Blind Man's Bluff: Black Butterfly

By Maria York

As a spy for the English in the throes of the Napoleonic Wars, Marrok, the Marquis de Condorcet, has a myriad of secrets. When he discovered a woman at the brink of death on his lands, he took a risk in both saving and trusting her, only to discover that she held more secrets than he did. Would risking their lives for each other help them identify her attempted murderer or reveal how dangerous their connection is?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483598833

Book preview

18

Chapter 1

Birth rivaled the violent, dark descent. It was only for a moment that she recalled the force behind her rebirth as she vainly grasped at the wet tree roots and fallen leaves, some still embroidered with ice and snow. Sharp twigs and rocks that dug into her thigh and back reminded her of her denuded state. Her fingers stopped responding to her demands to take hold of the ravine’s edge; it was the first blow to her head. Her body plunged into the freezing waters of the swiftly running river, ordering her to fight or die. Clawing at the passing rocks with unseeing eyes became her sole objective. Fight or die. The frozen foliage and pebbles that were tearing her exposed chest were proof that she had made it out alive, and dawn was not long off if the gray sky she glanced up at before collapsing was not a delusion.

"Je suis libre. I am free," she heard herself whisper to the mud. They were only words, devoid of meaning by now. Her consciousness had evaporated and she spoke only an echo of a memory, a thought and a prayer uttered so many times that her lips moved only to speak those three words that had, in their repetition, become one word, or a senseless and barbarous tongue she understood no longer.

Do you think she is dead? It was a small sound from far away. Don’t touch her; she might not be alive.

I’m not going to touch her. All I want to do is put my cloak over her. Give me yours too, said a second voice.

Why should I? inquired the obstinate first.

Michelle, she has no clothes on. She’ll freeze to death.

"Well Francoise, if she is already dead, I will have wasted my new coat on a dead body, and then Mama will burn the coat and I will freeze to death."

Michelle, if you don’t give me your cloak and she dies, God will punish you. That logic gained the woman beneath the bridge a cloak and her dignity. There. Now you run to find Dr. Giry; I will find the Marquis, he won’t like this one bit.

Who will guard the body?

She’s made it this far on her own, a little longer can’t hurt too much. Now get going.

What if she runs away with my coat?

You are a silly girl, Michelle.

The woman’s body would have lain there until its decomposition, so near she was to death. Perhaps the girls’ cloaks mattered little at this point, perhaps they spared her life in its final moment.

"Elle est ici! She’s here! She’s here! It was Francoise. Wake up, Mademoiselle. Wake up!" Her voice was soft and pleading. There was another person sliding down the steep embankment.

Thank you, Francoise. Now I need you to go back home. Dr. Giry and I shall handle it from here.

Yes, sir. Will you be needing my mother?

For what? No, I shall call if I do. But the good doctor is a capable man. If she is alive now, he will keep her thus and you may speak with her later if you wish. A knee touched the ground beside her shoulder and the frozen strands of hair were brushed away from her face and neck. Run home, little Francoise. Do as I say. A long moment passed before he turned the cold body over, pressing his head to her chest. After a few moments he pressed his fingers to her neck and cursed softly. Horse hooves pounded on the road above and the Marquis shouted a greeting to Dr. Giry.

I brought little Michelle home. Quite horrified, she was. Well, what news? The doctor dismounted.

I think she’s dead, the Marquis responded.

Suicide? asked the doctor as he scrambled down the embankment.

I don’t think so. Look at the blood on her hands. She wanted to live. That’s the disturbing part.

Why is that so disturbing? the doctor questioned, catching his breath. He bent over, not to inspect the body, but to support his exhausted exhales.

It means I have a murderer on my estates.

No, not a murderer, he replied after a moment’s examination. She’s not dead yet. She has a faint heartbeat. I do not recognize her, though. Do you?

Not at all. A rare beauty, though, except for her present condition.

I am surprised that the girls found her. You cannot see her from the road. Good girls, those two.

Doesn’t little Nicolette usually play with them? Where is she this morning, I wonder?

Nicolette helped me deliver the DeBrae baby this morning. I was called late last night by the girl and she stayed until this morning. Said she wanted to be the first to know if it was a boy or a girl.

What is it?

A girl. Nicolette is her namesake. She went home too happy to be ruffled by her mother’s worries and anger.

