The French Way

[Ronmar The Only]

The French Way

 

A Tale about Arthur Wellesley

 

 

 

From Wikipedia:

 

Field Marshall Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington, KG, KP, GCB, GCH, PC, FRS (c. 1 May 1769 – 14 September 1852), was an Anglo-Irish soldier and statesman. He was one of the leading military and political figures of the nineteenth century.

 

Born in Ireland to a prominent Ascendancy family, he was commissioned an ensign in the British Army in 1787. Serving in Ireland as aide-de-camp to two successive Lords Lieutenant of Ireland he was also elected as member of Parliament in the Irish House of Commons. A colonel by 1796, Wellesley saw action in the Netherlands and later India where he fought in the Fourth Anglo-Mysore War at the Battle of Seringapatam. He was later appointed Governor of Seringapatam and Mysore.

 

Wellesley soon rose to prominence as a General during the early Napoleonic Wars. In the Peninsular Campaign he led the Allied forces to victory against the French and after the Battle of Vitoria in 1813, was granted a Dukedom and promoted to the rank of field marshal. Serving as the ambassador to France following the exile of Napoleon, he returned to fight Napoleon's forces after the Hundred Days. This culminated at the Battle of Waterloo, which saw the defeat of the French Emperor and a decisive coalition victory.

 

An opponent of parliamentary reform, he was given the epithet the "Iron Duke" because of the iron shutters he had fixed to his windows to stop the pro-reform mob from breaking them. He was twice Prime Minister of the United Kingdom under the Tory party and oversaw the passage of Catholic emancipation in 1829. He continued as Prime Minister until 1830 and again served briefly in 1834. Although unable to prevent the passage of the Reform Act of 1832 he continued as one the leading figures in the House of Lords until his retirement. He remained Commander-in-Chief of the British Army until his death.

 

Composed of Nine Scenes

• Scene One | The Blue Dress

   

• Scene Two | The Meeting that Did Not Take Place

   

• Scene Three | Wine Talk

   

• Scene Four | Rising to New Days

   

• Scene Five | Walking for Fear

   

• Scene Six | A Night Alone

   

• Scene Seven | Bigger Events

   

• Scene Eight | Midnight Trip

   

• Scene Nine | "Good Fortune"

Side note: I have been working on this during the past week while I have been away from the forums and away from my L'Asso di Cuori story. Hopefully this has been well written and executed for I normally am not engaged in romantic pieces. Also, I have split up the 25 page story into small sections of scenes, which is the way that I prepare my works. Edited July 21, 2008 by Ronmar The Only

[Ronmar The Only]

Scene One | The Blue Dress

 

“I do love the blue on you, my young daughter,” Lucile Bouchard lay on one of the many couches that sat in the main room of her family manor. “Do you not agree Julie?” Her head swiveled from her youthful daughter in the dress to the slightly older daughter which caused Lucile’s delicate, black hair to bounce. Julie rested on another sofa that was just several feet from the older lady.

 

“Oh yes, I do agree very much so, mother, though I do say that the choice falls on Isabelle.” Isabelle’s face took on a mocking attitude to the older sister before composing once more into a peaceful blank stare. The younger sister stood before both of the other ladies on a wooden box that a servant had brought in earlier. During the entire morning, Isabelle had been trying on various dresses for the evening that was ahead. The indecisive nature of her mother’s mind seemed to have finally worn thin.

 

“Isabelle, what do you think?” the mother’s voice still carried the same sweet tone that had been there throughout the morning, with a little strain.

 

It had been one of the first questions asked directly to the young lady and she took a brief moment to look over her dress. The answer already rested on the tip of her tongue, but she had to convince her mother that the decision was Lucile’s. Naturally as she had done throughout her life, Isabelle shook her head to show she did not know, “my mother, I am too young to decide such things.” She raised her head once more; her green eyes gazed into the similar eyes of her mother, “you have always done such a fine job with decisions, especially with Julie.” The older sister took noticed to her name and smiled at her sister, the true thoughts remain hidden behind the veil of the smile. “I could never think to impede your choices.”

 

Lucile stood from her seat and set the glass of wine that she had been sipping on throughout the morning down onto a side table, “there, there, on now to your hair.” The mother walked towards her second daughter and looked at the young lady’s hair. Obediently, Isabelle turned her head from side to side to show the hair. “It looks fine,” the mother crossed her arms and tapped one finger onto her chin as she spoke, “maybe a little work later.”

 

The daughter took a deep breath of air at her mother’s words and curled her lips while Lucile turned to return to the couch. Julie could only take a quick drink of wine to keep from a snicker by the look on Isabelle’s face. “Must I really prepare so much though?” the words of the younger daughter must have struck a cord in her mother who quickly twisted around to reproach Isabelle.

 

“Certainly,” Lucille allowed the word to linger in the room and keep the daughters quiet as she took her seat, “you do not wish to have dear Ethan to think badly of you, do you?” Ethan Renoir, the ‘prized’, young man of the moment who was coming to dinner that evening.

 

“Ethan is a good man,” Julie piped up to her sister’s defense, a rare occurrence, “I would not suspect that would happen.” The older daughter had met Ethan years ago whenever the Bouchard family had just recently returned to France. It was time for Julie to wed, but her mother was out of touch with the people of her homeland and sought old friends to assist. The Renoir’s, friends of the Bouchard family for generations, graciously helped, as they always would, Lucile in the choice.

