|
The shaking continued and, despite his best efforts to resist it, pulled him back toward consciousness. He abruptly opened his eyes and tried to sit up. The young woman who had awakened him gasped and drew back, gathering her dark, rough skirts into a pile around her knees.
"Who are you?" he demanded. At least, the best he could tell, his father was not present.
The young woman ducked her head so that all he could see of her face was her flushed cheeks under a tangle of light brown hair stuffed awkwardly into a white cap. "Just a maid, monsieur."
"You don't have to call me that," he said automatically, but he was not sure what to tell her to use instead. The name he'd been accustomed to using in Paris was not appropriate here, even though he had as much right to it as any other member of his family. His father had succeeded years ago in making his primary given name, Michel, sound an epithet to him, but he could see little else he could use. Certainly he could never convince his family not to use it. However, one name that had been wholly his own when he was young came to mind, reminding him of summer skies and friendships long faded. "Call me Julien," he said slowly, testing the name on his own tongue.
"Yes, of course... Julien," the maid said, and tried to meet his eyes briefly. He did not allow it, uncomfortable with her suddenly frank appraisal.
Enjolras gathered his legs under him and refused her help, so that when he finally stood, he had to reach one hand out and lean on the wardrobe to steady himself. His hands felt clumsy and slightly numb, causing him to struggle with opening the wardrobe. The maid stayed silent until he had the door open.
"You must not stay here, Julien," she said. "Your father could return at any time."
"I'm not staying long," he said as he began to look through his father's clothes, hoping to find something that would not look as if it had been stolen.
"Then let me --"
"But neither do I intend to return to my room." He grit his teeth against a passing dizzy spell, and blindly pulled a suit out of the wardrobe. It was appropriately black, and did not look like one of the best suits his father owned. Enjolras found a shirt next, and finally a tie, ignoring the protests of the little maid.
"I don't suppose," he said to her, "that you could forget you found me?"
"Of course not," she said, "M. Enjolras would fire me."
He sighed. "Then the way I see it, you have two choices." He let the wardrobe keep him upright, and looked right at her for the first time.
"And what would those be?" She put her hands on her hips and glared at him.
"Let me tie you up, so you will not raise the alarm on my escape, or come with me as far as the Paris road. Either way, you can say I forced you, thus your position is secure, and I am safely out of this trap." He worried the tie in his hands ... he thought it would make a strong enough rope, but not hurt her.
"I will do neither," she said.
He caught her wrist and pulled her close. He kept hold of her as she tried to twist free, but it took more strength than he'd expected. "You must," he whispered breathlessly.
Her next attempt to free herself almost unbalanced him. "Let me go," she said, "or I'll scream."
"You wouldn't," he said. Unconsciously, he tightened his grip on her wrist until she gasped.
"I don't want to," she said, "because that would make it harder for you later, but I will not let you leave right now." She looked up into his eyes, brown to blue, and he could not escape her plea. "Please, Julien," she said after a long moment where he did not think either of them breathed, "let me go. You're hurting me."
He opened his hand, and closed his eyes, but otherwise stood frozen. "I'm sorry," he said. His feeling that the walls were pressing close on either side robbed him of breath to say more. Until she pressed a steady, warm hand against his chest, he did not realize he was trembling.
"Please let me take you back to your room. You need to rest before you faint again." There was nothing accusatory in her tone, just worry.
"I cannot," he whispered.
"You'll never make it to Paris alone in your condition," she said. "How far do you think you can walk without fainting again? You have no money, and you look like an escaped convict."
He smiled at that, but did not open his eyes. "But that's exactly what I am," he said. "Whatever father did to get me here could not have been legal."
"Money," the maid said, her tone suddenly so bitter that he had to look at her. "Your father paid a lot of money to get you back, you ungrateful prison louse." Her hand pressed against his chest more forcefully. He could see spots spinning in the air between them. "The least you could do was try to live long enough to make it worth it."
"I am... trying to live. I cannot do that here." He found himself suddenly fighting against tears. "I must get back to Paris, to see what has happened, to see who else lived..."
"And I say you'd never make it there in your condition. You need someone to go with you, until you're strong enough to take care of yourself."
