Legacy

Chapter 13

The drive to the Château de Margerac took longer than Wachiwi expected, since Jean had told her it was on the sea and not far from the port, but even with fast horses pulling the carriage, it took them nearly an hour on the narrow winding road.

The château was enormous and sat on a cliff with a magnificent view of the ocean. The terrain looked rugged, and the château was imposing and had been built in the twelfth century, but what softened its appearance were miles and miles of gardens, filled with brilliantly hued flowers and ancient trees that towered above them. Wachiwi had never seen anything so lovely in her life.

As they approached, Tristan told her some of the history of the family and the house. He said that his family had all been warriors in the early days, which was why the château looked so much like a fortress, and was inaccessible, to protect them from their enemies. It had served them well for centuries. She smiled and said that her ancestors had been warriors too, and the men in her tribe still were. Saying it made her think of her brothers and made her look momentarily sad. Tristan couldn’t help wondering how she had come to be with his brother, and how he had managed to take her from the Sioux. He wondered if Wachiwi had run away with him, which seemed likely.

“You’ll have to tell me sometime how you met my brother,” he said, sounding curious, and she nodded but said nothing. She didn’t want to tell him so soon that his brother had killed a man, because of her.

A footman handed her down from the carriage, and the marquis led her inside the château. There were long dark hallways going in all directions, filled with somber paintings of his ancestors. Some of them looked like him and Jean. There was a great hall in the center filled with hunting trophies and heraldic banners, a gigantic ballroom he had not used since his wife died, and several smaller receiving rooms. And all of it was cold and drafty, and looked daunting to Wachiwi. She wondered what it would have been like to discover all this with Jean, and not his more serious older brother. He was telling her about various ancestors as they walked around. She was confused by most of what he said, and overwhelmed. But she tried to look attentive. He spoke quickly in French, not realizing how recently she had learned.

And then he took her upstairs to an enormous living room with large chairs and many couches that looked like some kind of council room to her. She could imagine the warriors in his family meeting there to plan their raids on other tribes, just as the men in hers sat around the campfire or came to her father’s tipi to discuss similar things. In some ways, their histories and family traditions were not so different. War and hunting. She noticed with interest that there were no buffalo on his walls, mostly deer and antelope and elk. She wondered if they had no buffalo in France, but was too embarrassed to ask him.

A woman in a plain black dress with a lace apron came in and offered to serve them tea. She came back with two other women and a man and a gigantic silver tray almost too heavy to carry, covered with silver teapots and porcelain jars, and plates with small sandwiches and cookies. It all looked very interesting to Wachiwi, and she was starving. She sat down on the chair Tristan indicated, and ate as delicately as she could. It was all new to her still, but Jean had taught her well. He hadn’t wanted her to be embarrassed or feel awkward when she came to France, and thanks to his diligent lessons, she didn’t. The food tasted delicious to her.

She noticed that Tristan was watching her carefully, trying to decide what to make of her, and from time to time Wachiwi glanced out at the view of the ocean. And as she looked at the sea, she thought of Jean’s spirit, which was there now. And as she thought of him, two children walked in, with a tall serious-looking young woman with a pale face. She was wearing a gray dress, and she looked like an unhappy person, even to Wachiwi. She had plain brown hair, gray eyes, and everything about her seemed drab. The children looked like they couldn’t wait to escape her, and referred to her as “Mademoiselle.” They stopped in their tracks when they saw Wachiwi. The little girl looked to be about four years old, and the boy about six. Although they were beautifully dressed and very different, they reminded Wachiwi of the Indian children she had known. They bounded around the room like puppies, leaped at their father, and ogled the cookies on the tea tray, as Mademoiselle attempted unsuccessfully to dampen their spirits and make them sit down. They would for a minute, and then leap up again to laugh and play with their father, who looked delighted to see them.

Wachiwi didn’t like the tall spare-looking woman, and it was obvious the children didn’t either. She seemed cold and distant to Wachiwi, and Mademoiselle pointedly ignored her as though she didn’t see her in the room. It was the same disdainful attitude she and Jean had met in New Orleans.

“And these are my children,” Tristan said with a broad smile. “Matthieu and Agathe. Jean saw Matthieu when he was a baby. Agathe was born after he left.” They stared at Wachiwi with interest. Even though she was dressed in ordinary clothes, they could observe easily that there was something different about her, if nothing else the creamy nut color of her skin. “This is a friend of your Uncle Jean,” Tristan explained to them, trying to contain them, and relenting over the cookies, which they rapidly devoured as Wachiwi giggled. She looked like a child herself. Agathe smiled at her immediately. She thought she was pretty, and looked nice.

