The Perilous Journey of the Not-So-Innocuous Girl (6 page)

She wanted to pull him back to her, but he quickly wrapped his arms around her tiny frame, smothering her in his musky shirt, and whispered, “Goodbye, Marguerite,” before turning away and cutting through the hedgerow to sneak back to his quarters.

“Lady Vadnay!”

It was Delacourte. Marguerite was just stepping into the light before the main entrance from the garden when he launched at her from the opposite side of the fountain.

“They told me you’d come outside to get some air. I can’t say that I blame you. It is quite stuffy inside. Our family’s main estate is fitted with the latest in circulatory technology. We have automated fans in each room facilitating a constant stream of warm or cool air.”

“Yes, yes. I’m sure it’s lovely,” Marguerite cut him off before she had to hear another word about his large family fans. She smiled prettily at him and kept moving toward the ballroom.

Delacourte followed. “I believe you owe me another dance.”

“I believe I do.”

Marguerite stepped through from the gardens accompanied by Delacourte, a healthy glow to her skin and a twinkle in her eye. Her father was one of the first to spot her entrance and she could tell immediately that he was alarmed by the sight at first, then reassured the night had been a success.

She let his assumptions go and spent the rest of the evening dancing with the suitors she found the least repulsive. She successfully avoided Laviolette, although he was not pursuing her as hotly as she first assumed. She made sure to give a large, luscious smile to Pomphart, whom she spied scowling from a dark corner at one point. And as the night came to a close, she couldn’t help but overhear the gossip of the crowd.

In the end, everyone in attendance agreed that Delacourte had won the night. How could he not have? His clothes and manners were impeccable, he always knew what to say to make the old ladies twitter, and he looked like he was made to twirl the delicate little Marguerite around like a jewelry box duo.

The guests convened on the roof to bid farewell to those traveling home by aership. Several small ships with deeply polished wooden passenger decks hovered over the rooftop garden. Their large, helium-filled canvasses were securely strapped to the decks like dirigibles of old. The only difference was a modern, steam-powered engine expertly built into the hull that propelled it silently in any direction the captain steered.

Delacourte, determined to leave the night with the upper hand, made a grand show of bidding farewell to his quarry. Marguerite was too tired to discourage or embarrass him further. She thought nothing of offering her hand when he stooped low to kiss it. The heat lingering on her lips far out-burned this formal assault on her hand. She waved him away merrily and turned to look out over the estate in its midnight splendor, leaving those less affluent guests to proceed to the front hall to collect their carriages and steam motors with only her father’s adieu.

The tiny homes and buildings dotting their land sparkled in the moonlight; drops of condensation from the steam pipes clung to the rooftops like diamonds. She picked out Claude’s home easily enough. It was the closest to the smithy shop, smaller than the rest, but perfect for himself and another smithy. There was a small candle warming the front window. Claude must have left it there for his roommate to find his way after the ball. She wondered who would take Claude’s bunk once he was gone.

Her heart ached in its newfound depths. They had wasted so much time! All those lazy days hiding in the glen and running through the fields, they could have been planning all along. Who knew how much more time would pass before she would see him and be able to plan with him again. She looked away from the little hut, unable to process it all with her tired mind.

She noticed a solitary figure walking leisurely through the night on the road to town. She could just make out his suit jacket slung over his shoulder, a merry bounce in his gait.
Who could that be?
she wondered.
No guest of any sort of social standing would walk home from my party. None of the servants has business in town this time of night.
She watched with great interest as the figure passed under the last of the gas lamps before leaving the official bounds of her family’s property. She quite liked the way he sauntered and skipped as if he hadn’t a care in the world on this dark, damp night. He twirled magnificently just as he passed under the light, causing Marguerite to recoil in disgust at her own appreciations: Captain Laviolette.

She groaned out loud at herself. She knew it didn’t make sense, but somehow she felt he’d gotten the upper hand again. She pushed the thoughts of him quickly from her mind. With luck, she’d never have to see him again.

She turned to descend the stairs just as she heard Madame Pomphart calling from below, “Marguerite! It is far too late for a
lady
to be spying from the rooftops! Come to bed this instant!”

The next morning, Marguerite’s human lady’s maid knocked timidly on the door before entering with her tray of brunch items. Marguerite rolled to one side and peered at the girl through crusty eyes.

“What are you doing in here?” Her favorite clock, the only one set to chime, came to life just then, striking its tiny, tinkling bell twelve times.

“Your father sent me to wake you, mademoiselle. Please forgive me.”

The apologetic manner of the maid pushed Marguerite into a deeper mood of resentment. “What does he want? I played all his little games last night. He can at least afford me a day in bed.”

“I believe you have received several letters of inquiry this morning, ma’am. I think he’s excited to talk them over with you.”

“He’s excited to plan my entire life for me.” She muttered this last sentence from under the pillow she was using to block the light from the window her maid had just drawn open.

“
GET UP
.” Pomphart had descended.

Marguerite groaned and pulled the pillow down harder, pretending she had never heard. Madame Pomphart jerked the pillow away from her head unceremoniously. “Get up this instant and show some respect for your father’s wishes.”