"Then why don't you --"
"I'd be missed." She dropped her hand and stepped away. "And no decent woman would travel alone with a man unless -- well, you look shady enough already, without my help."
"If I promise to find someone who can help you, will you go back to your room now and rest?" She offered him her hand.
He nodded and took it before he consciously realized that he'd agreed with her.
"Good," she said softly. "Thank you, Julien. You won't regret this." She squeezed his hand and pulled him away from the wardrobe.
"I promise I'll help you in any way I can if you'll just take care of yourself."
She took his father's clothes from him and replaced them neatly in the wardrobe. Then she glanced around to see if anything else had been disturbed before offering him her shoulders to lean on. He only accepted to be polite, but found he did need to lean against her strength by the time they got to the hallway.
He could not stop his legs from shaking and every breath pulled agonized muscles when he finally collapsed back onto his bed. The maid brought him a cup of water, and helped him drink it.
"Try to rest," she said softly. "You'll have the strength you need later." She smoothed some of his fair hair back from his face, and pulled the covers around him. He glimpsed her briefly framed against the sunlight as she pulled the drapes closed.
As he was drifting back into the sleep that filled most of his existence these days, he thought he heard her say, "Julien, what are we going to do with you?" Something about her tone sounded familiar.
For once, when Enjolras awoke, he was alone. He lay quietly, enjoying the stillness of the room and watching the sunlight leaking around the curtains darken from gold to red. His head itched, but he was relieved that, once again, sleep had dulled the edge of his pain. He could barely remember a time when this minute assessment was not a part of waking up, even though he felt certain only weeks had passed. For the moment, he felt content to lie in the semi-darkness as long as no one disturbed him.
He wasn't sure how long he dozed again, but the light from the window was nearly gone when Enjolras realized that he felt thirsty, and beyond that, faintly hungry. Neither sensation was strong enough yet for him to consider moving, but both were welcome after so long feeling nothing but pain and nausea. He remembered a pitcher of water somewhere in the room. By the door? With no sense of urgency, he pushed the covers back and tried to sit up. From his earlier experience, he did not expect the crippling surge of agony.
He decided to look around the room for the pitcher before trying again. He lifted his head enough to see the stand between the wardrobe and the hall door. The heavy pewter platter that served as a tray was there, but no pitcher. He completely relaxed his body and thought for a moment, then he looked to his right.
The pitcher and cup were there. He pressed against the mattress with both palms to get into a half-sitting position. This time his expected pain was not unbearable. He had his hand on the pitcher when he noticed a small stoppered bottle lying between it and the cup. Enjolras shook the bottle, then tipped a tiny amount of the liquid it contained onto a fingertip. The cloying, bittersweet smell stopped him from tasting it. His empty stomach twisted, and he swallowed back the taste of bile.
Forcing himself to breathe deeply against the knotted pain of his abdominal muscles, Enjolras waited through the nausea. He then carefully cleaned his fingertip off on the sheet. He held up the bottle to the wan light leaking around the curtains. The liquid must be some sort of drug -- a pain killer or sedative, perhaps an opiate. He had little experience with such things and no medical training at all. Joly, the perennial medical student, would have known, but Enjolras had studied law when he had still bothered to go to classes to keep up the facade of studying. He thought that even Grantaire had known more on the subject than he.
"Why don't you drink some of it, and see what happens?" Grantaire said from his right. Enjolras flinched slightly, then winced from the pain that caused, but he did not turn his head to regard the ghost. "The afterlife would be less lonely with you here."
"I've no desire to join you anytime soon." Enjolras dropped the bottle back where he'd found it. Perhaps these hallucinations were an effect of the drug? He kept his face averted from the direction the voice seemed to be coming from and wondered if it was truly a hallucination if you didn't see anything.
The ghost snorted. "Do you love Marius so much more than you do the rest of us?"
"What?" Enjolras turned his head. Grantaire, who appeared to be standing near the foot of the bed, waved.
"I mean that it's obvious that Marius Pontmercy, being alive, is worth more to you than all the rest of us put together, since we're dead."
"That's not true," Enjolras said. "You mean-- Marius is dead. I know that."
