Redemption: Supernatural Time-Traveling Romance with Sci-fi and Metaphysics Read online

  Isabelle has never been on a horse before and, as she sits side-saddle just above the creature’s rump, she grasps the man around the waist, afraid that she might fall off. The cobblestoned street seems a long way down!

  I must be hurting him, she thinks, but the man says nothing. Instead, he lets out a small chuckle and pats her hand kindly.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t let you get hurt.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  For the rest of the short journey, they do not speak, and eventually the man draws up outside a large, stately home, whose front lawn is lit by a number of ornate torches. A servant in a leather apron hurries out to hold the horse as the rider, whose name Isabelle suddenly realizes she still does not know, dismounts and offers a hand to her.

  “What is your name, monsieur?” she asks, taking the hand easing herself slowly to the ground.

  “I am Jean-Pierre Lacroix,” he says with a slight bow. Straightening up, he gestures towards the house. “Welcome to my home, Isabelle.”

  The door is opened by woman.

  Oh no! His wife is here! Isabelle panics for a moment, staring at the woman. She is older than Isabelle, somewhere in her thirties. In return the woman stares back at her with a look of contempt.

  “Good evening, milord,” she says, turning to look at Jean-Pierre as he steps into the entrance hall. “May I take your coat?”

  He shrugs it off and she takes it, hanging it in a nearby cupboard. “Lucie,” he says, “Isabelle and I are going through to the dining room. We will require food and wine immediately.”

  With another scathing glare at Isabelle, the woman, Lucie, walks away.

  Well, she’s obviously not his wife. She must be his housemaid, thinks Isabelle, following Jean-Pierre through a doorway. Thank goodness for that!

  “Please, sit,” says Jean-Pierre, gesturing to an ornate dining table, but she just stands, looking around the room in wonder. Although she has been in a handful of houses during her sixteen years of life, none of them were as plush and inviting as this one. In one of the walls is a large fireplace, where a log fire burns with a warm glow. Everything is tidy and well kept. “Please,” repeats Jean-Pierre, still holding a hand towards the table.

  “These are beautiful chairs,” says Isabelle, choosing one to sit in.

  “My wife chose them.” A sad look passes across his face. “She died a year ago. It’s only me and my two boys here now. And the servants, of course.”

  As he mentions this, Lucie walks in carrying a large tray loaded with food. Without even glancing at Isabelle, she places a plate of bread and another of sliced turkey on the table together with a bottle of wine and a jug of water. Isabelle stares at the food, amazed at the sight. She has never sat down to a meal of this size and she suddenly realizes just how hungry she is.

  “Please eat, my dear,” says Jean-Pierre, waving the housemaid away and, as Isabelle helps herself to the food, he pours some of the wine into a pair of intricately patterned silver goblets.

  This is amazing, she thinks. The house, the food and everything. And though he is pretty old, he’s not ugly or anything. She steals a glance at him as she bites into a piece of bread and sees him smiling warmly at her.

  “Here,” he says, picking up a goblet and passing it to her. “Have a little wine, my dear.”

  Isabelle hesitates, her hand halfway to the goblet, as she has never had wine before.

  Jean-Pierre gives her a comforting smile. “It’s alright. It is perfectly safe.”

  She takes it and, not knowing how to drink it, gulps at the red liquid. Almost immediately she starts coughing, having just managed to swallow the wine first so she didn’t spray it across the table. The liquid burns her throat and stomach, though not unpleasantly, and a warm glow spreads across her cheeks. A sudden tiredness comes over her and her arms and legs feel strange somehow, as though they do not quite belong to her. As she yawns, Jean-Pierre lays a hand gently on her wrist.

  “Perhaps you would like a bath to help wash off the concerns of the day. Lucie!” the housemaid hurries in at his call. “Prepare a bath for my guest and ensure she is given the finest oils and soaps.” Turning back to Isabelle, he continues, “Go with Lucie, my dear. She will bathe you and get you ready for bed.”

  “Thank you,” says Isabelle, rising to leave, and thinks, a bath! I have never even dreamed of such a luxury. A quick splash in the freezing Seine is the best I can hope for, but a real bath. . .

