CHANGING SEASONS

Judith Harris

Rocket ISBN 1-58608-110-1
© copyright October 1997 Judith Harris
New Concepts Publishing
4729 Humphreys Road
Lake Park, GA 31636
http://www.newconceptspublishing.com

... remember in the winter,
far beneath the bitter snows
lies the seed that with the sun's love
in the spring becomes the rose.

The Rose - McBroom

To my daughters,
Stephanie and Tamara,
for no matter the season,
their love is constant.

Acknowledgments

The author’s deepest thanks to:

David, for your tireless editing and encouragement; the Earl and Countess of Longmuir for their critiques and enthusiasm; my family, and my friends, who read the manuscript in its entirety, or bits and pieces, and cheered me on, especially, Janice, Katherine, and Tia, to mention a few. Since this is my first published novel, you have each helped make the possibility of being a published writer a reality.

Table of Contents
Chapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Epilogue

Excerpt From
DIARY OF A FRENCH MERCHANT
by
Claude Duprey

Translated by Danielle Dumont, Ph.D.
Georgetown University

At dawn the Marquis of Andelys, Alain Grandmaison, his son, and I left the cold, now dismal halls of Château sur la Falaise for Honfleur. From this port, we will make our escape from France and seek asylum in England.

I was not sad to leave the château, though I could not have chosen a better birthplace. It was my happy home for many years. Yet, my heart doth grieve sorely for my lovely friend whom I reluctantly left behind.

My lovely friend is Alain’s own love; her love for him binds her ever closer to my heart. She is the precious half of him who makes the happiness of the other, and whose sweetness and wisdom governs us both. Such grief marked Alain’s face, at their parting, that I fear for his very soul. And I ... I can only say it is fortunate for me to have felt her influence and benefited from her gracious self and strong will.

Would that I could have obliged her attendance upon us, not left her to succumb to the vile scoundrel, Villandré. Still, I sense her destiny lies elsewhere. Thus, I shall not be fainthearted. I will abide by my cherished friend’s wish to be apart from us. As she instructed, I shall not even write down her name.

IN THE SHADOW OF THE LION
Chapter One

"These magnificent tapestries rival Lebrun’s, which are now hanging at Versailles. Gossamer wool fashioning the petite eyes of the damsels and the knights ...," Madame Gravenot gushed, causing Professor Danielle Dumont to tune out the faintly accented voice.

Since Danielle's arrival at Château sur la Falaise with a small group of American tourists, she had learned their venerable French guide, Madame Estelle Gravenot, assayed a flair for the dramatic. Even Madame’s flaming scarlet suit reflected her outrageous personality.

Standing across from Madame Gravenot in the stuffy hall of the château, Danielle felt grateful for her own linen trousers and cool silk T-shirt. She dabbed her forehead with the back of her hand and adjusted gold-framed glasses where they had slipped down on her nose. Part of the château had been modernized with air-conditioning, but this area remained closed. An essence seeped through the thick stone walls of the manse much as hot steam sometimes escaped its old water pipes. The humidity mingled with Danielle’s body lotion, coating her skin with a fine sheen.

Theatrically, Madame Gravenot had regaled their party with stories of the ghosts rumored to haunt the château’s vast halls. As she explained the history of the tall tower and background on each of the elegantly decorated rooms, Danielle made brief notes in a palm-sized binder. Later, back in her suite, she would transfer the observations to the laptop computer she had brought on the trip.

"Every French château has heroic and romantic tales to tell," as Madame Gravenot rolled her R’s, her voice expanded with pride. "The affairs of Château sur la Falaise are exquisite! The first fortress battlements constructed on the cliffs by a valiant crusader, Lionel Grandmaison, in twelfth-century Normandy, still stand."

"Didn’t Lionel die in the Crusades?" asked a fellow tourist.

"Yes, mademoiselle ... far from his beloved home. You see, Lionel supported King Richard the Lion-hearted, whose castle still shadows Andelys. Through the centuries Lionel Grandmaison’s descendants, all noble men and elegant women, added to the château’s history their individual triumphs, tears, and mystique."

Though Danielle had booked her stay at Château sur la Falaise to research the Grandmaison family, the château’s romantic history had completely captured her fancy. In particular, Alain Maximilien Grandmaison, its eighteenth-century marquis, intrigued her. She was most interested in all those closely associated with this marquis who had become famous for his provocative brandy, his moody paintings, and especially his daring escape from Robespierre’s deadly guillotine.

Danielle’s recent translation of Alain’s friend’s diary had revealed that a woman, whom Claude Duprey claimed was Alain’s lover and his own confidant, had planned and helped execute their escape. In the pages of his journal Claude never revealed the identity of the woman. Danielle meant to find out who she was. Claude’s description of the lady, his deep feelings of friendship for her, and his allusion to her love affair with Alain Grandmaison enticed Danielle to explore the mystery of their circle, to bring to light the missing story.

Feeling like she was about to be initiated into a secret society, she faced the pair of timeworn doors that led to the marquis' private chambers. Irresistibly she shifted her notebook and pen under her left arm and secured it there. Then she stroked the face of the dark mellowed surface with freed fingertips, lightly tracing a deeply carved groove. Some artisan had hammered bronze into the recesses of shaded wood, creating an exotic design of moons and stars that imbued the entry with glittering traces of light, now subdued from centuries of use.

"They’re handsome, aren’t they?" whispered Ian Glenday, a silver-haired architect on tour, who was standing next to her.

"They are," Danielle tipped her head toward him, "but I wish Madame Gravenot would open them and let us into the marquis’ rooms."

"She likes to take her time," Ian said.

Impulsively, Danielle reached for the wood paneled door a second time. She wished her husband, Henry, could be standing next to her, seeing the Norman château they had planned to visit together. Silently, she cursed the cancer that had taken Henry Dumont from her.

Ten years with Henry had structured her life. She missed sharing their book-filled townhouse. Grief twisted her heart like some cruel poison. She missed his intellect and his kindness. Her eyes misted over in spite of the smile that came. She particularly missed the way they began each morning.

Over steaming mugs of coffee she would read their horoscopes aloud from the Post. She would plan her day according to Sydney Omarr’s forecast, and Henry would chuckle at what he considered to be her foible. In the evenings they discussed the great philosophers, or he would help her with a particularly difficult translation of French literature. She had enjoyed the refuge Henry offered.

Before Henry’s death, they had been working on a history of the Grandmaison family. On their last trip to Paris, she discovered Claude Duprey’s diary in an antique bookseller’s in the heart of the Latin Quarter. It was an amazing find, not only because of her love of obscure French literature, but because Claude Duprey was Alain Grandmaison’s closest known friend. Even before she finished the translation, she and Henry had planned this trip to the château for further research. With sadness Danielle remembered her final promise to Henry, to make the trip alone. At least now she was able to release most of the pain and recall the best of their life together. Then, she chuckled inwardly, recalling how she had also promised Henry she would make the Grandmaison name as famous as the Kennedy’s.

That had been two years ago. It had taken her that long after Henry’s passing to put her life in order and most of her grief behind her. Now she was here, ready to complete the research for their manuscript, and to dig out the identity of the mystery woman.

Sliding the palm of her hand along the side of the door, Danielle allowed herself one moment more of missing Henry. "They are quite precious," she whispered.

"What?" Ian asked.

Danielle had quite forgotten about Ian.

"The doors are beautiful," she said.

Ian nodded. "Have you seen the warehouse?"

"Not yet," she answered, but remembered Henry reading aloud about the massive structure.

Leaning closer over her shoulder Ian whispered, "If you like these doors, you’ll appreciate the Moorish architecture of the warehouse, especially the long gallery with arched windows." While Ian spoke his gaze traveled down to the base of her throat then back to her eyes. He smiled mischievously causing laugh lines to crinkle at his temples. "If you’ll allow an old man an innocent flirtation, your eyes are spectacular, as deep and mysterious as a lake in the moonlight."

Danielle felt her cheeks grow warm; his flagrant compliment surprised her. She considered herself only slightly better than average in the looks department. It had been a long time since a male had so boldly complimented her.

"Would you remove your glasses?" Ian asked.

Danielle did as he asked, because she judged his request to be harmless.

"I thought so," Ian nodded his head affirmatively, "your face is perfectly symmetrical, beautiful. Must you wear the glasses?"

"Only if I want to see," Danielle grinned as she lied. She could easily do without the mild prescription.

He regarded her with mock sadness. "A pity."

She laughed. "You’re making me blush, Mr. Glenday."

"I’m an architect; I appreciate symmetry, and beauty," Ian said before returning his attention to Madame Gravenot.

Still smiling, Danielle fingered a delicate gold chain that hung about her neck. She carefully drew the long chain weighted by an oval locket from under her shirt.

The antique locket, her wedding gift from Henry, looked perfectly in place in the resplendence of the château. Its catch released easily with the touch of her thumb, and she stared down at miniature photographs of herself and Henry. Henry's teasing eyes gazed back at her. A saucy smile lifted the corners of his firm mouth, the expression that always made her feel they shared a special secret. She wondered if she would ever be able to look at his picture without a tremor of grief passing through her.

Danielle noted she hadn't changed much from her photograph. She still wore her long dark hair up in a French twist for practicality, and still wore classic styles similar to the tailored navy jacket she was wearing in the picture.

Glancing back to Henry’s likeness she recalled it had been Henry who suggested she wear her glasses all the time, to give her a more professorial look. The ruse had seemed to work. The university’s staff and students spoke to her respectfully when she wore the delicate gold frames. Only, she mused, no one seemed to banter with her as much as they had before she began wearing the glasses. But, as Henry had said, academic life was not a popularity contest. Smiling inwardly at Henry’s cleverness, she quietly closed the locket and slipped it back under the neckband of her pale silk top. Then, poised to resume her note taking, she regarded the marquis' doors once more.

Ian now addressed the group, "During my research of the architecture of the château, I learned the aristocratic Grandmaison family was a patron of French philosophers. The Grandmaisons sponsored Voltaire and backed Rousseau. Quite an extraordinary family!"

Danielle sketched a star on a page of her notebook while she silently agreed with Ian. Her own research pointed to the probability that the works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau had helped shape the morals of Alain Grandmaison. Repeating a study habit she had learned back in her college days Danielle raised her pen to her mouth and flicked its metal end with her tongue. The possibility warranted further investigation. Anything to shed light on the marquis’ enigmatic life. She lowered the pen to the paper and drew a circle around the star. Yet, it was the mystery of the unknown woman present at his escape that really fascinated Danielle.

"By 1789," Madame Gravenot continued after Glenday, "ten years of civil war brought the abolition of French feudalism and the end of absolute monarchy. As you know, the Convention found King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette guilty of treason. They sent their monarchs to Madame the Guillotine! Freed citizens declared France a Republic."

Danielle's hand instinctively went to the base of her throat in response to the ardent mention of the eighteenth-century guillotine. She appreciated the cool enamel of her pen against her pulse, smooth and harmless in its dullness.

"Did they execute the marquis?" someone asked.

"After King Louis' execution," Madame responded, "Alain Grandmaison escaped with his young son to England." Madame Gravenot showed her pleasure by smiling broadly and increasing the intensity of her discussion. "The château has been faithfully restored to how it appeared during his lifetime. He not only left a superb collection of his paintings for us to enjoy, the marquis rejuvenated the family’s apple orchards. He made Grandmaison Calvados famous throughout Europe."

"Spared the inglorious fate of his king, Alain Grandmaison later returned from England to his château when the public anger of revolution abated."

Jimmy Tesh, a retiree from McAllen, Texas, coughed and raised his hand. The tall, brash Texan was a perfect counterpart to his petite wife, Dora Mae.

"Oui, monsieur?"

"Ma’am, I’m a little familiar with the history of the French Revolution, and all," Jimmy drawled, "and I was almost old enough to serve during World War II." He coughed again. "But I’m a mite confused. How in tarnation did the château avoid getting smashed?"

"This is a topic of much deliberation," Madame Gravenot said. She glanced down at her watch and grimaced, smudging the red lipstick at one corner of her mouth. "I will be glad to answer, but," she disturbed a jumble of gold bracelets on her slender wrist and glanced again at her watch, "perhaps at dinner. We are running behind the schedule. We must finish the tour in time for the refreshments and a lecture on the gardens."

Danielle tapped her pen against her pad trying not to glare at Madame Gravenot. Though Danielle knew what was written in the historical accounts of the château, she wanted to hear Madame Gravenot’s version of the answer to Tesh’s question. Perhaps Madame Gravenot would let slip a clue about the identity of the mystery woman.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Madame Gravenot continued in perfect English softened by her charming accent, "please come with me." She turned and finally flung open the double doors embellished with aged hammered bronze. "The private chambers of the Marquis of Andelys, Alain Maximilien Grandmaison!"

Danielle fought for her position in the front of the group. Pressing into the room, she practically walked on Dora Tesh's tiny toes. Her pulse quickened with the excitement of finally being inside the chambers. She drank in every word Madame Gravenot spoke, mentally cataloguing each precious item in the marquis’ room while her pen flew across the paper.

"Alain Grandmaison was a very private gentleman. You will observe there are no portraits of his family in the château, only landscapes, although the marquis, an accomplished master, painted an exquisite self-portrait."

"Didn’t our marquis have a wife and son?" Dora asked.

"Yes," Madame’s voice dropped to a sad murmur, "legend says the Marquise of Andelys, Narissa Grandmaison, died a few days after giving birth to their heir, Edmund."

Dora gasped, "How did she die?"

"I am told brain fever. They say Alain Grandmaison never stopped grieving for his cherished wife."

"Oh, my," Dora said, fanning herself.

"Guests do not sleep in these rooms." Madame Gravenot drew herself taller with pride. "Our antiques are priceless, mostly seventeenth and eighteenth-century. Occasionally, our present-day marquis, Nicholas Grandmaison, resides in these chambers." Beckoning a honeymooning couple, Jett and Sonia Perle, from New Jersey, who were still in the hall locked in each other’s arms, Madame Gravenot moved to stand beside an ornate marble mantle. "Here, the marquis conducted his business and received his closest friends."

"This escritoire is truly fine," Ian said, running his fingers across the top of an intricately carved gold-brushed desk.

"Louis XIV, and, I must beg you not to touch, Mr. Glenday." After her admonishment, Madame Gravenot’s own hand fluttered up to point above the broad mantle. "Ladies and gentlemen," she smiled triumphantly, "Alain Maximilien Grandmaison!"

While Danielle studied the painted face of the marquis, a curious sensation settled over her like a flush that sifted from her head to her toes. She had seen a print of the famous self-portrait many times, yet, the original masterpiece overwhelmed her with its virility. Somehow the shimmering cobalt flecks in the marquis’ eyes instantly sought her soul, sending her a sad, private message. She felt a familiar sorrow and loss--mirroring the emptiness she had felt after looking at her own Henry’s picture. The sudden intense emotion for a man she had never known, and who had been dead and buried for over two centuries disturbed her.

The oil depicted a young man, perhaps in his late 30's. Formal sable curls cascaded from the crown of his head to his muscle-broadened shoulders. The marquis' jaw held firm, proud, without sternness, and a cleft in his chin made his face even more compelling. His full upper lip lifted in a seductive smile above the strong chin.

Her gaze lifted again to the brilliant blue of his eyes. Alain Grandmaison's eyes captivated Danielle, unearthing a primitive response to his maleness. While his steady stare bore into her own in silent expectation, gooseflesh prickled her arms though she grew quite warm.

Danielle’s right hand clutched her pad, and the other hand, her pen. She realized her palms were quite clammy. Come now, she reproached herself. He’s devastatingly attractive, but buried long ago. Get a life, she thought, and abruptly turned from the strange lure of the marquis' eyes to direct her attention to Madame Gravenot's rapid patter.

"How often does the present marquis stay at the château?" Dora Tesh interrupted.

"Ah, when the season suits him, Madame Tesh. Though he loves the château, Nicholas Grandmaison does not enjoy the damp cold of Normandy winters."

"Maybe he should move down to McAllen," Jimmy Tesh offered. The group laughed.

Chuckling, Madame Gravenot wagged her finger at Jimmy and added, "Nor its hot summers, Mr. Tesh. Late spring and early autumn are his favorite times to visit. She twirled around and took a step.

"Come. Now I must show you the bedchamber ... most famous for the fine furnishings and workmanship. Pay particular attention to the precious inlaid parquet floor."

An enormous bed separated from the rest of the sumptuous room by a painted balustrade dazzled Danielle. She deemed the centerpiece of the chamber suitable for a king. Carved fanciful birds, exquisite blossoms, and wild fantasy creatures decorated the gilded and painted walnut of the bed’s headboard and four sturdy posters. The miniature creatures exhibited such extraordinary features that Danielle couldn’t decide if they were angels or demons. The painted carvings of red, green, blue, and gold had faded with time, but even now lent life to the timber frame.

Above the wood, a canopy fashioned from silken gauze entwined in luxurious folds. The creamy material gathered in a plume at the top of each post then flowed down the side of the ornamented wood to pool on the exquisite parquet floor.

Thicker curtains also hung from the canopy. Shades of saffron, rose, and turquoise colored ripples of brocade. Soft ivory damask covered the oversized mattress and pillows--too priceless on which to sleep.

"Wow, how’d you like to have a night on that?" Jett softly teased Sonia.

"Yeah," Sonia whispered and tightened her hold on Jett’s arm.

Danielle found herself titillated by the couple’s newly wed allusions. She wondered if the mystery woman had slept upon the splendid bed in the company of the marquis ... what had it been like to love him?

"Magnifique, is it not?" Estelle Gravenot asked. "The bed is our oldest piece, fifteenth-century."

"Please tell us about the other furnishings," Dora pleaded.

Danielle forgot about taking notes and tuned out Madame Gravenot's purring description. Fantasies involving the bed purled through her thoughts like knots of longing. She couldn't explain her sudden, almost naughty compulsion, but she longed to lie in the center of the bed’s palatial splendor, beneath the cool damask sheets. The yearning lingered, a seductive intruder, no matter how she tried to resist.

Perhaps, she reasoned, the desire to touch something of Alain's had been growing ever since she had begun studying the man. These off-course obsessive thoughts confused her, made her feel guilty. I’ve got to stop this, she thought, and focus on why I am here. Danielle glanced down to her pad and wrote the words ‘woman’ and ‘who’. She circled them with precision.

Nevertheless, anxiety forced Danielle’s heart into her throat when Madame Gravenot abruptly ushered them back out of the marquis' chambers. While imagining the bed’s cool sheets against her flesh, Danielle reluctantly followed their escort past the marquis' haunting portrait. As Danielle walked by, his soulful gaze seemed to follow her.

†

The group scattered at the conclusion of the afternoon tour. Danielle and the others each retreated to their respective assigned chambers on the guest level. One hour later, they gathered again on the terrace for cocktails, to watch the mid-summer sun sink behind the ancient tower of the château.

Danielle, a crystal flute of Champagne in hand, stood at the top step overlooking the formal garden. Prepared to explore the unfamiliar paths below, she saw Madame Gravenot head toward the galleries of vine. Dora clung to Madame’s arm. Danielle thought if she could catch up to them, she might be able to pick up a few new tidbits of information about the eighteenth-century Marquis of Andelys. She hastily descended the short flight of steps.

"Professor Dumont?" Ian reined in beside her just as she reached the bottom step. He stood familiarly close. "My dear, isn't the garden lovely--the house exquisite?" He lightly touched her left arm as he clutched what looked like a scotch on the rocks in his other hand.

Danielle studied him over the rims of her gold-framed glasses. He was flirting with her again, perhaps not quite so innocently. She wouldn’t have minded a friendly discussion, but was unsure how she felt about his reaction to her as a woman. Gently she moved her arm away from his touch. "You're enjoying the evening?" she asked more stiffly than she intended.

"Ah, Normandy ... la terre des amants," he expounded with emotion. When Danielle didn’t respond to his mention of love, Ian shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. "Such a pleasant evening," he said, looking remarkably foolish for his age and disposition. After another dry spell, he held up his glass. "I need a refresher. You?"

Danielle cast her gaze out to the garden. "No, Mr. Glenday, I’m fine."

When he turned, she ruefully watched him retreat to the cocktail pavilion, then swirled the Champagne in her glass; its sparkling golden color rippled the light while she thought. Danielle felt sorry for Ian, but she was not ready for flirting or any relationship. She still missed Henry, and until this trip, had been too absorbed in her translation of Claude Duprey’s diary and editing Henry’s notes on the Grandmaison family to be open to male overtures.

Removing her glasses, she rubbed the bridge of her nose and the image of the marquis slipped into her thoughts. She imagined him staring down from his portrait with those incredibly blue eyes, eyes that seemed to creep to the core of her soul. Such a shame, she thought, that the only man who interested her was as dead as the husband for whom she still grieved.

Struggling to turn her thoughts from the uncomfortable musings back to twentieth-century reality, she replaced her glasses and glimpsed Madame Gravenot step out of the maze still arm-in-arm with Dora. No doubt Dora was extracting as much romantic lore from Madame as possible. The pair quickly climbed a short flight of steps to reach the far side of the terrace.

"Ready or not," Danielle said under her breath, and started across the terrace toward them. Glenday and the others were trailing the pair, so she hurried to ensure her chance for a seat next to their guide.

A sumptuous dinner presented in the formal dining room did not improve Danielle's pensive spirits. She had failed in her attempt to sit next to Madame Gravenot, and it did not soothe her mood that Jimmy Tesh had managed to sit at Madame's right hand while his wife barely filled the chair on Madame's left. Tiny as Dora was, she ate more than her share of every course. Throughout the meal, the portrait of the marquis, and the allure of his bed, continued to invade Danielle’s thoughts, fueling her discomfort. She hardly tasted the feast of escargot, rack of lamb, and chocolate mousse with raspberry sauce.

The other guests bored her. Jett and Sonia wouldn’t leave each other alone. Ian sat across from Danielle and repeatedly sent melancholy glances her way, while he drained several more glasses of wine than he needed, and Danielle heard Jimmy Tesh ask his wife to go find him some catsup!

Danielle wanted to know more about the marquis; who was his woman? She needed to see his portrait again. It was absurd, but she felt as though if she looked into his eyes long enough, he would speak from the canvas and readily confess the mystery woman’s identity.

"The marquis was an accomplished artist," Madame Gravenot said, recapturing Danielle’s attention. "Many fine details in his landscapes of the château demonstrate great skill, and expose just how much he loved his home. One," she said pointing to the left of a lovely walnut and oak buffet, "is of our château in winter, and the other," she said, pointing to the right of the buffet, "is in spring. The two views offer a contrast of seasons, and perhaps, the dramatic mood swings of Alain Grandmaison. His winter scene is quite melancholy, is it not?"

In the winter painting, snow lay on the fields and in the gardens before the château, shrouding the earth and stone of the edifice in a cocoon of cold white. A black spine of forest outlined the opposite side of the River Seine, and blanched swirls of sky made the air surrounding the château seem heavy with frost.

In comparison, in the spring painting, colorful wildflowers dotted rich fields defined by a bright blue ribbon of river. All the greenery caused the spring view of the château to leap to life. The artist portrayed the west face of the château warmly washed in mid-afternoon sunlight. The broad sky above it draped, a canopy of brilliance. It appeared as it was now, a welcoming warm fortress.

Danielle sipped the final dregs of coffee from a delicate Meissen china cup. She wondered which view the marquis had painted first, one so desolate, the other so rich. What kind of man would paint himself and his dwelling with such emotion, yet leave no loving portraits of his own family?

Everyone stood. Danielle focused on Madame Gravenot who busied herself arranging a silver coffee service on the buffet. For once the woman stood unoccupied with others--silent. Ready or not, Danielle thought. She quickly made her way ‘round the long dining table to Madame Gravenot's side.

"Madame?"

"Oui." The lady stopped fidgeting with the silver pieces and turned to face Danielle.

"May we talk?"

"Mais oui," Madame Gravenot said, "you wished to ask about the marquis."

Danielle leaned against the buffet and lifted a silver creamer. The cold weight of it felt solid in the open palm of her left hand. She desired equally substantial answers from Madame Gravenot.

"Yes," Danielle spoke in French, effortlessly articulating the language she had minored in at the University of Virginia. "I wish to know who was the woman who helped the marquis and his son, and how did the château avoid destruction after they left France? So many estates were burned or suffered irreparable damage during the Terror."

"Perhaps we may actually thank Robespierre and his agent, Jules Villandré, for the château’s salvation," Madame Gravenot answered, abandoning her English. "We know Jules Villandré failed to execute the marquis and did not burn his papers of entitlement.
"After he failed to take the marquis prisoner, Agent Villandré disappeared himself. Robespierre sealed the château. He forbade anyone from the village to set foot on the Grandmaison estate." Madame Gravenot’s voice dropped an octave. "It is a matter of record."

"I plan to see Villandré’s journals tomorrow," Danielle said, "but do you know something of the woman who helped Alain Grandmaison escape?"

"There is a legend." Estelle Gravenot looked pleased.

"Tell me!" Danielle said.

"The men who accompanied Villandré let it be known in the taverns and brothels that a woman, whom they claimed was a sorceress, led them away from the marquis. According to legend, it was on this day Villandré disappeared." Madame seemed to enjoy divulging this juicy tidbit. "Jules Villandré suffered for all his vile deeds, you may be sure, for it is said he must have met a terrible death."

Danielle firmly deposited the silver she was holding back onto the tray, causing Madame Gravenot to jerk.

"But who was the woman?" Danielle asked.

Madame Gravenot shrugged her shoulders. "I say the woman was the château's protecting lady," Madame Gravenot suddenly looked blissful, "the spirit of the marquis' wife, Narissa."

"You can’t be serious!" Danielle said. "A ghost didn’t rescue the marquis. The woman was more likely Alain Grandmaison’s mistress."

Madame Gravenot stiffened and adjusted the lace shawl she had draped across her shoulders. Danielle realized she was unused to being challenged.

"Come," Estelle Gravenot commanded. "Tapers have been lighted in the garden. You will see. It is quite exquisite."

Barely concealing her irritation at the interruption in conversation and her hostess’ unsatisfactory answers, Danielle dutifully followed her hostess who stepped along the border of an exquisite Aubisson. Danielle scarcely registered its priceless pale colors.

Madame Gravenot halted abruptly in front of Danielle just before they reached massive leaded glass doors that exited to the terrace. She held herself rigidly and her tone had become uncharacteristically chilly.

"Much of history defies understanding, Professor. Our château holds many such mysteries. Why do you ask all these ... questions?"

"I wish to immortalize the Marquis of Andelys and his family. I want to discover the identity of the woman in your legend ... how she aided his dangerous escape," Danielle emphasized. "It's essential I find out this woman’s name. I believe she was a real woman--an unsung heroine."

Madame Gravenot leaned toward Danielle, seemingly sizing her up. "Tomorrow, then," she spoke in hushed tones, "you must keep your appointment in Andelys and read the documents written in Jules Villandré's own hand. They are on microfiche at the Museum of Antiquities in the care of our local historian. These papers may give you more facts." Madame Gravenot closed her eyes and swayed slightly.

Danielle stared at the woman, whose face had taken on an ashen hue. "Are you ill, Madame?"

"No ... no." Madame Gravenot slowly opened her eyes. "I am fine. The sedan leaves for Andelys at eight o'clock. You will miss some of tomorrow’s tour, but, perhaps this is more important for you." She paused for a moment, a sorrow seeming to weigh her down.

"Please do not judge us for covering the missing statistics with illusion. The Revolution was a terrible time for our ancestors, like World War II for my generation." Madame Gravenot sighed deeply.

Danielle reached out and put her arm around the older woman who had earlier seemed so brash. Now Madame Gravenot needed assurance. Comprehension thawed Danielle’s irritation. She wondered whom this woman had lost in the war--a father, a brother, a lover?

"It’s okay," Danielle gently said. She could certainly empathize with the woman’s grief. Then, Danielle’s thoughts turned to the future. Tomorrow, perhaps she would discover the name Claude Duprey had refused to write in his journal. A thrill of excitement rushed through her. Danielle adjusted the shawl that had slipped off Madame Gravenot's bony shoulders. Full of hope, Danielle led her by the hand like a child. "Come, let’s join the others."

Chapter Two

A humid haze swirled about the château as Danielle climbed into the rear seat of the sedan. Her driver, Albert, closed the door after her. He assumed his command, adjusted the air conditioning, then accelerated slowly down a long steamy cobblestone drive. Danielle viewed the full length of Château sur la Falaise as they drove away.

Imagine the upkeep, she thought, observing the long stone facade of tall windows with green louvered shutters. The front lawn was brilliant with urns of red flowers, mirrored in a rectangular pool where white swans glided peacefully. On the other side, guarding the cliffs, was a round turret with a roof, tall and pointed like a witch’s hat. Fine manicured hedges framed both sides of the château, dipping gracefully with graduated levels to originate the formal maze-garden in the rear.

The sedan passed through a pair of grand wrought iron gates. She quickly glanced to the right of the château toward the magnificent Moorish warehouse before Albert motored onto the road. Immediately the château disappeared behind a protecting thicket of oak trees. Turning forward, Danielle comfortably settled into the cool black leather seat of an equally black sedan.

Danielle was quite familiar with the characteristics of ancient Norman châteaux, for she and Henry had extensively researched the architecture. She felt she intimately knew Château sur la Falaise. She would not suffer much by missing Madame Gravenot's tour today. Yet, Danielle especially wanted to view the interior of the warehouse. She vowed she would make time to see it, as well as the other rooms of the château.

"Albert," Danielle leaned forward to speak to her driver, "what can you tell me of Andelys?"

"Ah, Madame, the town is charming, as beautiful today as it was in ancient times. What used to be two villages, Petite and Grand Andelys, have merged to form the present town." He paused to ease the sedan over a dip in the road. "We still enjoy the camaraderie of a small village, and wide cobblestone footpaths on every side. Of course," his voice puffed up proudly, "we have our own cathedral and Château Gaillard, a mighty castle raised by Richard the Lion-hearted." He glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "Do you fancy antiques, Madame?"

"Absolutely."

"We have many fine shops. And the food--ah magnificent!"

After Albert had filled her head with descriptions of the dozens of delicacies that awaited her, Danielle leaned back against the seat, and enjoyed silence. The sedan sped along a shade-spattered lane, following the Seine's meandering course. Through the automobile’s tinted windows, she admired the beauty of the picturesque countryside. Fruit orchards, all belonging to the Grandmaison estate, grew, surrounded by undulating meadows filled with wildflowers. Occasionally they passed a quaint cottage with a golden thatched roof and timbered front, or herds of cows grazing on lush clover-laden pastures. Throughout the journey, the view of the River Seine and its white chalk cliffs kept pace with them.

She had slept fitfully the night before. Now, the glimpses of wandering water and countryside soothed her. She drank fully of the bucolic view.

The moment the sedan rattled across an ancient arched bridge, Danielle caught her first glimpse of Château Gaillard. Built of pale pink granite, its turreted blue-gray roof and stone walls stood guard over the village and stately river. It was a glorious ruin, having not fared so well as Château sur la Falaise.

Abruptly, they entered a neat village of half-timbered buildings, gothic elements and Renaissance windows. "Andelys, Madame," Albert broke the silence as he eased the sedan next to the curb in front of a formal stone building. The morning's haze had cleared, fully revealing the lush greenery of box hedges and colorful, floral arrangements in front of the building.

Albert stepped smartly out of the automobile and opened her door. He motioned toward the stone steps. "The Museum of Antiquities." He glanced at his watch. "I must return to the château, but when Madame has finished, call for me. I will collect you at Cafe l'Arbour," he waved in the direction of the village square, "just under those trees. By the way, should you have time, their cuisine is excellent."

"Thank you, Albert," Danielle said, also smiling her thanks. Then she took a deep breath. She squared her shoulders, purposely ascended the steps, and entered the museum. Welcoming a draft of well-tended air when it hit her, she prayed the cool rooms beyond would reveal clues to the personality of Alain’s mistress.

Danielle’s plan had been crystallizing. She would finish the Grandmaison manuscript she and Henry had begun, concentrating on the relationships of Alain, Claude, and the woman, during the French Revolution. She would include intimate aspects of the Terror. While many authoritative texts had been published about the ideas and historical aspects of the Revolution, few of a personal nature had been written. A surge of excitement propelled the ideas forming in her head she would transfer to paper. She would accomplish a fresh account of the tide of events leading to the perilous escape of the marquis and his young son. She would detail their pursuit by the agent, Jules Villandré. With such a text she could immortalize the Grandmaison name, and perhaps deepen her niche as a literary historian.

She removed her sunglasses, replaced them with the gold frames, and tucked the eyeglass case into her portfolio. Danielle took another fortifying breath and examined her surroundings. Scanning an activity board, she focused on a list of local tours. There was one of Castle Gaillard; she regretted not having the time to take it. She knew some of its history and would have enjoyed seeing it up close.

Moving further into the lobby, she stopped before an exquisite mahogany etagere. It stood behind a small sign that requested donations, and served as the base for a clear vase brimming with various forms of paper currency and change. On the way out, she promised herself.

"Dr. Dumont?" Footsteps and a snappy British accent echoed through the hall. "Jonathan Shield." A tall man in tweed and khaki held out his hand. "I have been looking forward to our meeting."

"You're British!" She felt immediately embarrassed by her exclamation.

"Quite. It's really not so surprising," Jonathan responded. "My father fought with the Allied Forces when they stormed Normandy. He fell in love with Andelys. Talked about the village incessantly.

"After university," he continued, "I accepted a position here. Are you interested in a broad overview of the area, or do you have a particular field of interest?"

"I am interested in Alain Maximilien Grandmaison." She got right to the point.

"Ah, the marquis. Indeed. An unusual nobleman."

"How do you mean?"

"An elusive artist, entrepreneur, and it seems, he benefited the people who worked for him. Most remarkable for his time. Much of our collection is based on the everyday workings of his château and of his Calvados operation. I only wish we had more personal facts about the marquis himself. Yet ... come with me professor. Let us begin with quite a mysterious treasure."

Jonathan Shield led the way. They passed a richly paneled reception desk that also served as the front of a small gift shop. Wide wooden cases filled with books and reproductions of artifacts lined the walls behind the desk.

"After you, Doctor Dumont." He gestured toward a broad rise of marble steps, and motioned for her to move in front of him. "What I have to show you is just at the crest of these stairs."

They climbed a dozen gleaming steps then paused on the mezzanine before one of the most hauntingly beautiful paintings Danielle had ever viewed. She recognized the artist at once.

Jon spoke reverently, "I believe it is Alain Grandmaison's greatest work. See how the marquis manipulated the colors, the play of light upon the stones--the shadows? It’s impossible to explain given its age, but the style is essentially impressionist."

The painting of a woman wrapped in a red cloak immediately spoke to Danielle of lost hope, perhaps love. The crimson cloak's thick hood veiled the woman's head, shadowing her features. Still, the arch of her covered body, bathed in golden light, held the tension of someone completely despondent. The solitary female form leaned against a classic pillar on the balcony of Château sur la Falaise, head bowed. A surrealistic amber glow washed a small patch of sky and reflected from the Caen stone behind the woman. Honeyed mists rose from the ground to meet the forlorn figure.

The untraditional use of texture and light compelled the eye to dwell on the lady in red. The artist had allowed but a glimpse of female flesh, the pale underside of her right arm, partially raised to brace herself against the pillar.

Transfixed, Danielle felt if she stared long enough, the woman might be enveloped by the vapors for all time. "It's beautiful," she whispered feeling the inadequacy of her praise. "Who was she?" Danielle asked, but she knew in her heart it must be the mystery woman whose identity she sought.

"We do not really know. This was painted long after Narissa Grandmaison's death. When the marquis returned to France after the Revolution he became somewhat of a recluse. We have no idea who he received at the château." He opened his palms to the air. "Perhaps there was no live model.

"The canvas was sold to a local merchant in 1840," Jon explained, "long after the marquis' demise. The museum was fortunate to acquire it ten years ago."

"I wonder why Madame Gravenot didn’t mention this painting?"

He smiled slightly. "Madame Gravenot can be quite possessive. I suspect she is jealous we have it."

Jon lightly placed his hand at the small of Danielle's back. She kept her eyes on the painting, reluctantly following his lead to continue up the stairs until they passed under the portrait and she could study it no more.

"This floor encompasses six hundred years of history," Jon announced, as they reached the second level of the museum. "The display cases to your left begin at the time of the third Crusade. The exhibit also deals with Richard the Lion-hearted, with your marquis, the years of the French Revolution, and the growth of Alain Grandmaison’s Calvados industry. I’ll leave you on your own. When you’re finished," he gestured to a young woman reading by a window, "Katherine will find me. Then I’ll show you the secured files in my office. We have extensive papers in the vault, most on microfiche," he said proudly.

Throughout the exhibition, Danielle examined bits of cloth, shards of metal, glass, pieces of porcelain, religious relics, costumes, and beautiful jewelry. The museum presented all artifacts in front of dioramas set for each stage of the development of the villages of Petite and Grand Andelys. She learned much about the evolution of the local Calvados industry and how the Marquis of Andelys had infused the business with his vitality. Though the exhibit did not reveal a great deal of a personal nature about the man, she sensed Alain Grandmaison’s success lay partially with his enlightened practices with the peasants and townspeople, perhaps influenced by Rousseau--far advanced for Grandmaison's time.

An unexpected and treasured find in the exhibition was a silver snuffbox that had belonged to Claude Duprey. Though Danielle didn’t know what Claude actually looked like, she knew something of his personality from his journals. She easily conjured up his insouciant image. Imagining him holding the delicate box in his palm while he carried on a most jovial conversation, she pictured him springing its enameled lid and taking a liberal pinch of snuff.

The most heart-wrenching display was a diorama of the aftermath of an execution that had taken place during the French Revolution when Grand Andelys had erected its own guillotine. In fact, the province had witnessed much brutality at the hand of Robespierre’s agent, Jules Villandré. After she pressed a button, she had heard a bone-chilling recording of one eyewitness account.

