Chapter Seventeen - My Life Has Been Ruined Enough for the Time Being, Thank You

Two hours later, we reached our home in Le Marais. The windows were dark, the only light in the courtyard coming from the moon as it glinted off the trimmed ivy creeping up the stone walls. Without speaking, the four of us walked to the front entrance, and despite my relief over being with Étienne again, I was bone deep exhausted. Home had always been my anchor, and now that I’d returned, it was doing all it could to drag me under into the depths of sleep.

Once we were inside, I started for the marble staircase, ready to fall into the sweet oblivion of slumber. But instead, Étienne cleared his throat, stopping in the middle of the foyer. “Thank you,” he said. “All of you. I didn’t wish to spend another night in the Bastille, and it’s nice to be home. I apologize for causing you trouble—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Jacqueline leaned against the wrought iron banister and buried her head in the crook of her elbow. She made no sound, but the slight shaking of her shoulders and the hitching of her breaths was startlingly familiar. I stood, frozen, as she slid to the floor, her shuttered breaths growing louder and louder, echoing off the marble floors. At first, it couldn’t fathom what I was seeing. I knew those gasps of air, knew a lump of fear in her chest was making it difficult for her to breathe. I’d had the same experience too many times to count. But what I couldn’t understand was that it was happening to someone else and not to me. And worse, I had no idea what to do.

I was so used to being the one overcome with fits of panic, the one my siblings had to help, that it never occurred to me that other people could experience panic as well.

As always, Étienne was the first one to react. He opened his mouth, then closed it, taking a single step forward before stopping again.

“Jacqueline?” he whispered. The softness of his whisper grated something inside of me, like the word was poking at a flesh wound. “Are you all right? Did I. . . Are you upset because of me?”

She didn’t answer, and Renée gave Étienne a worried glance. She reached out and rubbed Jacqueline’s shoulder, softly at first, and then with more determination when Jacqueline didn’t flinch or shy away. For a moment, none of us spoke. Étienne kept his gaze fixed on the black and white tiled floor, hands curled into fists. And Renée continued rubbing Jacqueline’s back, pink dress pooled around her like the beginnings of sunset.

Then Jacqueline raised her head. I held my breath, waiting for her panic to increase, or for her to faint as I sometimes did when the fear and heat and lack of air was too much. But she simply wiped at the wetness under her eyes. “I’m fine.”

What?

How was she able to stave off the panic so easily? How was I not?

The words she’d spoken at the opera house came back to me then, soft and irritatingly understanding: “I was trying to help.”

I loathed to admit it, but perhaps this whole time she truly had been trying to help, and I had been too proud to accept it.

“Jacqueline—” Étienne began.

“I said I’m fine.” She started up the stairs. “Good evening. I will see everyone in the morning.” She reached the second floor and turned down the hallway, disappearing without another word.

“I should go see if she’s all right,” Renée said, following her.

I was preparing to retreat to the second floor as well, determined to find out if my suspicions about Jacqueline were correct, when Étienne grasped a hand around my wrist and motioned for me to come with him into the grand salon. I took a fleeting look to where Renée was already halfway up the stairs, then sighed and trailed after my brother.

“Are you feeling unwell?” Étienne asked as we crossed the threshold.

I slumped onto a cream divan, placing a velvet pillow on my lap. Save for the few slants of moonlight spilling across the polished floors, the room was dark, the gilded oil paintings and woven tapestries along the walls swallowed up by shadows. I thought back to the last time I was in this room with Étienne, when it was flooded with sunlight. He had been reading aloud from one of his texts on botanical gardens, and I’d laughed at how strange I found his interests to be.

I didn’t laugh now.

“No. Just tired,” I said. “Turns out making plans with the king is rather taxing.”

“Oh. You can sleep if you like.” He shifted from foot to foot. “We can speak later.”

“It’s fine if we speak now. What is it?”

With a hesitant nod, he joined me on the divan. It was what I’d wished for every waking moment since his arrest—for my brother and I to be back together again, his nearness calming me in a way I could never quite put into words.

If I focused on him alone—on the concern creasing his brow and the single strand of dark hair that had slipped free from his otherwise immaculate queue—I could almost pretend nothing had changed between us. But then I thought of how frantic he was at the Bastille, and earlier in the cardinal’s apartments when he said I didn’t need him. And I was once again reminded of all the secrets my brother had kept from me, and how no matter what happened, we could never go back to the way things were before.

“I’m worried, is all,” Étienne said. “Jacqueline is already upset with me, and after what happened in Versailles, I thought you might be upset with me, too.” He lowered his head, plucking at a loose silk thread on the divan. “I never meant for my decisions to upset anyone.”

I snorted.

His head snapped up. “What?”

“You’ve been sentenced to death, Étienne,” I said. He flinched. “And you thought that wouldn’t upset us?”

He didn’t respond. A myriad of emotions passed over his face—fear, worry, confusion—none of them sticking for more than a few seconds. I hated seeing him like this. Hated that all I could think was different, different, different. My brother is acting different. Hated that I was terrified he would never go back to being the same again. I still loved him. I would always love him. But I didn’t know how to talk to this Étienne, or reason with him, or convince him to give up this whole charade and come home for good.

