The Honorable Officer (2 page)

Her latest eyeglass was stronger than ever, but as always she tried to get along without it because it certainly didn’t improve her homely looks or make her too-tall, dowry-less self any more appealing.

She blushed again because he caught her ogling his legs. She hoped he thought she was noticing the dirt. She found herself glancing again at the way the loose fabric pulled against superb legs, noting the high shine on his slouched boots. She realized he was asking her a question.

“I am sorry, Monsieur le Colonel. I am overtired from the long journey and was not paying attention.”

“I was merely asking again why you have brought my daughter to a war zone, Mademoiselle,” he snapped. His chin was up, his voice tight and angry. “The tent will be taken down around us in ten minutes, so I would appreciate an answer as soon as possible.”

She stood up straighter, falling victim to his bossy demeanor as thousands of young conscripts surely had. She was half-asleep on her feet and had to hold herself steady to keep from swaying.

“There was an attempt on her life four days ago, Monsieur. Someone set a fire outside her room in my Uncle Ferand’s house.”

He stared at her so hard she very nearly dropped her lorgnette to avoid his gaze. She did not, though. She stared into his dark blue eyes. Her gaze flickered to his very short, blondish hair, and she decided he must wear a wig, usually.

“This is unbelievable, Mademoiselle,” he said.

“I awoke when I smelled smoke. Ondine cried for her cat when I tried to carry her out of the window. I found the cat twitching, dying, on the floor. I told her the cat had already gone out, so we escaped and raised the alarm. The next morning, we left without saying where we were going.” She had been brave and resourceful in defying her uncle’s assurances that all was well. No one believed the cat had been poisoned, saying it must have died from the smoke.

“In Monsieur Ferand’s carriage? And how do you know you did not bring a culprit with you as an outrider?” His brow wrinkled over his narrowed eyes.

“I hired another carriage once I got out of Paris.” She lowered her lorgnette, leaving her squinting at vague colors and shadows.

“And hired new outriders?”

“I kept one, the man I trusted the most, and sent everyone else back. I hired another carriage in Dijon and sent that man back with the Paris coach.”

“I thought you were impoverished,” he said.

She sniffed. “My uncle gives me a supplement to my allowance because I take care of Ondine. I suppose it is what you send them to pay a nurse. And I have some of my own money, just not enough to convince anyone to marry an ugly girl who can’t see.” She never had outbursts like that. It was fatigue and because he did not recognize her right away. Of course, she had never spoken more than three words to him before.

He looked at her for a long time before shaking his head. “Off topic. You say Ondine is safe nearby. I shall send you away with an escort. I want you to retrieve Ondine and ride as fast as you can to Auxonne. There is an inn there where they know me. Change horses as often as you need and do not stop. If you can so much as hear the cannons, turn west to Dijon.” He reached into his coat and brought out a small purse. “Here is money for fresh horses and to bribe anyone you need to.”

He held out a handful of coins, and she had to stuff her lorgnette into her pocket to take them. They were still warm from his body, and she flushed at the heat.

“My aide-de-camp is signaling me. He wishes to gather up my papers and have the tent taken down. I have yet to put on my armor, as you see. You must flee as fast as you can. I will come find you and Ondine. In a day or two, I hope.”

She was glad her hand was on his arm as she stumbled over rocks and ruts keeping up.

He handed her up into the carriage. Just before closing the door, he leaned in. “And you are not ugly. As for seeing, it does not matter, unless you would like us to train you with a sniper rifle. Safe journey.”

He slammed the door and shouted for Jouvet, the boy who had led her in from the carriage, to ride alongside and for the driver to make haste. As the carriage turned to pass in front of his tent again, she pulled her lorgnette out to look at Jean-Louis, Chevalier de Cantière. He scowled as his men bustled all around, a short, dark-haired man pausing at his shoulder to watch her go. He waved and turned away just as a cannon boomed in the distance. Her last view of the camp was of soldiers running in every direction and the colonel barking out orders.

****

Jean-Louis woke with a start when his carriage jerked to a halt. The carriage shook as the groom climbed down to talk to someone. Jean-Louis shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. His aide-de-camp, Fourbier, asleep on the seat opposite, shifted, muttered, and farted loudly. After a change of horses, they were on their way again, dragging the carriage through the muddy, icy slop which passed for a road after the army had marched on it a few days before.