The tumbrel was full of citizens who had just been slaughtered and whose limbs were still flexible because they had not had time to grow cold. Legs and arms dangled on either side of the cart ...

A yellowed warrant, signed by Jules Villandré, for one poor soul's execution had been preserved in the display case, along with Villandré's feather-quill pen. A bitter taste filled Danielle's mouth as she listened to the rest of the story and stared at the creased, condemning document and tool.

When the diorama finished, she hastily left the display, and hurried through the remainder of the floor, glossing over the eventual execution of Robespierre and his followers, and the rise of Napoleon Bonaparte. Recoiling from the horror of the Terror, Danielle shivered, glad to be alive in the present.

After two mesmerizing hours of being educated by the history in the museum's displays, Danielle asked Katherine to find Jonathan Shield. Danielle had discovered how the villages Grand and Petite Andelys occupied a strategic spot from the time of King Richard the Lion-hearted until well after the French Revolution and the days of Napoleon's rule. Now, she better understood how Château sur la Falaise and all of Andelys virtually lay in the shadow of the Lion.

Jon returned with Katherine. "What do you think of our little museum?" He looked at her expectantly.

"It's wonderful! When I see Madame Gravenot, I’ll recommend her guests see your exhibits. The displays here enhance what's at the château."

"You are most gracious," he said, obviously pleased. When Jon smiled, Danielle noticed he had a small dimple visible just above his auburn-colored beard. "Is there anything else you care to explore on this floor?" he asked.

"No. Since you offered, I’m anxious to view Villandré's journals and your own collection."

†

Jonathan Shield's tidy library embraced the musty odor of old paper. As Danielle expected, everything was filed neatly away, and the entire vaulted attic room looked meticulous with nothing out of place. Neither was there anything ostentatious about his offices, despite the considerable technical equipment displayed.

His desk, a plain large oak worktable, supported a high-powered computer, with modem and CD-ROM. A printer stood off to the side. Two microfiche readers rested on separate metal stands. Danielle perched on one buttersoft leather task chair in front of a microfiche.

"Need help?" she called. It seemed Jon was taking an intolerably long time locating Villandré's journals.

"No, just another minute," he answered in a labored voice. "These drawers are a trifle stubborn to retrieve from the bloody vault. Not much call for it."

A bit red in the face, he reeled around the corner of a tall tan metal file case. He carried a large drawer packed with microfiche film.

"We're fortunate to have most of Jules Villandré’s diaries and many of his signed documents on film." Looking quite pleased with himself, he deposited the drawer on the table.

"You have the originals?"

"No, they’re at the Louvre, and as you might imagine, in quite a fragile state. He leaned toward Danielle. "Commissioner Villandré was not, shall we say, a gentleman?"

"Yes, I viewed your example of his work downstairs."

"The bloke seems, if you’ll excuse the expression, bloody well suited for what he did. Villandré sent more people to their death than Carrier or Jean Tallien." Shield firmly set the drawer in front of her, then fanned the nail of his finger across the top of the green film. "The journals are organized by date. The commissioner's writing style is quite archaic. I hope you won't have trouble making it out." Jon started for the door.

"Thanks," she said. "I'll try not to take much more of your time."

"My pleasure. I hope you find something you can use." He closed the door after himself.

Danielle immediately drew the file drawer near and took a fortifying breath. "Ready or not," she whispered. "Let’s see. The marquis escaped the winter of '93." She pulled out a stack of film and thumbed through it. "November 1792." She selected the dark green square, flicked on the microfiche light, then slipped the film under the glass. She brought an entry into focus. Archaic was right. Just looking at Villandré’s spidery, sadistic scrawl gave her the creeps.

Taking her time, she reviewed his personal account of the details of the beginnings of year one of the French Republic and the discord between the Girondins and Jacobins, ultimately arriving at a date close to her time of interest.

12 December, 1792
Jean Baptiste Clary, aged seventeen, convicted of having trespassed in the Tribunal Hall, executed 7 December ... Henri Deauville, shopkeeper, convicted of shortchanging Jules Beringer, executed 7 December, 1792 ... Marie Beatrice Floege, aged fifty two, widow of the former Barone of Montmorney, Paul Stephan Floege, convicted of having hoped for the arrival of the Austrians and Prussians and of keeping provisions for them, condemned to death and executed same day ...

The list went on and on. Danielle reviewed entry after entry for almost an hour. The bastard kept the guillotine busy, she thought. It seemed those convicted of crimes against the Revolution were slaughtered wholesale on the instruction of the fanatical Villandré.

11 January, 1793
Upon my return to Grand Andelys ...

Danielle felt a rush at the mention of the town.
... I found Francois Jordan liable for aiding four citizens guilty of financial crimes. Today he was put to death. Madame Jordan, having made a spectacle of herself in front of those gathered to rally around the execution, was immediately sentenced to follow her husband. First, she was given a taste of her fate, allowing me to entertain those enjoying the spectacle. The executioner positioned Madame's neck under the suspended blade that dripped the blood of her husband ...

The sadistic description caused Danielle to shudder. She felt queasy. She was so sickened by Villandré's fever of killing, she closed her eyes for a moment. Then, forcing herself to continue by focusing on her goal, she stared at the blank screen and inserted the next piece of film. Painstakingly she searched the bony scrawl refusing to allow the rising gall in her stomach or burning eyestrain to interfere.

Stomach lurching, she quickly focused in on another date.

18 January, 1793
We will enjoy some sport with our aristo. Every member of his household ... his friends will be put to death! Claude Duprey clings to the Marquis of Andelys, thinking he will save Grandmaison. Claude Duprey will die too! The citizens of Andelys will hear Alain Maximilien Grandmaison and Claude Duprey cry for mercy. Then, at last, my vengeance will be complete!

Her pulse pounded. Why vengeance?

Villandré's writing became virtually illegible. Danielle looked up from the screen. Her throat constricted and tears stung her eyes. She didn’t understand why her emotions were so scrambled. Customarily she conducted her research without emotion. She swallowed what felt like a big lump. Alain Grandmaison had eventually escaped, but what had happened to the woman he had loved? Danielle rubbed her temples, which were tight and beginning to ache. There was no mention of the woman here. Had she suffered a fate worse than the guillotine ... perhaps one not so merciful. Blinking away the traces of her empathy, Danielle refocused on the screen and skipped down to where she could once again decipher Villandré’s scrawl.

Until I place Grandmaison before the people, none shall approach the boundary of his château. I have put the seal of the Committee of Public Safety upon it.

The entry, Danielle realized, must have been written just before Alain’s escape. Quickly removing this film, she inserted the last, but Villandré’s entries ended abruptly. She found no further mention of Alain, no mention of the woman, only details of more grisly executions written in another hand.

After Danielle found Jonathan in the lobby, he asked, "Did you uncover any items you can use in your manuscript?"

"Not exactly what I was looking for, but I gained some insight into the personality of Jules Villandré. What forces shaped such an evil man?"

"Perhaps, it was the times," Jon speculated. "We know little about his background." He looked at his watch. "Why don’t you join my family for dinner, Professor?"

"Thank you," Danielle said and smiled genuinely in spite of the sadness that overwhelmed her, "but, if you don’t mind, I’ll call Albert to collect me. I should return to the château and put my thoughts into my laptop while the details I’ve seen and read here, are fresh in my mind."

"Another time, perhaps?" John reached for the telephone on the lobby desk and passed it to Danielle.

"Another time," she promised while dialing the château.

†

In the lovely setting of Cafe l’Arbour it was difficult for Danielle to assimilate the reality of the horrors she had just read. Yet, the frivolity of the cafe crowd and colorful surroundings slowly lifted the dark mood that had descended upon her in the museum. Food casually served on pretty green and pink pottery atop crisp white cloths finally enticed Danielle to consider her empty stomach. Heeding Albert’s recommendation, she attempted to steady her inner turmoil by ordering a light supper of local Camembert cheese, bread, fresh fruit, and coffee.

While Danielle ate, she reasoned. If earlier historians had failed to turn up neither Alain Grandmaison's means of escape, nor the details of his later life, how could she expect to miraculously find new information locked away in a dusty archive? Still, she couldn’t deny her disappointment at the lack of any intimate information pertaining to Alain and the mystery woman at the museum.

Danielle nibbled at a crusty roll. Her head swam with the vision of Alain's painting of the woman in red and Villandré's proposed assault on the chateau. Why hadn’t Robespierre’s agent divulged any clues about the woman? He had mentioned Claude Duprey, but not Alain’s mistress. Did Villandré not know about her? Why? His slight increased the mystery.

Attempting to relax, she tipped her head back and relished the lingering sun that filtered through the tree's leaves. The radiance melted away some of the gruesomness of the day's revelations while she enjoyed watching the local crowd. A smattering of locals and tourists filled the tables in the pleasant cafe

When three musicians arrived, the crowd politely applauded as the trio took their places on a wide plank stage. Danielle admired the young musicians on the platform. One of them, a curvaceous beauty, picked up a microphone and began singing an old Beatles medley. Her lush soprano voice danced in tandem with staccato drums and classic guitar. She ended to enthusiastic applause.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Ariel," the singer said. She pointed to a young man seated behind the drums. "Jacque Marceau," Jacque instantly gave the crowd a brief display of his skill, "and Marc Bluet." Marc dabbed his bearded face with a red bandanna then strummed some soft minor cords on his gleaming black guitar. "We are Pageant, and wish to entertain you this evening."

Marc, Jacque, and Ariel launched into a French ballad unfamiliar to Danielle, followed by the poetic songs of Jacques Brel and Edith Piaf. Soon Pageant had everyone clapping; couples got up to dance. The musicians performed several love songs made popular by Edith Piaf more than a decade ago. With the enticing lyrics, Danielle could feel the crowd’s mood respond to the music. She glanced around the room. She could easily pick out those in love who were at one with the romantic melodies.

"This is a song," Ariel said in French, "my mother used to sing to me. You know it, I’m sure, in your heart, if not in your head." She paused looking down at the ground, lifted her eyes and teasingly smiled to the crowd. Then, Ariel took one step down toward the audience. "Fairy tales can come true," she sang. The crowd applauded. "It can happen to you," Ariel placed the microphone in front of an elderly gentleman wearing a brown beret.

"If you’re young at heart," the man sang with a gravely voice but a youthful twinkle in his eye. Ariel laughed knowingly and continued through the crowd, giving those she thought might lend the verse some special emphasis a chance to sing.

Danielle blushed when she realized Ariel was headed for her table, but she didn’t shy from taking her turn for she had fully fallen under the spell of the French evening. "Now here is the best part," Danielle sang. "You have a head start," Ariel’s voice harmonized with Danielle’s, "if you are among the very young at heart." The crowd applauded, laughed, and a few men whistled wildly.

"Very nice, Madame. You sing professionally?" Ariel asked.

"It’s been a few years since my choir days, but I like to sing," Danielle answered, realizing with some surprise she still did like to sing. The small act had liberated a piece of her spirit that begged release. And, Danielle also realized with regret, there were no fairy tales. After the day’s revelations she could never perceive legend or life in exactly the same way.

Ariel smiled and then raised her right arm to the audience. "We’re going to take a short break. Please stay to celebrate the evening with us." The crowd applauded again. "Merci." She gave a grateful nod, then walked on stage to replace the microphone.

Someone turned on recorded music, and several additional couples went to the small crowded dance floor to move to the music. Glancing at her watch, Danielle stood and looked toward the bar.

Albert leaned against the expanse of old oak, enjoying a mug of steaming coffee. He looked as though he too had taken pleasure from the music. He spotted her and raised the mug in recognition while she wound her way through the standing crowd and between tables.

When she reached him, he took a final gulp of his drink then put down his empty cup. "Shall we return, Madame?"

"Yes, Albert." She squared her shoulders. Ready or not, she thought. "I’m ready," she said.

Chapter Three

The village cafe had been full of life, music and people. Now, in contrast, the château seemed gloomy and haunted. Nothing could have prepared Danielle for the silence and loneliness of her tower room.

She slipped off her sandals, then poured a glass of Calvados from a bottle Albert had retrieved for her from the calvatheque, a cellar room where the twentieth-century marquis, Nicholas, kept his private stock of Calvados. Lifting the crystal-stemmed goblet close to her nose, she inhaled the drought. It smelled ... passionate ... she thought, staring down at the amber liquid. She took a sip, then set the glass on a silver tray.

It rankled that she had discovered so little about the handsome eighteenth-century marquis, nothing about his esoteric mistress, and more than she had ever wanted to know about Jules Villandré's cruelty. Her mind wouldn’t release the mystery lady of the painting in the museum, nor all the lives Villandré had ended two hundred years ago. What had transpired between Villandré and the marquis? What had happened to Claude’s female friend ... Alain’s love? It all seemed horrible, and unreal.

Danielle perched on the edge of a chair and tried to refocus her thoughts, to appreciate the attention to small details, each designed to make her stay in the château worthwhile. She had purposely reserved the room on the second level of the tower because it was above the library and was believed to have been the marquis’ eighteenth-century studio. She wanted to enjoy the same views that had inspired him so long ago.

In contrast to the hot summer’s day, the Normandy evening had turned cool. Already, a slight draft from the window beckoned Danielle to sink to the Persian carpeted floor in front of the small fire that had been lit in the room’s fireplace. She reached again for the glass of Calvados. The strong apple brandy lightly burned her mouth and throat as it went down, helping calm and warm her.

Before the fire, she removed the pins from her hair and shook the mass of deep brown loose over her shoulders. She discarded the eyeglasses for which she now had no use, and raised her glass to the flames.

"Ah, Henry," she spoke and sighed realizing it would be fruitless for her to attempt to write any notes in her present frame of mind. She glanced at her laptop still in its case on the floor by the wardrobe. "Tell me," she asked the ghost of her dead husband. "Where do I take this research now?" And my life, she thought.

Her friends had never quite understood why she married Henry Dumont. He was so much older, so proper. If her friends knew the circumstances behind her divorce from her first husband, they would understand. Her brief two-year marriage to Michael Hume had been disastrous.

Michael’s verbal and psychological abuse had increased daily until the end. Fortunately, though young, she had had the brains, fortitude, and necessary family support to get out. It had been a quick divorce, pushed through the courts by her attorney-father.

Even with her father's legal help and her mother’s love, the process had almost destroyed her self-esteem. For a long time she resisted having anything to do with men. They scared her. She had thought she knew Michael so well--confident, handsome, top in his field of high tech sales. If he could treat her so badly, so, too, would other males.

After her divorce, she had lived with her parents on their small horse farm outside Charlottesville, Virginia until she finished university. Two years later, when she joined the staff at Georgetown, Professor Henry Dumont, Dean of Languages and Philosophy, became her mentor. Over time, they became good friends, and ultimately, lovers. Intellectually, he challenged her, and he was so kind-hearted. What Henry Dumont lacked in youth and appearance, he more than made up for in confidence, trustworthiness, and experience.

Perhaps her friends were right. Perhaps in Henry she'd sought a father figure and a safety net. The years with him had been wonderful, steady. Now, she had to put his memory behind her.

"Henry you’re gone, and I’m left here." She scanned the empty room then took another fortifying sip. Left, she thought, and a little afraid. She realized at least part of the fear was due to pulling away from Henry’s memory. "Dumont, you’re a basket case," she admonished herself. It seemed she hardly knew herself anymore. All too often during the day it had been Alain Grandmaison’s eyes she had pictured, not Henry’s, and the marquis was not available either, to say the least!

Suddenly weary and uncomfortable in her clothes, Danielle glanced toward the bed, a bed that looked incredibly lonely. If I go to sleep, she thought, I won’t be troubled by these thoughts. Embracing the idea, she went to the armoire, and opened its graceful doors.

At Georgetown, Danielle appeared refined and professional in her dark suits, minimal make-up, and studious eyeglass frames. At night she preferred to expose her completely feminine side. In keeping with the custom, Danielle slowly undressed, and carefully hung her emerald linen dress. She began to pull the gold chain of her locket from around her neck, but the cool solid weight of it between her breasts felt assuring. She left it.

After shaking out a negligee of pale yellow silk, she removed her undergarments, and slipped the body-skimming material over her shoulders. The soft gown caressed the curves of her body as it cascaded down. Danielle lightly ran her hands down her sides.

"Not too bad for thirty-eight," she remarked before drawing the matching lace-sleeved robe over her arms.

Before settling again in front of the fire, Danielle removed her hairbrush from its travel case and poured another taste of Calvados. Basking in the heat from the fire and the flame of the brandy, she deliberately brushed to erase the spray that had held her hair in the sleek French twist.

She felt sensuous; she felt restless. At the same time, she did not desire the company of Ian, or the others on tour who gathered downstairs to watch a French film.

Her thoughts drifted to the portrait of the marquis, and then to his painting of the woman in red. There was a man who could love passionately! Whomever may have been the model in the portrait, she was lucky. Yet, something had caused the woman to grieve so deeply. In transferring his view of the woman to the canvas, the Marquis of Andelys had exquisitely captured her grief. Danielle squeezed the handle of her hairbrush tighter. Alain Maximilien Grandmaison was an exciting man, an intellectual, a businessman, a sensitive artist--a true Renaissance man! If Alain had loved the woman, as Claude Duprey had written in his diary, she had been lucky, whatever her fate.

Danielle tossed the brush on the bed and rubbed her aching temples. It was so unlike her to indulge in fantasies. For a moment she had wanted to be that woman. She had to stop letting her imagination run. Yet even as she thought the words, she knew she must go to the marquis' suite to view his portrait again. The memory of Alain Grandmaison’s passionate eyes compelled her to do so. Before she could lose herself in sleep, she must go to him. She would see the impassioned man who had painted the mystery woman, and ... she would lie in his precious bed.

†

Heavy clouds concealed the moon and stars, preventing any illumination from the tall windows as Danielle made her way down the darkened corridor, a solitary lighted candle in hand. She expected the exotic double doors of the marquis’ suite to be locked, but when she tried the handle the doors opened easily. She stepped inside and latched the doors behind her.

Leaning against the cool wood of the door, Danielle felt feverish. Her heart pounded when she finally dared look to the far side of the room.

The dancing candlelight illuminated the palest features of the marquis' portrait. Danielle was so drawn to the likeness, she didn't realize she'd crossed the room until she stood directly beneath the painting.

She could see now he held the clasp of a fine gold chain in his right hand. The delicate golden rope cascaded and coiled in the palm of his left hand where he cradled a large teardrop-shaped locket inscribed with a fanciful blossom. Impossible! Danielle took hold of the gold oval that rested upon her own heightened pulse. The similarity of the gold around her own neck, and the locket in the painting must be a coincidence!

Danielle caressed the gold and continued staring upward, her eyes softening with the attention of the Marquis of Andelys’ relentless, impassioned stare. His was an intense expression that somehow tugged the center of her soul. The corners of his mouth appeared lifted in mute invitation. She blushed with her increasing fantasy then quickly, almost defiantly, headed for the adjoining chamber, and his bed.

The bed appeared golden, glittering--beckoning. She felt naughty and that was the intrigue. Customarily, she did very little unexpected of her. Singing in the village had been unexpected and liberating. In the cafe, she realized she had for too long restrained all the fragments of Danielle Dumont. At this moment, the shards begged freedom.

After placing the candle on a bedside table, she slipped the silk robe from her shoulders. It slid easily from her arms and dropped to the floor. Feeling wild, even wicked, she wasted no time sliding between the bed's silky cotton sheets. A real feather mattress supported her. The soft stuffing quickly conformed to the curves and shape of her body as she settled into the yielding surface.

She closed her eyes but she couldn’t relax. It was so decadent, so luxurious, to lie on the ancient bed that had once supported the marquis of the portrait. Had he made love to Claude’s friend, the mysterious woman, where Danielle now positioned herself? Had the woman long brown hair, dark eyes ... Danielle realized she was picturing herself. She had to stop!

"It's time to give up this foolishness," she whispered to the night while ripples of longing made her feel weak. "I belong in my own room."

Danielle tried to rise. Instantly she flattened back down into the bed, as though some centrifugal force pressed her down, hard. She couldn't move. The bed began to undulate, slowly at first, a vibration she could feel deep below the frame. A creaking sound like rickety bones grew to a roar, then the entire frame surged violently. An earthquake she thought wildly, while she tried to cover her head with her hands, but they, too, were pressed against the bed, with palms upward, and arms close to her body. While she prayed for safety, a sensation ripped through her akin to an electric jolt.

Abruptly the shaking ended leaving her body powerless from the rush of adrenaline! The pounding of her heart hammered loud in her head. The entire experience had lasted mere seconds. She reasoned the quake had to have been a seven on the Richter Scale, but she'd never heard of such tectonic activity in this part of the world. Danielle hoped no one had been hurt, nothing historic damaged. She shifted her legs under the sheets delighted her limbs still moved. Amazingly, the bed didn't appear broken. She couldn't believe its ancient wood hadn't collapsed under the strain of the shaking.

When she swung her legs to the side of the bed and stiffly sat up, she noticed bright light bled from beneath the door to the adjoining chamber and she smelled the acrid scent of wood smoke. "Dear God, the château's on fire!" She groped the floor to gather her discarded robe. Unable to find the yellow silk garment, she put her feet to the floor; they met icy parquet. Dismissing the cold that stung the soles of her feet, she rushed for the door.

A blazing fire sparked brightly within the fireplace in the marquis’ dressing room sending tiny jets of soot up the flue. Long lazy flames licked from the tips of several large candles positioned throughout the chamber. The multitude of wicks added to the illusion of an inferno.

Danielle gasped when a vise-like arm encircled her from behind squeezing most of the air from her lungs. Something sharp pricked her neck.

"Your name, mademoiselle," a man’s deep voice commanded in oddly accented French, "or, I will slit your lovely throat."

"Dumont," she stammered after taking air and a moment to mentally translate his unusual pronunciation. She had never heard an accent quite like his. She peered down to the point of pain. A taut broad hand pressed against her left shoulder directing a silver dagger’s blade toward her neck.

"It would be a pity to end the life of one so young and so beautiful. Confess. Who sent you?" the man asked in a tone that brooked no nonsense.

"No one sent me; I’m a guest," she answered, watching his strong fingers tighten their hold on the dagger’s hilt. She involuntarily gasped again.

"A guest? Claude’s doing, no doubt," the man said suddenly sounding more irritated than angry. He eased the pressure of the blade. "I told him not to procure any more harlots for my bed." Her assailant abruptly released her and caused her to stumble. He cursed and turned his back on her, giving no thought to her near fall. "The bastard is relentless. How did he steal you in? No matter. I shall see to Claude later, but, now," he faced Danielle and scowled at her, "gather your things and be gone!"

"I assure you, I am a guest in this house." She righted herself and glared back at him. "Who are you?"

The man bowed his head brusquely, and added caustically, "As I shall remind Claude, the master of this château. Your name, again, mademoiselle?"

"Madame Dumont." She drew herself up and decided to use her credentials. "Doctor Danielle Dumont."

"Danielle," his voice caressed her name like the sheets of the marquis’ bed had caressed her body. Then, her attacker’s velvet voice accused, "Your mode of speaking is most odd, Madame Dumont. You come from my bedchamber, a complete stranger. Yet, you say you are a guest in my house, and a doctor no less!" he intoned with exaggerated sarcasm.

"I am one of your paying guests on tour," she patronized him, though she thought she had never met a man whose manners seesawed so completely from those of a gentleman to those of a brigand. "You must be Nicholas Grandmaison. I am sorry. I only wanted to see your exquisite bed ... and then the quake ..."

"Madame," he tersely interrupted, "your chatter is senseless. I know no Nicholas." He looked her up and down. "I believe you know precisely who I am ... the Marquis of Andelys, Alain Maximilien Grandmaison. Need I instruct you, Madame, that it is I who decides who is ... and who is not ... a guest here?"

Danielle's mind swirled. The man insisted he was Alain Grandmaison--the marquis of the portrait. As she stood unable to respond to his claim she realized some furnishings in the room were different. The wood and gilt pieces were not all the splendid eighteenth-century antiques she had catalogued earlier in the day; some pieces were of an even earlier time period!

The insolent man standing but two steps away from her did have a face amazingly similar to that of the painting. In fact, his coloring and features were devastatingly handsome. She studied his mouth for a moment and decided his lips might be inviting, were he to smile. His strange speech pattern could be that of an eighteenth-century aristocratic Frenchman. There was also an air of nobility about his tall figure and menacing stance. She stared at his blue waistcoat and suddenly realized he was dressed in the costume of ... she glanced above the fireplace. The marquis’ portrait was not there! She looked again to the man identical in every respect to Alain Maximilien Grandmaison. It was incomprehensible!

Strong arms caught her just before she hit the floor.

"Are you ill, Madame?"

She definitely was not herself. She, who was normally so reserved, wanted to give up all dignity. Even as she swooned and hated herself for doing so, a part of her yearned to give herself totally to the virile man who held her in his arms. She should be incensed at being considered a prostitute. Instead, she wanted to live up to the marquis’ name-calling. Moments before, in his bed, she had been fantasizing about feeling Alain Grandmaison's arms around her. Now, not only was he holding her, she could feel his warm breath, smell the scent of his brandy lacing his words. All her senses screamed that she was wide-awake. Yet ... she must not be.

"I think I'm fine now," she managed to whisper.

"Lean on my arm." Alain supported her as she stood, then guided her to the chair next to his desk. It seemed he lingered over her, not quite knowing what to do. He touched the back of her neck, lightly brushing her skin with his fingers. She allowed herself to relish his honeyed warm breath against her hair. She felt quite intoxicated.

His hands against her flesh seemed real; she didn’t want him to be a figment of her imagination. With his arousing touch, she experienced every flayed nerve of her body, and she felt quite defenseless when a tear escaped to roll down her cheek.

"I am sorry," she extended the short phrase and sniffed back more tears, "this ... this is not like me at all."

"But, you are crying, Madame," he said, seeming flustered. "Here." He pulled a fine linen handkerchief from his pocket and offered it. "Please. Allow me to help you.

"Do not worry." His angry voice and brooding eyes softened. "I will commission you well for your time. You will stay the night, and in the morning I shall send you home in my finest carriage."

Danielle blew her nose loudly into the handkerchief.

The corner of the marquis’ mouth jerked upward as though he struggled to control his mirth. When Danielle honked again, he threw back his head and released a rich peal of laughter. "Where did Claude find you?" He chuckled again, a low musical sound. "My friend has outdone himself this time." Alain tugged on a thick woven rope that hung next to the mantle. "I shall have Marie Claire show you to a room." He struggled to subdue his mirth. "Have you a robe?" His keen eyes traveled the length of her form and crinkled up at the corners. The right corner of his lips twitched again.

Blushing, Danielle realized her naked body was completely visible under her gown. No wonder he thought her a harlot. Her emotions and the chill of the room had stimulated her nipples to full attention. She crossed her arms over her chest. Embarrassed, dizzy, confused, she could barely answer the marquis. "I have but what I wear."

Alain cleared his throat as a soft knock sounded on the door. "Enter."

Danielle could only gape at the elderly woman who crossed the groundsel of the room. But for her eighteenth-century costume, plump body, and demure demeanor, Danielle would have believed Madame Gravenot stood before them.

"Marie Claire, find Madame Dumont a robe," the marquis instructed. "Then show the lady to the marquise’s chamber." He turned to Danielle. "My wife's room will be the easiest to warm on this cold winter night."

Wife. Winter. Danielle shivered. Ready or not, she truly was living a mystery.

Chapter Four

Had she been injured in the earthquake? Was she imagining all this? Was her physical body lying in the rubble of the château, or perhaps in a hospital by now? Since she could unearth nothing at the museum about the mysterious woman or the marquis' escape, had her brain simply taken over the task of supplying the answers?

Danielle thought of Alain. His eyes, almost unnatural in their blueness stirred a reaction in her no dream could. His noble face framed by hair the dark amber color of his brandy was the face of a real man, not a character in a dream. Her skin still quivered from his touch; an instantaneous flush spread through her body then left her chilled again. This wasn't the comfortable affection she felt for Henry. She had never experienced full-blown lust before. The emotion set her spinning. She hungered for Alain more than she had ever desired any man. More important, she feared neither him, nor her desire.

The Marquis of Andelys wanted to send her away tomorrow. He may not know it, Danielle thought, but she was not going anywhere tomorrow. She smiled serenely then closed her eyes, fully intending to enjoy her coma, dream,--or reality. Her own will had given her a rare gift.

†

"Edmund, no. No! You will waken Madame," Marie Claire called. A young child's laughter grew closer and the door to the room flew open. Before Danielle could open her eyes and focus, a child had hurled himself on her bed. Hot little hands went around her neck, and cherry-tinged cheeks rested against her breast.

"Are you my mama?" the child asked.

Danielle lay pinned beneath the weight of the boy vaguely remembering she was no longer a twentieth-century tourist. Marie Claire scurried to the foot of the bed. "Pardon him, Madame. He thinks perhaps you are his mama. He knows this was her room. My own young Babette told him there was a woman sleeping here. He naturally thought his mama had returned. He does not understand."

Slipping her arms protectively around the little boy, Danielle, now fully awake, held him close. A forgotten instinct melded with the warm lively bundle she held in her arms and surprised her with its intensity. "Oh, Edmund," she said while fondling his silken curls.

Hearing his name, the child relaxed against her. She touched his chin and turned his face up to look into his eyes. She thought if she could describe a living cherub, she would be unable to imagine a more perfect model. Dark brown curls spiraled across his small head framing large blue eyes--his father’s eyes. Edmund’s skin was alabaster, and his round cheeks and smooth lips had a healthy rosy glow. Yet the laughter had disappeared from his face; he must have understood Marie Claire.

"Edmund, I’m not your mother," Danielle paused for a moment and smiled at the child. "Can we be friends?" she asked.

He appeared to think seriously about her proposal. Then he rose up on his knees and placed a wet, warm kiss on her lips. Just as quickly as he had sprung to the bed, he scrambled to the floor, laughing as he pulled half the covers with him.

It was freezing in the room, so Danielle lunged forward to retrieve the bed coverings. Marie Claire hustled after Edmund, alternately wringing her hands and pulling at her apron. "Babette shall bring breakfast, Madame," she called over her shoulder. "My daughter will stoke the fire and help you dress."

Danielle settled back into the pillows and drew the covers up to her chin. She breathed out. She could see her breath! She shivered. To her right, heavy leaded windows filtered the pale watery light of morning through iced glass. She looked to the other side of the elegantly appointed room to a bisque porcelain chamber pot that awaited her functional needs. If she hadn’t been injured and knocked unconscious, what had happened? If this wasn’t a coma, what was it? Could she actually be in eighteenth-century Normandy? Her logical mind refused to accept the premise.

Hearing Edmund laugh again from a distance, her thoughts returned to him. What a sweet child. She could feel the imprint of his moist kiss on her lips. Neither her research nor her thoughts had focused on the young Edmund Grandmaison. Of course, the boy would be an important part of his father’s life, if not the most important aspect of Alain Grandmaison’s existence.

Marie Claire obviously loved the child. A composite of Madame Gravenot and twentieth-century Mother Theresa, Marie Claire was truly endearing. She had not questioned Danielle the previous night, nor challenged why Danielle was practically naked.

Perhaps the serving woman was merely accustomed to such comings and goings. Nevertheless, she had clucked about Danielle like a mother hen, had tucked her in bed, and placed warming bricks under her feet.

Still, Danielle could not allow Marie Claire's kindness to mitigate what had happened. She rubbed her tender temples and inspected the room again, looking up to the accouplement of umber oak timbers overhead to the soft noil bedclothes, elegant furniture, and scarlet cushioned sofas placed near the hearth. Her head reeled; it ached. Somehow, the earthquake in the twentieth-century had shifted her back in time, for ... she glanced around the room again ... this could not be a dream or a coma. There were too many details to account for, not the least of which were the emotions the marquis had set churning within her.

The reality crept up on her leaving her feeling colder than the room’s temperature warranted. She was alone in a strange château, in an unfamiliar time. She couldn’t shower or use a modern toilet, or make a telephone call. She had not one true friend in this eighteenth-century environment.

For the first time in a long time she felt completely out of control. Clasping a soft pillow to her chest, she wondered if being in a different time could hurt. For now there was no pain, except for her aching head, but the lack of security left her shaky.

Her immediate task would be to earn Alain’s trust and discover the identity of the woman he painted. If someday she returned to the twentieth-century any details she could remember in recounting the missing incidents of Alain’s life and the Terror would be important. She wished she had her laptop ... or even her pen and paper. Still, when she remembered the agreeable pressure of Alain's strong hands on her body, she wanted him to trust her for far more personal reasons than to be able to write about the Marquis of Andelys and his lady.

†

Alain paced the length of his elaborate drawing room while the woman upstairs in Narissa's chamber consumed his thoughts. Her beautiful eyes, dark and volatile as a storm cloud, had filled his dreams and kept him tossing and turning throughout the night. Had it simply been too long since he had been with a woman? Perhaps it was time he put his sworn chastity aside. After all, Narissa had been dead more than three years.

Taking a deep calming breath, he remembered how inexplicably abandoned he had felt when Marie Claire escorted Claude’s woman to Narissa's chamber. His own sheets remained perfumed with Madame Dumont’s scent, a heady bouquet that also dusted her translucent skin. The fragrance, reminiscent of roses, had driven his senses mad. Even now, his body contradicted his oath that there would be no woman after Narissa for him. Damn Claude for bringing this one!

Frustrated, he left the formal room and stomped out of the château, welcoming a blast of damp cold. Drifting snowflakes immediately showered his face, cooling his fevered flesh.

A rider astride a fine coal black stallion cantered toward him. Claude Duprey removed his tricorn and waved a greeting to Alain. Even from childhood, Alain remembered, Claude could feign such innocence when he played his boyish pranks. What had amused Alain before, now caused his blood to boil at the sight of his comrade’s nonchalant demeanor.

Claude dismounted and dusted a light layer of white from his clothes. Replacing his hat, he queried, "Whatever is the matter? You look as though your Calvados has replaced the blood in your veins."

"I pay you to smuggle my Calvados to England, not to procure whores for my bed," Alain snapped in the tightly controlled tone he used only when his temper had reached its limit. "I will no longer tolerate your meddling. The trollop inside must be the last of them!"

"You charge me wrongly, my friend, but I am intrigued. Of what trollop do you speak?"

"The cyprian you concealed in my chambers--the dark-haired beauty who accosted me last night."

"I know nothing of such a woman," Claude broadly grinned, "but it is long past the time you bedded a wench. Where is this beauty? Let me thank her personally." Claude started for the door, but Alain stopped him with a firm grip to Claude's right shoulder. The men instantly exchanged expressions of obstinance.

"Seriously," Claude broke the standoff, "I came to warn. You must leave. Villandré has returned."

"You test our friendship. I will decide when it is time to leave my ancestral home, and when the time has come to take a woman to my bed. Collect your baggage." Alain motioned toward the château. "Jean Paul will order the carriage ‘round when you're ready."

Before Claude could counter, Alain hoisted himself upon Claude's horse and lifted the reins. "I will return your mount to you tomorrow." He booted the horse and whipped the reins. The animal kicked up dirt and snow, and sped toward dense trees.

Claude waited until Alain disappeared into the woods before he entered the château. He knew better than to argue with his friend when Alain was in such a fine temper. He would stay until Alain returned, and once he calmed, further entreat him to leave France.

Alain usually greeted Claude's attempts to bait him with female flesh with mere disdain, but to this woman Alain reacted quite differently; clearly Alain was aroused. Claude entered the château and instantly bade Jean Paul request the woman’s attendance in the drawing room. Claude couldn't wait to meet the temptress who caused such a response. Still, more important, who was she?

Since he hadn't procured the harlot, who had? Rumors persisted that Jules Villandré would go to any length to destroy the marquis. Despite Alain’s popularity with the local population, and his and Robespierre’s shared association with Rousseau, Claude knew Robespierre sought to bring Alain down. Was this woman sent by Villandré to spy on his friend and bait him for deliverance to Robespierre?

As Claude turned at the gentle rustle of skirts behind him, he hoped the woman who had so roused Alain's temper was no spy, for his heart inexplicably went out to her. Her lovely face, her searching dark eyes, and her tentative smile softened his heart.

Claude enjoyed loose women, and gleefully procured them to tempt his friend. He knew instantly she was not of that class; despite her direct boldness, she eschewed a complete lack of artifice. He hoped with all his male being this refined apparition dressed in brilliant blue was not hired by the commissioner.

Claude quickly crossed the room and raised the back of her right hand to his lips. "Mademoiselle. Claude Duprey, business partner and friend to the marquis, at your service." He ended his introduction with a small bow and raised up again.

"Madame," Danielle gently corrected him. "Madame Danielle Dumont," she said her name and stared at Claude Duprey. She could scarcely believe the man who kissed her hand was the writer of the wonderful journal.

"Danielle Dumont," he repeated. "The name is not familiar."

"I'm not French."

"English," he guessed.

"American."

"American? Forgive me, Madame Dumont. I complement your French." He released her fingers.

"Where is the marquis?" Danielle asked.

"Alain is ... is riding. He asked me to entertain you until he returns," Claude lied, noting the hint of a crestfallen expression shadow her lovely composed face. He motioned toward an ornate settee. "Please sit, Madame, and help me understand who you are, and why you have journeyed here in such dangerous times from the New World."

Still awkward with the strange style and abundant skirt of her dress, Danielle sank carefully to the edge of a sofa. It felt odd not wearing underpants, but she supposed she would become accustomed to the eighteenth-century way of dressing. When she finally felt settled, Danielle carefully studied the face of the author of her translation. She could not detect anger or accusation in Claude's question, merely curiosity. She relied on her instinct, and she liked Claude Duprey. Genuine circumspection lit the spark that warmed his hazel eyes. Claude, too, had a dimpled chin, though his was not as pronounced as Alain’s, and the rakish smile lifting his ruddy cheeks appeared honest, if a little devilish. Reddish curls had escaped the lace that tied his hair. The coppery tendrils at his temples and neck contrasted with his ruddy complexion, giving him the air of a fresh-faced schoolboy. Suddenly, Danielle realized why Claude looked so familiar. Claude’s size and coloring reminded her of Jonathan Shield’s.