“I suppose I did,” Étienne said finally, “but when I decided to confess, I was so determined to save Jacqueline, I wasn’t thinking of much else.”

His confession stabbed into me, each word more painful than the last. “But why? I know Jacqueline is your—” I took in a deep breath “—I know she’s your real family, but don’t Renée and I matter, too?”

“Of course you do!” His voice pitched to a near yell, and he lowered it back down to say, “God, Ollie, that’s not what any of this is about.”

“Then what is it about?”

Étienne raised his hands, motioning to the gilded frames on the wall, the ceiling frescos, the heavy velvet drapes. “Look at this place. My father left me to live here, with servants who catered to my every whim and more money than I could ever know what to do with and—” His face softened. “And two siblings who made me feel like I belong.”

“You do belong,” I said.

He smiled. “I know.” The smile fell. “But Jacqueline has none of that. She grew up alone with no one to speak to when she was scared or upset. She managed to stay alive by working herself to the bone at a clock shop. How could I have allowed her to die for something she did on accident when I’ve been given everything by mere luck alone? How would that have been fair?”

“How is it fair that Renée and I might lose our older brother because of something he didn’t even do?” I threw out my arms. My hand smacked against a striped pillow, and it fell to the floor, landing on the plush carpet in a near soundless plop.

Étienne leaned down to pick up the pillow. I wasn’t certain if it was because he truly wished to keep the grand salon tidy, or if he didn’t wish to look at me as he said, “You and Renée have each other. Though you two argue sometimes, you have always been inseparable, and I think—I think you’ll find a way to forget about me when this is over and move on with your lives.”

“We won’t,” I said. I tried to make my words sound strong and determined, but they came out as a choked whisper. “How do you expect us to move on if you’re gone? How am I supposed to forget about all the things you’ve done for me? God, you came into my room for years every time there was a thunderstorm to comfort me even though I wasn’t afraid. How do I just forget about things like that?”

Étienne looked up at me, pillow hugged to his chest. There was a confused sort of smile playing at his lips. “I know you weren’t afraid of thunderstorms, Ollie. That’s not why I came into your room. I was afraid of thunderstorms.”

I blinked. “You what?”

Before he could get another word out, the door to the library crashed open, and in barreled Henri. A silver candelabra was clutched in his left hand, only two of the four candles still lit. In his right hand, he held a butcher’s knife. “Show yourselves, you vile thieves!” he yelled. “Or I’ll chop you down where you stand!”

“Henri!” I leapt to my feet. “Put the knife down. It’s us.”

His embroidered banyan hung open, and the cap on his head was askew, revealing strands of wiry gray hair. His spectacles were absent, and he peered at me with narrowed eyes. “Monsieur d’Aumont, is that you?” He brought the candelabra so close to my face, my cravat nearly caught on fire. “I apologize. I heard multiple male voices, and I thought you were in your bedchamber and—” His eyes slid from me to Étienne, and he gasped. “Oh. Oh my. How the devil. . .?”

Henri turned and ran, tripping on a corner of a rug tassel before he flung himself into the hallway, calling out, “Madame d’Aumont! Monsieur d’Aumont! You must come quickly!”

Renée and Jacqueline dashed into the room, both wearing silk dressing gowns. My gaze fell on Jacqueline, her dark hair loose and tumbling over her chartreuse-covered shoulders, and I nearly choked.

Look away, Olivier. Look away. Goddamn look away.

“What happened?” Renée asked. “Why is everyone screaming?”

Moments later, Henri returned, knife abandoned in favor of a second candelabra. He placed them both on the marble mantle above the hearth as Mother glided in, carrying with her the scent of crushed roses and wine. Despite the late hour, her face was powdered, with a circle of bright pink rouge on each cheek. Father followed right after, looking slightly more disheveled and entirely more vexed.

“Well, what is it?” Mother glanced around the room as her eyes adjusted to the dim candlelight. “I was having a dream about the most delicious plum profiteroles, and your yelling has ruined it.”

Then her gaze landed on Étienne, and she screamed.

“Mon bébé! My little boy!” She ran to Étienne and threw her arms around him, planting a series of kisses on his cheeks and forehead. “I’ve been so worried about you, I could hardly eat a thing. It was awful, truly awful. But you’ve returned, my beautiful, beautiful boy.” She pushed Étienne away and frowned down at his frock coat. “Where did you get those clothes? You know blue has never been your color.”

“I was taken to Versailles, Maman, and lent this outfit.”

“Well, it’s no matter.” Mother straightened out his collar where it had become rumpled by her embrace. “We’ll have you wearing your own clothes in no time. I just knew you would come back to us. I’m so glad those horrid people at the Bastille have realized their mistake and let you go.”

Étienne shifted next to her. “That isn’t exactly what happened. You see—”

“Oh, I’m so happy you’ve returned. I didn’t know what to do, and I was so frightened, and—” She staggered back, waving a hand at Father. “Antoine, Antoine, come quick. I fear I’m going to swoon.”

Father rushed to her, pushing out an overstuffed chair. And a few seconds later, in front of her children and Jacqueline and Henri, my mother pressed the back of her hand against her forehead, and fainted.