"He's not here," Grantaire said and drank from a bottle that had not been in his hand a moment before. "I saw you fall, and you're not dead."
And wasn't that just the problem? Enjolras had the feeling he was still falling and hadn't yet hit bottom. "I could have been mistaken." In all the confusion, it would have been easy to miss some slight sign that Marius lived.
"You were mistaken about many things, Enjolras," the ghost said. "Or should I call you Julien?"
Enjolras shook his head while Grantaire laughed. "How changed you are to have so many names again when most make do with one or two. Do you switch identities as easily as you do hats? How many names do you have, my dear Enjolras?"
"Altogether," Enjolras said quietly, "only the one. As you should know. You were saying about Marius?"
Grantaire shrugged. "I never knew what you saw in him, always mooning about with his head in the clouds, but I'm sure he's not dead."
"Then where is he?"
"How should I know?" Grantaire offered him the bottle. Enjolras automatically shook his head. Grantaire, chuckling softly to himself, finished it and threw it at the wall. The bottle vanished before it could shatter. Enjolras shuddered as Grantaire sat on the edge of the bed and draped one transparent arm over Enjolras' shoulders. He felt a chill deep in his bones, but not the weight of the ghostly arm, which was strangely comforting.
As the ghost began to speak again, Enjolras realized that he had the small bottle in his hand. He did not remember picking it up again. "You must decide which way to go," Grantaire said softly. "Always looking back can bring you nothing but pain." The ghost pointed to the bottle. "That is the only relief to pain of that kind."
Enjolras would not accept that and shook his head. Yet he found the fingers of his other hand playing with the stopper. He deliberately moved his hand away and gripped the sheet beside him.
"However," Grantaire continued in the same soft voice, "if you look ahead, your choices are more varied."
The chill invaded all of Enjolras' body, causing a shiver he could not stop. "Why are you doing this?" he asked.
"Am I doing anything?" Grantaire asked. "How far did you fall that day, Enjolras? Do you even know what it's like to be truly alive?"
Enjolras listened to his heart beat. Each pulse echoed through his blood. In his mind, he pictured the faces of each of his friends in turn. Not in death or even fear, but laughing and planning and living. Last of all, he pictured Marius, who often only sat quietly in their midst, passion glowing through his eyes. Even those last few days, when he'd been taken in the madness of love, the passion had been no less strong, only re-directed for a time. Why hadn't Enjolras recognized that? When it had counted, Marius had joined him for the fight.
He looked ahead at his plans, his hope to get back to Paris, and he knew then that he would be able to find reflections of his friends in the faces of the young men still in Paris. Theirs was a spirit that could never die, and he was still alive to find it.
"Michel? Are you awake?" a woman called from the shadows near the door. The call was soft enough not to wake him if he should be asleep.
"I am," he answered as softly, rousing himself from his daydreams. He had been sitting up so long, his hands were cold and his neck cramped.
When the door opened fully, he barely saw the woman. She carried a tray. "Why are you sitting in the dark?" she asked.
He gripped the small bottle in one hand while he searched the table near his bed with the other. He found the lamp and lit it while the woman waited until it pushed back most of the room's shadows. Enjolras adjusted the wick before looking up at his other sister.
The unsteady light revealed the tired worry in Roselyn's face that made her look years older than her brother, instead of younger. Unlike either her brother or sister, she resembled their father. Features that made the older man handsome looked coarse on her. Her generally good nature and habit of smiling, even when harried, brought out a solid kind of beauty that her father lacked.
With all the responsibilities the last decade had piled on her, Enjolras was surprised she didn't look even more tired than she did. She was housekeeper, head cook, and family nurse, which he supposed was the role that brought her to him now. The tray held a steaming bowl of broth, a natural choice to feed an invalid.
Without looking down at it, he held the bottle out so she could see it. "What is this?"
She stopped, her hands trapped by the tray she held. She looked from the bottle to his face. "Something to help you rest."
"But what exactly is it?" he asked against her obvious wish that he not.
