Distant Fires Read online

  And so, while I complimented Madame Clouet on her gown of turquoise damask, and braved the attention of the hawk-faced Monsieur Meulles, Comptroller of the Marines (who possessed the odious habit of spitting whenever he spoke), Felippe hastened to my side, with the announcement that our guest of honour had arrived.

  All memories I had held of the inelegant, yet charming young man who first captivated me dissolved the instant he approached. This was no besotted lad, whose careworn clothing and faulty manners did much to enhance his rugged appeal. Clearly, the years had been kind to him—more than kind, in fact. His movements were purposeful, polished, in the style of a gentleman officer: More handsome in his bearing than I had formerly known.

  He wore a coat of deep blue serge, which, even in its loose-fitting fashion, seemed to hug his broad chest, hinting at the fine figure beneath. His face had not changed with the passing of time; the dark brows still framed the slate-grey eyes, penetratingly lending a look of disquieting scrutiny, but something in the mouth and jaw revealed a diffident expression, brought on, I supposed, by the shock of my reappearance.

  Felippe, of course, remained singularly engaged in introduction; his usual, uninspired nature noticeably brighter in the presence of his old companion, blissfully unaware of any untoward sign.

  “Welcome, welcome, my friend,” he gushed, extending a hand and turning to me with great pride. “May I present my dear friend, and new Intendant, Armand Comte Leger...My wife, Duchesse de Belaise.”

  Armand removed his tricorn with a flourishing bow, and made to kiss my hand. “Enchanted, Duchesse, with the pleasure of your...acquaintance.”

  That voice, its low, velvety tone, sent the flutter of intoxication right through me, and so insistent were the memories thus associated that, to my horror, I could feel a pleasurable heat rising from my lower body, spreading like a tingle to my fingertips. My cheeks flushed hotly.

  “We are pleased and honoured to receive you...uh...ah…” I faltered, ridiculously, overcome by the effect of his nearness. Sensing my strain, he rallied to cover my blunder.

  “Madame, your husband and I are old friends. Permit me to suggest we dispense with protocol and formality.” He smiled, slightly. “I would be pleased if you would address me by my Christian name...Armand, or Comte, will do nicely.”

  As he said these words, I found myself unable to meet his eyes. Luckily, Felippe took up the conversation, and we ushered him into the Great Hall, where I made my escape to a group on the far side of the room, hoping to remain unobserved.

  Unfortunately, this little side-step was of short duration, for following a brief welcoming speech by Felippe, the orchestra commenced, and I was, accordingly, called upon to share the first dance. Taking to the floor amid a sea of smiles, I caught sight of Armand, captivating a group of young ladies and their mothers—the latter employing every ruse to beguile this most eligible newcomer.

  Then, as he swept by, I caught his glance, with a look I took to read as subtle...scorn?

  Had he artfully hidden his contempt, under a guise of magnanimity, or were these merely my own imaginings, based upon inner torment?

  Whatever the cause, I was instantly stricken with an awkward sense of self-consciousness, causing me to lose my footing, several times throughout the session, which, were it not for subsequent crowding on the dance floor, would have been made more apparent.

  Thankfully, the evening came to a close, and as we bade the last of our guests adieu, I lifted my skirts—which seemed as heavy as my spirits—up the staircase, said cursory goodnight to Felippe, and closed the door, taking small comfort in the knowledge that at least the tension of the evening was over, and would not be repeated again, for some time.

  Though I may have sought a haven from this attachment, nothing that evening could have foretold the extent of interaction I was to encounter with Armand, and the monumental effort it took to sublimate my feelings. If anything, Felippe was held responsible, for he undertook to offer his friend our unlimited hospitality, often without notice.

  In consequence, Armand visited our table frequently. While my initial trepidation began to ease on the strength that, judging from his attitude, our secret would remain, it was also apparent that there lay, behind that genial exterior, a hidden misery for which I was held accountable.

  It was this truth that resounded back, as I caught his eye in an unaffected pose, or felt the tremor of his hand in greeting. Much as I dismissed the possibility of a privately shared moment, I yearned to disclose the reasons behind our parting, and the outside pressures, which had forced me to relent…

  ................

  Louise wiped her eyes, rising from her desk to the small oak bookcase near her bed. Unlike other gentle-born ladies, who could neither read nor write, she had been tutored from a rather early age by her father, Baron de Charlevoix, a former military man and noted scholar, who expected a similar aptitude in each of his daughters.

  Of the four, Louise had shown not only the need to balk convention, but the keenness for learning, which seemed a natural extension of that, for reading was considered a lone indulgence; not encouraged in ladies of refinement.

  Therefore, only in the quiet of her room did she enjoy the freedom of her all-too-limited selection.

  Scanning the small oak cabinet, she selected a slim volume of French verse, and in her haste, sent another thudding to the floor. Bending to retrieve it, she looked down, and noticed that the book had fallen open, on a page with the words “but where are the snows of yesteryear,” marked by several greyish-red petals, which lay within the fold.

