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La Belle Christiane

Copyright 2011 by Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Sixteen Scene 2

Back at the officers’ quarters, she smiled as she alighted from the chair and bid her companion good evening.

Up the front staircase she hurried and went directly to the major’s room. He was standing by the fire in his usual pose. The tea tray was waiting by the fire. Christiane tossed off her wraps and went swiftly to the warmth, still holding her three small bundles. “What shall I do with these?” she asked jauntily.

“What are they?” he responded in kind.

“Christmas presents!” she exclaimed with almost childlike animation.

“You’ve been shopping then?” He wondered at her changed mood. She had been somber since the morning after the ball. If only he could sustain the change.

“Yes.” She stopped. A frown creased her brow. “I hope you won’t be angry, but I signed for these. I’m sure the shopkeepers expect you to pay.”

“Of course they do,” he answered quickly, “and, of course I will. I have told you. Anything you wish is yours.” Mentally he crossed his fingers. He knew how independent she was about money.

She looked up and smiled. “It was fun. I’ve never really been able to buy anyone a gift before.”

He smiled back. “We’ll put them up on the mantel, shall we?” Nodding, she handed them to him and he positioned them carefully one by one. “Ready for tea?”

“Completely.” She deftly poured their cups and handed him his.

He continued to stand as he sipped thoughtfully. It was wonderful to see her so animated. He was afraid to speak for fear he would say something that would break the spell. The tea was warm, creamy and sweet and there were slices of a dark nutty fruitcake to be enjoyed with it.

She sighed happily. “I bought a book of poetry for Lord Hazelton.”

“Which poet?” he asked carefully.

“Robert Blair. His mother was a Scot, you know.”

“No, I hadn’t, but it sounds a good choice.”

He examined her upturned face for, at least, the thousandth time. The thick black eyelashes, the eyebrows like swallow’s wings, the ivory complexion, the perfect lips: all framed by the curling, chestnut hair. Her eyes, the focal point, were two globes of shining dark sable. He had not thought about God for a great many years, but he thanked Him silently for this beautiful woman that had come into his life almost miraculously. Everything would be all right for both of them from now on; he would make it his business. He would make it impossible for her even to imagine their being apart.

A timely knock on the door broke his train of thought. He glanced at the mantel clock. Right on time. Alfred stepped out from the next room and went to open the door. It was Monsieur Lagneaux and his staff. “My lord, the dress is finished!” the little man declared happily. “Madame Belmond needs only to try it on.”

Looking surprised, Christiane stood up.

The couturier advanced and kissed her hand. “It will be lovely for the holiday party!” he exclaimed again.

Christiane frowned and turned to the major. She thought she had made it clear to him that she did not wish to attend the Christmas Ball tonight at Smith’s. She did not want to chance another interlude with him afterwards. Certainly she did not want him to finance another gown for her.

The two women came forward and unwrapped a large box. Christiane was immediately relieved to see that it was definitely a party dress, but not on the scale of a ball gown. It’s emerald green satin shimmered in the candlelight. There was cream-colored lace at the scooped neck and at the end of the full sleeves over deep cuffs. It was simple in line. It was lovely.

Christiane released an appreciative “Oh.”

“Madame, will help you behind the curtain,” Monsieur Lagneaux coaxed. Christiane obeyed. The two seamstresses dressed her and adjusted her behind the dressing screen. The garment fit flawlessly.

“Madame is pleased?” another seamstress asked softly.

Christiane nodded, delighted in spite of herself. Proudly, though somewhat self-consciously, she came out and modeled the frock for the men. Alfred smiled. The clothier beamed. The major nodded cautiously in approval.

The designer and his assistants were paid and bid “Merry Christmas,” They left to enjoy their own holiday in this strange new country. Alfred slipped out with the tea tray and left them alone.

Christiane stood in front of the mirror, admiring the dress guiltily.  “Why?” she asked simply.

“Because I like to see you dressed beautifully. And I decided that since you refused the Christmas ball, I would still concoct a holiday celebration.”

“Yes?”

“I am giving a private dinner in your honor at the Indian Queen.”

“My honor?”

“Your birthday is tomorrow, is it not?”

“You remembered my saying that?”

He nodded. “You look lovely, lovely.”

“Thank you.”  She twirled with a touch of her gaiety returning. She still felt a little self-conscious. After so many years of buckskin and linsey-woolsey, satin against her skin still felt almost alien.

“If we are going out, I should take some time dressing my hair,” she murmured. She went over to the vanity and took down her hair.

In the mirror she saw his face, so pensive. A wave of regret or was it guilt rushed up around her heart like wind-driven surf. She had to leave this man, so kind, yet so vulnerable.

For just a moment she had a vision of them faraway from the turmoil of this revolution. They were alone together in the wilderness. He was kissing her. Her hands paused in their duty as a rush of sensations suffused her body. Forcibly she pushed them away. Maybe another time, another country they could have been happy, but now too much separated them. Quickly she smoothed the last tendrils into place and pinned the last pin. “I am done,” she said unnecessarily as she stood up. “When do we leave?”

“Soon. I like your hair. It is always done simply, but elegantly.”

“Thank you,” she replied briefly. She wanted nothing more between them, not even compliments. “Shall I wear the pearls?”

“No,” he answered, “let the dress speak for itself.”

“Very well.” She strolled idly about the room. “The weather seems to be getting even colder.”

“Yes, but, at least, it is clear. The snow clouds seem to have blown over.” This is ridiculous, he said to himself. We are talking like strangers on a coach ride. How can I break through her reserve? His thoughts put a frown on his face.

“Is there something wrong, my lord?”

“No. Why?”

“You were frowning.”

“Oh, was I? I wasn’t even aware of it. We can go now if you like.”

“Yes, of course.” He helped her with her fox cape and muff and then he pulled on his own great coat. Maybe tonight would be the catalyst.

At the same moment Christiane wondered if tonight would be the time to declare unequivocally her intention to leave. It was foolish to prolong this charade any longer.

The ride to the Indian Queen was brief and brisk. The stars glittered like ice in the cloudless, midnight-blue sky. She examined them from the carriage window and then again just before she allowed herself to be drawn into the bright and populated inn. How removed and solitary the stars seemed. How she envied them.
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