Chapter Nine

At least there was a piano, a decent one, and there had been a man in the village who could tune it. Marguerite did not think she could have borne it all without a piano.

It was not her own instrument, of course. It was not her beloved Pleyel, the piano her parents had given her when she was sixteen. She needed a piano to match her gifts, her mother had said, and hugged her. Her beautiful Pleyel, with its wonderful sound. She closed her eyes, and she could see her father’s smile when he had shown it to her. She remembered the look of pride in his face the first time he listened to her play on it. Would she ever see her Pleyel again?

What was lost—all that was lost—she did not want to think about that.

She had come here—fled here—from the breakfast table. What had she been thinking? Ah, what nonsense. She had not been thinking at all. That was the problem. There was no reason for her to lash out at Lord Edward that way. It was hardly his fault that he had always been safe, protected by wealth, position, family. Was she going to turn into one of those bitter people who hated all who were fortunate? No, she would not let that happen to her.

She caressed the keys gently, playing a soft chord, then another, turning them into a sad, minor cadence as she waited. These days her life was spent in waiting. How she hated waiting. There was nothing she could do until she knew more—anything—about her situation. She had to wait until she heard from M. Villoteau. She had written to M. Canonge also. He had arranged some of her father’s concert tours. Perhaps he could arrange something for her.

But until she knew, she could make no decision. They were safe here for the moment, but for how long?

Wondering would accomplish nothing. There was always work to do at the piano. She began a series of Czerny’s dexterity exercises, familiar to her since she had been a small child. Eventually she began to work on the left-handed etudes. These were also familiar, but her left hand was still weaker than the right, and concentration was needed to force herself to work on this.

Half an hour later, the exercises ceased to demand her full attention. Her fingers drifted into Chopin’s C-sharp minor etude, its passages of hopelessness all too attuned to her mood.

“It is of no use to let yourself drift into despair.” Tante Héloise came in scolding. “And you must not let yourself pay attention to my foolish fits. Did the English aristo take offense? If so, I regret it.” She did not sound in the slightest bit regretful, but that hardly mattered.

At the final chord Marguerite left her fingers on the keys and stared down at them. “It is of no importance. I too flew out at him. I have no idea why. There was no need.” She lifted her fingers and slammed them down in a discordant crash. “Why do I keep doing that?” she burst out. “What demon is driving me?”

“Ah, little one, I am sorry.” Tante Héloise came up behind Marguerite and, putting one hand on her shoulder, rested her cheek on the girl’s head. “I am sorry. I had not thought. But he is a handsome one. Even I see that.”

“Handsome enough, I suppose, in that English way.” Yes, standing tall and strong as if he feared nothing, as if there were nothing in this world to fear. And with those eyes, brilliant blue eyes, eyes with no shadows behind them. A man who could make you feel safe. Who could make you accept the illusion that there might be safety in this world. The dangerous illusion. She tightened her jaw and smashed out another chord.

Tante Héloise sighed. “It is not the piano’s fault, little one. But you must be careful. Men like him, aristos, they care nothing for people like us.”

She shook her head. “But he seems different. He is not arrogant, careless, like those creatures at the concerts in Paris.” They had posed no danger to her. For them she felt only dislike. This one, however… He had made her lose control back there in the breakfast room. No man had ever made her lose control. She must not do that. She could not afford it.

“That is simply because the English aristos are so assured of their place in the universe that they need not proclaim it. The French aristos are always uncertain now. They must keep reminding us that they are the powerful ones, lest we forget and believe once more in Liberty, Equality and Fraternity.” A corner of Tante Héloise’s mouth lifted in a bitter smile. “And lest we bring out the guillotine again.”

She wanted to protest, but she knew Tante Héloise was right. “I know I should pay no attention to him. I do know that. But Delphine was prattling on about heroism and glory. Does she not remember what it was like in Paris just a few months ago? Has she already forgotten the misery? The hunger? The fear? Or has she been so completely wrapped up in her own dream world that she never even noticed?”

