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

  Chapter Eighteen

  If you’re going to make your way among the rich, you’ve got to be smart!” says Lucie when they are alone in the kitchen a few days later. “A girl like you can make a lot of money if you play it right.”

  Isabelle picks up her cup of wine and sips it as she considers her friend’s words. “I thought I was doing quite well already,” she says.

  “Quite well, yes. You’ve managed to get this far.” She waves an arm at their surroundings. “But this can’t be all you want. Look at me. I fought hard to get this position after Jean-Pierre’s wife died, but I don’t want to be a housekeeper for the rest of my life!” She leans closer, looking around as though checking for hidden spies. “I’ve spent years getting to know influential people, helping them out by delivering messages, keeping their secrets, that sort of thing. I’m going places, Isabelle. One day, I’ll get out of here and buy myself a nice house. After that, I’ll open my own salon for the upper class men and women of Paris. What about you?” She fixes Isabelle with a stare. “You like living here?”

  “Of course! It’s wonderful. You should have seen where I was living before. It was horrible. And frightening too.”

  “And what about Jean-Pierre?” says Lucie, peering over the rip of her cup. “You like him as well?”

  Isabelle shrugs. “He’s okay, I suppose. But he’s very old. And he can be a bit rude sometimes.”

  “And what about in bed? How do you like that?”

  “Not one bit!” says Isabelle, placing her cup firmly on the table and causing a little of the wine to spill out onto the table. “He’s like some kind of wild animal, grunting and rutting away.”

  Lucie lifts a hand to wipe her mouth, hiding her amused grin. “Don’t worry, my dear. Not all men are like that. In fact, some of them are very sweet, true gentlemen.”

  “That’s a relief. Do you know such men?”

  “Oh, yes!” Lucie raises her eyebrows, trying to affect a mysterious look, before draining the last of her wine. “Yes, I know a few…” Leaving her words hanging, she gets up from the table and returns to her work of getting the house ready to settle down for the night. Isabelle, still sipping her drink, watches her friend at work.

  It’s so lovely to have a true friend, she thinks. I never really had one before, and Lucie is exactly what I’ve always needed. Someone who will help me to get free from the poverty I was born into. Someone who will help me to get what I want.

  When she wakes the following morning, easing herself out from beneath the covers to look out at the winter sun lighting up the city, she feels somehow that there is something new coming, just out of sight over the horizon, a new world that she is only just starting to realize exists. She flings open her wardrobe and admires the two dresses it contains together with her other clothes. Fingering the exquisitely embroidered fabrics, she smiles at this treasure that is now hers.

  They’re so beautiful!

  Her thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the door and Lucie enters the room carrying a breakfast tray. She places it on the dressing table and turns to Isabelle.

  “How are you feeling this bright morning, my dear?” she asks.

  “Great!” says Isabelle, still standing in front of the wardrobe. “I slept like a baby last night, mostly thanks to the fact that Jean-Pierre didn’t come in for his night’s activities.”

  Lucie peers over her shoulder to see what she is looking at. “What have you got in there?”

  “Just a few dresses that he’s given me since I arrived here.” She steps to one side so her friend can see into the wardrobe.

  “He gave you these?” says Lucie, reaching in and pulling one of the dresses out, a burgundy colored piece fashioned from velvet and lace. “What a load of trash!”

  Isabelle turns round in astonishment. “Trash?”

  “That’s right, trash! Look at this thing. This style hasn’t been in fashion for twenty years, at least!”

  “Oh.” A look of disappointment shadows Isabelle face and her cheeks flush slightly. “Oh, really?”

  “Indeed! They’re outdated and tasteless. You see this neckline?” Lucie runs a finger along the dress’s seam and her friend nods. “That shows it’s at least fifteen years old. And the fall of the skirt is far too narrow. No, no! These won’t do at all. You’ll have to get new dresses.”

  “But these dresses were a gift from Jean-Pierre,” says Isabelle, taking the dress from Lucie and hanging it carefully back in the wardrobe.

