The Queen's Rising(46)

“I am not even of your blood,” I whispered, surprised by his steely resolve. I had only been his adopted daughter for one day.

“You are part of my family. And when the thieves tore apart your things, threw your books in the mud, threatened you . . . I reacted.”

I didn’t know what to say, but I let my gaze remain on his face. My embers of defiance and irritation faded into darkness, because the longer I looked upon him, my patron father, I sensed that something in his past had made him this way.

“Again, I am sorry you had to see such of me,” he said. “I do not want you to fear me.”

I reached across the table, offering my hand. If we were going to succeed in whatever plans we authored, we would have to trust each other. Slowly, he set his fingers in mine; his were warm and rough, mine were cold and soft.

“I do not fear you,” I whispered. “Father.”

He squeezed my fingers. “Amadine.”





FOURTEEN


PASSION BROTHER


Town of Beaumont, Province of Angelique


We reached the river town of Beaumont just as the sun was setting on the second day of travel. This was the farthest west I had ever ventured, and I was enchanted by the vast miles of vineyards that graced the land.

Beaumont was a large town, built along the banks of the lazy Cavaret River, and I intently watched as we passed the market square and the atrium of a small cathedral. All the buildings appeared the same to me, built from bricks and marbled stones, tall and three-storied, hugging narrow cobbled roads.

The coach eventually stopped before a brick town house. A pebbled walkway to the front door was choked with moss and flanked by two cranky sweetgum trees, whose branches rattled against the windows.

“Here we are,” Jourdain announced as Jean David opened the coach door.

I took the coachman’s hand and stepped down, and then I accepted Jourdain’s arm when he offered it, surprised by how thankful I was to have his support. We walked in stride along the path, up the stairs to a red door.

“They are all eager to meet you,” he murmured.

“Who?” I asked, but he had no time to respond. He guided me over the threshold and we were met by two waiting faces in the foyer, their eyes latching to me with polite inquisition.

“This is the chamberlain, Agnes Cote, and this is the chef, Pierre Faure,” Jourdain introduced.

Agnes gave me a well-rehearsed bob of a curtsy in her simple black dress and starched apron, and Pierre smiled behind the flour smudged on his face, and bowed.

“This is my daughter, Amadine Jourdain, adopted through passion,” Jourdain continued.

Agnes, who had the aura of a mother hen, came forward to hold both my hands in her warm ones, an intimate greeting. She smelled of citrus and crushed pine needles, betraying her obsession with keeping all things clean and orderly. Indeed, from what I could see of the mahogany paneled walls and white tiled floors, this was a rigorously tidied house. And I could not help but feel as if I was beginning a fresh life—a blank slate with endless possibilities—and returned her smile.

“If you need anything at all, you simply call for me.”

“That is very kind of you,” I answered.

“Where is my son?” Jourdain inquired.

“With the consort, monsieur,” Agnes was swift to respond, dropping my hands. “He apologizes in advance.”

“Another late night?”

“Yes.”

Jourdain appeared dissatisfied, until he noticed I was carefully watching him and his face lightened. “Pierre? What is on the menu tonight?”

“We have trout for tonight, so I hope you like fish, Mistress Amadine,” the chef responded. His tenor voice was raspy, as if he had spent far too many hours singing while he cooked.

“Yes, I do.”

“Excellent!” Pierre bustled back down the hallway.

“Dinner is at six,” Jourdain informed me. “Agnes, why don’t you give Amadine a tour of the house? And show her to her room?”

Just as Jean David entered carrying my trunk, Agnes led me around the first floor, showing me the dining hall, the small parlor, Jourdain’s austere office, and the library, which was crammed with books and instruments. I knew Jourdain was a lawyer, yet his house was eclectically grand and polished, bespeaking one who was educated and seemed to favor the passions. It felt like home, and relief washed over me; it was the last thing I expected, to feel at ease in a new place.

“Is Jourdain’s son a musician?” I asked, taking in the scattered sheets of music over the covered spinetta, the piles of books on the floor that my skirts threatened to upset, and a very old lute, which sat upright in a chair as a faithful pet waiting for its master to return.

“He is indeed, Mistress,” Agnes answered, her voice thick with pride. “He is a passion of music.”

Fancy that. Why hadn’t Jourdain mentioned such to me?

“And he is part of a consort of musicians?” I looked to the hasty scrawl of his handwriting, the broken quills, and the vials of inks with half-plugged corks.

“Yes. He is very accomplished,” Agnes continued, beaming. “Now let me show you to the second floor. That is where your room will be, as well as Master Luc’s and Monsieur Jourdain’s.”

I followed her from the library, up a set of horribly creaky stairs to the second floor. There was a linen room, Jourdain’s and Luc’s rooms, which she did not open but pointed to their closed doors so I would know where they were, and at last she took me down the hall to a chamber that sat at the back of the house.