Elusive (5 page)

Blair had been raised with English as her
primary language, although, it was not really her native language.
She used French for business and social events. Therefore, her
English was spoken using few idioms and no contractions. Since she
spoke fluent French the majority of her day, her English flowed
with a melodic French accent.

She loved Paris, loved the language, and
thought sadly…she had loved. Straightening her back with
determination, no, she wasn’t going to let that memory ruin her
morning. She had allowed Paris to pull her out of the mood that had
struck her so early in her day, and she staunchly refused to let
that black mood come back.

She entered the little shop where she worked
and—panting slightly due to her rush—smiled brightly when she saw
her best friend, Esmée, and the shop owner, Madame Adrienne. This
bright little shop had been her way to live on her own for the past
three years, and she loved it almost as much as her sunny little
apartment. She also loved the two women who stood there looking
very relieved to see her.

Madame, a widow for many years, owned the
little shop more as a hobby than a source of revenue. Her late
husband had been well off, and left her able to indulge her love of
“all things French”. The shop stocked a variety of merchandise from
local sources. One could find French lace, the work of local
artists, soaps, perfumes, and other French products.

All the merchandise was prettily displayed on
antique tables, desks, armoires or shelves, their wooden surfaces
gleaming. Madame used her merchandise to sell itself. She put a
great deal of time into setting up her displays. She carefully
selected items to show in little grouping—reflecting how they could
look in a home of distinction.

Laces and ribbons spilled from drawers in a
soft flow. The drawers were left open to permit such items to
escape in a flow that appeared to be a random manner—although she
spent much time each morning assuring they were very carefully
arranged.

Soaps sat in dainty bowls atop lacey doilies.
Next to them would be a lovely antique pitcher and bowl set.
Perhaps a soft robe would be draped across a ladder-back chair
nearby, and a book would be found sitting on the chair’s cane seat
as if the reader had just stepped away.

Art work hung in tasteful arrangements on the
walls. It was rearranged often to keep the shop’s appearance a
surprise for frequent patrons.

Draperies at the tall windows gave the shop
the appearance of a lovely—if somewhat eclectic—parlor.

The shop was a haven for many tourists, as
well as the locals looking for a lovely place to spend a little
indulgent time in the morning or afternoon. Madame was known to
serve tea and cookies during the day and, oddly enough, locals
seemed to find themselves gravitating to the shop just as tea was
being served. It was a sunny little shop, loaded with color,
texture, and good smells—and lovely people. Blair adored every
moment she spent working there.

“Mon chéri, we were beginning to worry about
you,” Madame sighed when she saw Blair enter. She looked at Blair
closely, her dark eyes scrutinizing the girl of whom she was very
fond. The signs of a fitful night’s sleep were still showing on
Blair’s face, despite her smile. It did not escape her notice that
this had been happening more and more often of late. Madame decided
she would probe more deeply later, but not now. Now was the time to
soothe and allow healing—not to intrude or stir painful
memories.

“I am
so
sorry, Madame, I seem to have
overslept this morning, and my mind kept wandering...I promise to
make it up to you,” Blair kissed Madame’s lightly-rouged cheeks. as
was their custom each morning. “I did not mean to worry you.”

“Ah, my dear, if we did not care so much for
you, Esmée and I would not worry, no?” Madame gave her a little
squeeze and then turned her loose. She recognized the weariness in
the girl, and it pained her. Perhaps she would rest better now that
her dear uncle was back in Paris.

Esmée moved in for her kisses and hug, also
noticing the smudge of color under Blair’s big gray eyes. “Blair,
you did not sleep well again?” she asked her quietly as they moved
to the back room where Madame’s office and storage for the extra
stock was kept.

Blair had known Esmée for several years.
Esmée had been dating a friend of Julien’s when he and Blair first
started dating. A sweet girl, Esmée was polite, soft-spoken,
kind-hearted, and beautiful. Her physical appearance was a contrast
to Blair’s. Esmée wore her long sable-colored hair tied back in a
knot at the back of her long, slender neck. Her green eyes, shining
out from beneath dark, thick lashes, had a slight upward slant that
gave her an exotic look. Her eyes always reminded Blair of the
sea—a peaceful day at sea. No storms there! The girl was steady and
loving. Blair loved her like a sister—Esmée felt the same about
Blair.