"Laudanum," she whispered. "The doctor suggested it, in rather heavy doses. I didn't dare give you that much, so I found the smallest dose that would help at all." She glanced quickly around the small room before turning and setting the tray on the floor against the wall behind her. Then she took the bottle from his hand. "I was afraid to tell you."
"Or he told you not to tell me," Enjolras said, and was rewarded with a slight flash of guilty anger in her dark eyes.
Roselyn's sigh banished all signs of her annoyance, and she reached to stroke his stubbled cheek with her free hand. "It's true," she whispered, "that father would've preferred the higher doses, but he never asked me to deceive you. That was my doing, and I'm sorry."
Her gently honest apology robbed him of any need to argue with her, so he simply said, "If you had asked, I would have told you not to use it." He shrugged away from her hand and winced.
Roselyn frowned. "Your health was more important than your opinion. I thought only to free you of pain." Her hand dropped slowly to her side, and her voice cooled to a monotone.
"I'd prefer to feel it."
"Any doctor would tell you that suffering needless pain only hinders healing."
"How could an addiction to a dangerous drug help me?" He shivered at the idea of a dependence on so strong a narcotic.
"The dose --"
"No," he cut her off. "Agree, or I will refuse to eat or drink anything while I am in this house."
She did not point out that if he did so, he would never leave the house. She clasped her hands together briefly in a praying position, then sighed. "If you insist, of course, I won't force it on you."
She sat beside him on the bed, where Grantaire had been. "Do you hate us so much?"
"It's not hate," he said. It's fear, said a small voice inside his head.
"Then Kait was wrong."
"About many things," he said too quickly, then added, "I think we were both angry, but perhaps not really at each other."
"That's the most sensible thing you've said since I came in here." She stood and reached across him to grasp and tug on the covers until she could pull a few pillows up to cushion his back and tuck the sheets close to his body. In the face of her expertise, he easily assumed the role of patient as if he hadn't just been arguing with her. She then picked up the tray from the floor and brought it to the bed.
"If I do this for you against my judgement," she said, "you must promise to let me tend to you in all other ways."
He nodded.
"And that begins with this." Again she sat beside him and lay the tray across his lap. She steadied the bowl with one hand and swirled the contents with the spoon. The broth had cooled while they talked, but it still steamed slightly. The aroma had re-awakened that faint hunger Enjolras had felt earlier. She brought a full spoon to his mouth. He let her feed it to him, then covered her hand with his as she pulled it away for a second dip into the bowl.
"I can feed myself."
Roselyn smiled and released the spoon. She looked around the room instead of watching how his hand shook with the next few spoonfuls. Light from the single lamp reached all but the furthest corner.
"You've outgrown this room," she said eventually.
It was larger than the room he'd rented in Paris. "In what way?"
She shrugged. "Nothing in here has changed except you."
Other than being empty of teenaged clutter, he had to admit the room was remarkably unchanged. The furniture he had chosen with his mother's help had been selected for its lack of embellishment to suit a boy's disdain of girlish frills. That simplicity had endured the years well, its elegance only apparent in contrast to his memory of the cheap sticks he'd used to furnish his rented room.
"Am I that different to you?" he asked.
She turned back from looking around the room. In a soft tone, she said, "Your dreams used to be just as grand, but you would never have killed for them."
"I grew up. A man realizes there are some things worth dying for, worth killing for." He was aware that he had become more rigid and tried to relax his back again.
"I can't help but wonder if that's where you went wrong."
He forced himself to finish the cold broth instead of asking her to explain. He'd long passed the point where he was hungry, but he ate it all because he wanted no more fainting spells.
"Don't you care what I think?" she asked. She took the spoon from him when he finished.
"I care," he said, "but I don't think now is the time to catalog all the faults of my philosophy. I'm doing enough of that on my own."
"You weren't so kind to Kait this morning." She put the tray and empty bowl back onto the floor and dragged a heavy red chair that showed spotted blue silk through a tear in the upholstery up to the side of the bed. "I prayed every night for you to come home, so we could be a family again."
"Roselyn, please --"
She held up a hand. He saw her short, chipped fingernails and work roughened skin. Lady of the house, but she did work no lady would consider. Here was a sister he could respect. For that, he let his annoyance go as easily as it had come.