“Is this the lady Uncle Jean was going to marry?” Agathe asked, as she hopped onto the couch next to her father, and Mademoiselle scowled her disapproval. She thought they should stand at attention and never sit down in the drawing room when they visited their father. He was far less rigid than that with them, and the governess firmly disapproved.

“Yes, it is,” her father confirmed, surprised that his daughter remembered. But he had told her only a few days before, when he got Jean’s letter, and the little girl was excited about a wedding, and wanted to know if she could be in it.

“Where is Uncle Jean?” Matthieu chimed in, and there was a brief silence in the room. And then finally, with a heavy look and sagging shoulders, their father answered. His grief was easy to read.

“He is with Mama now, in Heaven. They are together. His friend came here alone.”

“She did?” Agathe turned to her with wide eyes. “On a boat?” Wachiwi nodded, smiling at her. The little girl had soft blond curls, a sweet round angelic face, and was impossible to resist. Matthieu had the stamp of Tristan and Jean and was tall for his age. Agathe looked more like her late mother, who had been the light of Tristan’s life until she died, and still was. He had mourned her for the past four years.

“Yes, I came on a boat,” Wachiwi said. “I just arrived today.”

“Was it very scary?” The little girl’s eyes were wide.

“No, it was all right. It just took a long time. Nearly two full moons,” she said, and caught herself. “Almost two months,” she corrected, remembering Jean’s words.

“I don’t like boats,” Agathe said firmly. “They make me sick.”

“Me too,” Matthieu added, studying Wachiwi. He wasn’t sure what she was, but he knew that she was different and interesting, and he could tell she was nice to children. Both of them had already decided that on their own.

The children chatted animatedly with them for a few minutes, and then Mademoiselle announced that it was time to go. Both Agathe and Matthieu protested, to no avail. She told them to say goodnight to their father, and escorted them firmly from the room.

“They’re so wonderful!” Wachiwi said sincerely, “and your son looks just like you and Jean.” It had warmed her heart to see it, and despite their fancy clothes, they reminded her of the children in her tribe.

Tristan smiled at what she said. “Yes, he does look like us, poor boy. Agathe looks like her mother. She died when Agathe was born. But the governess is very good with them, we’ve had her since Matthieu was born. Particularly now, without a mother, they need someone to keep them in line. And I’m not always here.” It felt odd speaking to her about these things but he was curious about the woman his brother had brought home, and intended to marry, and he wanted to get to know her. He wasn’t nearly as shocked at her being an Indian as Wachiwi had feared he would be. In fact, he appeared not to be at all. He was an amazingly open-minded and kindhearted person and made her feel welcome at the château.

“She seems very severe,” Wachiwi said honestly about the governess, surprisingly at ease with him. She had disliked her the moment she saw her, but knew enough not to say that. She didn’t want to offend her host. In Indian culture, Mademoiselle would have been a relative of some kind, but she had already learned from Jean that in Europe the people who worked for them were “servants,” and in New Orleans they were “slaves.” The slaves had seemed nicer than Mademoiselle, who was painfully austere, and cold as ice. She didn’t appear to like children.

“I’ll have the housekeeper show you to your room,” Tristan said then. “You must be tired from the trip. How fortunate that you didn’t catch my brother’s illness. You’re feeling well, aren’t you?” He looked concerned. He didn’t want her ill or spreading disease, but she looked healthy to him and said she felt fine. And it was obvious to him that she was young and strong.

He rang a long bell pull next to the fireplace, and a woman appeared who looked like an older relative of Mademoiselle’s, and Tristan said she would show Wachiwi to her rooms. He said that he had arranged for her dinner to be served in her own suite that night, but he would see her in the morning. He didn’t want to sit down to a solitary dinner with a single woman. It didn’t seem right to him, and he had no idea what they would do in future. Perhaps she could eat in the nursery with the children. It wasn’t proper for him to eat with her every night. Without Jean, their situation was more than a little awkward. Wachiwi taking her meals with the children seemed like the only possible solution to him.

