I straighten up, and something moves in the shadows.
I thrust out my candle and jump when the thing in the dark responds. But despite my pounding heart, I realize it’s only my own reflection in a large looking glass obscured in shadows above the hearth. I draw nearer. I never saw a looking glass in my village; such things were too dear and far too fragile. But I see myself reflected in this one: plain and pale, brown hair plaited back beneath my linen cap, my eyes as grey as the stones of my village.
And over my shoulder, in the room behind me, the twig chair is rocking.
I spin about, heart in my throat, but the chair is utterly still as I stare at it. I turn again to the glass — and nearly drop my candlestick in alarm. Seated in the chair, calmly rocking, is the figure of a young woman.
I freeze before the looking glass, not daring to turn around again. The woman is beautiful, dressed in the most elegant gown I have ever seen. Her dark hair is swept up in a golden net, but for a few renegade curls brushing her pale cheeks as she rocks a small bundle in her lap. She is humming the melody I heard before, a lullaby for the little bundle moving and cooing softly in her arms, although the babe is too swaddled in blankets for me to see it. By candlelight, I see that she is weeping.
Her tune breaks off, and she sighs and lifts her face. Her dark eyes are lovely even as they overflow with tears. She raises a hand to sweep a damp curl off her cheek, and something flashes in my light, a gold ring she wears with a tiny red jewel shaped like a heart. Then she turns her face up to me, meeting my eyes in the glass.
“Won’t you help us, Lucie?”
I am so shocked, I nearly drop my candle again as I turn about once more, but the chair is as empty and as still as it ever was. When I look back into the glass, I see only my own terrified face reflected there.
A curse! Chateau Beaumont is cursed!
I hurry out of the room, shaking, and pull the door shut behind me. Out in the passage, I hear the low, distant rumble of conversation once again and follow it back to the kitchen. A part of me wants to bolt outside right now and run back to my village, my home, and take comfort in my mother’s familiar scolding. But there’s no longer any place for me under my stepfather’s roof. I can never go back.
Returned at last to the familiar bustle of the kitchen and the gossip of servants, all anxious over the master’s homecoming, I begin to view my encounter in the forbidden room as no more than a fanciful trick of the mind, brought on by too much idle prattle about curses and suchlike. I’d best learn to control my fancies. Madame Montant will not tolerate foolishness, and I have nowhere else to go.
He is coming! The master! This taskmaster, cause of so much distress among the staff, is coming home.
I am at work in one of my chambers when I see them through the window, Master and his suite of gentlemen, thundering up the drive in a cloud of dust and gravel. The talk of the men is loud, and their horses are steaming and snorting. The courtyard seems smaller with all of them in it. The gentlemen are all richly dressed, although their fine boots and cloaks are coated with dust from the road. The master is their leader, gold trim bright on his wine-colored cloak as he rides in at their head, pulls up his mount, and leaps off.
The master sweeps off his plumed hat to reveal russet-colored hair, dark eyes, and a full, curving mouth, his smile like the sun.
He is beautiful!
The master hands his hat to one of his gentlemen, then strips off his riding gloves and tosses them to another. He is tall and straight; I can see the shape of powerful shoulders beneath his fine doublet as he throws his cloak behind his shoulder and hurries up the steps. He is slim-waisted, with long legs below his richly embroidered breeches. Madame Montant would punish me for even noticing such things, but I cannot help what I see.
His stride is long, his movements agile and forthright, like a noble knight, like the thoroughbred animal he is. There is nothing indecisive about him, nothing hesitant. His youthful features suggest he cannot be above five-and-twenty, yet he is in complete command of himself, of this place, of this vast green and fertile region. To think, I almost let my foolish fancies and the prattle of servants poison my mind against him. Jean-Loup Christian Henri LeNoir, Chevalier de Beaumont. Handsome, noble, and good, master of us all.
They will not leave off warning me, but now I know better than to listen to them. “Come away, girl. Master will be down soon,” cautions Madame Montant when I contrive to catch sight of Master at his daily rendezvous with Monsieur Ferron. “Master has no time for chambermaids,” Charlotte tells me loftily.
It is true. Master will never notice me. I know I am no beauty; my virtue, my character, are all I possess of any value, and they are not visible. And yet I watch him nonetheless. It gives me pleasure to hold him in my sight, as few other things do in this forbidding place. So I tarry too long at my morning tasks, earn slaps and scoldings and extra work, all for a glimpse of him.
Since the master has come home, Chateau Beaumont has become a magnet for all the young noblemen of the countryside. Charlotte says most of them rode with him during the war against the Spanish invaders. The king himself, good Henri Quatre, conferred upon Master the title of chevalier, presenting him with a lettre de chevalerie for his service. Now his companions-in-arms make free with his hospitality at the chateau; they come to dine at his table and ride to hounds in his fine park.
I’ve trained myself to rise in the cold dark before dawn on the days a hunting party is arranged. That’s the best time to steal a glimpse of Master. This morning a party is assembled at breakfast upstairs in the dining salon. From the kitchen, I see legions of liveried servants parading up the back stairs, cold plates heaped with cheeses and fruit, mountains of bread, flagons of wine, and made dishes steaming under silver covers. Enough to feed all the people and livestock in my village for a week. I take up a broom and sweep my way into the nearest of my chambers. I creep through the drowsy morning shadows until I gain the chamber adjoining the entry hall. I nudge the broom idly about near the open doorway until I hear them clattering down the grand staircase, the master, members of his household suite, and his noble guests.
“Who is that gargoyle who keeps your gate, Beaumont?” one of the guests is demanding, a blustery fellow in a violet habit.
“You mean Andre?” responds the master. He’s dressed in fawn and gold to set off his coloring.
“You must dismiss him,” says the man in violet. “He’s an eyesore.”
“But a very effective gatekeeper,” says the master, pausing at the foot of the stairs while his valet drapes his cloak about his shoulders. “He frightens off the rabble. Keeps a family in town as well. Obscenely large, I’m told,” he adds, shrugging into his cloak and waving off his valet.
“And what about you, Beaumont?” another gentleman cries. “When are you going to marry?”
I had not thought of Master wed. Not yet, I hope. My eyes have not possessed him long enough.
“You sound like my late father,” Master says lightly, “and I shall answer you as I answered him: I’ll marry when it suits me and not before.” In the shadows, I breathe again, as his gentlemen chuckle. “I’ve only lately come into my own inheritance,” Master continues, “and I mean to enjoy it before I saddle myself with the responsibility of a wife.”
“But it’s time you had heirs,” chimes in the man in violet.