 

“You shall never know,” Lucile turned her legs onto the couch to rest, “we want him to be overly excited with you anyways.” Her face looked towards the finely crafted, wooden ceiling to keep from the embarrassment of her daughter.

 

Isabelle’s voice slightly creaked as she exclaimed, “mother! What about the guests?” Her face took a stark white while her sister exploded with laughter. Lucile kept from laughing at all, though she her face enveloped with a smile, and ended the moment of embarrassment and laughter with a snap of her fingers.

 

“They would be fine…” Lucile had lowered her head just low enough to notice a man pass through the entrance way, “ah, Monsieur Wellesley.” The man quickly reappeared in the doorway. His frame stretched in front of the ladies encased in dark leather trousers and a dark red and white tunic, signaling England, with black boots. The black cocked hat that rested on top of his head seemed to extend his height than nature would allow.

 

“Fine, Madame Bouchard,” his voiced was strong yet not overly powering. Arthur Wellesley pulled at the cuffs of his shirt, “I was just about to head for my meeting with Monsieur Bethune.” Mathieu Bethune, a tradesman, who was on a list of meetings for the Ambassador.

 

Lucile sat up on the couch, now, to speak more to the man, “such an ill man, I do hope you have prepared yourself.” Bethune was notorious for shrewd business dealings and other activities that were frown upon by the higher society.

 

The Ambassador smiled at the words of the lady, “I shall strive for the best, Madame.” His eyes had already searched through the room and found the two daughters and various servants, but he openly turned his head and observed the situation, “it seems as if you ladies are in your own business, I shall leave you.” He turned to be on his way but halted at the sound of Lucile.

 

“We,” the mother gestured to her daughters when he turned back to listen, “we are just engaged in the business of women.” Lucile’s face beamed at Arthur, “to be graced by a man such as yourself would be most welcoming. How do you find young Isabelle?” The mother slowly motioned at her daughter who had been standing still during the entire conversation of the two.

 

Arthur had noticed the young lady’s beauty whenever he first entered the room. His words slowly formed and suddenly left him, “um, Mademoiselle Isabelle Bouchard, you look splendid, the divine appearance of your beautiful mother took to you well.” The older man’s eyes stayed on the reddening Isabelle until her sister spoke.

 

“I agree, Monsieur. She has always had mother’s exquisite features.” Julie had been focused on her sister during Arthur’s words and turned to nod in agreement to the man.

 

“Ah, you two do me too great of an honor,” the young daughter’s face looked down to the floor after she spoke, her hands clenched in front of her.

 

“Nonsense, it is true my daughter,” Lucile gestured to her youngest daughter and then looked towards Julie, “for both of my daughters.” She lifted from the sofa and walked to Arthur, “thank you Monsieur, your day of business shall end before the feast tonight?”

 

The man turned to look out the into the hall as if he heard a noise, “the day should be over by then,” slowly he faced back to the mother, “I take it we shall have guests?”

 

Lucile nodded, affirming, “you are right; the Renoir’s are visiting for dinner this evening.” Her eyes drifted back into the main room to look at her daughter in the blue dress, “it is a particularly special evening for young Isabelle.”

 

“Ah,” Arthur stole one last glimpse of only the young lady, “well I shall try to be at my best. I bid you a good day, ladies.” He quickly bowed to the daughters inside the room and kissed the hand of Lucile before turning to leave. Almost in unison the three women called out, “good day to you, Monsieur Wellesley.” The older mother returned to her couch and sat to finish her wine.

 

Julie had brought both of her legs up onto her couch and played with one of her flocks of her hair, “now that was a man you should hope Ethan to be, my sister.” A playful look was sent from Julie after the words.

 

“Oh stop, Julie,” the younger sister finally stepped down from the box, her legs tired from standing on such an object. Her face was reddening again and she sipped from her own wine that had gone untouched throughout the morning, mostly.

 

“Why should she stop, Arthur is a fine man who has risen through the years. If younger, and unmarried, he could only reach a plateau with you.” Lucile stood and looked over her young daughter once more, then walked to the older daughter.

 

“But…” Isabelle’s word was unheard within the conversation that continued between her mother and sister. Her eyes just gazed out the window to the streets.

Edited July 19, 2008 by Ronmar The Only

[Wanted Assailant]

Historic in the tense of fiction? I like it. Elegant way of writing. Don't see many romantic pieces here, unless I haven't searched myself.

 

 

Sorry for the lack of criticism.

Edited July 13, 2008 by Wanted Assailant

[Ronmar The Only]

Historic in the tense of fiction? I like it. Elegant way of writing. Don't see many romantic pieces here, unless I haven't searched myself.

 

 

Sorry for the lack of criticism.

No problem on the criticism, you did talk about the writing style so you critiqued some. Anyways, the reason it features a historic person is because the story is actually for a contest.

[Ronmar The Only]

Scene Two | The Meeting that Did Not Take Place

 

The fresh morning air comforted Arthur once he left the Bouchard Manor. His movements were swift and calculated as he walked and mounted his horse to carry him to the day. The horse was older, brown with lighter shades at some points, but was well kept by the stable hands. Arthur always cared for his horse; it had been there for him plenty of times and never let him down. Now with the warring days over, he enjoyed the gentle rides on the horse even more.

