Belle Epoque (28 page)

I take a deep breath. “I didn’t mean the things I said before, Isabelle. Maybe I was a bit envious of you—that’s all.” I look down. She doesn’t respond because our conversation is interrupted.

“We shall leave this place tomorrow,” the countess says as she sways over us, a glass of brandy in her hand. “I don’t see any sense in our staying here another night,” she slurs. Her face looks clammy; her hair is falling out of place. “Your father will
inform the duke that we have to return to Paris in the morning. The gall of him, to invite us here to humiliate us.” She spits the words. “It’s appalling.”

I’ve never seen her composure so broken before.

“Mother, maybe you should go to bed,” Isabelle says. She gets up, pries the brandy glass from her mother’s grip and puts it down. She leads her across the room to the count. An exchange takes place, and then the countess stumbles into her husband’s arms and he guides her out of the drawing room.

Isabelle returns to my settee by the window, biting her lip to hide a smile. “I’ve never seen mother that livid, or drunk, in public before,” she whispers, becoming my confidante again.

Relief floods over me. For once the countess has helped me with her meddling. The comedy of her angry scene has lifted the tension between Isabelle and me. Grateful for the unspoken amnesty, I try to be witty. “At least she spared us tears—unlike Claire de Rochefort,” I say. “No amount of perfect curls can compete with an heiress.”

Isabelle laughs. “What luck. The pressure for a proposal had reached fever pitch with Mother. This just lets me off the hook until she finds someone else to latch onto.” She sighs and plays with the pendant on the chain around her neck.

“Yes—it at least gives you more time.” And me too, I think.

“Isabelle,” calls a voice. We look over to see Xavier beckoning to Isabelle from the card table. “Join us for a hand. Take my mother’s place, she’s going to bed.”

Acting as a good sport, Isabelle accepts the invitation, but it means Xavier ends up clinging to her for the rest of the evening,
so I do my best to drift into the background. I’m dreading facing the countess’s hangover—she’ll surely be in a black mood tomorrow. But thankfully she can’t blame me for the Lady Eleanor crisis—I hope.

Late at night, when the other guests have retired, Isabelle and I climb the grand staircase, each of us holding a lamp. We turn down the long hallway, dark except for our lights and stop at her room.

“Well, good night, Maude.” She looks down for a moment as if searching for some words to say.

“Are we really leaving tomorrow?” I ask to fill the silence.

She shakes her head. “Even if Mother remembers her threat, she’s too curious about Lady Eleanor to miss anything. We can hide out in the library to escape them rehashing the gossip over and over.” She gives me a small smile.

I note the “we” she used and smile back. Our friendship is a little dented but still intact. And right now, in this moment, I wish I could tell Isabelle everything and stop all the lies. But I know it’s impossible—by absolving my guilty conscience, I would be risking my whole future. “Good night, then,” I say, instead. And she turns to go.

My room is farther away, in the outer reaches of the north wing. I suppose guests are assigned rooms according to rank—there is no escaping the attention paid to blood and breeding. I walk quickly along the hallway and turn right, down the corridor where my room is located. I’m imagining the warmth of my bed when I hear a noise—a muffled bump and then a
shuffling. I stop and the hairs on my neck stand up as I picture what could be lurking in the darkness. Cautiously I lift the lamp in front of me to see what’s there and then begin walking again. I’m almost at my room. I grab the handle but pause before I enter. I think I can hear a voice coming from the far end of the passage.

Curiosity gets the better of me and I let go of the door handle and put down my lamp outside my room. Then I creep along the hallway, which leads to the servants’ stair. There’s the sound of rustling material and muted whispers—a man and a woman. I reach the top of the stairs in the near dark and peer over the banister to see two figures standing at the window alcove between floors. They are in a close embrace, lit by moonlight. But when I look closer I see that it’s not an embrace, it’s more of a struggle. The man is in an evening suit, the woman is obscured by him, but I see her housemaid’s white pinafore skirts peeking out.

“Non
, monsieur.
S’il vous plaît. Non!”
Her words send a chill down my spine.

“Stop! Leave her alone,” I call out. I regret my words immediately.

The scuffling stops. The man’s head whips round and he squints up at me through the darkness as the housemaid ducks out from under him. I hear her quick footsteps echo then disappear.

“Who’s there?” the man says. I shrink back. He can’t have seen me. I’m protected by shadows. I flee from the stairwell, along the corridor and back to the safety of my room. As soon as I’m inside I lock the door and blow out my lamp. I stand
stock-still, not wanting to make a sound, my heart pounding, my throat dry. I wait for the sound of footsteps in the hall. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can’t forget the face in the moonlight staring up at me. I think back to Cécile’s pack of cards explaining the aristocratic titles.

The ten of hearts. Xavier de Rochefort.

I
T
’
S LATE MORNING, AFTER BREAKFAST
, when Isabelle and I retreat to the chateau library. The men are out shooting, the ladies in some sitting room, gossiping, no doubt. This is the first chance we’ve had to talk since last night without the other guests around. I’m nearly bursting to tell her what I saw on the back stair. But a servant is fussing with the flue in the fireplace, and I have to wait until we’re alone. I try to focus on the novel in my hand, but it’s pointless—I’ve already read the same page four times.

Finally the servant finishes what he’s doing, but just after he closes the door behind him, the countess enters the room with a flurry. “Isabelle, I have some important news to discuss with you.”

Thwarted from sharing my gossip, I rise to leave so that they can be alone.

“Maude, you may stay,” the countess says breathlessly. She takes a seat in one of the large armchairs by the fire but
gets up almost immediately and starts pacing in front of the hearth. I thought she would be shut up in her chamber nursing a hangover, but here she is, strutting with impatient energy. I have an uneasy feeling. Why is she acting so strangely?
Scheming
is the first word that comes to mind when I look at her—that look of restless hunger in her eye. Surely she doesn’t think she can break up the duke and his English bride.

