Chapter 15

Sidonie was in the solar with Aunt Eloise and Liane when Fabien burst through the door, his face almost as red as his hair. ‘He’s back!’ he panted. ‘Duchamp is back.’

‘Who is Duchamp?’ Sidonie asked. She’d been living at the estate for two weeks and had never heard that name.

‘The blacksmith,’ Aunt Eloise said to her, not explaining anything, before turning back to Fabien. ‘Find Antoine. How long before he reaches the house?’

‘He’ll be at the door by—’

Aunt Eloise was cut off by the sound of pounding at the door, following by a chorus of barking dogs.

‘What’s happening?’ Sidonie said, tense at the sudden urgency.

‘Liane, please take Sidonie to her room,’ Aunt Eloise instructed, rising from her chair. ‘Watch over her. And Liane? Take care.’

Liane glanced back at Aunt Eloise, her eyes wide as she placed a trembling hand on Sidonie’s arm. ‘Let’s go.’

Her heart beating in time with the relentless banging at the door, Sidonie followed Liane to her bedchamber. It overlooked the path leading to the front door and once she and Liane were inside, they both hurried to the window, their heavy exhalations misting the glass. There she saw a man, his dark hair shorn close to his scalp and his red face distorted with rage. He stood at the door of the house, his fists clenched at his sides. Two of the estate’s dogs circled him, barking and showing their teeth. He ignored them.

‘Perrette! Come out here, you bitch!’ he shouted.

Liane flinched as if she had been struck. Sidonie shivered with fear at the anger in his voice. ‘Is that the blacksmith? What is he doing here? Why is he shouting for Perrette?’

‘He’s Perrette’s father,’ Liane whispered, her voice and expression empty of its usual warmth. The woman appeared somehow smaller.

Fabien came around the side of the house – he must have gone back outside through the kitchen door – and hastily conferred with three of the gardeners, who were standing a short distance away. They each held a gardening implement that could easily be used as a weapon. Sidonie went to open the window to hear what Fabien said but Liane told her not to. One of the dogs moved to snap at Duchamp and he kicked out his leg, thankfully missing the animal. Fabien whistled and the dogs ran to his side. He now spoke to the blacksmith. She could not hear his words, but she saw him raise his hands and point first at the gardeners and then down the path towards the gate. The man shoved him so hard that Fabien fell back onto the ground. The dogs barked and snarled.

‘Why aren’t those men doing anything?’ Sidonie said to Liane, their shoulders touching as they watched the blacksmith step forward. ‘Fabien could get hurt.’

‘Antoine will see him off.’

Fabien got to his feet and then moved somewhere close to the house and out of Sidonie’s line of sight. The man Liane had called Perrette’s father faced the door and spoke furiously with someone.

‘Is he talking to Antoine? The man is old enough to be my grandfather! What chance would he have against—’

‘I’m not leaving until I get what’s mine!’ the man shouted, voice carrying through the closed window.

There was a loud bang. Sidonie jumped, her hands flying to her chest. Liane let out a small scream, burying her face in Sidonie’s shoulder. Sidonie knew all too well what had made that sound.

The blacksmith had his hand on his neck, a stain of red showing beneath his fingers. ‘God damn you to Hell, you bastard! You shot me!’

Antoine must have said something else in response, because the man turned and stalked off down the path with his hand still on his neck. He was closely followed by the three estate gardeners who remained at the gate to be sure Duchamp had gone.

Liane raised her head from Sidonie’s shoulder and glanced out the window. ‘It’s safe to leave the room.’ Her voice was soft, and other than a slight flush to her cheeks she seemed calm. While Liane had clearly been afraid, she didn’t seem shocked by what had happened. How could she not be, when Sidonie’s blood still thrummed in her veins? Was this a regular occurrence at the estate?

Perrette emerged from Aunt Eloise’s room as Sidonie and Liane entered the hallway, wiping her eyes and nose with her sleeve, her other hand holding on tight to Lyse.

Lyse reached for the pouch hanging around Perrette’s neck and gave it a little tug. ‘You’ve got nothing to fear. You’ve got your protection charm. It’ll keep you safe.’

Perrette kissed the girl on the top of her head and then looked up and saw Sidonie watching them. The maid turned on her heel and hurried off in the other direction.

Three days later, Perrette was gone.

‘She accepted a position in another house,’ Aunt Eloise said while spreading strawberry jam on a piece of bread.

‘Will she be well? Is she safe?’ Sidonie asked, hoping her aunt would explain to her exactly what had happened that day with the blacksmith. For despite her many questions, no one – not Aunt Eloise, Liane, Fabien or even Lyse – would tell her.