"I told God over and over that I'd forgiven you, that He could let you come home. Over the years, that changed to a prayer for your forgiveness for driving you away." She leaned forward and grasped one of his hands between hers. His fingers were still cold, and her touch warmed them.
"A few weeks ago," she continued as she gazed at the air above his head, "I dreamed of Saint Michel standing above you defending you with his fiery sword." Her voice grew faint. "An angry darkness surrounded you, but the angel covered you with his wings and drove it away."
He leaned forward. "Why me?" he asked but she didn't seem to hear him.
"You were so still and pale, your shirt thick with blood. I feared you were dead, then I remembered that Saint Michel punishes God's enemies. He does not lead the faithful to Paradise."
"But why me?" Enjolras asked again.
Roselyn blinked and said, "You were saved." She squeezed the hand she held between hers. "God sent His servant to spare you."
"Why?" The question had become an anguished plea. "Why not one of the others? Why not Combeferre or Prouvaire? They were good men -- noble-hearted." He brought his free hand up to join the one she already held. His passion outstripped his stamina and his breath came raggedly. "They stood with me because I told them that the sword was the only way to create our new world." When his voice failed him, he whispered, "They hoped to find another way. Why not one of them?" Half sobbing, he sagged back against the pillows.
Tightening her grip even further, Roselyn tilted her chin to look down at him. Her gaze was measuring, as if they were meeting for the first time. "You're strong, Michel. Perhaps stronger than your friends."
"This defeat would make most men bitter." Her voice remained cool and distant. "Possibly you were the only one who would not give up the entire dream. Don't deny that you're already scheming to return to Paris to start again." Her smile banished the last of the distance between them. "Marie told me."
"I won't deny it," he said faintly, then her last sentence penetrated his brain. He swallowed and scowled at the memories that name recalled. Roselyn began to giggle. "Marie?" he asked.
"So you didn't recognize her? She'll be very disappointed."
Shaking his head, he would have laughed too if he could catch his breath long enough. Marie -- almost a third sister, who never let him live down his mistakes, who spent one long summer comforting a grieving boy two years her junior -- whose friendship he'd repaid with neglect when he left home. No wonder she'd stared at him so intently.
He decided that she couldn't have changed much, not on the inside anyway. He began to laugh through his pain. After a few minutes, he couldn't stop, and he had to laugh even though he wanted to cry.
Roselyn looked a little strained with worry by the time he managed to stop. If she knew all that was behind that brief lapse of control, she'd more than worry. Instead, she only said, "You don't know how wonderful it is to hear you laugh."
She released his hands and stood. "You need your rest, and I have work to do." She shoved the chair back against the wall, then she kissed him on the forehead. When she pulled back, she frowned slightly. She rubbed her lower lip with one finger. "You need a bath."
Just mentioning the need made him embarrassingly aware of it. He frowned and nodded his agreement.
"We'll take care of that tomorrow. Until then, try to sleep." She picked up the tray with the empty bowl and left.
He sat up enough to reach and turn down the lamp. Leaving it on while he slept was a waste of oil, but he felt he'd spent enough time in the dark. Then he lay back and thought of Marie. How she must've been laughing at him. His clearest memories were of her laughing at or with him. Despite the growing pain as the laudanum began its slow burn from his system, he chuckled softly at his memories. He found it was much easier to fall asleep laughing than crying.
The next morning, Roselyn made the indignity of being bathed almost bearable by doing the job herself with no witnesses. The task took more than twice as long as it would have if he'd been able to do it himself, but eventually he was clean and shaved and grateful to be back in a bed with fresh sheets. Roselyn also provided a clean nightshirt and a mirror.
"You look almost presentable," she said as she ran a comb through his tangled, damp hair. She tied it back securely with a thin leather cord. "And you smell better too."
He wasn't sure if he agreed on either point. The odor of the sulfur compound she'd used in his hair to eliminate the last vestiges of prison lice still lingered and his clean-shaven, tidy reflection was much thinner than he liked. He studied a livid yellow, but rapidly healing, bruise on his temple, and probed it with his fingertips. It no longer hurt, and he couldn't remember getting it. Not on the barricade. Maybe when he'd been shot. That pain had been sharp enough to obscure almost anything else.