Jean-Louis pulled his cocked hat down over his eyes again, trying to doze off. The battle of Dole had lasted only hours, but the aftermath had been the usual confusion of death, injury, and quick action to keep the rougher soldiers from sacking the town and raping the women. He had hardly slept for two nights.

After a few minutes, he gave up trying to sleep and lifted the curtain to look at the scenery. The sky was just getting light as they approached Auxonne.

His groom opened the trapdoor in the front and, seeing he was awake, announced, “Just about an hour left, Monsieur le Colonel.”

The siege was broken, Dole taken, and Auxonne never threatened, so he hoped Mademoiselle Hélène was still there, even though he didn’t like the thought of his baby daughter so close to a battle. “
Merci
, Jacques. Try to sleep. I will want you alert when we arrive.”

It had to be hysteria on the part of Mademoiselle Hélène, but she had his daughter. He would have to get to the bottom of it before he could rest easy. Maybe he would send the girl to his sister, Aurore, who doted on babies and still did not have one of her own. He knew her husband, the Comte de
Bures, would be sure Ondine was safe.

Jean-Louis nudged his valet. “Fourbier, wake up.”

The thin man jerked awake, twisting nearly off the seat in surprise. He rubbed his neck and scrubbed at his eyes before untying the cord that held back his long, dark hair, combed it with his fingers, and retied it. With an adjustment to his cuffs and a few swipes at the wrinkles in his breeches, he looked too tidy to have slept in a carriage after a battle.

“I need my wig, Fourbier.”

The valet grunted. Jean-Louis smiled wryly and knocked on the wall. The groom reopened the trapdoor.

“Fourbier needs to piss,” said Jean-Louis, desperate for a stop too.

The carriage slowed to a halt, which wasn’t hard, as it was moving only slightly faster than walking pace. Jean-Louis found a likely-looking tree, as did the other men.

They returned to the carriage as the sun rose above the horizon. Fourbier sighed, watching purples and blues change to brilliant pinks and orange. Jean-Louis waited with his arms crossed, also appreciating the sight. Some days, his enjoyment of sunrise was because he had survived another night.

“The wig, Fourbier. It would not do to greet a lady looking as if I had just come from the battlefield.” Jean-Louis climbed back up into the ancient carriage and rapped on the ceiling.

Hélène had been raised as a lady, descended from nobility. Not currently nobility, as her family owned a factory and was involved in the day-to-day running of it. Even so, she had always been almost a servant in his in-laws’ house. She crept around the edges and supervised his late wife when they were younger, for all the good it had done for Amandine’s behavior and immortal soul. He wondered why Mademoiselle Hélène had never married. He had a glimmer of a memory of his wife telling him Hélène had no dowry—and hadn’t the lady herself said much the same two nights before?—and his in-laws could not afford to present her at court. She had terrible eyesight, too, as evidenced by her lorgnette. He wondered why they had not added to her dowry themselves and found her some minor merchant to marry.

Amandine’s judgment had been terrible about most things, so he winced to have trusted what she said about her cousin. He supposed he had already decided to trust Mademoiselle Hélène’s judgment—or at least his in-laws’ judgment of her ability to care for his daughter—when he left Ondine with Amandine’s family instead of moving her elsewhere. He’d been consumed with fury at his wife’s death and barely thinking of his daughter at all.

Fourbier held a coat up for his inspection. It was pale blue wool, with lace and ribbons dangling from the short sleeves. “Is that the only one you brought? It’s hardly fit for anything but court.”

Fourbier looked down, pretending to be abashed. “I am sorry,
mon colonel
. I thought you would wish to look your best for the lady. Though it’s certainly not good enough for court.”

Jean-Louis sighed deeply, gazing at the overblown gold embroidery on the matching waistcoat. “We are here to assess the risk to my daughter and determine if I can leave her here or insist Mademoiselle Hélène take her home. I am not here to court the lady.”

Fourbier smirked. “It brings out the blue of your eyes.”