‘I sent her to one of my other estates, far from here. I cannot tell you exactly where for reasons I’m sure you understand.’

Sidonie did understand, and she was not offended that Aunt Eloise did not trust her with the information. After all, it was not her safety at risk. Although it did frustrate her. The speed at which Aunt Eloise arranged matters was remarkable. Within the past three days, she had also procured a new senior maid. Cerise was as unlike Perrette as two girls could be, timid to the point that all Sidonie had to do was glance in her direction to send the girl running from the room.

Perrette had left only one trace of herself behind. Lyse now wore a blue pouch around her neck.

‘She was going to leave her own pouch with me,’ Lyse had said, fingering the cloth. ‘Said she could make another if she had need. I told her to keep it and asked her to show me how to make one instead before she left. I can make one for you too, if you wish it?’

Sidonie thanked the girl but said there was no need.

When Olivier’s note arrived at the estate, it was addressed to the Baroness de Montargent and requested permission to call on Mademoiselle Sidonie Montot at eleven of the clock that day. Aunt Eloise read the note while breaking her fast, one eyebrow raised and casting occasional glances in Sidonie’s direction. When she finished, she handed the note to Liane.

‘Is this young man bothering you, Sidonie?’ Aunt Eloise asked. ‘If so, I can arrange for him never to trouble you again.’

‘Eloise!’ Liane admonished. ‘You will do no such thing. Could you pass the—’

‘Butter? Of course. The bread is a trifle—’

‘Dry? Yes.’ Liane accepted the butter.

‘You were saying, Sidonie dear?’ Aunt Eloise said.

Both women stared at her expectantly. ‘In answer to your question, no, he is not bothering me. He is a most genial man.’ She was not so na?ve as to have failed to notice Olivier’s attentions. What had begun as flirtation might lead to the promise of something more meaningful. A legitimate possibility if he wanted to pay her a visit. Yet she felt no stirring of excitement nor anticipation at the thought of seeing him again.

‘Is this the young man who travelled with you from Paris?’ Aunt Eloise asked.

Liane swallowed. ‘The one whose life you saved?’

‘I did nothing,’ Sidonie said dismissively. ‘It was Madame Garnier who saved him.’

‘Be that as it may,’ Aunt Eloise said, ‘I’m sure he is grateful for your assistance. He is also welcome in our home, of course, as are all of your friends – regardless of whether or not you pulled them back from the brink of death. The choice is yours.’

It would be easier if it were not. ‘It would be rude to refuse his invitation.’

Aunt Eloise snorted. ‘Hang rudeness! Yea or nay, Sidonie?’

Opportunities such as this seldom came her way, so it would be foolish to refuse. And she was curious as to her aunt’s opinion of Olivier. In a short span of time, Sidonie had come to respect Aunt Eloise a great deal. She gave her approval to the visit before returning to her room to inspect her limited wardrobe. Upon her arrival at the estate, her aunt had been horrified to discover she possessed only two dresses and that one of her chemises was little more than rags, having been torn for bandages after the attack on the road to Dole. Despite Sidonie’s protestations, her aunt had pressed three gowns upon her, as well as an assortment of chemises, stockings, gloves and caps. The garments all fit well, and while Aunt Eloise insisted they were used, neither she nor Liane were of a similar size to Sidonie, so as to where they came from, she could not say. Aunt Eloise was not forthcoming with the information either, so Sidonie simply accepted the items with gratitude.

On this occasion, she would wear her own green gown that she’d brought with her from Paris. She lifted it from the chest and held it against her body. The colour complemented her golden hair and eyes. It had rows of trim along the top and in parallel rows down the centre of the gown. The V-shaped bodice would emphasise her waist. The sleeves were short and of the same deep green, which she would wear with an undersleeve. Perhaps she could borrow a farthingale to wear underneath the skirt. She would ask Aunt Eloise, who would surely have one even if she did not wear it herself.

After she dressed, she experimented with her hair, carefully parting it down the middle and adorning it with ribbons of the same emerald colour as her dress. While living in Paris, the occasions on which she could dress for her own pleasure were rarer than hen’s teeth. Forever functional, never pretty or fashionable. In spite of her plain garments, men had still looked at her with lust in their hearts – or somewhere lower than their hearts. But to be admired, to be considered beautiful, that was alien to her. Would Olivier think her beautiful? She allowed herself a moment to glance at her reflection in the looking glass. She seldom did, for with each passing day she more closely resembled her maman. Something in her chest squeezed tightly, as it always did when she thought of Maman. Sabine had been only a few years older than Sidonie was now when she died.

