Destiny's Kiss (11 page)

“But did you see where they were signed?” Philippe asked with a derogatory laugh. “Reims! When was the last time the officials in that city did anything right?”

“I don't know.” Monsieur Rimbaud's baffled expression returned.

“They haven't gotten anything correct since the Bastille was liberated. Surely you heard about how they offered the king a sanctuary there.”

Monsieur Rimbaud frowned. “I never heard of that.”

“No? Maybe the rumors of the truth were so outrageous nobody here believed them.”

Lirienne waited for the harbor official to laugh along with Philippe. He was lying, she knew. If Monsieur Rimbaud saw the intensity in Philippe's eyes, it would be obvious to Monsieur Rimbaud also. She prayed her laugh did not sound strained as she tapped the page and asked, “Veronique, how could you be so silly as to let them make this mistake?”

“I didn't …” She swallowed hard. “I didn't think anyone would be so stupid.” She frowned. “I should have checked more closely.”

“The clerk who wrote these probably was half-drunk,” Philippe added. “As you can see, Monsieur Rimbaud, you cannot hold this young lady responsible for the irresponsibility of a fool.”

“But if I let her sail …”

Philippe handed the paper back to Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens and drew out two more slips. Offering them to Monsieur Rimbaud, he said, “My wife and I can vouch for Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens, if that will reassure you.” Again something flashed in the setting sun and vanished.

Monsieur Rimbaud gave their passports, which Philippe had paid dearly for, no more than a cursory glance. “Very well. Have a pleasant voyage.”

Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens waited until the man strode away. Then she whispered, “Thank you, thank you so much!” She started to take a step and staggered.

Lirienne grasped one of her arms while Philippe took the other. Steering her across the deck, they led her to the far railing.

“I shall be all right,” she whispered in answer to Lirienne's worried question. “I am Veronique Saint-Gaudens.” A weak smile pulled at her lips. “As you know. And you are Philippe and Lirienne, right?”

Lirienne glanced at Philippe. She was not sure how honest he was going to be.

Lifting Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens's hand, he bowed over it. “Philippe de Villeneuve.” He held out his other hand to Lirienne. “And this is my wife.”

“The
vicomte's
brother?” Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens gasped.

His eyes narrowed. “Why do you say that?”

“My fiancé Percival Goyette spoke of the fine horses that you—”

“Goyette?” He arched a brow. “It seems we may not be such strangers, after all.”

“Is your brother with you?”

“No.” He looked around as more passengers came aboard. When three men walked toward them, he said quietly, “My brother is not able to travel now.”

Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens choked back a gasp, then nodded with a sigh. “I understand. I am sorry,
mon seigneur
.”

“The name Philippe will be sufficient on this ship.”

She nodded, but so reluctantly that Lirienne guessed Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens could not imagine addressing a
vicomte
by his given name.

“Lirienne,” Philippe went on in the same taut voice, “I think you and Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens should retire to your quarters below decks. If possible, I will come to get you when we set sail.”

She recognized that tone and the danger of ignoring any order he gave in it. He must have seen something or someone that unsettled him. He quietly told her where to find the cabin they would have for the crossing. Hooking her arm through Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens's, she walked with her toward the stairs leading down into the ship.

At the door to the quarters she and Philippe would share, she hesitated, then said, “Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens, I would be very happy to have your company now.”

“As I would yours.”

Lirienne was shocked to discover how small the cabin was. It contained a bed that was built against the wall and was barely big enough for one person. A shelf and a chair beneath a swinging lamp were the only other things in the cabin. No porthole brought light into the tiny space.

“May I?” asked Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens, pointing to the chair.

“Yes, of course.” Lirienne set the bag on the deck and eased down to sit on the bed.

“You were very brave up there.” Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens smiled. “I can't wait to tell my dear Percival how you came to my rescue.”

“Where is he?”

