The Chevalier (Châteaux and Shadows) (8 page)

Manu stammered something about horses and provincial life.

Fourbier sighed. “I have yet to convert any of you de Cantière men. Such a shame. All of you with your striking beauty—you blonds as well as the darker ones like Henri and your father. At least your sister takes my advice—the divine Comtesse de Bures! The life in her smile! And your niece—Ondine argues with me about shades, and she is sometimes right. Such an apt pupil. What an eye! And elegant bone structure! But the gentlemen prefer to be a little dull. Though I suppose your modesty makes you hidden jewels.”

****

A dramatic chord sounded on a harpsichord as he wandered past the music room. Inside, a lovely, blonde lady curtsied to a gentleman. When she rose from her curtsey, the man said, “Ah, non, Mademoiselle. The right foot must slide further across. Your shoulders are not square, which means you haven’t gone far enough. Try again.”

His bright clothing proclaimed him a dancing master. “Now. Your Highness, may I present Mademoiselle Ondine de Cantière, daughter of Monsieur le Colonel de Cantière, late of Your
Majesté’s
Army, granddaughter of Monsieur de Cantière, Baron de la Brosse. And then you go.”

Manu stared at his niece—his nearly grown niece whom he hadn’t thought of as anything other than a baby. She executed what looked like a perfect curtsey.

“Ah, non.” The dancing master sighed, even as the girl was half-kneeling on the floor. “Slowly and gracefully. The little stops and starts do you no favors. Have you even practiced since last week?”

The girl rose up with a jump rather than a graceful swirl. “Of course I practiced! I thought my limbs were going to collapse. I ached and shook every single night.” The girl’s voice was full of fury and tears. “It’s not fair!”

She turned to stomp out of the music room. Manu was too surprised to step out of the way. She stopped short and scowled, narrowing her eyes. She was so very young. Still a little girl. He slid his foot back and bowed, his hand over his heart in his best courtly bow. “Mademoiselle
Ma Nièce
,” he murmured as he rose.

She sank into a royal curtsey that even Manu’s inexperienced eye could see was better than the one she had done a moment before. “Monsieur Mon Oncle.”

When she rose again, the dancing master also bowed to him and was about to praise her when she launched herself forward and kissed Manu on both cheeks. He was pleased she was learning her exuberance from Aurore rather than patterning herself after her own mother.

“Is that Papa’s coat? Did Fourbier tell you it looked all right? He picked out the fabric for this gown, and none of us ever would have chosen it, but the subtle pink and blue stripes, he said, would bring out my blue eyes and my pink cheeks. Maman said he was absolutely right.” She grabbed Manu’s hand and pulled him toward the dancing master. “Will you dance with me today? I’m to have a lesson, and you’ve danced at court. Haven’t you?”

“Once or twice.” He had hardly been to court since he was thirteen and thought he might have danced a few years ago when he was about eighteen, but he was sure he’d made a hash of it.

“Monsieur Brun, my uncle will dance with me today.”

Manu backed away. “I…ah… It’s likely to be more of a lesson for me than for you, Ondine. You might learn how to pretend nothing is wrong when your partner turns the wrong way.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed dangerously again. “Then you’ll have to do it all correctly, won’t you?” Ah, there was the temper of her birth mother.

They danced for over an hour, until Manu felt he had mastered the steps if not the grace of the gavotte and the minuet. The dancing master criticized his walk and his bow, his hand movements and the tilt of his head. By the end, he was as angry as Ondine had been at the beginning of the lesson. She, on the other hand, relaxed into the music and earned nothing but accolades from Monsieur Brun and smiles from Hélène, her stepmother.

The dancing master heaved a sigh and shook his head. “Send a note if you wish to schedule another lesson before you go to court, Monsieur. If you wish to dance at the palace without more practice…may Dieu have mercy on your soul.”

Manu stifled a snort of laughter and looked at Ondine, whose eyes widened, believing the dancing master’s dire prediction for just a moment before she caught Manu’s eye and giggled.

“Practice your curtsey, Mademoiselle,” the dancing master ordered before he and the accompanist swept from the room, bowing and murmuring goodbyes.

Hélène sighed. “He will be back on Saturday to work with Marcel and Diane, if you’re still here, Manu, and wish to join them.”

Manu looked at his sister-in-law in disbelief. She giggled, and he shook his head, grinning.