The suite of rooms that Tristan had assigned to her, once he knew that his brother wasn’t with her, were a far cry from the slave quarters where his cousin Angélique had put her in New Orleans. She had an enormous sitting room with a view of the ocean, a bedroom with a four-poster canopied bed worthy of a princess, a large bathroom, a dressing room, and a small writing room with an elegant ladies’ desk. Wachiwi had no idea what to do with all the space. And she was so sad that Jean wasn’t with her. If he had been, although she didn’t know it, she would have eventually shared his gigantic suite on the same floor as Tristan’s, but under the circumstances, the marquis had put her in another wing of the château. The nursery where the children lived was just above her, up a single flight of stairs. She could hear them, but didn’t dare go up and risk Mademoiselle’s glacial gaze and stern disapproval.

She wandered around the room, opening drawers and cupboards, in awe of everything she saw, and eventually an enormous silver tray appeared, with meats and vegetables and fruit on it. There was a choice of sauces, a plate with cheese and bread, and a beautifully presented dessert. She cried when she saw it because they were being so kind to her, but all she really wanted here was Jean.

She slept fitfully in the enormous canopied bed, draped in swaths of pink satin, with tassels everywhere, and a wondrous feather bed. She dreamed of the white buffalo again, and didn’t know what it meant. The last time it happened, Jean had died, and she wondered if he was coming back to her now in spirit. She wished he would tell her what to do now. She was lost here without him, and Tristan was equally so about what to do with her. He had visions of her living in the attic of the château until she was an old woman, a legacy left to him by his brother. But what else could he do with her? He couldn’t send her back to America, since she said she couldn’t return to her people. He couldn’t turn her away, or refuse her shelter and care. He couldn’t really keep her there forever, unless he found something useful for her to do, and he had no idea what she was capable of. Probably not much. None of the women he knew would have been capable of surviving on their own, without the protection of their families and men. And Wachiwi was from an entirely different world and knew nothing of theirs. She was totally alone.

In the morning, Wachiwi dressed carefully in one of the dresses Jean had given her. She would have liked to go out to the gardens, but had no idea how to get there, so she walked up the stairs to where she guessed the nursery was instead. And she was right. The children’s voices grew louder as she approached a room just over her own, and she could hear the governess scolding them. She knocked as Jean had taught her to do and opened the door, and there they were. Agathe was sitting on the floor holding a doll and playing a game, and Matthieu was playing with a hoop, which the governess had just told him to put down at once.

Wachiwi smiled at them, and they bounded over to her the moment they saw her. They looked delighted, and she talked to them for a few minutes. She said she wanted to go to the gardens but didn’t know how to get there, and Matthieu instantly begged the governess to let them show her. Looking pained by the whole experience and Wachiwi’s visit, she agreed, and a few minutes later, with coats on, they all ran down the stairs, as Wachiwi followed. It was cold outside, but sunny, and there was a stiff November wind, but running through the maze, across the grass and in between the flower beds, both children stayed warm, and chasing them in their games, so did Wachiwi. She was having a wonderful time with them, and looked like a child herself. None of them noticed when the children’s father appeared and stood to one side watching them. He had never seen his children have so much fun.

Wachiwi noticed him only when she crashed into him, running away from Matthieu. She was startled when she saw him, and out of breath. She apologized profusely and looked embarrassed.

“Don’t let them wear you out!” he warned.

“I love playing with them,” Wachiwi said, breathless from their games, and he could see that she meant it. And with that Mademoiselle used the opportunity to say it was time to wash up before lunch, and spirited them away. “You have wonderful children!” Wachiwi said admiringly. “We’ve had a lovely time together this morning.” She was still smiling as she said it, and sorry they had left.

“How did you sleep?” he asked, looking serious.

“Very well, thank you.” It was one of those standard responses that was one of the first Jean had taught her. But in fact, she hadn’t. She had barely slept at all. “It’s a very comfortable bed.” That was true, but her bad dreams and concerns about her future now made it irrelevant how soft the bed was. And she didn’t want to seem ungrateful to him. She was well aware that what happened to her now was not his problem, and he was being very kind, out of love and respect for his brother and the woman he had wanted to make his wife.

“I’m glad to hear that. I hope you’re warm enough. The house can get a little chilly.” She laughed then.

“So can a tipi.” He looked at her, not sure what to say, and he laughed too. She was so open about everything, and not afraid to be who she was, or say what she thought, without ever being inappropriate or rude. “Your brother said you have wonderful stables.” She was aching to see them, but she didn’t want to push.