Settling back against gold brocade cushions, she took a moment more to appraise the expensive cut of Claude’s dark blue traveling suit and the neat-tooled leather of his boots. It appeared Claude Duprey enjoyed a prosperous alliance with the marquis. At the same time, the clothes didn't quite match the man. His large bearish frame seemed out of place in the fine formal attire. She pictured him more at ease in a pair of jeans and well-worn sweater, at ... at Martha’s Vineyard. Despite the stylized clothes, and his impeccable manners, he reminded her of a big soft teddy bear.

So, this endearing man was the writer of the marvelous journal, she thought, and simultaneously the shock of being in the eighteenth-century finally hit her full force. She took in a sharp breath and gripped the arm of the settee.

"Madame, are you ill?"

"No," Danielle answered, but she felt overwhelmed--afraid. Needing a friend, she felt compelled to tell Claude the truth, or, most of the truth. He had asked where she was from; she would tell him!

"Monsieur Duprey, what I'm about to explain is going to sound so strange, you'll be tempted not to believe me. Let me assure you, I’m an honest person."

Claude joined her on the sofa. He boldly covered her hands with his own.

"Pray explain, Madame. I am your servant. It cannot be so strange."

"But, it is." Danielle slipped her hands from beneath his, and, longing for her gold-rimmed glasses to lend her authority, tried to compose herself before continuing. "I’ve been in this château before." She watched Claude's greenish eyes narrow with suspicion. "I strolled through these very rooms ... in my own time ... which is many years after you and the marquis ... pass on!" Her hands flew to her face and she covered her mouth. "Oh, my God," she uttered into her palm. "I feel so foolish."

Claude cleared his throat. "Continue," he encouraged her.

"Monsieur, I’ve been removed from the twentieth-century, where I lived until now. Somehow, during an earthquake, I was shifted in time here--to the eighteenth-century!"

Claude's face reddened. With a lifted brow he asked, "Exactly what do you mean?"

"Look around you. What colors do you see Monsieur Duprey?"

Glancing toward the wall, Claude answered, "Blue." He gestured toward the facing baroque settee. "Gold." He waved an arm toward the tall windows draped with lace and embroidered silk. "Rose. What has this to do with anything, Madame?"

"Everything! I am from the future, from the twentieth-century. In my time, this room's walls are pale yellow." She ran the palm of her hand across the gold cushions. "These exquisite settees have long vanished, replaced by green velvet sofas to sink into. Carpets from Persia soften the parquet floor. In my time, electric lights that you can turn on and off with the touch of a finger have replaced the candles that are sputtering in this bitter draft. In the twentieth-century, a portrait of the marquis hangs over the mantle in his dressing room--a portrait he painted over two hundred years before I was born!" With momentum to her tale, Danielle stood. Pacing back and forth before Claude, she dove deeper into her explanation.

"While touring this château on a hot summer’s day in the twentieth-century, I found myself strangely attracted to the portrait of the Marquis of Andelys. It was his eyes, you know. We have a saying, 'the eyes are the windows to the soul.' Last night, in my time, I was drawn to gaze at the marquis’ portrait. His eyes awakened ... feelings," she said, unaware she had touched her hand to her heart. "I aimed to recline in the very bed that had once been his." She stopped in front of Claude and faced his bewildered regard.

‘The earth began to tremble while I was in Alain Grandmaison’s bed, then to shake. A terrible earthquake! When the movement subsided and I miraculously left the bed unscathed, I encountered the marquis himself, my fantasy granted."

Claude sprang to his feet and strode away from Danielle to the fireplace. He leaned his heavy frame against the mantel. Solemnly lifting a brass poker from its crampon, he jabbed the coals.

"There is more." Danielle shifted her skirts and sat again. "Your friend, Alain, is in extreme danger."

In the quiet room, she could hear her breath when she exhaled. "Do you believe me?" she whispered unable to wait any longer. Her nostrils flared with each stab Claude made with the poker. She prayed he should believe her.

Claude kept her waiting while he gave the coals a final stab. He turned, pointing the hot ember-dusted poker at her face.

She didn't flinch, though somehow she knew if Claude Duprey suspected she meant Alain any harm, he wouldn't hesitate to use the deadly instrument on her. She regarded his stern face as straightforwardly as she could.

"Madame, either you are Robespierre's agent sent to entrap my friend, you are mad, or, for some inexplicable reason you believe you speak honestly." His knuckles turned white around the poker as he worked the tool with his ponderous hands. He regarded her calmly, seemingly searching her eyes for the truth. Then he dropped the tool into the open hearth, and moved to her side. Cautiously, keeping some distance between them, he sat next to her.

"Yes, my friend is in peril. He will not listen to reason." Claude sounded tremendously disturbed. "What do you know of this danger?"

"The marquis and his son must escape France immediately, or they will face Jules Villandré's guillotine. If they do not leave the château, they may die--soon. I know nothing more."

"Nothing more?" Claude's eyes didn't leave her face. "In speaking the name Jules Villandré, I must assume you know of the man. Why should I believe you wish to aid Alain?" He paused. "Part of what you say is common knowledge. Alain and Edmund will face the guillotine if they do not depart from Normandy. But," he looked at her askance and took hold of her arms, "Madame," he squeezed, "is there more? Do you know when Villandré will strike?"

Looking into Claude’s distrusting face, Danielle realized she must take more drastic measures to convince him she was speaking the truth. "You must believe, Monsieur Duprey. You will believe me because I am going to tell you something that I could only know because I speak truthfully. I know you are Alain’s brother!"

Claude’s face turned an explosive shade of red. "How ... "

"I have read your journals."

"My journals?" His jaw dropped. "Impossible! They are always with me, always secure."

"I have read them. In the twentieth-century. I purchased your journals at a Parisian bookseller’s in the twentieth-century.

"Alain’s father told you that you were his son the day he died. He gave you a silver and enamel snuffbox as a keepsake."

Claude’s hand dipped into his pocket and he brought out the very snuffbox Danielle had viewed in the museum. "This is incredible!" He looked at the box’s delicate enamel top. "It is my mother’s likeness," he said in a gentler voice and showed it to Danielle.

"She was beautiful."

"My father told me he loved my mother very much, that she gave him much comfort after Alain’s mother passed away. They gave each other comfort, I pray. I promised the marquis I would tell no one ... not even Alain." He sighed and faced Danielle. "I do not know how you know this, Madame, but ... " he looked down at the snuffbox then put it back in his pocket. He took hold of Danielle’s arm again, stopping just short of hurting her. "Alain must never know."

"Has he never noticed you have the same dimple in your chin, or the same shape of mouth?" Danielle asked.

Claude didn’t answer. After a moment, he released her, stood, and walked a few paces away from her. He suddenly turned, raised his hands to the air, and swore, "I warn you, should you cause any harm to befall my brother ... " He swore again. "Pray, tell me truthfully, why are you here?" he asked.

"I am here for knowledge and to help, not hinder your brother’s escape." She took a deep breath and her lips curved upward. "And, I believe I am infatuated with your sibling."

Claude’s mouth involuntarily skewed to one side while he considered this confession. Then he fully smiled, accepting the clue to lighten the moment. He pulled Danielle to her feet. "But, of course!" Some of his boyish charm returned. "Perhaps while you are here, you will redeem Alain's manhood." He cupped her face in his hands. "From this moment, Madame, we are bound by shared secrets. Knowledge is a powerful force; it can forge friendships or destroy lives. I hope, when I know more of you, our ties shall be those of friendship."

"Have no fear. Your secret is safe."

"What an intimate scene," Alain said, intruding on their conversation. Neither Danielle nor Claude had noticed Alain enter the room. "What secret?" he asked.

Claude feigned a frown, but winked at Danielle before putting his arm protectively around her. "I was just assuring Madame Dumont that despite your arrogant manner you really are kind hearted, and will not mind giving her shelter for a few more days. I am on my way to Honfleur to inquire after our brokers." He added solemnly, "Villandré has returned and he is bloodthirsty, my friend. I only hope Michel and Guy are still alive to accept your Calvados." Claude pulled Danielle closer, giving the impression of familiarity. "Danielle has no place to go. You see, she is from across the seas--America."

"Across the seas," Alain repeated caustically.

Claude nodded. "Please extend your hospitality to her until I can make other arrangements." Claude leaned toward Danielle, his eyes twinkling. "You will not cause any more difficulty, will you my dear?"

"Absolutely not." She looked at Alain, invoking a challenge. "No more trouble at all." Danielle laced her fingers with Claude’s and smiled innocently toward the marquis.

The sight of her being caressed so happily by Claude caught him off guard. He should have known Claude would try to take the female for himself after discovering he had not accepted her favors.

Licentious women were Claude's downfall. The last demimonde, Charlotte Mirabeau, had disappeared with almost all of Claude's fortune.

Yet, could he really blame Claude? Dressed in one of Narissa’s elegant gowns, Danielle would turn any man's head. Alain had selected the gown for Narissa for its rich sapphire color, and because its tightly fitted bodice showed a feminine narrow waist to full advantage.

The attached silken overskirt was pulled back with glistening gold cords to reveal a delicate embroidered floral motif on an ivory brocade underskirt. The creamy lace mantle demurely placed around Danielle’s neck above the sapphire silk failed to conceal the velvet softness of her cleavage. He noticed a thin gold chain traced the base of her neck to drop below the thin bodice fabric. The simple jewelry only accented her endowments.

Someone, perhaps Marie Claire, had dressed the woman's hair high on her head. The feminine style balanced her delicate features, though he thought he liked the dark loose mass of it around her shoulders far better. He felt quite lightheaded remembering her perfumed cloud of hair. The scent had lingered long after her departure.

Alain desired Danielle Dumont. It required all his mental tenacity to keep signs of his yearning from becoming apparent to both Danielle and Claude. He struggled to remember that no matter how refined her look, she belonged to Claude. Standing stiffly, he masked his regard of her with a cold stare, resenting her furtive, unheralded intrusion to his estate, and to his heart.

"Very well, Madame," Alain acquiesced. "You may stay until Claude returns for you." Alain addressed Claude, "You will be quick and bring word when you learn of Michel and Guy?"

"But, of course. I will ride like the wind." Claude said.

Alain bowed to them both. "Now, if you will excuse me. I have business." He turned and abruptly exited the room.

"Is the marquis always so brusque?" Danielle asked.

"My friend has the tenderest of hearts. He is merely concealing his attraction to you."

"I can't believe he finds me attractive."

"You do not yet know Alain Grandmaison."

"He must have loved Narissa very much," Danielle interrupted.

Claude nodded affirmatively. "Today is the first time since he interred the marquise I have witnessed him express any real emotion. Believe me, my dear, you have enchanted the marquis." Moving arm-in-arm with Danielle toward the great hall, he stopped just before the door. Claude turned back to face her and took hold of both of her hands. "My lovely new friend," his voice played with the endearment. "I hope to return from Honfleur in a few days. Perhaps, then, you will be completely honest with me."

"I have been honest," Danielle insisted.

"We will speak again, soon." He patted her hand. "If you wish to leave the château when I return, I will do all I can to help you." He paused choosing the balance of his words carefully. "Madame Dumont, I applaud you for however you have discovered my relationship to Alain, but I am afraid as to how you plan to use this knowledge."

"I don’t plan to use it. I only want you to believe I’m from the twentieth-century."

"Perhaps," Claude cocked his head speculatively, "but what you have shared is almost impossible to comprehend. Pray, do not give me cause for scorn."

Chapter Five

For the next two days, Danielle kept to her room. She learned all too suddenly the malady known as "traveler’s tummy" in the twentieth-century also existed in the eighteenth-century.

Babette, Marie Claire’s daughter, helped Danielle wile away the hours with gossip of those employed in the château. From time to time, Danielle recognized the sound of Alain’s footsteps as he passed her chamber. His solemn echoes would slow as he neared her door. Then, she would hear him continue down the corridor to his own suite. Obviously, she thought, the marquis wanted nothing to do with her.

The second afternoon of her confinement seemed especially long. Feeling completely thwarted in her efforts to learn about the woman in Claude’s journal, or more about the marquis, she stared down at the fragile teacup she held in her hand. Listlessly tipping the cup of saffron liquid from side to side, she hoped she could venture out of her assigned chambers by the next morning. The diet of weak chamomile tea had improved her stomach, if not her disposition.

"Does the marquis have a special lady friend?" Danielle asked while she sat by the fire sipping her third cup of brew. With the question, Danielle hoped to extract information from Babette on the mysterious lady mentioned in Claude’s diary.

"The women of Andelys have forsaken their attempts to charm the marquis, Madame." Babette’s mouth turned down in a petite pout. "It is sooo sad."

"What is sad?" Danielle asked.

"Monsieur Marquis must be lonely. Yet, my lord refuses any woman’s company. Monsieur Duprey has invited many ladies to the château." She shook her head sadly. "The marquis turns them away." Babette’s expression brightened. "All would be honored to please," she glanced coquettishly at Danielle, "or share his bed."

"You are too young for such opinions, and that is none of my concern," Danielle admonished.

A hefty tap sounded at the door. "Please, come in," Danielle called. She waited with interest as the door opened.

"Marie Claire informed me you are much improved," Alain Grandmaison said after he entered the room and came to stand before Danielle.

Goosebumps raised Danielle’s skin as the marquis’ gaze instantly explored the exposed skin above the bodice of her gown.

"Perhaps you would join me for dinner this evening," he said. His stare finally raising to meet her own.

Tugging the coverlet that rested on her lap, up to the base of her neck, Danielle eyed the marquis suspiciously. "You gave me the impression you didn’t want my company. Have you changed your poor opinion?"

"Madame, at times, your tongue lashes out unchecked."

"Actions speak as loudly as words, and," Danielle raised her brow, "at times, your rude behavior would leave most speechless."

"Yet, not you," Alain remarked. He looked as if he were challenging her to a duel.

Danielle laughed, realizing she indeed sounded the nag. "No, not I." She paused weighing her words. Inexplicably, Alain’s wrath made him seem more appealing. She tried to disavow her attraction to the marquis, but, she didn’t want to seem like a shrew. "Your invitation is most kind," she replied, "but I don’t feel improved enough for a meal. Would you visit me, here, after you’ve dined?"

"If you prefer. Perhaps you would enjoy a game of chess?"

Danielle shifted uneasily under her coverlet as Alain Grandmaison’s deep blue eyes continued to bore into hers, as though he could read her mind. With her invitation, his mouth had relaxed into the resemblance of a smile, on him, most beguiling. Suddenly, she found his newfound ease disturbing. Hoping he couldn’t detect how she had to fight to keep the blazing intensity of his eyes from melting her to the core, she reminded him, "I am here at your mercy. It would hardly be prudent to deny your company."

The marquis’ mouth reverted to a scowl. "If you do not desire any fellowship, Madame, I will not come. I merely hoped to help you pass the time."

Hearing Babette cough behind her, Danielle glanced back at the girl. Babette’s stricken expression showed her discomfort at the strained interplay between Danielle and the marquis. Danielle remembered what Babette had said about Alain being lonely, his life so sad. She glanced at the Marquis of Andelys standing so stiff and proud. She knew she was using all the defense mechanisms she could muster to hide her attraction to him. Could he be doing the same? For the moment, his face was turned from her in stern profile. She sketched the outline of his expression with a discerning look. He could be lonely, yet afraid of a relationship.

"I would enjoy," she began, and watched his long silky lashes shift toward her, though he feigned indifference, "a game of chess. You may have to refresh my memory on the rules of the game."

"My teacher played chess as he lived life, with a ruthless philosophy. He taught me all I know of the game." Alain looked her up and down and the corner of his mouth inched upward. "I believe we will be a good match.

"Until evening." He bowed, ever the aristocrat.

Babette went to the door and opened it for the marquis. She dipped in a low curtsey as he exited the room.

After closing the door behind him, Babette turned to Danielle. She held her hands to cheeks that looked stained by ripe cherries. "Ooo la la, Madame."

"Please," Danielle reproached. "No romantic notions. The marquis is only trying to be polite. And failing miserably," she muttered to herself."

Babette said no more, but her eyes continued to sparkle, and her grin didn’t leave her mouth.

"Now, pour me another cup of tea," Danielle instructed, "and tell me everything you know about the other women Claude has brought to meet the marquis."

†

Feeling possessed by an unknown spirit, Alain released his smile and clenched and unclenched his fists as he stood outside Danielle’s room. Was he a lovestruck lad, unable to resist the charms of a beautiful woman? He had merely meant to inquire after the lady’s health. After all, she was under his protection. He had scarcely believed it when he heard his voice asking her to dine with him. Alain realized that as he had gazed at her silky skin, he had wanted to ravish the base of her throat, taste the honey seeming to emanate from her pores. "No!" he said. He clenched his fists again. "I will not be so moved." He had promised Madame Dumont a game of chess and himself abstinence. One game of chance only, he promised himself, and nothing more.

Raking hands through his hair, he strode to the stairs. He needed air, cold air, and time to suppress the strange forces attacking his body.

"Papa," Edmund greeted his father from the base of the stairwell. "May I see Madame Dumont?"

Marie Claire hovered close behind Edmund. "He refuses to eat his dinner, Monsieur, until he sees the lady."

Joining them, Alain tenderly rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder and knelt down to his level. It amazed Alain how the lad always managed to touch his soul and remove any emotion except fatherly love. Could there be any harm in giving in to Edmund’s whim? The child had so little joy in his life. Alain realized a lovely woman such as Danielle would be a welcome diversion for Edmund.

"Very well," Alain said with a smile and a tug at his heart as he looked into Edmund’s dancing eyes. "Madame Dumont will be pleased to see you." The marquis addressed Marie Claire in a whisper Edmund could not hear, "Do not leave the lad alone with Madame Dumont. We cannot be sure of her intentions."

"Of course, Monsieur." She held her hand out to the boy. "Come along, Edmund. I will send Babette after some cakes. You may feast while you visit Madame Dumont."

"And chocolate?" Edmund asked.

Alain laughed and hugged Edmund again. "Yes." He chuckled. "Marie Claire, an entire pot of chocolate for my son."

†

"To understand chess, you must realize it is not merely a game," Alain said. He had joined Danielle after dinner and now sipped a glass of Calvados while he set up the board and pieces.

Danielle gazed down at the striking ebony and ivory forms placed on the board before her. In the twentieth-century, she thought, they would be worth a fortune.

"What do you mean, not merely a game?" she said.

"Chess rewards the player with insight and acuity. It may be called an art, one which each seeks to master."

"With its kings, queens, and nobles, is this game now played secretly?"

Alain shot her a glance that would have cut one less timid to the bone. "These nobles," he passed his hand above the pieces, "do not have to worry about losing their heads." He offered her a forgiving smile. "They have reigned since ancient times, as long as the game has been played." He took a sip of his brandy and leaned forward. "Would you enjoy a story of one such ancient nobleman who played this diversion?"

Without waiting for her to answer, he leaned back, cradling the goblet of Calvados in his hands, and began the tale, "In an old Arabic manuscript, written long ago, there is the story of a nobleman, who had several wives, but one was his most favorite. He called her ‘heart’s ease,’ or Dilaram, because his heart would know no ease without her.

"One evening, he was playing chess with a strong chess player, and, as was usual in those times, he played for a stake. While playing, the stakes raised and raised again, and finally, the nobleman staked Dilaram on the game. Unfortunately, the game went badly for the nobleman, and defeat seem unavoidable. Finally, the game came to this position." Alain put down the goblet and moved the Black and White chess pieces on the board. He glanced up at Danielle, his mouth a suppressed wave of glee. "In the present position," he continued, "the nobleman, who played the white pieces, was to move, expecting to be mated on his opponent’s return move. Dilaram however, saw how the happiness of her life could be saved, and shouted to her husband and lover: ‘Sacrifice your two Rooks, but not me!’

"Fortunately, her husband and lover saw what she meant," Alain shifted the pieces again. "and won the game." Amusement flickered in the blue eyes that glanced over the chessboard to hers. "And," he said as close to laughter as Danielle had witnessed, "they lived happily ever after."

Edging back in his chair, Alain suddenly seemed aware he had let his guard down. He looked uncomfortable but his unwavering gaze never left Danielle’s face.

"That’s a lovely story," she said, keenly aware of his scrutiny. "Tell me, Monsieur Marquis, would you stake your wife in a game of chess?"

His brow raised mischievously. "Only if I meant to lose her, Madame."

She laughed and set the pieces straight. "Well then, let’s begin our game."

†

After an hour of playing, Danielle moved her White queen’s knight to the queen’s second house.

"You parry wisely," Alain said, "but the battle is not yet won. My king will not be captured," he vowed, and moved his Black queen’s bishop’s pawn one house.

Four moves later, Danielle’s White rook took the contrary pawn. She glanced at Alain just as he dabbed his brow with a linen square. He stuffed the cloth back in his vest pocket.

Quickly, he moved his Black queen to the king’s second house. He looked confident.

Keeping her expression cool, Danielle held her breath as her White knight checked at the contrary king’s bishop’s third house. She watched Alain’s self-satisfied expression melt as he thought to save his Black king.

Danielle leaned back against the cushions of her seat and took a deep breath. She released it and leaned forward trying not to bask in her moment of power. With a great deal of aplomb she moved her White queen to her King’s fourth house. "Checkmate," she said.

Jerking to his feet, Alain knocked several of the chessmen to the floor. "You lied," he said.

"I beg your pardon!"

"You said you did not play well."

"As I recall, I said no such thing. What I said was you might have to refresh my memory of the game. I guess I recalled more than I thought I would."

"You tricked me."

"You’re upset at losing. It was only a game," she cajoled. "You’re being silly."

"I hoped this game would bring about a truce, that you might confide in me. Now, Madame, I trust you less." He almost sneered.

Danielle rose, determined to maintain her composure. Alain’s pride had been seriously wounded by her win, but that was no excuse for his rude behavior. Eager to show him to the door, she let the shawl covering her legs drop to the floor as she stood. When she tried to sidestep him and the chess pieces scattered at their feet, the shawl caught under her slipper and she stumbled.

Alain lunged forward, catching her before she hit the floorboards. His face brushed her hair, causing it to come undone. She heard him catch his breath. "You seem to have a habit of falling, Madame Dumont."

Was it her imagination, or did he hold her a little closer than necessary? Finding it difficult to breath herself, Danielle gasped, "Lucky you stood near enough to break my fall." She turned toward him and inhaled his breath as he exhaled. "Thank you," she said, realizing his proximity was so intoxicating she could remain in his arms forever. She regretted it when he steadied her so she could stand on her own.

"I take my leave," Alain said, but lingered, not making the move to go. "As a stranger," he said, shifting uncomfortably where he stood, "you do not know it is not in my nature to be so illiberal. You won the game rightly and I accept your victory with the proper humiliation. I apologize for my behavior."

She stared into his eyes, glittering blue pools of remediation, and found all her irritation drowned in their depths. "It was only a game," she said. "Next time, you could just as easily win."

His laughter ended the uncomfortable breach between them. "Madame, I do not believe I will take that chance."

"I was lucky," she said lightly.

"Perhaps some of your luck will remain with me when you leave my château," Alain said, moving to withdraw from the room.

"I pray so," Danielle whispered when he had gone.

Chapter Six

Central heating was the one twentieth-century luxury Danielle particularly missed, and the large ornate ballroom, where she sought Alain’s manservant, Jean Paul, seemed especially cold. She shivered and crossed her arms, hugging them to her chest as she walked toward the dignified elder. If anyone could share intimate knowledge of the marquis, she assured herself, it would be his rather dour manservant.

Jean Paul finished giving a young helper instructions, then approached Danielle. "May I be of some service?" he asked her reservedly.

"I am curious," she motioned toward the young man. "How many men and women attend the château?"

"At present, my family, Madame, and my wife’s family. We have been blessed with many children, and other kindred, as well. All serve the Marquis of Andelys."

"You’ve been with the marquis long?"

"I was born here, Madame, and my father, and his father before him. It has always been so."

"The same with Marie Claire?"

"Yes, Madame," Jean Paul answered still a statue of solemnity.

"Since the Revolution, all have equality," Danielle said. "May I ask ... why do you stay on?"

The reserve abandoned Jean Paul’s aging eyes; they glittered almost dangerously. "I will never leave the marquis. To do so would be the greatest dishonor."

"I see," Danielle felt ill at ease, as if she should have known better than to have asked the question.

"Pardon, Madame, but I do not believe you understand." As his eyes met hers unreservedly, his faced flushed, the only sign that he was unused to such boldness.

"The marquis takes few privileges for himself," Jean Paul said. "Nay, it is our privilege to serve him. The Grandmaisons abdicated their feudal rights long ago. Nobility may have been abolished, but my marquis remains the most noble of all men."

"What does he do to so completely win your loyalty?"

Jean Paul thought for a moment, then answered, "The peasants of Andelys are free to hunt on the marquis’ estate. We are each given a share of the crops and his cider." Jean Paul’s watery gaze shifted toward morning’s light pouring in through the window and Danielle watched his face take on a fervent glow as he spoke. "None goes hungry by his hand. He personally pays our taxes to the church and crown out of the share of the produce he retains. When his lands revert to the new government, we may starve, and we will certainly be poorer, so we shall always honor him."

"Thank you for sharing this," Danielle sincerely said and clasped Jean Paul’s hand in hers. Her heart couldn’t help but be touched by Alain’s kindness and the devotion of his servant.

Jean Paul cleared his throat, severing the emotional moment. He seemed embarrassed and disengaged his hand from hers. "Will that be all, Madame? May I serve you some refreshment?"

"No thank you, Jean Paul. I’d like to be by myself for a while."

"Very well, Madame." He cleared his throat again as though he wished to say something further, but Babette entered the room and curtsied to Danielle.

"Father, shall I put the drawing room to rest?"

"Yes, child, and take the game table to the library."

Babette curtsied again and left the room.

"Is my daughter tending to your needs?" Jean Paul asked.

"Yes." Danielle smiled. "She’s exceptional."

"Very good, Madame." He bowed respectfully and in passing, Danielle thought she glimpsed a look of pleasure on his somber face. Jean Paul looked back and gave her a nod then left the ballroom, leaving her alone.

An enormous glittering chandelier dominated the formal ballroom. Vaulted ceilings climbed to a dizzying height above her head, broken only by the massive crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling. The great hall echoed with the sound of her footsteps as she crossed to one of the windows.

Draped with pale blue silk, the heavy glass framed a spectacular view of the river. The window’s panes shadowed the marble floor with crosses of black, and huge candelabras dripping with delicate crystals hung between the windows. Danielle imagined the ballroom must look magnificent at night bathed in romantic candlelight, colored by brilliant swirling gowns.

Imagining the dainty strains of the Minuet, she couldn't help taking a few turns around the empty chamber, wondering just how one moved to the music during this time. When she stopped, she felt completely foolish and glad no one was watching her dip and sway with an imaginary partner. She leaned back to rest against a wall.

Why was she here, she wondered? Was it because of her research, her search for the identify of the mysterious lady? Or was her journey to the eighteenth-century the fruit of frustration and loneliness--her life without Henry?

Alain, seemed frustrated and lonely, too. Melancholy showed in his art and in his stiff stance, for he used the body language of a defensive man. She frowned. He couldn’t even play a simple game of chess without turning it into a surly competition. The marquis excelled at stuffing his emotions. Someone needed to teach him how to relax.

Danielle felt certain he had wanted to kiss her when she tripped on the coverlet and fell into his arms. When he brushed her hair with his face as he caught her, she heard him seize a breath. Plainly, desire for her simmered just below the surface. She knew, of course, the historic men and women she studied had passions. Now, she realized their feelings were as contemporary as her own.

Somehow she had crossed the threshold of time to encounter the man she desired--the first man she had desired since Henry! She could not afford to waste the opportunity or her newly found responses. Lifting her cumbersome skirts she swiftly left the room. Ready or not, in competition with a legend, or not, she would face Alain Grandmaison and express all her unsettling feelings.

When she moved into the hall, an explosion of Edmund’s boyish laughter came from the vestibule directly above her head. She looked up.

"Come and play," he called through the banisters. Danielle steadied herself and smiled up at his happy face.

She never considered having a child with Henry because he required all her attention, a youngster himself in many ways. Yet she adored children, often spending her lunch break at Georgetown's Child Development Center. She especially cherished the time if she could sit with a small one coloring at a low table, or teach one of the nursery songs her mother had sung to her. And, now, Edmund, Alain’s son struck a chord in her heart ... she could really love him.

The full horror of the situation suddenly hit her. This precious youngster would soon have his life shattered by the finality of the Revolution!

"Will you come?" Edmund begged, bringing tears to her eyes.

Alain and my needs can wait, she decided. "A moment darling." Immediately she started up the stairs.

†

"What do you make of Madame Dumont?" Alain asked Jean Paul.

"It is not for me to say ... she is most curious about you, Monsieur Marquis."

"In what way?" Alain asked while staring at Danielle through a concealed vantage point. He made efficient use of the secret hiding-place nestled between the ballroom and his library in the tower to observe Danielle as she danced. The secret chamber, constructed long ago, was accessed from a concealed door in his turret library. From the hidden spot, through an intricate lattice that was viewed from the ballroom as a work of art, his ancestors had watched many a political intrigue. The small chamber was also used to hide gold, valuables, and contained a light provision of food and drink, should he be forced to use the room to hide himself and Edmund.

"Your character, Monsieur. I believe she seeks to understand your nature," Jean Paul said.

Alain felt instant distaste for his subterfuge. Still, he did not trust Danielle. Even during their rousing game of chess, he had not gained knowledge of her strategy. In fact, now he trusted her even less. By using this additional small measure of superficial deceit, he hoped to learn more about the mysterious Madame Dumont. Yet, as he watched her, what he gained was an increased desire to touch her, to kiss her. He longed to smell her fragrant hair again. The urges grew with each passing moment.

Eagerly he watched as she lifted the skirts of her chemise.

"Did you ever see so slender an ankle."

"No Monsieur, never."

While she swirled around the ballroom, Alain’s only wish was to join her in her graceful dance. How easy it would be to teach her the delicate and intricate movements of the Minuet that she obviously did not know. For a moment he allowed hope to fill his breast; someday he would bring music back to the château.

His joy evaporated. Those days are done, he remembered, and he caught himself just before he left his hiding place.

"Such a face," he murmured. On Danielle’s delicate countenance, briefly a step away from his, the dark and stormy depths of her eyes had softened to pools of mystical water. They illuminated the circles of her flushed cheeks. He burned to brush those rose petals with a kiss. God’s truth, in spite of his suspicions, he wanted her!

"Who sent her?" he hissed under his breath.

"I know not, my lord. Think you it was Agent Villandré?"

Alain really didn’t believe Danielle’s élan would have attracted Villandré; Jules Villandré’s style was direct torture, not the use of womanly wiles. Yet the ache Alain felt in his loins hurt as much as subtle torture.

"No, I think not." Alain said. He had to admit, if the woman's face betrayed her heart, he saw nothing mark her features that could harm him or those he loved. Her countenance had run the gamut of joy, pain, and sadness--not guile or evil. And when she finally exited his ballroom, her dark doe-like eyes mirrored desire, if he read them correctly--more puzzling still.

"Come." Alain tugged Jean Paul’s sleeve. While gathering his composure, Alain retraced his steps. "I will know the one who sent her, and why she is here."

"Yes, my lord." Jean Paul opened the secret panel door for the marquis to exit.

"I must confront her and end this ridiculous game." After all, Alain thought, he was the Marquis of Andelys!

When they exited the hidden chamber and moved from the library into the corridor, Alain almost collided with Marie Claire. "Where is Edmund?" he asked.

"Monsieur," she bowed her head demurely, "I left Edmund with Madame Dumont."

Alain cursed, forgetting his mission. He grabbed Marie Claire's plump arms and almost lifted her from the floor. "You left my son alone with someone about whom we know naught? Do you not remember my instruction? Have you lost all sense?"

Marie Claire's face showed her alarm and Alain released her. Jean Paul moved to stand next to his wife. "Forgive me," Alain apologized to both of them.

"I saw no harm, Monsieur," Marie Claire explained. "They are playing. When I left, Madame Dumont was singing a very charming song to Edmund."

Alain berated himself for being so suspicious while remaining physically aroused by Danielle, but the foreboding he felt for his child’s safety won out over his physical need. "I am a fool," he said as he bolted toward the stairway and up to Edmund’s nursery.

†

Under a canopy of bed linens Danielle and Edmund had fashioned into a tent, Danielle sat on the nursery floor, her blue gown pooled around her. Even without the playthings of the twentieth-century, the selection of Edmund’s toys amazed her. Carved wooden soldiers, an elaborate chess set, tops, balls, a complete soldier's outfit, and a child-sized stuffed pony were but a few of the treasures.

Edmund sprawled on the floor in front of her, dressed like a miniature man in a dark, brown wool cutaway jacket and close-fitting trousers. Danielle couldn't help thinking how much more comfortably he could play were he clothed in a pair of twentieth-century denims. She had helped him pull off his little boots and he wiggled his stockinged feet while she rolled a ball toward him. They sang the words of a folksong she taught him, "Are you sleeping, are you sleeping, brother John, brother John?" Danielle’s clear voice led Edmund’s light faltering words through the verse of childsong.

"Papa," Edmund shouted. Forgetting the ball and song, he jumped toward his father's arms.

"Edmund, child," Alain spoke, cradling the toddler and giving Danielle an accusing look.

"Papa, she sings beautiful songs and builds forts. She is my mama, isn’t she?"

Alain's gaze sliced the air between himself and Danielle. So that was her game, he thought. "Madame, you may cease ingratiating yourself with my son. The ploy shall gain you nothing."

He spoke softly and calmly to Edmund but his shimmering eyes did not leave Danielle’s face, "Ah, my poor boy, Madame Dumont is not your mother. You know your mother's name, Narissa."

"No, papa." Tiny tears began to drop from Edmund’s eyes.

Danielle rose to her feet, her hands clenched in fists of silent fury. "What purpose is served in making the child cry?"

"May I remind you, Edmund is my child." Alain’s voice was quiet yet held an undertone of contempt. "I do not know you. You have invaded my privacy and now Edmund’s nursery. It is best to protect the child with the truth. He must not believe you are his mother."

"Of course I’m not his mother, but how dare you imply I would harm the child." She started for Edmund, her hand outstretched to brush away his tears.

Alain turned him away from her touch. "I do not know what you would do, Madame, any more than I know your purpose in being here."

"Don’t worry about my ... my purpose. I will take my leave when Claude returns," she replied firmly. Gently, she reached again for Edmund. This time Alain failed to dodge her out-stretched fingers. She smoothed the wet streaks that marked Edmund’s cheeks. "Don’t cry precious. I'll find Marie Claire and you can teach her your new song."

Edmund buried his wet swollen face against Alain's coat and sobbed.

Danielle and Alain exchanged one furious look, then, feeling as if her head and heart would explode, Danielle left the nursery.

"Damn you. Damn you, Grandmaison," she cursed the name she had promised Henry she would make famous as she fled down the stairs. She hated the weakness of tears but felt their cruel sting. Her anger at Alain's brutal honesty and her own helplessness churned her thoughts and emotions. Alternating bits of anger and desire salted the wound. He was right--why should he trust her? He would never trust her! She would not discover the identity of the mystery woman nor be able to divulge her own feelings to him.

She considered what would happen if she left the château with Claude. She had no resources, no idea how to survive in the eighteenth-century, especially revolutionary France. The prospect terrified her.

Nor did she want to leave Alain. Whether he knew it or not, their lives were linked. Her damned pride had forced her to say she would do something she couldn't do. She must stay!

Raw emotions propelled her legs toward the main door, though she could feel drafts of damp cold sweeping across the floor to her feet. She tried to stamp some warmth into them. "What I wouldn't give for a pair of rag wool socks and my Polartec parka," she muttered.

Jean Paul seemingly emerged from the shadows. "Madame, please wrap yourself in this." He held out a length of red cloth. "The air grips the bone. You will catch a chill if you walk on the snow without a cloak." He placed the heavily padded red velvet wrap upon her shoulders and quickly fastened a clasp at her neck.

She stared down at the majestic dark red, as stark against her skin as blood against snow, and recognized the cloak at once as that worn by the mysterious woman in the portrait. "I can't wear this," she said with alarm. "It’s not mine."

"The marquis would wish you to wear it, Madame and, take the muff to warm your hands."

When he put soft white fur within her grasp, she hardly felt it. A chilling sensation doused her from head to toe, filling her with dread. Since her arrival she had not encountered or heard anyone speak of another woman in the château. Claude had told her there had been no woman for Alain since Narissa. Babette had said Alain turned away every woman Claude brought to the château. Horror reached her heart freezing it like dry ice. There was no mysterious woman! Some inexplicable force had determined she be here, to aid Alain, Edmund, and Claude in their escape. She had been searching for herself!

Shivering, she squeezed the lush snowy ermine, somehow knowing if she walked out the door with the cloak and muff, she would be accepting her fate, and all the responsibility that went along with it. As she already cared deeply for Alain, Edmund, and Claude, how could she not? She steadied herself and willed some measure of warmth to reclaim her veins. She ran a hand over the red velvet and across the soft fur.

"I wouldn't want to further displease the marquis." She suddenly felt quite calm, if not warm, and smiled up at Jean Paul. A hint of pleasure lifted the corners of his mouth before the craggy lines of his face again settled into a mask of respectable solemnity.

Reaching into the muff, she discovered a pair of soft gloves. She draped the muff on her arm and pulled the gloves over her hands and smoothed them up her arms. The white silk slipped under the edge of the cloak and reached her elbows.

She took the servant's hand and held it between her gloved palms. "Thank you for your kindness."

