AllFreeNovel
Share Us
‘Stay here,’ she demanded, startling him as she broke her silence. Where her face had been pale before, now hectic colour bloomed in her cheeks. Her eyes blazed, the tension evident in her body ratcheting tighter. Without checking to see if he heeded her directive, she set off.
Neither curiosity nor prudent surveillance permitted him to obey. Will followed at a cautious distance, alertness heightened in him, too, as he sought to identify which of the wandering figures had seized her attention.
As he inspected the several strolling gentlemen, his gaze caught on one who’d paused, leaning over the maid accompanying him. He was too far away to hear their conversation, but the hand the man rested on the girl’s shoulder, the juxtaposition of their bodies, nearly rubbing together even in this public space, hinted at intimacy. Had Elodie returned to find the man she loved romancing another woman?
She stopped so abruptly, he had to catch himself before he got too close, though she now seemed so absorbed, he probably could have run right into her without breaking her concentration. Will was scrutinising all the people in the vicinity of her mesmerised gaze, trying to fix upon its object, when a nursemaid nearby called, ‘No, no, bring the ball back here, mon ange! I’ll throw it to you, Philippe.’
A gasp of indrawn breath made him turn back to Elodie. She stood immobile, her gaze riveted on a dark-haired little boy, the basket clutched so tightly in her hand that the knuckles went white. Hope, joy, anxiety blazed in her face.
Philippe. Philippe. Comprehension slammed into Will with the force of a runaway carriage, knocking all the preconceived notions out of his head.
A ‘family matter’, she’d said. It wasn’t a lover she’d been so desperate to search for, but a little boy, he realised, even as he recognised her smile, her eyes, in the face of the child. She’d come back to Paris to find her son.
Chapter Fourteen
As she neared the children playing in the grass beside the gravelled allée in the Place Royale, Elodie picked up her pace. Her heart pounded and her skin prickled as if the mother’s love, trapped within her and denied expression for so long, was trying to escape her body and reach him before her feet could get her there.
Discovering from the cook at the Hôtel de la Rocherie that Philippe was, indeed, still in Paris, playing with his nursemaid only a few streets away, had made her desperate to reach him, see him, clasp him once again in her arms. Frantically she raked her gaze from child to child while her thoughts chased one another as quickly as hounds after a fox.
Would his hair still be ebony-black, his eyes still dark and alive with curiosity? He’d be slimmer now, more like a child than the sturdy toddler she’d left, ready for games and to sit a horse. Would he still love balls, play at soldiers, cajole for sweets?
Then she saw him. Her heart stopped, as did her feet, while everything around her faded to a blur.
He was taller, as she expected, his face more angular, having lost the roundness of babyhood. Pink-cheeked from exertions, his skin glowing with health, his eyes bright, his uninhibited laughter as he chased after his ball with that stubborn lock of hair curling down as always over his forehead, made her heart contract with joy.
As her eyes left his face, she noted that his clothing had been fashioned from quality materials and fit him well. The nursemaid tossing him the ball regarded him with an affectionate eye and a husky footman stood nearby, obviously keeping watch.
One anxiety dissipated. She’d for ever blame herself for not recognising the trap before she walked into it, but at least her instincts about the Comtesse de la Rocherie had been accurate. Philippe was well treated and cared for.
But he was hers, she thought with a furious rush of determination. Despite all the odds, she’d survived her ordeal, connived her way back to Paris. She would reclaim her son at last and nothing but death would prevent her.
Another swell of emotion shook her and she almost tossed down the basket to run to him, starved for the feel of him in her arms.
She took a shaky breath, fighting off the urge. He hadn’t seen her for eighteen months, an eternity in the life of a young child. She mustn’t startle him, but approach quietly, let him notice her, inspect her, rediscover her at his own pace.
Then she would work out how to steal him back.
Hands shaking now on the basket, she strolled down the path, on to the grass near her son.
It took two attempts before she could get the words to come out of her tight throat. ‘Would you like an orange, little man?’
He looked over at her, his gaze going from the fruit to her face. Elodie held her breath as he studied her, willing recognition to register in those dark eyes, as lively and energetic as she remembered.