Too delirious with fatigue is my guess. This was DeBrae’s first child, is that not so? asked the Marquis.

First indeed. A difficult labor. But she is a strong woman and she will be just fine.

I’ll stop in a few days to see how they are faring. Good family. It has been a difficult winter. Everyone is glad that spring is here. They had wrapped the body and carried it to the top of the embankment. Do you think she will live, Dr. Giry?

Her condition is serious. Notice she has three head wounds, one at her brow, one behind her ear and one on the back of her skull. She may not be right in the head if she does survive.

Perhaps we should bring her to the Chateau. If someone is trying to kill her, she will be safe there.

She may have been walking about in the dark and fallen into the ravine. It may just as well be an accident.

If she wakes, we shall ask her why she strolls about at night without any clothing.

I’ll leave the mystery for you to solve, then. Do you have her? I will be right behind you. Dr. Giry draped the coats of Francoise and Michelle over his arm as the Marquis pushed the wet strands of her dark hair away from her white face, wiped debris from her long lashes, adjusted the young woman’s head against his chest and pulled her knees into his forearm. She was so cold against him that he feared she might die in his arms and he would not even notice. He gathered her closer to him at the thought. For the first time in many years his mind turned to memories of the Revolution and the Great Fear when he was but a boy of sixteen. He knew quite well that racing time and losing could bring the price of a life. More than one life, he recalled. He instinctively drew his cloak completely around her, pulling her small form against his chest. No, it was long ago and nothing can change the past. He beat out the anger in his heart by pushing his horse hard toward home. The Marquis dismounted with the woman in his arms and it was not until he reached the door that the footman recognized that he was carrying anything at all. The Marquis was relieved when he relinquished the woman to his capable staff. The touch of this strange woman uncovered memories and feelings he had not recalled for a dozen years. None of it would come to any good, he thought as he watched Dr. Giry approach, riding his horse as hard as a man of his age and abilities could.

After the assignation to a lush, warm bedroom above stairs, a hot fire was started and orders were given to strictly and immediately obey any of Dr. Giry’s requests.

His ministrations were fruitful. The young woman’s flesh began to warm and turn from blue to white.  No one expected anything less from Dr. Giry, not even Giry himself. Oh, he knew a lost cause when he encountered one, but this one’s life was not lost. Her mind was another matter that could only be discovered upon her waking. And that brought to bear a separate concern. He could warm her, yes. Keep her heart pumping and her blood flowing, but perhaps only to starve slowly, never waking from her sleep. He’d seen it before in cases of serious head injury. He kept his concerns to himself as the staff celebrated his success and the Marquis plied him with congratulatory drink.

It was mid-afternoon the following day when the Marquis led Giry into his library. There was a fine port that he hoped the doctor would enjoy. As the dark liquid bled from the long stem of the decanter, the doctor inhaled its sweet, thick scent. After savoring a sip in his mouth, he brought the other glass to the Marquis who had been standing at the window.

Pondering the leaky roofs as the snow melts? He nudged the Marquis to accept his glass as the long, thin icicles wept into nonexistence.

Hmm? Thank you, sir, he accepted the small, elegantly shaped glass and turned back to the window. His jaw tightened briefly before he released whatever thought kept him bound in place. He ran a broad hand through his thick, dark hair and turned to the doctor.

Any suspects yet?

No. The constable and I have been over the area a number of times.  No scrap of clothing or jewelry.  No unusual footprints, no carriage marks except my own. And that path has not been traveled since my father returned to Paris.  He sunk into the leather chair beside the fireplace and tasted the port.

Well spiced, the doctor nodded.  Brought by your father?

No. He has no taste for wines and ports or even beers.

Ah, yes. I do recall that now, Dr. Giry smiled.  When he drinks, he means to accomplish the purpose of drinking. You, though, are more like your mother was, savoring and identifying every last drop that touched her lips. The nuances were never lost on her either. It was quite clear to the doctor that his companion was entirely lost in thought. Long have I known you, Marrok. Dr. Giry put his drink aside and scrutinized the young man. He chuckled aloud to bait him. Perhaps I should prepare a draught from my medical bag for you!

Beyond the closed doors of the library, the rush of children’s footsteps was heard dashing for the stairs, followed hard upon by the reproof from the housekeeper, Solange.