He withdrew his hand and opened the door for her. "Be most careful, Madame Dumont. The ground is quite slippery."

†

After quieting Edmund, Alain sought refuge in his studio hoping to still his own raging emotions with a few hours of painting. Standing before the canvas, he slashed a dark line on a winter’s scape of the château then regarded the result with disgust. He immediately dropped his palate and brush to a table, knocking over a vial of linseed oil in the process. He watched the oil run across the rough oak surface and trickle to the floor rather than stop the mess. It matched his mood. Alain wondered why everything he attempted to put on canvas appeared so melancholy. He longed to paint a bright, cheerful portrait.

Immediately, a subject came to mind. Danielle. He silently cursed the woman for lingering in his thoughts. She had looked so beautiful sitting on the floor with Edmund. Alain felt a flicker of shame for spoiling their moment together. Yet, he reminded himself, he did not know her, nor her purpose. Nonetheless, Madame Dumont would be a worthy subject for a gay composition. The Marquis of Andelys closed his eyes and allowed a vision of such a scene to enter his thoughts. He visualized Danielle surrounded by children playing ... playing in his garden! Her loose dark hair wafted gently in the breeze, and a gauze-like gown fluttered around her. At her feet, the children played happily digging at the earth. It was a scene of utter contentment.

Opening his eyes, Alain did not even glance at his work on the easel. Instead, he crossed the turret-room to one of the long windows. His gaze immediately focused on a solitary form some distance from the château. "Narissa’s cloak," he said and gripped the sides of the windows.

While he watched Danielle, one corner of his mouth tilted upward. Though Madame Dumont wore Narissa’s red wrap, Danielle could never be mistaken for the ghost of his wife. The strength of Danielle’s back and the grace of her form was unmistakable. A worthy subject, indeed, he thought, and as his body agreed, his vow not to love another woman shattered.

†

Strewn across the frozen ground stalks of golden hay stained a thin blanket of crystalline white. The pungent odor of the summer harvested straw pleasantly tickled Danielle's nose. Compared to the dark gritty sand and bland salt spread over snow and ice in the twentieth-century, the dried yellow stalks gave a much prettier and naturally safe footing as she walked away from the château.

While she briskly walked she inhaled the keen air, feeling it fill her lungs. Her ears, cheeks, and nose ached from the damp cold. Pulling the cloak's hood over her head, she immediately felt warmth from its heavy lining. Danielle passed a low stone bench conveniently placed for viewing the cliffs and river below.

In the far distance, the river curled around a high bank of snow-tipped trees, each springing from narrow crevices of chalk. A pale pink horizon met the frosted white like perfect icing for the sugar-cake view.

While she admired the frozen pastoral beauty before her, she pondered her fate. If she accepted she was the woman of whom Claude wrote in his journal and the woman in the painting, that meant she acknowledged preordained destiny. Had it been preordained she find Claude’s diary ... that Henry should depart from their life together? How could she, an educated woman from the twentieth-century readily accept that these happenings weren’t merely coincidences? Was it destined she help save the marquis and his son? Immediately, she knew it didn’t matter whether it was fate or coincidence. She would do whatever circumstance required because, quite simply, she loved Alain, Edmund, and Claude.

She recalled the power ebbing just beneath the strength of Alain’s hands bracing her when she swooned in his room on her arrival to the eighteenth-century. Was it that moment she began loving him? Though Danielle didn’t know many songs, she began humming, then singing the first verse of a favored melody that expressed her emotions, "Some say love it is a river that drowns the tender reed." She could almost dive into the blue depths of Alain’s eyes and willingly drown there. "Some say love it is a razor that leaves your soul to bleed." It hurt so knowing he believed she might harm his son and perhaps despised her for it. "Some say love it is a hunger, an endless aching need." She wanted Alain to need her as much as she needed him at this moment. "I say love, it is a flower, and you, its only seed." Lost in the melody of her twentieth-century music and her desire for the eighteenth-century man, she didn’t hear Alain approach her from behind.

"That cloak," he cried.

Danielle swirled toward the strangled tone of his voice. The marquis stood behind her, a forbidding spire of black, softened only by the creamy silk at his throat.

"Forgive me." She stroked the red garment. "When I started outside, Jean Paul insisted I wear something warm. It's so beautiful." Interpreting Alain's stricken face as grief over her use of Narissa's cloak, Danielle unfastened the gold clasp under her chin.

"I’ll remove it at once. I can see I've offended your memory of your wife."

"No!" he protested. "You do not understand. She never wore the cloak."

"I'm sorry. You must have loved the marquise very much to have given her such a gift ... one she had no chance to wear."

Alain slumped to the stone bench immediately behind him and held his head in his hands. "You believe I loved Narissa?" His lips pressed against his teeth and his jaw hardened as he voiced a bitter sigh. "When she died I detested her. She cared not for me one day of our union." He looked up at Danielle with eyes full of misery. "She loathed the garments I bought her. In truth, at the end, I suppose I acquired them to torment her."

"You cannot mean that!" Danielle interrupted.

Her exclamation failed to deter him, "The day she died I gathered her dull drab things and burned them all. I even buried her in the brightest of all the gowns I had gifted her." He paused, his hardened, pained eyes remembering. "Cerise." One side of his grim mouth lifted a little after his eyes traveled the length of Danielle's crimson wrapped form. "You would have appeared exquisite in it, just as you do in the cloak."

Danielle went to the Marquis of Andelys, instinctively recognizing need beneath the bitterness. He was visibly trembling. She cradled his face in her hands.

"Stop," Alain almost groaned. "You must not ..."

Danielle skimmed her thumbs across his lips. She said, "Don't think of those times if they ... "

Before she could finish, Alain took hold of her arms and pulled her down to meet his needy mouth. Once such power would have frightened her, but she recognized beneath the marquis’ strength a simmering want for affection perhaps deeper than her own.

When she eased over and sat on his lap, he gradually relaxed the forceful insistence of his mouth. A low moan escaped Danielle while he filled her mouth with his tongue. His arms roved under her cloak. Masterful hands played upon her back and her shoulders where Narissa's blue gown left her skin bare. He touched her as she had never been touched before, coaxing feelings of unbridled delight to surface. The thrill drained her heart then pumped it full again; her blood begged for more.

While Alain stroked her shoulders, she caressed his neck and the back of his head with her gloved fingers. She felt his tight neck muscles ease through the thin fabric of her gloves. His kisses continued in intensity, as they lost their ferocity, and she found she quite enjoyed the brusque brush of his lips as they played above her mouth and across her face. They did so again, and again, then his warm intoxicating breath filled her ear.

"Madame, who, in God's name has sent you to torment me?" he challenged softly, yet did not release her.

Danielle felt some of the torment of which he accused her. "I can tell you this," her voice dropped to a sultry whisper while she tightened her hold on him, "here with you, I could forget from where I came."

She felt him tense and immediately regretted her answer. His lips moved back over her face to taste hers briefly. Sighing deeply, he broke her hold and gently shifted her off his lap onto the cold stone bench, distancing himself from her, again. His flushed face resumed its cynical expression while he regarded her. He skimmed her right cheek and swollen lips with the inside of his forefinger.

"Whoever paid for your services should not be disappointed, Madame." A chilling tone had reclaimed his voice.

Danielle stared at his inert mouth, silently begging him to resume kissing her. She had managed to touch his heart briefly and felt deep regret the moment was gone. She wished he didn't insist on answers, and simultaneously noticed his eyes had darkened dangerously.

"You are quite the seductress." There was no mirth in his claim as he rose. Folding his arms across his broad chest, he assumed a challenging stance.

"Very well, Madame Dumont." The corner of his mouth inched upward causing his dark face to look the part of a brigand. "Why should I not take advantage of your singular talents?" His eyes glistened dangerously like diamond cut glass. He appeared a man completely changed from the tormented noble who had needed her minutes before. Lifting a lock of her hair that had escaped its pins with his left hand, he wound it around his fingers and pulled it slightly toward him. "I will expect you to display your wares in my chambers tonight, and tonight," he pulled her hair even tighter, "you will reveal the devil who delivered you to me."

Alain abruptly released her hair. Giving her a formidable glance, he stepped over the low bench and strode purposefully back to the château without glancing back.

Massaging her scalp where he had pulled her hair, Danielle knew she should be alarmed at the turn of events. Alain Grandmaison had displayed a cruel side of his nature. The professor Dumont would be offended. She continued rubbing her head knowing her degrees meant nothing to an eighteenth-century aristocrat accustomed to having his way, nor, any longer to her.

She certainly didn’t feel like a twentieth-century professor. Instead, she felt like the wanton he accused her of being. His challenge had not disturbed her, it had merely whetted her appetite. She wet her lips then gently bit her lip while she watched Alain Grandmaison stalk away, quite like an angry little boy, for she found herself anticipating rather than challenging the marquis' summons.

By the time Jean Paul closed the door after Alain, Danielle had formulated a plan of her own. Alain Maximilien Grandmaison had never crossed the path of a liberated, intelligent woman from the twentieth-century--one who could be both honest and artful while pleasing a man.

The corners of her lips lifted most wickedly as she rose to return to the château. Calculated determination sharpened her anticipation of the night to come. Alain didn’t trust her, nor was he ready to accept she had come from the twentieth-century, but for tonight she would forget about earning his trust. Tonight the marquis would be surprised by a female schooled by the cinema, literature, and two marriages, on how to satisfy a man! If the Marquis of Andelys could reveal two distinctively different personalities, so could she. Before the night was done, Alain Maximilien Grandmaison would be willing to pay any price for her attendance in his extravagant bed.

Chapter Seven

"Babette, you must help me! Did the marquis store any of Narissa's peignoir's?"

"Yes, Madame."

Danielle carefully regarded the adolescent girl who worshipfully stared back at her, and knew she had a feminine ally for her plan. "Excellent! Where are they? I would like to borrow one for this evening."

Babette dashed across the room. Lifting a heavy blue cloth, she exposed a beautiful leather-bound trunk. She bent over to grasp a leather strap and with all her might tugged the trunk a few inches away from the wall. She gasped from the exertion. "They are all inside, Madame. All carefully folded and preserved." She looked sideways at Danielle and grinned coquettishly. "Perhaps for you, Madame?"

"Umm, perhaps," Danielle answered, playing up to the girl's romantic notions, but it was simple seduction on Danielle's mind. She joined Babette at the side of the trunk. "They certainly built these things to last," she labored each word, as she and Babette struggled to lift the leather-hinged trunk lid. It gave with a thud. A strong odor of lavender immediately filled the room. Danielle fanned the air in front of her nose.

"The marquise's favorite scent," Babette explained without Danielle asking. Babette pinched her tiny crinkled nose and both females laughed.

Babette carefully rummaged through several layers of lace, ribbons, and silk, and pulled out a yellow swath of gauze. "This is the petticoat." She handed it to Danielle and rummaged some more. "Exquisite! This white negligee will be perfect, Madame." She draped the snowy white silk over the strong yellow. "Oooo, the ruffles around the neck and sleeves will make you appear sooo feminine."

Danielle took the negligee from Babette and slipped it over her chemise. The soft fabric made her feel seductive. Babette was right; the ruffles added femininity. One simple rose ribbon held the flirtatious white robe together. Danielle hoped the ribbon could be easily tugged loose.

"Do you wear the skirt beneath?"

"Yes."

"It seems a lot of clothing."

Babette giggled. "The layers create mystery, Madame," she giggled some more.

"You know a lot to be so young."

"Yes, Madame." She giggled again.

Danielle had taken time to consider her plan of pleasure, and at some point the idea had entered her head to appear the innocent. She was sure Alain would expect her to be painted and garish when he sought the fulfillment of his command. She would surprise him with an aura of calculated innocence--enticing innocence.

"Are there any white stockings in the trunk?"

"Naturally."

"Garters?"

"But of course." Babette pulled out both stockings and pink silk garters embellished with tiny ribbon rosettes. "Ooo, la, la, Madame," she purred triumphantly and lifted a pair of white brocade mules. A trio of jewels glittered at each toe.

Danielle immediately slipped them on her feet. The slippers barely fit, but they did, and they were gorgeous.

"Babette, I will need hot water, milk, and honey for a beauty bath, rose water, and someone to dress my hair."

"May I, Madame?"

"I want it loose and very curly. Can you manage that?"

"Oh, yes, Madame." Babette’s eyes glistened at the possibility of being allowed to take care of Danielle’s hair.

"Very well. And I need candles, as many as you can find. What time does the marquis usually retire?"

"It varies, Madame." Babette smiled most wickedly for such a young face. "I think tonight, it will be early."

†

"Where is our ... house guest, Jean Paul?"

"I am informed, monsieur, the lady dined in her chambers."

"Ah," was all Alain could think to respond. He looked down the long expanse of mahogany table. It was difficult for him to admit he missed Danielle's company this evening even though he did not trust her. He picked at his cabbage, feeling chagrined at his treatment of her earlier in the day. That afternoon, he had wanted to hurt her and make her want him at the same time. He could not blame her for keeping to her chambers.

"More claret," Alain muttered.

Jean Paul motioned to a serving lad who immediately moved forward to refill Alain's goblet.

Alain drained the wine, put down the goblet, and pushed his plate away. "Have Marie Claire bring Edmund to my chambers. I should like to bid him good night there this evening."

"Very good, monsieur. Will there be anything else?"

"No, that will be all." Alain stood casting a long somber shadow over the remains of his meal. "Tell cook the venison was especially tender this evening."

"Very good Excellency."

Departing the dining room, Alain paused and glanced longingly up toward the bedchambers. He briefly considered the only two women who had occupied the bridal suite during his lifetime--Narissa, a tight lipped shrew, and now Danielle, the woman whose soft pliable mouth had kissed him warmly and, dare he admit it, moved his miserly heart.

The thought made him uncomfortable. He hesitantly strode to the stairs. "Where do I go from here?" he grumbled, now attacking the steep steps two at a time. Narissa had stripped away all his trust of women. He paused and looked up toward Danielle’s suite again. In these dangerous times he dared not hope Danielle, however charming, could conjure that trust again. He shook his head as though to repeal the thought.

"Claude will simply have to accept his defeat and remove Danielle when he returns," he said. Alain could not, for a moment, allow himself to believe Villandré had hired Madame Dumont--she was not the type of woman who would consort with him. Nor could he conceive of anyone else who would have employed her. Her presence had to be Claude’s doing.

He felt absolutely miserable by the time he entered the privacy of his room. He yanked off his gold braided coat and stripped the white stock from his neck. While unbuttoning his short wool vest, he retrieved his dressing gown from the chair next to his desk. As a rule he gave little thought for his own clothing, but he cherished the heavy burgundy silk robe decorated with darker purple feathers. The garment had been given him by his revered Rousseau years before.

Sinking to the closest chair, he covered himself with the worn garment's familiar warmth. What would Rousseau have done about Danielle? Enjoyed her, he immediately knew. Rousseau's philosophy about women was that they could only find their happiness in pleasing men. While Rousseau had been right about many things, Alain was not quite sure if this was one of them. He smiled as he remembered his mentor. Arranging the intimate folds of heavy silk duteously about his legs, Alain thought back to when he was a lad of ten.

He sat at the feet of an aging Jean-Jacque Rousseau, who was wearing the robe. Alain's father, with his snowy hair and furrowed brow, had stood behind the scholarly man, appearing even more wise than the philosopher.

Rousseau spoke, "Everywhere I see men in chains," he laid his hand on Alain's head, "the laborous poor bereft of their natural rights. The present order of society has made man increasingly vile and unhappy. Your generation must win back the rights of nature and the equality mankind once enjoyed."

"Perhaps," Alain's father interrupted, "yet I have heard you say many times that you would rather be dead than be taken for an ordinary man." He took a moment to fill and pass Rousseau a tumbler of brandy. "At least admit you enjoy my hospitality?"

Rousseau brandished the goblet handed him briefly under his nose. He closed his eyes in approval of the rich aromatic fumes. "Even I sin," he said, then he opened his eyes and scowled. "Society has put all in bondage. A revolution may be needed to right such things."

"Absurd!" Alain's father remarked.

Alain looked with alarm from his mentor to his father.

"Let me moderate my words then." Rousseau paused, choosing carefully. "Man must regain his freedom ... his purpose in life." He looked down pointedly at Alain. "Your only means of freeing yourself will be to lead a good life. Every man has a right to hope for enlightenment when he makes himself worthy."

"Mind Jean's words, boy," his father advised. "You cannot erase the fact that you are a marquis, my son. You can give each man, woman, and child for whom you will one day be responsible, a chance for a decent life. You must pay them for their work, not hold them in bondage. If you do this, you offer them their own means to freedom. In turn, they will respect you and, if you are fortunate, toil well."

When Rousseau left Château sur la Falaise he presented Alain his robe and asked Alain to don it occasionally, think of him fondly, and to remember 'old Rousseau's' teachings.

Alain drew the ponderous silk gift more tightly about his frame. On this eve, not only his reaction to Danielle troubled him. Rousseau's forecast of revolution had long come to pass. Louis XVI, King of France, was about to meet Madame the Guillotine.

His father's words and Rousseau's prediction lay heavy on his heart. Alain had lived and managed as his father and as Rousseau instructed; every man and woman in his employ had been treated fairly. That, and Robespierre’s respect for his family’s relations with the philosopher, were the only reasons Alain still lived. But the marquis realized he could not continue to be responsible for those serving Château sur la Falaise. Villandré would soon come for him.

He rose slowly, more weighted by his thoughts than by the heavy robe. Leaning toward a frosted window, he gazed toward Grand Andelys and wondered if any of them could truly secure equalité and liberté in this erupting society.

†

"Papa," little Edmund yelped joyously.

Alain turned then stooped to his legacy's level as his son rushed to him. He put his arms about Edmund's energetic frame. "What can the future hold for us?" Alain whispered in Edmund’s small ear. "I know not what to do."

"What do you mean, papa?"

Alan held the boy out at arms' length and noted his miniature furrowed brow. He saw his own face in the boy's, though Edmund’s expression mirrored virgin thoughts, waiting for a father's counsel.

"I wish I had some words of wisdom for you," he said to his son. "Words you could carry in your heart that would help you mold an enduring future."

"When I grow up, I want to be just like you."

"No!" Alain alarmed by his own vehemence, glanced across the room to Marie Claire, who waited by the door. She frowned her own disapproval of his tone.

"No, my son," he said more gently. "You will be true to yourself. Truly you will always have part of me with you, but you will be your own man--a marquis," he finished proudly. He held his son tenderly for a moment then kissed his cheek. "Let us say our good nights now."

"May we say good night to Madame Dumont?"

Alain stiffened.

"Please papa? She will be lonely with no one to hear her prayers."

Losing some of his stiffness, Alain smiled slightly. "You care for Madame Dumont?"

"Oh, yes," Edmund stuck out his lower lip in a disarming pout. "I know she is not my real mother," he sighed, "but she sings so beautifully. Do you not think so, papa?"

"Yes ... I suppose she does." He remembered the unusual melody, a love song, he presumed, she sang when he had approached her outside the château. Taking Edmund’s small hand in his, he stood. "Very well." A muscle quivered at his jaw as he relented. "You may say your prayers to Madame Dumont. Perhaps she will sing you a cradlesong before sleep."

†

Babette opened the door and immediately dropped to a curtsey. "Monsieur. The Marquis of Andelys," she announced.

From her seductive position upon the bed, Danielle coyly watched Alain enter the room, until she noticed her smaller visitor. "Edmund!" She felt her face flush at the risqué image she must present.

"A blush becomes you in your present state of dishabille," Alain remarked. He and Edmund approached the bed while Danielle slid down from her perch. "Edmund has come for you to hear his prayers--a great honor."

Holding out a hand to Edmund, Danielle stepped forward willing herself to recover. "It is an honor ... a pleasure."

Edmund accepted her trembling hand. Delight colored his face a rosy pink. "Why are there so many candles?" He looked up at her innocently and hurried on, not waiting for her to answer. "It is better than chapel! Marie Claire or Babette usually hear my prayers--sometimes papa. Tonight you and papa will hear them together!"

Danielle glanced at Alain for a sign of objection. He nodded curtly but affirmatively.

"Of course we will," she said, "but I have never heard someone's prayers before. How does one go about it?"

"You and papa must sit together." He ran to a small settee situated close to the fire. "Here." He patted the seat's scarlet cushion and gleefully waited for them to come to him.

Alain stepped forward as she sat cautiously and arranged the folds of her negligee to cover as much as possible. She tried to remain solemn for the occasion, but she couldn't help but smile inwardly. Initially he appeared to relish her embarrassment when he brought Edmund into the room. Now discomfort was written all over Alain's face as he squeezed in next to her. His left leg pressed against her right limb. She could feel his nervousness straining his muscles. His leg felt like steel.

Edmund knelt before them, balancing himself by placing one small warm hand on Danielle's knee and the other on Alain's. For a moment, Danielle imagined Edmund a conduit for the current that instantly passed between them. She felt Alain's leg tighten further then relax and she hoped he experienced the same jolt.

Removing his hands, Edmund pressed his little palms together, closed his eyes and began, "Blessed Virgin Mary, thank you for today. Keep me safe on the morrow. Bless Marie Claire, Jean Paul, Babette, and everyone who takes care of me. Bless Piqué, my pony, and André, who grooms him and all the other horses. Bless papa, and Madame Dumont ... and, dear, sweet, Mary, I wish she were my mama."

Tears instantly welled in Danielle's eyes. One trickled down her cheek but she kept her eyes closed. She felt Alain gently wipe the moving droplet away with his thumb. Raising her damp lashes, she looked toward him, meeting his unexpectedly tender gaze. Suddenly, she felt ashamed for her ruse. The plan of seduction had been a mistake.

Edmund took a deep breath. "And, bless the King, the Queen, and the Dauphin, and ... my mama in heaven." He sped through the last phrase.

In the quiet, Danielle detected Alain's shallow irregular breathing. In the crackling fire a piece of charred wood moved. The sound of sniffles reached her from the direction of Marie Claire and Babette who stood watch at the door. "Very well done, Edmund," Danielle whispered, breaking the hush.

Alain quickly crossed himself and cleared his throat, "Yes, extremely well said."

"Would you like to pray now?" Edmund asked Danielle.

"I think I will give my thanks after I'm in bed," she answered.

Alain cupped Edmund’s chin and placed his other hand on his son's head. "Time for sleep." He lifted Edmund and carried him to Marie Claire. "Take him." He kissed his son. "I shall see you in the morning, Edmund. Sleep well."

Edmund rubbed his tired eyes. "Papa, you promised she would sing."

"Tomorrow I’ll teach you a new verse," Danielle vowed.

"Good night." Edmund waved.

She blew him a kiss.

"Madame?" Babette questioned, waiting for further instructions.

"Thank you, Babette. You may attend me in the morning."

†

After the door quietly closed, Danielle stood in the candlelight of dozen's of flickering candles. Her heart sparked as quickly as the lapping flames.

Seeing Alain move toward her, anxiety knotted her stomach and immobilized her. He stopped but inches from her quivering form. "You know we must not do this," she said. She closed her eyes, afraid to look at Alain again, or even to breathe.

"No, we must not." he answered.

Danielle heard him take another step toward her. The sweet intoxicating scent as he exhaled so close to her face, overwhelmed her.

"We must not ... be afraid," he said, and pulled her gently into the circle of his arms.

When his mouth found hers, she flinched beneath its scalding pressure; she had not expected they would draw together with such need. Alain's large warm hands cradled her head, and his testing tongue probed then abandoned her clinging mouth to shower every inch of her face with silky, gossamer kisses. Though she knew she should be resisting, not responding so quickly and naturally to his maneuvers, she could not stop. The tide of passion had pulled her under. For her, there was no retreat.

Returning his sweet kisses wherever her lips could find his face she tasted his slightly salty skin, marveling at how the taste and smell of him could make her feel so happy.

Kissing each of her eyelids gently, he dipped to her neck, leaving the moist claiming mark of his lips as he made his way down to the base of her throat, then between her breasts. She clutched at his hair while he traced her skin with his tongue down to her navel. Just when she lost all sense of equilibrium, he lifted her in his arms.

The weightless impression of floating sustained Danielle to the bed where Alain deposited her on a soft downy cloud. Let loose in a free-fall of long sweltering want, she couldn’t even feel the thin silk of her negligee between them. Only bonding with his heated flesh mattered as he lay next to her and drew her into his arms.

His hand slipped under her negligee and cupped her breast. With his other hand he pulled the ribbons on her peignoir and bared her front.

Eyes still closed, she fumbled with the sash of his dressing gown until he released her to remove the heavy silk himself. She heard it drop to the floor.

"Open your beautiful eyes, sweet one."

Danielle did so with difficulty. She felt a strange elixir wash through her, slowing her every movement. Her eyes felt heavy as if a magician’s spell held her hostage.

"You are so lovely in the light of the candles," he ran his fingertips down her arm and up again to her breast. "Your skin glows like new honey.

"Do not feel you must bed with me," he continued. "It was not my intention to come to you tonight." He cleared his throat as though the apology was difficult for him. "I regret commanding you to my chambers. It was as though a demon possessed me when I did so. I would have respected your privacy this evening, but for Edmund." His voice changed to one of pleading. "Will you have me leave, now?"

Raising her torso slightly from the bed, she took his right hand and placed it on her breast, pressing his palm into her flesh. "I know you don’t trust me, but trust this: I don’t want you to leave. I want you to make love to me, now."

A hungry growl from the depth of Alain’s throat was more intimate than words. He kissed her deeply, thrusting his tongue forward to fill her mouth. Simultaneously, his hands slid down to remove her yellow petticoat. Danielle lifted her hips from the bed, accommodatingly, then sat up breaking the kiss to undo his trousers, pulling them down over his hips and strong thighs. She fell back again into the silk when he stood to remove them.

Danielle hadn't gone so far as to imagine Alain naked, but the disrobed marquis stood tall, heated, and glorious. One side of his dark brown hair had come loose from the lacing that held it back at the base of his neck. Deep chestnut strands draped down over his cheek. His face, flushed by passion, was roughened by a day's growth of beard, and his amazing blue eyes, now rimmed with black, gazed down at her intensely. His expression was different from the other emotions she had seen color his face. Now his facial muscles flexed with desire. Yet there was tenderness there, too, and for the moment, no suspicion.

His body arched above hers, with his firm well-molded muscles sent thrills of anticipation to her center. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist before widening again with the strong muscles of Alain’s thighs and legs. Curling tufts of deeper chestnut decorated the hollows of his chest and pillowed the point of his manhood.

Kneeling beside the bed, Alain gently removed her slippers. Then he came forward, sliding a hand up each of her silk-covered legs until his warm hands met the flesh of her thighs. She never dreamed his hands would feel so warm, so tantalizing. She almost moaned from wanting.

Deliberately, he bent to her, cupping her breasts like the most precious jewels while he tasted her flesh. She thought she could die from the sensations his probing tongue created. Just when she thought she could stand no more, he circled a nipple with his warm wet tongue, he suckled it gently.

"You taste like nectar for the Gods," he whispered, then flicked her nipple again with his tongue.

"Alain," she whimpered in response to his sweet teasing, "please, make love to me."

"I will," he taunted, "when it is time." He silenced her by claiming her breast then, after a long suckle, her lips again.

Blood pounded to Danielle’s brain, leaving her emptied, and wanting more. She took him in her hands, feeling his muscular firmness--the stirring heat of his own longing for her, and she caressed him, hopeful she showed her reverence for his power.

While his mouth continued to possess hers, his hands explored her body, caressing each curve, every hollow, until his fingers found the most sensitive abode of her longing.

"Oh my God, please, now!" Danielle demanded.

He instantly pressed himself against her, his hardness driving her to action. She wrapped her legs around Alain's waist; he needed no additional guidance.

Her pleasure was instant, pure, and explosive. She couldn't control her soft cry of delight; moans of ecstasy repeatedly slipped through her lips.

"Slowly ... slowly," he begged, his voice raw and ragged, and Danielle wondered why rapture sounded so much like pain.

After her own rippling sensations had abated, she allowed him to take control of their pace, meeting his thrusts rhythmically as a silver current flowed between them.

Finally the ardor of his thrusts mounted, and when he, too exploded, she abandoned herself completely to the voltage of sterling passion.

†

Danielle cradled her backside against the warm curvature of Alain's body. Distant parts of him felt merely tepid where her skin touched his, but the portions of his anatomy that fit perfectly where her own pulse beat, nearly scalded her skin. Just above and just below this heated area a fever raged that soon had her once again turned into his arms.

Now their lovemaking took a deliberate, luxurious pace. Danielle enjoyed extreme sweetness as Alain stroked her and teased her until, finally, they again quenched the fires each tendered in the other.

Afterward, his heavy, warm body lay cloaked over hers. His thick mane of hair long spilled from its ill-tied lace veiled her face, and he held her hands almost pushing them down into the bed.

"My legs are numb," she whispered.

"Pardon." He released her hands and rolled off her body to settle near her left side, propping himself up on his right forearm. He gazed down at her face for the first time since they had begun making love, and smiled, sending the after flush of passion into the crevasses and across the planes of his face. Danielle thought that smile a happy miracle.

"You astound me," he said. Tenderly, he brushed her hair from her forehead then stroked his finger tips lightly down her cheek, neck, and over the top of her right breast. He rested his full palm on the mound of her quivering sensitive abdomen. His delicate touch stimulated her nerve endings again, making her nipples hard. It was the comfortable arousal of belonging to someone. He noticed her response and pleasingly smiled again.

"Do you need sleep?"

"I am afraid to sleep," she answered.

He challenged her with a questioning glance.

"I'm afraid if I close my eyes, I'll lose you. I'm afraid when I wake, I'll discover none of this happened."

"My sweet love," he said tenderly and bent his head to kiss her, "touch me. I am real."

She draped her arms around him and pulled him closer, pressing against his dewy skin. "Yes." She licked his ear, tasting salt. "Yes, you are real." She slid her hands down his torso, over his hips, pressing her fingertips into his firm thighs. "Very real. What happens now?"

He shifted his body to study her face in the flickering candlelight. "That," he said very quietly, is up to you."

"Yes," she answered wishing their conversation didn't have to become so serious, so soon. "Of course." She clasped his fingers and kissed his knuckles. The scent of their lovemaking bathed the hand just as it permeated the air around them. "It is so late," she reminded him. "Tomorrow I will confess everything, where I came from, how I came to be in your château, and, my love," she paused to nibble his lips, "tomorrow, whether you are ready or not, I will reveal to you your future."

THE FOE
Chapter Eight

As the jubilant roar of the crowd, which had gathered at the Place De La Revolution, faded to a bloodhungry murmur, a young woman lifted her dirty silk skirts from out of the mud and pulled a sobbing boy close to her side.

"We are together, Philippe. Do not be afraid. Stop crying," she said in a soothing voice.

"I am so cold," the boy complained.

The mademoiselle instinctively reached for something to shield her little brother from the December day, but the French Revolutionaries had not only stolen her life, they had robbed her of her warm woolen cloak.

Jules Villandré prodded the girl forward with his fist, jostling her toward a waiting tumbrel. "Up with you. No more nonsense, and quiet that sniveling brat. Soon he will cry no more, eh."

"Where is my father?" the girl asked. Her voice faltered slightly, the only evidence of her fear.

"The Count of Montagne waits for you, my dear, with ten more of your kind. We will see how well you so-called 'nobility' stand up before the executioner's hand. Soon your blood will spill, but only after your father has taken his turn." A smile played about the edges of Villandré's cruel mouth. "After all, noblesse oblige."

"Father? Where have you taken my father ?" Philippe asked.

"Silence!" Villandré slapped Philippe on the side of the face, the impact knocking him to the ground. "Shut up," he repeated, lifting and flinging the lad up into the cart.

The girl spat down at Villandré. Her eyes glittered with hatred. Turning to Philippe, she tried to comfort her brother, but she could not still his tears.

Jules Villandré swiped at the spittle on his face with his dirty lace sleeve, and hoisted the cart's tailgate. The horse-drawn wagon rattled forward.

After watching the cart loaded with unkempt men, women, and children lumber slowly out of the cobblestone plaza of the prison, Villandré lifted his gaze to a black tower window. "I will soon have you, all of you ... your majesty," he mockingly addressed King Louis XVI who was imprisoned high within the Temple. Villandré’s face fairly glistened with sweat, spittle, and anticipation. He listened closely for the cruel jeers the wagon full of ill-fated passengers would endure when they encountered the angry crowd awaiting them.

His gaze drifted downward to the cobblestones and another name entered his thoughts: Grandmaison. "Grandmaison," he repeated the name slowly, malice shaping each syllable.

So far, as Robespierre's commissioner, Villandré still had not brought the Marquis of Andelys, Alain Grandmaison, to justice. The failure gnawed at him, clouding his future.

There were those in the outlying provinces of France, including the marquis, who had escaped the Terror and the fate of their peers. Robespierre had promised him a prominent post on the French Assembly when his task of bringing in all the traitors to France was complete, and the ambitious Villandré was not one to shirk his duty as a citizen.

Though he longed to remain in Paris, tomorrow he would return to Normandy and his offices in Andelys. His first official task would be to call on Château sur la Falaise and see to it that Alain Grandmaison did not escape his turn with Madame Guillotine.

A loud cheer from the distance broke into his thoughts. "Ah, that would be the head of the Count of Montagne." Villandré added his own taunting laugh to the finality of the fray.

†

Once Danielle gave her most intimate gift to Alain, she accepted the fact she had risen to a plateau from which she could not withdraw. She had completely shed her twentieth-century role, and exchanged her body without artifice and without hesitation.

Alain had accepted her as she was now, a woman filled to the brim with desire. Her needs had spilled with his every touch and he had absorbed and stilled her longing making her somehow ... different.

During the night she had drawn the pleasurable sensations of lying near to him, close, like a warming mantle of wool. With the warmth came the decision she would tell Alain all, and quickly. She would do whatever she must to make him believe she was from the twentieth-century. She, Alain, and Edmund would leave France together. She would ignore displaced responsibility and challenge the Fates in order to be with him.

Having made these decisions, she opened her eyes to the pale dawn and stirrings of morning. The empty space next to her on the rumpled sheets instantly roused a peculiar reaction in the pit of her stomach. Just as quickly, a knock came at the door. "Come in," Danielle said.

Babette entered carrying a china service and crossed the room to the tea table. She grinned from ear to ear. "The marquis wishes you to join him for breakfast, Madame."

Relaxing, Danielle stretched back on the pillows and practically purred. She felt completely satisfied. This wasn’t a dream. Love had truly entered her life and was continuing with the new day.

Babette put the tray down on the table and poured Danielle a cup of cocoa. She brought it to her. "While Madame has her chocolate, shall I select a gown?"

"Please," Danielle said, enjoying being pampered by Babette.

"I think the green embroidered with pearls and rosebuds today, Madame. Your cheeks are flushed," Babette noticed, "the dark velvet band at the bodice and hem will tame your coloring." She removed the gown from the wardrobe and spread it on the foot of the bed.

"Yes, that’s the one. Hurry," Danielle said, suddenly impatient to be with Alain.

Babette took the empty cup from Danielle then poured some water from an ewer into a basin for her to wash.

Fairly leaping out of bed, Danielle took the few steps to the basin, missing a few footfalls along the way. The water was so cold it took her breath away when she splashed her face. Babette’s service was luxurious, but Danielle thought she would trade it in a minute for a hot shower. Ready or not, she thought, as she held her breath and splashed again.

†

Alain stood when Danielle entered the dining room and studied her appreciatively. She was so beautiful, like a priceless jewel. On her the green and rose gown shimmered like a cloth woven of emeralds and opals. It fit elegantly, and in her face was reflected the remembrance of the passionate night before. Her shining dark hair was pulled back close to her head enhanced by her provocative eyes framed by raven’s wing brows and silken lashes. He had steeled himself to resume a distance from Danielle until he knew her purpose in being at the château, but the tilt of her chin and the lilting shape of her mouth caused all his rational thoughts to flee. How, in a few day’s time, had she banished his proud caution? He wondered this in the few moments it took him to reach her and take her in his arms. "Good morning, my love," he whispered. Her appearance had quite captured his breath, as well as his soul. Alain eagerly tasted her lips.

"A wonderful morning," she responded when she could, feeling dizzy from his ardor.

"I rose early, as is my custom. I hope you do not mind."

"Of course not." Danielle lowered her lashes. She suddenly felt shy.

"There is much to do today." Alain cupped her chin with his fingertips and tipped her face up until she was forced to meet the candor of his blue eyes. He smiled and lightly kissed her on the mouth again. "Come, he said when the kiss was done. "Let us break our fast while I tell you my plans." Alain put his hand at her waist and escorted her to the table.

Silver gleamed on white starched napery in the morning’s light, and Danielle noticed the long table was set for three. A boy dressed in the château’s blue and gold livery stepped forward and pulled Danielle’s chair back.

After she was seated, Alain turned to the server. "Please see that my son joins us after he has had his meal and is dressed."

The boy nodded then exited the room.

"Biscuit?" Alain motioned to another young man who presented Danielle a pannier of rolls and sweets. From the fragile pastry basket, Danielle chose an airy confection topped with spun sugar while Alain poured chocolate from a silver pot.

"Today," he paused in his pouring and flashed a beautiful smile toward Danielle, "we will make our plans to leave France. After breakfast, Edmund will stand with me. We will say our farewells to those who have served our family. Will you honor me by standing with us?"

"I don’t know if that’s my place," she answered.

He put forward his hand to cover hers where it rested on the table. "Can you dismiss what has passed between us?"

Danielle blushed. "Hardly." Even smiling, she thought, he couldn’t hide the formidable intensity of his blue eyes. The gaze burned straight to her heart.

"Today your place is beside me," Alain said. He pressed her hand and the corner of his mouth inched upward. "It will pleasure me." His jaw tensed briefly. "Later, you will tell me, as you promised, why you are here, and we will address our future."