“In Philadelphia. He found it wise to leave France with so much speed that I did not have time to travel with him.” She sighed, tears filling her eyes again.

Lirienne let Veronique, as Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens said she wanted to be addressed, continue to talk. She could not pay attention to her words, nor could she answer, for all other thoughts had been wrung out of her, save for the one that they were truly leaving France. When she had agreed to marry Philippe, she could not have guessed her decision would lead her on this journey so far from home.

Home. Papa and Maman. Her eyes filled with tears. She might never see them again. The Republic could exist forever as its supporters claimed. She would be in far-off Philadelphia, while her parents were condemned to spend the rest of their days beneath Madame Fortier's oppression. Philippe's vow to see them settled on his lands could not be fulfilled now.

When the ship shifted, several hours later after Veronique had drifted off into sleep, Lirienne slipped out of the cabin. The vessel must be underway. As she climbed onto the deck, she saw sailors tending the sails. They looked like a hill of ants swarming around their queen. She looked toward the bow, to see a crowd of people, all passengers she guessed by the cut of their clothes, watching the ship carry them forward to America. As the first drops of rain pelted her, she tried to see Philippe was among them.

Lightning flashed, and she cowered. She should go below before the storm worsened. When she turned, she saw a lone form by the stern. Even through the curtain of rain she knew it was Philippe. He was looking back at all he had left behind, the country that had betrayed him and the woman who held his heart. She took a step toward him, then paused. She could not share his grief, for, although she ached at the idea of never seeing her family again, the only chance she had of winning her husband's heart from Madame Fortier lay in the country ahead of them. She could not look back.

Ever.

Eight

“This can't be the correct address!” Lirienne wanted to bite back the words as the hired carriage slowed on the filthy Philadelphia street not far from the wharves.

During the long journey across the Adantic in the cramped ship, she had dared to dream that they would find a pleasant house here in America. She and Veronique Saint-Gaudens, who spoke often of her wedding in Philadelphia, had spent hours sitting in the cabin and talking about their hopes for their new lives. When she had seen Veronique being met by her betrothed's fine carriage, she had guessed her friend's dreams would come true.

She was not so sure of her own when she stared at the tavern on the other side of the narrow walkway that was only inches above the dirty street. She had not thought the streets would be unpaved here. Hogshead Inn proclaimed the sign hanging over the door. Patrons lolled in the doorway, their clothes as drab as the sign. The stomach-churning scents of stale beer and unwashed bodies hung over the street.

“I warned you that temporarily we'd be living poorly,” Philippe answered in the taut voice she had come to know signaled his greatest fury.

Not at her, she had learned on the voyage, but at the circumstances which had reduced the Vicomte de Villeneuve to poverty. Only his determination to reclaim Château de Villeneuve kept him from succumbing to despair.

When Philippe opened the door, she pressed a hand over her stomach and clamped her mouth closed. She must not be ill here. As she swayed, his arm circled her waist and tugged her against him. She clasped his burgundy waistcoat and leaned her cheek on his shoulder.

“Are you ill,
ma petite
?”

“No.”

His eyes narrowed. “Then what's wrong with you?”

“I'm pregnant,” she whispered.

“You're what?”

She recoiled from his ferocious question, but kept her chin high. “In about six or seven months, Philippe, your heir will be born.”

“You're already three months pregnant?”

“Maybe only two. I was so seasick on the ship, at the beginning of the voyage, that I'm not sure.”

“Why haven't you said something before this?”

“I wanted to be certain so you wouldn't be disappointed if I was wrong.”

He laughed with a happiness she had never heard from him. Pulling her into his arms, he whispered against her lips, “How could I be anything but happy? You are telling me that I have an heir. This is the best news I have heard in far too long.” His mouth slanted across hers in a kiss that promised more delights.

“You going to take all day, mister?”