I did not think you would mind if the expectant Michelle and Francoise came to check on the young woman, the doctor explained. Their feet now pounded up the stairs with sharp taps from their best shoes to greet the sleeping visitor.

I count three children. Nicolette, no doubt. Cerberus has indeed come to us, the Marquis joked of the three-headed monster of Herculean legend. He knew better than to ask when the stranger would awaken. The Revolution and Napoleon’s War had taught him to be patient with the body’s recovery and to leave in God’s hands what man could not answer. Will you need me to prepare a room for you tonight?

No. I will sit at her bedside tonight. If she develops fever or worse, it would be wise for me to be at hand. He glanced up when he heard the pounding of children’s steps descending the staircase and shook his head with a smile. He put his drink aside in expectation of the brief knock at the door.

The little ones would like a word with you, my lord, Solange curtsied. They were allowed to pass after his assent was granted with a smiling nod. Her fists grabbed at the burnt orange color of her skirts as the girls rushed through. 

After the initial scramble and shuffle to claim a knee and change their minds, remembering mid-way to curtsy awkwardly, the decided question was presented.

Who is the visitor? Nicolette tugged at the doctor’s lapel.

We know neither her name, nor where she is from. She will tell us when she awakens, Dr. Giry reasoned.

But Monsieur le Marquis, what shall we call her? How can we ask her to wake up, if she does not know we are addressing her?

She will decide when she is ready to wake up. This response caused an uproar of little girl voices. No? That won’t do, will it? Well, what shall you call her? He knew that they had decided upon a name before they burst into the room.

Félicité! shouted Michelle. All three girls bobbed their heads in agreement.

Ah, the Marquis narrowed his eyes, feigning seriousness. It is a great thing to bestow a name upon another. Have you given this name thought? The head bobbing continued with vigor. So we shall call her Félicité?

Yes, because she is lucky, Francoise stated. Dr. Giry smiled at the astute little girl.

Well, that she is and so she shall be named! the Marquis declared in a grandiose voice.  The girls squealed and exited. Solange dodged them and closed the door, as peace descended once again upon his study. He picked up his port again and sipped it.  His large, rough hands presented a contrast to the delicate glass in his grip. You examined her for injuries?

Mostly abrasions and bruises from her fall in addition to the head trauma we discussed already. Dr. Giry shifted in his seat and rubbed his mouth before adding: I do wish to show you the curious injury which is the least concern medically, but of greatest concern all the same.

Slower, heavier steps now climbed the stairs toward Félicité’s room. Dr. Giry noted the depth of her sleep before turning to open the curtains and allow the light to pour in through the large windows. The room was hot from the fire and the Marquis was pulled into the girl’s presence. She had been bathed. Her hair looked like black ink spilled out on the white pillow. As the sun touched her, her hair gleamed like fine silk. Her skin was an unearthly white, as if the sun that fell upon her now was the first time it ever had. Her strong brows arched delicately upward, certain yet somehow ephemeral as well. The hot room turned her cheeks bright pink, too bright, he thought. Her mouth was set with determination which was belied by her full, bright lips.  His calloused thumb caressed her cheek without hesitation. She was fevered. He pulled a lock of her hair between his fingers. Everything about her appearance was new and unknown to him. But her presence was so familiar to him. He knew her somehow. For years. He had searched for her for years too. And yet he had never seen her.

Dr. Giry cleared his throat significantly. He stood at the end of her bed and had pulled the covers up, exposing her feet. The Marquis felt his brows fall as he moved toward the greatest concern of Dr. Giry. I beg your pardon, sir, he stated, as if he needed to ask permission from someone before sliding her gown over her ankles and taking hold of her left foot. He had examined her naked body, but at this moment he was overcome with timidity.

Dr. Giry? the Marquis urged him to continue.

The gown was pushed a little higher and the Marquis bent over her ankle. She was in irons! Imprisoned.  The mark of her detention went all the way around her ankle.

For years, if you can see. Note the muscle development, not just the skin, the doctor stated as he placed her foot into the gentleman’s hands. He held it carefully and caressed the arch of her foot with his finger before smoothing his hand over the impression of the iron anklet she had worn. Of course it did not disappear at his gentle urging. And she was branded, the doctor added. He took Félicité’s foot from the Marquis and covered it once again. He began turning her body with the covers, rolling her onto her side.

