Love's Vengeance (6 page)

“Well I don’t believe it. You are actually dressed and waiting for me. Desiree I never know what to expect from you lately. I assumed I would have to come in here and drag you, bodily, out of that tub but here you sit. I do believe you are growing up right before my eyes.”

Bridgett smiled broadly and patted Desiree on the cheek and then set about brushing out her hair. With nimble fingers, she quickly braided the tresses into a long complicated braid with yellow and black ribbons, entwined amid the ebony. Then after helping Desiree dress, in a subdued gown of black water silk moiré with tiny yellow blossoms, and gathering all Desiree’s items into a satchel for the ride home, she hurried downstairs to see about the carriage and Desiree followed a few minutes later.

***

Francois Roche’ waved from the front veranda, until the carriage rounded the curve in the drive, disappearing from view and was turning to enter the house when the Chandelle’s driver, Georges’ approached.

“
Monsieur
, Philippe and I would ask that you come to the carriage house for a moment.”, Georges’ wiped dark axle grease from his hands onto a scrap of linen as he spoke, “I had come to see about salvaging what I could from the carriage and we discovered something very distressing. Could you come for a moment?”

“Of course.” Francois nodded, the driver’s serious tone and concerned expression telling of the urgency. Together the two walked the short distance around the side of the manor and across the back lawn, toward the carriage house.

“You see there—and there?” Georges’ questioned, pointing with a greasy finger at the underside of the over-turned carriage. It lay like a dead and bloated beast, broken wheels at odd angles from the force of the fall down the embankment.

“File marks?” Francois asked, looking to the two beside him.

Philippe nodded solemnly, “And look here…” he walked around to the front axle still intact, “Here also—almost in two it is but being filed from the bottom, near the floor of the carriage, it is undetectable, unless as it is here, turned on its top. It’s no wonder we were unable to detect anything amiss at the time of the accident.” He wiped his hands on his soiled breeches, looking into the eyes of his employer.

“Someone meant for them to meet with an accident!” Georges’ stated, slamming his fist down upon the carriage in rage.

“
Mon Dieu
! Who could have done such a thing and for what purpose?” Francois demanded angrily. The two servants shook their heads, totally perplexed by their findings.

***

“You may return to the Roche’s.” Desiree stated with a weak smile directed at the young driver. He placed her bag upon the ground before her, nodded politely and mounted his perch. She watched the carriage lurch forward and out the crescent shaped drive at the front of the Château, lumbering toward the road, then with a quivering draw of breath, she picked up her satchel and turned to face her home. The flood of emotions that assailed her was staggering.

It had been just days ago she had shared a pleasant morning with her parents. Just days ago she had kissed them, touched them, spoke with them and she felt guilty now. Guilty that she had not told them she loved them that last morning. She wished she had spent more time with her father in recent years. Wished she had listened more intently when her mother spoke to her of everyday happenings. She wished she had accepted the invitation and joined her mother in the parlor just four days ago when she had come in from an evening stroll with Honore' instead of retiring for the night. She wished she could turn back the hands of time and not have spent eleven of the last twelve months of their lives in Paris, spending that time here instead. She wished—Enough!, she chided herself mentally—no more looking back, it will do no good to look back with regret now! She lowered her eyes from the upper floor of the Château, until they rested upon Bridgett who waited patiently to be joined on the front veranda. Slowly Desiree plodded up the steps but before she could even reach out to grasp the handle, the door was swung wide and Mary had her in a warm embrace.

“Desiree, I am so happy to see you sweet! Let me look…” she released her hold and looked at Desiree from arms length, studying her face carefully, “You look fine, much improved from yesterday. I think you shall be fine now, eh? Don’t you agree Bridgett?” Mary asked as she relieved Desiree of her bag.

“Yes indeed.” Bridgett nodded, with a reassuring signal to the elderly housekeeper that the worst seemed to have passed.

“Oh thank you Mary. I must admit it is so very painful to go on, but I am trying. I can’t seem to stop the tears, but I’m sure Papa and Mama would want me to overcome, don't you think?” Desiree questioned, with tears slipping down her cheeks, against her will.

