The Honorable Officer (29 page)

“Michel? I met him once,” said Hélène.

“Right after Dom found them,” said Henri. “He stays at the de Bures château nearly all the time.”

There was silence as she brought her breath under control and wiped her face.

“Tell me about him, Monsieur Henri,” she said, desperate for a subject.

Henri smiled. “We are brother and sister now. Call me Henri like everyone else.”

“You should call me Hélène, then,” she said softly.

Henri spoke at length about Michel and how he had lived in the de la Brosse household as Aurore’s pet. When he was sent to the de Bures estate, poor Aurore, who had been seven or so, had thought he was dead. Henri had mocked her then, even though he felt sorry for his sister and would have been even sorrier if he had thought the little boy was dead. During the attacks, Michel sent his wife to Nantes to be safe while Aurore insisted on traveling. He had missed the birth of his son by a few days, even though he traveled to Nantes immediately after retaking the château.

Hélène was struck the most by the way every story he told about the de Cantière family focused on the time the de Bures château was taken. She wondered if the family would ever recover from the trauma. Their lives might always revolve around that one set of events.

Charlotte nodded off, her head on Hélène’s lap. Hélène signaled to a maid, but Henri lifted Charlotte gently.

“Where will she sleep?” he asked.

“I…I don’t know. In the nursery, I suppose? She has been sleeping with…” She stopped on a sob.

Henri nodded. “If we are guessing right—and I am sure we are—Ondine is a pawn, but not an expendable one. It would be better if she were a knight or rook, non? Your aunt and uncle…” He closed his eyes for a moment, gritting his teeth. “They would never want anything to happen to her. Right?”

Hélène nodded. “If anything did happen to her, they would never give in to the Ménines. But if anything happened to me…”

“We will never give in to them, either. Jean-Louis would not rest until they hang. None of us would,” said Henri.

“Thank you,” Hélène said, still staring into his eyes. “I’ve never…not for a long time… Thank you.”

He nodded to her and went out with Charlotte in his arms.

Hélène sipped the lukewarm tea, trying not to think.

****

It was only a few miles to his former in-laws’ house. The streets were paved, but the snow had half melted and refrozen overnight. The journey took much longer than Jean-Louis wished.

As dawn brightened the low, gloomy clouds, Jean-Louis swung down at the front door of the Ferands’ house. A groom took their horses and rushed off. The front door opened as soon as he knocked, so he figured they had received the note about Ondine’s disappearance. The manservant took his heavy cape, and Jean-Louis strode to the drawing room. Servants scurried out of sight, which he found odd, but he entered the drawing room expecting nothing more than an aging man and his wife—surely as arrogant and rude as they had always been toward a relatively poor second son.

His father-in-law didn’t rise when he entered: a new low in their relations. He swept his hat off and bowed, and only then caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and turned, his hand going to his saber.

“Ah, the doting papa,” said Bernard Ménine, his pistol pointing at Jean-Louis’ face. A man with a musket stepped out of a shadowed doorway, his gun pointed at Madame Ferand.

Jean-Louis took a deep breath and said in casual tones, “I see your hired assassin knows the Ferands would not cry if you killed me. No matter how much I dislike them, I do not wish them dead.”

“Disarm him,” said Ménine harshly to another rough-looking man. Ménine bared his teeth in a ghastly parody of a smile. “And then we shall go to see your darling daughter, de Cantière. I had hoped to insure Mademoiselle Hélène’s cooperation with just the girl and the Ferands, but I suppose having the man who fancies himself her fiancé will speed things up.”

He and the Ferands were hustled into a carriage, while Jean-Louis’ guard was locked in a pantry with a couple of the Ferands’ manservants. Jean-Louis had hoped to be able to overcome Ménine once in the coach, but he and one of his assassins flanked Jean-Louis on the rear-facing seat, knives in hand. The Ferands squeezed together with another armed man on the forward-facing one. The thugs with muskets acted as coachman and footman.

They pulled up in front of the manufactory only a few minutes later. The thugs hustled them out of the carriage, through the low side door, and into the vast, low-ceilinged space that stank of glue and sawdust. There were chairs and sideboards in various stages of completion, but no workers. “I gave them all the day off,” said Ménine.