As Sidonie passed by the foyer, she heard a knock at the front door. There seemed little point in waiting for Antoine when she was more than capable of answering a door herself. She expected to see Olivier but instead found a young boy and a girl. Both were dressed in little more than rags. The girl held her arm awkwardly against her small chest, and the boy had a split lip and a bruise in painful shades of black and purple covering one eye.

‘God in Heaven, what has happened to you?’ Sidonie said, regretting the words as soon as she said them, for the boy was instantly on his guard.

‘Who are you? Is this the wrong house?’ the boy asked, craning his neck to see past Sidonie and into the house.

‘Louis?’ the girl said.

The boy looked at her with tenderness. ‘Don’t fret. I’m getting help.’

Sidonie assumed the pair were brother and sister; they had a similar appearance. But they were clearly in distress and in need of help, desperately.

‘I’m Mademoiselle Montot. This is the home of my aunt, Baroness de Montargent. I can’t say if this is the house you were seeking, but I can help you. Please, come inside out of the cold.’ The season was well and truly changing; the icy wind that blew through the open door carried with it the promise of winter. The little girl trembled and clutched her arm tighter to her chest. ‘I promise not to hurt you.’ Sidonie reached out her hand.

The boy, Louis, hesitated, eyeing Sidonie with suspicion as he gripped his sister’s other hand tightly. He would protect her, although he was but a child himself. He had just nodded and stepped forward to cross the threshold when Olivier arrived at the worst possible moment.

‘Good morning!’ he said, approaching the pair from the rear. ‘What’s this? Beggars? Be off with you before I call the gendarmes.’

Fear flashed across the boy’s face at the mention of gendarmes and before Sidonie could stop him, he grabbed his sister’s hand and they tore off down the path.

‘Wait!’ Sidonie cried.

‘Whatever is the matter?’ Olivier began to say. ‘Mademoiselle?’

‘Move, please!’ Sidonie said, wasting valuable seconds manoeuvring around the startled Olivier. She hurried down the stairs after the children. They had already crossed the lawn, leaving behind a chorus of honking geese and barking dogs.

The boy looked back over his shoulder and saw Sidonie in pursuit. He stumbled, panic on his face.

‘I won’t hurt you!’ Sidonie called desperately, but it made no difference.

The boy pulled his sister into the thick trees that bordered the estate and then they were gone. She wanted to pursue them, but any attempt to do so would surely only frighten them further. Even if she caught up to them, what could she do? Drag them back to the house like a beast would its prey? She could only hope they would find the help they needed elsewhere.

Olivier stood at the door where she had left him. ‘Is everything well, mademoiselle? Did I do something wrong?’

The chill in the air penetrated her gown and her bones. In Olivier’s mind, he had simply chased away beggars from her door. He had not seen what she had seen – the look of fear and then hope in the children’s eyes. And then to see that hope dashed away. Her throat tightened and she coughed slightly to clear it.

‘No, monsieur,’ she said, clenching her jaw to stop her teeth chattering. ‘All is well. Please, come inside.’

As they walked down the hall on their way to the parlour, she spotted Antoine. Begging Olivier’s pardon, she quickly spoke to the butler about the boy and girl. There was no mistaking the concern on his face. Nonetheless, he told her to attend to her guest and that he would manage the situation. She did as he bid, collecting Olivier and showing him into the parlour.

The walls of the parlour were white with soft blue edging that contrasted with the dark wood beams. Various shades of blue could be found in the chaise, chairs, rug and even the tapestries. Standing there in her green dress, Sidonie could not help feeling a bit like a leaf adrift at sea. When she and Olivier entered the room, Aunt Eloise and Liane were already waiting, seated side by side on a chaise.

‘Aunt Eloise, Madame Renard, may I introduce Monsieur Olivier Chéreau—’ Sidonie began.

Her aunt interrupted her. ‘My dear, you look positively frozen! Come stand by the fire this instant – I shall take care of the introductions. Monsieur Chéreau, I am Baroness Eloise de Montargent, Sidonie’s aunt, and this is my companion, Madame Liane Renard.’ She cast a critical eye over Olivier, taking in his pink doublet and heavily padded hose. A cream cloak with gold trim hung over one shoulder, and on his head he wore a soft fabric hat with a gathered crown. ‘Take a seat, monsieur.’

‘You have a beautiful home, madame,’ he said, lowering himself onto a chair that bore an intricate floral embroidery. ‘I have already noticed some exquisite works of art. Is it Baron de Montargent or yourself who collects such works?’