 

As he rode the horse, his trusted advisor in front guiding the way, Arthur’s mind was distracted with the discussion that he had in the main room of the manor. It was not the words that were said, but, rather, the words that were only communicated by looks. Maybe it was nothing, but his thoughts were jumbled. Details about the meeting with Monsieur Bethune would occupy his mind for a moment, next images of the young lady Isabelle took stage. Arthur was lost by the thoughts that he hardly noticed his advisor stop and motion towards a doorway. The two quickly tied off their horses and walked into the building.

 

The first room that they came to was sparsely populated with, but, a single young man sitting behind a large desk. Arthur walked alone to the young apprentice who quickly looked through the papers on the desk. Arthur presented a piece of paper that had scrawled the date and time with the name Mathieu Bethune. “I have no writings about a meeting today with Monsieur Bethune,” the apprentice finally looked back towards the Ambassador from the papers before him.

 

“The meeting is not for today,” the words held little sway of emotion from Arthur, “what do you mean, Monsieur?”

 

The apprentice became slightly white knowing that Arthur must have not been pleased by the information, “I have only a note that your meeting has been pushed back, nothing more.” The young man gestured with his hands in an almost pleading sense, “Monsieur Bethune left several hours ago for the countryside and I have not a faintest idea why.”

 

Arthur relented by the honesty of the apprentice, “fine, a messenger must not have reached me with the news yet.” At the end of the words, he turned and walked out of the doorway back to the streets. The advisor only stared at the young man causing less color on his young face before following Arthur. “That man,” the hand of the Ambassador pulled his advisor aside, “Bethune must not know who he truly deals with.”

 

Peter Tondre, the advisor, wasted no time supporting his mentor, “I cannot believe he has done such a thing too, sir.” The Frenchmen’s voice sounded as many of Arthur’s former soldiers: deep, certain, and calm. Peter had served with the soldiers for a short period of time, but had mainly been an assistant to Arthur.

 

“Well, a meeting shall take place, and if he brushes me off again, only the reach of the Lord Almighty would be able to stop me.” Arthur hastily mounted his horse again, tightly pulling the reins to his chest. His advisor followed suit before turning to question the destination.

 

“Yes sir, should we head back to the Bouchard’s?” the advisor gripped his own reins and started to guide the horse back the way they had came.

 

The image of Isabelle in the blue dress swiftly overtook Arthur’s mind, “um, the Bouchard’s?” He tried to shake the picture by looking around the street. “No, not yet,” his mind was still a mess from the trip over and was not ready to be mixed again by new thoughts. “We have a fine day, this day, and I shall try to find some peace before dinner this evening.” Arthur was satisfied with his excuse, peace needed to be found.

 

“Of course, my sir,” Peter and his mentor pulled on the horses to walk down the street in search of peace.

Edited July 19, 2008 by Ronmar The Only

[Ronmar The Only]

Scene Three | Wine Talk

 

 

The dinner that evening at the Bouchard’s was a feast than anything else like the lady of the manor had foretold. Lucile Bouchard had spent several days preparing for the dinner by bringing in the best foods, buying many bottles of the oldest and most renowned wine, and everything had been prepared by one of the top chefs in the entire city. It was certainly a celebration. Officially, Lucile had put together the meal to thank the Renoir’s for all of their hospitality over the years. Besides helping find a suitable husband for the older daughter Julie, the Renoir’s had assisted Lucile at many occasions throughout the warring years that allowed her to move her family back to her homeland.

 

During the course of the meal, general talk of the days and business had filled the discussion. The table that they all sat at had room for all eight; the three Renoir’s sat on one side while the two Bouchard daughters sat on the other with Peter Tondre while Arthur took place at the head of the table with Lucile at the opposite end. Emile Renoir, the head of the Renoir family who was accompanied by his wife Irene and the young man Ethan, had discussed his business ventures since the exile of Napoleon. Several times the discussion came to Arthur who did his best to keep himself occupied by his advisor and the lady Irene who loved to hear stories of the Spanish Countryside. During the moments that he spoke to the entire group, he kept the words to his recent adventures in France and hardly talked about the wars at large.

 

After the meal had finished, the group retired to the main room that had seen the dressing of Isabelle Bouchard earlier in the day. Peter Tondre excused himself from the rest of the night to rest; he was to search for where Mathieu Bethune had disappeared to the next morning. Servants presented fresh bottles of wine and then retired against the walls waiting to be of service. The group kept talk in little groups until the young Ethan spoke up, “So, good Monsieur Wellesley, what is it that you believe is the strongest attribute of a man?” Throughout the meal discussion, he had only talked about his accomplishments and had tried to prove himself as a man time and time again.

 

“Well,” Arthur began while taking a sip of his wine. His eyes drifted to the young beauty Isabelle who was more striking in the blue dress in that moment than in the morning. She sat next to her sister, slowly chewing a piece of one of the many cheeses that had been brought before each person just moments before. During the evening his thoughts always became lost whenever she appeared in his mind. A moment later, with his mind clear, Arthur continued, “there are many things that one should take into account whenever striving to be a good man.” His head turned to look at the others in the room as he listed, “intelligence, courage, a sense of class and manners, but dependability.” Arthur focused on the young man, “is a great attribute. A man could have many qualities that most believe are the best, but if the man cannot perform a function the same many times; he is only a performing, shooting star,” he gestured with his hand and then lifted his finger to the air, “rare and maybe amazing, but something that quickly fades.” Arthur dropped his hand back into his lap after the words and drank from his wine glass which was lifted by the other hand.

