“Here you are,” Sophia leans against the door frame watching her husband rest his head against the back of the tub. The room is warm as steam rises from the hot water. She closes the door against the cool air and kneels beside the tub. She dips a hand into the water, dribbling it over Lucien’s bare torso, tracing the outline of the raven tattoo on one side of his chest, the wing covering his shoulder.
“Hmm,” he hums not opening his eyes.
“New bruises,” she says touching each one gently, “shall I hope Benoit has at least suffered a little by now?”
“Benoit is Breton, born and bred. He does not know the meaning of physical pain and if he does, he would never admit it.” He grasps the sides of the tub, groaning as he sits up. He has a slightly bleary look, “I thought you were in the greenhouse.”
“I will be soon as I am preparing a few packets for Marie Cessette to take with her. It is a long journey to Paris and even in Raoul’s well sprung carriage, she still must travel the King’s roads and will feel every rut, rock and hole, endure bone-jarring jolts, thrown side to side, accompanied by the incessant shriek of wheels.”
“Good lord,” Lucien mutters his eyes closed as he sinks further into the warm water…but Sophia is not finished. “It causes a person to fear the entire thing may shake apart completely if it does not turn over first. You can understand why a lady may need a few comforts when riding in one for days on end.”
“Put a substantial flask of brandy in that carriage,” Lucien advises.
“Raoul should take an extra horse so she can ride if she comes to her senses.”
“That’s you my love,” he chuckles, “you would ride a horse.”
“So may Marie Cessette. She has a practical mind.”
“Speaking of riding, did Rayya go out with Porthos and Olivain this morning?” he asks.
Since Raoul had arrived with warnings of safety at Glenay, Lucien has confined any early morning riders to follow Porthos and the guards on their patrol. Rayya expressed dissatisfaction with the monotonous pace over uniform terrain, which was also annoying for Charlotte. The two girls had found a good friend in each other, both being particularly fond of horses and wanted to test their skill. But Charlotte’s parents restricted her to the sidesaddle and a restrained speed as was considered appropriate for a young lady. For the most part, Rayya held back her opinions as Charlotte worried that her father might refuse her to ride at all. But Lucien knew that Rayya could not be contained indefinitely. She declaimed aloud to Olivain but well within Porthos’ hearing, of tyranny in the use of the sidesaddle and the lack of freedom to ride to the limits of one’s ability. Porthos had laughed and proclaimed Rayya his favorite Mlle femme forte, very much like her older sister, Layla. Rayya was delighted by the comparison.
“She did and Charlotte was allowed to ride as well. I believe Rayya tried to smuggle her divided skirt to Charlotte.” Lucien chuckles, “when she was first learning to ride, Alessandra gave Rayya that skirt. A rather small version of it as I recall.”
Sophia smiles, “she has sent a new size as a birthday present every year.” She thinks Rayya is fortunate to have grown up in the country. Her headstrong daughter would not have fared well in the city under the yoke of nobility.
“Did you talk with the gardeners?” She nods, “Yes, and Rosie. They will keep an eye on Bianca when she is in the garden.” She strokes the water and watches as he kisses her hand.
“Well, I must be one my way,” she mocks a sultry voice, “although you look tempting.” She laughs as Lucien’s eyes fly open. “No,” she says firmly,
“Your just teased your husband with the prospect of a few comforts,” Lucien grumbles as grasps the sides of the tub, wincing as he stands and steps from the tub. Sophia motions for him to lower his head and applies a linen to his wet hair, rubbing vigorously and then using her fingers to rake it into a semblance of order. She wraps dry linen around his waist.
“There,” she taps a finger against his bare chest, “a few ministrations until later.” She frowns at his expression which has turned serious. “What is it?”
Lucien shakes his head and does not answer her. It was a random thought and not for him to ask. He is surprised he even thought of it. If he needed to know he would be told. Sophia tilts her head regarding him curiously and then her brow clears as she realizes what he is unwilling to say aloud.
