the comtesse would continue the story.
“But all stories must have their darkest moments, and ours came during the revolution’s Reign of Terror, when aristocrats were persecuted by frenzied commoners wielding torches and pitchforks.” The comtesse looked away. “While all of us refused to leave le Mont, Alexandre’s father had at least the presence of mind to suggest that I take Alexandre away along with his younger brother, William, and the precious family jewels. We escaped the very night the castle was besieged. Our last sight was from a fishing boat. Le Mont was in flames and all those within its hallowed walls—all those we loved—perished. I think that was when Alexandre finally learned the truth about life.”
“Yes?”
“That it is better not to form deep attachments to anyone or anything for it can all be taken away in an instant.”
“But you don’t really believe that, do you?”
“Of course not. That is his belief not mine. But I was not a boy of fifteen when everything was taken from me. I was, ahem, a woman of a certain age. I already knew life was about change. But, of course, you already know this, too.”
Roxanne swallowed back the emotion filling her throat—all for the boy of fifteen who had lost everything. “Of course,” she whispered.
“But don’t think for a moment that he was not up for the challenge. When Alex and William’s rich English relatives refused to have anything to do with their ‘froggish distant relations,’ Alexandre sold the jewels. Two years later, when the money became thin, he sent me and William to England, while he stayed behind to support us by joining the Hussars. He even arranged to send William to Eton’s spartan colleger program.”
Roxanne swallowed. She had had no idea he had suffered so much.
“What color are your eyes, my dear?”
“Blue.”
“Pity.” The Comtesse de Chatelier sighed.
Roxanne straightened. “Yours are blue, too.”
“So everyone tries to convince me. Well, you obviously take after Alexandre’s father’s side of the family. Almost all Barclay eyes are blue. Alexandre inherited that deep velvety chocolate from his mother.”
Roxanne shook her head. The comtesse had the oddest habit of turning the conversation whenever it became too serious.
Roxanne tried to open a nearby glass case, but a small creak had the comtesse whirling about. Roxanne froze.
“The housekeeper tells me you arrived without a valise.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Lost in the carriage wreck, too?” Those owlish eyes of the comtesse might not see anything, but they knew everything.
“Yes.” Roxanne quickly palmed a small, intricate chisel and stuck it into the side of her boot.
“Celine, my maid, suggested we are almost of the same size, even if you are rather too tall. I shall have her add a ruffle to several of my cast-offs, then.”
“I cannot accept such generosity, Mémé.”
“I detest informality. You may not call me Mémé. But, I suppose, since we are in some thin fashion related, you may call me Antoinette.”
“I would be honored to do so.”
The older lady harrumphed.
It wasn’t until the evening meal that Roxanne learned that the comtesse’s true given name was Jacqueline.
I t was three days before a convoy of servants arrived from town along with Jack Farquhar, his audacious valet. Jack and Mémé should not have gotten on so well, for Alex’s valet was as English as a crumpet, except that due to some peculiar, unexplainable reason their various quirks of nature seemed to mesh in the oddest, most perfect fashion.
Alex would have been more grateful to see the man if Jack wasn’t the reason he was stuck in the wilds of nowhere to begin with. At least the valet brought news from Town even if none of it was good.
Apparently, small mobs of peasants were routinely shouting obscenities in front of the Prince Regent’s Carlton House. And someone had had the audacity to throw a rotten piece of fruit at His Majesty in the
“But all stories must have their darkest moments, and ours came during the revolution’s Reign of Terror, when aristocrats were persecuted by frenzied commoners wielding torches and pitchforks.” The comtesse looked away. “While all of us refused to leave le Mont, Alexandre’s father had at least the presence of mind to suggest that I take Alexandre away along with his younger brother, William, and the precious family jewels. We escaped the very night the castle was besieged. Our last sight was from a fishing boat. Le Mont was in flames and all those within its hallowed walls—all those we loved—perished. I think that was when Alexandre finally learned the truth about life.”
“Yes?”
“That it is better not to form deep attachments to anyone or anything for it can all be taken away in an instant.”
“But you don’t really believe that, do you?”
“Of course not. That is his belief not mine. But I was not a boy of fifteen when everything was taken from me. I was, ahem, a woman of a certain age. I already knew life was about change. But, of course, you already know this, too.”
Roxanne swallowed back the emotion filling her throat—all for the boy of fifteen who had lost everything. “Of course,” she whispered.
“But don’t think for a moment that he was not up for the challenge. When Alex and William’s rich English relatives refused to have anything to do with their ‘froggish distant relations,’ Alexandre sold the jewels. Two years later, when the money became thin, he sent me and William to England, while he stayed behind to support us by joining the Hussars. He even arranged to send William to Eton’s spartan colleger program.”
Roxanne swallowed. She had had no idea he had suffered so much.
“What color are your eyes, my dear?”
“Blue.”
“Pity.” The Comtesse de Chatelier sighed.
Roxanne straightened. “Yours are blue, too.”
“So everyone tries to convince me. Well, you obviously take after Alexandre’s father’s side of the family. Almost all Barclay eyes are blue. Alexandre inherited that deep velvety chocolate from his mother.”
Roxanne shook her head. The comtesse had the oddest habit of turning the conversation whenever it became too serious.
Roxanne tried to open a nearby glass case, but a small creak had the comtesse whirling about. Roxanne froze.
“The housekeeper tells me you arrived without a valise.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Lost in the carriage wreck, too?” Those owlish eyes of the comtesse might not see anything, but they knew everything.
“Yes.” Roxanne quickly palmed a small, intricate chisel and stuck it into the side of her boot.
“Celine, my maid, suggested we are almost of the same size, even if you are rather too tall. I shall have her add a ruffle to several of my cast-offs, then.”
“I cannot accept such generosity, Mémé.”
“I detest informality. You may not call me Mémé. But, I suppose, since we are in some thin fashion related, you may call me Antoinette.”
“I would be honored to do so.”
The older lady harrumphed.
It wasn’t until the evening meal that Roxanne learned that the comtesse’s true given name was Jacqueline.
I t was three days before a convoy of servants arrived from town along with Jack Farquhar, his audacious valet. Jack and Mémé should not have gotten on so well, for Alex’s valet was as English as a crumpet, except that due to some peculiar, unexplainable reason their various quirks of nature seemed to mesh in the oddest, most perfect fashion.
Alex would have been more grateful to see the man if Jack wasn’t the reason he was stuck in the wilds of nowhere to begin with. At least the valet brought news from Town even if none of it was good.
Apparently, small mobs of peasants were routinely shouting obscenities in front of the Prince Regent’s Carlton House. And someone had had the audacity to throw a rotten piece of fruit at His Majesty in the
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