“Pftt. Of course she did not notice. You know she notices nothing that does not affect her, and even then she twists it in her mind.”

Marguerite looked off into her memories. “We almost made it. That week in May when the army came in to put down the Commune—it was ending. Everyone knew it.”

Tante Héloise put an arm around her shoulders and joined her in the memory. “Yes. The Commune was defeated, the cold and the hunger and the fear were coming to an end. We thought that in a day or so life could return to normal.”

Marguerite lifted a hand as if to catch the memory, or perhaps to hold it at bay.

The gunfire in our quartier had stopped. Even the shouting seemed to have come to an end. We were all still crouched behind the furniture, waiting until Papa said it was safe to move. It was so quiet. We were not used to the quiet. All through the quartier people must have been waiting. As if we were all holding our breath.

Finally Papa stood up, ever so cautiously. He stepped into the middle of the room, a smile slowly appearing on his face—the first smile in many months. “I think it may be over,” he said. “I think it is over.” He opened his arms, and I started to run to him.

And then some fool, some wicked, evil monster of a fool out in the street started shooting off his rifle wildly at nothing. Nothing! Didn’t he know it was over? Hadn’t there been enough shooting? It should have been over. Except that one of those wild shots came through our window and hit Papa. He just stood there for a moment, the smile fading into a look of surprise, but still holding his arms out to me. His legs just crumpled beneath him. By the time I reached him, he was gone.

The trembling overwhelmed her and she collapsed against Tante Héloise. The older woman held her, rocking her like a child. She would have liked to weep, but the tears would not come. There was only the fear. What was she going to do? How was she going to take care of Delphine and Tante Héloise? And poor, simple Horace?

They could not stay here. Delphine might like to pretend that she would be the lady of the chateau, but was simply foolishness. The invitation from the vicomte had been fortunate…ah, it had been more than fortunate. She had buried Papa in the midst of the nightmare that was Paris, when so many were being buried that she feared the cemeteries would not hold them all. That had been necessary, and she had done it, but afterward? Afterward she’d had no idea what to do.

Finally she pulled herself up.

“You are all right?” Tante Héloise looked at her doubtfully.

“Well enough. There is no choice, is there? One must be well enough.” She would have liked to give Tante Héloise a reassuring smile, but she could not manage that.

The older woman nodded her understanding and squeezed Marguerite’s hand before leaving.

Marguerite stared at the piano keys, and pressed down a few notes. Then she straightened up, put both hands on the keys, and slowly, softly began to play. Music. At least there was music. The chords piled upon each other, growing louder and louder until they drowned out all the worries.

A bit of sun escaping from the clouds drew Ned down from his tower. The breeze off the sea was chilly, but it had blown away the fog and for the moment at least the world was bright and clear.

The chateau boasted a surprisingly attractive formal garden, small but neat with its miniature boxwoods and topiaries in stone planters. Even now, with summer’s flowers vanished, its straight paths and clipped hedges gave pleasure. He was admiring its mathematical precision—so distinct from all the churning undercurrents roiling the inhabitants of the chateau—when he caught sight of Delphine wandering along the same paths as he.

He had to admit that she made a pretty picture. The ruffles of her dress cascaded below her short cape, and a silly bit of nonsense perched on her curls. She looked delicate and fragile.

Footsteps startled him, and he turned to see Horace looming at his shoulder. Tony’s distaste for the fellow seemed more understandable every time Ned saw him. Horace was large, yes, but he didn’t give the impression of strength so much as thickness. He was not wearing any unusual amount of clothing, and what he wore seemed to hang loosely. It was as if his body were made up of extra layers of flesh. Combined with the dull look of his eyes and the way his mouth often hung open, his appearance was somehow discomfiting. That discomfort made Ned feel guilty. It was hardly Horace’s fault that he was a simpleton.