Never had Danielle believed she could be happy to be so readily available at any man’s command. The words "our future" had rolled off his tongue so easily. Her stomach clenched. Could planning a future together really be this simple? Should she be happy to follow his lead no matter the outcome? There was no room for doubt against the determination she saw in his expression. Yielding to his will, she wanted to believe she would find it easy to follow him anywhere.

"Good morning, Madame, Papa," Edmund said when he entered the room. The boy scanned their faces and seemed to be pleased with what he saw there.

"Would you like some chocolate, Edmund?" Alain asked.

"Yes, please."

"Take your place."

The boy climbed up on the chair opposite his father and made himself taller by sitting up on his knees while the chocolate was poured.

Alain watched his son with amusement until Edmund had taken a sip of the frothy drink and made a great display of smacking his lips.

"My son is very fond of chocolate," Alain directed the information to Danielle."

"I can see," she said, a smile playing upon her own lips.

Alain took a sip from his cup and regarded his son more solemnly. "Edmund, today is a great day."

"Why?" Edmund squirmed.

"We are starting on an amazing adventure. We are saying farewell to our friends here ..."

"Madame Dumont?" Edmund interrupted with alarm.

"No, Madame Dumont shall stand with us today."

Danielle felt a big lump rise in her throat.

"We will free ourselves from the responsibility of this château," Alain continued, "and start a new life. First in England," Alain looked from Edmund to Danielle, "then I would like to show you the world. Perhaps ... Egypt."

"Will Madame Dumont go with us?" Edmund bounced on his knees hardly able to contain his excitement.

Alain looked at Danielle, his eyes bored into hers extolling a response.

Danielle searched her soul for the right reply--for the answer. Was her future truly entwined with theirs? She wanted to believe so. "I have always wanted to see Egypt." She smiled sincerely and hoped for the moment it was enough.

Alain grinned broadly and stood. He offered his hand to Danielle. She accepted it and stood beside him.

"Finish your chocolate, son, while I have a moment with Madame Dumont." He slipped his arm around her tiny waist. The silk and embroidery of her gown could not deter the warmth of her body from reaching him, nor could the chocolate and iced cakes on the table interfere with the delicious fragrance that was Danielle’s own. The magic of her closeness began to stir all his male sensibilities. He told himself he did not care from whence she had come. Even if Claude had procured Danielle’s services, Alain had claimed her last night. This time Claude had truly done him a favor; Danielle Dumont was his.

Guiding Danielle toward the window he watched her face blossom as she moved into the light, each lovely feature illuminated by the sun, her enormous dark eyes marbled with the darkest amber like a piece of finely rubbed walnut. Just observing her gave him hope for the future. "You do not truly know me, nor I you." He lifted her chin until her gaze met his. "Yet it seems I have known you forever. Will you ... will you go with us?" He watched her face gradually melt in acquiescence. A breath of relief passed his lips. "Then I leave this place gladly, knowing you are by my side. I would not have had the will to leave were it not for you ... not even for Edmund’s sake."

Danielle touched the side of Alain’s face. She loved how his hair glistened with streaks of gold and russet threaded among its darkness, and was glad he didn’t powder his hair. She tenderly stroked his cheek, adoring the curve of his mouth and dip of his dimpled chin with her gaze. "You’ve made the right decision, and would have, even had I not been here."

"I wish for different circumstances." Alain sighed deeply and took her hand. It felt so small in his. "Another time, you and I could have been so happy here in my home."

"I’ve often heard it said," Danielle softly spoke recalling a twentieth-century saying, "home is where the heart is."

"Those are sweet words," Alain turned about, taking in all the luxurious appointments of the room his mother had furnished, and realized the dining room, the whole of the château, had lacked what Danielle called "heart" for quite some time. He sighed again. "I will ask Jean Paul to assemble the staff."

Less than an hour later twenty-four men and women waited in the great hall of the château. Some had brought their children, the little ones at their feet or held by solemn elders. Not having seen the household staff assembled at one time, Danielle felt quite overcome.

"Does it require so many to run your house?" she whispered to Alain.

"More than half have already left. These few remain loyal. By marriage or by birth, they are all Jean Paul’s kindred."

Holding Edmund’s hand and Danielle’s elbow, he escorted them out of the dining room into the keep. They moved forward, flanked on either side by the waiting staff, dressed in immaculate livery or uniforms, and looking as serious as the occasion warranted. Danielle tried to make eye contact with each soul she passed, and when successful, she smiled, attempting to relieve some of the tension. Few returned her gesture.

Jean Paul had positioned a table holding a bound ledger and a wooden strongbox at the far side of the hall. When they reached the table, they stopped and faced the two rows of anxious faces.

Alain released Edmund’s hand, Danielle’s elbow, and picked up the ledger. He balanced it between his hands.

"Edmund and I must leave France!" Alain said. "Château sur la Falaise can no longer be our home. Robespierre’s agent will seek me here. When he does, you must also be out of his reach.

"I do not need to look upon these pages," he continued addressing the gathering, "or read the figures written thereon to know each of you has served my family well." He placed the ledger back on the table. "You deserve far more than I am able to bestow upon you, yet it is our wish," at the word our, he placed his hand on Edmund’s head, "to share with you what we can and to wish you well.

"It is too dangerous for you to remain at the château. You must seek security with family, friends, or where you will," his voice wavered slightly. Danielle could sense his emotion. "We," he again stroked Edmund’s head, "Edmund and I, and my father and mother before me, appreciate your service down through the years. We wish you well."

Alain looked at Danielle, sorrow evident in his face, and asked in a lowered voice, "Will you escort Edmund while I give each person a pension?"

After she nodded her agreement, Alain lifted the chest, opened its leather-bound lid, and balanced it on his left arm. Danielle and Edmund followed him to the first of his staff.

Thus, the Marquis of Andelys, Alain Maximilien Grandmaison, dispensed a measure of gold and silver to every man and woman who had toiled upon his land. Danielle followed, gently holding Edmund’s little hand in hers while Alain fulfilled his self-imposed duty.

Each, in turn, murmured his or her thanks to the marquis. Most openly wept. A few of the women even kissed Edmund’s cheek, and said, "Bless you, my Lord."

When they last came to Jean Paul and Marie Claire, Jean Paul stubbornly refused to take his payment. "I shall not break my vow to your father to serve you. Not so long as I live," Jean Paul said.

Alain started to argue with his old manservant, but the glint of determination in Jean Paul’s eyes and the rigid set of his jaw rivaled Alain’s own expression of stubbornness. The corner of Alain’s mouth finally lifted slightly, an expression that by now had endeared itself to Danielle. "Very well," Alain relinquished. "Yet take this gold now, so that my conscious may rest knowing I have fulfilled a promise I made long ago." He put the coin into Jean Paul’s bony hands.

After making the final payment, Alain put the strongbox back on the table. Then he turned to the gathering. "Keep your tools and implements, whatever else you can carry, and ... may God in his infinite wisdom bless you all."

Chapter Nine

The château echoed with activity. The remaining servants packed great trunks with clothing and household items for the marquis. They also gathered their own belongings and the gifts he had bestowed on each of them.

Danielle tried to assist where she could. Edmund asked her to help select toys, which he would take with him, and Babette implored her to choose gowns and toiletries. Even Jean Paul solicited her opinion as to which china they would require. Danielle told him she thought there should be ample porcelain available in England. She tried to convince them all to pare down to the more essential items. Finally, feeling frustrated at the circus-like atmosphere, she went in search of Alain. Though he had been absent since the assembly, she had not forgotten her decision to tell him she was from the twentieth-century. Her origin stood between them. Being caught up in events may have temporarily lulled his mistrust, but she knew sooner or later, however in love or lust they might be, he would challenge her. If they were to have a future together, she had to confess to him she was from the twentieth-century and he had to accept it. Still, where she had possessed a card to play with Claude, Danielle had no idea how to go about getting Alain to believe her.

More than anything, she wanted to be with him and the child, but with the desire, her stomach tensed. How could she defy events already etched in history? How could she depart the Continent with Alain and Edmund when she knew history had determined she remain in France? The questions unanswered, she left the château and went first to the kitchen, which was separate from the manor house, as were the sculleries, dairy, and other out buildings.

Fascination with the vast kitchen permeated with woodsmoke and delicious odors immediately cheered her. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling and strange iron implements suspended on racks decorated the walls. Other foreign tools rested by the huge hearth and ovens, and the doors to several large stocked pantries stood open.

Marie Claire busied herself slicing bread at a large table. She curtsied when Danielle entered, and seemed not at all surprised at Danielle’s presence.

"Would you care to taste the broth, Madame?"

Danielle loosened her cloak and approached the fire where a thick soup simmered in a pot suspended over glowing embers.

"Are you in charge of the kitchen, too?" Danielle asked.

Marie Claire stopped slicing bread and joined Danielle in front of the kettle. "Cook left with her family, Madame. I can manage to prepare the food for the marquis’ table."

"I envy you your talents," Danielle said. "I would be lost in here."

Marie Claire cast a look of disbelief upon Danielle. "To be mistress, you must know the kitchen, Madame, and everything your servants know, so you may instruct them. You must be more capable than your maids."

"I haven’t required maids before," Danielle bent over the soup. She wondered what Marie Claire would think of her small Georgetown townhouse. Granted, it had been built in the early nineteenth-century, but the galley kitchen was thoroughly modern. Her kitchen’s white cabinets, built-ins, and microwave oven would likely look as foreign to Marie Claire as this room with its blackened stone hearth appeared to Danielle.

"Then, I must teach you everything, Madame." Marie Claire offered Danielle a ladle filled with steaming soup.

"But, we are leaving," Danielle reminded her before tasting the broth.

"You will return," Marie Claire said with certainty, "and when you do, I will be proud to serve you, my lady."

"Should that day come," Danielle said, "if you can teach me to make broth as good as this, I’ll be most happy." She straightened up. "Now, do you have an inkling where I may find the marquis?"

"Most likely, he is in his warehouse, Madame." Marie Claire’s brow furrowed with worry. She stirred the soup once then put down the ladle. "It will be difficult for him to leave the château. Our marquis is most dedicated to the land and to his work, not like some aristos who would take the money earned by the sweat of another and spend it on frivolity."

Danielle fastened her cloak and slipped on her gloves. "I am beginning to understand the measure of his worth. May I take him some of this soup? It’s probably cold in the warehouse, and the marquis must be hungry."

"Of course, Madame." Marie Claire opened the iron door to a cupboard next to the fire in which dishes were kept warm and wine mulled. She hurried to fill a ceramic bowl. She placed it and utensils in a basket, covered the bowl with thick slices of bread, then put warm stones on either side of it to keep the soup hot. She topped it all with a white cloth.

"How marvelous," Danielle clapped her gloved hands, "Alain and I will have a picnic."

†

Recalling the twentieth-century when she had promised herself she would someday find the time for a private tour of Alain’s warehouse, Danielle entered the fascinating building. She had never dreamed the very architect of the structure would lead her private tour! She smiled to herself. How jealous Ian Glenday would be, she thought.

Danielle found Alain just inside warming his hands over a brazier. He seemed lost in thought. She stopped immediately behind him. "Are you hungry?" she asked. "Marie Claire filled a bowl with soup for us, and there’s bread. It smells delicious."

"How like Marie Claire to consider my stomach in spite of everything else she must think about," he said without turning to look at Danielle.

"The cook and most of the others have already taken their leave" she informed him. "Marie Claire seems to have no difficulty assuming all their responsibilities!"

"Yes, she is a remarkable woman."

Danielle sat the basket down on Alain’s worktable and cleared some empty vials out of the way. "Jean Paul and Babette are packing, and Marie Claire is putting the kitchen to rest. Your son is having a difficult time choosing among his toys." Danielle uncovered the soup and divided the bread into two uneven portions, pushing the larger toward him. "When will we leave?" she asked.

"Tomorrow morning," Alain finally turned and seated himself at the table.

"Is it safe to wait that long?"

"Claude should return before we go. I do not want to chance missing him on our way."

"You care a great deal for Claude, don’t you?" she asked.
"As a brother." Alain took the piece of bread and dipped it into the broth. "My father brought Claude’s mother, the Countess Isabelle Duprey, to our home when she was with child." Alain chewed the bread and swallowed. "There was some scandal. Her husband, Claude’s father, had deserted her after gambling away most of their fortune. I believe Isabelle was very close to my mother. Thus, my father felt honor-bound to provide her and her unborn child a place. A short time later Claude was born at the château. His mother passed on a few years later.

"We grew up together--the same toys, the same tutors, essentially the same father. After Claude and I became business partners, he took lodgings in town." Alain bit into another morsel of bread. "Claude has his faults, as do I, but I miss having him here."

After finishing her bread, Danielle risked, "I believe Claude has a brotherly affection for you, too."

"For months, he has been begging me to leave France," Alain said. "I wish I had listened to his wise counsel."

Danielle felt his gaze hot upon her face and looked up to meet his incredibly blue eyes. As always, his stare reached to her core, flipping her insides to something foreign, warm, and malleable.

"Yet had I left I would not have met you, and that is a quandary." He smiled briefly but his gaze penetrated further. "As I recall ... you promised to tell me my future."

"I did," her face turned hot as the heat of his scrutiny intensified, "and I will, but first, a favor." In answer to his raised brow, she asked, "Would you show me your warehouse and explain how you make Calvados?"

"But, of course," he smiled in his charming way, obviously flattered by her request, and willing to set aside his challenge. He lifted the bowl of broth to his lips and drank the remainder of the soup. Some dribbled onto his chin.

Danielle couldn’t help herself. She leaned forward and licked the droplets.

"You are wanton," he said, his breath catching on hers.

"Yes, and I want more," she told him before sampling his lips, still salty from the broth.

Alain’s tongue rolled over hers and churned the rising inferno within her. She prevented her resolve from dissolving further by pulling away. "We had better stop," she panted.

"It is you who instigated this folly," but laughing, he released her.

"You designed the warehouse?" she asked after she had recovered her breath, knowing the answer.

"Yes." Pride rose in his voice.

"Please ... tell me how you chose the plan."

"I have always been intrigued by things of an exotic nature." He smiled briefly. "Perhaps that is why I have allowed you to charm me."

Danielle teased him by sticking out her tongue. Alain made to grab it.

"When I was a boy, I imagined myself a knight during the crusades. My father told marvelous stories of their adventures in the Holy Land. When it came time to construct a building to house my Calvados, I turned to the land of his stories and of my dreams for inspiration."

"The mosaic ... " she motioned toward a huge design on the rear wall which she had been admiring. His gaze followed her movement, " ... is that of your dreams?"

Tiny pieces of colored ceramics faceted into the wall depicted a beautiful spray of apple blossoms. Alternating vivid and subdued colors of nature spilled across the edifice.

"The workmanship is not my own, but I described to the mason how I would draw the emblem on canvas. It turned out well."

Alain helped Danielle to her feet and led her past rows of oaken barrels to the center of the enormous chamber. "This is the heart of my operation," he explained. "The making of Calvados is really a very simple process. It begins when the apples are gathered once they have reached their moment of perfection. This is key."

"How do you measure their ripeness?" Danielle asked.

"When a narrow circlet of yellow remains around the stem, just before the fruit’s color deepens to a dark crimson." He put his foot upon a piece of oak and leaned forward. "After the apples are brought here from the orchard, they are washed outside in a large stone trough, in pure rain water. Then, the apples are carried inside to the cider press. We add a little yeast to ferment the mashed apples. The sweet juice is refined through my copper stills, twice, then aged in oaken barrels. The cider must mature in the casks for five to ten years. It is the ancient oak from my land that gives the Calvados its uncommon flavor and spicy, aromatic scent.

Danielle inspected the huge wooden presses and the copper alembics where the juice was distilled. Alain had shifted to stand next to one of the presses where he passed the palm of his hand up and down the worn wood. Her heart went out to him. She wondered what sort of man he would be without his Calvados business. What would he do?

"Since the Revolution," Alain said, "we have had to smuggle Calvados out of France. It has given me great profit, but no pleasure. What remains in these casks, one day, will be the finest Calvados ever produced. I should like to savor it."

"You mustn’t think of that, Alain. You have Edmund to look after and many opportunities waiting for you in England."

"You seem so sure of the future," Alain said.

"Yes ... well ... I am," she stumbled over the words.

"How can you be so?" he queried.

"When I tell you my story, you will understand my certainty."

"I have been awaiting ... "

"Papa!" Edmund exploded into the room. "Come, quickly!"

"Edmund," Alain’s vexation was evident, "your timing could not be more ill-timed." Yet Alain crouched to the child’s level and his tone softened. "What is it, my son?"

Edmund burst into tears. "Babette won’t let me pack my soldiers," Edmund sobbed, "and ... she ... she tore off the General’s head!"

"Ah, there, there." Alain hugged Edmund close. "Dry your tears. I will speak to Babette. I am sure she has a reason for not packing your men of arms, just as I am sure the breakage was an accident."

Danielle rested her hand on Alain’s shoulder. "The child’s tired and feeling the strain. See to your son. I’ll meet you in the library later and we’ll resume our conversation."

Alain wiped away Edmund’s tears and after standing, hoisted the boy to straddle his hip.

"You go," Danielle said. "I’ll remain here for a time."

"Very well," Alain said, "but do not forget your promise."

After Alain and Edmund left, Danielle realized she was trembling. Thank God for small miracles, she thought. She was not ready to tell Alain all. He was going to think her insane. It would be easier to confess she was Claude’s mistress, or Villandré’s whore. Alain would be more likely to believe either story.

To rationalize that one minute she had been in his bed in the twentieth-century fantasizing about him, and the next minute with him in the eighteenth-century--impossible! Even more unreasonable that she could know practically everything that would happen to him, his son, and to Claude. It was she, Danielle suddenly realized, who was the pivotal personality. She didn’t know what choices she would make, nor how her choices would affect them all.

She crossed the distance of the storeroom to stand before the mosaic. Running her fingertips across the pieces of tiny glass and narrow crevasses of stucco, she began to think of time as layers of texture akin to the crumbling pages of Claude’s journals, to Alain’s paintings, to the ancient doors leading to the marquis’ boudoir, and to this wall. Perhaps one year layered upon another was reachable through a chink in the surface, or a breach of trust, or a rent heart.

Turning from the mosaic, she surveyed the room. She loved this place, she realized. It would be difficult to leave. Yet, she knew without the presence of Alain, it would be nothing but a vast empty warehouse. Knowing him had made it a special place and she was glad for his having showed it to her.

†

"At last!" Alain swept into the library and closed the door after himself.

"Is Edmund calmed?" Danielle asked.

"Yes. Babette apologized for breaking the General’s head. Edmund has agreed to take only two of his soldiers instead of his entire battalion. I convinced him they would be on an advanced scouting mission where the General has no business."

"A very strategic compromise," Danielle said. She hoped Alain didn’t detect the tremor in her voice. "Would you care for some brandy or a glass of wine?" He had joined her on the settee and his closeness was like a tropical heat settling in around her.

"I wish only to taste the sweetness of your lips," he murmured, moving closer, "and to drink from that fount the elixir of truth."

His charm virtually hypnotized her. She surrendered her mouth to his, doing just as he wanted. She would have given him anything he asked. While he kissed her, she put her arms around his neck and dipped her fingers in the thickness of his hair. She could feel his heart beat against her breast and knew how much he wanted her. It was a wonderful feeling to have that kind of power. For the first time in her life she felt equal to the one she loved.

Alain removed the combs from her hair letting it spill around her shoulders. He lifted the length of it and crushed it in his hands. "Like the essence of you, your hair is soft as silk, yet strong," he murmured. "You may fashion it to befit the occasion, but let loose in my hands, I can feel its true texture." He spoke softly against her ear, seducing her to think of nothing but his caressing voice. "Set your soul free as your hair. Tell me who you are--why you came to me."

Danielle sighed while he continued crushing her hair, holding her close. She felt tormented when she spoke, "A few hours ago, you asked me how I can be so sure of the future," she reminded him. Alain said nothing, but Danielle sensed him tense. "It is because I am from the future. I know what will happen to you and Edmund because I left the twentieth-century to join you here in the eighteenth-century."

Alain pulled away from her, the movement tangling her hair as he disengaged his fingers. Disbelief and confusion defined his facial expression.

"You must think I am mad! You would expect me to believe such a tale?"

"I’m not lying," Danielle calmly said. "Villandré, Robespierre, Murat ... all will die bloody deaths. You will live!" She grabbed his hands and held on. "You will paint. Your canvasses will become famous. Edmund will grow to be a fine man."

"And you?" he asked, "Where do you fit into this fantastic portrayal?"

"That, I do not know," she said with a sad voice.

Alain pulled his hands away and stood. He lunged toward the hearth where he pounded his fist on the mantle. "So! You believe I am a fool. Can you not bear to be honest with me?" He faced her, a tower of fury.

Danielle rose along with her dignity. "I am being honest. I don’t know how it happened, but I traveled from my time to yours, and as far as I know, it was a one way journey!"

"Madame, I cannot endure this. You make a mockery of my affection for you." He strode toward the door while Danielle stood proudly alone. "Until you can be forthright," he said "I care not for your company, Madame!" He gave her the courtesy of a nod then left, slamming the door after himself.

"Well, that couldn’t have gone any worse," Danielle said to the shuddering door. He needs space, she thought. Time-travel was a difficult concept for anyone, and seemingly more so for someone of the eighteenth-century. After all, at first she had believed herself in a coma, rather than accept it. Alain would believe, too, but it would be a challenge to convince him and she had no idea how she could. Danielle also realized she didn’t have even the night to waste.

†

She had fallen asleep and still felt groggy when Marie Claire brought dinner to her room. In front of the fire, with a wool coverlet over her legs, Danielle had been trying to forget the nightmare from which she had awakened. In the dream, she had been unable to move. It was pitch black, but she heard Alain scream, "Do not look!" She had opened her eyes anyway, just in time to see the blade of a guillotine falling. Then, she bolted awake.

"Madame, you are pale and shivering," Marie Claire said. Hastily she put a tray down on the table next to Danielle, and tucked the blanket in around Danielle’s legs. "There, there," Marie Claire clucked, her generous face looking even more dear with concern. "I get the ague when I am worried, too. All will be well. You are safe with the marquis." She spread a white cloth embroidered with blue and gold over the coverlet on Danielle’s lap. "I brought some of the soup you had earlier, and a stout game pie. That will warm you, Madame."

"Thank you," Danielle said, though she didn’t think she could eat a bite. "What is Edmund doing?"

"He has had his dinner and is saying good night to his father. The boy is tired. I hope to put him to bed early. Tomorrow will be a difficult day for all of us." Marie Claire turned away, stifling a sob.

"This transition is hard," Danielle hoped she sounded reassuring, "but you and Jean Paul will be fine."

"Serving the marquis has been our life, Madame." Marie Claire poured wine into a crystal chalice for Danielle with an unsteady hand. "What will we do?" She sopped up drops that had spilled on the tray with a corner of her apron.

Danielle felt at odds trying to think of a reply to the woman’s plea. She glanced down at the game pie’s golden crust. Succulent sauce seeped from patterns cut in the topping. "You both have many talents. Yours include fine cooking and supervising a household. You could easily manage a tavern or work in private service doing the same things you’ve done for the marquis, for someone else."

Marie Claire wiped a tear from her plump cheek. "Bless you, Madame, I suppose you are right. But change comes hard for the old.

"Pray, do not fret about us," Marie Claire bravely instructed. "Eat the soup and pie, and drink a glass of wine. You need strength, too, for the changes coming your way."

"Have you not wondered where I come from or why I’m here?" Danielle asked.

"Such questions are not for the likes of me, Madame. There is talk among some. I see you make the marquis and the boy happy. If you will forgive me, Madame, for speaking my mind; it seems you belong together. Backing up in the direction of the door, Marie Claire tripped against a large trunk that partially blocked the path. Fortunately, she sat on the trunk, breaking her fall. She gave a little gasp, then composed herself. "You are packed, and ready for your long journey, Madame?"

"Thank you, Marie Claire," Danielle said after laughing gently, "Yes." Bless you, she thought. Like Madame Gravenot, Marie Claire added some comic relief to the tragedy. "Tell Edmund my good nights, then get some rest yourself."

Chapter Ten

Once she tasted Marie Claire’s game pie, Danielle forgot her lack of appetite and devoured every delicious morsel, washing it down with a glass of claret. While she dabbed the last crumbs from her mouth, Babette rapped lightly upon the door and opened it a crack.

"Madame?"

"Come in, Babette."

The girl clumsily curtsied trying to keep from spilling the contents of a heavy pitcher. "I cannot offer a hot bath, but I brought some heated water for the basin." She giggled. "I noticed Madame’s discomfort this morning." She placed the pitcher next to the porcelain basin before removing the dishes from Danielle’s lap.

"Babette," Danielle smiled up at the girl, feeling her tension ebb, "you’ve cheered me considerably." She allowed the girl to help her disrobe. Babette dipped a soft cloth into the warm water and lightly then vigorously pressed it over Danielle’s skin. Danielle likened it to an hour she had once spent at a spa in Georgetown. The most skilled masseuse couldn’t have given a better rubdown.

After bathing Danielle, Babette helped her dress in a wheat-colored, silken gown. It hung loose about Danielle’s body, sheer and weighted with frothy lace at the cuffs and throat. Over the negligee she placed a dressing gown of cobalt Genoa velvet embroidered with gold leaves about the hem. The thick Italian velvet immediately stifled the winter draft that constantly bled from the large windows into the room.

"This is marvelous." Danielle turned a half circle, watching the robe plume out around her legs. In the twentieth-century her style had been reserved, what Henry called classic. Danielle had discovered she much preferred eighteenth-century flowing robes of rich fabric and colors. She promised herself she would never dress in anything fitted or tailored again.

After sliding her feet into matching velvet slippers that were lined with fur, Danielle sat at the dressing table. Babette began smoothing her hair with a brush.

"I will miss you brushing my hair," Danielle tipped her head back, enjoying the pampering.

"Madame has such beautiful hair; it is a pleasure to comb it."

Just then another knock sounded at the door. Danielle’s pulse fluttered. Perhaps it’s Alain, she thought.

"Shall I see who it is?" Babette asked.

Danielle offered her an affirmative nod.

Babette opened the door to her father. He stepped inside.

"Jean Paul, what is it?" Danielle stood, alarmed at his unusual visit.

"Madame ... please ... I beg your assistance."

Danielle gripped the back of her chair. "Alain," she gasped. "Something has happened to him!"

"Yes, Madame," Jean Paul’s face looked grim. "The marquis claims he will not leave. He has given me orders to send you and Edmund to safety, but he swears he will remain." Jean Paul wrung his hands. "He will not let me pack his paints. Madame ... can you ... can you do something?"

Relieved the problem was merely Alain’s obstinate disposition, Danielle released her breath. "You know how stubborn he is," she said.

Jean Paul didn’t answer but he looked at her hopefully.

"I’ll see what I can do." With determination she swept past Jean Paul and Babette. Quickly she traversed the length of the hall not knowing what she would say to Alain, or do. She hoped somehow the right words would come.

When she reached the doors to Alain’s boudoir, she stopped and forced herself to calm down. The doors, like Alain, were imposing, but she wouldn’t allow him to intimidate her. She drew a deep breath and begged her hands to stop trembling. "Ready or not," she said through gritted teeth and pushed the door open.

Without bothering to announce herself, Danielle entered Alain’s suite. Just as when she had passed into the room from the twentieth-century, flames spiked from the wicks of tall tapers, lighting the room like an inferno. A crackling fire beckoned from the fireplace. She immediately glanced above the mantle, realizing she had been afraid to breathe until confirming again that she was not dreaming. Alain’s portrait was not there.

He must be here, she thought. She hesitated a moment more, quickly scanning the handsome glittering room, then entered his bedchamber.

An easel stood before the window, angled to catch the light, though now, it was dark outside. Curiosity drew her to the canvas. He had completed the winter painting of the château.

The breathtaking winter landscape of the shrouded château and blanched swirls of sky chilled her. She wished she could dissolve into the painting and somehow transform it to a safer, happier depiction. Yet it comforted her to know that at a future date he would paint the warm sunny view of his home. Perhaps just as the oil was finished, so too the wintry phase of his life. Several moments passed before she turned away from the painting to spy Alain sprawled on top of his ivory sheets, the toe of his boot thrust forward, the top of his dark head nestled into the creamy material. As quietly as she could, she tiptoed toward the elaborate golden bed.

A heavy dressing gown spilled over Alain’s thigh. He still wore his breeches, though his chest was bared. Danielle leaned forward to admire the dark silky coils of hair that sprung from his navel to his throat. She wanted to rub her cheek against the hair and explore what lay hidden beneath the purple robe. His long dark eyelashes fluttered upon his cheek and in slumber his face looked as innocent as Edmund’s. She closed her eyes almost unable to bear the swell of love she felt.

I’ll sit by the fire, she decided after opening her eyes, and let him sleep a while longer. Cautiously, she turned away from the bed.

Before she reached the next room, Alain spoke from close behind her, causing her heart to skip a beat. "Do not leave," the command sounded more like an apology etching his sleepy tone.

She turned, and smiled apprehensively up at him. "I believe you enjoy surprising me from behind."

The corner of his mouth lifted while his eyes swept over her approvingly. "From behind, from the front, and any other direction you desire, my love." Any trace of the anger he had displayed earlier in the evening had dissipated. He took a step forward and tipped her head back, leaving her neck exposed.

She raised her hands to her face as though to cover herself.

"I have made you blush," he smoothed back his tousled hair and his eyes looked amused. His hands came down and captured hers. He lowered them to her sides, then he parted her robe and delicately unfastened her bodice.

First the velvet, then the ecru silk slid off her shoulders and bared her arms. She caught the thin material against her chest.

"I don't respond well to domination," she tried to appear in control of herself, to resist the thrills of longing stirred deep within her.

"Nor I to lies," he countered, his eyes shimmering dangerously.
She raised her chin. "I don’t deserve that. I haven’t lied." For a moment, she stared at his throat and the strong pulse beating there. Then, she lifted her eyes to his again. "Have I given you any real reason to distrust me?"

The corner of his lips jerked with a tiny spasm. "Aside from magically appearing in my boudoir, your tale of travel through time, captivating my son, and stealing my heart ... no."

"You still don't trust me."

"Trust is earned, my love."

"And I haven't earned yours yet."

He didn't answer. Instead, he raised his hand and, with his index finger, traced the gold chain around her neck.

"It is a lovely necklace," he said. "Does it hold special meaning for you?"

His touch almost melted her. Taking a real chance, she let her gown fall to the floor. Her locket lay nestled in the cleft between her breasts, enhanced by the flickering firelight that warmed the room. The sheen of her satin skin beckoned to him. She heard the sharp breath he took.

"It was a gift, one that I treasure."

Alain was staring ... not at the gold piece. His gaze centered upon her breasts and his eyes spoke of his hunger for her. She felt her nipples grow hard with the intensity of his scrutiny. She gulped. "Open the locket," she pleaded.

"There is something I must do first." Alain bent forward. His mouth closed over her nipple before she could resist the sudden movement. Gently, he teased its point with his tongue while his hands traveled down to her waist, then below. He suckled one breast then the other, greedily lathing his tongue over her skin. While he suckled, he lifted her into his arms and took her to his bed.

Never had Danielle had such sensations ripple through her. She realized her twentieth-century fantasy was coming true. They would make love on his exquisitely carved bed--the bed fit for a king! She, his queen. She could have laughed with the sheer rapture of it. Her pulse thundered. She thought her chest would burst when his ravenous lips left her breast and sought her mouth. She returned his impassioned kisses with all the abandon she felt, while her emotions whirled and skidded. Suddenly it seemed they were scrambling to remove his remaining clothes, flinging the garments from the bed and laughing joyously.

Completely naked, they fell back onto the feather softness and locked arms and limbs. Alain’s laugh floated up from his throat, all the more enjoyable because of its rarity. Then his laughter settled into heavy breathing. Danielle heard her own breath coming like short bursts of a bellow. They were flesh against flesh, man against woman, and she equaled his unrestrained urgency. She felt she wanted him to tear her apart and arched to meet his movement to take her.

"Sweet love!" Alain’s voice and expression swelled with exquisite agony as he entered her. "I cannot hold back."

"Don’t," Danielle answered, "Please. Don’t!" Her body curved to meet his thrusts. Her core vibrated with waves of passion. Their lovemaking became a complete act of possession and Danielle luxuriated in the fire that swept through her body. It was a long time before Alain withdrew.

They lay quietly for a while, each full of the wonder of each other. When Danielle heard Alain stir, she supported her weight upon her forearm and turned toward him. The golden locket dangled over one breast, the chain shimmering against her skin. "Would you open my locket now?" she asked.

After a moment's hesitation, he scooped the gold into his palm and depressed the clasp. Two tiny photographs stared back at him.

"They are photographs," she explained matter-of-factly. "Photography, a technique of creating pictures ... works of art ... that was not invented until the year 1839."

"Impossible!"

"Look closer. Could you accomplish such a likeness with your paints and brushes?"

Alain lifted the locket and leaned forward. He looked long and hard at the likenesses, perfect in every detail. "Who is the man?" he finally asked.

"He was my husband--Henry."

Alain took in a sharp breath, followed by a pregnant pause.

"Henry died three years ago," Danielle answered the unasked question.

Alain kept his eyes glued to Henry's image. "Do you still love him?"

"I will always love Henry," Danielle answered honestly. She then took the locket from Alain's hands. Carefully, she removed Henry's photo and closed her fingers over it. "But, I wish I could replace his likeness with one of you, to keep close to my heart."

Alain’s eyes studied hers with a curious intensity, then he cupped the locket again lowering his gaze to study her portrait. "Can you," he asked quietly " ... will you ... tell me about this ... this photography?"

She pulled the covers up over Alain and herself, and turned on her side so she could watch him while speaking. "Photography had its birth in 1839, when a Frenchman, Louis Daguerre, first revealed his photographic process to the public."

"A Frenchman!" Alain looked pleased.

Danielle explained how the photographer uses a camera and film made of microscopic crystals of silver instead of a paintbrush. She described film and a camera’s shutter speed, and how the film is exposed when light enters the dark interior of the camera. She told him how the darker areas of the subject reflect less light, and as best she could, how the exposed film is developed. >From time to time as she described the modern art form, his eyes would glance to the locket, still open between her breasts.

Danielle pointed out that from the late nineteenth-century on, many photographers began to use the medium to document social problems, wars, and had moved from black and white to color photography. She told him how photographs were used in picture oriented magazines, opening more topics unknown to Alain than she could ever describe, though she tried.

"But does the procedure of using this camera require the coordination of hand and eye, and the skill essential to drawing and painting?" Alain asked.

"It’s a different art form, but, like a brush or a pen, the camera is a lifeless piece of equipment until a person uses it. The photographer’s eye remains all-important. It is the photographer who must choose what to photograph and when to expose the film. I believe photography is a unique human art."

Alain bent forward and studied Danielle’s photograph again. It was a perfect likeness of her, from the texture of her dark clothes, to the tiny spaces between each of her sooty eyelashes. He knew he could not capture such detail with his paints. Reverently, he closed the locket.

Danielle scarcely dared take a breath. Alain shifted closer to her. He gently lifted her chin and passed his thumbs over her lips, drawing a line to her temples where he placed his hands. His blue eyes were darkened with emotion.

"Forgive me," he spoke to her uplifted face. His breath mingled with hers, and like a magnet, her lips found their way to his.

The kiss was like a flash of light that illuminated her soul and left her the perfect negative to his positive. Their lips did not part while he covered her body with his, nor as she welcomed him into her body, as she had welcomed him into her heart.

At last, reluctantly, they parted a few inches. "Morning will come too soon," Alain said with a sigh, rolling his head back on the pillow. He had the mellow look of a man completely satiated.

"We have not touched the subject of why I came in search of you tonight," Danielle said.

"I know," he said, "I am irresistible." He grinned and released another long sigh of contentment.

"That you are," she ran her finger along his jaw then across his lips, "but headstrong."
A tremor like the coldest breath of winter passed through Danielle at the very thought Alain would not be reasonable. "Jean Paul informed me you don’t intend to go with us in the morning."

"My refusal was before I believed you," Alain said, "before I realized I cannot bear to part from you."

"You truly believe me?"

"Your story should be unbelievable ... yet ... I can think of no other reasonable explanation for your presence in my château. Pardon, in my bed."

She sat up and looked down at him to see if he was mocking her, but his shimmering blue eyes and countenance seemed easy, merely playful. She was not so relaxed and the chill would not leave. "I could tell you so many things," she said, "about a future that could break your heart." Danielle’s teeth chattered; her body trembled.

Alain sat up and put his arms around her. She felt his heart beat as constant as the ticking of a clock. He ran his hands up and down her back, removing some of the chill of prophecy from her.

"These things of which you speak shall not touch our lives. This year the summer air will be thick with the scent of wild roses." He bent further toward her and nuzzled her temple. "Like your hair.

"Nothing will change," he reassured her. "Come summer, the trees will bend from the weight of apples. In autumn, my press will run rich with their juice, and God willing ... my blood will not spill before it."

"We don’t have that much time," she reminded him. "We must leave in the morning."

He said nothing, and Danielle felt uneasy. "Alain?" she called softly, "are you afraid?"

"Afraid?" He was quiet a moment before answering. "No." His mouth grazed her earlobe. "Quite the opposite. I am suddenly quite calm." He kissed each of her eyes lightly then put his head back to the pillow. "I had accepted my life would be filled by caring for my son, my business, and my painting. Yet, I had resigned myself to a life of loneliness, one without a woman’s love or a female companion. Sweet love," he brushed his hand across her cheek, "you have removed the bitterness."

Danielle tipped her head to the side so she could look into the brilliant blue light of his eyes. "I had closed myself off to love," she said, "believing I had had enough of relationships. I’ve learned there can be different kinds of love, different degrees. Now it is as though every cell of my body moves to merge with yours. I love you so much it hurts."