Finished with his hair, Roselyn said, "You should ask father about that." He scowled at her through his reflection. She took the mirror from him and sighed. "It's really very simple," she said. "When he... ransomed you from prison, the authorities refused to help him carry you out of your cell. He couldn't find the right balance." Her fingers, a much lighter touch, joined his on the bruise, then she smoothed a few strands of escaped hair back from it.
Enjolras could not imagine his father carrying him out of prison. He'd ceased to believe that his father could care that much anymore. "I hadn't realized," he said slowly, "that he went to Paris himself."
"Of course he did." Roselyn almost laughed as she walked around the bed. "Did you think he sent for you like a parcel?"
"I thought he'd sent someone..."
With the weary frown of a beleaguered teacher, Roselyn pulled the heavy chair closer. "When Al-- the messenger --brought word that you were involved in the rioting, father left as soon as a horse could be saddled. He hired a carriage and a doctor to bring you home."
"I had no idea."
"He loves you."
"I doubt that. He saw an opportunity to reclaim a lost possession."
"Stop it, Michel! You did not treat those men you led to their deaths so cruelly." Roselyn leaned forward, her exasperation only showing in her words. "Listen to yourself!"
He considered what he'd said. With a sigh, he apologized.
Roselyn seemed to relax. "I know this situation is almost unbearable to you, but if you try, you may learn that not everything or everyone here is what you expect." For a moment, her calm mask cracked to show some of her fear. "I wish mother were here," she added softly.
"So do I," he agreed, though maybe not for the same reason. He appreciated all that Roselyn was doing for him, but the burden shouldn't have been hers. The advice and understanding he needed should come from someone older and wiser than he, not his younger sister. He took what comfort he could from knowing that he wasn't the only one who missed her presence, even after all these years.
At Roselyn's quiet request, a gang of servants hurried into the room. Marie was not among them, and the only one Enjolras recognized was the stableman he'd seen from the window. They removed the debris from his bath -- the pile of linen and towels and the filthy water. He hoped they would dump that water into the sewage instead of conservatively watering some poor plant, and killing it.
When only he and Roselyn were left, she closed and locked the door between the two rooms. She unlocked the hall door, then dropped the keys into the pocket of her apron. Before she'd even turned away, Katrine walked through the door.
She moved timidly, and he almost didn't recognize her. Instead of silk, she wore a faded cotton dress with a frayed collar and a hem that showed her ankles. Her bright hair, loose from its tight artificial ringlets, tumbled halfway down her back. She flushed with embarrassment.
As Roselyn turned back toward him, Enjolras saw her stifle a giggle with her hand. Apparently, Roselyn herself seldom indulged in silk gowns; her role as housekeeper was far too messy. In fact, today she wore an unseasonably heavy dress of dark gray in anticipation of the neck to knees drenching she'd received bathing him. She'd covered the worst of the remaining water stains with a huge apron.
Without a pausing for permission Katrine sat on the bed near his feet. "Is this what you had in mind, Michel?" she asked.
Now it was his turn to hide amusement. She looked exactly like what a rich girl would think a poor girl would look, and he couldn't fault her for taking what he'd said to heart. "I'm afraid you took my exact words a little more seriously than I meant."
He watched her for any hint of annoyance. Instead she started crying. Roselyn stepped toward her to put a hand on her shoulder. Katrine shook her head and shrugged the hand away. She stood and turned to the door.
Calling up some of the desperate energy he'd had before, Enjolras threw back the quilt and lunged for her across the bed. He caught her elbow with one hand. "Stay," he gasped.
Surprised, she looked down at him, but did not pull free. Enjolras realized that he couldn't sit back up without releasing her arm. As if she realized it too, Katrine leaned back over him, only freeing herself to use both hands to help him. Then she staggered slightly as he nearly pulled her over onto the bed. With Roselyn's help, neither of them fell. "I'm sorry," he murmured, half to both of them, but more to Katrine. When he was once again leaning back against the pillows, Katrine sat once again, one small hand resting on the arm nearest to her.