“Whatever for?” said Monsieur Ferand, indignantly. “Is it a feast day I didn’t know about? A whole day’s work just gone, like that?”

Ménine raised an eyebrow.

The feast of kidnappers
, thought Jean-Louis.
There’s probably a patron saint for it
.

Ménine produced a key and opened a narrow door to reveal a wooden staircase. Jean-Louis had seen the cellar once. Maybe. He had spent almost no time at all in the manufactory but now wished he knew his way around.

One of the thugs descended ahead of them and positioned himself at the bottom of the stairs with his musket trained on them. Jean-Louis held out an arm for Madame Ferand, who looked at him in surprise before taking it.

“We’re in this together,” said Jean-Louis.

“Not for long, I hope.” She sniffed.

Jean-Louis found himself remarkably unfazed by her disdain.

At the bottom of the stairs, Ménine unlocked a small door and gestured them in. It was a storeroom, smelling of vinegar and mildew, lit only by a small window with bars, the first rays of morning light filtering in.

Jean-Louis caught a motion in his peripheral vision and looked down as a tiny hand tugged at his coat. He dropped to one knee and pulled Ondine to him as she whined and burrowed against his chest. He wrapped her inside his cloak, grateful they had given it back to him for the trip from the Ferands’ house.

“Do you have a booboo on your arm?” he asked softly. “Charlotte said you had a booboo.”

He felt her nod against him. “I’ll need a candle, Ménine,” he said.

“It will be light soon,” was the reply.

The door slammed shut, and the key scraped.

Ménine shouted through the door, “I’ll bring you some paper, de Cantière, so you can write a letter to your fiancée. She’ll need to come alone, of course.”

Jean-Louis shivered in fear even though he knew no one in his family would let Hélène come alone, and she was too intelligent to do so anyway. She certainly would not be able to find her way without help. And she would come in a carriage, as she could probably not ride a horse—he had never asked. He resolved to teach her, once they were free of the threat.

In the meantime, though, he carried his tiny daughter to an armchair near the window and prodded at her arm through her dress. She wailed.

Madame Ferand said, “Really, de Cantière. Can you not keep her quiet?”

He glared at her, but she probably couldn’t see his expression in the gloom. He carefully untied Ondine’s bodice and lowered it to her elbow, trying to keep her wrapped in his cloak. In the dim light he could see her holding the arm protectively against her belly and could see the elbow was swollen, but he could not see an injury otherwise. It was probably dislocated again.

“Is it the same as when the bad man took you on the horse? And Tonton Manu saved you?” asked Jean-Louis.

His little girl didn’t reply. The question was probably too complicated. It was the same arm, he was fairly sure. “I wish Fourbier were here to fix it again,
ma
chérie.”

“Fou-bay,” whispered Ondine.

“Yes, Fourbier. He’ll find us soon.” He gently pulled her dress up and tied it again, then settled her against him and felt her shiver.

“Are you hungry,
mon petit amour
?” he asked.

She nodded.

“I have some biscuit and some dried meat,” he said.

“Biscuit?” She sat up straighter.

He took the edge of his cloak with one hand and struggled to put his hand in the big pocket. He gave her the biscuit, and she shoved it into her mouth with both hands. “They didn’t feed you much, did they, my beautiful girl? You’ve been very brave. Did you sleep on the chair at night?”

“B’anket,” she said.

As the light improved and his eyes adjusted, he saw there was a pile of blankets against a wall. He growled at the thought of a two-year-old sleeping in a nest of blankets, locked in a basement, alone at night.

“Biscuit?” she asked, her voice sleepy.

She probably hadn’t slept much at all.

“I don’t have any more,
mon âme
. I’ll give you another when we get out.”

Ondine nestled against him, her stocking feet finally warming against his leg.

“There are no other chairs, de Cantière,” said Monsieur Ferand, emerging from the shadows. “And my wife is a lady.”

“Your wife is an evil hag,” said Jean-Louis, keeping his voice quiet, “who cares nothing for anyone but herself. Ondine is injured, has been shot at several times over the last few weeks, kidnapped twice, and just spent the night alone in a dark cellar. I hold you and your wife responsible for this, as well as for Amandine’s conduct, especially her tendency to open her thighs for everyone.”