“I wouldn’t go that far. I was going to buy some new horses in the spring. We have some good ones. I use them mostly for hunting.” She nodded. “Would you like to see the stables?” He didn’t know what else to suggest to her. He was planning to have lunch with her, to be polite, but the stables would provide a welcome distraction before that. He assumed they had very little in common, and conversation would be pretty thin. His brother must have talked to her about something, or maybe their relationship was all about physical attraction and passion. But he had to admit, the French Jean had taught her was excellent. She made few mistakes, and usually corrected them herself when she did. He had taught her well, and she had had two months of constant practice on the boat. Jean had been very diligent with her about it, preparing her for their arrival in France, into his world.

Wachiwi followed him to the stables, and Tristan saw her face come alive when she entered. She went from stall to stall, checking out his horses, sometimes she went in, and felt their muscles or their legs. She talked to them soothingly in what Tristan assumed was Sioux, and she singled out each of his best horses with a practiced eye.

“You must like to ride,” he said pleasantly, impressed by how at ease she was with them and what she seemed to know.

She laughed at what he said. “Yes, I do. I have five brothers. I used to ride with them, and sometimes they would have me race against their friends.”

“Horse races?” Tristan looked startled. He had never known a woman who raced horses. But Wachiwi knew he had never known a Sioux, although she had been unusual in her tribe too. None of the young girls raced horses against the men, or at all, except Wachiwi. He was guessing that the horses she had ridden had been very tame. “Would you like to go for a ride this afternoon?” he suggested. It would be something for her to do. He was treating her like an honored guest, which she was. She had come all the way from New Orleans to marry his brother, and now she had nothing to do and no reason to be here, and he had even less reason to be with her. If riding would help pass the time while he attempted to entertain her, he was game. Her eyes lit up the minute he suggested it.

“You ride sidesaddle, of course?” he questioned, and she shook her head.

“No, I don’t.” She had seen women riding sidesaddle in New Orleans, but it looked awkward and uncomfortable to her, and like a very insecure and silly way to ride. She had said as much to Jean at the time, and he laughed and told her she would have to learn. It was the only thing he had ever told her that she refused. Riding was sacred to her.

“What do you prefer?” Tristan asked, looking bemused. He couldn’t imagine her riding astride like a man, although perhaps it was a tradition for women to do so among the Sioux.

“No saddle at all. Just bridle and reins.” Jean had told her what they were called. “I’ve ridden that way all my life.” She didn’t mention her little trick of sometimes riding along the side of the horse. Tristan looked startled at what she had suggested, but he was suddenly curious to see what kind of rider she was. “Will anyone see us?” she asked, which shocked him even more.

“Just the grooms and stable boys.”

“May I wear whatever I choose?” He was a little frightened by what she was suggesting, and wanting to be polite to his brother’s almost-bride, he nodded. “I’d like to wear one of my old dresses when I ride. I can’t ride properly in all this.” She looked down at her voluminous skirt, the gloves, the bonnet, the shoes. It was just too much, and impossible for her to ride that way.

“Do whatever pleases you, my dear,” he said kindly. “We’ll have a nice ride in the hills after lunch. Did you see any particular horse that struck your fancy in the stables?” he asked, as they walked back to the château. The stables were set apart and had been built more recently. She had seen one horse she liked, and described him to Tristan, who looked shocked. “He’s quite dangerous. He’s not fully broken yet. I don’t want you to get hurt.” His brother would never have forgiven him. He had a responsibility to her now, even if it was different from the custom in her tribe, where a surviving brother had to marry his dead brother’s wife, as Napayshni had. She hadn’t been Jean’s wife. And that wasn’t the custom in France. But he did feel somewhat responsible for her, and was still trying to figure out what that meant, how far the obligation went, and what he should do. For now it meant entertaining her civilly, and providing her a home until she figured out somewhere else to go. And he realized that under the circumstances it might take months, so they had to make the best of it for now. He was trying, but that didn’t mean getting her killed on an unreliable horse.

They had lunch in the enormous dining room, at the far end of an endless table. And the cook had made them a very good fish soup. Wachiwi ate it all and the plentiful cheese and fruit they served afterward. And then she went upstairs to get ready for their ride. When she came back, Tristan was more than a little surprised to see her wrapped in a blanket. She had brought it with her, and beneath it she was wearing her elkskin dress with the quills, and the doeskin leggings that went with it. On her feet were the beaded moccasins she had made herself. She was entirely comfortable and at ease and moved with a striking grace. Looking at her, Tristan was mildly embarrassed and hoped that no one but the grooms would see her, but as he followed her to the stables, he noticed that she moved with the lithe agility of a dancer, worthy of her name. And he made no comment about her dress other than to ask her if she was sure she could ride in that. He had already tried to talk her into a different horse, to no avail. When she was pressed, he could see that she was a headstrong girl. He tried not to notice the look on the grooms’ faces when she mounted bareback in the elkskin dress. Their eyes bulged in amazement, but they said not a word. Her jet-black hair streamed down her back. The horse began to prance as soon as she was mounted, and instantly he saw something different come over her, and within a second she was one with the horse, and the skittish mount began to calm down. She rode him serenely from the stables with a practiced hand, and Tristan followed her on his own familiar horse, which was spirited and solid, but not as wild or as fast or as racy as the one she was on. Wachiwi looked peaceful and happy, as Tristan watched her, fascinated by her control of the horse. She mastered him with ease.