  It is all she could imagine and more; the steam, the smells, the oils, all of it like some wonderful dream. Lucie, still seeming to ignore Isabelle, busies herself filling the large ceramic bathtub with steaming hot water from a boiler and tempering it with a few splashes from a cold water cistern. Then she approaches Isabelle and begins to pull at the laces of her bodice.

  “What are you doing?” says Isabelle, backing away from her in confusion.

  Lucie gives her a stern look. “I need to undress you for a bath, girl. Unless you want to go in wearing these filthy rags. They could probably do with the wash.” She sighs. “Just stand still and let me get you out of these clothes.”

  This time Isabelle stands still as Lucie undoes the laces and takes off the bodice, before stripping off her skirt as well. As she does so, Isabelle notices the woman’s lips wrinkle in disgust. Finally, when Isabelle’s clothes are in an untidy pile and she is standing with her arms folded across her chest to cover her breasts, Lucie tells her to get in the bath.

  The water is wonderfully warm and as she lowers herself into the tub, Isabelle feels an amazing sense of relaxation and peace. She lays there, the heat of the bath filling her up, and wants to stay there longer, but Lucie returns carrying a large brush, a metal comb and a bar of soap.

  For the next few minutes, Isabelle’s whole body is subjected to vigorous scrubbing.

  Well this isn’t as relaxing as I’d hoped, she thinks. I’ll be lucky if I have any skin left after she’s finished with this brush! But then the combing begins. “Ouch!”

  “Don’t make such a fuss,” says Lucie, dragging the comb through the tangles of her hair. “You don’t want to look like a street urchin for his lordship, do you?”

  At these words, Isabelle’s heart seems to skip a beat. She had briefly forgotten the reason for her presence here and for being scrubbed and combed into respectability. Now she recalls what is going to happen later and she has a stab of worry. Even the light massage that follows her bath, after she has been rinsed off with spring water and rubbed dry with soft linen, does not quite manage to alleviate her concern.

  I wonder if it’s true what they say, she thinks, as Lucie pours scented oil onto her back and begins to ease the muscles between Isabelle’s shoulders. Is it really always painful the first time you have sex?

  At last, the preparations are complete and, now dressed in a silky nightdress, Isabelle is shown into a large bedroom.

  “Wait here for the master,” says Lucie curtly, placing a lit candle on the dressing table before stalking out of the room.

  Left alone, Isabelle paces around the room, tense and nervous.

  I really hope it doesn’t hurt. If I didn’t need the money, I feel I would run away right now. But fifty livres! That’s a huge amount. What if he doesn’t find me pleasing in bed, though? Maybe he will decide not to pay me after all.

  Her thoughts are interrupted by the creak of the door opening and she turns to see Jean-Pierre entering the room. He stops and looks at her as though this is the first time he has seen her.

  “You are looking beautiful, my dear,” he says with a smile. In his hand is a sheaf of papers and he lays these next to the candle on the dressing table. “Fifty livres, as promised.”

  Isabelle walks over and looks at the notes, more money than she has ever seen.

  “Shall we?” she turns to see Jean-Pierre pulling back the sheets and gesturing for her to join him. A new look has crept into his eyes, a look of desire. But it is not the unpleasant, hungry look such as
that she saw in the fat man’s eyes. It is a simple longing without aggression or malice. So, feeling slightly less nervous, Isabelle climbs into the bed.

  The love-making does not last long, and though it is painful, it is not as terrible as she imagined it would be. As Jean-Pierre rolls himself off her, he looks concerned for Isabelle and pulls back the sheets to reveal the blood.

  “Oh!” he says, his eyebrows raised. “Were you a virgin?”

  “Yes,” says Isabelle, still winching at the pain and hardly able to speak.

  “I am your first lover.”

  It is not a question, but still she replies, “Yes. You are.”

  They lay there in silence together until Jean-Pierre says, “I would like to give you a dress that belonged to my wife.” Then, as Isabelle pulls back the covers to get out of the bed, he lays a hand on her arm. “Will you stay with me, Isabelle? For the night?”