  “Are you telling me these dreary garments are his payment for making love to a young beauty like you?”

  “Not exactly. He gave them to me because he wants me to look nice.”

  “Hah!” Lucie shuts the door as if trying to hide the dresses from her sight. “He wants you to look like his dreary old wife!” She pauses, her back pressed against the wardrobe, and looks at her friend. “Tell me, Isabelle, do you love him?”

  She frowns. “Jean-Pierre? No. Not at all. But he’s not a bad catch for someone like me. What other choice do I have?”

  “Oh, you have choice! Your age, your face, your figure, you have everything going for you.”

  Isabelle blushes again at Lucie’s compliments. “But I’m just a girl from the slums.”

  “Who cares where you came from? It’s where you’re going that matters. So next time he offers you one of his dead wife’s dreary dresses, ask him for some money instead so you can buy yourself a proper dress, one that’s in vogue. A girl like you deserves a better dress, and you’ll need one to get yourself a better man!”

  “I can’t ask that. A new dress would be way too expensive.”

  “Well, don’t ask him for the whole lot all at once. Get it out of him in installments, little by little. Trust me, he’ll give you the money. Now,” she adds, walking over to the dresser and picking up the breakfast tray with a grin, “are you going to eat this before it goes cold or have I been slaving away downstairs for nothing?”

  ~

  Over the next few days, Isabelle quizzes Lucie on her ideas and adventures, amazed by this new friend’s experience of the life and the ways things worked in higher society. This surely is that new world she sensed was coming. Maybe she really does have a chance to find a good man, a rich man; a man like the one she saw all that time ago, in what seems now like another life; the man whose horse had knocked into her as she walked the freezing streets at night; the man who gave her the money that allowed her just a glimmer of hope to better herself and so to crawl out of the muck and filth. In quiet moments, Isabelle imagines meeting that gentleman again, his graceful hands holding hers, his elegant moustache caressing her cheek, his triangle hat resting on her knees.

  Walking the city streets has become something of a pleasure for her, now that she can choose to rather than being forced to by circumstances. And as she does so, Isabelle studies the dress of the fashionable Paris women, taking note of everything they are wearing from their bodices and skirts to their gloves, shoes and even their scarves. Each item is subjected to her scrutiny as she considers which might suit her and which would not. It becomes all too clear that Lucie was right. The dresses that belonged to Jean-Pierre’s wife are old, their style now obsolete. But at the same time, Isabelle finds that, as she studies the latest fashions she sees around her, an image of her ideal dress starts to form in her mind. She is surprised at how effortless this dress comes to her in the most intricate detail. It is almost like it designs itself!

  As soon as Isabelle has enough money, given by Jean-Pierre instead of those old dresses, Lucie takes her to visit a skilled seamstress friend of hers and, a few days later, she finds herself standing in her room gazing at herself in the mirror as she wears the dress of her dreams.

  I can’t believe it, she thinks, admiring the lines of the dress and the way it accentuates the growing curves of her body. It worked. Lucie’s plan really worked. Jean-Pierre could have given me twenty dresses, instead of the money, and they would have been nothing compared to thi
s one, beautiful outfit. She performs a little twirl in the mirror, laughing to herself.

  “Not bad!” she turns at the sound of Lucie’s voice, feeling a little embarrassed. But a pleased smile lights up her friends face. “You really are gorgeous, Isabelle.”

  “Thank you,” says Isabelle. “And thank you for all your help. I can hardly believe this is really my dress.”

  “Well, we’re not done yet!”

  Isabelle turns to look at herself in the mirror. “We’re not?”

  “Of course not,” says Lucie, walking over and beginning to tie up her friend’s hair. “We need to get you the right accessories, shoes, hat, gloves, that sort of thing.” She traces Isabelle’s neckline with a finger. “And then there’s the jewelry, of course.”

  “Jewelry?”

  “Yes. Expensive jewelry!”

  Isabelle frowns at her friend in the mirror. “I barely had enough money for this dress. Where am I going to get enough money for that sort of thing?”