  She lifted one and brought it to her nose, eyes closed. It was aromatic. The pressure of the book could not diminish it. The exterior had changed with time, but not the essence. Her beloved sister, Celeste, had picked the flower on the day of her departure for Italy, when Nicholas was three years old.

  Yearning for simpler times, the odour of these relics now transported her...back to their family estate near the little village of Boissons, along the waters of the Seine. Life was full and easy then...oh, but she had been a rebel...climbing trees, which often as not, ripped her dainty dresses...teasing her sisters unmercifully...tearing off into the fields unchaperoned—forever chastised, for one misdemeanour or another...

  But that was long past. She was a lady now, the wife of an important man; the Governor of New France, and in time had become as frivolous and vapid as the women she had once scorned. Until...

  Shoving the volumes back into place, she resumed her seat at the desk, seeking release in the written word:

  For the past two years, I have often sought the counsel of Mother D’Agoust, superior of our Ursuline convent, a woman whose patient ways and sensible teachings I found to be a source of inspiration, for my faith. Through our monthly meetings, we discussed the many aspects of our religious community, such as the placement of young novices, and local instruction.

  Since our first introduction, I had come to regard her as my spiritual mentor, and, although I could not confide in her my recent dilemma, I nonetheless kept to my scheduled visit; proceeding from there to the seclusion of the cathedral, for a moment of quiet prayer. As ever, my mind was struck with the beauty of this place. And, indeed, of all the chapels and cathedrals that graced the colony. Each steeple-roofed stone building was erected in the same proportion and line as those I had seen and known in northern France, although the decoration within easily out-dazzled its counterpart. Cream-coloured ceilings, appliquéd gilded wood carvings, gold and silver vases, chalices, chandeliers and organs all brought to light the supreme craftsmanship and wealth of private donation accorded the church in this colony—so worthy of admiration.

  Whilst kneeling before our lady for some moments—the stillness altered slightly by the priestly vestments of Father Brulette, who set about his tasks in his peculiar, studied manner, seemingly unaware of my presence—I heard the murmur of a voice behind my back.

  Wondering if I was being visited by nothing more
than a strong imagination, I turned and found, to my shock, Armand, seated in the pew directly behind.

  “You startled me,” I exclaimed, clutching my cloak and instinctively turning an eye, to see if anyone else were within earshot.

  Father Brulette appeared to have temporarily vacated. Noticing the gesture, Armand chuckled, throatily,

  “I assure you, Madame, for the moment at least, we are quite alone.”

  Pretending not to hear, I once more lowered my head in prayer, hoping the action would either silence his tongue, or cause him to take leave. He was not to be outdone.

  “I was in the vicinity, to pay call on Bishop Langvois, when I chanced to see you here.”

  “How did you notice me, in the greatness of the cathedral?” I whispered back.

  “The colour of your cloak, Madame. Unlike some, I am afraid my memory is my curse. I do not forget...anything.”

  He uttered this in such a way that the true meaning was not lost. My palms grew wet, and I felt a tightening in my throat, at the thought of any boldness he might venture. To my horror, in less time than it took to ponder, he had left his seat, and assumed a position next to me.

  For a few, lingering moments, all was silent. Then, fearing his precipitous behaviour, I attempted an abrupt change in conversational tone.

  “Well, Monsieur, and how do you now find life in the colony, with your newfound responsibilities? Are they equal to the challenge?”

  He replied in a low, measured manner, with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Indeed Madame, provided the endeavour results in the satisfaction of...conquest.” His grey eyes narrowed on me, sharply, then slowly looked away. “One’s regard for another is so often measured by such attainments, and I seek to be accorded their favour.”

  “You have surely done so, Monsieur,” I acknowledged, deferentially. “It is said, your title has been well-earned. Felippe is effusive in his praise of your abilities.”

  He seemed about to offer a comment, but stilled his tongue, surprising me with an innocent turn of topic. “Do you often attend worship during midweek, at this, rather than your personal chapel?” He enquired, after an incommodious lapse.

  I explained the reason for my presence this particular day, and went on to say that my church was of great comfort to me.

  “I do not purport to be a religious man, myself,” he said, the harshness in his voice suddenly replaced by a low mellifluousness. “Yet, I do know something of what you say.” He then drew nearer to my side; so near, in fact, that I could feel his feathery breath against my cheek, and the enticing smell of him ignited a torrid spark of familiarity and base attraction, which was all but impossible to ignore. “Many years ago,” he whispered euphoniously, “In just such a church, I, too, underwent a powerful spiritual awakening, which, to my misfortune, has eluded me ever since.” He halted, measuring the effect of these words, the strength of his penetrating gaze attempting to spirit my intractable resolve into submission.

  “I was a young ne’er-do-well of...seventeen years, I believe,” he continued. “My family had great hopes for my future in the military, which in truth meant little or nothing to me; so weightless were my concerns regarding a true vocation. “I had been visiting my uncle, the town smithy, in the village of Boissons for a fortnight, and duly attended worship on the first Sabbath. Positioned to the rear with the labourers, I found myself with an unobstructed view of the privileged to the fore. Bored with the proceedings and seemingly alone, I focused my attention on the aristocratic patriarch of one such family, his wife, and three young daughters, in the effort to maintain concentration.