 

The various people in the room took a moment to think on the proposal and Emile was the first to speak, “Well said, Arthur.” The old gentleman nodded towards the Ambassador and then motioned to his son, “good Ethan, here, knows of your reputation. He always had wished to be in the lines of fire during battle. Assuredly, my young son was wishing you would have said something about the more exciting characteristics of a man of war.”

 

Arthur lay back into the sofa before his next words, “there are many aspects of war, few, if any, are good.”

 

“Correct,” Lucile commented while leaning into the discussion, “the warring of man is such a tiring and disastrous business.” Her daughters sat to her sides who nodded in agreement, their father was lost to such a cause.

 

“Madame, would you rather anarchy envelops the state?” Ethan spoke with a slight tone of the old philosophers that was rare. Lucile took a drink from her glass, not willing to continue the talk.

 

Arthur came forward again and responded, “no one should wish for anarchy, but one that wishes for war must also support anarchy in some fashion.” He lowered his head slightly, “war is not a proposition of sane men who are believers of order.”

 

“One can only propose warring in only the most dyers of circumstances,” Emile offered to the group.

 

“Like the Revolution, Monsieur Renoir?” Arthur gazed at the older man after his words. Emile had been one of those revolutionaries who had secured his future place during the conflict. Emile had been taken aback by the comment but laughed once he saw the smile escape Arthur’s cold face. The others began laughing at the words after the first laugh, each making a little comment to someone near. During this time, Arthur was again taken by Isabelle’s beauty. Her eyes exchanged a slight glance with the older man’s which resulted in a blushing and her looking back down.

 

It was Ethan who did not laugh at Arthur’s words and sat, angry filling him at the joking of his father. “Certainly, the people were suffering under the rule of an un-supporting tyrant.” His fierce eyes turned to the Ambassador who sat unmoved.

 

“Maybe so, but there are other methods,” Arthur looked down at his hands and then back at Ethan, “war is a costly business of the most precious of things.” He took a moment to hold his features while thinking silently to himself before talking again, “the lives of men.” Once more he drank the wine and relaxed into the couch.

 

Ethan began to talk but was stopped by Lucile, “well, I believe the wine must have been quite strong tonight.” The group laughed again while looking down at the liquid.

 

“I believe you are correct, Madame,” Arthur said to the lady. He gulped down the last of the sweet drink and rose, “with that, I shall take my leave, wine this good and at this amount has brought sleep to me.”

 

“Monsieur Wellesley,” the young Ethan rose from his seat, “I hope you have taken no offense.” An apoplectic look had come to the face of the young man.

 

“Never, young Ethan. You can come by at anytime to talk about such topics,” Arthur looked around the room, “there are few things for me to do here during the days.”

 

Emile stood and offered his hand to the great man, “he would be gracious for your time. Good evening to you, Monsieur.”

 

Arthur took the hand of the other man, “thank you.” They quickly shook and his eyes looked to the women in the room, “good evening to all of you ladies.” They each said their good nights; Arthur’s eyes lingered on Isabelle who had a slight smile while she spoke. After the last words said to him, Arthur walked out of the main room and up the stairs into his bed chamber, eager for a night’s rest.

Edited July 19, 2008 by Ronmar The Only

[Ronmar The Only]

Scene Four | Rising to New Days

 

 

The bright rays of the sun were what finally awoke Arthur from his slumber. Be it the wine or the thoughts of young Isabelle, it was unusual for the man to sleep so long. As he arose from his makeshift bed feelings of pain stabbed him in the back. Slowly, he treaded to the balcony of his room where the streets outside were alive with the business of the day. Arthur leaned against the frame of the house while watching the people move. He thought about her: the gentle breaths that lifted her chest, the smoothness and delicate feel that her skin must have, her smiling and growing red, and finally he thought of the situation. Never could such feelings come to the open. Never mind the age gap, or his wife, the honor of the young lady and of her family was at stake. A, seemingly, promised woman who was consorting with another man. Arthur was an Englishman who was a leader of armies and now Ambassador to France; there could be nothing between them.

 

With a clear thought, he broke away from the scene outside and covered himself with a robe. Eventually, he walked out of his bed chamber and down the stairs. The ladies would have already eaten and the servants must have been preparing lunch or something in the kitchen. As he made his way to the kitchen, he noticed there was no noise. The halls were empty of voices, laughter, and even the sounds of servants at work. As he passed the entrances into the other rooms, Arthur saw not a single person within. Lucile had not told him before hand that he would be alone. The thought might have escaped her because of the wine, which must have been it.

 

Arthur was pleased at the thought of being along, of being without the temptation of Isabelle. With a smile on his face, he entered the kitchen and then saw her. Her beauty overwhelmed him as she stood painting. A simple canvas was before her with the outline of some fruit that was positioned in one of those artistic ways on the table. She had yet to turn and see the longing stare of the man. He quickly composed himself as he had done far too many times before, “good morning, Mademoiselle Bouchard.” She turned and smiled to Arthur but he just nodded in response as his hands poured some water, “may I ask where the others have left to?”

 

She set the charcoal piece down and turned, completely, to face Arthur, “my mother has left with my sister to enjoy the company of my sister’s husband’s family. She will be gone for several days,” a smile flickered on her face after the words, “and said that she did not wish to wake you from such a good sleep to alert you.” He, again, nodded at the words and eyed the fruit that had been left on the isle. Isabelle walked slowly to the isle and leaned against it, “also, just Isabelle will do. No one else is around.”