‘My late husband had a taste for it. Was there any piece in particular that attracted you?’

Olivier’s eyes flicked towards Sidonie as he mentioned an antique vase he had noticed in the hall. She still thought of the children. The warmth from the fire suffused her limbs, but the chill in her heart remained. She could not stop thinking about the boy and girl, could not shake the feeling that she could have done more to help them.

While Olivier talked and Aunt Eloise listened, Liane rose and moved to Sidonie’s side. ‘Sidonie, are you well?’ she whispered in concern. ‘If you need to rest, I can make your excuses.’

‘There were two children,’ Sidonie whispered back. ‘Earlier, at the door. I spoke of it to Antoine. I cannot stop thinking about them.’

‘Eloise,’ Liane said, increasing her volume.

‘What are you two talking about? Liane? Sidonie? What is amiss?’

Sidonie quickly repeated her story about the two children. When she reached the moment that Olivier had arrived and the children took flight, he had the decency to look ashamed.

‘If you had said something, mademoiselle, I would have given chase. I can go now if you wish?’ He half rose but she gestured for him to sit.

‘I told Antoine immediately,’ Sidonie said to her aunt. ‘But I cannot help but feel I should have gone after them.’

Liane leaned over and whispered into Aunt Eloise’s ear, who nodded. Liane then excused herself and left the room.

‘Is there anything I can do? I do feel a right fool,’ Olivier said.

Aunt Eloise smiled widely to wipe away any trace of concern, but the smile did not reach her eyes. ‘Not at all, monsieur. What you can do is assist me with these refreshments.’

‘It will be my pleasure.’

They each had a glass of wine and Aunt Eloise passed around small cakes. Sidonie took one even though she did not have much of an appetite. When Liane returned, she shook her head slightly at Aunt Eloise as she sat down.

‘Pardon my absence, monsieur. Do go on,’ Liane said.

Olivier had been telling his interpretation of their journey from Paris to Dole including the part where he’d captivated a roomful of patrons with his tale of werewolves.

Sidonie had been picking at her cake, but the mention of werewolves stirred memories old and new. The serving woman at the inn, the child who’d been killed, the little girl with the broken arm. Fire. She pushed the cake away. ‘May we speak of something else?’

‘Of course, my dear. Monsieur, I was under the impression you were a scholar,’ Aunt Eloise said. ‘Sidonie mentioned you were attending the university. Are you, in fact, some kind of itinerant storyteller?’

‘Storytelling is merely something I do to amuse myself from time to time,’ Olivier said.

‘Amuse himself.’ Aunt Eloise reached for Liane’s hand. ‘Liane, are you hearing this? He amuses himself by telling stories in inns.’

Liane pulled her hand away. ‘Yes, I did hear him, Eloise. Perhaps he shall regale us with a story later?’

‘Don’t be naughty, Liane. Tell me, young man, what does your father think of this? Is he a respectable man?’

‘My father is not especially fond of stories, madame. He prides himself on being a man of logic and rationality.’

‘I like him already. What does he do? Who is he?’

‘He is a chevalier. I am his eldest son by his second wife. I have two half-brothers – each more than twenty years my senior.’

‘Where are your family from, Monsieur Chéreau? Or should it be écuyer Chéreau, on account of your father’s title?’ Liane asked.

‘Quite possibly. My brothers do seem fond of the title. Our family are from Rouen and can trace our lineage back to the twelfth century, or so I have been told.’

Aunt Eloise nodded as she took two small lemon cakes from the plate, handing one to Liane. ‘Do you have a living, or are you reliant on your father?’

Sidonie was shocked at the impertinence of the question, as was Liane. ‘Eloise!’ she exclaimed.

Olivier chuckled and showed no outward sign of being offended. ‘The house and lands are entailed and will pass to Guillaume – my eldest brother – upon my father’s death.’

‘I see,’ Aunt Eloise said, a wealth of meaning in those two words. ‘And you came to Dole to attend the university?’

Olivier had just bitten into his cake, his full mouth rendering him unable to answer the question.

‘Aren’t you a little old to be in university?’ Aunt Eloise asked.

‘Eloise!’ Liane hissed.

‘One is never too old to learn something new,’ he said.

‘I quite agree. I subscribe to that philosophy myself. I recently returned from an expedition to the Low Countries.’ For the next hour, Aunt Eloise spoke about her travels while Olivier did his best to appear interested in what she had to say.