A mark of her crime? the Marquis asked, assisting the doctor.

Not as I can make out, and not where such a branding would have been placed. It looks like a family crest of-, he stopped as Félicité stirred and groaned.

They stood quite still as she rolled onto her back, thwarting their efforts.

She will be in some pain when she awakens. 

The Marquis then noted that her arm was splinted and well bandaged. Her nails had been destroyed as she fought for her life; her hands and fingers were scratched and cut. They watched her turn and stretch and blink groggily.

"Je suis libre, was her first whisper into her pillow. She sensed their presence and turned her head, looking at the pair of gentleman from the slits of her eyes. It must have been a dream, she thought as she fell back into a dark sleep. But her heartbeat skipped at the realization that she had only ever had three dreams and in her semi-conscious state, she felt a wave of panic. Her father and mother had taught her well and she remembered the one thing of which she was certain. Summoning her strength from her sleep, she moaned in perfect dialect: I am English." She did not struggle against unconsciousness. She was incapable of battle.

She has awakened, the Marquis noted.

The doctor was grimacing as he replied: Her future is not so certain yet.

Her first words are spoken in French. It is logical to assume that it is her native tongue. The second set in English. Perfect Queen’s English. Suspicious in the midst of the war, he thought. He paced away and then back to the bedside, determined to get answers. Wake up, girl! the Marquis whispered between closed teeth. Deftly he turned her body over and urged Dr. Giry to point out the branded area.

Ah, her lower spine. He gestured more specifically and raised his eyebrows in surprise as the Marquis slid her nightgown up and the blankets over her, easily maintaining her modesty.

Marrok’s fingers found the ridges of the scar quicker than his vision did. He stepped aside so that his own shadow wouldn’t block the light from revealing her secrets. It’s an old scar.

Yes. I would venture to say ten years or more, if the damage to her ankle is taken into account.

Brushing it with his thumb did not reveal further clues. He knelt and ran his fingertip over the raised edges. I’m surprised you could surmise this is a crest, but it does have some pattern.

It was probably done with great hesitation. One side is slightly more distinct than the other. But the brand was not held long enough to mark its purpose.

She may disagree with you there, Dr. Giry. He breathed and glanced up at the light in the room. The single best clue so far and it is entirely useless. The Marquis pulled her gown back down and adjusted her body into its original position.

I cannot deny that it is a good sign indeed that she has spoken. There are brain injuries that render one mute for the remainder of one’s life. Her mind may be in good order when she awakes. Then, sir, you shall have the answers you seek. Dr. Giry opened the door and led the way down the stairs.

Though I cannot stop the mouths of the staff, I have urged their discretion. The locals are aware that they should look out for a stranger with violent intentions. In all honesty, this does not seem to be a random act perpetrated against an equally random person. I am to meet with my solicitor in an hour or so. Do you wish to remain, Dr. Giry?

No, sir.  I shall gather up some supplies for her treatment and be back as soon as possible.

In time for dinner, then? the Marquis asked.

In time for dinner, if you please, sir. Dr. Giry lifted his hat and pulled on his gloves before heading out into the cold day. The wind was whipping fiercely and Dr. Giry held his hat on with his hand as he made his way toward his carriage.

M. Broussard, the solicitor, arrived, as was his nature, nearly half an hour early for his appointment with the Marquis. In all respects, he was perfect for his occupation: an easy smile and sympathetic eyes elicited trust and all the information such trust would engender. At the same time, his features were non-descript and quite forgettable: a blessing for his employer, but one of the primary reasons he remained a bachelor, which in turn, was a further blessing for his employer. But the most important aspect of M. Broussard’s disposition was the accuracy with which he compartmentalized useful information. And as the Marquis eyed him from his leather chair in the library, he could not help but think that in another time, this man would have been of great service as a spy. Had they met during the Revolution, the Marquis would have employed him as such. After glancing down at the delicate snuff box in his hands, he offered its expensive contents to the solicitor, who was quite fond of the brand.

I don’t know why you keep this when you do not ever partake, Monsieur le Marquis.  M. Broussard enjoyed it with relish. Fine snuff. Though titles had been abolished, M. Broussard used it in private with his employer. It was a sign of respect, despite the crumbled and burned society that surrounded them.