“You are curious as to what I am preparing for Marie Cessette on her journey. Lucien, I do not know if she is with child. She would not confide in me, but with her mother and Elodie has given no indication of it.”
“Hmm.” Lucien shrugs, tosses the linen into the pile and starts to dress, “after seven children, you would know the signs.”
“After seven children, so would you,” she counters. He pulls on his boots and leans down to kiss you, “I know your signs dearest, the only ones I need to know.”
“I am proposing that we organize to do something for the young people,” Porthos declares to the entire room as Lucien enters the library. “We are all able to help Olivain to some measure of advancement. He is more than worthy in character and ability.”
The room is well lit with sunlight streaming in through tall windows and warm with a brisk fire against the early spring chill. The men sit comfortably drinking wine, talking easily with one another and still in a generalized celebratory humor from yesterday’s announcement of the betrothal of Rayya and Olivain. Lucien walks to the table holding the decanters of wine and brandy, pours himself wine and holds up the flask to refill any empty glasses. He returns the flask to the table and joins the men assembled, Porthos, d’ Artagnan, Athos, and Raoul.
“How about the governor of le Havre?” he suggests with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, “Her Grace can be persuasive with the Brancas family to step away.”
“I would not like a political quagmire for Olivain,” Porthos mutters, “I cannot think he would think it advancement.” He points a finger at Lucien, “your daughter would not thank you for that life.”
“Everything is a political quagmire,” Lucien mutters, earning a look of amusement from Raoul and another of tolerance from his brother. Lucien shrugs and adopts a more serious expression, looking at Athos. Lucien hunches his shoulders and asks, “is Olivain content with country life or does he prefer the city? A town perhaps? What do you suggest? If he aspires to manage land or develop winemaking you and I can assist with those aspirations.”
“Yes, of course,” Athos replies, “I have given thought to the matter. Olivain’s father is my steward, his older brother manages my vineyard. I do not know if Olivain desires to join in the enterprise or strike out on his own.”
“As of a few days ago,” Lucien says, “when Olivain and I talked, he indicated he intended, for the time being, to stay in the military.
“And the Mlle?” d ‘Artagnan directs his question to Lucien, “what does she prefer?”
“Rayya can choose to be in the city or to Royaumont if he is away for a length of time.”
“None of us are certain of our own futures,” d’ Artagnan looks around the group. “If I were still governing Paris, I would be happy to welcome him to my staff.”
“There is one outcome we do not want,” d’ Porthos says, “he must not end up under Marchal’s command.”
“Could that occur?” Lucien is alarmed. Porthos raises a hand for Lucien to rein in his temper. “I only mention it for us to be aware of, not because I think it likely for our two young people.” Not for the first time is Lucien grateful for Porthos’ generous heart, including all their children into his care and concern. Porthos is a big comforting presence, kind, teasing, laughing easily, scolding in the moment as needed, but followed with a quick smile or pat on the shoulder. He and Elodie are stern with their daughters, but he is gently chided by Elodie for being amused at the boys’ antics to confound their tutors.
“That does not need to happen,” Raoul intervenes calmly, “I assume, that wedding preparations will mean that Rayya will return to Royaumont.” It was more of a question and Raoul looks expectantly at Lucien.
“She could also go with her grandmother to Paris.” Lucien sighs, ready to draw this discussion to a close. It is his habit to wait for Sophia in these matters. He has a host of his own concerns – a parlay with an unknown captain, rogue ships cruising the Wrecks, stacks of correspondence with Paul de Vry concerning the Tournelle wharf and preparations for his friend Roberval arriving in Marseille and traveling to Paris. When Lucien thinks of returning to Paris, Marchal looms before him, his abuse of Sophia as fresh in his mind as the first time he saw her injuries.
“I agree with d’ Artagnan that we must know our own futures better before we can offer anything of substance.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
“Lucien,” Athos lengthens his strides to catch up to his brother, “are you and Benoit going now?”