"Tell me not that I cause you pain. We must provide each other a lifetime of joy." He moved his arm beneath her and cradled her close.

"Not pain," she said, "excruciating pleasure." Their lips came together again and her heart exploded with song.

Chapter Eleven

Claude leaned against the rough portal of the long frame warehouse belonging to Guy de Longevialle and Michel Gardere. Looking out onto the docks of Honfleur he tried to still his restiveness. Behind him, the bustle of men laughing and making crude remarks while they stacked the marquis’ barrels of Calvados did little to ease Claude’s soul. He enjoyed coming here under normal circumstances to bargain with his brokers, but this time he had been encumbered with making certain of the personal loyalty of Guy and Michel.

Both had agreed to hide Alain, the boy, and himself should the need arise. Gold exchanged hands, but Claude had expected that. He could not hold it against the men they would take advantage of such an opportunity. In exchange, Guy and Michele had sworn their allegiance and shared with Claude local rumors that Alain Grandmaison, one of the few remaining bastions of nobility, would soon die.

The Port of Honfleur was nearly deserted this time of morning, so close to dawn. Yet, Claude scrutinized the area, searching for anyone who seemed out of place among the warehouses and trappings of the sea. He tried to shake the feeling that something more than Alain’s head was at risk. Yet, the ill sensation would not let Claude be. After grabbing the lapels of his claret-colored cloak and hoisting the wool up to warm his neck, Claude clapped his hat on his head and exited the warehouse making his way to the poor stable where he had quartered his horse.

"Luc," Claude called for the stable boy when he entered the enclosure, which smelled strongly of straw and manure. A dirty small head popped up out of a pile of hay. Luc rubbed his eyes.

"Monsieur Duprey." Luc stumbled out of the pile and continued scouring his eyes.

"Get my horse, lad, and be quick about it," Claude instructed. "Do you have any of your master’s poor brandy about?"

"Aye, Monsieur. Shall I bring the drink first, Monsieur Duprey?"

Claude dusted the straw out of the boy’s dark hair, giving no thought as to what else might be crawling along the boy’s scalp. "Yes, bring the bottle," he said then sat on a milking stool. "That warehouse was damnably cold and I have a long ride ahead."

Claude knew he had to ride to Château sur la Falaise quickly. He must convince Alain to bring Edmund away from the château at once. There could be no further delay. Then, Claude thought of the beautiful Madame Dumont. He wondered if the lady would be joining them in their flight from France. Claude shifted uneasily on his seat. It more than puzzled him how Danielle Dumont could have known he and Alain shared the same father--it distressed him. Was the exquisite creature from the future as she claimed, or was she a temptress sent by Villandré ... or Robespierre himself? Yet, beyond her beauty and despite her mystery, Madame Dumont seemed so kind, so sweet, everything any man could want--all Claude could wish for his brother. It had been too long since Alain had been with a woman. Not since Narissa’s death, Claude guessed. No one should morn so long.

Luc brought the brandy and placed what only slightly resembled a glass in Claude’s hand. Luc poured. "Do you have a brother?" Claude asked Luc.

"No, my lord. Ours is a poor house. None but five girls besides meself. It is a sore curse, me sire says."

"Sometimes a brother can be a curse, too," Claude mused. He drained the glass quickly. "The horse, son, the horse." Luc handed Claude the bottle and rushed to do Claude’s bidding. Claude rose and set the glass and bottle down on the stool. He walked to the slit in the stone wall of the stall that passed as a window and gazed out at the docks and frozen water beyond. Claude disliked feeling so maudlin. He never showed this serious side of his personality to his brother or anyone else for that matter. Lately, however, he felt haunted by the spirits of the mother he never knew and the father he had recognized as such for only a few hours before his father’s death. During those final hours with the old Marquis of Andelys, Claude had not only learned of his true lineage. The marquis beseeched Claude to keep that knowledge a secret. The dying man insisted Claude swear fealty to his newly bestowed brother, Alain Maximilien Grandmaison. Claude had done so.

A gull swept down out of the somber gray sky and landed on the dock, pecking its way about in a search for food. Claude had never gone hungry, he remembered. Nor had he ever been alone. The old marquis had treated him like a son, even before telling Claude he was, indeed, his father. Alain, too, had always been a brother to him. Alain and Alain’s son, Edmund, were his family. He loved them. Claude pressed his fist to his brow. He must convince Alain to cease taking chances with all of their lives.

Luc brought Claude’s mount around to the front of the stable. Joining the lad, Claude opened his saddlebags before mounting and looked inside. His journal remained intact, in the place where he always kept it when he traveled. The diary, alone, held the secret of Claude’s parentage. He closed his eyes for a moment. How did Madame Dumont know ... unless she spoke the truth about being from the future? Opening his eyes again, he fished a coin out of his bag and tossed it to the boy.

"Thank ye, sir." Luc bit down on the money, then seeming satisfied, skipped back into the stable. Claude watched the boy go wishing his own existence were so simple.

†

The cultivated eighteenth-century gentleman moderated his life. The minuet, the coquetry of the boudoir and the salon emphasized his grace and frivolity. Except for his refined appearance, Jules Villandré was not a cultivated gentleman.

"Fetch Sophine," he growled to the innkeeper when he entered Xavier’s tavern.

Xavier, who had seen Villandré coming, passed him a dirty glass and bottle. Jules Villandré wet the tumbler with his spittle then rubbed the rim against his lace cuff, eyeing it while he did so with disgust. He then went to his usual table.

Leaning back on his haunches, Villandré appreciated the dark cavernous room. Dogs fought over scraps in front of the sputtering hearth, kicking up dust from the dirt floor. The smells of unwashed bodies, stale liquor, and animal excrement excited Villandré. Here he could sit and swill an entire bottle of spirits and relish the dregs of the new society. His gaze flicked across the room to a splintered oak baluster. Upstairs, he could plunge his ever-eager cockade into Sophine. She was a scalding bitch. Villandré leaned back and took a drink. The fact that the whore feared him made it even more pleasurable.

Sophine, her bodice still separated from her skirt, and the lacing untied, skulked down the stairs and cautiously approached Villandré. He guessed she had barely finished with her last customer, but Villandré didn’t mind filling a stagnant pool. When she sat next to him, he pulled her tit free from her loose bodice, made to caress her flesh, then bit down hard on her nipple.

"Aaahee," she cried in pain and pushed him away as she tried to stand.

Enjoying the heavy taste of Sophine’s blood on his tongue, Villandré grew hard between his thighs. He jerked her to him and pinned her arms against her sides.

"Be still," he growled before thrusting his tongue into her mouth. She obeyed, and his excitement followed suit.

Ah, this will be a perfect prelude for the ‘morrow, he thought, as he forced Sophine to her feet and pushed her toward the stairs.

Chapter Twelve

A gunshot and scream awakened Danielle and Alain. They exchanged a startled look, then Alain bolted for the window. Another shot fired.

"What is it?" Danielle sat upright in bed clutching the bedcovers to her breast.

"Dear ... God ... it is Jean Paul. Someone shot him! The bastard shot him.

Danielle grabbed her clothes and joined Alain at the window. She looked down upon the maze. Jean Paul lay face down on the frozen ground, perfectly still. Even from the distance, Danielle could see an ugly red stain leaking off his back onto the snow.

Three men, on horseback, emerged from the woods bordering the maze. "Villandré!" Alain uttered the name and sheer fright swept through Danielle.

"He shot Jean Paul in the back?" She couldn’t quite believe it.

Alain’s face contorted. "Villandré killed Jean Paul," he said it aloud as much to convince himself of the awful truth as her. "The bastard comes for me," Alain choked back a sob, "why did he have to murder Jean Paul?"

"We must get Edmund and run for it!" Danielle frantically pulled on her gown and robe. A knot rose in her throat.

Alain jerked on his breeches and yanked on his boots. He rushed to the wardrobe and grabbed a shirt and jacket from a hook.

Together they ran to Edmund’s room. Babette and Marie Claire already had Edmund dressed. Tears streamed unchecked from both Marie Claire’s and Babette’s eyes.

"You know," Alain’s voice sounded raw.

"We heard the shot. I ran to the window." Marie Claire’s face puckered from pain. "My husband ... Jean Paul ... went out to check the snares he set yesterday. He hoped for some game to send with you, your grace."

"I am so sorry," Alain said. His eyes glittered with deep emotion and anger.

Danielle watched his jaw clench. "We must go," she clutched and pulled at his arm, "try to escape to the river."

"We are too late," Alain interrupted her, then softened the pace of his voice though the tension of his tone remained tight, in control. The marquis was no longer her lover. He had assumed the role of commander. "Villandré is here. Take Edmund. Follow Marie Claire and Babette. I will show you where to hide."

"This is absurd," Danielle sidled up to him trying to make herself appear as tall and strong as she could. "I will not allow you to stand alone. You cannot give yourself up to that sadist."

Alain firmly but lovingly took hold of her arms. "There is nothing left for us to do," he said. "Do you understand?" He looked at her waiting for confirmation. When she nodded affirmatively he said, "You wanted my trust. You have it. I can entrust you with no greater treasure than my son." He bent his head to kiss her.

She prayed to fuse with the current of love that ran through her when his lips touched hers. Danielle wished the power could carry them all away. "I love you," she told him when he released her, fearful of never tasting his lips again. "How can I not be with you?"

"Allow me my honor," he said. "Save my son."

Danielle could not respond. She met his gaze bravely, then gathered Edmund, who was now crying against her leg. Obediently she followed Alain, Marie Claire, and Babette out of the room and down to the library. Together the women and boy entered the hidden chamber Alain showed them. Danielle’s last glimpse of Alain was of his resolute face when he fastened them inside.

†

"Release me, so I may kill you," Alain said in a tight controlled voice.

Villandré ignored Alain’s request and helped himself to a glass of Calvados. Jules Villandré passed the glass under his nose. "I must say, Grandmaison, you keep a fine drawing room. I saw it only once, when I was a lad, but I remember it well. To think a few days ago, I stood in the filthy streets of Paris." He offered a silent toast to Alain, then sipped the liquid. "Ah," Villandré voiced his appreciation of the drink. "You see, my new station in life offers so many possibilities." He leered at Alain where Alain lay on the floor.

"You murdered Jean Paul," Alain said, his voice deadly, cold.

"The old fool thought he could save you." Villandré finished the brandy and picked up his gloves from the table. "Now, where is that charming son of yours." Villandré began slapping the palm of his hand with his gloves, an annoying habit Alain remembered from long ago. "Traitors to the new society are of every age," Villandré said.

"You are too late." Alain glared. "I have sent Edmund to safety."

At Villandré’s signal a guard stepped forward and placed the tip of his musket at Alain’s temple. "Where is he?" Villandré demanded. He stopped slapping the gloves.

"Out of the country."

"I do not believe you." Villandré motioned to the guard. "Search the château. The boy is here, I will warrant." Villandré watched Alain carefully. "What of Jean Paul’s family? Where are they?"

"With my son. They wait in England."

"Then they wait in vain. Robespierre has ordered your execution."

"We both know," Alain said, "you are not here out of any loyalty to a new France."

"You are so right." Villandré slapped his gloves once more. "Finally, I will revenge the death of my father and serve my country in so doing." He coldly scrutinized Alain’s face. "How just, do you not agree?"

"Lamont Villandré’s evil could not begin to compare with your own," Alain said. "But he betrayed my father’s trust. Your father stole from us."

"Of what consequence were a few pieces of gold and silver to the Marquis of Andelys?" Villandré asked.

"A few pieces?" Alain sarcastically laughed. "Lamont Villandré," he repeated the name with scorn, "your father, held a position of trust in managing the marquis’ Percherons; my father treasured his dappled gray horses. Lamont Villandré embezzled from the accounts that provided for them ... for years, before he was caught."

Villandré stomped up to Alain. He clenched his fists. "The marquis turned our family out of our home. My father could not provide for us. Your father forced mine to live in squalor and shame the remainder of his miserable life!"

"It was your father’s choice," Alain said, "just as the murder of innocent citizens is yours."

"Silence!" Villandré kicked Alain in the ribs. He strode to the door, screaming at his guards. "Get him out of here! Take him from my sight!"

†

Wedged between the wall and Danielle, Edmund had fallen asleep with his head against her shoulder. She looked down at his dark silken curls and wondered how much longer they would be cramped in the small hiding place. She was afraid to speak, afraid to breathe. Villandré’s mad screams had long stopped. Surely he had gone by now, and Alain either dead, or taken prisoner. She stroked Edmund’s head. It falls on me to protect you, little one, she thought.

"Marie Claire?" Danielle whispered.

"Yes, Madame?"

"There’s been no sound for some time. They may have gone."

"Perhaps, Madame," Marie Claire answered.

"Ooo, Madame, I am afraid," Babette admitted from where she huddled against Marie Claire.

"Keep Edmund still," Danielle moved, shifting the sleeping boy between Marie Claire and Babette. "I’ll venture out."

"Very well, Madame, but take care," Marie Claire said.

"I will," Danielle promised while she slid a panel to expose the passage to their hidden chamber. "No matter what happens remain here until I come for you." Having offered the warning she squeezed through a small opening. Once on the other side, she secured the panel again.

The library was dark and gloomy. As she crept along the wall, alert to any movement, her own heart pounded. The beat sounded so loud in her head that she felt sure if anyone remained in the château, they could hear the thudding, too.

The broad hall appeared vacant as she entered it. Even so, she tiptoed to the drawing room and breathed a sigh of relief when she confirmed no one waited within. An open bottle of Calvados and one goblet remained on the table. She was drawn to it, and passed a small bloodstain on the floor. Alain’s blood, she thought. She moved to the window and slightly pulled back the lace. She could see no one on the lawn, though horses had left muddy prints and manure close to the château.

After rushing up the stairs to Alain’s bedchamber where she could get a better view of the grounds, she flung open a window and leaned out into the bitter morning. No one remained on the lawn, save Jean Paul. He still lay where he had fallen, his bloodstain turned black.

Danielle closed the window. When she turned, her gaze flicked momentarily over the rumpled covers on the bed, and she wondered if she would ever see Alain again. The very possibility that she would not turned her blood to ice. She imagined Villandré’s death. He would die badly, of that she was sure. The knowledge of his demise gave her some satisfaction. With her head swirling with worry, grief, and bitterness, she fled downstairs to release the others from their self-imposed prison in the secret passageway.

When Danielle reached the bottom step, the force of the main doors opening knocked over a candlestick on the vestibule table. Danielle’s stomach lurched.

"Claude!"

"Louis is dead." Claude slammed the door back in place. "A messenger on his way to Honfleur gave me the news. France no longer has a king!"

Danielle hurried toward Claude as he removed his cloak. "Villandré took Alain," she said.

"No!"

"Villandré and his henchmen came this morning; they murdered Jean Paul."

"Jean Paul is dead?" Claude’s eyes widened from shock.

"Villandré shot him in the back."

The color drained from Claude’s face. "But Alain ... Alain is alive?"

"I believe so."

"Did Villandré take Edmund, too?"

"No. Alain hid Edmund, Marie Claire, Babette, and me in a secret chamber before Villandré could reach us. I just ventured out to see if he and his men were gone. There’s a small amount of blood in the drawing room, probably Alain’s, but not enough blood to be from a mortal wound."

"Villandré must have taken him to Andelys," Claude said.

"What can we do?" Danielle implored.

Claude made a fist and jammed it into his other hand. "Alain should have left France before now!" Claude looked angry. Knowing it was worry for his brother that caused the reaction, Danielle reached for Claude’s arm. After she touched him, he relaxed his hands at his sides.

"We planned to leave yesterday," Danielle told him, "but Alain wanted to wait for you. Jean Paul insisted on staying with us."

"Ah, my friend," Claude pressed his forehead to his palm, "this is sad." He paused before looking up. "Marie Claire will want to tend her husband. We will care for our dead, then decide what to do."

After bringing the others out of the secret chamber, Danielle and Edmund went to the kitchen while Claude helped Marie Claire and Babette bring Jean Paul’s body inside. Danielle heated milk and made chocolate for Edmund. They sat at the table and talked together, but she couldn’t turn the boy’s mind away from the terrible day.

Claude joined Danielle and Edmund in the kitchen, leaving Marie Claire and Babette alone with Jean Paul. Weary of evading Edmund’s questions about his father, Danielle let Claude take charge.

"When will papa return?" Edmund asked him.

Claude shot a questioning look to Danielle. From her expression, he guessed she hadn’t told Edmund the truth.

"Your father left with some gentlemen from town, but he does not have his horse. I will take Ebon to him so he may return."

Edmund seemed to accept Claude’s answer and Danielle breathed more easily. She didn’t want to alarm the child.

"Marie Claire told me Jean Paul is in heaven now," Edmund said.

"That’s right," Danielle answered.

"Then he is with mama and grandfather," Edmund said. It seemed to comfort him.

"And my mama, too," Claude said. "You may be assured Jean Paul is well looked after, little one."

"Madame," Marie Claire entered the kitchen, "do you wish to view my husband?"

"Of course," Danielle wiped her hands on the apron she had tied over her gown. She removed the apron and slipped on her cloak. "Where is he?"

"Monsieur Duprey carried him to the dining room," Marie Claire said, leading the way out of the kitchen. The crossed the brief distance between the out building and the château in silence. Their footsteps crunched on the snow and straw. Each footfall punctuated Danielle’s sorrow and worry.

They had placed Jean Paul’s body at the end of the table. Babette stood next to him, her hand on her father’s. "Papa looks as though he is asleep, Madame," Babette said.

"He appears quite peaceful," Danielle agreed. She had brought Edmund. The boy stood in front of her.

"May I touch him," Edmund asked.

"If Marie Claire doesn’t mind," Danielle believed it best to view death as a natural state and not something to fear.

Marie Claire nodded affirmatively.

Putting his small fingers next to Babette’s, Edmund rubbed Jean Paul’s hand. "He is cold."

"His warmth has traveled with him to heaven," Danielle explained. "You may not know, but the stars shine so brightly because they are fueled by love."

"That is beautiful, Madame," Marie Claire said, curbing a new spurt of tears. "We will wrap my husband in linens and carry him with us to my son’s," she said. "Madame, what will you do?"

"My good woman," Claude addressed Marie Claire, "Madame Dumont and I need to discuss what steps we may take to bring the marquis home. May we leave Edmund in your care and take our leave to speak in private?"

"Of course, Monsieur Duprey. The young master is no trouble. He will help us watch over Jean Paul, and Edmund will hold our minds off our troubles."

†

In the drawing room Claude looked into the fire he had kindled, now raging brightly in one of the room’s two hearths. The bloodstain on the floor repeatedly drew him to glance sideways at it and scowl.

Danielle stood at the window, staring in the direction of Andelys. She prayed Alain was still safe and unharmed. She believed if he were not, she would know.

"What shall we do, Claude? What can two people do against such a monster as Villandré?"

"He is not invincible, my friend." Claude straightened up and turned from the fire. "Please, come here where it is warm."

"I cannot bear to view Alain’s blood again." She turned her eyes away from it and shivered from the idea of Alain’s wound, not the cold.

Claude joined her at the window and sheltered her with his arm. "There is someone in Andelys who may help us," he said, "someone who knows Villandré well and hates him as much as we do."

"Does this person have power?" Danielle felt better with Claude’s arm around her. She smiled a little.

Claude grinned, though the mirth didn’t quite reach his eyes. "In her own way. Donatella, the person of whom I speak, owns the most elegant brothel in Andelys, an establishment Villandré frequents."

"You think she can help us?"

Tightening his hold on her, Claude turned serious. "Would you be willing to do anything to rescue Alain?"

"I would," she answered. "I love your brother."

"I thought so, but I had to be certain before risking anyone else in our venture."

Leaving Claude’s side, Danielle moved cautiously to the commode that held the Calvados bottle. She couldn’t touch the empty goblet. It contained a trace of Calvados and she realized the goblet might have touched Villandré’s despicable lips. She prayed for courage while she studied it. "I have an idea." She looked up at Claude. "What if we were to drug Villandré, slip something in his drink, so he could be put out of commission long enough for us to find Alain and escape?"

"He has a weakness for drink," Claude affirmed, "and ... women."

"Villandré doesn’t know me." She moved to stand next to Claude. "When Alain and I met, Alain believed me a prostitute; do you think Villandré would take me for one of Donatella’s whores?"

"God’s truth, Madame! Would you risk so much?"

"I would," she confessed, "and more."

Claude seemed to measure her confession’s worth. "Very well. My friend, had I doubted your trustworthiness and honesty, I no longer do so." He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, then held her hand between his palms. "We shall seek Donatella in the morning and see if she will come to our aid. If we can incapacitate Villandré, I believe I can bribe his worthless jailers to turn their backs long enough to get Alain out.

"I have one question." Claude looked at her skeptically. "Do you know how to sit a horse?"

"Sir, I was raised in Virginia." Danielle eyed him with feigned dismay. "Everyone in Virginia can ride horseback."

Claude looked relieved. "That will make it much easier to carry out our plan. ‘Til morning, then." He raised Danielle’s fingertips to his lips once more.

"Ready or not," Danielle replied.

Chapter Thirteen

"It will be less dangerous if we approach Donatella’s through the back entrance of her establishment," Claude said as they passed the open market of Grand Andelys.

Here, Danielle remembered, according to legend, Queen Clothilde turned water into wine for laborers building a monastery in the sixth-century. This morning, it was still too early for the merchants to be up and about their business. Nonetheless, Danielle wished for a little of the Queen’s magic.

"Are you certain Madame Donatella will help us?" Danielle asked.

"You may be sure of her. She hates Villandré and I have done her more than a fair measure of favors."

They dismounted within view of the elegant Notre Dame church, so much like a miniature Rouen Cathedral, Danielle thought. They walked their horses to the rear of a half-timbered townhouse where Claude stopped.

"Is this Madame Donatella’s place?" Danielle whispered, surprised at the simplicity of the gray timber against white stone.

"Yes. We should find her alone at this hour."

Claude tied his horse’s leather reins to an iron post then secured Ebon. Danielle tethered her mount to a neighboring stake, and tried to smooth the wrinkles from the green redingote beneath her red cloak. The man-styled riding costume Babette had provided had made the trip fairly comfortable.

"Wait here," Claude said. He went to the door and rapped upon the thick glass of an adjacent window. He knocked five or six times before a petite young woman, rubbing her sleepy eyes answered the door.

After he spoke to the girl, she curtsied and left him. Claude motioned for Danielle. Danielle rushed up the steps and together they slipped inside.

While the exterior of Madame Donatella’s establishment was unaffected, the interior was crowded with every elegance and luxury. They entered a magnificent hall decorated with gilt mirrors, priceless paintings, thick carpets, and divans covered in bright silk and animal skins. The opulent corridor divided the dwelling.

On either side intimate drawing rooms recently occupied by Donatella’s guests were now littered with empty champagne glasses and plates of food discarded at some point during the night for more delectable pleasures. In the hallway, the air, faintly tainted with tobacco smoke, appeared hazy in the glow of the few remaining lighted candles.

"Claude! What can you possibly want at this unholy time of day?" exclaimed an ample woman of indeterminate age as she worked her way down the stairs, smoothing her skirts as she descended.

"Countess Donatella, may I present Madame Danielle Dumont."

"My, she’s a pretty one, Claude," the Countess said when she reached them. "Wherever did you find her?"

Danielle cleared her throat. "I am from America--a friend of the Marquis of Andelys, Alain Grandmaison."

"A good friend?" the Countess asked. Her dove-gray eyes knowingly twinkled.

"We are close, very close," Danielle did her best to match the Countess’ dry wit. "Claude did not tell me you were a Countess."

"I do not parlay the title much now, my dear. Come in ... come in," she waved them into the closest room, then flitted about righting the mess. "Thomasina," she called, "bring coffee." Donatella turned to Danielle. "I much prefer coffee to the local sweet chocolate."

What a whirlwind, Danielle thought, admiring the affable woman. A confident, capable tornado. If anyone can help us, she can, Danielle decided.

"Donatella, will you stop scratching about like a hen," Claude said. "Villandré has Alain."

Donatella dropped a champagne glass she had retrieved from the base of a potted palm. The crystal shattered against the floor like a hundred tears. She quickly crossed herself and lowered her lashes while she muttered a prayer. "Dear God ... " She faced Danielle, went to her, and clasped Danielle’s hands. " ... my dear, you must be stricken. What can I do to help?"

"That is precisely why we have come," Claude said before Danielle could answer. "We need your assistance."

Thomasina entered the room carrying a silver coffee service. Donatella released Danielle’s hands and took the tray from the girl. "That will be all," she said to Thomasina.

"Will your Grace require anything else?" the girl asked.

"No, you may retire. You deserve a rest, my girl." Donatella put down the tray and followed Thomasina, closing the doors after she had gone. When she turned, she put her back to the door. "That one," she said, referring to the girl, "is fetching, but a gossip. We must depend upon no one else in this matter. Now, Claude, knowing you, I trust you have a plan?"

Claude grinned broadly. Danielle felt a flicker of annoyance for he seemed to be enjoying the game.

"Danielle has a scheme," he said, and Danielle felt ashamed for her irritation. "We may be able to trap the bastard with your help."

"Will you work with us?" She asked the Countess. "It will be dangerous. If Villandré finds you out ..."

"My dear," Donatella interrupted her in a tone meant to put Danielle completely at ease, "my establishment is a place where many secrets are catered to and inadvertently shared. I made sure, long ago, Jules Villandré will never risk taking advantage of me. Dear ones," She licked her lips, "he has habits that would turn the stomach of Robespierre himself. I should like nothing better than to watch Jules Villandré lose his own head." She began to pour the coffee, "And," she handed Danielle a steaming delicate cup, while meeting her eyes with a roguish gaze, "I will risk anything for love." Donatella quickly poured Claude and herself a cup. "Now, sit, my dears." She added thick cream to her coffee. "I want to hear this plan of yours."

"As you said, Villandré has many vices," Claude said while he took a turn with the cream. "Foremost is his love of fornication, secondary only to his fondness of drink. My lovely friend," Claude gratefully fixed his gaze on Danielle, "will be the bait." He put down the spoon and swiveled toward Donatella. "If you will provide some spirits of the most potent nature ... and privacy," Claude stood and snatched at the air, "we may use Villandré’s greed and vices to our advantage."

Donatella looked doubtful while she sipped the fine brew.

"Claude believes he can bribe Alain’s jailer," Danielle said. "We will use Villandré as a hostage, if we have to."

Looking more hopeful, Donatella fluttered her fingers over the porcelain, "I believe I can procure a potion that would keep Monsieur Villandré in his cups for a day, perhaps two. Will that give you enough time?"

"More than we require," Claude said.

"Very well then," Donatella smoothed her skirt. Her gaze settled on Danielle’s face then followed the line of her neck down to other attributes. "Remove your cloak, my dear."

After Danielle had unfastened the red cape and let it fall to the seat, Donatella raised a finely plucked brow and asked bluntly, "Do you have any special ... talents?"

Claude’s dimpled chin crumpled with worry, but Danielle cast away his doubts when she smiled beautifully. "I can sing," she said.

†

"I trust you spent a comfortable night?" Villandré chided his prisoner. "I slumbered with the contentment of a youth who has bedded his first wench."

Alain regarded Villandré’s baleful face and almost laughed at him. Though the disgust he felt for the man rose in his throat like the most bitter bile, Alain judged it best to hide his true feelings. "Most comfortably." He kicked a shallow pile of straw. "The bed was especially fine." In spite of himself he couldn’t censure the corner of his mouth from twitching. Villandré looked ridiculously out of place in the squalid cell. For some strange reason he had donned an exquisite suit of dove gray, and a shirt that billowed with Michelin lace at the collar and cuffs. On his head, a black felt hat decorated with the blue, white, and red cockade tilted at a rakish angle. Villandré’s impeccable reflection could almost be seen in the sheen of his black boots, were it not for the dull dim light of the dungeon. Alain clenched his dirt-smeared hands that were bound by chains. They ached to rip the lace from Villandré’s neck--to squeeze the life out of him.

"Well," Villandré’s sparse lips curved into a smile; his eyes remained hard as steel, "I am afraid you will not find the day so much to your liking." He ran his tongue over his upper lip. "You see, I have planned your itinerary, minute by minute. You will be spending it with Monsieur Castigo." Villandré nodded toward a tall masked brute who stood without the cell. "Castigo is an artist ... an absolute master," Villandré chuckled low in his throat, "though his style differs vastly from your own."

"Why do you not you deal with me yourself?" Alain asked.

Villandré withdrew his kidskin gloves from his slender hands. "It will pleasure me to watch for a time," he said. He stepped forward and took hold of Alain’s chin, lifting it to inspect the marquis’ neck. "I will apply the finishing touch," his eyes gleamed with malice. "At dawn, Monsieur Marquis, I will cut off your head ... myself."

"And will you wear a mask like Castigo does now? Or are you not afraid of the curses that will follow you after my death?" Alain spat into Villandré’s face.

Though Jules Villandré didn’t so much as flinch, hate radiated from him to Alain, and Alain faced an internal struggle. He fought to keep from losing hope, though he knew there was little to hope for. No one would risk saving him, and though strong, Danielle was but one woman--no match for the likes of his tormentor. Alain could only trust she would take his son and flee the château. He would cling to life for as long as he could, without giving Jules Villandré any satisfaction.

Jules Villandré, his face as immovable as stone, released Alain’s chin and let Castigo into the cell. Castigo brought with him a chest of instruments. Alain guessed their grim purpose.

Slamming the iron door after Castigo, Villandré sat upon a stool he had brought for the purpose of viewing the tormentor at work. When he had made himself comfortable, and lit a cheroot from a candle, he nodded to Castigo. "Begin. Oh," he blew a ring of smoke toward Alain, "and Monsieur Marquis, you will soon discover, when it comes to feeling pain, all men are equal."

†

Villandré removed his gloves and picked up the gold embossed calling card from the table that furnished his small foyer. He lifted the paper to his nose. "Donatella," he said without reading her signature. The spicy scent that always played between the folds of her ample bosom, inflamed him, but he knew it was more because, to his mind, he had just enjoyed a most satisfying few hours.

Castigo had exceeded his expectations, using his skill to break the marquis, and Villandré surmised Alain would remain unconscious until morning. Then, Villandré relished the thought, he would finish Alain Grandmaison once and for all.

A frown deepened the furrow between his brows. His only regret was the torture had ended too soon, without the Marquis of Andelys begging for mercy. Villandré thought he would have liked to have heard Grandmaison sob the way his own father had cried many a night before he had ended his own life. Villandré shook his head as though to clear away the noise. He was showing Alain far more mercy than was shown his own sire. Still, because he wanted Alain fresh for the guillotine, he had regretfully called upon Castigo to cease his ministrations after Alain had blacked out.

Villandré glanced down at the card and read, The pleasure of your company is requested before dinner for a very private introduction to a dear friend from America. Always, Donatella.

"Dear friend," Villandré said and ruefully smiled at Donatella’s code for a new prostitute. He lifted the card to his nose again and simultaneously caressed the protrudence between his legs with his other hand. Why not, he thought. Sophine was available any time, though he had anticipated giving her a good thrashing tonight. Perhaps this new dear friend would give him even greater pleasure. It would take much to satisfy him after the earlier delights of the day.

†

Alain sought refuge in a deep, dark place, a dimension of his being heretofore unmolested. He had dissolved into the soft shadows the third time Castigo attempted to asphyxiate him from where Alain hung upon the stretching ladder. Castigo’s specialty had involved the use of a seaman’s ropes. He wound the heavy cords with an expert’s skill, cutting off the circulation to a part of the body, or life-giving breath, depending on where the tie was applied. The pain had been excruciating.

Knowing he would live to face Villandré at daybreak, Alain felt satisfied that he hadn’t cried out. Instinctively, he knew his cries were what Villandré hoped for. Thank God, Danielle and his son had been spared the man’s cruelty.

Conjuring up the soothing image of Danielle, Alain caressed her hair with his mind and imagined kissing, tasting every exquisite part of her. With the image, he managed to dull the fire that seared his shoulder sockets. He fought to keep the semblance of Danielle alive, though he felt himself sinking, and knew he needed the release of oblivion. In his thoughts, Danielle pulled away, and when Alain gazed into the deep reflecting pools of her eyes, he became one with their darkness.

†

"What makes your dear friend so special?" Villandré asked Donatella.

"Ah, my friend ... my dear friend has the face of a virgin, the voice of an angel, and the body of a whore," the Countess said. "She will sing for you and she will make your loins bulge, Citizen. Madame Dumont is a rare find, an exotic bird."

Villandré sucked in a quick breath. Already he grew hard as a rock. To be complemented so by Donatella, the strumpet had to be special indeed.

"Calm yourself, Citizen," Donatella’s gaze fixed on the rise at his crotch and wagged her finger at him. "The nectar is ambrosial and is to be savored slowly, not devoured as you would an ordinary sweetmeat."

Laughing from deep in his throat, Villandré poured Donatella a sparkling glass of champagne. "Take me to her, Countess. I am eager to encounter this ... this blossom from your garden."

Donatella raised her glass to his, then sipped the bubbling drink. "As you wish. Madame Dumont is favoring our gathering with a song this evening. When she is done, I will bring her to your table." Donatella offered Villandré her arm without expressing any of the revulsion she felt at his touch. "This way, Citizen."

Villandré sat at his usual table in the gilded room, savoring his champagne and smoking his cheroot. His mind lingered on the thought that had it not been for the Revolution, he would not have the opportunity to be in such an elegant place, in such cultivated company. He felt quite satisfied with himself. In Paris, he toned down his love of lavish refinements, but here in Andelys, he could brandish his power. He looked around the room and nodded at two gentlemen seated at the adjoining table. He could see their fear of him in their eyes. He didn’t care one whit if the populace hated him. Fear wielded its own respect.

Donatella exited the room. She entered again, bringing with her the most beautiful woman Villandré had ever seen. Desire coursed through him like a bolt of lightening when Madame Dumont followed Donatella’s slight indication of acknowledgment, to glance his way. The women reached the front of the gathering. Madame Dumont stood in the glow of lighted candles against sparkling crystal, her skin awash with shimmering light.

"Gentlemen and ladies, I would like to introduce my dear friend from America, Madame Danielle Dumont." There was a stirring of appreciation from the males in the audience. "As a favor to me, my friend has agreed to sing for you; Madame Dumont has a remarkable voice." Donatella gave Danielle’s hand a squeeze, then parted from her.

First, Villandré focused on Danielle Dumont’s hair, a cloud of dark smoke above the incandescence of her skin, then, her almond eyes, evenly spaced under arched brows. Her eyes, he surmised, would reflect the depths of desire, satisfaction ... his masculinity arched ... or suffering. He took a draw from his cheroot and let out the smoke slowly. Through the haze, his inspection shifted down to her mouth. When she parted her luscious lips to sing, he could practically taste the honey, and her teeth ... her teeth looked like perfect luminous pearls.

"Some say love it is a river that drowns the tender reed," Danielle sang. She fixed a poker-faced gaze on the man Donatella had pointed out--Villandré. "Some say love it is a hunger an endless aching need." She shifted her eyes away from Villandré’s leering face and thought of Alain. Wherever he was, she prayed he was safe ... alive. "I say love, it is a flower, and you it’s only seed." While Danielle sang the second verse, she tried to ignore Villandre’s scrutiny. The fiend peeled her with his slicing gaze.

Donatella had laced and bound her into the most revealing gown from the brothel’s vast wardrobe. Danielle knew the gown’s gold-colored bodice fit against her flesh like molten metal and revealed most of her bosom. Each time Danielle looked at Villandré, his eyes were fastened on a different part of her anatomy, first her breasts, then the rest of her torso. His examination made her sick, but she fought the reaction, pouring all her being into her music that she mentally directed to Alain, keenly feeling his absence.

"When the night has been too lonely, and the road has been too long," she offered the twentieth-century lyrics to the group, silently thanking Bette Midler for making the song one she would remember, "and you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong;" time hasn’t really changed people’s feelings, Danielle realized before mouthing the final lyrics, "just remember in the winter, far beneath the bitter snows ... lies the seed that with the sun’s love in the spring becomes the rose." She had finished the song! Her heart hammered. Her gut twisted.

The crowd applauded, Villandré the hardest. He stood, continuing his clapping.

Danielle smiled at him warmly, though ice ran through her veins. She took a steadying gulp of air. Ready or not, she thought, then she went to meet the fiend.

Lifting Danielle’s fingertips to his lips, Villandré spilled his hot breath over her hand. She wanted to vomit, but offered her most ravishing smile. "Citizen Villandré, you exceed all the qualities Countess Donatella bestowed upon you."

He bowed, looking pleased. "I enjoyed your song, Madame. Will you join me for some refreshment?"

"Gladly."

After Danielle sat, Villandré raised his hand. Instantly a wench appeared bearing two flutes brimming with champagne. Another server placed a plate of cold meats, cheese, and tiny iced cakes before them.

"Countess Donatella spoils her guests," Danielle said.

"Yes," the villain raised his glass to Danielle, "but forget Donatella. I would like to drink to the most beautiful woman in the room ... perhaps all of France. You, Madame."

"Thank you," Danielle raised her eyes to meet his burning gaze while he drank, "and I to the most awed man in Andelys ... perhaps all of France." Danielle studied his hard face framed by straight black hair neatly tied back at his neck. Had he not been so cruel, he might have been handsome. Hate had twisted his regular features into a countenance that shifted easily from the striking to the ugly. His evil soul seared through the light of his eyes no matter how much he complimented and preened. Cruelty sharpened the angular shape of his mouth like a tightly strung bow.

After draining his drink, Villandré plucked a cake from the tray and stuffed it in his mouth. He lowered his soiled fingers to his lap, then slid his palm onto her thigh. He squeezed her skin through the fragile fabric of her gown.

Danielle looked at his hand, so long and narrow, like the talons of a falcon ready to grab its prey. Her stomach constricted. "Countess Donatella tells me you are a connoisseur of fine brandy, Citizen."

