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

  As Babette tells her the story of her uncle’s rise in court, Isabelle finds her thoughts drifting back to Henri, his face, with its elegant black moustache, almost pearl white in the darkness, his lace cuff framing those sleek hands as he tossed her the coins. She shakes her head, trying to focus.

  “… and of course that leaves Albert as one of His Majesty’s favorites, a man of great influence.” Babette stops and turns to face Isabelle. “You know, he could arrange you a place in the King’s palace.”

  Isabelle stares at her in disbelief. “A place in the palace? Here?”

  “Of course. If you want it, that is.”

  “But. . .” says Isabelle, still stunned by the idea. “But Albert is so handsome. And rich. He could surely have any lady that takes his fancy. Why on earth would he do me such a favor?”

  “Why? Because he’s a man, of course.” Babette winks at her. “As you say, he can have his pick of the ladies, but poor Albert does get terribly bored by such easy prey. You just have to be different, that’s all. Don’t be easy like those other women.” She flaps a dismissive hand at a nearby group to illustrate her point. “Be cold and aloof. Keep him at a distance as long as possible. That way you keep him interested. That way, you make him want to favor you.”

  “Thank you, Babette,” says Isabelle to her new friend. “You are too kind.”

  ~

  Since the dinner party, Jean-Pierre’s business has kept him away for longer and longer periods of time. Sometimes he is called away for several days at a time and on these occasions Isabelle visits either the Marquis or the Vicomte in the evening and spends her earnings on the best finery Paris has to offer during the day. Her taste is excellent and she builds up a large collection of dresses, shoes, hats, jewelry and other accessories all in the latest style, transforming herself into a very attractive and fashionable young lady. Her gentlemen lovers are well experienced in love-making and Isabelle soon improves her skills in the art of foreplay, seduction and sexual congress.

  Some afternoons, however, Isabelle can be found at home, practicing her singing or chatting with Lucie, and it is here that one of Babette’s messengers finds her with an invitation to a deer hunt.

  “A hunt?” Isabelle looks at the messenger in surprise. “For deer?”

  “Indeed, milady. There is excellent hunting at this time of year.”

  “On horses?”

  “Of course.” The messenger pauses, noting the look of concern on Isabelle’s face. Then he leans forward and says, in a low voice. “My mistress told me to let you know that Albert will be there.”

  Isabelle hesitates, not wishing to seem to keen, but then nods. “Very well. Please tell Babette I would be delighted to attend.”

  Thankfully she has been out riding several times on one of Jean-Pierre’s horses, a beautiful chestnut that is the perfect size for her. The last time she rode it, she did quite well and even enjoyed the experience a little, though she was sore for a day afterwards. It had all been Lucie’s idea, who pointed out that riding builds up your thigh muscles, which can come in handy in the bedchamber!

  So, a few days later, she mounts the horse once more and sets out for the hunt.

  As she approaches the meeting point she sees that quite a crowd has already gathered.

  What fun, she thinks, with only a little flutter of nerves. So many new people to meet, not to mention the lovely Albert, of course. Now where is Babette?

  Spurring her horse on, she soon finds her friend who trots out to great her, mounted on an impressive grey horse with a beautifully braided mane.

  “Wow,” she says as she draws up alongside. “You look stunning!”

  Isabelle looks down as if to remind herself what she is wearing, a blue-white velvet outfit especially designed for riding, with a tall, feathered hat covering her fair hair. “Thank you. As do you.”

  “Come on,” says Babette, steering her horse back to the main gathering. “We’re heading off shortly and I’ve got someone I want you to meet first.”

  The person in question is Babette’s uncle, Paul, Albert’s father, who reminds Isabelle slightly of the Marquis both in age and in looks. No sooner have they been introduced however than a shrill blast on a horn signals the start of the hunt. Immediately people spring into action, spurring their horses in the direction of the sound. Isabelle is about to follow when a large black stallion pulls up alongside her.

  “Well, this is a pleasant surprise.”

