Letters of the Past

CHAPTER 5: Letters of the Past

Nicolas Lancaster was looking down from the grand balcony as my driver helped me from the back seat. His dark hair was dancing in the cool autumn breeze and his dark eyes were alight with mischief. He smiled his charming smile and tucked his hands into his trouser pockets. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, baring the tanned skin of his forearms. I looked up at him, lifting my hand to shield my eyes from the sun that blazed overhead, and felt my stomach drop with nervousness. I had known few handsome men in my life, and none so charming as Nicolas Lancaster.

“You are back early,” he commented, as if my comings and goings were any of his concern. “And here I was about to lock myself in the library and drink myself into a stupor in your absence.”

I felt the blush spread from my neck up to the line of my hair. M. Lancaster smiled roguishly, as if it was his greatest pleasure to spend the day making young women blush with flattery. “I am sorry to hear it, sir,” I replied, feeling the muscles of my forehead and cheeks ache from squinting against the sun. “Please forgive me for the inconvenience I have caused you. Now, if you will pardon me, I would very much like to get out of the sun.”

“Of course! I shall never forgive myself if you are stricken with sunburn,” he replied, bowing his head. He continued to smile devilishly as he turned and left the balcony, closing the doors behind him.

“M. Lancaster, is right, mademoiselle,” said my driver, laying a fatherly hand on my shoulder. “It would be quite a pity to redden such fair skin as your own. Perhaps it is best you go and have a bit of a lie down with a cool towel to your face. I shall see to it that some lunch is brought up to you.”

I nodded, knowing that I had no intention of lying down once I was once again locked away in my rooms with Anne Boleyn’s cunning dark eyes staring down at me. All of my mind was consumed with beginning the journal that was tucked away in my bag. Clutching it against my ribs, I followed my driver through the great oak door of The King’s Bed and into the cool darkness of the entryway.

The young girl was standing behind the desk at the end of the entryway, the doors behind her opened into the afternoon and showering her in a halo of light. She smiled at me as I mounted the steps of the grand staircase and dropped a small curtsy. Her eyes twinkled with all of the air of a girl watching a beloved sister as I climbed the stairs to find Nicolas standing at the top.

“It is imprudent for us to continue meeting like this, sir,” I said, dropping my eyes to the pattern of the carpet at his feet. “The inn hosts will suspect something.”

“Let them gossip, if they have nothing better to do with their time.” He offered me his arm with another charming smile. “Have you learned anything new about our Lady de Chagny?”

“A little, sir, but not enough to paint a becoming portrait of her,” I replied, allowing him to guide my hand into the crook of his elbow and lead me toward my rooms. “Please ask me again in a week or so, and I may have a better answer for you.”

“So elusive! If I did not know better, I would argue that you did indeed find more than a little, madam. Perhaps I could ply you with some wine and chocolate to tell me what you have uncovered?”

“I am afraid I have nothing of interest to tell, and wine and chocolate would do little to break my resolve if I did,” I said, half of my mind on the journal held tight between my ribs and M. Lancaster’s elbow and the other half on keeping my voice steady as the lie flowed past my lips. “I will swear to you here, sir, that when I find something of interest, you shall be one of the first to know.”

“One of the first? Ah, there is a line for you, then?” he said, arching one dark eyebrow at me. “Perhaps I shall have to work harder to ascend the lists, mademoiselle.”

We stopped at the door of my rooms, and Nicolas Lancaster looked down at me with his sinfully dark eyes. I felt my stomach clench at the intensity and laughter mixed in those brown orbs. His lips turned upwards in a grin before he bowed over my hand and kissed it softly. “I leave you here, then. Shall I fetch you for supper?”

“Yes, I would like that very much. And now, if you please, I would like to rest for a while.” I curtsied to him, so much so that it made him laugh aloud as I wobbled. My face burned red with embarrassment as I backed against the door of my rooms, pushing my way from under the dark gaze of Nicolas Lancaster.

One look in the mirror insisted that I lie down with a cold towel and some aloe extract on my face. I looked as if I scrubbed my face with sandpaper that morning; my face was so red and raw. It felt so wonderful to fall onto the feather down mattress, to cover my face with cold towels and listen to the sound of the inn hosts bustling around downstairs. So comfortable was it that I presently fell asleep.

I awoke to the sound of the young woman arranging a lunch tray on the small table near the balcony doors. She was quiet as a well-bred church mouse, moving cutlery and classes just so in order to keep from making any noise at all. Sitting up, I groaned with disappointment that my towels were now too warm to be comforting.

“Oh, I’m sorry, mademoiselle,” said the young girl, dropping into a curtsy. “I did not mean to wake you. I knocked several times, but you didn’t answer. I’m sorry to have disturbed you, I just wanted to make sure that you had something to eat when you awoke.”

“Thank you…” I answered, letting my voice die out into silence. It had just entered my mind that I did not know the young girl’s name, nor any of the names of my other hosts. “Please forgive me, I have been horribly rude. What is your name, mademoiselle?”

The young girl blushed and dropped her gaze to the floor. “Madeline, mademoiselle. Madeline Howard.”

“I thank you, Madeline,” I said with a smile. “You are wonderfully helpful.” I climbed reluctantly off the bed, combing my fingers through my hair and twisting it up with ease. The succulent smell of roasted chicken and seasoned herbs filled my nostrils as I crossed the room. A tumbler of fresh lemonade sat on the tray, the outside of the cup beading with moisture. My mouth watered as I took the chair Madeline had drawn out for me. “This looks amazing.”

Madeline blushed with pride. “Thank you, mademoiselle. It is a recipe that my grandmother taught me when I was a little girl,” she said softly, backing toward the door. “I will be back within the hour for your tray, Mlle. Leroux.”

Without hesitation, I began to tuck in to the little feast before me. The journal I had found at the chateau lay nearly forgotten on the bed as I savored the sweet and spicy taste of the chicken and herbs. The afternoon sun was beginning to hang lower in the sky, warming the cool air of my rooms. I ate with haste, not because I felt rushed by Madeline’s promise to return within the hour but because I was so ravenously hungry.

I sank against the back of the chair and closed my eyes for a long moment before returning to my bed. Quietly, I pulled the journal and the Psalter of Anne Boleyn from my bag and turned them over in my hands several times each. Pulling back the covers, I scrambled into bed and drew the hangings around me. The leather strap holding the journal closed was cracked with age, prompting me to untie it slowly. The parchment pages were brown and wrinkled from being left so dormant for so many years. They crackled with the heaviness of ink and time.

My heart thumped against my ribs as my eyes raked over the first page of the journal. The curling, elegant script of ages gone by stared up at me with such patience that it seemed as if it had been waiting for me all of my life.

Marguerite Katherine Elizabeth de Chagny, Lady of Chateau de Chagny, 1901.

Copyright © 2008 The Mistress Snape