Chapter Nine- Once More by the Moonlit Lake, by Mordaunt

“We are brothers,” her father says and except for the crackling fire in the fireplace, the room turns still. Even Rascal stops chirping in his cage.

Her father’s voice lingers in the silence:

Brothers…

Mére…

Younger brother…

Older Brother…

Your uncle…

Cousins…

Facing her and Raoul, and standing next to her father, are her mother, her grandmother, and the Captain… her uncle… Sang dieu, it makes sense, Layla thinks! Sang dieu, it is as evident as day, how could I have missed it?

Or did I?

She is shocked by the loud chuckle, indecorous and out of place, that shatters the silence. She is shocked because it comes from her. In vain, she presses her hands against her mouth. “I don’t mean…” She attempts to speak but the words are drowned in an embarrassing outburst of giggles, her eyes welling with tears. Desperate, she turns to Raoul, hoping his equanimity will infect her, but it is the opposite, for in his features, she reads, in rapid succession, embarrassment, frustration, and the uncontrollable urge to do just as she does. He is biting the corner of his lip–stop this immediately, his eyes are signaling.

Cousins… Not just married to JeanPhilippe, his cousin, but real cousins—his father, my father…brothers. Layla swallows hard to force her giggling to stop, tears pouring down her cheeks.

Cousins!

Her grandmother must be aghast, although her demeanor is inscrutable. Good God, how many times must I offend and embarrass my grandmother, Layla thinks. There was a time not long ago, in this house, when Layla could not even remember her grandmother’s name. My grandmother, the woman who advises the Pope.

His grandmother.

Richelieu’s grandchildren.

Layla reads tenderness in her mother’s eyes, and in her father’s a combination of mischief and amusement. In her mind, she hears his slanted reprimand: “Terrible moment to lose your cool, mite.”

Next to her, Raoul straightens his shoulders and clears his throat, and she has a sense that he has regained the composure she has yet to find. Damn you, Raoul, Layla thinks as she attempts to do the same in vain, you… arrogant, aristocratic, brat! That is when she catches a glimpse of the Captain…her uncle…whose eyes she has been avoiding, mortified after her childish outburst. But there it is in his eyes, not just warmth but the same glimmer of mischief and amusement she sees in the eyes of her father. How could she have missed how alike they are even though they appear so different?

Or did she?

Layla shrugs resigned that she can ever be as restrained as her position and the circumstances demand of her. “I thought you were my father, remember?” she tells Athos, and notices a faint twitch in her grandmother’s inscrutable face, as if she is clenching her jaw to hold back an emotion. Sang dieu! Another faux pas and once more the offense is inflicted on her grandmother. Layla’s words, inadvertent and well-meaning though they may be, leave an unspoken recrimination: And then, you became my father. Almost…

But her uncle, like her father, is a discerning man so he hurries to rescue Layla from her big mouth. “Turns out, you were not far from the truth.” He says it with an affectionate smile and Layla’s misgivings disappear. She is in his arms, and he kisses her brow fondly.  “Welcome home, uncle,” Layla says, embracing him, and she can hear her mother sigh, relieved.

“As long as you don’t call me uncle,” Lucien teases Raoul, joining Athos in a common effort to move past Layla’s indecorous outburst. He slaps a friendly hand on Raoul’s shoulder.

“I would never presume,” Raoul replies in the same tone, but Layla knows Raoul well enough to hear the forced gaiety in his voice, notice the subtle stiffness in his manner, how he avoids exchanging words with his father, how he is courteous but cold with their grandmother. Raoul is tentative, distant, and a part of Layla understands his ambivalence. He is the Spymaster of France while his mother’s life is in danger and his father and little sister are fugitives. He is the Spymaster of France, serving an impostor king who has betrayed their friendship. He has vowed to help an innocent man who is also in love with Marie Cessette. Raoul treads a tight rope. But why is he so aloof here?

Then, Raoul bows to all and walks to the door. “You will forgive me,” he says and turning to her father he adds: “Lucien, please consider what we came here to tell you about Fabien. He has become a danger we had not anticipated. His failures accumulating–many caused by us–and his position threatened, he will grasp at anything. Henri Bernard is his last chance. And Henri, who can break at any moment, is connected to Suzanne and Afonso, and through them to you. Fabien will not hesitate to storm Royaumont, even without orders from Louis– he tried something similar in Bragelonne. His only redemption is to make a show of devotion to Louis’ cause, and Louis’ cause is to find Rochefort. Fabien has nothing left to lose. His power wanes, but as long as he has power, Royaumont is not safe.”

Layla has no doubt that her father, her uncle, her mother, and her grandmother heard the warning about Fabien that she and Raoul came to deliver, the first time. She has no doubt they have been considering ways to protect all those at Royaumont, just as they were sharing this most intimate revelation about their family; about who her father and the Captain are; about what she and Raoul are to each other. And what did Raoul have to say about all this: ”you will forgive me and remember what I came to tell you” and then walked out the door! This is the Spymaster of France speaking, not Raoul. Arrogant, aristocratic, brat! Layla motions to follow Raoul, but Athos stops her.  His tone is gentle but firm: “Layla, let him be.”

