The Chevalier (Châteaux and Shadows) by Philippa Lodge Page A

shouting, and then a man swore and lifted her. He smelled like rain and horse. The light brightened and warmth touched her face. She tried to open her eyes. Her hands touched wet leather, and she gripped it, sure she was falling. She jounced around, then heard more voices. The man carrying her called for water. A woman asked what happened.
    Catherine sank into a soft mattress, women murmuring around her as they undressed her.
    “Pale…”
    “Cold…”
    “ Malade. ”
    “De Fouet.”
    “Baronesse…”
    “Manu…”
    She tried to lift her head. “Manu?”
    A voice spoke in her ear. Marie. “Monsieur Emmanuel went out. Don’t worry, Mademoiselle.”
    “Stop. We must stop for the night.” That was what she tried to say, anyway. Her voice sounded like groans even to herself.
    “Oui. Sleep, Mademoiselle.” A different woman’s voice.
    She slept.
    ****
    No matter what he said about traveling fast, Manu always took a day to recover. The heat followed by cold rain was likely to kill them all.
    He awoke early, used to being up at dawn to exercise his horses. He rolled over expecting his window at home before the foul taste in his mouth reminded him of drinking brandy with his brother the night before. Jean-Louis’ house. Jean-Louis’ wife’s house, since Jean-Louis was very clear that even though he officially owned everything Hélène brought to the marriage, he considered himself its—and her—caretaker, with all benefits accruing to her and to their children. Rain spattered against the windows, and Manu drifted off again.
    He awoke sometime later to the murmur of voices in the next room. He couldn’t hear rain, but when he opened a shutter, it was so gray it was hard to tell the time. He shivered in his thin shirt and drawers.
    He found unfamiliar clothes hung neatly over the back of a chair. They must be Jean-Louis’, as the coat was blue. Henri, his other brother, always wore black or brown, though with occasional touches of color since he had taken up with Fourbier. Besides, he was thinner than any of the rest of them. Manu flexed his biceps, sure he was bigger than Henri.
    In the hall, he raised his hand to knock on Mademoiselle de Fouet’s door but was distracted by movement down the hall. A blond head disappeared into an alcove. Then he heard a high-pitched “Non!” A boy stumbled into the hall, pushed by unseen hands.
    Marcel? Marcel, Jean-Louis’s oldest boy, ten years old. Or almost ten? Manu couldn’t remember. He was born a scant nine months after his parents wed in haste. Just a few months after his cousin, Dario. He wondered if they were friends. Manu had hardly seen him since the boy was five, but he was the right age and looked like a miniature of his father—and of Manu.
    The boy bowed elegantly, his face as solemn and serious as his father’s. Manu bowed back, suppressing a smile. He remembered being young and treated his nieces and nephews with gravity.
    “Welcome, Uncle Emmanuel.” The boy looked him over. “Is that Papa’s new justaucorps?”
    Manu brushed imaginary lint from his sleeves as he admired the royal blue, conservatively decorated wool. “It does appear new, and I assumed it was your father’s, yes.”
    “It looks quite well on you. Uncle Fourbier will approve.”
    Manu couldn’t help but smile. But then he frowned. “You have been spending a lot of time with Monsieur Fourbier, then?” Fourbier was Henri’s lover. While the family treated Fourbier like a brother, Manu had his doubts about the suitability of letting the children spend time with the man.
    The boy nodded. “He came with us when we picked out fabrics for our new coats. He supervised the tailors until they threatened to quit. He won’t let Papa and Maman wear just anything, you know.”
    That did sound like Fourbier, who was a former tailor, Jean-Louis’ former valet, and the fabric buyer for the furniture manufactory.
    “And how are you today, Uncle Emmanuel?” the boy asked