The Heroic Baron (16 page)

Spring 1817, Hythe

Spring had come again, and with it, all the familiar
longings associated with a world reborn from the old.
The spring of 1817 was especially joyful. The long wars
with France were over. After spending 1816 worrying
about another escape attempt by Napoleon, people were
traveling the world again, seeing the wonders the blockades had denied them. Families were reunited. Friends
arrived home after long absences. Alain rejoiced over
the safe return of his dearest friend, Tristan Moreland,
although he found Tristan much changed, or perhaps it
was himself who had been altered in Tristan’s absence.

It was good to be happy again. In the three years
since his own return to Hythe, there had been much sorrow. Isabella’s husband died, leaving her a young
widow in her mid-twenties, and always there was the
pain of losing Cecile.

Occasionally, bursts of happiness could dull the ache
of her absence. Tristan’s return had sparked a rare visit
to London for Alain. He had spent the early season
joining his friend in the revels of the capital. He’d rejoiced in seeing Tristan and Isabella marry last spring
when her mourning for Westbrooke was complete. Another burst had come from holding his nephew in his
arms recently at his christening. But they were bursts of
happiness and they were temporary. They could not
permanently camouflage the hurt in his heart or fully
distract him from second thoughts.

These days Alain’s main distraction was provided by
his bustling seaside town. His vision for a resort had
come to fruition in time to take advantage of the postwar glut of tourists. The hotel was full, the shops on
High Street crowded and the collection box at St.
Leonard’s was brimming with donations left by tourists
eager to see the stone church. Arnaud Panchette opened
a tea house and bakery that kept his wife and children
busy. The others Alain had brought over had found their
niches too. One had a tailoring business that rivaled
London fashion, and another was an aspiring milliner.
Everyone seemed to have landed on their feet. Even
Etienne thrived in Hythe.

Now eighteen, Etienne was robust with good health.
He swam in the coves and hiked the rocky paths leading
from the beach. Alain had hired tutors, and Etienne had
learned English with astonishing speed. When he’d
completed his course of study, he’d gone to work clerking at the hotel to learn the trade, although Alain had
offered to send him to college.

Yes, everyone was thriving in Hythe except for him.
It was spring and with all the vigor of his twenty-nineyear-old heart, Alain wanted a family of his own. It was
no longer enough to surround himself with the families
of others, as much as he loved them. It simply wasn’t
the same. But a family meant a wife and Alain could
not fathom bringing a wife who was not Cecile to The
Refuge.

If he’d hoped a young lady would catch his eye during his last sojourn to London, he was disappointed on
that account too. No one could rival Cecile. The young
girls were too featherbrained, too self-centered, and too
lifeless when compared to Cecile’s vibrant defiance and
generous nature. Alain doubted any of the girls he
danced with had ever thought to give up part of what
they had in order to make another’s life more comfortable. He’d returned to Hythe and devoted himself to the
town and the distraction it offered.

Distraction was something he sorely needed. Without it, he knew he’d spend his days wallowing in “what
ifs.” What if Cecile was alive? That was the biggest
“what if” of all. While there had been no word from
Cecile to assure him she was alive, there had been no
word that she was dead. At first, he’d succumbed to the
wisdom of friends like Daniel who said to wait. If Cecile could come to him, she would. After a month and
she had not come, the military situation made it impossible to get inside Paris. The great generals had all been
defeated and the French were panicking. Napoleon
hoped to retreat to Paris and rebuild, which resulted in
Waterloo. Europe was a fractured continent of half kingdoms. In the ensuing madness, he would never
make it to Paris. He certainly wouldn’t make it back
out. Nonetheless, it took all his willpower not to sail
across the Channel once Etienne was safe on English
soil and tear the city apart looking for her.

Perhaps the only reason he hadn’t done so anyway
was that news had reached him a month after his return that an accomplice of L’Un had been apprehended and executed for treason. The traveler who
had brought the tale to Hythe had no more information, although Alain asked numerous questions about
the accomplice. Had the accomplice been male or female? What had the accomplice looked like? The traveler knew nothing more.

The news had rent his heart. Most likely it was Cecile whom the traveler spoke of. Alain could think of no
other who would fit the description of an accomplice.
Only a fool would risk his life after the fact, and he had
Etienne to think of now too. He could not risk leaving
Etienne alone in the world after he’d already cost the
young man his sister.

Occasionally, he’d take down Cecile’s violin from
where he’d mounted it over the mantel of the fireplace
in the music room. He’d caress the hard resin-coated
varnish of the instrument and conjure up the countless
images he stored of Cecile playing the violin at the general’s house. Those days in Paris seemed a lifetime ago.

So Alain stayed in Hythe, tucked away from the rest
of the world, working feverishly on the resort and dedicating his life to the benefit of others. He had his daily
routine to serve as a buffer between himself and feeling too much pain, just as he had done when his parents
had died.

He’d rise early and ride. He’d breakfast and read the
five day old newspapers from London. He’d spend the
morning in his study attending to business and the afternoon walking the streets of Hythe, overseeing his
many projects and visiting with the citizens. Evenings
were more difficult since Hythe offered a limited social
life, but he managed to fill them with card games, social evenings at the homes of prominent citizens, or
with more work in his study.

That April day started the same as any other. Alain
dressed in riding clothes and took his early ride amid
the sunstreaked morning. The air was crisp with a hint
of warmth beneath it. He breakfasted on coffee and an
assortment of kippers, eggs, and ham. He reached for
the stack of newspapers at his plate, methodically going through each one and circling articles of interest. It
was his habit to look for news about investments, political developments, and the goings-on in town. Choosing
to be absent from London was no excuse to be ignorant.
Alain knew a good businessman needed to keep abreast
of all the news. He forced himself to read the society
columns to keep up with fashion trends to relay to the
tailor on High Street. Occasionally, it humored him to
see a friend’s name mentioned in the latest on dit.