  She looks around the room, and wonders if she has ever slept in such fine surroundings, even as a child before her parents died. The idea of returning to sleep in the slums after being washed and taken care of is almost unthinkable.

  “Thank you,” she says. “I would like that very much.”

  In the morning, she is awoken by Jean-Pierre with that same look of desire in his eyes, and she lies back and closes her eyes as he pulls himself onto her again. If anything it hurts even more than the previous night, but she refuses to let him know and grits her teeth against the pain.

  What animals these men are, she thinks as he finally reaches his climax. Still, it is not too great a price to eat well, bathe and be paid so handsomely.

  ~

  “As promised,” says Jean-Pierre, drawing back the curtain to reveal a closet filled with dresses. “Choose one and it is yours.”

  They have already eaten breakfast together, sitting in the dining room as before. This time there were more servants waiting on them, including Lucie, who was still giving Isabelle the cold shoulder. There had been eggs, a selection of meats, porridge and bread, all a delight for Isabelle. And now she finds herself presented with this wonderful selection of dresses.

  What luxury, she thinks as she looks through the beautiful clothes. I guess Jean-Pierre’s wife was a bit taller than me, but she had a wonderful collection. And I’m sure I can afford to get the dress altered to fit me.

  In the end, she settles on a skirt and bodice, instead of a single dress, and Jean-Pierre lets her take a hat that he says matches her eyes. Excited, she pulls on the clothes and the hat and looks into a full length mirror standing in a corner of the room. There, staring right back at her, is a fine-looking young lady with clothing to grow into and a big smile on her face.

  “You truly are beautiful, my dear,” says Jean-Pierre, admiring her from the doorway. And, Isabelle’s smile grows even wider at this, the first complement a man has ever given her.

  “So where are you going now?” he asks and, at first, Isabelle is uncertain what to say. She feels ashamed of her dirty shelter in the city slums. Then she remembers a place she stayed occasionally with her aunt, where, although everyone sleeps together in one large room, they do at least have protection from the elements and even get to eat warm porridge each morning, all for only two livres a night. She can certainly afford that now!

  “I am going to stay in a boarding house,” she replies, “near the river.”

  Jean-Pierre frowns. He clearly has some idea of life in a boarding house. “Really? And you’re going there in these beautiful clothes?”

  “No, of course,” she says, hastily taking off her hat and beginning to unlace the bodice. “I will change.”

  “There’s no need for that,” he says, putting his hand on her to stop her undressing. “Why don’t you stay here? At least for a while. I have a spare room and it is a shame to let it go to waste.”

  “Well,” asks Isabelle innocently, with more than a little female cunning. “Does this mean I am to become your mistress?”

  Jean-Pierre nods his agreement. “You, my dear, shall have all the privileges that come with being a mistress.”

  “And I presume you wish to receive the privileges of having a mistress.” She gives him a playful look, holding his gaze for a moment. “Thank you, Jean-Pierre.”

  ~

  In the days that follow, Isabelle begins to settle into life with Jean-Pierre.

  This is a good choice, she keeps saying to herself, especially at those times when the sex is painful and leaves her sore for days after. I have a roof over my head, good food to eat and most importantly of all, money. Money is what I really need. That is the only thing that will provide me with true independence and freedom.

  Isabelle also enjoys the company of Jean-Pierre’s two sons, Philippe and Jean. They are both under ten years old and most days an elderly teacher comes to the house to school them in such things as reading and writing, math, history and geography. On one morning, Jean-Pierre finds Isabelle sitting outside the room when the teacher is speaking, her ear pressed again the door.

  “Isabelle?” he says.

  She turns quickly, her cheeks flushing. “Yes?”

  “Do you enjoy listening to the boys’ lessons?”

  “Oh, yes!” she says. “So many wonderful things to learn and to find out about. They’re fascinating.”

  A kindly smile spreads across Jean-Pierre’s face. “Would you like to sit in with Philippe and Jean? You can take part in the lessons properly then instead of sitting out here in the hall.”

  “Really?” Isabelle asks, excited at the idea and the chance to learn.