It was a gift, he said as he closed the lid. He did not describe the lovely and generous woman who sent it to him. He pondered his meanness in judging her as a kind, but completely idiotic paramour.

They had discussed several other matters at hand before addressing Félicité’s unfortunate circumstance. 

I have prepared a sketch of her for you. He handed Broussard the artist’s paper.

Ah! She is unforgettable. No doubt you have drawn her with a degree of favoritism.  No?

You will see for yourself. Once you look upon her, you cannot shake her image from your brain. They went upstairs to examine the specimen and her ankle and re-adjourned in their former seats. So you see the need for discretion. Even if we find her family, we do not know if she should be returned to them at all.

We can nearly rule out that she is married, albeit poorly, if she has been clapped in irons for as long as Dr. Giry estimates, M. Broussard noted aloud.

An assumption I have considered myself. This would have placed the beginning of her bondage during the Revolution.

She has twice escaped death’s grip then. Broussard rubbed his index finger roughly against his chin. Is she lucky or strong?

She cannot be more than seventeen.  The constable is going to check if any parents reported a lost child ten years ago.

This will take a great deal of time, sir. What do you plan to do with her until we locate her family?

My hope is that she will be open about her circumstance. I will… encourage her to do so if I must. And then we will situate her accordingly.

Puzzle solved! the solicitor declared. Both knew it was a vast oversimplification, but all complications aside, they would do what needed to be done with her. Each knew his role in the process and would stand by such duty.

Dr. Giry, for his part, had another sleepless night ahead of him as he cared for Félicité.  His patient was weak and seemed to have little drive to awaken. When morning came, he staggered to his own room and fell into bed snoring. It was not so long after this that Cerberus returned. The three heads of three little girls peeked carefully into Félicité’s room and happily found it vacant, besides its permanent occupant, of course. Their glee was only mildly restrained by caution as Nicolette opened the curtains to let the bright morning sun shine into the room. Michelle sat upon the bed with a very large book placed neatly on her lap upside down. Francoise placed a bowl of soup on the stand beside the bed and began to blow upon a steaming spoonful of its contents.

It was under these haphazard ministrations that a reluctant eyelid opened, followed by the other. Only momentarily did the girls cease their chatter as each was carefully examined by a pair of blazing blue eyes. Then the screaming and laughter began.

Oh, Félicité!  We knew you would wake up today!

We have waited forever for you!

Did you dream about anything wonderful?

You must eat some soup that I brought for you, Félicité.  Here, take the spoon.

No, give her the bowl. You will spill the spoon as you try to bring it to her.

The bowl is too hot. I burned my fingers on it earlier.

She can feed herself! She’s not an infant!

And the bowl with its contents met its end on the floor beside the bed.  The clatter of it finally roused the staff into action and then the uproar previously held in the confines of the bedroom spread like wild contagion to the rest of the household. The housekeeper, the cook, the maids, the butler, the groomsmen and damned near anyone with feet surrounded her bed. Except Dr. Giry.

We are glad you are alive, Miss Félicité!

I’ve brought you a fresh bowl of soup, Miss Félicité!

Are you warm enough, love?

Would you like fresh pillows?

It could have been a bear pounding up the staircase growling fiercely at the crowd impeding his progress. But it was, in fact, the Marquis. 

All of you, leave. Solange, fetch the doctor, please, now. Girls, yes, you little ones… you must leave too.

But, my lord, it was us that woke her! Nicolette begged.

Yes, thank you. A fine deed. Perhaps she will thank you for it later.

Thank you, was the weak voice that came from the patient’s throat a scant moment before the door closed at the force of the Marquis’ hand.

Ah, so you do speak French. Then he switched to English. Are you from England or do you only speak like a native?

She eyed him cautiously. Those words fell foreign on her ears.

He nodded in instant comprehension and switched back to French. His voice was low and soothing, a blessed relief after the last few minutes of pandemonium. What is your name?

I am Félicité, she gestured toward the crowd that had clearly recognized her as such.

You are called Félicité, but what is your name? the Marquis attempted to clarify.

When all the world calls you by a name, is this not your name? Félicité reasoned.

The Marquis assessed her with one eye closed against the bright light from the windows, tapped his ring a few times and then sat beside her on the bed.