  “Well, you can sell those crappy, old dresses for a start,” says Lucie with a wry smile. “They may not be fashionable, but they’re well-made and probably worth a bit of money. Enough for some shoes and stockings at least.”

  “Fine. But what about the jewelry?”

  Now it is Lucie’s turn to frown as she considers this. Then she shrugs. “We’ll work something out, don’t worry. But you definitely need it. There!” she adds, stepping back to look at her friend. “All you need now is some powder and rouge for your lips and cheeks and you’ll be the most sought after woman in Paris!”

  Isabelle gazes into the mirror. With her hair up and wearing this dress she can hardly recognize herself as the girl who walked the city streets at night only a few months ago.

  “Thank you, Lucie,” she says, moved almost to tears. “For everything.”

  Lucie smiles. “You’re a fine canvas to work with. You’ll be a hit at the coming ball.”

  Isabelle spins round, her mouth open. “A ball?”

  ~

  The following days seem to pass far too slowly for Isabelle. She is so excited about the idea of going to the ball she feels as though she might burst. Eventually, though the news she has been waiting for arrives.

  “Jean-Pierre will be leaving for the hunt the day after tomorrow,” says Lucie, hurrying into the room where Isabelle is sitting at the piano, humming along to a tune she is trying to master. “He could be away for as long as three, even four, weeks!”

  Isabelle stops playing and jumps to her feet, almost knocking the stool over. “Wonderful!” she says. “Whereabouts is he going?”

  “Oh, a long way away,” Lucie flaps her hand dismissively. “To the forests around Limoges. It’s at least a four-day journey.”

  “So this is it? Our chance to go to the ball?”

  Lucie smiles at her friend’s excitement. “Yes. It’s time to act!”

  Two days later, after much preparation, Jean-Pierre mounts his horse for the long journey south, taking with him a number of servants, hunting dogs and the various weapons that might be needed for the sport. Once the party is ready, with the cooking staff and food loaded up into a wagon, they set out, leaving the house strangely quiet and empty.

  Lucie has also been busy with her preparations and has used her influential contacts to arrange invitations for her and Isabelle to attend a high-society ball. No sooner has the hunt party disappeared along the street than she and Isabelle set to work planning for the ball, which is only a few days away.

  Since Isabelle still has no jewelry to wear, Lucie lends her some of her own, a pearl necklace with matching earrings that accentuate the elegant style of her new dress.

  A few hours later, with their hair done up and faces powdered and rouged, they arrive at the stately rooms for the ball. And it is not just any ball, but a masquerade with an assortment of fancy masks handed out to guests as they arrive. Isabelle selects a simple design that conceals as little of her face as possible. Lucie, however, chooses an ornate, feathered mask with a beaked nose that makes her appear like a playful bird.

  “How do I look?” she asks, holding the mask up to her face and walking with a seductive swing to her hips. A few men hanging around the entrance hall stare at her, eyeing up the bulging mass of her breasts, which are barely stuffed into her bodice. In contrast to her friend, Isabelle feels shy and is afraid to look up, a feeling that increases as they enter the ballroom together and hundreds of pairs of eyes turn in their direction.

  Everyone is looking at us, she thinks with a mixture of fear and shame. Thank goodness we’re wearing these masks, otherwise I’d die of embarrassment.

  No sooner have they taken a few steps into the room, its white marble surfaces dazzling in the light of the candelabra, than a man comes scuttling up to them, his round face hidden behind a mask with bull horns. He peeps over the top of it and winks at Lucie.

  “How do you do, Lucie?” he says with a sweet smile. “Looking as alluring as always!”

  Lucie offers him a small curtsy. “At your service, marquis. May I introduce my companion to you, the young Isabelle.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, milady,” says the marquis, turning to face her. He bows and, as he does so, Isabelle notices the spreading bald patch on the top of head.

  This man must be at least in his sixties, she thinks. But Lucie called him “marquis” so he’s clearly a nobleman of some description. So she curtsies politely. “Thank you, monsieur marquis.”

