A Promise Kept (FIRST FIVE CHAPTERS)

4 A Chance

I found myself stepping subconsciously backwards into the darkened corner behind me. In all my years of covert operations, I had never been so startled, so caught off guard. My mind whirred, racing to gather meaning behind the phenomenon before me, any inclination of what was occurring. Monsieur Lemieux bridged the gap between himself and his honorable visitor to shake his hand and make the customary introductions. I, obscured by the shadows of the stairwell above me, seized the opportunity that his speech created to escape. Turning quietly to the side, I slipped away down the hall, seen only by Gabriel Bisset. Though that couldn't be helped since he was always watching me. I offered an admittedly strained half smile as I fled. I found an abandoned alcove down a servant's passage a few feet away. I paused there to catch my breath, heart pumping and mind racing in an effort to understand the events unfolding around me.

The Duke's bastard son. That had been who the Lemieuxs' had claimed was visiting. Suddenly I was twelve years old again, watching a boy who had never known his father taken, with his beautiful mother and terrified sister, out of Raleigh by a veritable regiment of English troops. Oh. But it couldn't be.

I heard footsteps passing me by and flattened myself against the plaster walls so that I was invisible in the shadows. I listened to Giselle's overexcited gossip pertaining to some French aristocrat that Oliver could not possibly care about and waited until the girl's voice faded away down the hall before I relaxed. Releasing the tension in my shoulders and exhaling for the first time, I felt foolish. I scolded myself for running, though that was my most recurrent technique. Still, why should I run? The Lemieux estate had been my home for two years, not his. Why should I hide from him? I had a duty to Mademoiselle Lemieux. Besides, we hadn't seen each other in eight years and clearly his time had been more valuably spent than mine. He most likely would not even recognize me.

So, straightening my skirts and holding my head high, I walked briskly from the passage and into the hallway beyond. The clang of metal scraping against porcelain accompanied with the low hum of polite conversation indicated that the party had proceeded to dinner. When they were finished, they would likely retire to the drawing room for post dinner drinks and further discourse. My presence, as Giselle Lemieux's chosen handmaiden, would be expected. I changed course and headed for the drawing room, entering to find that I was not the only dutiful servant awaiting the return of their master.

In light of my unexpected recognition of a peasant turned noble from my past, I had hardly noticed the man who had accompanied him. He was tall and young, dark skinned and shaved head. To the Lemieuxs, I am sure that his appeareance seemed queer but I had spent enough time around soldiers to recognize one when I saw them. A shaved head was a style of choice for the most serious militiamen and, though he tried to hide it behind some mockery of English aristocratic fashion, I saw the muscled form all the same. If that weren't enough indication, there was his rigid posture, standing at attention for his commander, and the way his hand seemed permanently poised over the hilt of his sword even when making a conscious effort to project a casual and unaffected demeanor.

I crossed the drawing room in a moment to stand by his side, having sized him up just as quickly. I was certain of my assessment that this man was a soldier. Unfortunately, this created more questions than it answered. Customarily, a Duke's son seeking a betrothal with a wealthy foreign aristocrat would be accompanied by an advisor, not a soldier. Perhaps that was precisely the role he was intending to play. Or perhaps, he thought it was enough to dress the part. He wore a frock coat that four years ago I would have called resplendent but after years among the wealthy elite, I could see how bedraggled it was. Threadbare and deteriorating before my very eyes, the coat still did an impressive job of hiding the even more neglected trousers beneath. He shifted a bit under my gaze and I felt some satisfaction at having made him uncomfortable. But then I remembered that I was only a handmaiden as far as he was concerned and turned my gaze to the door opposite us, wondering all the while why Oliver had chosen to bring along a soldier. Was there still so much distrust between England and France? And, if that were the case, why was he still pursuing a marriage with one of them?