So your name is Félicité. He gestured for her to continue, Félicité what? What is your family name? Marrok smoothed his voice and spoke barely above a whisper. Her eyes were vacant before they dropped to the sheets. What were you doing on the road by the ravine? Her brows furrowed as she looked up at him for answers. He waited a long minute and realized that the answers were not going to come to her now. Here, eat some soup. I have unnerved you, I’m sure.

He placed the tray with the soup bowl carefully on her lap and handed her the spoon.  Dr. Giry entered and stood at the foot of her bed. 

Stretch your mind a bit, please, the Marquis continued. What is the last thing you remember? Félicité struggled with the spoon. It may take a bit to get used to doing things with your left hand while your right arm is healing. Here, let me help you. After a few spoonfuls, he urged her to try again. She was having great difficulty.

Let her try a glass of water, perhaps, Dr. Giry suggested. Do not fill it all the way up, sir.

This attempt was successful only in spilling most of the water on her face.

There, there, dear girl, Dr. Giry patted her hand as the Marquis cleaned her up.  You’ve injured your head and your motor skills are off. Keep practicing. You’ll get it right in no time.

My head aches, she said softly. And my arm. And my ribs and back. What has happened to me?

Hmmm. Dr. Giry began mixing a powder into her water glass, stirring vigorously. He lifted her up gently and poured the water into her open lips. Marrok noted his tender ministrations and was certain he had run roughshod over her sick bed. He watched her close her eyes painfully against the sun. It was making her head pound more. The Marquis began to walk across the room to close the curtains.

Please leave them open. The sun warms my bones, she smiled up at the doctor.

Very well, the Marquis stated as he crossed the room toward her. You will be asleep again soon. The pain will lessen day by day. You are safe here with me. Do you understand?

Félicité nodded. Her cold fingers reached out and touched his hand, impelling him to sit beside her. Her brows were furrowed with concern and her sapphire eyes were clear with honesty. My lord… She paused for a long time as if to check herself. My lord, I can’t remember… the last thing I remember. I can’t remember anything.

There was one thing Marrok had to say about that once she had fallen asleep and he was able to conference privately with Dr. Giry. Convenient!

Not really! Dr. Giry contradicted. Not so for anyone! He watched Marrok’s mouth tighten. You cannot insinuate that she deliberately threw herself down the ravine and left herself there to freeze to death or be rescued by, of all people, you. Even if she was in the midst of escaping her bondage, it would not behoove her to lie to a powerful man who could help and protect her. She’s not lying and this you, my lord, can see in her eyes. He paused to allow his reasoning to settle into Marrok’s frustrated emotions. It’s an exasperating setback, to be sure. Her memories may return with time. Normal activities may spark her injured brain.

We have learned something of value, I admit. She is not English. We can tell M. Broussard that he need not explore this possibility any longer. He had been knocking the dried mud from his boots and putting them on as he considered it with Dr. Giry when he paused in action. It does beg the question of why she would say she was English. He shook his head and went back to putting on his boots.

I will take her into the solarium when she is sufficiently improved. I believe it will hasten her recovery to get the sunshine she craves. I must devise tasks for her to improve both her fine and gross motor skills. I wonder if she will need assistance to walk if she cannot even hold a glass properly.

She has not been paralyzed, has she?

No. It is a paralysis of the mind, so to speak. She must relearn how to use her muscles, how to coordinate their movements. We shall see what else, but I anticipate more. Dr. Giry seemed to notice the Marquis’ occupation for the first time. Where are you off to, sir?

We are rebuilding the stables. We are experimenting with the lower floor. Sections of it will be able to be lifted up to allow for a two foot tall ventilation and storage space. We are sorting out how we can be certain that rains will not flood it. A system of gutters will need to be placed round about to allow for proper drainage. I am meeting the engineer out there now to show him my plans. He grinned and tapped Dr. Giry with his rolled up papers. It’s a nice day.  I think you are right. Bring Félicité into the solarium. Wheel her, if you must. Aunt Agrippine’s old chair should do. Solange can help you find it. He was off with a smile.