“Of course my sweet, but don’t you worry about it.” Mary crooned, dabbing at Desiree’s tears with the hem of her apron, “You are doing just fine. We can’t help the tears now and again, can we? Those tears will help us all to heal and move on.”

Desiree hugged the old woman affectionately, “I thought I best get home and see about things.” She sniffed, shoring up her resolve and pulling herself up straight.

“Very well dear,” Mary began as she set Desiree’s bag inside the front hallway and gestured for the two to follow as she started through the house before them.

Like Bridgett, Mary was English. She was well into her sixties and a bit on the heavy side, but Desiree had never really noticed her size and could still recall the sense of security and love she had felt, when as a small child she was gathered up onto Mary’s generous lap, when frightened or hurt. She would cuddle against her warm and sheltering form and listen to stories of knights and princesses, wizards and sorcerers, of English lore, until her fear or her pain would abate.

Mary’s hair, which was always pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, had been silver for as long as Desiree could remember. Her face was round and jolly, with apple cheeks and sparkling gray eyes. She had become more of a supervisor in the house, in recent years, delegating work from her mistress to the other servants. She had been with her parents for over twenty-five years and in France a good score before that. She was the closest likeness to a grandmother Desiree had ever known, and she loved her as such.

“We have been busy here, to be sure.” Mary was saying, “Julien is in the garden right now, weeding. With the mild winter and here only the beginning of May, a few of the new tomatoes have already begun to bud, if you can imagine!”

As Mary rambled on about daily duties and they moved across the main hall, Desiree glanced to her left into the parlor and noted the furnishings had been returned to their original positions, with no sign her parents had been laid there just the day before. All was neat and tidy, all traces of the houseguests and mourners gone.

“Well it looks as though Bridgett and I have little enough to do here. You have taken care of everything, but I should have known you would.” Desiree declared, placing her arm about the old woman’s shoulders.

Looking to her right Desiree paused there at the drawing room door, as she noticed the door to her father's study on the opposite side of the room, stood ajar. The study door was usually kept closed. Mary saw the curiosity and question in her eyes and hurried to explain.

“It’s all right dear, Jacques Monet is here trying to set your father’s things in order for you. He was hoping to see you.”

“
Monsieur
Monet? I haven’t seen him for quite some time. I don’t believe he was at the funeral was he Bridgett?”

“No sweet, he has been away on business in England, remember?” Bridgett coaxed her memory gently.

“Oh—I recall now. It must have slipped my mind. I really must go in and say hello to Jacques.”

“Very well sweet.” Bridgett agreed, “I shall retire to my room for a bit.”

“And I will be heading back to the kitchen if you need anything at all dear.” Mary added.

***

Desiree stopped at the threshold of the study and knocked lightly upon the open door. Jacques Monet sat at the desk, his spectacles low upon his nose, studying a ledger, when her knock drew his attention.

“Desiree my child!” he exclaimed and stood abruptly, coming around the desk with open arms. She came into his warm embrace, accepting his kiss upon her cheek. He stepped back then and removed his spectacles, studying her face as he held her hand in one of his own.

“How are you
Monsieur
Monet?” Desiree asked before he could speak.

“How am I? The better question would be how are you? You have been through some very trying times my sweet. I only returned this morning and was utterly shocked when I heard the news. Your father was one of my closest friends and your mother—well Celeste was one of the finest women I have ever known.”

Desiree gazed into the tender eyes of her father’s business partner and smiled, “
Merci
beaucoup
Jacques. I do miss them terribly. I see you have been busy working.” Feeling the tears rising, Desiree changed the subject, glancing at the desk, scattered with papers.

He raised his bushy brows, stroking his bearded jaw and turned briefly to the desk, before smiling warmly at her once more, “
Oui
, business does go on, doesn’t it?”

“You will then, I presume, continue to look after my interests until such a time as I can take over some of the responsibilities?” Desiree smiled when he nodded, “I am afraid that I have never had much involvement with such things.” She shrugged.