“Changing your mind to try out your sea legs?” Lucien quips regretting his loose tongue in telling Athos of his parlay. He hopes Athos thinks he and Benoit sail to the Ile de Batz for a parlay as only a small adventure. Athos smiles and shakes his head, “are you going to our mother first?”
“As soon as I get my men underway to the Aigle,” Lucien prevaricates, sidestepping the question. He had put off talking with his mother and has no wish to do it now.
“I believe she is expecting you.” Athos’ tone is mild, but Lucien hears his meaning.
“Is she? Well, I would not wish to disappoint her. How are Raoul’s plans for returning to Paris?” Lucien answers without commitment or waiting for a reply as he moves to leave and then turns back.
“Just so you know, I have asked the gardeners to keep watch for snakes. They are in their mating season, and I do not want Bianca to have an encounter as she works on her flowers. She tends to run more than walk.” He strides away throwing one last remark over his shoulder, “Rosie will stay close too. I will miss Raoul.” And then he is gone.
Athos watches his brother, thinking Lucien has managed to reply to his questions without an answer and almost succeeded at diverting him completely by a mention of Raoul’s departure, snakes and Bianca, of which Athos is certain was completely sincere. He chuckles. His brother is a clever man.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Sophia looks up at the rap of knuckles on wood. Raoul is standing in the open doorway, “may I come in?”
“Of course,” she welcomes him with a wave her hand, “find a place to sit. I am almost finished. How are your plans for leaving us?” He shakes his head, smiling and takes up a different topic. “I saw Rayya this morning, she looks in the very bloom of life.”
Sophia chuckles, “her father has finally agreed to a betrothal to the man she loves. Lucien’s reprieve is temporary. Rayya will soon begin to press for a wedding date and soon. Samy will is going with Roberval returns to Constantinople. She will want to marry before Samy leaves. Rayya will certainly want Layla to be there too.”
“With everything you have on your mind, it is good of you to consider Marie Cessette’s comfort.”
“I wish you did not have to go. Paris is such a long journey. It must be difficult to leave your mother.”
“She is improving and the worst seems to be past,” Raoul says in a serious tone, “I can do it knowing you will pay attention to her Your Grace.” She mocks a scowl at him, “let of not have these formalities between us. We are family now. You should assume my love for your mother, who truly is my sister.” Sophia sets the vials she is filling aside and drags a stool closer to Raoul.
“Alessandra is my dearest friend, in truth, she may be my only friend.”
“It may seem odd, but I never thought of my mother as having friends. There was family in Venice.” He tries to think back to life in Venice, visitors to their home, wondering at the life his mother lived in those years.
“Women live their lives mostly in our homes and among family,” Sophia says, thinking of what she knew of Alessandra’s life which included certain people of varying skills useful to her. But these things she knows from Lucien and regardless, she would never tell a son or a daughter the details of a parent’s life. That is not for her to reveal. Instead, she comments on her own life. “We lived a country life, which is not the same. There are neighbors, villagers and wives in farm families to make acquaintances.”
Raoul smiles and nods in acknowledgement. “May I ask, how you met each other? I assume through Lucien, although … forgive me if you prefer not…” She waves a hand, brushing away his polite concerns.
“It was through Lucien. They had known each other for some time. She did not approve of us, or rather me. She could see the difficulties, of the pain we could cause each other, and she was protective of him. Still, she helped us. We faced severe disapproval from all quarters and at times it felt as though we were being chased all over Paris. She found places for us to meet, sending secret messages to steal whatever time we had to see each other. More than once she created a diversion for…” she hesitates and they exchange an ironic smile as they know it was Treville and his musketeers, including his father who tried to stop them.
“Your mother helped us to marry, although we had no one’s blessing to our union. Alessandra took charge, told me to bring the family bible, paid the priest and was a witness. She brought me a bouquet of wildflowers.” She looks away from him at a memory she does not wish to share in its entirety. He wonders what she protects or hides from him. A shadow crosses her face.
