Zoe Read online

  Finally, Bouchard’s breathing eased. He opened his eyes and still panting from exhaustion, managed to sit up. He looked at his daughters.

  “I want you both… I want all of you… to get our things. We are leaving now!”

  “Papa please,” Zoé began. “I have to explain. It isn’t—”

  “Tais-toi!”

  He said it quietly, but with such restrained anger that Zoé snapped into silence.

  “Girls, get your things,” said Madame. “I will summon a carriage.”

  She rushed out, but the girls hung back, both afraid to let him out of their sight. Zoé felt sick to her stomach. Her father wouldn’t even look at her, much less speak to her. Marianne was another story.

  She glared at Zoé. “I hate you! I shall never forgive you!” she said through her tears.

  Zoé opened her mouth to respond, but Marianne stood and stalked out. Zoé realized that it was time, too, for her to leave. She made it to the doorway and then paused, to glance back over her shoulder.

  Her father was looking at her, but with such despair. She could see that, in his eyes, she was now stained in some way.

  She turned away, feeling exposed and vulnerable. Why had her lover fled? Why, instead of attacking her father, had he not stood by her side, stayed to defend her honor? Why wasn’t he here, in spite of the terrible position in which they’d been found, to help her explain that they were in love?

  Why had she been left to face this alone?

  They were all packed and ready to go within the hour. The attack left Bouchard so weak that the footmen had to carry him to the carriage. Marianne avoided Zoé and Madame ignored her, leaving her to feel cast aside. As the carriage rode away, she thought of La Roque and silent tears slipped down her face. She felt the acute sense of his abandonment. A stab of guilt lay buried deep within her breast. She now faced a lightless future without his love or her family’s respect. It was over. She no longer believed in love or hope. She no longer believed in him.

  There had been no sign of the count since the events in the parlor. She made a quick, desperate attempt to find him but couldn’t. Instead, she saw Sheridan lurking in the shadows. At the sight of him smirking, she felt her world crumbling. She could not help but feel that somehow the American would be a part of her fate.

  Was La Roque’s decision to run a message that he would not honor their love? He would not make her his bride.

  Before climbing into the carriage, she gave one last look at the château. Her eyes found the windows of his chambers, and she stared hard, hoping to see him. But there was nothing. It was as if he’d never existed, leaving her more alone than before she’d met him–and with significantly fewer chances in life. Heartbroken, she climbed inside.

  EF La Roque stood at the attic window, watching Zoé being helped into the carriage. He was hiding and it killed him that he had resorted to such cowardice. He saw her look up, searching for him, and the pain on her face made him weaken. He dashed out of the attic, desperate to save her, to hold her again. Running down the long spiral steps, he fell and went tumbling down the stairs. The fall didn’t injure him, but it did leave him momentarily dazed. Coming to himself, he jumped up, raced through the main hall and out of the foyer.

  The carriage was already gone.

  He paced the dirt path in front of his home, breathing hard and cursing himself for being a fool. His hands hung in fists at his sides, a sense of madness settling over her leaving. He thought fighting for her would drive him insane, but losing her was even worse.

  Sheridan came out of the front door. “Are you all right, old boy? What on earth is going on? ”

  “I failed her.”

  Sheridan masked his amusement. “Failed who? Marianne?”

  “No, Zoé.”

  “Oh, so you did have an interest in her? ” Sheridan asked. He looked La Roque up and down. “You are very serious, aren’t you? Well,” he looked down the road, squinting, “Why don’t you go after her? They couldn’t have gotten far.”

  La Roque shook his head. “Her father is ill. If I stop them and engage him, I could make matters worse.”

  “This is true,” Sheridan said, nodding and watching him pace.

  “What will become of her? What will become of me without her? ”

  “Are you prepared to make her your wife? ”

  “I…” La Roque looked back at the road. “I don’t know. I guess I can fix this. I’ll just have to—”

  “Listen, old friend. I know you care for the Negress, but its better this way. Remember your father and the insanity in your family. You are too attached to her. That’s not love. That’s obsession. It’ll drive you mad. Plus, you stand to lose your position in society if you marry a–if you marry her. There’s no way to correct this. No way.”