“Now, tell me, Chéri. What is going on? You
are pale, and you look as if you have not slept in days,” probed
Esmée.

“It was the dream again, Esmée. I am sure
some great psychologist like Doctor Freud is somewhere teaching
classes on dreams to wide-eyed students who are never actually
bothered by them. I, on the other hand, do not have benefit of his
wisdom and opinions. I just stand here bleary-eyed wondering why I
cannot just figure it out. It doesn’t feel like the good Doctor’s
‘road to the unconscious’—it just feels dark and foreboding!” Blair
sighed heavily. She shrugged her shoulder and stubbornly pasted a
smile on her face. “Oh well, enough of me for one day. Even I get
bored with my bad dreams and moods!”

“Perhaps you read too much of Dr. Freud’s
enlightening literature, Blair,” Esmée teased. Recognizing the set
of Blair’s jaw, she dropped the subject of her dreams. Blair would
not allow the intrusion of the dark dream upon her day. Knowing her
as she did, Esmée would not argue with her on the subject.

They settled into their daily routine,
setting up the displays of hand-crafted jewelry that had been put
away for safekeeping overnight. Madame unlocked the front door to
welcome the day’s business, while Esmée wondered why a wonderful
girl like Blair would have such unsettling dreams.

The little bell, hanging on the front door of
the shop, signaled the entry of the day’s first customer. So, their
work day began.

***

Entering the unlocked front door of her
uncle’s apartment that evening, she called out for him and headed
for the kitchen in the back of the building. She knew she would
find him there, humming a tune while preparing the evening
meal.

She stopped at the entry to the kitchen to
take in the sight of him. He was dressed casually with his little
white chef’s apron wrapped around his just slightly generous
waistline. His cheeks were rosy from standing over the steaming pot
on the stove. His glasses had, as always, steamed up and gotten
pushed up on top of his head. There they would sit until he
searched for them later, and she would remind him of their
location. As he became aware of her presence, he turned and smiled
broadly.

“My dear girl, how I have missed you!” he
said, as he dropped the large wooden spoon onto the counter and
turned to hug the girl he loved like a daughter. He had gladly
accepted responsibility for her years ago when he lost his dear
brother and sister-in-law. They had died together, as he supposed
it should be for two people who loved each other so desperately. An
avalanche took them while they were on what they had called their
second honeymoon
.

Blair had come to live with him and she was a
blessing that made all his sacrifices over the years well
worthwhile. He hoped she might never know the lengths he had had to
go to on her behalf. Of course, eventually, she would have to know
much he had not shared with her so far. He prayed that he could
continue to protect her, especially now. Oui, eventually he would
have to tell her, but for now he thought it best to permit her this
time of happiness and freedom. She had already suffered so much
loss and pain in such a young life. With regret, he was terribly
afraid that the peace she was enjoying now was likely to end all
too soon. He would prevent it as long as he was able.

“Oh,” she squeezed him tightly in a hug, “I
missed you too! Here, these are for you,” she said, offering him
the bouquet of tulips ranging in color from bright and pastel
pinks, pale and vivid yellows, and creamy whites. For scent, she
had added pungent lilies of white and purple.

“Beautiful,” he smiled at her. “Ah,” he held
them to his nose and inhaled with his eyes closed. “They are almost
as beautiful as my precious girl! Let’s put these beauties into
some water.” He reached over to the long shelf that spread over the
length of his kitchen, broken only by the window that let in the
Paris light. He brought down the vase that had been used on his
table for more than twenty years. It had been his wife’s favorite
and, in the sixteen years since she died, it had been in daily use.
He loved flowers, he loved beauty, he loved to cook, and he loved
this girl!

She wandered around the small, tidy kitchen
enjoying the aromas she always found in his apartment. A pot of
something wonderful was almost always simmering away on the stove.
In season, fresh flowers sat posed beautifully in vases in every
room. Out of season, they were always found in his parlor.