  Isabelle turns to see Albert sitting proud and handsome on his horse, dressed in a jacket and riding breeches of deep blue. Her heart leaps, but she betrays nothing in her face, instead simply giving him a curt nod.

  “Not afraid of the action, Isabelle?” he asks her with a glint in his eye. “The hunt can be… hot.”

  Although she feels the desire for Albert stirring inside her, she replies without a hint of concern. “A hot hunt is good hunt, is it not? Anyone who’s afraid of action, shouldn’t go hunting!” And with that she kicks her horse into a trot, leaving Albert staring after her.

  The hunt is indeed hot. The blazing sun lances through the trees and the forest floor is littered with obstacles, pot holes and fallen tree stumps, and keeping up with the others proves hard work. At one point a small herd of wild boar come charging through the undergrowth, upsetting a number of the horses.

  Well, this is not as much fun as I hoped it would be, thinks Isabelle, holding on tight and gripping her mount with her knees, feeling the sweat on its neck and the motion of its muscles as it negotiates its way through the forest. At least Albert is here. It gives me a chance to work on my far more important hunt!

  It is late afternoon before the hunt is over, when a large stag is trapped by a group of the riders and taken down with a single arrow through the heart. Isabelle looks at its lifeless form as it is carried into a grassy glade and finds herself saddened to see so magnificent a creature, its branching antlers strong and wide, killed for nothing more than fun. The sight of it hardens Isabelle in her own hunt for Albert’s affection. I too can catch a great quarry, she tells herself. Can’t I?

  All around the glade, servants hurry backwards and forwards laying out chairs and a vast array of food that looks more like a banquet than a picnic. As Isabelle takes a seat between Babette and her uncle, she notices Albert sitting down opposite her. To her delight, as his father spends the entire meal flirting with Isabelle and paying her endless compliments, Albert glowers from across the glade, his face filled with unconcealed jealousy.

  “Well, my dear,” says Babette, leaning across to whisper into Isabelle’s ear. “It seems your arrow has hit the target!”

  Chapter Twenty

  What’s keeping him? Isabelle wonders as she paces around her room in frustration. It’s been six days since the hunt and still no word from Albert. Maybe Babette was wrong. Maybe I missed my target after all.

  Her thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the front door and she hurries from the room, reaching it even before Lucie. She flings the door open to see a smartly-dressed messenger who produces a pink envelope and holds it out to her.

  “A letter for you, milady,” he says.

  Isabelle takes it and, staring down at the paper in her hands, shuts the door without a word.

  “Well, it looks like you have an admirer, my dear,” says Lucie, peering over her shoulder. “I bet you it’s scented.”

  Isabelle lifts it to her nose to smell it, coughing almost immediately. “That’s a bet you’d win. It’s definitely been scented!”

  “Yes, with a whole bottle of eau de toilette, I shouldn’t wonder!” Lucie pauses as her friend sniffs at the envelope again. “Come on then. Open it!”

  Running a finger under the front flap, Isabelle finds a single sheet of pink, expensive-looking paper with a short message written in a fine, elegant hand.

  “It’s from Albert,” she says.

  “Of course it is,” says Lucie, as though this was obvious to her. “What does it say?”


  “My dearest lady,” reads Isabelle, running a finger across the page as she does so. “Ever since we first met only a handful of days ago I have found my thoughts turning and returning to you time and again. You have enchanted me, Isabelle, my love, captivated me with your eyes and stolen my heart with your beauty. You are Venus, a pearl from the sea. You are Aphrodite, born from the watery depths. I bow before you. What else can I do? I bend my knee to you and beg of you to write even a single word in response. Only then will I know peace again, only then will I be free. Albert.”

  As she reads it, Isabelle begins to feel weak. She wants nothing more than to fulfill her dreams of being with such a young, elegant and attractive man as Albert. All her previous lovers have been so much older than her and, above all, she longs for a real romance. Her body aches with love for his strong young body, to touch him, to hold him, to join together with him. As she remembers his handsome features and how noble he looked on his black stallion, a dreamy smile creeps across her face.

  “Ahem.”