After a moment, he looked away, as if concluding she was of no interest. ‘Jean, get me an orange,’ he commanded the footman before turning back to the maid. ‘Throw the ball again, Marie, harder. I’m a big boy now. See how fast I can run after it?’
Hands raised to catch his ball, he trotted off, all his attention now on the maid. Consternation welling within her, Elodie set down the basket and hurried after him.
‘Come back, young gentleman,’ she coaxed. ‘Let me show you my fine oranges. They’ll please you as much as your ball.’
‘Not now,’ he said with a dismissive wave in her direction, eyes still on the maid.
‘No, please, wait,’ she cried, catching up to him and seizing an arm.
He tugged away from her, but she held on, desperate for him to look at her again, really look at her.
He did indeed look back at her, but instead of recognition, as his gaze travelled from her fingers clutching his shoulder to her face, the puzzlement in his eyes turned to alarm. His chin wobbling, he called out, ‘M-Marie!’
He didn’t recognise her. Even worse, she’d frightened him! Aghast, appalled, she stared at him mutely, while denial and anguish compressed her chest so tightly she couldn’t breathe.
The tall footman strode over, menace in his face as he pushed her roughly away from the child. ‘What d’ya think yer doing, wench?’ he growled, while her son ran from her towards the outstretched arms of his nurse. ‘I’ll call the gendarme on you.’
Then, somehow, Will Ransleigh was beside her, one hand protectively on her shoulder while he made a placating gesture towards the footman. ‘No harm meant, monsieur. Just trying to get the gamin a treat, that’s all. Gotta make a living, you know.’
‘Better she sells her oranges at the market,’ the man retorted before walking back to the nursemaid, who handed him the child’s ball and hefted the frightened child into her arms. With a wary glance at them, the maid hurried off, the footman trotting beside her.
Philippe, his small hands clutching the maid’s arms, didn’t look back at all as he buried his head against the nursemaid’s shoulder.
Just as he used to nestle into her embrace, Elodie recalled with an agonising stab of loss. Had it been that long? Could the eighteen months of separation have erased from his memory every trace of her three years of tender love and constant care?
She stood, staring after them, heartsick denial rising in her, watching until the small party turned the bend of the allée and disappeared out the gate. She couldn’t, wouldn’t believe it.
Suddenly she felt as if the pressure of all the anguish and anxiety, fear and doubt churning within would make her chest explode. Her feet compelled into motion to try to relieve it, she set off pacing down the pathway, light-headed, nauseated and only dimly aware of Will Ransleigh keeping pace beside her.
How could Philippe have forgotten her? His image was etched into her brain. With her first conscious thought every morning, her last every night, she recalled his face, wondered what he was doing, worried about his welfare.
In the depths of her pain after St Arnaud’s savagery, his image burning in her heart had given her the will to struggle out of the soothing darkness of unconsciousness. Determination to return to him kept her from despair and lent her patience and courage during the long slow recovery, through tedious hours of needlework, each completed piece adding one more coin to the total needed to fund her journey back to him.
When she pictured their reunion , she always imagined him fixing on her an intent, assessing gaze that would turn from curious to joyful as he recognised her. Imagined the feel of his slight frame pressed tightly in her arms when he threw himself against her, crying, ‘Maman! Maman!’
Instead, he’d called for Marie. He’d clutched her arms, buried his head against her shoulder.
But he was only a small boy and she had been missing almost half as many years as they’d had together. It had been unrealistic and probably foolish of her to expect he would remember her after so long.
What under heaven should she do now?
Despite the footman being alerted and the maid alarmed, Elodie knew that with a change of clothing and manner, she could weasel her way close to him again, into the house itself if necessary. She’d always envisioned picking him up, telling him to hush as they played a ‘hide-and-seek’ game while she stole away with him.
She couldn’t do that if he were afraid, crying out, struggling against her to escape.
She couldn’t do that to him, even if he didn’t struggle. The idea of tearing him from all that was comforting and familiar and carrying him off, alone and terrified, filled her with revulsion.