“I am sorry for …” Intuitively, he understands she is referring to Layla and the manner in which his dreams for himself and Layla ended. He reaches for her hand, saying “I am sorry too. It is in the past,” his voice is firm.
“Yes, along with much more,” she says, “for their sake the past must stay where it belongs.” She sees his slight frown, uncertain if he understands her meaning.
“For as long as they can remember, your father and Lucien have been separated, denied the lives they were meant to live. Prevented from growing up with their mother. They cannot go back, but they can go forward – as brothers and as sons.”
Raoul nods thoughtfully, his mind turning over her words. “You are my aunt,” he sounds as though it is a new thought. She smiles, “I am also getting used to that title. A rather large family has been delivered to you. Be careful if you invite us all for dinner. We have seven children, some with husbands and grandchildren. We are quite a crowd.”
Raoul raises his brow and chuckles, “we will knock out a wall if necessary and order a new dining room table.” He takes her hand, “I look forward to it.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Lucien knocks and opens the door. His mother looks up from her escritoire and sets down her quill. She speaks quietly to the priest standing at her elbow. He bows, gathers up the papers and leaves, nodding to Lucien as he passes.
“You have the most expansive stable of priests. I did not recognize that one,” Lucien pokes at the fire, sending up a shower of sparks, not seeing his mother’s frown of disapproval. He adds wood and stirs it again. He watches the fire burn brighter and adds more wood. Marie has moved to her large comfortable chair near the fireplace. Lucien takes a blanket from the settee and settles it over her lap.
“I was not cold,” she says deciding to ignore his quip about stables and priests. He shrugs, “now you will not get cold.” She tucks her hands under the blanket and levels a look at him.
“How did the meeting go?” She is referring to the discussion of Olivain’s future and what might be done to improve his circumstances.
“Everyone wants to help,” Lucien says throwing himself into the chair opposite her, slouching, his long legs extended. “Since none of know what we are going to be doing, it is difficult to have firm ideas.”
“Nonsense”
Lucien looks surprised at her vehemence. “What do you mean?”
“The issue to be faced is there regardless of anyone else’s circumstances.”
“Which is?”
“The daughter of the Duc du Plessis and the Duchesse de la Croix, the niece of the Duc du Richelieu, granddaughter of the Duchesse de Aiguillon is marrying the son of a house steward and housekeeper.”
“I did suggest the governorship of Le Havre,” Lucien quips, annoyed at his mother’s recitation of facts he already knows. He is prepared to defend Rayya and Olivain, even though he knows what they face.
“If for one moment I thought Olivain had ambitions in that direction, I would lay a course for him to get there. But I am not certain that is his ambition.”
“Neither do I,” Lucien admits apologetically.
“Let me be clear,” Marie is not amused by his flippant remark. “I support this betrothal and their marriage. Here and at Royaumont or Bragelonne, they can do well. But, in Paris, I will not pretend there will not be obstacles, including hateful comments and judgements.”
Lucien straightens up, “do you have a suggestion?”
Marie regards her son, judging it is time she spoke out. “Your grandfather, Rene de Vignerot was recognized initially for his military capabilities, through which he was acknowledged by the king and elevated our family. He served on councils for two kings, acted in capacities of advisors and administrators on matters for which he had expertise. It was a good life of service to his King and his country.”
“Olivain is committed to the military. He is educated, respected by his brothers-in-arms and his commanders. He presents himself quite well. Occasions will arise where he can distinguish himself further. He has strong connections to a powerful family, and the King will recognize Olivain’s loyalty and talents. Rayya’s status will make a difference, and with her good counsel and support he can serve in several positions of distinction. Rayya will be a very good wife for him.” She makes a casual shrug accompanied by a roguish smile, “and if he chooses to make wine with his brother or govern Le Havre, he can do that too.”
“You never cease to amaze me Mère.”
“It will be Olivain who will amaze all of us.”
Twelve Years After 