  La Roque looked at him and confessed, “I love her.”

  “There is no such thing, remember? ” Sheridan said and gave La Roque a pat on the shoulder.

  La Roque looked down. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

  “Come inside. Let’s talk this out.”

  La Roque allowed Sheridan to lead him. He wanted to believe that Zoé would be all right, that she would marry her suitor and have the life she deserved. He needed to believe that. He couldn’t expose her to his madness. Letting her go was for the best.

  That was the lie he told himself. That was the lie he so desperately needed to believe.

  5

  The journey home was difficult. Bouchard suffered tremendously from discomfort and complained of numbness on his left side. Marianne barely spoke two words. The tension between them pained Zoé. She sat with her head down in shame, and the family acted as if she weren’t there.

  The staff greeted them upon their arrival and Zoé’s childhood companion, Marguerite, who acted as an Abigail to both daughters, was waiting with a joyful smile. That smile disappeared when she saw Bouchard being carried in and the solemn look on everyone’s face.

  Zoé was so heartsick over her father’s disappointment and her lover’s betrayal that she barely noticed anyone as she hurried to her chamber.

  Madame had grabbed her arm and said, “You are not to leave your room until you are sent for. Your meals will be brought to you.”

  Zoé paused long enough to cast one look over her shoulder and catch a final glimpse of the men carrying her father to his wing. He gave her a pained smile. It was enough to give her hope. The events of the past hours had her completely disoriented.

  Now alone, Zoé sat staring out of the frosted window in her room. She thought of the count and how the sweet taste of forbidden fruit had soured for them both. She wiped away her tears as flashes of their last passionate moments together played over and over in her mind. She could almost feel the soft touch of his hair as it traveled down her body while he rained kisses between her breasts and over every part of her. Closing her eyes, she fantasized that she was of nobility, or simply of a different skin tone, someone who could have love and happiness without stigma. She fantasized that La Roque loved her enough to want to share in all the desires she had for him.

  She went to her small bureau, sat down and opened the tiny drawer where she kept her stationery and inkwell. Taking up her feather quill, she set about writing the goodbye that she hadn’t been able to say to him.

  Mon Amour,

  For me, our time together was a dream, a fantasy that even now I wish were a reality. I can hear you reciting passages from Victor Hugo. I can see you walking through my boudoir door, daring me to toss all caution to the wind just to relive that dream once more. Last night I lay in your arms. You whispered your love for me in my ear. Now all of my hope and your promises have disappeared. I don’t blame you, for your world is a place in which I would never find acceptance. I embrace the belief that if our circumstances were different, our love would have had a much more deserving end.

  I know not what is to become of me, but without your love and that of my dear father, it matters less. All I
know is that for a small moment in time I was not Zoé Bouchard, fille mûlatresse of Monsieur Bertrand Bouchard and Capucine Draqcor. For a small moment, I was your mademoiselle, free to love you and experience your love without constraint. I will cherish that memory always, and I will carry you in my heart forever. I pray that whatever haunts you, whatever keeps you tortured and locked in fear, is exorcised, and that someday you will find the love you deserve. Remember me always and know that I will never forget you.

  ~ Zoé

  Resting her quill in the inkwell, Zoé read what she had written, unaware of the tears that slipped down her cheeks. Before La Roque, she had known little of matters of the heart and just wanted her father’s love. Now she had discovered how deeply fulfilling it was to have experienced love, only to have that joy ripped from her heart.

  “Mademoiselle?”

  Zoé looked up as Marguerite entered the room, carrying a silver tray. Zoé smiled at the sight of her and got to her feet. Marguerite had been there since Capucine’s time.

  “Madame asked that I bring you your dinner.”

  “Merci. How’s my father? ”

  Marguerite was grave as she set the tray on the table near the window. “They have sent for the doctor. The journey home exhausted him.”