At the bottom of a page in large typeset was an advertisement for a performance at the opera house.
Alain’s hand stilled. The performance was a violin concert. He concentrated on the headlines of the ad touting
the musician as THE PREMIER VIOLINIST IN ALL OF FRANCE. “Trained by Nicholas Lupot.. “Alain felt his
pulse race. He read on, “once a private musician to one
of Napoleon’s great generals, she is making her first
debut in London, April 16…… She. The violinist was a
woman. A woman trained by Nicholas Lupot? It was
too great a coincidence to be overlooked.

His heart hammering, Alain sprinted through the
hall, newspaper clutched in his hand, calling for his
horse and then deciding he didn’t want to wait for it to
be saddled. He ran the entire way to town, not caring
about the looks he received from people as he sprinted
into the hotel and ran straight up to the desk in the
lobby where Etienne sat doing correspondence.

“She’s alive!” Alain cried, his loud voice drawing the
stares of clients.

Etienne gasped, understanding his meaning at once.
“Mon dieu! How do you know?”

Alain shoved the crumpled newspaper onto the desk,
breathless with his explanation. “It’s her, I know it is.
How many people could this refer to? There can’t be
that many violinists trained by Lupot and it’s not likely
the others are women”

“I can’t imagine who it would be if it’s not her,” Etienne said, his voice tinged with caution. “But it’s difficult to hope again after so long. It will hurt all the
worse if it’s not her. Why hasn’t she come before this?”

Alain lowered himself into the chair next to Etienne’s desk and ran his hands through his already disheveled hair while Etienne gave voice to the doubts in
his mind. The initial euphoria of his discovery faded. If
she had been alive all this time, why hadn’t she come to
them before now? Three years was a long time to wait without sending any word of her survival. Surely she
knew they would assume she was dead?

Alain’s mind went in dire directions. What if Cecile
had wanted him to assume she was dead? What if she had
changed her mind and hadn’t come to them because she
didn’t want to marry him? What if she didn’t love him?

“There’s only one way to find out,” Etienne was saying. “You have to go to London for the concert. If it is
Cecile, you will bring her home and we’ll all be together again.”

Alain knew Etienne was right, and despite his flare
of hope that it was Cecile, he couldn’t help but wish
there was an easier way. Suddenly living with the ambiguous unknowns seemed somehow better than facing
a concrete reality. She either loved him or she didn’t. If
she didn’t, his life would go on as it had for the past
three years. Except it would be even worse knowing she
was out there and had chosen not to come to him. The
only bolster to his courage was that for the first time he
had a chance to find out the answer to “what if.”

The concert was in five days. It didn’t leave much
time for second-guessing. Alain would set Cranston to
packing only the basics. He wanted to depart immediately. By carriage, the trip would take three days to
London. He would ride. He had sets of evening clothes
stored at the townhouse after his last dismal visit. He
could purchase whatever else he needed.

Two hours later, Alain swung up onto the back of his
sturdy bay hunter. The hunter was all stamina, and
Alain was counting on every last bit of it. His valise
was strapped to the back of his saddle, and the sun was
high. Alain thanked his stars it was late spring. The roads would be dry and fast. The road between Hythe
and London was long, but Cecile waited for him at the
end of it. As he spurred the big horse down the drive
leading away from The Refuge, Alain believed for the
first time in years that hope did indeed spring eternal.

London, the Royal Opera House

Cecile drew her bow across the violin in a fluid flourish, letting the last note hang in the air, quivering and
drawn out with poignancy. Silence permeated the auditorium until the last sound of the note faded away completely, no one willing to break the spell she had woven
during the past two hours. Finally, certain there was no
more to come, the audience exploded with applause,
expelling the collective breath of amazement it had
been holding since the moment she’d taken the stage
that evening.

A light sheen of sweat glossed her brow as she took
her well-deserved bows. She had labored greatly this
evening with her varied and extensive repertoire. She
had played pieces ranging from the simple but emotive
songs of the French countryside, to tear-invoking ballads to classical masterpieces that reminded the audi ence of her skill, showing off her prowess with a bow
and nimble fingers. Tonight, she’d been part gypsy
dervish with her country fiddling, and part classical
performer. Whatever her music demanded of her, she
had given fully with her body. Her shoulders and neck
ached from the exertions. She had earned every rose
thrown to the stage.

Cecile gracefully bent and scooped up the roses into
a makeshift bouquet, knowing how perfectly the flowers complimented the blood red gown she wore. She
stood tall, blowing the audience a kiss with her free
hand, cradling the roses with the other. Most nights, it
did not matter who was in the audience. She couldn’t
see faces anyway, thanks to the stage lighting. But tonight, she strained her eyes to see. She hoped and
dreaded that Alain Hartsfield would be in the audience.

She knew it was a foolish hope. How would Alain
know she was coming to London unless he saw one of
the ads? Even if he knew, there was no guarantee he’d
want to see the concert. Many things could change in
three years. She certainly had changed. She was no
longer the fresh-faced country girl struggling to survive
in a city. Perhaps Alain had married. He was a baron after all. He’d need an heir, and she’d done nothing to assure him that she was well. He had no reason to expect
that she was even alive and perhaps every reason to expect that she was dead. What other reason would seem
plausible to him?