 

A brief thought passed through Arthur’s head that he quickly dismissed, “um, alright, Isabelle.” He looked up from the fruit and locked eyes with the young lady who drifted away back to her painting.

 

“Um,” she turned from her walk to face Arthur whose gaze had yet to leave her, “I am wishing to take a walk during the afternoon, but there have been the rumors of a killer on the streets.” Her hands griped each other as she spoke, pulling and tugging, “would you be willing to walk with me?” Isabelle froze with anticipation in wait of the answer.

 

“Ah, um,” his words left him. As he had once quickly ordered his thoughts on the battlefield, his mind raced for the answer, “of course.” He was defeated; his mind had lost while his desires won. “I shall just have some food and a bath then we shall go out for your walk.” He must somehow regain control.

 

“Wonderful,” her eyes had swelled and she quickly turned to continue her painting. Isabelle slowly painted while thinking of how the day might turn. Arthur escaped from the room a few moments later determined to try and control the day ahead.

Edited July 19, 2008 by Ronmar The Only

[Struff Bunstridge]

All I really want to say is that you've captured the sexual tension between Arthur and Isabelle really well, it's almost tangible. It's quite hard to write 'sexy' without sounding pornographic in my experience; your setting and genre will help that, but you're doing a good job of it mate.

[Ronmar The Only]

Great, I didn't know if I actually captured it well. Hopefully, that stays true throughout the rest of the story.

[Ronmar The Only]

Scene Five | Walking for Fear

 

 

Arthur wasted away in the bath for nearly an hour. He had to stay from her; he had to think about her. The youthful twist and appearance of her face still remained in his mind. He had promised her, though, that they would walk. Gradually he prepared himself in causal dress and his normal cocked hat. When he finally arrived downstairs to the hall, he became numb. It was not that she was dressed in anything provocative, far from it. Isabelle wore a scarlet dress with a matching white scarf which was nestled around her throat. More than the clothes that were on her, it was the look on her face that created the feeling in Arthur.

 

The two left the manor and strolled on the streets for sometime. They waved to several others whom either knew the young lady or had some inclination as to who Arthur was. None dared to approach the two, though, which suited the pair nicely. With her arm entwine with his, Arthur walked the way dazed by her touch while Isabelle walked smiling at the moment.

 

Isabelle finally slowed and turned to Arthur who noticed the different pace, “so, has business been well for you here?” Her tender eyes placed him at ease for the first time during their walk.

 

“Business has been fine,” he looked out over the river that ran beside the street they walked, “save for this problem with Monsieur Bethune. Still, politics has been better than war.” They stopped and rested on the guarding wall over the river.

 

“Yes, Monsieur Bethune is a devilish man,” Arthur let out a half-hearted laugh at the suggestion, “my mother never speaks well of him. But you say politics is better; do they not occupy the same arena with war?” She leaned onto the wall with her hand holding her head in the air looking up at him.

 

“That may be true,” he turned, facing the younger lady who looked up excitedly at him, “politics and war go together, maybe in the same arena, but the participants are not always the same.” Arthur smiled at the lady, “generally, no one will fire at you in politics.”

 

Isabelle returned the smile and laughed slightly at his words before reaching out to holding his arm, “well, maybe in English politics, but, here in France, things can be different.” They both laughed at the playful words and Arthur reached for Isabelle’s hand and pulled it away from the wall, gripping it faintly.

 

He placed her arm with his once more and they continued their walk, now back to the manor, “you are correct. So, how did you like Ethan?” Arthur was trying to regain control, things were becoming too close.

 

Isabelle was surprised by the question; she looked straight and away from the man, “I do not know; my mother has been pressuring me to meet him for sometime.” Her face flustered by the talk of another man, the man she was supposed to have feelings for. “He is…,” her words trailed off as she lost concentration.

 

“…Young, brash?” Arthur smiled at the mocking of the young man and regretted his words instantly afterwards.

 

Her face lit up, “yes, those would do.” Isabelle tugged on his arm more and slowly began resting her head on his shoulder.

 

With the feeling of her so close, Arthur forced himself to stretch his arms, peeling away the young lady. “Well,” he began, searching for words to commend Ethan, “we cannot all be great at the start. He is young and will grow.”

 

“Maybe,” Isabelle pulled away from Arthur and noticed a running figure, “maybe.” Arthur’s advisor, Peter Tondre, came into view who quicken pace at the sight of the two.

 

“Sir,” Peter’s voice was unaffected by the run,” may I talk to you?” Arthur took a moment to tell Isabelle to wait and walked with the other man a little away.

 

“Speak, Peter,” he eyed his advisor as he spoke.

 

“Monsieur Bethune is in the city, he has been,” his eyes drifted over to the patiently waiting Isabelle who’s back was turned from the conversation, “he has been with his mistress it seems.”

 

Arthur was visibly shaken by the words, “ah, well we shall have to pay him a visit then.” He walked back to the lady, “Mademoiselle Bouchard, I have business to take care of now. May I walk you back?” Formality was not needed for the sake of Peter, but instead for Isabelle.

 

She graciously nodded, “you may certainly do, Monsieur Wellesley.” Together, they walked back to Peter who stood un-phased.

 

“Alright, Peter, go on ahead and get ready for out departure. I take it that we will be needing transportation?”

 

“Yes sir,” he quickly turned from the pair and began his running again towards the manor. Moments later he was gone while Isabelle and Arthur slowly made their way back.