  Zoé felt another surge of sorrow, felt tears slip from her eyes. With a shaking hand, she wiped them away. Marguerite’s kind face puckered with worry.

  “What’s happening? Marianne is locked up in her room, refusing to come out. You have been banished to yours. Monsieur is gravely ill and Madame is in the meanest mood I’ve seen in years. Tell me your troubles.”

  Zoé dropped her head and wept. Marguerite took her into her arms and held her as the young woman shared the details of her lost love. The story told between desperate breaths and lonely tears freed her in many ways of some of the burden and heartache.

  Marguerite led her mistress to the bed and sat her down. She drew Zoé’s hair back from her face, cupped her chin and turned her face to her. “You are in love and there is nothing scandalous or wrong about that.”

  “But Papa…”

  “Your father has experienced this pain and much more. Trust me. He will not abandon you for your lapse in judgment. Love makes us all reckless.”

  Zoé closed her eyes. “The Comte doesn’t want me.”

  “Then it is his loss! Do you hear? ”

  Zoé opened her eyes and nodded. She went to the bureau and folded her letter. She slipped it inside an envelope, dipped the feather quill in the ink and scribbled La Roque’s address.

  “I need you to get a footman to deliver this letter,” Zoé said, handing Marguerite the missive. “And I would ask that you do me another favor.”

  “Of course.”

  “Can you find a way to get Papa to request to see me? I desperately need to speak with him.”

  “Bien sûr,” Marguerite said and left.

  Zoé felt her first small sigh of relief since it all began to fall apart. Would the letter help? Would it make a difference? And suppose she did get in to speak with her father? Would he listen?

  Her gaze fell on the dinner tray and her stomach soured at the sight of it. She went to her bed and stretched out on it. Burying her face in the pillow, she gave vent to a silent scream, succumbing to her pain.

  EF “Here you go, old boy,” said Sheridan, passing the whiskey to La Roque.

  The count had been sitting in his study, drinking for hours, still in shock over his failure to protect Zoé and ashamed of his cowardice. He was quite inebriated and could barely hold the glass.

  “I need to return to America,” Sheridan said. “I was wondering about the loan we discussed.”

  La Roque’s hand shook as he raised his glass and took a sip of the pungent liquid.

  Sheridan leaned closer. “I know you said three thousand, but I need ten. I can’t live like a pauper.”

  La Roque looked over at him, his eyes red and heavy. “You dare ask me for money when my world is coming apart? ”

  Sheridan rolled his eyes. “You are the wealthiest man in Toulouse. You can have any maiden in this village. Hell, in all of France! What is so fascinating about her? ”

  “You have no idea what it’s like to be loved by her. You have no idea.”

  Exasperated, Sheridan ran a hand through his hair. “About that money…”

  “D’accord! Take the damn money! Take as much as you want!”

  La Roque threw the glass across the room. It shattered against the far wall, staining the patterned silk with ambercolored whiskey.

  Sheridan raised an eyebrow.

  La Roque pushed himself up from the chair. Unsteady on his feet, he had to grab the back of his chair to balance himself. He staggered to his writing desk, flipped open his ledger and made out a cheque. When La Roque straightened up and turned with the cheque in hand, he found Sheridan already standing there, grinning. Sheridan reached out to take it, but La Roque snatched it back.

  “Hear me well,” he said. “Let this finish things between you and me. I have not forgotten the way you hurt her. Take this money and leave my country, never to return. We are no longer friends.”

  Sheridan stared at him. “You would end our brotherhood? All because of her? Her father will probably sell her to the next man who makes an offer.”

  “Watch your step. I give you this money because of that brotherhood. But this fountain of finance has just run dry. I want you out of my home before sunrise or we shall settle this like gentlemen.”

  Sheridan opened his mouth to say something, but then thought better of it. He licked his lips. “I beg your pardon,” he began. “This is an emotional time for you and I am being insensitive. I’m sorry for what you are going through, and I shall return home immediately. I can only hope that with time we can find our way back to the brotherhood we once shared.” He once again extended his hand.