  “Oh, please, dear lady,” he says, taking her hand and giving her his best smile. “Call me, Cedric.” He bends down as kisses her hand. “How you are doing, Isabelle?”

  To her surprise, Isabelle feels her nervousness draining away thanks to the marquis’ easy affability. “I do well, Cedric. Though it could always be better.”

  The marquis looks at her a moment, then laughs. “What a treasure!” he says to Lucie. “Where did you find her?”

  “Oh, I never reveal my sources. You know that.”

  With a chuckle, he takes hold of Lucie’s arm, drawing her away. “Come on, you saucy girl. Time for a little dance while my legs can still take it!” And then they are gone, swallowed up by the crowd of dancers, leaving Isabelle alone.

  Peering through the eyeholes in her mask, she looks around the room, amazed by how many people there seem to be. At one end of the ballroom a small orchestra accompanies the dancers, playing a fast paced tune that Isabelle decides to try and work out as soon as she’s back home. Scattered around the outside of the room are a number of chairs for the ladies to rest in after dancing, and tall tables for people to stand around and place their glasses of champagne. As her gaze moves slowly around the room, Isabelle becomes aware that a couple of middle aged men, both dressed in exquisite finery, are leaning against one of these tables watching her. As her eyes meet theirs, she lowers them quickly, as though studying the pattern of the tiles.

  Oh no, she thinks, as she looks up slightly in their direction. One of those men is coming this way! He’s heading straight towards me. What do I do?

  “Good evening, milady,” says the man in a rich voice, rich in every sense. Isabelle looks up at the man, who bows slightly. She is pleased to see he is not balding.

  “Very good evening, milord,” she replies, repeating the curtsy that Lucie had taught her.

  The man leans in closely to whisper in her ear. “Are you here on your own?”

  “No,” she says with a slight shake of her head that causes her cheek to brush slightly against his. “I am here with a friend of mine called Lucie.” At that moment, she spots Lucie, still dancing with the marquis, and gestures towards her with her mask. “That’s her.”

  But the man does not turn to look at Lucie. Instead he is looking in admiration at Isabelle’s uncovered face.

  “What is your name, my dear?” he asks, still gazing at her.

  “I am Isabelle, milord.”

  He smiles kindly. “Well, Isabelle. I am Vicomte Bernard du Bois and I would
like to offer you a ride. Would that be acceptable?”

  Blushing, Isabelle raises the mask back to her face and responds with a small nod.

  “And how much would it be for the pleasure of your company?”

  Although Lucie has gone through the practical details of such a transaction with her, Isabelle finds herself lost for words now that she is faced with this elegant, influential gentleman.

  “This fine, young pearl is quite a discovery, wouldn’t you say, milord?” Isabelle breathes a sigh of relief at the timely arrival of Lucie. The Vicomte nods his head in agreement so Lucie continues, “This is her first time here, a fresh, new fruit, ripe and ready for plucking.”

  “I see,” he says, turning to Lucie to discuss matters further. “Then perhaps you might enlighten me as to the cost of such a fruit, of borrowing this beautiful pearl for tonight.”

  Lucie purses her lips as if considering nothing more the price of a loaf of bread in the market. “A mere five hundred livres.”

  Isabelle coughs, amazed at this staggering amount of money.

  Five hundred livres? Has Lucie gone mad? Surely no one would pay such a price for a single night with her! But the Vicomte does not seem at all phased by Lucie’s words.

  “It’s reasonable,” he says with a shrug as though he, too, was discussing nothing more than the purchase of some bread.

  “Excellent. You won’t be disappointed, milord.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I won’t be,” he says, offering his arms to Isabelle. “Not one bit.”

  ~

  “What an amazing night!” says Isabelle, as she and Lucie drink their morning coffee together the next day. “I guess all men are different.”

  “Of course they are! They’re not all rutting bulls like Jean-Pierre. Some are kind lovers, some are gentle. Some will take you to heaven and back, and some are into some pretty weird stuff. But one thing that unites them all…”

  “Yes?” Isabelle puts down her cup and leans forward, intrigued.