“Isabelle, dear. I have something to tell you.” Her tone has changed from breathless to grave, and I swear she’s enjoying the drama.

“Yes, Mother. Is Father ill? What’s wrong?” asks Isabelle, putting her book aside, concern spreading across her face.

I study the countess, ready to distrust whatever she’s about to say.

She stops pacing and stands still for a moment in front of the fireplace. “My dear, I have just found out a shocking piece of news.”

My first thought is that she has found out about Xavier de Rochefort, and it feels like a relief to not be the only one who knows.

She goes on. “The Duke d’Avaray, our host and friend …” She pauses, drawing out the suspense. “He’s bankrupt, ruined!” She hisses the words. “I found out from Monsieur de Rochefort after breakfast that he’s been hitting up his friends for money these past months.”

“What?” I whisper to myself. That sounds ridiculous.

The log on the fire crackles and sparks.

“Bankrupt? That sounds like made-up gossip,” Isabelle says.
“What about all this?” She gestures to the chateau we are enjoying.

“The creditors are closing in, according to Xavier de Rochefort.” The countess appears concerned, but I can tell that she’s reveling in the details. “My girl, how lucky you are.”

Isabelle looks confused. “Lucky? What do you mean?”

The countess shakes her head and sighs. “My dear child, you know nothing of the world.”

She’s overplaying her role a bit for my tastes.

“The whole thing is a scandal. His father left him the debts when he died, and the duke hasn’t been able to get his head above water since. Not only that, he’s been
gambling
what assets he could liquidate.”

Could this be true? I recall the argument I overheard backstage at the theater and the comment Xavier made last night. Has he known about the duke’s troubles all along?

The countess continues, “On his recent trip to London he met Lady Eleanor and became acquainted with her
vast
fortune, which is why they are now engaged. Just think—it could have been you marrying a destitute duke!”

Isabelle and I are both speechless. Gunshots ring out from the fields, breaking the silence. The shooting has begun.

“Thank goodness for Monsieur de Rochefort—what tact he displays, and what a comfort at a trying time like this!”

My stomach turns; the mention of his name brings back the vision of his face in the moonlight.

The countess sits down again and takes her daughter’s hands in hers. “I do have some good news as well, though.” She
gives Isabelle a fake smile. “In speaking with Xavier, he revealed that due to his brother’s absence in Indochina, he himself will inherit the family title. His older brother is living like a native, apparently, and refusing to return to France—he’s the family black sheep, by all accounts.”

Isabelle looks at her mother warily. “What do his prospects mean to me?” She withdraws her hands from her mother’s grasp.

The countess glances briefly at me and then looks intently at her daughter. Her voice softens. “Isabelle, Xavier de Rochefort has asked for your hand in marriage.”

The rise and fall of gunshots outside tears through the silence; several solitary shots begin to increase in number, the crescendo like a smattering of applause. The world is approving of the match. I must say something. I must speak up but the words are stuck in my throat.

Isabelle has a look of shock and confusion on her face, and the revulsion I feel at the thought of their union breaks out like a cold sweat from my scalp down the back of my neck.

The countess continues, “And it couldn’t come at a better time, deflecting any society gossip away from your association with the duke.”

The guns keep firing.

The countess’s face looks rapt with the conquest of a kill. “Your father and I are delighted.”

Isabelle finds her voice. “No!” She sounds ferocious. “Mother, that’s impossible. I barely like him. And why on earth did he ask you and Father before me?”

“Isabelle, calm yourself,
ma fille
. You don’t have to decide
this instant.” The countess gives a little feminine laugh to lighten the mood. Her ploys are transparent.

She leans back in her chair. “But of course, this might be the best offer you could hope to get. Maybe the only offer.” She follows this with silence, to let the meaning of her warning sink in.

I imagine the birds in the field. The guns must sound like cannon fire.

Isabelle is silent.

“I won’t hear another word from you now,” says the countess. She leans forward and touches her daughter’s cheek tenderly. “You and Maude go for a stroll. I’m not going to interfere.”

The countess rises and looks directly at me.

I want to speak up and tell them both what I saw last night, but my fear of the countess is too great. Her stare turns me to stone and I say nothing.

It’s not until the door closes behind the countess that I begin to breathe again. But my mind is racing—what do I do? Isabelle gets up, returns her book to the correct place on the bookshelf and says, “Let’s go for a walk. Get your mantle.”

The winter light is pale and the ground is frosted over as we stroll the grounds. The shooting has died down; the party must be heading back to the chateau for lunch.

We don’t speak for some time. I’m relieved because I don’t have a clue what to say. On one side: my current job, my rosy future and a powerful countess. On the other: a friend and an appalling fiancé. What fate am I throwing her toward if I do
the countess’s bidding and nudge her to an acceptance? That’s if she’d even listen to me. If she does accept, she’ll be stuck in a great house with a drunken lech taking advantage of the servants. And who knows what other truths are lurking beneath his charming façade. I can’t help but think of Marie-Josée’s story about when she was a maid.

Isabelle is the first to break our silence. “Monsieur de Rochefort flirts with everyone. I didn’t think he would be as stupid as to single me out.” She shoves her hands in the pockets of her great fur coat. “Though I’m a count’s daughter, so I suppose he’s only being pragmatic.”

At the edge of the formal gardens we continue on a woodland path. The bare trees make a lattice pattern against the sky that reminds me of Eiffel’s tower.

“What kind of person do you think he is?” I ask her, but all I can think is, I am a coward. Is this as close as I’ll tread to the truth?