  La Roque looked at the proffered hand and softened. He had no more fight in him. Money meant nothing. All he wanted was to be left to his misery. He slapped the cheque into Sheridan’s hand, and pushed past him. Then he sank back down in his chair and buried his head in his hands.

  “Farewell, dear friend,” Sheridan said.

  La Roque moaned. He wanted more liquor to numb the pain. He got up, stumbled to the cabinet, and grabbed the spirits that were stored in a wooden cask. He poured some into a drinking glass. Then he upended the glass and drank from it, determined to drink until he felt nothing.

  EF Zoé sat on her bed, reading a classic that her father had given her on her tenth birthday. She loved the story and had read the book more than a hundred times. Hearing her door open, she looked up to see Madame step through. Zoé lowered the book and looked into her stepmother’s hateful face. She wasn’t expecting a visit from her so soon and was terrified as to what she wanted.

  “Madame?”

  “Your father is asking for you.”

  Zoé’s eyes grew wide. She was off the bed in an instant,

  ready to dash off.

  “Un moment,” said Madame.

  Zoé stood still, waiting to bear another onslaught of

  insults and taunts. None of it mattered if father wanted her. Everything would be all right once she explained herself. “He’s dying,” said Madame. Zoé blinked. She felt as though she’d been punched in the chest.

  “He’s dying,” Madame repeated, “and we all have to make our peace. I thought you should know what your selfish, foolish deeds have cost us.”

  Zoé felt a wave of guilt. She began to shiver all over. Her stepmother kept talking but Zoé registered little of it. She couldn’t get past the word dying.

  “Non…” she moaned and clutched her chest.

  Madame had tears in her eyes. At the sight of Zoé’s distress, a flicker of compassion lit her eyes. She actually made a move toward Zoé, to take her in her arms, but the girl stepped back, shaking her head no, and Madame’s eyes filled once more with resentment and frustration.

  �
��Fix yourself up. Don’t go in there making matters worse.”

  “This can’t be. Papa can’t die!”

  “He can and he will. I, for one, don’t think you deserve a moment of his time, but he is insistent upon seeing you. So swallow it and face what you’ve done to him and yourself,” Madame snarled.

  But Zoé was so stunned she couldn’t move.

  Madame’s eyes blazed. “Don’t you ever think of anyone other than yourself? I am battling my own hell. I want to spend time with my husband, but all he wants is to see you two. Marianne is with him now and he keeps moaning for you. I must honor his wishes–and for once, so will you. It’s your fault he’s on his deathbed. Yours and yours alone. Now, come!”

  Zoé was so stunned she couldn’t react.

  Madame grabbed Zoé by the arm and dragged her from the room and down the hall to the stairs. Tearful and consumed by guilt, Zoé could barely keep up. She stumbled down the stairs, lifting the front of her skirt to keep from tripping on it.

  Madame pulled her to his doorway and pushed her through. Zoé’s long curls covered her face and fell around her shoulders. She looked upon the scene with a face drawn by sorrow. Her father lay in his bed, ashen and obviously very weak. Marianne knelt at his bedside, her long locks wild, her face pink and streaked with tears. Madame beckoned her daughter from the doorway. Marianne gave her father one last longing look, then reluctantly got to her feet. She kissed his hand, and then bent over his bed to hug him and kiss him on the cheek.

  “Marianne? ” called Madame.

  With a cry, the girl pulled herself away and ran past Zoé out the door. Bouchard’s gaze followed his youngest daughter, then moved to Zoé. He gave her a look of great love and smiled weakly.

  “Ne pleures pas, ma fille,” he whispered, asking her not to cry.

  Zoé ran to his bedside and fell to her knees. She grabbed his hand and pressed it to her face. “No, Papa. Please, no…”

  With visible effort, Bouchard extended an arm to stroke her silken curls. He hushed her, trying to get her to calm down, but nothing he said or did silenced her wails. She’d rather he hate her and send her away than see him die because she broke his heart.