  Isabelle snaps back to the present, suddenly remembering where she is. “Sorry,” she says. “I drifted off a little there.”

  “I’m not surprised,” says Lucie. “But remember what Babette told you. You’ve got to play it cool. That’s the way to really catch a man like Albert.”

  “You’re right, of course. Please could you fetch me some writing things and we’ll see if I can send poor Albert a great response.”

  After much consideration, and several discarded sheets of paper, Isabel finally settles on writing: “Dear Albert. Thank you for your kind words. However, they are only words and words are nothing more than wind. They amuse, but they do not arouse the female senses. Instead, it is concrete actions that fan the flame and awaken desire. Are you a man of action, Albert? Or merely a man of words? Isabelle.”

  Albert’s reply arrives before Isabelle has had time to sit down for lunch. No scented envelope this time, just a messenger with a single request: “Meet me by the fountain in the Jardin du Luxembourg one hour before sunset.” She is so excited she has hardly any appetite for lunch and just sits there poking the food around her plate, dreaming about the meeting. The rest of the afternoon passes at an interminably slow pace, the seconds dragging past and the sun barely moving in the sky.

  At last, it is time, and she hurries to the Jardin du Luxembourg, slowing down at the last street to ensure she looks neither rushed nor out of breath.

  Can’t have Albert thinking I’m too eager!

  As the sun dips low over the nearby roofs, it bathes the gardens in a pink glow, reminding her of the scented envelope. There are few people to be seen, most of them walking, but as she nears the fountain she spots the solitary figure of Albert standing tall and proud, a triangular velvet hat accentuating the handsome features of his face and his blue jacket and knee breeches overhung with a long, elegantly embroidered coat in the same material.

  “Good evening, my dear,” he says as she approaches and he holds out a lace cuffed hand to her. Isabelle places her own into it and he bends forward to kiss it gently. “Thank you for coming here.”

  “Indeed, monsieur,” says Isabelle curtly. “Let us hope it was worth my while.” Her face suggests she suspects it may not have been. It’s a good look, one she practiced in the mirror before she left, and it covers her true desire. His, however, is written all over his face, a hungry longing as he looks her up and down. Her sensual figure is hidden beneath a beautiful black dress and a white jacket from the finest designer in Paris, trimmed with luxurious ermine from the distant lands of Russia.

  Albert holds out an arm to her. “I certainly hope so. Shall we walk?”

  She takes the proffered arm and together they traverse the gardens at an easy pace. Here and there they catch sight of other couples, but otherwise the place is silent and deserted.

  “I am told,” says Isabelle, after exchanging the usual pleasantries, “that you and your dear father are favorites of His Majesty King Louis. Have I heard correct?” She sneaks a glance at Albert’s face and is delighted to see a flash of concern at the mention of his ‘dear’ father. This game is much easier and more fun than I had imagined!

  “This is true,” he says. “His Majesty has indeed favored our family. But you know how these things are, such royal grace is changeable. Today’s favorites can become tomorrow’s outcasts at His Majesty’s slightest whim.”

  “But you are favored at present?”

  “Yes,” Albert nods his agreement. “At present.”

  “And would you be so bold as to ask His Majesty for a favor?” Isabelle asks, keeping her face as serene as possible, though she feels her heart thumping in her chest. “A favor for a friend?”

  “And whom might you be talking about, milady?”

  “Why, for me, of course.” She frowns up at him as though she thinks him simple. “I am looking for a place in the King’s Court.”

  Albert raises his eyebrows in surprise. “You are?” He stops and turns to face her, then a smile creeps across his face. “I see. Well, I could certainly try, milady. It will not be easy, of course.”

  “Don’t worry, Albert,” says Isabelle, placing a hand on his chest and looking up into his eyes. “Your efforts will be greatly rewarded.”

  His breath catches in his throat as he gazes down into her face, stunned by her beauty and the warmth of her body as it draws against his. “I assure you, milady, I will move heaven and earth to please you.”

  ~

  Albert is as good as his word and, a few weeks later, Isabelle receives another letter, shrouded in a scented pink envelope. She tears it open, almost damaging the paper inside in her eagerness to see what news he has to impart.