Tell me about le Marquis, Félicité requested of Dr. Giry as he gripped her arm firmly.  Her coordination had improved significantly, but constant dizziness plagued her sense of balance. The weather had progressed from fine to beautiful in the weeks since she had awakened.  Today was the first day that Dr. Giry felt as if she had truly waked. Speaking had been laborious for nearly two weeks. She could not touch her finger to her nose until three days ago. Her brain was healing, as were her wounds. Bandaged ribs and her arm in a sling, she progressed from the wheelchair to a walking stick to Dr. Giry’s firm grip when needed. Right now, it was most certainly needed. Physical therapy was almost finished for the day.

I think we are all more interested in you, my dear, he chuckled.

A less than fascinating topic at this point in time, she turned to smile at him and lost her balance. This is so frustrating, she complained. I’m dizzy all the time. When will this subside? She watched the doctor shrug slightly. Well, then, tell me about my guardian.

He is the kind of man who would prefer if you asked him yourself. After a few silent steps through the garden, they made their way toward the library. It would yet be five minutes before she would make it to her seat there. A tonal growl preceded Dr. Giry’s words when he contemplated. Félicité had grown used to this and smiled. If she were patient, Dr. Giry would answer nearly any question. Marrok has always been generous and aware of other’s needs. He sees things to their conclusion. He can become angry when things stand in the way of his ends.  Fortunately, his ends have, to my knowledge, been for good and not ill.

Her dark hair flowed freely in the wind. Headaches were exacerbated by pulling her hair up. It was a practical kind of enchantment, Dr. Giry thought as he looked at her. You had said at one time that his mother had died. Was this long ago?

Seven years now, I should say. She was just like the Marquis in spirit. She died of a heart attack and dropped dead where she stood… or so Élie had said. Pardon me, Mademoiselle.  That would be Marrok’s father. It was he who had found her. It was a very sad loss for this household. She was like springtime. Élie has been away from home more frequently since then.  He lives in Paris most of the time and it suits him, admittedly. He has abdicated all responsibility to his son and this has been a good decision too. Félicité nodded. Go on, dear. You open the door. That’s it. 

Please forgive my curiosity, Dr. Giry. I have not seen much of the Marquis and now that he has invited me to dine with him tonight, I am at a loss as to how to behave, what to say, what to do.

Well, don’t drink any wine. It will only make your vertigo worse. He had gone to a section of books and perused them for the one she had been reading. His finger hesitated on its spine. Should we practice your writing skills?

If you please, sir, I did so already this morning. You can find the pages of my practice at the desk in my room.

He responded with his characteristic growl and expounded: Your ink stained fingers are evidence enough.

I shall smear them deliberately henceforth, she teased.

Ah, a sense of humor. A good sign of an intelligent mind.

I beg you will remember that when I am fifty and cannot sign my name.

I’ll remember that for tomorrow when you cannot sign your name! He tossed her book into her lap. Now read. Better yet, have you memorized the lines I gave you yesterday?

I find Homer an arduous poet to recite, sir.

And I find it arduous to listen when you don’t work at it. Inflection!

Félicité sighed and dropped her shoulders acceptingly. It was a welcome distraction, after all, preventing her mind from its preoccupation with what quizzes she would be given over dinner. The passionate realm of Homer’s mind was a sweeping contrast to the gentle countryside surroundings and the silent library where the greatest danger was sneezing from a bit of dust.  Long after Dr. Giry had abandoned her to her reading, she remained absorbed in the lusty Greek gods and their human puppets.

Solange was kind enough to scurry her upstairs for her bath and dressing before her first formal dinner with the Marquis. As Amandine ministered to Félicité‘s appearance, minding her healing head wounds and wrapping her injured ribs as Dr. Giry had taught her, Félicité practiced her writing and took comfort in the knowledge that the doctor would remind her of the etiquette minutia that brought her hand to pause over the tiniest letters she had, at that very moment, correctly formed. Pride and confidence smashed against the wall as a knock at the door startled both women. Amandine rose and answered the door with a quick curtsey then made way for Félicité just behind her. 

Momentarily she was surprised by her mind’s image of Dr. Giry serving as her escort to the dinner table, with the very real Marquis who stood before her to do the job. Her curtsey was slow and deep. It was not only a sense of gratitude, nor even her concentration on her muscle coordination that turned the perfunctory action into a moment of grace, but her need to gather her wits that fell scattered on the floor. Marrok groomed his thoughts well. The contrast between the lovely girl before him and the bedraggled, half-dead victim he pulled naked from the river a few weeks ago was striking.