They said nothing for a few minutes as they followed a path Tristan knew well, and when her horse began to dance again, she startled Tristan by giving him his head and took off like a shot. The horse was so fast and she so glued to it that he couldn’t even follow, and suddenly as he watched her, Tristan knew what he was seeing, an incredibly gifted rider with more skill than any man he had ever seen. She flew, she galloped, she jumped over a hedge, she lay flat against the horse, she controlled him totally, and he wasn’t sure who was having more fun, Wachiwi or her mount. She was the most incredible rider he had ever seen. She was a joy to watch. And he was laughing when he caught up to her at last. He was breathless. She was not. She looked blissful and totally at ease.

“Remind me never to try and teach you anything about a horse. Good God, you’re an amazing rider. Now I can see why your brothers bet on you in races. I imagine they never lost. It’s a pity we can’t do that here.” And he looked as though he meant it. Watching her on horseback was poetry in motion. He had never had a riding partner anything like her, woman or man.

“Why not?” She was interested in what he said, as they slowly turned back to the château after a two-hour ride in the hills. She hated to go back, and this time so did he.

“Women don’t race horses,” he said simply, and she nodded.

“They don’t with my people either.” And then she added, “Your brother was a good rider.” She remembered their long flight from the Crow village to St. Louis. Lesser riders than both of them would have been killed. Their skill and expertise had saved their lives.

“Yes, he was,” Tristan agreed.

“So are you,” she said, smiling at him. “I had a good time riding with you today.” He was far more circumspect than she, and was astride a slower horse, but she could see that he was an excellent rider too. Just not as wild as she. Few riders were.

“So did I,” he admitted easily. He was enjoying her company. And her conversation was easy and intelligent. “It’s fun riding with you, Wachiwi. Maybe it’s the dress,” he teased her. “It must be a magic dress.”

“I wore it when your brother and I escaped from the village where the Crow had taken me as a slave.” He was shocked to hear it. It made him realize how little he knew about her life, and the customs of her people. Being taken as a slave sounded horrifying to him. “Your brother saved me. We rode hard for many days to get away.” She didn’t tell him about killing Napayshni. He didn’t need to know.

“That must have been frightening,” he said in an awed voice, aware of how uninformed he was about her relationship with his brother.

“Yes, it was,” she said calmly. “I tried to escape many times, but they always caught me and brought me back.” She showed him the mark on her dress where she had been shot with the arrow. She had repaired it, but the mark was still there, as it was on her shoulder as well. She had a nasty scar where she’d been shot, but didn’t show him that. Jean knew it well.

“How terrifying. You’re a very brave girl.” He was curious about her then. There was more to this young woman than met the eye. She was not just beautiful, pleasant to talk to, and an excellent rider, she had a history and abilities that he knew nothing about, and which he suspected were fascinating. She looked like a child, but she wasn’t. Perhaps his brother knew what he was doing after all. Tristan had doubted it for a moment when he first saw her, and thought her only an exotic, pretty girl. But he didn’t now. “Was your father a chief?” She nodded. He had suspected as much from her confidence, dignity, and grace.

“A great one. White Bear. My brothers will be too one day. They are already brave warriors now.” And then she looked at him sadly. She missed them so much and thought of them often. They were so far away now, and she fully realized she would never see them again. It brought tears to her eyes. “Two of them were killed when I was taken by the Crow. I never saw the others again. And I never will now. If I go back to my father’s tribe, the Crow will make war on them, because I ran away from them. I was given to their chief.”

“Remarkable,” Tristan said quietly, wondering what else she had in her history, other than that amazing story and her incredible skill with horses. They led their horses into the stable, and Wachiwi followed him back to the château after they dismounted. It was late by then. They had ridden longer than planned, but they had both enjoyed it. He was tired now, but Wachiwi looked more alive than ever. The ride in the hills at full speed had been good for her soul.