Jean-Louis dropped his head back, staring toward heaven to pray for patience but seeing only the light wood of the ceiling. The lady would hardly be able to see the display of wealth, much less compare it to his eyes. He scowled at his valet, whose eyes twinkled merrily. “I was hoping to slip in and out of Auxonne and be back with the army tomorrow, not make a splash.” He was a knight in the never-ending chess game between France and the rest of Europe. He should dress like a knight, not a prince.

He stripped off his leather jerkin and the shirt—the same smelly one from two nights before—and washed himself hastily with perfumed oil before putting on the clean white shirt with excessively large sleeves, the embroidered waistcoat, and the offending coat. The valet held out the matching breeches, and Jean-Louis sighed and stripped out of his leather ones.

The valet wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“No, Fourbier, you may not burn them this time, either.”

He donned his fine linen underthings and the woolen breeches with their six-inch ruffle below the knee, trimmed with dark blue ribbon and gold-edged lace. “At least they aren’t silk.”

“Much too cold for silk in February, Monsieur
,
” replied his valet, rolling up the dirty clothes and tucking them into a bag. “And silk is not appropriate for a morning visit in the provinces.” He efficiently tucked and fluffed and tied the sleeves so they ballooned out exactly as they should.

Jean-Louis laughed. “Fourbier, I do not know why you stay with me. Surely there is a dandy at court who would make much better use of your services.” He would be lost without Fourbier, and they both knew it. The man loved lace and beautiful colors but ran his small group of servants like the toughest of sergeants.

Fourbier grinned. “It’s the adventure, Monsieur le Colonel. I have met no one at court I like as well as I like you.”

Jean-Louis winced. His valet sometimes seemed to like him far too much.

Fourbier combed the wig to extraordinary heights and settled it on his head as they rode up to the inn. Jean-Louis took his good hat and pulled it down on top of his wig, making the valet groan. The carriage stopped and Jean-Louis swung down, his groom behind him, covering his back.

He tugged his best cloak straight on his left shoulder and adjusted his saber. A thin, aging woman in severe black wool answered his knock. Jean-Louis had a moment of doubt when he did not see the innkeeper. He had only spoken to a man on the way in with his division.

“Mademoiselle Hélène de Bonnefoi,
s’il vous plaît
, Madame,” he barked out.

“Much too early to call, Monsieur,” said the innkeeper’s wife.

“Ah, but I have not come only to see Mademoiselle de Bonnefoi. It is my daughter I wish to see. She is almost three and is called Ondine. She has blonde hair and her eyes are very like mine.” Jean-Louis brushed a bit of fluff from his sleeve before looking the woman in the eyes.

She was not timid at all, this woman. She narrowed her eyes and looked him up and down and then stared at his eyes before nodding slightly.

“They are in the breakfast room, Monsieur le Colonel.”

She curtsied as he passed, and he bowed in return.

“My groom will keep watch while we are here. Are there any back doors? My other men are outside in the carriage, watching the street.” The woman’s eyes widened in surprise. “All standard precautions for an officer traveling in time of war.”

The innkeeper’s wife marched ahead of him, back rigid, to the breakfast room, where his first view of Mademoiselle Hélène took his breath away. She was sitting in a beam of light, smiling down at the little girl who sat next to her on the bench. Her hair glinted gold in the sunlight, and her pink lips parted as she laughed.

“Mademoiselle Hélène, Colonel de Cantière is here to see you,” said the woman.

Jean-Louis bowed deeply and raised himself again to find Mademoiselle Hélène curtseying to him and the little girl staring at him, wide-eyed. Mademoiselle Hélène’s features had gone blank, erasing the sunshine and beauty he had witnessed.

“Ondine,
chérie
,” she said to the girl. “It is your papa, come to see us. Get up and curtsey,
ma petite
.”

The girl stood up on the bench and bobbed clumsily, clutching at Mademoiselle Hélène for support and reassurance.

Jean-Louis hadn’t seen his daughter since his wife’s funeral, over a year before. She likely had no memory of him, and yet her mistrust cut him to the heart.

“Please, Monsieur, join us for breakfast,” said Mademoiselle Hélène in the soft, shy voice that made him want to protect her.

He gritted his teeth. He was ridiculous. There was no threat here. It was leftover nerves from the battle and a lack of sleep, surely. The long argument with the Prince de Condé to get leave for two days to solve the problem, coupled with the long journey, had sapped what was left of his wits.