I trust you are well enough to eat, Miss Félicité, he smiled and offered his elbow. His dark brown hair was tied back and he was freshly shaved.

Your invitation is gracious, she replied, welcoming his arm and sliding her arm through it as she did with Dr. Giry. He paused and smiled down at her.

Unless you are quite unsteady, he slid her arm to a less familiar linking, it is more appropriate to place your hand here. It was gently given reproof, but her little heart was weeping and pounding at her failure. He was nearly a foot taller than she.

Thank you, sir, she nodded up at him. He continued forward toward the stairs and her concentration shifted from her embarrassment to an earnest effort not to trip over her own feet or allow the weakness in her knees and thighs to topple her and embarrass her further. When she was finally able to grasp the banister to assist her descent on the staircase, she sighed her relief in a quiet exhale. Her eyes closed in gratitude to the Lord for not allowing her to humiliate herself further yet. 

Marrok felt her polite yet ferocious grip trembling on his forearm. He paused for a moment at the top of the staircase contemplating whether he should simply carry her down the stairs. Have you seen the garden yet?

Yes, sir. I am quite fond of it.

I have noticed that the gardeners are paying more attention to it than in years past. They are giving more heed to its overall effect rather than the simple knowledge of which plants thrive more in a particular environment. Are you the impetus behind their attention?

I beg your pardon, monsieur, but Dr. Giry has left the solarium to me to rehabilitate.  Precisely, for me to rehabilitate my coordination. I am glad that my changes are pleasing to you.

I am very pleased and yet I am even more surprised at your skill. Are you familiar with gardening?

Only from the books I have read in your library. They have been helpful. I also understand your desire to discover if I am more self-aware. On that note, I must disappoint you, sir. That no one claims me is nearly as disgraceful as not remembering who should.

His warm laugh surprised her. He took two steps down and turned to stand at eye level with her. He put her hands on top of his shoulders and turned away again to help support her as she made her way down the stairs. I will comfort you with my firm belief that the matter is more complicated than simple abandonment.

Do you suspect something more deliberate, too? I’m sorry, I do not mean to choke you.  Dr. Giry usually lets me take a break half way down the stairs.

Three are left, he encouraged. So you think it is deliberate yourself?

I can only tell you that the staff lay bets on it. She regretted that statement when she saw his eyebrows raise. Forgive me, she curtsied quickly.

He shrugged and examined her exhaustion. Is your progress usually so slow?

Her eyes dropped and she offered a pinched smile. Sadly, much slower. I would prefer to excuse myself by telling you that I had a particularly strenuous day of activity, but I surmise you would not be impressed. Had she known him better, she would have seen that he felt guilty for racing her to the dinner table. She did not. She inhaled hesitantly and then exhaled quickly. I will improve.  Dr. Giry said so. After daring to meet his eyes, she saw he smiled and offered his elbow again.  When she reached for it, he pulled her hand through and brought her to his arm to hold her up firmly. She flashed a smile at him that went to her bright blue eyes. You are much stronger than Dr. Giry!

Her innocence shattered him. Briefly he wondered what Jacinthe and Isadora would say of her. These sisters who vied for his attention would scratch her to bits. Suddenly, the tiniest part of him wanted to keep her safe forever. What kind of guardian would I be if I was not strong enough to protect you?

Protect me? Is there danger that you should tell me about?

No. And I would not if there was.

Why not?

With what would you defend yourself? Though your desire for self-sufficiency is laudable, it is also premature. Learn to walk, my infant, and then we will speak of future concerns. Now is not the time.

He assisted her to her chair and took his own. She had not been in the formal dining room before. The expansive table was lit practically, only where they sat. She mimicked his movements with napkin and utensil and glass and was grateful that he did not comment on its obviousness.

Do you like the lamb?

Very much.  It is the first time I have eaten anything but porridge and soup.

No wonder you tire so easily! Well, I won’t tease you. You are fond of the library?  What books are you reading besides the aforementioned botany?

Dr. Giry has me recite Homer in French and in Greek. I am also reading the Bible in French and Latin, which he wanted me to specifically mention to you. I distract myself with books on architecture and a little history. The history helps me put the Bible and Homer in context.

And the architecture?

She shrugged.  "I wanted to know how things are built: grand palaces, windmills, barns. I am ignorant of most of the terms used in the books you have, so I believe the book I read