“Well, thank you for the dance, Mademoiselle Ma Nièce. I think now I am going to go talk about horses with your brothers.”

Manu bowed elegantly to Ondine, who gave her best curtsey yet, and left her and her maman sitting side by side, the girl chattering cheerfully.

On the way up to the nursery to collect the boys, he wondered if being a doting uncle made him soft and ladylike. His brothers and Dominique were doting fathers, and none of them could be called ladylike, even in the finest court clothes with rows of lace. And they all knew how to dance and walk with a glide in high heels. He practiced the pointed-toe sweep of a walk followed by a dramatic pose. He grimaced. He didn’t mind dancing, since it meant touching hands with a pretty lady, but walking like he was in a ballet made his legs hurt.

Mademoiselle de Fouet probably knew how to dance. What was her first name? Constance? Calypso? Ca-something. He stopped the first maid he came across and asked her for news of Mademoiselle de Fouet.

****

“I really think it was the heat.”

Ah. Mademoiselle de Fouet was finally out of her room. It had been two days, and the rain had finally eased to a dark drizzle. Manu paused in the hall just out of sight of the ladies in the drawing room.

“I didn’t cool my face with water.”

Hélène’s voice was a low murmur in reply, but Manu heard his name.

“It’s certainly not Monsieur Emmanuel’s fault. I’m not used to be being pushed to travel so far, but I’ve traveled many times in the summer and know better than to let myself get so hot. I take care of myself. It’s my own fault.”

Manu felt a rush of guilt anyway. She’d had all the symptoms of being overheated, but he hadn’t wanted to look too closely, preferring to travel as fast as possible as long as she wasn’t defying him at every turn. He didn’t like being responsible for other people, especially when they disagreed with him. Life was simpler on his farm, where he was in charge. Even in disagreements with Jacques and the other grooms, they all had the same goals in mind: to breed, raise, train, and sell horses.

Horses, he loved. He could select the horses he liked best and turn them to his will. Within reason. The horses with strong personalities weren’t always interested in pleasing a mere human. Men were too powerful. Women too difficult.

Manu walked softly back to the end of the hall and deliberately bumped into a little table, rattling the lantern on it, then strode up the hall, making a little extra noise. There was no point in letting Mademoiselle de Fouet know he had overheard her. He wasn’t sure if it was because it absolved him of guilt or because it made him feel guiltier for not paying attention. He had been trying to prove he was right about traveling fast, he supposed. He instead proved traveling fast was bad for her health.

He stepped into the drawing room and bowed to the two ladies. Hélène’s face lit up with pleasure, and he felt a swelling of love for his sister-in-law. Since he had saved Ondine from kidnapping some ten years before, Hélène had been his champion within the family, second only to Aurore. Aurore should have doubted him after he had left her unprotected in the fight for the château-fort, but she never blamed him.

Hélène lifted a hand to her thick eyeglasses and rebalanced them on her nose. “Oh! Have your trunks caught up to you, Manu? I don’t recognize your coat as one of Jean-Louis’.”

Manu kissed her hand, then did the same to Mademoiselle de Fouet. “As a matter of fact, my carriage arrived at Papa’s townhouse this morning. The men brought my things over.” Alas, his horse, Vainqueur, was still in la Brosse, resting from his long journey. His father would bring him up to Versailles in a few days. He ached to see his favorite stallion, his baby.

Hélène smiled sweetly at him. “It’s very handsome. Did you have it made in Poitiers?”

He looked down at the wooden buttons on the front of his rather plain navy blue coat and honestly couldn’t remember. “I believe so. It’s more an everyday justaucorps.” He didn’t even look at Mademoiselle de Fouet, but he thought she was judging him. “I have some nicer ones for court, you know. Not silks and gold and all, but fancier than this one.” He had never really cared, but his mother had driven into his head from the youngest age that one must look one’s best at court. Oddly enough, his father and brothers agreed, though in a more subtle fashion.
Hidden jewels
, as Fourbier said.

“Well, have Monsieur Fourbier look them over. We don’t go anywhere without Fourbier’s approval.” Hélène’s smile was teasing, though her statement was close to the truth.

Mademoiselle de Fouet said, her voice sharp, “Are you ready to go to Versailles?”