“But…”

“Mite, let him be,” her father also admonishes her, sternly. 

“No, I will not!” Layla objects fervently. “This is his family now. I made the same mistake, keeping myself aloof and distant. It cost me dearly, endangering almost everything, and those I love suffered most.”

“Layla, sweetheart, give him a little time,” her mother cautions gently, but Layla shakes her head and hurries out of her father’s study following Raoul.

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“Wait!”

He is walking fast ahead of her, down the path toward the lake. The winter night is cold but starlit and with a full moon, its bright, silver light sliding through the ancient oaks, casting odd shadows as their naked branches gently sway in the crisp night air. He speeds up and she matches his pace.

“Raoul wait!”

He stops abruptly, and from the way he jerks his shoulders she knows he is irked. So be it, she thinks hurrying up to him. “What is the matter with you?”

“I want to be alone!” His terse tone, so foreign to her ears, forces her to stop in her tracks. He turns, and she is struck by his face, pale in the moonlight, stark shadows marking his strong jaw, the aquiline nose and the lean, high cheekbones. His eyes strike Layla most, steely and harsh. She gasps–where is Raoul? Layla pushes herself to seek out the familiar gentleness of his face, the full, rounded lips, and the boyish charm, just as Rochefort’s calculating eyes flash in her mind, to be followed by Gabriel’s fathomless, dark features. 

The cousin of Gabriel Martinez!

Layla steps back and clenches her fists, her senses heightened as if right before battle. Who is the man standing before her? Where is Raoul?

He sighs and takes a step toward her, and Layla is relieved to see Raoul, her Raoul, gentle and warmhearted. It was just the shadows, her mind tricked by the changeable moonlight, she tells herself, but it leaves her unsettled.

He forces an apologetic smile. “I must think.”

She motions to turn back, still unsettled. “I will leave you then.”

“No! No!” he hurries up to her. “No, please!” He seizes her hand. It was just the shadows she tells herself again. In the pale moonlight he looks tired and dejected. It breaks her heart. 

“I could walk with you while you think.” He nods. “I can even be silent” she teases, and he returns a sorrowful smile.  They walk down the oak-lined path until they reach the lake shore. She steps onto the old wooden pier first and invites him to sit next to her at the edge. The bright full moon that reigns over the clear night sky is perfectly reflected in the dark, quiet waters, marking a shimmering silver path which leads away from them to the furthest shore.

“Gumusservi.”

They whisper the word at the same time. It catches them by surprise, and they chuckle softly while the word, soft and melodious dances in the night air for a fleeting moment. In Layla’s mind it conjures up memories of a night not long ago, before they both grew up so painfully, when she found solace in his arms, in his stories about the moon and the constellations, in a boat on the waters of this moonlit lake, when he had just returned from war and asked her to be his wife and she agreed without a second thought. She turns, seeking those shared memories of their callow youth in his eyes, but finds him despondent, holding his head in his hands.  “Good God, Raoul! What is the matter?” He does not seem to hear her, lost in despair. “My precious love, what is the matter?”

He does not raise his head. His voice sounds hollow. “Don’t call me that.”

“But you are. I will always be true to my heart, and in my heart, you are most precious.”

He raises his head and her heart sinks to see his eyes red from weeping. “I don’t deserve your heart.” He lowers his head again, distraught, avoiding her eyes. “Not after what I have chosen to…” he stops short and rakes his fingers through his hair.

She is alarmed. What have you done, Raoul she would like to ask but it occurs to her that whatever it is, makes no difference. Only he matters. She reaches for his hand which he gives reluctantly, and gently turns him to face her. “Look at me!” She tries to steady her voice, sound firm, although she is crushed to see him suffering. “Look at me, Raoul.” She cups his face in her hands, despite his resistance. “This–you and I–this comes with no conditions. I don’t care what you have chosen to do. I don’t care what you have done.” He opens his mouth to object, but she stops him. “I don’t care!” she declares forcefully. “I don’t want to know. You alone matter to me.”

An angry chuckle escapes his lips and he pushes away her hands. “I am not… I am not the man you think, Layla. Sometimes I am…terrified of the man I am becoming.”

She loosens her old scarf which she wears around her neck. “Do you see this? You brought it back to me, just as you promised. And before that, you sent me letters from the front, from war, letters every single day, beautiful letters, filled with your beautiful soul, to remind me that I was not alone. This is the man you are, and it does not change. You are that man, and you are precious to me.”

He smiles a wry smile. “Daunting expectations.”

“It’s all I have. You can choose to withdraw. You can devise some reason or other to convince yourself otherwise. Speak about what you have done, how you don’t deserve me, how you have changed. It makes no difference to me. To me you are and will always be precious.”

He raises his eyes, embarrassed and tender but in his tone, there is regret. “Jean is the most fortunate among men.”

“And I, the most fortunate among women. He is my husband, and I am his wife.”

“And I am your cousin.”

“You have been my cousin for a long time, longer than we were betrothed. Samy and the girls called you cousin already. You thought Jean was your cousin. Now we know that our bond is stronger.”

