married a respectable viscomte from Captain Tremblay's vessel. If he is at all as the captain described, then he is nothing to be ashamed of."

"She broke her betrothal," he said. "She has a lot for which to apologize."

"I know, I know. But oh . .. the idea of her in Paris, living the life I had always dreamed for her. Granted it is not Versailles, but it is the next best thing. Oh, Thibault, I could not be happier for her."

He sighed heavily in his own delight. "Well, Nicolette, what shall we do about the trunk she sent us? Shall I tell the ship's captain to return it from whence it came?"

"Heavens, no!" she said, standing upright, away from his embrace. "We are going to keep that money."

"We are?"

"But of course! How else," she asked with a glimmer in her eye, "could we afford to visit our daughter in Paris?"

Her husband broke into a broad grin. "My God, that is a wonderful idea."

"And we shall bring gifts, and I shall come burdened with a list of all kinds of aggravating, motherly advice about marriage, and we shall pretend the entire thing was sanctioned by us."

"I love the idea."

Elizabeth Doyle

"Not to mention," she added haughtily, "it will give Chantal a chance to see Paris, a chance to see what her life would be like if she would find a reputable gentleman ..."

"Now dearest, we discussed this. I thought we weren't going to arrange any more marriages for our daughters after. . ."

"I said nothing about arranging. Only suggesting." A grin caught her narrow lips. "Perhaps Sylvie and Jacques will know some young gentlemen?"

He wrapped her in his tender arms. "This will be the visit of a lifetime."

Chantal rode Monique all the way to the docks. She treasured Monique, as plain a horse as she was. She had been Sylvie's horse, and had returned to them after Sylvie's first capture. For that reason, Chantal treated her as though she were a piece of Sylvie. She looked into Monique's round eyes and wondered what secrets Sylvie might have told her, what closeness they might have shared. She brushed her and fed her, thinking, Sylvie used to do this. She used to do it just like this. This is a taste of what it feels like to be Sylvie. Such was the admiration she held for her sister. Her yellow hair blew behind her in the salty breeze, her horse's feet clomping in an unladylike gallop. Chantal felt a giddiness stir in her belly. She was going to get to see Jervais again. And he, like Monique, was a piece of Sylvie, for he had spent lots of time with her in the olden days, as well as in the more recent, secretive times. There was a way in which seeing him was even more exciting than stroking Monique's mane. He offered the additional enticement of being devastatingly handsome.

She knew exactly where he would be. He was always just a little ways from the bustle of the docks. While once he had

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boasted and joshed in the center of every crowd of sailors, he now preferred his own company, and liked to watch the seagulls. He wasn't sorrowful, exactly. He seemed rather .. . at peace. Chantal stopped Monique just far enough away that she could straighten her skirts and smooth down her hair before he caught sight of her. She stood up straight and tried to look mature. She walked in small, dainty steps until he turned around with a startle. "Oh, bonjour," he said, offering her a friendly smile which she instantly and intentionally misinterpreted as lovestruck.

"Hello," she said. "What... what are you doing?" She hated herself for having to clear her throat in the middle of that sentence.

"Nothing that can't be interrupted by a lovely young woman," he said, inviting her to sit beside him on the rocks.

Chantal thought she would swoon over his words, but somehow managed to take several steady steps toward him and plop down on a sharp rock. Ouch.

"What are you doing out by yourself on a lovely day like this?" he asked. "Don't you have a beau to take you riding?"

Chantal didn't know the wisest way to answer that. If she said no, he would think her undesirable, but if she said yes, he would think her unavailable. Which was worse? "I, uh .. . not today."

"Well, you're young yet," he winked.

It was fortunate he did not catch her scowl. "I am not that young," she said seethingly.

"Oh, uh ..." Realizing he had offended the youngster, he worked hard to correct himself. "No, no. Not that young. I'm sure it is only a matter of time before you are whisked off into matrimony."

"My parents say I may choose my own husband," she announced proudly.

Jervais looked skeptical. "Really?"

Elizabeth Doyle

"Yes. They say it is easier to let me choose than to have to chase me across the Atlantic after I elope."

He chuckled brightly. "That seems sensible." He tried not to think of Sylvie.

"I was told to bring you something," she said, eager to present the excuse for her visit. "It is a letter from Sylvie."

"Is it, now?" He took it gently from her hand and unrolled it. Chantal watched his narrow, dark eyes move from side to side as he read. She sighed. He was so handsome. "Hmm. I'd better send her a message to let her in on a little fib I told."