"I apologize for hurting you yesterday." He wondered briefly if it were possible to explain his actions, to explain how he'd believed every word he'd said but still take back the hurt. He could only try. "I shouldn't have expected you to know the consequences of an aristocratic lifestyle. You're young. You've been sheltered."
"Then what should I do?" Her eyes were huge with her need for his approval.
To his relief, Roselyn answered for him. "That dress is lovely, but it's too small for you. Perhaps you should give it away to someone who needs it."
Enjolras nodded to support her suggestion. Roselyn disappeared to his far right. Katrine acted as if he'd spoken and smiled at him. "You've thought about this, haven't you?"
He smiled back at Katrine. The expression felt a bit strange, but the answering light in her face proved it welcome.
"Let me help," she said, leaning close enough for him to be able to smell her perfume. Roselyn had smelled only of strong soap, but Katrine's perfume smelled older than she was, probably stolen from their mother's outdated and unused supply.
Enjolras sneezed, forcing her back a step or two. Usually a sneeze was his last resort for women who ignored all sane attempts at discouragement, but the girl's perfume had made it unavoidable. Without her hovering in his face, he was able to speak. "A hazard -" He sneezed again. This time he couldn't help it. "--of being sick is boredom. Could you read to me sometimes?"
"Is that all?" she asked. She glanced across to Roselyn. Apparently, she found the cue she wanted from her older sister. "What would you want me to read?"
"I've been meaning to re-read Arrian's History of Alexander again, but I hadn't had the time."
"But father's copy is in Latin," she whispered.
Enjolras contrived to look impressed. "I hadn't realized you could read Greek."
She flushed and shook her head. "I'm not very good with languages."
He continued more gently. "I don't know of a French version. You may help me review my history, and I shall help you with your Latin."
"Is that all?" Katrine asked, her face mirroring the doubt in her voice.
"I'm sure that will be fine," Roselyn said briskly from behind him. "You could start tomorrow."
Katrine flushed. "I wanted to do more."
"I'm sure you have plenty to do besides keep me company," he said.
Again, at an obvious cue from the unseen Roselyn, Katrine rose abruptly, curtsied and fled.
"Why did you send her away?" he asked.
"I didn't want you to have another chance to argue." She walked around to where he could see her and said, "Arrianus is military history. Are you sure you --"
"The copy she'll be reading from is father's. It has his own notes in the margins. I can't see what fault he can find with it."
"That's not what I meant." She closed and locked the hall door. She leaned back against it, the fear he'd glimpsed earlier tightening her face. "A police officer has been here several times to speak to father. I think he's been asking after you." He took both the hands she reached out to him. "I'm afraid for you," she whispered.
"I'm sure father won't tell him what I'm reading."
"Father isn't the only one the man speaks to." Her hands were trembling as she offered him help in standing. When he had gained his feet, he pulled her close and held her in a way that he had not held anyone his entire adult life.
The role of big brother rested comfortably around his shoulders. She sagged against him for only a moment before straightening. "This household is officially loyal to the legal government. The servants have no need to tell lies."
"I see." He looked down at the floor and concentrated on breathing to push back the invasion of black dots from his vision. Why was it, he wondered, that every time he was reminded of the limitations of his confinement, his body reacted so violently against its physical representation? The room seemed to collapse in on him. He searched around for respite, and saw the window.
Roselyn had to help him push it open. He leaned out into the open air, far enough that he could see the sky above him. Roselyn caught her arms around his waist to protect him from falling. When he was able to get a deep enough breath to clear his head, he straightened slowly with her help. Instead of loosening, her hold tightened and she gasped. He looked out into the courtyard where she was looking.
A man in uniform, from here it looked to be a local police constable, waited, tapping his foot impatiently, while a stable boy brought his horse. Enjolras did not recognize the man personally, but could easily identify the predator type. He'd seem many such men before, most recently in the police spy from the barricade and the National Guard officer who had arrested him. He shivered as the man turned to glance up at the windows of the first floor. The man's eyes met Enjolras' for only a second before he angrily spurned the offered reins and stomped back into the house via the kitchen passage.
|
|