“And you never ask yourself what might have been between us?’

“No, why should I? I do not regret our decision. And our grandmother was right, Raoul. Not because we are cousins– cousins get married all the time. No. She was right about me.” Layla turns and points toward the lake. “That night here, remember? There was a full moon. You talked about the constellations. The Archer.” He nods. “I was lost that night, that night and for a long time after. I had no idea who I was, what I was, what was expected of me… ” She chuckles softly to herself. “This last thing, I still don’t know. Tonight was another unforgettable example.” A small affectionate smile crosses his lips. “Do you ask if I love you? I will love you, always. There is a place in my heart for you that no one else can ever claim. To lose you would be an injury from which I will never recover. But being your wife…” She shakes her head.

“That is honest,” he says quietly.

“And you? Do you love me, Raoul?”

He raises a vexed, disbelieving brow. “What sort of question is that?”

“An honest one and I want an honest answer. Do you love me?”

“Of course I do!”

“Prove it.” He narrows his eyes, bemused. “Stop asking what might have been. Stop seeking excuses. Prove it now.” She pauses, drawing a deep breath, fixing her eyes on the distant shore where the moon leads with its shimmering silver path.  “I have …I had… a friend, you see. Beloved and precious. He knew about the moon. He could read the stars on nights like this. He collected seashells when he was a boy and made maps. He could draw insects–the finest details imaginable.” Raoul clicks his tongue impatiently. “He once drew a dragonfly, a rare, delicate little thing, with blue stripes on its tail. Fierce beauty, he called it.” She turns and there he is again, that other man who looks at her through Raoul’s eyes. This time she is not taken aback, for she expected to find him-she wanted him provoked. She levels a defiant gaze into his steely eyes. “I want you to find that lost, beloved friend for me.”

A faint sneer crosses his lips, terrifying and heart-breaking. “I can’t do that, Layla. That man, your friend…he is… I am… no longer that man. I can’t afford to be.”

Behind her eyes, Layla feels tears stinging. She leans closer, placing a gentle kiss on his lips, and his lips are tight, cold. “I will never give up on him… on you…I will always wait for you to return.” She stands up. “I don’t need you to escort me back to the house. Besides, you said that you wanted to be alone and think.”

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The house is quiet when Layla walks inside, not many hours left until the servants begin to stir. Her limbs are as heavy as her heart, and the stinging of tears numbs her face. Too tired to even walk upstairs to her room, she tries the door of her father’s study and finds it unlocked. The room is empty, except for Rascal who chirps joyfully the moment he senses her stepping inside, and the fire is still burning in the fireplace. What happened here after she left following Raoul, she is too tired to imagine. Layla sinks in the settee across the fireplace, the weight in her heart unbearable, the tears impossible to hold back.

“Layla, sweetheart…”

She gasps, and hurries to wipe her eyes. “Mother? Are you not sleeping?”

Her mother walks into the room, quietly closing the door behind her. She sits next to Layla. “We take turns with Suzanne. It is Afonso’s turn.”

“Is it time?”

Her mother shakes her head. “No, but this is always a hard time, and it has been difficult for her. She is exhausted and there have been a few false alarms.”

“I will stay…” Layla begins but her mother raises a stern brow. “There are enough people here for Suzanne–perhaps too many. You must return to Paris. It is vital for us here that you do, now more than ever. Your father will tell you the same tomorrow. Suzanne will too. After all this is very much about Suzanne and Afonso.” She fixes a probing gaze, and cups her daughter’s face in her hands, her fingers smoothing her tear-stricken cheeks. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

Layla sighs, tears flooding her eyes once more. “Oh mother!”

“Don’t tell me that you had… What? …A fight?”

Layla shakes her head. “I wish we had a fight.  Mother, I fear he is lost.”

Sophia gasps. “Sweetheart what are you saying?”

“He has changed, Mother…I am not sure how to explain it…”

Sophia smiles a gentle, reassuring smile. “Of course he has changed, my love. So have you. So has everyone in this family. And we are still changing. Look at us now. He is Alessandra’s son. He is Athos’ son. All he needs is time. Consider the stakes he faces. Spymaster of France surrounded by traitors. His mother in mortal danger–oh I have no doubt, although I will say nothing to Athos about my fears. His father a fugitive. His little sister motherless and without a safe home. And tonight, his life was upended even more–more than our lives, more than yours. He is a good man, Layla, but he is a man. His feelings were injured once, his pride too, and tonight that injury returned, inflicted by his grandmother. Her cause was good and fair, her purpose justified, but the injury remains. He needs time.”

Could I be wrong, Layla thinks, could I be selfish?

“Come,” her mother says, gently pulling her closer and pointing to her lap. “Tonight, my two older girls need their mother.” Layla lays her head on her mother’s lap and Sophia kisses the top of her head. “It will all be better in the morning. Even the threat that Marchal poses. Everything is always better in the light of day.” She reaches at the side of the settee where Lucien has thrown one of his winter cloaks, and covers Layla. “Close your eyes for a little, my love,” she whispers, stroking Layla’s hair, “it is almost dawn.”