He scowled at her, and she looked away. He hadn’t seen her since he’d invaded her bedchamber, worried about her, two mornings before. He had made a point of inquiring about her health with the servants and Hélène.

“The rain has stopped, Mademoiselle, and there is some sun. By tomorrow, the roads should be passable, if not exactly good.”

“I am ready to go. I need to return to the baronesse.” She sighed. Was she reluctant, too?

Manu sat next to Hélène. “To be honest, I am not eager to go. Versailles is perfect in spring and autumn, but stuffy and smelly in summer. I don’t know why the court is there at this time of year, unless there’s a new fountain?”

“A new hedge, I believe. And the Swiss Guards are digging a pond to act as a reservoir and improve drainage.” Mademoiselle de Fouet raised her eyebrows.

“The Guards are? Shouldn’t they be guarding something?” He smirked.

Mademoiselle de Fouet chuckled. It was an intriguing, low sound which made him think of whispered endearments.

His gut clenched with desire, but he kept his smirk steady. “I’m trying to imagine the
Mousquetaires
with shovels instead of swords.”

Mademoiselle de Fouet smiled—genuinely smiled—and looked very pretty. “They’d get their plumes and their dignity all muddy.”

Now he laughed. He had thought about becoming a Mousquetaire, as he was like so many of them: a younger son of noble family. If his brother hadn’t offered his property in Poitou to raise horses, he would have gone into the cavalry with an eye to joining the Musketeers. Maybe he could have fought alongside his nephew, Marcel, once the boy was old enough. The thought made him shudder. Marcel was so young and fragile.

He winced as he thought of other younger sons who had been left no choice but to go to war and sent a silent thanks to the saints and his own father for not requiring him to go into the army or the church. Die or achieve glory. He was going to achieve glory by becoming horse breeder to the king.

“You look very serious all of a sudden, Manu.” Hélène’s voice recalled him to the drawing room.

Mademoiselle de Fouet stared, her face a polite mask. It was hard to believe they had just laughed together. He couldn’t think of something witty to say to break the silence. He wished he were as glib as his father and his eldest brother. Hélène spoke quietly of when she and Jean-Louis had seen the royal troupe perform
Phèdre
the year before, at the Hotel de Bourgogne, and how it had made her cry. “And yet it was not well received. It was quite shocking how the courtiers turned up their noses.”

Mademoiselle de Fouet shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She cleared her throat. “I am afraid the baronesse was part of Madame de Bouillon’s efforts to discredit Monsieur Racine. I carried many notes to and from her salon.”

Manu curled his lip in distaste. “Is it a matter of pride, Mademoiselle? To have been part of an effort to ruin a play? And maybe Racine’s career?”

Mademoiselle de Fouet narrowed her eyes at him. “I carried notes. I did not write them. The baronesse has put distance between her and Madame de Bouillon ever since. She says now she fears de Bouillon’s dislike of the play was more for personal reasons.”

“Personal reasons?” Hélène could not see the bad in others, which, considering the treachery she had endured at the hands of the aunt and uncle who raised her, was remarkable. And naïve.

Mademoiselle de Fouet leaned forward to deliver a bit of gossip. Manu was alarmed; the set of her shoulders was the same as his mother’s.

“Don’t,” he said.

She barely spared him a glance. “Madame de Bouillon is said to have a
tendre
for her nephew, much as Phèdre in the play was in love with her stepson.”

Hélène’s eyes were wide behind her thick glasses. “Oh. That’s sad.”

Manu jerked to his feet, disgusted. “Don’t believe everything you hear, Hélène. Gossip also had it that Dominique was plotting against the king several years ago. And that Jean-Louis abandoned the battlefield in Franche-Comté because he was a coward and a traitor.”

“But he left after the fighting, and only because someone was trying to kill Ondine.” Hélène looked scandalized.

He looked directly into Mademoiselle de Fouet’s eyes. “I have very little tolerance for the vicious sort of gossip my mother spreads.”

He stared at Mademoiselle de Fouet for several seconds. She narrowed her eyes at him.

He had started to like her, imagining her to be different from his mother’s friends, but she was as petty and hypocritical as they were. His mind flashed to his mother’s cruelties and sly words as she destroyed reputations. As she made him feel small and stupid. As she said terrible things about all her children.

He would deliver Mademoiselle de Fouet to Versailles, make his bow to his mother, and go home to his horses.