"I do take pleasure in the strong spirit."

"It happens I brought a sample of my brother’s apple brandy with me from America." She didn’t even blink when she lied. "It may not equal your local Calvados, but I believe he would value your opinion on his spirit’s quality." Feeling Villandré’s hand slither along her leg, she battled the urge to slap it away. She wanted to scream and run. "Would you accompany me to my suite?" she forced the words and batted her eyelashes. "I don’t wish to share the drink or the evening with anyone else."

A wash of desire flushed Villandré’s face. He stood. Danielle’s stomach fluttered. She knew she had him.

"Delighted, Madame." He took her hand, and she rose.

God help me if Donatella’s potion fails, Danielle thought when she noticed to what proportions she had excited the man. "My suite is at the top of the stairs," she said. "I’m sure you know the way."

Basking in his self-importance, Villandré followed Danielle up the sweep of Donatella’s stairs. He had enjoyed the envious glances of the other men as they left the room, but most of all, he felt astonished that Madame Dumont seemed to want to be with him. Rarely did a woman, even a whore, seek him out.

He glanced back to two men lounging against a doorframe, intent on watching him leave. He smiled to himself. Considering those present, the word could soon reach Paris he had bedded a beautiful courtesan from America. He didn’t really know if that would put him in disfavor with Robespierre, but at the moment, he didn’t care. He fixed his sight on Madame Dumont’s derriere. He couldn’t wait to rip her gown from her body and devour her soft flesh. Yet, an idea held him in control. Perhaps, he thought, it would be a novelty to give her pleasure. Yes, he decided while watching her body undulate as they walked up the stairs. They had the entire night. Later, if he required it, he could turn her enjoyment to pain.

In Danielle’s room, Villandré waited by the bed while she poured brandy from a dark decanter into an amethyst-colored tumbler. She brought it to him and the rose scent of her when she approached made him feel giddier than all the champagne he had consumed. "Will you join me?" he asked, lifting the tumbler.

"No, Citizen," she laughed. "I have had too much already. Another glass and I would likely revert to mass of unresponsive giggles. But, please, you enjoy."

Watching Villandré swallow the liquid brought relief to Danielle. To bad it’s not poison, she thought. Donatella’s potion should work quickly. He had resumed his study of her. She took her mind off it by glancing around the room. Venetian blue, Donatella had called the color of the silk-covered walls, almost turquoise. The intense hue reminded her of the color of Alain’s eyes.

"You seem nervous, my dear." Villandré stood and headed toward Danielle. Stopping in front of her, he stroked her face with the back of his hand. She shuddered. "Do I make you nervous?" he asked.

"I confess, Citizen, your reputation unnerves me."

"No need," he murmured, "no need for you to be uneasy."

Danielle held her breath.

"You are a treasure, my dear, and I will treat you so. Come." He led her by the hand to a huge ornate mirror that stood by the bed, turning her so she stood in front of him, reflected in the silver glass. "Look. Do we not make a handsome pair?"

Bile gorged Danielle’s throat. She heard a buzzing in her ears. Now! She prayed, work now.

He dipped his fingers down the front of her gown, freeing her breast from the gold-colored fabric. Painfully, he tweaked her nipple. She held her breath. This is for Alain, she reminded herself. She rubbed her derriere against Villandré, and reached for a large peacock’s feather that was laying on top of the bed. She tickled Villandré’s jaw with the feather and he grinned wickedly at their reflection in the mirror. Dear God. She could feel him; he was huge!

"Ah, yes," Villandré moved up and down against her. "I believe we shall be dear friends, indeed."

Danielle tickled him with the feather again. She didn’t resist when he turned her to face him, nor when he lifted her skirt and placed his hand on her hip. She prayed the potion would work before she had to carry her deception much further. She had to make sure he could not call out and alarm Donatella’s other guests. Yet, when Villandré moved to kiss her, her stomach heaved. Jerking away from him, she hit the mirror, sending it crashing against Villandré. Villandré lost his balance and fell, tearing Danielle’s bodice as he went down. Fortunately, the mirror come to land on the bed.

"You slut!" he swore grasping for her feet. Still, the potion had removed his ability to cry out.

Danielle backed away from him, situating her bodice to cover her breast.

"What have you done to me? Bitch!" He tried to get up. His face turned red, then ashen. He cried out in agony but the potion in his gut had weakened his voice. Villandré writhed on the floor.

Calmer, Danielle inched toward Villandré and looked down at him with cold defiance. The door opened and Claude entered the room. He joined her and they glared down at the foe.

"Duprey!" Villandré gasped.

Claude bowed. "At your service." He stood tall and pulled Danielle close to his side. "Sir, I heard you malign Madame Dumont. This brave woman is not a slut." Claude said with a mocking injured tone.

Villandré stared up at them, comprehension transforming his face. His mouth twisted horribly. Pain wracked his body. His eyes bulged. A spasm flailed his legs, then, his limbs stilled.

"Is he dead?" Danielle broke the silence.

Claude bent down and felt the side of Villandré’s neck. "Not dead ... not quite." While Claude moved to the door, Danielle regarded the man on the floor with contempt and fear of what could have been.

Claude returned with Donatella who was carrying Danielle’s riding costume and cloak. "Hurry!" Donatella said. "You may change your gown behind the screen. My men will carry Villandré down to your horses in the alley. You will have to manage from there." She raised her fine plucked brows and smirked. "I have eased your way by sending some of my girls and an abundance of ale to the guardhouse. The men at their posts should be well into their cups by now."

"How can we thank you?" Danielle asked, tears welling her eyes.

"My dear, in these times it is rare to encounter as fine a love as yours for my friend, Alain. Be true to it. That will be thank you enough."

†

"Quickly! Give us a cell. Monsieur Villandré is indisposed."

"Why bring him here?" the bleary-eyed guard challenged then finished his ale.

"We were walking close by when he collapsed." Danielle flashed the guard what she hoped was a convincing smile.

"Good fellow, let me help her take him inside," Claude said.

The guard looked them over while he scratched the paunch under his chin and licked beer foam from his lips. "I have no fealty to this one, but why should I do you any favors?"

"Perhaps this will buy your favor." Claude tossed a pouch of coins to the floor in front of the man. The jailer scooped it up and hefted the bag’s weight. He pitched it in the air once and caught it, then grinned a toothless smile before turning to jangle his weighty keys and open the barred door. "Citizen, you have given me good cause for celebration." He cackled once. "Perhaps the company of a comely wench. Tell Citizen Villandré I wish him recovery ... but not too swift," the man chuckled as he staggered away.

When Danielle and Claude heard the final clang of doors closing after the guard, they took hold of Villandré’s arms and dragged him into the corridor of cells. There were twelve cells, six on each side of the fetid hall. They shut Villandré into the first, after depositing him on a rank pile of hay. Heavily drugged, and oblivious to all, he sank into the straw like a corpse.

They found Alain in the last cell on the right, though there were no other prisoners. "Hurry!" Danielle made room for Claude to attack the lock. "He’s hanging from the wall and he is not moving. Get him down! Dear God, get him down!"

Claude fumbled with the keys and tried three before the lock turned. He wrenched the door open and Danielle rushed in. She tried to ease the pressure caused by the shackles holding Alain to the wall while Claude undid the locks. Claude and Danielle bore Alain’s weight and eased him to the dirt floor. Danielle sank to her knees upon the earth beside Alain. When she touched her hand to his bruised face, he groaned.

"He’s alive!" Danielle had never felt so happy. "He’s alive," she repeated smiling up at Claude through a veil of tears.

Claude joined her on the floor and lightly smacked Alain on either cheek. "My friend, can you hear me? Alain! Look at me!"

Alain coughed, then moaned.

"He needs water," Claude said.

Danielle stood and ran to the guard’s station where she had noticed a bucket. She brought it back to Alain’s cell.

Claude supported Alain while Danielle moistened his lips with the water and begged him to swallow. In a few minutes, Alain greedily lapped the drink she offered. After he drank, Danielle dipped the hem of her skirt in the liquid and cleaned his face.

"Are you seriously hurt, my friend?" Claude asked.

Danielle pointed to oozing marks around Alain’s neck. Alain opened one swollen blood-shot eye and tried to clear his throat. "At dawn, I would have been liberated from my head," he whispered. "These poor wounds pale in comparison."

Claude gave a short laugh. "At least you have not lost your wit." He helped Alain sit up.

"Tell us where you’re hurt," Danielle rubbed his forehead, "so we can get you out of here without maiming you."

"Villandré’s agent was quite adept in his trade," Alain touched the rope burns on his neck and moved to rub his shoulders, "but I suffer more where Villandré put his boot. He may have cracked a few ribs."

"Can you sit a horse?" Claude asked.

"I would jump astride a camel to leave this den of hell," Alain croaked. He rubbed his chest where it pained him. His eyes seemed to grow a little clearer. "How did you get here ... where is Villandré?"

Claude grinned broadly. "Villandré’s sleeping it off in an adjoining cell and the rest is a long story, best told another time. We must make haste, my friend."

"Villandré will be indisposed until after dawn," Danielle promised. "We have until then to collect Edmund and get away."

"Edmund ..."

" ... is safe," Danielle finished.

Alain struggled to get to his feet. Danielle and Claude pulled him up. "Are you sure you’re fit to travel?" Danielle asked.

"I am," he lied, pressing his weight against her. "My love, the precious sight of you gives me wings. I could fly from here."

Danielle increased her hold about his waist and nuzzled his cheek." She helped Claude support him while he took the first few halting steps and until Alain was able to limp partially assisted.

When they left the prison, they could see the guards and company dancing around a fire, their voices bellowing the verse of a bawdy song. "They must be enjoying the refreshment and entertainment provided by Donatella," Claude commented.

"I don’t believe we’ll have to worry about their following us," Danielle observed, a dimension of humor finally returning to her face. "Donatella kept her promise."

"Donatella?" Alain asked while Claude helped him mount Ebon. "Now, I am certainly curious."

Claude sat his horse and turned to Alain, "You shall hear the story in good time, my friend," he winked at Danielle, "all in good time."

THE GIFT
Chapter Fourteen

Snow swept the sky like tendrils of angel’s hair touching the face of the earth. A full moon gleamed from breaks in the clouds revealing the countryside covered with the dusting of white. How calm their surroundings, Danielle thought, quite unlike the agitated pounding of her heart or the thudding of their horses hoofs against the ground. The cold air smelled clean, washed of all sin.

They guided their horses along the same route she had once driven with Albert in his black sedan, close to the cliffs and within view of the river. No matter how different the circumstances, how different the times, she couldn’t help but admire the pristine beauty.

After they had ridden far enough to feel safe from possible pursuers, they slowed from a gallop to a cantor. The snow ceased falling, leaving a clear night sky. Pinpricks of starlight in the sky, like joyous jewels in a dark sea, eased Danielle’s memory of the danger they had just escaped, and the difficult decisions that spread before them.

In a small clump of trees they dismounted and Claude discreetly wandered away, giving Danielle and Alain a measure of privacy. "Can you continue to ride?" Danielle asked Alain. Even in the dim light Danielle could see his face stretched tight from pain. His neck, mottled with bruises bled at the open wounds. She reached out to touch his shoulder. "Do you hurt much?" she asked.

"It pains me," he placed his hand over Danielle’s then moved it to rub his chest, "but I will mend. Look." He pointed to the heavens. "There is Orion, the hunter. It gives me hope when I can gaze up and so readily find a friend. Orion rises in the evening because it is winter. When he rises at dawn, it will be spring. I wonder, will the hunter be as simple to find in the skies over England?"

"The Orion Nebula is the bright trail of stars in the hunter’s sword," Danielle said. "The stars are more than a thousand light years from earth, but don’t worry, they’ll shine just as brightly over England as they do here."

"You know astronomy?" Alain sounded quite shocked.

She lightly laughed. "Only what I’ve read about what the movement of stars and planets can predict."

"The future. Can you foretell our future?" Danielle thought Alain’s eyes appeared as dazzling as the stars when he asked the question.

"You tease," she answered. "If you wish, I can tell you what others have predicted. He nodded so she concentrated, remembering what she had read about how the movements of the constellations influence history.

"In the early 1700’s," she said, "Pluto entered Sagittarius, heralding an age of great change. It’s not surprising there were two revolutions--in your country, and in mine. This pattern is now being repeated late in the twentieth-century." It felt odd speaking of the time she was now in as the past, but she didn’t know how else to put it.

Alain leaned against an oak and sank down to sit on the ground bracing himself against the tree’s rough bark. "Explain this Pluto," he said looking up at her.

Danielle rested against the same tree. She looked up at the stars. She had forgotten he wouldn’t know about the heavenly body. Tenderly, she rested her hand upon his head and fondled his hair. "Pluto is a planet, my love. I believe discovered in the 1930’s."

"Another planet?" Alain looked up at her in awe at the revelation.

"The last in our solar system, though just before I came here, there was some argument about whether Pluto is large enough to be classified as a planet."

"The future," Alain sounded pensive, "is astonishing."

"Modern astrologers say Pluto influences the process of change. Birth, life, death, re-birth--all stages in the process. I know I don’t need to explain the changing seasons to you, but it’s the best analogy I can think of. Imagine a rose seeking the sun’s warmth. At the end of the summer, the rose dies; its last withered petals drop to the ground. If you trim the rose bush back, it will turn brown. Some might think the bush dead, but it’s merely resting through the winter, waiting for rebirth in the spring. When spring comes, the bush will turn green and blossom. As you know, like one of your dormant apple trees, the rose bush never really dies. Its energy just takes on different physical shapes during its cycle. "When Pluto moves into Sagittarius there is always a process of emotional, physical, and spiritual shifting."

"A philosopher, too." Alain tried to laugh but the attempt ended with a groan. He made to stand and Danielle helped him to his feet. Once standing, Alain smoothed back a wisp of Danielle’s hair from her cheek.

"I’m not a philosopher," she said. "I’m a woman in love who once upon a time read her horoscope every day," she chuckled lightly wondering if Sydney Omarr could have predicted her present circumstances.

"What is that?" she pointed to another bright point in the sky.

"We call it a wandering star. Each night it appears in a different place, but always with the same fierce light."

Danielle couldn’t take her eyes off Alain’s face to look back at the star. While he gazed up at the night sky his expression looked peaceful--happy. "You’re quite remarkable," Danielle said, her voice revealing her affection.

"Ah, there is much I do not know," he looked at her and scowled, ending the blissful moment, "how to end this string of deadly events--how to save us."

"We will think what to do," Danielle hoped she sounded more sure than she felt.

"I suggest we cease our star gazing and make haste to the château," Claude interrupted, leading his horse toward them. "Donatella’s draught may keep its hold on Villandré until morning, but we can count on no more. And you, my friend," he directed the comment to Alain, "need to rest."

"Of course," Danielle accepted Claude’s gentle reminder. She was so enjoying Alain’s company she had almost forgotten about his injuries. She stepped forward and kissed Claude on the cheek. "I haven’t thanked you for saving our lives. We couldn’t ask for a better friend."

"Yes," Alain agreed. He moved toward Claude and gingerly embraced him. It was the only time Danielle had seen Alain physically acknowledge his feelings for Claude, though she had never doubted the presence of a strong friendship.

"It is time to collect my son," Alain said, "and for us all to leave this unholy country."

Danielle felt an overwhelming sadness at Alain’s statement. At Donatella’s, and again on horseback, Danielle had reviewed her options over and over again. Because she loved Alain, Edmund, and Claude, she was afraid she could not leave Normandy with them. How could she risk changing their future any more than she already had? Glancing toward the stars she wondered if this brief respite beneath the peaceful canopy would mark the last tranquillity the three of them would share. She breathed of the air, and tried to exhale slowly, yet she couldn’t release the pain the thoughts gave her.

The two men in her life waited for her to make the first move to go. While laying a reassuring hand to her horse’s flank, she regarded Claude, her friend, and Alain, her love, with tenderness while she hid her grief. She felt quite weary with the finality of the moment when, at last, she allowed Claude to help her mount.

†

"Monsieur Marquis!" Marie Claire lost her grip on Edmund when Alain entered the château.

Edmund rushed to his father and buried his face against Alain’s legs. Forgetting his wounds, Alain squatted down to Edmund’s level and embraced him.

"Such a brave lad. Do not be afraid; we will leave this cursed country before any more harm befalls us."

"I was afraid, papa, but now I am not because you are here."

Alain looked from his son to Marie Claire who was clinging to Babette’s arm. "I am bereft over the death of your husband, Madame. The maze should be a place where children run and play and where lovers meet, not a place of murder," Alain spoke bitterly because he felt so helpless in the face of the disaster.

Marie Claire wiped away a tear. "One day it will again hold the laughter of children, monsieur," she promised.

"I am indebted to Jean Paul and to you for my son’s life. Jean Paul was a true friend."

"Thank you, my lord. It is some comfort to know Jean Paul gave his life for the children. While his blood wetted the ground, we had time to hide. The boy and my Babette are safe."

"You and Babette must leave at once," Alain said. "Danielle, take Edmund."

"Of course." She held out her hands to the child and he rushed to her.

"Quickly." Alain rose with difficulty and started walking. They followed him into the library. He crossed the room and stopped at his strongbox, motioning for Marie Claire. "You have the key?"

Marie Claire approached while removing a large copper skeleton key from her chatelaine. She gave the key to Alain. He unlocked the large box and withdrew a leather pouch, which he put into her hands. Tenderly, he folded her fingers over the satchel.

It took her a moment to realize the gift was for her. "There is no need, monsieur ... "

"This will see you and your family to safety," Alain gently interrupted her refusal.

"Thank you, Monsieur Marquis." She lowered her eyes and held the pouch to her breast.

Alain put his arm around her. "Where will you go?"

"Ives is north," Marie Claire took several raw gulps of air when she answered. "We will take Jean Paul with us. My eldest son will bury his father and care for us until your return."

Danielle watched the woman’s eyes fill with tears and her chin quiver obstinately. "We stand ready to again serve you and Master Edmund," Marie Claire promised.

"I look forward to that day," Alain ignored his wounds to embrace Marie Claire, then her daughter. "Now, make haste."

They left the library, moving slowly from the turret room to the cold outer hall. Marie Claire and Babette paused in front of Danielle and Edmund.

"May Our Lady watch over you both," Marie Claire said.

"And you," Danielle kissed Marie Claire’s cheek.

"Ooo, Madame, I will miss you," Babette said while tears streamed down her face, "and you, too, Master Edmund." She hugged the little boy.

Edmund clung to Babette’s white apron and then ran to Marie Claire’s voluminous skirts. He buried his face there then, when she asked, held his cheek up for her to kiss. Danielle saw that although he was trying to be brave, his cheeks were pale, his eyes, too, brimming with tears.

"Come now," Danielle stepped forward and rested her hands on Edmund’s shoulders. She gently turned him toward Alain who ignored his own pain and lifted the lad into his arms. "You really must go," she said to the women.

Danielle gathered two heavy cloaks from a nearby chair and draped one around Marie Claire and the other about Babette’s small shoulders. She smoothed the material down Babette’s arms. "Take care, my dear, and watch over your mother," she said giving the girl a final squeeze. "Claude is waiting for you at the wagon. I’m sure he has Jean Paul and your things secured and will ride a ways with you." She opened the door and held it for them.

"Wait," Alain said, "I will escort you to the dray. It will ease my mind to see you away safely."

"You must rest," Danielle interjected. "Your wounds are still raw and you’re bruised, perhaps even broken inside."

"Yes, my lord," Marie Claire said. "There is no need for your escort. Better we part here inside the château."

"Are you hungry, Edmund?" Danielle asked the boy.

"Yes, Madame." Edmund rubbed his tummy.

"He needs food and a few hours rest before our departure," Danielle told Alain as she took charge of the boy. "If you will rest in your chambers, I’ll come to you when I have put Edmund down."

Alain said nothing. He managed a grateful smile to Marie Claire then nodded at Danielle and started up the stairs.

Close to the limit of her frayed emotions, Danielle turned from the distressing scene of their exit to lead Edmund away. "Let’s go to the kitchen and see what we can find to eat," she said, "then up to your room. Once your tummy’s full you’ll be able to nap for a while in your own bed."

"Yes, Madame," Edmund said, his small voice reflecting his exhaustion.

Alain went to his chambers with a heavy heart. He felt helpless and guilty not only for the death of his faithful friend, Jean Paul, but also for the end of all things dear to him. When he reached his suite he donned Rousseau’s purple robe over his clothes much as a child turns to a favorite blanket or toy for reassurance. Then feeling as though encumbered with all the weight of the world, Alain eased himself down on the bed.

When he awakened from a brief sleep, Danielle, looking more beautiful than an angel, was sitting on the edge of the bed beside him. If his wounds had not let him know otherwise, he would have thought himself still dreaming.

"I’m not much of a nurse," the angel spoke, "but I brought salve and a warm poultice for your neck and wounds."

"You are remarkable," Alain said, his tone full of the worship he felt.

"It’s Marie Claire who deserves the credit." Danielle removed the lid from a vial of balm and held it to Alain’s nose. "Coltsfoot and red clover. Both healing herbs." She loosened Alain’s stock and rubbed a small amount across the bruised area on his neck. "Marie Claire packed a medicine chest for our journey and gave me some instruction on the use of each remedy." Danielle drew a steaming piece of cotton from a basin and tenderly placed the cloth around his neck over the mottled wounds.

"We will have to leave all you so carefully packed behind," Alain reminded her.

"Perhaps in our new life," Danielle said, "these things won’t seem important."

Alain stopped her from applying more balm on his shoulder. "I have my treasures," he said. No amount of gold ... or precious balm can compare to you and Edmund." He touched the cotton on his neck. "The cloth has already lost its warmth and you must be feeling the chill. These chambers have been too long without heat."

"We can resume my treatment in the library," Danielle suggested. "It’s quite cozy there with the fire and your books lining the walls."

Alain sat up and removed Rousseau’s robe. He slowly stood, leaving it crumpled on the bed. "I have had enough of this frigid space," he bitterly announced. "Bring on the new-sprung season!" He reached down and stroked the fabric of the robe. "Farewell cherished garment." He drew his fingers across the cloth, hesitant to release the material. "Farewell trappings of my youthful naiveté." Slowly, he turned and with Danielle’s help left his chambers.

After seeing Marie Claire and Babette safely away from the château, Claude returned and found Danielle and Alain in the library. They gathered around a table like generals devising their next campaign strategy.

"There is a method of escape I've seen used before ... in the movies, and please ... don’t ask me to explain," she answered Alain’s cocked brow. "If we prepare a shipment of Calvados with some barrels full as usual but others emptied, we can hide in the drained Calvados barrels," she turned to Claude, "and you could drive the wagon from the château to Honfleur."

"But, of course," Claude winked at Danielle, "this time it will be you I smuggle, a cargo more precious than the most aged Calvados ... simple. Still, we cannot make our way to England until the ice breaks," he warned.

"Could Michel and Guy hide us that long?" Alain asked.

"There are many secret places in Honfleur," Claude stroked his chin, "and I believe Michel and Guy are loyal. Besides, gold still buys silence from many, even in these times." Claude neglected to mention he had already paid for Michel and Guy’s loyalty.

"There is a chance ..." Alain said with hope.

"It will work," Danielle said. "I promise."

Claude took a drink from the goblet in front of him, then stood. "We should leave in a few hours ... at midnight." He looked to Alain. "We must prepare."

"I’ll check on Edmund," Danielle said. "I hope he’s sleeping."

Alain took Danielle’s hand and kissed her fingertips. "When this is over and we are safe, I will demonstrate how thankful I am for your care of my son."

"Alain," she brushed her lips over his hand, "you know I love Edmund as though he were my own child."

Alain gently tugged her to her feet and drew her close. "Yes, sweet love, I know," he whispered down onto the crown of her head.

Claude cleared his throat, reminding Alain of his presence. Alain reluctantly released her. "We will prepare the wagon," he said.

Chapter Fifteen

"Edmund, you should be in bed," Danielle scolded. "It is too cold to sit on the floor." She noticed how forlorn he looked, while he played with his toy soldiers.

"I cannot sleep, Madame," he said.

"Come then," she helped him to his feet, "I’ll tuck you in and tell you a story. Would you like that?"

"Oh, yes."

He scrambled onto his bed, and Danielle settled the covers around him. She sat on the bed and leaned down to kiss his forehead. He turned his face up and returned a kiss to her chin then sighed contentedly.

She raised up and began, "Where I come from, we have many books with bright colorful pictures and funny characters. But the stories I like best are the ones my mother used to read me when I was about your size."

"Tell me your favorite," Edmund yawned and squirmed under his blanket.

"My favorite," she smiled remembering, "my favorite story was written by a famous warrior. He was a French aristocrat, just like you, and he looked at adventure and danger with a poet’s eyes."

She told him the story of The Little Prince who lived alone on a tiny planet no larger than a house. Danielle had to interrupt her story to explain what a volcano was, because in the story, the little prince owned three volcanoes, two active and one extinct. He also owned a flower, unlike any flower in all the galaxy, of great beauty and of inordinate pride. It was this pride that ruined the serenity of the little prince’s world and started him on interplanetary travels that brought him to Earth. Finally, on Earth, the little prince learned from a fox the secret of what was really important in life--real wealth was giving to others.

When she finished she wondered if Edmund had understood the meaning of the story, for it was a child’s story written for adults.

"That is a very sad story," Edmund said.

"Yes, it is sad," Danielle admitted, "but happy, too. The story is a lesson that the best things in life are still the simplest ones, and true fortune comes from sharing." She kissed him on the cheek and thought the story was also a lesson she needed to take to heart. "Will you remember that, Edmund."

He kissed her back. "Yes, Madame ... Madame Dumont?"

"Yes?"

"You are not going with us, are you."

Danielle slid down on the covers and cradled Edmund’s head against her breast, wondering how he guessed her thoughts when she had such difficulty knowing her own mind. "No, Edmund, I am not. Not because I don’t want too; I do very much. You and your father are the most precious people in the world to me. But I would put you in danger if I left France with you."

"Why?" Edmund asked.

"It’s difficult to explain. Do you trust me?"

"Yes, you saved my papa."

"Then you’ll just have to trust there are reasons why I cannot go with you ... because I love you, and want to keep you safe. It must be so, and ... remember, I will always love you."

"I love you, too, Madame."

Danielle gently brushed his cheek with her fingers. "Go to sleep now. Have sweet dreams of England and the wonderful life you will have there with your father and Claude. I promise you, everything will be okay."

Edmund sighed and cuddled up on his side. Danielle took the lighted candle from the table and as she bathed him with the soft light, she memorized his sweet form. She knew soon he would be gone from her forever.

†

Illuminating their path with lighted torches, Alain and Claude hurried to the warehouse. Once inside the gallery with its arched windows and stucco walls, Alain touched the wick of an oil lantern that hung on the wall with his torch flame. The hall was immediately awash in soft light.

"It seems such a long time ago when we built this."

Claude looked pensive as he nodded agreement. "We were young," he sighed.

"You helped me lay these stones," Alain said, running the sole of his boot across the floor of the gallery.

"You were inspired," Claude winked and grinned wickedly, "by beauty."

"Yes, my mind was full of the wonders I had seen on my journey to Egypt and Arabia." The cleft in Alain’s chin smoothed when he smiled, "Remember the masked ball we held here in the gallery? It was magnificent. Everyone vied for the most exotic costume and they were extraordinary!"

"Ha," Claude laughed, "your inspiration was the beauty of your intended, not the magic of the desert. As I remember," Claude said, "Narissa’s costume was especially," he arched his brow, "intriguing."

"Ah, yes," Alain hid his expression of scorn from his friend. "Her mother and father brought her from Paris that day, and my father announced our engagement that night."

"It was a worthy occasion," Claude agreed, then he asked, "Her gown was gold, was it not?"

"Yes," Alain answered, wishing he had not brought up the topic of the masquerade, "spun like the color of her hair, and her mask, a black contrast of lace. She was the most exquisite creature I had ever seen.

"I had many dreams ... " he said wistfully, " ... for naught."

"My friend, at least you did not waste your fortune on a foolish woman, like I."

"Ha! Claude, you have a way of making me laugh in spite of myself. Charlotte Mirabeau did deceive you."

"She fleeced me," Claude confessed, then grinned broadly, "but, what a marvelous time I had."

"You have not done poorly these last few years," Alain reminded him.

Claude rested his hand on Alain’s shoulder. "Thanks to you, my friend. I have recovered a measure of my fortune, and, thank God, invested it outside of France."

Alain kicked at the stone floor. "My investment was here," he said, then removed the lantern from its hook. He nudged Claude toward the entrance to the storehouse. Carrying the lantern with them, the men walked inside and surveyed the hundreds of oaken kegs, some empty and stacked against the walls, others full and placed on their sides on racks designed by Alain.

"Sometimes, my friend, you speak as though your life is done," Claude said. "You accomplished much here, yet you are young, there are many years ahead for you, for Edmund, and for Danielle." He headed for the closest barrel. "Come, let us quickly drink to our future."

Alain retrieved a flagon from a nearby table while Claude uprighted the keg and pried open the top. After dipping the vessel and filling it with amber liquid, he offered the beverage to Claude. Claude swallowed, his face expressing his love of the drink, then he passed the container to Alain who also drank deeply. Alain coughed, and clutched his side while he grimaced with the pain the action caused.

"Will you be able to travel, my friend?"

"This will pass." Alain eased his breath out then raised the vessel to Claude. "Another?"

Claude nodded acknowledgment and drank again. "Ah," he smacked his lips, "but that is superb." He pushed against the barrel and leaned closer to Alain. "Do you love Madame Dumont?" he probed.

A softening of the indifferent angles of Alain’s face, and the flush passing across his cheeks affirmed Alain did before he spoke. Claude knew the instant change to Alain’s coloring was not due to the Calvados.

"Yes. Yes, I do love her," Alain sounded surprised at voicing the emotion.

"Do you believe her stories?"

"I do believe Danielle, but, in truth, until you rescued me from Villandré and I knew with certainty she was not one of his agents, I questioned her motives and explanations. The day before Villandré came for me, she told me of many things that would happen in the future ... how the world would change, and she showed me certain proofs that she was not from ... here." He sighed, "Still, I did not completely believe. Yet ... in such a brief time she has changed my world ... given me hope. I trusted her with my son. Now, I am trusting her with our lives!"

Claude’s eyes twinkled happily, "Ah, you are fortunate, my friend, to be so lucky in love, twice."

"Twice?" Claude had caught him off guard.

"First Narissa, now Danielle."

Avoiding Claude’s gaze, Alain poured another Calvados. He heard Claude retrieve his snuffbox and inhale a pinch of powder. Alain looked up and Claude offered the silver box to him.

Alain took it and stared down at the enamel portrait on the lid of the box. "You mother was beautiful." He ran his thumb over it then handed the silver box back to Claude. "You know I do not partake," Alain said a little gruffly. He put down the Calvados and waited for Claude to put the box away. "I have a confession to make." He motioned for Claude to move around the barrel, then he put one hand on each of Claude’s shoulders and looked him squarely in the eyes. "I hated Narissa." Alain waited a moment to allow his statement to obliterate Claude’s memories of them as a blissful couple. "We despised each other. Ours was a marriage of convenience."

"No!" Claude took a sharp breath, "but ... are you serious?"

Alain nodded. "Narissa hated sharing my bed and my life. God knows, I tried to penetrate her cold heart, but she withheld her affection, completely. It galls me even more that I do not know why."

"But, my friend, no one would have guessed."

For a moment, Alain looked pleased that he had been able to keep up a facade, "It was difficult ... I wanted so much more ..."

"And," Claude interrupted, "you shall have it ... with Madame Dumont!"

"God willing," Alain murmured. He ruffed Claude’s hair affectionately. "Now, come. Let us have one last drink, then get to work before we become addle-brained. We cannot afford to let Calvados or ghosts slow our progress."

They took turns with the cup, then Alain gave directions, "There is a wagon outside," he pointed toward the door at the west end, "we will load the full barrels first, add several empty kegs, then harness fresh horses."

"Do you believe Danielle’s plan will work?" Claude asked, looking Alain up and down. "Is your body up to this task?"

"We must make it work," Alain answered, and Claude gladly noted that while his friends words were hard, his face retained a measure of the tenderness born from loving Madame Dumont.

While Alain and Claude loaded the wagon with Calvados barrels, Danielle prepared food for their last meal together. After several trips to and from the kitchen she was able to assemble a meal of cold mutton, bread, cheese, and dried fruit. She decided to serve the meager banquet in the library because the smaller room retained the heat from the fire she was able to keep going in the room’s hearth. The rest of the château was so cold, it was as though it were dying. She looked to the fireside with approval; the flames steadily licked upward.

"The devil take me!" Claude stomped his feet as he entered. "It is cold as a witch’s tit out there." His large frame shook off some melting frost.

"Stand by the fire while I get you a brandy."

"No thank you, my friend. Nothing to drink." He walked across the room. "Alain is loading last year’s dry barrels that will carry you to safety. The smell of Calvados will be with you until we reach Honfleur, but perhaps that will not be all bad, eh?" He winked while he sat in a massive chair.

"Claude," Danielle knelt next to him and laid her palm on his knee, "I don’t know how to put this." She cast her gaze to the fire, avoiding his hazel eyes. "I won’t be going with you to Honfleur."

"You jest, Madame!" Alarmed, he tipped her chin up, forcing her to look at him. "Why? Do you doubt I can take you to safety?"

"Of course not," she looked at him steadily, "but I can’t risk going with you."

"You risk nothing by going ... everything if you stay."

"You believe where I come from?"

"I," he shifted uncomfortably, "believe. You will make the journey with us to Honfleur," he fixed her with a determined stare, "and then to England," Claude insisted.

Danielle realized Claude could be as stubborn as Alain. "No, I will not. In my time, it’s recorded that when the marquis and Edmund arrived in England and then eventually returned to the château, there was not a woman with them." She paused a moment thinking of the image of the woman in red. "After this time of trouble, Alain will paint a haunting portrait of a woman. My viewing that portrait played a role in my being here to help you escape Villandré. The woman painted on the canvas is me. If I go with you, my act will alter history and the consequences of that could be catastrophic."

"Have you not ... already changed history?" he challenged.

"I don’t know," she confessed, "perhaps." She put her arms around his legs and rested her head against his knees. He moved his hand to her head.

"What will you do?" he asked while he stroked her hair.

"Stay here, and wait for what will happen."

"That could mean death. There must be another way," Claude said when she failed to reply.

Though Danielle trembled on the inside she made her voice sound as steady as she could, "No, I don’t believe so."

"My friend, how will you tell ... him ... my brother?"

Danielle separated from Claude, and stood. "The three of you must leave well before dawn. Give us two more hours together. I will tell him after."

"It will destroy him." Claude said.

"It will save him," she countered.

†

Dead leaves littered the frozen ground and were swept up in the air merely to land again on the empty stone-lined trench. Alain aimlessly followed the swirl and slumped on the low stone wall. He looked down into the giant vat where his apples were washed before being sent to the press.

Here, many hours had been well spent cleaning the orchard’s fruit so it could be transformed into the liquid Calvados. He wondered whether he had treated those who worked his fields, at the press, and in the warehouse as fairly as his father and Rousseau had instructed. The many faces of those who had toiled paraded through his thoughts. He knew them as individuals, families, even kindred. Alain’s conscious was clear.

"God, help them," he said. He picked up a leaf and crumpled it. After watching the pieces scatter on the stones lining the moat, he wiped his hand on his trousers, stood, and turned his back on the empty canal. "Perhaps they will build a better world."

Striding between his rows of oaken barrels, it was hard for Alain to resign himself to abandoning his life’s work. He stopped and slammed one of the casks with his fist.

"Villandré, you will be damned," he shouted, "revolution be damned, damned, damned!" He hit the oak hard with both hands each time he cursed. He was losing all he held dear ... all but Edmund, Danielle, and Claude. He crossed himself quickly, and thanked God for that. Perhaps he could build a new life with his son and the woman he loved ... his pulse raced ... the woman he deeply loved.

Danielle Dumont had managed to fill the barren chambers of his heart. Some part of him had always been waiting to receive her, to trust a woman like her. Their love seemed ageless. The magical sensation was never more strong than when he looked into her eyes. Those dark pools of loveliness caught and held his spirit like a caged bird--yet one that wished to remain captive.

He started walking again, now lovingly touching each keg he passed. The dirt floor muffled his footsteps; the warehouse was incredibly still. What better crypt, he thought. Here he would leave behind his regrets and bury his bitter memories of Narissa.

At the west end of the building he opened a door, then hefted a large empty barrel and braced it on his back. He winced. Pain still radiated from where Villandré had placed his boot. His skin burned where Castigo had left the mark of his ropes. He steadied himself, then bent over. Carrying the barrel, he backed it onto the wagon he and Claude had loaded with casks brimming with his Calvados. It was difficult physical work. He grunted under the weight of the wood when he returned for the remaining barrel.

We shall make a good life, he promised himself. Danielle is right. The world is changing. It is time for change. He patted the last barrel. He smiled through lips he thought had forgotten how. "We will be in England before spring."

†

Alain entered the library, joining Danielle and Claude. "Edmund is sleeping?" he asked.

"Yes," Danielle replied. "He had some trouble, but I told him a story. Now he’s sound asleep."

"Ah, would that we could all sleep like a babe." Alain let out a weary sigh and slumped into a leather-backed chair.

"Are you hungry?" Danielle asked them.

"I cannot think of food," Alain said.

"We should eat, my friend," Claude advised, avoiding looking at Danielle. "We must leave by midnight and we will need strength."

"It’s far from a feast," Danielle said, "but I think you will find it palatable. I’m not totally inexperienced in the kitchen."

Alain looked up at her and smiled weakly, but there was a roguish twinkle in his eye. "Your talents extend far beyond the culinary, Madame." He winked.

Ready or not, Danielle felt herself blush.

"I will check on Edmund," Alain said after they had finished their modest meal.