“I’m going to Paris tomorrow for a few days,” Tristan told her before he left her.

“To visit the king’s court?” she asked with interest, sounding like Matthieu or Agathe.

“Probably. I have some other things to do as well. When I come back, we’ll have to ride again. Perhaps you can show me some of your tricks.” She laughed openly as he said it, and she turned to smile at him.

“I will teach you to ride like a Sioux.”

“After what I saw today, I think I’d like that. Thank you, Wachiwi.” He smiled back at her, and went up the grand staircase to his rooms.

As Wachiwi found her way back to her own suite, she could hear the children laughing in the nursery. Instead of going straight to her room, she stopped to say hello to them. She forgot that she was still wearing her elkskin dress, and they were fascinated by it. Predictably, their governess looked shocked and turned away from such a disgusting sight.

“I saw you ride with Papa today,” Matthieu commented, “from the window. You were riding very fast.”

“Yes, I was,” she admitted. “I like to do that sometimes.”

“I don’t like horses,” Agathe interjected, and Wachiwi didn’t try to change her mind. In their world, that was probably a good thing, and entirely expected.

“Will you teach me to ride like that?” Matthieu asked her, looking wistful.

“If your father says I may.” She didn’t tell him that his father wanted to learn to ride that way too, and had asked. Maybe teaching both of them was something she could do for them in exchange for their kindness and hospitality to her. She felt useless here otherwise. She had not come here to do nothing. She had come to be Jean’s wife. And now she had to find something else to do. Teaching the marquis and his son to ride like Sioux warriors was going to be fun for her, and maybe for them too. “You have to ask your father. I will do whatever he says,” Wachiwi said wisely, as the governess sniffed and glared at her. She had never in her entire life seen anything as shocking as Wachiwi’s elkskin dress, and she said as much to Agathe after she left.

“I liked it!” the little girl said defiantly. “And the blue things on it are pretty. She said she made them herself with berries.” Agathe was proud of her new friend. It was nice having a young woman around, one who was kind to them, and not a sourpuss like Mademoiselle.

“How disgusting,” the governess said, turned her back, and began putting their toys away.

And in her own room, looking out the window at the ocean, Wachiwi was thinking about them. She knew now that she would never marry. She had refused the suitors in her village, and Napayshni. The only man she had ever loved and wanted to marry was Jean. And now he was gone. A tear crept down her cheek as she thought of it. But at least she could be kind to his nephew and niece and brother, for as long as she could stay. She didn’t know what would happen to her now, but she knew that sooner or later she’d have to go. She couldn’t stay here without Jean. Of that she was certain.

Wachiwi saw Tristan leave for Paris early the next morning, before dawn. She had awakened early and was looking out the window when she saw him come out of the stables on horseback with his valet and a groom. He didn’t bother taking the carriage now that he was alone. And Matthieu had told her that the three men would stop at an inn that night. They would ride for fifteen hours for two days and then stay at his Paris house. Tristan had told her himself that he didn’t like going to Paris. He preferred his quiet life in Brittany and had too much to do here on his estate to waste time going to court. He said that since his wife’s death he went as seldom as he could, but he didn’t want to be disrespectful of the king, so he went from time to time.

Wachiwi wondered what it was like at court, and found it hard to imagine. Jean had described it to her, and all she could envision were women who looked like his cousin Angélique, which seemed daunting to her. He had described millions of candles and mirrors, long tables with enormous feasts, music, dancing, and complicated intrigues that made no sense to her. Jean had said that many people wanted favors from the king and queen and did all kinds of things to obtain them.

She couldn’t imagine Tristan as part of all that, or even dancing. He seemed like such a sober, quiet man, and as though he would be happiest on a horse, or with his children. She couldn’t envision him in satin breeches and a powdered wig and was glad she didn’t have to see it. She liked the person he was here, in Brittany.

She watched him ride away from the château, with his two servants riding behind him. It started to rain softly as they disappeared from sight, and she knew it would be a long ride to Paris. She hoped he wouldn’t catch a chill or get sick. Jean’s death had reminded her that even strong men could be fragile. And she had already come to like and respect Tristan. He was the older brother she no longer had and still longed for and whom Jean had described with such love and respect. Tristan was someone she already sensed that one could count on. She was embarrassed to be so dependent on him without Jean. But for now, Tristan and his children were all she had. She prayed for his safe return from Paris, for their sake and her own.