His former mother-in-law shrieked, but this time she noticed his expression—the one that had made his soldiers shake in their boots.

“I should call you out,” growled his former father-in-law.

“I would kill you. But I cannot face you in a duel. You have no honor. You lied to Mademoiselle de Bonnefoi for years and tried to cheat her out of her inheritance. And now you prefer she die. Do you realize that Ondine nearly died too?”

“And now you think you will have her share of the manufactory,” said Monsieur Ferand.

Jean-Louis thought about telling him they were already married and he already had her share, but decided against it. “I offered for her when all I knew about was her small dowry.”

Hélène’s uncle snorted.

“We only discovered the truth two days ago,” Jean-Louis said. “Now I plan to use my control of her share to get rid of you and the Ménines. We shall improve production and increase sales instead of trying to rely on a tramp of a daughter to sell chairs at court. She was probably working against you and the manufactory, just as she was a blight on my military career.”

Jean-Louis did, however, stand up from the chair, the only one in the room, and went to sit on the pile of blankets, Ondine still in his arms. Madame Ferand took the chair, which left Monsieur Ferand standing awkwardly.

Jean-Louis tossed him a blanket before settling Ondine into the nest of blankets and removing his cloak to cover her.

He rose to examine the window. He opened it and examined the grill. With a few minutes’ effort, he loosened it, but couldn’t remove it. He needed better leverage, something with which to pry it. He searched in the gloom of the storeroom but found only flimsy chair legs.

“Close the window, idiot,” grunted his former father-in-law from where he sat on the dirt floor with the blanket around his shoulders.

“I am hoping to get the bars off so I can lift Ondine out. It might get violent.” Jean-Louis turned away from his former mother-in-law as she complained about his attitude.

They heard a key in the lock, and he shut the window and stepped away from it. First through the door was a thug with a musket and another with a knife.

Ménine squeezed past them and held out some paper, a quill, and a bottle of ink. “A little note to your betrothed, de Cantière. You have found your daughter and in-laws. You desire her presence at the manufactory immediately. She must come alone because your in-laws are being difficult. I will read it before I have it delivered, of course. She is in the de la Brosse townhouse, I suppose?”

Jean-Louis looked around for somewhere to write. One of the thugs dragged a small table in, and Jean-Louis sank to one knee on the cold floor to write.

Chapter Fifteen

Ma chère Mademoiselle,

“I have
,
indeed
,
found Ondine
.
She is well
,
except for her arm
,
which appears to have the same problem as when she was kidnapped the last time
.
I do wish I had seen what Fourbier did to fix it
.

“Your aunt and uncle are with me at the manufactory
,
and they ask that you join us here so they may give their blessing to our upcoming marriage
.

“Do come alone
.
I am sure everything is safe now
.

Your fiancé,

Jean-Louis
,
le Colonel de Cantière

“
Merde
,” said Henri from where he read the letter over Fourbier’s shoulder. “Sorry.”

Madame Hélène nodded, her expression wobbling on the edge of tears.

Fourbier could only hope the colonel really had found Ondine and they were safe. He had nearly infinite confidence in the colonel, but, like any soldier, knew that death could surprise you. When he hadn’t returned from his visit to the Ferands, Fourbier and Henri went to their house and found only frightened servants. They’d also found the guard who had accompanied Jean-Louis. Once they released him from the pantry, he told them about the guns and knives, but he didn’t know where they had taken de Cantière.

“Do you think they are truly in the manufactory?” Henri asked him.

“Either that or they will take her to him, I suppose,” said Fourbier.

Fourbier hadn’t been able to stay angry at Henri. It had been irrational of him to blame Henri for Ondine’s kidnapping, since the house and grounds had been full of strong men. Henri obviously blamed himself anyway, much to his credit. They had reached an unspoken truce that morning as they traveled together into a slum, bribing people, asking if they had seen a little red-headed girl. Fourbier wanted to squeeze Henri tight, but under the baron’s eye, they remained stoic to protect the colonel’s wife from her fears.