For the most part, Sidonie was content to let them lead the conversation. After the events of the morning, she had no taste for entertaining and pleasantries. She found herself thinking of Apolline and the quiet of the forest. Of Apolline’s invitation for her to return.

Aunt Eloise let out a sigh. ‘Monsieur, you have exhausted me, and no doubt, I you.’ Aunt Eloise reached for the bell on the table next to her.

Understanding it was time to leave, Olivier rose and bowed to each woman in turn, expressing his thanks for both the company and the refreshments.

‘Antoine, show Monsieur Chéreau to the door,’ Aunt Eloise said when the butler arrived.

‘I’ll show him to the door, Antoine,’ Sidonie said. She felt guilty about being so distant during Olivier’s visit and she wanted the opportunity to apologise.

As they walked through the receiving room, Olivier’s eyes swept across the decorated walls, ceiling and floors. ‘This is a lovely home.’

‘It is. I am fortunate to be staying here.’

‘Not as fortunate as I for having met you. Your aunt is ... charming.’

‘Do you mean she is forthright and somewhat intimidating?’ Sidonie said in amusement.

‘I should not like to say anything that could cause you to think poorly of me. Mademoiselle, may I ask liberty of you?’

His eyes were focused on her lips and for one moment she thought he would try to kiss her. Instead, he bowed slightly at the shoulders and offered his hand. She offered him her right hand and he cupped it gently in his own, fingertips dancing lightly on the linen of her gloves. He bent over slowly until his mouth was so close to her fingers she felt the heat from his breath through the material. And then, as gently as a warm summer’s breeze, he pressed his lips to the back of her hand.

‘Thank you. Until next we meet.’

She heard footsteps and when she turned around, she saw Aunt Eloise watching them both with narrowed eyes. To the casual observer, the way his body was placed, he could have been kissing her.

‘Farewell, monsieur,’ Aunt Eloise said sternly.

Once he had gone, Aunt Eloise returned to the parlour and Sidonie followed close on her heels.

‘I know how that may have looked—’

Her aunt snorted. ‘Do you indeed?’

‘Did something happen?’ Liane asked.

Aunt Eloise dropped onto the chaise next to Liane. ‘Only my niece kissing a man in my house.’

‘Sidonie!’ Liane exclaimed.

‘I did no such thing!’ Sidonie said. ‘Olivier – Monsieur Chéreau – simply bid me goodbye.’

‘That is not what I saw,’ Aunt Eloise said.

‘He kissed my hand, only my hand, and there is nothing untoward in that. Anything else you claim to have seen exists entirely within your imagination.’ Sidonie flinched, for the words had come out sharper than she’d intended.

Yet Aunt Eloise did not look at her with anger but rather concern. ‘Sidonie, you should know that perception is often just as important as truth. If you are seen to be behaving a certain way, then regardless of whether any act took place, the stain on your reputation and character would be the same.’

As a young, unmarried woman, Sidonie knew that her value rested on her reputation. What she didn’t like was being spoken to as if she were a child.

‘What are your intentions towards Monsieur Chéreau?’ Aunt Eloise asked. ‘Do you want to wed him?’

No, she did not. She was surprised that it was her first thought. It had been the same with Hubert Dampmartin in Paris. Only with Olivier she wondered why she did not want to marry him. After all, he was handsome and charming and came from a good family – even if he was third in line to inherit. When he had kissed her hand, she had felt something – a stirring within her body. It was new and different . Was that the sensation one experienced when harbouring romantic feelings for another? Inwardly, she cursed her lack of experience.

‘He has not proposed marriage to me if that is what you are asking.’

Aunt Eloise sighed. ‘You are in a mood. And you’re angry with me. You are young, Sidonie. But not so young that it can be used as an excuse for ignorance. You brought this man to my home, to introduce him to your family. That means something. I know it means something to Monsieur Chéreau. What does it mean for you?’

Aunt Eloise was right, as much as she did not want to admit it. If Olivier wanted more from her, as Aunt Eloise suspected he did, then Sidonie would have to decide if she wanted the same.

That night, as Sidonie lay in bed, her toes curled into the warm space left behind by the bedwarmer, she was startled by a long, mournful howl. Throwing off the blankets she hurried to the window and scanned the lawn beneath her window. The wolf’s cry had sounded so close, near enough that she was certain she would see a pair of eyes in the distance and a long, pointed muzzle tilted towards the sky. But all was dark, with nothing visible in the weak light of the sliver of moon. She waited long minutes but there was no further sound. Her feet now chilled, she hurried back to the bed and pulled the blankets high under her chin.