Page 45 of Love Unraveled
Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak
Whispers the o’er-wrought heart and bids it break.
—William Shakespeare,Macbeth
“It is myday of rest, Monsieur Armand,” said Liverpool from his horse.
“A few minutes of your time,s’il vous plaît,” Gaston said.
Liverpool dismissed his riding mate and dismounted. “Walk with me into the grove. It would not help your mission to be seen with me.”
There was nobody else around; otherwise, Gaston would never have considered approaching the prime minister. He’d untangled himself from the sheets carefully and slipped out, leaving Sophie fast asleep. He knew well the prime minister’s routines and had been certain he would find him in the park.
“Have you come with news of the traitor?” Liverpool asked without glancing at Gaston.
“Not yet, but I will.” Gaston said it with a confidence he did not feel. He’d been far more distracted by Sophie than he should have allowed himself to be.
“If you’ve no news, why are you here waylaying me on my morning ride?”
“I wish to ask a small favor.” Gaston knew he was pushing his luck with Liverpool, but never venture, never gain. And it was for Sophie. He’d do whatever was in his power to help her find peace.
Liverpool paused and turned to Gaston, the lead of his horse in one hand. He ran the other hand over his face. “It is far too early in the morning for games. Speak bluntly of what you want.”
“I need to find out the fate of a man named Julien Auclair. He was a scholar in Paris. When the directory annulled the elections in ninety-seven, he was banished to Guiana.”
“That was sixteen years ago, Monsieur Armand,” Liverpool said irritably. “Whyever is it of interest to you now?”
This was the piece he’d hoped to avoid. The prime minister already knew he had designs on Sophie so would not be entirely surprised. Still, he knew Sophie would not be pleased he had revealed a piece of her past, but he could see no way around it. Liverpool was too astute to attempt to mislead him.
“The Countess Tessaro does not know what happened to her father. It haunts her.”
Liverpool raised an eyebrow. “Her father? The countess is French?”
“Her mother was Italian,” Gaston said, shrugging, as though that undid her French origins.
Liverpool was quiet, studying him for a moment.
Gaston feared he would not agree, and he could not let Sophie down. “I will find your spy, and I will continue working for you afterward, if you find out Auclair’s fate.”
Liverpool tilted his head slightly, a slight smile breaking his grim facade. “Indeed?”
“On my word,” Gaston said.
“I will see what I can do. But sixteen years, Armand. It is a long time.”
“Merci, Prime Minister. I will owe you a great debt if you can manage it.” Gaston put out his hand, and Liverpool shook it.
“Find me the traitor,” he said and walked back in the direction from which they’d come.
Gaston stood watching until even the sounds of the horse had faded. He turned and looked at the lake shimmering beyond the tree line. After last night, he knew he must do something to help Sophie put her ghosts to rest. But he’d not meant to sell his soul again. He took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair, tugging at the ends in frustration. He would honor his pledge to Liverpool, even if it was the last thing he wanted to do. If it meant his dreams of returning to a normal life must be put on hold, so be it. Sophie was worth it.
*
Sophia was disappointedto find Gaston gone from her bed. She bathed and dressed, grateful Cara kept her opinion on his presence to herself. The woman did not always, but perhaps today, she sensed Sophia had enough of her own thinking to sort through.
She’d been convinced Gaston’s return had unburied the past, but the problem might come more from her than him. Maybe she had never fully accepted her losses. Never fully grieved. Her father had insisted her mother had died imprisoned, yet she’d been convinced he was sheltering her from the truth of the guillotine. So she’d turned her anger on him, accused him of lying, when instead she should have been weeping for her mother’s death.
Gaston had informed her of her father’s exile, and Carmine had explained few lived and nobody returned from Guiana. She’d heard nothing from, or about, her dear papa since. Yet, like in the play, she’d held on to the foolish belief he would someday show up. She must accept he was gone. Gaston was right. She’d been running. Well, last night she’d stopped.
