Free Deadly Descent by Charles O'Brien Page B

responded calmly. “That was surely true in your case, and it might be true in his.”
    She was still for a few moments. Then she released her grip on the chair and breathed deeply. In the silence between them a clock ticked away minutes of grief and pain, until a quiet calm came over her face.
    Meanwhile, Saint-Martin grew convinced his aunt would want to meet this young woman again. When Miss Cartier sat down and glanced expectantly at him, Saint-Martin sensed it was the right moment for the rest of his message. He reached for the valise he had left on a nearby table and handed her the letters from Barnstaple and Comtesse Marie. Reclining in a chair, he watched her grow absorbed in the reading. The hint of a smile softened the creases of anger at her mouth. Her fingers turning the pages were long and strong, her cheeks and forehead lightly tanned by wind and sun. Probably from frequent riding. No slave to fashion, he thought. The natural look was more to his taste than the garish facades of stylish Parisian women.
    She looked up from the letters, smiling wanly. “This is generous of your aunt. I’ll weigh her offer carefully. It would be a good way to learn more about Antoine’s death.” She rang for a servant and ordered glasses of a cool local cider. Settling back in her chair, she inquired politely about the health of the comtesse, changes at Chateau Beaumont, and the like. Her voice was low and no longer strained. His replies appeared to spark genuine interest. Her eyes brightened and cleared. She seemed intrigued with the prospect he laid before her.
    â€œI remember the comtesse fondly,” she said as the cider arrived. She thanked the servant, then poured for the colonel and herself. “She treated my parents with respect, even allowed Antoine to tease her.” She smiled over her glass. “And he was so pleased when the comtesse showed interest in me. After riding early in the morning, we’d have hot chocolate in her room.” She glanced at Saint-Martin, as if fearing her remarks had sounded naive.
    â€œShe also treated me to morning rides and chocolate,” he remarked, putting her at ease with a reassuring smile. “And to uplifting conversation as well. What did you two talk about?”
    â€œSometimes we’d walk in the gallery and she’d explain the pictures to me. ‘Chardin’s narrow but honest,’ she’d say. Or, ‘Boucher’s a charming old satyr.’ We’d go out into the park. She’d tell stories about the important people she knew. I think the comtesse wanted to open my eyes to the world.”
    â€œShe has opened mine as well,” admitted the colonel, aware of a personal debt of gratitude to his aunt. “I’m sure I’ve heard many of those stories.”
    â€œComtesse Marie also warned me about highborn men, some of them at least. Love was a game they played. When they came to her chateau, she hid the maids.” Her eyes brightened briefly with humor, then shadowed. She shot him an enigmatic glance. “She helped me understand things.”
    Understand what? Saint-Martin wondered, then smiled. His aunt would have told Miss Cartier how to make her own way in a man’s world. While she moved on to other memories of Chateau Beaumont, he lifted the glass to his lips, watching her over the rim while he sipped. Long-buried impressions surfaced in his mind. He had often watched her return from those morning rides, astride a glistening thoroughbred, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. She dismounted with ease, her body supple as a young willow. Her agility, her
grace
came mysteriously from within. He had felt an aching for her. But she was a commoner. His cousins called her the clown’s daughter.
    â€œMay I pour again?” She was bending toward him, pitcher in hand, a fey look in her eye. She had noticed his distraction.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he replied penitently, “for a moment