Then there was the scent of him—the faint but
male scent of his aftershave, the cherry of his pipe tobacco, the
wool of his sweaters in the winter, and his favorite linen shirts
during the summer. These would forever bring him to her mind.

He had been her anchor for all the years
since her parents had died when she was a small child. While she no
longer could remember either of them, he told her stories, and
showed her the few photos so that she never lost her parents
entirely. But, when she thought of family, it was Uncle Roddy who
immediately came to mind.

When Julien had died two years ago, dear
Roddy had held her until her tears ran dry. Julien had gotten ill
and died of pneumonia so suddenly—just weeks after he had asked her
to marry him. She felt the tightening in her throat, and tried to
move beyond the pain of his loss one more time.

At twenty-three, she could not imagine her
life without Roddy. The fact that someday she would have to do so
was something she hid from her consciousness with her usual
determination.

“How was your trip?” She noticed the slight
stiffening of his shoulders, then the almost immediate relaxing of
them which only she, who knew him best, would have recognized. He
was keeping something from her, and she had a feeling that whatever
it was, it wasn’t good.

**************************

Chapter 4: Caena Must Decide

Donnach Castle, Scotland – 1725

It had been a week since Finnean asked the
girl to make a decision that would change her life forever. Ròs,
who had raised Caena from birth, came into her mistress’s room, and
saw that she had, once again, retreated into thoughts of her
upcoming marriage. “Lass, have you made a decision yet?”

“No,” Caena sighed deeply. “I know my
father’s heart, but he is a practical man. Despite his wishes for
my future, he has always made my options known to me, such as they
are.” She knew her father loved her more than life itself, and so
he always told her. But she was, after all, a girl.

“It angers me, Ròs, that despite all else I
must resign myself to a woman’s fate.” She would have to live with
the constraints of the society of her time. “There is only so much
father can do. He was kind to honor me by permitting me to make the
choice. I am determined that he will not be sorry for his
effort.”

But there was so little time. She would be
expected to make her decision by the time of the dreaded sixteenth
anniversary of her birth—two weeks from today. If she was to remain
at the castle, and have it all pass to her father’s future
generations, she would have to marry one of the sons of her uncle.
One would bring her joy, the other damnation. She was afraid she
knew which would be her fate. All her sleepless nights, tears,
pacing—there was no getting past it.

Caena began pacing around the room like a
woman possessed of some devil. As Ròs prepared Caena’s wardrobe for
the day, she watched the girl pace around the room time and time
again.

“Macrath is the obvious choice,” she
shuddered. “As Mordag’s eldest son, he will inherit before Sòlas.
The estate will then pass to Macrath’s sons, unless Macrath dies
childless. And even then,” she added sadly, “Sòlas can only inherit
if he lives long enough to do so.” She had feared for his safety
since Macrath had become old enough to understand the advantages he
held over his younger brother.

“And Mordag is still able to produce more
sons to inherit. My greatest fear is that Macrath would create some
dark intrigue and have Sòlas killed. Perhaps,” she added almost
gleefully, “something will happen to Macrath before he can act
against Sòlas!”

“Quiet, lass,” Ròs whispered. “You must not
let anyone hear you say such things. Macrath is as likely to have
you done in as he would Sòlas.” Ròs feared for Caena. Every day she
went into the chapel that sat behind Caena’s bed chamber, and she
prayed for the girl’s safety. Jacobites were still practicing their
Catholic faith despite the protestant demands of the English.

Caena had a moment of regret that her
thoughts had taken that path. “Ah, Ròs, as much as Macrath is the
old hornie himself, he is—after all—family!”

She could not really wish murder on Macrath,
even knowing he was likely to eliminate Sòlas—in a fit of jealousy
or fear—to prevent Sòlas from plotting against him. This, she knew
in her heart, Sòlas would never do. Sòlas was not the type to join
in the political plots as she knew Macrath did. To Sòlas, family
was a sacred responsibility. Macrath, on the other hand, would
always be wary, suspicious, looking for deceit in every corner.
This, in Caena’s opinion, was as much a reflection of Macrath’s
own
character as that of those around him.