A footman stood by achâteaudoor, clad like the porter by the river gate. Bleu walked ahead of her to speak to him in low tones. What he said to gain entry was a mystery but the door opened and they found themselves in a marble corridor, cool, shadowed, and still. A tall, bewigged man came toward them, his step brisk, his expression unreadable. He stopped to confer with the footman before showing them into a chamber as sumptuous as the gardens.
“Le comte de Sancerreis currently out riding,” he said, introducing himself as the estate’s steward. “While you wait, I will arrange for refreshments to be brought.”
“Merci.” Together they thanked him and stood in silence as the door shut behind him.
So, Grandfather still lived. She turned toward Bleu who was already looking at her as if weighing her reaction. She reached into her pocket for a hand fan. Though the room wasn’t hot her skittishness was making her so.
Refreshments were brought on a silver tray and set down near a tall vase of damask roses. The presentation was so perfect she hated to disturb it. Orgeat to drink, fresh-picked fruit, madeleines, nutmeats, bread andchèvre. Neither of them seemed inclined to eat, but out of an unspoken respect for their host Bleu sampled everything while Brielle managed a few sips.
“I’m glad he’s out riding. It gives me more time to collect myself.” She took another drink of the oversweet orgeat. “Did you tell the servants who I am?”
“I merely said you are a relation.”
“Now that we’re here, I’m remembering bits and pieces of what my mother told me, namely that her father was formidable and may have viewed her departure as a betrayal.” She looked toward a closed window, craving fresh air. “Growing older may have sharpened his temper.”
“We’re about to find out,” he murmured, looking up at the ornate ceiling. “And I have no doubt you’ll handle it with your usual grace.”
“I don’t want to disappoint you… or myself.” As it was, she wanted to fall headlong into his arms, run back to the barge, and return downriver to Nantes. “I have little else but your prayers and presence to steady me.”
“You’ll face him alone, understand.” He held her gaze, compassion in his eyes. “Such a private moment should be between the two of you and no one else.”
She nodded, hearing footsteps in the hall. “You’ll be right here, waiting, no matter what.”
It wasn’t a question but he answered it anyway. “I’ll be waiting,oui. For however long it takes.”
“Mademoiselle…” The unsmiling steward reappeared, gesturing for her to follow. “Le Comte de Sancerrehas returned and awaits you in the Grand Salon.”
As Brielle’s footsteps faded, Bleu sensed she was beginning to move far beyond his reach. The realization tugged at him so hard he found it hard to breathe. Atop the mantel the gilt clock’s hands seemed to freeze. His gaze roamed the vermillion damask walls where everything appeared to be in a state of splendid perfection devoid of even a speck of dust.
The vaulted ceiling was a masterpiece of stucco, an expansive fresco of the heavens complete with angelic beings in gold leaf. A crystal chandelier hung at the room’s center, its crystals scattering light from a wall of windows.
His own humble house along the Rivanna seemed a hovel. Once a source of pride and satisfaction, it now filled him with a dismay bordering on disgust. How had he ever thought it would be good enough for a bride—Brielle? Now, having set foot inChâteau de Villandry, he would carry the comparison to his grave.
With a start he realized she’d forgotten her jewelry box. She’d set it down to take the glass of orgeat and forgotten it. Perhaps it wasn’t needed. The portrait on its lid proved her to be her mother’s daughter beyond all doubt.
Restless, he moved to a window triple his height, autumn sunlight streaming through spotless mullioned panes. A chair rested by the ledge. He dare not sit down. He was not a small man, and the gilded seat looked to have been built for a nymph or ethereal fairy.
Everything here seemed dreamlike, so far removed from the world he knew it made him strangely weary. Even genteel Virginia seemed a scattering of dust, Canada raw, endless wilderness. He didn’t belong here. His immaculate, tailored clothing—the powdered wig he refused to wear—the garish buckled shoes on his feet all seemed laughable.
If he’d been cast in a farce he couldn’t feel more ridiculous. He was playacting on behalf of Brielle. To reunite her with her family. To ensure her rightful place. His qualms about her grandfather’s reception were small. One look at her and he would capitulate in a breath. It had happened to him the first time he’d met her.
Enchanteresse.
26
Brielle walked into a salon adorned in every hue of blue, so captivated she nearly missed the man waiting by a marble hearth at one end. Still in his riding garb, his graying head came no higher than the mantel. When the steward exited and closed the door, she approached thecomtethough it took a great many steps on unsteady legs to cross the large, carpeted room.
She felt a flicker of panic, remembering her jewelry box. Too late. When she paused at a respectful distance, she curtsied. She’d practiced that, too, in the privacy of her Nantes room till her movements were seamless and elegant, or so she hoped.
Smile, bend the knee, slide one foot and cross the ankles, lower and lift her skirts.
When she straightened the sun seemed to shift, catching thecomtein a shaft of light through a near window, illuminating the sudden confusion and then the stunned clarity on his lined face.
“Sacrebleu…” he murmured.
He regarded her a moment longer before he turned and went through a door disguised in a paneled wall she hadn’t even realized was there. It shut behind him and she heard him weeping.
Weeping.