 

“The great Monsieur Bethune, I take it?” she clearly mocked the man while looking at Arthur.

 

“Yes, he never has good timing it seems.” He looked down to her with sour eyes for a short moment.

 

“That seems correct,” she rested her head back onto his shoulder without opposition. They walked back to the manor without words, nothing needed to be said.

 

 

Edited July 19, 2008 by Ronmar The Only

[Ronmar The Only]

Scene Six | A Night Alone

 

Arthur collapsed into his chair that was near the balcony of his room, the white moon was loitering in the sky. His hand lifted the bottle of wine that he had taken from the kitchen below to his lips as he greedily swallowed; the evening had not gone well. Earlier in the day after the returning of the young lady to the manor, Arthur and Peter hurried off to the address that the advisor had learned of. Fury had lay within his eyes as they whipped the horses to go faster and nearly an hour later they arrived to the address. Peter was an unknown man and walked into the building first where the advisor searched out Mathieu Bethune. It took several minutes till Peter return during which Arthur stood next to the secured horses outside. The advisor just nodded towards his older mentor who gestured for him to lead the way. A matter of moments later, Arthur marched into the area where Bethune lay being fed fruit by two scantly dressed ladies. The harlots quickly left the room at sight of Arthur who said not a word but twisted his horse whip in his hands. Peter entered the room as soon as Bethune started to beg for mercy from Arthur. Words of anger quickly flowed from the advisor who told Bethune that the man was not worth the wasted breath of Arthur. A quick slap from the whip resulted in agreement to terms favorable for Arthur. With one last, furious look, the two men left Bethune on the floor in shock from the humiliation.

 

It was in his rested position where he drank from the bottle that Arthur remembered how the day started. Desires began to retrace into his mind as he thought of the walk with Isabelle, her touch. The entire business was all delusional ideas, things that should not come to pass. He had lost the battle with his lust during the walk and knew it. As long as that was all that had happened, then nothing more needed to occur. It was all he could tell himself, it was a lie unless he never saw her again. If he never spoke to her, never felt her touch; if he never met her again then the lust or love that he felt would never come about.

 

The gentle nock at the door tore away the hopes and the slight of Isabelle’s slender frame in the white nightgown dissipated thoughts of fighting the feeling. “Arthur…may I speak to with you?” her voice seemed small and far to the dazed Arthur.

 

“Isabelle,” he set the bottle of wine down next to the chair as he rose, “come in.” He beckoned her in with his hand as he finally took off his hat. She appeared to glide towards the bed where she stopped to look at Arthur.

 

“Monsieur, you did not attend dinner this evening, is there…is something wrong?” her weight shifted onto the high bedpost as she looked worriedly.

 

“No, no,” he treaded to the opposite bedpost of Isabelle’s when he motioned towards the balcony and wine bottle, “I, um, just had some difficulties with Bethune and needed to rest myself. I am not as young as I use to be.” He laughed briefly before returning the young lady’s stare. Still, he tried to fight the desires now that he was up close and only staring into her eyes where the war could be seen lost.

 

“You are wrong sir; you still have plenty of energy, I would be certain.” A playful grin took shape on her face; Isabelle’s eyes signaled for his.

 

Arthur looked away while running his hand through his hair, “you flatter me. Is there anything else?” He shuffled his feet to keep them from carrying him to her.

 

“Is…,” she looked down to the bed and sauntered towards Arthur slightly, “your bed unsuitable?” The bed had not been slept on during his entire visit; his body still was only getting use to the comforts of life.

 

Arthur could feel the heat now radiating of her body from the close proximity; he mindfully turned and gestured to his makeshift bed, “it is not that the bed is unsuitable; years of warring have left me one who needs not the comforts of the nobility.” Again he turned to her with resolve, “do you have anything else?”

 

“Well,” Isabelle’s face began to fluster and walked away to the balcony but turned around before even reaching the chair, “I was wondering if I have done something wrong.” Her words were full of sadness, worried that she had presented herself wrong. Tears began to swell in her eyes, breaking the will of Arthur.

 

Suddenly, he was to her; Arthur’s fingers wiping away the tears of the beauty, “my young lady, you could not do a thing wrong.” He lifted her delicate face up so that he could gaze into her eyes once more, “why would you suggest such a thing?”

 

“Then why…,” she broke into a cry as she sank back into his arms, both pulling closer to the other, “…why.” He slowly ran his hand through her hair trying to comfort her; she raised her head a moment later. Her wet doe-eyes staring into the soul of Arthur, “why do you not want my company? I thought we had such a great afternoon this day…but you just come in and grab your wine…you delay me and ask me to leave.” He tried to mouth a ‘no’ to the last accusation but she just threw herself back into his chest.

 

“We…,” the words were hard to come by for him, “we did.” At the sounding of the affirmation that she had longed for, she pulled from his chest. Their eyes met for only a moment more, both knowing that everything else did not matter. Their lips met, gingerly engaging the other’s. Arthur used what was left of his strength to pull her away, “we cannot do this.”

 

Isabelle disregarded his plea and tossed herself back into his waiting lips. “I see the way you look,” her words were broken up by the long kisses. Their arms searched out the rest of the other’s body while they pushed towards the bed that had been untouched.

 

“It is not right,” with the strength of his arms away, Arthur made a last, futile attempt by moving his head away. Isabelle countered by focusing on his ears then his neck, each touch of her lips causing him to dispel the war between his heart and mind. He accepted the defeat and engaged in the consequence of the lost. New strength engulfed his arms as Arthur swept Isabelle from the floor and carried her to the bed. Playfully, he dropped her on the bed, resulting in laughter as she bounced on the feather filled bed.