“Mlle. Delphine is very pretty,” said Horace.

“Yes, she is.” Ned was not sure this was an appropriate thing for Horace to be saying. The young man might be simple, but he was still a young man.

“I take care of her.” Horace smiled proudly. “M. Benda told me to watch over her, and I do.”

“You take care of her?” Ned was not sure how a simpleton could take care of anyone. Perhaps Delphine had been told to take care of him.

“Yes. I make sure that nothing bad happens when she is around. Nothing that might upset her.”

That sounded marginally like a duty that might be given to a simpleton. “I’m sure that you do an excellent job of that.” Ned smiled uncomfortably and patted Horace on the shoulder.

Delphine greeted him with one of her shy smiles, peering up at him through her lashes. “Good afternoon, Edward. You too seek the sunshine. It is pleasant after all these days of clouds and mist, no?”

“Indeed it is. And you are looking quite as delightful as the sunshine.” He felt a bit foolish saying that, but she seemed to expect that sort of florid compliment. There could be no harm in indulging her, since she could not be finding life here at the chateau terribly exciting.

She dimpled prettily and took his arm. “They are very foolish who say that the English are cold. You are far more charming and gallant than my cousin Antoine, who thinks of nothing but business. Come, we will explore this so very pretty little garden.”

She really was a pretty little thing herself, he thought, and he patted the hand clinging to his arm. “Yes, it is a charming garden, and decidedly unexpected here.”

“Unexpected? But why unexpected? A chateau should have a garden.”

“Well, the chateau seems very much of the Middle Ages, very gothic and forbidding, and this garden seems to belong to a later, more frivolous period.” He thought perhaps that he needed to explain more since she looked puzzled, but before he could, her face cleared.

“You have not seen the real chateau then.” She gave a little laugh. “Come, I will show you where the family lived—not in the fortress the old man has chosen for himself.”

She tugged on his arm and drew him along the side of the chateau. As they turned a corner, they encountered a deluge of music pouring down from a window above them. Music so powerful that it had an almost palpable presence. Ned stopped as if he had run into a wall, causing Delphine to stumble slightly.

“What is it?” she demanded crossly.

“The music…” He held up a hand to ask for her silence, but she ignored it.

“That is only Marguerite. She is forever at the piano. One learns to ignore it.” She tugged at his arm.

He refused to move. He could not.

The music swept him up, took him to a place he had never been, arousing emotions he had never known, teaching, tempting, tormenting. It swirled, rose and fell. One moment there was joy, and then it tumbled toward despair. But always it rose again, never quite surrendering, ever hopeful.

It filled the world. There was nothing but the music. It wrapped around him, obliterating everything, overwhelming him.

He stood spellbound until the notes exploded in a final inevitable conclusion, leaving him bereft. He longed to reach back, to return to that place where the music had been everything.

At a sound behind him—half groan, half sigh—he turned and saw that Horace too had been listening, mesmerized. The fellow looked as awestruck as Ned felt himself. For the first time he felt a kinship with Horace, and shame for the distaste he had felt earlier.

“There. She is finished. May we proceed now?” Delphine vibrated with irritation.

He shook his head in amazement. “I had no idea. I mean, I knew she played, but…but I had no idea.” When she played the harpsichord—that had been good, impressively good. But this? This was music of a different order.

“Of course she plays. That is how she earns her living.” At the look of confusion on his face, she sighed impatiently. “She played with her father in concerts, in people’s homes and on public stages. You can imagine the humiliation for me.” She shuddered theatrically and pulled him down the path.

It seemed futile to protest. Delphine obviously understood nothing of what they had heard. How could she be so deaf? Even poor simple Horace knew that Marguerite’s music was something extraordinary. This was not the music of a polite young lady entertaining her guests, or even a professional performance in a concert hall. This was something entirely different, a kind of music he had never heard before. It swept him to places he had never known existed and left him filled with longing.