“Of course you have not. Perhaps you will allow me to instruct you in the ways of business? I would not want anyone else to teach you. It’s enormously complicated work but you are bright and I am confident you can adapt.”

He turned toward the cluttered desk and gestured to the tangle of documents, proving his statement. Desiree laughed softly and his amused chuckle joined hers as he placed an arm around her shoulders, squeezing affectionately before releasing her.

“I had hoped you would offer your expertise. None other than father himself knows as much about our business. I would be grateful for your help.” Desiree stated truthfully, fixing him with a look of warm regard.

Jacques was getting on in years and although he was quite a fine looking gentleman, he had remained a bachelor all of his life. Her father often claimed him to be married to his work and his diligent efforts had been one of the main factors in the acquiring of the offices in Rouen. Her father had cared for his lands and ships, while Jacques talents were best suited for figures and the counting house had been his main interest. His voice and manner were still that of a younger man and if not for the thinning thatch of light hair, beginning to gray and the brows and beard also turning in color, one might guess him years less than his true count. He rose to only Desiree’s height, which was not overly tall for a woman but his well-conditioned frame, though small for a man, had a strength and agility.

Jacques began pulling the desk into some semblance of order, shuffling the papers into neat piles, “I am going to take these to the office in town. It will be much easier access for me there.” He explained.

“Of course.” She agreed, watching him work.

He slipped the papers and bound ledgers into a small satchel and gazed apologetically at Desiree, “I really must be going but I would like you to come to the office next week and we can begin your introduction to the business world.” He said with a wink.

He stooped over, retrieving a dust cover from behind the desk and with Desiree’s assistance, covered her father’s dark walnut desk and chair. Desiree looked about her father’s study as she followed Jacques to the door. At the threshold, he took her hand in his and bestowed a gentle kiss, “Until next week then and once again, I am truly sorry—for all of us.”

“
Merci
Jacques. I shall see you out.”

“No need sweet. I know the way well.
Au Revoir
.”

Jacques turned and walked through the drawing room to the main hall while Desiree softly closed the study door and then feeling suddenly very alone, went to spend some time with Mary in the kitchen.

***

It was late morning when Desiree finally made her way upstairs. She first paused at her parent’s room, staring at the closed door and then reaching for the handle, turning and finally releasing it again, leaving it unopened. She did not have quite the courage—not just yet.

She moved down the hall to her own bedroom, slowly turned the knob and as she entered the room she had occupied all of her life, a wave of sadness engulfed her. Here more than anywhere else in the house, everything in the room reminded her of the happy childhood she had enjoyed with her parents. She entered with hands clasped tightly before her and with the gait of one who was being led against their will, halting just over the threshold and looking about with trepidation, noticing details that she had overlooked for years.

Her tiny rocking chair, bought years ago when she was still small enough to occupy it, sat in a far corner. A rag doll, with stringy braids and a smudged and faded face, lounged casually in the seat, wrapped in the remnants of her much used and treasured security blanket. It was here, near the window curtained in delicate mallow colored brocade matching the spread and silk canopy of her tester bed, she had often waited patiently for her father. Rocking and watching down the road, as the day drew to a close, to see his carriage come around the bend and then rushing to meet him at the front door.

Beautiful porcelain dolls, dressed in the most festive attire of their homelands were displayed lovingly upon a heavy oak shelf above her dressing table—gifts from her father. Whenever he arrived home from a trip abroad, she would be waiting at the front door, bright-eyed and expectant; to see what new face she would have to add to her collection.

Desiree turned about and her eyes fell across a familiar painting gracing the far wall and she crossed the room to stand before it. It was a scene of a little girl and her dog playing on a sunny afternoon. Her mother had painted this. She had been quite an accomplished artist and had spent many hours teaching herself the craft, by trial and error. Often she could be found sitting in a straight backed chair on the front lawn, with an easel before her—her face, hair and clothing, touched haphazardly with brilliant hues, as she attempted to bring a tree or a bed of flowers to life upon her canvas.