 

His hand placed her hair to the side of her face as he kissed her once more before backing away to gaze at her. He started with his stare at her feet and took his time to reach Isabelle’s striking face. Arthur looked once more to her face before starting his planed approach; no longer did the excited look of the young virgin inhabited it but a blank, frighten stare that looked behind his body. Slowly he turned around where he saw what had caused the look, Ethan Renoir.

 

Anger was built into the young man’s face as his eyes seemed to bulge from the sockets, “English Swine!” He lunged to Arthur with an unsheathed sword. Isabelle screamed out as instinct took over the old former soldier. Arthur’s hand quickly seized the sword that still lay at his side from his previous engagement with Bethune. Arthur parried the unskilled swordsman who staggered to the floor. “You are no great man!” Ethan exclaimed the words as he quickly rose back to his feet.

 

“Ethan, calm down. It is…,” Arthur’s words were cutoff by another assault from the young man. Thoughts flowed through his head as he deflected each strike, eventually causing the young man to fall to the floor again.

 

“Not what it looks like? I think so,” the words carried Ethan back up where his sword continued to work unrelentingly. Arthur’s skill kept Ethan from coming close with the blows but the older man stumbled suddenly.

 

“Ethan, stop!” it was Isabelle’s scream during the swordplay which caused Arthur to fall. Ethan glared at the older man who lay defenseless before him, but turned to the source of the scream. The beauty had left the bed and now stood steps from the intruder. She stared into his eyes, not with excitement and love as she had down with Arthur but with fury. Isabelle began to scream curses at the man who only stood taking each.

 

The curses came to an end once her breath left her and she stood with her hand on her chest trying to help her lungs when she noticed jealous take to Ethan’s eyes. He lifted his sword into the air for a quick strike, madness taking over his mind. Arthur’s mind was blank as his vision was filled with the terror in his love’s eyes; the sword that Ethan had threaten him with held high in the air, ready. He only knew that moments later the young man lay in a pool of blood on the floor. Death had taken Ethan by the help of Arthur’s sword which remained in the body of the departed.

 

 

 

 

[Ronmar The Only]

Scene Seven | Bigger Events

 

A cold sweat had ceased the fire that had previously engulfed Isabelle. Her eyes stared down to the remains of Ethan Renoir; it had been several moments since he had been stabbed by Arthur and he had yet to stir. Ethan’s chest did not move and he had stopped choking on his own blood soon after he fell to the floor. His cold, dead stare was squarely on her, the invisible prison that now engulfed her. It was the movement of Arthur that finally shook her from her shackles, “oh my lord.” Isabelle followed the killer, her love, to the window with her eyes. He searched out to the streets through the glass looking for movement. “What have we done?” the words crawled from her with noticeable fright.

 

Satisfied with how things were outside, Arthur quickly took the wine bottle from its resting place next to the chair by the balcony, “nothing.” He looked to the young lady with cold eyes reminding her of Ethan, “go and fetch my man, Peter.” Arthur paced to the bed where he through back the quilt and emptied the wine. “Go, now!”

 

“What?” she started to shake turning about the room with a crazed look. Arthur tossed the bottle onto the bed and embraced his love. She stood there in his arms, her head back into his chest where comfort was found but only a half hour ago at the most.

 

He backed away and took her head into his hands, his eyes more caring, “Isabelle, now.” He kissed her fondly on her forehead and made his way back to the bed where he was quickly in the business of stripping the sheets. The kiss had reawakened the love Isabelle felt and she left to do as told.

 

It did not take much time for the young lady to return with the advisor. She stood outside the door where she found a seat to rest and think. Peter Tondre walked into the room and only briefly noticed the dead Ethan on the floor, “sir, what can I do?”

 

In the time that Arthur had alone, he had completely stripped the wine stained sheets and had left the top, heavy quilt on the bed while the sheets underneath now lay near Ethan. “You have heard about these killers or what not that have been terrorizing the city for sometime now, correct?” he motioned for Peter to follow him to the body.

 

“Yes sir,” Peter responded while they began to wrap the bloody man with the sheets. Arthur had removed the sword during the time he waited for Peter and it now rested on a desk that had been covered in business papers. “Stab wounds, mostly, with the bodies dumped in the back alleys or in the river.”

 

“Another tragedy happened tonight correct?” Arthur looked onto his advisor knowing the answer.

 

Peter took no time and nodded his head, “such a misfortune.” They finished wrapping the dead man and Arthur padded his friend’s shoulder as he left the advisor with Ethan.

 

Isabelle stood immediately when her love left the room and ran up to him, hugging him and kissing him. “What is he going to do?” she stood back from Arthur and tried to look into the room but was stopped. He took her hand and led her from the room and the memory.

 

“My lady,” he began as they entered her room, “forget this night, forget this day.” Her eyes began to swell as he backed off. “Forget me,” he lifted his hand as to hold her face in it, “your mind should not hold onto such memories.”

 

She shook her head, “no, why must I forget?” Isabelle rushed back into him and took his face into her hands, “I cannot forget: your looks, your lips, you…I cannot forget any of it.” She tried to pull him down to kiss but was brushed off.

 

“You must!”

 

“No,” she looked down to her hands that had held his face, “no!” Isabelle jumped on him, forcing him into the door, and kissed him angrily.

