Read Online The Immortal American (The Immortal American Series) by L. B. Joramo - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: L. B. Joramo
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I did the same. Monsieur Beaumont made brief introductions for the men he spoke with. They were all French dignitaries of some sort, their titles were very vague-sounding, and I knew that was on purpose. Knowing Jacque to be a spy I wondered if the men were his employers. But it was while listening to them conversing to Jacque that I became alarmed. They were speaking about their King Louis, and how he wished to dine with Jacque. That, I did not think, would not be customary for a King and his spy. Unless Jacque was a very efficient spy, which he might be. But then again, I’d guessed he was he was working in espionage.
It was while I was pondering over Jacque’s skills that I overheard one of the men excuse Jacque in order to join my party and had called him, “ Monsieur le Mar –.”
Jacque had interrupted with a nervous laugh, and instructions that he was merely a son of liberty while in the British Americas. He bade his au revoir , and ushered me to a seat, pulling at my arm aggressively as if he were saving me from hell’s horse carriage.
Monsieur le Mar– That was the beginning of a title. Jacque was not a mere spy. He was an aristocrat. No. Worse, he was a nobleman. Monsieur le _____ was similar to calling Jacque a lord.
Good Lord.
A lord?
I could only guess that the Mar —that had been interrupted–was for Marquis. Jacque was not just any nobleman, but a very high ranking one. I swallowed, not noticing at first that Jacque sat directly beside me, my mother and sister on the opposite side.
The room was a blur, and I held my breath. Jacque acted every bit a working man with minimal laces worn on his person and no wig on his head, as well as rough calluses like a man who’d labored all the days of his life.
I was shaking, my mind twisted in thought, so I hardly heard my sister inquire about his health and how he liked Boston.
Monsieur Beaumont cleared his throat, and I felt him faintly touch my leg with his own, then quickly draw it away.
“I love Boston, of course. It is such a . . . always-moving, always-something happening town. Do you like Boston, Miss Hannah?”
“Oh, yes.” Hannah smiled and winked at me. “I saw on the way in that there appears to be a new fabric store. I intend to strong-arm my sister into taking me there.”
“Your sister does not like to go to the fabric stores?” Jacque asked. His dark blue eyes slid to meet mine, but then hurried back to my sister.
Hannah shook her head and looked down at her freshly poured red wine. “No. Not our Violet. Violet does not like to visit the shops.”
“A woman who does not like to visit the shops? I did not know there was such a woman.”
Hannah giggled and nodded, then pointed her freshly sipped glass at me. “That creature, the mythological non-shop visiting woman, sits right beside you, Monsieur Beaumont. She’s the one blushing at our conversing about her as if she were not here.”
I smiled and brayed a laugh, then held a napkin to my trembling lips, and tried again for a more dignified sound.
Jacque’s leg touched mine again, even through all the fabric of my skirts. “Are you well, Miss Buccleuch?”
I glanced at him, feeling angry, betrayed. My mother and sister began bickering about Hannah drinking the wine, while I thought about aristocrats. No, nobility. Damnation, why was I irritated at that? Because, I had to admit, that I had thought he was something akin to me, my class, which was not much. I had envisioned him farming, and leaning against a moldboard plow, wiping the sweat from his brow, and petting his oxen. I had pictured a man who was born into certain hardships such as had I lived through, and I was vexed that I had misjudged him.
Peeking at my argumentative sister and mother, I made sure they were saturated in their conversation, then whispered, “Marquis, is it, Jacque?”
His eyes widened as if I had striped him naked in front of the crowd in the dining room. He held his breath for a moment, then
It was while I was pondering over Jacque’s skills that I overheard one of the men excuse Jacque in order to join my party and had called him, “ Monsieur le Mar –.”
Jacque had interrupted with a nervous laugh, and instructions that he was merely a son of liberty while in the British Americas. He bade his au revoir , and ushered me to a seat, pulling at my arm aggressively as if he were saving me from hell’s horse carriage.
Monsieur le Mar– That was the beginning of a title. Jacque was not a mere spy. He was an aristocrat. No. Worse, he was a nobleman. Monsieur le _____ was similar to calling Jacque a lord.
Good Lord.
A lord?
I could only guess that the Mar —that had been interrupted–was for Marquis. Jacque was not just any nobleman, but a very high ranking one. I swallowed, not noticing at first that Jacque sat directly beside me, my mother and sister on the opposite side.
The room was a blur, and I held my breath. Jacque acted every bit a working man with minimal laces worn on his person and no wig on his head, as well as rough calluses like a man who’d labored all the days of his life.
I was shaking, my mind twisted in thought, so I hardly heard my sister inquire about his health and how he liked Boston.
Monsieur Beaumont cleared his throat, and I felt him faintly touch my leg with his own, then quickly draw it away.
“I love Boston, of course. It is such a . . . always-moving, always-something happening town. Do you like Boston, Miss Hannah?”
“Oh, yes.” Hannah smiled and winked at me. “I saw on the way in that there appears to be a new fabric store. I intend to strong-arm my sister into taking me there.”
“Your sister does not like to go to the fabric stores?” Jacque asked. His dark blue eyes slid to meet mine, but then hurried back to my sister.
Hannah shook her head and looked down at her freshly poured red wine. “No. Not our Violet. Violet does not like to visit the shops.”
“A woman who does not like to visit the shops? I did not know there was such a woman.”
Hannah giggled and nodded, then pointed her freshly sipped glass at me. “That creature, the mythological non-shop visiting woman, sits right beside you, Monsieur Beaumont. She’s the one blushing at our conversing about her as if she were not here.”
I smiled and brayed a laugh, then held a napkin to my trembling lips, and tried again for a more dignified sound.
Jacque’s leg touched mine again, even through all the fabric of my skirts. “Are you well, Miss Buccleuch?”
I glanced at him, feeling angry, betrayed. My mother and sister began bickering about Hannah drinking the wine, while I thought about aristocrats. No, nobility. Damnation, why was I irritated at that? Because, I had to admit, that I had thought he was something akin to me, my class, which was not much. I had envisioned him farming, and leaning against a moldboard plow, wiping the sweat from his brow, and petting his oxen. I had pictured a man who was born into certain hardships such as had I lived through, and I was vexed that I had misjudged him.
Peeking at my argumentative sister and mother, I made sure they were saturated in their conversation, then whispered, “Marquis, is it, Jacque?”
His eyes widened as if I had striped him naked in front of the crowd in the dining room. He held his breath for a moment, then
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