  “Careful!” says Lucie, though if anything she is just as excited for her friend as Isabelle is. “What does he say? Is it good news?”

  “Give me a moment!” says Isabelle, still opening the letter. “Right. He says, ‘My dearest Isabelle, as requested I have spoken with His Majesty. I waited until he was in a good mood, having just celebrated an evening at the opera, and he has agreed to meet with you. In three days’ time, at sundown, you are to present yourself in His Majesty’s private chambers. I have done all I could, milady, and I look forward to receiving the reward for my labors. Yours, now and always, Albert.’”

  As the echo of the words dies away, Isabelle and Lucie do not move, but stand staring at nothing, spellbound by the news.

  I can’t believe it, thinks Isabelle. I daren’t believe it! His Majesty, the King of France and Navarre wants to meet me. Me! A girl from the slums and streets. It’s more than I could ever have dreamed!

  “Wow!” says Lucie, breaking the silence. “Here’s your chance to make it to the top. And you can make it, I know you can. But be aware, my dear, never forget that life in the King’s court can be everything one day and nothing the next.”

  “Yes, that’s what Albert was saying.”

  “It’s true. Just keep it in mind.” She takes Isabelle’s hands in hers. “But for now, we need to make sure you make the best impression possible. You’re going to see His Majesty the King!”

  Almost every waking moment of the next three days is spent getting ready for the meeting, commissioning a new dress in the very latest fashion, ensuring her hair is just so and her nails are perfect, planning her makeup and perfume, and trying out different accessories, such as hats, stockings, brooches, gloves and ribbons. When at last the time comes for her to head to Saint-Germain-en-Laye, the result of Isabelle and Lucie’s work is evident. She looks so stunning that, although she is nervous about having a private audience with Louis, she is confident that she can make an impression on him. After all, he is, as Lucie reminds her, only a man.

  ~

  A smartly-dressed servant shows Isabelle into a writing room, in the middle of which is a desk so vast that it would hardly fit in any room at Jean-Pierre’s house. However, it is not that desk that captures Isabelle’s attention but the man sitting at it, writ
ing something on fine parchment with a long, elegant quill. This is the Sun King, Louis the Fourteenth, supreme ruler of France and Navarre, alone in this room with Isabelle. Isabelle stands just inside the door, watching him. He is wearing a black and gold jacket with lace pouring from its cuffs, a jabot tight around his neck topped with an exquisite gold broach. This evening’s wig is a mass of black curls beneath which his powdered face looks tired, making him seem older than his thirty-seven years. When at last he is finished, he lays down his quill and looks up to acknowledge his visitor.

  “Very good evening Your Majesty,” says Isabelle, parched with excitement and making a deep reverence. The King gets up from the table.

  “Very good evening to you, milady. You may rise, my beauty,” he says, walking across the expanse of carpet and giving her an appraising look. “I have seen you before, have I not? Remind me.”

  “It was here in the palace, sire. I sang for you.”

  “Ah, yes. The angel with the beautiful voice. I remember you.” He walks around her, taking in every inch of her dress and her figure. “You are a pretty little songbird then. What else you are capable of?”

  “Whatever you desire, your Majesty,” she replies, then remembers a phrase she heard Lucie use with the Marquis. “I am at your service.”

  As the King completes his circle and stands once more in front of Isabelle, he steps close and pulls her against him with one hand. With the other he lifts up her chin and bares her bright, white teeth. She breathes in. His body is a mixture of perfume, powder and something else belonging to the world of men. He puts his mouth on hers, and lowers her, gently to the floor, pulling up her skirts on their way down.

  When they’re finished, she feels a cold breeze blowing from the door’s slot and a sharp pain from the corsetry bars jabbing into her back. The King, his wig still perched on his head, but at a rakish angle, sighs with satisfaction as he climbs to his feet.

  “Mademoiselle,” says His Majesty, once his clothes are on and his wig is back in place. “The French Royal Court is in desperate need of good singers, such as you.”