 

“This is not right,” his strength secured by his mind and heart now, Arthur pushed her off and held her away, “and never will. Now, stay and forget everything.” Isabelle backed off, holding herself in her arms. Arthur watched as she looked around the floor and quickly slapped out at him. The blow caught him by surprise but the second was caught in air. He forced her onto the bed and raised his hand, “do not make me do something else.”

 

She looked on, fear and defeat in her eyes, “you would not.”

 

He resigned and dropped his hand to his side, “there are bigger events in the world than love.” Arthur lingered looking at the beauty, thoughts no longer filled his head. He turned and walked out of the room, the victor of a deadly game of lust.

 

Isabelle sat awkwardly on the bed, “…there is nothing bigger than love…” her mutter was the last intelligible words before she laid back into the bed crying.

 

 

 

[Ronmar The Only]

Scene Eight | Midnight Trip

 

Peter Tondre had always heeded his mentor Arthur Wellesley: during his youth whenever he was introduced by his father to the young soldier, in the wilds of India, the battlefields of Spain. Now, hauling the dead body of Ethan Renoir through the streets, Peter recalled those memories. Never had he questioned Arthur, he would never for at the end, ever decision was justified.

 

After his mentor had left the room to deal with the young lady, Peter took the wrapped body down into the stables and loaded the dead cargo onto a wagon. He also grabbed a cloth bag and several swords and knives which he bounded with leather; the night was not over yet. On the streets, he encountered few people. While there were few on the street, the midnight citizens were ever so often enough that he could not perform the second part of his plan. He looked again for several more minutes until he finally decided to turn into a deserted alleyway. Originally, Peter had planed to dump the body into the river hoping that young Ethan would not be found until after the Ambassador was a safe distance away. It would be of no matter though; he had planned for such problems that might arise.

 

Gently, the advisor unloaded the dead body and looked around. The carefulness was not for the departed Ethan, but instead to try and keep the noise down so that none of the surround homes might awake and wonder what was amidst in the alley. Next, Peter untied the body from the wrappings and set him to a side to look over. His hands worked fast as he removed all of the jewelry that the young, high-classman wore. The items were placed into the bag and throw into the wagon to be burned later. Peter checked the surroundings once more to make sure no one would happen in on his business and returned to the wagon where he retrieved the bundle of blades. Now, he began to stab the body with the various swords and daggers still he was satisfied. The advisor placed all of the blades back within the bundle and unsheathed his own dagger to slit the throat of Ethan from side to side. Finally with his work done, he threw the sheets onto the wagon and mounted the horse. The night would still see fire before sleep came for Peter.

 

 

 

[Ronmar The Only]

Scene Nine | "Good Fortune"

 

Arthur Wellesley looked over the room one last time before turning and leaving. The bed had a new quilt and sheets paid with his coin. He had shown the wine-drenched quilt to Lucile Bouchard whenever she returned from her trip to her first daughter’s home. He apologized for his incompetence with the bottle and blamed the meeting with Mathieu Bethune on his need for the wine. Lucile told him that he had no need of paying for it, the room was hardly used and she could have found some old sheets about somewhere.

 

He walked down the hall and turned for the stairs where he made his way down. Bethune had sent word to his advisor that everything was finalized and that he only needed to stop by the office to retrieve the payment. Arthur made a note to remind Peter about picking up the coins, but decided he would only if he noticed they were not heading to the office for his advisor rarely forgot things.

 

At the bottom of the stairs, Arthur found Lucile waiting which he expected, “well Madame Bouchard, I must thank you for a welcomed and comforting stay.” Isabelle Bouchard was no where to be seen, a pleasure now. “Everything was as I would expect of such an exquisite woman.”

 

Lucile smiled graciously and bowed to the man, “as always, you flatter me greatly, Monsieur.” She raised her hand to her head, “I am sorry that young Isabelle was not here to see you off; it seems that she has taken with the death of Monsieur Ethan Renoir hard.” Peter had told Arthur that the body would be found quickly. It was the morning after the killing that the Renoir family was alerted to the death. Investigators immediately blamed the killers that had been terrorizing the streets just has they had planed. Arthur was happier with the outcome than the young man being dumped into the river for this way Isabelle had reason to be sullen in the eyes of Lucile.

 

“It is all that can be expected,” he looked to Lucile with thoughtful eyes, “what shall you do for her?” Arthur could never quell the feelings he had had for Isabelle, only now his mind held more sway than his loins could ever again.

 

“Well,” she began while nodding, “comfort her for the moment. She should not be this way for more than a few weeks.” Lucile turned and motioned for Arthur to continue his leave.

 

“That is all one can do. Make sure the Renoir’s have my sympathies,” he spoke as they walked to the door. Peter waited outside on top of the wagon and looked up at Arthur as the Ambassador appeared out the entrance.

 

“Of course,” Lucile nodded while watching Arthur step up onto the wagon. The street was devoid of traffic which suited him.

 

“Till the days bring me back, may fortune be as good to you as it always has,” Arthur bowed his head to the lady while covering his heart with his right hand. He had always been quite formal with the lady Bouchard; now with his recent past, he had all the more reason to make sure not to change his manners.

 

“May you be well also,” Lucile’s words signaled Peter to strike at the reins. The older lady watched for several moments as the famed man left on the street and then turned to return to trying to comfort her daughter. Isabelle watched from a window as her only love road away, happy.