Danielle handed Claude their empty trenchers and utensils, and implored, "help me with these to the kitchen." She stood with a bowl, platter, and remains of the bread, and looked kindly at her love’s face. "I’ll see you after you’ve tucked in your son." She nudged Claude and headed for the passage to the kitchen.

"I’m glad to have a few minutes alone with you," Danielle told Claude once they were away from Alain. "There may not be another opportunity for me to say good-bye," her eyes welled with tears even as she spoke. She felt miserable in her resolve.

"Will you not reconsider?" Claude’s tone was desperate.

"There’s no other way."

His expression turned to one of abject grief.

"When you reach safety," she touched his arm, "say a prayer for me ... for us."

"Of course, my friend," Claude promised. He covered her hand where it rested on his arm with his palm. "I do not agree with your staying, but I accept your decision. I will light a candle for you, and say ten Ave Maria’s in the chapel of Our Lady. I will pray to Saint Valentine that one day we will all be reunited."

Despite her tears, Danielle smiled. "May ... may I think of you as my brother?"

Claude traced a wet trail on her cheek with his thumb. "Even as I consider you my sister. Sweet, sweet sister ... words are inadequate to express my sadness at departing without you. If I thought it would do any good, I would bind and gag you, and force you to go with us!"

"Don’t be sad. Edmund will need your smiles and Alain will require your bolstering. I’ve found great joy from our friendship. Remember that."

"I shall," he promised.

"Promise me one more thing. When you write in your journal, you must not record my name. No one in the future must know my identity. Swear it!"

Claude nodded his agreement. A shudder passed through him when she kissed him on both cheeks. He returned the parting gesture.

"Alain will return soon and I can stay no longer." Claude’s face had lost its boyish charm; he appeared far older than his years. "My heart is breaking." He lifted her hand to his lips one last time, then released it. "Farewell ... farewell Danielle Dumont."

"Farewell," Danielle whispered after him as he left.

The fire hissed as though possessed, casting supernatural shades of red and gold to the library walls. Stacks of books and the fine baroque furnishings branded those walls with their grotesque shadows. The air smelled of smoke and Danielle felt as if she were in hell. Her soul had never experienced such torture. How would she ever bring herself to tell Alain she could not depart with him?

In their few days together they had accumulated a lifetime’s worth of passion and trust. Danielle loved Alain, and she knew without a doubt he returned her love. She longed to escape to England with him, survive to continue loving, and to be a mother to his son. But, if she followed her passion, any happiness she and Alain might find together would be marred by the possibility that her desire had damaged the future, and perhaps someone else’s chance for happiness. Morally she couldn’t make that choice. She didn’t fully comprehend why she had to make the sacrifice, but, she prayed, understanding would come with time.

Tormented by her thoughts, she hoped she could hide her dilemma when Alain returned. All too soon the painful moment would come when she must explain her decision to remain at the château.

†

Alain entered the room and quickly moved to take Danielle in his arms. "I met Claude at the foot of the stairs. He is going to nap in Edmund’s room and bring the boy down when it is time to leave." Alain kissed her temple, then nibbled at her ear. "I know he means to give us as many minutes together as possible." He hugged her tighter until the wool of his coat all but bruised her cheek. "God knows how long it will be until we can embrace in solitude again."

Danielle swallowed hard. Revolting against further deception, her parched mouth and throat refused to accept the reflex. The time had come for honesty. She wondered if he could ever forgive her for not leaving with him.

"Come," she gently pulled away from him, "let me pour you some wine."

"I need no wine, only the feel of you." His touch lingered on her waist before he released her. He sighed deeply. "I am weary. Pour yourself some refreshment as well, and we will rest by the fire."

While Danielle prepared the wine, Alain crossed the room to a wall of leather-bound books. She watched him search the titles. A satisfied smile crossed his lips when he found the volume he was seeking. He removed it from the stacks and carried it back to the settee. Danielle joined him and they sat together as she handed him a goblet. He sipped from the glass then put it aside.

"Rousseau," he muttered reverently while caressing the book’s brown binding.

Danielle peered over his arm at the book. "Emile," she read the title. "Say what is true," she recited, "do what is right; what matters is to fulfill our duties on earth, and it is by forgetting ourselves that we work for ourselves," and, as she said the words they took on real meaning.

"You know The Creed of a Savoyard Priest?"

"It’s required reading in my class."

"Ah, yes, I had forgotten; you are a teacher."

"I had forgotten, too. That persona seems so distant, now."

"Sometime you must tell me about your schooling, your students, your ...," his voice faltered, ending in a whisper, "so many things. At present, it is difficult to call up the past or believe in a future."

"Before you, it seems my life had little meaning," Danielle said. She worked her slippers loose with her toes and let them drop to the floor, then drew her legs up under her gown and reclined against him. He moved his arm around her so that she could snuggle close.

His booted feet and legs stretched toward the fire, the black leather dulled by the elements. Tiny bits of mud stuck to the heels. She observed the strength of his legs above the boots, evident even through the wool of his trousers. She felt his warmth through his coat. Slipping her arm against his back, her pulse quickened as her skin met the soft silk of his shirt. She wanted to memorize how he looked, the texture of his clothes, his smell. She arched her head to touch the base of his neck and inhaled deeply. His scent reminded her of a warm summer’s day interlaced with the passionate essence of his Calvados. She tilted her head slightly and gazed up into his face. Even though his jaw had remained unshaved for two days and he needed washing, his very coarseness accentuated his masculinity. It would be lovely, she thought, to shampoo his hair with Marie Claire’s rose scented soap, and make love to him while massaging silken foam into his scalp and across his broad back.

Alain glanced down at her with his darkly fringed eyes. "How can you look so wonderful after all we have experienced?"

She grinned and reached up to stroke his cheek. "I was thinking the same about you."

Leaning down he nuzzled the top of her head while turning a page of the book on his lap. "When I picture our future together," he said, "I have a vision of spending many nights thus, reading the words of great philosophers together before the fire. Then," he bent to kiss her forehead, "I shall study your body the way I would read the gentlest poetry," he paused and kissed her lips, parting them with his tongue. She felt his breath slip into her mouth, "or ravage the most passionate verse."

Danielle felt her resolve shatter. How could she possibly survive without him? How could she bring herself to destroy his trust?

"Had we not met," her breath mingled with his, "you would have found someone to love."

His head jerked up. Rousseau’s book skewed to the floor, and she watched Alain’s cleft deepen in tandem with his scowl. "Never! We were meant to be together."

"Perhaps," she answered calmly though her insides were churning, "we were meant to have only this short time together."

"What can you mean?" he extended each word with alarm.

"Because you’re faced with the urgency of saving your son and escaping with your life, you haven’t paused to ponder the consequences of my leaving with you and of my remaining in this time." She bent forward to retrieve the book from the floor while she gathered her thoughts. She prayed, God, Rousseau, someone ... give me the right words to say to this man.

"I have given it much thought," she dusted the cover of the book with her hand and passed it back to Alain.

"What consequences could there be," he asked, accepting the book, "other than your death if you do not travel with us. You yourself have said you know no way to return to your ... your time." Where there had been tenderness in his expression a few moments before, now pain deepened the lines above his brow and sparks of anger flared in his eyes.

"You forget." she touched Emile. " I have studied your future in books written long after this one. Your history doesn’t include me. I don’t know what would happen if I traveled with you to England," she said. "I can only speculate that in some way the hereafter would be altered. I cannot go."

"You do not love me!"

"I love you," she quickly parried, looking up at him unaware her face mirrored the wretchedness she saw in his expression. "I love you more than life itself. At best, I’ll be miserable without you and Edmund," her voice faltered. "I will be lost."

Alain dropped to his knees burying his own face in her lap. Her hands laced with dark strands of his hair, and she felt her gown grow wet with his tears. They clung to each other for a time until they were scoured of emotion. Danielle scarcely noticed when Alain’s hand slipped under her gown. He began to stroke her legs and she couldn’t resist responding to his touch. God help us, she thought while she, too, knelt on the floor to be at a height equal to his. Tenderly she kissed the cleft of his chin, then his lips.

"I wish to give you something," she raised up and unfastened the chain from around her neck. She removed her locket and put it into his hands.

He tightly clenched the gold. "I have nothing to give you."

"You’ve given me your love. It is enough."

Standing, he moved to the table where Danielle had served their meal. He lifted a knife and cut a lock of his hair. He returned to Danielle, then carefully wove the strands together. Remembering she had removed her husband’s picture when she told him she was from the twentieth-century, he opened the locket and put the weave in the space where Henry’s picture had been.

"I will wear the plait and your likeness next to my heart." He fastened the gold chain around his neck.

Alain raised her to her feet. His words had pledged his love but his eyes still exposed his distress. The anguish mirrored there ripped at her heart for she knew she might never hear him laugh again nor see the corner of his mouth lift into a charming smile. She traced the outline of his lips and moved her finger down to the cleft in his chin.

"Do you believe the soul lives forever?" he asked, compelling her to look directly into the reflectors of his soul, "that it is reborn?"

She nodded affirmatively.

"Then, you must believe our love for each other will not die." He slipped her robe down over her shoulders while he caressed her with the promises of a lover. He released the pin that held her hair. The tresses tumbled down about her face and neck. "We shall love again."

He kissed her neck, the hollow of her throat, and Danielle felt herself grow weak from wanting him, needing his comfort. His arms virtually supported her since her legs were trembling too much to stand on her own.

"I will remember the way you are just now, forever," he vowed, "your hair spilling over your shoulders, your skin so luminous." He put his face close to hers and whispered against her cheek. "I will remember these," he bent and kissed each of her breasts, "and these," he squeezed her buttocks gently and pulled her against him, "and these," his lips consumed hers. When he wanted far more intimacy than the melding of tongue and mouth he paused in his kissing. "Let me pay tribute to you, my love."

Danielle silently vowed she, too, would remember Alain, forever, and she gave in to all her feelings welling within. As though to seal their fate, their bodies joined in the most passionate of ancient rituals.

†

Awakening a short time later on the pallet he and Danielle had made on the library floor, it took Alain a few moments to realize where he was. His ribs ached. He felt bruised and battered physically and emotionally. Danielle moved against him and he felt her moist breath on his neck. "Are you awake, my love?" he whispered. "It is almost time to leave."

She stirred and draped one arm over him then snuggled closer. Daggers sharper than any physical pain pierced his heart. He moved the dark mass of her hair away from her ear. She had to hear him, had to do as he bid. "Please ... please, my love, forget remaining here!" He felt Danielle stiffen then relax again. Her mouth moved to his. He drank deeply of her warmth, the elixir of her breath. He felt her love entering him, enveloping him, and he accepted she would not go.

"Remember." He cradled her face in his hands. "It may seem hopeless, like we may never find each other. Even the rose changes with the seasons. We may not even look the same." He tipped her face up to meet his.

Danielle opened her eyes though she was afraid to. Alain’s eyes glistened like blue Venetian glass. "Do you trust me?"

"We must trust each other."

He tipped her chin up further until she was forced to see her reflection in the glass-like surface of his eyes. The intensity of his gaze held her captive. She did not falter.

A shadow seemed to pass over his face. He clasped her tightly against him. "I will find you my love," he promised accepting her position was unwavering. "At some future time I will find you, and you will know me. Believe it!" He waited for her acknowledgment.

"Yes, I will know you. How could I not?"

She rubbed her cheek against his, treasuring the feel of his rough growth of beard. She pressed her body against his. "I do believe," she whispered. Their mouths came together one last time, hungrily, seeking solace that would not come. Then, he released her.

Keeping her eyes downcast, Danielle listened to him dress, afraid to look at him again lest her resolve fade. Committing to memory every breath he took, every sigh he made, every brush of his skin against cloth, she remained so until she heard his final footstep leave the room. Then, knowing he was gone, she rose and quickly dressed. Wrapping herself in the red robe, she left the library and dashed upstairs to the balcony.

Chapter Sixteen

Huddled under the folds of her robe, Danielle waited on the balcony for a final glimpse of Alain, Edmund, and Claude. The light of the midnight moon cast long shadows, keeping the terrace shrouded in dark. Simultaneously, the distant light lent surreal radiance to the surrounding cliff-side landscape. She felt she could be viewing a scene from a sepia film. It was unreal and couldn’t possibly be an act of her own life. Nevertheless, she helplessly watched her beloved, with Edmund in his arms, run to Claude's waiting wagon. A bitter wind whipped the velvet cloak about her legs and stilled the tears in her eyes preventing their escape. She had never known such pain nor such fear. Again she was losing someone she truly loved, she thought. Time had softened her loss of Henry. Now, watching Alain go, she felt as though her very soul were again being ripped from her.

When they reached Claude's wagon, Alain and Edmund turned to face her, and she managed a smile.

"I will find you!" Alain's anguished voice lifted above the furious air. "Believe me. I will find you!"

"I believe," she called. "I believe," she repeated, but didn't know if he heard.

Edmund raised his little hand and waved. Somehow that diminutive gesture unleashed all the horrible emotion that raged inside Danielle, forcing her to pull the hood up over her head and brace herself against a marble column, determined to maintain her composure until they were out of sight. She had to be brave for their sakes. Alain lowered Edmund into one of Claude's barrels, padded with blankets for Edmund’s comfort. Danielle imagined him reassuring the child, telling him to be a brave soldier, like the young Dauphin. Alain held the lid while Claude hammered it into place.

The task complete, Alain turned to see Danielle one last time and sent her a final look of devotion. Danielle mouthed her declaration of love. Then, Alain lowered himself into a Calvados barrel and Claude secured him inside.

Claude turned, looked up and lifted his tricorn from his head, holding it high for a moment before resting it over his heart. Danielle knew he, too, must be anguished at the interplay of emotion. "God to with you." She raised her arm and hand in salute to a good friend.

Claude boarded the dray and started the horses away from the château. Danielle closed her eyes and turned away. After glancing back once to see Claude driving the wagon safely away from Château sur la Falaise, she ran into the château.

Life wasn’t fair, she thought as she ran. She had opened herself to Alain’s love only to be devastated by the process. Then she reminded herself, she was doing what was right; she was somehow fulfilling her duty and destiny. If she had escaped with them, history would have been changed, forever. Who knew the consequences of that? Yet, she ached to be with Alain.

Danielle’s loss had left her more numb than the cold and after putting herself through the motions of dressing she wandered aimlessly from her room to Alain's. She decided she would wait there for some sign. Did she expect a miracle? Would Villandré come? Would she die, a casualty of the revolution?

Entering Alain's empty room, she remembered their night spent there together before Villandré had so intimately corrupted their lives. Her gown still littered the floor where she had left it. The easel still supported the winter landscape. As she glanced at the bed, her heart quickened, responding to how she had felt when Alain had undressed her. She would carry the memory with her, but she knew it wouldn’t relieve her hunger for him.

She stared at her reflection in a nearby mirror. "You fool. Why didn’t you go with them? You could have spent the rest of your life happy." The future be damned! She turned from her reflection. She would have had refuge in Alain's arms.

"Oh, my God, what have I done?" she asked, but received no answer. She sank to the floor beside Alain’s bed and could no longer still the tears.

†

Danielle didn’t know if she had been sleeping or in a state somewhere between consciousness and death when the sound of horses registered through the void. Angry voices roused her. She stood and moved to the window. It was Villandré.

Instead of hiding, Danielle exited the château to the terrace and ran around the stone building toward the great warehouse. Her heart thudded. She had to keep Villandré occupied--keep him from following Claude. For herself, she knew escape was impossible. She purposefully made noise as she ran across the yard.

"Seize the whore!" she heard Villandré yell.

Stumbling into the warehouse she went beyond the gallery, directly to the storage chamber. She dropped to the earth behind a barrel to hide long enough to gather her thoughts.

Hearing a gang of men quickly pursue her inside, she girded herself with the red cloak and steeled for their attack. She could give her life knowing Alain and Edmund were safe, but she wouldn't go meekly. She lifted her chin bravely and stood, declaring, "You’re too late!"

The sneering face of Villandré leered at her from across the storeroom. "My dear," he made a low mocking bow, "we meet again. If Grandmaison has escaped, you shall take his place on the scaffold. The rabble likes nothing better than to spill the blood of a slut."

"I don't need to defend my reputation to scum like you," she hoped she sounded as vicious as she felt. "You are not fit to utter the marquis’ name. You may think you have the people of Andelys in the palm of your hand and the ear of Robespierre, but look behind you. Your meager following is the filth of the street. You should fear them. Their blood churns with a need to kill, but not for your cause. They murder the innocent and gather the few francs you throw to them. You know as well as I, each of them would kill their mother for five centimes." The men grew noisy and angry. "Are these the defenders of the new Republic?" her voice rose above the din. She laughed without mirth.

"Silence!" Villandré stopped his men. Running his tongue over his upper lip, he removed his gloves and delicately folded them into his pocket. He pulled a dagger from his belt and tested its point with his finger. A drop of his dark blood glistened on the steel.

"We have been insulted," he spoke more to her than to the mob behind him. "It is my duty as a citizen and agent of the Republic to teach the bitch a few manners before justice is done. What do you say?"

A chorus of wicked affirmation answered him.

Danielle drew her cloak more tightly around her frame. She only hoped when Villandré reached her, she could turn his blade to her heart and end her life before he could steal it from her.

Villandré addressed his men. "Leave us," he commanded.

The men glared at Danielle, then at Villandré. Their depraved expressions failed to hide their disappointment at not being allowed to witness Villandré’s lesson, but they dared broker no opposition to their leader. Grumbling noisily, they obeyed and shuffled out of the warehouse.

"Now, my dear," Villandré’s eyes gleamed wickedly, "I do not want to pleasure the mob to an extreme when they see your head fall; I already spoil them. Your face is too beautiful for such an indiscriminate audience." He thrust his knife forward in the air. "A few well-placed marks on your pretty cheeks and that lovely mouth will show you at a more equal advantage."

"You will be damned for your brand of justice," Danielle said as Villandré started for her. She offered a silent prayer for Alain--and for herself. One day they would be reunited in heaven. As Alain had spoken, their love would be reborn. With this knowledge, in the face of death, a calm settled over her. She didn't fear Villandré's evil blade.

He came for her. Instinctively, Danielle backed away from him into a brace of barrels. Then, not more than inches from her he stopped, seemingly unable to come any closer.

A rumble began from deep within the earth like the creaking of ancient bones while some invisible force stronger than Villandré blocked him from advancing. The barrels inside the warehouse began to tremble and shake. While Danielle watched, Villandre’s form began to lose substance. It was as if she were staring at his reflection in a very old mirror that had lost most of its quicksilver.

Suddenly, the image shattered. As she raised her arms to protect her face, she felt the oaken kegs behind her come tumbling down. Wood crashed against wood. Villandré howled. A tremendous power pushed her down to the ground. She lay there as she had when she had been delivered to the eighteenth-century. Unable to stir with a searing pain in her head, she blacked out.

†

When Danielle regained consciousness, the earth had ceased its violent movement. She opened her eyes. An electric chandelier's lights illuminated the ceiling. Her head ached and the silken folds of the bed’s canopy writhed as she attempted to focus. Slowly, she raised up and rested her weight on her forearms until the dizziness abated. Sunset's crimson blush leaked into Alain’s room. Windows stood wide open and a warm summer breeze teased lace curtains. Their creamy folds billowed into the room, dancing in the cheerful light. Gone were the stiff gold brocade draperies of eighteenth-century Château sur la Falaise. Alain’s easel and winterscape no longer stood by the window.

In the distance, soft music played. Danielle felt mild puffs of air on her face, inhaled the fragrance of roses, and sensed she had somehow returned to the twentieth-century.

She felt detached from the time and space. Numbed by grief. Never would she see Alain again, or kiss little Edmund’s soft cheek. She could not even console herself with the knowledge they were safe from Villandré. She told herself she could be sure their future had remained unchanged; she must be content they had survived. Still, losing Henry, and now, Alain ... it was almost more than she could bear.

Feeling weighted by all the events and incredible sorrow, she gradually rose to her feet and started out of the bedchamber. She stopped just short of entering the boudoir.

Braced against the doorframe, she could only stare incredulously at the broad back of a man bent over the marquis' desk while she tried to find her voice.

"Oh God!" she gasped, hoping that somehow the man was Alain.

The figure twisted away from the desk and hurried toward her. The elderly man with an incredibly young physique stopped not more than a foot from Danielle and examined her face with contented concern. He clapped his hands together. "Madame Dumont, you are awake at last."

Danielle searched the deeply creased face of the man then glanced up to confirm Alain’s portrait in its twentieth-century place above the fireplace. Quickly, she averted her gaze. "Oui," she answered in French, unable to completely release the time from which she had come.

"I have been so worried about you, Madame. You have been unconscious ever since the earthquake, although the doctor assured us you had only a mild concussion."

"There was an earthquake?" She suddenly felt weak, rattled.

"Yes, there was little damage to the château, but," he looked sad, "my warehouse ... destroyed. That was where we found you--amid the ruins of the warehouse. It is incredible you survived, Madame."

"Oh," her breath caught in her throat, "the warehouse ... Villandré!"

"Pardon?"

"You are the marquis?"

He bowed his head in acknowledgment.

Danielle glanced down recognizing the gown she wore as one of her own. Her feet were bare.

Nicholas spoke warmly and reassuringly, "Madame Gravenot dressed you in one of your negligees. The one you were wearing when we found you was badly torn. I ... " He seemed at a loss for words. "We have been very concerned about you." Nicholas Grandmaison ran his fingers through wayward silver hair, still thick in spite of his advanced years. "Please, Madame Dumont, sit." He moved forward and took her arm, gently ushering her to a chair. The marquis found a cashmere throw and settled it around her shoulders. "Some water?" He didn’t wait for her affirmative nod but poured liquid from a carafe into a tumbler. He handed it to her and watched her drink. When she finished, he replaced the tumbler before pulling a chair close to hers.

"You have been through such an ordeal, Madame," his words sounded his concern while he sat. "I regret your visit has ended badly." He kindly smiled. "You must return to the château as my guest."

"Return?" Danielle tried to smile back, blinking away the sting of tears. Nicholas Grandmaison was trying so hard to be hospitable.

"But, of course. It is the least I can do. Château sur la Falaise is at your disposal. The marquis stood and moved to the desk. "I must telephone Madame Gravenot. She will want to know you are awake." He lifted the ornate receiver of a gilt telephone to his ear and dialed with his right hand. "Bonjour, Estelle." He paused and winked at Danielle. "Oui, our Madame Dumont has regained consciousness."

Exhaustion weighted Danielle’s body to the chair while the marquis briefly chatted with Estelle Gravenot. While they spoke, Danielle resisted the urge to look at Alain’s portrait. She knew it would only break her heart anew to look at the face she loved. A dream ... had it all really been a dream?

Nicholas Grandmaison ended his telephone conversation. "You need rest," he suggested. "Tomorrow promises to be another beautiful summer’s day," his voice rose enthusiastically, "and perhaps you can begin to forget your unfortunate experience."

Allowing the venerable marquis to tuck her into his lavish bed, Danielle snuggled beneath the luxury of the soft bedclothes. Ready or not, she thought, tomorrow would be a new day, but there was no one to rescue her from her private winter.

Chapter Seventeen

The apple orchards of Normandy exploded with a snowstorm of blossoms, ushering in the month of May. Danielle’s winter had slipped into springtime as sensitively as agony into ache, and she had returned to France and to Château sur la Falaise to put the ache behind her and ghost of her beloved at rest completely. A shower of pale petals scattered against the tinted window of the black sedan just as Danielle leaned forward to speak to Albert. "Are there still signs of the earthquake?"

"Ah, Madame, the warehouse is a great ruin." Albert sighed dramatically. "The marquis called in architects, archaeologists, and teams of experts to sift through the rubble and the site is almost cleared now." He sighed again, then his voice cheered, "But, you will be pleased, Madame. The making of Calvados has not ceased. The marquis shipped this year’s liquor directly to Honfleur for storage."

"Good," she agreed, "he has not given up." Neither have I, Danielle realized. Though she had taken comfort in spending time with her parents and returning to teaching, she still wanted to believe her sojourn in the eighteenth-century had not been a dream. Not even months seeing a therapist had ended her longing to be with Alain. Yet, in spite of the sense of loss, Danielle found day by day reality decreed she did have a future, and it was in the twentieth-century.

"The marquis still has the energy of ten young men," Albert said. "He has an excellent assistant, rumored to be the finest oenologist in all of France! Though, I have yet to meet this marvelous mixer of spirits." Albert stopped chattering to guide the sedan through the château’s grand wrought iron gates.

Grateful for the moment of silence, Danielle surveyed the long stone facade of Château sur la Falaise with fondness. Oddly, approaching the château felt like returning home.

At the end of the long cobblestone drive, Albert brought the sedan to a gentle stop. "Here we are, Madame." He sprang from the car and opened the door for Danielle.

Estelle Gravenot swept out of the château and scurried down the steps toward them. "Welcome back, professor," she called, flailing her arms about. "I am pleased you have returned to our château."

Danielle kissed Madame Gravenot on each cheek, taking in the combination of Madame’s canary yellow shirtwaist and vermilion accessories. "And I am pleased," Danielle said, "you have not changed in the time I’ve been gone," She grinned and took the arm Estelle Gravenot offered.

"Did you have a pleasant trip? The marquis regrets he has business in Paris, but he hopes you enjoy your stay." Estelle fairly pulled her up the steps. "Albert will take your luggage to your room. You are fatigued, no? Let us have some refreshment." Madame Gravenot gushed all three sentences without pausing while she led Danielle inside to the drawing room. "Make yourself comfortable, professor. Would you care for tea, or perhaps an aperitif?"

"Tea would be lovely," Danielle said, sitting on the comfortable green sofa. She leaned back against the velvet cushions and glanced around the room remembering her dream when it had been decorated quite differently. "Madame," she addressed her hostess, "has my locket been found?"

"I regret, professor, it has not. Though the crew sifted through everything most carefully, your necklace remains missing."

Danielle sighed. Of course, losing Henry’s gift in the earthquake had been a great calamity, yet coming to terms that her giving it to Alain had been an illusion had been even more difficult.

When they finished their tea and cake brought in by one of the staff, Danielle left Estelle Gravenot’s company for the solitude of her room. She had requested the same suite she had stayed in before, and the chamber was just as elegant as she remembered.

After unpacking her clothes from her luggage to the armoire, she perched on a chair in front of the barren fireplace. Since her arrival, memories had swept into her thoughts like leaves scattered by an autumn wind. Full of doubts that she would be able to put her sadness behind her, Danielle busied herself by removing the pins from her hair. It fell loose around her shoulders. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the delicately carved walnut trim of the chair. Alain’s blazing eyes immediately seared across the darkness of her thoughts. She resisted at first, but finally allowed herself the pleasure of remembering all of him, how his hands had teased and warmed her skin, how his mouth had melted hers, and the ultimate ecstasy of their union.

"It can’t have been a dream," she mourned, "not a dream." Slowly, she opened her eyes and rubbed her temples. He was a dream, she reminded herself while she tried to release the ache that squeezed her heart. Glancing at her wristwatch, Danielle realized it was almost time for dinner. Madame Gravenot’s company would be, if not completely welcome, at least a diversion, she thought. They would map out an itinerary for her brief stay--a stay after which she hoped she could leave Château sur la Falaise and get on with her life.

†

Back in her room after a dinner for which the chef outdid himself by serving an outstanding Rouen duckling and crêpes filled with buttery applesauce, Danielle removed her black shantung sheath and heels. She dressed in a comfortable green silk caftan and slipped her tired feet into thongs. A small fire had been lit in the fireplace to chase away the evening’s chill. Danielle grabbed her hairbrush in one hand and poured herself a taste of Calvados from a crystal decanter into a goblet with the other. She sank to the Persian carpeted floor in front of the fire to complete her nightly ritual of brushing the spray from her long hair.

After taking a sip of Calvados, she put the goblet on the floor and began methodically pulling the brush through her thick mane. It had been a quiet hell during dinner to gaze at Alain’s paintings on the wall above the buffet. Several times, she had thought she would have to leave the table. Yet, his winter and summer renditions of the château brought back the treasured memories of their brief time together, whether it had been a dream or not. She loved the representation of a warm stronghold sheltering all the rooms, passageways, and people. Her brush caught in her hair as Danielle’s memory brought her to the secret chamber where, in her dream, she, Edmund, Marie Claire, and Babette had taken refuge. If her experience had been a dream, she wondered, would it not follow that there would be no such hiding place? Her heart skipped a beat.

"Ready or not," she repeated hopefully while her pulse fluttered, then she tossed her brush to the bed.

†

Standing inside the library’s door, Danielle felt along the wall for a light switch. The flick of her finger against the target immediately illuminated the room. The library’s baroque furnishings released a soft glow of their own in the man-made light from years of careful waxing. Meticulously cared for rows of books lined the walls of the turret room library and the air smelled lemony, reminiscent of the cleaning products Danielle’s mother used to clean the antiques that filled her parent’s farm outside Charlottesville.

Glancing across the room at the oak-paneled wall, Danielle’s heart began thudding beneath her breast. If a secret chamber did exist between the turret and the ballroom, would it prove she had been transported back in time and had actually lived with Alain, not dreamed the experience? Though there was no answer, she gathered her resolve and crossed the room to place her hand at the point where she knew persistent pressure could reveal an opening. She pressed her right fingertips hard against the wood. Nothing. Bracing herself with the palm of her left hand, she leaned all her weight against the wood. She felt the panel give, slightly. Putting all her efforts into a push, Danielle was rewarded by a creaking movement of the old panel. The ancient wood was stubborn, but a burst of adrenaline gave Danielle the needed strength to push it further--just enough for her to peer into a dark hollow. Realizing she needed a source of light, she turned back to the library and retrieved a small candelabra from the mantle above the fireplace. Quickly, she lighted all three candles that were secured into the silver with a match from a book she found on a table. With the light in hand she returned to the open panel and apprehensively slipped through sideways into the dark.

Cobwebs draped from the ceiling of the chamber to the walls, onto the scant furnishings, and down to the floor. Danielle wiped them away as they seemed to attack her face when she stepped inside the musty chamber. She quickly surveyed the contents of the small space--an old trunk, a stand, a chair upholstered with faded tapestry, and upon the stand, a tarnished candelabra encrusted with yellowed paraffin. Taking one step forward, Danielle placed her candelabra on the table next to the tarnished one. Instantly she spotted a book covered with dust that had previously blended into the table’s surface. Excited, she wiped the debris from its cover. "Emile!" She fairly laughed lifting the treasured book in her hands. The book’s pages fell open. Her locket and chain nestled between the fragile paper, a golden marker for her favorite passage. She raised the book, and the gold chain slid into her palm while she read, "Say what is true, do what is right; what matters is to fulfill our duties on earth, and it is by forgetting ourselves that we work for ourselves."

"It wasn’t a dream." Joy consumed Danielle. "We were together!" She gently closed the book and held it close to her heart while she cherished the locket in her closed fist. Through these two keepsakes from Alain, Danielle felt the eternal pulse of their love. "I must see him," she said, emotion rasping her voice, flaying her nerves. She discarded the book on the table and dashed from the chamber through the greater expanse of the château. She did not stop until she had flung open the doors to Alain’s boudoir, nor until she stood again in front of his portrait.

For a moment his shimmering eyes held her gaze, tugging at the center of her soul. Emotion swelled in her bosom. Fresh. New. Raw. Then she looked to the object he held in his hands--her locket! At once, she realized the mystery of his painted eyes and the message she had been unable to define before she had traveled to the eighteenth-century and back again, was hope. He was purposefully showing her the locket. He had gambled she would see the painting and would recognize this sign of faith and remember his promise. "Oh, Alain," she cried out his name now realizing he had painted it as a sign for her, and for her alone.

"Madame?" Danielle twisted at the deep voice behind her. She tripped over the hem of her caftan as it caught between her heel and thong. Strong hands reached out and steadied her. She looked from the man’s hands to his face, and her breath caught in her throat. His eyes glistened like blue Venetian glass!

"I am Paul Galland," he said, "the marquis’ nephew and presently, resident oenologist."

Her gaze combed his rich brown hair that curled over a burgundy silk turtleneck. She stared at the thick dark mustache that framed his full sensuous mouth and her eyes dropped adoringly to the cleft in his strong chin. The marquis' portrait loomed above the fireplace behind him. Danielle looked again at the eyes of the man in the portrait, then to the face of the man before her. A silver current of recognition rippled through her limbs. This was not Alain ... yet there was something of Alain in his face ... and definitely in his eyes ... his eyes.

Danielle realized the man was waiting for her to introduce herself and to explain what she was doing in the marquis’ chambers. She held out her trembling hand. "Danielle. Danielle Dumont."

He bowed his head over her hand. The brusque gesture, so similar to Alain’s brought rapture to her heart and she again glanced up to Alain’s portrait.

Paul Galland followed her gaze. "My ancestor ... I am told I inherited my love of Calvados from him."

Danielle merely smiled, remembering Alain’s promise.

I will find you ... believe me, I will find you.

"You are trembling, Madame." Paul steadied her again. "Are you ill? Shall I call a doctor?"

She definitely was not herself. She felt her body, but it did not seem her own. Were her arms really raising to rest on Paul Galland’s broad shoulders ... Alain’s shoulders? Was it her face moving to rest against his pulse? She prayed he would not think her mad and push her away. She could feel his warm breath, smell the scent of brandy lacing his words.

"I think I'm fine now," she managed to whisper.

"Lean on my arm." Paul supported her, then guided her to the chair next to the desk. It seemed he lingered over her, not quite knowing what to do. She allowed herself to relish his honeyed warm breath against her hair. She felt quite intoxicated, mesmerized.

His hands against her flesh were real. With his arousing touch, she experienced every flayed nerve of her body, and she felt quite defenseless. A tear rolled down her cheek. How she hated tears!

"But, you are crying, Madame. Here. Please let me help you." He pulled a fine linen handkerchief from his pocket and offered it.

Danielle accepted the piece of cloth. Dear God, was she repeating history? Was she insane? She looked over Paul’s shoulder to Alain’s portrait. Dear, dear, Alain, help me, she prayed.

At some future time I will find you. I will find you, my love, and you will know me.

It was as though she could hear Alain speak the words.

Paul touched the back of her neck, lightly brushing her skin with his fingers ... just as Alain had done.

"Do not worry," his reassuring words warmed her even more than his touch. His scent reminded her of a warm summer’s day interlaced with the passionate essence of Calvados.

"Oh, my God! It is you!"

"But, of course it is me, Madame. I do not understand."

"Danielle," she requested, "and I don't quite understand myself." Her tears flowed anew.

"Ah, Danielle," his deep voice caressed her name, "I believe you are a little crazy, no? But you felt so comfortable in my arms--so fitting.

"Your voice is very familiar," he continued, "and the fragrance of your hair reminds me of ... we must have met before. But, of course! The Casino at Deauville ... we danced together," the teasing sensuous timbre of his voice was Alain's, "but I should remember even the music played when dancing with someone as beautiful as you. Did you perhaps spend last 'season' at Saint-Tropez?"

"No, Paul," Danielle laughed through the tears, feeling quite giddy as complete warmth flooded her being and filled her heart with hope. "Not at Saint-Tropez," she answered, suddenly realizing this season had rescued her from her private winter and admitted her to a larger rhythm as mysterious and as sure as the dawn.

The End

EPILOGUE

"Mama, where did you get that necklace?"

Danielle’s gentle laugh rippled through the warm summer air. "Max, you’ve heard this story many times."

"Tell it again, please." He stopped shoveling sand and waited impatiently for his mother’s tale.

She leaned forward and ruffled her son’s dark curls. "I found the locket in a secret hiding place in the château."

"And, what’s inside?" Max grinned, loving to hear the description.

"A lock of your namesake’s hair." Danielle dug her bare toes into the warm sand and smoothed her crinkled gauze skirt before continuing. "You’ve seen his painting. Alain Maximilien Grandmaison had hair the exact color of yours, and your father’s." Danielle smiled a bittersweet smile. She would never be able to explain the full mystery of the locket to Max: how she had taken Henry’s gift to the eighteenth-century and had given it to Alain, or how the piece of jewelry had been tucked in the secret chamber off the library--minus her photograph. She wondered again what had become of the photograph. Perhaps Alain had kept it close to his own heart.

Remembering the time long ago when she had given Alain the locket, she closed her eyes and let the healing sun’s warmth touch her face. Lost in her reverie, she didn’t see or hear her husband approaching the sandbox where she and little Max played.

"Mon Dieu!" Paul said slightly out of breath. "I do not know why you placed a sandbox in the middle of this maze. It is too far away from the house. Here, try this," Paul instructed when he reached them. He handed Danielle a flute of sparkling cider. "I call it La Bijou Normond." He anxiously watched for her reaction while she sipped.

"It is a jewel--delicious!" She gave him the full wealth of her smile. "I’m so proud of you; you’ve worked hard to rejuvenate the orchards."

"You led me to my destiny, ma femme. It was a marvelous gift." Danielle took Paul’s hand and placed it over the budding mound of new life that rested below her breast. Soon they would be able to feel the growing child move and rejoice as they had before Max had been born. Danielle and Paul exchanged a look of love only two people who had truly become as one could share, and Danielle silently blessed those from the past she had loved for leading her to a future with Paul.

"You finished your manuscript?" he asked, gently massaging the skin through her gauze skirt.

"Yes, I sent it off to Reuben this morning. Do you think he’ll like my treatment of the château’s history?"

"He will love the book as much as I do!" Paul looked down at her with adoration.

"Mama, papa, will you play with me?" their young son interrupted their exchange. Danielle often found it quite startling how much his voice sounded like Edmund’s. She gently rolled the empty crystal flute onto the grass and took Paul’s hand. He stooped to the edge of the sandbox next to Danielle and put his arm around her.

"What are we building, my son, a château?" Paul playfully asked.

"No, papa," Max answered quite seriously, "I am building a great big warehouse for our new apple cider."