  “Of course, my dear. And while you’re in there, you can also help to keep my boys in line. They’re not always so keen to listen!”

  Delighted to have this opportunity, Isabelle does as Jean-Pierre asks, and joins in with the boys’ education as often as she can. Of all the lessons, the one taught by Antoine, the music teacher, is Isabelle’s favorite and, when she thinks that no one is around, she sits at the piano and practices what she has learned.

  If there is one thing that spoils her happiness at Jean-Pierre’s house, it is the animosity of the housekeeper, Lucie. No matter what Isabelle does, Lucie treats her with a cold contempt, refusing to speak to her or even look at her unless she cannot avoid it. It is so bad, in fact, that whenever they are both in the same room, Isabelle finds herself feeling tense and awkward, as though she should apologize for even existing.

  After several months living at the house, however, as Isabelle heads to her bedroom one day, she stops at the muffled sound of someone sobbing. Retracing her steps, she finds that it is coming from Lucie’s room. The door is ajar, so she eases it open to find the housekeeper with her head in her hands.

  At first Isabelle begins to duck back out of the room, but Lucie’s grief sounds so genuine and heartfelt that she stops on the threshold, looking at the woman with a growing sense of pity. Finally, she decides to comfort her and, sitting down on the bed, places an arm around Lucie’s shoulders.

  The housekeeper looks up in surprise and, shrugging off Isabelle’s arm, tries to keep herself from crying. After only a few seconds, however, her face crumples and she starts sobbing again.

  “It’s okay,” says Isabelle, placing her arm back across Lucie’s shoulders and hugging her gently. “It’s good to cry. Let it out, Lucie. It will help you to feel better.”

  Lucie does so, weeping bitterly with great sobs and sighs for a long time. Eventually, she manages to say a few words.

  “My son. He’s dead. My lovely baby boy. Dead.” And she returns to her crying again.

  Isabelle suddenly finds herself overwhelmed with sorrow for this poor woman. “Oh, my poor Lucie,” she says, hugging her even harder as tears well up in her own eyes. “I know how terrible it feels to miss someone you loved. Someone you have lost.”

  Soon they are both weeping together in each other’s arms, united at last by mutual grief and compassion.

  “I had a man once,” says Lucie as her sorrow begins to ea
se. “A man who loved me. He was a brave man, a soldier. But he was killed fighting the Spanish, leaving me all alone with Guillaume, our baby son.” She pauses to wipe her eyes with a damp handkerchief before continuing. “We had no money and no man to provide for us so I had to leave our village to come to Paris to find work. Guillaume stayed behind with a nurse, a good woman, and I visited when I could. But there is little time for family when you are a servant for the rich. Every time I visited Guillaume I hated having to leave. It was like my heart being torn out each time.”

  “But what else could you have done?” asks Isabelle, placing a comforting hand on Lucie’s.

  “Nothing. I had no choice. If I took him with me, how could I work? Besides, I had a plan. I was going to save up for Guillaume to come to Paris and be educated here.”

  “Did he ever come to the city?”

  “No.” Lucie’s eyes flicked down as tears filled them again. “He fell sick with a terrible fever. He wouldn’t eat anything and became horribly weak.”

  Isabelle remembers her aunt suffering just the same symptoms and knows how frightened Lucie must have been. “It was the wasting sickness?”

  “Yes,” Lucie nods. “I got the doctor to see him, but there was nothing he could do. He told me to pray and rely on God’s mercy. Much good that did. My dear Guillaume passed away only days before his seventh birthday. Why is it that the people we love are taken away?” She starts sobbing again, overwhelmed by the painful memories. Isabelle sits in silence, still holding her tightly. Eventually the tears slow again and Lucie looks up into her face. “I’m sorry, Isabelle.”

  “For what?” she replies. “For crying? Don’t be silly!”

  “Not for my tears. I am sorry for how I treated you, for my arrogance and unkindness.”

  Isabelle smiles at her, and holds Lucie’s face in her hands. “Think nothing of it, Lucie. Let’s start again.”

  And, smiling through their tears, Lucie puts her arms around Isabelle and Isabelle, in turn, embraces her new friend.