  “Whilst each sat or knelt, quietly poised throughout, the girl on the end moved restlessly, sometimes giggling or staring over her shoulder, to the silent reproof of her family. I supposed she was a year or two my junior, and very like any other young girl but for her lively manner, and the beauty of her hair, which shone like polished moonstone as it fell loose upon her shoulders. Within an instant of having made my assessment, I witnessed something astonishing.

  “As she knelt in angelic piety, I saw her reach along her side and loosen, almost imperceptibly, a small bag. With a quick release of the contents, she resumed her praying position. To my amusement, a small, furry rodent, suddenly appeared, leaping from imprisonment, and scurrying down the aisle. Shrieks pierced the air, proper young ladies bolted from their seats, while their confused but chivalrous men-folk leapt to their defense, searching helplessly for the invisible foe, upturning the sanctity of the proceedings.

  “I watched in barely contained amusement and disbelief, as children chased one another down the aisles, and a stunned clergy was left the unenviable, and ultimately futile task, of restoring peace to a scene of utter chaos.

  “Amidst the indignity of these antics, the guilty party, flush with success, rose calmly and regally, and was led by her unsuspecting family to a waiting door. Observing her at close proximity, I was stunned by her fairness of face and form, and entranced by the mischievous spirit that so contrasted it. The sensation I experienced was unlike anything I had known, before or since, and I determined that, thereafter, nothing should prevent me from meeting her…”

  A sound in the area of the altar harkened me to the presence of Father Brulette, as he shifted a small table.

  “If you would excuse me, Monsieur,” I stammered, seizing the opportunity to flee.

  His face darkened with disdain. “I see,” he ventured, with acerbity. “You have recalled a pressing appointment? May I, then, have the honour of escorting you?”

  “Your pardon, Monsieur,” I replied, thinking how impossible it was to conceal my weakening reserve, “but I believe we shall be favoured with your presence at our table tonight, thus, there are a number of preparations to which I must attend.” To offer additional placation, I added, “Owing to the greater value of your time, I must desist any offer of accompaniment.”

  His eyes sharpened sardonically. Sensing a rebound, I nodded, “Good day, Monsieur, until this evening,” stealing swiftly down the aisle, and out the door.

  Chapter 4

  Only upon returning to my chamber did I allow myself to fully measure the meaning of what transpired, and its dire consequences.

  Foolishly, I was duped into believing that, behind his genteel comportment, lay a man of similar cast, who would never dishonour me. Yet he was plainly bold enough to seize any opportunity to disclose that reminder.

  It was no longer a childlike game; wondering if he held some fragment of love, teasing myself with the notion that, if so, it could be tempered, mutely, discreetly. Clearly, there was vengefulness to his purpose and he was prodding me to surrender my charade, to which I had come exceedingly close, giving no heed to the entanglement, which might result.

  Having no means to determine the extent of his purpose, I could merely surmise that he might hound me in future, with even less discretion. After all, virtually any surreptitious wanderer could have seen, or even heard, the tone of our discourse, and allowed for their supposition. I cringed at our becoming the subject of conjecture.

  Upon weighing the issue for some time, I arrived at the single solution: I must face him with the truth behind our parting, and implore him to hold me in good faith by keeping a respectful distance, owing that any shift further would endanger the affections of all. Tonight, I thought, scanning my wardrobe for a modest gown, I must tell him...tonight. Or...arrange to meet with him…

  Under a watchful eye, such aims would seem impossible to achieve.

  …………

  At a little past seven, Armand was ushered in, richly clad in a coat of burnished satin, with a darker contrasting waistcoat and breeches; chapeau bras gripped firmly beneath his arm. He greeted me with a stiff, obligatory courtesy I prayed would remain overlooked by Felippe.

  Seated to a repast of roasted goose and pastries, the conversation centred mainly on local people and politics, to the subtle—though deliberate—exclusion of myself, enlarging my discomfort. Several tim
es, I was directed a personal remark, to which Armand barely lifted his head.

  Therefore, it came as something of a shock when he, quite unexpectedly, made an enquiry.

  “And you, Madame,” he asked offhandedly, between bites, “I gather your son has recently been granted the post of lieutenant of his regiment, in Montreal. Given his age, I presume you feel some measure of pride in this accomplishment.”

  “On the contrary, Monsieur,” I answered, hastily finding my voice, “while I shan’t say I am displeased with his abilities, I am, foremost, a mother, and likewise share a mother’s concern for the welfare of her child. The Iroquois problem, such as I have heard it to be in regions down-river, causes me great fear for his safety—”

  “My dear,” Felippe interjected, lowering his glass of claret to the table, “I have told you before, the situation has been much distorted. Nicholas has seen little danger, other than a few...minor incidents.” He daubed his mouth on a napkin, smiling paternally. “If, and when, we involve ourselves in an escalation of activity, he will doubtless defend himself unfailingly. It would seem your regard for his youth is wholly overestimated. Might I remind you,” he laughed, “that I was not much older when I took you to marriage, and was, myself, involved in battle far afield.”