As she was puzzling through the English words, Philippe reached into his pocket for money to pay the fare. Stamping back to the boot, the driver pulled out the box that contained all they had brought from France. He tossed it on the road and glowered. The vehicle lurched away, splattering mud on her full skirt.

“Don't worry about it,” Philippe assured her as she stared at the mess.

“It's my—my best dress.” She yearned to protect Philippe from the pain of poverty by pretending she had more than one gown, although it was foolish. What she had known most of her life, he was about to experience firsthand.

“Don't worry so. It won't be your only dress for long. Things will be better for us soon,
ma petite
.” He smiled and tapped her nose.

She should have guessed that she could not fool him, for he sensed so many of her thoughts. So many, but never her need to hear him speak of love. “I don't understand. I thought you had no money. I thought—”

He laughed. “Patience,
ma petite
.” When he lifted the case, he motioned for her to lead the way up the steps to the left of the tavern door.

A man standing by the tavern door shouted something, with a laugh. Although she was not sure of his words, Philippe muttered a curse.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing you want to know. Ignore them,” he whispered with more tranquillity than she had expected. “They're nothing but dogs.”

She must learn more English, for she would be going to the market and dealing with her neighbors. Also, she needed to find a midwife.

When Philippe opened the door at the top of the steps, vile odors erupted from within. She was grateful for Philippe's hand holding hers. She lifted her skirts, because she did not want them to drag through the filth on the steps.

Voices emerged from the doors opening off the upper landing, but Philippe did not pause as he walked to a narrower staircase. She sighed and followed. Heat trailed her up the steps, and she was sure it would be more intense on the uppermost floor. When he stopped, she heard a metallic scratch and guessed he was opening the door.

Lirienne fought not to cry as she stepped into the room and saw dirt clinging to the corners and layers of dust on the sparse furniture. Putting her bag on the table, she walked through another door to discover a bedchamber with only a bed and a set of pegs for their clothes. There was no washstand.

“Forgive me,
ma petite
,” he whispered. “This is all I could afford for now, but I promise you that our baby won't be born here.” His nose wrinkled in aristocratic distaste. “I doubt if even your father's house was this disgusting.”

She pulled away, outraged at the unexpected insult. Before she could step past him, his hand caught her arm. She slapped it away. “My family may have lived in poverty, but not in squalor. One thing you have to learn, Philippe, is that pride doesn't come from the gold in a man's purse but the wealth in a man's heart.”

“That's a fine speech.” He gave her a weary smile. “I stand corrected.”

“At least we have this,” she said as she glanced again at the foul room, thinking of others on the ship who had nowhere to sleep that night.

“Ah, there's your optimism. It's irritating, you know.”

Laughing, she faced him. “Optimism will not make this place habitable. Only hard work. Do we have money for food?”

“For about a fortnight. By then, I shall have arranged for a loan to get us a better place to live.”

“Good.” She pulled off her bonnet. “If you'll get something for our supper, Philippe, I'll attempt to scour this sty. We need bread, some meat if you can find any at a reasonable price, and perhaps a few vegetables.”

His blue eyes narrowed. “I wouldn't know what to pay.”

She picked up a rag from the corner. “Then you scrub while I go out.”

Glancing at the cloth, he grinned. “The Vicomtesse de Villeneuve clearly intends to rule her home, doesn't she?”

“This isn't France,” she said, so seriously his smile vanished. “Here I'm Mrs. de Villeneuve, and you are Mr. de Villeneuve. We have no one to take care of us but ourselves.”

He stared at the cloth in his hand, then squared his shoulders. “What do you wish wiped off?”

Instead of explaining, she plucked it from his hand. She tossed it onto the table and reached for her bonnet. As she retied it under her chin, she said, “I think it's time you learned about going to the market, my dear
vicomte
.”

“And you'll be my teacher?”

“It can be fun.” Her voice quivered as his fingers caressed hers.

He turned her hand over and kissed her palm. “Everything I've learned with you,
ma petite
, has been highly enjoyable.”