If she didn’t know for a fact that Pomphart had no heart, Marguerite could have sworn she was in love with her father. She spoke as if he were the King himself.

Marguerite sat up grudgingly and motioned for her maid to bring the breakfast tray to her bed.

“No, you haven’t time for that.” Pomphart held up her hand blocking the maid.

“And how am I to keep my wits about me if I’m half-starved and fatigued from all the buffoons who stomped my feet half the night?”

Madame Pomphart raised her hand and brought it down hard across Marguerite’s face.

“Ah!” she cried out in pain and surprise. The maid jumped, spilling tea all over the biscuits.

“I’ve had enough of you, young lady. You will remember your place and you will fill it with dignity and grace just as your mother did and all the ladies of this manor before her.”

Marguerite took her hand from her stinging face, drew in a deep, controlled breath before sliding her feet out from under the covers and pushing herself to stand in front of Pomphart.

“You are relieved.” She looked steadily into the older woman’s eyes.

Pomphart gazed back without flinching; she was calling the younger girl’s bluff. “Your father has instructed me to—and I quote—‘Help my daughter realize her potential and her blessings. Help me tame her and make her a good match for a suitable mate.’ That is exactly what I intend to do, by any means necessary.”

Rarely had Marguerite ever felt so much hatred for anyone. Annoyance, yes, dislike, often, but hatred was a strong emotion she wasn’t often bothered with. She turned to her maid and took the tray from the poor girl’s trembling hands. She tried to keep her voice even as she whispered, “You are no longer needed.” The maid, obviously relieved, scurried out of the room and down the passageway, her feet landing heavily on the richly carpeted halls.

Marguerite turned back to face Pomphart and expertly balanced her tray with one hand while daintily lifting a piece of tea-soaked biscuit to her lips. Dribbles of brown liquid ran down her arm and fell from her face to her dressing gown. Pinky extended, she took a huge bite and then wiped the excess off her lips with the back of her hand.

Through a mouthful of soggy breakfast she mumbled a surprisingly audible, “Good luck to you then!” and smiled sweetly at her tormentor as bits of biscuit fell from her lips and littered the floor.

Pomphart moved quickly, knocking the tray from her hand and grabbing a fistful of Marguerite’s untamed morning hair. Breakfast dishes flew all over the floor and Marguerite wailed as Pomphart dragged her to the dressing table, shoving her down in the chair.

“You
will
learn. You
will
behave like a lady, and you
will
agree to marry this month. Only then will you be free of me and I of you. Do you understand?”

At the word “marry” Marguerite’s heart did a flip—Claude! She had thought briefly before she fell asleep of sneaking out to the docks to see him off, but had most certainly missed him by now. It was so late in the day! The pain in her face and head were nothing compared to the pit in her stomach.

Pomphart pulled and twisted Marguerite’s hair into a knot at the back of her head in the traditional style of a woman who had come of age. Marguerite’s eyes seemed a bit slanted, her hair was drawn so tightly, and her head ached even more. Pomphart then took three strides to the wardrobe and pulled out a drab, everyday dress. “You will put this on and be in the dining room in ten minutes or I will finish what you’ve started here.”

She stepped toward the door and then turned to add, “And there will be no more
dismissals
from you.”

Marguerite stared at the bitter woman’s reflection in the mirror. She waited until she had left the room, then reached up to massage her aching scalp and pull the pins out to free her tresses. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have missed her last chance to see Claude?

She felt tears well up and almost spill out as she touched the hot pink mark on her cheek. But resolve won out; she would not let this woman make her cry. She had endured months of similar treatment, never-ending social lessons and foul tempers; it was time for it to end. Her father would take one look at her now-swollen eye and put a stop to it. She dressed quickly and marched downstairs.

Lord Vadnay sat in his large, gold-leafed chair at the head of the main dining hall. All evidence of the festivities from the night before had been removed by skilled bots and human servants working together through the night. Her father was a good-hearted man, but he did have his pet peeves. A mess the morning after a party was one of the largest.

“Superb execution on both the night’s revelries and clean up, my good man.” Marguerite walked in on him praising the butler for remembering his preferences, even though many years had passed since the great manor had thrown a gala of any size, much less to the extent of the night before. Marguerite was also grateful, for this meant her father would be in a good mood and more likely to listen to reason.

“Good morning, Father.” She smiled at him as best she could, her face still throbbing and all of her feelings lodged in her throat.

“Don’t you mean good afternoon?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” She took her place at the table next to him and motioned for the servant standing behind her to bring her meal.

“Haven’t you eaten already?” He snorted. “Lazy girl. Whatever am I going to do with you?” He chuckled to himself and cut her off as she started to speak. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do with you; I’m going to marry you off to the most eligible man in all of France!”

“Father, wait—”

He cut her off again. “I arose this morning to this.” He motioned to the stack of mail next to his plate, not an uncommon sight at breakfast, only it contained several more pieces of correspondence than usual. “A lovely pile of cards from all sorts of fellows who had a splendid time with my, let me see here.” He picked up one of the letters and read aloud: “Your most excellent and beautiful daughter.” Lord Vadnay beamed with the pride only a father can hold for his daughter, then carried on.